Vain Fortune Part 22

'I think I could sleep a little; happiness has brought me sleep. Don't go away. I shall not be asleep long.' She looked at him, and dozed, and then fell asleep. Hubert waited till her breathing grew deeper; then he laid the hand he held in his by her side, and stole on tiptoe from the room.

The strain of the interview had become too intense; the house was unbearable. He went into the air. The November sky was drawing into wintry night; the grey clouds darkened, clinging round the long plain, overshadowing it, blotting out colour, leaving nothing but the severe green of the park, and the yellow whirling of dishevelled woods.

'I must,' he said to himself, 'think no more about it. I shall go mad if I do. Nature will find her own solution. G.o.d grant that it may be a merciful one! I can do nothing.' And to escape from useless consideration, to release his overwrought brain, he hastened his steps, extending his walk through the farthest woods. As he approached the lodge gate he came upon Mrs. Bentley. She stood, her back turned from him, leaning on the gate, her thoughts lost in the long darkness of autumnal fields and woods.

'Julia!'

'You have left Emily. How did you leave her?'

'She is fast asleep on the sofa. She fell asleep. Then why should I remain?

The house was unbearable. She went to sleep, saying she felt very happy.'

'Really! What induced such a change in her? Did you----'

'No; I did not ask her to marry me; but I was able to tell her that I was not going to marry you, and that seemed entirely to satisfy her.'

'Did she ask you?'

'Yes. And when I told her I was not, she said that that was all she wanted to know--that she would soon get well now. How we human beings thrive in each other's unhappiness!'

'Quite true, and we have been reproaching ourselves for our selfishness.'

'Yes, and hers is infinitely greater. She is quite satisfied not to be happy herself, so long as she can make sure of our unhappiness. And what is so strange is her utter unconsciousness of her own fantastic and hardly conceivable selfishness.... It is astonis.h.i.+ng!'

'She is very young, and the young are naturally egotistic.'

'Possibly. Still, it is hardly more agreeable to encounter. Come, let's go for a walk; and, above all things, let's talk no more about Emily.'

The roads were greasy, and the hedges were torn and worn with incipient winter, and when they dipped the town appeared, a reddish-brown ma.s.s in the blue landscape. Hubert thought of his play and his love; but not separately--they seemed to him now as one indissoluble, indivisible thing; and he told her that he never would be able to write it without her a.s.sistance. That she might be of use to him in his work was singularly sweet to hear, and the thought reached to the end of her heart, causing her to smile sadly, and argue vainly, and him to reply querulously. They walked for about a mile; and then, wearied with sad expostulation, the conversation fell, and at the end of a long silence Julia said--

'I think we had better turn back.'

The suggestion filled Hubert's heart with rus.h.i.+ng pain, and he answered--

'Why should we return? I cannot go back to that girl. Oh, the miserable life we are leading!'

'What can we do? We must go back; we cannot live in a tent by the wayside.

We have no tent to set up.'

'Come to London, and be my wife.'

'No,' she said; 'that is impossible. Let us not speak of it.'

Hubert did not answer; and, turning their faces homeward, they walked some way in silence. Suddenly Hubert said--

'No; it is impossible. I cannot return. There is no use. I'm at the end of my tether. I cannot.'

She looked at him in alarm.

'Hubert,' she said, 'this is folly! I cannot return without you.'

'You ruin my life; you refuse me the only happiness. I'm more wretched than I can tell you!'

'And I! Do you think that I'm not wretched?' She raised her face to his; her eyes were full of tears. He caught her in his arms, and kissed her. The warm touch of her lips, the scent of her face and hair, banished all but desire of her.

'You must come with me, Julia. I shall go mad if you don't. I can care for no one but you. All my life is in you now. You know I cannot love that girl, and we cannot continue in this wretched life. There is no sense in it; it is a voluntary, senseless martyrdom!'

'Hubert, do not tempt me to be disloyal to my friend. It is cruel of you, for you know I love you. But no, nothing shall tempt me. How can I? We do not know what might happen. The shock might kill her. She might do away with herself.'

'You must come with me,' said Hubert, now completely lost in his pa.s.sion.

'Nothing will happen. Girls do not do away with themselves; girls do not die of broken hearts. Nothing happens in these days. A few more tears will be shed, and she will soon become reconciled to what cannot be altered. A year or so after, we will marry her to a nice young man, and she will settle down a quiet mother of children.'

'Perhaps you are right.'

An empty fly, returning to the town, pa.s.sed them. The fly-man raised his whip.

'Take you to the railway station in ten minutes!'

Hubert spoke quietly; nevertheless there was a strange nervousness in his eyes when he said--

'Fate comes to help me; she offers us the means of escape. You will not refuse, Julia?'

Her upraised face was full of doubt and pain, and she was perplexed by the fly-man's dull eyes, his starved horse, his ramshackle vehicle, the wet road, the leaden sky. It was one of those moments when the familiar appears strange and grotesque. Then, gathering all her resolution, she said--

'No, no; it is impossible! Come back, come back.'

He caught her arm: quietly and firmly he led her across the road. 'You must listen to me.... We are about to take a decisive step. Are you sure that----'

'No, no, Hubert, I cannot; let us return home.'

'I go back to Ashwood! If I did, I should commit suicide.'

'Don't speak like that.... Where will you go?'

'I shall travel.... I shall visit Italy and Greece.... I shall live abroad.'

'You are not serious?'

'Yes, I am, Julia. That cab may not take both, but it certainly will take one of us away from Ashwood, and for ever.'

'Take you to Southwater, sir--take you to the station in ten minutes,' said the fly-man, pulling in his horse. A zig-zag fugitive thought pa.s.sed: why did the fly-man speak of taking them to the station? How was it that he knew where they wanted to go? They stopped and wondered. The poor horse's bones stood out in strange projections, the round-shouldered little fly-man sat grinning on his box, showing three long yellow fangs. The vehicle, the horse, and the man, his arm raised in questioning gesture, appeared in strange silhouette upon the grey clouds, a.s.suming portentous aspect in their tremulous and excited imaginations. 'Take you to Southwater in ten minutes!' The voice of the fly-man sounded hard, grating, and derisive in their ears.

He had stopped in the middle of the road, and they walked slowly past, through a great puddle, which drenched their feet.

'Get in, Julia. Shall I open the door?'

'No, no; think of Emily. I cannot, Hubert,--I cannot; it would kill her.'

The conversation paused, and in a long silence they wondered if the fly-man had heard. Then they walked several yards listening to the tramp of the hoofs, and then they heard the fly-man strike his horse with the whip. The animal shuffled into a sort of trot, and as the carriage pa.s.sed them the fly-man again raised his arm and again repeated the same phrase, 'Drive you to the station in ten minutes!' The carriage was her temptation, and Julia hoped the man would linger no longer. For the promise she had given to Emily lay like a red-hot coal upon her heart; its fumes rose to her head, and there were times when she thought they would choke her, and she grew so sick with the pain of self-denial that she could have thrown herself down in the wet gra.s.s on the roadside, and laid her face on the cold earth for relief. Would nothing happen? What madness! Night was coming on, and still they followed the road to Southwater. Rain fell in heavy drops.