she’s simply disgusted. Look at her, and see if she isn’t.’
The gabble of the two girls was worthy of the occasion their tongues went like mill-clappers. Whilst her mother busied herself in preparing tea, Emily sat and listened; fortunately there was little need for her to talk. To herself she seemed to be suffering a kind of trance, without detriment to her consciousness. The chattering and grimacing girls appeared before her as grotesque unrealities, puppets animated in some marvellous way, and set to caricature humanity. She tried to realise that one of them was a woman like herself, who had just consented to be a man’s wife; but it was impossible to her to regard this as anything but an aping of things which at other times had a solemn meaning. She found herself gazing at Geraldine as one does at some singular piece of mechanism with a frivolous purpose. And it was not only the individuals that impressed her thus; these two represented life and the world. She had strange, cynical thoughts, imaginings which revolted her pure mind even whilst it entertained them. No endeavour would shake off this ghastly clairvoyance. She was picturing the scene of Geraldine’s acceptance of the offer of marriage; then her thoughts passed on to the early days of wedded life. She rose, shuddering, and moved about the room; she talked to drive those images from her brain. It did but transfer the sense of unreality to her own being. Where was she, and what doing? Had she not dreamed that a hideous choice had been set before her, a choice from which there was no escape, and which, whatever the alternative she accepted, would blast her life? But that was something grave, earnest, and what place was there for either earnestness or gravity in a world where Geraldine represented womanhood wooed and about to be wedded? There was but one way of stopping the gabble which was driving her frantic; she threw open the piano and began to play, to play the first music that came into her mind. It was a passage from the Moonlight Sonata. A few moments, and the ghosts were laid. The girls still whispered together, but above their voices the pure stream of music flowed with gracious oblivion. When Emily ceased, it was with an inward fervour of gratitude to the master and the instrument, To know that, was to have caught once more the point of view from which life had meaning. Now let them chatter and mop and mow; the echo of that music still lived around.
Hood had not returned when they sat down to tea. Jessie began to ask questions about the strange-looking man they had met in company with him, but Mrs. Hood turned the conversation.
‘I suppose you’ll be coming with the same tale next, Jessie,’ she said, with reference to Geraldine.
‘Me, Mrs. Hood? No, indeed; I haven’t had lessons from Emily for nothing. It’s all very well for empty-headed chits like Jerry here, but I’ve got serious things to attend to. I’m like Emily, she and I are never going to be married.’
‘Emily never going to be married?’ exclaimed Mrs. Hood, half seriously. ‘Ah, you mustn’t believe all Emily tells you.’
‘Oh, she hasn’t told me that herself, but I’m quite sure she would be offended if any one thought her capable of such frivolity.’
‘Emily will keep it to herself till the wedding-day,’ said Geraldine, with a mocking shake of the bead. ‘She isn’t one to go telling her secrets.’
At this point Hood made his appearance. His wife paid no heed to him as he entered; Emily glanced at him furtively. He had the look of a man who has predetermined an attitude of easy good-humour, nor had the parting with Cheeseman failed to prove an occasion for fresh recourse to that fiery adjuvant which of a sudden was become indispensable to him. Want of taste for liquor and lifelong habit of abstemiousness had hitherto kept Hood the soberest of men; he could not remember to have felt the warm solace of a draught taken for solace’ sake since the days when Cheeseman had been wont to insist upon the glass of gin at their meetings, and then it had never gone beyond the single glass, for he felt that his head was weak, and dreaded temptation. Four-and-twenty hours had wrought such a change in him, that already to enter a public-house seemed a familiar act, and he calculated upon the courage to be begotten of a smoking tumbler. Previously the mere outlay would have made him miserable, but the command of unearned coin was affecting him as it is wont to affect poor men. The new aid given to Cheeseman left a few shillings out of the second broken sovereign. Let the two pounds—he said to himself—be regarded as gone; eight remained untouched. For the odd shillings, let them serve odd expenses. So when he had purchased Cheeseman’s ticket to King’s Gross, he was free with small change at the station bar. At the last moment it occurred to him that he might save himself a walk by going in the train as far as Pendal. So it was here that the final parting had taken place.
He seated himself with his legs across a chair, and began to talk to Geraldine of the interesting news which Jessie had just whispered to him when they met on the road. The character of his remarks was not quite what it would have been a day or two ago; he joked with more freedom than was his custom. Studiously he avoided the eyes of his wife and daughter. He declined to sit up to the table, but drank a cup of tea with his hands resting on the back of a chair.
The Cartwright sisters were anxious to use the evening for a visit to certain other friends; shortly after six o’clock they took their departure. While Emily and Mrs. Hood were seeing them away at the door, Hood went upstairs to his laboratory.
‘Emily, come here,’ Mrs. Hood said, with anxious earnestness, leading the way back into the sitting-room. And, when the door was closed—
‘My dear, what
‘Yes, mother, I do.’
‘Can he have—It’s a thing he never does! You know what I mean? That Cheeseman has been taking him to a public-house; I am sure of it.’
Emily had had no such thought. To her a squalid horror clung about the suggestion. To picture her father in such circumstances was to realise a fresh fall into degradation, no doubt the inevitable consequence of that she already knew of. There was a painful stricture at her heart; a cry of despair all but found utterance.
Her father’s voice was calling from the stair-head—’Emily!’ She darted to the door in momentary terror and replied.
‘Will you come up?’ Hood said; ‘I want you.’
She ascended to the garret. Hood was standing with his back to the little window, so that his face was shadowed. Emily moved to the table, and, with her hands resting upon it, her eyes bent, stood waiting.
‘Emily,’ he began, still with a remnant of artificial pleasantry, though his voice was not entirely under control, ‘I want to explain that money-matter to you. It doesn’t look well; I am a good deal ashamed of myself; if I was a boy I should deserve a whipping for telling a fib, shouldn’t I?’
It was impossible to make reply to such words.
‘The truth is this,’ he went on more nervously; ‘we’ve been in a little difficulty, your mother and I, that we didn’t see any good in troubling you about. In fact, there’s a raising of rent, and one or two other little things. When I was
