A Life's Morning

side.

‘I fear there is small chance of her getting much better in that house of illness,’ said Mrs. Baxendale, observing his agitation. ‘Can’t we persuade her to go somewhere? Her mother is in excellent hands.’

‘I wish we could,’ Wilfrid replied, clearly without much attention to his words.

‘You didn’t propose anything of the kind?’

He made no answer. A short silence intervened, and he felt there was no choice but to declare the truth.

‘The meeting was a very painful one,’ he began. ‘It is difficult to speak to you about it. Do you think that she has perfectly recovered?—that her mind is wholly—’

He hesitated; it was dreadful to be speaking in this way of Emily. The sound of his voice reproached him; what words would not appear brutal in such a case?

‘You fear—?’

Wilfrid rose and walked across the room. It seemed impossible to speak, yet equally so to keep his misery to himself.

‘Mrs. Baxendale,’ he said at length, ‘I am perhaps doing a very wrong thing in telling you what passed between us, but I feel quite unable to decide upon any course without the aid of your judgment. I am in a terrible position. Either I must believe Emily to speak without responsibility, or something inexplicable, incredible, has come to pass. She has asked me to release her. She says that something has happened which makes it impossible for her ever to fulfil her promise, something which must always remain her secret, which I may not hope to understand. And with such dreadful appearance of sincerity—such a face of awful suffering—’

His voice failed. The grave concern on Mrs. Baxendale’s visage was not encouraging.

‘Something happened?’ the latter repeated, in low-toned astonishment. ‘Does she offer no kind of explanation?’

‘None—none,’ he added, ‘that I can bring myself to believe.’

Mrs. Baxendale could only look at him questioningly.

‘She said,’ Wilfrid continued, pale with the effort it cost him to speak, ‘that she has no longer any affection for me.’

There was another silence, of longer endurance than the last. Wilfrid was the first to break it.

‘My reason for refusing to believe it is, that she said it when she had done her utmost to convince me of her earnestness in other ways, and said it in a way—How is it possible for me to believe it? It is only two months since I saw her on the Castle Hill.’

‘I thought you had never been here before?’

‘I have never spoken to you of that. I came and left on the same day, It was to see her before I went to Switzerland.’

‘I am at a loss,’ said Mrs. Baxendale. ‘I can only suggest that she has had a terrible shock, and that her recovery, or seeming recovery, has been too rapid. Yet there is no trace of wandering in her talk with me.’

‘Nor was there to-day. She was perfectly rational. Think of one’s being driven to hope that she only seemed so!’

‘Did you speak of correspondence?’

‘No. I said that I could not agree to what she asked of me until she had repeated it after a time. I left her scarcely knowing what I spoke. What shall I do? How can I remain in doubt such as this? I said I wished for your help, yet how can you—how can anyone—help me? Have I unconsciously been the cause of this?’

‘Or has anyone else consciously been so?’ asked the lady, with meaning.

‘What? You think—? Is it possible?’

‘You only hinted that your relatives were not altogether pleased.’

Wilfrid, a light of anger flashing from his eyes, walked rapidly the length of the room.

‘She admitted to me,’ he said, in a suppressed voice, ‘that her illness began before her father’s death. It was not that that caused it. You think that someone may have interfered? My father? Impossible! He is a man of honour; he has written of her in the kindest way.’

But there was someone else. His father was honourable; could the same be said of Mrs. Rossall? He remembered his conversation with her on the lake of Thun; it had left an unpleasant impression on his mind—under the circumstances, explicable enough. Was his aunt capable of dastardly behaviour? The word could scarcely be applied to a woman’s conduct, and the fact that it could not made disagreeably evident the latitude conceded to women in consideration of their being compelled to carry on warfare in underhand ways. Suppose an anonymous letter. Would not Mrs. Rossall regard that as a perfectly legitimate stratagem, if she had set her mind on resisting this marriage? Easy, infinitely easy was it to believe this, in comparison with any other explanation of Emily’s behaviour. In his haste to seize on a credible solution of the difficulty, Wilfrid did not at first reflect that Emily was a very unlikely person to be influenced by such means, still more unlikely that she should keep such a thing secret from him. It must be remembered, however, that the ways of treachery are manifold, and the idea had only presented it to his mind in the most indefinite form. As it was, it drove him almost to frenzy. He could not find a calm word, nor was it indeed possible to communicate to Mrs. Baxendale the suspicion which occupied him. She, watching him as he stood at a distance, all but forgot her anxious trouble in admiration of the splendid passion which had transformed his features. Wilfrid looked his best when thus stirred—his best, from a woman’s point of view. The pale cast of thought was far from him; you saw the fiery nature asserting itself, and wondered in what direction these energies would at length find scope. Mrs. Baxendale, not exactly an impressionable woman, had a moment of absent-mindedness.

‘Come here and sit down,’ she said, the motherly insistance of the tone possibly revealing her former thought.

He threw himself on the couch.