“Because you are disobedient.”
“No, no; I do all that you tell me. I have not stirred from my room, though it was hard to think you were ill so near me, and that I could do nothing. I did not try to say a word to him, or even to look at him; and now that he has gone, why should I not be with you?”
“It cannot be.”
“But why not, aunt? Even though you would not speak to me I could be with you. Who is there to read to you?”
“There is no one. Of course it is dreary. But there are worse things than dreariness.”
“Why should not I come back, now that he has gone?” She still had her arm round the old woman’s back, and had now succeeded in dragging herself on to the bed and in crouching down by her aunt’s side. It was her perseverance in this fashion that had so often forced Mrs. Miles out of her own ordained method of life, and compelled her to leave for a moment the strictness which was congenial to her. It was this that had made her declare to Mr. Gregory, in the midst of her severity, that Bessy had been like a gleam of sunshine in the house. Even now she knew not how to escape from the softness of an embrace which was in truth so grateful to her. It was a consciousness of this—of the potency of Bessy’s charm even over herself—which had made her hasten to send her away from her. Bessy would read to her all the day, would hold her hand when she was half dozing, would assist in every movement with all the patience and much more than the tenderness of a waiting-maid. There was no voice so sweet, no hand so cool, no memory so mindful, no step so soft as Bessy’s. And now Bessy was there, lying on her bed, caressing her, more closely bound to her than had ever been any other being in the world, and yet Bessy was an enemy from whom it was imperatively necessary that she should be divided.
“Get down, Bessy,” she said; “go off from me.”
“No, no, no,” said Bessy, still clinging to her and kissing her.
“I have that to say to you which must be said calmly.”
“I am calm—quite calm. I will do whatever you tell me; only pray, pray, do not send me away from you.”
“You say that you will obey me.”
“I will; I have. I always have obeyed you.”
“Will you give up your love for Philip?”
“Could I give up my love for you, if anybody told me? How can I do it? Love comes of itself. I did not try to love him. Oh, if you could know how I tried not to love him! If somebody came and said I was not to love you, would it be possible?”
“I am speaking of another love.”
“Yes; I know. One is a kind of love that is always welcome. The other comes first as a shock, and one struggles to avoid it. But when it has come, how can it be helped? I do love him, better than all the world.” As she said this she raised herself upon the bed, so as to look round upon her aunt’s face; but still she kept her arm upon the old woman’s shoulder. “Is it not natural? How could I have helped it?”
“You must have known that it was wrong.”
“No!”
“You did not know that it would displease me?”
“I knew that it was unfortunate—not wrong. What did I do that was wrong? When he asked me, could I tell him anything but the truth?”
“You should have told him nothing.” At this reply Bessy shook her head. “It cannot be that you should think that in such a matter there should be no restraint. Did you expect that I should give my consent to such a marriage? I want to hear from yourself what you thought of my feelings.”
“I knew you would be angry.”
“Well?”
“I knew you must think me unfit to be Philip’s wife.”
“Well?”
“I knew that you wanted something else for him, and something else also for me.”
“And did such knowledge go for nothing?”
“It made me feel that my love was unfortunate—but not that it was wrong. I could not help it. He had come to me, and I loved him. The other man came, and I could not love him. Why should I be shut up for this in my own room? Why should I be sent away from you, to be miserable because I know that you want things done? He is not here. If he were here and you bade me not to go near him, I would not go. Though he were in the next room I would not see him. I would obey you altogether, but I must love him. And as I love him I cannot love another. You would not wish me to marry a man when my heart has been given to another.”
The old woman had not at all intended that there should be such arguments as these. It had been her purpose simply to communicate her plan, to tell Bessy that she would have to live probably for a few years at Avranches, and then to send her back to her prison. But Bessy had again got
