“Circumstances, mother, make people different,” he replied.
“So you are going without having anything fixed,” his elder brother said to him the day before he started.
“Yes, old fellow. It seems to be rather slack;—doesn’t it?”
“I dare say you know best what you’re about. But if you have set your mind on it—”
“You may take your oath on that.”
“Then I don’t see why one word shouldn’t put it all right. There never is any place so good for that kind of thing as a country house.”
“I don’t think that with her it will make much difference where the house is, or what the circumstances.”
“She knows what you mean as well as I do.”
“I dare say she does, John. She must have a very bad idea of me if she doesn’t. But she may know what I mean and not mean the same thing herself.”
“How are you to know if you don’t ask her?”
“You may be sure that I shall ask her as soon as I can hope that my doing so may give her more pleasure than pain. Remember, I have had all this out with her father. I have determined that I will wait till twelve months have passed since that wretched man perished.”
On that afternoon before dinner he was alone with her in the library some minutes before they went up to dress for dinner. “I shall hardly see you tomorrow,” he said, “as I must leave this at half-past eight. I breakfast at eight. I don’t suppose anyone will be down except my mother.”
“I am generally as early as that. I will come down and see you start.”
“I am so glad that you have been here, Emily.”
“So am I. Everybody has been so good to me.”
“It has been like old days—almost.”
“It will never quite be like old days again, I think. But I have been very glad to be here—and at Wharton. I sometimes almost wish that I were never going back to London again—only for papa.”
“I like London myself.”
“You! Yes, of course you like London. You have everything in life before you. You have things to do, and much to hope for. It is all beginning for you, Arthur.”
“I am five years older than you are.”
“What does that matter? It seems to me that age does not go by years. It is long since I have felt myself to be an old woman. But you are quite young. Everybody is proud of you, and you ought to be happy.”
“I don’t know,” said he. “It is hard to say what makes a person happy.” He almost made up his mind to speak to her then; but he had made up his mind before to put it off still for a little time, and he would not allow himself to be changed on the spur of the moment. He had thought of it much, and he had almost taught himself to think that it would be better for herself that she should not accept another man’s love so soon. “I shall come and see you in town,” he said.
“You must come and see papa. It seems that Everett is to be a great deal at Wharton. I had better go up to dress now, or I shall be keeping them waiting.” He put out his hand to her, and wished her goodbye, excusing himself by saying that they should not be alone together again before he started.
She saw him go on the next morning—and then she almost felt herself to be abandoned, almost deserted. It was a fine crisp winter day, dry and fresh and clear, but with the frost still on the ground. After breakfast she went out to walk by herself in the long shrubbery paths which went round the house, and here she remained for above an hour. She told herself that she was very thankful to him for not having spoken to her on a subject so unfit for her ears as love. She strengthened herself in her determination never again to listen to a man willingly on that subject. She had made herself unfit to have any dealings of that nature. It was not that she could not love. Oh, no! She knew well enough that she did love—love with all her heart. If it were not that she were so torn to rags that she was not fit to be worn again, she could now have thrown herself into his arms with a whole heaven of joy before her. A woman, she told herself, had no right to a second chance in life, after having made such a shipwreck of herself in the first. But the danger of being seduced from her judgment by Arthur Fletcher was all over. He had been near her for the last week and had not spoken a word. He had been in the same house with her for the last ten days and had been with her as a brother might be with his sister. It was not only she who had seen the propriety of this. He also had acknowledged it, and she was—grateful to him. As she endeavoured in her solitude to express her gratitude in spoken words the tears rolled down her cheeks. She was glad, she told herself, very glad that it was so. How much trouble and pain to both of them would thus be spared! And yet her tears were bitter tears. It was better as it was;—and yet one word of love would have been very sweet. She almost thought that she would have liked to tell him that for his sake, for his dear sake, she would refuse—that which now would never be offered to her. She was quite clear as to the rectitude of her own judgment, clear as ever. And yet her heart was heavy with disappointment.
It was the end of March before she left Herefordshire
