In the early hours of the afternoon a lull of utter weariness relieved her; she lay upon the couch and all but slept; it was something between sleep and loss of consciousness following on excessive pain. She awoke to find the doctor bending over her; Mrs. Hood had become so alarmed that she had despatched a neighbour secretly on the errand. Emily was passive, and by her way of speaking half disguised the worst features of her state. Nevertheless, the order was given that she should go to bed. She promised to obey.
‘As soon as father comes,’ she said, when alone again with her mother. ‘It cannot be long till his time.’
She would not yield beyond this. But the hour of return came, and her father delayed. Then was every minute an eternity. No longer able to keep her reclining position, she stood again by the window, and her eyes lost their vision from straining upon one spot, that at which Hood would first appear. She leaned her head upon the window-sill, and let her ears take their turn of watching; the first touch of a hand at the gate would reach her. But there came none.
Can hours thus be lived through? Ah, which of us to whom time has not been a torment of hell? Is there no nether Circle, where dread anticipation eternally prolongs itself, eternally varied with hope in vain for ever?
Mrs. Hood had abandoned her useless protests; she came and sat by the girl.
‘I’ve no doubt he’s gone to the Walkers’,’ she kept saying, naming acquaintances with whom Hood occasionally spent an evening. Then, ‘And why need you wait for him, my dear? Can’t he go up and see you as soon as he gets in?’
‘Mother,’ Emily said at last, ‘will you go to the Walkers’ and ask? It is not really very far. Will you go?’
But, my child, it will take me at least an hour to walk there and back! I should only miss him on the way. Are you afraid of something?
‘Yes, I am. I believe something has happened to him.’
‘Those are your fancies. You are very poorly; it is cruel to me to refuse to go to bed.’
‘Will you go, mother?—If you do not, I must; ill or not, I must go.’
She started to her feet. Her mother gazed at her in fear,—believing it the beginning of delirium.
‘Emily, my dear child,’ she pleaded, laying her hand on the girl’s arm, ‘won’t you come upstairs,—to please me, dear?’
‘Mother, if you will go, I promise to lie here quietly till you return.’
‘But it is impossible to leave you alone in the house. Look, now, it is nine o’clock; in half an hour, an hour at most, your father will be back. Why, you know how often he stays late when he gets talking.’
Emily was silent for a few minutes. Then she said—
‘Will you ask Mrs. Hopkins to send her servant?’
‘But think—the trouble it will be giving.’
‘Will you do it? I wish it. Will you go and ask her I will give the girl money.’
‘If you are so determined, of course I will ask her. But I’m sure—’
At length she left the room, to go out of the house by the back-door and call at the neighbours’. Scarcely was she away, when Emily darted upstairs, and in an instant was down again, with her hat and a cloak; another moment, and she was out in the road. She did not forget the terror her mother would suffer, on finding her gone; but endurance had reached its limit. It was growing dark. After one look in the direction of Dunfield, she took the opposite way, and ran towards the Heath, ran till her breath failed and she had to drop into a quick walk. Once more she was going to the Upper Heath, and to the house which was the source of all her misery. When she reached the quarry it was quite dark at her approach she saw the shape of a man move away into the shadow of the quarried rock, and an unreasoning fear spurred her past the spot. Five minutes more and she was at Dagworthy’s gate. She rang the door-bell.
The servant told her that Mr. Dagworthy was at home; she declined to give her name, but said she must see him at once. Speedily she was led into a room, where her enemy sat alone.
He looked at her wonderingly, then with a deep flush—for now he surely had gained his end,—he advanced towards her without speaking.
‘Where is my father?’ she asked; the voice which disabused him did not seem Emily’s.
‘Isn’t he at home?’
‘He has not come home. What have you done?’
‘Not come home?’
‘Then he is free? He is safe—my father? You have spared him?’
Dagworthy inwardly cursed himself for shortsightedness. Were he but able to answer ‘Yes,’ would she not yield him anything? Why had he not made trial of this policy? Or was it now too late? But Hoed had not returned home. The man had gone forth from him in despair. As he gazed at the girl, a suspicion, all but a fear, touched him. Why should Hood remain away from his house?
She was repeating her questions imploringly.
‘He is free, as far as I am concerned, Emily.’
‘You have forgiven him? Oh, you have had that mercy upon us?’
‘Sit down, and let us talk about it,’ said Dagworthy.
She did not seem to notice that he had taken her hand; but the next moment he was holding her in his arm, and with a cry she broke away.
‘There are others in the house,’ she exclaimed, her wild, fearful eyes seeking other exit than that which he stopped. ‘I must call for their help. Can you not see that I am suffering—ill? Are you pitiless? But no—no—for you have spared him!’
Dagworthy mastered himself, though it cost him something, and spoke with an effort at gentleness.
‘What thanks have you to give me, Emily?’
‘My life’s gratitude—but that will be your least reward.’
‘Ay, but how is the gratitude going to be shown?’
Her keen sense found a fear in his manner of speaking.
‘You have not said a word to him,’ she asked, seeming to forget his question.