‘But you aim at success in politics?’
‘I suppose so. I was thinking of the other things we used to speak of.’
Emily hazarded a glance at him, as if to examine him again in this new light.
‘You used to say,’ she continued, ‘that you felt in many ways suited for a political life.’
‘Did I? You mean at home, when I talked in a foolish way. It was not my serious thought. I never said it to you.’
She murmured a ‘No.’ They walked on in silence.
‘You didn’t read Italian then,’ Wilfrid said. ‘You, I feel sure, have not wasted your time. How much you must have read since we talked over our favourite authors.’
‘I have tried to keep up the habit of study,’ Emily replied, unaffectedly, ‘but of course most of my time is occupied in teaching.’
Their walk had brought them from under the trees, and the lake was just before them.
‘I will go on to the bridge,’ Emily said. ‘The boat I return by will leave shortly.’
She spoke as if expecting him to take leave of her. Wilfrid inwardly bade himself do so. He had seen her, had talked with her; what more for either? Yet it was beyond his power to stand here and see her walk away from him. Things were stirring in his heart and mind of which he refused to take cognisance; he would grant nothing more than a sense of pleasure in hearing once again a voice which had so long been buried, and there was no harm in that. Was not his strongest feeling merely surprise at having met her thus? Even yet he found a difficulty in realising that it was she with whom he spoke; had he closed his eyes and then looked round for her in vain it would only have appeared the natural waking from intense reverie. Why not dream on as long as he might?
‘May I not walk as far as the bridge with you?’ he asked. ‘If I were not afraid of being tiresome I should even like to go by the boat; it would be the pleasantest way of getting back to town.’
‘Yes, it is pleasant on the river,’ Emily said rather absently.
They pursued their walk together, and conversed still much in the same way. Wilfrid learned that her school was in Hammersmith, a large day-school for girls; he led her to speak of the subjects she taught, and of her pupils.
‘You prefer it,’ he asked, ‘to private teaching?’
‘I think so.’
Once on the boat their talk grew less consecutive; the few words they exchanged now and then were suggested by objects or places passed. At length even these remarks ceased, and for the last half-hour they held silence. Other people close by were talking noisily. Emily sat with both hands holding the book upon her lap, her eyes seldom moving from a point directly before her. Wilfrid glanced at her frequently. He was more observant now of the traces of bodily weakness in her; he saw how meagre she had become, how slight her whole frame was. At moments it cost him a serious effort to refrain from leaning to her and whispering words—he knew not what—something kind, something that should change her fixed sadness. Why had he forced his company upon her? Certainly he brought her no joy, and presently he would take leave of her as any slight acquaintance might; how otherwise? It would have been better to part there by the lake where she offered the occasion.
The steamer reached Hammersmith. Only at this last moment he seemed to understand where he was and with whom, that Emily was sitting by him, in very deed here by his side, and directly would be gone—he knew not whither—scarcely to be met again. The silence between them had come of the difficulty they both had in realising that they were together, of the dreaminess so strange an event had cast upon them. Were they to fall apart again without a word, a sign? A sign of what, forsooth?
Wilfrid moved with her to the spot at which she would step from the deck; seeing him follow, Emily threw back one startled glance. The next moment she again turned, holding out her hand. He took it, held it, pressed it; nothing could restrain that pressure; his muscles closed upon her slight fingers involuntarily. Then he watched her walk hurriedly from the landing-stage….
Her we follow. She had a walk of nearly half an hour, which brought her at length to one of the streets of small lodging-houses which abound in this neighbourhood, and to a door which she opened with her latch-key. She went upstairs. Here two rooms were her home. That which looked upon the street was furnished in the poor bare style which the exterior of the dwelling would have led one to expect. A very hideous screen of coloured paper hid the fireplace, and in front of the small oblong mirror—cracked across one corner—which stood above the mantelpiece were divers ornaments such as one meets with in poor lodging-houses; certain pictures about the walls completed the effect of vulgarity.
Emily let herself sink upon the chintz-covered couch, and lay back, closing her eyes; she had thrown off her hat, but was too weary, too absent in thought, to remove her mantle. Her face was as colourless as if she had fainted; she kept one hand pressed against her heart. Unconsciously she had walked home with a very quick step, and quick movement caused her physical suffering. She sat thus for a quarter of an hour, when there came a tap at the door.
Her landlady entered.
‘Oh, I thought, Miss Hood,’ she began, ‘you’d maybe rung the bell as usual, and I hadn’t heard it. I do sometimes think I’m getting a little hard of hearing; my husband tell me of it. Will you have the tea made?’
‘Thank you, Mrs. Willis,’ Emily replied, rising.
She opened a low cupboard beside the fireplace, took out a tea-pot, and put some tea into it.
‘You’d have a long walk, I suppose,’ continued the woman, ‘and delightful weather for it, too. But you must mind as you don’t over-tire yourself. You don’t look very strong, if I may say it.’
‘Oh, I am very well,’ was the mechanical reply.
After a few more remarks the landlady took away the teapot. Emily then drew out a cloth from the cupboard, and other things needful for her evening meal. Presently the tea-pot returned filled with hot water. Emily was glad to pour out a cup and drink it, but she ate nothing. In a short time she rang the bell to have the things removed. This time a little girl appeared.
‘Eh, Miss,’ was the exclamation of the child, on examining the state of the table, ‘you haven’t eaten nothing!’
‘No, I don’t want anything just now, Milly,’ was the quiet reply.
‘Shall I leave the bread and butter out?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll have some later.’
‘Is there anything I could get you, Miss?’
‘Nothing, Milly. Take the things away, there’s a good girl.’
Emily had seated herself on the couch again; when the girl was gone she lay down, her hands beneath her head. Long, long since she had had so much to think of as to-night.
At first she had found Wilfrid a good deal altered. He looked so much older; his bearded face naturally caused that. But before he had spoken twenty words how well she knew that the change was only of appearance. His voice was a little deeper, but the tone and manner of his speaking carried her back to the days when they had first exchanged words when she was a governess at The Firs in Surrey, and Wilfrid was the interesting young fellow who had overworked himself at college. The circumstances of to-day’s meeting had reproduced something of the timidity with which he had approached her when they were strangers. This afternoon she had scarcely looked into his eyes, but she felt their gaze upon her, and felt their power as of old—ah, fifty-fold stronger!
Was he married? It was more than possible. Nothing had escaped him inconsistent with that, and he was not likely to speak of it directly. It would account for the nature of his embarrassment in talking with her; her keen insight distinguished something more than the hesitation which common memories would naturally cause. And that pressure of the hand at parting which had made her heart leap with such agony, might well be his way of intimating to her that this meeting would have no sequel. Was it to be expected that he should remain unmarried? Had she hoped it?