Not by Emily, however.  It cost a good deal of firmness, for the Cartwrights one and all would lay hands on you rather than lose a guest; but Emily made good her escape.  Once well on her way to Banbrigg, she took in great breaths of free air, as if after a close and unwholesome atmosphere.  She cried mentally for an ounce of civet.  There was upon her, too, that uneasy sense of shame which is apt to possess a reticent nature when it has been compelled, or tempted, to some unwonted freedom of speech.  Would it not have been better, she asked herself, to merely avoid the talk she found so hateful by resolutely advancing other topics?  Perhaps not; it was just possible that her words might bear some kind of fruit.  But she wished heartily that this task of hopeless teaching had never been proposed to her; it would trouble her waking every other day, and disturb with a profitless annoyance the ideal serenity for which she was striving.

Yet it had one good result; her mother’s follies and weaknesses were very easy to bear in comparison, and, when the midday meal was over, she enjoyed with more fulness the peace of her father’s room upstairs, where she had arranged a table for her own work.  Brilliant sunlight made the bare garret, with its outlook over the fields towards Pendal, a cheerful and homelike retreat.  Here, whilst the clock below wheezed and panted after the relentless hours, Emily read hard at German, or, when her mind called for rest, sheltered herself beneath the wing of some poet, who voiced for her the mute hymns of her soul.  But the most sacred hour was when her parents had gone to rest, and she sat in her bedroom, writing her secret thoughts for Wilfrid some day to read.  She had resolved to keep for him a journal of her inner life from day to day.  In this way she might hope to reveal herself more truthfully than spoken words would ever allow; she feared that never, not even in the confidence of their married life, would her tongue learn to overcome the fear of its own utterances.  How little she had told him of herself, of her love!  In Surrey she had been so timid; she had scarcely done more than allow him to guess her thoughts; and at their last meeting she had been compelled into opposition of his purpose, so that brief time had been left for free exchange of tenderness.  But some day she would put this little book of manuscript into his hands, and the shadowy bars between him and her would vanish.  She could only write in it late at night, when the still voice within spoke clearly amid the hush.  The only sound from the outer world was that of a train now and then speeding by, and that carried her thoughts to Wilfrid, who had journeyed far from her into other countries.  Emily loved silence, the nurse of the soul; the earliest and the latest hours were to her most dear.  It had never been to her either an impulse or a joy to realise the existence of the mass of mankind; she had shrunk, after the first excitement, from the thronged streets of London, passing from them with delight to the quiet country.  Others might find their strength in the sense of universal human fellowship; she would fain live apart, kindly disposed to all, but understanding well that her first duty was to tend the garden of her mind.  That it was also her first joy was, by the principles of her religion, justification in pursuing it.