took Marcel's note to "The Nest." It was all he could do, but he did n't want to do it.
There was a high wind blowing; the scarlet tulips were over, and there was nothing left of their glory but their rather unsightly sticks. The sweet-peas and the roses had n't yet come out.
It was early in the morning, and Geoffrey refused to go in. He did n't want to see them all sitting round the breakfast-table being shocked at Fanny.
He was n't shocked himself; he was completely bewildered and stunned. He did n't see the point of it, but it had already occurred to him that the point of it was n't being shocked. It seemed to him that to see Emily in the garden alone would be quite enough.
There are some women whom high winds suit; they look their best with their hair blown about their eyes, their clothes flowing, and their color heightened. Geoffrey had thought that Fanny in a wind was like the figure in the Naples Museum called "A Girl Hastening." But Emily was not slim enough to hasten, and moral indignation and a high wind proved very unbecoming to her. She came down the garden path as if she were being pushed from behind. Geoffrey saw that she had already heard from Fanny.
"Look," Emily said, "at this!" She held between her finger and thumb, at some little distance from her, a note from Fanny. Fanny had written:
"Is n't it incredible! Is n't it utterly loathsome and base!" Emily almost shrieked at Geoffrey as they entered a small summer-house together. They had to get somewhere out of the wind.
"I can't understand it," Geoffrey muttered helplessly.
"Understand it!" cried Emily. "What is there to understand? The man is a cad, simply an unscrupulous French roué; and Fanny—I see that now; I trusted her too much—Fanny is really bad. I never knew human nature could be so utterly vile. Think, Geoffrey, think what I 've done for her!"
Geoffrey thought. Emily had spent very nearly twenty pounds on Fanny. She had lent her her cottage for a fortnight, she had given her some old clothes and a great deal of good advice. He remembered what Fanny had wanted to do for Emily, and he looked away from the flushed, indignant face before him.
Fanny would n't have got angry if Emily had done something wrong; she would have wanted to cover it up. Emily was uncovering Fanny.
"I had safeguarded everything as far as I could," she went on. "I never gave her money. I always managed to have it paid for her. It is always safer not to let a person like that deal with money direct. She could n't have paid for her railway-ticket if that wretched man had n't taken her."
"Good God!" cried Geoffrey, "what on earth became of that check I gave you for her, for the sittings?"
"Oh. I never gave her that," said Emily, calmly. "I arranged with her that it was to help with her expenses. I thought it better not. Why do you look as if you were angry, Geoffrey? Surely I had a right to do what I thought best for her?"
"I don't see that you had any right," said Geoffrey, hotly, "to keep money from her that she had earned. If I had dreamed of such a thing, I should have insisted upon her being paid. Can't you see that she could n't get away without taking his money? You forced her to go with Dupin!"
"What perfect nonsense, Geoffrey!" said Emily, impatiently. "Besides, why on earth should she want to go away unless she was thoroughly bad? If she did, she could have said so. Do be sensible about it. I think you are forgetting how I found Fanny and what I have done for her. I have spent a great deal more than that on her, and I would have gladly spent twice as much to save her; but I don't know why we are talking about money. This is n't a question of money; it is simply a question of moral evil. How could they be so base?"
"How do you know they are base?" asked Geoffrey. "Everything one can't understand is n't necessarily base."
Emily had never heard Geoffrey speak like this before. His voice had a hard, cutting quality, and he eyed her completely without adoration; besides, he spoke as if he was on the side of Fanny and Marcel.
"Surely, surely," said Emily, "you don't condone what they have done?"
"My dear girl," said Geoffrey, "I don't condone or condemn anything that I can't make head or tail of. Here is Marcel's letter. Read it for yourself. You will see there they had some extraordinary reason for what they did. That's what bothers me; I can't make it out."
Emily hurled back her hair, and read what Marcel had written. Of course she did n't believe a word of it.