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diff --git a/17255-h/17255-h.htm b/17255-h/17255-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ae060ca --- /dev/null +++ b/17255-h/17255-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3853 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="content-type" content= +"text/html; charset=us-ascii" /> +<title>The Wings of Icarus, by Laurence Alma Tadema.</title> + +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[*/ +<!-- +body {font-family:Georgia,serif;margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%;} +p {text-align: justify;} +h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 {text-align: center;line-height:1.5em;font-variant:small-caps;padding:1em 0em;} +h3.ltrTitle {padding-top:2em;} +h2.secHead {padding-top:3em;} +pre {font-family:Courier,monospace;font-size: 0.8em;} +sup {font-size:0.7em;} +hr {width: 50%;} +hr.full {width: 100%;} +hr.short {width:25%;} +ol.secList {list-style-type: upper-roman;margin-left:15%;font-variant:small-caps;} +ol.secList li {font-size:120%;} +ol.secList li p {font-size:80%} +span.sc {font-variant:small-caps;} +.small {font-size:0.8em;} +.spacedTop {padding-top:3em;} +.rgt {text-align:right;} +.address, .signature {text-align:right;margin-right:10%;} +--> +/*]]>*/ +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wings of Icarus, by Laurence Alma Tadema + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Wings of Icarus + Being the Life of one Emilia Fletcher + +Author: Laurence Alma Tadema + +Release Date: December 8, 2005 [EBook #17255] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WINGS OF ICARUS *** + + + + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + +<hr class="full" /> +<h1>THE<br /> +WINGS OF ICARUS</h1> +<p class="cen small">BEING</p> +<h2>THE LIFE OF ONE EMILIA FLETCHER</h2> +<p class="cen small">AS REVEALED BY HERSELF IN</p> +<ol class="secList"> +<li>Thirty-five letters +<p>Written to Constance Norris between July 18th, 188-, and March +26th of the following year</p> +</li> +<li>A Fragmentary Journal</li> +<li>A Postscript</li> +</ol> +<p class="cen small spacedTop">BY</p> +<h2>LAURENCE ALMA TADEMA</h2> +<p class="cen">New York</p> +<p class="cen">MACMILLAN AND COMPANY</p> +<p class="cen small">AND LONDON</p> +<p class="cen">1894</p> +<hr /> +<h1>THE WINGS OF ICARUS.</h1> +<h2 class="secHead">THE LETTERS.</h2> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER I.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Fletcher’s Hall, +Graysmill</span>,<br /> +July 18th.</p> +<p><em>Dear and Beloved Constance</em>,—What shall I say to +you? Here I sit, in a strange room, in a strange land,—and my +life lies behind me. It is close upon midnight, and very dark. I +can see nothing out of window. The air is hot and heavy, the moths +flutter round my candle; I cannot save them all. I am trying to +write you a letter—do you understand? Oh, but I have no +thoughts, only visions! Three there are that rise before me, +sometimes separately, sometimes all together.</p> +<p>I see you, Mrs. Norris. We are standing on the platform, side by +side; people leaning out of window in my night-gown, watching the +mists rise in the valley. The air is very sweet here in England; I +see oceans of trees, great stretches of heath and meadow. Surely, +surely one ought to be happy in this beautiful world! I shall dress +quickly and go out. This letter, such as it is, shall go to you by +the first post, and to-night I shall write again, when I myself +know something of my surroundings. Good-bye then for the present, +my best and dearest.</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER II.</h3> +<p class="address">July 19.</p> +<p>It is just half-past ten, my Constance; the two old ladies have +gone to bed. I am getting on very well, on the whole, although I +had the misfortune to keep them waiting three-quarters of an hour +for breakfast this morning. It was so beautiful out of doors, and I +was so happy roaming in field and wood,—happy with the +happiness sunshine can lay atop of the greatest sorrow,—that +I stayed out till nearly ten o’clock. I had taken some milk +and bread in the kitchen before starting, not realising that +breakfast here is a solemn meal. Poor old souls! they were too +polite to begin without me, and I found them positively drooping +with hunger.</p> +<p>All the rancour that I had harboured in my heart this many a +year against my father’s stepmother has vanished into thin +air. One glance at the old lady’s delicate weak face, at her +diffident eyes and nervous fingers, dispelled once and forever any +preconceived idea that she might have helped him in his ardent +difficult boyhood, stood between him and his father in his day of +disgrace. Had she been a woman of mettle, I could never have +forgiven her the neutral part she played; but she stands there +cleared by her very impotence.</p> +<p>I think she was nervous of meeting me, last night; she said +something confused about my poor papa, about her husband’s +severity, adding that she was sorry not to have known my mamma, but +supposed I must be like her, as I looked quite the foreigner with +my black eyes. Her whole manner towards me is almost painful in its +humility; this morning she begged me to let her live with me, and +die in this house, saying she did not care to go and live with her +son; upon which I of course assured her that she must still +consider everything her own, and the scene ended in kisses and a +pocket-handkerchief.</p> +<p>There is something very touching about an old woman’s +hand; I felt myself much more moved than the occasion warranted +when she held me with her trembling fingers, moving them nervously +up and down, so that I felt the small weak bones under the skin, +all soft, full-veined, and wrinkled.</p> +<p>Her sister, Caroline Seymour, is younger, probably not more than +sixty, and very active. She has a bright, bird-like face, over +which flits from time to time a sad little gleam of lost beauty. +Her fingers are always busy, and the beads in her cap bob up and +down incessantly as she bends over her fancy-work. Poor old +souls—poor old children! I think my grandfather must have led +them a life; there is a peacefulness upon them that suggests +deliverance. He has been dead just five weeks.</p> +<p>But the old house will see quiet days enough now. I have +wandered all over it, and find it a beautiful place in itself, +although it is so stuffed with wool-work, vile china, gildings, wax +flowers, and indescribable mantel-piece atrocities, that there is +not a simple or restful corner anywhere. Yet I find myself touched +by its very hideousness, when I think that it probably looked even +so, smelt even so stale and sweet, in the days of my dear +father’s boyhood. There is a picture in the large +drawing-room that gives me infinite pleasure. It is a portrait of +my own grandmother with papa in a white frock on her knees, and my +poor Aunt Fanny beside her, a neat little smiling girl in pink, +with very long drawers. There is something in the young +mother’s face that, at first sight, made my father’s +smile rise clearly to my memory. I have since tried to recall the +vision, but in vain.</p> +<p>My father’s half-brother, George Fletcher, a widower with +a large family, who lives four miles from here, came to see me this +afternoon, and I took a great dislike to him. (Did I hear you say +“Of course”?) But really, dearest, these introductions +are very painful; it is most unpleasant to have the undesirable +stranger thrust upon one in the guise of friend and protector, to +find oneself standing on a footing of inevitable familiarity with +people whose hands one had rather not touch. He kissed me, +Constantia, but he certainly will not do so again. Fortunately, I +like my two old ladies; things might be worse.</p> +<p>To-morrow my lawyer comes from London to speak to me on +business. I shall be glad when the interview is over, for I +understand nothing at all about business matters. I can indeed +barely grasp the fact that I have come into possession of land and +money. Heaven only knows what I am to do with it all.</p> +<p>Write to me; write soon. You seem further away from me to-day +than you did last night; and yet I should miss you more if I could +realise my own existence. Can you make your way through these +contradictions? It seems to me this evening that I, Emilia, am +still beside you, that some one else sits here in exile with +nothing written on the page of her future, not even by the finger +of Hope. Good night, dearest.</p> +<p class="signature">Yours ever and always,<br /> +<span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER III.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Fletcher’s Hall, +Graysmill</span>,<br /> +July 26th.</p> +<p>What do you think stepped in with my bath this morning? A long +narrow letter sealed with a heart. I kissed the blue stamp and +spread the three dear sheets out on my pillow. Oimé, +Constantia, how I love you! But why write about <em>me</em>? Why +waste pen and ink wondering how I am? Tell me about yourself, tell +me all you do, and all you think; tell me how many different hats +you wore on Wednesday, and how you misspent your time on Thursday; +tell me of all the nonsense that is poured into your ears, of all +the rubbish you read; tell me even how many times your mother wakes +you in the night to ask if you are sleeping well. I long for you so +that the very faults of your life are dear to me, even those for +which I most reprove you when you are near.</p> +<p>Let me see: it is past midday with you; you and your mother are +out walking. I hear you both.</p> +<p>“Constance,” says Mrs. Rayner, “put up your +parasol!”</p> +<p>“Thanks, mother,” you reply; “I like to feel +the sun.”</p> +<p>“You’ll freckle.”</p> +<p>“Through this thick veil and all the powder?”</p> +<p>“You’ll freckle, I tell you. Put up your +parasol.”</p> +<p>“Oh, mother, do let me be!”</p> +<p>Here Mrs. Rayner wrenches the parasol out of your hands and puts +it up with a jerk; you take it, heaving a very loud sigh, upon +which your mother seizes it again and pops it down.</p> +<p>“Very well, be as freckled as you please; what does it +matter to me, after all? It’s so pretty to have freckles, +isn’t it? Please yourself! Only I warn you that you’ll +look like a fig before the year’s out!”</p> +<p>Oh, dear me, it seems I’m in good spirits to-day! Why not, +with your letter in my pocket? I am sitting out of doors in the +woods. I love this place, apart from its own beauty; I like to +think of my father out here in the open, dreaming his young dreams. +Indoors in the old house I am often miserable, with a misery beyond +my own, remembering how he suffered once between those walls.</p> +<p>No, I am not really in good spirits, although there comes now +and again a little gust of light-heartedness. You know me. For the +rest, I hate myself, I am a worm. The empire of myself is lost; I +am sitting low on the ground, where my troubles laid me, letting +what may run over me. I hate myself both for my abject hopelessness +and for my incapacity to take comfort at the hands of those about +me. But oh! the deadliness of their life is past description; they +have neither breadth nor health in their thoughts. I am not +speaking of the old women; their lives are at an end; they sit as +little children there, simple of heart; what they were I ask not, +nor boots it now, for their day is done. But George Fletcher and +his family, and my various more distant relatives, and my +neighbours far and near—oh, I shall never be able to live +here! Believe me; you will soon see me back. Good people, mind you, +one and all, according to their lights; God-fearing, law-abiding, +nothing questioning, one and all. I shall soon expect to see the +earth stand still and roll backwards. Yes; there they trot upon +life’s highway, chained together, dragging each other along; +not one of them dares stop to pick a flower lest the others should +tread on his fingers and toes. And they are so swaddled up in +customs and conventions, baby-learned forms of speech and bearing, +that there is nothing to be seen of the real man and woman; indeed, +I cannot say that I have yet found a mummy worth unrolling. +Yesterday a kind of cousin brought her children to see me. There +was a small girl who had already learned, poor wretch, to play her +little part, to quell the impulses of her young heart, to tune her +tongue to a given pitch. She sat on the edge of her chair, feigning +indifference to everything, from Chinese chessmen to +gingerbread-nuts; it was a positive relief to me when her younger +brother, who has not yet learned the most necessary falsehoods, +yelled lustily and smashed a tea-cup. I should have been glad to do +both myself.</p> +<p>I must unpack my books. A Broadwood is on its way from London; +in a few days I hope to have made unto myself some kind of oasis in +this desert. I have taken possession of the two rooms on the +topmost floor that were my father’s nurseries; and there, +with my things about me, I mean to be happy against all odds.</p> +<p>Good-bye for to-day. Do you remember this morning a fortnight +ago? It might be last year—it might be yesterday! How strange +is the beat of Time’s wings!</p> +<p class="signature">Your <span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER IV.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, August +2d.</p> +<p>Now that’s the kind of letter I like to have! Only my +heart sickens for thee. At each word I hear your voice; at every +pause, the little ripples that run away with it so sweetly. I +cannot even find it in me to scold you for your many follies. Young +woman, I don’t approve of you, but you are the sweetest +creature that ever walked this earth. Thanks be where thanks are +due that I am a woman; you would have been my bane had I been born +a man!</p> +<p>But, to be serious, I have been thinking things out; you must +leave your mother, Constance, and come to me. You have lived this +kind of life long enough; and—believe me, my +dearest—you are not strong enough to bear it longer +unharmed.</p> +<p>Shall I be a little cruel to you? Well, my own, I think that if +you looked into your heart, searchingly and truly, as you always +declare you know not how, you would find that it is more cowardice +than duty binds you to Mrs. Rayner. She bore you, you say, she +brought you up—Good Lord! and how! If you were not a pearl +among women, what would you be by this time? No, you know as well +as I do that it is cowardice, not duty, prevents you from taking +this step.</p> +<p>I shall never forget what you said to me once, when first I knew +you; it was in Florence, and we were leaning out of window in my +room. I remember it the better because it was during this +conversation that I ventured to put my arm round your waist for the +first time.</p> +<p>“Now I call this pleasant!” you said. “Here am +I looking out of window with a nice girl’s arm round my +waist, and right away from my mother. She doesn’t even know +where I am!”</p> +<p>I loved my mother so much that this shocked me extremely, and I +told you so. You flushed, I remember, and cried:—</p> +<p>“Oh, but you don’t know what my life is! You +don’t know what it is to long with all your might to get away +from somebody, somebody who has hung over you ever since you were +born, so that she seemed to stand between you and the very air you +breathed.” And then you told me about your marriage; how, in +order to be free from her, you took the husband, rich and infamous, +into whose arms she threw you in your innocence; how, at the end of +a few months, you returned home doubly a slave, to be crushed, year +in, year out, by love that showed itself almost as hate; bound now +in such a way that if any other love were offered you, you could +not take it.</p> +<p>And how old are you now? Twenty-four. Still her puppet, her +doll, for that is what you are; she dresses and undresses you from +morning till night, then struts up and down the streets of Europe, +showing her pretty plaything. You say she has no thought but you, +loves you so much that it would break her heart if you left her. +Look here, Constance: you knew my mother; you know then what it +means to live nobly and truly in the light of a greater goodness +than the world yet understands. God, or whoever made you, made your +soul very white; how dare you let the smuts fall upon it? How dare +you tread among falsehoods, you that have heard of Truth?</p> +<p>Try, my dearest, try to be brave; surely it is the duty of each +one of us to live the noblest life he can. The world is so +beautiful! It is only ourselves and our mistakes that lie foul upon +it. When the most holy of human ties, defying nature, becomes the +bane of those it binds, it is better to break it than to let +one’s life cast a daily blot, as it were, on the sanctity of +motherhood and the love of the child.</p> +<p>Come to me; live with me in peace awhile! We will think and read +together, master ourselves, and find some path to tread. I, too, am +in need of resolution. Whilst my dear mother lived, she held me by +the hand. You know how, when two walk together, the weaker +unconsciously leaves it to the stronger to lead the way? Well, so +it was with me; and now I must learn to find my path alone. I know +now what she meant when she said that the first use to which a man +must put his courage is to being himself.</p> +<p>All good be with you, dear heart.</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER V.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, August +7th.</p> +<p>Dearest, I wrote you such a stern letter the other day, that I +feel I must write again before the week comes round. It was, after +all, a silly promise we made each other to write just once a week, +neither more nor less. This time I write at odds with myself. +It’s all very well to talk about sincerity, it baffles one +completely at times; there isn’t a greater liar under the sun +at this moment than Emilia Fletcher. My outward life is all out of +tune with my inward self. Perhaps if you saw me with my old ladies, +you would say: “Quite right; please them by all means, sit +with them, drive with them, make small talk, listen to their little +tales. It pleases them, and it doesn’t harm you.” But I +answer: Is it right? Is it not rank hypocrisy? Is affection won by +false pretences worth the having? I tell you, I am playing a part +all day long. I read to them out of books that I either despise or +abhor; I play to them music unworthy of the name; I nod my head in +acquiescence when my very soul cries no. Nor is that all; I take my +place each morning in the centre of the room, open the Bible, and +in pious voice, I, Infidel, read forth the prayers that are to +strengthen the household through the day. When, at a given point, +all the maid-servants rise, whirl round in their calico gowns and +turn their demure backs to me as they kneel in a row, I know not +whether to laugh or cry. O Constance, it is infamous of me! And why +do I do it? Out of consideration for them? out of kind-heartedness? +Not a bit of it! Vanity, my dear; sheer vanity. If they cared for +me less, if I did not feel that they almost worship me, holding out +their old hands to me for all the pleasure that their day still may +bring, would I do it? No; for then I should not care, as I feel I +do now, to keep their good opinion, even at the expense of making +myself appear better, according to their lights, than I really am. +I am a worm; I never thought I could sink so low. It was so easy to +live in tune with Truth beside my mother; but she was Truth’s +high-priestess; she never swerved from the straight path.</p> +<p>I went to church last Sunday; there’s a confession! +Another such act of cowardice, and I am lost. It never entered my +head, of course, to go the first Sunday I was here; and as it so +happened that I had a headache that day, no comment was made upon +my absence. But on Saturday the vicar said something about +“to-morrow”; Uncle George invited himself to dinner +after service; and when Aunt Caroline asked me, at breakfast on +Sunday, what hat I was going to put on, I replied, “The small +one,” and followed her like a lamb. I don’t know what +to do now. This afternoon, the good little old lady asked me to +call with her on a friend whose father died last week, and I went, +Heaven knows why. I was well served out. There they sat a mortal +hour, blowing their noses and praising their God, until I could +have shrieked. When I had safely seen Aunt Caroline home, I set off +for a long walk in the gloaming; the silent earth was stretched in +peace beneath the deepening sky, the moon rose among great clouds +that floated like dragons’ ghosts upon the blue. And I cried +out within myself for very pain that I who had perception of these +things should live so lying and so false a life. Perhaps I am not +quite myself yet; so much sorrow came to me at once that all my +strength has left me. But it is cowardly to make excuses.</p> +<p>I hear you: “There you go, old wise-bones! Here’s a +storm in a tea-cup! It’s much better to behave properly +<em>out</em>side anyway, than to hurt people’s feelings and +make them think worse of you than they need, by showing them what a +wicked infidel you are. Besides, what does it matter?”</p> +<p>Little one, do you remember how we shocked each other that +Christmas morning in Florence, when we made a round of the churches +together? I can see you still, you pretty thing, crossing yourself +at the door of Santa Maria Novella. With all the strictness of my +nineteen years I was simply horrified.</p> +<p>“Constance!” I cried, “what on earth are you +doing?”</p> +<p>“I don’t like to be left in the cold,” you +replied; “if there are any blessings going, I may as well +have my share.”</p> +<p>“But, dearest,” said I, “you don’t +believe in it!”</p> +<p>“Of course I don’t, but it may be true, for all +that; how do we know? Do let me enjoy myself, you dear old granny! +The stale water may not do me any good, but it won’t do me +any harm either, now will it?”</p> +<p>Oh, dear, how the smell of the church comes back with the +remembered words! It was a long time ago. Dear and sweet one, I +must not think of you too much, I long for you so.</p> +<p class="signature">Yours in endless love,<br /> +<span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER VI.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Fletcher’s Hall</span>, +August 12th.</p> +<p>You must do as you think best. You know that I long for you, +that the thought of your wasted life is constant pain to me. Think +again, think every day, and if ever you can make up your mind to +leave Mrs. Rayner, you know that I am here, that all I have is +yours also. I shall say no more.</p> +<p>So you have seen him, and he asked after me. Well. What was he +doing in Homburg, I wonder? Not that I care. I really believe, +Constance, that I care no longer. And yet it so happens that last +night I thought of him a good deal. It came about so. Grandmamma +had gone to bed, and I went into Aunt Caroline’s room to +light her candles. There are some little water-colours round the +mirror that she painted as a girl. I stopped to look at them, and +the poor soul took them down one by one to show me. There was a +story attached to each, and her eyes brightened with remembrance of +the past. Most of the little pictures were different views of the +same house. Suddenly she gave a little smile.</p> +<p>“Wait a minute; I’ll show you another picture, +Milly—my best picture.” (They will call me Milly; +there’s no help for it.) “I have never shown it to any +one before, but you are a good girl; I think I should like to show +it to you.”</p> +<p>She cleared a space upon her dressing-table, lighted a third +candle, a fourth, making a little illumination; then from her +wardrobe she brought an old desk, and unlocked it solemnly with a +key that always hangs upon her watch-chain. The desk was full of +treasures,—letters, flowers, ends of ribbon, all neatly +labelled. She opened a little case and placed in my hands the +portrait of a young man.</p> +<p>I hardly knew how to take it. “It is beautiful,” I +said; “what a handsome face!” Then the veil of silence +and old age fell from her heart; she told me the whole tale. +Nothing new, of course. She had loved, and—strange to +say!—the man had done likewise; they were engaged, but +because his family was not equal to hers in birth, her +brother-in-law, my grandfather, would not hear of the match, and +obliged her to break it off. Yet another sin to add to his +score!</p> +<p>“I think,” said I, “that you should have +married him, all the same.”</p> +<p>The old woman blew her nose, rose, and kissed me.</p> +<p>“You are the first that ever told me so,” she said; +“I think so, too.”</p> +<p>It was past midnight when I left her, and I must confess that my +own eyes were not dry.</p> +<p>“Is he still alive?” I asked, as I reached the +door.</p> +<p>The old woman smiled.</p> +<p>“I don’t know,” she said, “but I shall +know in good time; please God we shall soon meet again in a better +land.”</p> +<p>I lay awake a long time in the night, marvelling at her +constancy and her faith. But then I wept to think how many women, +even as she, have held one only flower in their hands, clung to it +still when colour and scent were gone, refusing to pluck another; +wept, too, to think how many such as she are buoyed up by a hope I +cannot share. I wonder what it feels like, this implicit faith in +an after life! It must make a difference, even in love. Perhaps we +who believe in one life only cling with the greater passion to what +we love, seeing that, once lost, we have no hope of +re-possession.</p> +<p>Well, it’s a sad world. But a funny one, too. I was quite +shy of meeting Aunt Caroline again this morning, lest the +remembrance of what she had told me over-night should make her feel +ill at ease; lest, in fact, she had repented of her confidence. And +I stood quite a while outside the breakfast-room door, like a fool. +But as I entered, her beaded cap was bobbing over an uplifted +dish-cover.</p> +<p>“Oh, good morning, Milly!” she said. “No, +sister, it’s not Upton’s fault. The bacon’s +beautiful, only cook can’t cut a rasher.”</p> +<p>And again I was in my common dilemma; I didn’t know +whether to laugh or cry.</p> +<p>Good-bye, sweetest; take care of yourself.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER VII.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, August +20th.</p> +<p>Good evening, Mrs. Norris. I am in a very good temper,—and +you? (N.B. I had an extra letter this morning; somebody spoils +me.)</p> +<p>Now what shall I tell you, Inquisitiveness? Indeed, I tell you +all there is to tell. You complain that I never speak about the +people I meet; that’s true enough. When I find myself in +their company, I make the best of it, but I never think about them +between whiles. As for Uncle George, why, I dislike him thoroughly. +He is handsome in his way, and looks remarkably young,—not +that that is exactly a crime! One of my principal objections to his +person is a kind of bachelor smartness he carries about with him. +It is quite ridiculous to see him with his daughters, the eldest of +whom is just eighteen and engaged to be married. There is nothing +of the simplicity of the country gentleman about him,—a +simplicity that in many cases covers a multitude of faults. No, I +shall never be able to bear him,—neither his juvenility, his +jewelry, nor his whiskers—certainly never the scent on his +handkerchief! Ouf! I hate him altogether. I promise you that when I +find a human being with whom I can exchange an idea, whose thoughts +have even wandered half a mile beyond the parish, I shall apprize +you of the fact. Meanwhile, dearest, you must put up with my +company, as I myself am learning to do. It seems to me almost that +I need no one else! I sit here in my room, out there in the woods, +and I am content. I read a great deal; I have just re-read the +“Volsunga Saga,” and have begun Tolstoi’s +“Cossacks.” I am trying, too, to continue my +mother’s translation of “Prometheus,” but the +difference between my work and hers is so great that I sometimes +lose heart. However, I shall try to finish it. Her beautiful face +and yours look down at me from the shelf above my writing-table, +amidst a wealth of flowers; and, as I look up, I can see the sun +setting behind the beech-trees, for I sit beside the window. The +sky is full of hope, the little clouds are glowing with colour, the +trees with fulness of life; a blackbird is singing his heart out in +the willow by the pond. I must needs believe that life is worth +living….</p> +<p>I have watched all the pink fade from the sky; the mottled +clouds are grey and sleepy-looking. I have turned away. You are +smiling very sweetly up there; my table is strewn with things her +hand has touched,—I am not quite alone.</p> +<p>Well, good night. I must go down to my dear old ladies and read +to them a while before they go to bed.</p> +<p class="signature">Your <span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER VIII.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, September +4th.</p> +<p>You are a sweet to write so often, and I am a wretched niggard +that deserves not one half of what you give. I began to write +several times—of course you know that. Take care of yourself; +the thought of your coughing troubles me; each time I think of you +I hear you cough, and it makes me miserable. I met a child on the +Common yesterday, with hair your colour that fell back in thick +curls from a forehead almost as white as yours. Need I say that I +kissed her? Poor mite, she had such dirty clothes! She told me +where she lives; I must make inquiries about her mother. I might be +able to help. The existence of poverty is just beginning to dawn +upon me. It is strange how long one can live with one’s eyes +entirely closed to certain things. In Italy I never thought about +it; I sometimes felt sorry for a beggar, but never quite believed +in poverty as an actual state; it merely seemed a rather +disreputable but picturesque profession. Here in England I have +come face to face with destitution; with hunger, labour, sweat, and +barren joylessness. My first thought was that money might set all +this straight; I made Uncle George laugh by seriously suggesting +that I should give of my superfluity to every cottage. Most people +here visit the poor; I went with Aunt Caroline at first and saw it +all. I soon gave it up. I cannot walk boldly into free human +beings’ homes and poke my nose into their privacy; I cannot +speak to them of the Lord’s will and persuade them that all +is for the best. I can only give them money. Little Mrs. Dobb, the +rector’s wife, thanked me with tears in her eyes for a sum I +placed in her hands yesterday. They say she does a great deal of +good, and if my money and her religion can work together, by all +means let it be so.</p> +<p>Meanwhile I ask myself every day: What is the use of Emilia +Fletcher? I really cannot see why I ever was born; my perceptions +are keen, but keener than my capabilities. I shall never be able to +do anything to help the world; yet I see so much that might be +done. I shall not ever be able to lead that life of simple truth, +of absolute fidelity to high-set aims, which I yet believe it must +be in every man’s power to live. Which is the more to be +despised—he who perceives a higher path and lacks the +resolution to adhere to it, or he who trots along the common road +out of sheer short-sightedness? Clearly the first. I am a worm. +(You have probably heard this before.)</p> +<p>Well, I am not a very gay companion; I shall leave you for +to-day, sweetest.</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER IX.</h3> +<p class="address">Sunday evening.</p> +<p>I have made a fool of myself; and yet I am happier to-night than +I have been this many a day, for I have at least shown myself +honest. I did it foolishly, thoughtlessly, I know, and +yet,—well, I don’t regret it.</p> +<p>I went to church this morning for the last time. I went with +Aunt Caroline, as usual, but, as I knelt beside her on entering the +pew, I was seized with a great horror of myself. There was I, +hypocrite, with silent lips and silent heart, feigning to share in +the simple fervour around me, denying my own faith, insulting that +of another. However, I sat and knelt and stood and went through all +the forms along with the rest. The sunlight streamed in at the +windows, and lay coloured on the dusty floor, on bowed head and +Sunday bonnet; through one little white window, just opposite me, I +could see a sparrow bobbing up and down on the ivy. Then away +sailed my spirit, through the church wall, over the meadows, and +into the copse; I pushed my way through the underwood, and picked +up a leaf here and there, listening to the gentle voice of the +wood-pigeon. And then—you know there is one thought into +which all thoughts resolve—I walked with you, dearest, on the +hilltops by Fiesole; she, too, was there, and you both laughed at +me because I tried to dig up a wild orchid with a flint, and got my +hands so dirty.</p> +<p>Then we had that long talk about the possibility of an +after-life, which began with the bulb of the orchid—do you +remember?</p> +<p>“Nothing is lost in Nature,” said my mother. +“There is no such thing as annihilation; death is surely +transubstantiation.”</p> +<p>“Perhaps then, after all,” said I, “the +noblest part of us, the self, that invisible core which we call +soul, is just a drop, as it were, in a great soul-ocean, whose +waves wrap creation, and into which we shall fall. What’s the +matter, Constantia?”</p> +<p>“I can’t listen to you any more, you prosy things; +you make me melancholy. Go and be waves if you like, you two; +I’m going to have white wings and be an angel!”</p> +<hr class="short" /> +<p>“I believe in God Almighty, Maker of Heaven and +Earth.”</p> +<p>These words roused me with a hard and sudden shock. I had +completely forgotten where I was; I looked about me, half dazed, +and saw everyone standing except myself. Must I, too, rise and say +the Creed? I did not hesitate, because I did not think. I simply +stood up and left the church.</p> +<p>After dinner I went to the rectory; I felt that my former +hypocrisy and cowardice must be atoned for without delay. Besides, +as Goethe’s mother used to say, there is no need to stare at +the devil, it is better to swallow him whole. Well, I went to Mr. +Dobb, and confessed myself. He was less shocked at my disbelief +than I had expected, but my profession of it troubled him +considerably. He spoke a great deal about example, about the +leading of the masses, and altogether seems to hold avowed lack of +faith, a greater sin than feigned belief.</p> +<p>Of course he had plenty to say on the subject; he seems to be an +honest man, and I must admit that much of what I heard impressed +me. I envied him the ease with which he spoke, the ready-coined +language he was free to use. I could find no words in which to +prove that I, too, had a religion. I wonder, shall I ever be able +to tell another what it is that I feel, as by means of a sixth +sense, when earth and heaven are fairest, when poets sing their +best and music is most divine, when the souls of men and women leap +to their eyes and their hearts lie bare; then something within me +smiles and shivers, and I say, “This—this is +God!”</p> +<p>Oh, it is all very well to talk of being sincere! Again and yet +again I must say it. For the lips cannot speak what the spirit +feels. And then,—why, I spoiled my truthful day by a lie at +the end. How could I go to those two old dears and say, “I +cannot pray with you or go to church any more, I am an +infidel.” How could I? I said instead, “My mother +brought me up in a different faith; I tried to go to your church, +but I cannot, and I think you would not wish me to act against my +conscience in so sacred a matter, so we will go our +ways.”</p> +<p>Oh, what a struggling world it is! And how weary one becomes of +the incessant strife when those upon whose hearts one might lean +are far away, unknown, or dead! Oh, I am very lonely. What is life +without love? It is not to be borne. Do you remember what it was to +lie in your cot, to watch the firelight on the ceiling, feeling the +darkness without; and, as you lay snug in your little world within +the world, to see your mother lean over your pillow, a great +Heaven-roof of love,—to be lifted, weak and small and +trustful, in her arms, to feel your weary head pressed close +against her breast? O Constance, I would give all—my very +eyesight—to feel an arm about me in the dark, to yield up +Self, to rest. We women are poor wretches; no man would ever feel +so, I think.</p> +<p>Good night; my candle has burned low in the socket, the paper is +flaring already, I shall have to undress in the dark.</p> +<p class="signature">Good night, dearest.<br /> +E</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER X.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, September +20th.</p> +<p>Blessings upon you, my sweet dearest; your birthday is the day +of days to me. How could I live without you? I am purely selfish +when I wish you perfect joy and a long golden life; it is almost +like praying for fine weather! All the strings of my heart go +towards you, Constance Norris, and are knotted in your bosom. Be +happy, be well, my darling, else I suffer. We shall not be apart on +your next birthday, I think. I have evolved a marvellous scheme. +Your mother is still young, and a very handsome woman; why +don’t you marry her? Really, it’s a plan worth +attempting; couldn’t you persuade one of your numerous +admirers to transfer his affections? Then, Constantia mia, we two +could live together. We should mostly live abroad, following the +sunshine; but for a part of the year we should stay here in +England. Don’t wrinkle up your dear nose! You will be every +bit as much in love with the country as I am, when once you know it +well. I wish I could show it you now; the woods are changing +colour, ‘tis a glowing world, and your lungs have never +tasted such air as blows on Graysmill Heath. You would be very +happy in the woods in summer; you could lie down and bring your +face on a level with the flowers, and I should sit by and love you. +There would be little sunbeams piercing the roof of leaves and +twinkling about us, and just enough breeze to clear your brow of +curls. O Constance! Why are we so far apart? Only one life, and +then parted! But one must not think of such things.</p> +<p>I send you a little ring that I found the other day in +Miltonhoe; there is a kiss on the red stone, don’t lose +it.</p> +<p>Blessings upon you, my heart of gold.</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XI.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, October +5th.</p> +<p>Three several times have I begun to write to you, but I came to +the conclusion that it is better not to write at all than to give +vent to such feelings as mine. Besides, I had nothing, positively +nothing, to tell you. Furthermore, you did not deserve a letter. +However, as it is all too long since you honoured me with a +communication, Mrs. Norris, I feel I must write and remind you of +my existence. I am well, thank you, but the world’s a dull +place.</p> +<p>Grandmamma and Aunt Caroline—perhaps myself, who +knows?—are in a great state of excitement to-day because a +niece of theirs is coming here on a visit. I heard of her existence +for the first time last week, and immediately decided to invite her +to Fletcher’s Hall. For, Constance, let me whisper it, the +old ladies—bless their hearts!—are killing me. This +person, Ida Seymour by name, is a spinster of some forty winters, a +kind of roving, charitable star, from what I gather, who spends her +life visiting from place to place with a trunkful of fancy work, +pious books, and innocent sources of amusement,—a fairy +godmother to old ladies, pauper children, and bazaars. My vanity +has run its course, and I shall gladly yield the place of honour to +this worthy soul. May she stay long!</p> +<p>That is absolutely all the news I have for you, and, indeed, it +is more than you deserve; for you are about as lazy as you are +sweet, which is saying a good deal. If I don’t get a letter +to-morrow, I shall be on the brink of despair. At the approach of +post time, I am nearly ill with anticipation, and afterwards fall +headlong into deepest melancholy.</p> +<p class="signature">Your ill-used<br /> +<span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XII.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, October +10th.</p> +<p>Sweet, your letter of Thursday comforted me wondrous much; but I +have something to tell you, and my impatience will not even let me +dwell on the joy it was to read words of yours again. Well; +yesterday was a dull day, the sky was covered all the morning, and +at dinner-time it began to rain. I sat in my room in the afternoon +and read “Richard Feverel” until, looking up from my +book, I saw that the rain had ceased. The wind had risen, and, in +the west, a hole had been poked through the grey mantle, showing +the gilded edge of a snowy cloud against a patch of blue. Out I +ran, across the garden and the little park that touches the heath, +then through my dear beechwood until I reached a certain clearing +where the ground goes sheer down at one’s feet and where one +may behold, over the tree-tops, stretches of wood and meadow in the +plain below. I sprang on to a knoll, and there stood breathless, +watching the rout of the tumbled clouds.</p> +<p>Something started beside me,—I started also, for these +woods are always very lonely,—and, to my surprise, I saw a +young man. Imagine a very tall slight fellow, carelessly dressed, +at one and the same time graceful and ungainly,—I have come +to the conclusion that he is physically graceful, but that a +certain shyness and nervousness of temperament produce at times +self-consciousness and awkwardness of bearing. It is difficult to +describe his face; I don’t know whether he is merely +interesting or actually beautiful; here again there is some +discrepancy between flesh and spirit, for the features are not +regular, but the expression exquisite. I suppose he might be +considered plain; his nose is large, rather thin, and not straight; +his mouth is large but finely shaped; I think he smiles a little +crookedly. Anyway, his eyes are beautiful; they are set far apart, +and are strangely expressive. For the rest, he is more freckled +than any one I ever saw, and his hair—which is of no +particular colour—is rather long and thrown off the temples, +save for one lock that continually falls forward. You will think I +am in love with the apparition, to judge by the way in which I +dwell on his description; indeed, I am almost inclined to think so +myself!</p> +<p>Well! I stood and stared at him; his hat was off, an open book +was in his hand, and he gazed at me as one not well awake, that has +been roused from dreams; with something in his looks, too, of the +startled animal that would run away and dare not. There is no +knowing how long we might have stood there staring at each other, +but for a sudden gust of wind that whisked off my hat, whereupon +the young man and I both started downhill in pursuit. The wind was +playful, and led us a fine dance; we were obliged to laugh. When at +last he caught and handed back to me my property, we were +thoroughly exhausted and sat down at the foot of the hill on the +mossy tree-roots. I am sure we must have looked very silly, for we +were so out of breath that we could not leave off +laughing,—my young man has the heartiest laugh I ever heard. +When we had somewhat recovered, I said:</p> +<p>“I wonder why one always laughs when something blows +away?”</p> +<p>“It is,” he replied, with mock gravity, “what +people call a wise dispensation of Providence. There is nothing +between laughter and tears.”</p> +<p>It never entered my head to get up and go my way; his shyness, +too, seemed vanished; we were quite at ease.</p> +<p>“Have you ever noticed,” asked he, “how many +different kinds of moss there are in these woods?”—and +we began to count the varieties as we sat. At last I looked up and +saw that the heavens were blue.</p> +<p>“I’m going uphill again,” said I, “to +see the sunset. How quickly the sky has cleared! It almost seems as +if some invisible broom had made a clean sweep of the +clouds.” To which the young man answered:</p> +<p>“It was a birch-broom. I see the marks of it.”</p> +<p>We climbed the hill side by side; it did not seem at all strange +at the time. When we reached the summit, the sun was setting in +fullest glory, and we were silent. Suddenly he cried:</p> +<p>“Let us be fire-worshippers! There is more of God in that +great light than in all the gospels of mankind.”</p> +<p>“What a queer, comforting thing,” said I, “to +hear from a stranger in a wood.”</p> +<p>It struck me afterwards that perhaps I, too, had said a queer +thing; but we seemed to understand each other. Presently we sat +down again, and he talked to me about the Parsees; he appears to +know a great deal about them.</p> +<p>We narrowly escaped a second run downhill; again the wind seized +my hat, but he nimbly caught it on the wing.</p> +<p>“Why don’t you do as I do?” he asked, passing +his fingers through his hair. “It’s a great mistake to +wear a hat, especially if one has a turn for +trespassing.”</p> +<p>“Who tells you,” laughed I then, “that I am +trespassing? For aught you know, this may be my own +ground.”</p> +<p>The young man looked at me curiously.</p> +<p>“Are you, then, Emilia Fletcher?” he cried.</p> +<p>I nodded assent; whereupon he held out his hand and jerked his +head forward; it was evidently an attempt at courtesy. I took the +hand and laughed outright: he looked so funny with his bright eyes +twinkling beneath the tangled forelock.</p> +<p>“I have heard of you,” he said, “and I am glad +to meet you. The other day I asked to whom the land belonged, and +was told that you were half Italian and rather eccentric. You seem +to be a human being. I am glad to have met you. My name is Gabriel +Norton.”</p> +<p>Here the big bell rang out from the house, summoning me to +tea,—it had rung once already. So the apparition and I parted +company.</p> +<p>I wonder if he has caught cold; I am sure that I have; I have +been sneezing all the evening.</p> +<p>It may be very pleasant and romantic to sit on the moss with a +wood-sprite after a shower, but perhaps it is not very wise.</p> +<p>I must go and say good night downstairs. I left Miss Seymour +reading sentimental ballads on pauper childhood to the old ladies; +it must now be close upon their bed-time.</p> +<p class="signature">Good night, beloved.<br /> +Your <span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<p>P.S. I forgot to say that he has one really fine point: his +hands are quite beautiful. I keep on wondering what you would think +of him. O dio! how good it was to laugh again.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XIII.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, October +18th.</p> +<p>Very dear, I hope this letter will reach Vienna before you do, +and welcome you there. The words we write in one mood are read when +another has taken its place; perhaps you are as merry as a bird in +spring by this time,—perhaps not. My poor little dear. I know +myself what it is to sink into a bottomless pit of senseless +misery, but I must tell you that it nearly always happens when I am +idle.</p> +<p>A woman that is debarred from woman’s best +profession—wifehood and motherhood—must find some other +work to do; idleness, uselessness—above all, +idleness—are the hotbed of all manner of follies. The +stupidest man in existence, working day by day at the worldliest +work, has the better of us in this, that he is weighted, so to +speak, and cannot flutter to and fro with every breeze that blows. +You say that you cannot work, that you have heard all this at least +a thousand times; well, never mind, hear it once more!</p> +<p>Take German lessons, your German is very bad; go on with your +singing, your sweet voice is very ignorant; read, make some study, +however unprofitable, of the French Revolution, the Renaissance, +the Conquest of Peru, anything, anything you like; or buy a +sewing-machine at least, and make flannel petticoats for the poor; +anything, Constantia, only don’t for Heaven’s sake sit +there with your hands in your lap, listening to the gabble of +fools, while Mrs. Rayner touches up a curl here and a frill there, +from morning till night, for ever and ever.</p> +<p>But now to other things, for indeed I am not in the +fault-finding mood you might suppose. Only, as you know well, I can +always worry about you, at any time.</p> +<p>Well, I have seen my wood-sprite again, this very morning. I +could not sleep after six, although I twice covered up my head with +the bed-clothes and made believe I was not awake; so I got up, and +the young sun was so beautiful, driving the mists out of the +valley, that I went out.</p> +<p>Between the flower garden and the park, there lies a shrubbery; +green paths wind in and out between high walls of box and laurel, +leading one at length to a little blue door in an old wall. Well, I +was stepping along between the evergreens as fast as the moss on +the pebbles would let me, swinging my hat round as I went, and +singing loudly, when I thought I heard footsteps round the bend of +the path. I turned the corner—nobody; only a little +scrambling sound, and the treacherous flutter of a branch in the +laurel hedge. Of course I immediately thought of poachers, and in +my imagination already saw Emilia Fletcher stretched a lifeless +corpse upon the ground. I took three backward steps, then paused. +Silence and stillness reigned.</p> +<p>Pooh! thought I, it’s nothing, and with a bold, swift step +I walked past the fearful spot. No sooner had I passed than there +came another crackle; I turned and beheld a luminous eye between +the branches. Whether I turned pale with fright or not, I cannot +tell; but a hand came forth, a foot, then, with considerable +difficulty, an entire body; and on the path before me stood my +dishevelled friend, covered with green dust and blushes.</p> +<p>“I have no excuse to offer,” said he.</p> +<p>I laughed; there was nothing else to do.</p> +<p>“You did startle me,” said I, “but I forgive +you.”</p> +<p>I did not ask him what he was doing in my shrubbery, nor did he +offer the least explanation.</p> +<p>“Are you going for a walk?” said he, simply, +“and, if so, may I go with you?”</p> +<p>I was glad enough, and we had taken a few steps forward when he +suddenly clapped his hands to his pockets.</p> +<p>“I shall have to get into the bush again,” he cried, +with rueful face; “I must have dropped ‘Peer +Gynt.’”</p> +<p>And in he scrambled, returning triumphant with an exceedingly +shabby book.</p> +<p>We walked a full hour and a half, through the park, through the +woods, and through the park again, for he insisted on bringing me +back to the little blue door. We talked mostly about “Peer +Gynt,” which, by the way, he is reading in the original. He +seems to read every possible language, although he declares he +speaks nothing but English. We did not talk at all about ourselves, +so I know nothing further about him, save that he lives in a +cottage on the heath towards Miltonhoe, with his father and his +aunt.</p> +<p>When we parted company, he asked me if I would mind going to see +his aunt.</p> +<p>“I believe,” said he, “that she ought to call +first on you,—at least, she says so,—but that +she’ll never do. If I landed her at your very door, +she’d never find courage to ring the bell.”</p> +<p>“Very well,” said I; “I’ll come to her +instead.”</p> +<p>And the sprite vanished.</p> +<p>I think I shall go to-morrow, or perhaps next day.</p> +<p class="signature">Good-bye, sweet,<br /> +Your <span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XIV.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, October +23d.</p> +<p>You are a dear to take such becoming interest in my friend. I +have a great deal more to tell you about the lunatic, as you call +him, who, by the way, is a great deal saner than either you or +I.</p> +<p>Well, I went last Thursday. It took me some time to find the +cottage. After much rambling I came upon it in the most secluded +part of the Common, in a slight hollow. It is a sort of double +cottage, partly thatched, standing in a good-sized garden. I +marched through a rickety gate, and made for the house door. The +garden is one wild medley of vegetables, fruit-trees, and flowers, +luxuriant still, in spite of the late season. I was just bending +over a chrysanthemum when I heard a startling “Hulloa!” +and found myself accosted by the gardener, who stood, spade in +hand, at the opposite end of the gravel walk. He was in his +shirtsleeves; his corduroy trousers were more picturesque than +respectable; an enormous straw hat, well tanned and chipped by +wear, was stuck on the back of his head.</p> +<p>“Hulloa!” he cried again.</p> +<p>I approached and asked, as soon as I could do so without +shouting, whether Miss Norton were at home.</p> +<p>“She is at home,” replied the man, “and who +may you be?”</p> +<p>“Perhaps you will kindly tell her,” said I, making +up by my civility for his lack of it, “that Emilia Fletcher +has come to see her.”</p> +<p>Down went the spade, off came the disreputable hat.</p> +<p>“God bless my soul!” he cried, rubbing the earth off +his fingers, “so it’s you, is it?”</p> +<p>He seemed doubtful whether his hand were fit to offer me or not, +so I relieved him of his anxiety by shaking it warmly.</p> +<p>“Come on indoors,” said he; “let’s +surprise them; Gabriel will be delighted,” and he set off at +a trot, I after him. He was not a grand runner. I conjectured at +once that his health is not good, and that he probably looks ten +years older than he really is. His hair is almost white, his face +deeply wrinkled.</p> +<p>When we reached the cottage door, he pushed me gently in, and I +found myself in what appeared to be a lumber-room. There was a +table in the centre covered with bundles, books, and papers, on the +summit of which, precariously poised on the lid of a biscuit-tin, +stood a jug and some glasses; piles of books lay on the floor; in +one corner stood a stack of brooms, rakes, guns, fishing-rods, +sticks, and umbrellas; and a marvellous medley of coats and hats, +baskets, cords, etc., loaded a groaning row of pegs.</p> +<p>“Wait here,” said the old man, tilting the only +chair in such a way that a Bible, a match-box, and a cocoa-tin +filled with nails were safely deposited on the floor. He then +popped his head in at three several doors that opened on to the +apartment (it was intended, I afterwards discovered, for the hall), +and finally disappeared behind one of them which led straight on to +a flight of stairs. Suddenly I heard a scuffling, a sound as of +some one coming down head foremost, and my friend appeared, book +and forelock and all.</p> +<p>“This is nice of you!” he cried; then his father +stumped downstairs again, followed by a tall, sweet-faced +woman.</p> +<p>“There, Jane,” said he, “there she +is.”</p> +<p>I went up to her; she was, indeed, very shy. “Dear, +dear,” was all she said; “deary me, think of this, +it’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” squeezing my +hand the while as if it had been a sponge.</p> +<p>She led me off through the door to the right, into a +comparatively presentable parlour; but her brother took my other +hand and pulled me in the opposite direction.</p> +<p>“No, no,” he said; “no, no, we’ll go +into the kitchen and have tea.”</p> +<p>“Yes, come,” said Gabriel; “I’m hungry, +aren’t you? Let’s go and find something to +eat.”</p> +<p>So we recrossed the hall and passed through a good-sized room +which looked like a second-hand bookshop. Books overflowed the +shelves, and lay in piles in every available corner,—the +floor, the table, the old upright piano, the very chairs, were +covered with dusty volumes. Out of this room led the kitchen, which +at least looked clean. A rosy little maid was leaving after the +day’s work as we entered.</p> +<p>“Sit down,” said Gabriel’s father to me; +“sit down, my dear; you shall have some tea in a +minute.” And he began taking plates down from the dresser. +Miss Norton, meanwhile, had disappeared, and presently returned +with a loaf, dragging Gabriel after her.</p> +<p>“I can’t keep that boy out of the larder,” she +said plaintively.</p> +<p>Gabriel laughed and fetched the teapot, also a jug and two paper +bags. I thought I had better help, too. I discovered some knives in +the drawer of the table, and set them out.</p> +<p>“Tea or cocoa?” asked Richard Norton, pointing his +finger at tea-pot and jug in turn. I chose cocoa, I can’t +think why.</p> +<p>“That’s lucky,” sighed Gabriel; +“there’s no tea in the bag.”</p> +<p>He made the cocoa, Jane Norton cut the bread; at last we sat +down. I don’t think I ever enjoyed a meal so much in my life. +They ate voraciously, and we talked meanwhile in the silliest +fashion, about nothing at all, laughing until the tears rolled down +our cheeks.</p> +<p>My friend is very funny, but his fun is of the kind that cannot +bear repeating; taken away from himself, separated from his +personality, it would sound merely foolish. You know what I mean. I +sat next Miss Norton during tea. When we had done, Gabriel stood +up, chair and all, and came beside me.</p> +<p>“What do you think of us?” he asked. +“Aren’t we rather nice?”</p> +<p>“Yes, indeed,” I replied; “and the funny part +of it is that I feel as though I’d known you all my +life.”</p> +<p>“That’s just how I feel with you,” said +Gabriel, and Richard Norton added,—</p> +<p>“I like you; you’re a nice girl; you don’t +turn up your nose at us because we live in our own way. +You’re a nice girl.”</p> +<p>“I like your way of living,” said I, then. +“From what I can see, it seems to me you are about as free as +any one can be in this world, and that is the best of all +things,—freedom.”</p> +<p>“You’ve hit it!” cried Richard Norton, +bringing his flat hand down on the table. “We are +free!”</p> +<p>“Now I’ll tell you,” said Gabriel. “This +time last year we had horrible lodgings in Bloomsbury. Father went +every day to drudgery in a dirty office, helping another man to rob +his fellow-creatures; aunt there gave lessons,—she +can’t teach a bit; she was only putting nonsense into the +heads of future men and women, and, such as it was, putting it +there wrong. I was doing likewise, and I teach worse than she does. +Of an evening I wrote drivel for the papers. We were, every one of +us, useless and miserable. At last one day I said—”</p> +<p>“You did!” interrupted his father. “You may +live to be a hundred, you’ll never say anything so wise +again.”</p> +<p>“I said: ‘Look here! How many lives have we?’ +‘One,’ replied father. ‘What are we alive +for?’ ‘I don’t know,’ replied father. +‘Neither do I; only I know that life’s not worth living +as we live it. Let’s go into the country.’”</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon, Gabriel,” interrupted his father +again; “it was not quite so, it was better than that. The boy +lectured me, Miss Fletcher,—pitched into me, and I deserved +it. He told me I was fifty-five and a fool for my years. So I was. +There was I, grinding away,—what for? We never saw each +other, we never saw the fields, we were selling all the joys of +life for three farthings. So we decided to drudge no more. Gabriel +would have continued, but I could not allow that; I wanted him +here. We found we should have just enough money to rent a cottage, +buy body-covering and plain food. So here we are. And we are happy. +As Gabriel said, What is the use of toiling for more, when the +unprofitable work that brings us a few extra shillings takes away +our capacities for enjoying life? Here we are, happy all day, eh, +Gabriel? He writes his poetry and devours his books, I devour mine, +Jane devours hers; we are learning now all the beauties of Nature, +and man’s best thoughts. We are very happy.”</p> +<p>A vision of my present life flitted across me, like a cloud on a +sunlit field.</p> +<p>“Oh!” said I, “how I envy you! Nothing +useless, not a clog about you, no stupid formalities, stifling +luxuries, no daily lies and false duties.”</p> +<p>“Have you all these?” asked Gabriel.</p> +<p>“Not so badly as some people, but badly enough. I have +money, and no end of respectable relations.”</p> +<p>He laughed, and made a wry face.</p> +<p>When I found that it was time to wend my way home, Gabriel +offered to walk with me. I was very glad. On the way out, he +stopped in the hall and knocked half the things off the pegs.</p> +<p>“Beloved aunt!” he cried, “there used to be a +hat somewhere!”</p> +<p>I assured him that he need not discomfort himself for my sake, +and he bounded forth bareheaded, with a yell of exultation. On the +road we had a long and somewhat warm discussion on suicide, which +was started by an essay of Montaigne’s he happened to be +reading. Every now and again he pulled the book from his pocket and +read me extracts, until it was too dark to see; even then he once +struck a match to find a passage.</p> +<p>For the sake of argument we occasionally took opposite sides, +but, in fact, we were both agreed upon the principal point; namely, +that although man enters the world against his will, he may surely +choose the time and the manner of his exit. That this is every +one’s right we both believe, yet believe, also, that the +right should be sparingly used. For although suicide might almost +be considered an act of duty on the part of those suffering from +incurable disease, mental or physical, most of us, however useless +and superfluous we may at times believe ourselves to be, have, +willy-nilly, the fate of some fellow-creature bound up with our +own; and it is surely an act of unpardonable cowardice to make our +escape from a world of difficulties, leaving others to bear the +burden of our faults.</p> +<p>But, really, I must put an end to this letter; I never wrote +such a long one in my life, not even I, not even to you. My friend +left me as we approached Graysmill, saying that he dared not set +foot on the confines of respectability.</p> +<p>That was Thursday, and I have not seen him since.</p> +<p>Good-bye, my dearest; I kiss your sweet eyes.</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XV.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, October +31st.</p> +<p>No, of course I have not said a word about it at the house; what +an idea! Why should I? Good gracious me, they’d think me mad. +Besides, I am my own mistress, and am not answerable to anybody for +my actions. Not for the world would I speak of the Nortons to any +of these people here.</p> +<p>Ida Seymour is a fixture, for the present, at least. Her good +offices leave me a great deal more liberty than I enjoyed during +the first few months. Apart from meal-times I give some two hours a +day to my old ladies, and work hard the rest of the time. I have +finished “Prometheus,” and laid it aside to await +revision; I am now sorting my mother’s papers, with a view to +some day publishing a selection of them. Perhaps. But there is such +a sacredness to me about all she has left behind, that I cannot yet +bear the thought of sending anything that remains of her out into +the cold world, to be misjudged and misprized.</p> +<p>How can you ask me what colour his eyes are? When did you know +me care for any one—except mamma—whose eyes were not +blue? His are very dark, and very beautiful. I cannot think, by the +way, why I ever told you that he might perhaps be considered plain. +I looked at him hard yesterday, and cannot think what possessed me +to say such a thing; for he is certainly as far from plain as any +man I ever set eyes on. It’s really very strange that I did +not see it at once.</p> +<p>You see, we have met again. Five days passed, and I must admit +that I found them dull. To be quite sincere, I will also admit that +I once walked towards Miltonhoe, and was disappointed not to meet +him. At last, on Wednesday morning, I received a note from him. He +writes a good hand, although not a firm one—he makes two or +three of his letters in two or three different ways. I would send +you the letter, only mine is sure to be heavy enough without +enclosures. It ran thus:—</p> +<blockquote> +<p><em>Dear Miss Fletcher</em>,—I am afraid of your butler. +What is to be done? I tried this afternoon to pay you a call, but +my courage vanished at the lodge. I think we did not quite exhaust +our subject last Thursday. I have thought a great deal more about +it, and I dare say you have done likewise. Can I see you by any +means without facing the butler? I shall sit in the laurel hedge +every morning, on the chance of your taking another walk before +breakfast.</p> +<p class="signature">Your humble servant,<br /> +<span class="sc">Gabriel Norton</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>I did not go next morning, although I wished to do so. I hardly +know why I waited until Friday; it was not only unreasonable on my +part, but also not quite straightforward. How is it that, even when +circumstances might enable us to act according to our impulses, +some unexpected inconsistency in our own selves throws a bar across +the path? I begin to think that it must be an idle +dream,—sincerity, self-honesty. My thoughts are fixed upon it +constantly, I strive towards it with heart and soul; yet daily, +under the very eyes of my own scrutiny, I lie either in word or in +action.</p> +<p>Well, on Friday I went, and we had a happy time together. I +cannot tell you how grateful I am to have met this creature, to +come once again into contact with a being whose footsteps fall near +my own. We are are very different, yet I feel that our faces are +turned towards the same light. I told him a great deal about my +mother; she would have loved him.</p> +<p>There goes the second bell, and I have not even washed my hands. +Farewell for to-day.</p> +<p class="signature">Yours in all truth,<br /> +<span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XVI.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, November +8th.</p> +<p>My little dear Constance, first and foremost I am freezing, and +have got a red nose, I’m certain. Is it cold with you also? +The week has been a full one. Uncle George’s eldest daughter +was married the day before yesterday, and there were great +festivities in the family. The marriage should have taken place +last June, but was postponed owing to the grandfather’s +death.</p> +<p>What extraordinary creatures we are! I cannot tell you how many +Emilias were at that wedding. Something in me was touched by the +sight of a large family assembled from far and wide, excited and +united for the moment by a common sentiment; something in me was +lonely beyond description, for I was not of them; and whereas I +smiled and made merry in a white gown and felt the tears come to my +eyes when the little bride went forth under a shower of rice, I was +nevertheless looking on at the smiles and tears of the others with +doubt and cynicism rampant in my heart.</p> +<p>Poor little bride! I wondered how much she thought she loved +him, how much he cared for her; and where her smiles and her golden +dreams would be this time next year, poor little white thing, +veiled in ignorance.</p> +<p>It is not altogether a bad world, for all that. I certainly have +not found it so; but then it has been my good fortune to draw near +the hearts and brains of some very dear mortals. I cannot tell you +how fond I have grown of this creature,—Gabriel Norton, I +mean. I can say this openly to you, because you are sensible and +know me, and will not think at once, because he is a man and I a +woman, that there is any question here of sentiments exceeding +friendship. We are neither of us children; he is three or four +years older than I, I should imagine,—twenty-nine or thirty, +or thereabouts.</p> +<p>For aught I know, he may already have loved and lost as I have; +and were it even possible that I should ever love again, I hardly +think that Gabriel would be the man. Anyway, we are excellent +friends, and I believe that my companionship has become as precious +to him as his is to me. We meet now every two or three days, and +walk together, either before breakfast or after early dinner.</p> +<p>Did your ears burn on Wednesday? I told him a great deal about +you. We had been having one of our customary argumentative +conversations, principally about marriage, more especially still +about the horrors of false marriages, and this led me to tell him +that the best friend I have on earth is infamously bound for the +whole of her dear life by a marriage contracted before she was +seventeen years old. He thinks, dearest, with me, that you ought to +face the horrors of the divorce court rather than linger on in +chains, and certainly listen no longer to the considerations, +pecuniary and otherwise, which influence your mother.</p> +<p>I fancy, from the way in which he spoke, that his father and +mother were not happy together; he has therefore not had in his +life the blessing that was mine,—the daily contemplation of +an absolutely perfect union. Indeed, he hardly seems to believe in +the possibility of ideal marriages, and declares that he himself +will certainly never marry unless some law is passed whereby men +and women shall be able to bind themselves for a limited number of +years, at the expiration of which they may either renew the bond or +go free. I laughed when he said this, for I thought he was jesting; +so he was, partly, yet more than half in earnest.</p> +<p>“No, no,” said he; “I shall never marry. I had +sooner not break the laws of my country, but if it came to be a +question between breaking them or the laws of true morality, I +should not hesitate in my choice. Love without marriage is a sin +against society; marriage without love is a sin against +Nature.”</p> +<p>Of course he is right. How my mother would have loved him! Do +you remember her invectives against marriage? It was the very +perfection of the tie between her and my father that filled her +with indignation and regret whenever she looked about her and +beheld, on all sides, the parody of her heaven.</p> +<p>Good-bye. You are getting very lazy, Mrs. Norris. How dare you +leave me letterless so long?</p> +<p>Write directly you get this to</p> +<p class="signature">Your loving<br /> +<span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XVII.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, November +21st.</p> +<p>For the first time in my life, I have been a little cross with +you, Constance of my heart. My anger did not last long, but even +when it was practically at an end I felt obliged to play at being +cross with you, and therefore would not write. But to-day comes +another sweet letter from you, and I am miserable to think you +should have had to write a second time before getting an answer to +your dear words. Forgive me! I do love you so! I shall tell you +quite frankly why I was cross. You must never tease me again about +Gabriel Norton. I don’t like to be teased at the best of +times, and I think it positively wrong to make love a subject for +laughter and nonsense. You see, I allow that I love him; of course +I do, but not as you imagine. Surely there is a love of spirit to +spirit which stands higher than the material love of man and woman. +It is just because we look upon each other in the first place as +human beings, as comrades on the road of life, that our friendship +is a source of strength and comfort to us. If either were to +harbour other thoughts, all that is beautiful in our intercourse +must come to an end. No, you are silly; you must never say such +things again, promise me that. Why, it is just the very absence of +love that <em>makes</em> our friendship. If only people would +believe this, if only men and women would learn to exchange their +thoughts in freedom, to be simple and open in their dealings with +each other, what a much better world this world would be!</p> +<p>But you are just like the rest; indeed, worse than the rest. +Because, somehow or other, whether it’s the fault of your +curls or of your lips, or of your smile, or of your whole sweet +self, I know not, but because no man ever draws near you but what +you make a fool of him, you seem to think all men resemble your +victims, all women you, their bane. No, you don’t, though; I +malign you. Do you remember saying to me one day: “Try and +make yourself appear a little silly sometimes, Emilia, do, now! Men +never fall in love with clever women!” And right you were. +The only passions I ever inspired flared through their day in the +bosoms of women and boys. Never mind! I had sooner have +Gabriel’s friendship than ten thousand of your lovers; I had +sooner see you too, sweet, with such a friend as he to lean upon, +than surrounded as you are now by the foolish and ugly admiration +of worthless men.</p> +<p>There, enough lecturing for the present. It’s understood, +eh?</p> +<p>Gabriel and Jane Norton have actually been here to tea. What do +you say to that? I must tell you how it came about; it’s a +long story, but you shall have it all. The other day, my friend and +I were overtaken by a rain-storm on the heath; we ran as fast as we +could to the Thatched Cottage, and there I remained fully two +hours, till the rain had given over. As Gabriel was very restless +and unmanageable, I suggested that we might turn his superfluous +energy to good account by arranging the library. How those dear +creatures keep alive, I cannot imagine; they are helpless and +unpractical beyond all belief. Jane Norton has absolutely no sense +of order, the household drifts along as best it can. “I hate +it so,” she groans; “I have a horror of it all.” +That very afternoon I tore my dress and wanted to mend it. A brass +thimble was soon produced from the kitchen clock, where Jane keeps +it “to have it handy,” but never were needle and thread +more difficult to procure. After much hunting, a dirty reel of +white cotton was discovered in the soup-tureen, the needle-case had +entirely disappeared; she finally managed, however, to squeeze some +rusty kind of skewer out of her pincushion, and with these +implements I mended my skirt as best I could. But to return to the +library. The confusion we found it in is indescribable. When first +we began operations Gabriel stood about in a helpless way, but he +became enthusiastic as the work of clearance advanced, and laboured +with good will.</p> +<p>“This was a veritable inspiration!” he cried +presently, perching himself upon the table; “there +hasn’t been a corner to sit upon for weeks, not for weeks. +It’s very odd: I believe that I much prefer to see things +kept in order, only I haven’t the least idea how to bring +such a state about. None of us have. Why! there’s Plato! +Blessings upon you, Emilia! He must have been behind the piano +quite two months. I have hunted for him high and low.” He +seized the volume rapturously and began reading aloud.</p> +<p>“That’s all Greek to me,” said I.</p> +<p>“Come along then,” said he, “let’s leave +off now, the room’s beautiful; come, I’ll teach you the +alphabet.”</p> +<p>And this was the germ of a scheme we have started. We had been +racking our brains for some time past how to meet during the +winter, in defiance of shortening days, cold, rain, and prejudice. +Now we have it. He is to teach me Greek, and will come to the house +to give me lessons. Thanks to my foreign extraction and to a +certain reputation I have got here for originality, my old ladies +were not at all surprised when I told them that a poor gentleman +who lived with his father and his aunt towards Miltonhoe was coming +twice a week to teach me. On the contrary, their kind old hearts +were touched at the mere mention of poverty, and they asked if I +wouldn’t invite Miss Norton to tea; hence Monday’s +tea-party, which was exceedingly funny. Ida Seymour had gone to a +school treat at Miltonhoe, so my old ladies and I had the place to +ourselves. They were much distressed, bless them, at the +extraordinary antiquity of Jane Norton’s black silk gown; +Heaven only knows in what year of Grace it was fabricated, and how +she manages to keep it together. I’m afraid I shall have some +difficulty in preventing Aunt Caroline from giving Jane a new +dress,—she certainly won’t rest till she has done so. +As for Gabriel, he was so remarkably dusty and threadbare that I +set him at table with his back to the light, in such a manner that +his mere silhouette was exposed to Hopkinson’s scrutiny. I +must allow, however, that he behaved beautifully, and Jane was +perfect; she made an excellent impression on grandmamma, who is +very anxious I should invite her again.</p> +<p>“In fact,” said she, “I don’t see why +she shouldn’t come and have a cup of tea with us every time +your teacher comes; then we shall know she has a good tea twice a +week at least, poor thing!”</p> +<p>Why can’t I see him without these subterfuges? Why +can’t we meet here in my house in all simplicity, without +fear of that monster, the world, and its murderous tongue? It all +seemed so good and so simple that morning when he said to +me:—</p> +<p>“We will be friends as friends should be; all shall be +true and free between us; we shall make exchange of our thoughts, +and learn together how to live.”</p> +<p>Never mind; I am very fortunate.</p> +<p>Good-bye, my sweet dear, and again, forgive me! I love you.</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XVIII.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, November +26th.</p> +<p>Bless you for all your words! Yes, you must come out to me next +spring, and then we three can be friends together: three should be +more beautiful than two, in such harmony as ours would be. I take +it for granted that you and Gabriel will care for each other; it +would be a great grief to me if you did not. I hate people I like +not to like each other; nothing hurts more—except, perhaps, +to oneself dislike a friend’s friend.</p> +<p>My Greek is getting on; I am fearfully industrious, and have +even pinned up the declensions, written out in a large hand, on my +bedroom wall, so that I can learn them whilst I dress.</p> +<p>Gabriel is quite pleased with his pupil, and I have begun to +teach him Italian. He reads it very well, but cannot speak it at +all at present. We had a long talk, the other day, about his +future. I think it will be quite impossible for him to continue +this mode of life very long; I find that I am not so happy about +him as I was at first. Sometimes I think I should like to give him +half my money—how ridiculous it seems that such a thing +should be out of the question!—and let him lead the tranquil +life of study and contemplation that he loves, send him to other +lands where he might wander up and down in the sunshine, seeing the +world and all its beauties,—he that has eyes to see, a heart +to feel. But then, at other times, I feel that I should like to +strip him even of the little he has, and hurl him into the very +vortex of life, see him struggle and fight and come out a +conqueror. I see in him the germs of so much greatness that I +cannot believe he was meant to dream his days away on the heather. +It was right of him, certainly, to break from a course of life he +felt himself unable to pursue, and right it is also that he should +pause now, and breathe, and feel his wings. But it will soon be +time for energy and action. We are not here for ourselves only; +there is so much to be done. And if I am often discontented with +myself for the futility of my dreams, for sitting here a mere +spectator, as it were, of struggles that I long to share, yet know +not how, greater still is my impatience at the sight of one wasting +his days in mere speculation, who, having all the strength, the +manhood, that I lack, might leap into the very thick of the fight, +Truth’s warrior.</p> +<p>He tells me that he has written a great deal, and has promised +to bring me a bundle of poems to read at my leisure. “You +must understand,” said he, “that you will be the only +one to whom I ever showed them.” I feel very proud.</p> +<p>To revert to what I said above, I believe, too, that it is very +bad for any man not to have a fixed occupation; however great his +natural energy may be, it either relaxes with time, or expends +itself uselessly. The mere thinker often ends by hovering on the +confines of lunacy.</p> +<p class="signature">Good-bye, dear love.<br /> +Your <span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XIX.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, November +30th.</p> +<p>I write to you very soon, partly because of your letter that +crossed mine, but principally because I feel that I must write you +a few words before I go to sleep. I have just gone through +Gabriel’s poems, and am beside myself with wonder. Constance, +the creature is a genius. I marvel at my happiness, that I should +have touched his life. No, I’ll not write; I feel that, if I +do, I shall write bosh. Good-night; I hope you are sleeping fast at +this moment,—and he too.</p> +<p class="address">December 1st.</p> +<p>We had a walk this afternoon. He looks pale, poor dear! he has +had a cold. How it hurts to see ill-health on a face that one +loves!</p> +<p>We had a great altercation about his poems. I could not speak of +them when I put the manuscript into his hands; any words I might +have used must have sounded fulsome flattery. But later on, I +asked:—</p> +<p>“Have you thought of a publisher for your +verse?”</p> +<p>He shook his head and made a face at me.</p> +<p>“You must certainly publish those poems,” I said; +“you surely know that they are unusually beautiful, and that +you have no right to keep them to yourself.”</p> +<p>“Dear Emilia,” he answered, “I like to hear +this from you, but you are mistaken. My poems are not so remarkable +as you imagine; you are too near a friend to be a fair judge. They +are intensely subjective,—that is, by the way, one of their +faults; they reflect me; therefore you, who know me well and care +for me, find them sympathetic. That’s the whole of the +tale.”</p> +<p>“If I cared for you ten times more than I do,” said +I then, “I should not be quite so blind as you suppose. But, +if you doubt my judgment, ask some one else, or compare the poems +yourself with other verse.”</p> +<p>“Never!” he said. “How can you even suggest +such a thing? Look here, Emilia. A man has an ideal, a glimpse of +something glittering up there in highest Heaven; he tries to shape +his vision into words. When he afterwards turns to his work coldly, +critically, how shall he judge? He must take measure by the height +of the ideal, not by the achievement of another, even if that other +be nearer Heaven than himself.”</p> +<p>I found this very fine and true, yet selfish. Had he ever +climbed less high than he wished, he might at least stand forth, +and showing where he stood, stretch out a hand to others.</p> +<p>“No,” he replied again, “no, I am too weak +myself to help others. Dear girl, don’t you see that those +things were written with the blood of my heart? Cold men would read +them, tear them to pieces. Emilia! they would review me!”</p> +<p>He said this with a sort of yell of despair. I saw that he was +in a perfectly impossible mood, so I left him in peace. We talked +of you afterwards, and he sent you his love. Was that bold or not? +If you don’t care for the gift, send it back to me. I am very +hungry for that same food.</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XX.</h3> +<p class="address">December 6th.</p> +<p>The snow is on the ground; ’tis a beautiful white world. +Yet to-day has been a dull day. I had my lesson yesterday. I spent +the whole of this afternoon preparing a list of Christmas +charities, in which Aunt Caroline and Ida Seymour helped me, good +souls. I can think of nothing but flannel this evening. That is a +lie, by the way; I almost wish it were not. Yesterday Gabriel and I +had an adventure. I was walking part of the way back with him and +Jane Norton, who had been taking tea with my old ladies, and as we +went past a cottage, just off the lane, we heard fearful screams. +Gabriel sprang in, I following, and there we found a woman beating +a little girl with a broom. Gabriel’s eyes were like fire; he +caught the child in one hand, the broom in the other; I thought he +meant to bring it down on the woman’s back. We stayed there +some time, he lecturing the mother, I consoling the poor mite. She +was wretchedly clad; I shall bring her some clothes to-morrow.</p> +<p>I am dull. I meant to write you a long letter, but somehow I +can’t. Farewell until to-morrow.</p> +<p class="address">December 13th.</p> +<p>What will you be thinking of me? Your silence is almost more +unbearable than a letter of reproach would be; I had not realised +until I found the above fragment in my desk just now, how miserably +long it is since last I wrote to you. Write to me, my dearest; I +need to feel your love. I think I am not very well just now; you +must forgive me, yet don’t be anxious on my account. I +don’t feel very well, that’s all; there is nothing the +matter with me. Neither is there anything to tell you; all goes on +as usual. Gabriel is well.</p> +<p>Oh, my pretty Constance, I cannot write! I shall send off this +miserable scrap, and write again very soon.</p> +<p class="signature">Your poor fool,<br /> +<span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXI.</h3> +<p class="address">December 18th.</p> +<p>Thank Heaven that you are here, in the world; I should die if +you were not. Let me think, where shall I begin? At the end; that +is nearest. I have only just come upstairs; I have been shaking in +the dark. They are beasts; I hate them all. I was sitting playing +cribbage with grandmamma after supper, when Uncle George was +announced. He wanted to speak to me, he said. I took him into the +breakfast room, and there he told me in a fat pompous voice that +I—O Dio, my blood still burns to think of it, and the way in +which he said it—that I was getting myself talked about in +the neighbourhood; that probably I didn’t know, owing to my +foreign education, that it wasn’t the thing here in England +to let oneself be seen constantly alone in the company of a young +man; that he thought it his duty, etc., etc.</p> +<p>“Thank you,” said I,—my very skin felt +tight,—“I see that I must be more underhand in my +actions, and contrive to see my friends entirely on the +sly.”</p> +<p>“Excuse me, my dear niece,” interrupted Uncle +George, “but I feel it my duty to fill a father’s place +by you. It isn’t as if you could possibly marry this young +Norton; he hasn’t a penny; and as it is now some time since +first the rumour of your very careless behaviour reached my ears, I +have been able to make full inquiries into the matter. His +antecedents, to say no more—”</p> +<p>Constance, did you ever hear of such infamy. I believe I grew +perfectly green; Heaven knows what I said, but you have seen me +lose my temper once! When I mastered myself, Uncle George was +standing by the door, looking considerably startled; I was on a +chair, shaking from head to foot. After a moment’s silence I +said:</p> +<p>“I beg your pardon for losing my self-control as I did +just now; I am very sorry, but you have done me a great wrong. I +know you meant it for the best; so we will say no more about it. I +only hope that you will leave me and my friends alone in future. I +am twenty-six and my own mistress, and I care for my good name +every whit as much as you do.”</p> +<p>Then he left me, and I came upstairs.</p> +<p>So now they have done it! They have touched my paradise with +their dirty fingers. O Constance! how is it to be borne? My one +comfort is that Gabriel knows nobody, hears nothing; if such talk +were to reach his ears, I should kill myself.</p> +<p>Yet perhaps it is just as well that this blow has come to me. It +has given me the shock I needed. I have made up my mind to keep +away from Gabriel as long as I can; it is best so. Christmas +charities, etc., will serve as a sufficient excuse.</p> +<p>Constance, I am going to tell you all; I trust so to your +understanding and your love. It seems strange, perhaps, to speak as +I am about to speak; I shall burst if I don’t. It is this: I +love him, I love him horribly, horribly; I cannot bear it. Why must +one do this? Why couldn’t it last, our white friendship? On +his side it might; he loves me, I know, but only as I loved him at +first. He loves me very much. I am grown in a way indispensable to +him, but his love makes him content; it will not kill him. Mine is +grown unbearable.</p> +<p>Perhaps I should have told you this before, yet I have not known +it very long. I knew some time ago that all my joy is in him; he +has been for many weeks the goal of my eyes, the centre of my +thought; the time I spent away from him was dead time; when I was +with him I was flooded in peace. But all this was joy, not pain. +That came later; the time I spent away from him was no longer dead, +it was living longing.</p> +<p>One day, about a week ago, I had forgotten him (I forget how I +managed that!), but suddenly the thought of him returned to me. I +felt a sudden sharp pain at my heart, a sort of aching that tingled +through me to my very finger-tips. I knew then how it was with +me.</p> +<p>Next day I did not go to meet him in the wood as I had promised; +I went straight to the cottage; I feared myself. When he returned +at tea-time, he came up to me and took my hand with more friendship +than of wont.</p> +<p>“Oh, Emilia!” he cried, “why have you failed +me? I have been so anxious; I feared you were ill.”</p> +<p>He said this as a brother might have said it; he looked me full +in the face as serenely as the stars at night. I looked back at +him; his calm fell upon me, and I laughed at myself for my fears. I +got better after that, yet not well; I was never at ease. To-day we +were together very long; I was perfectly happy; we had spoken of +beautiful things, calmly, in great peace. But at parting he forgot +to let my hand go; he held it so long that I had time to feel his, +and my blood bounded through me in great waves. I still think he +must have felt it; if he did, I can never look at him again.</p> +<p>I hate myself for loving him so; I hate myself that I suffer +through him; the fault seems his, being entirely mine.</p> +<p>And now I wish that I had never seen him, that all these days of +joy were wiped out of my life; for the joy is turned to misery and +pain, and for this there can be no cure. If he grew to love me as I +do him, it would be unearthly; such happiness is not for this +world. I think that if he loved me, one of us would surely die. +This is the world, O Constance! Bursts of beauty, bursts of bliss, +but none to live untouched, none to endure.</p> +<p>I have been happy; I should not groan.</p> +<p class="signature">Write to me, dear.<br /> +Your <span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXII.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, December +29th.</p> +<p>You must hear from me once again this year, my Constance. Oh, +dearest, dearest, it has only come to me of late, when my love for +you has shone dimly compared to another, what it is worth to me, +your love. I cannot express myself; I am all entangled, hopeless. +But what I mean is this: you have been one long joy to me, a sun +that has had no setting. I would I were as I used to be, untouched +by the knowledge that love can be hard pain. My sweet dear, you +were enough; why have I learned this bitter knowledge? Oh, how I +laugh of a night, thinking of myself six months ago, thinking of +what I then mistook for love!</p> +<p>Eleven days since I saw him. I have been conscious of every +hour. We were busy here; there is much to do at Christmas time. I +wrote to him that I could take no more lessons nor even walk with +him for the present, as I must devote myself entirely to the +Christmas work, and he has written to me twice. He would have me +think that he sits there forlorn, cursing Yule-tide and charity; he +says in the letter I received this morning, that it is time my +charity were turned in his direction. I think I shall go to the +cottage this afternoon; there is an end to all endurance. Or shall +I wait until New Year’s day? Perhaps that were best. I like +to try my strength, to see how much can be borne.</p> +<p>I can write no more now; I must try to get through a few other +letters. I have sent no cards to Florence. What a worm I am!</p> +<p>Your words of love have helped me through these days; I carry +the three dear letters, along with his, in my pocket.</p> +<p>Good-bye, dearest; blessings upon you. I think I shall set forth +in search of you very soon. May the New Year be kind to us all!</p> +<p class="signature">Yours in deepest love,<br /> +<span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXIII.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, January +1st.</p> +<p>My pretty sweet, I have had much happiness to-day. First of all, +a letter from you at breakfast, and one from Gabriel, then, +sunshine all the morning, and all the morning a song in my heart; +to-day I shall see him!</p> +<p>I set off immediately after early dinner, and walked across the +Common to the Thatched Cottage. I cannot tell you what it was to me +to catch sight of the chimney and the purling smoke again; I had to +stand still and wait a while, my heart thumped so. (A fool, eh?) I +crept noiselessly into the house, and through the hall, then +stealthily opened the study door. There he sat on the ground by the +fire, with his back to me, reading, of course.</p> +<p>“What a careless person!” said I, softly; +“he’ll blind himself one of these days.”</p> +<p>Up he jumped.</p> +<p>“Emilia!” he cried, “dear Emilia!” and, +catching me by both wrists, swung my arms up and down and to and +fro.</p> +<p>“You faithless thing,” said he, “you false +friend, I hate you!”</p> +<p>Here Richard Norton ran in from the kitchen, with the teapot in +his hand, followed by Jane; they both covered me with welcomes and +reproaches. I was very happy, I assure you. We went into the +kitchen and had early tea, talking all the while and all together. +Gabriel was in one of his impish moods, and made me laugh till I +cried. The first thing I thought, when I had time to think, was +that I had been a fool to keep away so long and allow myself to +grow sentimental; that it was altogether much more healthful for me +to be in his dear company.</p> +<p>I came home in a much better frame of mind, although Gabriel +insisted on walking nearly as far as Graysmill with me, and said as +we parted:</p> +<p>“You must never again leave me for so long, Emilia; I am +lost without you, I am, indeed.”</p> +<p>I turned from him, half wishing he had not said this, feeling a +little giddy, a little less strong; but, as I ran along, something +hit me on the shoulder. I looked behind me, and there he stood, +like an imp of mischief, pelting me with pine-cones, which it seems +he had collected in his pocket for that purpose. So I had to laugh, +and was cured again.</p> +<p>The year has at least begun well.</p> +<p>Adieu, my sweetest. Things are often not so bad as we imagine. +With this truism I take my leave of you.</p> +<p class="signature">Your <span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<p>I think I forgot to send a New Year’s wish to Mrs. Rayner. +For you, my love, again all the good that this world holds. May it +rain upon you in ceaseless showers!</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXIV.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, January +15th.</p> +<p>I have grown unutterably selfish. I only remembered this morning +that you had asked me to send you those books. To think that a day +should have come when I could forget to do something you had asked +me! I have seen to it, with much penitence. Forgive me!</p> +<p>Your Emilia is a miserable specimen; she despises herself very +much. I go up and down all day like something that has lost its +balance, neither have I any. One hour I am absolutely happy; the +next I am biting the dust. One day I say to myself, I will never +walk or talk or read or sit alone with him again,—and perhaps +for that one day I keep my word. But then, the next, I do all I +meant not to do, I pine for it till I bring it about. And when I +have sat beside him a little while, doing my lessons, the Greek +loses its hold of my poor brain, my head swims, I make a blunder; +then he laughs and says he cannot understand how such an apparently +clever woman can have such a sieve for a brain. I laugh, and tell +him he’s unmannerly. Then we both laugh, and I am well until +I am ill again.</p> +<p>It is only since I knew Gabriel that I know how to laugh. I +don’t mean to say that I never laughed before. Do you +remember how we sometimes screamed up in my room at Florence? I +remember, too, as a child, going into wild fits of laughter, and +mamma and I having to wipe each other’s eyes. But these days +were few and far between. I have learned to laugh with my years. +Very fine wit is lost upon me, and I have certainly no native +humour of my own; but I do know how to laugh about nothing at all, +how to make merry over the thorns of life! Laughter was not meant +for the joyful; it was made for us, the sombre of soul, to save our +heart-strings here and there; like the song of a lark in the sky, +to bid us lift our eyes from the dust of the road.</p> +<p>Sometimes, when I have been laughing very much, and then +remember my pain, I see the vision of a child that dances on a +grave-mound in the sun.</p> +<p>Sweet, I’ll go on to-morrow.</p> +<p class="address">January 20th.</p> +<p>I distinguished myself to-day! It came on to pour while I was at +the Cottage, and, in spite of a certain caution that has crept into +my actions of late, I stayed there the whole afternoon.</p> +<p>Jane was actually making herself a new dress, so I offered to +help her, and we sewed by lamplight at the kitchen table, it being +a very dark afternoon. Gabriel joined us after a while; he thought +we looked so cosy that he brought his books and sat at the table +too, just opposite me.</p> +<p>You have never really loved any man, you, so perhaps you +don’t know what it is to be afraid of your own eyes, because +you feel that every time they rest on that thing you love, your +poor heart runs and looks out of window.</p> +<p>I seldom look at Gabriel now,—I dare not. But there he sat +opposite me, poring over his book. Jane was bent over her sewing. I +forgot her, and I forgot my work too; it slipped from my fingers +and fell into my lap. Suddenly he raised his head,—it seemed +as if all the blood in my body rushed to my face; he had caught me +all unguarded; what he might not know was laid bare before him. +With a dull, wide gaze he stared at me, then bent over his book +again; he had not seen me; he had merely looked up to get a better +view, as it were, of something he had in mind.</p> +<p>Then I, too, bent my head low, for hot tears stood in my silly +eyes, and, to my surprise, I felt a soft hand tuck my hair behind +my ears, caressingly. I looked up and saw a world of pity in Jane +Norton’s face. When presently Gabriel left the room to fetch +another volume, I said:</p> +<p>“Jane, he must never know it.”</p> +<p>“My child,” she answered, speaking as softly as I +had done, “there is no fear that he should learn it from +<em>me</em>.”</p> +<p>“From me, then?” asked I; “is it so +plain?”</p> +<p>“You are as pale as the table,” she said. +“Take care of yourself, Em,—don’t be unhappy, +all’s well.”</p> +<p>Just then Gabriel came in, and I left soon after. You see what +an enemy I am to myself.</p> +<p>Good night, dearest; I am your</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXV.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, January +29th.</p> +<p>It is so easy to imagine the bright side of things when one is +too far away to see the truth. Silly Constance, cruel Constance, +what is the use of sending me such words of false hope? It does not +follow, because you love me best of all the world, that another +should do likewise. No, no; you know nothing at all about it, and +yet in spite of all reason, I catch at every straw you send +drifting towards me. Once and for all, of course he loves me, but +it stands just so. He loves me too well in one way to love me in +another. If he loved me less, he might love me more. I have said +all this to Jane. She declares that the only reason why he is not +in love with me is that an obstacle stands in the way which has +stood in the way all along, and which he has never dreamed of +surmounting. She means my accursed money. I told her she was +completely mistaken; that love, inevitable love, knows nothing of +obstacles; besides, this could not be an obstacle between him and +me,—he is too unworldly to be the slave of such prejudice. If +I thought she was right, who knows but what I should send my money +spinning into the lap of Charity, and let that lady dispense it as +indiscriminately and wastefully as she pleases. No, no; the fault +lies in another direction. There has been a little mistake +somewhere; I am not the lost half of his soul, for all that he is +mine.</p> +<p>Little Constance, I think now that perhaps you were right when +you said that I was not altogether a woman. I am certainly not made +as a woman should be. A woman may return love, but she must never +dare to give it. I have been guilty of this folly, and now, what is +to become of me?</p> +<p>We are such fools, we women. When a man loves, he is all that he +was, plus love; when we love, we throw ourselves headlong into the +flood, and are nothing that we were.</p> +<p>So now you know all about it, and can prepare yourself for a gay +companion. I have made up my mind to leave England, and join you in +Vienna. No, it must be Italy; you must leave Vienna and come +towards me.</p> +<p>You cannot see that between the last sentence and this there is +a pause of ten minutes. It is all very well for me to talk of +leaving Graysmill; I do talk of it, the words are words, but I +don’t understand them. I cannot leave; I ought to,—yet, +Constance, I cannot leave him!</p> +<p>Write, you, and tell me where we shall meet; not in Florence, I +could not bear that. And yet, perhaps, yes, in Florence. It will +have to be, and I shall not realise that I have left him until I am +with you again. There is comfort in that thought. One can do +anything, after all, with a little determination, can’t one, +Constantia? Not that you can judge, you who never had any. Perhaps +I have none myself, who knows? I have so deceived myself in loving +Gabriel, and laid bare such great and unknown weakness in my own +bosom, that all the world is upside down for me, and I can find my +way no longer.</p> +<p>Write and tell me soon where we shall meet.</p> +<p class="signature">Your <span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXVI.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, February +7th.</p> +<p>So it’s all settled. You are very good to me, my pretty +Constance. Now I say to myself hourly, “In sixteen days I +shall see her,” and oh, believe me, I am glad! I think I am +beginning to lose my head, that I am fit for all folly. We walked +together yesterday; we were not very talkative. In the lane, when +we were coming home, a man on a bicycle turned sharply round the +corner, and I was lost in thought, so that I was caught unawares, +and in fact knew nothing of the matter until I felt myself pulled +aside by Gabriel. I thought he would let go my arm, but he did not, +and for the few yards of road that remained I could not see out of +my eyes. I said to myself, “He is holding my +arm,—perhaps he loves me.” I was a fool; of course, it +meant nothing; and I am certain, too, that it was imagination on my +part led me to believe he looked differently at me when he said +good-bye.</p> +<p>That is what frightens me. Of course, it was pure self-delusion; +but, if I am going to begin that sort of folly, it is high time to +come away. Indeed, the folly of it. Besides, I suppose I ought to +feel ashamed. I am sure he knows now quite well that I love him, +and perhaps that is why he looked strangely at me when he said +good-bye. But I don’t want his pity; O God forbid! Nor his, +nor anybody’s. Do you hear? Never pity me, Constance.</p> +<p class="signature">Your little<br /> +<span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXVII.</h3> +<p class="address">February 12th.</p> +<p>Could you meet me a little sooner, perhaps, and not wait until +the twenty-third? I must leave Graysmill at once. I shall go to the +Cottage to-morrow afternoon, and tell them. I shall tell the others +tonight, and on Monday I shall leave Graysmill forever. If you +think you cannot reach Florence by Wednesday or Thursday, never +mind, you will join me as soon as you can; only send me a telegram. +I can go and stay with Marianna until you come.</p> +<p>I can bear it no longer! The world holds but one thought; the +day and the night are lost in the constant reiteration of every +word he ever said to me, in the resuscitation of every glance, +every touch. And, poring over these in my memory, I try to read +between the lines the words that are not there, to read “I +love you.”</p> +<p>Oh, I am very weak, yet, believe me, it is all against my will. +I have fought this folly, I despise myself utterly, and yet now I +am swept away by the flood, I can struggle no more. I shall die of +this, or run mad.</p> +<p>I met him out to-day. We had not arranged to meet; but, as I +went out at the blue door, there he stood. We went a little way +together; then I left him; it was unbearable. It was so beautiful +once to be with him, when we could talk freely of all that is best +and noblest in life. I cannot talk to him now, sometimes I cannot +even hear what he says to me. I cannot see the sky, the broad white +earth; I see him only. I cannot hear the life-sounds about me; I +only hear his footfall in the snow. It is all pain, all dreadful +pain, dreadful, unbearable longing.</p> +<p>Why can’t I put an end to all this? Why can’t I go +to him and say, I love you, tell me the truth? I know it,—the +truth,—he does not love me; and yet, until I hear his lips +say it, a false hope that reason cannot kill will linger on in my +heart,—linger on, I know it, even when I have placed time and +space between him and me.</p> +<p>Only one life, and there we stand, two spirits under the sky, +two that believe in Truth and Freedom, parted by insincerity. The +vile weed has crept up around us; we are parted by falsehood, even +we. Goodnight. Perhaps I shall not write again. I shall send you a +telegram before I start, on Monday.</p> +<p>Come to me, dear, as soon as you can.</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXVIII.</h3> +<p class="address">February 13th.</p> +<p>Dearest, I have had a strange, wonderful dream. To-morrow +morning, when I awake, I shall find it was not true. Shall I tell +it you?</p> +<p>I handle it as some frail treasure that I fear to touch. I keep +wondering on which side to turn it, so that, when I hold it up, you +may see it shine. The earth is very beautiful to-night; from my +window I see the moon and a mighty host of glittering +worlds,—even Emilia is beautiful to-night! I went to the +glass just now, to look upon the face of happiness, and, instead of +myself I saw—Oh, but why say all this? Why not tell you? I +cannot; words are weak, but I think you can feel it, Constance. Oh, +sweetest, I think you can, I think you know. I am half mad +to-night; that is why I write so queerly. But now I will set it +down. I wonder what it looks like, written down. I shall write it +very neatly; it will look pretty. Gabriel loves me. Do you see? +Gabriel loves me. I think I shall write it again,—Gabriel +loves me. I never wrote anything that pleased me so well, and my +heart sings it within me unceasingly. Oh, of course it is not true; +it is just a dream. I think this is how the dream went.</p> +<p>I sat in the study at the Thatched Cottage; we were all four +there; I had not spoken for a while; the thing I had to say weighed +me down. I said it suddenly, “I am going back to Florence; I +shall leave Graysmill on Monday.”</p> +<p>Richard Norton cried, “What?” and Jane cried, +“Emilia!” It was only Gabriel that said nothing.</p> +<p>He sprang up, and looked at me in silence. Thank Heaven, my back +was to the window, for I could not take my eyes away from his. I +thought he grew a little pale; I even thought his lips moved a +little. Then he spoke.</p> +<p>“No, no; who said that? We cannot spare you. Emilia, +Emilia, you must never leave us!”</p> +<p>That is how the dream goes. I put my head down on the table.</p> +<p>“God knows,” I said, “I do not want to leave +you.”</p> +<p>There was a long silence; I sat there bowed, struggling with my +tears; I think I heard footsteps and a closing door. Then a hand +was laid upon my shoulder,—I knew whose hand it was, and I +shook beneath it.</p> +<p>I only know one thing more that I can tell you. I heard a voice. +It was not a loud voice, but it rang through the darkness; it swept +the world away.</p> +<p>“Emilia!” it said, “Emilia, you must not leave +us! Stay with me,—I love you!”</p> +<p>And then some cloud fell upon us.</p> +<p>Good night, dear, good night.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXIX.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">The Thatched Cottage</span>, +February 19th.</p> +<p>Gabriel and I are sitting in the study; we have your letter +before us. These few lines are to thank you, if we can, for your +most precious words. Now nothing fails us.</p> +<p class="signature">Your most loving, grateful,<br /> +<span class="sc">Emilia Fletcher</span>.</p> +<p class="signature">Your servant,<br /> +<span class="sc">Gabriel Norton</span>.</p> +<p>P.S. The blot is Gabriel’s.</p> +<p>P.S. 2. In answer to yours. Gabriel is not so inconsistent as +you suppose, nor is Emilia. We have made a provision to which you, +Constance Norris, shall bear witness. Namely this: that, in +accordance with the absolute Sincerity and Truthfulness which we +believe to be not only possible, but necessary to the Conduct of a +Noble Life, we have solemnly promised each other to confess the +truth, should we at any future period—through altered Love or +other causes—consider Mutual Life inconsistent with perfect +Honesty.</p> +<p>There! We have worded that beautifully, I think, although +Gabriel insists that “Mutual Life” is an incorrect +expression. I don’t care; it says what I mean. Needless to +add that, in our case, such a prevision is as good as superfluous, +but we feel bound to act up to our principles!</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXX.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, February +19th.</p> +<p>Beloved, we wrote you a few lines together this afternoon, but I +must write again, I alone, to thank you for your letter and tell +you all you ask to know. Yet, indeed, I know not what to tell you. +I am happy; the sun is in my heart. I tried to write to you before, +but the words failed me; besides—my own self is a stranger to +me. This marvel of marvels, a perfectly happy woman, has nothing in +common with Emilia Fletcher, as you and I have known her.</p> +<p>I believe that Lethe was Joy’s well. The past has floated +from me like a bank of mist, I stand flooded in light. And if I +look behind me I see nothing. Two phantoms merely,—my love +for my mother, my love for you,—all else is gone. Where are +they now, the clouds that pressed so close upon me? Three words, +and lo! the sky is clear. I have even forgotten what it felt like +to stand there in the gloom with breaking heart.</p> +<p>We have made no plans yet; that is to say, we have made so many +that choice between them is impossible. Still, although we build +fresh castles in the air each time we meet, they all float towards +Italy, in the springtime, halting a while where Constance is. If, +indeed, there be a cloud remaining in my heaven, it is that you +two, my soul’s monarchs, know each other only through the +medium of my love. My eyes long to hold you both; I want to walk in +the body, as I do in the spirit, clasping a hand of each.</p> +<p>And to think that she is dead! Shall I tell you something very +strange, almost inconceivable? I cannot help feeling as if she +knew. Surely, Death cannot wholly part a mother from her child.</p> +<p>Good night, my dear little one.</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXXI.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, February +24th.</p> +<p>I showed some parts of your letter to Gabriel, and we laughed +very much. What a bird she is, my Constance! He is ever so much +taller than I. We compared our height with the utmost care, this +morning, for your especial benefit. Do you remember—what +should I do to you, by the way, if you didn’t?—that +when your head is on my shoulder, my chin just makes a little roof +for your curls, so that you always used to say, “How nicely +we <em>fit</em>!” Well, there is just about the same +difference between Gabriel and me, as between me and you. I call +that very nice.</p> +<p>Now, as to the rest of the world. My two old dears are very +sweet to me, and to Gabriel also. Indeed, every one is pleasant to +us, and if it does come to my ears that I am looked upon by +Graysmill generally in the light of a harmless lunatic, why, what +of that? I take joy in the thought that none but myself knows the +value of the treasure that is mine. One good soul said to me +yesterday: “We think it very nice of you, very nice and +modest. Such a rich young lady as you are, you might have had any +one you pleased!”</p> +<p>We went on Sunday to pay a formal visit to Uncle George. That +was a terrible ordeal, but we got some fun out of it.</p> +<p>I went to fetch Gabriel, for Uncle George lives just beyond +Miltonhoe. I found him in the study, sitting with his head in his +hands, a picture of misery.</p> +<p>“Emilia,” said he, “you dare not be so cruel +as to expect this of me. I cannot go and see your uncle, indeed, I +cannot.”</p> +<p>“You must,” said I; “I am very good to you on +the whole; this is the only call I expect you to pay, but this one +must be. Up with you, and make yourself look +respectable.”</p> +<p>So off he went, with despair in his eye, and Jane and I waited +for him in the kitchen. At the end of half an hour he reappeared. +He had merely put on a horrible black coat; for the rest, I could +see no improvement.</p> +<p>There he stood, without hat or gloves.</p> +<p>“I am ready,” said he.</p> +<p>“You imp!” I cried; “you’ve been playing +about! What have you been at all this time? Do you suppose I can +present such a scarecrow to my relations?”</p> +<p>“Emilia,” answered the poor dear, very solemnly, +“I have washed!”</p> +<p>There was nothing for it but to make him fetch the +clothes-brush, and other implements of torture. Jane and I marched +him out into the hall, and there we prepared the victim. We brushed +his clothes, and straightened his necktie. Even Richard Norton was +so excited by the scene that he fetched the blacking-bottle and +polished Gabriel’s boots, whilst Jane acted hairdresser and I +held him down by both hands. This in the midst of so much laughter +that the tears stood in our eyes.</p> +<p>When at last we turned him round for inspection, smooth-haired +and stiff with the consciousness of his respectability, I could +have wept at my own handiwork.</p> +<p>“You poor dear!” I cried. “Oh, Jane, +doesn’t he look horrible!”</p> +<p>But Gabriel went into the parlour to look at himself in the +mirror, and declared that he pleased himself mightily.</p> +<p>The visit itself was comparatively uneventful. They have asked +us to dine next Friday, but I doubt whether we shall go. Gabriel +suggests that we should get married at once and fly from such +terrors.</p> +<p>Good-bye now, my sweet one.</p> +<p>Yours more than ever, in spite of all,</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXXII.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, March 3d.</p> +<p>I don’t know how it comes, but it is a positive effort to +me to write a letter, even to you. If I had not been reminded by +the calendar that a new month is already on the growth, I should +not perhaps have written to-day.</p> +<p>There is nothing to tell you, I am too happy; and how it comes I +know not, but joy is difficult to express. Perhaps because it is so +rare that we have hardly learned its language.</p> +<p>And yet, how soon one gets accustomed to the greatest marvels! +At first, I was filled with doubt and wonder at the miracle that +had transformed me; now, I take it all as a matter of course. +That’s the worst of it; a clay-fed mortal is lifted to +Elysium and forgets at the end of a week that he ever tasted +coarser food than ambrosia! I am spoilt for life; if ever any grief +falls upon me in the future, I shall be beaten to earth.</p> +<p>The other night, as I lay in bed, there came to me, for the +first time in my remembrance, that horror of death of which you +sometimes spoke to me. I thought to myself: I shall lie thus in the +dark, only this heart will be still, this blood will be cold, and +there will be no dawn for me,—yet the world will spin on as +before, and those who loved me will smile again. I feared death for +the first time, because, for the first time, life is dear to me. It +is the outcome of my great content; I cling to my happiness, and +Death is my only enemy, the only power that could knock this cup of +bliss out of my hands. Oh, Constance, to die before one has drunk +that full measure, how horrible!</p> +<p>Another shadow there is that flits from time to time across my +eyes. Why, if such content can be, is it not universal? Why is not +every face I meet stamped with a similar joy? I lay awake long last +night, thinking of you. I do not look upon you as actually unhappy, +that is not in your nature, you sunbeam, yet you lack in your dear +life the best light, that of another’s shedding. Now that I +know what it is to be loved, I look upon the blankness of your +existence with dismay.</p> +<p>No more to-day, but I shall write again soon, I promise.</p> +<p class="signature">Yours ever and always,<br /> +<span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXXIII.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, March +5th.</p> +<p>Thank you, sweet one, for the eight dear pages. I feel ashamed +of the scrap I sent you the day before yesterday. I never felt so +lazy in my life as I feel now. One thing is certain, happiness is +not altogether good. Blake says somewhere, “Damn braces, +bless relaxes.” Perhaps he was right.</p> +<p>I am losing myself completely. Every time I part from him I feel +that he has taken yet a little more of me away. He absorbs me, +heart and soul. I do not complain. I feel a little ashamed of +myself from time to time, when I realise how callous I have become +to everything else, when, no matter what book I take down from the +shelf, I find I cannot read half a page connectedly; otherwise I am +perfectly content that it should be so. Impersonal +things—Nature, Music—have perhaps strengthened their +hold on me; because they flatter my selfishness, so to speak, they +are always in tune with my heart. Gabriel more than makes up for my +degeneracy; of course that should be, seeing that he has taken unto +himself all my intellectual faculties!</p> +<p>He is writing a simply astounding poem; he reads it to me as it +grows. I tell him he is much more in love with it than with me! +When we are out, he falls into deep dreams; sometimes, when they +are of the kind that words can fetter, he brings them within my +reach, and then we float together into the realms of air.</p> +<p>But, although we are hand in hand, I know that he has sight of +things I cannot see, hears voices I cannot hear; I only clearly see +one vision, him; hear but one voice, my own, that says, I love +you.</p> +<p>Shall I tell you something? I would not tell him for the world; +he would deny it; he would not understand; but you I will tell. It +is this: I love him more than he loves me, and in that thought I +find content. When two love, one must love more than the other, and +blessed is he who loves best. I think that if I felt his love +o’ershadowed mine, I should be miserable, I should have some +sensation of unpayable debt. As it stands, he does not know he is +my debtor; only I know it, and I delight in the knowledge. Let him +love me and love me, he will never love me enough; on the other +hand, I yearn so for his love that all he gives me I cherish and am +grateful for; by this means, whether he love me much or little, I +shall always be satisfied.</p> +<p>You must not suppose, because of what I say, that he does not +love me intensely; my love is unmatchable, that is all. He tells me +every day that he could not live without me, and, indeed, it is +true. He relies upon me entirely, calls upon my care incessantly; +and very sweet it is to feel that the supreme God of my Heaven is +as a child in my arms. Ah, I am happy, the world is good, and now +the spring is coming. We rejoice in the growth of the year; Gabriel +longs for the first primrose. He is so hard at work that I think it +unlikely we shall get married before the end of April; the poem is +writing itself at present; it would be a sin to interfere with its +progress. I think, too, that if he can possibly finish it, he will +be able to go away with a greater content upon him, with the +satisfaction that only achievement brings. It is, in fact, very +long since he last completed anything.</p> +<p>And then I shall take him away, I, in his full content, to the +sunshine, to the land of dreams.</p> +<p>There are still some things I can hardly realise.</p> +<p class="signature">Good-bye, dearest.<br /> +<span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXXIV.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, March +20th.</p> +<p>My beloved Constance, I am glad your letter of this morning has +made me a little unhappy; I have been a selfish brute, thinking of +none but myself, and him. I little thought, whilst I lay basking in +the sun, that you stood there shrouded in densest fog. I wish I had +written every day, you poor sweet!</p> +<p>But now I have evolved a plan, and Gabriel thinks with me that +it is a good one. You will find me rather prosaic, yet indeed, +sweetheart, I think you cannot be well; these doleful dumps have +nothing in common with your nature. You are not well, you have no +friend to cheer you, and this melancholy is the result.</p> +<p>Come to us! Gabriel and I are the most undecided beings in +creation; ten days ago he threw up his poem in disgust; there was +nothing for it but to get married at once and start for Italy. A +few days later, inspiration set in, and now he is again so deep in +his verse that we shall stay here until the poem is finished. Come +to us! You will find us excellent company. Yes, dearest, you must +do this; who knows when we may be together again? Besides, there +would be a blank in your knowledge of my life, had you never seen +me in this home, grown dear to me beyond all expectation, through +my great happiness. Besides, I want you and Gabriel to know each +other.</p> +<p>Mrs. Rayner—if you <em>must</em> bring her—will find +enough society at Graysmill to keep her busy for a month or two; I +think she would get on splendidly with Uncle George and his +people.</p> +<p>You and I, my darling, will be happy together as of old. I have +told grandmamma and Aunt Caroline that I have invited the pretty +friend whose photographs they admire so much, to come and stay with +me; they ask me to add their importunities to mine.</p> +<p>Come, dearest, and without delay, for your own sake and mine. +Come, and let us be happy together whilst I am still your lover of +old years.</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<p>Answer immediately, will you, Mrs. Norris?</p> +<h3 class="ltrTitle">LETTER XXXV.</h3> +<p class="address"><span class="sc">Graysmill</span>, March +26th.</p> +<p>You are the best friend that ever lived! I am quite restless +with impatience, so is Gabriel, so are my old ones. And who most of +all? Oh! little white face, how I long to hold you in my hands +again, and what warmth of love and happiness I long to pour into +your heart!</p> +<p>I shall not scold you, because you are not well, but what do you +mean by saying that you will come, “although of course we +shall never see each other”? Dear silly, do you imagine that +I spend the whole day with that creature you pretend to be so +jealous of?</p> +<p>Not a bit of it! Sometimes, just by way of a little salutary +training in renunciation, we don’t even meet every day. No, +the bulk of my time will be yours and mine; we will sit up here in +my room, beneath my mother’s portrait; we will make the old +days live again, weld the old and the new into one. Then, Gabriel +and I will take you with us for walks fitting a fairy, in the +woods; how you will love them! The trees are misty already with the +promise of leaves, and all manner of sweet things are beginning to +pierce the ground. How we shall spoil you, we two!</p> +<p>So you are coming,—I can hardly believe it. Never say +again that I shall forget you. Let me remind you, Madam, if all +else fail to convince you, that we two are women, and that there is +one tender love, one yearning, which can only be betwixt woman and +woman.</p> +<p>There is something infinitely pathetic in this truth; a man may +be the dearest, the nearest he can never be.</p> +<p>But I must bless and leave thee. I have promised to meet Gabriel +at the Post-office.</p> +<p>My last letter. No need to write again. Oh, Constantia, can it +be true? Yours in all truth,</p> +<p class="signature"><span class="sc">Emilia</span>.</p> +<h2 class="secHead">THE JOURNAL.</h2> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>June 3d, at evening.</em>—I am weak, +very weak. I never could carry either joy or trouble pent up in my +heart.</p> +<p>It has seemed sometimes of late that I must be stifled by the +thing that troubles me. Yet it is a trifling thing; nothing, I am +sure, but a foolish, wicked fear, a little disease within myself. +If mamma were here, I should just go and lay my head on her knees, +and tell her everything. Then she would stroke my eyes and bid me +see reason, and all would be well. O my little mother, O great and +dear one, why did you leave your child?</p> +<p>I remembered just now that it used to help me once to write +things down. That is what I must do. I will put it away from me; +perhaps, too, it will look so silly in solemn ink that I shall +laugh at it instead of screaming, as I did just now with my face on +the pillow. And now that it comes to the point, I am ashamed of +saying it. My love is making me mad; was there ever such a fool? I +have been too happy, that is the whole truth—far too happy. +Poor things, we carry grief well enough, cold grief; but hot joy +cracks the frail vessel.</p> +<p>I have had a wonderful spring, with my two dearests; Constance +sweeter than ever she was, even during her long illness giving some +worth to the hours I might not spend with him, and he ever near. +Then, when we three were together, we were happy, too. How silly of +me to write “were”; they are still there, the summer +days are long, I love them so well, they hold me so dear.</p> +<p>I have not written it. No matter, I feel better; I already begin +to laugh at myself.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>June 4th.</em>—Their eyes met once +at supper, only once, and they did not look at each other when they +said good night. Which means most, to look or not to look? I cannot +read clearly yet. And one can certainly twice ask the same person +to pass the salt without its meaning anything. This is very ugly in +me; my better self is filled with sorrow. Surely it must be in +every one’s power to quell the visions of the inmost eye when +they rise sinfully, to close their ears against such whisperings as +now I listen to.</p> +<p>I must fight this. Doubt is Love’s murderer.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>June 6th.</em>—Constance should not +have said that; there was no need. Why have I come upstairs and +left them together? I am raving mad. And now to cry like a baby! I +have cried every day for five days; this is monstrous! I think that +if some one came and whipped me, I might feel better. This is some +sickness, surely; relaxed nerves, quick blood. I shall write it all +down carefully, calling on what sense I have left to be judge. Of +course the judge will laugh. But first I will wash my face.</p> +<p>In the beginning, Constance said she was not sure she liked him. +Let me remember his first words about her, the day after her +arrival. I brought him into the drawing-room, and put his hand into +hers, saying, “Here is your friend.”</p> +<p>He was very shy, and hardly looked at her. “We are meeting +under inauspicious circumstances, Mrs. Norris,” said he. +“We have heard so much about each other that I, at least, +cannot reconcile the strangeness of your person with the intimate +affection I have so long had for you in my thoughts.”</p> +<p>Constance laughed.</p> +<p>“It <em>is</em> funny, isn’t it?” said she. +“I know what you mean. I thought I knew you quite well, and +you’re not at all the sort of person I thought you +were.”</p> +<p>Gabriel did not stay long; I went with him to the door when he +left, and he said:</p> +<p>“She is prettier than her photograph. I like her, +Emilia.” I was so glad.</p> +<p>Constance soon began to take an interest in him; he amused +her.</p> +<p>“He is the queerest creature I ever saw,” she said; +“I can’t set eyes on him without laughing; he is too +comic.”</p> +<p>Then she fell ill, poor love! They did not meet for a long time. +And every day, when Gabriel came to fetch me for my walk, he only +asked after her as he should have asked after my dearest friend. Of +course, when she got better and he sat with us daily to help me to +amuse her, they were thrown more together. It was a great joy to me +to see how well they got on.</p> +<p>Then she began to tease him. They never talked very much, for +all that. When I come to think of it, it was early last month that +Constance began to say, “How is your friend this +morning?” or “I haven’t seen Gabriel for two +days; I miss him; he makes me laugh.” But I did not notice it +then.</p> +<p>What? Is this all I have to say? It is too ridiculous! Of course +she likes him; one cannot come near him without some love. Besides, +she would like him for my sake. It is all so natural. He, too, did +not often speak of her, does not often speak of her. It is natural, +knowing how I love her, that he should feel at ease with my +Constance. Nor could I have wished it to be otherwise.</p> +<p>Now let me think when I was first taken with this mad fit. It +was last Thursday week; we were all three in the wood; it was one +of my bad days, when I love him unto pain; it hurt me that he +lagged behind, I wanted him near. And I twice saw Constance turn to +look after him; I turned, too,—they smiled at each other. +When he drew up, the path was wider; it was the first time, I +think, that instead of coming to my side, or placing himself +between us, he went round to Constance.</p> +<p>I noticed it, I felt it; there spread a quick pain through my +whole being. It was silly, perhaps, but I walked round behind him, +and slipped my hand through his arm.</p> +<p>“Are you tired, my Emilia?” he asked; but I +answered:</p> +<p>“No, dear; I only wanted to take your arm.”</p> +<p>And I said to myself, “I am very glad that he is mine, and +not another woman’s.”</p> +<p>I never remember having understood hatred as I did at that +moment; the possibility of his growing to love Constance had not +yet occurred to me, only the thought that he might some day love +another woman better than me. And it dawned upon me thus suddenly +that I was jealous.</p> +<p>And now, what does the judge think? No evidence, of course not; +they are both as true as gold, they both love me dearly, they would +not dream of a flirtation,—pah! the word sickens me, it is +not fit. And there am I in my folly leaving them together, whilst I +give way to ugly doubts, and tear myself by an ugly passion.</p> +<p>I had better go down again. This doubt of them is hateful in +me.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>June 10th.</em>—I must be very +jealous indeed. This is very strange. I dreamed last night that we +were in a room full of people, we three. I was seeking him, and he +came towards me suddenly with Constance on his arm. Lifting her on +high, I threw her far from us, so that with a cry she sank into +great depths; and Gabriel—seeking to stay me—caught me +by the waist. I heard the whirl and the hum of those about us, but +in the weakness of my love I fell with my head upon his breast, and +thus we floated into endless space.</p> +<p>I am a sensible person as a rule, yet the flavour of this dream +has been with me all day long, and I could hardly look at Constance +for the wrong I had done her in my thoughts. I must be very +jealous.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>June 18th.</em>—I put it from me for +a while. I have been very calm; I have watched them narrowly. I am +very calm now. Gabriel came to spend the evening; Uncle George had +been provided for Mrs. Rayner’s edification, and we all sat +together in the drawing-room. Grandmamma and Aunt Caroline had +Constance between them under the lamp. I could watch her very well. +Gabriel sat next me. We could not talk, so I thought we might as +well play backgammon, and we set the board so that he could not see +Constance.</p> +<p>When Gabriel left, I took him as far as the blue door, first +making a round of the garden and shrubbery; it was a dear walk. He +said, “Shall we make a match of it, Emilia, between your +perfumed uncle and that benighted woman?” It certainly was an +excellent idea. Towards the end he said:</p> +<p>“Emilia, you have been rather pale these last days. Take +care of my girl, my dear girl. And your step is not over firm; you +cling to me as you walk.”</p> +<p>Why, yes, that was true enough; I was clinging to him with all +my force.</p> +<p>Gabriel is older than he was; he would never have noticed this +when first I knew him, not even when first he loved me. He has +grown much more thoughtful of late.</p> +<p>All this holds together. I am perfectly calm; I am not deceiving +myself. I am calm because I see the need of self-possession and +reflection. Gabriel and Constance,—it seems horrible to set +it down thus before my poor eyes,—they love one another.</p> +<p>And now let me be very careful, very just and true. They love +each other, but they do not know it. I know it, because my great +love has so trained my eye that they cannot deceive me; neither he +nor she; themselves, perhaps, but me never.</p> +<p>I do not say that it is dangerous love, lasting love; these +passing fancies die their own death, and therefore I think I shall +not disturb them; if I part them, the shock might awaken them to +the truth. No; I will let their fancy run its own course, trusting +that it may die before they become aware of its existence.</p> +<p>That is it; they do not know it yet, it is an unconscious +attraction. He loves me so firmly, he would never dream of +infidelity to me; yet, just at present, he is unfaithful in thought +and does not know it. Poor dear, if he knew, how miserable he would +be, how he would hate himself! And Constance, too. This is a cruel +thing, but I think I can bear it; it must pass because they love me +so much. It rests with me; I must be very wise. They are as +sleep-walkers; I must lead them from danger, patiently, tenderly. I +think I can keep calm.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>June 21st.</em>—It comes to me +almost as a miracle what one can bear. It seems that a certainty, +however terrible, hurts less cruelly than doubt. I suffered most at +the dawning of my fears. Now that I know the worst, I can strain my +endurance to the requisite point. Besides, it cannot last. The more +I think of it, the more natural it seems to me that they should +thus forget themselves, for a while; have I not myself been foolish +over both? The fault, too, is mine; I brought them together; they +are not to blame.</p> +<p>Some day I shall laugh at all this; and it is really endurable, +even now. The thing is to brace oneself sufficiently, to the exact +point. It seems to me I keep saying the same thing over and over +again; but it is so necessary to keep it in mind.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>June 25th.</em>—Gabriel is not well. +I noticed it a day or two ago. This afternoon he came to fetch +Constance and me for a walk; it had been so warm that we thought we +would walk after tea. And instead of walking, we stayed in the +garden. Mrs. Rayner—thank mercy!—was out driving with +grandmamma and Uncle George.</p> +<p>We stayed in the garden, and idled through the hours; we each +had a book, but I doubt that we read a dozen pages between us. Nor +did we talk much; every now and then we fell to talking, but the +pauses had the best of it.</p> +<p>Gabriel looked very tired; I spread a rug out on the grass, and +he fell asleep with his head on my knees. My pretty Constance said +to me, “You will be tired, you have nothing to lean +against,” and she brought her chair up behind me so that I +might lean against her. She is very sweet, my Constance. She put +her head down next to mine, and we spoke in whispers, mostly of +him. She has no suspicion that she loves him more than need be. But +it came into my head then, looking down at Gabriel’s pale +face, and remembering how he had said he could not sleep of nights, +that perhaps he knows he loves her.</p> +<p>I must watch them more closely. To-morrow I am going to the +Cottage. I fear my visits there a little. Jane is very fond of me; +it is difficult to hide from her that, just at present, I am not so +happy as I was. Gabriel and Constance would, of course, notice it +also, but they are not quite themselves.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>June 27th.</em>—I think I feel as +men must who die of thirst adrift in mid-ocean. There is nothing in +creation I could not tell Gabriel and Constance between them, yet I +must now bear the burden of a secret I can share with neither. Some +day, of course, we shall speak of it and laugh. Perhaps not. My +only fear now is that perhaps I might go mad, that perhaps I am +mad, that all this is a deception, the outcome of my poor brain. I +don’t know what to think.</p> +<p>I found Gabriel on the Common just before I reached the Cottage. +I thought he was writing; he was lying at full length on the +heather. I stood still within a few yards of him, and presently he +looked up, his dear face flushed.</p> +<p>“Emilia!” he cried, “I want you more than ever +I did! Sit here by me.”</p> +<p>And when I had sat down a little way from him, away from him +just because I so longed to sit next, he drew himself up to me and +took my glad hand.</p> +<p>I asked him what was amiss, saying I did not like his looks and +nervous ways.</p> +<p>“Where are your gay spirits?” said I; “I +hardly know my child, he has grown so sober.”</p> +<p>“Yes,” he replied. “I hardly know myself. I +think I am not well. The poem is dead,—not a throb of the +pulse. Emilia! you must cure me!”</p> +<p>“Dear,” said I, “how shall that be?”</p> +<p>“Take me away! I am weary of all things. The summer is +fledged; he will take wing before we realise it. You must marry me +soon, very soon.”</p> +<p>And I promised that I would,—on the 15th of July, as we +presently decided.</p> +<p>Surely, if I were not mad, I should be very joyful. I feel no +joy, only disbelief; I cannot believe, sore as I am with doubt and +sorrow, that in nineteen days all will be well, and I again full +mistress of that I fear to lose. Just at first, I was dizzy with +joy, and thought my misgivings had been very vain and foolish; but +then it occurred to me that Gabriel was perhaps impelled to this +sudden decision by the dawning consciousness of his infidelity, and +hoped—by marrying me at once—to check the further +growth of his fancy.</p> +<p>If this be so, he is wise; for that it is a passing fancy I am +certain. I should not marry him if I thought otherwise.</p> +<p>But it is very sad; I am so sorry for us all.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>June 30th.</em>—It must be late; the +chimes have just told three quarters, it must be a quarter to +three. I was in bed,—I am very much troubled. I think I had +better write a little, lest I lose my self-possession; that would +be fatal. Constance and I returned to-day from London; we had been +there to get my things. I took her with me because I feared to +leave her alone with Gabriel; it seemed unwise. Besides, I could +not leave them; I am indeed intolerably jealous; I never leave them +now for the fraction of a minute. I cannot, it is too cruel pain; +and I am grown such a coward, I cannot bear it.</p> +<p>Yet it was foolish to take her with me; I might have foretold +how it would be. I saw very soon that she pined for him, perhaps as +much as I did. And I knew that he wandered to and fro at home, +meeting her thoughts with his. I brought her back as soon as I +could. Gabriel met us at the station; the engine shrieked, as I did +in my heart. It was a strange mingling of the Heaven of my life +with the sordid greyness of the world. I saw at once that there was +a change; I had parted them and taught them what each was worth to +the other.</p> +<p>So now I know. It is well, perhaps, to have reached the end, the +limit of misery, to know that, come what may, I have suffered my +fill. And I was so happy. I cannot think to-night; I know not what +to do; I stare at my dead joy,—it is dead and cold, nothing +can wake it now. When I have stared a little longer, I must dig its +grave, bury it in the bare earth, in eternal darkness.</p> +<p>That is all I feel, the death of my joy; I cannot yet think of +them that killed it.</p> +<p>To-night in my despair I cannot tell whether I love or hate +them; love them for what they were, or hate them for what they +are.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>July 2d.</em>—The day is hot and +heavy; it suits me very well. Yesterday we were nearly all day +together. I remember how it was with me when my mother died; I had +sooner bear it again than my pain of every day. To be with them, +watching the growth of their terrible love, that is murdering me, +and yet to stay on, fearing a worse agony. Their eyes shall never +meet; I shall stay and watch them, if I die for it.</p> +<p>Only thirteen days more and he is mine, and I can bear him from +her. Yesterday I thought, Shall I give him to her? But I am not +generous. It may be wicked, it may be cruel, but I, too, am living. +Why should I break my heart that theirs may be whole? No; he chose +me for his wife, he will not take his word from me. I know he loves +her better, but he will forget that, I shall make him so happy, I +shall spoil him so! Oh, yes, he will forget. For a year, perhaps, +he will be unhappy; then all will be well.</p> +<p>It might be different if I did not know how happy I can make +him.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>July 3d.</em>—Let me write it down, +all my infamy. I am possessed by a new fear,—that Gabriel +might prove honest. It is not true that trouble chasteneth; there +is no health left in me. If I clear all the cobwebs away, I still +can see the right. I can see this: that he loves her better than +me, and I remember our covenant.</p> +<p>I know that it is my duty to go to him and lay his freedom in +his hands; or, barring this, to await the truth from his own lips. +Yet now, when I am alone with him, I am possessed by this terrible +new fear, that he might be true to his own self and me. For to +marry one woman and love another is a shameful act indeed.</p> +<p>Let me look upon my love and ask myself whereof it is made. If I +seek to have this man, knowing his heart to be another’s, if +I desire for him rather the silence of cowardice than the nobler +loyalty of truth, why, then, my love is not good love. It is not +love, but a most unholy passion, that places its desire above the +well-being of its object. And yet I can see the right.</p> +<p>Oh! how empty are these dreams, and how the devil in us, the man +of flesh, mocks the God-led spirit that dreamed them!</p> +<p>The blood of the heart is master. We shall never reach +perfection.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>July 4th.</em>—They have not met +to-day. I was at the Cottage, and we made merry as best we could. +Gabriel laughed. But when I went into the larder to fetch the bread +for tea, I stayed and cried; for he had laughed otherwise the first +day I came.</p> +<p>Oh, what have we done, we two! We set up Truth as our God, +believing that we should right all the wrongs of the world by +living clean of heart and hand and tongue. Where are we now? +Falsehood lies thick upon us, blackening each word, each trifling +action. Yes, I went and cried in the larder, and when I got back to +the kitchen Gabriel was playing with the kittens, a very imp as of +old. We laughed, both of us.</p> +<p>But later, when I came upon him unawares, he sat with head bowed +low, and his white hands clasped on his knee. I closed the door +softly and went home. It rained a little.</p> +<p>I knew, I know that I am cruel, yet,—only one +life,—and I love him so! Only one life, and he loves her so. +The road is dark; I cannot find my way.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>July 6th.</em>—I have been very +sinful. I was worse yesterday, if can be, than before; more blind, +unjust, and selfish. Gabriel came to supper; it had been a hot day, +and in the evening we walked together, we three.</p> +<p>We watched the colours fade from the sky and the blue night +deepen; the little stars came one by one. The wind rose, soft and +cool, and there we stood, we three, under broad Heaven. I fell back +a little, and they went on side by side, silent and still. Not a +word, not a sign, but I knew, I, what peace was upon them, soothing +the turmoil of their blood. There they stood against the +sky,—how I had watched them, how I knew them,—oh, my +heart, how I loved them! And it came to me suddenly how hatefully I +had been loving them.</p> +<p>Two women passed us on the road; they spoke of their dead, and +one of them said, “It is God’s will.”</p> +<p>I stood still and laughed aloud, so that my dears turned, +wondering. But I have repeated it to myself ever since. The woman +spoke the truth. For, God or no God, there is a Might against which +we cannot stand, and woe be unto those that lift their little wills +against the will of Nature. When two love, they must belong to each +other; when one loves, Miserere.</p> +<p>I will wait a day or two, until I have learned my lesson well, +until I am strong; then I will do what must be done. But I must +first be strong, test my strength to the uttermost, and tell myself +every day, “She will be his; she will take the joy that shone +into your eyes; you will have nothing, nothing.”</p> +<p>Then I must try to realise that thought and bear it nobly; for +to make a sacrifice and bear it ill is beneath contempt.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>July 9th.</em>—How beautiful love +is! Now that, one by one, I am breaking the tendrils from the wall, +and shall soon hold Love in my hand, an emblem merely, clinging to +nothing, I see all that is divine in it. I myself am selfish, +earth-smeared; yet by means of this talisman I am to be heroic, +even I, finding joy in the gift I prepare for others through the +tearing of my heart, the outpouring of my own blood. It is a +blessed madness. Sober, I could not.</p> +<p>To-day one week remains. Gabriel said to me just now, “In +a week, Emilia, we shall be gone.”</p> +<p>“Yes, dear,” said I; and I wondered at his strength, +at his loyalty to me.</p> +<p>How comes it, I wonder, that it took me so long to find the +small straight path. I must hasten now and be ready soon; he has +suffered all too long. And Constance is thin, her eyes hang +heavily, she helps me prepare my wedding clothes, and is gay, to +hide what she cannot. She often says:</p> +<p>“How slow you are! Hurry up, my solemn bride, or we shall +never be ready.”</p> +<p>“Ready enough,” say I.</p> +<p>To-day I went to Mrs. Rayner, and begged her to approach her +solicitor on the question of obtaining Constance’s divorce. +My ignorance of these matters is absolute, yet surely this is +possible. Gabriel once led me to believe she could obtain her +divorce without difficulty.</p> +<p>“But a divorce is so scandalous,” said Mrs. +Rayner.</p> +<p>“Not so scandalous,” I replied, “as what it +may prevent.”</p> +<p>I believe my words were entirely thrown away, for her blindness +is phenomenal. She is, besides, much too self-absorbed at present +to properly watch Constance; her horizon is obscured by Uncle +George’s whiskers. It gives me, even in these days, a grim +satisfaction to see those two preparing millstones for each +other’s necks.</p> +<p>I shall write to Marianna, telling her to expect me in Florence +shortly. How calm I am! Have I learned my lesson so well? Or is +this calm mere self-deceit? When I have truly learned the lesson, +realise that what I am about to do separates me from both forever, +surely I shall not be alive to go to Florence.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>July 10th.</em>—To-day Constance +would not come to the Cottage with me, although Jane Norton had +most particularly wished it. I think she avoids Gabriel,—it +may be my fancy, or perhaps mere chance; otherwise it still seems +to me that she does not know she loves him.</p> +<p>She came up to me in the morning, to help me pack my papers; we +idled, we wandered restlessly about my disordered room. Suddenly +she came to me as I leaned over my strong-box, and, clasping me +round the shoulders, laid her head down on the back of my neck.</p> +<p>“Dear,” she said, “do you remember your +birthday at Florence, when I helped you with your books?”</p> +<p>I stood up and took her to me.</p> +<p>“Yes,” said I; “and I would that day were back +again.”</p> +<p>She gave a sigh, a little shiver. I felt it. But she said:</p> +<p>“Silly, big thing, how can you talk so? You are going to +be so happy!”</p> +<p>“Why, yes,” I replied; “that’s +true.”</p> +<p>Poor little Constance! To-day I may say it, to-day she is still +the poorer. Soon ’twill be poor Emilia.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>July 11th.</em>—To-day they met +again. I am not schooled, I have not learned my lesson, and now I +know that I shall never learn it. We were out together; again I let +them walk ahead, and kept far behind them, saying to myself: +“This is my life!” But it was unendurable. I rejoined +them, and slipped in between them; I cannot yet look upon them side +by side, neither actually nor in my imagination.</p> +<p>This does not mean that I shall not abide by my decision. Only +three days more; I must hasten. Yet these are the last days I have +to live; mingled with my pain is the last drop of joy I may taste +upon this earth. And yet, having their love, I dare not think of +death.</p> +<p>It dawned upon me to-day that Constance knows; she is pale, and +much troubled. Poor little one.</p> +<p class="spacedTop"><em>July 12th.</em>—To-morrow it must +be. I meant to tell him to-night, but I could not.</p> +<p>It is half-past ten. Aunt Caroline has just been to my room, +bless her! I thought she was in bed.</p> +<p>“Have you room for this in your trunk, Milly?” she +said. “I should like you to hang it up in your room wherever +you go.”</p> +<p>It was a text she had painted for me. Written in gold among +sprays of lilies-of-the-valley shone “God is Love.” +Poor soul! she ought to know.</p> +<p>Yes, to-morrow I shall tell him. I should have told him +to-night. I stayed at the Cottage until late; after supper he +brought me home. We were very silent. I kept on trying to begin, +wondering how to say it, and he had something, no doubt, in his +thoughts. I knew all the while that it was our last walk across the +heath together; perhaps I wanted to keep it entirely my own. I +walked a step or two behind him, so that my eyes might gaze their +fill, and he did not seem to feel my watching. I wanted to print +his form forever in my memory.</p> +<p>We were in sight of the blue gate; we had not spoken for +half-a-mile, and had fallen very far apart. I turned suddenly +giddy, and spread my hands towards him, crying:</p> +<p>“Gabriel! Gabriel!”</p> +<p>He was very kind to me; he turned back and put his arm about my +waist, and we went on more slowly still, as silent as before. But, +all the while, something within me said: “Do you know where +you are? Do you know who holds you? In a few weeks, oh! in one +hour, you would sell your soul for one of these seconds.”</p> +<p>Yet I could not feel; it seems to me now that I did not +feel.</p> +<p>Within a few yards of the blue door we stood still. I said:</p> +<p>“Come no further, Gabriel.”</p> +<p>But I held his hand to my side; I knew that I might never do so +again. We stood thus a few seconds, then I turned my face up +suddenly, and he kissed me on the eyes. And then he left me.</p> +<p>Why do I write this? It is merely as a picture before me. I feel +very little now; I am so cold.</p> +<p>And now he walks home across the heath. Good night, Gabriel. Why +did he kiss my eyes? It was better the first time.</p> +<p>All past, all gone, all dead. I cannot see that I need live in +this graveyard.</p> +<p>Perhaps I too shall die; who knows?</p> +<h2 class="secHead">THE POSTSCRIPT.</h2> +<p>There was a man who made unto himself wings, and thought to soar +upon them; but, as he rose into high Heaven, the Sun melted the wax +wherewith he had fastened the pinions on to his body, and the poor +fool, sinking to earth, was drowned in deep waters.</p> +<p>Now, as Icarus fell into the sea, what lesson would have risen +from his heart unto the sons of men?</p> +<p>This?</p> +<p>“Children of earth, the earthworm crawls in its blindness; +be content, for ye are such.”</p> +<p>Or this?</p> +<p>“Make wings unto yourselves and fly! My wings were strong, +and should have borne me further; I fall and die, yet I have seen +the Sun.”</p> +<p class="spacedTop">I know not. Nor know I how to read the lesson +of my own life. I, too, can only say, “My wings were strong, +and should have borne me further.”</p> +<p>I shall not burn my letters and my journal, as I meant to do. +Here they lie in my lap; I meant to burn them to-night. But now, +after reading them through, I think that I shall tie them together +and lay them by, adding a record of that which came to pass.</p> +<p>When I am dead, some human being may read my words, some other +pilgrim on the narrow way, seeing where I faltered and fell, may be +able to step onward with the greater firmness. And yet, I doubt it; +there were no need to weep over our faults, might they but save +another’s tears. Man learns all truth through his own +pain.</p> +<p>I married him. It was a great sin.</p> +<p>It would be easier to sit in judgment on oneself, did straight +and simple purpose lead to a single act. My purpose was clear +enough; I meant to give him his liberty, I knew that it was my duty +to do so, but the blood of the heart was master.</p> +<p>Had I been physically strong at the time, had not many weeks of +doubt and misery affected me bodily as well as mentally, I might +perhaps have had the strength to fulfil my intentions. I say +perhaps; we cannot tell what might have been. And it is +particularly in such cases as mine, when body and spirit are alike +affected, that we are the most easily thrown out of balance by +unforeseen influences, by some sudden wave of feeling, by the mood +of another, by the interference of time and place.</p> +<p>The day after I made the last entry in my journal, I did not see +Gabriel until the evening. Constance had a headache, my poor sweet, +and wished to be alone; so I, too, was alone nearly all day. And +all day long I rehearsed the scene to come, gathering all my +strength together, telling him in my imagination what I had to +tell, in twenty different ways. When evening came, my heart was +dead. I felt absolutely nothing. I remember singing as I made +myself tidy for supper, and being so offended with myself for doing +so that I left off, in order to simulate, at least, a depression I +no longer felt.</p> +<p>Gabriel supped with us, and we were exceedingly merry; not that +I was necessarily merry, not being sad,—indeed, I was neither +the one nor the other, but my heart was dead, and I let my body do +as it would. I remember looking hard at Gabriel once, and saying to +myself, “After all, he will admire me for this much more than +I deserve; after all, I do not love him so much as I +imagined.”</p> +<p>After supper I played some while on the piano. Gabriel and +Constance sat very far apart, but I should not have felt it had +they sat together. At ten o’clock I left off.</p> +<p>“Gabriel,” said I, “I shall turn you out a +little earlier than usual to-night, because I want to walk as far +as the park with you.”</p> +<p>Then, for a second, feeling returned to me; there came a little +flutter of fear within me, the same I sometimes felt in childhood +when I had told a lie and, wanting to confess it, stood at my +mother’s door saying, “May I come in?”</p> +<p>There was no moon, but the sky was not dark. We walked through +the garden in silence; once or twice I contrived to force up to my +lips, by great effort, the words I meant to speak; but then my +heart beat so fearfully that I felt my courage fail me, and I said +to myself, time after time, “Presently will do.” It was +not active love for Gabriel that checked me, merely the actual +physical fear that I suppose most people experience when about to +give forth words of great import.</p> +<p>But just as we reached the shrubbery, I said:</p> +<p>“Gabriel, I have something to tell you.”</p> +<p>“And so have I,” said he, “something to tell +you. But you first.”</p> +<p>“No,” I replied; “you first.”</p> +<p>It was for one moment a great relief to think that he was about +to save me from the trial I dreaded.</p> +<p>We took a few more steps in silence; I was looking down, not at +him. I felt my heart beat more than ever, fear was still there, but +of a different kind; I awaited his words as one might await a +death-blow. But they did not come. Suddenly he halted, and I, +too.</p> +<p>“Well?” said I, and I lifted my head.</p> +<p>There he stood, smiling at me.</p> +<p>“Do you remember ‘Peer Gynt’?” asked he. +“That was the bush.”</p> +<p>I looked at the laurel, and then at him again.</p> +<p>“Why, yes,” said I; “that was the +bush.”</p> +<p>His dear eyes were gazing into mine; I could not look away +again. There came a tremor over all my body; my love for him swept +over me in throbbing waves of pain; I fell towards him, stifling a +cry against his breast. And he, wrapping his arms about me, +strained me to him with great force.</p> +<p>“Emilia!” he cried, “I love you very much; I +have never told you how much I love you!”</p> +<p>I knew it to be the last cry of his conscience, but, as I lay +there listening to the beat of his heart, there fled from me what +little yet remained of my conquered spirit’s strength and +noble purpose. Only the woman in me cried aloud, “I +cannot!”</p> +<p>I tried to speak, but the words came almost as a sob. Quickly I +threw my arms about his neck and, bending his face towards me, +kissed him of my own accord as he smiled; then, breaking from him, +would have run homewards.</p> +<p>But he held me by the hand.</p> +<p>“When shall I come to-morrow?” asked he, +hoarsely.</p> +<p>“Not at all,” said I. “Go, Gabriel! God help +me; I love you too much!”</p> +<p>And so we did not meet next day, and the next we were +married.</p> +<p class="spacedTop">For many months I made believe that we were +happy. Ah! it was not all make-belief! I have had great joys.</p> +<p>Never was the game of happiness easier to play at than it was +for Gabriel and me in the first year of our marriage. He was very +much attached to me, and I loved him.</p> +<p>It was the first time he had been out of England; the sights he +saw filled him with rapture and insatiable curiosity, to appease +which I led him from place to place until I had shown him all I +knew, and still we went onwards, covering new ground together.</p> +<p>We never stayed very long in the same spot; a certain weariness +crept over me at times, but I saw that it was best for him to keep +continually on the wing; and indeed, having no desire on earth but +his happiness, I was ready, for his sake, to wander my whole life +away. Moreover, as he was not working at all the while, I looked +forward to a day when inspiration might set in, together with +satiety, when he too might yearn, as I did, to sit in peace beside +a hearth of his own.</p> +<p>Constance wrote to us occasionally, and I to her. Her letters to +me were the same as of old, full of love and sweetness; she nearly +always mentioned Gabriel, but not in such a way as to denote +preoccupation. My letters to her were not as they had been; I felt +this at the time. On rereading them just now I burned them +all,—there was no breath in them.</p> +<p>Mrs. Rayner had taken Fairview, the nearest house to +Fletcher’s Hall, soon after my marriage, and set her cap at +Uncle George with so much persistence that he engaged himself to +her the following summer. So my sweet girl stayed on at Graysmill. +Grandmamma’s letters, and Aunt Caroline’s, were always +full of her, of the comfort her sunny presence brought them; my +father-in-law and Jane had the same tale to tell.</p> +<p>For many months I never even contemplated the possibility of +returning to England with my husband. There is no knowing how long +our wanderings might have been, but for my illness. Gabriel and I +were passing through Pisa at the end of June, on our way to Lerici, +whither we were bent on pilgrimage, when I fell ill.</p> +<p>That was the end of many dreams. The wheel could turn no more; +the swift and restless life of day to day, that fled the past and +hung back from the morrow, was checked abruptly, completely.</p> +<p>But, lying in that little bed of painted wood, staring at the +net curtains and green shutters, at the lozenge pattern on the +wall, at the cornucopiæ on the ceiling, a clear and sober +sight returned to me. The body having failed, the spirit found its +strength.</p> +<p>Our sudden halt had worked swiftly on Gabriel also. He set to +work; the restlessness died out of him, but, alas! the lightness, +too. He became very still, silent and self-absorbed. In the cool of +evening, the time of day when I was strongest, I used to turn my +kind little nun out of the room, and then Gabriel came and read to +me.</p> +<p>At first he had tried to finish the long poem begun in the days +of our betrothal, but he soon laid that aside, and another sprang +forward with extraordinary rapidity. Perhaps he himself was hardly +aware of the sorrow of that poem; perhaps he thought I would judge +it so entirely as a work of art that I should not take note of its +deep gloom, of its hopeless melancholy. But nothing was lost upon +me now. I read it in every line,—he suffered; something +failed him,—perhaps he knew not what, perhaps he knew. A +terrible loneliness was in his heart,—and I had given him all +I had to give.</p> +<p>On the fifteenth of July, I awoke with a sense of something +fresh and sweet; a bunch of roses lay upon my pillow, and Gabriel +stood beside my bed. The shutters were still closed.</p> +<p>“What?” said I, “have you been out already? +How dear of you this is! Is the sun shining?”</p> +<p>And he answered:</p> +<p>“Of course, what should it do but shine on our +wedding-day?”</p> +<p>Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, and took both my hands +in his.</p> +<p>“Emilia,” said he, “you have made me very +happy.”</p> +<p>But I, sitting up, bent my head low over his hands and kissed +them; my loose hair fell forward, he did not see the tears that +stood in my eyes. I knew that he had lied.</p> +<p>From that day I began to think with a purpose. I had already +gained sufficient mastery over myself, sufficient calm and strength +of spirit to be able to do so.</p> +<p>I can hardly call it a struggle that followed. I copied out and +laid under my pillow the words of the covenant we had made the day +after our betrothal; daily I read it through, and recognised how we +had failed towards each other, and towards our best beliefs.</p> +<p>We had both failed; but, whereas he had erred merely, I knew +that I had sinned; in the fulness of my remorse, my only thought +was now to offer reparation. Nor was it only for Gabriel’s +sake that I was now possessed by the desire of atonement. In the +blindness of human passion, I had sinned against my better self, my +noblest purposes, my most firm and high beliefs; that passion +conquered, I determined to make amends for my great transgression +by following, regardless of pain and danger, the highest path that +lay within the range of my vision, regardless of pain to myself, +regardless of that fear of the world which so often leads us to +accept its canons, even in sight of a nobler righteousness.</p> +<p>Therefore I resolved to set him free; I believed this to be +possible, although my sight was clear, my spirit calm. But he who +beholds only the aerial pathway of an ideal right may stumble and +fall on the stones of the world. It was only given me later to +realise, through grief too terrible for words, that, given the +world as the world is, there are wrongs that are irrevocable, lies +that, once lied, no truth can ever wipe away.</p> +<p class="spacedTop">Meanwhile, health returned to me. We stayed at +Pisa until I was convalescent, then moved to the sea. His poem and +my thoughts occupied us severally; they were good and peaceful +days. Now and again the heart rebelled against the severity of the +spirit, but, take it all in all, a great calm was upon me.</p> +<p>One evening in September, Gabriel and I were leaning out of my +window; it was almost dark; the occasional footfall of a passenger +fell on the stones of our quiet street; some men were singing in +the trattoria round the corner; we two leant there in silence, +counting the stars as they came.</p> +<p>“Gabriel,” said I, “I have had a letter from +Constance. I am afraid she is not very happy at Graysmill; her +mother worries her; she sounds lonely and not over well. Shall we +go home a while?”</p> +<p>Gabriel shifted his feet, and turned the latch of the shutter +round and round.</p> +<p>“No,” he replied; “I think not;” I mean, +if you feel you want to see Constance, go, Emilia, only don’t +leave me too long. I had rather stay here. I have been thinking it +over of late, and I see no reason why I should ever return to +England.”</p> +<p>“But, dearest one,” said I, “your +father!”</p> +<p>“I have thought of that. I long to see him, and Jane, too. +You go home, Emilia, and bring them back with you. We four can live +out here in Italy forever, live and die here.”</p> +<p>“But Constance?” said I, then.</p> +<p>There was a long silence. The latch of the shutter whirled round +and round.</p> +<p>“Oh, Constance,” said he; “yes, it’s +hard on Constance. She will have to live with her mother and your +step-uncle, I suppose.”</p> +<p>“No,” I replied; “I should never allow that. +But we can arrange about Constance when we see her; we can talk it +over together. I cannot go without you, Gabriel. There is no reason +why we should stay there long,—only come with me you +must.”</p> +<p>He held out for some days, but in the end I conquered. We passed +through Florence on the way, and there beside my mother’s +grave I put forth the first, the only prayer I ever made,—a +wordless yearning towards the Inconceivable, a prayer for strength +and the Light of Truth.</p> +<p class="spacedTop">We reached Graysmill on the nineteenth of +September. My impatience was so great that, in spite of +Gabriel’s displeasure at what he called my rashness, I would +not stay in London on the way, but we travelled straight down, +reaching Fletcher’s Hall at midnight.</p> +<p>Aunt Caroline was down to receive us, for I had sent a telegram +from Dover; upstairs, my dear old woman was sitting up in bed with +sweet, wrinkled smiles beneath her frilled night-cap. I was very +glad to be home again; my heart felt warm.</p> +<p>I sent Aunt Caroline to bed, much against her will, and then +Gabriel and I sat down to drink the tea he had wished for, beside +the fire in the breakfast-room. Gabriel was very white, his eyes +shone all too brightly; again and again I saw him put his hand to +his brow, a trick he had when he was nervous.</p> +<p>“Dear,” said I, “don’t drink so much +tea; it’s very bad for you, you will never sleep +tonight.”</p> +<p>“No,” said he; “I am sure I couldn’t +sleep anyway. I think I shan’t stay here, Emilia, if you +don’t mind. I feel very impatient to see my father; the night +is fine, I shall walk over to the Cottage, and take him by +surprise.”</p> +<p>I was just looking at him, wondering how to meet this mood, when +there came a light tap at the window, a French window that opened +on to the lawn.</p> +<p>“Hark!” said I.</p> +<p>We listened; again it came, again; and then a little voice +calling, “Emilia! Emilia!”</p> +<p>“It is Constance!” I cried, and, springing to my +feet, I flung open curtain and shutter and window.</p> +<p>There she stood in the dark, with the light of the room upon +her. She was in black, with a dark shawl wrapped round her head; I +could see nothing clearly save the white, outstretched hands, the +pale sweet face, with its halo of burnished curls.</p> +<p>She sprang towards me with a little sob, and we laughed and +cried together as I clasped her to me, covering her beloved face +with kisses. I was still holding her fast when she perceived +Gabriel; from the stronghold of my arms, with her head still +resting on my bosom, she turned towards him and held out her hand. +I looked neither at him nor at her, but, bending away, laid my +cheek upon her curls.</p> +<p>And it was thus they met again.</p> +<p>Of the days that immediately followed, there is not much to +tell. Any doubt I might have entertained as to the continuance of +their mutual passion vanished swiftly and entirely. The path of +duty lay very clear before me.</p> +<p>I saw more of Constance than of Gabriel in those days; we were +almost always together, and he avoided us. Richard Norton, who had +greatly aged in the year of our absence, was so happy in his son +that Gabriel had every excuse for spending the greater part of his +time at the Cottage. Indeed, he usually left me directly after +breakfast, and did not return until supper-time.</p> +<p>He wrote a great deal, out in the woods and in his old room. The +poem was approaching completion, and this, in fact, was the reason +why for fifteen days I deferred the execution of my purpose.</p> +<p>The sufferings we all three experienced daily at this time, when +it was impossible to entirely avoid each other’s presence, +were endurable to me, and I sought to help Constance to bear them. +To him they were, so to speak, a source of inspiration; and I +therefore determined to let things run their course until the last +line should be written.</p> +<p>On the fourth of October,—it was Saturday,—I, having +a headache, did not get up to breakfast, and Gabriel left before +nine o’clock for the Thatched Cottage. My sweet Constance +spent the entire morning with me. She had brought a hat to trim, +but the work did not proceed. It was a black felt hat, I remember, +and I trimmed it for her. She herself was in one of her childlike +moods, winsome and gay atop of the sorrow that had made her pale +cheek paler, and set blue rings about her dear eyes.</p> +<p>I was alone all the afternoon, and copied out for the last time +a letter to my husband, on which I had lately expended many hours. +I felt strong and sure of myself; it was not cowardice that led me +to write to him instead of saying to his face all that I had to +say. But there was no telling in what mood I should find him, were +I to speak. He might refuse to listen; he might move me to +momentary indecision by manner, look, or words; I preferred to +write it all down clearly, to make sure that what I had to say +would not run the risk of being left unsaid through the +interposition of unforeseen and incalculable emotions.</p> +<p>At the approach of supper-time, I dressed and went into the +drawing-room. We were expecting Constance and Mrs. Rayner, the +vicar, and Uncle George. My old dears and I had half an hour to +ourselves before any of them came. Gabriel was very late; our last +guest had already arrived when I heard him come in and rush up to +our room.</p> +<p>When he came down, he was pale in the extreme, and his eyes +danced in his head. I went up to him and drew him aside, towards +the window.</p> +<p>“Well?” said I, softly, “what’s the +matter with him?”</p> +<p>He flushed and took my hands, pressing them nervously.</p> +<p>“Finished!” he whispered. “I have done, +Emilia,—the last line is written.”</p> +<p>I looked up at him with gladness in my face.</p> +<p>“You must read it me this evening,” said I.</p> +<p>There came a flash of light before my inward eye,—the joy +of his achievement,—then it fell in broken showers, all fell. +I had a sense as of sinking into space, and all was dark within +me.</p> +<p>“Go and give your arm to Aunt Caroline,” said I, +pressing his hand as I let it go.</p> +<p>I myself went into supper with the vicar. We did not sit long at +table. Uncle George, Mrs. Rayner, and Mr. Dobb sat down immediately +after to a rubber of whist with Aunt Caroline; grandmamma fell +asleep. I turned the lamp-shade towards her face, and my pretty +Constance covered her well with a shawl; then, taking my dear one +by the waist, I walked with her to where Gabriel stood at the +chimney.</p> +<p>“I have had an inspiration,” said I. “Come, we +will slip away to Fairview and spend the evening alone, we three; +then Gabriel can read us the last canto,—will you?”</p> +<p>I had already read the first part of the poem to Constance, with +his permission.</p> +<p>Neither of them uttered a word.</p> +<p>“Come,” said I; “Constance and I will set off +at once, our things are in the hall. Run up and fetch your +manuscript, Gabriel.”</p> +<p>I put my foot through the flounce of my petticoat on the way, so +Constance took me up to her room for a needle and cotton. When we +came down again, Gabriel was in the morning-room; he had drawn up +the blind and was watching the moon.</p> +<p>“I call this very nice,” said I. “Our party is +the better of the two.”</p> +<p>Constance lighted the lamp, and we sat down, all three, at the +table,—Gabriel with his back to the window, Constance +opposite him, and I between them, to the right of the table.</p> +<p>Then he began to read.</p> +<p>How it went with them I know not, but I was soon entirely lost +in what I heard. With my head upon my arm I listened, the visions +that he conjured filled my eyes, the music of his words engrossed +my ears; more beautiful in form and purpose than anything he yet +had written, this last canto filled me with joy and pride.</p> +<p>When the last words fell, I did not raise my head from the +table. Heaven knows why, but I did not want to let them see, not +even them, that the tears were gushing from my eyes.</p> +<p>I heard Gabriel collect his papers and put them into his pocket; +still none of us spoke. It seemed time to break the silence. I +lifted my head and looked up at my poet.</p> +<p>There he sat with head thrown back and quivering lips; his eyes, +wide with mingled fear and yearning, were fixed upon Constance, +whose white, uplifted face was as the mirror of his own. It was for +an instant only; the next, they turned to me.</p> +<p>And so the tale was told; we sat there, we three, blenched and +panic-stricken, gazing into each other’s eyes.</p> +<p>The time had come. I rose, took their hands, and laid them +together on the table. I would have said something, but no words +came; so, smiling simply into the face of each, I bent and kissed +the intertwining fingers, then left the room. I groped my way into +the garden, and, standing on a flower-bed beneath the window, +looked in upon them. They sat as I had left them, with clasped +hands and mingled gaze. I think it was Constance that moved first, +I am not sure, but they rose suddenly and fell into each +other’s arms. For an instant I looked upon them with a +strange sense of exultation, as if, perhaps, I were the Spirit of +Love, and not a jealous woman. But when he turned back her white +face with his hand and bent over her, all the woman in me returned. +I saw her little hands clutch him convulsively, she gave a low +cry,—and then I slipped from the window on to the ground.</p> +<p>How long I crouched there I cannot tell; I felt as one must feel +that has been buried for dead and awakes in the grave. There was +mignonette beside me, and a clump of southern wood. It was the +sound of some one bounding down the steps that roused me. Gabriel +had left her. I got up and shook my clothes, walking to and fro on +the lawn. When at length I thought of going home, I remembered that +I had left my things in Constance’s room, and that it might +seem strange in me to arrive at the house bareheaded. So I went +upstairs. The passage was not quite dark; I could just see that +Constance lay outside her bedroom door. I stooped and tried to +raise her, but she flung herself to my knees, crying:</p> +<p>“Emilia!—O my God!”</p> +<p>“Hush!” said I; “come into the room. Hush! the +servants might hear you.”</p> +<p>So I drew her in and would have laid her on her bed; but again +she fell down and clasped my knees.</p> +<p>“Dear!” she cried; “dear, you loved me so, and +this is what I have done. Oh, Emilia, forgive me!—Emilia, +forgive me, oh, forgive me!”</p> +<p>I told her that she was forgiven. I cooled her forehead with +water, and at length laid her upon the bed. She clung to me +piteously as I was leaving.</p> +<p>“Kiss me good night,” she murmured.</p> +<p>I had not felt that I could kiss her, but I stooped and touched +her slightly on the brow, at the root of the curls. Then I left +her, feeling all the way the clutch of her little fingers on my +arm.</p> +<p class="spacedTop">As I slipped up to my room, I had to pass the +drawing-room door; it was ajar, and I caught a glimpse of them all +as they sat at the card-table under the green-shaded lamp.</p> +<p>“Honours divided, Miss Seymour, honours divided,” +said the vicar; and as I slowly made my way upstairs I heard the +clatter of teacups and Mrs. Rayner’s thin laugh.</p> +<p>I went past the room I had shared with Gabriel, and made my way +to the topmost floor, to the room that was formerly mine. It was in +disorder, and nearly bare. I lighted a candle, but the sight of the +dreariness oppressed me; I therefore blew it out again, and leant +out of the open window.</p> +<p>It was a cool night, and dark, for clouds had hidden the moon; +the chimes rang the quarters; they seemed to follow close upon each +other, and still I stood at the window. I heard Mrs. Rayner go, and +her escort, Uncle George, return. “B-rrr,” he went, as +he stamped up the steps. “How his keys jingle,” thought +I; “and is it so cold?”</p> +<p>I cannot remember that I thought much of what had happened; my +senses were very keen, but emotion was torpid. I took note of every +barking dog, every distant wheel; sometimes I sang a little to +myself, and, all the while, I worked my foot to and fro along the +skirting.</p> +<p>Presently Uncle George left for good, taking the vicar with him. +The servants came to bed, giggling under their breath; then all was +still.</p> +<p>I did not leave the window, but in the silence—there being +now no sound to arrest my attention, save the chimes which I forgot +to hear—a change came over me. I fell into a sort of dream; +scene after scene the past rose before me in bright visions; then +came the present, chaos. I stood, as it were, in the centre of +nothingness, alone and lost, not a sound, not a light, not a finger +to touch.</p> +<p>“What matter,” thought I,—“what matter +if I live or die? Surely it is in this state that people kill +themselves.”</p> +<p>I heard the chimes again, and a duck quacked in the pond; it was +as the laugh of a devil.</p> +<p>I turned from the window and stumbled over something; I lighted +a candle, and sat shivering on the shrouded bed.</p> +<p>“Two o’clock,” thought I; “it is very +cold. What shall I do? Shall I sleep or die?”</p> +<p>And, as it were with a flash, there came to me the thought that +perhaps I was not the only one who sat at this moment coldly +contemplating death. An awful fear seized me that perhaps he, +Gabriel, might be driven to the haven of despairers.</p> +<p>I threw on my cloak, and, carrying my shoes, slowly and +breathlessly crept down the stairs to the back door, which had a +light fastening. And I ran across garden and park, across Graysmill +Heath in the night, strengthened by one fear against all others, +nor did I stop until I stood on the little hillock within sight of +the Thatched Cottage.</p> +<p>I saw at once that a light was burning in the window of +Gabriel’s old room. I sprang on and halted once more on the +grass-patch before the Cottage door. The blind was down, a shadow +passed to and fro. I could see very well by the way he moved that +he was not calm. I wanted to get to him. I tried the house door, +but it was firmly fastened. I sat down on the ground and kept my +eyes fixed on the window. He stooped repeatedly; once, as he swept +the hair back from his eyes, I thought I saw that he held something +in his hand. I picked up a stone, ready to throw it at the window, +but my courage failed me; then I noticed that the light flickered +strangely, as from fire; it faded, and all was dark.</p> +<p>I strained my ears in vain for a sound; a horrible fear seized +me. I flung my little stone, but it was very dark; I heard it +strike the bricks. Groping for more, I flung another, and yet +another. One of them struck the panes; I stood and held my +breath,—no sound.</p> +<p>I made my way to the door again, tried it again; I laid my ear +to the key-hole, and then I distinctly heard the creaking of the +stairs; some one was coming down. The hall was crossed, the bolt of +the door was gently drawn. I fell back a little; some one came out +with a firm step, and sprang on to the path.</p> +<p>It was a mere shadow that I could see; I caught him by the +arm.</p> +<p>“Gabriel,” I said, “where are you +going?”</p> +<p>He started violently, and something fell from his hand.</p> +<p>“You?” he cried. “Why are you here? Emilia! +you have come too soon!”</p> +<p>I remember that I clutched his wrists, as if in fear that he +might even then lift his hand against himself.</p> +<p>“You coward!” was all I said; “oh, you +coward!” He did not answer me, and we stood so a while. Then +he said gently:</p> +<p>“Your hands are cold, my girl; let us go in.”</p> +<p>We made our way into the study. After some groping, we found the +matches and lighted a candle. Gabriel sat down by the table and +buried his face in his hands. I went to him and stroked his +hair.</p> +<p>“Poor boy,” I said; “I guessed how it would +be; that’s why I came.”</p> +<p>He stood up hastily.</p> +<p>“Don’t touch me!” he cried; “I have done +you a fearful wrong; there was only one atonement I could make, and +that you have prevented. Emilia, leave me. You should not have +come.”</p> +<p>I forget how I told him; but I told him then how, in joining +their hands together, I had meant them to understand that I +resigned him to her. I told him how long I had known of their most +natural love, confessed my struggles, my defeat, and acknowledged +to the full the sin I had committed in marrying him in spite of +what I knew. I reminded him, too, of our covenant, of the beliefs +and aspirations we had shared, and implored him to accept his +liberty.</p> +<p>“I know little of the laws,” said I, “but if +they refuse to part us, why, we must part ourselves. If human +justice is so far removed from righteousness, why, we must rise +above it, and never mind the world. ‘Tis a wide place. Take +her and make her happy where none knows. The worst of my pain is +past.”</p> +<p>But Gabriel still insisted on the necessity of his death. +“Your dreams are wild!” he cried. “There’s +but one way. I have robbed you of all you had, of husband and +friend. If I die, you, at least, have reparation. I have thought it +well over; I am as calm as you. My poems lie in ashes in the grate. +My life is done.”</p> +<p>We talked very long, very quietly, until the dawn peeped through +the cracks of the shutters. And at last he gave me his word that he +would live.</p> +<p>Having this promise, I rose.</p> +<p>“It is morning,” said I; “we are not fit to +talk further. To-morrow we must seek our way. Go, Gabriel, and try +to sleep; I will go upstairs to Jane.”</p> +<p>As we crossed the hall, he ran out into the garden, and I +followed him. It was very cold, and I shivered, chilled by the dawn +of a hopeless day.</p> +<p>He stooped on the path before me, and picked up the revolver he +had dropped, looking at me with a queer smile. But the thought that +he might even then be lying lifeless was brought to my mind with +sickening vividness. I reeled, and would have fallen, had he not +caught me in his arms.</p> +<p>“I am a fool,” said I; “I saw you dead among +the leaves.”</p> +<p>He took my hands and kissed them, murmuring:</p> +<p>“Emilia—dear Emilia!” And then I made my way +up the creaking stairs, and roused poor Jane, who lay asleep with +her head under the bed-clothes. I told her there had been some +trouble she should know of to-morrow, and, being half asleep, she +did not question me, but made room for me in her bed.</p> +<p>I must have fallen asleep towards rising-time, for I did not +hear her get up; but when she was nearly dressed I awoke and got up +also, begging her to excuse my explanations yet a little, as I was +very tired.</p> +<p>Gabriel got down at the same time as I did. Richard Norton was +always a lie-abed, so poor Jane was alone to puzzle out the secret +of our haggard faces. It was not early; it must have been nearly +ten o’clock when Aunt Caroline arrived. The poor thing burst +into tears when she saw me.</p> +<p>“Thank Mercy!” she cried; “oh, what a fright +we’ve had! Why must you go out so early in the morning, +before the house is up, and no message, too.”</p> +<p>I made some little joke to laugh it off; Gabriel laughed also; +we offered her some breakfast, and it was then that she said:</p> +<p>“I must go back at once; I promised Mrs. Rayner to bring +back Constance immediately.”</p> +<p>Gabriel and I were standing side by side; we looked at each +other, and he must have read the same sudden fear in my eye that I +read in his.</p> +<p>“Come,” said I.</p> +<p>We left Aunt Caroline at the Cottage, and drove together in all +haste, and in perfect silence, to Fairview.</p> +<p>Mrs. Rayner was at breakfast when we entered the dining-room; I +can see her still, with her egg-spoon in her hand.</p> +<p>“You are fine people!” she said, “but please +remember another time that Constance is not such a horse as you +are, and can’t stand exercise on an empty stomach.”</p> +<p>I stared stupidly, and then I said, but my voice was so low that +I scarcely heard it:</p> +<p>“We have not seen Constance this morning.”</p> +<p>Mrs. Rayner gave a shrill scream.</p> +<p>“My child!” she cried, “where is my +child!” and ran from the room. Gabriel and I stood motionless +where she had left us, and clasped our cold hands.</p> +<p>“Emilia Fletcher!” called Mrs. Rayner from upstairs, +with a hard ring in her voice, “come up; I want you a +minute.”</p> +<p>And I went up. The bed was tumbled, but she had not slept in it; +her hat and cloak were gone. I sat on the edge of the bed and shook +from head to foot; Mrs. Rayner was running to and fro like a mad +woman.</p> +<p>“She is gone! Where is she gone? I never said good night +to her!” she shrieked. “Mrs. Norton, you saw her last, +you must know something of it. Here are her boots, she must have +gone out in her shoes; the soles were thin, she’ll catch her +death of cold!” And she ran to the door, crying, +“Constance! Constance!”</p> +<p>I made my way to the dressing-table; I remembered to have seen +her purse upon it when I went up to mend my dress the evening +before. It was gone, but in its place I found a little note with my +name upon it.</p> +<p>I ran with it to Gabriel; I could not read it alone. “A +letter,” was all I said, and we read it in the bay-window, +standing side by side.</p> +<blockquote> +<p>“Emilia, dearest, you have given me so much, and now I +have sinned against you. You forgave me with your lips just now; +forgive me with your heart when I am dead. You must not blame me +for what I do, you know I was always very weak; I cannot look you +in the eyes again, nor him. God will forgive me, I think. Good-bye. +Be happy,—neither you nor he must grieve for me; it is a poor +little life that I throw away, and all the good I ever knew came +from you or him. Be happy—Emilia, my old Emilia, +good-bye.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>She was found towards evening, many miles from Miltonhoe, on the +banks of the Avon. Gabriel and I had been up and down the land all +day, following her traces.</p> +<p>When we heard that she was found, we parted.</p> +<h2>THE END.</h2> +<hr class="full" /> +<h2>AN AUTHOR’S LOVE.</h2> +<p class="cen"><em>Being the Unpublished Letters of</em></p> +<h3>PROSPER MÉRIMÉE’S +“INCONNUE.”</h3> +<p class="cen"><b>Cloth. $1.00.</b></p> +<p>“The capriciousness, the coquetry, the +tenderness,—the womanliness, in short, which makes the +letters in ‘An Author’s Love’ so charming, +reconcile you to the audacity which has dared to assume the +feminine side of this world-famous +correspondence.”—<em>Boston Herald</em>.</p> +<p>“The dainty touches everywhere present in the volume rival +the exquisite manner of Mérimée himself. One traces +and unconsciously accepts as a veracious narrative the record of a +fantastic though abiding love. No woman in the flesh could write +more winsomely.”—<em>Philadelphia Press</em>.</p> +<p>“They are full of delightful gossip, reminiscence, +anecdote, and description, and are charmingly written +throughout.”—<em>Chicago Daily News</em>.</p> +<p>“They are gay and melancholy by turn, full of womanly +passion dashed with coquetry, now sparkling with the sprightliest +wit, now charged with the most reckless tenderness, implying a +relationship which should satisfy the most exacting of +men.”—<em>Eclectic Magazine</em>.</p> +<p class="cen">MACMILLAN & CO.,<br /> +66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.</p> +<hr /> +<h2>DROLLS FROM SHADOWLAND.</h2> +<p class="cen small">BY</p> +<h3>J.H. PEARCE,</h3> +<p class="cen">Author of “Esther Pentreath,” +“Inconsequent Lives,” “Jaco Treloar,” +etc.</p> +<p class="cen"><b>16mo. Cloth. $1.25.</b></p> +<p>“They are so simple at first sight that one is surprised +by their depth of suggestion, which satisfies Milton’s +definition of the old tales of enchantment, ‘where more is +meant than meets the ear,’ and the curiosity of it is that +the impression left on the mind of the reader is that of poetry +urging its way into words—unwritten poetry…. There is +genius of an uncommon kind in these ‘Drolls from +Shadowland.’”—<em>Mail and Express</em>.</p> +<p>“‘Drolls from Shadowland,’ by J.H. Pearce, is +a work of a flavor or timbre (or however else we may metaphor the +quality too subtle to define) so delicate that it may escape +recognition for a time. In this it only meets the fate of all +really superior art. The ‘Drolls’ are short, abrupt, +fantastic stories, beautiful to read from their deep imagination +and haunting in their allegorical depth…. Mournful, but not +bitter; brief, but not slight; subtle, but not obscure in their +hidden meanings, the ‘Drolls’ suggest nothing in +English Literature. Their art is as consummate as Daudet’s. +Their mysterious poetry brings them nearer to Brentano and +Hoffmann. Their lightly veiled allegories are of human life now and +always. This is a masterpiece.”—<em>The Boston +Traveller</em>.</p> +<p class="cen">MACMILLAN & CO.,<br /> +PUBLISHERS, 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.</p> +<hr class="full" /> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Wings of Icarus, by Laurence Alma Tadema + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WINGS OF ICARUS *** + +***** This file should be named 17255-h.htm or 17255-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/2/5/17255/ + +Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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