Chapter XXXVI: Letter XXXV: GRAYSMILL, March 26th (2)

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.

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.

"Well?" said I, softly, "what's the matter with him?"

He flushed and took my hands, pressing them nervously.

"Finished!" he whispered. "I have done, Emilia,--the last line is written."

I looked up at him with gladness in my face.

"You must read it me this evening," said I.

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.

"Go and give your arm to Aunt Caroline," said I, pressing his hand as I let it go.

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.

"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?"

I had already read the first part of the poem to Constance, with his permission.

Neither of them uttered a word.

"Come," said I; "Constance and I will set off at once, our things are in the hall. Run up and fetch your manuscript, Gabriel."

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.

"I call this very nice," said I. "Our party is the better of the two."

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.

Then he began to read.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And so the tale was told; we sat there, we three, blenched and panic-stricken, gazing into each other's eyes.

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.

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:

"Emilia!--O my God!"

"Hush!" said I; "come into the room. Hush! the servants might hear you."

So I drew her in and would have laid her on her bed; but again she fell down and clasped my knees.

"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!"

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.

"Kiss me good night," she murmured.

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.

* * * * *

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.

"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.

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.

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?"

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.

Presently Uncle George left for good, taking the vicar with him. The servants came to bed, giggling under their breath; then all was still.

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.

"What matter," thought I,--"what matter if I live or die? Surely it is in this state that people kill themselves."

I heard the chimes again, and a duck quacked in the pond; it was as the laugh of a devil.

I turned from the window and stumbled over something; I lighted a candle, and sat shivering on the shrouded bed.

"Two o'clock," thought I; "it is very cold. What shall I do? Shall I sleep or die?"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It was a mere shadow that I could see; I caught him by the arm.

"Gabriel," I said, "where are you going?"

He started violently, and something fell from his hand.

"You?" he cried. "Why are you here? Emilia! you have come too soon!"

I remember that I clutched his wrists, as if in fear that he might even then lift his hand against himself.

"You coward!" was all I said; "oh, you coward!" He did not answer me, and we stood so a while. Then he said gently:

"Your hands are cold, my girl; let us go in."

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.

"Poor boy," I said; "I guessed how it would be; that's why I came."

He stood up hastily.

"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."

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.

"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."

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."

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.

Having this promise, I rose.

"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."

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.

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.

"I am a fool," said I; "I saw you dead among the leaves."

He took my hands and kissed them, murmuring:

"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.

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.

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.

"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."

I made some little joke to laugh it off; Gabriel laughed also; we offered her some breakfast, and it was then that she said:

"I must go back at once; I promised Mrs. Rayner to bring back Constance immediately."

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.

"Come," said I.

We left Aunt Caroline at the Cottage, and drove together in all haste, and in perfect silence, to Fairview.

Mrs. Rayner was at breakfast when we entered the dining-room; I can see her still, with her egg-spoon in her hand.

"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."

I stared stupidly, and then I said, but my voice was so low that I scarcely heard it:

"We have not seen Constance this morning."

Mrs. Rayner gave a shrill scream.

"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.

"Emilia Fletcher!" called Mrs. Rayner from upstairs, with a hard ring in her voice, "come up; I want you a minute."

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.

"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!"

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.

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.

"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."

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.

When we heard that she was found, we parted.

THE END.

* * * * *

AN AUTHOR'S LOVE.

_Being the Unpublished Letters of_

PROSPER MÉRIMÉE'S "INCONNUE."

Cloth. $1.00.

"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."--_Boston Herald_.

"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."--_Philadelphia Press_.

"They are full of delightful gossip, reminiscence, anecdote, and description, and are charmingly written throughout."--_Chicago Daily News_.

"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."--_Eclectic Magazine_.

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DROLLS FROM SHADOWLAND.

BY

J.H. PEARCE,

Author of "Esther Pentreath," "Inconsequent Lives," "Jaco Treloar," etc.

16mo. Cloth. $1.25.

"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.'"--_Mail and Express_.

"'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."--_The Boston Traveller_.

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End of Project Gutenberg's The Wings of Icarus, by Laurence Alma Tadema