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.
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.
That is all I feel, the death of my joy; I cannot yet think of them that killed it.
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.
July 2d.—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.
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.
It might be different if I did not know how happy I can make him.
July 3d.—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.
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.
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.
Oh! how empty are these dreams, and how the devil in us, the man of flesh, mocks the God-led spirit that dreamed them!
The blood of the heart is master. We shall never reach perfection.
July 4th.—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.
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.
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.
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.
July 6th.—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.
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.
Two women passed us on the road; they spoke of their dead, and one of them said, “It is God’s will.”
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.
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.”
Then I must try to realise that thought and bear it nobly; for to make a sacrifice and bear it ill is beneath contempt.
July 9th.—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.
To-day one week remains. Gabriel said to me just now, “In a week, Emilia, we shall be gone.”
“Yes, dear,” said I; and I wondered at his strength, at his loyalty to me.
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:
“How slow you are! Hurry up, my solemn bride, or we shall never be ready.”
“Ready enough,” say I.
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.
“But a divorce is so scandalous,” said Mrs. Rayner.
“Not so scandalous,” I replied, “as what it may prevent.”
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.
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.
July 10th.—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.
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.
“Dear,” she said, “do you remember your birthday at Florence, when I helped you with your books?”
I stood up and took her to me.
“Yes,” said I; “and I would that day were back again.”
She gave a sigh, a little shiver. I felt it. But she said:
“Silly, big thing, how can you talk so? You are going to be so happy!”
“Why, yes,” I replied; “that’s true.”
Poor little Constance! To-day I may say it, to-day she is still the poorer. Soon ’twill be poor Emilia.
July 11th.—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.
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.
It dawned upon me to-day that Constance knows; she is pale, and much troubled. Poor little one.
July 12th.—To-morrow it must be. I meant to tell him to-night, but I could not.
It is half-past ten. Aunt Caroline has just been to my room, bless her! I thought she was in bed.
“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.”
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.
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.
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:
“Gabriel! Gabriel!”
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.”
Yet I could not feel; it seems to me now that I did not feel.
Within a few yards of the blue door we stood still. I said:
“Come no further, Gabriel.”
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.
Why do I write this? It is merely as a picture before me. I feel very little now; I am so cold.
And now he walks home across the heath. Good night, Gabriel. Why did he kiss my eyes? It was better the first time.
All past, all gone, all dead. I cannot see that I need live in this graveyard.
Perhaps I too shall die; who knows?
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.
Now, as Icarus fell into the sea, what lesson would have risen from his heart unto the sons of men?
This?
“Children of earth, the earthworm crawls in its blindness; be content, for ye are such.”
Or this?
“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.”
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.”
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.
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.
I married him. It was a great sin.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
“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.”
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?”
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.
But just as we reached the shrubbery, I said:
“Gabriel, I have something to tell you.”
“And so have I,” said he, “something to tell you. But you first.”
“No,” I replied; “you first.”
It was for one moment a great relief to think that he was about to save me from the trial I dreaded.
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.
“Well?” said I, and I lifted my head.
There he stood, smiling at me.
“Do you remember ‘Peer Gynt’?” asked he. “That was the bush.”
I looked at the laurel, and then at him again.
“Why, yes,” said I; “that was the bush.”
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.
“Emilia!” he cried, “I love you very much; I have never told you how much I love you!”
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!”
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.
But he held me by the hand.
“When shall I come to-morrow?” asked he, hoarsely.
“Not at all,” said I. “Go, Gabriel! God help me; I love you too much!”
And so we did not meet next day, and the next we were married.
For many months I made believe that we were happy. Ah! it was not all make-belief! I have had great joys.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“What?” said I, “have you been out already? How dear of you this is! Is the sun shining?”
And he answered:
“Of course, what should it do but shine on our wedding-day?”
Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, and took both my hands in his.
“Emilia,” said he, “you have made me very happy.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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?”
Gabriel shifted his feet, and turned the latch of the shutter round and round.
“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.”
“But, dearest one,” said I, “your father!”
“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.”
“But Constance?” said I, then.
There was a long silence. The latch of the shutter whirled round and round.
“Oh, Constance,” said he; “yes, it’s hard on Constance. She will have to live with her mother and your step-uncle, I suppose.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Dear,” said I, “don’t drink so much tea; it’s very bad for you, you will never sleep tonight.”
“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.”
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.
“Hark!” said I.
We listened; again it came, again; and then a little voice calling, “Emilia! Emilia!”
“It is Constance!” I cried, and, springing to my feet, I flung open curtain and shutter and window.
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.
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.
And it was thus they met again.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
“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.
Being the Unpublished Letters of
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