'Dearest Emily,--I know that Hubert told you that he was not going to marry
me. He thought he was not, for I had refused to marry him; but a short time
after we met in the park quite accidentally, and--well, fate took the
matter out of our hands, and we are to be married to-morrow. Hubert insists
on going to Italy, and I believe we shall remain there two months. We have
made arrangements for your aunt to live with you until we come back; and
when we do come back, I hope all the little unpleasantnesses which have
marred our friendship for this last month or two will be forgotten. So far
as I am concerned, nothing shall be left undone to make you happy. Your
will shall be law at Ashwood so long as I am there. If you would like to
join us in Italy, you have only to say the word. We shall be delighted to
have you.'
Emily could read no more. 'Join them in Italy!' She dashed the letter into
the fire, and an intense hatred of them both pierced her heart and brain.
It was the kiss of Judas. Oh, those hateful, lying words! To live here with
her aunt until they came back, to wait here quietly until she returned in
triumph with him--him who had been all the world to her. Oh no; that was
not possible. Death, death--escape she must. But how? She had no more
chloral. Suddenly she thought of the lake. 'Yes, yes; the lake, the lake!'
And then a keen, swift, passionate longing for death, such as she had not
felt at all the night before, came upon her. There was the knowledge too
that by killing herself she would revenge herself on those who had killed
her. She was just conscious that her suicide would have this effect, but
hardly a trace of such intention appeared in the letter she wrote; it was
as melancholy and as brief as the letter she had torn up, and ended, like
it, with a request that Dandy should be well looked after. She had only
just directed the envelope when she heard the servant coming to take away
the tea-things. She concealed the letter; and when his steps died away in
the corridor and the house-door closed, she knew she could slip out
unobserved. Instinctively she thought of her hat and jacket, and, without a
shudder, remembered she would not need them. She sped down the pathway
through the shadow of the firs.
It was one of those warm nights of winter when a sulphur-coloured sky hangs
like a blanket behind the wet, dishevelled woods; and, though there was
neither moon nor star, the night was strangely clear, and the shadow of the
bridge was distinct in the water. When she approached the brink the swans
moved slowly away. They reminded her of the cold; but the black obsession
of death was upon her; and, hastening her steps, she threw herself forward.
She fell into shallow water and regained her feet, and for a moment it
seemed uncertain if she would wade to the bank or fling herself into a
deeper place. Suddenly she sank, the water rising to her shoulders. She was
lifted off her feet. A faint struggle, a faint cry, and then
nothing--nothing but the whiteness of the swans moving through the sultry
night slowly towards the island.