GRAYSMILL, October 31st.
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.
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.
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.
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:--
_Dear Miss Fletcher_,--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.
Your humble servant,
GABRIEL NORTON.
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.
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.
There goes the second bell, and I have not even washed my hands.
Farewell for to-day.
Yours in all truth,
EMILIA.