"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.