Chapter XXXV: Letter XXXV: GRAYSMILL, March 26th (1)

You are the best friend that ever lived! I am quite restless with impatience, so is Gabriel, so are my old ones. And who most of all? Oh! little white face, how I long to hold you in my hands again, and what warmth of love and happiness I long to pour into your heart!

I shall not scold you, because you are not well, but what do you mean by saying that you will come, "although of course we shall never see each other"? Dear silly, do you imagine that I spend the whole day with that creature you pretend to be so jealous of?

Not a bit of it! Sometimes, just by way of a little salutary training in renunciation, we don't even meet every day. No, the bulk of my time will be yours and mine; we will sit up here in my room, beneath my mother's portrait; we will make the old days live again, weld the old and the new into one. Then, Gabriel and I will take you with us for walks fitting a fairy, in the woods; how you will love them! The trees are misty already with the promise of leaves, and all manner of sweet things are beginning to pierce the ground. How we shall spoil you, we two!

So you are coming,--I can hardly believe it. Never say again that I shall forget you. Let me remind you, Madam, if all else fail to convince you, that we two are women, and that there is one tender love, one yearning, which can only be betwixt woman and woman.

There is something infinitely pathetic in this truth; a man may be the dearest, the nearest he can never be.

But I must bless and leave thee. I have promised to meet Gabriel at the Post-office.

My last letter. No need to write again. Oh, Constantia, can it be true? Yours in all truth,

EMILIA.

THE JOURNAL.

_June 3d, at evening._--I am weak, very weak. I never could carry either joy or trouble pent up in my heart.

It has seemed sometimes of late that I must be stifled by the thing that troubles me. Yet it is a trifling thing; nothing, I am sure, but a foolish, wicked fear, a little disease within myself. If mamma were here, I should just go and lay my head on her knees, and tell her everything. Then she would stroke my eyes and bid me see reason, and all would be well. O my little mother, O great and dear one, why did you leave your child?

I remembered just now that it used to help me once to write things down. That is what I must do. I will put it away from me; perhaps, too, it will look so silly in solemn ink that I shall laugh at it instead of screaming, as I did just now with my face on the pillow. And now that it comes to the point, I am ashamed of saying it. My love is making me mad; was there ever such a fool? I have been too happy, that is the whole truth--far too happy. Poor things, we carry grief well enough, cold grief; but hot joy cracks the frail vessel.

I have had a wonderful spring, with my two dearests; Constance sweeter than ever she was, even during her long illness giving some worth to the hours I might not spend with him, and he ever near. Then, when we three were together, we were happy, too. How silly of me to write "were"; they are still there, the summer days are long, I love them so well, they hold me so dear.

I have not written it. No matter, I feel better; I already begin to laugh at myself.

_June 4th._--Their eyes met once at supper, only once, and they did not look at each other when they said good night. Which means most, to look or not to look? I cannot read clearly yet. And one can certainly twice ask the same person to pass the salt without its meaning anything. This is very ugly in me; my better self is filled with sorrow. Surely it must be in every one's power to quell the visions of the inmost eye when they rise sinfully, to close their ears against such whisperings as now I listen to.

I must fight this. Doubt is Love's murderer.

_June 6th._--Constance should not have said that; there was no need. Why have I come upstairs and left them together? I am raving mad. And now to cry like a baby! I have cried every day for five days; this is monstrous! I think that if some one came and whipped me, I might feel better. This is some sickness, surely; relaxed nerves, quick blood. I shall write it all down carefully, calling on what sense I have left to be judge. Of course the judge will laugh. But first I will wash my face.

In the beginning, Constance said she was not sure she liked him. Let me remember his first words about her, the day after her arrival. I brought him into the drawing-room, and put his hand into hers, saying, "Here is your friend."

He was very shy, and hardly looked at her. "We are meeting under inauspicious circumstances, Mrs. Norris," said he. "We have heard so much about each other that I, at least, cannot reconcile the strangeness of your person with the intimate affection I have so long had for you in my thoughts."

Constance laughed.

"It _is_ funny, isn't it?" said she. "I know what you mean. I thought I knew you quite well, and you're not at all the sort of person I thought you were."

Gabriel did not stay long; I went with him to the door when he left, and he said:

"She is prettier than her photograph. I like her, Emilia." I was so glad.

Constance soon began to take an interest in him; he amused her.

"He is the queerest creature I ever saw," she said; "I can't set eyes on him without laughing; he is too comic."

Then she fell ill, poor love! They did not meet for a long time. And every day, when Gabriel came to fetch me for my walk, he only asked after her as he should have asked after my dearest friend. Of course, when she got better and he sat with us daily to help me to amuse her, they were thrown more together. It was a great joy to me to see how well they got on.

Then she began to tease him. They never talked very much, for all that. When I come to think of it, it was early last month that Constance began to say, "How is your friend this morning?" or "I haven't seen Gabriel for two days; I miss him; he makes me laugh." But I did not notice it then.

What? Is this all I have to say? It is too ridiculous! Of course she likes him; one cannot come near him without some love. Besides, she would like him for my sake. It is all so natural. He, too, did not often speak of her, does not often speak of her. It is natural, knowing how I love her, that he should feel at ease with my Constance. Nor could I have wished it to be otherwise.

Now let me think when I was first taken with this mad fit. It was last Thursday week; we were all three in the wood; it was one of my bad days, when I love him unto pain; it hurt me that he lagged behind, I wanted him near. And I twice saw Constance turn to look after him; I turned, too,--they smiled at each other. When he drew up, the path was wider; it was the first time, I think, that instead of coming to my side, or placing himself between us, he went round to Constance.

I noticed it, I felt it; there spread a quick pain through my whole being. It was silly, perhaps, but I walked round behind him, and slipped my hand through his arm.

"Are you tired, my Emilia?" he asked; but I answered:

"No, dear; I only wanted to take your arm."

And I said to myself, "I am very glad that he is mine, and not another woman's."

I never remember having understood hatred as I did at that moment; the possibility of his growing to love Constance had not yet occurred to me, only the thought that he might some day love another woman better than me. And it dawned upon me thus suddenly that I was jealous.

And now, what does the judge think? No evidence, of course not; they are both as true as gold, they both love me dearly, they would not dream of a flirtation,--pah! the word sickens me, it is not fit. And there am I in my folly leaving them together, whilst I give way to ugly doubts, and tear myself by an ugly passion.

I had better go down again. This doubt of them is hateful in me.

_June 10th._--I must be very jealous indeed. This is very strange. I dreamed last night that we were in a room full of people, we three. I was seeking him, and he came towards me suddenly with Constance on his arm. Lifting her on high, I threw her far from us, so that with a cry she sank into great depths; and Gabriel--seeking to stay me--caught me by the waist. I heard the whirl and the hum of those about us, but in the weakness of my love I fell with my head upon his breast, and thus we floated into endless space.

I am a sensible person as a rule, yet the flavour of this dream has been with me all day long, and I could hardly look at Constance for the wrong I had done her in my thoughts. I must be very jealous.

_June 18th._--I put it from me for a while. I have been very calm; I have watched them narrowly. I am very calm now. Gabriel came to spend the evening; Uncle George had been provided for Mrs. Rayner's edification, and we all sat together in the drawing-room. Grandmamma and Aunt Caroline had Constance between them under the lamp. I could watch her very well. Gabriel sat next me. We could not talk, so I thought we might as well play backgammon, and we set the board so that he could not see Constance.

When Gabriel left, I took him as far as the blue door, first making a round of the garden and shrubbery; it was a dear walk. He said, "Shall we make a match of it, Emilia, between your perfumed uncle and that benighted woman?" It certainly was an excellent idea. Towards the end he said:

"Emilia, you have been rather pale these last days. Take care of my girl, my dear girl. And your step is not over firm; you cling to me as you walk."

Why, yes, that was true enough; I was clinging to him with all my force.

Gabriel is older than he was; he would never have noticed this when first I knew him, not even when first he loved me. He has grown much more thoughtful of late.

All this holds together. I am perfectly calm; I am not deceiving myself. I am calm because I see the need of self-possession and reflection. Gabriel and Constance,--it seems horrible to set it down thus before my poor eyes,--they love one another.

And now let me be very careful, very just and true. They love each other, but they do not know it. I know it, because my great love has so trained my eye that they cannot deceive me; neither he nor she; themselves, perhaps, but me never.

I do not say that it is dangerous love, lasting love; these passing fancies die their own death, and therefore I think I shall not disturb them; if I part them, the shock might awaken them to the truth. No; I will let their fancy run its own course, trusting that it may die before they become aware of its existence.

That is it; they do not know it yet, it is an unconscious attraction. He loves me so firmly, he would never dream of infidelity to me; yet, just at present, he is unfaithful in thought and does not know it. Poor dear, if he knew, how miserable he would be, how he would hate himself! And Constance, too. This is a cruel thing, but I think I can bear it; it must pass because they love me so much. It rests with me; I must be very wise. They are as sleep-walkers; I must lead them from danger, patiently, tenderly. I think I can keep calm.

_June 21st._--It comes to me almost as a miracle what one can bear. It seems that a certainty, however terrible, hurts less cruelly than doubt. I suffered most at the dawning of my fears. Now that I know the worst, I can strain my endurance to the requisite point. Besides, it cannot last. The more I think of it, the more natural it seems to me that they should thus forget themselves, for a while; have I not myself been foolish over both? The fault, too, is mine; I brought them together; they are not to blame.

Some day I shall laugh at all this; and it is really endurable, even now. The thing is to brace oneself sufficiently, to the exact point. It seems to me I keep saying the same thing over and over again; but it is so necessary to keep it in mind.

_June 25th._--Gabriel is not well. I noticed it a day or two ago. This afternoon he came to fetch Constance and me for a walk; it had been so warm that we thought we would walk after tea. And instead of walking, we stayed in the garden. Mrs. Rayner--thank mercy!--was out driving with grandmamma and Uncle George.

We stayed in the garden, and idled through the hours; we each had a book, but I doubt that we read a dozen pages between us. Nor did we talk much; every now and then we fell to talking, but the pauses had the best of it.

Gabriel looked very tired; I spread a rug out on the grass, and he fell asleep with his head on my knees. My pretty Constance said to me, "You will be tired, you have nothing to lean against," and she brought her chair up behind me so that I might lean against her. She is very sweet, my Constance. She put her head down next to mine, and we spoke in whispers, mostly of him. She has no suspicion that she loves him more than need be. But it came into my head then, looking down at Gabriel's pale face, and remembering how he had said he could not sleep of nights, that perhaps he knows he loves her.

I must watch them more closely. To-morrow I am going to the Cottage. I fear my visits there a little. Jane is very fond of me; it is difficult to hide from her that, just at present, I am not so happy as I was. Gabriel and Constance would, of course, notice it also, but they are not quite themselves.

_June 27th._--I think I feel as men must who die of thirst adrift in mid-ocean. There is nothing in creation I could not tell Gabriel and Constance between them, yet I must now bear the burden of a secret I can share with neither. Some day, of course, we shall speak of it and laugh. Perhaps not. My only fear now is that perhaps I might go mad, that perhaps I am mad, that all this is a deception, the outcome of my poor brain. I don't know what to think.

I found Gabriel on the Common just before I reached the Cottage. I thought he was writing; he was lying at full length on the heather. I stood still within a few yards of him, and presently he looked up, his dear face flushed.

"Emilia!" he cried, "I want you more than ever I did! Sit here by me."

And when I had sat down a little way from him, away from him just because I so longed to sit next, he drew himself up to me and took my glad hand.

I asked him what was amiss, saying I did not like his looks and nervous ways.

"Where are your gay spirits?" said I; "I hardly know my child, he has grown so sober."

"Yes," he replied. "I hardly know myself. I think I am not well. The poem is dead,--not a throb of the pulse. Emilia! you must cure me!"

"Dear," said I, "how shall that be?"

"Take me away! I am weary of all things. The summer is fledged; he will take wing before we realise it. You must marry me soon, very soon."

And I promised that I would,--on the 15th of July, as we presently decided.

Surely, if I were not mad, I should be very joyful. I feel no joy, only disbelief; I cannot believe, sore as I am with doubt and sorrow, that in nineteen days all will be well, and I again full mistress of that I fear to lose. Just at first, I was dizzy with joy, and thought my misgivings had been very vain and foolish; but then it occurred to me that Gabriel was perhaps impelled to this sudden decision by the dawning consciousness of his infidelity, and hoped--by marrying me at once--to check the further growth of his fancy.

If this be so, he is wise; for that it is a passing fancy I am certain. I should not marry him if I thought otherwise.

But it is very sad; I am so sorry for us all.

_June 30th._--It must be late; the chimes have just told three quarters, it must be a quarter to three. I was in bed,--I am very much troubled. I think I had better write a little, lest I lose my self-possession; that would be fatal. Constance and I returned to-day from London; we had been there to get my things. I took her with me because I feared to leave her alone with Gabriel; it seemed unwise. Besides, I could not leave them; I am indeed intolerably jealous; I never leave them now for the fraction of a minute. I cannot, it is too cruel pain; and I am grown such a coward, I cannot bear it.

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?

THE POSTSCRIPT.

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.