The Wings of Icarus Part 9

Your EMILIA.

LETTER XXVI.

GRAYSMILL, February 7th.

So it's all settled. You are very good to me, my pretty Constance.

Now I say to myself hourly, "In sixteen days I shall see her," and oh, believe me, I am glad! I think I am beginning to lose my head, that I am fit for all folly. We walked together yesterday; we were not very talkative. In the lane, when we were coming home, a man on a bicycle turned sharply round the corner, and I was lost in thought, so that I was caught unawares, and in fact knew nothing of the matter until I felt myself pulled aside by Gabriel. I thought he would let go my arm, but he did not, and for the few yards of road that remained I could not see out of my eyes. I said to myself, "He is holding my arm,--perhaps he loves me." I was a fool; of course, it meant nothing; and I am certain, too, that it was imagination on my part led me to believe he looked differently at me when he said good-bye.

That is what frightens me. Of course, it was pure self-delusion; but, if I am going to begin that sort of folly, it is high time to come away. Indeed, the folly of it. Besides, I suppose I ought to feel ashamed. I am sure he knows now quite well that I love him, and perhaps that is why he looked strangely at me when he said good-bye.

But I don't want his pity; O G.o.d forbid! Nor his, nor anybody's. Do you hear? Never pity me, Constance.

Your little EMILIA.

LETTER XXVII.

February 12th.

Could you meet me a little sooner, perhaps, and not wait until the twenty-third? I must leave Graysmill at once. I shall go to the Cottage to-morrow afternoon, and tell them. I shall tell the others tonight, and on Monday I shall leave Graysmill forever. If you think you cannot reach Florence by Wednesday or Thursday, never mind, you will join me as soon as you can; only send me a telegram. I can go and stay with Marianna until you come.

I can bear it no longer! The world holds but one thought; the day and the night are lost in the constant reiteration of every word he ever said to me, in the resuscitation of every glance, every touch.

And, poring over these in my memory, I try to read between the lines the words that are not there, to read "I love you."

Oh, I am very weak, yet, believe me, it is all against my will. I have fought this folly, I despise myself utterly, and yet now I am swept away by the flood, I can struggle no more. I shall die of this, or run mad.

I met him out to-day. We had not arranged to meet; but, as I went out at the blue door, there he stood. We went a little way together; then I left him; it was unbearable. It was so beautiful once to be with him, when we could talk freely of all that is best and n.o.blest in life. I cannot talk to him now, sometimes I cannot even hear what he says to me. I cannot see the sky, the broad white earth; I see him only. I cannot hear the life-sounds about me; I only hear his footfall in the snow. It is all pain, all dreadful pain, dreadful, unbearable longing.

Why can't I put an end to all this? Why can't I go to him and say, I love you, tell me the truth? I know it,--the truth,--he does not love me; and yet, until I hear his lips say it, a false hope that reason cannot kill will linger on in my heart,--linger on, I know it, even when I have placed time and s.p.a.ce between him and me.

Only one life, and there we stand, two spirits under the sky, two that believe in Truth and Freedom, parted by insincerity. The vile weed has crept up around us; we are parted by falsehood, even we.

Goodnight. Perhaps I shall not write again. I shall send you a telegram before I start, on Monday.

Come to me, dear, as soon as you can.

EMILIA.

LETTER XXVIII.

February 13th.

Dearest, I have had a strange, wonderful dream. To-morrow morning, when I awake, I shall find it was not true. Shall I tell it you?

I handle it as some frail treasure that I fear to touch. I keep wondering on which side to turn it, so that, when I hold it up, you may see it s.h.i.+ne. The earth is very beautiful to-night; from my window I see the moon and a mighty host of glittering worlds,--even Emilia is beautiful to-night! I went to the gla.s.s just now, to look upon the face of happiness, and, instead of myself I saw--Oh, but why say all this? Why not tell you? I cannot; words are weak, but I think you can feel it, Constance. Oh, sweetest, I think you can, I think you know. I am half mad to-night; that is why I write so queerly. But now I will set it down. I wonder what it looks like, written down. I shall write it very neatly; it will look pretty.

Gabriel loves me. Do you see? Gabriel loves me. I think I shall write it again,--Gabriel loves me. I never wrote anything that pleased me so well, and my heart sings it within me unceasingly. Oh, of course it is not true; it is just a dream. I think this is how the dream went.

I sat in the study at the Thatched Cottage; we were all four there; I had not spoken for a while; the thing I had to say weighed me down. I said it suddenly, "I am going back to Florence; I shall leave Graysmill on Monday."

Richard Norton cried, "What?" and Jane cried, "Emilia!" It was only Gabriel that said nothing.

He sprang up, and looked at me in silence. Thank Heaven, my back was to the window, for I could not take my eyes away from his. I thought he grew a little pale; I even thought his lips moved a little. Then he spoke.

"No, no; who said that? We cannot spare you. Emilia, Emilia, you must never leave us!"

That is how the dream goes. I put my head down on the table.

"G.o.d knows," I said, "I do not want to leave you."

There was a long silence; I sat there bowed, struggling with my tears; I think I heard footsteps and a closing door. Then a hand was laid upon my shoulder,--I knew whose hand it was, and I shook beneath it.

I only know one thing more that I can tell you. I heard a voice. It was not a loud voice, but it rang through the darkness; it swept the world away.

"Emilia!" it said, "Emilia, you must not leave us! Stay with me,--I love you!"

And then some cloud fell upon us.

Good night, dear, good night.

LETTER XXIX.

THE THATCHED COTTAGE, February 19th.

Gabriel and I are sitting in the study; we have your letter before us. These few lines are to thank you, if we can, for your most precious words. Now nothing fails us.

Your most loving, grateful, EMILIA FLETCHER.

Your servant, GABRIEL NORTON.

P.S. The blot is Gabriel's.

P.S. 2. In answer to yours. Gabriel is not so inconsistent as you suppose, nor is Emilia. We have made a provision to which you, Constance Norris, shall bear witness. Namely this: that, in accordance with the absolute Sincerity and Truthfulness which we believe to be not only possible, but necessary to the Conduct of a n.o.ble Life, we have solemnly promised each other to confess the truth, should we at any future period--through altered Love or other causes--consider Mutual Life inconsistent with perfect Honesty.

There! We have worded that beautifully, I think, although Gabriel insists that "Mutual Life" is an incorrect expression. I don't care; it says what I mean. Needless to add that, in our case, such a prevision is as good as superfluous, but we feel bound to act up to our principles!