The Wings of Icarus Part 16

"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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion 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 Sat.u.r.day,--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.

At the approach of supper-time, I dressed and went into the drawing-room. We were expecting Constance and Mrs. Rayner, the vicar, and Uncle George. My old dears and I had half an hour to ourselves before any of them came. Gabriel was very late; our last guest had already arrived when I heard him come in and rush up to our room.

When he came down, he was pale in the extreme, and his eyes danced in his head. I went up to him and drew him aside, towards the window.

"Well?" said I, softly, "what's the matter with him?"

He flushed and took my hands, pressing them nervously.

"Finished!" he whispered. "I have done, Emilia,--the last line is written."

I looked up at him with gladness in my face.

"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 s.p.a.ce, 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 ma.n.u.script, 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.