Laurence Alma Tadema - The Wings of Icarus

L >> Laurence Alma Tadema >> The Wings of Icarus

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

"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.

THE END.

* * * * *

AN AUTHOR'S LOVE.

_Being the Unpublished Letters of_

PROSPER MERIMEE'S "INCONNUE."

Cloth. $1.00.

"The capriciousness, the coquetry, the tenderness,--the womanliness,
in short, which makes the letters in 'An Author's Love' so charming,
reconcile you to the audacity which has dared to assume the feminine
side of this world-famous correspondence."--_Boston Herald_.

"The dainty touches everywhere present in the volume rival the
exquisite manner of Merimee himself. One traces and unconsciously
accepts as a veracious narrative the record of a fantastic though
abiding love. No woman in the flesh could write more
winsomely."--_Philadelphia Press_.

"They are full of delightful gossip, reminiscence, anecdote, and
description, and are charmingly written throughout."--_Chicago Daily
News_.

"They are gay and melancholy by turn, full of womanly passion dashed
with coquetry, now sparkling with the sprightliest wit, now charged
with the most reckless tenderness, implying a relationship which
should satisfy the most exacting of men."--_Eclectic Magazine_.

MACMILLAN & CO., 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.

DROLLS FROM SHADOWLAND.

BY

J.H. PEARCE,

Author of "Esther Pentreath," "Inconsequent Lives," "Jaco Treloar,"
etc.

16mo. Cloth. $1.25.

"They are so simple at first sight that one is surprised by their
depth of suggestion, which satisfies Milton's definition of the old
tales of enchantment, 'where more is meant than meets the ear,' and
the curiosity of it is that the impression left on the mind of the
reader is that of poetry urging its way into words--unwritten
poetry.... There is genius of an uncommon kind in these 'Drolls from
Shadowland.'"--_Mail and Express_.

"'Drolls from Shadowland,' by J.H. Pearce, is a work of a flavor or
timbre (or however else we may metaphor the quality too subtle to
define) so delicate that it may escape recognition for a time. In
this it only meets the fate of all really superior art. The 'Drolls'
are short, abrupt, fantastic stories, beautiful to read from their
deep imagination and haunting in their allegorical depth....
Mournful, but not bitter; brief, but not slight; subtle, but not
obscure in their hidden meanings, the 'Drolls' suggest nothing in
English Literature. Their art is as consummate as Daudet's. Their
mysterious poetry brings them nearer to Brentano and Hoffmann. Their
lightly veiled allegories are of human life now and always. This is
a masterpiece."--_The Boston Traveller_.

MACMILLAN & CO., PUBLISHERS, 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8