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.