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."
"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.
"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.