Good-bye. You are getting very lazy, Mrs. Norris. How dare you leave me letterless so long?

Write directly you get this to

Your loving EMILIA.

LETTER XVII.

GRAYSMILL, November 21st.

For the first time in my life, I have been a little cross with you, Constance of my heart. My anger did not last long, but even when it was practically at an end I felt obliged to play at being cross with you, and therefore would not write. But to-day comes another sweet letter from you, and I am miserable to think you should have had to write a second time before getting an answer to your dear words.

Forgive me! I do love you so! I shall tell you quite frankly why I was cross. You must never tease me again about Gabriel Norton. I don't like to be teased at the best of times, and I think it positively wrong to make love a subject for laughter and nonsense.

You see, I allow that I love him; of course I do, but not as you imagine. Surely there is a love of spirit to spirit which stands higher than the material love of man and woman. It is just because we look upon each other in the first place as human beings, as comrades on the road of life, that our friendship is a source of strength and comfort to us. If either were to harbour other thoughts, all that is beautiful in our intercourse must come to an end. No, you are silly; you must never say such things again, promise me that. Why, it is just the very absence of love that _makes_ our friendship. If only people would believe this, if only men and women would learn to exchange their thoughts in freedom, to be simple and open in their dealings with each other, what a much better world this world would be!

But you are just like the rest; indeed, worse than the rest.

Because, somehow or other, whether it's the fault of your curls or of your lips, or of your smile, or of your whole sweet self, I know not, but because no man ever draws near you but what you make a fool of him, you seem to think all men resemble your victims, all women you, their bane. No, you don't, though; I malign you. Do you remember saying to me one day: "Try and make yourself appear a little silly sometimes, Emilia, do, now! Men never fall in love with clever women!" And right you were. The only pa.s.sions I ever inspired flared through their day in the bosoms of women and boys. Never mind! I had sooner have Gabriel's friendship than ten thousand of your lovers; I had sooner see you too, sweet, with such a friend as he to lean upon, than surrounded as you are now by the foolish and ugly admiration of worthless men.

There, enough lecturing for the present. It's understood, eh?

Gabriel and Jane Norton have actually been here to tea. What do you say to that? I must tell you how it came about; it's a long story, but you shall have it all. The other day, my friend and I were overtaken by a rain-storm on the heath; we ran as fast as we could to the Thatched Cottage, and there I remained fully two hours, till the rain had given over. As Gabriel was very restless and unmanageable, I suggested that we might turn his superfluous energy to good account by arranging the library. How those dear creatures keep alive, I cannot imagine; they are helpless and unpractical beyond all belief. Jane Norton has absolutely no sense of order, the household drifts along as best it can. "I hate it so," she groans; "I have a horror of it all." That very afternoon I tore my dress and wanted to mend it. A bra.s.s thimble was soon produced from the kitchen clock, where Jane keeps it "to have it handy," but never were needle and thread more difficult to procure. After much hunting, a dirty reel of white cotton was discovered in the soup-tureen, the needle-case had entirely disappeared; she finally managed, however, to squeeze some rusty kind of skewer out of her pincushion, and with these implements I mended my skirt as best I could. But to return to the library. The confusion we found it in is indescribable. When first we began operations Gabriel stood about in a helpless way, but he became enthusiastic as the work of clearance advanced, and laboured with good will.

"This was a veritable inspiration!" he cried presently, perching himself upon the table; "there hasn't been a corner to sit upon for weeks, not for weeks. It's very odd: I believe that I much prefer to see things kept in order, only I haven't the least idea how to bring such a state about. None of us have. Why! there's Plato! Blessings upon you, Emilia! He must have been behind the piano quite two months. I have hunted for him high and low." He seized the volume rapturously and began reading aloud.

"That's all Greek to me," said I.

"Come along then," said he, "let's leave off now, the room's beautiful; come, I'll teach you the alphabet."

And this was the germ of a scheme we have started. We had been racking our brains for some time past how to meet during the winter, in defiance of shortening days, cold, rain, and prejudice. Now we have it. He is to teach me Greek, and will come to the house to give me lessons. Thanks to my foreign extraction and to a certain reputation I have got here for originality, my old ladies were not at all surprised when I told them that a poor gentleman who lived with his father and his aunt towards Miltonhoe was coming twice a week to teach me. On the contrary, their kind old hearts were touched at the mere mention of poverty, and they asked if I wouldn't invite Miss Norton to tea; hence Monday's tea-party, which was exceedingly funny. Ida Seymour had gone to a school treat at Miltonhoe, so my old ladies and I had the place to ourselves. They were much distressed, bless them, at the extraordinary antiquity of Jane Norton's black silk gown; Heaven only knows in what year of Grace it was fabricated, and how she manages to keep it together.

I'm afraid I shall have some difficulty in preventing Aunt Caroline from giving Jane a new dress,--she certainly won't rest till she has done so. As for Gabriel, he was so remarkably dusty and threadbare that I set him at table with his back to the light, in such a manner that his mere silhouette was exposed to Hopkinson's scrutiny. I must allow, however, that he behaved beautifully, and Jane was perfect; she made an excellent impression on grandmamma, who is very anxious I should invite her again.

"In fact," said she, "I don't see why she shouldn't come and have a cup of tea with us every time your teacher comes; then we shall know she has a good tea twice a week at least, poor thing!"

Why can't I see him without these subterfuges? Why can't we meet here in my house in all simplicity, without fear of that monster, the world, and its murderous tongue? It all seemed so good and so simple that morning when he said to me:--

"We will be friends as friends should be; all shall be true and free between us; we shall make exchange of our thoughts, and learn together how to live."

Never mind; I am very fortunate.

Good-bye, my sweet dear, and again, forgive me! I love you.

EMILIA.

LETTER XVIII.

GRAYSMILL, November 26th.

Bless you for all your words! Yes, you must come out to me next spring, and then we three can be friends together: three should be more beautiful than two, in such harmony as ours would be. I take it for granted that you and Gabriel will care for each other; it would be a great grief to me if you did not. I hate people I like not to like each other; nothing hurts more--except, perhaps, to oneself dislike a friend's friend.

My Greek is getting on; I am fearfully industrious, and have even pinned up the declensions, written out in a large hand, on my bedroom wall, so that I can learn them whilst I dress.

Gabriel is quite pleased with his pupil, and I have begun to teach him Italian. He reads it very well, but cannot speak it at all at present. We had a long talk, the other day, about his future. I think it will be quite impossible for him to continue this mode of life very long; I find that I am not so happy about him as I was at first. Sometimes I think I should like to give him half my money--how ridiculous it seems that such a thing should be out of the question!--and let him lead the tranquil life of study and contemplation that he loves, send him to other lands where he might wander up and down in the sunshine, seeing the world and all its beauties,--he that has eyes to see, a heart to feel. But then, at other times, I feel that I should like to strip him even of the little he has, and hurl him into the very vortex of life, see him struggle and fight and come out a conqueror. I see in him the germs of so much greatness that I cannot believe he was meant to dream his days away on the heather. It was right of him, certainly, to break from a course of life he felt himself unable to pursue, and right it is also that he should pause now, and breathe, and feel his wings.

But it will soon be time for energy and action. We are not here for ourselves only; there is so much to be done. And if I am often discontented with myself for the futility of my dreams, for sitting here a mere spectator, as it were, of struggles that I long to share, yet know not how, greater still is my impatience at the sight of one wasting his days in mere speculation, who, having all the strength, the manhood, that I lack, might leap into the very thick of the fight, Truth's warrior.

He tells me that he has written a great deal, and has promised to bring me a bundle of poems to read at my leisure. "You must understand," said he, "that you will be the only one to whom I ever showed them." I feel very proud.

To revert to what I said above, I believe, too, that it is very bad for any man not to have a fixed occupation; however great his natural energy may be, it either relaxes with time, or expends itself uselessly. The mere thinker often ends by hovering on the confines of lunacy.

Good-bye, dear love.

Your EMILIA.

LETTER XIX.

GRAYSMILL, November 30th.

I write to you very soon, partly because of your letter that crossed mine, but princ.i.p.ally because I feel that I must write you a few words before I go to sleep. I have just gone through Gabriel's poems, and am beside myself with wonder. Constance, the creature is a genius. I marvel at my happiness, that I should have touched his life. No, I'll not write; I feel that, if I do, I shall write bosh.

Good-night; I hope you are sleeping fast at this moment,--and he too.

December 1st.

We had a walk this afternoon. He looks pale, poor dear! he has had a cold. How it hurts to see ill-health on a face that one loves!

We had a great altercation about his poems. I could not speak of them when I put the ma.n.u.script into his hands; any words I might have used must have sounded fulsome flattery. But later on, I asked:--

"Have you thought of a publisher for your verse?"

He shook his head and made a face at me.

"You must certainly publish those poems," I said; "you surely know that they are unusually beautiful, and that you have no right to keep them to yourself."

"Dear Emilia," he answered, "I like to hear this from you, but you are mistaken. My poems are not so remarkable as you imagine; you are too near a friend to be a fair judge. They are intensely subjective,--that is, by the way, one of their faults; they reflect me; therefore you, who know me well and care for me, find them sympathetic. That's the whole of the tale."

"If I cared for you ten times more than I do," said I then, "I should not be quite so blind as you suppose. But, if you doubt my judgment, ask some one else, or compare the poems yourself with other verse."

"Never!" he said. "How can you even suggest such a thing? Look here, Emilia. A man has an ideal, a glimpse of something glittering up there in highest Heaven; he tries to shape his vision into words.

When he afterwards turns to his work coldly, critically, how shall he judge? He must take measure by the height of the ideal, not by the achievement of another, even if that other be nearer Heaven than himself."

I found this very fine and true, yet selfish. Had he ever climbed less high than he wished, he might at least stand forth, and showing where he stood, stretch out a hand to others.