“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 passed 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.”