The sufferings we all three experienced daily at this time, when it was impossible to entirely avoid each other’s presence, were endurable to me, and I sought to help Constance to bear them. To him they were, so to speak, a source of inspiration; and I therefore determined to let things run their course until the last line should be written.
On the fourth of October,—it was Saturday,—I, having a headache, did not get up to breakfast, and Gabriel left before nine o’clock for the Thatched Cottage. My sweet Constance spent the entire morning with me. She had brought a hat to trim, but the work did not proceed. It was a black felt hat, I remember, and I trimmed it for her. She herself was in one of her childlike moods, winsome and gay atop of the sorrow that had made her pale cheek paler, and set blue rings about her dear eyes.
I was alone all the afternoon, and copied out for the last time a letter to my husband, on which I had lately expended many hours. I felt strong and sure of myself; it was not cowardice that led me to write to him instead of saying to his face all that I had to say. But there was no telling in what mood I should find him, were I to speak. He might refuse to listen; he might move me to momentary indecision by manner, look, or words; I preferred to write it all down clearly, to make sure that what I had to say would not run the risk of being left unsaid through the interposition of unforeseen and incalculable emotions.
At the approach of supper-time, I dressed and went into the drawing-room. We were expecting Constance and Mrs. Rayner, the vicar, and Uncle George. My old dears and I had half an hour to ourselves before any of them came. Gabriel was very late; our last guest had already arrived when I heard him come in and rush up to our room.
When he came down, he was pale in the extreme, and his eyes danced in his head. I went up to him and drew him aside, towards the window.
“Well?” said I, softly, “what’s the matter with him?”
He flushed and took my hands, pressing them nervously.
“Finished!” he whispered. “I have done, Emilia,—the last line is written.”
I looked up at him with gladness in my face.
“You must read it me this evening,” said I.