There came a flash of light before my inward eye,—the joy of his achievement,—then it fell in broken showers, all fell. I had a sense as of sinking into space, and all was dark within me.
“Go and give your arm to Aunt Caroline,” said I, pressing his hand as I let it go.
I myself went into supper with the vicar. We did not sit long at table. Uncle George, Mrs. Rayner, and Mr. Dobb sat down immediately after to a rubber of whist with Aunt Caroline; grandmamma fell asleep. I turned the lamp-shade towards her face, and my pretty Constance covered her well with a shawl; then, taking my dear one by the waist, I walked with her to where Gabriel stood at the chimney.
“I have had an inspiration,” said I. “Come, we will slip away to Fairview and spend the evening alone, we three; then Gabriel can read us the last canto,—will you?”
I had already read the first part of the poem to Constance, with his permission.
Neither of them uttered a word.
“Come,” said I; “Constance and I will set off at once, our things are in the hall. Run up and fetch your manuscript, Gabriel.”
I put my foot through the flounce of my petticoat on the way, so Constance took me up to her room for a needle and cotton. When we came down again, Gabriel was in the morning-room; he had drawn up the blind and was watching the moon.
“I call this very nice,” said I. “Our party is the better of the two.”
Constance lighted the lamp, and we sat down, all three, at the table,—Gabriel with his back to the window, Constance opposite him, and I between them, to the right of the table.