“So far as You were concerned, I suppose?” said Mr. Hethcote.
“So far as She was concerned also,” Amelius answered.
“How did she take it, sir?” Rufus inquired.
“With a composure that astonished us all,” said Amelius. “We had anticipated tears and entreaties for mercy. She stood up perfectly calm, far calmer than I was, with her head turned towards me, and her eyes resting quietly on my face. If you can imagine a woman whose whole being was absorbed in looking into the future; seeing what no mortal creature about her saw; sustained by hopes that no mortal creature about her could share—you may see her as I did, when she heard her sentence pronounced. The members of the Community, accustomed to take leave of an erring brother or sister with loving and merciful words, were all more or less distressed as they bade her farewell. Most of the women were in tears as they kissed her. They said the same kind words to her over and over again. ‘We are heartily sorry for you, dear; we shall all be glad to welcome you back.’ They sang our customary hymn at parting—and broke down before they got to the end. It was she who consoled them! Not once, through all that melancholy ceremony, did she lose her strange composure, her rapt mysterious look. I was the last to say farewell; and I own I couldn’t trust myself to speak. She held my hand in hers. For a moment, her face lighted up softly with a radiant smile—then the strange preoccupied expression flowed over her again, like shadow over a light. Her eyes, still looking into mine, seemed to look beyond me. She spoke low, in sad steady tones. ‘Be comforted, Amelius; the end is not yet.’ She put her hands on my head, and drew it down to her. ‘You will come back to me,’ she whispered—and kissed me on the forehead, before them all. When I looked up again, she was gone. I have neither seen her nor heard from her since. It’s all told, gentlemen—and some of it has distressed me in the telling. Let me go away for a minute by myself, and look at the sea.”
BOOK THE SECOND. AMELIUS IN LONDON
CHAPTER 1
Oh, Rufus Dingwell, it is such a rainy day! And the London street which I look out on from my hotel window presents such a dirty and such a miserable view! Do you know, I hardly feel like the same Amelius who promised to write to you when you left the steamer at Queenstown. My spirits are sinking; I begin to feel old. Am I in the right state of mind to tell you what are my first impressions of London? Perhaps I may alter my opinion. At present (this is between ourselves), I don’t like London or London people—excepting two ladies, who, in very different ways, have interested and charmed me.
Who are the ladies? I must tell you what I heard about them from Mr. Hethcote, before I present them to you on my own responsibility.