The Wings of Icarus

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The Wings of Icarus

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wings of Icarus, by Laurence Alma Tadema This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: The Wings of Icarus Being the Life of one Emilia Fletcher
Author: Laurence Alma Tadema
Release Date: December 8, 2005 [EBook #17255]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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THE WINGS OF ICARUS
BEING
THE LIFE OF ONE EMILIA FLETCHER
AS REVEALED BY HERSELF IN
I. THIRTY-FIVE LETTERS
WRITTEN TO CONSTANCE NORRIS BETWEEN JULY 18TH, 188-, AND MARCH 26TH OF THE FOLLOWING YEAR
II. A FRAGMENTARY JOURNAL
III. A POSTSCRIPT
BY
LAURENCE ALMA TADEMA

New York
MACMILLAN AND COMPANY
AND LONDON
1894

THE WINGS OF ICARUS.

THE LETTERS.

LETTER I.
FLETCHER'S HALL, GRAYSMILL, July 18th.
Dear and Beloved Constance,--What shall I say to you? Here I sit, in a strange room, in a strange land,--and my life lies behind me. It is close upon midnight, and very dark. I can see nothing out of window. The air is hot and heavy, the moths flutter round my candle; I cannot save them all. I am trying to write you a letter--do you understand? Oh, but I have no thoughts, only visions! Three there are that rise before me, sometimes separately, sometimes all together.
I see you, Mrs. Norris. We are standing on the platform, side by side; people leaning out of window in my night-gown, watching the mists rise in the valley. The air is very sweet here in England; I see oceans of trees, great stretches of heath and meadow. Surely, surely one ought to be happy in this beautiful world! I shall dress quickly and go out. This letter, such as it is, shall go to you by the first post, and to-night I shall write again, when I myself know something of my surroundings. Good-bye then for the present, my best and dearest.
EMILIA.

LETTER II.
July 19.
It is just half-past ten, my Constance; the two old ladies have gone to bed. I am getting on very well, on the whole, although I had the misfortune to keep them waiting three-quarters of an hour for breakfast this morning. It was so beautiful out of doors, and I was so happy roaming in field and wood,--happy with the happiness sunshine can lay atop of the greatest sorrow,--that I stayed out till nearly ten o'clock. I had taken some milk and bread in the kitchen before starting, not realising that breakfast here is a solemn meal. Poor old souls! they were too polite to begin without me, and I found them positively drooping with hunger.
All the rancour that I had harboured in my heart this many a year against my father's stepmother has vanished into thin air. One glance at the old lady's delicate weak face, at her diffident eyes and nervous fingers, dispelled once and forever any preconceived idea that she might have helped him in his ardent difficult boyhood, stood between him and his father in his day of disgrace. Had she been a woman of mettle, I could never have forgiven her the neutral part she played; but she stands there cleared by her very impotence.
I think she was nervous of meeting me, last night; she said something confused about my poor papa, about her husband's severity, adding that she was sorry not to have known my mamma, but supposed I must be like her, as I looked quite the foreigner with my black eyes. Her whole manner towards me is almost painful in its humility; this morning she begged me to let her live with me, and die in this house, saying she did not care to go and live with her son; upon which I of course assured her that she must still consider everything her own, and the scene ended in kisses and a pocket-handkerchief.
There is something very touching about an old woman's hand; I felt myself much more moved than the occasion warranted when she held me with her trembling fingers, moving them nervously up and down, so that I felt the small weak bones under the skin, all soft, full-veined, and wrinkled.
Her sister, Caroline Seymour, is younger, probably not more than sixty, and very active. She has a bright, bird-like face, over which flits from time to time a sad little gleam of lost beauty. Her fingers are always busy, and the beads in her cap bob up and down incessantly as she bends over her fancy-work. Poor old souls--poor old children! I think my grandfather must have led them a life; there is a