The Wings of Icarus | Page 2

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 peacefulness upon
them that suggests deliverance. He has been dead just five weeks.
But the old house will see quiet days enough now. I have wandered all
over it, and find it a beautiful place in itself, although it is so stuffed
with wool-work, vile china, gildings, wax flowers, and indescribable
mantel-piece atrocities, that there is not a simple or restful corner
anywhere. Yet I find myself touched by its very hideousness, when I
think that it probably looked even so, smelt even so stale and sweet, in
the days of my dear father's boyhood. There is a picture in the large
drawing-room that gives me infinite pleasure. It is a portrait of my own

grandmother with papa in a white frock on her knees, and my poor
Aunt Fanny beside her, a neat little smiling girl in pink, with very long
drawers. There is something in the young mother's face that, at first
sight, made my father's smile rise clearly to my memory. I have since
tried to recall the vision, but in vain.
My father's half-brother, George Fletcher, a widower with a large
family, who lives four miles from here, came to see me this afternoon,
and I took a great dislike to him. (Did I hear you say "Of course"?) But
really, dearest, these introductions are very painful; it is most
unpleasant to have the undesirable stranger thrust upon one in the guise
of friend and protector, to find oneself standing on a footing of
inevitable familiarity with people whose hands one had rather not touch.
He kissed me, Constantia, but he certainly will not do so again.
Fortunately, I like my two old ladies; things might be worse.
To-morrow my lawyer comes from London to speak to me on business.
I shall be glad when the interview is over, for I understand nothing at
all about business matters. I can indeed barely grasp the fact that I have
come into possession of land and money. Heaven only knows what I
am to do with it all.
Write to me; write soon. You seem further away from me to-day than
you did last night; and yet I should miss you more if I could realise my
own existence. Can you make your way through these contradictions?
It seems to me this evening that I, Emilia, am still beside you, that
some one else sits here in exile with nothing written on the page of her
future, not even by the finger of Hope. Good night, dearest.
Yours ever and always, EMILIA.

LETTER III.
FLETCHER'S HALL, GRAYSMILL, July 26th.
What do you think stepped in with my bath this morning? A long
narrow letter sealed with a heart. I kissed the blue stamp and spread the

three dear sheets out on my pillow. Oimé, Constantia, how I love you!
But why write about _me_? Why waste pen and ink wondering how I
am? Tell me about yourself, tell me all you do, and all you think; tell
me how many different hats you wore on Wednesday, and how you
misspent your time on Thursday; tell me of all the nonsense that is
poured into your ears, of all the rubbish you read; tell me even how
many times your mother wakes you in the night to ask if you are
sleeping well. I long for you so that the very faults of your life are dear
to me, even those for which I most reprove you when you are near.
Let me see: it is past midday with you; you and your mother are out
walking. I hear you both.
"Constance," says Mrs. Rayner, "put up your parasol!"
"Thanks, mother," you reply; "I like to feel the sun."
"You'll freckle."
"Through this thick veil and all the powder?"
"You'll freckle, I tell you. Put up your parasol."
"Oh, mother, do let me be!"
Here Mrs. Rayner wrenches the parasol out of your hands and puts it up
with a jerk; you take it, heaving a very loud sigh, upon which your
mother seizes it again and pops it down.
"Very well, be as freckled as you please; what does it matter to me,
after all? It's so pretty to have freckles, isn't it? Please yourself! Only I
warn you that you'll look like a fig before the year's out!"
Oh, dear me, it seems I'm in good spirits to-day! Why not, with your
letter in my pocket? I am sitting out of doors in the woods. I love this
place, apart from its own beauty; I