The Wings of Icarus | Page 4

girl's arm round my waist, and right away from my mother.
She doesn't even know where I am!"
I loved my mother so much that this shocked me extremely, and I told
you so. You flushed, I remember, and cried:--
"Oh, but you don't know what my life is! You don't know what it is to
long with all your might to get away from somebody, somebody who
has hung over you ever since you were born, so that she seemed to
stand between you and the very air you breathed." And then you told
me about your marriage; how, in order to be free from her, you took the
husband, rich and infamous, into whose arms she threw you in your
innocence; how, at the end of a few months, you returned home doubly
a slave, to be crushed, year in, year out, by love that showed itself
almost as hate; bound now in such a way that if any other love were
offered you, you could not take it.
And how old are you now? Twenty-four. Still her puppet, her doll, for
that is what you are; she dresses and undresses you from morning till
night, then struts up and down the streets of Europe, showing her pretty
plaything. You say she has no thought but you, loves you so much that
it would break her heart if you left her. Look here, Constance: you
knew my mother; you know then what it means to live nobly and truly
in the light of a greater goodness than the world yet understands. God,
or whoever made you, made your soul very white; how dare you let the
smuts fall upon it? How dare you tread among falsehoods, you that
have heard of Truth?
Try, my dearest, try to be brave; surely it is the duty of each one of us
to live the noblest life he can. The world is so beautiful! It is only
ourselves and our mistakes that lie foul upon it. When the most holy of
human ties, defying nature, becomes the bane of those it binds, it is
better to break it than to let one's life cast a daily blot, as it were, on the
sanctity of motherhood and the love of the child.
Come to me; live with me in peace awhile! We will think and read
together, master ourselves, and find some path to tread. I, too, am in
need of resolution. Whilst my dear mother lived, she held me by the

hand. You know how, when two walk together, the weaker
unconsciously leaves it to the stronger to lead the way? Well, so it was
with me; and now I must learn to find my path alone. I know now what
she meant when she said that the first use to which a man must put his
courage is to being himself.
All good be with you, dear heart.
EMILIA.

LETTER V.
GRAYSMILL, August 7th.
Dearest, I wrote you such a stern letter the other day, that I feel I must
write again before the week comes round. It was, after all, a silly
promise we made each other to write just once a week, neither more
nor less. This time I write at odds with myself. It's all very well to talk
about sincerity, it baffles one completely at times; there isn't a greater
liar under the sun at this moment than Emilia Fletcher. My outward life
is all out of tune with my inward self. Perhaps if you saw me with my
old ladies, you would say: "Quite right; please them by all means, sit
with them, drive with them, make small talk, listen to their little tales. It
pleases them, and it doesn't harm you." But I answer: Is it right? Is it
not rank hypocrisy? Is affection won by false pretences worth the
having? I tell you, I am playing a part all day long. I read to them out of
books that I either despise or abhor; I play to them music unworthy of
the name; I nod my head in acquiescence when my very soul cries no.
Nor is that all; I take my place each morning in the centre of the room,
open the Bible, and in pious voice, I, Infidel, read forth the prayers that
are to strengthen the household through the day. When, at a given point,
all the maid-servants rise, whirl round in their calico gowns and turn
their demure backs to me as they kneel in a row, I know not whether to
laugh or cry. O Constance, it is infamous of me! And why do I do it?
Out of consideration for them? out of kind-heartedness? Not a bit of it!
Vanity, my dear; sheer vanity. If they cared