The Wings of Icarus | Page 6

Milly--my best picture."
(They will call me Milly; there's no help for it.) "I have never shown it
to any one before, but you are a good girl; I think I should like to show
it to you."
She cleared a space upon her dressing-table, lighted a third candle, a
fourth, making a little illumination; then from her wardrobe she
brought an old desk, and unlocked it solemnly with a key that always
hangs upon her watch-chain. The desk was full of treasures,--letters,
flowers, ends of ribbon, all neatly labelled. She opened a little case and
placed in my hands the portrait of a young man.
I hardly knew how to take it. "It is beautiful," I said; "what a handsome
face!" Then the veil of silence and old age fell from her heart; she told
me the whole tale. Nothing new, of course. She had loved, and--strange
to say!--the man had done likewise; they were engaged, but because his
family was not equal to hers in birth, her brother-in-law, my
grandfather, would not hear of the match, and obliged her to break it off.
Yet another sin to add to his score!
"I think," said I, "that you should have married him, all the same."
The old woman blew her nose, rose, and kissed me.
"You are the first that ever told me so," she said; "I think so, too."
It was past midnight when I left her, and I must confess that my own
eyes were not dry.
"Is he still alive?" I asked, as I reached the door.
The old woman smiled.
"I don't know," she said, "but I shall know in good time; please God we

shall soon meet again in a better land."
I lay awake a long time in the night, marvelling at her constancy and
her faith. But then I wept to think how many women, even as she, have
held one only flower in their hands, clung to it still when colour and
scent were gone, refusing to pluck another; wept, too, to think how
many such as she are buoyed up by a hope I cannot share. I wonder
what it feels like, this implicit faith in an after life! It must make a
difference, even in love. Perhaps we who believe in one life only cling
with the greater passion to what we love, seeing that, once lost, we
have no hope of re-possession.
Well, it's a sad world. But a funny one, too. I was quite shy of meeting
Aunt Caroline again this morning, lest the remembrance of what she
had told me over-night should make her feel ill at ease; lest, in fact, she
had repented of her confidence. And I stood quite a while outside the
breakfast-room door, like a fool. But as I entered, her beaded cap was
bobbing over an uplifted dish-cover.
"Oh, good morning, Milly!" she said. "No, sister, it's not Upton's fault.
The bacon's beautiful, only cook can't cut a rasher."
And again I was in my common dilemma; I didn't know whether to
laugh or cry.
Good-bye, sweetest; take care of yourself.

LETTER VII.
GRAYSMILL, August 20th.
Good evening, Mrs. Norris. I am in a very good temper,--and you?
(N.B. I had an extra letter this morning; somebody spoils me.)
Now what shall I tell you, Inquisitiveness? Indeed, I tell you all there is
to tell. You complain that I never speak about the people I meet; that's
true enough. When I find myself in their company, I make the best of it,

but I never think about them between whiles. As for Uncle George,
why, I dislike him thoroughly. He is handsome in his way, and looks
remarkably young,--not that that is exactly a crime! One of my
principal objections to his person is a kind of bachelor smartness he
carries about with him. It is quite ridiculous to see him with his
daughters, the eldest of whom is just eighteen and engaged to be
married. There is nothing of the simplicity of the country gentleman
about him,--a simplicity that in many cases covers a multitude of faults.
No, I shall never be able to bear him,--neither his juvenility, his jewelry,
nor his whiskers--certainly never the scent on his handkerchief! Ouf! I
hate him altogether. I promise you that when I find a human being with
whom I can exchange an idea, whose thoughts have even wandered
half a mile beyond the parish, I shall apprize you of the fact.
Meanwhile, dearest, you must put up with my company, as I myself am
learning to do. It seems to me almost that I need no one else! I sit here
in my room, out there in the woods, and I am content. I read a great
deal; I have just re-read the