The Wings of Icarus | Page 9

would ever feel so, I think.
Good night; my candle has burned low in the socket, the paper is
flaring already, I shall have to undress in the dark.
Good night, dearest. E

LETTER X.
GRAYSMILL, September 20th.
Blessings upon you, my sweet dearest; your birthday is the day of days
to me. How could I live without you? I am purely selfish when I wish

you perfect joy and a long golden life; it is almost like praying for fine
weather! All the strings of my heart go towards you, Constance Norris,
and are knotted in your bosom. Be happy, be well, my darling, else I
suffer. We shall not be apart on your next birthday, I think. I have
evolved a marvellous scheme. Your mother is still young, and a very
handsome woman; why don't you marry her? Really, it's a plan worth
attempting; couldn't you persuade one of your numerous admirers to
transfer his affections? Then, Constantia mia, we two could live
together. We should mostly live abroad, following the sunshine; but for
a part of the year we should stay here in England. Don't wrinkle up
your dear nose! You will be every bit as much in love with the country
as I am, when once you know it well. I wish I could show it you now;
the woods are changing colour, 'tis a glowing world, and your lungs
have never tasted such air as blows on Graysmill Heath. You would be
very happy in the woods in summer; you could lie down and bring your
face on a level with the flowers, and I should sit by and love you. There
would be little sunbeams piercing the roof of leaves and twinkling
about us, and just enough breeze to clear your brow of curls. O
Constance! Why are we so far apart? Only one life, and then parted!
But one must not think of such things.
I send you a little ring that I found the other day in Miltonhoe; there is a
kiss on the red stone, don't lose it.
Blessings upon you, my heart of gold.
EMILIA.

LETTER XI.
GRAYSMILL, October 5th.
Three several times have I begun to write to you, but I came to the
conclusion that it is better not to write at all than to give vent to such
feelings as mine. Besides, I had nothing, positively nothing, to tell you.
Furthermore, you did not deserve a letter. However, as it is all too long

since you honoured me with a communication, Mrs. Norris, I feel I
must write and remind you of my existence. I am well, thank you, but
the world's a dull place.
Grandmamma and Aunt Caroline--perhaps myself, who knows?--are in
a great state of excitement to-day because a niece of theirs is coming
here on a visit. I heard of her existence for the first time last week, and
immediately decided to invite her to Fletcher's Hall. For, Constance, let
me whisper it, the old ladies--bless their hearts!--are killing me. This
person, Ida Seymour by name, is a spinster of some forty winters, a
kind of roving, charitable star, from what I gather, who spends her life
visiting from place to place with a trunkful of fancy work, pious books,
and innocent sources of amusement,--a fairy godmother to old ladies,
pauper children, and bazaars. My vanity has run its course, and I shall
gladly yield the place of honour to this worthy soul. May she stay long!
That is absolutely all the news I have for you, and, indeed, it is more
than you deserve; for you are about as lazy as you are sweet, which is
saying a good deal. If I don't get a letter to-morrow, I shall be on the
brink of despair. At the approach of post time, I am nearly ill with
anticipation, and afterwards fall headlong into deepest melancholy.
Your ill-used EMILIA.

LETTER XII.
GRAYSMILL, October 10th.
Sweet, your letter of Thursday comforted me wondrous much; but I
have something to tell you, and my impatience will not even let me
dwell on the joy it was to read words of yours again. Well; yesterday
was a dull day, the sky was covered all the morning, and at dinner-time
it began to rain. I sat in my room in the afternoon and read "Richard
Feverel" until, looking up from my book, I saw that the rain had ceased.
The wind had risen, and, in the west, a hole had been poked through the
grey mantle, showing the gilded edge of a snowy cloud against a patch

of blue. Out I ran, across the garden and the little park that touches the
heath, then through my dear beechwood until I reached a certain
clearing where the ground goes sheer