_ LETTER XIII
GRAYSMILL, October 18th.
Very dear, I hope this letter will reach Vienna before you do, and welcome you there. The words we write in one mood are read when another has taken its place; perhaps you are as merry as a bird in spring by this time,--perhaps not. My poor little dear. I know myself what it is to sink into a bottomless pit of senseless misery, but I must tell you that it nearly always happens when I am idle.
A woman that is debarred from woman's best profession--wifehood and motherhood--must find some other work to do; idleness, uselessness--above all, idleness--are the hotbed of all manner of follies. The stupidest man in existence, working day by day at the worldliest work, has the better of us in this, that he is weighted, so to speak, and cannot flutter to and fro with every breeze that blows. You say that you cannot work, that you have heard all this at least a thousand times; well, never mind, hear it once more!
Take German lessons, your German is very bad; go on with your singing, your sweet voice is very ignorant; read, make some study, however unprofitable, of the French Revolution, the Renaissance, the Conquest of Peru, anything, anything you like; or buy a sewing-machine at least, and make flannel petticoats for the poor; anything, Constantia, only don't for Heaven's sake sit there with your hands in your lap, listening to the gabble of fools, while Mrs. Rayner touches up a curl here and a frill there, from morning till night, for ever and ever.
But now to other things, for indeed I am not in the fault-finding mood you might suppose. Only, as you know well, I can always worry about you, at any time.
Well, I have seen my wood-sprite again, this very morning. I could not sleep after six, although I twice covered up my head with the bed-clothes and made believe I was not awake; so I got up, and the young sun was so beautiful, driving the mists out of the valley, that I went out.
Between the flower garden and the park, there lies a shrubbery; green paths wind in and out between high walls of box and laurel, leading one at length to a little blue door in an old wall. Well, I was stepping along between the evergreens as fast as the moss on the pebbles would let me, swinging my hat round as I went, and singing loudly, when I thought I heard footsteps round the bend of the path. I turned the corner--nobody; only a little scrambling sound, and the treacherous flutter of a branch in the laurel hedge. Of course I immediately thought of poachers, and in my imagination already saw Emilia Fletcher stretched a lifeless corpse upon the ground. I took three backward steps, then paused. Silence and stillness reigned.
Pooh! thought I, it's nothing, and with a bold, swift step I walked past the fearful spot. No sooner had I passed than there came another crackle; I turned and beheld a luminous eye between the branches. Whether I turned pale with fright or not, I cannot tell; but a hand came forth, a foot, then, with considerable difficulty, an entire body; and on the path before me stood my dishevelled friend, covered with green dust and blushes.
"I have no excuse to offer," said he.
I laughed; there was nothing else to do.
"You did startle me," said I, "but I forgive you."
I did not ask him what he was doing in my shrubbery, nor did he offer the least explanation.
"Are you going for a walk?" said he, simply, "and, if so, may I go with you?"
I was glad enough, and we had taken a few steps forward when he suddenly clapped his hands to his pockets.
"I shall have to get into the bush again," he cried, with rueful face; "I must have dropped 'Peer Gynt.'"
And in he scrambled, returning triumphant with an exceedingly shabby book.
We walked a full hour and a half, through the park, through the woods, and through the park again, for he insisted on bringing me back to the little blue door. We talked mostly about "Peer Gynt," which, by the way, he is reading in the original. He seems to read every possible language, although he declares he speaks nothing but English. We did not talk at all about ourselves, so I know nothing further about him, save that he lives in a cottage on the heath towards Miltonhoe, with his father and his aunt.
When we parted company, he asked me if I would mind going to see his aunt.
"I believe," said he, "that she ought to call first on you,--at least, she says so,--but that she'll never do. If I landed her at your very door, she'd never find courage to ring the bell."
"Very well," said I; "I'll come to her instead."
And the sprite vanished.
I think I shall go to-morrow, or perhaps next day.
Good-bye, sweet,
Your EMILIA. _