_ LETTER XIV
GRAYSMILL, October 23d.
You are a dear to take such becoming interest in my friend. I have a great deal more to tell you about the lunatic, as you call him, who, by the way, is a great deal saner than either you or I.
Well, I went last Thursday. It took me some time to find the cottage. After much rambling I came upon it in the most secluded part of the Common, in a slight hollow. It is a sort of double cottage, partly thatched, standing in a good-sized garden. I marched through a rickety gate, and made for the house door. The garden is one wild medley of vegetables, fruit-trees, and flowers, luxuriant still, in spite of the late season. I was just bending over a chrysanthemum when I heard a startling "Hulloa!" and found myself accosted by the gardener, who stood, spade in hand, at the opposite end of the gravel walk. He was in his shirtsleeves; his corduroy trousers were more picturesque than respectable; an enormous straw hat, well tanned and chipped by wear, was stuck on the back of his head.
"Hulloa!" he cried again.
I approached and asked, as soon as I could do so without shouting, whether Miss Norton were at home.
"She is at home," replied the man, "and who may you be?"
"Perhaps you will kindly tell her," said I, making up by my civility for his lack of it, "that Emilia Fletcher has come to see her."
Down went the spade, off came the disreputable hat.
"God bless my soul!" he cried, rubbing the earth off his fingers, "so it's you, is it?"
He seemed doubtful whether his hand were fit to offer me or not, so I relieved him of his anxiety by shaking it warmly.
"Come on indoors," said he; "let's surprise them; Gabriel will be delighted," and he set off at a trot, I after him. He was not a grand runner. I conjectured at once that his health is not good, and that he probably looks ten years older than he really is. His hair is almost white, his face deeply wrinkled.
When we reached the cottage door, he pushed me gently in, and I found myself in what appeared to be a lumber-room. There was a table in the centre covered with bundles, books, and papers, on the summit of which, precariously poised on the lid of a biscuit-tin, stood a jug and some glasses; piles of books lay on the floor; in one corner stood a stack of brooms, rakes, guns, fishing-rods, sticks, and umbrellas; and a marvellous medley of coats and hats, baskets, cords, etc., loaded a groaning row of pegs.
"Wait here," said the old man, tilting the only chair in such a way that a Bible, a match-box, and a cocoa-tin filled with nails were safely deposited on the floor. He then popped his head in at three several doors that opened on to the apartment (it was intended, I afterwards discovered, for the hall), and finally disappeared behind one of them which led straight on to a flight of stairs. Suddenly I heard a scuffling, a sound as of some one coming down head foremost, and my friend appeared, book and forelock and all.
"This is nice of you!" he cried; then his father stumped downstairs again, followed by a tall, sweet-faced woman.
"There, Jane," said he, "there she is."
I went up to her; she was, indeed, very shy. "Dear, dear," was all she said; "deary me, think of this, it's very kind of you, I'm sure," squeezing my hand the while as if it had been a sponge.
She led me off through the door to the right, into a comparatively presentable parlour; but her brother took my other hand and pulled me in the opposite direction.
"No, no," he said; "no, no, we'll go into the kitchen and have tea."
"Yes, come," said Gabriel; "I'm hungry, aren't you? Let's go and find something to eat."
So we recrossed the hall and passed through a good-sized room which looked like a second-hand bookshop. Books overflowed the shelves, and lay in piles in every available corner,--the floor, the table, the old upright piano, the very chairs, were covered with dusty volumes. Out of this room led the kitchen, which at least looked clean. A rosy little maid was leaving after the day's work as we entered.
"Sit down," said Gabriel's father to me; "sit down, my dear; you shall have some tea in a minute." And he began taking plates down from the dresser. Miss Norton, meanwhile, had disappeared, and presently returned with a loaf, dragging Gabriel after her.
"I can't keep that boy out of the larder," she said plaintively.
Gabriel laughed and fetched the teapot, also a jug and two paper bags. I thought I had better help, too. I discovered some knives in the drawer of the table, and set them out.
"Tea or cocoa?" asked Richard Norton, pointing his finger at tea-pot and jug in turn. I chose cocoa, I can't think why.
"That's lucky," sighed Gabriel; "there's no tea in the bag."
He made the cocoa, Jane Norton cut the bread; at last we sat down. I don't think I ever enjoyed a meal so much in my life. They ate voraciously, and we talked meanwhile in the silliest fashion, about nothing at all, laughing until the tears rolled down our cheeks.
My friend is very funny, but his fun is of the kind that cannot bear repeating; taken away from himself, separated from his personality, it would sound merely foolish. You know what I mean. I sat next Miss Norton during tea. When we had done, Gabriel stood up, chair and all, and came beside me.
"What do you think of us?" he asked. "Aren't we rather nice?"
"Yes, indeed," I replied; "and the funny part of it is that I feel as though I'd known you all my life."
"That's just how I feel with you," said Gabriel, and Richard Norton added,--
"I like you; you're a nice girl; you don't turn up your nose at us because we live in our own way. You're a nice girl."
"I like your way of living," said I, then. "From what I can see, it seems to me you are about as free as any one can be in this world, and that is the best of all things,--freedom."
"You've hit it!" cried Richard Norton, bringing his flat hand down on the table. "We are free!"
"Now I'll tell you," said Gabriel. "This time last year we had horrible lodgings in Bloomsbury. Father went every day to drudgery in a dirty office, helping another man to rob his fellow-creatures; aunt there gave lessons,--she can't teach a bit; she was only putting nonsense into the heads of future men and women, and, such as it was, putting it there wrong. I was doing likewise, and I teach worse than she does. Of an evening I wrote drivel for the papers. We were, every one of us, useless and miserable. At last one day I said--"
"You did!" interrupted his father. "You may live to be a hundred, you'll never say anything so wise again."
"I said: 'Look here! How many lives have we?' 'One,' replied father. 'What are we alive for?' 'I don't know,' replied father. 'Neither do I; only I know that life's not worth living as we live it. Let's go into the country.'"
"I beg your pardon, Gabriel," interrupted his father again; "it was not quite so, it was better than that. The boy lectured me, Miss Fletcher,--pitched into me, and I deserved it. He told me I was fifty-five and a fool for my years. So I was. There was I, grinding away,--what for? We never saw each other, we never saw the fields, we were selling all the joys of life for three farthings. So we decided to drudge no more. Gabriel would have continued, but I could not allow that; I wanted him here. We found we should have just enough money to rent a cottage, buy body-covering and plain food. So here we are. And we are happy. As Gabriel said, What is the use of toiling for more, when the unprofitable work that brings us a few extra shillings takes away our capacities for enjoying life? Here we are, happy all day, eh, Gabriel? He writes his poetry and devours his books, I devour mine, Jane devours hers; we are learning now all the beauties of Nature, and man's best thoughts. We are very happy."
A vision of my present life flitted across me, like a cloud on a sunlit field.
"Oh!" said I, "how I envy you! Nothing useless, not a clog about you, no stupid formalities, stifling luxuries, no daily lies and false duties."
"Have you all these?" asked Gabriel.
"Not so badly as some people, but badly enough. I have money, and no end of respectable relations."
He laughed, and made a wry face.
When I found that it was time to wend my way home, Gabriel offered to walk with me. I was very glad. On the way out, he stopped in the hall and knocked half the things off the pegs.
"Beloved aunt!" he cried, "there used to be a hat somewhere!"
I assured him that he need not discomfort himself for my sake, and he bounded forth bareheaded, with a yell of exultation. On the road we had a long and somewhat warm discussion on suicide, which was started by an essay of Montaigne's he happened to be reading. Every now and again he pulled the book from his pocket and read me extracts, until it was too dark to see; even then he once struck a match to find a passage.
For the sake of argument we occasionally took opposite sides, but, in fact, we were both agreed upon the principal point; namely, that although man enters the world against his will, he may surely choose the time and the manner of his exit. That this is every one's right we both believe, yet believe, also, that the right should be sparingly used. For although suicide might almost be considered an act of duty on the part of those suffering from incurable disease, mental or physical, most of us, however useless and superfluous we may at times believe ourselves to be, have, willy-nilly, the fate of some fellow-creature bound up with our own; and it is surely an act of unpardonable cowardice to make our escape from a world of difficulties, leaving others to bear the burden of our faults.
But, really, I must put an end to this letter; I never wrote such a long one in my life, not even I, not even to you. My friend left me as we approached Graysmill, saying that he dared not set foot on the confines of respectability.
That was Thursday, and I have not seen him since.
Good-bye, my dearest; I kiss your sweet eyes.
EMILIA. _