FullReads

Then came the report of the inquest, at which the following letter was ead, it having been addressed to a friend at a distance:-

‘DEAR -,–Before these lines reach your hands I shall be
delivered from the inconveniences of seeing, hearing, and
knowing more of the things around me. I will not trouble
you by giving my reasons for the step I have taken, though
I can assure you they were sound and logical. Perhaps had
I been blessed with a mother, or a sister, or a female
friend of another sort tenderly devoted to me, I might have
thought it worth while to continue my present existence.
I have long dreamt of such an unattainable creature, as you
know, and she, this undiscoverable, elusive one, inspired
my last volume; the imaginary woman alone, for, in spite
of what has been said in some quarters, there is no real
woman behind the title. She has continued to the last
unrevealed, unmet, unwon. I think it desirable to mention
this in order that no blame may attach to any real woman as
having been the cause of my decease by cruel or cavalier
treatment of me. Tell my landlady that I am sorry to have
caused her this unpleasantness; but my occupancy of the rooms
will soon be forgotten. There are ample funds in my name
at the bank to pay all expenses. R. TREWE.’

Ella sat for a while as if stunned, then rushed into the adjoining chamber and flung herself upon her face on the bed.

Her grief and distraction shook her to pieces; and she lay in this frenzy of sorrow for more than an hour. Broken words came every now and then from her quivering lips: ‘O, if he had only known of me–known of me–me! . . . O, if I had only once met him–only once; and put my hand upon his hot forehead–kissed him–let him know how I loved him–that I would have suffered shame and scorn, would have lived and died, for him! Perhaps it would have saved his dear life! . . . But no–it was not allowed! God is a jealous God; and that happiness was not for him and me!’

All possibilities were over; the meeting was stultified. Yet it was almost visible to her in her fantasy even now, though it could never be substantiated –

‘The hour which might have been, yet might not be,
Which man’s and woman’s heart conceived and bore,
Yet whereof life was barren.’

* * * * *

She wrote to the landlady at Solentsea in the third person, in as subdued a style as she could command, enclosing a postal order for a sovereign, and informing Mrs. Hooper that Mrs. Marchmill had seen in the papers the sad account of the poet’s death, and having been, as Mrs. Hooper was aware, much interested in Mr. Trewe during her stay at Coburg House, she would be obliged if Mrs. Hooper could obtain a small portion of his hair before his coffin was closed down, and send it her as a memorial of him, as also the photograph that was in the frame.

By the return-post a letter arrived containing what had been requested. Ella wept over the portrait and secured it in her private drawer; the lock of hair she tied with white ribbon and put in her bosom, whence she drew it and kissed it every now and then in some unobserved nook.

‘What’s the matter?’ said her husband, looking up from his newspaper on one of these occasions. ‘Crying over something? A lock of hair? Whose is it?’

‘He’s dead!’ she murmured.

‘Who?’

‘I don’t want to tell you, Will, just now, unless you insist!’ she said, a sob hanging heavy in her voice.