John Harwood - The Asylum

“But dearest, you have promised to share with your brothers; it is not fair to them—not even to Edmund, abominably as he has behaved.”

“Well, that is the point, in a way. As soon as the will was signed and sealed, I wrote to Edmund, telling him what I had done; but I didn’t enclose a copy, and I didn’t tell him who had drawn it. So, at least until the estate is sold up and divided, it would be very much against his interest for me to die.”

“Felix—are you afraid he might try to have you murdered?”

“No, but it will show him that I am not to be swayed by his threats: that, and the certificate of sanity I sent to Carburton along with my instructions about the sale. One copy of the will is in Mr. McIntyre’s strongbox; the other is for you to keep. And now you must rest, and promise not to dream of any more scar-faced men; we would not be here now if I thought there was the slightest danger.”

Reassured by his certainty (and doubtless by the hot toddy, which he insisted I finish), I agreed that I could easily have dreamt the scar-faced man, and by the time I fell asleep, I almost believed it myself.

It is almost midday on Friday; I have let my pen run away with me again, but I will abide by my principle of doing what I should want you to do (or rather posting what I should want you to post) in my place. I am still in bed, at Felix’s insistence, still headachy and uncomfortable, but with only a few scrapes and bruises to show for yesterday’s fright. He blames himself for alarming me unnecessarily by rushing home whilst he was still upset over Edmund’s letter. For my part, I feel ashamed of getting into such a panic over a harmless stranger, as he surely was. In ten days’ time we will be safely married, and then, God willing, I shall embrace you on the ninth.

All my love to you, and to dear Godfrey,

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Kirkbride Cottage

Friday, 1 June 1860

Dearest Emily,

Once again I had to reassure Felix that the tears I shed over your letter were tears of joy. It is such a delight to know that Godfrey is his old self at last—such a long and anxious time it has been for you—and eager to return to his work. And such a relief that neither you nor your neighbors have seen anything suspicious.

All is quiet here, too. The man with the scarred face has not returned, not even to trouble my dreams. And Felix is in wonderfully high spirits; he told me last night that our love has brought him a happiness beyond anything he could have imagined. “Before I loved you,” he said, “even at the best of times, there was always a grey cloud hovering somewhere about my heart. At the worst, it was Stygian darkness; I could scarcely lift my head from the pillow, and longed only for oblivion. But now I am filled with light; I have fed on honeydew and drunk the milk of paradise, and the cloud is banished forever.” He says it is why he needs so little sleep; he feels light in every sense, and can easily believe that human beings could soar like birds if only they had sufficient faith, as with the disciple who was able to walk on water until he grew fearful and began to sink.

Yesterday afternoon we walked along the coast to a place called St. Baldred’s Cradle, a steep, rocky cleft at the mouth of a river. Felix insisted upon climbing the outer cliff, though he did not so much climb it as run straight up a spur of jagged rock, fifty or sixty feet high, and then leap from crag to crag along the top, waving delightedly whilst I watched with my heart in my mouth. He assured me when he came down that he could not possibly have missed his footing, but I do wish he could learn to be just a

little

fearful, if only for my sake!

As yet he has heard nothing from Carburton, but in Dunbar this morning he had a strong presentiment that he should call at the shipping agent’s. There he learnt that a ship called the

Utopia

will be sailing from Liverpool for Rio de Janeiro on the twenty-ninth of June. It seemed to him such a good omen that he reserved a cabin for us; the passage money does not have to be paid until the fifteenth, and he is certain the deed of sale will have reached him by then.

I confess that my heart sank at the news—it seems so terribly soon—but I am determined to subdue my misgivings. Felix is so elated by the prospect that I cannot bear to disappoint him. “We shall never have to endure another winter,” he said when he came in, “because in Rio it is warm and light all the year round.” Even though he is certain his melancholia will never return, it would be unpardonably selfish of me to try and keep him here, where the winters would remind him of that terrible darkness. All I could bring myself to say was that I should hate to be separated from you forever, to which he cheerfully replied that of course we should come back for visits. And perhaps when we have stayed in Rio for a while, he will be happy to live somewhere closer—Spain, perhaps, or the isles of Greece (he read me those wonderful lines from

Don Juan

the night before last)—so that we can spend whole summers in England—by which, of course, I mean Nettleford, and take a house close by, and see you every day.

All my love to you, and to dear Godfrey,

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Kirkbride Cottage

Tuesday, 5 June 1860

Dearest Emily,

Well, we are married according to law, though the ceremony itself was a miserable affair, conducted by a dour and (I thought) disapproving clergyman in the presence of two paid witnesses who shuffled their feet whenever there was a momentary silence. I wept at the cheerlessness of it all, and even Felix was quite cast down; though the day was fine, we were in no mood for celebration, and were about to return home when he noticed a livery stable and suggested we hire a dogcart for the afternoon. A brisk drive along the coast restored our spirits, and a mile or so beyond the village of Skateraw we came to a little bay that was quite deserted. We tethered our horse near a grassy hollow, where the same thought came to us both: that we had been married not three hours, but three weeks. We made a bed of our cloaks and lay down, sheltered from the wind; and afterward, holding Felix in my arms while he slept (such a rare delight) with the sun’s warmth on my skin, I felt as though we had been taken up to heaven without the need of dying, floating in perfect light.

Only four days until I embrace you at last. We shall take the London express on Friday morning and stay in the Great Northern Hotel that night, so that Felix can see Mr. Carburton about the deed of trust. I feel a little apprehensive about staying so close to Great Portland Street, but Felix insists that, despite what he said the other day, there is not the slightest risk of his being charged with abduction. “I was upset by Edmund’s letter,” he said, “and not thinking clearly; you are my lawful wedded wife, and if anyone accosts us, I shall have him arrested then and there.” He will call at Mr. Carburton’s office on Saturday morning; as soon as that is done, we shall drive straight to Paddington, and should reach Nettleford by six at the latest. And then my happiness will be truly complete.

Your loving cousin,

Rosina

Station Hotel,

Durham

Thursday, 7 June 1860

Dearest Emily,

I have been staring at this page for the past hour, wondering what I shall say to you, and trying to imagine your replies, but all I can hear is my own voice telling me how unutterably foolish I have been. I should have known—but how

could

I have known? Felix—I must try to set it down plainly, from the beginning.

This morning—it seems a century ago—I accompanied Felix to Dunbar. “The law is on our side,” he said, “and I refuse to skulk.” The day was bright but chilly, and rather than go into the post office with him—he was certain, as he had been every day for the past week or more, that the deed of sale would have arrived—I waited on a bench in the sunshine. I was feeling perfectly content, and not in the least apprehensive, when I happened to glance at an alleyway across the street. Standing just inside the entrance was the man with the scarred face, his gaze fixed upon me. He was wearing his cap this time, with the peak drawn low over his brow, but the scar was unmistakable. As soon as our eyes met, he withdrew into the shadows and disappeared.