December 18th.
Thank Heaven that you are here, in the world; I should die if you
were not. Let me think, where shall I begin? At the end; that is
nearest. I have only just come upstairs; I have been shaking in the
dark. They are beasts; I hate them all. I was sitting playing
cribbage with grandmamma after supper, when Uncle George was
announced. He wanted to speak to me, he said. I took him into the
breakfast room, and there he told me in a fat pompous voice that
I--O Dio, my blood still burns to think of it, and the way in which
he said it--that I was getting myself talked about in the
neighbourhood; that probably I didn't know, owing to my foreign
education, that it wasn't the thing here in England to let oneself
be seen constantly alone in the company of a young man; that he
thought it his duty, etc., etc.
"Thank you," said I,--my very skin felt tight,--"I see that I must
be more underhand in my actions, and contrive to see my friends
entirely on the sly."
"Excuse me, my dear niece," interrupted Uncle George, "but I feel it
my duty to fill a father's place by you. It isn't as if you could
possibly marry this young Norton; he hasn't a penny; and as it is
now some time since first the rumour of your very careless behaviour
reached my ears, I have been able to make full inquiries into the
matter. His antecedents, to say no more--"
Constance, did you ever hear of such infamy. I believe I grew
perfectly green; Heaven knows what I said, but you have seen me lose
my temper once! When I mastered myself, Uncle George was standing by
the door, looking considerably startled; I was on a chair, shaking
from head to foot. After a moment's silence I said:
"I beg your pardon for losing my self-control as I did just now; I
am very sorry, but you have done me a great wrong. I know you meant
it for the best; so we will say no more about it. I only hope that
you will leave me and my friends alone in future. I am twenty-six
and my own mistress, and I care for my good name every whit as much
as you do."
Then he left me, and I came upstairs.
So now they have done it! They have touched my paradise with their
dirty fingers. O Constance! how is it to be borne? My one comfort is
that Gabriel knows nobody, hears nothing; if such talk were to reach
his ears, I should kill myself.
Yet perhaps it is just as well that this blow has come to me. It has
given me the shock I needed. I have made up my mind to keep away
from Gabriel as long as I can; it is best so. Christmas charities,
etc., will serve as a sufficient excuse.
Constance, I am going to tell you all; I trust so to your
understanding and your love. It seems strange, perhaps, to speak as
I am about to speak; I shall burst if I don't. It is this: I love
him, I love him horribly, horribly; I cannot bear it. Why must one
do this? Why couldn't it last, our white friendship? On his side it
might; he loves me, I know, but only as I loved him at first. He
loves me very much. I am grown in a way indispensable to him, but
his love makes him content; it will not kill him. Mine is grown
unbearable.
Perhaps I should have told you this before, yet I have not known it
very long. I knew some time ago that all my joy is in him; he has
been for many weeks the goal of my eyes, the centre of my thought;
the time I spent away from him was dead time; when I was with him I
was flooded in peace. But all this was joy, not pain. That came
later; the time I spent away from him was no longer dead, it was
living longing.
One day, about a week ago, I had forgotten him (I forget how I
managed that!), but suddenly the thought of him returned to me. I
felt a sudden sharp pain at my heart, a sort of aching that tingled
through me to my very finger-tips. I knew then how it was with me.
Next day I did not go to meet him in the wood as I had promised; I
went straight to the cottage; I feared myself. When he returned at
tea-time, he came up to me and took my hand with more friendship
than of wont.
"Oh, Emilia!" he cried, "why have you failed me? I have been so
anxious; I feared you were ill."
He said this as a brother might have said it; he looked me full in
the face as serenely as the stars at night. I looked back at him;
his calm fell upon me, and I laughed at myself for my fears. I got
better after that, yet not well; I was never at ease. To-day we were
together very long; I was perfectly happy; we had spoken of
beautiful things, calmly, in great peace. But at parting he forgot
to let my hand go; he held it so long that I had time to feel his,
and my blood bounded through me in great waves. I still think he
must have felt it; if he did, I can never look at him again.
I hate myself for loving him so; I hate myself that I suffer through
him; the fault seems his, being entirely mine.
And now I wish that I had never seen him, that all these days of joy
were wiped out of my life; for the joy is turned to misery and pain,
and for this there can be no cure. If he grew to love me as I do
him, it would be unearthly; such happiness is not for this world. I
think that if he loved me, one of us would surely die. This is the
world, O Constance! Bursts of beauty, bursts of bliss, but none to
live untouched, none to endure.