_June 10th._--I must be very jealous indeed. This is very strange. I
dreamed last night that we were in a room full of people, we three.
I was seeking him, and he came towards me suddenly with Constance on
his arm. Lifting her on high, I threw her far from us, so that with
a cry she sank into great depths; and Gabriel--seeking to stay
me--caught me by the waist. I heard the whirl and the hum of those
about us, but in the weakness of my love I fell with my head upon
his breast, and thus we floated into endless space.
I am a sensible person as a rule, yet the flavour of this dream has
been with me all day long, and I could hardly look at Constance for
the wrong I had done her in my thoughts. I must be very jealous.
_June 18th._--I put it from me for a while. I have been very calm; I
have watched them narrowly. I am very calm now. Gabriel came to
spend the evening; Uncle George had been provided for Mrs. Rayner's
edification, and we all sat together in the drawing-room. Grandmamma
and Aunt Caroline had Constance between them under the lamp. I could
watch her very well. Gabriel sat next me. We could not talk, so I
thought we might as well play backgammon, and we set the board so
that he could not see Constance.
When Gabriel left, I took him as far as the blue door, first making
a round of the garden and shrubbery; it was a dear walk. He said,
"Shall we make a match of it, Emilia, between your perfumed uncle
and that benighted woman?" It certainly was an excellent idea.
Towards the end he said:
"Emilia, you have been rather pale these last days. Take care of my
girl, my dear girl. And your step is not over firm; you cling to me
as you walk."
Why, yes, that was true enough; I was clinging to him with all my
force.
Gabriel is older than he was; he would never have noticed this when
first I knew him, not even when first he loved me. He has grown much
more thoughtful of late.
All this holds together. I am perfectly calm; I am not deceiving
myself. I am calm because I see the need of self-possession and
reflection. Gabriel and Constance,--it seems horrible to set it down
thus before my poor eyes,--they love one another.
And now let me be very careful, very just and true. They love each
other, but they do not know it. I know it, because my great love has
so trained my eye that they cannot deceive me; neither he nor she;
themselves, perhaps, but me never.
I do not say that it is dangerous love, lasting love; these passing
fancies die their own death, and therefore I think I shall not
disturb them; if I part them, the shock might awaken them to the
truth. No; I will let their fancy run its own course, trusting that
it may die before they become aware of its existence.
That is it; they do not know it yet, it is an unconscious
attraction. He loves me so firmly, he would never dream of
infidelity to me; yet, just at present, he is unfaithful in thought
and does not know it. Poor dear, if he knew, how miserable he would
be, how he would hate himself! And Constance, too. This is a cruel
thing, but I think I can bear it; it must pass because they love me
so much. It rests with me; I must be very wise. They are as
sleep-walkers; I must lead them from danger, patiently, tenderly. I
think I can keep calm.
_June 21st._--It comes to me almost as a miracle what one can bear.
It seems that a certainty, however terrible, hurts less cruelly than
doubt. I suffered most at the dawning of my fears. Now that I know
the worst, I can strain my endurance to the requisite point.
Besides, it cannot last. The more I think of it, the more natural it
seems to me that they should thus forget themselves, for a while;
have I not myself been foolish over both? The fault, too, is mine; I
brought them together; they are not to blame.
Some day I shall laugh at all this; and it is really endurable, even
now. The thing is to brace oneself sufficiently, to the exact point.
It seems to me I keep saying the same thing over and over again; but
it is so necessary to keep it in mind.
_June 25th._--Gabriel is not well. I noticed it a day or two ago.
This afternoon he came to fetch Constance and me for a walk; it had
been so warm that we thought we would walk after tea. And instead of
walking, we stayed in the garden. Mrs. Rayner--thank mercy!--was out
driving with grandmamma and Uncle George.
We stayed in the garden, and idled through the hours; we each had a
book, but I doubt that we read a dozen pages between us. Nor did we
talk much; every now and then we fell to talking, but the pauses had
the best of it.
Gabriel looked very tired; I spread a rug out on the grass, and he
fell asleep with his head on my knees. My pretty Constance said to
me, "You will be tired, you have nothing to lean against," and she
brought her chair up behind me so that I might lean against her. She
is very sweet, my Constance. She put her head down next to mine, and
we spoke in whispers, mostly of him. She has no suspicion that she
loves him more than need be. But it came into my head then, looking
down at Gabriel's pale face, and remembering how he had said he
could not sleep of nights, that perhaps he knows he loves her.
I must watch them more closely. To-morrow I am going to the Cottage.
I fear my visits there a little. Jane is very fond of me; it is
difficult to hide from her that, just at present, I am not so happy
as I was. Gabriel and Constance would, of course, notice it also,
but they are not quite themselves.
_June 27th._--I think I feel as men must who die of thirst adrift in
mid-ocean. There is nothing in creation I could not tell Gabriel and
Constance between them, yet I must now bear the burden of a secret I
can share with neither. Some day, of course, we shall speak of it
and laugh. Perhaps not. My only fear now is that perhaps I might go
mad, that perhaps I am mad, that all this is a deception, the
outcome of my poor brain. I don't know what to think.
I found Gabriel on the Common just before I reached the Cottage. I
thought he was writing; he was lying at full length on the heather.
I stood still within a few yards of him, and presently he looked up,
his dear face flushed.
"Emilia!" he cried, "I want you more than ever I did! Sit here by
me."
And when I had sat down a little way from him, away from him just
because I so longed to sit next, he drew himself up to me and took
my glad hand.
I asked him what was amiss, saying I did not like his looks and
nervous ways.
"Where are your gay spirits?" said I; "I hardly know my child, he
has grown so sober."
"Yes," he replied. "I hardly know myself. I think I am not well. The
poem is dead,--not a throb of the pulse. Emilia! you must cure me!"
"Dear," said I, "how shall that be?"
"Take me away! I am weary of all things. The summer is fledged; he
will take wing before we realise it. You must marry me soon, very
soon."
And I promised that I would,--on the 15th of July, as we presently
decided.
Surely, if I were not mad, I should be very joyful. I feel no joy,
only disbelief; I cannot believe, sore as I am with doubt and
sorrow, that in nineteen days all will be well, and I again full
mistress of that I fear to lose. Just at first, I was dizzy with
joy, and thought my misgivings had been very vain and foolish; but
then it occurred to me that Gabriel was perhaps impelled to this
sudden decision by the dawning consciousness of his infidelity, and
hoped--by marrying me at once--to check the further growth of his
fancy.
If this be so, he is wise; for that it is a passing fancy I am
certain. I should not marry him if I thought otherwise.
But it is very sad; I am so sorry for us all.
_June 30th._--It must be late; the chimes have just told three
quarters, it must be a quarter to three. I was in bed,--I am very
much troubled. I think I had better write a little, lest I lose my
self-possession; that would be fatal. Constance and I returned
to-day from London; we had been there to get my things. I took her
with me because I feared to leave her alone with Gabriel; it seemed
unwise. Besides, I could not leave them; I am indeed intolerably
jealous; I never leave them now for the fraction of a minute. I
cannot, it is too cruel pain; and I am grown such a coward, I cannot
bear it.
Yet it was foolish to take her with me; I might have foretold how it
would be. I saw very soon that she pined for him, perhaps as much as
I did. And I knew that he wandered to and fro at home, meeting her
thoughts with his. I brought her back as soon as I could. Gabriel
met us at the station; the engine shrieked, as I did in my heart. It
was a strange mingling of the Heaven of my life with the sordid
greyness of the world. I saw at once that there was a change; I had
parted them and taught them what each was worth to the other.
So now I know. It is well, perhaps, to have reached the end, the
limit of misery, to know that, come what may, I have suffered my
fill. And I was so happy. I cannot think to-night; I know not what
to do; I stare at my dead joy,--it is dead and cold, nothing can
wake it now. When I have stared a little longer, I must dig its
grave, bury it in the bare earth, in eternal darkness.
That is all I feel, the death of my joy; I cannot yet think of them
that killed it.
To-night in my despair I cannot tell whether I love or hate them;
love them for what they were, or hate them for what they are.
_July 2d._--The day is hot and heavy; it suits me very well.
Yesterday we were nearly all day together. I remember how it was
with me when my mother died; I had sooner bear it again than my pain
of every day. To be with them, watching the growth of their terrible
love, that is murdering me, and yet to stay on, fearing a worse
agony. Their eyes shall never meet; I shall stay and watch them, if
I die for it.
Only thirteen days more and he is mine, and I can bear him from her.
Yesterday I thought, Shall I give him to her? But I am not generous.
It may be wicked, it may be cruel, but I, too, am living. Why should
I break my heart that theirs may be whole? No; he chose me for his
wife, he will not take his word from me. I know he loves her better,
but he will forget that, I shall make him so happy, I shall spoil
him so! Oh, yes, he will forget. For a year, perhaps, he will be
unhappy; then all will be well.
It might be different if I did not know how happy I can make him.
_July 3d._--Let me write it down, all my infamy. I am possessed by a
new fear,--that Gabriel might prove honest. It is not true that
trouble chasteneth; there is no health left in me. If I clear all
the cobwebs away, I still can see the right. I can see this: that he
loves her better than me, and I remember our covenant.
I know that it is my duty to go to him and lay his freedom in his
hands; or, barring this, to await the truth from his own lips. Yet
now, when I am alone with him, I am possessed by this terrible new
fear, that he might be true to his own self and me. For to marry one
woman and love another is a shameful act indeed.
Let me look upon my love and ask myself whereof it is made. If I
seek to have this man, knowing his heart to be another's, if I
desire for him rather the silence of cowardice than the nobler
loyalty of truth, why, then, my love is not good love. It is not
love, but a most unholy passion, that places its desire above the
well-being of its object. And yet I can see the right.
Oh! how empty are these dreams, and how the devil in us, the man of
flesh, mocks the God-led spirit that dreamed them!
The blood of the heart is master. We shall never reach perfection.
_July 4th._--They have not met to-day. I was at the Cottage, and we
made merry as best we could. Gabriel laughed. But when I went into
the larder to fetch the bread for tea, I stayed and cried; for he
had laughed otherwise the first day I came.
Oh, what have we done, we two! We set up Truth as our God, believing
that we should right all the wrongs of the world by living clean of
heart and hand and tongue. Where are we now? Falsehood lies thick
upon us, blackening each word, each trifling action. Yes, I went and
cried in the larder, and when I got back to the kitchen Gabriel was
playing with the kittens, a very imp as of old. We laughed, both of
us.
But later, when I came upon him unawares, he sat with head bowed
low, and his white hands clasped on his knee. I closed the door
softly and went home. It rained a little.
I knew, I know that I am cruel, yet,--only one life,--and I love him
so! Only one life, and he loves her so. The road is dark; I cannot
find my way.
_July 6th._--I have been very sinful. I was worse yesterday, if can
be, than before; more blind, unjust, and selfish. Gabriel came to
supper; it had been a hot day, and in the evening we walked
together, we three.
We watched the colours fade from the sky and the blue night deepen;
the little stars came one by one. The wind rose, soft and cool, and
there we stood, we three, under broad Heaven. I fell back a little,
and they went on side by side, silent and still. Not a word, not a
sign, but I knew, I, what peace was upon them, soothing the turmoil
of their blood. There they stood against the sky,--how I had watched
them, how I knew them,--oh, my heart, how I loved them! And it came
to me suddenly how hatefully I had been loving them.
Two women passed us on the road; they spoke of their dead, and one
of them said, "It is God's will."
I stood still and laughed aloud, so that my dears turned, wondering.
But I have repeated it to myself ever since. The woman spoke the
truth. For, God or no God, there is a Might against which we cannot
stand, and woe be unto those that lift their little wills against
the will of Nature. When two love, they must belong to each other;
when one loves, Miserere.
I will wait a day or two, until I have learned my lesson well, until
I am strong; then I will do what must be done. But I must first be
strong, test my strength to the uttermost, and tell myself every
day, "She will be his; she will take the joy that shone into your
eyes; you will have nothing, nothing."
Then I must try to realise that thought and bear it nobly; for to
make a sacrifice and bear it ill is beneath contempt.
_July 9th._--How beautiful love is! Now that, one by one, I am
breaking the tendrils from the wall, and shall soon hold Love in my
hand, an emblem merely, clinging to nothing, I see all that is
divine in it. I myself am selfish, earth-smeared; yet by means of
this talisman I am to be heroic, even I, finding joy in the gift I
prepare for others through the tearing of my heart, the outpouring
of my own blood. It is a blessed madness. Sober, I could not.
To-day one week remains. Gabriel said to me just now, "In a week,
Emilia, we shall be gone."
"Yes, dear," said I; and I wondered at his strength, at his loyalty
to me.
How comes it, I wonder, that it took me so long to find the small
straight path. I must hasten now and be ready soon; he has suffered
all too long. And Constance is thin, her eyes hang heavily, she
helps me prepare my wedding clothes, and is gay, to hide what she
cannot. She often says:
"How slow you are! Hurry up, my solemn bride, or we shall never be
ready."
"Ready enough," say I.
To-day I went to Mrs. Rayner, and begged her to approach her
solicitor on the question of obtaining Constance's divorce. My
ignorance of these matters is absolute, yet surely this is possible.
Gabriel once led me to believe she could obtain her divorce without
difficulty.
"But a divorce is so scandalous," said Mrs. Rayner.
"Not so scandalous," I replied, "as what it may prevent."
I believe my words were entirely thrown away, for her blindness is
phenomenal. She is, besides, much too self-absorbed at present to
properly watch Constance; her horizon is obscured by Uncle George's
whiskers. It gives me, even in these days, a grim satisfaction to
see those two preparing millstones for each other's necks.
I shall write to Marianna, telling her to expect me in Florence
shortly. How calm I am! Have I learned my lesson so well? Or is this
calm mere self-deceit? When I have truly learned the lesson, realise
that what I am about to do separates me from both forever, surely I
shall not be alive to go to Florence.
_July 10th._--To-day Constance would not come to the Cottage with
me, although Jane Norton had most particularly wished it. I think
she avoids Gabriel,--it may be my fancy, or perhaps mere chance;
otherwise it still seems to me that she does not know she loves him.
She came up to me in the morning, to help me pack my papers; we
idled, we wandered restlessly about my disordered room. Suddenly she
came to me as I leaned over my strong-box, and, clasping me round
the shoulders, laid her head down on the back of my neck.
"Dear," she said, "do you remember your birthday at Florence, when I
helped you with your books?"