The Diary opened thus:
"Here am I in London. I don't know whether to be frightened or glad.
Luigi is very kind, but he did not tell me he would bring me to such
miserable lodgings as this. Would it not have been better had we never
met? I should have known that a teacher cannot be rich. Yet I _do_
think him handsome, and he makes love so meltingly that I would rather
live in a garret than not have married him. No letter from grandmamma.
She is very unkind. Mamma would not have treated me so had she been
alive. But what is an orphan to expect but unkindness?"
A few days later: "To-day I heard from Miss Cowley" (this was the
schoolmistress, as I knew from reference in the grandmother's letters).
"She says I have acted wickedly and have forfeited all happiness in
this world by marrying a beggarly Italian teacher. How my eyes flashed
when I read '_beggarly Italian teacher_!' The cold-hearted thing would
have cried with fear had she seen me. Luigi is out all day and he comes
in tired, and to-night I thought he received my kiss coldly. But it
must be my fancy. Oh, what a fancy I have! I think I shall go mad some
of these days."
The chronicle continued much in this strain through many entries. It
recorded from time to time a letter from her grandmother inclosing
five pounds, but repeating her assurance that she would have nothing
more to do with her. Then the tone of the diarist grew more querulous;
though her love for her husband deepened, so it seemed, in proportion
as his fell off.
"How can I help being jealous?" she wrote in one entry; "he is all
day long away from me teaching other girls, any one of whom he may
admire far above me and secretly love. When I told him this he seemed
to shrink away from my look; and indeed it was passionate enough; and
he cried out, half in Italian and half in English, 'God of mine! you
will go mad if you do not keep that devil of a spirit of yours down!' I
threw myself on his neck, and asked him never, never to cease to love
me. His beautiful eye melted, and he fondled me with his exquisite
grace. So I go to bed happy."
If her husband earned money she seemed to benefit little from it; for
some of her records ran, that she had to sit in the dark till he
came home, for there was no candle in the house, she had no money to
buy one, and the stingy landlady did not offer to lend her a lamp.
"To-day I dined on bread-and-cheese and some of the potatoes left
from yesterday, fried. If grandmamma knew this she would send me some
money. But I'll not write to her about it. No, she shall think I am
flourishing; and if I were dying with hunger I would just wish her to
think I had plenty to eat."
Up to a certain entry she continued writing of her husband in warm
terms. She avowed her belief that she must be somewhat crazy to find
him so fascinating. "Sometimes I think him more so than at other
times," she wrote; but added, "if I am to regain my reason at the
sacrifice of my love I would rather be mad." There was a good deal of
pungent writing in these entries. I could find nothing to illustrate
the slightest mental derangement. But her language was curiously
characteristic, and the exhibition of a nature made up of warm and
sudden passions, impulsive and generous, but vengeful and arbitrary
too, was absolutely complete.
Before long her entries grew somewhat incoherent. She is racked with
jealousy. She is certain that her husband has ceased to love her. "I
have been married now six months," she says; "how dare I humour such
misgivings? But what is it that tells me of Luigi's indifference? Not
my bodily eyes, for his behaviour is not altered. The spirit sees
farther than the reason. If I loved him with my _mind_ I should not
have these presentiments; but I love him with my _soul_. It is my soul
that is jealous; and the soul is endowed with the vision of immortality
and can make the future present.
"To-day is my birthday. I am twenty-two years old. It has rained
steadily since the morning. I watched the muddy water in the gutter
boiling round the grating near the lamp-post until I fell asleep. A
cheerful birthday! There was a little piece of boiled beef for dinner,
hard as my shoe, and the potatoes were not cooked. Yet when Luigi
comes home, he never asks me if I am hungry. Does he care? He would if
he knew. But how should he know? I I am always pale, so that he sees
nothing unusual in my white face. I sometimes think he is afraid of me.
He said last night, 'Your eyes flash like a madwoman's.' I answered,
'It is with love!'"
There were no records of any hours of pleasure. Sometimes she
chronicled a short walk. The place of her abode was not named; but I
judged from some references to the locality that they must have lodged
in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square. The landlady was a German,
and the diarist complained of the atmosphere of the house having been
made all day long nauseating and tepid with the smell of cooking.
"I asked Luigi before he left for Hammersmith to take me away from this
dirty house. But he shrugged his shoulders and said he was too poor to
move. I told him that the bad smell of the cooking made me sick, and
that the landlady entertained foreigners, who came tramping in at all
hours of the day, jabbering and singing like savages, and poisoning
the place with the rank fumes of tobacco. 'You should write to your
grandmother to send you some money,' said he, 'and then we will seek
better apartments.' I told him I would not write to grandmamma again
after her last letter, no, not if I were dying. 'Then I am too poor to
help you,' he said, stroking his moustache and humming a tune, with
an air of such cruel indifference that my eyes filled with tears,
though my breast heaved with a passion I could not keep down. 'We
have been married a little more than six months,' I said, 'and you
are already tired of me.' 'And you of me,' said he. 'It is false!' I
cried, in a rage; 'but I suppose you want an excuse for your increasing
indifference, and would tell a lie rather than not have one.' 'You did
not bring me any money,' he replied, 'and yet you are always grumbling
at our poverty. Don't I work like a slave for what I get? 'Tis a pity
you are not more educated, for you might go out as a governess, and
together we could earn a competence.' 'I did not marry to become a
governess,' I said, 'and if you love me as you once professed, you
could not name such a scheme.' He made a gesture of impatience, and
uttered something in Italian. 'What do you say?' I exclaimed. He gave
a shrug and left the room. And this is what my dream of love has come
to! O how could I moralise if I were not the text! Patience? Yes, I
could be patient if I had something solid to hold. But can I be patient
holding sand, and watching the grains slipping through my fingers?
Oh! my weariness of heart! and my head aches so I can hardly see this
paper."
Here there was a leaf torn out. The next entry was dated exactly a
year after. The records now became rhapsodical. Strange dreams were
chronicled, and conversations which she had held in her sleep.
The first entry spoke of her delight with Elmore cottage. What followed
was full of brief references to the past, especially to the events of
the year she had omitted to record. Yet brief as they were I could
gather the story.
Her husband had deserted her, possibly on the very date of the last
entry I have transcribed. By her allusions to her feelings, the shock
of his leaving her must have driven her almost mad. "I would thrust
him deep, deep into the _hell_ he has lighted in my heart against him;
but he comes before me in the night when I am numbed by sleep and am
powerless to thrust him off. O what a hate his face drives into me!"
"To-day I came across mamma's emerald ring. It reminded me of that
day of hunger when I had to pledge it. I paid the odious German her
rent, and went across to the little cook-shop at the corner and bought
some cold meat. Do I not remember how delicious it tasted! How did I
live through those days? I do not know. I sometimes look at my body
and wonder how it could have held together under the pressure of so
much utter, utter misery. It is bitter to have trusted nobly and to
be betrayed remorselessly. It is bitter to feel hunger and poverty
and the cruelties of the cold and selfish world. But when these
bitternesses are combined, must not the heart be made of steel not to
crack and burst?"
How long she remained in this state of destitution I could not gather.
But in one entry she recorded her amazement on receiving a letter
from her grandmother's solicitor, saying that the old lady had died
suddenly, intestate, and that, as the next of kin, she inherited the
property. In the same memorandum she referred to the number of names
she went over before she hit on one to assume. It was her evident fear
that her husband would claim her, should he hear of her whereabouts,
now that she had come into property. Under the pseudonym of Mrs.
Fraser, and hidden in the obscurity of Cliffegate, she believed herself
perfectly secure against detection. This at least is my inference, from
one or two passages in the diary; it is probably correct. Some entries
before that which I am about to transcribe, the following notice, cut
from a newspaper, was gummed:
"March 12, at Courtland Street, London, Luigi Forli, aged 35, of
gastric fever."
And beneath it she had written:
"Sent me by Mr. Fells in the letter that enclosed my quarter's money."
Up to a certain point, from this sentence her diary was singularly
rhapsodical. Then a more connected narrative began:
"Why did he send me that bouquet? 'Mr. Thorburn's compliments!' He
does not know what sort of a woman he sends his compliments to. How I
hate compliments! That vile Italian could compliment. Oh! _per Bacco!_
his speech was flowery and sugary as a wedding-cake. What came of it?
My eyes, my hair, my mouth, my skin, soon surfeited him--though he
ransacked heaven and earth for comparisons. If I chose a male friend
he should be blunt and sharp--with a hard tongue that could utter words
as ringing in their tones as sovereigns. Such a one would not send me
flowers.
"Mr. Thorburn called to-day. He must have courage, for he knows my
aversion to society. If I walk in my sleep let him thank me; he dared
not have come without this excuse. I felt my blood tingling in my
forehead and fingers when I looked in and saw that the _gentleman_, as
he had announced himself, was a stranger. But the time _rots_ so with
me--oh! that excellent word just hits the decay of the hours! they
drip, drip away, like sodden wood--I could not be displeased at his
intrusion. There is life in a new face, and I am beginning to think
Lucy too ugly to keep; now that is because she is the only person I
see, and her face comes looking in on me through my ugly thoughts
and takes their deformity. But he is nice-looking. He is thoroughly
English. Oh what a charm there is in a true English face! It is so
manly, so genial, so sterling and courageous!--the very opposite to
those yellow Italian visages with their red-black eyes and lollipop
smirks. I am not sure that I couldn't like this man. He invites
confidence, somehow. And there is a big and ponderous ghost called
Solitude, that drives me towards him. His eye meets mine fearlessly.
He thinks me beautiful. If he were to see me in a passion, with my
hair loose and my eyes on fire, would he shrink like my valiant little
southerner?
"I rated Mr. Thorburn to-day for watching me. I must like him, to have
spoken so smartly. If I could not help meeting a man whom I disliked,
I would serve him as my husband served me, and would betray him with
such sweetness as would make him think me a witch. I have the power.
I think I must be mad at times. Such high thoughts take me that my
body will not hold my spirit, and some day I shall see it glide from
me and vanish, with just such a laugh as I give when I know I shall
not be heard, and when my mood is intoxicating. Let me own here, all
to myself, that Mr. Thorburn pleases me. He reminds me of the picture
of papa in grandmamma's locket. He must be greatly taken with me to
presume as he does. He is too much of a gentleman to force himself upon
me as he does if his courtesy did not fall before my beauty. If he
should fall in love with me--let him. Am I a celestial intelligence,
that I can control a man's heart, and bid it not love, if I choose it
should not love? His dream gives him a claim. If I was asleep at the
time then must that vision have been my soul which slipped from my
body and shone upon him from a cloud. It was possible, and I would have
told him this, but his smile can be ironical; and his nature is not yet
right for the reception of my beliefs. Why did he kiss the rose I flung
away? I can tell; but I will not write it down.
"He was more tender than he was yesterday. His love deepens, and gilds
his smile and fires his eye. When I touched his arm it trembled. He
makes me no more compliments. He relishes my bluntness, but would he
relish it if he knew the sorrow whence it sprang? Sorrow is a rich
soil; flowers grow in it sometimes; but more often grow roots that
prick, weeds that sting, blossoms whose perfume is poison. Shall I
encourage him? If I do, I will not have the heart to say him nay, for
he has brought a new light to my heart and a new hope to my life, and
my gratitude should make me generous.
"My husband came to me last night. He stood at the foot of the bed. His
face was as pale as the dim moon that shone over his shoulder through
the window. I thought he had come from the grave, his eyes were so
hollow and his hands and cheeks so dry. I clapped my hands and cried,
'Now I thank thee, Oh God! for he is dead, and his shadow has passed
from the world.' I awoke. I could not believe it a dream, and crept
to the door to see if he stood outside, and went to the window to see
if his shadow was on the flowers. All was bare and bleak and white in
the eye of that cruel moon, who looks into my brain and chills it with
her frosty glare. Then to bed again I went, and fell a dreaming of Mr.
Thorburn. How palpable are my dreams!"
The following entry was dated some days later:
"He is making me love him. He has an influence over me, and I find
myself listening to his words and cherishing them. He makes me calm.
Shall I forego the blessed peace he transfuses through my being? I
could love him: but memory will not let me go to him, and like a
wrinkled hag casts her long lean arms about me and holds me from him.
My heart is empty--there is room for love. My spirit hungers; shall I
not satisfy her cravings? I weary of this solitude. The air about me is
peopled with spiritual beings; I toss my arms, but they will not leave
me. They make my loneliness horrible. One in the night told me I should
be their queen if I would go with them. But where would they take me?
I prayed to the Blessed Virgin for help; but they would not go. Why
should they haunt me? I do not invoke them. But if I fix my eyes on any
part of the room a shape comes out, and I have to dash my hand to my
head and leap like a child to frighten it off."
From this point there was a blank. When she resumed her diary she was
at Elmore Court:
"How happy I am! The days go by me like a song. I am loved tenderly and
truly; and _my_ love grows deeper and deeper, like an onward-running
river. But the pain in my head increases, and now and then some of my
old horrors return. I stood watching Arthur for an hour last night. He
did not stir. His face was calm and happy, and my eyes took their fill
of its peace. He does not know I keep this record, and he shall not
know. O God! if he knew the past, would not his love fall from him like
a garment? But my memory grows weak; and it is well I preserve these
jottings, for I could not taste all the sweetness of the present if I
had not the past at hand to contrast it with.
"This afternoon I saw a hand that held a knife in the air. I trembled
and cowered. It slowly faded and I went on raking. When I met Mrs.
Williams I told her what I had seen. The way she looked at me pained
me. I saw she did not believe me, though she pretended she did. I do
not wish her to think me a liar. I made her promise not to tell Arthur.
I would not have him think me untruthful for all the treasures the sea
holds."
The character of many entries which followed was akin to this. Some of
them contained passages which would appear absurd and incredible in
print. Then came this record:
"The room swims and I feel sick--so sick that I wish to die. Arthur
went to London this morning, and I cried more bitterly than he will
ever know. He cannot guess what agony our separation causes me. It
must be a cruel necessity that takes him away. After he was gone, the
sunshine drew me into the garden, and I went beyond into the fields,
for my flowers give me no pleasure when he is absent. Before long a
man came towards me, and I saw it was Luigi Forli. I thought he was a
vision, and I tried to waive him away; but he drew near, and laid his
hand on my arm, and turned me into stone. The blood surged up from my
heart and made my ears echo with thunder. He talked, but I did not hear
him. Then he warmed, and cried out that though I was his wife, he would
not take me from Arthur. I said, 'You are dead.' He answered, 'No. I
announced my death to get a living.' And he said I must give him money;
he would keep my secret and go away. He named a large sum. He told
me he knew I could not give it to him all at once. I might pay it in
portions. He would remain at Cliffegate until it was paid. What was it
to him how I should get this money? I had married a rich man, and must
get the money under any pretext I could invent. If I failed he would
call on Arthur. I turned and looked at him, and he sprang a yard away
from me."
A line of writing that followed this was illegible; it broke off
suddenly. The pen seemed to have fallen from her hand, for there was a
smudge across the sheet. A single entry followed:
"He told me I was mad. I said, 'God be praised, for it gives me
courage.' I bade him have no fear. He watched me with glittering eyes;
his face was hard with avarice and pale with misgiving. I put my hand
in my pocket and said, 'When you receive this you should give me
peace.' He shrugged his shoulders, and said: 'I am poor; and since you
are my wife and have money it is fair you should help me to live.' I
pointed to the moon, and whilst he raised his eyes I stabbed him in the
back. He gave a leap in the air, and I jumped away, for I thought he
meant to spring on me. But he suddenly fell on his breast with a cry.
The dew fell like blood. I turned him over and saw he was dead. I took
him by the arm and pulled him under the hedge."
This ended the diary.