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June 3d, at evening.--I am weak, very weak. I never could carry either joy or trouble pent up in my heart.
It has seemed sometimes of late that I must be stifled by the thing that troubles me. Yet it is a trifling thing; nothing, I am sure, but a foolish, wicked fear, a little disease within myself. If mamma were here, I should just go and lay my head on her knees, and tell her everything. Then she would stroke my eyes and bid me see reason, and all would be well. O my little mother, O great and dear one, why did you leave your child?
I remembered just now that it used to help me once to write things down. That is what I must do. I will put it away from me; perhaps, too, it will look so silly in solemn ink that I shall laugh at it instead of screaming, as I did just now with my face on the pillow. And now that it comes to the point, I am ashamed of saying it. My love is making me mad; was there ever such a fool? I have been too happy, that is the whole truth--far too happy. Poor things, we carry grief well enough, cold grief; but hot joy cracks the frail vessel.
I have had a wonderful spring, with my two dearests; Constance sweeter than ever she was, even during her long illness giving some worth to the hours I might not spend with him, and he ever near. Then, when we three were together, we were happy, too. How silly of me to write "were"; they are still there, the summer days are long, I love them so well, they hold me so dear.
I have not written it. No matter, I feel better; I already begin to laugh at myself.
June 4th.--Their eyes met once at supper, only once, and they did not look at each other when they said good night. Which means most, to look or not to look? I cannot read clearly yet. And one can certainly twice ask the same person to pass the salt without its meaning anything. This is very ugly in me; my better self is filled with sorrow. Surely it must be in every one's power to quell the visions of the inmost eye when they rise sinfully, to close their ears against such whisperings as now I listen to.
I must fight this. Doubt is Love's murderer.
June 6th.--Constance should not have said that; there was no need. Why have I come upstairs and left them together? I am raving mad. And now to cry like a baby! I have cried every day for five days; this is monstrous! I think that if some one came and whipped me, I might feel better. This is some sickness, surely; relaxed nerves, quick blood. I shall write it all down carefully, calling on what sense I have left to be judge. Of course the judge will laugh. But first I will wash my face.
In the beginning, Constance said she was not sure she liked him. Let me remember his first words about her, the day after her arrival. I brought him into the drawing-room, and put his hand into hers, saying, "Here is your friend."
He was very shy, and hardly looked at her. "We are meeting under inauspicious circumstances, Mrs. Norris," said he. "We have heard so much about each other that I, at least, cannot reconcile the strangeness of your person with the intimate affection I have so long had for you in my thoughts."
Constance laughed.
"It
is funny, isn't it?" said she. "I know what you mean. I thought I knew you quite well, and you're not at all the sort of person I thought you were."
Gabriel did not stay long; I went with him to the door when he left, and he said:
"She is prettier than her photograph. I like her, Emilia." I was so glad.
Constance soon began to take an interest in him; he amused her.
"He is the queerest creature I ever saw," she said; "I can't set eyes on him without laughing; he is too comic."
Then she fell ill, poor love! They did not meet for a long time. And every day, when Gabriel came to fetch me for my walk, he only asked after her as he should have asked after my dearest friend. Of course, when she got better and he sat with us daily to help me to amuse her, they were thrown more together. It was a great joy to me to see how well they got on.
Then she began to tease him. They never talked very much, for all that. When I come to think of it, it was early last month that Constance began to say, "How is your friend this morning?" or "I haven't seen Gabriel for two days; I miss him; he makes me laugh." But I did not notice it then.
What? Is this all I have to say? It is too ridiculous! Of course she likes him; one cannot come near him without some love. Besides, she would like him for my sake. It is all so natural. He, too, did not often speak of her, does not often speak of her. It is natural, knowing how I love her, that he should feel at ease with my Constance. Nor could I have wished it to be otherwise.
Now let me think when I was first taken with this mad fit. It was last Thursday week; we were all three in the wood; it was one of my bad days, when I love him unto pain; it hurt me that he lagged behind, I wanted him near. And I twice saw Constance turn to look after him; I turned, too,--they smiled at each other. When he drew up, the path was wider; it was the first time, I think, that instead of coming to my side, or placing himself between us, he went round to Constance.
I noticed it, I felt it; there spread a quick pain through my whole being. It was silly, perhaps, but I walked round behind him, and slipped my hand through his arm.
"Are you tired, my Emilia?" he asked; but I answered:
"No, dear; I only wanted to take your arm."
And I said to myself, "I am very glad that he is mine, and not another woman's."
I never remember having understood hatred as I did at that moment; the possibility of his growing to love Constance had not yet occurred to me, only the thought that he might some day love another woman better than me. And it dawned upon me thus suddenly that I was jealous.
And now, what does the judge think? No evidence, of course not; they are both as true as gold, they both love me dearly, they would not dream of a flirtation,--pah! the word sickens me, it is not fit. And there am I in my folly leaving them together, whilst I give way to ugly doubts, and tear myself by an ugly passion.
I had better go down again. This doubt of them is hateful in me.
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?"
I stood up and took her to me.
"Yes," said I; "and I would that day were back again."
She gave a sigh, a little shiver. I felt it. But she said:
"Silly, big thing, how can you talk so? You are going to be so happy!"
"Why, yes," I replied; "that's true."
Poor little Constance! To-day I may say it, to-day she is still the poorer. Soon 'twill be poor Emilia.
July 11th.--To-day they met again. I am not schooled, I have not learned my lesson, and now I know that I shall never learn it. We were out together; again I let them walk ahead, and kept far behind them, saying to myself: "This is my life!" But it was unendurable. I rejoined them, and slipped in between them; I cannot yet look upon them side by side, neither actually nor in my imagination.
This does not mean that I shall not abide by my decision. Only three days more; I must hasten. Yet these are the last days I have to live; mingled with my pain is the last drop of joy I may taste upon this earth. And yet, having their love, I dare not think of death.
It dawned upon me to-day that Constance knows; she is pale, and much troubled. Poor little one.
July 12th.--To-morrow it must be. I meant to tell him to-night, but I could not.
It is half-past ten. Aunt Caroline has just been to my room, bless her! I thought she was in bed.
"Have you room for this in your trunk, Milly?" she said. "I should like you to hang it up in your room wherever you go."
It was a text she had painted for me. Written in gold among sprays of lilies-of-the-valley shone "God is Love." Poor soul! she ought to know.
Yes, to-morrow I shall tell him. I should have told him to-night. I stayed at the Cottage until late; after supper he brought me home. We were very silent. I kept on trying to begin, wondering how to say it, and he had something, no doubt, in his thoughts. I knew all the while that it was our last walk across the heath together; perhaps I wanted to keep it entirely my own. I walked a step or two behind him, so that my eyes might gaze their fill, and he did not seem to feel my watching. I wanted to print his form forever in my memory.
We were in sight of the blue gate; we had not spoken for half-a-mile, and had fallen very far apart. I turned suddenly giddy, and spread my hands towards him, crying:
"Gabriel! Gabriel!"
He was very kind to me; he turned back and put his arm about my waist, and we went on more slowly still, as silent as before. But, all the while, something within me said: "Do you know where you are? Do you know who holds you? In a few weeks, oh! in one hour, you would sell your soul for one of these seconds."
Yet I could not feel; it seems to me now that I did not feel.
Within a few yards of the blue door we stood still. I said:
"Come no further, Gabriel."
But I held his hand to my side; I knew that I might never do so again. We stood thus a few seconds, then I turned my face up suddenly, and he kissed me on the eyes. And then he left me.
Why do I write this? It is merely as a picture before me. I feel very little now; I am so cold.
And now he walks home across the heath. Good night, Gabriel. Why did he kiss my eyes? It was better the first time.
All past, all gone, all dead. I cannot see that I need live in this graveyard.
Perhaps I too shall die; who knows? _