He was very shy, and hardly looked at her. "We are meeting under inauspicious circ.u.mstances, 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 pa.s.sion.

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 s.p.a.ce.

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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.s 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 gra.s.s, 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?"