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.