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.