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: