The sight of Irene hurts me. This morning the child came towards me, and I repulsed her. She is fateful to her mother, as, perhaps, she will be fateful to myself.
Doctor Ralph has just left me; there is no change for the better.
I observed a strange difference in him. This morning, on his arrival, he gave me his hand as usual cordially; the austere expression of his face generally assumed a look of benevolence on meeting me. This evening I gave him my hand, he did not grasp it. His glance seemed to me severe, interrogative. After having briefly informed me of the state of Catherine's health, he coldly left the room.
Can Catherine have betrayed herself in the wanderings of fever?
This thought is dreadful. Happily, there is near her no one but Irene's nurse and Doctor Ralph.
But what matter! what matter! This nurse is only a servant, and this doctor is but a stranger! And is she, so proud, because heretofore she had a right to be so, condemned henceforth to blush before these people!
If she has spoken, she is not aware of it, perhaps may never know it, but they know it, they, perhaps, have her secret and mine.
If with a word one could annihilate two persons at once, I believe I would utter that word.
THE GROVE, 17th May, 18—.
What is to be done, what will become of us, if Catherine so rapidly gets worse? Doctor Ralph will no longer take the sole responsibility, he will call in some consulting physicians, and then—