If I thought that she was vicious, bad at heart, I would be certain I ought to tell. But with all her faults she is generous, kindly and honest. It’s her chance—the one chance that comes to all of us. Is it my business to take it from her, to interfere, with my flaming sword, and say, “No, this is not for you. You have committed the woman’s unpardonable sin. If you don’t feel the proper remorse it will be my place to punish you, to shut you out from the possibilities of redemption. Whatever you may think about it, I think that you belong in the corral with the goats and I’m going to do all in my power to keep you there”?
I can’t.
And so I go on, round and round like a squirrel in a cage. I wonder if the squirrel ever feels as I do.
They come in to see me and say I look ill. Roger is particularly solicitous, wants me to go south for a month with Mrs. Ashworth. I could no more leave this place, and the spectacle of his infatuation, than I could tell him what is making me hollow-eyed and wan.
One of the bitterest of my thoughts is that I know—an instinct tells me—he is really still fondest of me. I am and always will be the better woman for him, the one that in the storm and stress of a life’s companionship, is his true mate. His feeling for Lizzie is a temporary aberration. He has been bewitched—La Belle Dame Sans Merci has him in thrall. Some day he will wake from the dream—and then? He will find Lizzie beside him, La Belle Dame Sans Merci directing the domestic régime, tactfully accommodating herself to his moods, taking the place of the undistinguished wife of a distinguished husband.
Oh—why do I write like this! It’s low, contemptible, vile. I’m going to stop. I’m going to bow my head and say it’s done and give up.
I wrote that two days ago, pressed the blotter over it and said to myself, “The squirrel has had enough. It’s going to lie down in its cage.”
To-night—it’s past midnight and a big moon is shining on the back walls—I begin with a new pen on a fresh sheet to show how the squirrel didn’t stop. Poor ridiculous, demented squirrel!
There is a sort of grotesque humor about it, I can stand off and laugh at myself.
This afternoon the count came in to see me with news. His people have sent for him to go back to Rome.