“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.