Two women passed us on the road; they spoke of their dead, and one of them said, “It is God’s will.”
I stood still and laughed aloud, so that my dears turned, wondering. But I have repeated it to myself ever since. The woman spoke the truth. For, God or no God, there is a Might against which we cannot stand, and woe be unto those that lift their little wills against the will of Nature. When two love, they must belong to each other; when one loves, Miserere.
I will wait a day or two, until I have learned my lesson well, until I am strong; then I will do what must be done. But I must first be strong, test my strength to the uttermost, and tell myself every day, “She will be his; she will take the joy that shone into your eyes; you will have nothing, nothing.”
Then I must try to realise that thought and bear it nobly; for to make a sacrifice and bear it ill is beneath contempt.
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.