She took it out, and sat with it in her hand, thinking. How was it she had never yet destroyed that case? The Greek cameo brooch it held—Dick Tanner's gift to her—how vividly she recalled her first evening alone at the farm, when she had dropped it into the old well, and had listened to the splash of it in the summer silence. She remembered thinking vaguely, and no doubt foolishly, that the cameo would drop more heavily and more certainly without the case, which was wood, though covered with leather, and she had therefore taken the brooch out, and had probably put back the case absently into her pocket. And thence it had found its way back among her things, how she did not know.
The little adventure had excited and unnerved her. It seemed somehow of evil omen that she should have come across that particular thing at this moment. Opening the diary with a rather trembling hand, she looked through it. She was not orderly or systematic enough to keep a diary regularly, and it only contained a few entries, at long intervals, relating mostly to her married life—and to the death of her child. She glanced through them with that strange sense of unreality—of standing already outside her life, of which she had spoken to Janet. There were some blank pages at the end of the book; and, in her restlessness, just to pass the time and to find some outlet for the storm of feeling within, she began to write, at first slowly, and then very rapidly.
"He must have got my letter by now. I sent it by Janet this morning. He wasn't there—but by now he must have got home—he is probably reading it at this moment. Whatever happens to me—I want just to say this—to write it down now, while I can—I shall never blame George, and I shall always love him—with all my heart, with all my soul. He has the right to say he can't trust me—I told him so in my letter this morning—that I am not fit to be his wife. He has the right—and very likely he will say it. The terrible thing is that I don't trust myself. If I look forward and ask myself—shall I always feel as I do now?—I can't honestly be sure. There is something in me that wants change—always something new—some fresh experience. I can't even imagine the time when I shouldn't love George. The mere thought of losing him is awful—unspeakable. But yet—I will write it down frankly!—nothing has ever lasted with me very long. It is like the farm. I used to love every minute of the day, every bit of the work, however dull and dirty it was; and now—I love it still—but I seem already—sometimes—to be looking forward to the day when I shall be tired of it.
"Why am I made like that? I don't know. But I can't feel that I am responsible.
"Perhaps if George forgives me, I shall be so happy that everything will change—my own character first of all. That is my hope. For though I suppose I am vain—though I like people to admire me and make much of me—I am not really in love with myself at all. If I were, I couldn't be in love with George—we are so different.
"I don't feel yet that I know him. Perhaps now I never shall. I often find myself wishing that he had something to confess to me. I would hardly let him—he should never humble himself to me. But to feel that I could forgive him something, and that he would owe me something—would be very sweet, very heavenly. I would make it so easy for him. Is he feeling like that towards me? 'Poor child—she was very young—and so miserable!'
"I mustn't write like this—it makes me cry. There is a beautiful yellow sunset outside, and the world seems very still. He must be here soon—or a messenger. Janet asked him not to wait.
"After all, I don't think I am so changeable. I have just been running myself down—but I don't really believe I could ever change—towards him. Oh, George!—George!—my George!—come to me!—don't give me up. George, darling, you could do anything with me you liked—don't despair of me! In the Gospel, it was the bad women who were forgiven because they loved 'much.' Now I understand why. Because love makes new. It is so terribly strong. It is either a poison—or life—immortal life. I have never been able to believe in the things Janet believes in. But I think I do now believe in immortality—in something within you that can't die—when once it has begun to live."
* * * * *
And then she laid her pencil down—and sat with the book on her knee—looking towards the gold and grey of the sky—the tears running quietly down her cheeks.