This little episode in my narrative of events diverted my mind for the time from Oscar's strange conduct yesterday evening. But once up here by myself in my own room, I have been thinking of it, or dreaming of it (such horrid dreams—I cannot write them down!) almost incessantly from that time to this. When we meet again to-day—how will he look? what will he say?
He was right yesterday. I am cold to him; there is some change in me towards him, which I don't understand myself. My conscience accuses me, now I am alone—and yet, God knows, it is not my fault. Poor Oscar! Poor me! I have never longed to see him—since we met at this place—as I long now. He sometimes comes to breakfast. Will he come to breakfast to-day? Oh, how my eyes ache! and how obstinately the mist stops in the room! Suppose I close the window, and go back to bed again for a little while?
Nine o'clock.—The maid came in half an hour since, and woke me. She went to open the window as usual. I stopped her.
"Is the mist gone?" I asked.
The girl stared, "What mist, Miss?"
"Haven't you seen it?"
"No, Miss."
"What time did you get up?"
"At seven, Miss."
At seven I was still writing in my Journal, and the mist was still over everything in the room. Persons in the lower ranks of life are curiously unobservant of the aspects of Nature. I never (in the days of my blindness) got any information from servants or laborers about the views round Dimchurch. They seemed to have no eyes for anything beyond the range of the kitchen, or the ploughed field. I got out of bed, and took the maid myself to the window, and opened it.