"Why did he send me that bouquet? 'Mr. Thorburn's compliments!' He does not know what sort of a woman he sends his compliments to. How I hate compliments! That vile Italian could compliment. Oh! per Bacco! his speech was flowery and sugary as a wedding-cake. What came of it? My eyes, my hair, my mouth, my skin, soon surfeited him—though he ransacked heaven and earth for comparisons. If I chose a male friend he should be blunt and sharp—with a hard tongue that could utter words as ringing in their tones as sovereigns. Such a one would not send me flowers.
"Mr. Thorburn called to-day. He must have courage, for he knows my aversion to society. If I walk in my sleep let him thank me; he dared not have come without this excuse. I felt my blood tingling in my forehead and fingers when I looked in and saw that the gentleman, as he had announced himself, was a stranger. But the time rots so with me—oh! that excellent word just hits the decay of the hours! they drip, drip away, like sodden wood—I could not be displeased at his intrusion. There is life in a new face, and I am beginning to think Lucy too ugly to keep; now that is because she is the only person I see, and her face comes looking in on me through my ugly thoughts and takes their deformity. But he is nice-looking. He is thoroughly English. Oh what a charm there is in a true English face! It is so manly, so genial, so sterling and courageous!—the very opposite to those yellow Italian visages with their red-black eyes and lollipop smirks. I am not sure that I couldn't like this man. He invites confidence, somehow. And there is a big and ponderous ghost called Solitude, that drives me towards him. His eye meets mine fearlessly. He thinks me beautiful. If he were to see me in a passion, with my hair loose and my eyes on fire, would he shrink like my valiant little southerner?
"I rated Mr. Thorburn to-day for watching me. I must like him, to have spoken so smartly. If I could not help meeting a man whom I disliked, I would serve him as my husband served me, and would betray him with such sweetness as would make him think me a witch. I have the power. I think I must be mad at times. Such high thoughts take me that my body will not hold my spirit, and some day I shall see it glide from me and vanish, with just such a laugh as I give when I know I shall not be heard, and when my mood is intoxicating. Let me own here, all to myself, that Mr. Thorburn pleases me. He reminds me of the picture of papa in grandmamma's locket. He must be greatly taken with me to presume as he does. He is too much of a gentleman to force himself upon me as he does if his courtesy did not fall before my beauty. If he should fall in love with me—let him. Am I a celestial intelligence, that I can control a man's heart, and bid it not love, if I choose it should not love? His dream gives him a claim. If I was asleep at the time then must that vision have been my soul which slipped from my body and shone upon him from a cloud. It was possible, and I would have told him this, but his smile can be ironical; and his nature is not yet right for the reception of my beliefs. Why did he kiss the rose I flung away? I can tell; but I will not write it down.
"He was more tender than he was yesterday. His love deepens, and gilds his smile and fires his eye. When I touched his arm it trembled. He makes me no more compliments. He relishes my bluntness, but would he relish it if he knew the sorrow whence it sprang? Sorrow is a rich soil; flowers grow in it sometimes; but more often grow roots that prick, weeds that sting, blossoms whose perfume is poison. Shall I encourage him? If I do, I will not have the heart to say him nay, for he has brought a new light to my heart and a new hope to my life, and my gratitude should make me generous.
"My husband came to me last night. He stood at the foot of the bed. His face was as pale as the dim moon that shone over his shoulder through the window. I thought he had come from the grave, his eyes were so hollow and his hands and cheeks so dry. I clapped my hands and cried, 'Now I thank thee, Oh God! for he is dead, and his shadow has passed from the world.' I awoke. I could not believe it a dream, and crept to the door to see if he stood outside, and went to the window to see if his shadow was on the flowers. All was bare and bleak and white in the eye of that cruel moon, who looks into my brain and chills it with her frosty glare. Then to bed again I went, and fell a dreaming of Mr. Thorburn. How palpable are my dreams!"
The following entry was dated some days later:
"He is making me love him. He has an influence over me, and I find myself listening to his words and cherishing them. He makes me calm. Shall I forego the blessed peace he transfuses through my being? I could love him: but memory will not let me go to him, and like a wrinkled hag casts her long lean arms about me and holds me from him. My heart is empty—there is room for love. My spirit hungers; shall I not satisfy her cravings? I weary of this solitude. The air about me is peopled with spiritual beings; I toss my arms, but they will not leave me. They make my loneliness horrible. One in the night told me I should be their queen if I would go with them. But where would they take me? I prayed to the Blessed Virgin for help; but they would not go. Why should they haunt me? I do not invoke them. But if I fix my eyes on any part of the room a shape comes out, and I have to dash my hand to my head and leap like a child to frighten it off."
From this point there was a blank. When she resumed her diary she was at Elmore Court:
"How happy I am! The days go by me like a song. I am loved tenderly and truly; and my love grows deeper and deeper, like an onward-running river. But the pain in my head increases, and now and then some of my old horrors return. I stood watching Arthur for an hour last night. He did not stir. His face was calm and happy, and my eyes took their fill of its peace. He does not know I keep this record, and he shall not know. O God! if he knew the past, would not his love fall from him like a garment? But my memory grows weak; and it is well I preserve these jottings, for I could not taste all the sweetness of the present if I had not the past at hand to contrast it with.