I hadn't the heart to write last night,
that terrible record of Jonathan's upset me so. Poor dear! How he must have suffered,
whether it be true or only imagination. I wonder if there is any truth in it at
all. Did he get his brain fever, and then write all those terrible things, or
had he some cause for it all? I suppose I shall never know, for I dare not open
the subject to him. And yet that man we saw yesterday! He seemed quite certain
of him, poor fellow! I suppose it was the funeral upset him and sent his mind
back on some train of thought.
He believes it all himself. I remember how
on our wedding day he said "Unless some solemn duty come upon me to go back
to the bitter hours, asleep or awake, mad or sane . . ." There seems to be
through it all some thread of continuity. That fearful Count was coming to London.
If it should be, and he came to London, with its teeming millions . . . There
may be a solemn duty, and if it come we must not shrink from it. I shall be prepared.
I shall get my typewriter this very hour and begin transcribing. Then we shall
be ready for other eyes if required. And if it be wanted, then, perhaps, if I
am ready, poor Jonathan may not be upset, for I can speak for him and never let
him be troubled or worried with it at all. If ever Jonathan quite gets over the
nervousness he may want to tell me of it all, and I can ask him questions and
find out things, and see how I may comfort him.