No diary for two whole days. I have not
had the heart to write. Some sort of shadowy pall seems to be coming over our
happiness. No news from Jonathan, and Lucy seems to be growing weaker, whilst
her mother's hours are numbering to a close. I do not understand Lucy's fading
away as she is doing. She eats well and sleeps well, and enjoys the fresh air,
but all the time the roses in her cheeks are fading, and she gets weaker and more
languid day by day. At night I hear her gasping as if for air.
I keep the
key of our door always fastened to my wrist at night, but she gets up and walks
about the room, and sits at the open window. Last night I found her leaning out
when I woke up, and when I tried to wake her I could not.
She was in a faint.
When I managed to restore her, she was weak as water, and cried silently between
long, painful struggles for breath. When I asked her how she came to be at the
window she shook her head and turned away.
I trust her feeling ill may not
be from that unlucky prick of the safety-pin. I looked at her throat just now
as she lay asleep, and the tiny wounds seem not to have healed. They are still
open, and, if anything, larger than before, and the edges of them are faintly
white. They are like little white dots with red centres. Unless they heal within
a day or two, I shall insist on the doctor seeing about them.