It is ten days since I wrote anything in this diary, and to-night, when I opened it in my misery, hoping to find some comfort in writing down my thoughts, the first thing that met my eyes were those dreadful words, “I am going to enjoy myself, and I don’t care what happens.” Enjoy myself, indeed! I have never been so miserable in my life. I never knew before what misery meant, even on that awful night of the fire, when we didn’t know whether Vere would live or die. Troubles with which one has nothing to do, which come, as it were, straight from God, can never make one feel like this. There is no remorse in them, and no guilt, and no burning, intolerable shame.

What would Miss Bruce think of her pupil now? What would father think? What would Rachel—“the best woman in the world”—think of me to-night?

I am going to make myself write it all down, and then, if I ever try to gloss it over to myself or others in the future, this written account will be here to give me the lie. Here it is, then, bold and plain—

“I have broken a man’s heart for the sake of a little fun and excitement for myself, and as a sop to my wounded vanity!”

It makes me shiver to read the words, for I did not realise the full meanness of what I was doing until the end came, and I woke with a shock to see myself as I really am. All these last ten days I have been acting a part to myself as well as to others, pretending to be unconscious of danger, but I knew—oh, I knew perfectly well! I think a girl must always know when a man loves her. I knew it by the tone of Wallace’s voice, by the light in his eyes, by the change which came over his looks and manner the moment I appeared. It was like a game, a horrible new game which fascinated me against my will, and I could not bear to end it. Every night when I said my prayers I determined to turn over a new leaf next day, but when the next day came I put on my prettiest clothes and did my hair the way he liked it best, and sang his favourite songs, and was all smiles and sweetness. Oh, what a Pharisee I am! In this very book I have denounced Vere for her flirtations and greed of admiration, and then I have succumbed to the very first temptation, without so much as a struggle. I shall never, never be able to hold up my head again. I feel too contemptible to live.

Last night things came to a crisis. Wallace and Lorna and I went to a party given by some intimate family friends. Wallace had asked me in the morning what colour I was going to wear, and just before dinner he came into the drawing-room and presented me with a spray of the most lovely pink roses. I think he expected to find me alone, but the whole family was assembled, and it was most embarrassing to see how seriously they took it. At home we have loads of flowers in the conservatories, but sometimes one of Vere’s admirers sends her a lot of early violets, or lilies of the valley, great huge boxes which must cost a small fortune, but no one thinks anything of it, or pays any attention beyond a casual remark. Here, however, it was different.

“Roses!” ejaculated Lorna, in a tone of awe-stricken astonishment.

Midas whistled softly, and Mrs Forbes looked first at Wallace and then at me—in a wistful, anxious kind of way, which made me feel inclined to run home on the spot. I determined to make some excuse and depart suddenly some day soon, while Wallace was out on his rounds, but it was too late. I was not allowed to escape so easily as that.

During the evening Wallace took me into the conservatory to see the flowers, and it was not my fault that everyone went out and left us alone. I tried to be cold and chilling, but that only made him anxious to discover what was wrong.

“It is my fault! I know quite well it is my fault,” he cried, bending over me, his face so drawn and puckered with anxiety that he looked quite old. “I am a stupid, blundering fellow, and you have been an angel to be so sweet and forbearing. I am not fit to come near you, but I would rather cut off my right hand than hurt you in any way. You know that, don’t you, Una?”

He had never called me Una before, and he looked so different from the calm, complacent youth I had known a few weeks before—so much older and more formidable, that it was difficult to believe it could be the same person. I was frightened, but tried hard to appear cool and self-possessed.

“I am not vexed at all. On the contrary, I am enjoying myself very much. The flowers are lovely. I always—”

It was no use. He seized my hand, and cried pleadingly—

“Don’t put me off, Una; don’t trifle with me. It’s too serious for that. You are cold to me to-night, and it has come to this, that I cannot live when you are not kind. What has changed you since this afternoon? Were you vexed with me for bringing you those roses?”

“Not in the least, so far as I am concerned; but your people seemed astonished. It made me feel a little awkward.”

He looked at once relieved and puzzled. “But they know!” he cried. “They know quite well. They would not be astonished at my giving you anything. Has Lorna never told you that she knows?”

“I really fail to understand what there is to know,” I said, sitting up very straight and stiff, looking as haughty and unapproachable as I possibly could. It was coming very close. I knew it, though I never had the experience before, and I would have given anything in the world to escape. Oh, how can girls like to have proposals from men whom they don’t mean to accept? How can they bring themselves to boast of them as if they were a triumph and a pride? I never felt so humiliated in my life as I did when I sat there and listened to Wallace’s wild words.

“What is there to know? Only that I love you with all my heart and strength—that I have loved you ever since the moment I first saw your sweet face. You did not seem like a stranger, for I had been waiting for you all my life. Oh, Una, these few weeks have been like a dream of happiness. I never knew what it was to live before. You are so—”

I haven’t the heart to repeat all the praises the poor fellow lavished upon me while I sat listening in an agony of shame, feeling more and more miserable every moment, as I realised that, in spite of his agitation, he was by no means despondent as to the result of his wooing. He seemed more anxious to assure me of his devotion than to question me about mine, as if he imagined that my coldness was caused by pique or jealousy. I drew away my hands, and tried to stop him by vague murmurs of dissent, but it was no use, he only became more eager and determined.

“We all love you, Una. My mother thinks you the most charming girl she has ever met. She was speaking of you to me only last night; she feels naturally a little sad, poor mother! to know that she is no longer the first consideration to her boy, but she quite understands. And the pater, too—he is in love with you himself. Who could help it, darling?”

“Oh, stop, stop! I can’t bear it. You must not talk like that,” I cried desperately. “You are taking everything for granted, and it is impossible, quite impossible. I don’t want to marry anyone. I’m too young. I must wait for years before I can even think of such a thing.”

He looked actually relieved, instead of disappointed, as my words evidently removed one big difficulty from his path.

“I couldn’t ask you to marry me yet, dearest. I have my way to make, and could not provide a home that would be worthy of you for some years to come; but as you say, we are both young, and can afford to wait; and oh, Una, I could work like ten men with such a prospect to inspire me. I will get on for your sake; it is in me, I know it is—I shall succeed!”

“I hope you may, I’m sure,” I said, nearly crying with agitation and misery. “But you must not think of me. I have nothing to do with it. I like you very much, but I couldn’t marry you now or ever—I never thought of such a thing—it’s quite impossible. You must, please, please, never speak of it again!”

Even then he wouldn’t understand, but preferred to think that I was shy, nervous, coy—anything rather than simply and absolutely trut............