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 truthful. he began again in a humble, pleading voice, which tore my heart.
“i know it seems presumption to ask so much. i am an insignificant nobody, and you might marry anyone you liked. in every sense of the word but one i am a wretched match for you, but love counts for something, and you will never find anyone to love you more. i’d give my very life to serve you, and i will give it, if you will trust yourself to me! my father was no older than i am when he became engaged, and he told me only the other day that he looked back on that hour as the beginning of his success. he would be glad to see me engaged also.”
“have you spoken about me to him, then, as well as to your mother?” i demanded testily. i felt so guilty about my own conduct that it was a relief to be able to find fault with someone else, and i worked myself up into quite a show of indignation. “you must have made very sure of my answer to be ready to discuss me in such a general fashion. it would have been more courteous to wait until you had my permission. you have placed us both in a most awkward position, for, as i said before, i could never marry you. it is quite impossible. i like you very much, but not in that way. let us be friends, and forget everything else. we were so happy as we were—it is such a pity to spoil it all like this.”
“spoil it!” he repeated blankly. he had grown quite white while i was speaking, and his eyes had a dazed, startled expression. “does it spoil things for you, una, to know that i love you? but you have known that for a long time—everyone in the house found it out, and you could not have helped seeing it, too. you say i have made too sure of you. forgive me, darling, but if i have done so it is only because i know you are too sweet and good to encourage a man when there was no hope. i am more sorry than i can say if i have annoyed you by speaking to my parents, but the mater naturally spoke to me when she saw how things were going, and i had to consult my father about ways and means. una, darling, you don’t mean it. you can’t mean to break my heart after leading me on all these weeks?”
“i never led you on!” i cried vainly. “i was only nice to you as i would have been to anyone else. i knew you liked me; but everyone who is kind and attentive does not want to marry one as a matter of course. it would be horrid to expect it. lorna is my friend, and you are her brother, so of course—”
he looked me full in the face and said slowly—
“it will be difficult to believe—but if you will tell me just once quite simply and plainly, i will take your word, una. don’t protest, please—tell me truthfully, once for all: did you, or did you not, know i loved you with all my heart?”
i wanted to say “no.” in a sense i could have said it truthfully enough, for i had no definite knowledge, but i remembered what lorna had told me about the heroine in the novel; i remembered mrs forbes’s wistful manner, and oh, a dozen little incidents too small to be written down, when wallace’s own manner had told the truth only too plainly. he was staring at me, poor boy, with his wan, miserable eyes, and i could not tell a lie. i began to cry in a feeble, helpless kind of way, and faltered out, “i—i thought you did, but i couldn’t be sure. you know i couldn’t be sure, and it was only for a little while! i am going home so soon that i didn’t think it could matter.”
he leant forward, leaning his head on his hands.
“shall i tell you how much it matters?” he asked huskily. “it matters just this, that you have spoilt my life! there was not a happier, more contented fellow living than i was—before you came. i loved my work, and loved my home. i intended to succeed in my profession, and the future was full of interest. i would not have changed places with any man on earth. now!” he held out his right hand and snapped his fingers expressively, “it is over; the zest is out of it all if you are not there. if i had met you anywhere else it might have been easier, but you have come right into the middle of my life, and if i would i shall not be able to forget you. every morning when i come down to breakfast i shall look across the table and imagine you sitting facing me; i shall see you wherever i go—like a ghost—in every room in the house, in everything i do. that is the price i have to pay for your amusement. you have made a fool of me, you whom i thought the type of everything that was true and womanly. you knew that i loved you, but it didn’t matter to you what i suffered. you were going home soon—you would not see it. it didn’t matter!”
“no, no, no!” i cried in agony. “it isn’t true. i am bad enough, but not a heartless monster. i will tell you the whole truth. i was miserable myself when i came here; ill and tired out, and sore because—because they didn’t care for me at home as much as i wanted. i always want people to like me. i did at school—lorna will tell you that i did; and when you were nice to me it cheered me up, and made me happy again. i never dreamt that it was serious until a little time ago—last week—and even then i did not think you could possibly want to marry me—you were too young—you had no home—”
“no, that is true. i am no match for miss sackville. i was a fool to forget it. thank you for reminding me,” he interrupted bitterly.
poor boy—oh, poor boy, he looked so miserable—it made me ache to see his white, changed face. he looked so handsome, too; so much more of a man than he had ever done before. i looked at him and wondered why it was that i could not care for him as he wished. had i been too hasty in deciding that it was impossible? he wanted me, and no one else did; and it would be nice to be engaged and have someone to love me best of all. perhaps i should grow to love him too; i always do like people who like me; and lorna would be so pleased. she would be my real sister, and could come and stay with me in my own home. i was so upset and miserable, so stung by wallace’s taunt about his poverty, that i was just in the mind to be reckless. his hand lay limply by his side, and in a sudden gush of tenderness and pity i slid my arm beneath it and said softly, “don’t be cross with me! i never thought for one moment if you were poor or rich. that doesn’t matter a bit. if i have made you miserable, i am miserable too. if you want me to be engaged to you—i will, and i’ll try to like you. please, please do not look like that! if i promise it will be all right, and you will forgive me for being so thoughtless, won’t you, wallace?”
he turned his head and stared at me steadily. the anger died out of his face, but he looked dreadfully sad.
“poor una,” he said, “how little you understand! do you think i am such a cad as to accept such an offer as that? i love you and want you to be happy, not miserable as you would certainly be if you were engaged to a man you had to ‘try to like.’ thank you for the offer all the same. it will comfort me a little to remember that at any rate you felt kindly towards me. it is no use saying any more. my dream is over, and i shall have to bear the awakening as well as i can. a fellow cannot expect to have everything his own way. i don’t want to whine. shall we go back to the house?”
“in a minute—one minute—only tell me first that you forgive me, and if there is nothing at all that i can do to help you, and show how wretchedly, wretchedly sorry i am!”
“forgive you?” he repeated sadly. “i love you, una. i can forgive you, i expect, a good deal more easily than you will forgive yourself. yes, there is something you can do—if you ever discover that another poor fellow is in love with you—and you are the sort of girl whom men will love—remember me and spare him this experience. don’t go on being ‘nice’ to him. that kind of niceness is the worst form of cruelty.”
i hung my head and could not answer. to think that “that boy,” as i had contemptuously called him, should have behaved in such a manly, generous fashion! i felt utterly ashamed and despicable. it was he who is a thousand times too good for me!
