June 12.
Robert came. We talked over the whole matter. I asked him if there was anyone else in his life. He said no! That he had never loved anyone but me. Then—then, I put myself in his arms and said, “Robert, take me!” He said, “Little girl, are you sure you want to make the sacrifice?” I said, “Yes.” I gave myself willingly for pity’s sake, not for love, because I do not love him. Then our compact was sealed with a kiss. Our lips met, and soon I was all his.
How can I entrust this to you, my silent friend? How can I sully your white pages with a relation of my conduct. The world would call me bad if it knew. I should not be the highly respected Louise Montgomery, that I have always been, and all because I have chosen to bring happiness to one who was dying for love.
I wonder if I can go back to the old scenes and feel the same; feel that I am worthy to mingle with the old friends. Yet why should I feel thus? If anyone is wronged it is I. It must be the imaginings of a super-sensitive conscience, or the result of early training which makes me feel unworthy. I wonder what our Rector would say if he could look down into my heart and see; can it be possible that there are others in our set who are as guilty—I must not think it, much less write it. But after all, I do not regret. I have made a sacrifice for a worthy cause.