This useless, restless, shameless pen of mine is my ruin. Why do I never learn? Why did I not burn this book, days ago, to ashes? Even as I have sat writing these so few lines, the truth has darted out of its hiding-place. I can cheat myself no more.
God has marked me down to receive through my heart the sharpest, most venomous arrow of His cruelty. I am the chosen vessel of His wrath. I love Ruddington; and he is close at hand, while the light is dying out of heaven, and I am so cold and lonely. He has sped over land and sea, on fire with love: and the love is not for me.
The last of the red is gone from the sky. Twelve hours before to-morrow's dawn. Twelve hours of sleepless darkness. Twelve hours of solitary vigil to prepare me for meeting him to-morrow in the merry sunlight, and for draining my cup of bitterness to its black dregs.
I could almost laugh--a laugh as hard as iron, as bitter as a black frost. If there be saints in heaven I challenge them to look at me now. Come, good people, I pray you of your charity: a De Profundis, if you please!
Seven o'clock.
No need to wait for to-morrow. It is to be to-night. It is to be now.
I shall write this short page to steady my nerves, to rally my wits, to cool my blood.
Something is in the wind. Twenty minutes ago, when I told Susan that I should not need her again till dinner-time, she made pretence of tidying the room, as I was staring into the fire. She did not know that she was reflected in the glass.
I saw her stand stock still and gaze at my face with the gaze of one who gazes for the last time. She could not have gazed at me more desperately, if there had been a hangman waiting at the door to take one of us away. Suddenly her cheeks shone with a drench of tears. She covered her face with her hands, and stumbled through the doorway.
I was sick of scenes. And, with such an anguish as mine, I felt a contempt for Susan's mere ups and downs. So I pretended not to see or hear, and I didn't follow till ten minutes ago.