January 21
This afternoon, at four, I was married to Dr. William Denton, in the room next door to Father's. They let me see him right afterwards; and he put his dear thin white hand on my forehead and smiled.
William has moved over to the house to be near Father, and after the grave congratulations of our few friends, we were alone together in the quiet house. Married. And as far apart as Pole from Pole. Diary, you who have guarded my girlhood so jealously, it is Good-by now. I have come to the end of the chapter. And there will be nothing in my future life that I shall want to record. There is only this:
Uncle John brought me today a letter. From Richard Warren. I opened it ten minutes ago, alone in my room. It was a short letter. It asked if he might come to me; it said that he had loved me all these months; it was signed, "Your Lover, Richard Warren."
It came too late, dear Diary. I will lay it among your pages, with my dreams and my hopes and my sorrow.
Good-by. With a very steady hand, I, by some mysterious alchemy of the Law and the Church, Mrs. William Denton, write this last word on your pages.
CHAPTER VIII
The last word had been written in my Diary. Wearily, I stood erect and brushed the loosened hair from my eyes. The house was very still; in all my life I had never been so utterly alone. I turned from my desk, and, as I did so, caught a glimpse of my face in the wall-mirror. That was not I—that white-faced girl, with the frightened eyes and shaken mouth.
"Mavis...."