wake--it was only a few minutes since I
had been sitting at the window watching the day break over the sea, and
I had the curiosity to look out. I think that something must have told
me what it meant, for my heart sank even before I had any idea of what
was going on. There were two sailors from Lord Lumley's yacht in the
bay, carrying great hampers down from the house. I guessed it all in a
moment; he was going away.

I put on my dressing-gown and sat down in a low chair to watch. Through
a chink in the blind I could keep it lowered and still see quite
plainly. Presently I saw him appear in his yachting clothes, with
oilskins on his arm. Would he glance up at all, I wondered. Yes; at the
bend in the shrubbery he turned and looked for a full minute up at my
window. It was all I could do to keep from waving him to come back. How
pale he was, and how dejected his walk seemed. My eyes grew dim, and
there was a lump in my throat as he turned and walked away. Would it
have made any difference, I wonder, if he had known of my being there;
if he could have seen my poor, sad, tear-stained face? I think that it
would.

He has gone. I have seen the last of him. Am I glad or sorry, I wonder.
Glad that my task has become so much easier, or sorry for my own
unreasoning, selfish sake. Why should I be a hypocrite? These pages are
to be the mirror of my heart. To others my whole life is a lie. I write
here so that I may retain some faint knowledge of what truth really is.
I am sorry--desperately, foolishly sorry. I know that my cheeks are
leaden, and my heart is heavy. There is no light in the day; none of
that swift, keen struggling with myself which his presence always
imposed. He is gone, and I miss them; I should have laughed a few short
days ago to have believed this true. But it is true!

The first bell has gone, and I have drawn up my blind. The promise of
that blood-red sunrise has been fulfilled. I wish that he had waited
another day. I have an idea that there is going to be a storm. There is
a pale yellow light in the sky which I do not like, and, as far as one
can see, the waves are crested with white foam. It is an ugly sea and an
ugly sky. I wish that I were going with him, and that a storm might come
and we might die together. I would not mind his holding me in his arms
then. We would die like that, and death would be joy.

At breakfast I was able to take the news of his departure without making
any sign. I fancy that