“Richard was not sorry to lose me.  He only loves boys and men.  Something tells me I shall never see Raynham again.  He was dressed in blue.  He said Good-bye, Clare, and kissed me on the cheek.  Richard never kisses me on the mouth.  He did not know I went to his bed and kissed him while he was asleep.  He sleeps with one arm under his head, and the other out on the bed.  I moved away a bit of his hair that was over his eyes.  I wanted to cut it.  I have one piece.  I do not let anybody see I am unhappy, not even mama.  She says I want iron.  I am sure I do not.  I like to write my name.  Clare Doria Forey.  Richard’s is Richard Doria Feverel.”

His breast rose convulsively.  Clare Doria Forey!  He knew the music of that name.  He had heard it somewhere.  It sounded faint and mellow now behind the hills of death.

He could not read for tears.  It was midnight.  The hour seemed to belong to her.  The awful stillness and the darkness were Clare’s.  Clare’s voice clear and cold from the grave possessed it.

Painfully, with blinded eyes, he looked over the breathless pages.  She spoke of his marriage, and her finding the ring.

“I knew it was his.  I knew he was going to be married that morning.  I saw him stand by the altar when they laughed at breakfast.  His wife must be so beautiful!  Richard’s wife!  Perhaps he will love me better now he is married.  Mama says they must be separated.  That is shameful.  If I can help him I will.  I pray so that he may be happy.  I hope God hears poor sinners’ prayers.  I am very sinful.  Nobody knows it as I do.  They say I am good, but I know.  When I look on the ground I am not looking after earthworms, as he said.  Oh, do forgive me, God!”

Then she spoke of her own marriage, and that it was her duty to obey her mother.  A blank in the Diary ensued.

“I have seen Richard.  Richard despises me,” was the next entry.

But now as he read his eyes were fixed, and the delicate feminine handwriting like a black thread drew on his soul to one terrible conclusion.

“I cannot live.  Richard despises me.  I cannot bear the touch of my fingers or the sight of my face.  Oh!  I understand him now.  He should not have kissed me so that last time.  I wished to die while his mouth was on mine.”

Further:  “I have no escape.  Richard said he would die rather than endure it.  I know he would.  Why should I be afraid to do what he would do?  I think if my husband whipped me I could bear it better.  He is so kind, and tries to make me cheerful.  He will soon be very unhappy.  I pray to God half the night.  I seem to be losing sight of my God the more I pray.”

Richard laid the book open on the table.  Phantom surges seemed to be mounting and travelling for his brain.  Had Clare taken his wild words in earnest?  Did she lie there dead—­he shrouded the thought.

He wrapped the thoughts in shrouds, but he was again reading.