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(Extracts from the diary of Dolores Webbe. Being notes and particulars of certain episodes in her life, written for a purpose, and intended to be read only by one whom they shall concern.)

* * * * * *

May, 1881.

When I was very young, and life meant no more for me than it might mean to a bird, a butterfly, a flower, anything that claimed existence and found the world beautiful, I used to try and write down my thoughts and impressions of all I saw and experienced.

The other day I found an old blotted, tattered MS. book which held those valuable records. Only that childhood's folly is so infinitely pathetic because of its ignorance that it is folly, I should have laughed over them. Instead of which I cried. For the child who wrote them looked back at me from a land of shadows, and something in her eyes spoke of tears yet unshed. They are falling now.

They said at home I was always precocious. I talked and thought beyond my years. I lived out the stories I read, and made my dolls active agents in the small domestic tragedies and incidents of my life. It may be so. One does not make acquaintance with oneself in a day or a year, or even many years. I think events shape our characters. I am sure they are not born in us. I had very intense feelings. I could not love or hate by measure. It was unfortunate for me, as events proved.

I think it was on my sixteenth birthday that I made the acquaintance of Cousin Cyril. Up to that time my life had been entirely spent at home, but the mild and somewhat enervating climate of Hampshire and my own rapid growth had thrown me into a delicate and somewhat morbid condition of health that alarmed my father.

He had some friends in Scotland, and he arranged with them that I should spend a couple of months in the bracing air of the Highlands. Those two months stand out in my life as the sign-post of Fate. For I met Cyril Grey, and I learnt to love him.

Ignorant, high strung, passionate, and romantic, it was little wonder that I endowed him with all the attributes of a girl's first hero. He was handsome, athletic, a good shot, a keen sportsman, and he chose to single me out for special attention. Attention of the kind so dear and novel to a very young girl. Attention that drew down the envy of the fast married women and sporting damsels composing the party at Calum Lodge.

I did not get on with any of those people. I wondered often if my father had any notion of the sort of people they were. Minds, morals, and manners were entirely at variance with any previous experience of my own, and but for Cyril's kindly sympathy and constant companionship, I should have fared badly. But he stood between me and them as interpreter and protector in one. Little wonder that my first attraction developed into a passionate adoration that left me helpless in his hands.

It was my nature to adore and worship. I was Juliet and Haidee and Francesca in feeling, tragic even in mimic griefs and joys, lifted heavenwards by praise or love, sustaining an equally downward flight when enthusiasm vanished. My pleasures were never practical. An element of imagination tinged them all. It was only natural, therefore, that this element should take my first love into its embrace and set him forth as godlike, heroic, sublime.

In those two months I had grown immensely. The keen air and constant exercise had developed my muscles and brought colour to my cheeks and strength to my limbs. I was out on moor or hillside or loch from morning till night, and Cyril Grey was almost always with me. How he excused himself to shooting or fishing parties I cannot tell, but though he set out with them he invariably escaped and managed to meet me.

Once, one memorable fateful day, we were overtaken by a Scotch mist that effectually blotted out all landmarks and kept us wandering hopelessly until night set in. We found ourselves at last near a shepherd's cot, tenanted by an old man and his wife, and they persuaded us to stay in that homely shelter till daybreak. Here it was that Cyril persuaded me to still further strengthen our love-troth by a secret marriage of that quaint, informal fashion made famous by Scotch law and Gretna Green.

It was such a romantic idea, it so suited my own inclination, it so bridged the coming ordeal of parting that I lent a ready ear to persuasion, and in presence of the homely old couple who had offered us hospitality we took each other for husband and wife. How proud and happy I was, how utterly indifferent to the cold looks and veiled innuendoes that greeted our return. What did I care for these women any longer. They might think what they pleased. Cyril was mine—mine only. So he had sworn, so I believed. No human being could part us now. We had vowed eternal love and fidelity to each other.

Oh! how happy I was. How rich and glorious was life. Days drifted on, golden weeks floated me to deeper joys, for Cyril came home with me to make a long deferred acquaintance with my father. Came home, and stayed, and still was lover and beloved of mine. Yet no one guessed, there was no hint of discovery, and while his lips still cautioned secrecy, they kissed me into dreams from which I neither cared nor wished to waken.

* * * * * *

When did these dreams first crystallise themselves into something of glory and strength, of restless longing and exaction? When did I awake, knowing I should sleep the sleep of peace and innocence no longer? Hard questions to answer. I was under a spell. In its first stage as yet, and kisses silenced the doubt on my lips, and a voice in my ear whispered, "Let me be your conscience and your counsellor. Love cannot wrong love."

* * * * * *

Is a girl's love more exacting than a woman's? Does she demand too much; weary with questioning, anger with doubts? He told me so sometimes, and I noted signs of change in him long before I could understand their reason or their portent.

Had I been wiser, more skilled in love's lore, I would have known that reticence is preferable to display of feeling; that when response is lacking enquiry only leads to irritation. But I knew nothing; I only loved. To me he was the dearest thing life held—I thought to be the same to him and—failed.

* * * * * *

Let me look back now on that awful time. Now that I am callous and hardened and can mock at love and turn with jest and jeer from those who would have me believe in it again. I cannot! My faith is killed. To me men are as enemies of the sex I own. Persecutors, deceivers, tyrants! It is no thanks to them I have won a footing in life.

When I faced desperation a curious struggle took place within my soul. Should I fling life away, crushed by treachery and shame as it had become, or should I brace myself to fight and conquest? I was young, I was inexperienced. My one talent was my voice. My one ambition that of acting on the real stage in real drama. That, however, was a subject for the future. A more pressing and terrible emergency had to be faced first, and, taking my courage in both hands, I set myself to face it.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Ferrers, of the Hall, was far too important a member of Society to do without town news and town journals. Her library was always liberally supplied with newspapers and novels and magazines. In the intervals of rehearsing for a concert which she and her friends were getting up I used to peruse those newspapers.

In one I found a strange advertisement. It was oddly worded, and at first I feared it would prove a hoax. I took note of the name and date of the journal, and sent for a copy, directing it to be forwarded to the Post Office. Cynthia was inquisitive. She would want to know why it had been sent to me.

I wrote to the sender of the advertisement, and in due time I received an answer. I had thrown myself on a woman's mercy and my inexperience promised to serve me better than any amount of worldly wisdom would have done. A refuge, a way of escape showed itself to me.

"What must be, shall be," I said to myself. And so keeping my secret buried in my heart I stole from the love and shelter of my childhood's home and went forth to meet the unknown future.

(Many torn and blotted and disfigured pages follow that last entry in my journal. They relate more to my feelings than to my story, and I have cast them aside. I have a purpose in writing these records, and I must try and confine myself to facts and keep an embittered personality out of them.)

* * * * * *

"Money is the root of all things evil," says the proverb. It is also the root of all things necessary to life. My equipment for independence consisted of fifty pounds in cash, a valuable diamond bangle, and a few simple articles of jewellery left by my mother and too insignificant for my sister's consideration. Not much of an equipment, yet it was destined to suffice. My first design was to avoid pursuit or discovery from those I had forsaken.

(How coldly I write that now; but what ache and agony of heart it cost me to appear the heartless thing I would have them believe me.)

I had left a letter saying I was going on the stage. I did not say when. I knew therefore that the first search would be among theatrical agents and managers. That would suit my purpose, for it would be many months before I would be able to seek such an engagement.

I reached London without hindrance, and then took the train to that little town in the West of England to which I had been directed. It was a long and wearisome journey, but I accomplished it. I rested that night at a little quiet inn, giving my name as Mrs. Dering (the name I had resolved to adopt for the stage later on).

By 10 o'clock the next morning I was at the address given me. The discovery that it was a lawyer's office somewhat disconcerted me. I walked past it, and debated the prudence of entering many times before in renewed desperation I did so.

I asked an elderly clerk for the name my letter bore. He laid down his spectacles, looked at me somewhat curiously, and requested me to take a chair. He then retired into an inner room, and was absent for some moments. On his return he informed me Mr. Malpas would see me. I followed him into a dingy room, furnished chiefly with deed boxes and papers. A thin white-haired man, with a shrewd, but not unkindly face, greeted me.

"Mrs. Dering?—the—ahem—the young lady with whom I have had this correspondence?" he questioned, taking up a letter in my handwriting that lay on his desk in company with many blue envelopes and red-taped packages. I gave nervous acquiescence.

"I must tell you," he went on, "that I am acting on behalf of a client in this matter. If it were my duty to express an opinion, I should say the whole affair is morally wrong, and is quite against my judgment. That, however, is your affair. Let me see how the case stands. Do we quite understand each other? 'A lady of means, good family, living a very lonely life, is desirous of adopting a child, to be brought up under her direction, and given to her sole care. A girl preferred. The younger the better. The mother must resign all claim to it from the moment it enters the charge of the lady. Further particulars on application.'"

My dry lips tried to form an assent, as he paused and looked at me, but no sound issued forth.

"To continue," he said. "This is your first letter, explaining your position, and betraying in every line complete ignorance of life and the world. Your face, my dear young lady, fully endorses the opinion I had formed of you from your letter."

"Needless to say, I had numerous other applications. Over a hundred lie there unanswered. But something in yours impressed me. It is, as I said before, a foolish business, but if it's folly can assist a helpless creature of your sex and misfortune, we may put wisdom aside for once."

He then referred to my other letters, and touched upon the particulars of my case with a delicacy for which I was grateful.

"It happens," he said, "that the very situation which to you is so painful lends itself to my client's purpose in a special manner.—'A young widow, left almost without resources, and desirous of going on the stage.'—I am quoting your letter, you see. Well, my client wishes for an interview with you. I am to take you there this evening. I suppose you have no objection?"

"None whatever," I said, calmly.

"You must expect to be astonished," he went on. "She is very eccentric, and, though rich and of good family, lives quite alone with the exception of servants. She can leave her money where and how she pleases, so there is every prospect of your child being provided for in the future."

"Wait," I said, "one moment. Supposing the—the child is not of the sex she desires, will that make any difference to this arrangement?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "I should imagine that would be a point for you to discuss with my client. By-the-bye, just a mere formality, do you happen to have a copy of your marriage certificate with you?"

I felt my face blanch. "No, I don't possess a copy."

"You should do so," he said, sternly. "A registrar or a clergyman always hands the certificate to one or other of the contracting parties. Could you procure it? Your marriage must be recent enough for you to remember, where it took place."

I shook my head. "There was no question of my producing such a document in our correspondence."

"True. But it would be more satisfactory. There may be future interests attaching to the legitimacy of your child. It is your duty to think of that."

I said nothing. I foresaw a web of difficulty weaving itself round innocent feet, but I hardened my heart. The present emergency was all that concerned me. To get out of it by some means or other I was determined.

How altered I was in the space of a few months from the dreamy romantic girl who had played Juliet to a false Romeo. How sadly, horribly altered!

Mr. Malpas talked on, but I felt sure that what he said had nothing to do with his client's instructions, and I took heart of grace once more.

I left his office after an hour's interview, having arranged to call back at 5 o'clock and drive to the house of his mysterious client.