My conscience is darker than ever, it is really oppressive. I went to
church in the morning. I prayed, I asked for strength and wisdom. But I
really don’t think I would have gone, had it not been that I wished to
meet Ethel Bassett, so that I might judge by her manner, as to the
impression I had made during the ball and after. I felt that if she were
pleasant to me, my conduct would not have been so bad.
At breakfast and on the way to church I could not raise a single jest
from Mumsie. I know it is only my conscience, that Mumsie is not cross
with me, does not dream anything of my doings. But oh, if I could only
read in black and white that she truly thinks, so that there would not
be the tiniest little bit of doubt about it.
What a relief it was after church to come upon Ethel Bassett and her
mother, and receive from each of them a cheery smile. I fairly fell upon
Ethel: I wanted to get her to myself and confide in her. And I did, I
told her that my conscience was troubling me. I poured out abuse upon
the legendary drunken footman, and dilated upon the awfulness of my
having drunk a glass of claret cup to which champagne had been added.
Ethel smiled, and dimpled her cheeks so prettily that I felt I could
have fallen on her neck and wept. At that moment I felt I could have
fallen at her feet. And when she remarked in her shy way, on my
mentioning my conscience: “But you know it is said we must not humour
our conscience too much,” I nearly wept.
In fact, when I rejoined Mumsie, I realized that her tardiness in
responding to my efforts at inspiring levity was the result of her being
temporarily out of sorts. For she was talking with Mrs. Bassett at a
great rate.
After our Sunday dinner (mid-day) I returned to my room and sat by the
window. I had much to think about. I realized my conscience troubled me
chiefly and more persistently as danger threatened. Danger removed, my
soul was less troubled. Moralizing so, I deemed I had mastered
philosophy, that I was philosophical and my self-esteem and confidence
increased. But for Charlie Lien I had a real detestation and repugnance.
He was an utter beast. I must write him a letter refusing to meet him
to-morrow. How shall I word it?