I have seen Charlie Lien. I have had lunch with him. I am the most
wretched of girls—women. I am a woman. I have developed in the last ten
days.
But did a more inconsistent girl, woman or child ever live? I am
consistent only in my inconsistency. Battledore-shuttlecock. Hither and
thither I am bounced like a weak, feathery thing. One impulse throws me
against my conscience, and then I rebound. And then another whim,
inclination, impulse, instinct, or what-not, sends me off again.
Happiness can be found only in contentment! I am far from contented, I
am far from happy.
After all what does it matter? One dissolute person more or less in the
world cannot matter, and dear, old Dad will not live long, and Uncle and
Mumsie will not feel more than sorry—very sorry. Eternity is so very
hard to conceive of, forever and ever and ever. I have felt remorse,
just enough to understand or feel how its quintessence might well be
hell. And yet, there are so many worse than Elsie Travers. May I not
suffer as bravely as they?
This morning’s mail brought a letter from Charlie, so I lied to Mumsie
and came away,—same story, an invitation from Hannah Smart. With
Charlie I was happy, or shall I say excited. But as I walked home,
reaction set in. Charlie Lien is an evil influence, against which my
inherent sense of rightness revolts. Calm analysis tells me that social
ambition is passing from me. What is supplanting it? I do not know. But
I know what it is to which I cling—the real and tangible pride of
ancestry—which Uncle and Mr. Bang say is loyalty. Surely
ancestor-worship is a comprehensive virtue—better than social-climbing.
It is the rock to which I hold, the rock to which I shall continue to
cling.
I told Charlie we were going to Ottawa. He told me his mother was taking
Mabel to Norway House on Norway Lake for three weeks. At this
information I felt relieved.