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This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: Married for her Beauty or, A Bitter Atonement, an electronic edition
Author: Brame, Charlotte M., 1836-1884
Publisher: Millner and Company, Limited
Place published: London
Date: [189-?]
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Front cover of Clay's Married For Her
Beauty.Spine of Clay's Married For Her
Beauty.MARRIED FOR HER BEAUTY;OR, A BITTER ATONEMENTBY BERTHA M. CLAY.AUTHOR OF
'ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE,' 'LOVE WORKS WONDERS,' 'A WOMAN'S
TEMPTATION,' 'BEYOND PARDON,' & C.LONDON:MILNER AND COMPANY, LIMITED,PATERNOSTER ROW.MARRIED FOR HER BEAUTY;
OR,
A BITTER ATONEMENT.
CHAPTER I.
DIANE AND HER GUARDIAN. MISS BALFOUR! Miss Diane! your cousin is here! Miss Diane! There came no answer to the quick call, and a tall, elderly woman, with a kindly face, parted the tall lilac trees and looked into the garden.  The sun shone on the June roses; but the young face for which she was searching did not turn smiling to her from among the flowers. ' Miss Diane !' cried Mrs. Hopeton's voice.There was no answer.' Now Heaven bless that dear child!' said the woman. 'It would try the temper of an angel, if angels have any temper.  Where shall find I her? She may have gone wandering all through the woods. There is nothing for it but patience.'The sun was warm; its rays beat fiercely on her head. Taking off her apron she started for the woods. Through the garden and orchard, through the clover meadows; then came a green lane, with an old-fashioned stile, over which she climbed; then she stood in the fragrant shade of Rositer Wood.'Miss Diane!' she called again.This time another voice replied--a sweet voice, like the chime of a silver bell:'I am here, Mrs. Hopeton.''Where is here?' asked the woman.'Down in a nest of bluebells,' laughed the voice. 'Two steps farther and you will be on a level with the top of my head.'Mrs. Hopeton went the required two steps.There was a pretty dell where the bluebells and hyacinths grew in rich profusion.As Mrs. Hopeton looked down, the smile on her face deepened; it was a picture that would have gladdened my heart. A lovely girl sat among the bluebells: she seemed so much at home she might have been a flower herself. The face she raised was fair as a lily leaf, with a bloom like the hue of a rose.'Do you want me, Mrs. Hopeton ?' she said.  'I have been dreaming beautiful dreams. I shall be so sorry to leave the bluebells; they will not last much longer.''Oh! Miss Diane,' cried the woman, 'if you would but think a little less of such nonsense, and more of what lies before you.''What does lie before me ?' asked the girl.'Well, miss, at present your guardian, or whatever else you callhim, is waiting to see you.' The next moment the girl had sprung from her seat and stood with a deep flush on her face.'He is come, Mrs. Hopeton? I am so glad; what is he like?' 'Heaven help her!' thought the woman. Diane continued:'Tell me what he is like; I have been wondering about him. He is not old, I know. I imagine him tall and straight, with dark hair, and lips like my father's. Am I right? Tell me; is he like this?' No, Miss Diane, he is not like that; you must be thinking of some hero in a book. Mr. Severne looks stern, as though he had his own way in everything, and allowed no nonsense,' said Mrs. Hopeton.'Ah! he has a firm face,' said Diane, ' my fathers face was firm.''Your father was very different. I never saw any one like him.'
'We must go, Miss Diane, your cousin is waiting.''Do not call him my cousin,' said the girl; 'he was my father's second cousin; he is not related to me, he is my guardian.''Cousin or guardian, he is waiting, and he does not look like one to bear waiting patiently, Miss Diane.'The girl turned back. She kissed her hand to the flowers with the simple grace of a child.'Good-bye, pretty bluebells,' she said; 'perhaps you and I will never be so happy together again.'She walked toward the house, talking as she went.'What did he say, Mrs. Hopeton ? Did he seem sorry about my father? Did he wish to see me? Did he mention my going away with him? 'One question at a time, Miss Diane. I cannot describe him.''You do not like him; I can tell by the tone of your voice,' said the girl. And the woman blushed as though she was guilty of some crime.'You are always fancying things, Miss Diane, that do not exist.  I can't even tell myself whether I like him or not.''You have as many tones in your voice as there are in the organ at church,' said Diane.  'I can tell by the sound when you are speaking of any one, whether you care for them or not. You did not like my father; you do not like my guardian.'' Well, Miss Diane, it is useless to contradict you.' Then, as they entered the house, she gathered the great mass of golden hair in her hands.'Let me fasten this up before you go in.''No,' said Diane; 'it never has been fastened up, and I will not begin with it now.''Your guardian is in the best parlor,' said Mrs. Hopeton.The best parlor at the Upland Farm was a place to be treated with respect, being the only dull room in the house reserved for state occasions.  As Diane entered, with her quick perception, her sense of the fitness of things, she decided that the room and its occupant were well suited to each other.  She went forward with outstretched hands, her face crimson with blushes, her lips sweet with smiles. 'I am so glad to see you, Mr. Severne,' she said, simply. 'My father told me you were the only friend I had.'The person she addressed looked down awkwardly at her. He looked at the little hands that lay in his great brown ones.'I--I  did not know how old you were,' he said, confusedly; 'from your father's letter I thought you were a child.' Then he seemed to remember that this was not a cordial greeting, and grew more confused than ever. Diane raised her eyes to his face.'I am a child; Mrs. Hopeton says so, and a tiresome one, too.  Have you traveled far? she continued.'From my own house, Larchdale,' he replied, 'and that is in Devonshire.'You would like something to eat and drink,' she said, smilingly. He seemed to feel a little more at ease then.' It would be acceptable,' he said, with a frozen smile. 'I have not taken any food since I left home.' Diane hastened in search of refreshment.A girl,' he said to himself, 'with a face like a flower, and hair liken gold. Great Heaven! what will Hester say--what am I to do ?'Then she returned, and in a few minutes she had arranged a tempting tea-table. Dishes of ripe strawberries, raspberries lying in leaves, yellow cream, fresh butter, and white crisp bread. The sunshine lingered in her eyes and on her hair; he watched her as he bad never done any woman before. Then she poured out a cup of tea--he saw crimson roses, surrounded by beautiful grasses, arranged with the utmost skill. 'You must be like a sunbeam in the house,' he said, suddenly.  'The room seemed to brighten when you came in.''I am a very tiresome sunbeam,' she said.  'Mrs. Hopeton thinks so Mr. Severne, what are you going to do with me?' He looked up almost in alarm.'What am I going to do with you? he repeated.  'How--what do you mean?'Am I to go away with you,' she said, 'or am I to remain here?' He looked more confused than ever.'I hardly know,' he replied.  'It will take some time to arrange these matters. I thought you were a child, quite a child.'' Does it make so much difference that I am not ?' she asked.'Yes, it certainly does. Your father, in his letter, spoke of you always as the child, hoped I should take care of the child-be kind to the child. I fancied you were about seven or eight.''I am seventeen,' she replied, with great dignity.'Yes--well one cannot call you a child at that age.''If being ignorant and inexperienced, if wanting a home and some one to love makes a child, then I am one,' she said.'Heaven bless me!' cried the man, 'you talk very freely.'I must talk freely to you.  You are my only living friend; if you had found me a child of seven instead of a girl of seventeen, what should you have done with me?''I should have taken you to Larchdale at once,' he replied, 'where you could have lived with my sister and me.''Why not do that now?' she asked.'I must think about it; my sister, Hester Severne, has been mistress of Larchdale for many years now.''What has that to do with it?' interrupted Diane.'Why, she would like to have the training of a child, but she does not care about young girls; I think not; we never have young servants.''Is every one old at your house?' asked the girl, gravely.'Yes, what you would call old I my sister is grave and serious, she has always lived alone with me.  We will not decide upon anything to-day. I am tired with my journey, I should like to look round the farm; will you come with me?''Yes,' she replied.  'I think I know every leaf, every flower and shrub. I love Uplands, it has been my home for months.'' If you are going out, Miss Diane, do not forget your hat,' said Mrs. Hopeton. He turned eagerly to her.'What is your name?' he asked.'Diane,' she replied, gently. Then to himself he said:'What will Hester think of such a name, it is heathenish.' His wonder increased when be saw something made up of a black feather and black flowers. 'That is her hat,' he said to himself; what will Hester think of such a head-dress as that?' And for a few minutes he looked so grave that Diane, walking in silence by his side, wondered if he would ever volunteer to speak again.CHAPTER II.
BRUNO SEVERNE.WHAT does a man do when his senses are all ravished, his calm judgment lost, his powers of reasoning astray ?  As a rule he tries to collect himself and see what all this mischief means.  So did Bruno Severne.  In his methodical life no woman had ever come.  He had divided women into two classes-light, frivolous butterflies, abominations to all sensible men; and stern formalists, like his sister Hester ;he had no idea of any other species; he had not dreamed there was such a being in existence as Diane Balfour; woman, child, fairy, angel, all in one. She was no frivolous butterfly. She was no formalist. How could she be with that shower of golden hair, that sweet, low laugh?  She charmed his ears; she sent judgment, reason, the prejudices of life all flying.He listened to her with his head in a whirl.  There were times when his brain seemed to reel--Heaven and earth to meet--when the novelty of his sensations overpowered him, and he could have cried aloud.Diane, in her unconsciousness, walked on by his side talking after her own fashion--clothing her thoughts in elegant words-- her heart warming to him because he was her only living friend, the only kinsman of her dead father, thinking as she glanced at him that Mrs. Hopeton was right.  He was not pleasant to look at, but he was her only friend.  They came to the end of the garden, and he looked over the gate at the orchard.'Does the fruit ripen well?' he asked.'I should say so; we have plenty of it,' she replied.'It is a nice little farm,' he said, 'and well arranged, but there seems a great waste of land.''A great waste of land!' she repeated.  How?He pointed to the garden.'Look at those flowers!' he said. 'Good crops might be grown there.''Crop!' she repeated.  'Would you take away those lilies and roses to make room for barley and corn?'' Would I?  Yes. We use every inch of ground at Larchdale.' She raised her eyes to his face, and said in her low, sweet voice:  'Do you not know that flowers have their user'What use?' he asked, curtly.'To make the world beautiful, and to gladden the hearts and eyes of those who look upon them. Why, a rose is like a poem in itself.  One of our poets calls flowers the stars of the earth.''But that is all nonsense, Miss Balfour. The only thing that matters in this world is whether a thing pays or not.  Roses, poems, lilies, are all very well, but they do not pay.  Corn does, and well, too,' he added, as his heart was warmed by the memory of his bank-book.She looked at him with the sweet, serious gaze of a child, the wonder of a woman who for the first time hears what is novel to her.Nothing matters but what pays!' she repeated.  'I never heard such an idea as that before.  Why, the loveliest things in this world do not what you call pay at all, Mr. Severne.''What are they?' he asked.'There are so many, how can I name them?  The dew that falls at night, the stars that twinkle in the sky, the shadows that lie on the grass, the whisper of the wind in the shade of the woods, the first rosy flush of morning, the song of the birds-those are some of the loveliest things on earth, but they do not what you call pay. You could not make money out of them.''Then they are of little use; money is the grand lever of the world, and the value of everything is it's money's worth.'She drew back wondering, then said: ' But my father told me money was of little value, only to be cared for for the sake of what it could do. He told me truth, far fame, bravery, courage, genius, all those things were better than money.' Bruno Severne laughed.' He made a mistake; but then he was an artist, and they never understand things properly; they are as bad as poets.'' As bad as poets!' she repeated. 'Why, Mr. Severne, you and I must have lived in different worlds; I thought poets were half men and half gods, like Apollo, and--'She stopped abruptly. startled by the expression of his face.'What!' she asked breathlessly.'Nothing,' he replied.  'I was thinking of my sister Hester.''She pays, I suppose?' was the remark.'Indeed she does,' he replied; 'my sister Hester is worth her weight in gold--she is a fortune in herself.''Unlike my roses and lilies,' remarked Diane.'Quite unlike them,' he said. The perplexed face was raised to his, the serious eyes surveyed him calmly.'My father was very different to you,' she said.  'His face flushed.''Most probably, Miss Balfour; I am a farmer, not an artist.''Do all farmers believe only in what pays?' she asked.'All sensible men think alike, no matter what their calling maybe.' She was silent for a few minutes, then she continued:'You value what my father despised; you despise what he valued. No matter how poor we were he used to find money for flowers. He used to say to me: 'Love all that is beautiful, Diane; beauty is part of the religion of life,' and I have always done what he told me.''You love everything beautiful, then? he said.'Yes, how can I help it! Love of the beautiful is part of myself,' she replied. Almost involuntarily he thought of the face he saw reflected in the mirror at home--dark, grim, with heavy brows, shrewd, keen eyes, a face on which nature had written two words, 'business' and 'money;' then Bruno Severne sighed.They presented the strongest contrast ever seen; she, fair as a lily, graceful, with a poet's soul looking out of her eyes, youth's fairest bloom on her face, tall, slender, with a certain harmonious grace that reminded one of the sweetest music; he, with awkward figure, a shrewd, keen, worldly face, and eyes that had never seen either poetry or dreams; she, all grace; he, confused, awkward, and embarrassed, as half-bred men are. It was strange to see them together, it was stranger to know what brought them there.Diane Balfour was the only child of an artist who had begun life with high aspirations and ended it with disappointment. He had married young, while in France. He married a French girl, whose face was her only fortune, the daughter of an officer who died in Algiers--Diane de Lioncourt. He brought her to England, and although happy in his love and in his marriage, evil fortune seemed to pursue him. His health failed. He had genius, and if he had been strong would have left his mark on the age; the merits of Lawrence Balfour's pictures were not appreciated until after his death. He lived in France until after the birth of his daughter Diane, so named after her mother. Then they came to England and for six years remained in London. Then his wife died; and he betook himself to a wandering life. In his travels his daughter was his sole companion. Together they would wander through the cities of Italy and Spain, through Switzerland and the Rhine land, the artist teaching his daughter, imbuing her with his love of beauty and art.Lawrence Balfour preserved his daughter from all evil, from all knowledge of harm; she had no friends except the artists who visited her father's studio, and who respected the child as they would have done the presence of an angel.  She not only grew up retaining all her innocence, but she learned nothing of the world.  They had a reverent way of talking, these artists, and next to religion, taught her to love art.Of the shows, tricks, frauds, treachery, the deceit men and women practice she knew nothing. No one in her presence had ever talked of flirtation, love, or marriage; at sixteen she was ignorant of these things; she had never thought of a lover or of love; her father and the world of beauty filled her heart and soul.  Then Lawrence Balfour found his health failing fast. Some one told him to try the warm Devonshire air, and he determined to do so.He would chose some pretty spot where he could paint a picture that would immortalize him. He preferred Rositer to any other place, and found lodgings at Upland's farm.There he lingered for many mouths, sometimes painting busily, then lying panting for breath. Mrs. Hopeton, the mistress of the farm, took a fancy to her lodger and his beautiful daughter; she was a widow and would have adopted the girl, but she had a son of her own, for whom she was working and saving. She saw plainly that there was no chance for her lodger's life, and she talked earnestly to him about his daughter. He told her that the only relative he had living was one Bruno Severne, who, with his' sister, lived at a farm, but in what part of England that farm was situated he had no idea. He and Bruno had been friends in their youth. Once it had been in his power to render Bruno a great service, and now he felt safe in leaving him as guardian to his only child.The finding of Bruno Severne was difficult. Mrs. Hopeton sent for the curate, the Rev. Ralph Thorne, and asked his advice. He told Mrs. Hopeton it would be difficult, but not impossible, and promised that he would search for Bruno Severne until he found him. The dying artist wrote a letter to his kinsman, praying him by the tie of relationship, to be kind to his child when he should be dead. He had not more than two hundred pounds to leave to her, he said, but Bruno would do his best for her, he knew. Bruno Severne was fifteen when Lawrence Balfour was twenty-three, yet they had been firm friends, and the artist felt sure his kinsman would remember that friendship, and be kind to his child. That letter was given into the curate's charge to be delivered into Bruno's hand when found. Lawrence Balfour died at Christmas time, leaving his child alone, but for the kindness of Mrs. Hopeton, who had grown to love the child dearly.They buried him in the church-yard at Rositer; then the curate began his search. It was June before he succeeded, and by private inquiries and public advertisements, he found that Bruno Severne lived at Larchdale, on the Devonshire coast, and he posted his letter to him. Seven months had passed since the artist died before Bruno Severne was found, and during that time Diane Balfour had lived in daily expectation of seeing him. She had thought of him so constantly as her only living friend, that she made an ideal of him. Even his face, his awkward figure, could not destroy the ideal image she had formed in her mind.CHAPTER III.
A MAN'S FIRST LOVE.THERE had been some consternation at Larchdale when that letter reached the farm. Miss Hester Severne declared that it was unheard of, that because a man happened to be your second cousin, and to have known you in your youth, he should saddle you with his family after his death.Bruno smiled grimly at her vehemence.'We should not have grumbled,' he said, 'had he left us a fortune, we should have approved of his remembering us then.''That,' said Hester, 'is another thing. What shall we do with a child? I would sooner bring a viper into the house.''Well,' said Bruno, anxious for peace, 'we can do one thing, we can make her useful.' His sister's grim face relaxed.'If you will let me do as I like with her I will do that,' she said. 'If she should prove to be a handy girl, we might in time dispense with one of the maids In that case it will not be so bad as though she were a burden and expense.''I should hardly like to see Lawrence Balfour's daughter a servant,' said Bruno.'Nonsense; if he wished her to be kept like a lady, he should have left her a fortune.''We should see, Hester, what she is like.'I would rather,' said Hester, 'that she were anything on earth than an artist's daughter; they are such foolish people; if her father had been a farmer, there would have been some sense in it.  I suppose you will have to go to this place, Bruno, and bring her here.''I suppose so; this curate thinks it is expected of me.'He was not averse himself to seeing a little of the world, to a little travel and change; it would be almost the first holiday he had had.'I must go,' he said; 'fortunately there is nothing particular on hand. I may remain for a few days if I like the place. What age should you imagine the child to be, Hester?'She referred to the letter that she held in her hand, then she read in a hard voice:'I am leaving her just at an age when she most needs my care.''I should say, Bruno, she will be seven or eight years of age; it will be some time before we can make her useful; two hundred pounds is not much, but it will pay for the education she requires.  I can teach her myself,' said Miss Hester Severne.There was no more to be said. Miss Severne did spend a few minutes in declaiming against early friendships, and all the misery that sprung from them, but as the matter was past all settlement she abided the result with grim patience.'There is one thing I must say, Bruno--I have a foreboding that no good will result from this.  I never have a presentiment of that kind but it proves true; evil will come to us with this daughter of Lawrence Balfour, mind my words!''You are a prophet of evil,' said Bruno.  'I can only hope for better things.'The holiday feeling was paramount with him on the morning following when he started for Rositer; he thought little of the child he was going to see, and a deal of the holiday. A tiresome child, what was it to him? He was pleased with the aspect of the house; he liked Mrs. Hopeton, and talked to her some time before he asked for the child.Bruno Severne's astonishment was great when he saw 'the child.'  Instead of an unformed maiden of seven, be saw before him a beautiful, graceful girl, whose eyes looked undauntedly at him, whose sweet soul looking out of those eyes startled him!He understood crops and cattle, the value of land, but he had no idea such beings as Diane Balfour existed. She was a novelty to him, nor could he understand her; she dazed and bewildered him. He could not tell whether he admired or feared her most. To him she was like a strange, bright bird; he was charmed, yet his heart stood still with suspense as he tried to imagine what Hester would think of her. Hester had a dislike to all girls, and that they should care in addition to be pretty would be unpardonable. What would Hester think of that shower of golden hair, of those sweet lips, of the heresy Lawrence Balfour had taught his daughter, of all the strange things she said of art and beauty.  There would be warfare between them; he felt sure that if Hester could see her she would never allow her to go to the farm at all.He had only seen her once; he had stood with her for half an hour leaning over the wicket gate; he had lingered in the clover meadow, bidding her good-night, and his heart seemed to have gone out to her. If he bad been compelled that night to have between his sister Hester, the faithful companion of years, Diane Balfour, he would have chosen Diane. When a man lives to the age of Bruno Severne, and love has never entered into his life, it comes with a fierceness of passion unknown to younger men. Bruno had never wasted five minutes on any woman; they were a necessary evil, or something the world would be more comfortable without, but were indispensable. He had sneered at them, and had never admired them. Now all at once a woman's fair face took possession of him, and brought him down to the level of humanity.  He had spent three hours with her. Yet he could not sleep for thinking of her: her face was before him, her voice rang in his ears. He had come to take possession of a child; a lovely girl had taken possession of him. Bruno Severne was passionately, hopelessly in love.It was the first time in his life that Bruno Severne had counted through the hours of a night.  He rose when the sun began to shine, and went out; he was not staying at Uplands  Mrs. Hopeton's sense of propriety was too strong for that. He had lodgings at a farm not far away; he wandered to the Uplands. The attraction of her sweet face drew him as the sun draws the dew.
Suddenly he saw her-he heard the sweet voice singing.He listened; it was the dear old song ' Annie Laura,' the song that has touched so many hearts. The clear voice rose higher and higher:'And for bonnie Annie Laurie,I would lay me down and die.' It seemed to him that the birds hushed their song to listen to her. The sun shone on her fair face and golden hair; standing there under the blue sky, she looked so young, so beautiful, that the heart within him was touched. In his mind she was after that always associated with Annie Laura; in his thoughts he often gave her that name. Then he paused in bewilderment; his eyes were wet with tears.' Heaven bless me!' cried the voice. 'What has come over me?  Would any one believe such a thing of Bruno Severne!' He was

ashamed; yet, if he had but known it, Bruno Severne was nearer Heaven in that moment than he had ever been before. She caught sight of him then, and hastened to him.'You are out very early, Mr. Severne,' she said. 'I may say the same thing to you,' he replied; 'you are out early. Did you not sleep well?' She laughed that sweet laugh, that stirred every pulse of his heart. ' Sleep well!' she repeated.  'Yes, but then I sleep with the flowers.  I mean, you know, that I keep the same hours.  How tiresome it is that words will come in rhyme, is it not?''I do not know,' he replied; 'mine never do.'I cannot help it,' she said. 'My father used to tell me that it savored of affectation. What you cannot help is not exactly affectation--is it, Mr. Severne?'' I do not know,' he replied, feeling bewildered.'I used to remind him of a story I read once--I think it was of Doctor Watts, but I am not quite sure.''What did he do?' asked Bruno.'He could not help speaking in rhyme: he was born a poet, and musical words came naturally to him.  His father reproved him, punished him, but it was all in vain; then he threatened him that it occurred again, he would chastise him severely; again the child spoke, and again the words formed a rhyme. His father
was about to chastise him when the child cried out:"Father, forgive me but this time,And I never more will speak in rhyme."'What did his father say then?' asked Bruno.''He saw it was useless, and did not attempt to interfere,' she replied. 'If you have a strong inclination to anything, you cannot help it, can you?'Again Bruno was reduced to the Ignominy of replying: I do not know.' The girl raised her beautiful eyes to his face. 'You do not know!' 'You always give me the same answer. Why is it, Mr. Severne?' He roused himself to reply.'Most of your ideas are new to me, Miss Balfour.  I never heard them; such a notion as speaking in rhyme never even occurred to me.  You forget I am only a plain farmer, not accustomed to these notions.''Of all men in the world, what you call plain farmers ought to be the best,' she cried, impetuously.'Why?' he asked in wonder.'Because,' she replied, with a look of reverence; 'because they see so much of the wonderful works of God!'CHAPTER IV.
WHAT SHALL HE DO?HE was silent for some few minutes. The idea was beyond him, that the coming of the seasons, ripening of the grain, the fruitfulness of seeds were part of the wonders of God. He had never thought, they did not teach that sort of thing at Little Bethesda, the small chapel that he attended with Hester. The chief element of the religious lessons given there was to make the best of everything

for yourself, but to keep a strict lookout on your neighbor; such things as the wonders of God, His blessing, making good the fruits of the earth, His hand clothing the lilies, and feeding the sparrows, escaped them. Bruno, who was treasurer and manager of Little Bethesda, thought it much better to let the matter drop.  No good ever came of talking of such things.'You have not told me why you are out so early,' he said.Again the low, happy laugh.'I never sleep after the birds begin to sing,' she replied. 'The early morning seems to me the fairest and sweetest part of the day; strange things go on then between the sun, the dew, the birds, the flowers, the trees, that the sleeping world never know; there is nothing to cloud the air; every sweet breath of it is like new life, it is the only time to see the world in its real beauty; air is never so clear after the smoke of chimneys has dimmed it, the birds do not sing so sweetly when they know people are listening to them, and the flowers seem to me to try to hide their fragrance and color lest they should be gathered too soon!''Oh! Hester, shade of Hester, what was to be done with a girl who talked after this fashion? She went on:'That is why I like the early morning. I always come out and get seed that my birds like, and gather fruit for breakfast.'His face cleared. Here was something that Hester must approve, early rising and industry, economy, too, in the gathering of fruits and seeds. He grew elate with the notion that at last, at last there was something to please Hester.'Come in and have breakfast with us,' she said, opening her basket to show her treasures; look at the new-laid eggs I have found, and strawberries that are as large as plums.'He had no thought of going to Uplands for breakfast: he had gone to look at the house that held his treasure; but he was powerless to resist her. When he went in Mrs. Hopeton looked delighted to see him. He sat like one in a charmed dream; the windows were open, the red roses came peeping in, a canary sang in a gilt cage, the air that lifted the white lace curtains was rich with the odor of carnations. What made the difference between his home and his? He could feel it, but he could not tell; it was pleasant to see Mrs. Hopeton's cheerful face, to see Diane's hands moving so gracefully, to hear the music of her happy voice, to see the beauty of her face; he never remembered such a breakfast; he said little, but he enjoyed it none the less.Then Diane went off to her morning occupations, and the curate learning that Mr. Severne had arrived called to see him. Then a consultation took place between the three, and Bruno Severne saw it was expected of him to take charge of Diane. He was at a loss what to do. He looked hopelessly at Mr. Thorne.'I am taken by surprise, he said, 'I fancied from the letter that she was quite a child.''So she is in everything but years,' said Mrs. Hopeton. 'She is innocent as a baby. She is so docile that you may lead her with a thread, yet she is clever in many things, more clever than any one I ever met.''Still, I thought she was a child,' said Bruno, musingly.'You will have the less trouble, Mr. Severne, said Ralph Thorne,' and such a     beautiful, gifted girl will be a great addition to your home. Are you married?''No,' said Bruno, half annoyed, half flattered, 'I have had no time to think of marriage.  My sister keeps my house.'Ah,' said the curate, 'that is very nice. Then you will have no trouble with your charge. I am delighted that you have a sister; that fact obviates all difficulties.'Bruno felt how useless it was to try to make any one understand how different Hester was to other people. This curate and Mrs. Hopeton, what would they think if he told them his sister did not like young girls. Their reliance on him and trust in him touched Bruno. He saw that they considered all difficulties ended with his presence; that from the time of his appearance among them all responsibility on their part ceased. It had not entered their minds that he would shirk the charge.'I do not think,' said the curate, 'you will have Miss Balfour with you long. So beautiful and so gifted, she is sure to marry young.'It seemed to Bruno that a hot pain shot through his heart.  That face making sunshine in another home, smiling on another!  He did not understand the terrible pang, but he knew that the anguish of it was bitter as death. He tried to smile as he looked at the curate, but his lips refused to move. The expression on his face was so strange, that the curate and Mrs. Hopeton looked him in wonder. He recovered himself and murmured something, neither of them understood what.'Perhaps,' he thought to himself, 'he would like to marry her.  Perhaps he is waiting until she is a few years older, and then he will ask her to be Mrs. Thorne.'A violent, unreasoning, jealous hatred against the curate came into his mind, yet he could not exactly tell why.He let them talk on, and agreed to all they said. Mrs. Hopeton cried, and said how grieved she was to lose her.'My house will seem cold, dark, and dreary for many long days,' she said, 'after Miss Diane is gone.'Then the curate held out his hand in silent adieu.'I cannot tell you, Mr. Severne,' he said, 'how thankful I am to see you. The future of this young girl has been heavy on my heart; now I feel relieved and happy. You will take good care of her, because you are a good man. I am going away from Rositer for six weeks. I leave to-day, so that I shall say good-bye to you before I go, and to Miss Diane also.'Mrs. Hopeton went in search of her, and the curate seized the opportunity of speaking a few serious words. He was a good man, the Rev. Ralph Thorne, who never lost an opportunity of doing good.'It is a sacred charge, Mr. Severne,' he said.  'Your dead friend must have had great confidence in you to leave his orphan child in your hands. The God of the orphan and the fatherless will watch over her, and will judge you as you treat her.'I will take care of her,' said Bruno.'I have the greatest interest in her,' continued the curate, 'for I never saw any one so beautiful and so gifted before.  If I am near Larchdale, I shall be sure of your permission to see her.'But there was no such hearty response as he had expected; the jealous pain startled Bruno again, and prevented him speaking.Then came Diane, her face saddened at the coming parting with her friend. He held out his hand in silence.'You have been very kind to me,' she said, 'kinder than I could have hoped. Heaven bless you for it.'She kissed his hand.  The curate's face flushed burning red; Bruno's turned pale. Neither spoke a word.'It is not good-by for all time,' said the girl.  'I know that you will come to see me.' 'I will,' said the curate.His heart misgave him, and he intended to keep his word.Then he went away, and Mr. Severne soon followed him.'I shall not see you again to-day,' he said to Diane, 'but I will be here  the first thing in the morning. Then I will tell you what I have decided.'She looked up at him with such perfect trust and faith, such confidence, that his heart was touched your desire will be right,' she said, gently. 'Right and wise, because you were my father's friend, and I will do whatever you tell me.'Then he went away--he wanted to be by himself, to look into his heart, to see what was the meaning of these new sensations--this heat and cold, heat which fevered him, flushed his face, and lighted his eye with new fire--cold that froze him and gave him a foretaste of the bitterness of death. This strange rapture of happiness, this thrill of delight--what did it meant He must be alone and think.He then went into the fields and sat under a large sycamore tree. Of one thing he felt sure and resolved, he would take her home at first. When he saw her, so young, so beautiful, he had renounced the idea, he saw so many difficulties. Hester would be angry; it would be absurd to take a girl of that age to Larchdale; now he felt a wild longing to take her there; he would have her she was his dead friend's legacy, she was his own; he felt a half proprietorship in the lovely face and figure; she should be the sunbeam of his home, come what might.His heart grew cold as he thought of her staying here at Rositer, wooed and married by the curate, the man whose hand her lips had kissed. That should never be; he would take her home--but how?   Not as a child; she was seventeen, too old to be trained by Hester as a guest. Hester would never be willing, she would torture the life out of her. Besides, if she went as his guest--his ward--he would some day have to bear the pain of seeing her married; no, that would not do. There was another difficulty: he had written the night he arrived to Hester, saying he had had a pleasant Journey, dwelling a great deal on that, and saying as little as possible about Diane.  He mentioned the fact the at they had been mistaken, she was not a child, but a girl of seventeen to which Hester replied it was a swindle, and that she should 

decline receiving a girl of that age at Larchdale. At first that letter seemed to him decisive; if Hester refused, how could he do it?  Then he saw Diane again, and the strange, wonderful charms worked on him, until he felt that it would be easier to give up life itself than renounce the pleasure of taking her home with him.  Hester must be circumvented; he must manage her as well as he could--after all he was master in his own house, master of Larchdale. His sister was only his housekeeper. Why should he fear her?--he, who thought himself so independent of women, who boasted that they had no influence in his life, who scorned them!  He stood far more in awe of Hester's tongue and anger, than he would have done of a regiment with drawn swords; still, he was determined Diane should go to Larchdale.Then slowly, surely it dawned across him, there was only one way in which she could go, and that was as his wife. 'His wife!'  That fair Diane, that graceful, gifted girl--his wife. It was the only thing; as his wife, Hester would be compelled to treat her kindly--compelled to receive her at Larchdale.CHAPTER V.
AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE.THE Severnes were a sturdy Saxon race--yeomen, all good tillers of the soil, men who prided themselves on being honest farmers, nothing more.  They had lived at Larchdale for generations.  The farm had belonged to the Duke of Middleborough, but they worked and saved until they found the means of buying it; now Larchdale was their own.  When Bruno decided on anything, when he made up his mind to a settled action, it would have been easier to have moved Mount Etna than to have influenced him. He never altered his opinion; he never entertained new ideas or gave up old ones; let him say a thing, and he adhered to his word, no matter what it cost him.  So now, standing up, he said to himself:'Diane Balfour shall be my wife,' and nothing would induce him to alter his resolve; obstinate to the highest degree, never to be influenced or led; he had decided on two things--he would take Diane home, and Diane should be his wife.How was the marriage to be arranged?--he must ask Diane's consent, and it never occurred to him that she would refuse him; he believed it to be a great piece of promotion, that she, an orphan girl, homeless and friendless, should become the wife of a man with a handsome balance at his bankers', owner of a farm, and master of a house like Larchdale.No girl in her senses would refuse such an offer--he must ask her consent; he must make arrangements for her to remain at the Uplands for three weeks longer, then he would return and marry her.  He would have everything done properly-the banns at church, proper notice given, then he would write from Rositer and
tell Hester he was bringing a wife home.  It would be too late then to offer any objections.  He flattered himself that he was doing something clever; he was not afraid of Hester, but it was better to avoid unpleasantness.He spent a greater part of the afternoon in meditating.  Now

he business was all accomplished; he had made up his mind, there was no more to be said about it.  He stood up and wiped brow; the exertion of thinking had been great for him.'So, after all,' he said to himself. 'I shall be a married man.'He was the least in the world ashamed of it; still it must be, if Diane was ever to make the sunshine of his home.He went to his lodgings and wrote to Hester, saying he should return on the day after the morrow, and would make arrangements of a decisive kind, then--he did not say whether he should bring her to Larchdale or not, and Hester flattered herself that her letter had produced a great effect--then, though he was tempted to return to Uplands and ask the question that night, he did not, because he had said he should not return.  On the following he was there for breakfast, and during that time he seemed so engrossed in Diane, that Mrs. Hopeton smiled.'It is my belief,' she said to herself, 'that that good gentleman
is in love.  Diane might do worse.  He has a comfortable home; the
farm is his own; and he must be what people call a well-to-do man. 'Then she sighed.' Still, he is hardly the kind of husband for that pretty Diane.''Miss Balfour,' said Bruno Severne, 'will you come out with?  I must leave here tomorrow, and I want to arrange about the future.'She put on her hat--the head-dress which had startled him at first, but which he had grown to think was more becoming than any other--and glancing at him with a smile, said:'I am ready; and if the sun will not shine too brightly and the birds sing too sweetly, I will talk any amount of business; but my attention will depend upon the absence of temptation.'His heart misgave him; temptation was one of the things gravely dealt with at little Bethesda, yet the word fell so lightly from those lovely lips.They walked in silence through the garden--she stopped every now and then to kiss the overhanging roses; they went through the clover meadow, and she caressed the cool grass with her hand; they reached the lime-trees, underneath which ran a shady walk.  Then Bruno Severne grew agitated; more than he liked to own was at stake.'Miss Balfour,' he began.  'Diane, I may as well call you.  It seems absurd to say Miss Balfour.  Need I tell you with what pleasure I accept your father's trust.''Do you?  I am glad to hear it.  I used to wonder sometimes if I should be troublesome or a burden to you.''You can never be that,' he said. 'I accept the charge willing.  I wish your father could know how willingly.'Know! of course he knows.  Do you suppose that because he lives in Heaven, instead of on earth, that he does not know about me--does not remember that I am his darling child?  Do you suppose that, Mr. Severne?''My dear Diane, I do not know.'She seemed rather impatient for a minute or two, then she said, with a sigh, 'When you know me better, you will not always say, 'I do not know.'That was not the kind of conversation he had intended; it was an awkward introduction to an offer of marriage.'You loved your father very much, Diane? he said.Her face flushed, her eyes filled with tears.'I would rather not talk about it,' she said.  'If you have ever been the life of any one's life, you would know how much.  When he was dying, he wished me always to be happy and cheerful; he told me my grief would sadden Heaven for him, so I try to be happy so that he may be the same.''And your mother,' he said.  'Do you remember her?''Yes; best of all as she lay dying.  She called me to her.'My little Diane,' she said; 'ma fille, keep yourself pure as a lily, that I may see you in Heaven.''So I mean to be good all my life; truthful, and good, so that I may see them.  When the sun shines brightly, and the parted clouds are like a canopy, I fancy I see them--my mother, with white robes and shining crown, my father, beautiful and glorious, like the archangels in Italian pictures.'Oh, shade of Hester! what was to be done with this dreaming child?'Marry her,' said common sense, 'and then she will lose all the nonsense that fills her mind.'She was looking at him, expecting sympathy, and receiving none.'I am sorry,' he said, 'that I did not see your father; 'I should have asked him what I am going to ask you.' The violet eyes did not waver in their steady glance.  'I am going to ask you something, Diane.''I will do anything you ask me,' she replied, cheerfully.'I believe that if your father were living he would bid you do this, that he would be pleased over it, because he loved me.''I am sure of it,' she said, ' my father loved you.''If he were standing before us now he would say, 'Diane, do as Bruno Severne wishes ''I am quite ready,' she said, 'if you tell me what it is.''I want you,' he said, 'to marry me, to be my wife.'He never forgot the startled face she turned toward him; it was white even to the lips.'To be your wife?' she said, 'to marry you? Oh, Mr. Severne, I cannot, I am only a child--I cannot be a wife!'He took the little white hand in his.'You are old enough to marry me, Diane, if you will; and I repeat, if your father were living, he would wish it; nay, if you could but know his wishes now, they would be the same.''To marry you? she repeated; 'I have never thought of such a thing.''I am sure you have not.  Listen to me, Diane--I love you very much.''Love me?'  she repeated, more wonderingly; 'why you do not know me.  You have only seen me four times.''That does not matter.  I love you--I loved you the very moment you came into the room where I was, with sunshine on your hair and a smile on your lips; my heart went out to you, Diane, and it never came back,''How strange!' she said.  'It is fortunate that you love me; as my father left me in your change, it would have been very difficult if you had not liked me.''Who could help liking you?' he said. 'I love you, Diane; I want you to be my wife. You see, when your father's letter first came, I thought you were a child about seven; then I could easily have taken you home to Larchdale to live with me, and my sister Hester could have taught you. It is quite different now.''Why?' she asked, wonderingly. 'What does it matter whether I am seven or seventeen?''It matters a great deal in the eyes of the world,' he said. 'It would not be considered right or proper for a young lady of seventeen to come and live with me.''I lived with my father,' she said, gravely.'That was quite a different matter--''But,' she interrupted, 'my father left me in your care.''Yes, and I do not doubt that he foresaw you would one day be my wife.''I think not,' she said, 'for before he died he said to me one day, 'I wonder if Bruno Severne is married yet?''Well,' said Bruno, 'that proves what I say; he was thinking of this very thing at the time, you may be sure.She looked grave and anxious.'Let me explain to you, Diane. Do not be frightened; I will not over-persuade you--you shall please yourself exactly.  Let me explain: You, being a young lady, cannot come to live at Larchdale with me unless you consent to marry me. There are but two courses open to you; the first is, to remain here with Mrs. Hopeton, and make some arrangement with her; or go out into the world as a governess or companion. I should always look after you as well as I could.''But,' she said, 'I cannot remain here; Mrs. Hopeton lets those rooms that I have, and makes money by them. She has been very kind to me, but we always thought I was to go away when you came. I do not know enough to go out in the world as a governess or companion; I should not like it.'Her lips quivered, her eyes filled with tears.'The alternative,' said Bruno, 'is to marry me. I will make you happy; you shall have some pretty dresses, and you will like Larchdale. Surely it is better to be with some one you love, and who loves you, to being out among strangers, and miserable.''I do not know what to do,' she sobbed. 'It is so absurd to be married because I am seventeen instead of seven.''It is a very good thing to be married, and do just as you like,' he said, 'to live in a nice house of your own, to have a husband to work for you--as much money as you like to spend.'She looked at him quickly.'Should I have money enough to buy a white marble cross for my father's grave?' she asked.'Yes, and for everything else you might want. You need not give me your answer all at once, Diane; think about it, and talk it over with Mrs. Hopeton; she will advise you sensibly.  I am

not going until to-morrow, and I will come for my answer tonight.' 'Do you think my father would like it, Mr. Severne?' she asked, looking at him with the sweet grace of a child.  I am sure be would, Diane; he would like it better than any other arrangement that could be made in the world.'CHAPTER VI.
THE BETROTHAL.HE was not rejected--she bad not said no--that was in his favor, and he had acted wisely in his own interest in telling her to consult Mrs. Hopeton. Larchdale was something worth consideration in her eyes, and she would advise her for the best; so he went back to dinner, content with his morning's work, and ready to believe himself 'a brave wooer' after all; while Diane, distressed and agitated, went in search of Mrs. Hopeton.'Mrs. Hopeton,' said the girl, ' will you talk to me for a little while? Mr. Severne is coming to me to-night for my answer, and I do not know what to say. He has asked me to be his wife.''His wife?' repeated Mrs. Hopeton. 'Is it possible? Well, you are a lucky girl.''Am I! Why?''Why? Do you know he has a farm all his own, not like poor me, working from morning until night to pay rent. Larchdale is all his own.''What has that to do with being his wife? asked Diane.'Why, everything. When you are married, all that belongs to your husband belongs to you.''Does it?  Then Larchdale will be mine?''Certainly it will.''I do not want it. I should not know what to do with it if were mine twenty times over. He says that if I had been a girl of seven he could have taken me to live with him, but that he cannot take a girl of seventeen.''Poor gentleman,' said Mrs. Hopeton.  'What else?'He says he loves me--and I never thought any one would care for me after my father died. He says I shall have money and dresses. What do I care about money and dresses?''You will care in time,' said Mrs. Hopeton, sagely.'He says too, that I shall have money enough to buy a white marble cross for my father's grave. I would do anything for that, almost anything in the world.''What did you say?' asked Mrs. Hopeton.'He told me to talk to you about it, so I have come.  What must I do, Mrs. Hopeton?''Why, my dear, you had better marry him, I am sure. Marry him; you will be safe and happy as long as you live.'The fair young face was raised wistfully to hers.'But, I have never thought of being married; I was going to may I have never known any married people. I have never lived with any--oh, yes, I have, with old Mr. and Mrs. Bonner, but they were always wishing each other dead. Papa said that had

been an unhappy marriage. I should not like an unhappy marriage, Mrs. Hopeton.''No, but you would never wish Mr. Severne dead, would you?''My father's friend? Oh, no, never.''Yours would not be an unhappy marriage. You are young and pretty; he would take you out everywhere; he would buy you pretty dresses and jewels--even, I do not doubt, a little carriage, and you would be mistress of that beautiful farm.''And he would let me have the marble cross,' she rejoined. 'Pretty, loving heart! Yes, you would have the marble cross, my dear, and anything else you wanted. I thought he was in love with you, and I do not wonder.''Did you? Why did you think so?''Because he looked at you so and sighed. I am not surprised.  I should marry him in your place, Miss Diane. You do not know how full of danger the world is; it is a great thing for a pretty, motherless child like you to be safe in a quiet home.''But I do not know any wives; I .have always been with my father. If I marry him, what shall I have to do?''You must love him, honor him, and obey him; you must study his interests, do all you can to help him, be patient with his faults, kind and gentle to him; you must see that his meals are ready at the proper time--that his clothes are nicely kept.''I see; it is like being a kind of housekeeper.''No, Miss Diane, it is not exactly that; you should try to keep his books, write his letters, read to him when he is tired.'Then it is like being a kind of secretary or clerk,' she said.'Not exactly that,' said Mrs. Hopeton. 'When he is dull you must cheer him: if he is down-hearted amuse him; if any trouble comes you must teach him where to look for comfort; it he is tempted to do wrong you must guide him.''Then it is something like being a curate,' said Diane.'A curate? No, not that.''But, Mrs. Hopeton, do you mean that a wife has all that to do. In that case it is useless for me to attempt to be a wife. I could not get through one-half of it--not one-half.''Then,' said Mrs. Hopeton, 'content yourself with loving him, if you learn to do that, everything else will be well.''I do not think it will be so easy to love Mr. Severne. When people love each other they talk a deal of nonsense. Do you remember what nonsense my father and I used to talk?  But no one could talk nonsense to him, I am sure.''In time, perhaps,' said Mrs. Hopeton. 'Then you think I had better marry him?' she said.'I really do, Miss Diane.''I suppose that I shall never be sorry for it afterward?' she said, with quick forebodings.'No, I hope not; there is no undoing a marriage; once done, it lasts until death takes one or the other.' Diane looked through the window to the blue sky; she was silent for a short time, then she said:'Mrs. Hopeton, who makes marriages?  Are they really made in Heaven?''I suppose so,' replied the startled woman.When one's soul is created, another is created to go with it.''I should say so, Miss Diane.''Then marriage is, really, a union of souls?''It is just that, Miss Balfour, you have expressed it nicely.''But what happens if the wrong souls go together?  The good woman looked up, half frightened.'Miss Diane,' she said, 'do not talk so lightly of souls.''I did not mean to speak lightly; but what does happen--what do people do, if the wrong souls go together?''I never heard anyone talk in that way before; it is not right.' But Diane did not appear to hear her.'I know not what they do,' she said; 'the wrong souls part, and each goes to the right one--that must be it.'  Mrs. Hopeton looked up, pale and frightened.'Do not talk so, you are young, and do not understand matters; you must talk to some one more clever than I am; I do not know anything about souls, but I do know that nothing, except death, can part those who are married.''It may be so, but I think you are mistaken.  You could not go into eternity with the wrong soul, that could never be.''Miss Diane, I will hear no more; you talk like a French Chartist,' said Mrs. Hopeton, at a loss for a comparison.'There are no Chartists in France,' said Diane, decisively; 'they
are Republicans.''Well, never mind by what name they are known,' said Mrs. Hopeton; 'you must not say so, I cannot listen to it. Now remember, Miss Diane, I do not persuade you to marry Mr. Severne--I do not advise it, even--but I say it would be a very good thing for you.''Then I had better do it,' was the thoughtful rejoinder. 'I really do not see anything else for it.''I think it quite providential; with your strange notions, Miss Diane, it would never do to have you going about the world with no one to take care of you.''Then when he comes to-night I must say ' yes.'  I wonder if my father will really be pleased.''I am sure he will,' was the reply, ' if he knows anything about it.  It is something to have a young girl like you safe from all harm; you will be that at Larchdale.  But, always remember, Miss Diane, that I have not persuaded you; I have only advised you, as I should have done a daughter of my own.''I will remember,' said the girl, sadly. 'There is one thing, if I repent it, I shall be too proud to say so.'Evening brought Bruno Severne; he found Diane among the roses, looking as fair as they did. No flush came to her face when she saw him, her heart beat no more quickly, her soul was locked in maiden slumber; to her this marriage was simply an inevitable necessity, because her guardian had believed her to be seven and found her seventeen. He would have preferred to have seen some sign of confusion or embarrassment, it would have looked more like love.He went to her and took the roses from her white hands.'I am impatient for my answer,' he said; 'I could not wait any longer. What is it, Diane--yes or no? Am I to keep this little hand for my own or not?'  She raised her eyes quite calmly to his face.'Mrs. Hopeton thinks I cannot do better than marry you,' she said, gravely.'And Diane--what does Diane think?' he asked.'I am willing,' she replied.And that was their betrothal; there was one more incident--he kissed hand. She drew it away with a flush on her face.'Pray do not do that,' she said; I do not like it.'He smiled, pleased at her prudence, never thinking what an absence of love it betokened. Then he asked her to sit on the garden chair, while he told her what he intended to do. Before he left Rositer on the morrow, he was going to the church to have the banns of marriage made right.'So that your name and mine will be called out next Sunday,' he said, 'for the first time--Diane Balfour and Bruno Severne.'  He added that he should return in three weeks, and then they should be married.'It seems very soon' she said, with a sigh.'Yes, it was soon,' he admitted, but what could be done.'You will remain for three weeks,' he said, 'with Mrs. Hopeton. I shall make all arrangements with her, and you will spend your time happily in getting some pretty new clothes. Your father left you two hundred pounds,' continued the lover; 'I should like you to spend one in buying yourself all the pretty things.
You ought to have no more black, Diane; I do not like to see you in black--it is too sorrowful for you.''Spend a hundred pounds on myself!' she said; 'I could not.  If may have the money, pray, Mr. Severne, let me spend it on a marble cross; my heart is fixed on that.''No' he said, 'that shall be my affair, not yours; you shall order it and do as you like over it, but it shall be at my expense.''You are very kind,' she said, gently.Since her father's death, the one dream of her life had been erecting a marble Cross by his grave.'Diane,' said Mr. Severne, 'I wish you would call me Bruno.  Say the name, will you? 'She repeated it in a low voice, then looked at him in alarm.'I cannot call you anything but Mr. Severne,' she said; 'pray do not ask me to try.' That was their betrothal, while the sun set in gold, and the white lilies sighed.CHAPTER VII.
THE WEDDING-DAY.Three weeks soon passed.  Bruno Severne left Rositer after impressing Mrs. Hopeton with his generosity--a hundred pounds for wedding clothes; such munificence was never heard of.When I was married,' said the woman, 'my mother thought she did wonders in finding me ten. How you will spend it all,

Miss Diane, is a puzzle to me; the silks, the laces, the linen you may have with all that money.'As the days slipped by, what had passed became more like a dream to Diane; that her father's kinsman and her guardian was found at last, that he had been to see her, that be had asked her to be his wife, had promised a marble cross for her father's grave, a hundred pounds for her wedding clothes, that he was going to take her to a farm where she would be mistress; it was like a dream--one that faded in its impression as the days went on.Mrs. Hopeton was busy; she had taken Diane to Rositer, and there had given such orders as astonished the tradesman. Miss Balfour was going to be married to a rich farmer, who insisted on her having everything of the best for herself; she went to the most fashionable milliner in Rositer, a lady whose name created awe, besides which a seamstress was established at Uplands until the wedding-day. So that only out of doors among the birds, the flowers, and trees, Diane was able to forget.  In the house, she was ever reminded that her wedding-day was approaching.  If any one had told her there would be no marriage, it would have been no disappointment to her, she would have thought her lot in life changed, and have done whatever else she was bidden.  If she had been kindly asked whether she would prefer being married or staying at Uplands, she would have chosen Uplands.Her destiny had been decided for her, no idea of resisting it entered her mind. Her father had left her in Bruno Severne's care, and Bruno Severne wished her to marry him--what could be said or done? Heaven knows that to marry such a child was little short of a sin. Bruno's reception at home had been anything but pleasant. Miss Hester was in her most unpleasant mood.'What have you done about that absurd girl?' was her first question. 'The idea of a man of your age running all over the country for a girl of seventeen. Her father must have been a madman. There is something in having a clever woman to look after one's affairs.' Bruno was submissive.'I shall be able to arrange for her in three weeks' time,' he replied; 'until then, Hester, it will be better for us not to speak of her, as we shall not agree.''As you like, only remember one thing, I have been your helpmate for a great many years, and I shall never consent to her coming here. I will have no girls of seventeen running over the place. 'And for the remainder of the time she asked no questions.Once or twice it did occur to her that a change had come over her brother; she saw him standing in the fields with a dreamy look on his face, she saw him listening to the wedding-bells with such a smile on his lips that she hardly knew him. Once or twice he spoke with such tenderness, it was hard to believe Bruno Severne's lips could frame such sweet words; she fancied that his health must be failing, his mind giving way; but that Bruno Severne, her sensible, stern brother, had been guilty of the supreme folly of falling in love with a golden-haired girl of seventeen never dawned across Miss Hester's mind.So the three weeks passed, and Bruno Severne, without saying one word to his sister, went to marry the child of his dead friend.  It was July, and the golden haze of summer lay over the land, the grain was ripening, the fruit hung on the trees, the world seemed bright and fair, the years seemed to fall from him as he
drew near to the place where his girl-bride awaited him; there was a new color in the sunshine, and he had never heard the birds sing more sweetly; the flowers had rarely bloomed so fair, all the sweet sights and sounds of nature appealed to him as they had never done before; they spoke in a new tongue, but he hardly
understood it; if he had done so he would have given back her freedom to the child who did not understand the loss of it.The fifth of July was her wedding-day, a date she never forgot; the morning dawned with a brightness all its own, the birds awoke her with their singing--her wedding-day--the last day of her sweet, hopeful life, that had been free as the birds and flowers.  She was dazed at first when her eyes fell on the white muslin wedding dress, a triumph of art in Mrs. Hopeton's eyes; the pretty white bonnet, with its wreath of flowers; and the white lace shawl that Mrs. Hopeton assured her would last as Sunday shawl for years. Sweet Diane, she did not understand why she rose with a heavy heart on her wedding-day. Why was it? she, who was going to wear this beautiful dress, why should she feel dull? She was going to be mistress of Larchdale and have a pony carriage of her own; why should she feel sad? Why did she turn away with a faint shudder, and cry out that she wished she was with her father! She did not want to be married, she was frightened and wept as she had not done since she kissed her dead father's face. Why did her heart sink with such dread, that her fair face grew colorless, and the light died out of her sweet eyes.'I am so frightened,' she gasped, when Mrs. Hopeton came up to help her. 'I am so frightened.'They did not recognize a young heart faint with its own forebodings, the prophetic cry of a soul filled with unutterable dread--surely, if they had done so, they would have saved her; but Mrs. Hopeton kissed her and said it was natural. The seamstress who had come to assist in the dressing, said: 'No one could wonder at it, for marriage was a solemn thing,' and she advised that
Miss Balfour should have a strong cup of tea with a little brandy in it.So the foreboding passed away. After a time she ceased to cry for her dead father, and the color stole back to her face. They dressed her in her bridal dress, brushing out the golden hair until it fell around her, crying out that she was beautiful as an angel--fair enough for a king. The white dress fell like a royal robe around her; they put on the white lace shawl, and placed the pretty bonnet on the golden head.By that time she had forgotten about her sorrow, the dread and the fear that had caused her to cry out with such intensity of pain.  She was so young, poor, hapless child, and she had never been so prettily dressed before. Was it wonderful that she thought more of her new dress and her pretty things than of her marriage? She

was only seventeen, and though gifted, she was still quite a child.  They placed the mirror where she could see her face and figure; she was amazed at it, her face flushed, her sweet lips smiled, her eyes shone like stars.'Is that really I?' she asked, 'really and truly I?'Yes,' replied the seamstress; 'and, although I have no wish to flatter you, I must say you are the most beautiful young lady I ever saw in my life.'The violet eyes were raised in sweet, shy surprise.'Am I really beautiful?' she asked, 'beautiful, like the Madonnas and Magdalenes in Guido's pictures?''You are very beautiful,' said the woman.'I am glad,' said the girl. 'My mother was beautiful: beauty does not give happiness or long life, though--does it? I hear my father say once that every beautiful woman had a tragedy in her face. Do you think it is true? Have I one in mine?'They both looked at her smooth brow--at the child-like eyes, the exquisite bloom--the white of the lily, the red of the rose--and laughed aloud. A tragedy in such a face!'I will tell you what you have in your face, Miss Diane, you have a poem,' said Mrs. Hopeton, with a flight of fancy; 'and it really is the sweetest poem I ever read.'Then the fly came to the door--an act of gallantry on the part of Bruno Severne which the seamstress pronounced to be 'quite a delicate attention.' It had been sent from Rositer, and was to take Diane, with Mrs. Hopeton, to church; then to take the three to Uplands for the wedding-breakfast, afterward it was to take them to the railway-station.  Bruno Severne had promised his young wife to show her London as a wedding-trip. She looked round the simple rooms where she had been so childishly happy.'I shall have time to bid all my birds and flowers good-by,' she said.The sun shone on her as she stood at the door in her white robe with her fair face and golden hair, she looked like an angel; the pity of it was that she did not die before she crossed that threshold of that fatal wedding-day. She drove through the sunshine and the blooming of flowers to her doom.Bruno was at the church waiting for her, with a fever of suspense almost too great for words.  He started when he saw her, so child-like, so lovely in her white dress; a half doubt crossed his mind as to whether he had done a kind or generous thing in binding the life, the fate, the future of this beautiful child with his. He hastened to her, and kissed the face, at a loss what words to say to her. Diane flushed and drew back from him.  Mrs. Hopeton coughed amiably and looked another way.'Dear me,' thought Diane, 'I hope he will not do that again: what a hard, rough face.'And hers was reddened where he had touched it.Then he walked through the church-yard to the gray old church where the vicar awaited them. He knew little of the affairs of his parish; his curate, Ralph Thorne, attended to them; he hardly knew of the existence of Lawrence Balfour, or of his death; he

knew less of the orphan child he had left behind him; but he did look with wonder at the girlish face, contrasting so strongly with the stern face beside it.'What a child;' he thought to himself; 'what a pretty child--Diane Balfour, what a pretty name. It is all right, I suppose.'For the sake of the fair face he asked a few questions. Yes, it was perfectly right, no business of his--yet, again, the pity of it was that she did not die as she stood there unwed. Then the vicar opened his book, Bruno Severne produced a gold ring, and in less than ten minutes they were man and wife.CHAPTER VIII.
'UNTIL DEATH DO US PART.'THE bells pealed--the great feature of a wedding at Rositer was the pealing of the wedding-bells--they walked down the aisle of the church together; Bruno with a flush on his face, his heart beating as it had never done before--she, pale, shrinking, frightened. She had been thinking about the pretty things, but little about the marriage, for the simple reason that she knew little about it; but those solemn words had alarmed her: 'Until death do us part,'--she felt inclined to drop Bruno's hand and run out of church--away where no one could find her, from all marriage and giving in marriage: she would have done so, but her strength utterly failed her. She trembled--such awful words--such terrible vows; she had never thought, never dreamed it was anything like this; why, the few people she had ever heard speak of marriage, did it with a light laugh as though it were some joke; and here it proved so terrible, so real, that the memory of it would always alarm her.'My wife,' whispered Bruno, as they went down the aisle together; 'my dear little wife.'Outside stood the carriage; the sun was shining; the bells filling the warm air with music; how well she remembered every detail of the scene.'Wait,' she said, as Bruno drew her near to the fly; 'there is something I want to do first-I must go to my father's grave.''Ah!' sighed Mrs. Hopeton, 'it is natural, but unlucky.'Diane did not hear.  Mrs. Hopeton was one of those people who detested the idea of weddings and funerals crossing each other. The notion of a bride going in her bridal dress from the bridal altar to a grave, was terrific to her; but Diane did not hear the objection that she raised.  They saw her with her white dress trailing over the grass, going to the grave. Bruno followed her; in his heart he had rather she had not gone, that she had forgotten her father on her wedding day; but he followed her, thinking how lightly she stepped over the grass; how tall, slender, and shapely she was.  She never heard him, did not know that he was near; she knelt by the grave and buried her face in the grass.'My darling,' he heard her say, ' do you hear me? I was married to-day. I have married your friend, because he says you would like it, and you would wish it if you were here, so I have

married him, darling of my heart. I shall try to be very good and come to Heaven to you. If I have any trouble greater than I can bear I shall come back and lay my head on your grave and die here.' He heard the words and they pierced his heart with a prophetic pain.'I shall come back to die here,' she repeated. 'Good-by.'The face she raised from the grass had in it no colour. Then, looking across the grave she saw her husband gazing at her with something of tender reproach in his eyes. He went to her and raised her from the ground.'My wife,' he said, 'my dear wife, I cannot bear to hear that; do remember I love you now. I stand to you in the place of the mother and father you have lost. I am husband, friend, brother, everything in the world to you. I am going to spend my life in making you happy; there shall be no one happier than you. Now smile, Diane, smile because it is your wedding-day.'She did smile with a far-off look in her eyes, but most men would have preferred tears to such a smile. Then he took her from the grave, and he never thought of that church-yard again without dread. They drove home in silence. Mrs. Hopeton prepared the breakfast; it was cheerful. Diane was a perfect child, she forgot her fears; and Bruno showed some tact; he did not tease her but was kind and thoughtful, telling her of the wonders she would see in London.'When shall we go to Larchdale?' she asked, and the question aroused him to a remembrance of a duty that he had to perform--writing to Hester; he answered her question first.'You shall have ten days or a fortnight in London, Diane, then you will see all that is best and worth seeing, and we shall be home in time for the harvest.'He then wrote to his sister, but the writing had lost some of its firm character; it gave evidence of a faint heart and hand.'My dear Hester,' so ran this letter; 'I said nothing to you of my
intentions, because I knew you would oppose them. I tell you what I
have done, now that all opposition will be in vain. I liked the
daughter of my friend Lawrence Balfour, liked her so well that I
determined to marry her--; I have done so. She became my wife this
morning, and I am going to take her to London on a wedding tour. As
you see that all opposition is useless, I hope that you will receive
my wife kindly and treat her with affection. She is very winning and
graceful, you will soon be excellent friends with her. I trust to your
good sense that all is made comfortable. I have always told you that
Larchdale is your home for life, and if we can live happily together
you need never leave it, but my wife must be mistress there now. You will be, I hope, her most valued friend, sister and counsellor.'From your affectionate brother, 'Bruno Severne.'It was a sensible letter, and he had great hopes from it; he knew Hester would be angry at first--one of his reasons for proposing a wedding trip was that her anger should have time to cool before she saw Diane.  He avoided giving any address, lest in her anger, she should write to him and say words he could never pardon. In this he was wise.'I am going to say good-by to all my birds and flowers,' said Diane. And he, with his mind full of his sister, felt glad that she was not by to hear that childish observation.'She will soon have something else to think of,' he said to himself with a sigh.Then the fly came to take them to the station. She took off her wedding-dress, and Mrs. Hopeton helped her on with her traveling costume; it had been ordered expressly to suit her blonde loveliness--a dress of blue, trimmed with blue velvet, and a hat with a drooping plume. She looked beautiful in it, more beautiful Bruno thought, than in her wedding-dress.  She wept at leaving her home, the place where she had been so happy.'It will always be like home to me,' she said, 'because my father is buried here.'  Mrs. Hopeton was sorry to part with her, but the generosity of Bruno, his payments, his presents, bewildered her.'I am sure you will be happy,' she said; 'you cannot help it, Miss Diane--I beg your pardon,' she added, ' I should say Mrs. Severne.' Diane looked up quickly.'Shall I always be called Mrs. Severne now?' she asked.'Yes, always,' replied Mrs. Hopeton; 'you cannot be called anything else.''I shall not like it,' Diane said. 'I like my own name best.''You are Mrs. now, not Miss,' explained her friend.'I suppose so; it is strange. Do you know I do not feel different.  I was afraid I should be changed when I had a different name.'Then she looked at the little golden ring on the white hand.'I suppose, too,' she said, 'I must always wear this ring.''Certainly; that is to show that you are a married lady.''Is that really what the ring is for, Mrs. Hopeton?''Of course, my dear; the moment that any one sees that ring upon your left hand, it will be known that you are married.'Diane looked very thoughtfully at it.'It is the same thing, I suppose, as though I wore a label on my forehead, and the label said-' married.'''It is the same thing,' replied Mrs. Hopeton.'It is strange,' said Diane, musingly.'What is strange?' asked her friend.'Do gentlemen--married gentlemen, wear such things?''No, that is not the custom.''Ah!' said Diane, 'ladies are more likely to run away than gentlemen.''No one runs away who is once married,' said Mrs. Hopeton.'Then both should be labeled alike,' laughed Diane.Bruno rapped at the door to say that the train would be starting soon, and it was time that they were gone. Diane bade adieu to her friends and her home, leaving her girlish freedom, her happiest memories behind her.  She had traveled a deal; Bruno Severne could not imagine how great a traveler she had been. With the world of art she was familiar--to the world of men and women she was a stranger.  When she saw that Bruno desired to please her by taking her to London, she did not tell him that, as a child, London was familiar to her, that the old abbey, the massive towers, the stately palaces, the pleasant parks, the beautiful streets, the magnificent mansions, the swift river with its bridges, to her as so many oft-told tales.  It was a pleasure to see them again; and, to Bruno, the greatest pleasure of all was to

watch his wife's face brighten; he was delighted when he saw her pleased.During the brief holiday, he grew to love her with an intensity that almost frightened him--he listened to her every word, he became accustomed to her sweet, poetic impulses, and, as he watched her, be said to himself:'I would not have her changed from what she is if any on would give me the whole wide world.'The chances are, that if they had remained together during his life, she would have grown to love him--they would have learned to understand each other, so as to have avoided the worst part of that which afterward happened. The ten days came to a close at last. They were sitting one evening, looking from the window on the busy scene below, when Bruno said, with a sigh:'Our holiday is over, Diane; we must go home to-morrow.'She glanced at him with a smile.'You are out of spirits,' she said. 'Our happiness will soon be permanent; we are going home. You said our holiday should be life-long.''So it shall,' he replied, with a misgiving as he thought of Hester; 'you do not think there will be much sight-seeing in Larchdale, do you? We have no abbey, no parks there.''Every place has some kind of beauty,' said Diane; 'Larchdale is no exception. What is the place nearest to it? ''That is pretty enough; it is called Southbay. It is one of the prettiest watering-places on the Devonshire coast; but my sister does not like it. We seldom go there.''Why does she not like it?' asked Diane, bluntly.'She says it is full of the snares of sin and Satan,' he replied.'Snares of sin and Satan,' she said, laughingly.  'Why, Mr. Severne, what a droll person she must be!'He shuddered; his sister Hester--grave, sedate, grim Hester--to be called a droll person by this girl of seventeen.'Oh! my dear,' he said involuntarily.'What? ' she asked.'Nothing-nothing, Diane. But sin and Satan are terrible things; the word droll hardly applies to them.''I meant your sister was droll,' said innocent Diane.CHAPTER IX.
A MORTAL ENEMY.IT was the dose of a July evening; the month was drawing to an end; the beautiful summer reigned in luxuriance. The train from London was drawing near Southbay, and Diane was expecting to see her new home. The charm of it for her was, that it would be her first real home. All her life she had been roaming from place to place.  This was to be her own home, where she would live, who could tell how many years--where she would not be compelled to say good-by to everything she had begun to love--where she could make alterations, change, and carry out her own whims and fancies--where she could grow the flowers she loved best and watch the trees year after year.As the train sped through the country she busied herself in thinking what she should do.  She loved mignonette, and the green southernwood; they were old-fashioned flowers, but she would have so many of them; she would train white jessamine, and teach the tame birds to eat out of her hands. Then she had so many pretty drawings, water-colors, statuettes, books that her father had given her.Now that she would have a room all her own, she would arrange them all so prettily. She remembered a room she had seen in France, so prettily arranged with pink and white; she would have one like it, with stands of flowers, and a gilt cage for her pet birds. It was a pleasant picture, and as the details of it grew she turned to her husband with a smile.'What is it, Diane?' he asked.'I am thinking it all over,' 'she said; 'and I feel sure that I shall be happy at Larchdale.'His heart gave a great bound at the simple words.'I hope you will, my dear' he said; ' I hope you will.'She fancied he looked pale; she drew nearer to him.'Mr. Severne, ' she asked, 'are you tired, you look so?''Diane, I wish you would not call me Mr. Severne.  It is not the custom for wives to call their husbands by their surname; should you like me to call you Mrs. Severne?''I should not mind,' said Diane; 'it seems to me the same thing; what can it matter?''Try to call me Bruno,' he said. Her face flushed.'I cannot,' she replied. 'I always think of you as Mr. Severne, not Bruno. Why do you dislike it?''Because it seems as though you did not care about me; Hester will be sure to think so.' Diane made no reply, but to herself she said it was impossible; she could never call that formal husband Bruno; it seemed like a liberty with him; if he were her own age, it would be a very different thing.'Will any one come to the station to meet us?' she asked.'John will bring the gig. I wrote last night to say we should be here by five.''And a cup of tea will be worth rivers of gold after this warm ride,' she said.  'Perhaps your sister will come, will she, Mr. Severne?''No,' he replied.  'I do not think Hester ever went to the station to meet any one in her life.'Then the train stopped--they were at Southbay--she could hear the roll of the tide, but they could not see it.'I should like a glimpse of the sea,' said Diane.  'I know on a night as this it will be all blue and gold.'But he answered gravely: 'We must not keep Hester waiting; she is punctual herself, and expects punctuality in others.'Already the old influence was stealing over him. As they passed old landmarks, he began to lose the energy of opposition.  Hester, with her stern face, was waiting for him at the end. Diane saw a change in him, and smiled as she thought to herself, he was like a naughty boy returning home.'We will come back to Southbay--perhaps to-morrow,' he said. 'We must be punctual this evening, everything goes on like clockwork at Larchdale, Diane.  We have been doing the same thing, at the same time, for the last twenty years.''How terrible,' cried Diane.'You will soon fall into the way of it,' said Bruno; 'after all you know, it is the right thing; punctuality is always, to my mind, the most respectable of virtues.'  She laughed at the expression, but a dreary feeling took possession of her.'I never heard of respectable virtues,' she said, 'but there are such things, I suppose.''There is John,' cried Bruno, and the gig. 'Do you know, Diane, that I have never been away from home a fortnight in my life before.'He seemed confused, this middle-aged bridegroom, this man who had won for himself the fairest young bride in England.  He was embarrassed at meeting his old servant, a man who had always been a bachelor, and who looked upon all women, except Miss Hester, as a serious mistake. There was something of pity,
contempt, and surprise in the meeting he gave his master. Bruno's face flushed, then he turned to Diane.'John,' he said, this is your new mistress, my wife, Mrs. Severne.'John looked calmly on the lovely face.'So I heard,' he said. 'Miss Hester bade me say if she had any traps they could be sent over in the cart to-morrow.''My wife's luggage must be taken to Larchdale to-night,' said Bruno, sharply.'Very well, sir, just as you like; but Miss Hester will be put out, sir, she'll be put out.'Bruno paused. Common sense whispered, 'Be master now defend your wife's rights, and crush rebellion in the beginning; but the thought of Hester's anger, aroused on this night, was too much for him. John saw his advantage and seized it.'She'll be put out, sir,' he repeated, 'she will, indeed.''Well, let It be until to-morrow, then,' he said; ' anything for peace. You shall have everything in good time to-morrow, Diane; that will do, I suppose?''That will do,' she replied, turning calmly away.John surveyed her as he would have done a prize pigeon.'She is very young,' he said to himself, 'and very pretty; her eyes are like stars, her hair is like gold, but Miss Hester will hate her, and there will be terrible rows.'Bruno helped his wife into the gig, and they drove home. The fresh air and the pretty country through which they were passing, tended to reanimate her. She turned to her husband.'Mr. Severne, when shall I have that pony carriage you promised me? I long to drive about these pleasant woods.''Very soon, Diane. Do not say anything about it before my sister just yet, will you?' She looked up in wonder.'Do you not wish her to know?' she asked, quickly.Yes, certainly; but not just at present; there will be so many changes, and Hester does not like change.'She began to have some dread of this Hester, whose likes and dislikes were the cause of so much dread to her husband. She sat quite still a few minutes, then she said:'I will do without it, Mr. Severne, if you like,' her face and voice alike piteous.'I do not like,' he said; 'I like my wife to have everything she wishes, but we must act prudently, because of Hester. I should not like to vex Hester.''Would she be vexed at your giving me a pony carriage?''A little, I think; she would say it was a useless expense.''I see,'_said Diane. 'Carts, wagons, and those things are use. Pony carriages do not pay; your sister likes things that pay.'She was speaking in good faith; there was no trace of satire.  After a time, she asked again:'Does your sister always live at Larchdale, Mr. Severne--is it her real home?''Yes; she has been mistress there over twenty years,' replied Bruno; 'she is older than I am, Diane; she has been like a mother to me.''You must love her very much,' said Diane, softly.'Certainly; and, for my sake, you will do the same, Diane.''I am ready to love her,' said Diane, 'if she will let me.'Then they left the hills and woods behind, and came to a flat, dry, uninteresting tract of land.'There are not many trees about here,' said Diane.'They have been cut down, many of them,' replied her husband. 'This is the beginning of Larchdale Farm. My father had an idea that farm land was better without trees; he liked the land to lie open to the sun! he said those tall trees took all the richness of the soil for themselves.''So they were all cut down,' said Diane. 'Poor trees!''They did not feel it,' he replied, laughingly.'Not feel it--of course they do. Trees have life as much as you have; a beautiful life, too.''My dear Diane, pardon me, you do talk such nonsense.''It is not nonsense. Whenever I see a tree felled and lying with its branches all broken, it seems to me that a giant dies.''There was a row of Linden trees that ran round one of the meadows near the farm,' continued Bruno; 'my mother used to be fond of them; but now they are all gone; my father had them cut down because they harbored so many birds, and the birds ate the corn. My mother cried, I remember.''Should you have cut them down,' asked Diane, 'do you think?'Certainly,' was the brisk reply, 'I would have done so.'Diane shrank more and more. Then they came to a straight, narrow lane; no trees cast a grateful shade over it. They came to a large, red brick house. How Diane's heart sank when she saw it. The ground in front was filled with currant bushes; there was not a vestige of a flower or blossom to be seen; it was all stern, uncompromising, plain. There were no white lace curtains--stiff, dusk-colored maroon filled every window; there was no sign of ornament about the place. To Diane, accustomed to the pretty places her father had always selected, it looked like a prison.'This is Larchdale,' cried Bruno. 'Welcome home, Diane!'She looked round with piteous appeal.  There were dull-looking brick barns, a large farm-yard, a large vegetable garden; but of beauty not one vestige--hard, stern, ugly--a plain house, without the surroundings that make a farm-house pretty. Diane felt ready to cry, it was so entirely different to what she had expected.No one came to open the unhospitable-looking green door.'This is one of Hester's careful notions,' said Bruno; 'she always keeps the front door locked.' After a time they heard the bolts withdrawn and a stout servant opened the door.Well, Anne,' said Bruno Severne, 'where is your mistress?''Miss Hester is in the best parlor,' said the woman.A clock was ticking in the hall, and it seemed to Diane that every tick said: 'Take care--take care!'She followed her husband with a sinking heart into the presence of her who was to be her mortal enemy--Hester Severne!CHAPTER X.
HOW SHALL SHE BEAR IT?IN the first glance round Diane saw a plain, square room, with a window so high that one could see nothing from it but the sky; the carpet was of a dull drab, the hangings of dull drab, the prevailing tint of the room was of dull drab; it was so dark that in the recesses it was impossible to see; the chairs and tables were of old-fashioned make, more uncomfortable than modern imagination could devise; one or two tarnished gilt frames contained oil-paintings--portraits of the dead Severnes--one of whom rejoiced in a Roman nose and a shirt-frill; his consort was in black satin and a gold chain. Hester considered them choice works of art.  A more comfortless room could not have been imagined; the odor of it was close, as though the windows were seldom open.As they entered the room, a tall, gaunt, angular woman rose from her seat and presented a frost-bitten face to her brother, then turned to Diana.'So this is your wife. I hope you are well, Mrs. Bruno?'Diane glanced at her with a look of agonized appeal.'Is it possible,' she thought, 'that they are going to call me Mrs. Bruno?' She replied, shyly, that she was quite well.'You look well,' said Miss Hester, grimly.Then Bruno, rubbing his hands, said:'Have you some tea ready for us, Hester? Diane is longing for some tea; we had a warm, dusty ride.''Tea?' repeated Miss Hester; 'we took tea three hours since--it is six o'clock now. Still, if Mrs. Bruno wishes it, of course'--with a sigh of resignation--' it must be made.''Pray do not trouble yourself,' said Diane, quickly; 'it does not matter.' She expected her husband to take up the matter warmly, but, to her surprise, he merely said:'Well, let us have supper, Hester, if it be more convenient''Mrs. Bruno had better take off her things,' said Miss Severne.'Yes, certainly, I had forgotten. Diane, my sister will show you your room. Once more, welcome home, my dear.'He stooped to kiss the wearied young face that was fast losing its bloom. She shrank back.'Home, indeed!' The word sounded like mockery. How could she ever call this comfortless place home? Then she left the room Miss Hester.'This way, Mrs. Bruno,' said Hester; and Diane looked again appealingly at her.'Would you mind very much,' she said, if I asked you not to call me Mrs. Bruno? I do not like the name.'Miss Severne paused and looked severely at her.'Not like the name!' she said. 'Do you know that it is my brother's name?''Yes; but I do not like it. It has such a hard sound.''I really do not understand you,' said Hester. 'It is my brother's name.' Diane's face flushed.'My name is Severne' she said, 'not Bruno.'Hester laughed, a short, abrupt, sneering laugh.'The last Mrs. Severne was my mother,' she said; 'I should never think of giving her name to a child like you.  I could not endure to hear another Mrs. Severne in the house.''My name is Diane,' said the girl, timidly.'Well,' said Mrs. Hester, 'I do not know who Diane was, but a more heathenish name I never heard.''My mother did not think so,' said Diane.Miss Hester replied by a cough that expressed in itself general opposition to all the family of Balfours, then she opened the door of a large chamber.'This is your room, Mrs. Bruno,' she said.And with a sinking heart the girl entered it. It was large and square, with two windows.   As the prevailing hue down stairs was a dull drab, here it was of dingy green; everything was old-fashioned, and dreary; a green carpet and hangings, another pair of family portraits on the walls, more dried grass and shepherdesses on the mantelpiece. Diane looked round with a cry of despair. To her beauty-loving nature, this ugly old house was simply intolerable.'How shall I live!' she cried to herself.  'How shall I live!'Her heart sank; she could have cried like a child, but that her pride rebelled against Miss Hester seeing her in tears.'The lower part of the house had an odor of closeness, as though everything were made of wool, and the windows were never opened. So had the higher part a mysterious compound of apples and herbs in general.Diane had hardly removed her bonnet before the woman servant, whose name she found to be Anne Clegg, came to say supper was waiting. She laid the blue hat, with its dark plume, on the bed; she brushed out the golden hair, and hastened down stairs.'This way, Diane!' cried her husband.She found supper waiting in what was called the sitting-room, a large, cheerless room, overlooking a vegetable garden. Diane's quick eyes took in the whole at one glance.'My father would not have lodged in such a house,' she thought

to herself; he would have flown from it in horror: he could not have lived in it.'Nor was the supper of a kind to please the girl.  Miss Hester did not believe in flowers, fruit, pastry--they were all nonsense; substantial joints, loaves that resisted more than one attack were more in her line.'Diane,' said Bruno, 'you will take a glass of wine.''Yes, I am thirsty with the long ride.''If you are thirsty, I should not advise you to take wine; cider is very good,' interrupted Miss Hester.'That will do,' said Diane; 'it does not matter.'She had not been three hours in the house, but she had fallen into the fashion of saying 'it does not matter.'Supper was a painful ordeal for her. Bruno and Hester talked about the farm, cattle, what had been done in his absence. Occasionally Mr. Severne, remembering this must be dull for his wife, said something about London; but as it was in the tone one uses to a child, she felt it to be so; she knew, also, that all the
time Miss Hester was talking she was watching her with her keen, shrewd eyes.'She does not like me,' thought the girl to herself. 'Oh, I wish, I wish that I had not come here.''I am very tired,' she said, sadly, to her husband. 'I should like to go to rest.''You forget, Mrs. Bruno, that we have had no prayers. Have you not been brought up in the order of family worship?''Family worship?' repeated Diane. 'No, we had no family--there was only papa and myself.''The sooner you get into the habit, the better,' said Miss Hester.'But I am tired,' said Diane.''The spirit refreshes,'' quoted Miss Severne, severely.And the quotation awed Diane so that she forgot her fatigue, and said nothing more about rest. Miss Hester rang a bell. Two women-servants came in, and they all knelt round the table-cloth.Bruno read a long chapter out of a book of reflections. Then Hester in a shrill voice read some prayers. Now, Diane was religious; she had a child-like fashion of looking up to God as a most merciful Father; she had always attended church; her father had taught her to have the greatest reverence for the Bible; she was of a reverential, loving, religious nature, and would sooner have thought of flying than of running counter to good, or of failing in reverence. Was it her fault that, after the first half hour, the golden bead drooped and the weary eyes closed?  She had fought against that weariness valiantly--it overcame her at last.'She is asleep!' said Miss Hester, in an awful voice.Bruno touched her, and Diane opened her eyes. Was it her fault that, as she looked round in bewilderment, and saw the dull room, the stern faces, a moan that she could not repress came from her lips?'You are tired,' said Bruno; 'you had better go.'She blushed violently when she saw what a breach of good manners she had committed.'I am very sorry,' she said; ' I could not really help it.'Miss Severne closed the book with a very anti-religious bang, with a sigh, and, turning to the servants, said: 'You can go.'They inwardly thanked the master's young wife, and lost no time in quitting the room.'You will feel better to-morrow,' said Bruno. 'You are fatigued, Diane; go--at once.' Submissively she took the candle from Miss Severne's hands; she longed to be alone; she felt that if she could not cry out the disappointment and despair that filled her heart she should die.'Good-night,' said Miss Severne.'Good-night,' replied Diane.She quitted the room. She looked at her watch as she mounted the staircase, it was not nine, yet all the shutters, blinds, doors, were fastened; she knew the sweet summer night reigned outside, the lovely starlit, dewy July night. She thought of Uplands, how the fragrant air would be stirring the trees; how hushed, sweet, and still all would be. She longed for one breath of the dewy night, as a thirsty deer longs for the stream.She locked the door of her room, she unfastened the hangings, and tried to open the window; it resisted her efforts, not one breath could she have of the fresh air; but she could see the sky, that was comfort. She stretched out her hands with longing to the beautiful heavens.'Oh, Great Heaven!' she sobbed, 'how shall I bear it?'In her agony the child had flung herself on the floor and buried her face in her hands; she sobbed until her delicate frame shook again. How was she to bear it--the dull, prison-like house; the monotonous life; the unkindness of Miss Hester; the absence of all beauty, all light and brightness, all grace and sunshine--she, whose very life had been made up of these things?She was so child-like that as she lay weeping there, no thought that Bruno Severne had done a selfish action in marrying her occurred to her. It was all different to what she expected, all dull and hopeless. While Diane lay sleeping there, brother and sister had an agreeable conversation down stairs.'Well,' aid Bruno, as his wife disappeared, 'what do you think of her?''Think!' retorted Miss Hester. 'I have no patience to speak. You are a greater simpleton, a more foolish man, brother Bruno, than I thought you to be, and goodness knows that I do not expect much from men.''What fault do you find with her?' asked Bruno.'Fault! Look at her face--a red and white baby-face!''It is a very beautiful one,' said Bruno, quickly.'That is just like a man; only let a girl be like a doll, and they can talk of nothing but her beauty. Look at that absurd hair hanging all about her; you should have had more sense, Bruno Severne, than to have married a doll.''She is young, but will improve under you,' said Bruno.'What you married her for puzzles me; I am quite sure she does not like you.''Does not like me!' repeated Bruno, aghast; 'how do you know that?''She does not like your name--she told me so,' retorted Hester; 'and marrying her was the worst day's work you ever did in your life. I speak for your own good, Bruno.''Well, we must make the best of it; it cannot be helped now, that is certain.''No, it cannot be helped; but you have taken the wrong step in life, if ever man did; I am sorry for you, Bruno, Good-night.'CHAPTER XI.
DIANE'S OWN ROOM.Diane woke on this first morning in her own home with a feeling of depression difficult to resist. Bruno had risen hours before, and was busy at the farm. She made many resolutions to herself, and determined to keep them. She was of such a bright nature that she could not long feel gloom. She was married, there was
no altering her destiny. She must make the best of it; try to brighten the house, try to win Miss Hester's liking, try to get as much sunshine as she could. Bruno was kind to her, he would let her do as she liked. She must not give up because her new home was not as she thought it would be--bright and beautiful.  She dressed herself in one of her pretty morning-dresses, a blue
and white print, made with a frill of white lace round the throat and wrists; she tied the golden hair with blue ribbon--then she looked so lovely, so winsome, so like a fair, fresh flower that she was ashamed of her own beauty.Hester was busy in the kitchen: Diane went direct to her with a pleasant morning greeting. Hester looked at the beautiful face and graceful figure, the white hands and golden hair.'Good-morning,' she said; then added, with a laugh: 'You do not look much like a farmer's wife, certainly.'Diane flushed.'I am afraid I do not look very sensible,' she said.'Sensible?' repeated Hester, 'I should say not. Yon look like a doll.  Dolls must breakfast, I suppose.  Mind, Mrs. Bruno, I say nothing about your being late this morning, but I do not like it; you will find that the servants will grumble at getting two breakfasts.''I shall never require it,' said Diane; 'I am an early riser, Miss Severne; I do not think that I ever sleep after the sun rises; but this morning I was tired and dull.''Hard work is the best remedy for dullness,' said Miss Hester. 'What can you do?  Can you make butter or cheese?''No,' said Diane.Can you make bread, or cook, or see to cleaning the house?''I am afraid not,' was the reply; 'but I will learn, I will try my best.''It is something quite new to have to teach a farmer's wife,' said Miss Hester. Diane laughed.'I have never thought of myself in that light at all.''In what light?' was the sharp question.'I mean that I have hardly remembered that I am farmer's wife; it sounds quite important.''It is rather strange to marry a man, yet forget you are his wife,' snapped Miss Hester. But Diane would not take offence.'I will be a docile pupil, if you will teach me, Miss Severne, she said, gently.'Pray, call me Hester--Hester is a sensible scripture name; I like to hear it.''I will learn all I can from you, Hester,' said Diane, sweetly; 'and I will try to please you.  Pray, have patience with me, I know that I shall need it.'Miss Hester was mollified. She gave orders that a new-laid egg should be boiled for Mrs. Bruno, which was a condescension on her part  Then, as Diane was taking her breakfast, Bruno came in for his lunch.'How are you going to send your time, Diane? 'he asked.'I hardly know, she replied.'You must find some occupation' he continued; 'I am hardly home during the day. You will want something to do.'A vision rose before her of the dreary days to come, the long years
made up of such days, when she would be alone with Hester in this dull
house.'Have you any books? she asked, half timidly.'Yes there is a shelf full,' he replied.She crossed the room to look at them. There was a large family Bible, a History of England, Buchan's Domestic Medicine, Shakespeare, the Pilgrim's Progress, Sir Charles Grandison, Johnson's Dictionary, and the Christian Year.'Is this all?' she asked, faintly.'Yes,' replied Bruno, 'it is an excellent collection.''I have read all these.  Could I not go to Southbay and join some library there?'He looked doubtful. Miss Hester said, briskly:'Library?  Nonsense! What would you want running off to Southbay after a parcel of nonsensical books, filling your head with all kinds of nonsense? If you mean to be a farmer's wife in reality, as well as in name, you have so much to learn you will have no time for books.''There is something in what Hester says,' thought Bruno. 'The sooner she is broken into her work the better.'So he finished his lunch, and no more was said about books.Diane learned to whip cream, and succeeded so well as to elicit some frigid commendation from Hester.'You will do in time,' she said; ' but you will want a deal of teaching.'A farmer's wife! Bruno looked at her, so dainty, with her lovely face and graceful figure, the proud head with its crown of golden hair. Was it not a pity that she should be a farmer's wife, when she had beauty sufficient to crown her as a queen?'It was the best thing I could do for her,' he said to himself, with a sigh, and she will be all right with Hester in time.'Diane stole out of the kitchen. It was a July morning, and she was only seventeen. She put on her hat and hastened out of doors.  She longed to see if it were all as dreary as she had first thought,

or if she had failed to see some rushing brook with flowery banks, some grove of trees, some lovely bit of landscape that would gladden her eyes. But there was none. The fields were full of ripening grain, the land seemed fertile, but there was not a pretty meadow, or a shady lane, or a clear pool, or anything in which her artistic soul delighted.  The lane led to the high road, and there was two miles to walk before she could see anything like a pretty country.   She stood looking over a white gate that led into a bean field, when she was startled by her husband's voice quite close to her.'Are you looking round the farm, Diane? he asked.  'There's plenty of work in it.'She tuned her fair, thoughtful face to him.'I was thinking,' she said, 'that this is the only farm I have seen that had not something picturesque about it.'He laughed as though she had paid him a compliment.'We have no time for thinking of what is pretty,' he said; 'there is no farm in Devonshire pays better; that is more to the purpose. By the way, Diane, I wanted to ask you--did you really tell Hester that you did not like my name?'Her face flushed hotly, but neither then nor at any other time did she hesitate in speaking the truth.'Yes, I said so. I meant no harm. I said that I did not like the name of Bruno.  It was not in good taste for your sister to tell you. I shall be careful what I say to her.''I am sorry you do not like it,' he said, gently, 'but I do wish you would use it.'  Feeling that she had hurt his mind, she was anxious to make amends for it.'I will always call you Bruno,' she said, 'and I will try to like the name because it is yours.'  So they talked more pleasantly than they had done since they came home.'Diane,' said her husband, 'do you like Larchdale?'She would rather not have answered him, but he repeated it.'Not much at present,' she replied. 'It is too dull; it wants foliage, grand old trees, running waters, blooming flowers, and a garden.  Then it would be better.  It is nothing like Uplands. Every room there was full of sunshine and flowers; all over the house there was a sweet odor; there was a beautiful, old-fashioned garden. I liked Uplands best.''Bruno,' she asked, after a few minutes, 'do you think I could have a room for my very own?' 'For your very own?' he repeated. 'What to do with?'I have so many books, pictures, and statues in my boxes,' she replied; 'pretty things that my father collected during his travels. If I might have a room for my own, I should have the windows always open; I should have pink and white hangings, white lace curtains instead of that dreadful maroon; a pretty easy-chair, and a table for my drawing: plenty of flowers, and all my books, picture, and statuettes. I should be so happy if I could have a room.''Then I am sure you shall have one,' said Bruno; ' we will speak to Hester about it during dinner.' Diane went home happy with the promise; but Miss Hester was not in the best of tempers; she was ill-pleased at Diane having gone out.'As though she were some fine lady with nothing to do but amuse herself,' thought Miss Severne.Bruno began the conversation at once.'Hester,' she said, 'Diane wants a room. Which do you think she can have?''A room!' was the reply. 'What does she want that for?''My books and pictures; then I am fond of drawing, and I should like to go on with it,' said Diane.The bitter look on Hester's face roused Bruno's courage.'Drawing ' she said. 'What has a farmer's wife to do with drawing?--such--nonsense!''Why should not my wife do as she likes?' asked Bruno.'Oh! certainly. I thought you wished her to grow into a sensible woman--that is all.''Does a sensible woman never draw?' asked Bruno.'If I had spent my time in drawing, where would the farm have been, where would your banker's book have been?  Who is to manage and superintend, economize, and all that kind of thing, while the mistress of the house draws?''I can give it up,' said Diane; 'it does not matter. Papa said I had a talent for drawing, and should make money at it.''Make money!' cried Hester; 'that is quite another thing. Why did you not say so at first?  If you can make money you ought to do it; every little helps.''Which room can be spared?' asked Bruno.'There is a room close to the cheese-room,' said Hester.'The cheese-room!' cried Diane. 'Oh, not there, if you please, not there; I do not like the smell of cheese.'Hester raised her hands and eyes in holy horror.'A farmer's wife,' she said, ' and not like cheese? Perhaps you would like fountains of eau-de-cologne about the place.''Indeed I should,' said Diane, candidly.'I thought as much,' cried Hester.Then Bruno interposed again.'Why cannot Diane have a room on the first floor, next to ours? Let her have that, Hester.  See that the servants clear it out today.''Would you have any objection to that, Mrs. Bruno?' asked Hester, with affected humility.'No, I am only too pleased to have a room at all,' was the reply. 'I will never tease you with objections, Hester?'She was so thankful to have gained this privilege. It would be something to be grateful for, to have a room where she could do as she liked and reign supreme. She hastened away after dinner, when Hester retired to the dairy, where the dairymaid had a fine time of it. Bruno went back to the farm, and Diane went up stairs with Anne Clegg.'Going to have a room of your own, ma'am; then there will be another one to clean,' said Anne Clegg.'Whatever extra trouble I may give you,' said the gentle young mistress, 'I will make amends for it.'There was a struggle over every detail.  Hester resented the removal of the dark screens.'Pink and white hangings! she cried; 'well, Bruno will soon be ruined; but she must please herself, I suppose.'The day came when the room was finished, the pink and white hangings put up, white lace curtains hung at the window, and Diane ordered her trunks to be brought up stairs, that she might arrange the contents.CHAPTER XII.
TEMPEST IN A TEA-POT.IT was August by the time that was completed, and the wheat stood in sheaves. A wheat field had always been one of Diane's favorite pictures, and she had gone to take her farewell look at this one before the sheaves were disturbed. Bruno joined her, for it was evening, and his work was done. They watched the sunset over the golden grain. He enjoying it because it gave promise of a fine day on the morrow; she because the setting sun and the wheat field formed a picture in one.'This is the prettiest sight I have seen since I came to Larchdale,' she said.Then she gathered some of the ears of wheat and made a trimming for her hat.  When in after years did he see the great sheaves, without seeing at the same time the beautiful young face and graceful figure flitting between them? He thought of Ruth in the grand old Bible story.'Diane,' he said, ' I wonder if Ruth was like you?'No,' she replied; 'she was a Jewess, and I am fair.'Then with her face still turned to the setting sun, she began to wonder about Ruth.'Thy people shall be my people; thy God shall be my God,' what beautiful words they were; how dearly Ruth must have loved Naomi. Then she thought how different to herself, and she wondered if ever the time would come when she could say such words to any one--to Bruno.'Wheresoever thou diest, I will die;' she said the words aloud.Ah! yes. She had felt them when her father died; but for Bruno, her husband, could she say them? If he died at Larchdale, would she wish to die there?  No, she would wish to go away; perhaps it was different the love one had for a father and for a husband. Bruno was very good to her, she would be content.'What are you thinking of, Diane?' asked her husband. 'You look like a picture with the light of the setting sun on your face, and the wheat ears in your hands. What are you thinking about?''I was thinking,' she replied, 'that I ought to be content.'He kissed her, and Diane tried not to shrink from the rough face.'He is very fond of me,' she thought, and they walked home.Supper was waiting in the back room, but Hester was not there. Bruno sat at the table thinking it pleasant to be alone with his wife, when they heard Miss Hester's voice in very decided tones of dissatisfaction.'Oh, they have come back, have they? Now we will see.'Diane looked up in wonder. Bruno's heart sank within him; the very tone betokened a disturbance.Hester opened the door, and advanced to the table.'Brother,' she said, 'have I not always, to your knowledge, conducted myself as a Christian woman?''Always, Hester, always.''Did you ever see anything in me forward or--or improper? this last word was given with a virtuous shudder.'Never!' he replied.'Have I not managed your house, kept my good name, kept steady servants, been the first to condemn anything wrong, kept myself and everything belonging to me reputable?''Yes, you have done so, Hester,' he replied.'Then I appeal to you, brother, that all my good example may not be in vain. Your wife has statues and statuettes in the room, Bruno, that I cannot allow, and I will not.'Diane opened her beautiful eyes in wonder. Bruno turned to her with a heavy sigh.'I--in my room!' gasped Diane; 'anything wrong? Oh, Hester how false, how wicked you must be to say so!''Doubtless I am very wicked, but I will not remain in any house where such things are permitted.''But what do you mean, what can you mean? cried Diane. 'I never had anything wrong in my life.''What is it, Hester?' asked Bruno; 'If there is anything in Diane's room you do not like, fetch it here.''No, brother, that I will not; nor shall my hands be contaminated by carrying such things. Anne Clegg saw them first, and fetched me. All I can say is, if they are to remain in the house, they must be covered.''Are you speaking of two white statuettes?' asked Diane.'I am, Mrs. Bruno.''Oh, Bruno!' cried Diane, laughing, 'do you know what they are? One is a little copy of Venus of Milo, the other is Power's Greek Slave. What a foolish idea! Why, those are world-wide known works of art, Hester; every one raves about them.'Bruno looked perplexed.'I never heard of them,' he said, 'I never heard the names but if they are anything Hester does not like, put them away.''Put them away?' cried Diane. 'Why, my father valued them more highly than anything else he had.''Your father ought to have been ashamed of himself,' said Hester. Then Diane turned to her with flashing eyes.'Never say that again, Hester Severne; speak as you will of me, but of my dead father--not one word--not one word.''You are too hasty, Hester,' said Bruno.'And you, brother--too weak. I shall keep to my word; either those heathenish, improper figures go--or I go.''You can go,' said Diane, proudly; 'they belonged to my dead father, and shall never be touched.''Hush, Diane, you forget yourself,' said Bruno, sternly. 'My sister is not to be turned from my doors.''Nor shall my statues be taken from me,' said Diane.'Then cover them,' said Bruno.And although she was hurt, wounded, the idea was so absurd, that she laughed heartily--it was impossible to help it.'See, brother. cried Hester, 'she is light and frivolous, she has no real feeling. I could not ask Christian servants to stay here, or stay here myself it such things are permitted. Anne Clegg belongs to Bethesda, and she is very particular.'Again the sweetness of Diane's disposition won the day.Hester,' she said, 'we have been brought up in different schools. Art is everything to me, it is nothing to you; if my little statuettes displease you, I will put them away; you are the Elder, I will defer to you.'Hester could say no more. Bruno kissed his wife to show how well pleased he was with her, thinking to himself there was more real Christianity in her sweet humility and gentleness than in his sister's obtrusive propriety. Hester sat down to supper.  No more was said, but the amusement in Diane's eyes irritated her far more than words. That evening Diane put away her statuettes, laughing to herself as she did so, and wishing there was some one to share the jest with her.The outraged propriety of Larchdale was avenged, and for a few days all was peace. Then some one said, in Hester's hearing, that nothing so beautiful as Diane's hair had ever been seen; and by this time Miss Hester hated her brother's wife with a fierce hatred, only known to the narrow-minded. She was plain, even to ugliness. The beautiful face, the golden hair, the graceful figure always before her, were a vexation of spirit. If the golden curls could be shorn, that would be something, so she waited until she found her brother alone.'Bruno,' she said, 'how long are you going to allow that girl to run about with her hair in that state?''What girl?' he asked, briefly.'Diane,' she replied.'Hester, you will oblige me by speaking properly of my wife; she is not a girl, she is a married woman.''I will frame my question properly--how long do you intend that married woman to run about with her hair in that state?''What is the matter with it?' asked Bruno.'The matter? Why people are talking about it; it is not respectable. Do you know any other married woman who goes about with her hair flying in all directions?''No other woman has such hair as Diane; if they had they would be pleased enough to show it,' he said, cynically.'I have done, brother. I spoke for your own sake,' was the meek answer. 'I have been proud of you all my life, and I should not like, I do not like to hear people laugh at you.''If they laugh because of Diane's hair, they are welcome to their amusement. They know that they must say no more.'One of the greatest trials of Diane's life was Sunday: instead of being the day of rest and happiness intended by Heaven, it was the opposite. The Severnes belonged to a new sect, one that had begun in Southbay, and was likely to end there. They were a peculiar sect, who prided themselves on being like no other.
They copied any eccentricity, but not the virtue that made it pardonable. The principal feature in their doctrine was their indulgence

toward themselves and their vigorous judgments of others. They built a place of worship which they called 'Little Bethesda,' and of Little Bethesda Bruno Severne and his sister were the chief patrons.It was desirable that Diane should go to Little Bethesda; had she consulted her inclinations she would have gone to the church at Southbay, but she was too much of a child to dream of opposing Bruno, when he expressed his wish. Now the style of persons popular at Little Bethesda was something different to Diane. Great disagreeables and great piety went band in hand there.  They exulted over a fallen sinner, thanking Heaven they were not the same; they rejoiced in the plain type of woman; flowing hair, flowing draperies, fair faces, sunny smiles, were all so many abominations in their eyes. Therefore was Diane an object of
suspicion and dislike. They returned home to a cold dinner, any enjoyment or comfort being considered criminal.There came a lovely Sunday morning; it was in September, but the day had all the warmth of August and brightness of July. As there was some reason why they could not drive, they were compelled to walk, and had to pass through one of the loveliest parts of Southbay. Their way lay under a grove of trees. Diane looked up to her husband.'Doesn't never seem to you,' she said, 'that one could pray better under these beautiful trees, with the blue sky shining down, and the birds singing, than in that little hot Bethesda?''Hush, Diane,' said Bruno; 'that is not a proper sentiment.'Hester took up the cause.'Such a remark as that savors of atheism, Mrs. Bruno.''Nay,' said Diane; ' I could never say anything that savors of atheism, for I love God and honor Him. I only thought we seemed nearer to Him here than in Little Bethesda.''You have an unregenerate soul,' said Miss Severne, with meek viciousness.  'It will be well if you come to no harm.'CHAPTER XIII.
DIANE'S TRIALS.DAY by day life grew more intolerable to Diane. Bruno had been kind to her at first; he had insisted on her having every wish gratified, every desire fulfilled; but his sister omitted no single thing which could annoy her; so that, although his love for her never changed, even in after years never grew less, still he lost the kindness of manner that had seemed to her her only comfort. Hester was always pointing out her faults, knowing how different she was to the sensible matrons around them.  What a mistake it was to have imagined such a child could have been fit for the position.  But the chief point on which she dwelt, and the one that her brother could not endure, was the fact that she did not love him. Hester watched her one morning when Bruno expressed a wish that she should not go out. The morning was damp, he said, unfit for her, and she had looked piteously at him.'It will not hurt me, Bruno.  Let me go.  What can I do all the long day in this house?'The sad tone touched him. Miss Hester looked up sharply.'Do? Do as other wives do-your work and your duty. There are some towels to hem, pickle jars to label.  Do, indeed! that is a nice question to ask, when there so much work that neither Anne Clegg nor I can get through it.''Do not be angry with her Hester,' said Bruno; 'she is too young to think about work.''Young!' snapped Miss Hester; 'a woman in her position has no right to be young. Younger people than your wife have to work, and work hard.''She will have more sense by and by,' said Bruno.'I have sense!' cried Diane; 'but, Hester, you know if I offer to do anything 
you always laugh and say I do not know how.'Bruno said no more.  These battles between his wife and his sister distressed him.  Hester was always right, yet he felt sorry for Diane; he kissed her--she turned her face away.'I will hem the towels,' she said, as she quitted the room.Hester looked up at her brother.'Bruno,' she asked, 'whatever made you fancy Diane liked you?''She does like me, ' he replied, quietly.'She does not--I am certain she does not. No wife who liked her husband would ever shrink from him as she does from you. She seems as though she could not endure you to touch her.''That is your fancy Hester; my wife loves me,' said Bruno.But the words dwelt in his mind and never left it. Was it possible she did not love him, the fair young girl, the daughter of his dead friend whom he had married to give a home, was it possible she shrank from him and did not like him?  He could not believe it, yet he determined to watch her, to see how it was, to study her, and if she did not love him--there was no remedy, he could only bear it.  So often were these scenes repeated that at last the impression was a settled one in his mind.There is no such tyrant as a narrow-minded woman; there is no such torture as the continual infliction of pain on a sensitive mind.  Diane could never have told how Hester tortured her, she could not put into words the slights, the fault-finding, the mortifications she was compelled to undergo.One of those September mornings when she came down to breakfast, the sitting-room seemed to her to be faint with heat. Never thinking of Miss Hester's dislike to open windows, she drew aside the drab hangings and opened the windows wide. Such a flood of sunlight came in as almost dazzled her, such a breath of perfumed air that the room was changed, lost its dull, gloomy aspect, and Diane smiled with glee.'If it could but always be like that,' she thought to herself. The tea tasted better; it was so nice to drink it in the sunshine.Then in came Hester. She looked aghast at the sunshine and she went to the windows and closed them, drawing the drab hangings even more closely.'That is a thing I never allow,' she said. Diane looked up.'Pray let it be, Hester; I like the sunlight.''If you had any idea of what things cost you would never let dust,' retorted Miss Hester.'I think it is very hard that in my own room I cannot do as I like; it seems to be quite sufficient if I want a thing that I should not have it,' said Diane, impatiently.'You may be thankful there are people too sensible to give into your nonsense,' said Miss Severne.'I shall ask my husband if he forbids me to open a window ; if he does, I will obey him; but I am tired of obeying you, Miss Hester.''Are you? You will do well to annoy my brother; you have been enough annoyance to him. The house has never been the same since you came into it.'Diane's fair face grew pale. She was only seventeen; so loving, so sensitive. She had been so dearly loved, so indulged all her life, it seemed hard to her now. Then she conquered herself. Miss Hester should never see she had power to bring tears into her eyes. She strove bravely; she tried her best to please that hard woman; but she could never succeed, for the simple reason that Miss Hester hated her with fierce hatred.She did her best to please her husband, but she could not succeed, because her enemy was always there, to give a false reason for what she had done. Gradually she left off trying to please them. She let things go more as they would; she said to herself:'It is of no use, I cannot help it, it does not matter.'There was something almost pathetic in the constant repetition of these words from such young lips: 'It does not matter.' And in her heart she meant them too.Life had ceased to have any interest for her; she was wretched. Larchdale would not have been a congenial home even for one brought up after the manner of the Severnes themselves. An iron rule like Hester's can never be tolerable; she was one of those people who did not care what discomfort they inflict on themselves, if only they can make others uncomfortable.  She would rise at three in winter rather than give the servants the faintest chance of sleeping until four.  She made it a point of honor to scold through the day, lest if she relaxed the whole household should become lax.The only person of whom she stood in awe was Anne Clegg, who had recently joined Little Bethesda, and was soon to be conciliated. Narrow economy was the rule of the house. If in May or June there came a cold, wet evening, Miss Hester would never allow a fire. It was against the custom of the house; people might shiver, but there was one comfort, they shivered according to rule. The rules of the establishment were unalterable, neither climate nor comfort affected them; as for cheerful rooms, fresh air, sunshine, light, or elegant furniture, she laughed them to scorn. There was a settled time for everything, and it was never
allowed to vary. People might be ill, the world might change its course, there was no change at Larchdale. There are some people for whom such a life would have the greatest charm; to others it would be unendurable, It was so to Diane. The young love change, novelty. It was hard to take breakfast at seven every morning ill or well, to dine at twelve, to

tea at three, and supper at seven, whether you wanted it or not. It was hard to be compelled to go to bed at nine, whether you liked it or not; and only to be allowed a small light, so that if there had been books there was not light enough to read them by. How many weary hours and nights Diane lay awake, finding
it impossible to sleep because she was not tired, weeping for the blight that had come over her.Some girls would have become mere machines, content to live, speak, think, eat, drink, and sleep by rule. Not so Diane; the girl had the French nature of her mother, she had the artistic soul of her father; beauty was essential to her as the air she breathed; freedom as much so; she could no more live at Larchdale than a beautiful forest bird could have lived in a dark room without sunlight. Slowly the color faded from her beautiful face, she grew pale and thin, the carnation of her lips died, the light grew dim in her eyes.She had been used to spend hours over her easel, forgetting all her sorrows, and breaking out into cheerful songs; she spent less time at her drawing, there was no one to speak to; her father had praised, blamed, and criticised, but was always interested; her mind had always been refreshed by beautiful scenery, ideas, and thoughts--now, if she looked in search of the picturesque, she saw
nothing but cabbages and corn. When she wanted more materials for drawing, she found it impossible to get them; and when she wished to get books, and asked to be driven to Southbay, there was always some reason why the horse could not be spared.'Miss Hester was in a temper and would not allow this or the other,' the maids would say.'It does not matter,' was Diane's reply; nothing mattered; nothing could give her back her lost freedom and brightness.Bruno noticed it, her face seemed to him to have grown more beautiful, yet, to have lost its brightness. No matter how cross Hester was, he never heard her reply, and in his blindness he; thought his wife and sister were getting on better.It did not seem to him that while he never saw her angry, neither did he see her smile; no merry laugh, no jests, no eloquent ideas; she was sad, sorrowful, patient, and uncomplaining. Hester said to him one day that she believed Diane was improving, and if so, it was all owing to the teaching she received from her and Little Bethesda.CHAPTER XIV.
NO CROSS, NO CROWN.AUTUMN came, with glorious foliage, the last of the year. It had been Lawrence Balfour's favorite season.'Come, Diane,' he would say, 'let us look at the dying leaves.'  He used to say that Nature had saved her most gorgeous colors for autumn. They would wander for hours in search of trees whose leaves were beginning to fade--where the gold, green, rues set, and brown, were all mingled in one union of coloring--where the earth was rich with the swell of the leaves, and the wind rustled as though chanting some grand song. Even Larchdale looked more picturesque than it had ever done before.Diane had grown too unhappy to care about her room or drawing. She was of an age when people want human sympathy, and of this she had none. The autumn brought all her pain and sorrow, her desolation more keenly before her; she thought so much the dead father whose great love for her was always before her. The only pleasure she knew was walking until she found some trees, and watching them in silence. Often, as she was leaving the house, Miss Hester would cry:'Going out, Mrs. Bruno and leaving all this work untouched? How selfish you are.' It did not matter; she would take off her hat without one word, and set to work.Then a fear came to her that the autumn would fade, and she could nothing of it; she had a sick longing on her to leave the dull rooms, the hot house, the level fields, and see the woods, the river, the sea--a longing that nothing could cure. She resolved to gratify it; she would go to Southbay, if only for one day, and steep her soul in the glory of color and sound.'If I ask, they will be sure to oppose,' she said, 'so I will go without.'During breakfast Miss Hester said she should require Diane to assist in arranging some linen and taking an inventory of it. She looked up at the grim, stern face.'If you really require my aid,' she said, 'I will help you; but I had arranged to go to Southbay to-day.'It was the first time she had ventured to say that she had made an arrangement for herself, and both looked up in wonder.'Southbay!' repeated Miss Hester. 'Why on earth should you want to go there? I want a change,' said Diane. 'I am tired of always being in the house--it is so dull.'Hester looked at her brother with a significant smile.'I wish you joy, Bruno,' she said; 'you have done a wise thing for yourself. How many weeks has your wife been here? I have lived in this house nearly forty years, yet no one ever heard me ask for a change.'Diane made no reply--it was useless to argue with Hester; but she was determined this time to have her own way.'Perhaps Anne Clegg will help you,' she said, 'or perhaps you can wait until to-morrow? This is a lovely day, and autumn will soon be over; so that if I do not take advantage of this day, I may never have another opportunity.''I shall manage,' said Miss Heater. 'I am accustomed to having my own share of work, and other peoples' to look after at the same time.  Pray do not suit my convenience; my being tired does not matter in the least.''You will not be tired,' said Diane. 'I do not think you were ever tired in your life.  Bruno, I shall be back by six o'clock.'He looked anxiously at her.'I hardly like your going to Southbay all alone, Diane,' he said; 'it is rather a risk.''Do not prevent me,' she said; 'I must have a change. You forget the happy life I had with my father. I could not bear this much longer, it is so different. Bruno, do not oppose.'There was something in her face and voice that he did not dare oppose.  He said imply: 'Shall I go with you, Diane?''No,' she replied; 'thank you for thinking of it, but I would neither be quite alone.' He said no more.Hester coughed significantly, as though she would say:'Make no mistake--my idea is the right one; she does not love--she does not want you.'  Bruno watched his wife as she went down the high-road to Southbay.'She would have been twice as comfortable if I had driven her over,' he said.He could not understand the longing to dream among the autumn foliage; turning, with a sick heart, from home duties, to dreaming among trees; it was beyond him. He went to his work with a sigh; he did not understand Diane, and never should; never while they lived.While Diane was breathing fresh life she was alone, the sun shining, and soon, by rapid walking, she left the dull farm behind her, and was beginning to see the trees; then a corner of the road brought her to one of the loveliest of Devonshire landscapes--purple hills stretching out onto the distance, green fields bordered with trees and a blue line shining as no other blue does--the fair, beautiful sea; then she saw the autumn foliage, the golden leaves, and something of the old child-like happiness welled up in her
 heart. She passed by the cheerful homesteads until she came to the town itself.It was like new life; there were the shining sea, the happy-looking people. She went into a confectioner's shop and had some coffee for her lunch, then wandered through the streets. The load that had been so heavy at her heart died away; she felt young again; it seemed to her years since she had left that gloomy farm; then she came to the gray church, with its tall spire, and the church-yard, where the dead seemed so peaceful.She sat in the thick grass; the dying leaves were rustling round her; the bird sang; it was so peaceful, so bright. Oh! if she might rest here--and never go back to the place she detested so utterly. Then she began to think of the morning of her wedding--that fatal marriage day when she had gone to her father's grave to say farewell to him, and the conviction came to her more strongly than ever that it had been a terrible mistake--that it was fatal to her. Then she wondered how she could have been so blind, so foolish, and so mad. The reasons that had seemed so forcible to her then, were nothing now. Bruno Severne had married her because he could not take her home without. Ah! if she had known what that home was like, if some kind spirit had warned her, she
would rather have done anything, have suffered anything, than have gone to such a home. Then it had seemed impossible she could ever teach children, that she could get her living; she had not, in those days, the faintest notion how; now it seemed to her the most feasible thing in the world; she blamed herself unjustly, she forgot how young and easily influenced she was at the time.What a life hers might have been, with her passionate powers of enjoyment, her love of art, nature, and beauty. Now it was

all dead, hopeless, lifeless. Never had the meaning of the words come over her so strongly before. Nothing could change or alter it.  The world would go on, suns rise and set, seasons change, but her fate was fixed; never to be changed. A sudden sense of helplessness, hopelessness of her life came over her. What could she do?She laid her head on one of the gravestones and sobbed until it seemed to her that her heart would break; she had only wept so bitterly once before in her life, and it was on the first night she reached home, the home where she had been so unutterably wretched.  Again the bitter sobs shook her frame. She was alone under the wide, pitying heavens. Oh, if she could but weep the bitterness of her pain away. How long she had lain there sobbing, she never knew.  Hour after hour had passed all unheeded by the young hearts bearing its first sense of utter wretchedness--alone.Then a voice near roused her.'My poor child,' it said, 'what is your trouble?'She raised her tear-stained face and saw before her a gentleman, with white hair, clergyman, she knew from his dress; the sight of him give her comfort.He went over to the place where she was sitting.'What can I do to help you?' he asked. 'My poor child.''Nothing,' she replied. 'There is no help for me.''Will you tell me what your trouble is? Then I can do something; I can give you advice and sympathy.'She shook her head sadly, and he wondered to see how young and how beautiful she was.'My trouble?' she said. 'It is one there is no help for.  I made a mistake in my life, and it is too late to repair it.''A mistake in your life?' he said. 'Tell me what mistake it is?' She looked up at him. She longed for human comfort, and he was one of those whose office it was to give it.'I married,' she said simply, 'and now I am unhappy; so unhappy, that I wish I were dead.''Is your husband unkind to you?' he asked.'No, not unkind, but his sister is. I cannot tell you why, but they seem to crush my heart and soul between them.''Does your husband love you?' he asked again.'He said so,' was the reply; 'but there are many things that he loves better than he does me''What are they? asked the grave voice.'His sister, farm, house, land, money; anything, everything that pays him; a thousand times better than he loves me.''And you, poor child, do you love him?''Oh! No,' she replied, with a shudder.  'No, there never was any question of my loving him.''Then why did you marry him?''Because,' she said, 'it was the only thing to do under the circumstances; that my father would have wished it, and chiefly because he was my father's friend.''Poor child,' he said again, 'and now you have found out your mistake--that it was impossible to love him.''Yes, I am very unhappy,' she said, simply.'Well, I can but give you my advice. There are many unhappy marriages. My experience tells me, there are more unhappy than happy ones; but there is a way of bearing all trouble; you must try to be brave, you must patiently carry your cross until you die; you must remember that the common lot is to be unhappy; you have a cross to bear. Ah, me! and there is no cross so great as an unhappy marriage; but you will remember, no cross, no crown. Lift your eyes to those heavens, it is there we have to live, not here. Remember also that when your judgment comes, you will not be asked--' Were you happy, was your life pleasant?' but, 'Did you do your duty?  Are you doing yours?''I do not seem to have any,' she replied, drearily. 'You cannot understand my life, it is all hopeless.''Poor child! do not despair. Now, will you do one thing to please me--go home, take up your cross bravely and patiently; say to yourself that you will bear your troubles; do your duty--try your best. Will you do this?'Something of the vigor of his words came to her.'I will,' she said-' I will try.''Come and see again; I am always here. My home is close to the church; I am the rector. I am an old man now--but I remember in my youth I had a sorrow that beat me down as yours has beaten you. I thank my Father in heaven it is my crown. Go, my child, and learn to live your life in patient trust.'And Diane did exactly what he told her.CHAPTER XV.
A PICTURE TO DREAM OF.THE autumn had gone, and the cold mantle of winter lay over the earth; gone were the singing birds, gone were all the sweet sights and sounds of summer; if Larchdale had been dull then, it was worse now; the level roads were impassable, the one weekly event, the going to little Bethesda, was abandoned.It was a wet winter, always snowing, or raining, the dark rooms
grew darker, even Miss Hester found her brain taxed to find employment; the sewing was done; the farm work in winter was not heavy; Bruno was more in the house, and he was more filled with wonder at the change in his young wife; her color had all gone, her eyes were heavy--she was mute and uncomplaining; even he could not help seeing how Hester tyrannized over her, and how meekly she bore it. He thought she was growing happier because she was so quiet--growing more accustomed to Larchdale and its ways; he forgot how young she was, and that, at her age, silence was unnatural.She had kept her promise; she never went back to the white-haired minister at Southbay, for she was ashamed; she thought it would not do for him to know she was the wife of Bruno Severne, of Larchdale; but she had tried to do her best; she had been patient under provocation that would have angered any one, under contradiction that had in it no reason, under daily mortifications that would have spoiled any temper; she never resented it, but her spirit was broken; the dreamy feeling of loss of health

and strength increased; there were days when she was content to sit; watching the leaden skies, the driving clouds, listening to the winds; spring and autumn were coming again, but it would be winter in her heart forever more.One morning it was dark and cold; she looked at her watch and saw that it was after six. After six! Miss Hester would be so cross. She tried to dress herself, but there was a faint languor over her that she could not understand. She lay down again.  She did not know whether she fell asleep or fainted. It was Hester's voice that roused her. Hester, standing by her bed with a candle in her hand, looking cross and glum.'Do you expect, Mrs. Bruno,' she asked, in a stern voice, 'that your breakfast is to be sent up here every morning! In that case, you had better ask my brother to engage another maid; there is no end to the trouble you give in this house.''I do not feel well, Hester. I will come down. You need not send anything up to me.''Be quick about it then; Bruno is waiting; it is worse than having a great overgrown child to look after.'Her voice died away as her eyes fell on the worn young face.'Are you really ill?' she asked, impatiently.'No, I felt tired, that was all.''I have no patience with people who are always complaining.  If you would work a little harder, you would not be tired; I never complain of being tired.'Meekly enough she followed her tormentor down stairs'Do not blame me, Bruno,' said Hester, 'if your coffee is cold, and your breakfast spoiled. Your lady-wife requires so much attention.'No word from Diane; she was almost solemnly still.  Bruno sighed. Miss Hester grumbled, then turned her attention to her plate. It was a strange sound that roused them--a gasping sigh, then a fall.  Looking up, they saw Diane lying on the floor.'Heaven bless us! cried Miss Hester. 'What now?'Bruno raised her, and looked, with alarm, at the white face.She is dying, Hester!' he cried.Dying! Not a bit of it. She has only fainted. Thank Heaven, I never fainted in my life.''What shall we do?' asked Bruno.'Do!  Lay her down on the sofa there. She will be all right in a few minutes.'No sweet pity, no warm compassion, no womanly tenderness.'Fainting on a busy day!  Was there ever anything so absurd?'But Bruno laid her down. He dropped the cold water on her face. Still the violet eyes did not open.'I am sure she is dying!' he cried, in wild alarm.  'Hester, what shall we do?''If she dies, we have not killed her,' was the retort.Then Anne Clegg attracted by the noise, came running in. She cried out when she saw the death-like face and figure.'There is no need for all this fuss,' said Miss Hester. 'Get some brandy.'The brandy was brought, and Bruno tried to pour some through the lips. It was all in vain; he turned to Anne.'Tell the men to get the horse and gig ready.  I will fetch a doctor,' he said.  'You will take care of her until I return.'While he was away, they took her back to her room and laid her on the bed.'Do you think she is dying?' Anne asked of her mistress.'No, I do not,' replied Miss Hester; but in her heart she wished that she had sent up some tea that morning.It seemed so long before Bruno returned.  Once or twice her eyes had opened, then closed again. It was a relief when the doctor came.'What a close atmosphere!' he said.  'Are these windows never opened?''Opened windows are not healthy,' said Miss Hester.'There are two opinions about that,' replied the doctor. 'If they do not happen to suit you, I must ask you to withdraw. The window must be opened.' Miss Hester retired.'What a Tartar!' thought the doctor to himself. 'Why, she looks sour enough to make any one ill!'Then he started as he saw the lovely, white face of Diane--so lovely in its frame of golden hair.'So this is your wife, Mr. Severne?' he said, wondering what would have brought this lovely girl to Larchdale.'Yes, this is my wife, doctor, said Bruno, 'and you must make her well quickly.'The current of cold air had revived her; she opened her eyes again with a long sigh.  The doctor gave her a strong cordial; Bruno left the room in search of wine.'Am I dying?' whispered Diane, faintly.'Dying! no, no, my dear lady, not dying,' he said.And he saw a look of disappointment come over her face.'Not dying?  Why, I have seen my father's face.' He thought she was wandering in her speech.'Surely,' he cried, impulsively, 'you do not want to die?''Oh, yes, I do,' she said.'You, so young!' cried the doctor. 'You cannot wish to die.''I was so pleased,' she said, 'when I began to feel so ill; it is weeks since now, and I would not tell, because I was afraid they would cure me.  I want to die; I want to see my father again.  I am so tired--so wearied and tired.''Poor child ' said the doctor.  'And is that the reason you wish to die, because you are so tired?''I am tired--my heart and soul are tired,' she replied.'Well, listen to me,' said the doctor. 'You are tired because you have not been well; now I have some news to tell you. I am sure you will be pleased when the smiling summer comes, as you know what will happen.''No,' she replied, nor did she care to know.  What did anything matter to her, whose life had been spoiled by a mistake?'Listen,' said the doctor, 'in the smiling summer, when the flowers are all blooming, and the birds are singing in the trees,

you will have a baby all your own to love, and to love you; you will not be tired of your life then.''A baby!' she repeated. 'I do not want a baby.'He looked shocked; in many cases he had known a baby to heal a broken heart; that any woman living should not consider a baby the first and highest joy, was a puzzle to him.'You will not say so then; a little baby all your own; you can love it as you will.''They will not let me,' she said, slowly, and in those few words the doctor held the key to the situation. He thought he saw the way to comfort her, to interest her in life.'There is no love,' he said, 'so sweet, so true, as that of a child.  God sends it purposely; it is the most precious gift He sends. Do you remember what you were to your mother?''Yes, ' she whispered, faintly.'Then your child will be the same to you--just the same.''They will not let me have it,' she said.  'Hester will take it from me and say I cannot manage it.''That no one can do.  Leave that to me,' said the doctor.'I have seen babies,' she said. 'I have held one in my arms, but I am not quite sure that I like them; I shall not know what to do with one; I do not think I want one.''Well, it cannot be helped now, and you will be happier. Now close your eyes; they look so tired.  I will give you a pleasant picture to dream of.  Try to think you have a pretty child, with a face like a rosebud, and fair curls, a lovely, dimpled, laughing baby, and that you are playing with it in a field, making a daisy chain--is not that a pretty picture?''Yes,' she replied, 'but it will never come true.'Yet when he was gone she lay thinking of it. The doctor went away with his heart full of pity.'That child has married some one she does not love,' he said; 'and her soul is sleeping like the soul of a child; neither the instincts of wife or mother are awake in her yet.'Great was the consternation down stairs when Dr. Kente announced his intelligence. Bruno was startled but bewildered--he could not believe it, but when the doctor assured him it was true, he hastened Diane.  Miss Hester was furiously angry. Dr. Kente laughed at her cross, irate manner.'I believe, Miss Severne,' he said, 'that a baby will be the best thing that could happen to Larchdale; you have all been here alone so long that you have forgotten what it is like to be young; a baby would a capital thing.''I call that wrong,' said Miss Hester.  'What right has he to talk in that way to me? We shall have a pair of babies then, and no mistake; Bruno Severne must have been mad to have married as he did!  What time has any one here to attend to a baby?  I have no patience with such folly!'Anne Clegg suggested that Mrs. Bruno was not to blame; and the master ought to be pleased to have a son to take care of his land after him; it would be better than leave it to strangers.'And pray,' cried Miss Hester, 'may I make so bold as to ask

you who said it was to be a son? A foolish creature like Mrs. Bruno is sure to have a daughter! She said something of the same kind to Bruno, but he was angry with her.'I am glad and thankful,' he said. 'I have often thought how foolish I was to work and save when all I had must go to strangers; now it will be different; I shall have a child of my own, instead of enriching other people's children, and I am sure, Hester, that in your heart you are pleased. How long is it since we saw a child at Larchdale?  You must train it and teach it--Diane is very young and will need all your wisdom.'That view of the subject mollified Miss Heater; she deigned to smile. ''Spare the rod and spoil the child,' was our father's maxim, Bruno, and we must not forget it.'Then, in the smiling summer, they laid a lovely boy in Diane's arms, and she asked if he might bear her father's name--Lawrence.CHAPTER XVI.
MARRIAGE A LIVING DEATH.DIANE grew more beautiful; the fair face with its dawning of love, the tender light in the violet eyes, the smiles on the sweet lips; there were times when Bruno, looking at her, felt something like awe of her loveliness, and surprise that such a beautiful creature should be his. The baby was a wonderful revelation to Diane, the flower-like face, the dimpled limbs, the soft hands; she remembered her silent ecstasy, years ago, when her father had bought her a doll that could open and shut its eyes, how she marveled over that work of art, how she had loved, and, though she would not for worlds have owned it, it was something of the same kind over her baby--a wondering surprise and awe.She was ill, ailing for so long that Dr. Kente was puzzled over her; she did not know that the crown of wonders--a real baby--lay in her arms; she did not care to live; he fancied that she seemed disappointed when he pronounced her better.'I do not understand you,' he said to her one day. 'It is an absurd comparison to make, but you remind me of a watch with the mainspring broken. Either you have no strength or you have no desire to live.''If the heart answers to the mainspring,' she said, slowly, 'you are not far wrong.''And she is only just eighteen,' he thought to himself. 'What must her life be to bring her to this.'He saw something of it; her husband, a stern, formal man, incapable of understanding her; mistaking her virtues for faults, and her faults for virtues; her gifts, her graces, her poetic intelligence, all a dead letter to him. Kind enough in his cold manner when she pleased him, but prejudiced against her, and made to dislike her by his sister--hating her for her youth, her beauty; hating her because her brother had married her; hating her because she ought to be mistress; hating her because she was the mother of the child whom Bruno so passionately loved. He saw it all; he understood the want of all brightness, all congeniality, all human sympathy, and he said to himself it would be better

for her to die and go to Heaven. He was a kind-hearted man, whose life was filled with active duties, yet he found time to think of this blighted flower that had been brought to the cold of Larchdale.Then, in June, Diane was better, and able to go out.  Bruno did her one kindness. Hester grumbled, she declared they would come to ruin; that indulging Diane in her whims was absurd folly, but he persisted--his wife went to Southbay with the child; but for that timely change, in all probability Diane would have faded slowly, and this tragic story never have been told. She had painful years to live through yet.Southbay restored her; it was not so much that she was ill, as that she was drooping with an unutterably wretched life.As the days passed on she began to dislike Bruno, he was so stern with her, so easily led by his sister; that from being indifferent, she began to dislike him, to dread the sound of his voice, to shrink with a beating heart from his caresses, all of which Miss Hester did not fail to draw his attention to.The baby should have been a source of union; it was the contrary.  Bruno, who did not understand his wife, who after talking to her alone, thought she was little less than an angel; and, after listening to his sister, thought her less than a woman--Bruno, who could not appreciate her, but whose love for her was a passion, always vibrating between love and anger--Bruno had the most passionate love for his child; there was nothing like it, in his eyes; the love that had been for a life-time pent up in his heart was lavished on it, therefore it proved a new source of discord.  Miss Hester was never tired of telling him how foolish he had been in allowing the child to be called Lawrence; it seemed to belong more to the Balfours than to the Severnes.'Indeed,' concluded that estimable lady, 'I am sure Diane considers herself the only relation the child has in the world; she fancies we have no right to it. I should say myself that she will have her way until she kills it, if she is left alone.'Bruno looked at her.'Do you really think Diane does not know how to manage it?' he said. Hester laughed aloud.'Oh, how blind a pretty face makes men! Do you know what I believe--that if she had a big doll to play with, she would not know how to manage that.''Oh, Hester!' he cried in horror.Well, brother, I believe most honestly what I say--ask any sensible person; they will tell you the same thing. I do not consider the child safe from one hour to another.''But she is kind to--fond of it,' said Bruno.'Yes, she would kill it with kindness, I do not doubt. Please yourself always, Bruno; but if she is allowed to have control of it, you will have no son to succeed you.'From that hour Diane's unhappiness increased. She loved the little one; the flower-like race and golden head were a picture of beauty to her; so soon the lips learned to smile at her, the hands to stretch out in loving greeting to her. So the child also loved

Bruno. It would evince the greatest delight in his presence; but toward Miss Hester it evinced the greatest aversion; when her grim face bent over it, the child would cry, the eyes brim over with tears, the pretty lips tremble.'It is frightened at you, Hester,' Diane would say; 'see how he smiles at me.'It was pardonable mother pride, but Hester Severne resented it; there was never a word that Diane spoke for which she did not have to suffer afterward. Her heart clung to the child, she might in time have been happy with it, but that it was made a source of torture to her. One of the first disputes was on bathing; Diane was a believer in it, she liked to see the little one in the water, he enjoyed it; Miss Hester was opposed to it. The pretty bath that
Diane had ordered was put away each day; the first struggle was to find it, then to have it filled with water--struggles so wearisome, but that she believed it needful, she would have given up with her formula, 'it does not matter,' but it seemed to her the baby's health depended on it, therefore she fought the battle until, one day, Miss Hester stood before her with flashing eyes:'I say, Mrs. Bruno, that you shall not have your own way--that you shall not continue this absurd custom!''And I say he is my baby,' replied Diane; 'and I shall do as I like with him; he is my baby, not yours.''No,' laughed Miss Hester; 'he is not mine, thank Heaven.  If I marry it will not be as you have done, for a home.''I did not marry for a home,' said Diane.'There is no doubt of one thing,' said Miss Hester, 'my brother was so burdened with you he was compelled to marry you.''It was an unhappy day for me,' said Diane. 'I would rather have been buried than married, it is only a living death after all.  Where have you put the bath, Hester, I want it.''I will appeal to my brother,' said Heater, and she sent Anne Clegg for him. Bruno came in looking unhappy, as most men do when they have to decide between two women.'Bruno,' said Miss Hester, 'do you wish your child to be killed by the foolish notions of this ignorant girl?''Bruno,' said his wife, 'am I to be mistress of my own child or not? I am not mistress of my house; tell me, am I to be of my child?''What is the matter?' he asked, angrily; ' where there are women there is no peace.'They told him--Diane in a few words, Hester with angry quotations, and stories of children who had died in their bath. He decided for his sister against his wife.'Hester is older than you, Diane,' he said, 'she has had more experience, she knows more, you defer to her.''Even at the risk of my baby's health?' asked the girl.'She is right, and you are wrong; she knows better what is right than you do.''Very well,' said Diane.When Bruno had spoken there was no appealing against him--there was nothing for it but obedience. One day after another,

until she was wearied out of her life, until her soul was sick to despair. If the sun shone, and she wanted to take the baby into the fields, Miss Hester found a dozen reasons why she should not do it; if Diane fancied the air cold and damp and preferred remaining in the house, Miss Hester found twenty reasons why she should not. An appeal to Bruno settled the matter, and those appeals were answered in Hester's favor. Diane found the only way was never to utter a wish, then she could escape contradiction; she submitted because she was so young and so helpless she could not resistShe grew apathetic in her despair; it was not temper, it was not gloom, it was not obstinacy, she was tired out; she gave up every cherished plan, she allowed Hester to do as she would. Instead of meeting with Miss Severne's approbation, this conduct annoyed her.  There is no pleasure in tyranny when your victim does not seem to feel the pain. She drew her brother's attention, with many bitter words, to his wife's 'want of feeling,' as she chose to call it.''Diane is one of those people,' she said, 'who soon tire of everything; nothing would please her fancy but a room; when we had all the trouble and expense of it, she was tired of it; the same with what she calls her drawing--that is all over now; the same with the baby--at first no one else must wash it, dress it, she was all impatience  to take it out, and now the baby might do as it could if it were not for me.'He was foolish enough to believe it; his sister had always led him as she would; then she repeated Diane's words, without a word of the provocation she had given.'I am tired of telling you, brother, and it is too late to talk about it now, but you made a terrible mistake; it was a thousand pities that as you had to marry, you did not marry some one in your sphere of life.''Diane was in my sphere of life, was she not?' he asked.'She evidently does not think so; I heard her make a strange remark the other day, brother.''What was it?' asked Bruno.   Yet even as he said the words all the manhood in him rose up against them.'She said she would rather have been buried than married; that, after all, marriage was but a living death.''That was rather strong language,' replied Bruno, unconscious of the cruel provocation his wife had received, and he never entered her presence or looked in her face without remembering the words.CHAPTER XVII.
'THEY WILL DRIVE ME MAD!''THEY will drive me mad!' said Diane, one morning. She flung her
hands above her head with a wild cry. 'My reason, my mind, my brain
seems turning.'She had asked some indulgence for herself and baby; it had been refused--refused by Bruno, who could never forget the words he had heard, 'that marriage was a living death.' Then Diane turned her fair, passionless face to Miss Hester.'I suppose,' she said, 'that when my boy is a little older, you will take the entire management of him?''I hope so,' said Hester; 'that is, if he is to be made fit for anything in this world.''And I, his own mother, shall have nothing to do with him--no influence over him, no part in his training?''None whatever,' replied Miss Severne; 'you could not have much less than now.''That is your fault,' said Diane. 'I tell you I shall not submit--I shall not stand by in silence while my boy is taught to despise me. I shall go away and take my baby with me. No one cares for me here, no one likes me. I can see it all--I was brought here as a wife because that happened to be more convenient than any other plan; now every one is tired of me. But my baby shall not be taught to dislike and despise me; I will go away, and take my baby with me.'Miss Hester turned with a smile to her brother.'Bruno, do you hear that?''No,' he replied. 'What is it?''Your wife says she intends to run away. Now, as none of the Severnes have done such a thing, I would have you beware!''Diane,' said her husband, 'I should be glad if you would not utter such nonsense--do not let me hear it again.'She made no reply; she had ceased to defend herself. What did it matter whether they spoke evil or good of her--what did it matter? Then she went out into the fields, where she could cry out her pain.'They will drive me mad,' she said; 'I cannot bear it much longer. She little dreamed how near she was to the end of it all.The afternoon was fine; it was the end of August, and little Lawrence was four months old. On that day she had completed a beautiful costume for him, one that she had made unknown to Miss Hester, who would never have permitted such a waste of time--a white dress, embroidered, and trimmed with bows of scarlet ribbon. She took him into her room, and put the dress on him. The dimpled arms and shoulders, and the pretty neck looked so lovely, she kissed them a thousand times over.'Oh I baby, how I love you!' she said.  'I am only just beginning to know how much. Oh! my darling, how I love you! If only you and I were alone where we could do as we liked, we should be happy as two children--should we not?'But, for the first time, baby did not crow with delight over the kisses; he took the matter coolly, not raising a coo of delight over the scarlet ribbons. She took him nearer to the window to look at him.  Surely he was not well--not quite himself; the rose bloom had faded; the face, so fair, as of a waxy white; the pretty eyes were heavy and dim.'Baby!' she cried, in wild alarm.He was ill--surely he was ill--or was it her fancy?  Was it the faint shadow of those dingy drab curtains? Baby did not stir. She dragged aside the curtains, and looked at him by the light of the sun; he was changed, his pretty face was pale, his

eyes heavy. A wild terror seized on her.  She had seen fading flowers, she had tended wounded birds, but she had never seen a sick child; she forgot everything but the baby. She rushed with him, clasped in her arms, to the sitting-room where Hester sat.'What a whirlwind!' said Miss Severne, looking up calmly. 'Is the house on fire, Mrs. Bruno?' But her sneers fell unheeded.'Oh, Hester!' cried Diane, 'my baby is ill--I am sure he is ill.''Who has dressed the child in that absurd fashion?' asked Miss Hester.'He is ill,' repeated Diane.  And this time the anguish in her voice struck Miss Severne.'Ill, is he?'  She took him in her arms, and glanced in his face.  'He looks as though he were going to have a fit.'Diana cried out in alarm, 'Oh, Hester, what shall I do?''Standing there call 'Hester' will not help you very much,' she said. 'It is only his teeth; all babies are alike; there is nothing very much the matter.''I must send for Dr. Kente,' cried poor Diane.'What will Dr. Kente know about it; he will do the child no good.''I must send for him!' cried Diane.  'Where is Bruno?'Miss Severne looked up sharply.'If you are going to make a simpleton of yourself, Mrs. Bruno, there will be no need of me to interfere. Let me ask you what can a doctor possibly do 
for a baby like this? I can cure him better than any doctor.''Oh Hester!' cried the poor girl, 'do all you can for him.''He is my brother's child, Mrs. Bruno; I require no urging.''See how dim his little eyes are, and he hardly knows me. Oh, Hester, see! he will not smile, and how tightly his hand is clenched. Oh! my baby, my baby, look at me.'He will not look at you if you make such a noise--you only disturb him, crying like that does him no good.''You do not think he will die?    Oh! Hester, say one word to comfort me--I am so young and ignorant--you do not think my baby will die? Oh! Hester, comfort me.'  Miss Severne looked up contemptuously.'If you are going to rave in this style every time your child looks pale, you had better take up your lodgings in a lunatic asylum,' she said.  'There is little the matter with him; he is perhaps cutting his teeth; if he is, you need not go mad over it; such things have been before, and will be again.''Oh! Hester,' moaned the girl, 'be kind to me. If ever in my life I have vexed you, do forgive me, and be kind to me now, when my heart is heavy about him.'Bruno happened to enter the room; he looked in wonder at the tragical scene before him--his wife with a pale face, all stained with tears--his sister holding the child in her arms.'What is the matter?' he asked.'Oh, Bruno,' said Miss Hester, 'you have come in the midst of a tragedy; the 
baby is committing the imprudence of feeling ill over his first tooth, and your wife is going mad about it-really, and in all tragical earnestness mad!''Is the child ill?' asked Bruno, never looking at his wife.'No, he looks pale, and is not quite himself, that is all.''Bruno!' cried Diane, clutching his arm with energy, 'he is ill--he is ill; my instinct could not fail me. He does not smile when I look at him, he does not seem to know me. His face was like a lily this morning, now it is like wax; his lips were red, and now they are pale. Oh! Bruno, he is ill; believe me, and no one else but me. Let me send for the doctor, will you, my husband?'He looked softened; after all, she could not be so indifferent as Hester imagined.'Bruno,' she repeated, 'let me send for Dr. Kente?''Perhaps we had better do as she wishes,' he said to his sister. 'You can do as you like. There is nothing the matter. The doctor will only laugh when he comes: but as he will not have the journey for nothing the chances are that he will give the boy something that will do him more harm than good.''There is certainly something in that,' said Bruno.'Leave the baby to me,' said Miss Hester. 'You may be thankful there is one sensible woman in the house. Last time I was at Southbay I saw a patent medicine advertised, and knowing the boy was of an age to cut his teeth I bought some.''A patent medicine!' cried Diane. 'I would not take it or give it to my boy. I have read of children being poisoned with such nostrums,' she gasped.'Do you suppose I would give my brothers' child poison? Such an idea is worthy of you.''Hush, Diane!' said Bruno.  'You had better not interfere--Hester knows best.''Hester shall not poison my baby just to save a few shillings.  Oh, Bruno, my husband, be kind to me--do not let them hurt my boy!' Her agony touched him.'My dear Diane, you are so inexperienced, you do not know. I love the little fellow too dearly to let any harm come to him.  There is little the matter--be guided by Hester.''Common sense will never guide Mrs. Bruno,' said Hester. 'Now you will see, brother.  The druggist from whom I bought this medicine carefully impressed its qualities on me. Even the first dose will soothe and quiet him.'  Then Miss Hester sent Anne Clegg for the bottle. She soon returned with it.'See,' said Hester, 'it is harmless enough.' He read:'The Indian Comforter-with directions for use.' Miss Hester poured into a spoon the required quantity. Diane cried out as she put it to the child's lips. Her husband roughly pushed her aside.'How selfish you are! See how you have startled the child!'The little one showed no distaste to the dose.'There!' said Miss Hester, in calm triumph. 'Now, if he does not recover soon, I will give him another.'Two minutes afterwards the child was asleep in his mother's arms.   Diane's pale face touched the servants with pity.  One whispered a rough word of comfort; the other said:'Never mind, Mrs. Bruno, if you want the doctor I will fetch him, even though I should be turned away for it.'There was comfort in that. Then Diane began to think that perhaps she had been too frightened. The baby was sleeping; he slept so for two hours; then Hester said there was no need for to keep him in her arms, he would be better in his own cot.Anxious to make amends for her hasty words, Diane obeyed her; but she knelt by his side, watching his face, listening to his breathing, wondering why he did not wake.Then she saw a flush creep over the cheek; the velvety lips grew hot as fire; the little hands burned; the breathing became more hurried; there were strange twitchings of the dimpled limbs. He was worse, she felt sure.  Then the eyes opened, but it was a dazed expression; he did not seem to see her, and a moan came from his lips.'Hester,' cried the terrified girl, 'my baby is worse!'Miss Severne went to her.'Stay with him one moment,' said Diane, and she ran to the kitchen.'Mary Payne,' she said to the girl who had pitied her, 'I will give you five pounds if you will fetch Dr. Kente, without saying one word.''That I will,' said the woman.  Hester had made the most of her opportunity, and while Diane was away from the room, she administered another spoonful of her mixture.CHAPTER XVIII.
'HESTER, YOU HAVE SLAIN HIM!'An hour later, and a terrified group knelt round the baby's cot; his illness had increased.  He had fallen from his sleep into a stupor, and from that stupor they could not rouse him.  Diane knelt with her arms round him; Miss Hester sat by, trying to look incredulous; Bruno was weeping the tears a man so seldom weeps; Anne Clegg stood watching the child, saying to herself that the shadow of death was on its face.  Diane shed no tears; her eyes were wide open, with a strange agony of expression that must have touched the hardest heart.'I am sore afraid,' said Bruno. 'Oh, my little son!'Diane bent over him.'Baby,' she said in a harsh voice no one would have recognized as her own; 'you must not go and leave me here--do you understand?--I must die with you--I cannot stay if you go.''That is irreligious,' said Hester; but no one heard her.Bruno turned to is unhappy wife; he was about to comfort her, when he remember what Hester had told him--she had called her marriage with him a living death.'Can we do nothing for him?' she asked Bruno.'Send for Dr. Kente,' he replied.'I have done that,' she answered; and it showed how anxious they were when no one reproved her for doing so.They knelt in silence for some time. It seemed that each hour was an age to Diane.  Would the doctor never come? She almost forgot, in that hour of distress, that life and death did not lie in his hands to bestow as he would. Then came the sound of a strange voice.'The doctor,' said Miss Hester. 'For Heaven's sake, Mrs. Bruno, do not look as though you were mad.'But Diane never heard her; her whole soul was bent on the man whose lips were to pronounce her baby's doom.He came in. One look at his kindly face seemed to comfort Diane; she held out both hands to him.'Doctor,' she said, 'my baby is so very ill; come to him;  The doctor gave a careless nod; he was in the rough diamond style, not inclined to any courtesy when danger was near.  He bent over the cot and took the feeble hands in his; he asked a few questions, which Miss Hester took on herself to answer, though he looked at the white face of the young mother. Then he examined the little one; he opened the white eyelid and looked at the eye.'This child has all the symptoms of poisoning,' he said, 'poisoning by opium; has any been given to him?''Opium!' repeated Miss Hester. 'No, none at all.''It has had something of the kind,' continued the doctor. 'No one can mistake the symptoms. Mrs. Severne, can you tell me what your baby has had?' He started in horror when he saw her white face and wild, dilated eyes.'The medicine!' she cried, in a hoarse voice, 'the medicine!''Nonsense!' cried Miss Hester, in a voice of command. 'You are out of your senses. There is no opium in that.''What medicine is it?' asked the doctor. Miss Severne smiled as one who humors another in a childish notion.'What medicine?' repeated Dr. Kente, sharply.'It is only a simple soothing cordial that I bought at Southbay, and gave to him,' she replied.'Let me see it,' he said, sternly.She would fain have refused. She never did anything so unwillingly in her life; not that she believed there was any harm in it; she would not have given it in that case, for she loved the little fellow; but she could not endure that Mrs. Bruno should have this triumph over her. So she hesitated.'Mr. Severne,' he said, 'it seems to me that your child has been strangely treated. Will you order that medicine to be given to me?' Hester gave it into his hands.He tasted it, examined it critically, then said:'I am afraid my first opinion is a correct one. The child has been poisoned by an overdose of this. How much did you give him?'He had but one very small teaspoonful,' said Bruno; 'I saw it given.'Among Hester's faults, want of truth had no place. She would tell it now, let her risk what she would.'I gave him more,' she said, slowly. 'When I found that one did him no good, I gave him another.''Then you have killed him,' said Doctor Kente. 'He was suffering from the effects of illness, and now you have given him an overdose, and the quantity of opium has killed him.''I am sorry,' said Hester. 'Is there no hope--can we do nothing for him?''We will do all that is possible, but I see no hope,' was the sad reply; 'for the mother's sake I wish that I did.'They all made way for the hapless young mother. She went to him with a such an expression of agony on her face as made his heart ache for her; her fair face was colorless and her trembling lips white, her eyes shadowed with pain. She touched him gently.'Is there no hope?' she asked. And through all the years of his life, Doctor Kente never forgot that question.'I am afraid there is none,' he replied.She stretched her arms to the little silent figure.'Take me with you, my heart's darling!' she said; then, with her arms stretched toward him, she fell with her face on the floor.'It is just as well,' said the doctor; 'she could not have borne to see him die.  Do not let her come back until all is over.''Is there no hope?' cried Bruno.  'Oh, Heaven! spare my only child!  Hester, you have slain him!'She bowed her head under the reproach.'Can nothing be done?' she asked.'While there is life,' said the doctor, 'there is always hope. I will give you directions, and you can carry them out. I cannot stay myself, for I have a dangerous case on hand.'So they listened attentively as he spoke.'If anything will restore the little fellow, that will; if not, he linger a little longer, then die in his sleep. I say 'God bless him!' for his mother's sake, and make him well.''There is a chance, though ever so slight,' said Hester.'Yes; the faintest chance in the world--still you have it.'Then the doctor went away, and they began to carry out his directions.  He had told them how much depended on quiet; they must keep him from all noise.  They had carried Diane into her room, and laid her on the bed. Mary Payne went to the child, and Anne remained with her. As she looked at the white face that had so soon lost its bright beauty, Anne owned to herself that the happiest fate for her young mistress would be to die.'Anne,' whispered the fain voice, after a time, 'how did it end--is he better--is he--''Never mind, you cannot help it; he will be a little angel soon--he has to die--he will be an angel.'  Then she started up.'He is dying, Anne--my little baby is dying?''Yes,' sobbed the woman, 'it is useless to deny it, he is dying--''I must go to him,' she said, 'he must die in my arms, nowhere else Anne. She has killed him--he shall not be with her.''You must lie still,' said Anne   You are not well enough, not strong enough, the doctor said; I heard him say that you must not see the baby die.'I will, I must, my own child; who can keep me from him?'She hastened from the room, and went to the door of the room where the child lay.  She tried to open it; it was locked.'Bruno, Hester, let me in; I must see my baby, I must be with him; let me in.' There was no answer.'Let me in,' she pleaded, with her faint voice; 'he is my own

baby, let me nurse him, let him die in my arms.  Hester, Bruno, lets me in.'Still no answer, and her rap was hardly heard. Was he dead, they were so silent? Dead!  Should she never see him again?  Would the little lips never kiss her, the little eyes never shine for her again?'Let me in,' she pleaded; 'for Heaven's sake let me in. I will not speak, only to look at him, to say good-by to him, to kiss him once more; my heart's darling, my little love. Oh! Bruno, my husband, for Heaven's sake let me in!'The voice seemed to grow fainter, and die away. It happened that they--the watchers--fancied there was a shade of improvement; they repeated the remedies, never heeding the pleading voice at the door.'He is better,' said Mary Payne; ' I can tell he is better.''Hush,' said Bruno; 'remember his life hangs by a thread.  Hester, go to the door, take Diane gently away; we do not know what would happen if he heard her cry.''Hester, Bruno, let me in only for one moment.'Then the door was opened, and Hester looking very angry, came out; she closed the door after her, then taking Diane's arm, dragged, rather than led her away.'How dare you make that noise?' she said.  'Keep away, you are not to go into the room.'The white, agonised face was raised to hers.'Oh! Hester, let me go in; only to look at him.  I will be so still let him die in my arms; see, they ache to hold him, my heart is thirsty for him. I pray you, let me go in.'But Hester was inflexible, and in this instance, to do her justice, it was more for the child's benefit than for any wish to thwart Diane. The girl stretched out her arms to her.'Be pitiful to me, Hester,' she cried. 'All my life after I will obey you and try to please you; I will never say that you destroyed him if you will only let me go in.''You cannot,' was the stern reply--'you must not.''Then he is dead ' cried Diane.  'I know it, I am sure of it; he is dead, and you have killed him.' The broken heart seemed to take new life; she raised her hand, the color flushed in her face.'He is dead!' she cried, 'and you have killed him, Hester Severne!''Nay,' said Anne, 'he is not dead, Mrs. Bruno; he is dying, but he is not dead.''Let her rave,' said Miss Hester.'I am not raving,' said Diane. 'You have killed my baby, the only creature I loved, or that loved me--the only thing between me and black despair. You have hated me, Hester Severne, ever since I was brought--a wretched, childish wife--to your house; you have hated me, you have persecuted me, you have made me wretched, you have turned my husband's heart against me. My curse lie heavy on your head!'She raised her right hand, as though she would fain draw down fire from Heaven, and Hester Severne shrank back afraid.'My baby is dead,' she cried. 'I will go, and none of you who have hated me shall ever look on my face again!'CHAPTER XIX.
ALONE ON THE EARTH.Out--she did not care where, anywhere away from this cruel house, these cruel people, who had blighted her life and slain her child; anywhere, the deep river, the foaming sea, the shady woods, anywhere rather than see them, hear them, look on their faces again.There was a bonnet and shawl lying on the hall chair; she put them on.  Her heart was on fire, her brain burning; a rush of waters, roaring and seething, seemed to fill her ears; the earth and sky seemed to meet.  Then she would try to steady herself, grasp the fence, and stand until the whirl had passed. She never asked herself where she was going, what she was going to do, where she should seek refuge; her only idea was to go on until she could walk no more.  Her baby was dead, and she was alone on the earth!When the image of Bruno and his sister rose before her, she turned from them with dread and loathing. Any death, any pain, any peril rather than go back to them.   She had not gone on the road to Southbay.  It was there the minister lived who bade her take her cross in patience, who had bidden her suffer on earth that she might rejoice in Heaven, and she had risen in anger against such a decree.  She was young, beautiful, of a sunny nature, and the human life within her craved for comfort and peace.  She had rebelled against the idea of silent endurance, of meek submission to tyranny, of patience with a dreary, dark life.   If she went to him now, with her despairing face and broken heart, he would tell her to up the cross she had laid down, and she could not do thatThey had slain her child. A burning flush dyed her face; a passionate hatred that nothing could soften, rose in her heart against them.  Her golden-haired baby, with its pretty smile and dimpled limbs, they had slain it. Wild cries of despair came from her lips as she walked along.  So she passed through the bloom and sunshine--a beautiful, despairing woman driven to death.Those who passed her on the road stopped to look after her.  What did that lovely, despairing face mean?  Some read death there; some would, for charity's sake, have questioned her. But she saw no one; she heard no word that was said to her. She never remembered she was hungry, or thirsty, or tired, but she saw children shrink from her with frightened faces. She came to one group sailing a boat on a shallow pool shaded with alder trees; they looked at her with scared eyes, and hastened away, leaving the boat to sink or float. She caught one fat, rosy little girl.'Darling,' she cried, in her passionate voice--'darling, why do the children fly from me--am I terrible to see?''Yes--yes,' sobbed the child.The listless arms fell from her; the white face grew whiter.'It is because my baby is dead,' she said slowly--'my little baby, they have killed him.'The child cried the louder, and Diane relaxed her hold.'Go,' she said; and the little one ran off to her companions.'She says they have killed her baby, and she trembles--her face is so white.' And they hastened away from her.Then she walked on until she came to some fields, where a woman with a basket sat resting herself on the stile. She looked into Diane's beautiful face as she passed and started in alarm.'Are you ill?'  she asked, kindly.'Ill? ' repeated Diane, vacantly; 'no, I am not ill.''Why, you have the face of a dead woman,' said the other.  'Are you tired, faint, or hungry?''I do not know,' she replied.'Not know--why, when had you anything to eat last?'Diane looked dreamily at her.'I do not remember anything clearly,' she said. 'I can hardly tell whether it is weeks, days, or hours since.'Then she paused, her poor dazed brain just taking in the fact that she must not betray herself.'Since what?' asked the kindly questioner.'Since I came here,' she replied.'Well, you take my advice--wherever you have come from, go back--go back.  Either you are going to have a severe illness, or you have had one. Go back to somebody who will take care of you. Your lips are parched and dry. I have some fruit in my basket--try some?'Diane held out her hand, and the woman noticed what a beautiful, shapely, white hand it was.'It tastes like ashes,' said Diana. 'I cannot eat.''Well,' said the woman, ' I was only resting. I must say good-by. I wish you well, but I do not think you are fit to take care
 of yourself.' They went on, each her separate way.Diane's strength was failing; how many miles she had walked in the hurry of her despair she did not know. The country was strange to her; she was going farther every moment from the sea, farther from her tyrants, the people who bad blighted her life and slain her little child. Suddenly she stood still.'If they had only let me in,' she cried; 'if they had only let me in to see him once more--if I could but have kissed him and said good-by.'That was the last conscious thought she remembered for some time. The heaviness and fatigue, the deep stupor overpowered her, and she sat at the foot of a tree, leaning her head against the stump.  She fell into the slumber of exhaustion.  It was pitiful to see how in that dreamless sleep, she moved her arms as though clasping a child to her heart; surely the angels looked in pity at that desolate girl. How long she slept there she never knew; it was morning when she left Larchdale, she thought, and now the sun was setting.A farmer driving past saw her and drew up his cart in wonder;  a beautiful girl, with a lovely face, and a cloud of golden hair, sleeping at the foot of a tree, in the rays of the setting sun; what did it mean? He went up to her; such a fair face with weary lines of pain; she did not wake at first when he spoke to her, she only moaned in her sleep.'Wake up,' he said. 'You will kill yourself sleeping here.''Hester, Bruno, for Heaven's sake let me in,' she moaned, and the old farmer looked at her in bewildered dismay.'There is something wrong here,' said John Thorpe--'most decidedly wrong.'Then she looked at him; he drew back in homage and respect; he had fancied she was some working woman; when he looked in her face, he recognized she was a lady.'You had fallen asleep, ma'am,' he said, 'and I thought you would take cold, so I made bold to rouse you,' 'Thank you,' she replied, gently; and then he saw when she tried to rise that she could hardly stand.'You seem very tired,' he said, pityingly.'I have a long way to go,' she replied.Again the sense of disappointment that she was still living came over her; when she had sunk at the foot of the tree, she had believed that it was death's cold hand that had seized her.  It was possible, she thought, that when she opened her eyes again, she should see her baby's face smiling on her. Instead of that, there she was, shivering on this summer night, sick unto death, with a stranger sitting by her side.'I never saw such a face in my life,' said John Thorpe to himself.  'Who can she be, and what can be the matter?''Have you far to go?' he said aloud.  'Perhaps you are going to Woodbridge?''Yes, I am going there.'  As well there, she thought to herself, as anywhere.'Perhaps you have lost your way?' continued John Thorpe. 'It is a curious cross-country to Woodbridge, but I am driving there, if you will come with me.''Yes,' she said, 'I shall be very glad.''I will drive as quickly as I can; my horse is tired too, for he has been a long way.' She did not seem to hear him.He helped her into the gig. She went mechanically, and the next minute they were driving along the road. The farmer looked curiously at his companion; she did not notice him or notice where she was going.  She looked straight before her.'You have friends at Wooodbridge, perhaps?' he said.'Friends?' she repeated.  'No, I have none.''You are going, then, on business?''No,' she replied. 'I have no business.''Neither business nor friends' thought John Thorpe. 'It is not for pleasure either; what can she be going there for?''Do you know any one at Woodbridge?'
 he asked.'No,' she replied again.Then John Thorpe turned his honest face to her.'You know no one.  If it is not a rude question, where are you going to stay?''I do not know,' she replied.'Well,' said John, 'are the most extraordinary person I ever met.  You do not know where you are going?'She raised her eyes to his, with a look that touched him deeply.'I have had a great trouble,' she said, slowly; 'so great, it has made me forget.''Poor lady, you look like it,' he said.  'God is good.  He never sends a trouble but he sends strength to bear it.''I have no strength,' she replied.'You are so young,' said the farmer; 'when you grow older it will be different.'Was she young?--she asked herself--was she the same Diane who had laughed at her father's side? It did not seem possible; she was so wearied of life, that she might be a hundred; she had forgotten that she was ever young and happy. They drove on until the gray, sweet twilight came; they passed wooded hills and fertile meadows: then a spire rose from the green trees, and John Thorpe said:  'Here is Woodbridge.'The name brought no light to her face; she seemed so utterly lost that he did not know what to do with her. The gig stopped before a comfortable-looking house, and the kind face of the farmer's wife appeared at the door. The woman looked at the face by her husband's side.'Who is that with you, John?' she asked.'I wish you would be kind to her, Mary,' he said, 'and ask her to stay here for the night. I found her asleep on the road, and she has nowhere to go.''Why, she is a lady!' cried good Mrs. Thorpe.'Yes, and she has had a great trouble. We must be kind to her, Mary, for our own child's sake.'Then Mrs. Thorpe took her into the house.CHAPTER XX.
ONCE MARRIED--MARRIED FOREVER.SHE sat by the farmer's table and they looked at her in wonder; how could they tell that her heart was on fire with the sense of her wrongs, yet wrung with the loss of her child. They gave her of their best; but she could neither eat nor drink; all she wanted was to lay down her head and close her eyes. John went to the length of bringing out a bottle of his best port wine that was set
aside for solemn occasions. She raised the glass to her lips, then set it down untasted.'I am sorry,' she said; 'you are very kind to me, but my heart is sick--I cannot eat or drink.''You have had great trouble,' said the farmer's wife.'Yes, great trouble,' she replied; then everything seemed to her like a dream until she found herself in a white chamber, where everything smelled of lavender and dry rose leaves. The farmer's wife was kissing her face, with kind words.'I have a daughter so much like you--fair of face, with hair of shining 
gold--she has married and gone over the sea, far from us, and you touch my heart because you are like her.''Married!' repeated Diane; 'if you loved her, why did you let her marry?' Mary Thorpe laughed a cheerful laugh.'Why did she marry? Because she loved her husband; she would rather have starved with him than have been happy with any one else; she married because she loved. All marriages are not unhappy--look at John and me,' continued the good creature.'We have been married over thirty years, and we never had one cross word. I always tell him the day one dies the other dies.''You were the right souls,' said Diane, 'rightly matched.'Mary Thorpe did not in the least understand her.'To be sure, my dear,' she said; 'when husband and wife love each her, they have but one soul between them.'Diane raised her heavy eyes.'I know,' she said, simply, 'I understand that; but the right souls will together some time.' Mary Thorpe kissed her again.'Good night, my dear,' she said; 'you seem to have had a heavy trouble, but God will take care of you.'Diane stood in the little room alone; she put out the light, then she drew up the blind.  A beautiful sight greeted her.  The moonlight lay on flower and tree, silvery moonbeams making everything bright as day; the sky was dark and blue, the moon sailed through it triumphantly; shadows lay on the grass, the leaves looked like silver.  What else did the moon shine on?  her father's grave in Rositer, on the marble cross that told his name and age; and on the dead face of her child.  She knew the room where he would be lying, she pictured the drab curtains their folds one gleam of moonlight would fall direct on the crib, on the white face, the golden curls that would never stir in the summer breeze, and the sweet folded hands.  There would be no flowers round him--such an idea would never enter Hester's mind. A longing seized her to gather some fairest lilies, sweetest roses; and lay them on the little breast; but no, they had slain her child, they should never look on her face again.She raised her eyes to the night heavens. Ah! what a cruel, fatal mistake she had made. That ever she could have imagined her soul to be half Bruno Severne's soul, that stern man who had refused to admit her to her darling's bedside, even when he was dying--how could she have been so blind? Then a puzzle presented itself before her. What did people do when they found out they had made a mistake as hers--run away? give up in despair? die of the knowledge?  No, she thought not, for she had read of people brave and patient, who endured bravely, even to the end.  She remembered the words of that marriage service, the solemn vows that only death could break.  'Yet,' she said to herself, 'is she had known she would never have taken such vows.''Oh, my God!' cried the girl, 'let me die! I cannot understand the problem of my own life--let me die!'The sun rose, and found her by the window looking with dreamy eyes on the beautiful landscape.  A cry of dismay came from the farmer's wife when she gained admittance.'Oh, my dear!  You have never even been to bed or to sleep, and you look like death in life!''I could not sleep,' said Diane. 'I was thinking. I am going to London to-day.  I want to thank you before I go.''Why,' cried Mary Thorpe, her eyes falling on the white hand and the gold wedding-ring.  'Why, I have taking you all this time for a young girl, and you are a married woman!''Yes,' said Diane, 'I am married.' She looked up into the kindly face.  'Will you explain to me something I cannot understand.  When people find out they have made a mistake in mar-

riage--that they have married the wrong persons--that the halves of two inharmonious souls come together, what do they do?Mary Thorpe looked puzzled.'Do, my dear? How do you mean?''How do they remedy the mistake?' she asked.'Oh, there is no remedy ' was the reply; ' none at all. You cannot undo it. Once married--married forever.  There is no help for such a mistake.''Then how do people set their lives straight?''They never are set straight in this world, replied Mrs. Thorpe; 'that is why marriage is such a serious thing--not the good joke that foolish boys and girls think it, but the most serious step one ever takes in life. People ought to consider well before they are married. All the happiness of their lives depends on it.''And there is no remedy for the mistake?' said Diane.'Yes, there is one,' said the farmer's wife, with a sweet look in her eyes-'one, and only one--that is, to bravely and patiently make the best of it. My dear, there are hundreds of unhappy marriages. Hundreds of women who, when they are girls, look upon marriage as a jest, a foolish, flirting piece of business, and before their woman's soul is awake within them, they marry the wrong man, and awake to the full knowledge that they have wrecked their whole lives and made themselves miserable--there are hundreds of such.''And what do they do?' asked Diane.'Do!' repeated Mrs. Thorpe. 'Well, the worst of them, the foolish, make their way through life with a deal of unhappiness, quarreling, disputing, with wretched homes, and often a wretched ending. The best take up their burden bravely and patiently, bearing it in submission until the end of their lives, and then winning Heaven.' Diane was silent. It was the same lesson that the minister had given her, patience and submission onto an unkindly fate.'Oh! my dear,' continued the woman, 'that wedding-ring on your finger makes my heart ache. If you have a husband and a home, you have no right to be running all over the country; your place is there; and if what I fear be true,' she continued, 'if you have run away from home--see! I pray you for Heaven's sake--
If you value your own fair name, your own soul, your own salvation--I pray you on my knees, go back!'I cannot,' said Diane, hoarsely. 'You do not know; you do not understand. I cannot--they killed my baby.''Killed your baby!' she cried, in horror. 'You must be mistaken, poor soul, you must be mistaken.''No, said Diane; ' they never liked me; they have been very cruel to me. I do not say that they did it on purpose, but they certainly killed my baby.'Mrs. Thorpe thought her visitor deranged; it was the only conclusion she could arrive at. Diane suddenly remembered that she was talking very imprudently.'Mind,' she repeated, 'I do not say that they did it on purpose.  I do not accuse them; but I could never look at them again.  I cursed them before I came away.'Mrs. Thorpe looked slightly shocked and agitated.'That was not right,' she said.  'God declares that He will avenge; we must forgive. Ah! you will do better than this; you will go back and take up your burden in patience  I will get you some warm tea, then we will talk these matters over.''Let me kiss you,' said Diane, 'before you go. You have been very good to me. Remember that the most wretched woman in all the world thanked you and blessed you.''I shall hope to remember that I persuaded a beautiful and unhappy girl to return to her home and her husband,' said the woman.  'No life is all dark. There will come sunshine into yours.  Now you shall have the nicest breakfast on the farm.'She hastened away.  Diane looked after her.'I must go,' she said to herself; 'I must not wait here.  If I do she will persuade me to go back against my will.'So, while the farmer's wife busied herself in making tea and boiling eggs, Diane put on the bonnet and shawl. She passed out of front door, and saw the farmer at work in his garden. He looked up at her in wonder.'Are you going?' he asked.'Yes,' she replied, holding out her hand to him, 'I am going, and I shall remember your kindness, and bless you for it. I should have died yesterday but for you. I shall never forget you or your kind wife.  She is so kind, so happy, so cheerful; how happy you must be!'   He smiled, with a little flush on his honest face.'Happy? Yes, we have a pleasant life together.'The words struck her again.'Good-by,' she said, hurriedly.He held the little white hand for one moment in his.'You are sure,' he said, 'it is all right? You are so young, and fair of face, should not like any harm to come to you.''It is all right,' she replied, touched by his kindness.  'I am going to London.  Once there, I shall be all right.''You have friends there?' he said.'I used to live there,' she replied. He looked relieved.'I am so glad,' he said; 'you do not know how pleased I am.  Good-by.  If ever you want a friend you will think of us.  You will always find a home here.''Where is the station?' she asked.'Close to us.  You have ten minutes to catch the train in.  I have a hope that some day we may see you back again.'The next minute he saw her hastening down the road to the station, and he stood watching her, leaning on his spade.'There is something not quite right,' he thought. 'She has the beautiful manner and grace of a princess.  She has the loveliest face I ever saw.' Just then wife came out and interrupted his meditations.'John,' she said, 'have you seen the lady?''Yes; she is gone. She said good-by to me, then went off to the station.''Gone!' cried his wife; 'then that is why she kissed me; she would not do as I wished her. Where is she gone?''To London,' he replied.'Poor soul! John, would you think that she, with that young face, was married?  She is, and unhappy, too. She is running away from home. She said someone had killed her baby--not on purpose, but that it was killed.''All her fancy,' said John. 'We must look out--it we hear of a baby being dead in the country side we shall find out who she is, and be able to tell her friends where she has gone.'The farmer's wife looked very sad and thoughtful.'It is a strange world, John, she said, 'and I am afraid there are many unhappy people in it.  That poor girl had better have been buried than married.' Mary Thorpe never spoke a truer word.CHAPTER XXI.
DRIVEN TO MADNESS.HESTER Severne had turned away when Diane spoke.'The girl is mad,' she said, in contemptuous tones.  'Come, Anne Clegg, leave her to come to her senses.'Neither of them noticed that Diane went to the hall; they did not hear her open the door or leave the house.'Miss Hester,' said the servant, ' you are hard on her; if you kill me for saying so, I cannot help it--you are very hard on her.''It serves her right,' said Miss Severne, vindictively, 'showing off such airs and graces to me. All that is temper, nothing in the world else--sheer, wicked temper.''Well, you would give the medicine, Miss Hester, though she begged you not. You might have let her in.''Mind your own business, Anne Clegg!' was the sharp rejoinder, 'or it will be all the worse for you.'Then, without thinking any more of Diane, they went back to the child's room.  Bruno held up his hand as a warning for silence. They closed the door noiselessly.'I am sure he is better,' said Bruno. 'Look, Hester!'She saw that the child had taken a favorable turn; his face had a more natural color, there was a tinge of pink on his lips, and the heavy, labored breathing had ceased.'Yes, he is better,' said Hester.  'Now, all we have to do, is to keep him perfectly quiet, and he will recover.'Then Bruno seemed to remember his wife.'Where is Diane?' he asked.'Either in her own room or about the house,' she replied. 'Do not send for her, Bruno; she is in a terrible temper, and has been saying the most awful things.''This is not the time for showing temper, when her child lies under the shadow of death. What has angered her, Hester?''She wanted to come into the room to nurse him, and all that nonsense! If she had come crying here, and taking him in her arms, she would have destroyed his life instantly.''Of course she would.  But send word to her, Hester, that he is better; she will be anxious to know.''I will attend to it,' said Miss Hester.To do her justice, she devoted herself to the child: it was owing to her unfailing devotion and attention, that the little one owed his life. She never relaxed in her efforts. If, in the depths of her

worldly heart, she loved anything, it was the child of her brother; she intended leaving her fortune to him, and was kind to him in her cold fashion.  When she believed she had injured him, she was heartily sorry; that sorrow made her more harsh to his unhappy young mother. Vexed with herself, she showed the same
vexation to others. She had been shocked by Diane's outburst--her pale face and burning eyes, the bitter words that escaped her, the pleading prayers, all dwelt in her memory. She never dreamed that Diane would go away, never to return; she had looked on it as a passionate outburst, that meant nothing. Even while she was busied in attending to the child she thought to herself:'I will see Mrs. Bruno, and make it all right with her.'So time passed--all engrossed with the child, no one remembered the hapless mother.  Then the doctor returned, and was shown into the room; his face cleared when he saw him.'Yes,' he replied in answer to Bruno's question; 'he is better,
there is some hope for him how. I should like to see Mrs. Severne, and tell her the good news. You must not relax your efforts, Miss Hester. I will be here in the morning, but the little fellow will be out of danger by then, I hope.'One of the maids went in search of Mrs. Severne, but returned,
saying she was not in the room and could not be found. The doctor thought
it strange; the grief of the mother had touched him, so it seemed 
strange she should not have waited to hear what he had to say; most
likely, he thought, she was busy, and, though it seemed neglectful, he
was sure it was not neglect.'It is of no consequence,' he said. 'I will see Mrs. Severne in
the morning; nothing more can be done for the little one, and I
have hopes that his life may be saved.'Then he went away, and Bruno thought it strange that Diane
never came; the faint, pleading voice, the face so white in its
passionate sorrow was always before him.'Why does Diane not come?' he asked of his sister, and her reply
was 'Temper.'But why temper, Hester--why should she be in a temper?'Never ask me to understand your wife, Bruno--I do not. All
I know is, that she gave way to one of the most violent tempers I
ever saw in my life.'And Bruno turned angrily away. Then, as time passed on, and
the child continued to improve, his heart grew brighter.'I consider him out of all danger,' said Miss Hester, 'and I thank
Heaven for it. I own, brother, that I was wrong over the
medicine. I ought not to have given it, and I will throw the re
mainder away; he shall have no more.'You should tell Diane so,' said Bruno; ' she was right.'Yes in this instance Mrs. Bruno was right,' owned Hester.'I have been thinking, Hester,' said her brother, 'while I have
been sitting here in mortal terror over the child, I have been
thinking that we have been very hard on Diane. I mean to alter
this state of things.  We have grown old together, Hester, you
and I--we have forgotten what it is to be young and light of
heart if ever we were; and I doubt that--I think we were always
old----' Hester smiled.'Well, brother?' for he had paused.'We forget she is only eighteen.  Why, Hester, it is no age.
We expect her to be sedate and formal; she is but a child. I
have been thinking that, when baby gets well, we will let more
sunshine into the house; we will have a few friends to see us, we
will take her out, we will amuse her. Only eighteen! If she is
sedate and formal in twenty years' time it will be soon enough.''Some people like giddy girls,' said Hester. ' I do not.''I cannot forget her face, he said, 'as I saw it when I was sitting
here--so changed, so white, so care-worn.  The day I saw 
her first she was like a rosebud, so bright and sweet.''There is little of the rose left about her, except the thorns,'
sneered Miss Hester. 'Brother, she cursed me to-day!' He
looked incredulous.'She did what, Hester?''She cursed me.''You must forgive her,' he said. ' She loves the little one, and
she thought you had killed him; you must forgive her.''I forgive her,' laughed Miss Hester, 'but we will not talk
about her being like a rosebud. Oh, brother, the boy is smiling;
he will get well--thank Heaven! he will get well.'But it was two in the morning before Bruno could make up his
mind to leave that bedside for a minute. More than once he
thought how hard it must have been for Diane not to have seen
the child, but to have endured all the sorrow and suspense far
from him. Yet if she had been in the room, he would have died
so it could not be helped, he said.When two in the morning came, and the fate of the little one
was decided, he resolved to go in search of her. He would bring
her back, then show her how well they had done for the little one,
and let her remain with him; he would explain to her that it had
not been done out of any unkindness, but as a precaution to keep
the child from danger.'Poor Diane,' he said.His heart softened toward her, although she had cursed Hester,
because she could not get to her child; he went to her sleeping-
room, it was in darkness; he called 'Diane.'  There came no
answer. Then he lighted a taper, and saw not only that his wife
was not there, but there was no trace of her presence.'She will be in her own room,' he thought. 'Poor Diane! Yet
it seems strange she has not heard me.' He went--but there was
no sign of Diane. 'How foolish I am; of course she is sitting
down stairs,' he thought.Quietly he went into the sitting-room, the parlor, the kitchen,
but she was not there, and there was no sign of her.  He felt
afraid, yet no idea of the truth came to him; she must be in the
servants' room; but she, perhaps, felt frightened. He could not
go up into those rooms, he went back. Anne Clegg was sitting up
with his sister; he opened the room door and beckoned her out.'I think,' he said, 'that Mrs. Severne has gone up to sit with
Mary; she felt frightened, perhaps. Go to her; tell her the baby
is better, and I should like to see her.' The woman looked strangely
at him, but did as he wished. She returned in a few minutes.'The young mistress is not there, sir, and Mary has never seen
her since morning.' He looked utterly incredulous.'Not seen her since morning! Then where is she?''Do you ask my opinion, sir?' said the woman.'Either yours or any one else's, it matters little to me.''I could say something, sir, if you would promise me not to repeat it to Miss Hester.''I will not,' he said, his heart sinking with a terrible foreboding. ' I will not.''Then I believe, sir, that Mrs. Severne has run away.  Miss
Hester has been harder on her than human nature could bear.
This morning they had terrible words, and Mrs. Severne said
every one here hated her, and she would run away.''Great Heaven!' cried Bruno Severne, 'can it be true?''You see, the baby was her own child, and it would have melted a
heart of stone to have heard her pray--pray for Heaven's sake that she
might go in and look at it. Then Miss Hester opened the door, and
caught hold of Mrs. Severne's arm and dragged her away. She called her
selfish, and said she should not go in.''Well?' cried Bruno, for the woman paused while she wept.'After that Mrs. Severne wept and prayed until Miss Hester
grew angry. The young mistress--she thought that the little one
was dead. 'My baby is dead!' she cried; but I told her it was
not dead, only dying.''Then she never knew the baby was better?' cried Bruno. 'She
thought him dying?''I dare not go further than that, sir. My belief is that when
she left the house she believed him dead.''Left the house!' repeated Bruno. 'But where can she have
gone? She has no friends; she is alone in the world.''My belief is, if she has gone at all, she has gone to her death.
She had a terrible look, and her face was like the face of a dying
woman. She cursed Miss Hester, and she was always so mild,
that if she had been herself she would never have thought of such
a thing. I beg your pardon for saying so, and I beg you will not
repeat my words to Miss Hester, but my opinion is, sir, she has
been driven, and scolded, and found fault with, and tyrannized
over, until she has been driven mad; that is the truth.''But why was I never told of it?' he cried.The woman looked at him with pity and disdain.'Tell you, sir! What was the use of that, when you always
took Miss Hester's part?' and those words gave Bruno Severne
the keenest pain he had ever suffered in his life.CHAPTER XXII.
'HESTER, MY WIFE IS GONE!''I will not believe it,' said Bruno Severne. ' There is some
mistake. I will not believe it until I have searched the house inch
by inch. She is not gone. Where should she go? She has gone
into some of the rooms, or outside, and has fallen asleep. Come
with me, and we will look until we find her.' In obedience to her
master's wish, she lighted the lantern, and they went through the
rooms one by one, even those which had not been used for years.'She may have gone there,' he said to himself, as he opened each
door; but there was no sign of Diane. He looked at Anne Clegg.'She is not here,' he said.'No, I never thought you would find her,' she replied.
Then they opened the front door. Outside there lay a flood of
silvery moonlight, making the prosaic spot like fairyland.He looked up and down the narrow lane; there was no sign of
her. How should there be? At that moment she was standing at
the window of the farm-house, wondering why her fate had been
so wretched, and why she had made this terrible mistake in life.
There was no sign of her. Bruno Severne turned away with a sigh.'We will look in the gardens,' he said.Anne smiled the smile of unutterable contempt.'My mistress would never go among cabbages or gooseberry
bushes,' she said; 'and there is nothing else.''Diane!' cried Bruno.There came no answer to him from the silence of the night. He
went back into the house, followed by the woman. He placed
the lantern on the table and looked at her.' Heaven knows,' he said, slowly, 'that if this sorrow and shame
have really fallen on me, I shall go mad.''It might have been all prevented,' she said, 'if the young
mistress had been decently treated. It is too late now.'Yet she felt grieved for the man when she saw his white face
and haggard eyes. He staggered as he tried to walk; he went to
the room where the child lay, now in deep slumber. Miss Hester,
watching the face, knelt by its side. He beckoned to her with
his finger, and she followed him out of the room.'Hester,' he said, 'my wife has gone--has left me.'She grew pale and trembled. Perhaps in the whole of her life
Hester had never suffered a pang so sharp as that which her brother's
words caused her.'Left you, Bruno! Gone away! Are you quite sure?''Yes,' he said, 'and I am afraid, from what they say, Hester,
that much of it is your fault.''From what who says?' she asked. Then he saw his imprudence.'I mean in consequence of the words you had this morning.'Miss Hester raised her head proudly.'I should never think,' she said, ' that Mrs. Bruno would leave
her husband and child in consequence of any words she might
have with me.''She has gone,' he said, simply; 'and the light of my life has
gone with her.' Miss Hester pointed to the child.'That is the light of your life, brother.''No,' he replied, gravely; ' last night, only last night, I could
have sworn that my child was dearer to me than all the world;
now I know that I love Diane best.''She has not gone far,' said Miss Hester; 'she is in a terrible
temper this morning; she would not mind what she did for revenge. If I
were you, I should not mind her; she knows when 
she is well off; she has only done it to frighten you; she will find
her way back here when she is hungry, never fear it.'You really think so,' said Bruno, looking relieved.'I am sure. Does she think we are babies to be frightened at
such nonsense? Take my advice, go to rest; leave the little one
to me, you shall find him all right in the morning; and your wife
will be back for her breakfast. She is hiding somewhere, and
laughing at you.'Miss Hester did not mean what she said; but it seemed foolish
to her, her brother, she saw wanted comfort. He looked uneasy.'I thought of saddling Brown Bessie, and going to look for
her,' he said.'Nonsense!' cried Miss Hester, 'riding through the country at
this hour of the morning? If you want to publish your story to
the world, you could not take surer means,' she said. 'If she is
not here for breakfast in the morning, you shall do as you like
about looking for her.'It was the idea of the sensation such an incident would make
that frightened him; the whole country side would know he had
been riding about looking for his lost wife. He would go to rest
rise early. The faint dawn of morning was breaking as he
went to his room; there was a twitter of birds, a faint murmur of
coming day. He shrank as he entered the room; it was like
going into a tomb. How often had he seen Diane's sweet face
and golden hair there? A chill came over him; should he ever
see her there again?'Diane' he cried, with passionate bitterness. 'Diane!'And the words fell like a moan in the night. All the passionate
love he had ever felt for her woke in his heart again, and with it
came a passionate longing for her presence--a hunger of the heart
--a wild, increasing, mad jealousy. Where had she gone? She
could not have loved him, or she would not have left him. He
did not sleep for thinking of her fair face--golden-haired Diane
--the lovely child whom he had married because of his wonderful
love, whom he had brought home to be the sunbeam of his house,
and whose heart had been broken there--who had left it with
curses on her lips and despair in her heart!The morning dawned, and Bruno awoke with a start. He must
have been sleeping, he said to himself; for he had dreamed of
Diane walking along a road that was covered with flowers. He
could see a yawning precipice at the end; she could not; the top
of it was covered with flowers; yet there it yawned, wide, deep,
as painters represent the mouth of hell. He cried out to her to
beware, but she would neither look at him nor listen to him.'The next step she will be over' he cried. Then she walked
on; he saw her flinging up her arms with a cry of horror; he
caught one glimpse of a white despairing face; then the yellow
hair hid it from his view.'Bruno!' she cried as she fell, and the sound was so real he
sprang up in wild alarm. It was only a dream, thank Heaven!
Hester was standing beside him with terrified eyes.'Only a dream,' he moaned aloud.'What is the matter, Bruno?' cried Miss Severne. 'What are
you moaning over? There are great drops on your forehead, and
your hands tremble. What is the matter?''I have had an awful dream about Diane. Oh! Hester, harm
will come of her, I am sure.''Nonsense I she will be back soon, ashamed of the trick she has
played you. I am come to tell you that little Lawrence is better.
That ought to comfort you.'He turned from her, turning his face to the wall and moaning
about Diane. She did not come. He went down stairs, drank
his coffee, yet every nerve was on the stretch listening for every
sound. Then the doctor came.'The child is well now,' he said.It was one of the narrowest escapes he had known; he could
only hope it would be a caution to Miss Hester never to believe in
patent medicines or soothing syrups again.'I must say,' continued Dr. Kente, ' while I blame, I must
praise. You did wrong in giving it to him, but your vigilance
saved his life. Now let me see Mrs. Severne; she seemed so ill
yesterday, I have done nothing but think about her.'Brother and sister looked blankly at each other. Would to
Heaven they could have obeyed him.'The truth is,' said Bruno, 'that my wife is not here. We expect
her every moment. You said she was to be kept away from
the child, lest her sorrow should destroy him.  We obeyed you,
and she was angry because she could not enter the room.''Well,' said the doctor, 'what then?''Then she had a few words with my sister about it, and in her
anger left the house.''Left the child, not knowing whether he were living or dead!
I do not believe it.''No; unfortunately, she believed him dead; but we expect her
every minute,' said Bruno--'every minute.'I do not believe it,' said the doctor. 'I do not believe she will
ever come again. You have never understood her, although perhaps, it is not my business to say so.''It is not, indeed, your business,' said Miss Hester.'Well, the deed is done; you cannot undo it. I thought her
awfully ill yesterday, and I should not be surprised to hear that,
in her despair, she has made away with herself.'And, as he had spoken, the doctor quitted the house.They looked at each other in dismay. It was nearly nine o'clock
and she was not back yet.'I must go and look for her,' said Bruno.She did not object, and Bruno saddled his horse and went.It matters little how he spent that day, and the next, many
days, and many weeks, in search of his lost wife. His passionate
love, his sorrow, his deep anger, increased as every minute passed
on; even his face grew dark; his eyes were always shadowed by
his grief; his work, his farm, his money, all became distasteful to
him. He wanted only Diane--he was wearing his life away for her.Three weeks after her flight he traced her to John Thorpe's.  John
told him how he had found her, sick, and faint, at the foot of a
tree. His wife told, with tears, how she had left in the morning
without food, and how sadly she had spoken. She said that they had
killed her child.'That was my wife,' said Bruno; 'and that was her mistake; she
believed the child dead. I would give the world to find her.'Ah! that seemed little--he would have given his life. They could
tell nothing, except that she had gone to London.He followed
to London in search of her. Then be heard of private detectives, of
offices for making private inquiries.  He went to each one; but he
might as well have remained in Larchdale. They listened to his story;
when he had gone out the clerks would smile at each other, and the
chief would say:'Do all you can. But the case is clear
enough--a pretty wife, and an old husband. We know what it
means. Still, do all you can.'For weeks Bruno Severne haunted
those offices. Then, when everyone assured him waiting was vain, he
went home, the shadow of himself, stern gloomy, sullen, brooding over
his passionate love and his bitter wrong.'She has left me,
Hester, he said; 'she will never come back.'She is a false
woman!'  cried Miss Hester. 'If I saw her at the threshold of my door,
dying for bread, I would not give it to her.''She has brought
shame on me and mine,' said Bruno; 'if she be living, I will find her,
and punish her, so help me Heaven!'CHAPTER XXIII.
THE WEDDING RING.It did not occur to Diane until
she reached the station that she should want money. Bruno often gave
her some, but Diane was indifferent. When she had gone to Southbay she
had enjoyed making purchases, a book, a drawing, a
pretty ornament; but Hester was always so bitterly angry, that any
little pleasure the girl might have left in her purchase was
destroyed. So as time passed on, when her
husband gave her money, saying: 'This is to buy ribbons with, Diane,'
she put it in her purse, and thought no more of it. She had no idea
what she had; she took out of her purse to pay for her ticket, and
then she saw she had gold and banknotes. Once on the train she looked at what
she had; over thirty pounds, so that the fate which had appalled her,
need no longer be feared; she should not die of hunger in London
streets. Then she forgot her needs and wants, forgot the faintness that
made everything so dark to her. They hated her, and they had slain her
child; she had left them for ever and ever, vowing
never to look in their cruel faces again; every minute was taking her
farther from them; never more while she lived and they
lived, would they meet again. It showed how hard they had been to her
that she had no feeling in her heart for them, save shrinking dread;
no tender memories softened her heart to her husband; there had
been no love-making, no lingering among the roses, no pretty
moonlight meetings; it had been a commonplace arrangement;
he had made her his wife because he could not otherwise have
taken her to Larchdale.He had gathered the bight life as children gather a rose, only
to destroy it; he had not been kind to her, for he had taken Hester;s
part in all their battles; he had upheld Hester's authority
and slighted hers; he had heard her pleading for Heaven's sake

that she might see her dying child, and had sent his sister to
spurn her from the door. Love him after that--stay under his
roof, eat his bread, bear his name after that--no, a thousand
deaths rather. Her heart beat, her face burned, her soul rose in
bitter rebellion against him.  Spurn her from the door when her
dying child lay moaning for her!'I wonder,' she said to herself, with clenched hands, 'I wonder
I did not kill him before I came away.'Some people right have softened under such a trouble. Diane
did not, every hour that passed hardened her. She became cold,
hard, and prouder than the proudest.'I loved my father, and he died; I loved my baby, he died; now
never, while my heart beats, will I love any human being.'Poor Diane! she looked at the summer heavens as she made the
vow, and never intended to break it.  She could not have told
when that journey ended, whether she had made it by day or by
night; whether she had travelled alone or had company. She
never saw the kindly glances bent on her face; she never heard
the pitying remarks: 'So lovely, and so ill!  What and who
could she be?'She knew nothing until she stood in the London railway station; then it came across her with a bitter pang. She was quite
alone in the world--alone, with no home, no friend--where should
she go? What should she do?Out into the crowded streets, there she found what attention
her fair face attracted; she met the glances of men, the wondering looks of women.  The first action she did was to go into a
shop and buy a thick vail. Then she noticed every one called
her 'miss,' no one seemed to think that she was married. She
remembered she had decided never again to bear the name of
Severne; she would throw it from her--never use it--forget she
had borne it. 'Mrs. Severne--Diane Severne,' she said the words
bitterly to herself, loathing them the while.'What shall I call myself?' she thought. Not Balfour, that
name was part of her beautiful life; the life all sunshine, love, and
happiness; it would break 'her heart to hear it.  What had the
farmer's wife called her daughter? Helen Thorpe, so she would
call herself Helen Thorpe.Far as she could she would throw off her old life, the old, miserable, dreary life; taking nothing with her but the memory of
her dead child. She could leave her husband, quit her home,
change her name, but there was one thing she could not do--she
could not break the fatal marriage knot. She might hate Bruno
Severne, she was still his wife. She could fly from her wretched
home, she could not fly that--she was his wife. Oh! hateful tie;
oh! miserable vows. What was there before her but despair?'Never mind,' she said to herself, 'I will be brave and patient
here--I could not there; I will do my duty anywhere, except at
Larchdale. I will carry my cross anywhere, except at Larchdale. I will obey any one, submit to any one, bear patiently with
any one, except Hester and Bruno Severne--never with them.'And so she made this second great mistake of her life, for Hea-

ven expects from us that we shall do our duty where God places
us, and not where we like; but Diane had not been taught those
lessons. When her life was judged her ignorance pleaded for her.
All this time she was walking through the streets of London,
hardly heeding when passers by pushed her.  Suddenly the
strength of her limbs seemed to fail her; then she remembered
that for two days she had eaten no food. She saw before her a
with the words 'Ladies' Room' on a blind.  She
went in and asked for some tea; it was brought to her, and it
refreshed her; she felt better after she had taken it.'Can I remain here for the night?' she asked the waitress.'Certainly, miss' was the cheerful reply.  'We have many
ladies here, but none so beautiful as you,' she added.Then I will go to my room,' said Diane, 'for I am very tired.
I have travelled far and am  worn out.'You look ill, miss,; said the girl.'Miss again,' thought Diane; it is so strange no one thinks I
have been married.' Later on the waitress brought her some
wine and supper, and then asked her name.We always write the name of our lodgers in a book,' she said;
it serves as a kind of reference.''My name is Miss Thorpe,' replied Diane.The waitress looked up in surprise. 'I beg your pardon?''Miss Thorpe,'  repeated Diane.Then the smile deepened into a laugh.'Perhaps you are not English, miss? she said.'English--certainly I am,' said Diane. ' Why?''Because,' said the girl, 'in England, when a lady wears a
ring, we call her Mrs., not Miss.'The beautiful face turned crimson, then grew pale; the waitress
did not affect to notice, but, after asking an indifferent question,
left the room.'I am glad I found the courage to tell her,' she said to herself.
She is a beautiful creature; but if my mistress knew even such a
as that, she would not let her stay here, she is so particular.'So Diane, with her wedding-ring, was left alone.  She looked
at it. What should she do with it? go through the world branded
with a golden wedding-ring? No, never! It seemed as though
ring had eyes, and looked at her as though it were some hideous
serpent twined round her finger.  What should she do with it?
The girl was right in what she said--it was useless to call
herself miss if she wore a wedding-ring. Should she destroy it?
Would Bruno die if she threw it away? She hated him; his
name, his memory, were almost loathsome to her; but she did not
want him to die. She would not have wished or thought of his
dying; if putting away her wedding-ring could be a source of
danger to him, she would keep it there forever.  But could it?
that was the question. Life and death were in God's hands. She
would take it off. What was it but an outward sign of love that
never existed, and never would exist.  With her fingers on
it, she hesitated; it was something like a sacrilege. She remembered the hour when it was placed there, the church at Rositer,

the face of the minister, the solemnity of the words that had awed
her, 'Until death do us part!' Death had not parted them, they
were both living. Had she any right to put away the outward
sign of those vows?'I will not wear it!' she cried to herself. She took it from her
finger, and made the third great and fatal mistake of her life. ' I
will pack it in a box, and return it to him.'She did so; and a month after she had left home, the box arrived by
post.  But Hester did not give it to Bruno until long after. Then he held it up to the light.'Yes,' he said, 'it is Diane's wedding-ring. I will keep it.
Some day it will be seen in judgment against her.'CHAPTER XXIV.
IN SEARCH OF A SITUATION.The waitress smiled when she saw Diane next morning. The
white hands were free; there was no ring on them.'She has taken the hint,' she thought; 'but it could not have
been her ring, though she did wear it on her third finger. She
does not look a day more than eighteen.'That morning Diane felt better; it was so novel, so beautiful to
find herself her own mistress; no one to find fault because she
was up too soon, or had slept too late; no one to say she had better take coffee when she preferred tea; no one to contradict, to
oppose, to annoy; nothing but freedom--not happiness, because
her baby was dead, and she could never be happy again--but
freedom and liberty.'I had begun to feel more melancholy than a prisoner,' said
Diane. 'How foolish I was to bear such a life!'She felt younger, brighter, better. What a dark cloud it had
been, this unhappy marriage! how thankful she felt it was ended!
Now she bad but to fight for her livelihood.Then she began to think she had her living to get, that was
certain; but how should she do it? A newspaper lay before her;
she looked down its columns; no lack of work. How many governesses, how many companions were wanted, how many agency
offices offered attractions; it seemed to Diane that she had nothing to do but to apply, and the work was ready to her hands.
She was determined to be prudent; although she had freed herself, left home, her husband, given up his name, sent back his
wedding-ring, still she was married; she must never forget that;
she must be all that was prudent; she must avoid the society of
men. The first thing to do was to leave the coffee-house, to take
quiet, respectable lodgings then to provide herself with decent
clothes, and look out for something to do. It seemed easy; how
could she have feared it? She paid her bill and went in search
of lodgings  She found them, cheap, quiet, and respectable, in
Kentish-town; a front parlor, and a nice little sleeping-room.
She found the rooms reasonable, the landlady kind. Then she
purchased some black clothes for herself.If I am asked for whom I am in mourning,' she said to herself,
I cannot say my baby; I must say my father is dead. There is
one thing--black will make me look old and sedate.'When she dressed herself in her sable suit, she found that, so
far as making her look old went, it was a failure; her fair face
and golden hair contrasted so beautifully with the crape bonnet,
that she looked younger than ever.'How I wish, said Diane--'that I could become old and ugly.'Then she went to the agency office that she had seen advertised.There was a lady superintendent, who looked curiously at her as
Diane paid her fee. 'Helen Thorpe,' her name, her age, eighteen.'That is very young,' said the manager.   'A governess of
but little chance.''Acquirements?' Here Diane was more at home.'French, spoken perfectly; Italian, learned in Italy; drawing,
painting, both excellent.''Music?' said the cold, business-like voice.'Very indifferent.' Diane knew but little of it.'That is bad. Music is one of the most important branches.''References?' Diane looked blankly at her.'Have you never been out before? asked the superintendent.'No, never.' replied Diane.'Well,' she continued, 'that is a drawback. Your references,
if you please: I have many ladies waiting.''I have no references,' said Diane.'None?' asked the manager. 'Surely, although you have never
been in a situation---surely you know some one--the governesses
who taught you, the rector of your parish, you must know some
one who can prove that you are respectable.''I am respectable,' said poor Diane.'Yes, you may be; I do not doubt it, but people will not take
your word for it; you must give references.''I cannot,' said Diane. 'I do not know any one to whom I
could refer. I have lived with my father--he was an artist--and
we travelled in France, Italy, and England. I do not know any
one to whom I can refer.''An artist?' said the manager; 'that makes some little difference,
of course. Was he clever?''Yes,' said Diane; 'his last three pictures were shown at the
Royal Academy; he was a genius, my father.'I fancied I knew most of the modern artists,' the agent said;
'but I do not remember the name of Thorpe.'The fair young face flushed crimson. Truthful and impulsive,
she was about to say his name was Balfour, not Thorpe, when it
her that to do so would be her ruin.'It lessens your chance of obtaining a good situation,' said the
manager; 'still, you can try. Here is a list of names; if you do
not succeed, perhaps you will call to-morrow.'Diane read the list--Lady Blythorne, Mayfair;  Mrs. Haughton,
Grosvenor Square; and  Madame de Nesbe, Hyde Park.'Am I to go to each of these places?' she asked.'Yes; those three ladies want governesses. Lady Blythorne
has but one little girl.  Mrs. Haughton has four, and two very
unruly boys.  Madame de Nesbe has two, I think. I wish you,
success Miss Thorpe. Good-morning.''I will try Lady Blythorne first,' thought Diane.She reached Lady Blythorne's mansion in Mayfair. She might
well open her eyes at the powdered footman, who, after she had
stood for five minutes in the hall, was good enough to ask her
name. His eyes were half closed, as though it were too much
trouble to open them wide; he had a drawl, which, with a decided
objection to using the letter H in its proper place, made him a
remarkable study.'Ladyship at 'ome,' he repeated; 'yes, at 'ome. Any name?'Miss Thorpe, from Madame Silber's,' she said.'Ah!' he repeated, 'the fifth this morning; amusing--great
variety of faces.'  He went to announce her.  He returned in a
few minutes.'Her ladyship would see the young person, if the young person
would come up stairs.'Diane followed him up to the broad staircase, where the flowers
and statues gave the place an aspect of fairy-land. She saw before her
a corridor, where hung some superb pictures. The man
drew aside a velvet curtain, and she was in Lady Blythorne's
drawing-room, in the presence of her ladyship.Diane's bewildered look was at the sumptuous rooms; the windows,
all hung in blue silk and lace, opened on to balconies that
were filled with flowers.'Come forward,' said a languid voice. 'Would you mind
standing in the light, where I can see you?'Diane stepped forward, her lovely face flushing as she did so.'Really,' said her ladyship, 'and are you positively applying
for my situation?' Diane modestly said 'yes.'Then she saw before her a lady who had once been pretty, but
whose face was the most artificial affair Diane had ever beheld.
There was rouge, pearl powder, penciled eyebrows, false hair,
everything that art and not nature could suggest.'Stop!' said her ladyship, 'where do you buy your complexion?''My complexion?' said Diane. 'I do not understand.'The great fault of your class is want of understanding. Tell
me, then, what cosmetics--what washes do you use?''Cold water,' replied Diane, promptly.'Cold water?  Cold water could never produce a complexion such as
you have. You have the most perfect mixture of
beautiful fairness and bloom that I ever beheld. Now tell me
what you use?''I assure your ladyship I have never used anything except cold
water. I did not even know I had such a nice complexion.''Not know it!' murmured Lady Blythorne. 'What a waste of
a precious gift, not to know it! Pray,' she said aloud, 'do not let
me make you vain. It is possible to have a very fine complexion,
yet not to be a beauty. I did not say you were a beauty, did I?''No,' replied Diane, shortly.'Very well,' said Lady Blythorne, in another voice; then we
will, if you please, proceed to business.'CHAPTER XXV.
'WHO ARE YOUR REFERENCES?''Now about business,' said her ladyship. ' I have but one daugh-

ter, and as I fear she will not be a beauty, I should like her to be
clever. Will you read to me a little French, Miss Thorne?'My name is Thorpe,' corrected Diane, mildly.Miss Thorpe. Dear me! what can it matter?'Diane took up a novel--one of the trashiest of French novels.
In a sweet voice she read. Her accent was perfect and beautiful.'That is very good,' said her ladyship. 'Now, I should like to
hear a little Italian.' Diane read again; the soft Italian falling
like clear notes from her lips.'Drawing?' said her ladyship. 'I like a bold style myself.'I can show your ladyship a large folio,' said Diane.She was beginning to feel some little hope.'My father considered me really skilful with my pencil.''Your father?' said her ladyship, superciliously.  'What did
he know about it?''He was an artist,' replied Diane.'H must have been an unknown one; I have no recollection
of the name Thorpe. Now, as for remuneration.'Lady offered a sum that she would not have mentioned
to a lady's maid, and a cook would have scorned it. That will do,' said Diane.There remains only one thing, and that is, references. Of
course, coming from Madame Silber's, you have good ones.''I have none,' said Diane. 'I have spent the greater part of
my life travelling with my father.''I have not more to add. I think Madame Silber has insulted
me by sending a person who has no references to offer me.
Good-morning.'There was a flush on Diane's face as she left the mansion.'I must not lose heart,' said she. 'I will try Mrs. Haughton
next.' She wended her way to Grosvenor Square.Mrs. Haughton resided in one of the mansions there. She prided
herself on having everything solid. She spoke of a solid
fortune, a solid reputation, a solid position, solid principles, solid
education, as thought solidity was one of the chief institutions of
life. Diane was shown into a room all furnished in oak, dark and
heavy, but magnificent. There was a middle-aged servant-man,
who inquired her name and the nature of her business; then Diane
followed him up a staircase. Here was no waste of flowers, no
marble Flora, but substantial statues and heavily-framed pictures.
She was shown into a drawing-room, where sat a portly, elderly
lady, who looked inquiringly at her. Diane stated her errand.
Mrs Haughton listened in silence, then it was her turn to speak.'I have peculiar views,' she said. 'Some of my friends say they
are quite wrong, but I maintain them for I consider them sensible.'
Diane bowed, wondering what was coming. 'I never forget,'
continued Mrs. Haughton, 'that my governess is, or should be, a
lady by education and good breeding, if not by birth.'  Diane
thought that augured well.'Instead of treating them like an underpaid servant, I insist
that they hold the next position to myself. My children and servants
are compelled to treat them with respect, because I treat

them as myself. I never offer mine less than a hundred and fifty
per annum. If your acquirements are such as please me, I offer
you that stipend, a comfortable home, and at least two hours each
day for yourself.''I must be in fairy-land,' thought Diane. 'What could I do
with all that money!' One hundred and fifty pounds per annum!
It seemed like an enormous fortune to her.Mrs. Haughton proceeded to make the most matter-of-fact inquiries
into the education and accomplishments of Diane. It was
all satisfactory enough; she professed herself satisfied.'We shall have no difficulty in coming to terms.  I have seen
many ladies, but none who please me as you do; we shall be on
comfortable terms. Now, who are your references?'Again that fatal question. Diane grew pale as she heard it, and
Mrs. Haughton looked at her in wonder.'I have no references,' she murmured.'You have no references! Then may I ask, Miss Thorpe, why
you troubled me?''I told Madame Silber,' said Diane, 'and I explained to her.''Pray, what is the explanation?--a solid one, I hope.''My father was an artist, and I travelled with him. We never
remained long in one place. He studied in Italy, in France, and
used to go all over England in search of picturesque landscapes;
he was my only friend, and he is dead.''That is a state of things I can perfectly understand; but your
father, being an artist, would have many friends.'They were artists, like himself,' said Diane.'Did he exhibit any pictures?' she inquired.'Yes,' replied Diane, 'he sent three to the Royal Academy.''In what year? asked Mrs. Haughton.'The last,' replied Diane, 'or during the year before last.''My husband takes great interest in art,' said Mrs. Haughton;
'he makes purchases from the Academy. We have a list here of
the pictures and the artists who exhibited them.  I will look
through it; your father's name was Thorpe. If I find it here, I
shall, after your explanation, consider that reference enough.'Again Diane grew pale, and Mr. Haughton detected the
change of color.'There is something wrong here,' she thought; this girl is not
what she pretends to be.'Diane sat trembling while the lady looked down the list; she
was patient in the search, going back some years, but there was
no such name. She raised her eyes to Diane's face.'You have deceived me,' she said; 'there is no such name
here. The principal exhibitors of last year are a Mr. Thornton,
a Mr. Balfour, and Lake; the name of Thorpe does not occur.
Have you any further explanation to offer?'Diane hesitated. What should she do? this lady, cold, and
formal, was good of heart; should she tell the truth, that the Mr.
Balfour spoken of there was her father, but that she had changed
her name; should she confide in her.  No, it would not do, she
would have to confess she was married, and it was not probable

any one would take into their house a married woman who
had run away from her home.'I am sorry for you,' said Mrs. Haughton; 'you have deceived
me. I could not employ you, and I shall advise Madame Silber
take your name from her books.''Do not be hard on me,' said Diane. 'I have been sorely tried.''Will you tell me the truth,' said Mrs. Haughton, 'and whatever
it may be, I will help you.' I cannot,' murmured Diane.'You are young, and, unfortunately, very beautiful,' continued
Mrs. Haughton. 'You have had no mother to guide you, and it
is probable you have fallen into some error--if you feel disposed
to confide in me, I will help you as a Christian lady should help a
tempted soul.'You are kind to me, you are very good,' murmured Diane;
'I have only deceived you in one thing, my name is not Thorpe;
but I cannot tell you, you would not understand.''Probably not,' was the haughty reply. 'Further conversation
would be useless, Miss Thorpe. I could not trust my children to
one who owns to having spoken falsely, and passes under a feigned
name. Good-morning!'Something in the despair of that face seemed to touch her.'Stay one minute,' she said. 'I am strict, not cruel. If you
want a friend come to me; but come with truth on your lips.'Sick at heart, Diane quitted the mansion.'There is but one name left,' she thought, 'and I am sure it is
useless for me to go to Madame de Nesbe's.'Still she would do what she could.  She found her way to the
mansion in Hyde Park, where the lady resided.  Madame de
Nesbe was at home and ready to see any one who came from Madame
Silber's.  Diane was shown into a cheerful library; the
windows looked over the trees of the park.  There she saw a
young lady, beautiful, with a sad beauty that touched her.Madame was kind; asked to hear her French; then brightened into
beauty as the refined accent fell on her ears.'You have been in France,' she said, 'or you are of French
descent.''My mother was French,' said Diane.'I thought so; those cold, English lips can never render the
music of our tongue. Speak French to me, it is real pleasure to
hear an accent like yours.'So they conversed for a time, and Madame de Nesbe told Diane
the duties that would be required. She had two girls, they wanted
instruction, and at the same time she wanted some one who would
companion to herself.'I am lonely,' she said, 'Mons. de Nesbe is much from home.
The English ladies all seem so strong, they can dance, sing, ride,
drive, and talk as though there were no such thing as fatigue.
I cannot, I am not strong, and I should like some one to talk to.''I shall be only too happy to do that,' said Diane.'This time,' she thought, 'I will be the first to mention the
difficulty over the references.'She looked into the lovely face.'Madame de Nesbe,' she said, 'there is one thing I should like
to mention to you. I have no references. I have lived in Italy,
France, and England, with my father, but never very long in one
place. I am sorry, but I do not know one person to whom I can
refer you.' Madame de Nesbe smiled.'You are very frank,' she said, 'but references are not needed
with a face like yours. Nature has written your character on it.
I will take all that kind of thing for granted.'Here Diane's heart beat high, a flush came into her face.'You are very kind,' she said; 'I will prove to you, madame,
that your trust is not misplaced.''I am sure of that,' said madame.Then, while the rose-leaf flush lingered on Diane's face, the
library-door opened, and a gentleman entered.'Good-morning, my wife?' he said, with a gallant bow.Then his eyes fell with a glance of admiration on Diane; so
bold that she turned aside lest he should see the flush that gaze
had brought there. He turned with a smile to his wife.'Pray, he said, 'whom have we here?  Is it Hebe--Venus--
Aphrodite? Will you not introduce me, ma belle?'Diane saw the sad expression deepen on the beautiful face--
madame's lips grew pale.You can reserve your gallantry, Gustave,' she said. ' I do not
cultivate Hebes or Venuses. This young lady has applied for the
position of governess to the children.'A perfect rapture of delight came into his face.'She is admirably suited for it, I am sure. I really think I shall
become tutor myself, and make a point of spending two hours
each day in the school-room.'  And he laughed as though he had
made the wittiest of speeches.CHAPTER XXVI.
LEARNING MANY LESSONS.No more embarrassing situation could have been imagined. Madame 
de Nesbe drew herself up with a proud air. It pained her
to the core of her heart to have the secret sorrow of her heart thus
laid bare.'And what,' continued monsieur, 'what has condemned such a
beautiful creature to the drudgery of teaching? Is it reverse of
fortune? With such a face as that, it never can be choice.''Am I to answer, madame,' said Diane, proudly.'Certainly not. My husband is jesting--he forgets my presence. You
must neither answer nor listen.' Monsieur laughed.'This is capital,' he said; 'a splendid joke!' I say you must
answer. Never mind madame; she has a constitutional horror of
pretty girls, as I have a constitutional liking for them. Madame,
you could not do better than engage this charming young lady; I
should not play truant for a month. I will leave you, for my
presence will interfere with all sensible negotiations. Au revoir! my wife of all wives the most amiable--au revoir! mademoiselle,
at whose lovely feet I place myself. I shall hope, on my return,
to find you installed in my house; and, for the first time, I shall
envy my own children!'He went away, bowing to his wife, and giving Diane another
look for which she could have annihilated him. When the door
closed behind him, madame closed her eyes. Diane saw the effort
she made to control herself, how she bit her lips until the color
came back to them. She understood the fierce pang of jealousy
and mistrust. Then, after a pause, Madame de Nesbe looked up
at her.I am very sorry,' she said, 'but you are too young. I want
someone older than you; I cannot engage you.Diane understood perfectly. She was an innocent child, yet
she was learning many lessons; she knew why madame had
changed her mind.'I am very sorry,' she said, gently.'Sorry!' repeated madame; 'oh, child ! how weak words are!
now little they mean! But I need not detain you. I did not
think of it at first, but you are too young. My husband would
talk nonsense to you, and that would not do. He is a great admirer
of pretty faces--he cannot help it. I am very sorry. Good
morning; I wish you well.' Tears stood in Diane s eyes. They
were not for herself; she could understand the jealous pain that
made the unhappy wife speak in that abrupt fashion.'Nay,' said madame; 'you grieve me. Pray do not weep. You
would not have been happy, I am sure.'She held out her hand to Diane, then, when the girl had reached
the door, she followed her.'Miss Thorpe,' she whispered, 'let me give you a caution; you
are very young, very beautiful, and I am sure that you are innocent.
If my husband tries to get your address, do not let him
have it--for your own sake, mind.  Diane hastened out of the
house, little dreaming that she had escaped the greatest libertine
and roué in all England. Her heart sank
as she quitted the mansion. She had not gone far before she saw
Monsieur de Nesbe coming toward her. She turned away; he followed.'I can only hope,' he said, and trust that my wife has made
an engagement with my charming mademoiselle.'Diane made no reply; she turned to pass him.What an absurd little Puritan it is! Listen to me--on my
faith and honor as a gentleman, there is no need for you to teach.
Leave teaching to old maids; they are born for it.' She raised
her eyes to his face. In all his life monsieur never forgot their
expression.'Sir, she said, 'I cannot misunderstand you.  The pain in
your wife's face showed me what your compliments mean. I wonder
that Heaven does not strike you dead when you follow me, an
innocent woman, and speak to me so.'  He fell back, pride in his
face, not unmixed with fear.'Strike me dead!' he repeated. 'What a little vixen. Strike
me dead! What a most horrible idea!'Before he had recovered himself Diane had walked on, and was
soon out of sight, It took monsieur hours to recover his equanimity;
he went home that evening and took his wife to the opera;
once or twice repeating to himself the words, 'Strike me dead!
What a most horrible idea!'Diane returned to her lodgings. It was too late to apply elsewhere,
or to return to Madame Silber's. She went on the following
morning to Madame Silber's; she found that lady in a state
of great indignation.'Good-morning, Miss Thorpe,' she said. 'Do you know that
you have lost me one of my best ladies--that is, unless I can repair
your blunders?''No,' said Diane. 'What have I done?''I told you from the first,' said Madame Silber, 'that mine was
a respectable office. I never had such a thing on my books as the
name of a person who had no references to offer. I am sorry that
I took yours. I shall be glad to return your fee and take your
name from my books.''But,' cried Diane, ' what have I done?''Here is a note from Lady Blythorne, saying I have insulted
her by sending her a person who had no references to offer. You
see, she calls you a person; she considers I have done something
unpardonable. Here is another from Mrs. Haughton, saying I
must be careless of the reputation of my office when I place on
my books one who not only has no references, but who admits
having used a false name. Is this true, Miss Thorpe?''Yes,' said Diane; 'circumstances compelled me to hide my own.''And you owned as much to Mrs. Haughton?''What else could I do when she asked me the question ?''Well, you know your own affairs best; but I never met with
an honest reason for changing one's name. We must part.  If
such a thing as this were known, it would ruin me.''Then it would be unjust,' retorted Diane. ' You say you have
many hundred names on your books. I will say you have not the
name of a more innocent or unhappy girl than myself.''It may be; but I must decline having any more to do with
you. I must answer these notes as well as I can, and try to free
myself from blame; but I cannot keep your name. I return your
fee, Miss Thorpe. Good-morning.''It is a hard world,' said Diane; 'a cruel world. I see why my
father wanted to find me a friend before he left me alone in it.'She went away, feeling as if one of the gates of life had been
closed behind her. She must try again; she knew that she must
find work or starve. She would have died with a smile on her
face, rather than have gone back to Larchdale.She rose early next morning, and went to the other offices. It
was the same everywhere--smiles, bright looks, flattering promises,
until she mentioned the fact that she had no references;
then some did as Madame Silber had done--returned her fee and
declined to give her any names; others told her all would be useless
without references.Weeks became mouths, but there was no sunshine for her; nothing
but dreary waiting, walking until her limbs ached. Her
heart grew faint, her soul despaired; but it was always the same
thing. Autumn and winter went by. Then she tried to obtain
a position as companion: that was more difficult.  Then she applied to
the publishers for translations; she obtained some work

for which she was paid five guineas: but it was the first and last
time. An idea occurred to her; her father had praised her drawing;
why not try a picture? She could surely sell it.So she purchased drawing materials, and worked hard all day
until she had completed a pretty pair of water-colors. Poor Diane!
looking at them, she believed her fortune made; they ought to
sell for a guinea each at the least, and if she could earn a guinea
each week she should be happy. She took them out to sell; it
was cruel to see the hope die out of her face as she took them from
one shop to another. There was the same story--they all had
plenty to sell, no one wanted to buy; the drawings were very
pretty, but there was no demand for such things.One gentleman, touched by her sad face, said he could not buy
--there was no demand for such things, but if she liked to leave
them in his shop window he would do his best to sell them for
her. Then she was hopeful, they would be sold, if they were seen;
she had seen inferior ones hung in nice houses. She resolved not
to trouble this gentleman; she would not go into the shop, but she
would walk by the window--she should see them. It was pitiful,
each morning, to see the wistful face, as she passed by; she did
not like to stop; but as she went by the window, her eyes looked
so anxiously, it was as if life and death depended on it, and one
morning the owner of the shop, seeing her, sent word he wished
to speak to her. She hastened to the shop.CHAPTER XXVII.
THE WATERCOLORS.Mr. Redinger, the proprietor of the shop, had seen a deal of artists
in his day. It was nothing strange to him to see a white face
looking in at the shop-windows to see if there was any good news.When Diane entered the shop her attention was engrossed by
him. She threw back her vail that she might hear and see him
better, never dreaming she showed the most beautiful face in London.
Mr. Redinger looked at her in wonder, thinking how like a
beautiful picture she was herself.'You wish to see me?' she said, eagerly.Yes. Will you take a chair? I will attend to you in one minute--
I have two gentlemen to see.'He went to the other end of the shop, where two gentlemen
awaited him--one, the world-wide known artist, Frank Millar;
the other, Lord Ryder, a celebrated_patron of art.'Now, Mr. Millar,' said the master of the shop, ' excuse me, I
had some business with a lady. You were speaking of the new
carmine----' Here Lord Ryder interrupted him.'The greatest kindness you could do us, Mr. Redinger, is to attend
to the lady; then we shall have an opportunity of looking
at the loveliest face in England.'Mr. Redinger went away. He would not have smiled at such a
remark from anyone else but Lord Ryder was a man of blameless
repute; no purer gentleman lived. He left him to enjoy his
silent admiration.'Now, Millar,' said Lord Ryder, 'you have been waiting some

time for a face for your Anne Boleyn; you wanted a face, you
said, with a tragedy in it, and most of the beautiful women you
saw were vain or commonplace.''Yes,' replied the prince of artists, 'I mean my picture to live
after my name is forgotten. I must have a face with a tragedy in
it--tragic eyes, that look as though they had gazed on death, and
had retained its horror; tragical lips, that have the look of fore-
telling doom. I want a face that has been a sunbeam, yet has
lost its light, that might have made the crown of a king's love, yet
has lost its royal bloom. I want a face that has known suffering,
with a tragedy in it.''Then,' said Lord Ryder, you cannot do better than take that
for your model; so marvellously fair, yet it has looked on death, I
am sure. Those wonderful eyes have strange secrets in their
depths, the soul that looks out of them is a pure one, but it has
passed through its agony; look at the lips, how sweet, how fresh.
what brilliant color! Yet see, they quiver when she smiles. Copy
that face, and I will buy your Anne Boleyn. I will give you any
price you like to ask.''But,' said the artist, 'how can I? I cannot go up to that lady
and deliberately propose to take her portrait.''Certainly you can. If she has any love for art, she will be
pleased to lend her face to a picture that is to live forever.''But she is a lady--poorly dressed, but still she is a lady.''And so was Anne Boleyn,' cried his lordship; 'and that is the
reason why none of the faces you find among your models will do
for her. Mr. Redinger!' said his lordship, ' will you come this
way?  Do not think me impertinent,' he said, 'you know I forget
etiquette where art is concerned. Tell me, does that lady want
employment? She looks like it.''I have some water-colors of hers to sell, and a gentleman yesterday
offered me about half the required price of them.''Are they pretty good?' inquired his lordship.'They have more than the ordinary amount of merit,' was the
answer. Mr. Redinger never committed himself.'Then I will give her three guineas each for them,' said Lord
Ryder, 'and I will order one. Will you take my card to the lady?
Tell her I ask the honor of an introduction, in order that I may
give directions over the drawings.'With a low bow, Mr. Redinger took the card.  They saw the
surprised look on the sweet face, the blush, the light in the violet
eyes. Then the master of the shop returned.'Miss Thorpe will be pleased to hear his lordship's instructions.''Thorpe!' repeated his lordship; 'there is no tragedy in the
name. That is commonplace. Now, Millar, come in search of
immortality--the beautiful, unhappy, hapless queen.'The gentlemen went to Diane--the artist wishing his friend were
not so impetuous--Lord Ryder wishing that Millar was not so
much given to dreaming. But all Frank Millar's apathy died
when he stood in the presence of that beautiful woman. The
deep eyes, with their long, silken lashes; the golden hair, waving
back from the ideal brow; the proud curves of the crimson lips;

the royal bearing; above all, the tragedy in the face, riveted his
attention. A girl, not more than eighteen from her appearance,
youthful, graceful, innocent. What tragedy had given such a
depth her eyes, such expression to the lips?  He looked at her
so earnestly that Lord Ryder began to grow anxious. What could
it be?--love, sorrow--what was it?You must pardon my friend,' said Lord Ryder to Diane; 'he
never seems to remember that people are alive, and may not like
to be looked at; he seems to fancy they are all statues. He is an
artist--that must be his excuse' Diane smiled.'I do not mind being looked at,' she said, simply.Lord Ryder talked about her water-colors. He wanted two
more to match these, and Diane listened in delightful amazement.Then,' said Lord Ryder, 'Mr. Millar is painting a picture for
me--Anne Boleyn in the Tower--a picture that is to immortalize
him, and he wants to ask you a favor over it.' Her face flushed with
a delighted surprise.Mr. Millar, the artist,' she said. 'The king of artists, my father
used to call you,' she said with unconscious flattery; 'he admired
your pictures so much.''Was your father an artist?'inquired Mr. Millar.Yes, he was a genius. People  are beginning to find out now
that he is dead.'What was his name?'asked Lord Ryder, with interest.She did not grow frightened this time; her nature, so simple in
its nobility, seemed to recognize the noble natures of the men
before her. She looked at them, the pure eyes unshadowed.'I cannot tell you,' she replied. 'He was a great artist. For
three years his pictures were shown at the Royal Academy, and
all England praised them. If he had lived he would have been a
great man; but I cannot tell you his name.  He died not long
ago, and since his death I have had trouble; I have been compelled
to change my name.''Through poverty?' asked Millar, impulsively.'No; to prevent some one I dislike from finding me.' They
bowed , as though she had been some queen telling them how she
had lost her kingdom.'I am doubly proud to find you are an artist's daughter,' said
Lord Ryder; "your love of art will cause you the more easily to
comply with my friend's request.'I would do anything for an artist,' said Diane; 'until two
years ago, I knew none but artists who came to see my father, and
they were all so kind. I have found no other people like them.''I want to ask you to do me a favor,' Mr. Millar said. 'I am
only afraid you will think it too great. I shall venture to ask it
by your love for art, and your respect for artists.''You will ask nothing I shall not gladly grant,' she replied.'I have had a picture on hand for some time,' he said, 'and I
have never been fortunate enough to find a face that pleased me
for it. It is a picture of Ann Boleyn in the Tower; it requires a
beautiful face, but one with a story in it--brilliant beauty, exquisite
coloring will not do, it requires such a face as I see before
me.' She looked up at him  with startled eyes.'Has my face a story in it?' she asked.'Yes,' he replied, 'a story of no common kind. Will you sit
to me for the picture? I will introduce you to my mother, I
have no wife, and everything shall be made as comfortable as
possible for you.'I will do it with pleasure,' she replied, 'because I am sure if
my father had been living he would have wished it--he would
have been pleased over it.''I am deeply grateful to you,' said Frank Millar. 'Any compensation
you permit I shall be only too happy to make.''I require none,' she replied, 'it is pleasure enough to oblige
you; it will be like some of my old life coming back to me.'Lord Ryder watched her as he spoke to his friend.'Whatever be her mystery,' he thought, it is nothing to be
ashamed of; she is a good woman; innocent as a child. Ah! I
am right, she is not married.'Diane drew off her gloves while she tried a new pencil for which
she had asked. All three gentlemen looked at those white hands,
on which no gleam of a wedding-ring shone.If you will favor me with your address,' said Frank Millar,
'my mother and I will call upon you to-morrow, to settle what
time it will suit you to come to my studio.' Diane smiled.'I know sufficient of London,' she said, 'to be aware that I am
out of the world. Do you know Kentish Town?''Yes, I used to live there once,' he replied, ' when I was a student
whose only capital was hope. We will call to-morrow, Miss
Thorpe.' With respectful salutations, the gentlemen turned
away. To Diane it seemed like a dream.'I must congratulate you,' said Mr. Redinger; 'you have laid
the corner-stone of a fortune. Mrs. Millar is one of the kindest
ladies I know; you have been fortunate, Miss Thorpe, and I am
glad of it. Patience is rewarded in time.'To Diane it was like a dream. Here was her purse half filled
with guineas, with a prospect of earning more, and once more she
was to be with artists, the people whom she loved; she was to
meet a kind-hearted lady, who would not despise her because
Nature had given her a pretty face.'My troubles are over,' she said to herself; 'I have nothing to
do but live my life patiently, and meet my darling in Heaven.'CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE ARTIST'S MODEL.Mrs. Millar smiled when her son urged his request. She was
one of the most amiable of women, one of the kindest. But when
she was asked to make a visit, a social exchange of courtesy, she
looked perplexed. As for refusing Frank anything, she did not
know how to do it; she had never done such a thing. When he
asked her to do this, he bent his face and kissed her. 'You will
oblige me, mother, I know.' What could she say?  Social distinctions
must henceforward be to her a name.'I will go, Frank. There now, my dear boy, this is my best
cap, I will go and see this model of yours.''Mother, that is what I want you to understand. She is not a
model--but a lady, a beautiful, graceful girl; the daughter of an
an artist, too.''With a mystery,' said Mrs. Millar. 'Frank, you know I mistrust
people with a mystery; they do not go with an honest race.''You have never seen a model like her, mother,' said Frank;
'she has a face like one of Greuze's pictures--fair, sweet, yet with
a tragedy in it. Her eyes have seen more than ours have done.
What she has looked on one will never know, but it is something
that we ordinary mortals do not see.' Mrs. Millar smiled.'You talk like a poet or an artist,' she said. 'I will go with
you and see your paragon for myself.'The artist bowed his head over his mother's hand.'My dear mother,' he said, 'you are kind to every one; but I
want you to be kinder than ever to this young girl.''I will, for your sake, Frank.'And the mother looked anxiously at her son--she had been so
proud of him, of his fame, of the high position he had made himself,
of the honors he had won; she had been proud because her
love sufficed for him, he had wanted no other love. He had loved
and cared but for two things--his mother and his art. Women's
fair faces, unless they smiled on canvas, had no charm for him;
and Mrs. Millar was prouder of her son's love and devotion than
of his high fame.So, to please him, she ordered her pony carriage to be prepared
--the crowning enjoyment of her life was driving Frank.  He
spent the greater part of his time in admiring his mother, than
whom a handsomer matron did not exist. The carriage drew up
the house in Kentish Town where Diane had taken lodgings,
causing no small sensation in the street, and Mrs. Millar
was shown into the neat parlor where Diane awaited her.The artist's mother had expected something in the usual style
--a pink and white beauty, with blue eyes, a pretty, but insipid
mouth; she had seen so many such; but she looked up in surprise.
Here was a girl, young, but with the modest grace of a Madonna,
a face that must be seen to be understood.  There was tragedy in
it--a tragedy had startled the proud eyes, and had given them
greater depth, had changed the expression of the beautiful mouth,
had intensified her loveliness. She was not more than eighteen,
she barely looked that, but such a look might have been in the
eyes of Marie Stuart when she saw the scaffold, in the eyes of
Marie Antoinette when she looked her last on the face of her son.
It was not so much sorrow as the tragedy of sorrow.Mrs. Millar took in all the details, the graceful figure, rounded,
slender and full of harmony, the shapely shoulders, the white
throat, the golden head so proudly set, the white arms and hands,
matchless in shape and color, the wealth of magnificent hair, all
rippling gold, and she owned to herself that she had never seen
greater beauty, not even amidst the proudest ladies of the land.
Diane move and spoke with the dignity of a queen. Mrs. Miller
forgot she had come to patronize; she was lost in admiration. The artist introduced them, and his mother said:'I have come to thank you for your kindness, Miss Thorpe. My
son is so delighted that you have promised to sit to him; you will
make the success of his picture.''His own genius will do that,' said Diane. 'When I was a
child, I used to dream over Mr. Millar's pictures. I never thought
I should form part of one. My father admired them so much.''Of all my son's pictures,' said the mother, 'I admire this one
most. It is of Anne Boleyn. The title alone is beautiful. 'The
Shadow of a Crown.'''I like that,' interrupted Diane.'So do I. I like the subject better. It is the day before her
execution, and she is kneeling before a window in her prison,
watching the rays of the setting sun as they fall low from the
western sky; they pass through the window, and light up a round
bracket that throws the shadow of a crown over her head, and she
is watching it.' Diane's face glowed.'What a beautiful idea!' she said, earnestly.'Yes; and the figure of the beautiful queen kneeling in the
sun's rays, her hands clasped and lying listlessly on her dress, her
beautiful head upraised. It requires a beautiful face to complete
it--a merely pretty one would destroy it. I have seen no face that
would do except yours.''But she was so unhappy; she saw the shadow of the scaffold
and block, of the axe and the headsman, as well as of the crown.
Such shadows do not come to me.''Thank Heaven for it,' said Mrs. Millar; 'yet, if your eyes
speak truly, other shadows flit before you, sad in their way as the
block, the axe, and the headsman for Anne Boleyn.''It is true,' murmured Diane. Miss Millar continued:'My son tells me that he is anxious to finish his picture. It
wants nothing but the face and head. When would it suit you
to come? I will drive over for you and bring you back.''I will come to-morrow, if you like,' said Diane, gratefully.'Then it is settled. You have been working hard lately, my son
tells me. Will you spend the day with me? The change may be
beneficial to you, and I shall be so delighted.'Then Diane raised her calm, pure eyes to the lady's face.'When you ask me to oblige Mr. Millar,' she said, 'you confer
a favor upon me. If you ask me to visit you, you confer another,
which obliges me to speak truthfully to you.''I shall be very glad to hear you speak,' said Mrs. Millar.'I only wish to tell you that I have been some months in London,
and that I have been unable to procure employment of any
kind, because I could offer no references.''Why, my dear Miss Thorpe, why could you give no references?'
asked Mrs. Millar.'My name is not Thorpe,' said Diane; I have assumed that,
and I cannot write to any of the people who knew me, because if
I did, they would find out where I am, and I do not wish that to
be known.''Will you tell me why?' asked Mrs Millar. 'You need not
trust me unless you wish, but you may safely tell me why.' 'I can tell you part of the reason, but not all,' replied Diane.
'When my father died--my father, whose name would be such an
honor to me, but which I cannot mention--I was left in the charge
of one person. I made a mistake in my life innocently and ignorantly,
and now I would not have that person or his sister find me
for the world. I would rather kill myself than look on his face
again. I loathe them; I came away from them. I left home,
friends--that I loved on earth--and came away. I broke every
tie that bound me to that past life. I tried to forget my name;
but, remembering it, I should hate them the more. I am hiding
from them, and I shall so hide until I die--or they die.''Heaven help my son!' thought Mrs. Millar, 'how beautiful
she is. It is a strange story,' she said, musingly.'They did me a cruel wrong!' cried Diane. 'It was a wrong
that no one could pardon. It has cried to Heaven for vengeance,
and that vengeance will fall on them yet.'Mrs. Millar was startled by her vehemence, and the girl seemed
more proudly beautiful as she spoke.'My life,' said Diane, 'is all over. There is no hope, no brightness,
no love, no pleasure, no happiness for me. I shall work on
until the end of it comes, then, when the strength dies out of my
limbs, and the light leaves my eyes, I shall go to my father's
grave, and lay my head on the grass, and die there.''My dear child,' said Mrs. Millar.The tragedy of sorrow was new to her, who had seen nothing
like it in my life. With the sweet humility that distinguished her,
Diane kissed the lady's hand; the eyes she raised to her face were
wet with tears.'Now,' she said, 'if, on hearing that, you still ask me to visit
you I will. I will come, so gladly I but you understand I am
without name, home and friends; that I have cut off my old life
and cast it from me; that I can never tell you more of myself
than you now know; that in being kind to me, you are kind to
one adrift in life, one who has no hope, no chance, no brightness.''My dear child,' said Mrs. Millar, 'do not say such things; you
cannot be more than eighteen and a few months.''Not much,' replied Diane; 'eighteen and a few months.'Then it is folly to speak of having no hope. You have had a
terrible trouble, I am sure; but youth soon recovers from such
things. You will. I predict that the happiest part of your life
is before you.'She never forgot the sad smile that came over the girl's face.'Only answer me one question, said Mrs. Millar. 'I do not
ask that, because I doubt you, but to satisfy myself. You tell me
that your mother is dead--have you the hope of meeting her stainless 
and spotless in Heaven?'Yes,' said Diane. And from that moment the artist and his mother
would have staked their lives on Diane's innocence and purity.CHAPTER XXIX.
'A GIRL WITH A MYSTERY.'It was a gleam of light to her, this renewal of the brightest part

of her life. She went to the studio, and there she recovered
something 
of the bright spirit that made her father call her Diane. The
morning on which she first sat for the picture was never forgotten
by her. Lord Ryder came to assist and suggest; Mrs. Millar was
there, and she thought that no queen was ever so beautiful as this
girl with the sweet, sad eyes. They dressed her after the fashion
of Queen Anne's time, in a blue velvet dress open to display a
white satin petticoat; the wealth of golden hair was unfastened, and
as her head was raised, fell like a golden shower around her.Frank Millar was delighted; her exquisite grace, her wonderful
beauty, the amount of dramatic talent she threw into the inspiration 
delighted him.  She was not Diane, as she knelt there, she
was Anne Boleyn dreaming of her king lover, going over, in fancy,
his passionate love, when he would have scaled the heights of
Heaven to win her; remembering the sunny rides through the
forest of Windsor, thinking to herself over and over again, he did
not mean it; he was only doing it to frighten her; he did not intend 
that she should die; he would never let the face he had kissed
a thousand times lie on the block; he would never bear that the
axe should touch the white neck he had loved and caressed; that
the headsman's hand should touch the golden hair he had played
with; that the mangled form of the woman he had loved, that the
white arms, the graceful figure, should lie a slaughtered heap on
the block. Harry, her lover king, permit this--it was impossible!'Talk of an actress,' said Lord Ryder, 'we have one here. I
would wager all I am worth she has forgotten even her name--
she is Anne Boleyn for the time.  Do not speak to her, it would
be ten thousand pities to disturb that magnificent attitude. The
expression has come into her eyes of tragic love and tragic unbelief. 
She sees the crown and scaffold. Great Heaven! what an
actress she would make!' The artist worked on, fascinated by
the charm of that glorious face; he worked until the brush fell
from his hand, and a sob rose to his lips.'Miss Thorpe,' he cried, ' I cannot do any more--you frighten
me--you exhaust me. It seems to me as though Anne Boleyn
were really kneeling there. Get up and speak, will you?' They
saw great drops standing on his brow; the hands trembled.'I am ashamed of myself,' he continued; 'but you looked so
like the reality that I was frightened.''I had forgotten,' she said, with a smile. 'I had forgotten my
name myself; how easy it is to throw your whole soul into another 
person's life. I wonder if Queen Anne did think all these
wonderful thoughts, if she fancied it was but to try her? if she
suffered all the pangs of jealousy while she pictured him with
Jane Seymour. What a terrible story it is!''Yes,' said Lord Ryder, 'and you have contrived, Miss Thorpe,
to tell it in your face; I shall value my picture. That reminds
me, I bought a gem of a picture the other day, a sunny landscape,
painted by one Balfour. Do you know anything of him ?'Balfour? repeated the artist, 'I have heard something of him,
the name is familiar to me.  I saw his pictures at the academy,
and beautiful they are. He is dead, I fancy; I heard some one

say his life ended as his genius began to develop itself.' Never a
word said Diane, but the face on which the artist gazed a few minutes
afterward was white as death.'Mother,' he said, 'Miss Thorpe is tired; I will do no more today. 
Take her with you, make her lie down or rest, and take
some wine.' And the two ladies left the studio together.'What an actress she would make,' said Lord Ryder; 'I have
never seen anything like her, she is simply superb.''She would not live long if she went on the stage,' said Frank
Millar, 'she would soon wear herself out, she would feel with such
intense passion everything that she depicted.'And both gentlemen thought more than was prudent of Diane.The sitting was resumed the next day.  The artist laughed as
he took up his brushes.You must not look so terribly tragic,' he said, 'so passionately
sorrowful; you carry me out of myself.''The test of true genius,' she replied; 'no person excels in any
one thing when it does not carry them out of their lives--their own
selves.' The second sitting was more successful than the first.'You will have helped me to immortality, Miss Thorpe,' he said
to her. 'If I win the crown of the gods, you ought to share it.''The only crown I shall ever share,' she replied, 'will be like
Anne Boleyn's, the shadow of a crown.'And he wondered what her words meant. The day came when
the picture was complete, and they who saw it looked with wonder
at that face, so lovely in its passionate sorrow.'It must be shown,' said Lord Ryder.   'Let it be shown at
the exhibition.So it was, and all England went wild over it. The critics, amateur
judges--the public all united in its praise. There never had
been such a picture, and never could be again. Frank Millar had
gained for himself immortality.  By that time Mrs. Millar had
grown attached to Diane. The girl's grace of character, her innocence,
her modesty, her simple pride, the loftiness of her ideas
--all fascinated the artist's mother. She had met no one like this
girl; she never made any attempt to solve the mystery that surrounded
Diane. She asked no questions, she felt no curiosity; she
was content to take her as she was, feeling the utmost trust in her.'Even take her as she is,' she said to her son, 'and there is no
one like her.' More than half Diane's time was spent with Mrs.
Millar, who was always seeking some pretext for helping her. So
a few more months passed, and a new anxiety came over the artist's
mother.'Mother,' he said one day, 'I am thinking of a new picture. I
have done nothing since 'The Shadow of a Crown.'''You have been busy ever since,' she replied.'I mean I have done nothing worthy of note. I could paint a
beautiful picture of Marie Stuart leaving the shores of France, but
I should want Miss Thorpe to be my Marie Stuart.''Dear Frank, beautiful as Miss Thorpe's face is, you cannot
have it in every picture; people would wonder and talk.''I should be supremely indifferent to that last,' he said. 'Miss

Thorpe is the fairest and noblest woman I ever met; they could
say nothing on that score which would annoy me.''Suppose,' she said, slowly, 'that they fancied you were in
love with her.''Upon my word,' he said, 'I think I am; it is certain her face
haunts me. If I take up my pencil to sketch something different,
it is sure to come round to her after all. I think a great deal of
her.' Mrs. Millar went to her son; she clasped her arms round
his neck.'Frank,' she said, 'I have no wish on earth except to see you
happy. If you wanted to marry a beggar-girl, and it pleased you,
I should not object; but a girl with a secret--a mystery--do not
think of it, my son--I could not bear it.''But we know, mother, that the mystery is no guilty one.''I am sure of that, Frank. You are smiling; you are not so
terribly in love yet, or you could not smile. Tell me, do you wish
to marry her? Are you hopelessly in love?''My dear mother,' he said, 'I am more in love with you than
with any one; but I admire Miss Thorpe more than anyone; her
beauty has a fascination for me. I am not hopelessly in love with
her, because I love my art and you so dearly I have not thought
of anything else; but if I were to see much more of Miss Thorpe,
I should be compelled to marry her, because she has such a fascination for me.'I have an idea about her,' said Mrs. Millar. ' I fancy that in
some way she is not free. Hardly nineteen yet, and to have put
all love and lovers from her life, it is not natural. All girls think
of love and marriage, she never does; for all her interest in them,
they might not exist. Several times I have spoken to her of people, 
and praised them; I have said one was a good man, another
clever, and so on; she never pays attention. Even you, my son,
she looks upon entirely as an artist-I do not think she remembers you
are a man.'I have noticed the same thing myself,' said Mr. Millar.'She never seems to think it feasible or probable that she may
marry--she thinks only of living as she does now; therefore the
conclusion I draw is, that she is no longer free.''Do you mean she is promised in marriage ?''No; I cannot tell you what I mean, for I do not know; but I
feel certain she is no longer free.'And Mrs. Millar, for her son's sake, decided to ask her.They were talking one day of lady artists, and Diane told her
from her son's opinion that if she persevered, she would one day
hold a high position among them.'Do you mean to persevere?' asked Mrs. Millar.'Yes. Your son has been kind enough to promise me the benefit of his instruction.''But,' said Mrs. Millar, 'you do not intend to live all your life
in that little house at Kentish Town?''As well there as anywhere else,' said Diane.'Have you no other wish but to remain there and practice art?'No, I have no other wish. I shall be content.'Mrs. Millar laughed.'You will forget all these fine resolutions some day,' she said.
'You will fall in love and marry, like the rest of the world.'The beautiful face grew deadly pale, then flushed crimson.
Mrs. Millar saw the words had pierced with a sharp pang.'No,' she said, decidedly; 'that I shall never do; love and
marriage do not exist for me.''You are too young to keep such a resolution,' replied her
friend; and too beautiful. People will fall in love with a face
like yours. It is a thing that could not be avoided.''I see no one who would be likely to fall in love with me,' said
Diane. 'Such a thing could not happen without my knowledge,
and I should prevent it at once.''It might be too late; that kind of mischief is soon done,' said
Mrs. Millar. Then she laid her hand on the girl's shoulder. 'Let
me tell you something,' she said; 'a secret between us, never to
be betrayed. My son is falling in love with you. I see it, and if
you never mean to marry, he must not see much of you.'The beautiful face grew white, and the eyes filled with tears.'Thank you for telling me,' she said. 'I will go away. Will
you help me?''Yes; for my son's sake, as well as your own,' was the kindly
reply, 'I will do all I can.'CHAPTER XXX.
DIANE'S UNFORESEEN DANGER.That was a danger Diane had not foreseen. She had often said
to herself that there was no love, no marriage for her; but she
well content. The experience she had passed through of
marriage had given her a detestation of it  Had she been free
then she would not have married the finest gentleman or the
greatest genius in all the world.  She knew people called her
beautiful--how beautiful she was she had no idea; she did not
care; life had no prizes for her. The beauty of her face gave her
no pleasure; She was grieved over Frank Millar; what his mother
said was true. It was as an artist that she regarded him,
and not as a man; that he, so noble, so gifted, would ever love
her--she had not been capable of forming such an idea.After those few words, she had a confidential conversation with
Mrs. Millar, one that bound the girl's heart to her for ever;
she understood so well the mother's love for her son.'I understand him; said Mrs. Millar, 'better than any one else
can do. He has never been in love yet; it will come to him like
a sweet, tranquil dream. Slowly and surely it will take possession
of his whole being. Then all the rest of his life will depend on it.
If it be a happy love, he will be happy, honored and great; if not,
he will be wretched, he will lose his fame, his genius.  Heaven
knows there is nothing I dread so completely for my son as an
unhappy love.''I will go away,' said Diane; 'dear Mrs. Millar, he shall not
be unhappy over me.'Could you never marry him, Miss Thorpe?''Oh, no,' replied Diane, 'I could not.''Never?' repeated his mother, 'not in the years to come?''Never said Diane. 'Death or torture, anything rather than
marriage!''Then you do not love him!''Love him,' she repeated, 'love your son?  Yes, as I do yourself; I
love him as the prince of artists, as my friend, my benefactor,
the noblest of gentlemen, the best of men. I would give
my life to serve him, but love him with a lover's love--no! a
thousand times no!--it is impossible.''Have you loved unhappily?' asked Mrs. Millar.'No, Heaven help me, I never loved at all.'Mrs. Millar felt more sure that her suspicions were correct--that,
in some strange way, Diane had lost her freedom. She looked anxiously
at the beautiful face, so formed to win all love.'My dear child,' she said, 'I am years older than you, so I am
privileged to speak to you. To love, happily or unhappily, it is the
lot of every human being. Why should you be exempt--why should you
alone live and die here, yet never love?''Because it is impossible,' said Diane; ' I
can give no other reason.''While we are talking on the subject,'
said Mrs. Millar, 'let me give you a word of caution. You will not
escape the common lot--you cannot--and when you love at all, you will
love as few people--with an intensity that belongs to your character;
if there exists any reason why you cannot or should not love,
beware--go through life with a guard on your lips, on your eyes and
heart.''I shall never love,' said Diane; 'I may hate, dreadful as it
seems to say such a thing, but I shall never love.''Well, we will leave it so; but that is my prophecy--you will
love some day with an intensity of which you little dream; it is
not for nothing that you have a tragedy in your face. But about
my son, Miss Thorpe. You will never betray me, I know--you
will never hint to him one word of what I have said.''You may trust me,' said Diane, slowly; 'I never told a secret
or betrayed a confidence in my life.''You say you will go away. For Frank's peace it will be for
the best. If you go away out of his life now, before the love that I dread takes hold of him, he will forget you; if you remain here
much longer, it will be too late to save him.''I will go,' said Diane. Mrs. Millar continued:'If you will intrust your future to me, I will inquire among my
friends, and find you an engagement either as governess or companion. You would like that?''Yes,' said Diane, ' anything that pleases you. But there will
be the usual stumbling-block, 'references.'No,' replied Mrs. Millar, 'you will need no other name than
mine. I shall always love you, always keep my interest in you,
always be your friend. It will be a great trouble to me to lose
you; but it is for my son's sake--for Frank's sake--he must not
be unhappy through an unhappy love.'The matter was arranged between them. If Diane had been
offered her choice, she would rather have remained in the house,
going on with her drawing, and attending the studio, talking art

and poetry with Frank Millar; but it was not to be; this pleasant
episode in her life was ended. What was the next to be?Mrs. Millar wrote to her one morning to say she wished to see
her that day, as she had heard of something likely to suit her.
Diane went.'I feel sure,' said her friend, ' that you will be pleased. Lady
Creighton is in want of a companion; I told her that I thought
you would suit, and she seemed delighted. She would like to see
you at Creighton House to-day.''What is she like?' asked Diana. 'I am afraid that no one
will seem very nice to me after leaving you.''You will like Lady Creighton. She is a widow lady, thirty-
five years of age. She is intellectual--by no means a blue stocking. She has been most unhappily married. I do not know the
particulars, but she has suffered very much.''And now she is free,' said Diane, with intense sympathy.'Yes,' replied Mrs. Millar. 'Now she is free, she will never
marry again, and I do not blame her. I do not believe in second
marriages. She is going abroad, and wants a lady, young and accomplished, to go with her. You will be happy with her, I think.'I should be happier with you,' murmured Diane; 'but it is
useless to quarrel with the irrevocable. I will go to Creighton
House to-day.'She went. Creighton House is one of the largest mansions in
Hyde park. As she stood in the entrance hall she thought of the
days when Lady Blythorne and Mrs. Haughton bad treated her
contempt, and she thanked Heaven that she had found friends.She was shown into an elegant drawing-room, where, the servant
said, Lady Creighton would soon join her. Diane waited in
impatience. What was she like, this woman with whom, in all
the remainder of her life would be spent? She heard
the sound of a sweet voice speaking, then Lady Creighton entered.
She was not beautiful--she never had been so--but she was graceful
and well-bred, with a kind face, and sad eyes. She looked in
surprise at the lovely graceful woman before her.'Are you----? she asked, then hesitated.'I am Miss Thorpe,' said Diane; 'Mr. Millar said you would see me.'Yes, certainly.' Still the gentle eyes were full of wonder. 'I
am looking for a companion; would such a position suit you?'Yes,' replied Diane, 'it is the one I should like.''I am glad; I thought of leaving England. I have not been
very happy here, and I fancy that for some years I should live in
Italy; should you like that?' Diane's face gleamed.'Like it? she repeated; why Lady Creighton, the only thing
is that it seems too good to be true. I was there with my father
when I was a child.' Lady Creighton looked pleased at her enthusiasm.'I have been very unhappy,' she said, 'and it seems if I went
to Italy and lived for a time among the beauties of art and nature,
I should forget it. Do you think so?'Yes,' said Diane; 'in Italy one only remembers the blue of

the sky, the gold of the sun, the glory of the flowers, and the
magic of art: it is almost impossible to be unhappy there.''You speak French and Italian?' said Lady Creighton.'I spoke both languages as a child.' Lady Creighton looked at
her.'You will pardon me, Miss Thorpe,' she said; 'you are young,
and very beautiful, so beautiful that you will expect to see some
of the pleasures and gayeties of the world; it is only fair to tell
you that I am leaving England because I find myself unequal to
all society, and because I intend, in Florence, to lead a quiet life.
Will a quiet life suit you?''Yes, replied Diane; 'I should not like any other.''Mrs. Millar told me, 'continued her ladyship, 'that you were
much admired; your appearance does bewilder me. But do you
think it likely that you will remain with me long?''As long as your ladyship wishes,' said Diane.'Because it seems to me likely you may marry.'' Marry!' interrupted Diane. 'I pray you, Lady Creighton, do
not say the word; if you only knew how much I dislike it.''So do I,' said her ladyship; 'but I have reasons--you can
have none, or at best they can only be fancies.'Diane looked into Lady Creighton's face.'I know,' she said, 'it is the way of some people to say what
they do not mean; of others to say more than they mean ; but in
all truth, I assure your ladyship that there is no more fear of my
marrying than there is that I shall fly.''I am pleased to hear it,' said her ladyship, 'I have suffered a
great deal; I want now a few years of peace; I want a companion with whom I can feel happy; I should not like any trouble,
with love or lovers; as I had everything happily arranged, I
should not like my companion to leave me; you see what I want
--a life in which love, men, and marriage have no part.''Then I think my coming to your ladyship is an inspiration, for
that is precisely what I long for myself.'Then Lady Creighton looked at her ease.Now about details,' she said, 'I am in mourning, and I should
like you, Miss Thorpe, to be the same; will you permit me to present
you with mourning of the kind I like ?  And, if it be quite 
convenient, can you manage to start for Italy next week?''Certainly,' said Diane. Then Lady Creighton took the girl's
hand in hers.'You must try to like me and be happy with me,' she said; 'as
we have to live together, perhaps for many years, it will be well
to be happy together.' Diane wondered if it were possible for
any one to help liking that kind-hearted lady. When every arrangement
was made, she went home.But there was a consternation in the artist's studio when it became
known she was going. Frank looked hard at his mother, 
suspecting mischief, but not feeling sure what to suspect.  He
was compelled to make a virtue of necessity and say good-by.
The week following Lady Creighton and Diane started for Italy.CHAPTER XXXI.
THE MODEL WIFE.The years passed on in one dream of peace. Whatever had been
the troubles of Lady Creighton's life, she never mentioned them,
and her gentle nature soon regained its tranquil calm. They found
a house on the banks of the Arno, one built for a Russian duke.
He built it as large as a palace, with spacious rooms, and over-
hanging gardens, with broad terraces and picturesque grounds,
which sloped to the banks of the Arno. The house bad been built
to suit the taste of a Russian archduchess who loved flowers; she
must have a balcony to every room, and each balcony must be the
size of a small room; they must be filled with choice flowers--then
the archduchess was content. The rooms were furnished with
steel grates, where English fires could burn in winter; and sun-
blinds, through which the sun of summer could not penetrate.
They could hear the ripple of the Arno, and the song of the birds;
they could see the silver and golden fire of the orange trees, the
wave of the tall white lilies, the red hue of the rose--all sweet
sighs and sounds came to them as they sat in the fragrant rooms
of their beautiful abode. Nor did they tire of each other. Lady
Creighton was the most considerate of human beings; she was
careful that Diane should have time to read, time to study. They
walked out together; they went on the river together; they drove
together; if, at intervals, Lady Creighton entertained visitors,
Diane was always present; if Lady Creighton was tempted by the
beauty of opera, or a picture, to leave home, Diane accompanied
her.  They dined and spent the evening together.  Diane answered
her ladyship's business letters, she attended to her books
and papers; there her duties ended. Life was so new, so novel,
so beautiful to the girl whose heart had been broken, that she
could not realize it.It was wonderful how Diane changed; the blighted, spoiled life
seemed to fall from her; she grew fairer, brighter, the tragedy
died out of her eyes, the lines round her mouth relaxed, the dimples
began to come into play again; there were times when it
seemed to her life had always been the same dream among the roses.Some night she would wake up from a dream--her lips warm
with her baby's kisses, the touch of his fingers warm on her neck,
the clasp of his arms around her, wake and remember he was dead
--that he had been killed by those who hated her; then the old
sorrow woke and cried; then the burning pain would return to
her, making her life a torture; or she would wake with Hester's
scolding voice in her ears, uttering some scathing insult; or she
should wake crying for Heaven's sake would they let her into the
little one who was moaning for her; then her agony would seem
greater than she could bear, and she would cry out let her die rather
that suffer so. But these dreams grew fainter, and Diane
began to look in the present as the only reality, the past as a
nightmare from which she had escaped.There was one view of the question which never occurred to her
--she never thought that in running away from her home and
husband she had done wrong; they had driven her mad, they had

taken her loving heart into their cruel hands, and had crushed it;
they had slain in their cruel ignorance the only creature she had
ever loved--her child; and she had escaped from them. She never
thought of it in any other light; she would have opened her
eyes in wonder if she had been told that her plain, honorable
duty was to have remained and have done her best; she would
have argued that all prisoners try to escape, that remaining at
Larchdale would have been suicide, but she would never have believed
that in quitting it she had done wrong. She had not been
well taught, this innocent Diane; her chief idea of religion was
a reverence for the great God who had created the beauty she
loved of earth and sky; her father had impressed that on her, and
she had only been too willing to receive the impression; but that
religion should have taught her to endure the gloomy temper of
her husband, the impertinence of his sister--that it should have
taught her to bear the trials of her lot in submission--she never
dreamed, and there was no one to tell her. The only time that
the matter struck her in that light was when Lady Carter, a cousin of
Lady Creighton, came to visit them; then the conversation 
turned, one day when Diane was alone with their visitor, on Lady
Creighton.'I am so glad to see her looking better,' said Lady Carter. 'I
have always thought her story one of the saddest in the world.
You have been with her for some years, yet I am sure she has never
mentioned it to you.''No,' replied Diane. 'She has told me that she had had great
trouble, that she had been unhappy; but she never told me why.''Nor does she over tell. All that we who loved her, her best
friends, ever knew of her trouble, we heard from her servants,
who at times had to interfere to save her life, and those who were
staying in the house; she never told. She is one of the bravest
as well as the gentlest of women; yet I think hers one of the saddest
stories I ever heard.'Diane's eyes asked a question that her lips did not dare to utter.'You would like to hear it?' said Lady Carter.  'You have
such eloquent eyes, Miss Thorpe.''Yes,' replied Diane; ' I should like to hear it. I have often
wondered what could make such a gentle lady unhappy.''She was one of the most winsome girls,' said Lady Carter;
'not beautiful, but she was of a most amiable disposition, the most
tender and loving heart. When a girl, not more than seventeen,
she fell in love with her half-cousin, Richard Petrell, and he was
fond of her. Children both of them, their foolish love affair lasted
some months, then the Countess of Deue, Lady Creighton's 
mother, found it out. It ended as such things do; Lady Creighton was
compelled to choose between her mother and her lover; to 
retain both was an utter impossibility, she had to choose between
them; and her obedient nature led her to choose her mother.
Richard Petrell was dismissed, and he lost no time in going to the
bad as fast as it was possible to go. He lived for a few months
in wild dissipation, cursing those who bad parted him from his
love, then he made some low marriage, and for a time disappeared.''That was all through love,' said Diane, slowly.'Yes, all through love, child. Then the countess completed
her work by compelling her daughter to marry Lord Creighton,
than whom a greater rogue and a greater roue
never existed. He 
was rich and had a title, nothing else recommended him. She
married him, and I do not think that any white slave ever led such
a life. He used to curse her, to swear at her, to shout at her, he
never spoke a civil word to her; the grooms were better treated,
yet she never complained. Her patience irritated him. He struck
her. Oh! many times he beat her within an inch of her life; if
the servants had not interfered he would have killed her.''Did he not like her?' asked Diane, wonderingly.'I suppose so; he never said he did not like her. He had a
terrible temper, bitter, sullen, passionate, gloomy; at the same
time he was a coward. The temper he dare not show to others
was shown to his wife and vented upon her.'' Why did she not leave his house, leave him?'Lady Carter looked slightly scandalized.'My dear Miss Thorpe, she said,'I am sure you do not mean it.
When people are married, there is no such thing as running away
or leaving each other.' Diane looked up with wondering eyes.'No such thing?' she repeated. 'People do it, Lady Carter.''Not the right kind of people. You cannot run away from a
life-long obligation, you cannot run away from a solemn contract,
from solemn vows; you may rue it, you cannot undo it; the only
thing is, to bear it patiently until you die.''That seems very hard,' said Diane, slowly.'It is hard, but it is the only right course to pursue: such a
course wins for any woman the respect of men, and the blessing
of God; the opposite loses both.''Had Lady Creighton any children?' asked Diane.'No, she had no children,' replied Lady Carter.'Suppose that she had had one little child, that she loved better
than all the world, and that when it was dying her husband had
spurned her, he had forbidden her to come near--would she have
remained with him?'I cannot tell, replied Lady Carter; 'you are supposing events
that never happened. I should say, that considering the dignity
of her character, she would not under any circumstances, have
left him, but would always have endured to the end.''Even if he had helped to kill her only child?' said Diane.'What a strange notion! What makes you say that?''Because I once heard of such a case, and the wife ran away.''Then she did wrong,' said Lady Carter, gravely.'Wrong? I do not think so How could she tolerate the sound
of his name after that?'I cannot judge. I do not know the case, but I do know this:
God has made immutable laws, and one of them is, marriage shall
know not parting save death. I know that if we bear patiently
any pain that the faithful carrying out of those laws inflict, we
are getting ready for Heaven.''But, surely, said Diane, 'God would would not wish any woman to
be wretched. If you were afraid of your life, it would not be
needful for one to remain with a husband then.''Perhaps not; I cannot judge. You are very earnest about
the matter. I have old-fashioned ideas myself about the sanctity
of marriage,  the submission and obedience of wives, the patience
of women. Lady Creighton is my model.''And I have done all that Lady Creighton did not do,' thought
Diane. 'I have left my home, my husband, given up his name,
his ring, cut myself off from him, as though I were dead. Am I
right, or is she?'Then she consoled herself by thinking that Lady Carter did not
understand her case--did not clearly understand.'That was the only time that anything like a doubt came to her
mind as to whether she had acted rightly or not.CHAPTER XXXII.
LORD KERSTON.The greatest events of our lives come to us without warning.
Diane arose one morning, all unconscious that the real tragedy
of her life had begun that day. Years after she remembered that
morning; the sun was shining on the Arno; such a sweet rush
of water; the birds were singing in the shade of the trees; flowers
that were like points of flame; flowers that had the gleam of gold,
the luster of silver, the rich odor of rarest perfume shone between
the masses of foliage; the air was sweet, the breath of flowers,
the essence of song--to breathe it was a luxury.Diane looked at the window like one entranced; she forgot all
that had ever been dark and sorrowful in her life. Just under her
window a bird was singing on a myrtle tree.'How beautiful life is,' thought the girl.Sorrow seemed to have flown away: sorrow on such a brilliant
morning, when the river looked as though a shower of diamonds
had fallen over it! She stood some time enjoying the beauty of the lovely scene;
her heart stirred with a thrill of something new to her; the calm
of the years was broken at last.  What was coming over the
mountains, the sea, on the wings of the western wind? There
was a disquiet in her heart--strange, yet beautiful; it flushed her
face with bloom, it brought new light to her eyes. As she stood
there she began to sing. How many years had passed since those
bursts of song had fallen from her lips before--how many long,
sad years! Then the breakfast bell rang and she hastened down
stairs. Lady Creighton was in the breakfast-room, a smile on her
face, an open letter in her hand.'Good-morning,' she said to Diane. 'I am lost in a brown
study. I have a letter this morning--one that should have been
here yesterday--and it perplexes me.''Is it anything in which I can assist? asked Diane.'You can in one fashion. It is from my cousin; now let me
speak with exactitude. He is not my cousin; he is a distant relative
on my mother's side. Years ago I knew him well. He did 
not care for Lord Creighton's society, so that during my married
life I saw little of him. Then he went abroad; he has a mania
for travelling. He has been in England for the last two years;
now he is coming here.''Here!' repeated Diane; to Florence?''Yes; and his chief inducement, he says, is that he may see me
again; we have been strangers so long.''Why need that perplex you?' asked Diane. Lady Creighton
laughed.'My dear Miss Thorpe, you ask that question in ignorance of
Lord Kerston's character. He is one of the proudest, one of the
most gifted men in Europe. How can I hope to entertain him,
to amuse, or even to please him?''I consider you are equal to amusing and pleasing any number
of gentlemen,' said Diane, with some spirit. 'I am quite sure
that one need not frighten or perplex you.''I am a coward,' said Lady Creighton.  'But when we were
children I stood in great awe of Philip Kerston.''Is he different to other people?' asked Diane.'Yes. I wish I could sketch him for you. You would not look
so inclined to laugh; you would not, Miss Thorpe.''Sketch him for me, Lady Creightou,' said Diane.'Well, to begin with, he lives, he cannot say, how many years
too late; he has a grand, lordly nature, hardly fitted to deal with
the trickeries of the nineteenth century; he has more faith and
bravery, more courage than any one I know; he is like one of the
heroes of a German ballad; he would have been a friend for King
Arthur, Sir Galahad, Chevalier Bayard; he has not a single mean
quality belonging to him.'Diane looked interested. Lady Creighton continued:'He has one of those grand characters so rarely met: in his
mind there could be no compromise between right and wrong,
not for a moment; if the right led to death, he would go simply
as a child; if the wrong led to the summit of earthly happiness and
power, he would not even look at it; he never suspects evil 
in others. I do not think him quick in reading character, he is
too trusting, he would be long before he thought evil of any one;
but deceive him once, ever so faintly, and he never trusts again.
I have always thought myself that white-handed truth was his
favorite virtue.''That is not a very common character,' said Diane.'No; he is not common. I have seen no one like Lord Kerston.
I think if any one went to him and said boldly, 'I have committed
murder,' he would forgive it far sooner than he would any one
who would deceive him by a lie, or a paltry evasion. He is a
grand man, who understands great virtues, great faults, great
crimes, but nothing mean, no little vices, no weak, feeble feelings.''I shall remember Lord Kerston's portrait,' laughed Diane.'You have not heard all yet; he is clever, in fact, wonderfully
gifted; he is a great scholar, a fine artist, and he has a good
voice; he is full of graceful, chivalrous feeling, thoughtful in his
his manner, with a charm I cannot express.''But he is human, said Diane. 'He has faults.'Yes he has faults; hi is proud, intolerant; he has little patience;
he expects too much perfection; he makes no allowance for
weakness; he is intolerant of vices. 'Those are his faults.''Spots in the sun,' said Diane, 'part of a noble nature. Finish
your portrait, Lady Creighton. What is he like personally? I
have a very fair picture of his mind.''He is tall--over the medium height, not handsome; his face is
noble, with fine eyes, piercing, and bright; a beautiful mouth. I
always think his smile sweet as a woman's. It is a face that
deepens into tenderness, flashes with anger, glows with pride--is
more eloquent even than his words.  He is immensely rich; he
owns Kerston Park, Lahdin Hall, one of the finest mansions in
London. He is represented as one of the richest peers in England.''He is married, of course?' said Diane.She could not have told why she asked the question. Her face
flushed crimson. It was no concern of hers whether he was married or
not. Lady Creighton laughed.'Married! I wish he were.   He is too chivalrous to breathe
one word against ladies; but I do not think he has seen the one
he will marry. I have never heard of his falling in love; nay, I
do not remember to have heard that he admired any one.''Perhaps he has loved some one very much--some one who is
dead,' said Diane.'I do not think so,' said Lady Creighton. 'I think it is a case
of having never met with any one he cares for. Tell me, Miss
Thorpe, how can I entertain such a man?''I should not try,' said Diane.  'If he is all you say, he will
amuse himself without any help.''It is a great honor he pays me,' said Lady Creighton.  'I
heard that Lady Bellower was doing all she could to bring about
a marriage between her daughter and Lord Kerston.  She has
followed him, invited him, but all in vain. He does not know
that the Bellowers are here.''Are they?' asked Diane. 'I do not remember the name.''You remember Laura Bellower,' said Lady Creighton. 'Do
you remember how rudely we behaved once at Mrs. Barton's?
We met a young lady of the ultra-sentimental style, who would
talk of her affections, and bored us to death.''Was that Miss Bellower ?'Yes,' replied Lady Creighton. ' You may imagine what chance
she has with Lord Kerston. At the same time, I must plead guilty
to a wicked desire of seeing him pursued.'' When is he coming ?' asked Diane.'That recalls me to the practical side of life,' said her ladyship.
'This letter ought to have reached me yesterday--it did not come
until this morning; the post at Florence is answerable for the delay. 
He will be there now; he is staying at the Medira Hotel--
he will think it strange that I have not written.''You can explain it to him,' said Diane, not liking to see the
gentle face clouded; ' or you might go over to-day.'Lady Creighton looked up with a smile.'To be sure I might, Miss Thorpe.  I am over forty, and have
lost all the good looks I ever had; there can be no harm in my
calling upon Lord Kerston; I will go this morning.'But visitors came and detained her, visitors who would have

been offended at plain speaking. Lady Creighton was detained
until after noon.' Lord Kerston will think that I neither intend to go nor send,'
she said.  'I must drive to Florence, and I shall bring him back
to dinner. Our menage is well conducted, but we must have
something extra in his honor. Will you see the cook?''I will do anything,' said Diane  'I am so delighted to see
you pleased.'And, Miss Thorpe--pray do not think me impertinent--may I
make a suggestion?''A thousand, if you like,' said Diane.'One will suffice. I want you to look nice. You and I have lived
alone so long that we have forgotten to care about looking nice.''I will look as nice as I can,' said Diane, with a smile.'I want you to wear that blue silk dress you had on at Mrs.
Barton's. Put flowers in your hair. Remember, we have to
please the taste of one of the most fastidious men the world ever
saw.' Diane laughed.'I do not remember,' she said, 'that I ever dressed to please a
gentleman before. I will do so now.'She watched Lady Creighton drive away, and she stood for a
few minutes smiling over her description of Lord Kerston.'I have read of such men in novels,' she said to herself, but I
always thought them overdrawn.'She thought of her father, with his artist friends; the curate
who had been so kind to her; Bruno Severne, and her beautiful
face grew colorless as she remembered him; Dr. Kente, Lord Ryder, and
Frank Millar; some of them kind, good, and generous, 
but none resembling this hero whom Lady Creighton had described. In
her humility she never thought it possible he would 
think her, or take interest in her. As Lady Creighton's companion 
he, being a gentleman, would treat her with courtesy. She
wished Lady Creighton had not asked her to dress nicely; she
would rather have shrunk unnoticed.A sweet interest that might have warned her of her coming
doom-- a sweet uncertainty.  She could not rest, she could not
apply herself to any duty. She mused on those words of Lady
Creighton's; what a grand character, what a great hero! She
said the name aloud--Lord Kerston--and she thought no sound
had ever been sweeter. It might have warned her of her peril,
for in all her life do disquiet like this had taken possession of her.
For the first time since her father's death she looked in the glass
with anxiety. Was she so beautiful as people said? And the
answer there made her heart beat with delight. What would he
think, for whom belles and beauties had sighed in vain?   It was
a thousand pities that the birds she loved so dearly, singing from
the myrtle-trees, did not sing 'Diane, beware!'CHAPTER XXXIII.
DIANE'S GREAT PERIL.Ten years had passed since Diane had left home and thrown off
her old life. She did wrong, and bitter punishment followed it.She was eighteen when our story left her; it finds her now a woman
of twenty-eight, so beautiful, so gifted, so graceful, so high-bred,
that she charmed every one who saw her. Her face had recovered all its
bright loveliness; lily and rose were never so daintily blended; most
charming dimples came with every smile; the tragical expression had
disappeared; her face had attained the perfection of womanly beauty;
her figure, the same graceful, superbly moulded, the grace of a
goddess, the dignity of a queen.It would have been impossible to
have found a more lovely woman. She was so quick. She had adapted
herself so entirely to the society around her that one would think she
had been brought up at court.Diane was a magnificent lady, whose beauty struck every one
with awe--a gifted, graceful, imperial, high-bred woman. She
was no more like the wife of Bruno Severne than she was like an
Eastern pacha. Years ago she had thrown off her black dress,
by Lady Creighton's desire, and the sweeping rich silks that she
wore added to her beauty.'I never was a beauty,' Lady Creighton would say, 'but you
are one, and it gladdens my heart to look at you.'So Diane was dressed in the most exquisite taste.The society of the two ladies was sought after in Florence. At
first Lady Creighton had been rigid; she admitted ladies, but no
men; her edict against men remained in force. After a time she
relaxed. When she saw how patiently they submitted to the exclusion,
she began to receive them into her good graces again. They were not
all alike--they were not all cruel, tyrannical, and bad-tempered; it
seemed unjust to punish all because one or two
were bad. So Lady Creighton relaxed from the severity of this
rule. She began by visiting the husbands and brothers of her
lady friends; she ended by admitting all.The villa became the favorite resort of the upper ten thousand
in Florence. Certainly no two more charming women could have
been found--Lady Creighton, the ideal of a gracious hostess, kind,
gentle, and intelligent--Miss Thorpe, with her marvellous beauty
and grace. She did not know how greatly she was admired.One thing impressed the Florentine nobles more than her beauty; it
was the dignified grace, the coldness of her manner. She
treated all men alike; to ladies she was amiable, charming. If
it were possible to shun gentleman, she shunned them; if not,
she talked to them with a cold hauteur. She was bright, witty,
animated, polished, with a gift of repartee that was charming.
She never warmed into liking with men; she turned from their
compliments; she never seemed to pay heed to their graceful
attentions. She showed that she did not like men. No one was
able to boast of a kind word or a kind look; no one was able to
say she had shown him the smallest favour. She was cold, indifferent, to all alike.Many were the inquiries made of Lady Creighton about Miss
Thorpe.  There were many nobles in Florence who would have
given all they had to have won a smile from this lovely woman--
but to all alike Diane was cold and impenetrable.To Lady Creighton she had long been a friend, a sister, the
dearest object in life; but Lady Creighton did not understand
why her protegee had so complete a distaste for
the society of gentleman. Diane had many admirers, but for her reserve
would
have had many lovers. One gentleman was not to be discouraged
by all her repulses--Mousieur the Comte de Soldana.  He wrote
imploring her to become his wife; then Diane saw that her position was anything but a secure one.'I wish there were no men in the world,' she said to herself,
there is no peace or comfort where they are. I know nothing of
the Count of Soldana, why should he want to marry me ?While she was meditating what words would be strong enough
for her to use so that he might understand her, Lady Creighton
came to her room.'I want to speak to you,' she said. 'I am sorry to see that, Miss
Thorpe, it looks rather as though I were going to be left to my
solitude alone; I have had a letter from the Comte de Soldana.''So have I,' added Diane, with a crimson face.'He asks me,' continued Lady Creighton, 'to use my influence
to prevail on you to become the Countess of Soldana.''No influence would avail for that,' said DianaLady Creighton looked earnestly at her.'My dear, he is a very charming man; I must praise him. He
is handsome, noble, and rich; what more can you want?''I want nothing,' said Diane, simply.'If he made me an offer I do not think I should have the courage to
say no,' laughed Lady Creighton; 'so handsome, so persuasive, your
heart must be very hard, or well guarded.''It is neither,' said Diane.'I should like to say one thing, Miss Thorpe; such a matter as
this rests with yourself; time modifies all views; I own that it
has modified mine. I have no longer the same aversion to men
and matrimony that I had. I want you to understand that; I
withdraw much of what I said to you when we first came to live
here; there are some happy marriages, and some good men.''Dear Lady Creighton,' said Diane, 'neither one nor the other
interests me.''Well, I wish you to understand that I should like to see this
marriage. The count is a man who would make any one happy,
he is all that could be desired in a husband, and I feel sure you
could not do better; you will in all probability, never have so
so good an offer again. I will say more than that; I have grown to
love you during these years, dearly, and should be pleased to
see you the Countess of Soldana.' Diane smiled and sighed.'I am very grateful to you,' she said. 'I am grateful to monsieur,
the count, but I cannot marry him.''He will be greatly disappointed,' said Lady Creighton; 'but
you are the best judge; no one can interfere in such a case You
do not think that in years you will repent?''No,' said Diane, sadly; 'I shall never repent.''Give him your answer, then, at once. I do not like to think
of the pain such a noble man must suffer.'Diane wrote her answer in the firmest words. The count was
in despair when he received it; he left Florence next day, and all
Florence knew that it was because the beautiful English girl had
refused him. After that she became more popular than she had
been before--to refuse the Count of Soldana, the handsomest cavalier
in France. If Diane had been seeking instead of evading
popularity, she could not have devised a better way of obtaining
it. Lady Creighton thought seriously about the matter; it was
unusual for a girl like Diane to refuse a nobleman. Why had she
done it?'She was so young when she came to me,' thought Lady
Creighton; 'so very young--only eighteen--she could not have
had a love affair then, it was not possible.'Many things made Lady Creighton feel that Diane had never
known love, that, so far as the mighty passion was concerned,
Diane had the sleeping soul of a child. She was not like one who
had loved and lost, or like one who had loved unhappily, but she
had never loved at all. Then why not have cared for the Comte
de Soldana? Surely he had every qualification for winning a girl's
love. Yet why did she not care for him?Refused the Comte de Soldana, for whom bright-eyed duchesses
ad sighed in vain! People asked each other who was this beautiful
English lady who had refused such a prize? She was invited
everywhere, she was the queen of every salon she chose to enter.
Had she forgotten the past? Almost; she remembered it as
some dark dream from which she had had a terrible waking, but
which had been followed by a blissful calm. It had been a dark
episode, but it was ended now. The only thing remaining to her
was that it cut her off from all dreams of love and marriage--that
she could live without. Day by day it grew more faint, more
feeble.'Since the day she had left Larchdale, she had heard no tidings
of Bruno or Hester Severne, nor did she care to hear; she never
even thought of them; if they came to her mind, she sent them
away as one does a disagreeable dream. So the ten years ended,
and the real tragedy of Diane's life began when she least expected it,
when she had begun to think the present pleasant state of
things might last for ever.CHAPTER XXXIV.
'HER LOVE HER DOOM''Pardon me, but you will find the sun too warm,' said a rich
voice, and Diane started as though she were roused from sleep.The evening was warm, the fragrance of rose and myrtle filled
the scented air; she had waited in the house until the air seemed
to oppress her; she had grown nervous too, and that was something
novel for Diane; then she went out where the sunshine lay
all warm and golden. A terrace divided the grounds from the
banks of the Arno, and a balustrade wreathed with myrtle and
passion flowers ran along the terrace. Diane leaned over it, all
unconscious of the beautiful picture she made, fairer than the
fairest flower that bloomed, the sunshine falling on her golden

hair and beautiful face; the lace shawl had fallen from the white
neck and arms; she was watching the clear stream, thinking to
herself of the hero whose coming was to change the whole world
to her. She did not know how long she had been there when the
voice startled her, and turning round she saw before her the man
whose love was her doom.'I beg your pardon,' he continued. ' Lady Creighton asked me
to see if you were here; she has returned.'He raised his hat and stood bareheaded before her; then Diane
saw the handsomest man that fancy could imagine--tall, dark,
with a face that was perfect in its Grecian outline of feature, dark
eyes, dark brows, clustering hair, proud lips that were stern in
repose, yet had the sweetness of a woman's beauty on them. A
face to love, to trust, yet to fear; a face full of fire, power, and
passion; one that could win by tenderness, yet strike terror to
the wrong doer; and Diane, as she looked at it, thought to herself
it was such a face as his the heathens of old copied and worshiped
as a god's. He smiled at her intent expression.' You must not think me rude,' he said; 'but I know of nothing
more dangerous than to stand with head uncovered beneath this
warm sun.'Diane was looking at him. She could not have explained the
mysterious influence that was stealing over her; that was causing
her heart to beat, and her face to flush--her brain to grow dizzy.
What was the voice? Something more than she understood. It
was like forgotten music; it roused her heart and soul to a sense
of sweetest harmony. It was like the faint stirring of a beautiful
dream; yet it was but the voice of a stranger, uttering commonplace words. He looked at her with a bright amused smile.'I should apologize for startling you, but Lady Creighton asked
look for you, and tell you of her return. May I introduce
myself to you as the expected guest?  Lady Creighton has, perhaps,
spoken of me.''You are Lord Kerston?' she said, gently. He bowed.'You are Miss Thorpe.  I recognize you from Lady Creighton's
description,' and then a sweet silence seemed to fall over them.
'Let me repeat the caution,' he said. 'It is a dangerous practice
to stand bareheaded under this warm Italian sun.'  She raised
the white hand and touched the golden hair.'I did not know--I had forgotten,' she said. 'Thank you; I will be
more careful in the future.'Then they walked slowly along the terrace. Diane lost in the
bewilderment of her emotion, Lord Kerston thinking that he had
never seen anything so fair, so peerless as this woman's face.'You were thinking very intently when I saw you first,' he said.
'Were you contrasting the Arno with the calm, sweet rivers that
flow through the meadows in England?''No,' she said simply, 'I was thinking of my life.''Your life!' he repeated.  'Has it been different to others--
has it been eventful?''Not what people in general would call eventful,' she replied,
'it has only been so to me. I have heard of people whose lives
consisted of one great event; mine has consisted of three.'She meant her father's death, her marriage with Bruno, and
the loss of her baby. In after years he remembered her words.'Three events?' he said, 'you are more fortunate than I am. I
cannot remember one. My life has been without events.''It has been full of action,' she said, 'mine has been all repose.' He looked at her with thoughtful eyes, wondering what
the events were that had interrupted her tranquil life. How little
he dreamed then that at some future time he would know. Then
they entered the dining-room of the villa, where Lady Creighton
awaited them.  Diane tried afterward to remember how the remainder of the evening passed; to her it was like a fairy dream.
She remembered that Lord Kerston had asked her if she sang, and
she had told him yes; that while the flush of sunset lay over the
land, he had opened the piano for her, and she sang as in all her
life she had never done before, with her heart on her lips, and a
world of sweet thought stirring within her; she remembered the
gaze of the dark eyes, and how Lord Kerston said at last:'I thank you, if it be possible to sufficiently thank any one for
such music as yours. I had no idea that you sang so marvellously; Lady Creighton did not tell me.'  The kind mistress of the
villa looked up with a smile.' Lady Creighton did not know,' she said. 'I do not think Miss
Thorpe has ever sung in that fashion; you must have a gift of
calling forth buried powers, Philip.''I have heard all the Italian, German, and French songs in
vogue,' said Lord Kerston; 'none touch me, none please me like
these simple old ballads that you sing as a bird sings.''My father liked them,' said Diane. ' I used to sing them to
him for hours together in the long summer evenings.'Her eyes grew dim with unshed tears as she pictured to herself
those summer nights, when the shades of evening were falling
over the land, and the artist had known no greater pleasure than
listening to the voice of the child be loved so dearly.  Sweet,
happy hours, that had been succeeded by a delirium of pain and
torture. Lord Kerston turned away when he saw the shadow fall
over her face; he felt as one standing outside a sanctuary door.She remembered that long after the lamps were lighted, he had
lingered by her, talking to her, stirring the heart within her by
the story of some brave encounter, or watching the light and shade
on her face as he told her some fair Italian legend of art or song.'Watching your face,' he said, 'is something like watching the
sunshine on water, it changes every minute.'Diane laughed, and for the first time her heart filled with delight that he should think her fair. She remembered again, when
the moon began to shine on the flowers, steeping them in that
silvery light only seen in Italy, that Lord Kerston rose to say
adieu; he must ride back to Florence, and it was time he started.'Will you walk with me to the end of the lawn?' he said; and
when Diane looked with some surprise, he added, apologetically:
'I have a strange desire to see you in the moonlight; it is a long
time since I have seen a face like yours, so English and so fair. I
long to see the light of the moon on your hair.'There was a strange passion in his face and voice.  Diane had
no thought of refusing him. Lady Creighton went with them, and
they stood for a few minutes at the end of the lawn. He took
the picture with him; the Italian moon had shone on none fairer
since it shone on Juliet as she stood on the balcony. It shone on
the golden hair, the sweet face, the violet eyes, and proud, crimson lips; it showed the clear, delicate profile, the white neck, the
perfect hands and arms; it made fanciful gleams in the rich dress.
Lord Kerston, who loved beauty as all gifted natures do love,
could have gazed at her for hours.'I know now whom you resemble,' he said; 'it is Faust's Margeurite, Miss Thorpe; I remember I saw a picture in the Dresden
Gallery painted by some unknown artist, and it is the only one
that ever gave me the least idea of the poet's Marguerite; you resemble it so closely.''I hope,' said Lady Creighton, 'that Miss Thorpe will have a
truer friend and a happier fate than Marguerite.'The time was to come when any other fate seemed better and
easier to bear than her own, but they could not foresee it then.Lord Kerston went home with that picture in his mind, for the
first time haunted by a woman's face and the music of her voice.
Lady Creighton saw the impression that had been made on him,
but said nothing. She would have been delighted to know he
admired Diane, but she understood well how a word too abruptly
spoken often mars love that would otherwise have bloomed into
fairest flower. She said no word to her companion; they went
back to the house immediately.Though Lady Creighton said little, she observed much. There
was a new light on Diane's face, the fair calm was broken up, the
sweetest eyes were filled with dewy light, the red lips parted with
smiles. Lady Creighton thought long that night, and decided in
her mind that Lord Kerston could not do a more sensible thing
than fall in love and marry Miss Thorpe.No such visions haunted Diane, she was happy, but she did not
the cause of her happiness; she imagined that the conversation
of a clever man had charmed her; she thought she was
stronger in health, better in spirits; she thought anything rather
than that she had fallen in love at first sight--she never even
dreamed of it. When she looked in the glass that evening she
did not know why her face was flushed with fairest bloom, her
eyes radiant, her lips parted in sweetest smiles; she did not know
what sweet unrest possessed her, why a dawn of passion and
gleam of fire came into the southern night, why the stars gleamed
with fresh lustre, the flowers breathed sweeter odors, the moon
shone with a new light; why a passionate sense of life and happiness
came for the first time to her--it was all new to Diane. The
innocent heart that had suffered and grieved, and had been almost
broken, was yet in its magic sleep; the woman's soul had
never felt the stir of life's mightiest breath.  No child dreaming
that night in its mother's arms was more innocent than Diane.
She stood long, watching the sweet southern night, her heart and
soul thrilling with a new sensation, yet all unconscious of what it

meant. She was thinking of Lord Kerston; going over again in
her mind all he had said and done; she contrasted him with all
the other men she had ever known or seen, and he seemed more
of a hero than ever.'I shall see him again to-morrow,' thought Diane, as she laid
herself down to rest. Angels might have pitied her, who watched
that fairest face smiling in its dreams.CHAPTER XXXV.
'I MUST WIN DIANE, OR DIE.'Three weeks have passed since Lord Kerston first came to Florence
--since the night when he first saw the fair face and golden
hair of the woman he had grown to love with all the passion of his
soul.  Life had changed for Diane.  She was like one who had
passed from the dark skies, stormy waters, and wailing winds,
into the clearest of light.  As yet she had not owned to herself
that she loved him, although her whole life had merged into his.
She knew no other idea than waiting for his coming, thinking of
him when absent, and counting the hours until he came again.
The pity of it was that it was so innocently done. If she had been
like other girls, if she had trifled with love, she would better have
understood the approach of this insidious enemy; but she had
never done so. She had dearly loved her father, but it was with
a deep affection. She had for days felt a friendly liking for Bruno
Severne--a liking that had not in it the germ of love; and yet
it was perfectly true, that she had no idea that the new life dawning
on her was love.  If she had known then, if she had only
dreamed of the danger that awaited her, she would have flown
from it, to the ends of the earth; but she never knew it, and never
realized it until the danger had grown, and the might of her own
love carried her to destruction.Lady Creighton watched her in silence--said to herself that she
grew fairer every day; she hoped that her kinsman would win her
or himself, this beautiful woman. No more noble lady, she felt
sure, had ever lived at Irksdale Hall.Lord Kerston only awaited an opportunity of declaring his love.
He had vowed to himself he could not live without her, that every
wish, hope, and desire of his life was centered in her. He would
have told her so long since but she frightened him; he had so
much at stake he feared to risk all. There was something in her
calm loveliness, in her innocence, her unconsciousness, that made
him afraid. He was a proud man, Lord Kerston of Irksdale, but
he said to himself that if Diane refused him he should care for
nothing in this world again.  Would she refuse him? It spoke
volumes for Diane's innate purity of mind and manner, that he
did not know, and could not surmise. There were times when he
hoped, when watching the light in her eyes, the flush on her face,
the trembling lips, he thought she cared for him: there were
times when she looked down on him from such a height of maiden
innocent pride, that he thought it impossible for her to love him,
a for an angel from Heaven to evince any interest in him.Summer and winter did not succeed each other more regularly

than did Diane's warmth and coldness. When he entered a room
where she was, all Heaven would seem for a time to shine in her
face; and, again, she would shrink from his words and looks until
his heart failed him, and he thought to himself that he could
never win her. He wooed her in the most chivalrous style; he
laid all the fairest gifts at her feet; he brought her rarest flowers.
He studied her slightest wish, her daintiest caprice; he was her
king, master, and lord--yet her slave. Did she love him? Philip,
Lord Kerston, was proud, but he had little vanity: he did not
consider himself irresistible; he was not of the vulgar-minded
who think that no woman can resist money or title. He had never
loved any one; the force, favor, and purity of a man's heart and
soul were given to Diane--would she accept them?'Miss Thorpe,' he said, one morning, ' Lady Creighton is so
busy, she has no compassion on me--will you come on the river?
Look at the sun shining on it, and resist it if you can.'Diane looked up, brightly.'I am quite willing, she said; 'indeed, I should like it better
than anything else.''The tide is flowing,' he continued.  'Do you see the little
wavelets kissing the bank? There will be no need to row, the
current will carry us along.'Diane went with him. She did not make an elaborate toilet,
how could she look more beautiful than wrapped in a lace mantilla that
showed every line of her figure. Her fair face shaded by
a coquettish hat with a drooping plume, the sun shining on her,
the river doing her homage by its rippling song.'I will ask her to-day,' thought Lord Kerston.  'I shall lose
my reason if day after day goes on and brings me no nearer to
my soul's dearest hope. I must win Diane, or die.'He sat opposite to her, and on this sweet morning she seemed
to have lost all her shyness and fear; she talked to him of the river
and trees, of the pictures she had seen and the books she had
read, the songs she sang, until he was more than ever entranced
by her frankness, her genius, her grace; then the conversation
became more personal.   She told him many thoughts that had
come to her mind. He understood better than ever her truth, her
purity, her genius, and her adorable simplicity. Was it possible
that she, this fair gifted woman, would ever care for him?'Talking to you he said, 'is like looking down into a fair,
crystal well; you are more sincere than any one I know.'Was she? She drew back with a proud flush; her conscience
reproached her with a bitter pang.   Was she so frank and sincere,
with that dark background to her life--the story of a wretched
marriage, a forsaken home, a dead child? He, having no clue
to her thoughts, fancied that it was from him she shrank.'I am so unfortunate,' he said; 'I am always saying something
that startles or frightens you.' There was so much bitterness in
his voice, that Diane raised her face to his.I am not frightened,' she said: 'but it does surprise me when
you say kind things to me. I did not know that I was more
frank and sincere than others.'He could not help smiling at her candid words; her explanation
had restored his self-possession. Love shone in his eyes as he
glanced at her,' There is one thing I wish you would do, Miss Thorpe,' he said.
'You tell me of your ideas, your thoughts. I wish you would tell
me of yourself.'' Of myself?' repeated Diane.'I do; my thoughts, if they are
worth so dignified a title, are myself--are they not?'' But I mean of your past life; it has not been a long one, but
tell me what you have done, where you have been, all that has
happened, whom you have known; you cannot think how every
detail would interest me.'She grew pale, and shrank from him with a pained expression.
What bad happened in this past, joyless life of hers, that made
her shrink from every mention of it with pain? Only a wretched
marriage, a few months anguish. a terrible crisis, and all was
blank. He saw she was distressed, though he could not tell why.'Have I annoyed you?' he said. 'It cannot be. I am sure you
understood me; if your tastes, ideas, opinions interest me so closely,
it is only natural your life should do the same. There could
be nothing in it that you would not tell to the whole world.'She began to recover herself. Why should she treat this kind
friend with such ungenerous reserve?' There was one great trouble in it,' she said, 'which makes me
unwilling to look back.''Poor child I What was the trouble?'She was on the point of answering him:'My unhappy marriage,' when an impulse stopped her, and she
said: ' My father's death.'That was your great trouble: no wonder that you dislike to
think of it. You loved him very much.''I loved him better than all the world,' she replied.His noble face, all light with pity and love, was bending over her.'And when you lost him,' he said, quietly, 'was there no one
to take his place?''His place? repeated Diane. 'No, indeed, there was not''You have never loved any one since?There was truth in her eye, in her voice, as she replied:--' No.'Then he felt satisfied; he had her word that she had loved no
one, and he believed it with the implicit faith and loyalty that
were natural to him. She had loved no one, therefore--and his
face flushed with delight--the way was open for him.' There is something about love that I should like to say to you
Miss Thorpe,' be continued, 'if you will listen.'Her heart beat, her face flushed, she trembled. He saw her
agitation, and almost wondered at it.'Oh, no,' she said, quickly; pray do not, Lord Kerston; 'I
would rather not hear it. I----' Your least wish is my sovereign law,' he said; 'I will not say it.'
Then it was time to land again. Lord Kerston helped her from
the boat, and one of her hands lay on his arm. It looked so white,
so soft, so warm, with a pink flush in the palm. He kissed it with
such loving, passionate lips their touch thrilled her with fire.'You are very cold to me, Diane,' he murmured, 'cold, hard,
and proud as your namesake of old; but I will win you if you are
to be won.'That kiss did what all his words and looks had failed to do-it
woke the woman's soul within her to new life; her heart gave one
great bound, then stood almost still, her face flushed burning hot,
then grew deadly white; she drew her band away. In one moment
another scene had flashed across her--the memory of the
day when Bruno Severne first kissed her face, and she had shrunk
from him with such distaste. It would have been well for her had
she so shrank now, but she did not. Her heart was beating with a
sweet happiness for which she knew no name. She drew her hand
away, and went swiftly into the house. He looked after her with
eyes that were half amused, half dim.'You are cold and shy, sweet Diane,' he said to himself, 'but
I shall win you yet.'If men only knew the pleasure of winning a pure heart, there
never would be another flirt married. Diane hastened to her room
and stood there blushing, hesitating, frightened at the vehemence
of her emotion, trembling at the memory of that caress, dreading
the moment when she should see him again, yet hoping that it
would be soon; trembling like an imprisoned bird; heart and
soul awake at last; the sun of love shining in its glory on her.
She was face to face with the truth; she knew that, with her
whole heart and soul she loved Philip Kerston. It had come to
her, this dower of passion and sorrow called love. This was the
new life that dawned upon her, changed the whole world for her
into one golden gleam.'I love him,' murmured Diane. She looked at the hand and
kissed it; it was burning still.  She laid her lips on it.  'How
has he won my heart from me without my knowing it? I love him.
How will my love end?'She would not think; she would be happy, she said to herself,
for one hour. She loved him.  She, who had never until then
known what love meant, who had fled with hate from her husband,
who had loathed her home and the ties that should have kept her
there; she, young, beautiful, full of genius and fire, and passion;
she, made so essentially for love; she, whose life had been so
joyless and hopeless, loved at last. Heaven help and pity Diane.CHAPTER XXXVI.
A NEW EXPERIENCE.How was she to meet him again? She heard his voice, he was
talking to Lady Creighton; then she heard him go to the piano
and sing a few lines of his favorite song, ' Ye banks and braes;'
then came a silence. She had promised to help him copy some
old illustration, and they had agreed it should be done before
dinner. Her hands trembled so that they could neither hold pencil
nor brush; her face was burning, her eyes dim with tears of
happiness. How could she distinguish form or color? She could
only walk to and fro, wringing her hands and saying to herself,
over and over again:'I love him! I love him!--and I know it at last!'Then came a rap at the door. It was a maid-servant, with the
message:'Could Miss Thorpe make it convenient to bring the illustration
she had promised?'' Yes,' she replied, 'tell Lord Kerston I will bring it at once.''This will not do,' said Diane; 'I must steady myself.'She bathed her face and hands in cool water; she brushed out
the ripples of golden hair; but she could not still the beating of
her heart, or the thrill of every nerve. She found the illustration.
Poor, hapless Diane! She tried to assume an expression of 
unconsciousness; she could not do it. When she tried to go down
stairs she trembled.'I cannot do it,' she said to herself. Then the door opened,
and Lady Creighton entered.' My dear Diane,' she said, 'what are you doing? Lord Kerston said
you promised him something about an old picture. He
is waiting so patiently that I took pity upon him, and offered to
go in search of you.' Then she saw the flushed face and trembling
hands. 'What is the matter, Diane 'she asked, eagerly'I have a bad headache,' she replied.' You have been on the water in the heat of the morning sun,'
said Lady Creighton. 'I told my cousin it was very imprudent,
but he fancied that he knew best.'' Will you ask Lord Kerston if he will be so kind as to excuse me
this morning? I will attend to what he wants in the afternoon.''I will tell him,' said Lady Creighton. ' You look ill, Diane;
your eyes shine as bright as stars. Let me draw these blinds and
make your room cool; you must rest yourself.'Rest herself! She was unable to meet her lover--that she could
not do; but as for rest, with her heart beating and her brain
throbbing, that was equally out of the question. She required
nothing but to be alone with her newly-born happiness, and try
to calm the fever in her veins. She must have slept, for the
dinner-bell aroused her. The fever-flush had gone from her face and 
hands; her head was cool. She rose, feeling like one who had
passed through some new experience. She could not avoid meeting him
now. He was staying for dinner, she knew, and Lady 
Stroude was to join them. She must meet him, but she was not
compelled to look at him or speak to him. She did not perceive
how inconsistent it was that at the same time she should be so
solicitous about her dress, so anxious to look fair in his eyes, the
eyes that, she had said to herself, she would not see. There was
a dress just suited to the time, a pale blue silk, with lilies of the
valley worked all over it--a dress which suited her golden hair
and fair face as no other dress could. She smiled at her own
image as she fastened some white lilies in her hair, and in the
corsage of her dress, pleased with her own beauty, yet determined
not even to look at the handsome face that would be watching so
eagerly for her.He was there, waiting, as she had expected, and Diane dropped
her beautiful eyes until the long lashes rested on her cheek--he
should not read in them the memory of that kiss. She imagined

rather than saw the flash of delight in his face when he caught
sight of her. He went eagerly to meet her.'Lady Creighton told me you were not well,' he said. 'I have
been so unhappy over it. Did the sunlight on the water really
make your head ache? I should have thought of that; you must
not think me very careless and selfish.'' I do not,' said Diane. But she never raised her eyes to his.
Are you angry with me?' he asked. 'You do not look at me.
Have I been so unfortunate as to offend you?'No,' she replied. Then she wondered if she had done right,
or if she ought to have made some dignified reply.'I--I could not help it,' he said. ' You must really forgive me.
You are so beautiful, so fair, so proud, so cold. Have you quite
forgiven me, Diane?' She made no reply, but he did not seem
frightened at the expression of the downcast face.I would promise not to repeat the offence,' he said, if I could
hope that it was in my power to keep such a promise, but I know
that it is not. If that beautiful white hand rests on my arm
again, I shall lose my reason in the same fashion.'He took her in to dinner and sat by her side; but Diane was
true to her resolve. She never raised her eyes to his, or gave him
the opportunity of reading in them the memory of a kiss.'You are very cruel to me,' he whispered. 'You say that you
have forgiven me, but you are punishing me all the time. Is
there any reason why you should not look at me, Miss Thorpe?
He saw the beautiful face flush, and he began to hope.'When dinner is over,' he said, in a low voice, will you not
come out on the terrace with me?'' I cannot,' replied Diane. 'I have something to do for Lady
Creighton.' He could not help smiling to see how near she kept to
Lady Stroude. It was impossible for him to say one word to her.'I shall manage it,' he thought. 'She cannot avoid me for ever.'
He suggested music, hoping when Lady Stroude sang or played
he should find an opportunity; but Diane chose to stand by the
piano and turn over the music. Then he suggested a walk on the
terrace. The two friends would have much to say, he thought,
and walk together, then Diane must look at him; Diane clasped
Lady Creighton's hand, never leaving her side. It was trying for
a lover; there was the river at their feet, the Italian moon shining
over head, the sweet air filled with the breath of odorous flowers
--just the hour and scene for telling a love story. Yet the moon
was not farther from him than was the fair Diane. He lingered
until Lady Stroude declared she must go; then he joined her, as
he had promised to drive her home.'You cruel Diane,' he whispered, as he bade her good-night;
'if this be your pardon, I would rather have your anger.' Yet he
loved her all the better for her sweet shyness.'How different she is from the women of the world,' he thought;
she is peerless--my fair Diane.'While Diane, in her blindness, thought she had done much in
denying herself the happiness of looking at him, it seemed to her
it in some measure atoned for that one caress. If she had been

the most accomplished of coquettes, she could not have chosen
any method which would have made him more desperately in love
with her than by avoiding him; she did not know why she avoided
him; her conscience had not taken up the question: it was not
with her a matter of right and wrong; she had overlooked that in
the passion of happiness; it was rather that she was frightened
at the intensity of her own love, and afraid of betraying it. She
knew he was there early next morning, she heard his voice talking
to Lady Creighton. He had ridden over, he said, to take
breakfast. There was no tea in Florence equal to hers, and he could 
not fall into the Continental fashion of taking wine for breakfast.
She heard Lady Creighton laugh, and tell him he was the only
gentleman of her acquaintance who would have ridden so far for
a cup of tea; but Diane knew what had brought him there; it
was not for the tea, although Lady Creighton made it so fragrant;
she would not go down, or, rather, she could not; it seemed to
her that the sound of his voice took all her strength from her; she
sent an excuse to say she was tired, and the mistress of the villa
wondered what failure of health had overtaken her companion.'I am afraid,' said Lord Kerston, 'that I have the unhappy
faculty of frightening Miss Thorpe;' but Lady Creighton would
not hear of such an idea.'I will see her,' he said to himself, 'and I will see her to-day.
I cannot bear this state of suspense.'But he knew that some little ruse would be necessary; she
would continue to avoid him if she knew he were there.' I am sorry that I cannot remain for the day,' he said to Lady
Creighton. 'I am going out with some friends.'So it was that
when Diane and her ladyship met at luncheon, Lady Creighton
bewailed her cousin's absence.'I have grown so used to his society,' she said, 'that I do not
know how I shall spend a whole day without him.''Then he will not return?' said Diane, quickly.'I suppose not. He is going out with some friends. It is
not probable.'Then Diane knew how she had longed to see him from the
sense of loneliness and desolation that came over her.A whole day and she was not to see him. It was at no option
of hers whether she would look at him or not. He would not be
there. She owned to herself that she would rather he should kiss
her hand again than stay away. Two young Florentine ladies
came to spend the day with Lady Creighton, and Diane had to
take her share in amusing them. It was hard work--nothing
could be harder.  Then she realized what he was in her life, as
she had never realized it before. What would the future be without
him? What the life in which be took no part?'I love him--I love him,' said Diane, 'and the day will be a
dreary one in which I do not see him.'In the cool of the evening the ladies went home, and Lady
Creighton declared herself tired with the efforts to amuse them.
' I will go to my favorite walk,' Diana said; 'there is more rest
in the moonlight than in a book.'That is because you are young and sentimental,' said her
ladyship. 'I should have thought the same at your age.'And Diane went into the moonlight. She went to the terrace; 
the moonbeams lay on the passion-flowers, on the river, and the
orange-trees; it was so calm, so sweet, so peaceful.'My darling,' said a voice, suddenly, by her side, 'I have
waited here for hours, but I have found you at last.'CHAPTER XXXVII.
CRY OF A BROKEN HEART.Diane looked up in alarm, yet with a sensation of rapture--it
could be but Lord Kerston. Two strong hands clasped her own,
two dark eyes, all aflame with love and passion, looked into hers.'You thought to escape me, Diane. Never again, my darling!
I have kissed your hand; do you think I shall consent to lose you?
You are cruel, Diane, but you shall not frighten me.'She did not draw her hands from his clasp; the glamour of love,
the spell of his presence, the magic of the summer night had
overpowered her. She stood before him, her face flushed, her eyes
cast down, lest he should read what was told there.'Diane, do you think, having seen you, having spent hours with
you, that I can forget you--that all your studied reserve frightens
me? I love you, Diane; listen, I love you with the whole force
of my heart, and soul, and life; I love you as I think man never
loved woman before. Nay, do not turn that sweet face from me.
It is something terrible to love as I do, Diane.'If in that moment he had used the words marriage or wife she
would have taken fright; she would have seen the precipice on
which she stood, but she did not see it. He said he loved her,
and, unfortunately for Diane, love and marriage had never been
in her thoughts together.'Some men, and women, fritter away the strength of heart and
soul in idle flirtation, in playing at love. I hare not done so,
Diane. I have always said I would care but for one woman, and
she should be my wife; it is the love of youth and manhood, of
fancy and reason I offer you, my darling--strong as death; will
you take it, Diane?'No answer came from the beautiful lips, but the downcast face
had nothing in its expression that dismayed him.'I have been almost afraid to tell you, Diane, how much I loved
you; there were times when you seemed so far above me, out of
my reach, when I thought it impossible that you should ever love
me; then there are times when I hope--you do not look angry
now, darling--are you angry?  I have hope now; if you meant to
send me away, you would not let me stand here, holding your
hand, looking into your dear face. I love you so entirely, Diane;
the first moment I saw you standing by the river you made your
way into my heart, and you have never left it. I have no thought
that does not begin and end in you, no desire, no wish, no hope;
you are my life, my soul, my all. Darling, will you give me a
a little love in return? I will make you so happy, I will study your
every thought, every wish, every word; I will only live for you--
will you love me a little, Diane?She looked into his face. Ah, there never was such love shown
before; it frightened her by its intensity, its tragic force.'A little, Diane,' he repeated; 'say that you love me a little,
my darling.''I do love you,' she said, naively, I cannot help it.'My darling,' he murmured, 'would you help it if you could ?''No, she replied, 'I would not.'Why should you fear to love me  he continued. 'I will be
true and faithful to you.  I will love you, and you only, until
death; why fear to love me in return, Diane ?'I do not fear' she replied. 'I cannot help it. I had no
thought of love.'And I have won you, Diane ?  I can hardly believe it, my
darling; it seems to me that no king was ever worthy to share his
crown with you, you are so peerless and fair. You must not call
me Lord Kerston, I shall be Philip to you, and you are the only
lady, except my mother, who has ever called me Philip--let me
hear you say the name.' He did not seek to hide the tears that
rose to his eyes as she whispered it.You make me so happy, Diane,' he said. 'I am ashamed of
myself, that one word should have such power to move me; say
again that you love me, Diane.'He took her two hands and clasped them round his neck, while
he listened to the sweet words, then he bent his face down on
hers and kissed her lips.' Diane,' he said, will you believe me that I have never kissed
another woman's face?   Yours is the first, my  darling, and I
shall never kiss another.'That kiss, the first ever given to her by the man she loved, was
an ea in Diane's life; it stirred her whole soul to the very depths,
it seemed to breathe a new soul into her.'I did not know,' said Lord Kerston, that life held such in-
tensity of happiness to live and to love. Oh, Diane, my sweet,
what lessons you have taught me!'Lady Creighton's voice broke on the silence of the night.
'Diane,' she was saying, ' where are you ? I fancied I heard
voices. Where are you, dear?''I cannot see her,' whispered Lord Kerston. 'I could not talk
to any one except you to-night. You need not tell her I have
been here. I will come over tomorrow. I could not bear another face,
another voice, after yours, Diane.'He took her in his arms, he rained passionate kisses on the sweet
lips, on the white eyelids, on the fair, flushed face.'My Diane, my sweet, my darling, whom I have won after so
much love, good-night.  I shall be here with the dawning of the
sun to-morrow.' Then he was gone. The beauty of the starlight,
the fragrance of the flowers, the magical loveliness of the summer
night, all seemed to go with him. When Diane came out of her
love-dream she was standing on the terrace, the stars shining over
her, the myrtles at her feet.'Diane! repeated Lady Creighton. 'Ah, you are there!--
there, and alone! I fancied I heard voices. I think it is time

you came in. The dew is falling fast. You will be cold.' Diane
turned to enter the house. She could not have spoken to have
saved her life. It seemed to her that her face burned where he
had kissed her; that her hands had been touched by fire; that
she had passed through some ordeal, new, beautiful, terrible,
sweet, and strange.Lady Creighton looked at her as they stood under the light of
the lamps, looked with a wondering smile.'I do not know,' she said, 'whether it be the moonlight or dew,
but something makes you look so beautiful. The pity is there is
no one else to admire you. I am tired, and you are tired--good.
night.' Lady Creighton went away, wondering if Diane's cold
heart were touched at last, or what had made her so lovely.
Diane was alone, but there was no rest for her; not that her
conscience kept her awake-but because the fever of happiness was
so strong on her there could be no rest. All the loveliness of the
summer night, the poetry of the flowers, the magic of the stars,
the spell of the moonlight, had passed into her heart, and mingled
there with the first delirium of love.She loved him. That seemed to be the one fact in the world--
she loved him and he loved her; no need for more words, those
comprised her heaven. As yet it was but a rapture of happiness;
it was the first time she had loved, and love had come to her in
such a sweet guise that she had forgotten to remember it; the
mention of love, in her case, was a crime of the deepest dye. That
had never occurred to Diane. She only dreamed of her woman's
heritage. So the sun rose as she greeted it, as a Persian of old
might have done; its rising was to bring her to him.With the morning light he came. The first token of his presence was
a bouquet of fairest flowers, all shining with dewdrops,
which the maid brought, with Lord Kerston's compliments. Then
she knew he was in the garden waiting for her. She hastened to
him; the morning was not brighter, the flowers were not fairer.
She dare hardly raise her eyes to his, lest he should see the love
in them. He went to her with outstretched hands.'Diane,' he cried, 'until I heard you speak, and had seen you
again, I could not rest; It seemed to me that all that passed last
night must be a dream, there could not be such reality of happiness.
Tell me you love me, that I may be sure it is no dream.''It was no dream,' said Diane, with a happy smile.'And I find this morning the same happiness that came to me
last night--you love me, Diane?''Yes, I love you, she said, brightly.'Tell me, when will you marry me? There need be nothing to
prevent our marriage from taking place next week if yon like.
When will you be my wife, Diane?At the mention of that word she shrank back with a cry he did
not understand, but which was the cry of a broken heart.His wife! Great Heaven! had she been mad, dreaming? What
had she been doing? His wife! She was Bruno Severne's wife,
and she could not belong to any other man. She looked at him
with despair in her face. What had she been doing, to speak of

love when she was bound in the heaviest of all chains?  The
shock was terrible to her in those few minutes; the wonder is,
that the horror of it did not kill her.'Have I frightened you, Diane?' said Lord Kerston. 'When
will you be my wife?'She folded her hands and looked up into his face.'I can never be your wife, Lord Kerston,' she said, with white
lips--'I can never marry you.''It is too late to say that, Diane; your fate is fixed  You
have said that you love me, you shall marry me--nothing I swear
--nothing on earth shall prevent it.'She tried to say, 'I am married already,' but she could not,
she had not physical force to utter the words; she could sooner
have taken a sword and plunged it into his heart'Why can you not marry me, Diane? Do you not know, darling,
that all love ends in marriage, or should do so?'  He did
anticipate any serious reply; he thought she was nervous, startled;
no idea occurred to him that there was any serious obstacle.'Diane,' he repeated, wondering at her silence, 'will you tell
me why you cannot be my wife ?''I cannot tell you,' she stammered; 'but it is so. I cannot
marry you, Lord Kerston.'We will see about that,' he replied  'to all Heavenly powers
I submit, but no earthly power shall keep you from me.'He kissed the sweet lips, and saw how white they were.
You are frightening yourself with some shadow, Diane,' he
said; 'will you tell me what it is?'I cannot,' she repeated; 'oh, believe me, Lord Kerston, I can
never be your wife.'The face she raised to his was so pitiful, so colorless, with its
trembling lips, that he kissed it; she drew back again, shrinking
from him.'You must not do that, Lord Kenton, you must not kiss me
for I can never be your wife.''Yet you love me, Diane?''Yes, I love you,' she said, 'yet I cannot marry you. Be generous
and let me go.'He released her hands, and next moment she had left him and
was hurrying to the house, leaving Lord Kerston in amazement.CHAPTER XXXVIII.
WOOED AND WON.How mad she had been to forget her cruel doom, the cruel chains
that bound her; how mad to open her heart to this sweet magic
of love. What could she have been thinking of? Diane wrung
her hands in despair. She was standing by the flower-wreathed
window, where, only last evening, she had tasted the sweetness of
life and love; now her heart was heavy with despair. What had
she done?I never thought of it, she cried to herself. 'I did not know
that I was learning to love him. I did not remember that I was
not free to love. Oh I pity and forgive me.'She was so young, so tender of heart, she had known so little
of happiness, her life had been so joyless; this golden dream
which had fallen over her had been so dazzling, the reaction was
so hard to bear. No wonder that Diane wept the most bitter tears.
It was the destruction of all her hopes and plans; never had Diane
wept such tears. It was not only having lost him, but she was
grieved to find what she had done. She had been so thoughtless,
so blind, so foolish; she could not forgive herself for that.  She
who had lived with a guard over every word, to have lost herself; to
have so completely forgotten, now that she called herself to task,
that she saw every step of the perilous way she had trodden. She
saw that the wrong bad been blindly done; she had loved him
much, dearly, with a passion that was not to be told in words,
but it bad been most unconsciously done. Not until he mention-
ed the word ' wife' did she dream of what she was doing. Now
she stood in despair.Oh, if it had not been for this most miserable marriage, this
marriage she never had liked; but for that how happy she might
be. Who so handsome, so noble, so true, so grand as this man
who worshiped her? Who so gifted? And he, with the richest
gifts of earth lavished on him, asked for nothing better than to
lavish them on her.But for this most hateful chain that bound her, she might next
week have been his wife; earth could hold no higher bliss.  She
might have married him, have gone away with him to the home
he had described to her in such loving terms, where she would never
have known a care or sorrow from which he could save her.
She had thought of love in the days of her girlhood; she had wondered
what this love would be like.  Now she knew.  She had
wondered what it was like when soul met soul; now there was an
end to all wonder--she knew too late.  Diane stretched out her
hands after her lost happiness, with words on her lips that would
have melted the heart of a stone.Could she be be the smiling woman who had risen with the dawn
to welcome her lover? Could that be the same sun that was shining
then, the same flowers that were blooming?  Over all lay a
dark cloud, so dense she could see nothing beyond.From her bitter sorrow and despair only one idea came before
her, and it was that she must let him go away. She must send
him away, and see him no more. She would not tell him why;
she could not tell him the story of her marriage with Bruno Severne
and the death of her child--she could never tell him that,
it was too humiliating, too terrible; he must never know that--if
he know it he would never love her again; he could only dislike
a woman who had been married Bruno Severne; he would not understand,
he would never know how ignorant she was in those days;
he would not know what excuses were to be made for her, he
would think she had married for a home: he could never know
how intolerable that home had been to her--the miserable, narrow-minded
persecutions, the jealousy, the absence of all happiness,
the wretched discontent.How could she tell this man who loved her that she had child,

dead now, and that she had been driven from its death-bed? The
old old sorrow, the old misery came over her as she remembered
it. How could she tell this man, whose kisses still burned her
face, such a story as this?'I pray Heaven that he may never know it!' she said. 'If he
did, I would never look in his face again!'She would send him from her; she would tell him that it was
impossible for her to be his wife; but she would not tell him why,
she repeated to herself, with a gasping sigh. He loved her so, he
believed so entirely in her; he believed her more frank and sincere
than others. Should he hear this story of her miserable life,
and know that she had laughed and sung and smiled with this
skeleton by her side ? A thousand and a thousand times no. Her
heart would break in losing him, but his memory of her should be
a woman worthy to be loved.So she sat down to write him a letter--sweet Diane--all blotted
with tears, the saddest letter ever penned; and she told him that
she loved him dearly--far better than the world and all in it--yet
she could not marry him; and she begged him to go from her and
leave her. She would never forget him, but she should pray Heaven
every hour she lived for every blessing on him.She little dreamed how the intensity of her love and sorrow was
revealed in every line; it was the kind of letter to drive a man
mad, to make him resolve on every kind of desperate deed, but it
was the last to make him give up the writer.Lord Kerston could not understand it. It was brought to him
in Florence, to his hotel, and he pondered over it. She loved him,
that was clear; she made no effort of denying it. She loved him;
there was no obstacle in the way of their marriage--no friends to
oppose it, no parents to forbid; no foolish engagement--she had
told him that she had loved no one since her father's death. Why
had she rejected him?--why asked him to go away? That appeal
to his strength and generosity touched him greatly; all the nobility
of his nature rose to answer it. Go away? Certainly he would
if it should kill him, if it proved to be for her good.Then an idea occurred to him--the reason that would have
drawn most women to him, that would have caused them to accept him,
was the reason that she had refused him--his rank and
fortune. She was poor, she was obscure, unknown. He was one
of the best known, one of the noblest and wealthiest peers in
England. That was it--the difference in their rank frightened
her; perhaps she felt that she might be doing him a great injury
in accepting him. He was relieved at this idea.'My sweet, sensitive darling! he said to himself; 'what must
I do with her?'The most sensible plan would be to obey her, to go away for a
few days, and to give her time to see what life would be without
him; as for giving her up, he scorned the idea of it. Why should
he? He had but to persevere, and she would be won. He did
not go near the villa for a day or two. Only Heaven knew what
it cost him to keep away, and those days were a hundred years to
Diane. Then be wrote to say that in accordance with her wish
be was leaving Florence-would she see him to say farewell?Poor Diane! that letter was her death-warrant. He was going,
this handsome, noble hero, whose coming into her life had made
it so beautiful; he was going as she wished, and she would be left
to such sadness and misery as could never be told.  How should
she bear the long, weary days, the months, the years--how should
she live through them when one--only one--was so hard to bear? 
Going away! although she had wished it, and had said it must
be, it seemed to her as though a blight had fallen over everything.'Oh, my love! my love!' moaned the girl.Then her face flushed crimson. What right had she to say my
love? She was another man's wife. He came. She had intended
to do right in every way. She must part from him: she had suffered an
agony only known to sensitive minds like her own. Yet 
when she looked in his face, the strength of her resolve melted.
How could she lose him--the only human being she had ever
loved? Think before you judge her.Others have many to love them, she had but this one; she had
only him in all the world--no others. As he stood there before
her, he was the whole world to her. His face was filled with pain,
his eyes with unspoken reproach.'Must I leave you, Diane? he asked. 'My
darling, will you persist in sending me away ?I, who write her story, could weep over her as I tell what
followed; her youth, her beauty, her ignorance, her simplicity, her 
love, were all so great.'Must I go from you where I shall never see your sweet face
again? Ah, Diane! do you know I shall leave my life behind?'There were tears in his eyes, yet had he known the truth, he
would rather she had died at his feet than have done what she did.
'The best part of my life, my heart, my soul, my happiness, I
shall leave behind with you, sweet Diane.Heaven pity her! She raised her eyes to his face; she raised
her hands, and folding them, laid them on his breast.'You ought to go,' she said, in a passionate voice--'you ought
to go, but I--Heaven help and pity me!--I cannot let you go. I
cannot part from you, my love, my love!'The next moment he had clasped her in his arms, and was holding
her to his heart; her fair face was hidden on his breast.'I will never go now; you may say what you will, do as you
will, but I shall never go from you, so that it will be useless for
you to send me. When I go, I shall take you with me, Diane.'
She spoke no word. He raised the beautiful face, and kissed it
again and again.I know why you have tried to send me away,' he said; 'you
fancied that my wealth was a barrier between us. Listen, love:
for your sake I would fling it to the winds; I would make myself
poor, obscure, anything else to win you, my sweet Diane.' He
wondered why she buried her face in his breast, with a prayer
that Heaven would pardon her.CHAPTER XXXIX.
IN THE HANDS OF FATE.The words were spoken; Come what might she could never go

back from them; It was useless to think of retreating, useless to
indulge in regret. She had meant to be firm, to sacrifice love to
right--to do her duty no matter what it cost her; but for all that
it was too late--her strength had failed her. Looking in his face
she found she could not give him up, and her heart had gone out
to him in one passionate cry. He wondered much, but he ascribed it to
her sense of the difference between their positions and 
rank; for that he loved her all the more; he caressed her, he raised 
the golden head, pillowed so lowly on his breast; he kissed the
sweet face.'Diane,' he said, ' this is the happiest moment of my life, do
not spoil it by letting me see tears. Why should you weep ?'No she would not spoil it for him, the love in her heart was
strong enough to prompt her to any sacrifice. She whispered to
him that she was so happy--so happy. Poor Diane!'And now, my darling,' he said, 'we need not defer our marriage. I
shall not feel sure that you mean to be my wife until I 
see a ring on your finger. When may I place one there, sweet?''Do not ask me now,' she said. ' I will think about it and tell
you later on--not now.''It shall be just as you wish, my darling,' he said.Then Lady Creighton entered the room. She looked bewildered
at the little tableau--Lord Kerston with his arms round Diane;
Diane's face one fire of blushes. Then she smiled.'No need for an explanation, Philip,' she said. 'This is one of
the scenes that explains itself.''I know you will congratulate me,' said Lord Kerston.  'I
have won the sweetest wife in the whole world.'Lady Creighton took Diane in her arms and kissed her.If I had been asked,' she said, 'to choose a wife for my kinsman
from the whole world, I should have chosen you.''We shall falsify the old proverb, about the course of true love;
in our case it will be all smiling seas; we shall not be able to
boast of opposition; what a terrible thing.'He little dreamed that the chief opposition lay in the conscience
of the woman he loved. Then he left them. A few hours afterward Diane
stood on the terrace that overlooked the river; she 
had gone there to think; she wanted to think, that which she bad
done so frightened and terrified her, that she could hardly endure
her own reflections; yet she must place herself face to face with
the truth, let it be what it might. The flush of sunset lay on
the Arno, silence had fallen over the flowers, the birds were singing
their vesper hymn, the peace of Heaven seemed to lie over the 
land; it was the time for thought, yet the thoughts were terrible
ones, not in accordance with the sweet summer night. She, unhappily,
was the wife of Bruno Severne, married to him with 
every proper legal form and ceremony; no matter that a grievance
more bitter than death lay between them, nothing mattered, the
fact could not be altered, she was Bruno Severne's wife; she knew
the law of God, she knew the law of honest men and pure women;
nothing but death could dissolve the bond. Those words were
irrevocable. She looked at the shining heavens; what said moon

and stars? Nothing could change the laws of God; they had
been shining many thousands of years; she looked at the calm
river, it said the same thing; the laws of God altered never; the
wind whispered it to her; the flowers by their silence, the birds
by their song, all declared it. Men alone dared to transgress. It
came home to Diane, as she watched the flow of the river; she
recognized the eternal truth. Then she tried to justify herself.
What was marriage after all? not a community of interest, not a
community of riches, not an exchange of birth and title for gold.
What was marriage? She remembered her old theory, it was a
union of souls; it was when soul met kindred soul and the love
between them made them one in the eternal union. Could that
be a true marriage where the wrong souls met, and hated each
other?The whole gist of the matter seemed to lie there-could it be?
Bruno Severne was not the man she ought to have married; she
was unlike him. He was grave and ignoble--she gay, gracious,
and noble; he was mean, mercenary; he had but one idea, and it
was making the most of every one with whom he came in contact
--of making money; she had the generous soul of a poet; there
could not possibly be two more dissimilar natures. He had taken
advantage of her youth and ignorance--her inexperience--to marry
her. He had treated her, despite his passionate love, to cruelty
and unkindness.She said to herself, Bruno Severne was not the other half of her
own soul, and Philip Kerston was. Had Bruno been the peer,
and Philip the farmer, she would have married Philip and have
detested Bruno; worldly rank, wealth, and advantages did not
influence her. Bruno was not the other half of her own soul,
Philip was; therefore, she said to herself, she was really Philip's
wife, and not Bruno's. It was wretched sophistry, but she comforted
herself with it.'Heaven never created any one to be miserable,' she said. 'I
have been so--I must always be so if Philip leaves me. This happiness
is offered to me; why not take it? I shall never go back
to Bruno Severne's home--I shall never see him, speak to him, or
look at him again; so I do him no wrong.  Do I wrong Heaven?
Ah, me? is Heaven so cruelly hard, as to be angry with me because
I cannot help loving Philip?  Can I help it if, in return, I
love him?So Diane argued with herself; there were moments when she
brought herself to believe she was doing no wrong, that there was
another code of law and morals than the one the curate had taught
her, when she could have fancied herself a heroine because she
was breaking the customs of old, because she was obeying
the magical attraction that drew her to Philip Kerston. Yet
it was only at times; deep in her heart Diane knew the truth--
knew that she was doing wrong--that she was on the eve of a
crime--know that no wretched argument, no flimsy excuse could
alter the truth, or palliate her sin. Was ever woman so tempted?
More than once, as they stood by the river, a strong impulse came
to her to hide herself in its depths, to end the tortures, the temp-

tation, the danger, to shut out from herself the possibility of sin.
Yet life was so sweet--love so strong.'I am sure Heaven will pardon me,' she said. 'I would never
do wrong if I were happy as other women are. I should never
have done wrong if I had married the man I loved, if my baby
had lived, if I had the faintest gleams of sunshine in my life; it
is so easy for the happy to be good, while for such as me----' and
Diane stretched out her hands with a yearning cry--'for such as
me there can be no happiness; I shall not be happy when I am
Philip's wife, and I know it. I cannot be, because I shall know
I am doing wrong; yet I cannot give him up.'Never did right and wrong struggle in any soul as they did in hers,
never was temptation so dazzling. She had known no wise training.
In this hour of her need, no mother's words came back to her--no
tender warnings. She had but her undisciplined heart, her own
untrained nature to guide her. Remember that, you who think
she yielded weakly, you that have had the blessing of wise parents,
a well-regulated home, good, sound education, religious training
--think of it before you judge, pause before you condemn her.An idea, that was half pretty, half heathenish, half graceful,
came to her. She thought of the girls on the banks of the Ganges.
If they want to try the issue of their love they send flower lamps
down the stream.'I will do the same,' she thought. 'I am tired of arguing with
myself. I cry out to the heavens, but they are deaf; no voice
comes in answer to mine. I will try what fate says for me.'From an orange tree she gathered a spray of flowers, then with
green leaves she formed a boat, in which she placed them.'This shall be my omen,' she said to herself. 'I will trust in
decision of fortune; I will abide by what happens. If my flower
boat sails away calmly, steadily, without injury until he is out of
sight, I swear to myself that I will take the happiness offered to
me--I will be Philip Kerston's wife. If a wavelet washes over it,
if it catches against branches or stones, if the stream drowns it,
nothing shall induce me to marry Philip. Go, pretty orange
blossoms, and decide for me.'She kissed them as she dropped them into the deep water; then
bending over the balustrade, she watched them.It was a quaint picture--the evening sky, the swift, rushing
river, the overhanging trees, the terrace, with its myrtles and
passion-flowers, the beautiful face of the fair woman bending
over the water.There came a breath of wind, and for one half-moment her       2
heart stood still; it seemed as though the orange-flowers were
lost. A moment of suspense, then she saw the silver blossoms
sailing steadily on. Again from the banks a tree waved over the 
water; its branches touched the wavelets, and as the flowers sailed
by, one corner of the branch spread out. Would it catch the
frail bark? Diane watched as one in suspense. Ah, yes the 
wind and the waves conspired together. It was drawing nearer;
another moment and the flower-boat would be wrecked on the
branch; there it would hang until the flow of the tide washed it

away. Farewell to Philip--farewell! She would not break her
oath or her vow, come what would. But it was not wrecked. Another
breath of wind wafts it from the danger, sends it far from
the bank; then the flowers sail away, out of sight, far down the
blue Arno.'I must marry him!' said Diane. 'Oh, Heaven, pardon me
that my misery and my great love have made me blind!'
There should be no more hesitation; she would marry him; she
would be Philip Kerston's wife.CHAPTER XL.
NO LIFE APART FROM HIM.'I am not quite satisfied, Diane,' said Lord Kerston--they had
been engaged then for some days; 'I should like to see you
brighter. My darling, there is a shadow in your eyes.''A shadow, Philip?' she said, gently.'Yes, a shadow. I can hardly tell if it be of pain or regret, or
half-frightened anticipation. What brings it there, Diane?She raised her eyes to his.'Is it there now ' she asked, laughingly.'No, you have driven it away. There must not be the shade of
sorrow, Diane; your face must be bright as the smile of the sun.''So it shall be,' she said, quietly; 'you shall never see a shade
again.'What frightens you, Diane?' he asked, in a low voice.'Many things. What will you do when you take me to Irksdale, if you
find that I am unfitted to be mistress there? should 
you be much ashamed of me, Philip? You are marrying, as people say,
very much beneath you.''Am I?' asked Lord Kerston. 'Strange how resigned I feel. I
am the best judge of that. I am marrying the sweetest, the fairest
woman in England. A king would be honored, Diane, if you
chose to be his queen. Was that all that troubled you?'It was quite enough,' she replied.By this time she had resigned herself, she struggled no more
with her conscience. The charm of his love, of his whispered
words, of his caresses, was great for her. It was pitiful to note
the intensity of her love for him; she worshiped him; she had no
life apart from him, no life--sweet, hapless Diane.She had read in all the papers the announcement of her coming
marriage--how Lord Kerston was about leading to the hymeneal
altar the beautiful and accomplished Miss Thorpe.She smiled as she read, a bitter, cynical smile painful to see on
such lovely lips.  How little would any one dream who Miss
Thorpe was?--how little would they imagine the tragedy hidden
in those words?Bruno and Hester read a paper--it was purchased for the money
and market intelligence. Every now and then an item of news
crept in. Would they read it far away in the old farm-house?
Would they read how Lord Kerston was going to be married?
How little they would dream to whom! She had prayed for a
quiet marriage, without fuss or ceremony; but neither Lord Kerston nor
lady Creighton would hear of it.'If I were to marry after that fashion, Diane,' said her lover,
'people would say and think I was ashamed of my wife; and, as
I happen to be proud of her, I shall not submit to that.'' Why should it be so, Diane?' remonstrated Lady Creighton.
' Philip will never consent.'Still they were willing to meet her wishes--as she disliked
ceremony, it should be as quiet as consistent with Lord Kerston's
rank. She must have bridesmaids--that was indispensable.
What could be more suitable than to ask those two pretty young
daughters of Lady Copedale? They were staying in Florence.
Lady Creighton could not imagine why Diane shrank from asking
young girls to her wedding--why she asked so piteously if she
could not dispense with bridesmaids.'My dear Diane,' said her ladyship, 'I shall think you are
ashamed of being married, if you raise so many objections.'There was nothing for it but submission. The Misses Copeland
were invited, to their lady mother's delight. She would have been
pleased to see one of them Lady Kerston. As that was not to be,
the next best thing was to see them bridesmaids at what promised
to be the wedding of the season.'You know, Diane,' said Lady Creighton, 'you cannot have a
peer of the realm married after the same fashion as a barber. You
have chosen to marry a nobleman, and you must abide by the
consequences.'The consequences did not seem so dreadful, or would not have
done to most people--a deal of ceremony, unlimited admiration,
and all the entourage of wealth and magnificence.Lady Creighton had taken the greatest interest in the preparation.
She insisted on presenting Diane with a superb trousseau;
she answered all objections in the simplest fashion.'Philip is my kinsman,' she said, 'the relative I love best. His
marriage is the greatest event in the world to me.  If he would
only need the trousseau, Heaven knows how pleased I should be
to give it to him.  As I cannot have that pleasure, nothing shall
deprive me of the happiness of presenting one to his bride.'It seemed to Diane that every country had contributed its share
to the glories of this trousseau; such velvets, laces, silks, such
marvels of rich brocade, such gleaming satin, such delicate choice
embroidery, such a profusion of ornaments, fans, slippers, gloves,
and everything that could delight a woman's heart, but, surely,
had never been gathered before.When the contents of arriving boxes had been emptied, and had
been placed in a room, Diane was summoned to take possession.
She stood white and breathless, bewildered by the magnificence of
everything. Then she looked at Lady Creighton.Is this really all for me ?' she asked.'I hope so,' was the laughing reply.  'I know no one who
better deserves it, Diane.'But Diane went up to her very earnestly, with a half-frightened
look on her face; she laid her hands on Lady Creighton's shoulders and looked at her.'I am frightened,' she said; I cannot accustom myself to this;

here is wealth or grandeur fit for a queen. I am only a poor artist's
daughter, and it seems unsuitable to me.'The sweet humility touched Lady Creighton; she kissed the
fair, colorless face.' I know, my dear,' she said; 'I am willing to admit that you
are only an artist's daughter, but you are a most beautiful woman, the
chosen wife of one of the noblest and richest peers in
England; the same kind of dress that will suit Miss Thorpe will
never do for Lady Kerston.''I know that,' said Diane, gently; 'but it seems so much--
too much for me. I have no fortune; I have nothing in the world.
Why should I be the centre of all this magnificence?Lady Creighton laughed again.'You do not appreciate yourself, Diane, nor your position.
You have no money, but you have what people value more--the
gift of royal beauty, and most winsome grace; you cannot deny
that.'' I do not wish to deny it,' said Diane, I am only too happy
that you should think so, yet I cannot help feeling overwhelmed.'' That is natural,' said Lady Creighton, 'but Diane, let me give
you this one caution on going into the world--do not undervalue
yourself. There are few to whom I should give, fewer still who
need, such a warning; but I give it to you. Remember that the
world takes people at their own valuation. If you cry out that
you are not worthy, that you do not deserve, the world will think
so, and it will be all over with you.'So Diane found herself owner of one of the most magnificent
trousseaux ever collected. Then Lord Kerston distressed her; he
would insist on lavishing beautiful jewels on her. It was in vain
she looked at him with a smile, and told him she had never possessed
any jewels, and should not know what to do with them.'She would find out,' he said, 'for what they were needed.'He chose a set of beautiful jewels for her to be married in, and
he told her they were typical of herself.The day came, when, for the second time, Diane stood contemplating
her wedding costume, half frightened at its grandeur;
trembling as she remembered the white dress that had once seemed to
her the height of luxury; trying hard to stifle that small
voice that would make itself heard. This was no ordinary
wedding-dress--it was made of white satin, trimmed with Honiton
lace and garlands of orange blossoms. There was a vail that
might have served for the queen of fairies, a wreath that looked as
though the flowers had been lightly blown together. The jewel-
case, with its gleaming pearls, lay on the table, and Diane gazed
around with bewilderment. Hers, all hers, to do as she would
with; hers, to be followed by far greater splendor--and what was
the price? Was it the peril of her immortal soul?Her wedding eve--everything was arranged in accordance with
her pleading and prayers. The ceremony was to be as private as
possible, only the creme de la creme of the Florentine society were
invited--the Countess Copedale, with her daughters: Marquise
d'Arno, the beauty par excellence of the city; Lord Peters, who

was to undertake the position of best man; an Italian prince--
those formed a select but exquisite circle of guests. To Diane it
seemed all like a dream--she was to be married, surrounded by
this circle of noble women and men.Married on the morrow!I Numberless wedding presents had
arrived at the villa; every preparation for the ceremony and dejeuner was made.Lord Kerston had lingered by her side until Lady Creighton
told him he must go. The clasp of his hand was still warm on
hers, her lips seemed still to burn with the fire of his kisses.'To-morrow you will be my wife, my sweet Diane,' he had
whispered. 'How shall I live until to-morrow comes?'Lady Creighton had said good-night, and she was standing in
her room. Alone, with all her magnificence around her; alone,
with a torture of thought, a rapture of hope, a passion of love that
would have driven many women mad. That night she had a strange
dream--she was back in the little farm-house, back in the room
where her baby lay dying, Bruno looking on with a gloomy face,
Hester with malicious smiles; she stood by the bed where the
child, the hope of her life lay dying. Then in her dream Bruno
spoke angrily to her, and Hester ordered her away, but the child
opened his dying eyes and fixed them on her face; he held out his
little hand, and said:'Mamma, do not go.'Great drops of terror gathered on her brow; she cried in her
agony, and woke from that dream to see the bright Italian moon
shining on her dress and jewels--to remember that she was to
marry Lord Kerston on the morrow.She sprang up with a wild cry; her little child, the clasp of his
hand was on her neck, his voice in her ears; yet he was dead--
dead years ago; she would never have left that home, but that he
was dead.'I should never have gone mad, my God, but that I lost him,'
she moaned.'Mamma,' the little voice had said, 'mamma.'What had she done with that sweet gift of motherhood? What
would the child say to her when she should meet him in another
world? Would he call her--Lord Kerston's wife--mamma?With a bitter, gasping sigh, she laid her head on the pillow
again, and again in her dreams she saw the little face of her dying child.CHAPTER XLI.
THE SECOND MARRIAGE.A beautiful old church stood just outside Florence--beautiful in
its antiquity, in the gorgeous wealth of foliage that surrounded it
--a church with arched windows and square towers, one that
charmed artists and poets alike. It was called the church of St.
Angelo; and here Diane was married.It was like a dream; from the moment the sunshine woke her
until she was hailed as Lady Kerston, it was one long, bewildering
dream. Busy hands helped to robe her in her magnificent

wedding costume; a glance into the mirror showed her the most
dazzling combination of satin, lace, pearls, and orange-blossoms;
a golden head, vailed and crowned; a neck whiter than the pearls
--a picture of marvellous grace and beauty, which she hardly
dared to believe was herself.She could not help thinking of that other wedding-day, when
homely, kindly hands had robed her in the simple dress that bad
seemed to her so grand--when the hired carriage that came to the
door had seemed the very acme of splendor. She remembered the
awful solemnity of the words spoken at the altar: she remembered how
she had shrunk with dread and distaste when Bruno Severne had kissed
her.Should she never, dear Heaven! should she never be free from
this torture of pain and regret? Would she never be able to bury
this miserable past? This bright day, this fair, sunshiny day on
which she was to find the other half of her own soul, was the real
wedding-day for her.There was a great string of carriages; as in a dream, she saw
the liveried servants, the white wedding favors, the illustrious
guests; there was an indistinct vision of amber and white, which
she knew to be her bridesmaids. She remembered afterward a
drive in the golden sunshine, with the breath of myrtles and lilies
greeting her, the song of birds in her ear, a deadly shrinking in
her own heart, a deadly fear, yet outwardly gay and bright as the
morning itself. She remembered no more until she stood in the
dim light of the old church, and Lord Kerston by her side.God pity and forgive her  He wondered why, under the bridal
vail, her face looked so white; be wondered why her lips trembled, and
her voice seemed so far off and so faint. God pardon her,
that she once again dared to utter those solemn vows--to promise
love, honor, and obedience, to plight her troth, to pledge her
faith--with the sit of her broken marriage vows on her soul. God
pardon her!'Until death do ye part,'Such solemn words, such terrible words; yet she had uttered
them before, and they bad not been sacred to her; no wonder that
the face beneath the bridal vail grew whiter, and the sweet voice
more faint. Then it seemed to her that the dim light gave place
to darkeness, the roll of the  music, the sound of the minister's
voice came from far off, a great dread came to her lest in that,
the moment of her life above all others, she was dying--there was
a great rush as of many waters in her ears; the darkness grew
deeper before her eyes; then Lord Kerston's voice aroused her, he
was whispering something, some  sweet words that sounded like 'my
darling wife.'His wife! yes, it was that at last; they had left the church, and
were standing in a small, cold vestry; people were crowding
round her; the pretty bridesmaids in amber and white were kissing
her, Lady Creighton was whispering kind congratulations,
Lord Kerston was looking with unutterable love into her face.
His wife!--oh! Heaven forgive her! Then her husband locks her
hand in his, the left hand, and she saw the golden wedding-ring

shining there. She could have cried aloud in her anguish; there
had been a ring there before, the one she returned to Bruno
Severne. He kissed her hand.'It was always so white and soft, darling,' he said; 'always so
beautiful; but it is fairer still with this wedding-ring shining there.'He placed on the same finger a very superb diamond.'This is to keep the other safe,' he said. 'Give me one smile,
Diane. Your face is quite colorless--you are not ill?'She made a desperate effort to recover herself; she smiled, and
murmured some confused thanks, saying to herself over and over
again in the depths of her heart, surely Heaven would forgive her,
surely there would be pardon for her. Then, still as in a dream,
she saw the gay dresses of the ladies blending in their charming
variety of colors.  One after another came to her and called her
Lady Kerston, offering her all kinds of good wishes. The minister
who had just completed the ceremony, added something of
congratulation, saying to himself, as he did so, that he had never 
seen a bride so wonderfully beautiful, or so calm.Then it was time to enter the carriage with her husband; they
were to drive home alone; and when he was seated by her side, he
drew her face to his and kissed it a hundred times.  He might
well wonder why she fell on his breast with a great, gasping sigh,
with a burst of passionate tears, praying still in the depths of her
heart that Heaven would forgive her--would pardon her this sin.
She had sinned for love's sake.He did not think it strange that she should weep--a wedding
was a solemn, impressive scene; but he did wonder what were
those murmurs passing over the white lips, what were the prayers
that seemed to come from the depth of her heart.  He let her
weep for some minutes in silence--he was wonderfully patient,
wonderfully kind--then he raised the bridal vail and kissed the
tears away.'My Diane--my wife--you love me?' he said. 'Why weep,
because from this moment you are all mine.''Was she all his? There rose before her Bruno's strong, stern
face. What if he should ever try to regain her? She clung to Lord
Kerston; he saw but did not understand the passion of emotion.' My darling, Diane,' he said, gently, ' why should you weep?
You are all mine now. You have nothing to live for but love and
happiness. No more tears--nay, I will not have one,' he added,
as he saw her lips quiver. 'Not one, or I shall begin to think
you are afraid of me.'She hid her face on the noble heart that held such implicit
trust in her, and tried her best.'If I might but forget for one minute,' she said to herself, but
she was never to forget again.Then she thought that it was cruel and unkind of her to sadden
him--that she who had already sacrificed so much for love of him
might surely sacrifice more. So she controlled herself, she drove
back the sad thoughts that haunted her, she trampled on the cruel
memories that tortured her, she raised her face to his, and, for the
first time, offered him a kiss. Then they reached the pretty villa

where the wedding-breakfast awaited them--it was in her memory afterward, a confused dream of splendor; she dimly remembered the rare fruits and wines, the profusion of flowers, the
speeches, the strange, bewildering sensation of hearing herself
called Lady Kerston--and then it was time to go.Lady Creighton wept as she bade her adieu.'You have been the most charming of companions to me,' she
said, 'the dearest of friends. I am so sorry to lose you, Diane,
but I have no fear for you; you will be happy as the day is long;
you will know no care, no sorrow as Philip Kerston's wife. If I
had a beloved young sister of my own, I could not have wished
her a better fate than that she should have married him.'They crowded round her in that moment of parting; afterward
it came to her as the broken fragment of a dream; she saw kindly
glances, she heard friendly voices, good wishes, and then she was
away with her husband, the new life stretching out before them
that they were to spend together.They did not go to Irksdale at once; their honeymoon was spent
in travelling through the fairest scenes in Italy. Lord Kerston
was anxious that his beautiful wife should see all places of note;
he told her, laughingly, that in all probability they should not
find themselves abroad for some years, that they would be so
happy in their English home, that they would never like to leave
it. So they lingered in that fair, classic land, and but for the
terrible drawback, Diane would have been unutterably happy. She
had never dreamed that life could be like this, that so much of
what was beautiful could be found in it. Now every moment was
a dream of pleasure. Beautiful, young, wealthy, the world at
her feet, what fate could be more enviable? Flattery, homage,
adulation followed her wherever she went, and she heard but one
voice, and it was the voice of praise. No wonder that, in the first
intoxication of her dream, the voice of conscience had almost ceased
to make itself heard.Lord Kerston had been rather anxious over her at first; she had
seemed dull, dispirited; he often found her in tears, and he could
not imagine why. But that gloom and depression had disappeared;
she was so radiantly happy, poor Diane, when she did not think.What a life hers might have been but for that terrible past
which she tried so hard to forget, yet could never cease to remember.
Then, when autumn came, Lord Kerston thought they
would return home; they must spend Christmas at Irksdale, and
it would take them some to accustom themselves to their new life at home.Diane little dreamed of the welcome awaiting her there. Lord
Kerston had said to himself that she should receive a grander
welcome than if she had been born a princess.During the whole time he was in Italy he had been sending
home works of art; he had given orders that the court should be
refurnished with the utmost magnificence. The suite of rooms
set aside for his wife were a marvel of luxury and splendor; he
had arranged everything that could please and delight her. That
going home remained a picture in Diane's mind until she died.The sunset of the autumn evening, the glorious color of the sky
and trees, the golden gleams lingering on the square turrets and
towers, the autumn flowers, so brilliant in their rich hues; the
fountains on the lawn were playing, the bells from Irksdale
church were pealing triumphantly, a procession of tenantry met
them at the railway station and escorted the carriage through the
park, triumphal arches greeted them, flags and banners waved in
the wind, everywhere was the same legend--'Welcome home!
Welcome home!'Diane had never dreamed of anything like this. When the
carriage stopped at the entrance, and she looked for the first time
at the stately pile of buildings that she was henceforth to call
home, her heart beat high; her face grew pale; she trembled as
a leaf in the wind.Then Lord Kerston took her hand, and in a few courteous words
introduced his wife to his humble friends. The cheer that rose at
the sight of her pale, beautiful face, seemed to reach the quiet
skies.'God bless Lady Kerston! Long live Lady Kerston! A hundred welcomes home!'No wonder that her heart beat, her pulse throbbed, and a sensation
of wonder, that was almost awe, came over her.'She was only Diane Balfour, the artist's daughter,' she said to
herself; 'yet they were bidding her welcome as they would have
done a princess.'In the entrance hall the household were all assembled. She
had a kindly word and a smile that won their hearts at once.
In the cruel days that afterward dawned for her, there was not
one servant in her household who could be found to say one word
against her; they defended her, and believed in her to the last.'Welcome home, my darling,' said her husband, as they stood
in the sumptuous boudoir he had especially prepared for her;
'welcome home, my sweet wife. May every hour that you spend
here be happier than the last; no such fair or graceful Lady
Kerston has ever reigned here before.'But she stood lost in amaze, contrasting this scene of gorgeous
magnificence with the horror of her arrival at Larchdale.Oh! if it might but have been Philip Kerston at the farm, how
gladly would she have changed places again.Heaven would pardon her, she had but that one hope. Heaven, knowing
all she had suffered, would most certainly pardon her.CHAPTER XLII.
A STRANGE FOREBODING.There had been times when Diane had doubted her own powers;
when she thought it would be simply impossible for her to fulfil
with credit the duties of her position as Lady Kerston; when she
shrank with dread from the duties of her exalted station.But as time passed on they became sweet and easy to her. For
his sake she would have surmounted all difficulties, have encountered
all dangers. When she found the delight it gave him, to

see her bright and happy, to see her interested in her duties, to
see her playing the hostess with all her accustomed tact and elegance, with all her sweet, winning grace, she resolved to do nothing but please him.She had been received with open arms by all the neighborhood;
county families of ancient standing forgot to inquire whether she
was of noble origin or not; her face was sufficient; they forgot
to be particular as usual; indeed, there seemed to be no occasion
for it; no one could see that fair, noble face, the graceful head,
the queenly figure, without feeling sure that an aristocrat was
before them; no one ever doubted it, and Diane was received with
open arms by the élite of the county; ladies whose exclusive
pride was the object of comment, forgot to show their pride to
her; they yielded to her at once as the queen of the county; no
one disputed her position; ladies admired, and gentlemen raved
about her; she was loved and praised, she was invited everywhere, and
Lord Kerston was never so happy as when Irksdale 
was filled with guests.That Christmas was, perhaps, the most happy and brilliant
ever spent, even in those time-honored walls. They had balls,
parties, private theatricals, grand dinners, pleasant charade parties,
every variety and species of entertainment that could be
imagined or devised, and Diane was at the head of all. Diane
was so gay and so fair, that the years seemed to have fallen from
her, leaving the golden head with a brighter sheen; there was no
time for memory or haunting regrets, no time for wretched
thoughts, for repentance and tears. Diane was unutterably happy,
because she had imbibed largely of the drug men call oblivion.Irksdale was a magnificent estate, the court itself a stately pile
of handsome buildings. Diane had been there for some days before she had been over it or knew its full extent. She was continually discovering pretty little nooks and corners, pretty little
rooms, sunny spots in the grounds and park, she was always delighted
with some discovery or other. The picture-gallery, the
conservatories, the pleasure grounds, the suites of magnificent
reception-rooms, were so many unfailing sources of delight to
her, and they were all her own. She, Diane Balfour, the artist's
daughter, was queen of this grand dominion.'I did not think there was any place on earth so beautiful as
Irksdale,' she said one day to her husband; 'and its great charm
to me is that it is the first place I have ever really known as home.''Had you no home where your father lived?' asked Lord Kerston, musingly.'No,' she replied. 'We wandered from one place to another;
wherever the landscape was beautiful, or the scenery picturesque, we
made it for the time being home.''What a strange life, Diane!  How many girls would have
failed in life after such a training! but it has made a noble woman
of you, sweet.'She smiled. He often noticed that Diane never made any reply
to his compliments, never accepted his homage and praise, but smiled
it gently aside.'So you have never known the real value of home before
Diane,' said her husband, as he kissed her beautiful face.'Never,' she replied.Then suddenly she remembered Larchdale, Bruno Severne's
home. Surely that had been hers also. As she remembered it
her face flushed the deepest crimson, and her husband looked at
her in wonder.Why are you blushing, Diane?' he asked. 'What a tell-tale
face yours is!''Am I blushing?' she said, trying to evade any direct reply.'Why, my darling, does not that flush burn you?' he continued;
'it has spread to the roots of this golden hair, and over the
white neck. Tell me why you are blushing, Diane?''I do not know,' she replied. 'I cannot tell you.''Do ladies blush without knowing why?' he said, with great
amusement. 'Was it because you love me and my home so dearly, sweet Diane?'She clasped her white arms round his neck, and hid her face in
his breast.'You know I love you, Philip. Sometimes, even when I am
quite alone and thinking of you, my face grows crimson. I cannot help it.''Nor do I wish you to help it, darling.  Blushes should be as
natural to a beautiful woman, as fragrance is to a rose.'But long after her husband had left her, Diane sat thinking. It
was little scenes like these that dismayed her; she would have
given the world to have robbed her face of its expression, of its
power of blushing;  to have been always in his presence, calmly
serene and self-possessed. 'What she had said was most perfectly true--it was the first
home she had ever known. Uplands had been a pleasant abode,
but it was only a lodging; she could not call that dreary house
where Bruno Severne had lived, and her baby had died, where
sullen Hester reigned supreme as mistress, home--it was a
mockery of the word. So she luxuriated in this, her first home.
To have rooms that she liked and loved, under her own control; to have
the servants who seemed to wait upon her least
wish; to be able to rule as she would, even though her rule was
most gentle--all this delighted her; it was so great a pleasure, so
great a novelty.That winter passed like a long, brilliant dream.  She thought
Irksdale beautiful in the autumn, but it was doubly fair in the
spring, with her husband, and that husband the noblest and
grandest of men. The green buds were springing on hedge and
tree, the spring flowers were all in bloom, the lark sang in the
clear morning air, the bleat of the young lambs was heard in the
meadow--the world awakening from the sleep and the darkness
of winter to the music, the sunshine, the glory of spring.Then Lord Kerston told his beautiful wife that he had anxiously
looked forward to the spring, as he wished her to be presented
at court.Diane grew pale as she listened.'Oh, Philip,' she said; 'you are surely jesting. Must I be
presented--do you really mean it?'He laughed at her dismayed tone.'Mean it! Certainly. You do not think I am going to keep
the loveliest lady in the land a prisoner in Irksdale? It will be
a real kindness to the world, Diane, to show it a face and figure
like yours.''Oh, Philip!' cried his wife, in a horrified tone.Then Lord Kerston's laugh died away, and he grew serious.'In all sober earnest, Diane,' he said, ' you must be presented;
It is one of the duties that belong to your rank. Every lady of
position in England is presented to the queen. I prophesy for
you, too, a success.  Before many days are over we shall have
all London praising my darling wife, the beautiful Lady Kerston!
I am rather anxious, too, that you should see your London home;
it has the reputation of being one of the most luxurious mansions
in town.'Lord Kerston spoke truthfully; Irksdale House was as well
known in London as was Irksdale Court in the country.It was April when they went to London, and again Diane was
lost in wonder. She had heard something of this kind of life, she
had seen something of it while with Lady Creighton, but it had
only been the faint reflection of a dream. No sooner had she been
presented at court than the beautiful Lady Kerston became the
rage; she was acknowledged to be the most beautiful woman in
London; the whole world was at her feet; she was received
everywhere--the most select and exclusive of duchesses were proud to
know her, the most exclusive of circles were only too proud to admit
her; she bad received many invitations to attend the
court. In fact, there could not have been a greater success than hers. One day Lord Kerston came to look over the cards of invitation
that lay on the table in Diane's boudoir. He smiled at their
number; no one but himself knew how proud he was of her success.'You have forgotten all your fear, Diane,' he said. 'One would
imagine that my peerless wife had been playing at 'La Grand
Dame' all her life.'Diane laughed.'I believe you are right, Philip,' she said. 'I had forgotten
that I was ever afraid; it seems to me now as though I had known
no other life; I have forgotten it.''You have many invitations for this evening,' he said; 'you
cannot possibly accept them all. I want you to go to Lady Dorman's.'I thought of going there first,; she replied; 'then you wished
me to attend the ball of the French Embassy.'So I do. We will go to Lady Dorman's first, as you suggest.
Sh gives the best balls in London; but it is not for that I want to go.'Diane raised her eyes to his face.'You have heard me speak of Lady Lilian Hay,' he continued.Diane said:'Yes''I have always been taught to consider her my cousin,' said
Lord Kerston; 'but, like Lady Creighton, she is only a distant
relative; her mother and mine were cousins; she is very fair and
lovable, Diane, she is good and pure, honest and true; I want you
to know her and to love her,' said Diane.'Lady Kerston looked wistfully at her husband.'Do you think she would love me, Philip?'I do not think it possible that any one can know you without
loving you,' was the laughing reply; 'the question is rather shall
you like her?'I am sure to do that if she belongs to you,' said Diane.'You will look your best, sweet; Lilian and I have always
been great friends, and I want her to admire my wife,' said Lord
Kerston.Diane looked wistfully at him.'Is she so beautiful, this Lady Lilian of yours, Philip?' she
asked.Her husband smiled.'I have thought so little of any woman's face except yours,
Diane, that I can hardly tell; yes, she is fair, but she is unlike
you, she has dark hair, and dark eyes, not golden tresses like these''Is she graceful, kind, gentle?' asked Diane' She is graceful and gracious both,' was the reply.Then they came to a silence. It was Diane who broke it.If she is so winning, and you like her so well, Philip, why did
you not marry her? was the question that both startled and amused him.'For the simplest of all reasons, Diane--a reason indeed so simple
that you will hardly credit it.''What was it? she asked, anxiously.'Because I did not love her, and I did love you. Are you satisfied, Diane?Yes, she was more than content; Indeed, her faith in him was
so great nothing could disturb it. She took great pains with her
dress; she wore white, with a superb suit of diamonds that her
husband had given her for her presentation. There was the usual
sensation when she entered Lady Dorman's ball-room.'The new beauty--Lady Kerston.' A great favorite at court.'
'Supposed to be the fairest woman in England.'  'The chosen
friend of Princess L------;' all those murmurs greeted her arrival:
they never moved her from her usual calm; she had long 
ago accepted the fact of her beauty, and had ceased to feel any
emotion over it; for her own sake she cared very little--for her
husband's sake, and to please him, she would have been well contented
to have had double the share of loveliness.She looked round the magnificent room now in search of Lady
Lilian Hay. She had a strange presentiment over the name,
Lilian Hay; she repeated it to herself over and over again, then
wondered why she did so; she had a strange, half-nervous fore-

boding that the name was one of ill-omen to her; yet, how could
it be so? Philip had never loved his kinswoman; Philip had had
the whole world to choose from, yet he had chosen her; why
should another woman's name affect her? Why should she long
with so strange a longing for the sight of another woman's face?CHAPTER XLIII.
LADY LILIAN'S SECRET.Diane looked up with a smile; her husband was standing before
her, a smile on his face, a happy light in his eyes.'Lady Lilian is here,' he said, 'and she is longing to see you,
Diane. I think this is the happiest moment of my life, and the
proudest. I never saw you looking so beautiful. Lady Lilian
used to tease me about being fastidious; I think she will own
that I did not wait so long in vain. Will you come with me,
Diane?'She rose at once and took her husband's arm. He led her
through the suit of rooms; many admiring glances followed
them. They were certainly a magnificent pair--he, so dark, so
proud, stately; she, so fair, so queen-like. They came to the
pretty boudoir, where those who were tired of the heat and glare
of the ball-room found refuge; they entered, and Diane, raising
her eyes, saw before her a tall, elegant woman, whose face impressed
her wonderfully, not from its beauty, though it was of
a type of beauty rarely seen, nor yet from its air of high breeding,
although it was cast in true patrician mould; it was rather that
the sweet face told a story half sweet, half sad, wholly pathetic.
Lady Lilian was still young; she was some years younger than
Lord Kerston, although they were very dear and intimate friends
but no one could look at her without feeling that she had suffered,
that the great mysteries of love, and sorrow, and pain, had
been unfolded to her. She had dark eyes; they were very sweet
and tender, with a dreamy, half sad light, with long, dark lashes,
and clear, well-defined brows; she had a cloud of soft, dark hair,
bright and polished as satin, sweet, fresh lips, and a faultless
chin; she was beautiful, but the soul that shone in her face was
even more beautiful than the face itself.Every one loved Lady Lilian; she was one of those attractive
women whose power of fascination is marvelled at, though never
understood; every one loved her, the young and the happy, be.
cause they felt that she sympathized with them, that she understood
youth and gaiety; the sad and the sorrowful because they
felt that something in her heart responded to the sorrow in theirs.
She was accomplished, graceful, with a clear, low, contralto
voice that in itself found no little charm. Her dress was rich, but
peculiar.Lady Lilian was celebrated for her dress. She never blindly
followed fashion; if any style did not suit her she never adopted
it, it did suit her she improved upon it, consequently she was
always exquisitely attired in the most becoming style.  This
evening she wore a dress of pale amber, with diamonds; and
Diane, looking at her, thought that she had never seen any one more
beautiful or winning.Lord Kerston led her up to Lady Lilian; she saw that he was
unusually agitated as he did so. He held his wife's little hand in
his own, and placed his kinswoman's over it.'I cannot introduce you as I would two strangers,' he said. 'I
was about to try it, but it would be useless. You are the two
I love best in the world-my darling wife, Diane, and my dear
cousin, Lilian. Lady Kerston--Lady Hay. I need not ask you
to be friends--the happiest moment of my life is that it makes
you so.'Diane looked up and wondered to see two tears shining in
the dark, clear eyes, while the proud, sweet lips trembled as
they smiled.' We are sure to be friends,' said Lady Lilian. ' You may leave
us, Philip, while we learn to know each other.'Lord Kerston went away quite satisfied.Lady Hay took Diane's hand and placed her beside her. She
looked long at the beautiful face, and said:'So you are my cousin Philip's wife. You are lovely. He has
won a prize, and I always said he would.  What name did he
call you?'' Diane,' answered Lady Kerston.'Diane,' repeated Lady Hay; 'that is a beautiful name, and
suits you well; there is something free and bright about the very
sound of it. May I call you Diane?'Yes,' replied Lady Kerston, 'you could not please me better.'The slow, sweet voice was beginning to have a magical effect
on her; it soothed, calmed, delighted her.'Then, Diane,' continued Lady Hay, 'I ask you, let me be
your friend, not in the mere society view of the word, not to meet
you at balls and parties to discuss gayety, gossip, and dress, but
your real, true, chosen friend, that is, if you think you shall like
me well enough. What do you say ?''I shall be only too pleased,' was the sincere reply. 'I have
many acquaintances, but no friend, and I am sure to love you,
because Philip does.'Lady Hay smiled.How do you know that Philip loves me?' she asked.'He says so,' replied Diane, simply, and she wondered why
Lady Lilian's sad, sweet face flushed crimson.After a few minutes she said:'I am glad that be loves me. I am not surprised. He is not
one of the demonstrative kind. Philip feels deeply, but he does
not always express his feelings. Though he is some years older
than I am, we were always great friends--play-fellows, then
companions--indeed, we were more like brother and sister than
anything else; so that I am well content--well content that Philip
loves me.'Her voice took so tender and musical an intonation that Diane
was charmed; no feeling of jealousy sprang up in her heart
against this beautiful, low-voiced lady, Philip's kinswoman. It
seemed natural that she should love Lord Kerston, that her voice
should grow tender, and her eyes fill with a soft, dreamy light, as

she spoke of him. She liked Lady Lilian, her heart grew warm
with a sweet., sudden rush of happiness as she thought of him;
she had liked Lady Creighton very much, but this fair and noble
lady seemed to her more like a sister of her own; what happy
hours they would spend together. Poor Diane! there is no vail
so thick, so dense, or so merciful as the vail that hides the future
from us.They talked long and earnestly together; it was new and beautiful
to Diane to hear stories of her husband's youth, stories that
illustrated his true nobility of character, his generosity, his ardent nature.' It seems to me,' said Diane, 'that my husband has always been
more or less a hero.'' Yes, but he is so terribly proud, said Lady Lilian. 'I have
always thought Lord Kerston the proudest man in the world; I
think he would never forgive any one who deceived him, any one
who did him a mean, ungenerous wrong.'Diane remembered that Lady Creighton, in describing him, had
used almost the same words; but, though they struck her with the
same foreboding with which one hears a death-knell, she would
not stop to think of them.As time passed on she grew to love Lady Lilian very dearly,
they spent much time together, they were more like sisters than
friends. Lady Hay had no parents living; she was sole mistress
of a handsome fortune, and a beautiful estate called Hay Park;
she was almost as much alone in the world as Diane had been.
Having no other claim, no other tie, it was not wonderful that she
attached herself to her kinsman's lovely young wife.  As time
passed on Diane wondered more and more about her. How was
it that, wealthy and winsome, lovely and accomplished, Lady Lilian was
still unmarried? She had plenty of admirers, plenty of 
offers; it was no unusual thing to hear that she had received and
rejected an excellent offer.  Diane wondered much, and at last
she asked her husband.Lord Kerston laughed.'I cannot tell you, Diane,' he said, 'why Lilian does not
marry; it is certainly not from want of opportunity. She prefers
being an old maid, evidently; though why, I cannot imagine.'
'Has she ever loved any one, happily or unhappily?' asked
Diane.'I do not know. I should imagine not. You should try to
convert her to your ideas of happiness, Diane--to teach her how
much better it is to be married and happy.''It would be useless to marry without love,' mid Diane.'Well, the world is wide. Do you not think it possible that she
might find it possible to love? You did, my darling.''Yes, but I was singularly fortunate. If she looked the world
over, she would not find another Philip.'When they became even more intimate and yet dearer friends,
Diane ventured one day to ask the question:Why have you never married, Lilian? Why do you send all
your lovers away, and refuse all offers?  Do you never mean to
marry?Lady Hay was quite silent for a few minutes; there was 
strange, sad expression on her sweet face, a light, not all of this
world, shone in her dark eyes.'I will tell you, Diane,' she replied. 'Many have asked me
that question--I have never answered yet, but now I will tell
you. I have not married, and I never shall marry, because--because I
love some one who does not love me.' Tears filled Diane's
eyes, the voice speaking was soft, sweet, and sad as the tones of
an Æolian harp. 'I gave my heart, my love, and life away,
ears ago, Diane, almost before I was old enough to know what
love is like, and certainly without knowing, in the least, what I
was doing. I was only a girl, and now I cannot either forget that
love, or think of another. I know you will keep my secret, Diane;
your face tells me you are to be trusted. All these long years this
love has lain like a heavy weight in my heart, and it is the first
time, the very first time, that I have spoken of it.'Diane bent down and kissed the white hands that clasped her
own.'You may trust me, Lilian,' she said.'I know that I may. Nay, Diane, there are tears in your eyes
and they are for me, I know. My darling, there is no need; I
am not unhappy. If I had my life to live over again, I would far
rather love this man, and love him in vain, than be blessed with
the warmest affection of another. I have grown accustomed to
my sorrow, Diane; it is part of my life; I should not know myself
without it. It is a sweet sorrow, too; I would rather have it
than the joy that comes from a less noble love.''But, did he never know--this man whom you have loved, Lilian--did
he never guess ?'No, my darling; he never knew, he never guessed. He himself loved
some one, a very fair girl, fair and sweet. He told me
about his love, Diane, and I listened to him; he described her to
me in lover's language, and I looked at him.  There was not a
shadow in my eyes, my lips did not tremble, and my hands were
firm as these hands holding yours now; but it did seem to me
then that the very bitterness of death passed over me, and that my
heart wept tears of blood. I was proud of my self-control--proud
that no one ever suspected my secret, or ever will.'You do not think he does?''I am quite sure of it,' was the quiet reply.'But, Lilian, is there no hope, no chance? May he not love you
some day, and then all come right?''No,' replied Lady Lilian; ' it can never come what you call
right. He loves some one else; he has no heart to give me; and
I--well, I have grown quite accustomed to my sorrow, Diane. I
should feel quite lost if I had to lay it down.''But to be unhappy all one's life, Lilian--we have but one life
to live--it seems so very hard?'It is better to be unhappy than to do wrong,' said Lady Lilian;
'besides there are hundreds of people far more unhappy than
I am. Look at the women who marry without love; look at the
women who marry for love, and find their idols turned to most

miserable clay. I and my sorrow live alone, and we are not very
wretched together after all.'From that day Diane loved Lady Lilian even more dearly; but
she had not then, nor did there ever come to her, the slightest
idea that the man whom Lilian Hay loved was no other than Philip, Lord
Kerston.CHAPTER XLIV.
'ALAS! IF HE ONLY KNEW.'Seven years had passed since Lord Kerston took his beautiful
young wife to Irksdale, and time had brought with it many great
gifts and blessings. Lord Kerston was now one of the most honored
statesmen in the land. Diane had fastened in him the seed
of every noble ambition; she had taken the greatest pride in hearing
him praised for his skill and talent; the wisest and most
thoughtful men in England looked upon him as their leader;
more than once he had been chosen head of his party; by his
energy, his talent, his skill in dealing with men, he had caused
the adoption of measures for which the whole country blessed him.
It was wonderful to see how even those opposed to him on political
grounds, respected and esteemed him; the opposition even
gave him credit for every virtue.His name was a tower of strength, it was but another name for
integrity, honesty, and nobility. Ask any one who was the leading man
in England, and the answer, given without hesitation,
would be--'Lord Kerston.' His reputation was one that any
man might have envied and few acquired. Many excellent positions had
been offered to him, but he preferred his own unbiased
freedom and independence; the time came, however, when, for
the good of his party, for the good of his country, he accepted
office, and became one of the leading statesmen of the day. The
fierce light that beats upon a throne fell then upon him; he lived
for and among the public; his goings and comings were all matters of
importance; the papers left him no privacy, they told where
he was staying, where he dined, whom he entertained, all that he
did; his daily actions were chronicled. If he went to a distant
town to open a grand new building, to inaugurate some noble
charity, hundreds flocked to see him; addresses were given to him,
banquet were prepared in his honor, every paper in England reported
his speeches; a speech from Lord Kenton was not to be
passed over.And she, the beautiful, graceful lady whom he had married,
shared all his honors with him. Few women In England occupied a more
proud or lofty position, no other could have filled it
with such perfect grace and tact. Looking back, she was amazed
at the dizzy height she had attained. She was her husband's great
comfort and consolation, she was his chief adviser, his truest
friend. He was never ashamed to ask her counsel, or to reap the
benefit of her clear, womanly judgment, her quick instinct, her

keen good sense. The humor of the position often struck Diane;
her husband would come home tired, his face grave and anxious
with some mighty question, and he would lay it all before her--
an artist's daughter, who had never known any training, who had
never even been to school. It amused her too, when on reading
his speeches, she traced in them her own thoughts, her own opinions;
so true it is that the wisest of men owe much to the wisdom
of their wives.Seven years had only added to her beauty; they had not
the least impaired it. The golden hair had perhaps a brighter
sheen; there was a deeper light in the lovely eyes; there was not
one line or wrinkle on the fair face; the brow was clear, the lips
calm and sweet; she was now in the full perfection of her magnificent
womanhood, acknowledged by all who saw her to be one of
the loveliest ladies in the land.Honors had fallen thickly on her. She was a great favorite at
court; she was the undisputed queen of beauty and fashion;
poets dedicated their sweetest songs to her, writers their finest
works, artists their greatest pictures; she was a continual source
of inspiration.To be admitted as a visitor to Irksdale House was the highest
honor; to be on terms of intimacy with the beautiful Lady Kerston was
a privilege that exceeded rank or wealth. She was honored for her
husband's sake, and doubly honored for her own. 
Beautiful, accomplished, generous. intellectual, and gifted, Lady
Kerston held a place second to none.She was so kind and generous that envy and malice never came
near her. Lady Kerston was quite a lady patroness; how many
foundation stones she had laid, how many hospitals for the blind,
the deaf, the orphans, she bad opened, would puzzle one to count;
she was as popular in her way as the queen; no féte was a féte
without her; her presence was asked for and welcomed everywhere. She
would smile to herself at times, and say:'Am I really Diane Balfour?'She had read of wonderful lives--hers seemed the most wonderful.How of the terrible past? Had she forgotten it? Did there
come no thought that she, so fair, so honored, so esteemed, was
after all but a criminal of the deepest dye? that she, whom women
delighted to praise and men to honor--that she whose station
was so high, had in reality no claim to name, title, honor, or
respect? Yes, she remembered it every moment of her life; she
never forgot it.Did she remember that she, Lady Kerston, whose smile made
sunshine, was a runaway wife, the wife of a hated husband, the
mistress of a forsaken home, the mother of a dead baby, a criminal
whose liberty was forfeit to the laws of the land? Yes, she
never forgot it; the keenness of her memory, the bitterness of
her pain died away after the first few years, but not altogether.
The shadow was never completely raised from her life; there
were times, even now, when she woke from terrified dreams of
Bruno and Hester, when she stood again by the child's death-bed,

when she wandered with fear and despair in her heart; but as
the years wore on these memories grew fainter.Poor Diane! Hapless Diane! She knew that she had done
wickedly wrong, and it was pitiful to see the kind of debtor and
creditor account she had to keep with Heaven. She would build
a church, build almshouses, found orphanages, give largely to
every charity that was brought before her, then think, in her simple,
half-ignorant fashion, that God, when he came to judge her,
would think of that.No one ever asked her for help in vain. Her name was a proverb for
generosity and benevolence she never wearied of doing
good, and it was always with this same idea that at the great
reckoning day it might weigh against her terrible sin. She had
long ceased trying to hide from herself that it was a sin; she had
long forgotten all her sophistry and arguments; the grand, broad
truth had long been clear to her that she had committed a terrible crime.During the first few years there were times when her regret and
remorse were so great she could hardly live; when she would
weep the most bitter tears; when she would raise her weeping
eyes to Heaven, and pray God that for one minute she might lose
the torture of thought and memory, and forget; when she would
long to lie down and die. Her husband would look at her with
wonder, and try to find out what grieved her. That time was all
over now, she had ceased to struggle with her memory and herself; her
conscience was lulled by time, as pain is lulled by opiates.
She had said to herself that the evil she had done was irrevocable,
it could not be undone, therefore the only thing was to do her
best, and make all the atonement that lay in her power.Again she knew that there could be no atonement except the
plain straightforward method of telling the truth, owning her sin
to Lord Kerston, and returning to Bruno Severne. Her own common sense
and notion of what was right told her this was the only
reparation she could make. Death would have been a million
times more easy. If she was known and loved for one thing more
than another, it was for her love, and gentle sympathy, and sweet
compassion for the guilty and fallen. No one ever heard a harsh
word from her lips; no one ever heard her speak unkindly, no
matter how great the sorrow, how great the crime.Lord Kerston never forgot one scene. They had been to the
theatre together, and the play was a strangely pathetic one; it
was the story of a wife who had forsaken her husband, and, after
long years, had married another; then suddenly meeting her first
love, died of her anguish and her despair.It had touched Diane, and tried her terribly; it seemed to her
that her sin in all its most glaring colors was suddenly brought
before her. She grew so pale that Lord Kerston asked if she were
ill, and she, afraid of exciting remark, said:'No.'She had waited until the play was ended, hiding her colorless
face and white lips in the bouquet of charming flowers she carried;
then, when the curtain had fallen, she seized her husband's
arm, and said:'Philip, I am strangely tired; my head aches; take me home.'
And he wondered why, when he took his seat by her side, she
clung to his arm, saying:'Talk to me, Philip; tell me something cheerful.'Again he wondered why her hands as he clasped them were so
cold, and her lips burned like fire.'Diane, that play has frightened you; why is it, darling?'
He felt the thrill of agitation that she could not repress; then
his wife's face was looking into his.'It did not frighten me, Philip, but it was so sad--so sad'
He never dreamed of doubting her, although in after years,
when he remembered the incident, he said to himself he must
have been blind.' It is sad,' he replied. 'You are too sensitive, Diane, for this
kind of play; you shall not go to another.'Too sensitive  Oh, Heaven, if he knew!--knew that in the
woman's sin and misery she saw but the shadow of her own
sin!Then, as the evening was fine, he would insist that they should
drive round the square.'It will soothe you, and the fresh air will remove your head-
ache,' he said.So they did, and full in the bright moonlight they saw sitting
on one of the steps of a gorgeous mansion a woman: no need to
wonder who she was--the gaudy attire, the thin-pointed face, told
their own story. The first time they passed her Diane's eyes
wandered listlessly over her; the second time they passed the
girl rose from the steps and tried to walk; she had gone only a
step or two when she tottered and fell. Lord Kerston had not
even seen what had happened. The next moment Diane had
stopped the carriage, had sprung from it, and was kneeling by
the wretched woman's side. Her husband quickly followed her,
but not before she had raised the poor painted face, so ghastly in
its contrast of color, and pillowed it with true womanly gentleness
on her arm.'Diane! Diane!' cried her husband, 'what are you doing?''Oh, Philip! she cried, 'look here, this poor girl is dying!''I am afraid so,' he said. 'Oh, Diane, you are touching her?
Pray do not do that--for Heaven's sake do not do that!''Touching her?' said Diane; 'why, she is dying, Philip!''Let the servants help her; let her have help, food, money,
anything; but for Heaven's sake, Diane, do not touch her!''Why?' she asked.'Why?' he replied, 'because I cannot bear it; because from
that wretched, painted face, you can guess what she is. Place
her head on the stones again.''Not on the cold, hard stones, Philip,' she said.'You will drive me mad!' he cried, with more anger than
he had ever shown to her in his life before. 'My wife's pure
arms to pillow that wretched head! You shall not touch her,
Diane!'Slowly enough she drew off her opera-cloak, and placed it
beneath the miserable head; then her husband spoke kindly to
her.'Do forgive me, Diane; do anything you like for the unhappy
woman. Have a cab brought and send her to the hospital; but,
my darling--my darling, it maddened me to see your pure hands
touch her.She made no answer, but she raised her face to the silent heavens.
If he knew--if he only knew. Alas! alas!CHAPTER XLV.
PRESENTIMENT OF EVIL.Lord Kerston had but one trouble, his prosperous career knew
but one drawback--he had been seven years married, yet Heaven had not
blessed him with a child; there was no son to succeed him, to continue
after him the honors that he had so hardly won, to increase even the
glory of his name. It was a great  and bitter trouble to him. To Diane, his beloved wife, he made
light of the matter, and said that it was, perhaps, quite as well;
they had so much and such important affairs always on hand,
that they would have little time to devote to the care and training
of children.What Diane thought no one knew; the passionate yearning,
the craving love, the bitter memory of the child she had lost, the
desire of a child to love, were all strong within her; but when
she was alone she bowed her head in humble submission--it was
better so; what had she to give a child save the most bitter
legacy of shame and sorrow? What a terrible position for her,
her husband, and children--if children should be given to them
--the most bitter punishment of her sin would fall upon them,
not upon herself. Not that she dreaded discovery now, as she
had done. During the first few years this dread of being found
out was strong upon her; she never saw a group of men gathered
together, and talking earnestly, but she imagined Bruno Severne one of
them; the sound of a strange voice an unwonted 
noise in the house, an unusual stir, the sudden utterance of her
name, were so many swords in her heart; she would start up,
expecting, dreading, to see the face of the man who had been so
fatal to her. Time was stilling this fear; she ceased to think
what she would do if she were found out--she had ceased to imagine
that she should ever be discovered; yet, with bitter tears,
with bitter sighs, she owned to herself that it was well Heaven
had deprived her of the blessing her heart craved, the love of an
innocent little child.One morning-it was the height of the London season, and
town had never been so brilliant or so gay--Lord Kerston suddenly
entered his wife's boudoir; they were staying at Irksdale
house for the season. He found Lady Lilian with his wife,

and the two were bending anxiously over a very elaborate card
of invitation. Diane looked up at her husband with a bright
smile; it was a very unusual thing for him, the busy and important
statesman, to find time to visit her boudoir during the 
morning.'See, Philip, an invitation to the state ball at the palace; I
wonder if you will find time to go?'He took the card from her hands.'I must go; I must find time to go,' he said; 'such an invitation is
equivalent to a command. Were you discussing with Lilian
the all important topic of dress?'They both laughed.Lady Hay answered:'It is not often,' she said, 'that we waste our time talking about
dress, but we were certainly doing so then; it is very ill-natured
of you to guess it, Lord Kerston.''It is an unusual affair altogether,' laughed Diane. 'It is long
since you were here in the morning, Philip; I am bound to ask
what has brought you?''I have three leisure hours,' he replied, 'and Mons. Davard, the
great artist, has implored me to visit his studio; I thought, if it
would please you, Diane, we could not spend this sunny morning
better.''I am delighted,' said Lady Kerston. 'You will come with us,
Lilian?''Certainly,' added her husband. 'If anything can add to the
pleasure of seeing Mons. Davard's pictures, it will be to see them
in such charming company. I feel like a school-boy with a holiday before him.' 'And I feel very happy,' added Diane, laughing. 'Why Philip,
how long it is since I spent a morning with you!'It was a lovely morning in the first week in May; there was
a warm glow of sunlight, the birds were singing in the trees,
singing gaily, as though they knew summer was coming with
sunshine and flowers. The great chestnut trees were in bloom,
the laburnum was in flower, the lilac perfumed the air; there was
something of gladness, of song, of fragrance, over the land--a
morning that made the young bright and happy, and the old feel
young againDiane found herself singing sweet snatches of song as she hastened
her toilet. A whole morning with Philip in the sunshine!
--it seemed too beautiful to be realised. Then she stopped her.
self abruptly.'What a child I am to sing because I have a holiday,' she
thought--'because I am going out with Philip!'In that one pleasant hour she seemed to have forgotten the
wretched secret of her life; it was far from her.  She was going
to be happy with Philip; she loved him so dearly and so well that
she was gay as a child with the prospect of a few hors in the
sunshine with him.She gave a satisfied glance in the mirror when the toilet was
completed.  She wore a marvellous costume--one of Worth's

best, the color a wonderful shade of mauve that suited her fair
complexion and golden hair as no other color would have done.
She smiled at the image of perfect magnificent womanhood which
was reflected there. Such another smile never came on Diane's
face.Then the carriage was at the door, and they all three took their
seats. It was a pleasant drive through the sunshine, with the
shade of the budding trees and the gleam of the colored flowers.
Then they reached the studio; it was in one of the prettiest little
houses in the park. Mons. Davard said he liked a green light
for painting by, a light that came, filtered as it were, through the
shade of trees.The studio, as it was called, occupied the whole of the rooms on
the ground floor; the first was used by the artist as a kind of
reception-room, where visitors awaited his good will and pleasure;
the second, a large and lofty apartment, was hung with his own
pictures--some were for sale, with others he would not part; the
third, the room in which he worked himself, presented the usual
picturesque disarray--easels, brushes, lay figures, half-finished
sketches, carelessly-arranged draperies; a small arch, from which
dropped heavy velvet hangings, led into the last and smallest
room--there Mons. Davard generally had one or two pupils hard
at work.The artist warmly received his distinguished visitors; he declared
that the day on which he saw Lord Kerston at his studio was
the happiest of his life; as for my lady, her beauty dazzled him,
he was positively at a loss what new compliments to invent, what
language to use. For once, language failed him; it was not often
that he saw such a face as Diane's.Lady Lilian, whose sense of humor was not at all deficient,
smiled.'You have stricken the artist dumb, Diane!' she said.Then they were ushered into the second room, where monsieur's
pictures hung; and there the man gave place to the artist; there
he was no longer subdued by a woman's beauty, the spell of genius
resumed its sway. He showed his pictures, and his visitors 
were enchanted.'It seems to me,' said Lord Kerston, 'that although you succeed in
everything, and your pictures have the true touch of genius
--still your greatest success lies in your truthful rendering of the
human face. I have never seen anything like these heads. Do
you agree with me, Lilian ?''Yes.' Lady Hay did agree with him; then the same idea
seemed to strike them both. Lord Kerston was the first to speak.
'I should like you to paint Lady Kerston's portrait,' he said,
'if you would undertake the commission?'Undertake it! The artist spread out his hand as though for
once speech must give place to gesture; it was useless to attempt
to say what he thought. Undertake it! he would place all his
little skill and talent at my lady's feet; but he simply doubted his
own powers. Could any living artist do justice to my lady's face?
If Greuze were living, he might succeed.'I think,' said his lordship, with a smile, 'Lady Kerston will
be satisfied; she has always refused to sit for her portrait, although
it has long been one of my dearest wishes to have it.'Monsieur Davard was in despair that any lady should refuse to
give the world the privilege of seeing such a beautiful face. It
would be too cruel, and, while he poured out a string of compliments
wholly unique, Lady Hay turned to Diane.'Is it true that you dislike the idea of having your portrait
taken?' she asked of Diane.'Yes,' replied Lady Kerston; 'Philip has asked me many times.'
'Why do you dislike it?' asked Lady Lilian.Diane blushed.'You will laugh at me if I tell you,' she said. 'It is because I
have a foolish idea I cannot explain--a foreboding that 
harm will come of it. I know it is foolish and childish, still I
cannot help it.'Lady Hay looked curiously at her.'What a strange thing!' she said. 'What kind of foreboding, Diane?''I cannot explain it; I am not even sure if I understand it
myself, but as though evil and harm will come of it.'Just then Lord Kerston came to her.' Diane,' he said, ' I never like to ask you to do anything against
your own wish, but I should be so delighted if you could waive
your objections, and give me the happiness of seeing the face I
love on canvas.'She looked wistfully at him; her old foreboding rose strongly
within her; yet it was so hard to refuse him anything he asked.'For the benefit of future generations,' he continued, with a
smile, although he spoke so earnestly. 'The annals of the country
will be sure to tell if I have done anything in my life worth
naming, let the annals of my family tell one thing of me----'What is that?' she asked.'That I won the most beautiful woman in all England for my
wife,' he replied.'Now, Diane,' said Lady Hay, 'you cannot possibly refuse
after that.'Still they saw some doubt and hesitation in her face.'I wish,' said Lord Kerston, 'that you would try to tell me
what this foreboding is like, it seems so strange--most ladies like
to have their portraits taken.'' I cannot tell you, Philip; it is something I cannot describe. I
do not even seem to know what it is, still I seem to shrink from
it, as though harm or evil must follow it.'' It is nonsense,' said Lady Hay, with a smile.Then Monsieur Davard came forward, and began, with a low
bow, to apologize for interrupting the conversation, but he had
something to say on the matter. They all eagerly joined in the
discussion; Diane alone withdrew from it. Then they discussed
art in general, and Diane, still with the foreboding strong upon
her, left them and began to look around the rooms. She noticed
the velvet hangings; no doubt treasures of art were concealed be-
hind them.She raised the curtains and went in, all unconscious of the tragedy
there awaiting her.CHAPTER XLVI.
THAT SMILE! THAT VOICE!Diane looked round the walls; there was a beautiful landscape
containing the sketch of a female head which filled her with
admiration.  She stood looking at her for some time.  She had
hardly observed the living occupant of the room, a young man,
whose face was bent over his work. She cast one careless glance
at him, and saw a beautiful head covered with dusters of golden
hair; then she resumed her occupation of studying the pictures
on the walls.It was a sudden noise that made her turn to look again at the
young student; then his face was raised, and he was looking intently
at her. Diane was standing at some little distance from
him; suddenly their eyes met. What was it? She could not tell.
She trembled under the first shock, her lips grew white, her face
pale, her heart seemed to stop beating, then suddenly to beat as
though it would kill her.  What was it?  A pair of dark blue
eyes looking in her own, and holding them captive, as it were.
Dear Heaven, what could it mean ?She never knew afterward how long she had been spellbound,
gazing into the clear depths of the eyes that were fixed upon her;
a spell seemed to hold her captive, to have fallen over her limbs
and held them still, to have fallen over her brain and dazed it, to
have fallen over her senses and bewildered her. What could it
mean? Under the calm, clear gaze of those eyes a strong, wonderful
sensation was stealing over her, and the first thought clear
to her from the chaos of all others was-where had she seen them
before?  Was it in this life or another? Not in this life surely,
for the memory was too dream-like-the faint, strange stirring in
her heart could not arise from anything in this life, it was not
possible. Had she seen such eyes before in a picture; some beautiful
painting seen in the dim light of a Florentine gallery which
haunted her still, or had she seen them in a dream--some dream
so fair she could not forget it?How long had she been holding those eyes captive, as it were,
with her own? How long? She recovered herself with a long-drawn sigh,
and tried to throw off the spell that she could not 
understand. She saw the face into which she was looking so earnestly
grow crimson under her gaze; then the blue eyes fell, and
with a half-confused musical murmur the golden head was bent
again over the easel. Then, when she saw the eyes no longer,
Diane began to recover herself; she could almost have believed
for the last five minutes she had been mad. She drew a step
nearer to him. What must he think of her?'I beg your pardon,' she said, in a low voice. 'I was so deeply
engrossed by the pictures I had hardly noticed there was any one
in the room.'He looked up again when she spoke, and again their eyes met.
The spell was upon her--she shook it off with a violent effort,
drawing nearer to him.'I beg your pardon,' repeated Diane. 'I am afraid you must
think me very strange, very rude; but it seems to me--I cannot
account for the impression--that I have seen you before.'Then once more the two, in deep, unbroken silence, looked at
each other. Diane saw before her a handsome stripling--he was
no longer a boy, nor had he arrived at the dignity of young manhood;
he was handsome, with a fair, sensitive, spiritual kind of
beauty, so strangely familiar to her. A graceful head, round
which the golden hair waved and clustered; a white forehead,
with clear brows; those wonderful blue eyes, that seemed to have
stirred her heart to its very depths; lips that were tender and
sweet as a woman's, with the softest golden down just shading
them. Narcissus might have been just such another in the
graceful story of old.'I cannot help thinking,' said Diane, 'that I have seen you
before.'He bowed, and his action was perfectly graceful and self-
possessed.I do not remember,' he replied. 'I think if I had seen you, I
should not have forgotten it.'Then he wondered why her face grew so suddenly pale, and a
half-startled fear dawned in her beautiful eyes. He might well
wonder. Diane caught the back of a chair with a firm grasp;
but for that she would have fallen. That voice! whose was it--
what was it? Were strange stories that she had read true? Had
she lived before in some strange, unknown world? The sound of
it seemed to have gone to the very depths of her heart, and have
stirred strange, sweet memories there--memories of what? She
could not tell; it was like music heard in a haunting dream--
heard, and never forgotten--heard, and remembered in its painful
cadence to the end of life.'Have you a good memory for faces?' she asked.'I think so,' he replied; 'and although I have a faint remembrance
of yours, I cannot think that I have seen you; I must have 
seen some one like you.'It was most marvellous; the effect of that voice upon her; it
seemed to draw her to him, even against her will. She was only
conscious of one intense longing, one intense desire, and it was
that he would go on talking to her forever. She did not see her
husband raise the heavy velvet curtain and look at her with a
glance of silent amusement, then drop it again. She drew still
nearer to him, and bent down to see on what he was engaged. It
was a sketch, so delicate, so graceful, so beautiful, that she looked
on in wonder.'Why, you are a great artist,' she said.'Yes,' replied the boy, with deep, unconscious pride. 'I am, or
I hope some day to be so.''But you are' she replied; 'you are a genius. Is this all your
own?''Yes,' he replied, 'all my own.''You will excel Monsieur Davard if you go on like this.''It is no merit of my own,' he replied.  'I have dreamed of
pictures since I was a child; I do not think I have ever seen the
world as it really is, but as it seems to be--full of pictures.'Then you are an artist born,' said Diane.She bent over the easel, and as she did so her hand just touched
his shoulder. What could it mean?--what magical, strange sensation as
she touched him? Diane felt almost frightened.I am losing my reason,' she thought. 'What is coming over
me?'Then they talked about the sketch, and in the delight of watching
him and listening to him Diane took no note of time; she had
forgotten the whole world, she remembered only him, this stranger,
this handsome youth whose blue eyes and sweet voice had
dazed her.Then a little clock sounded its silvery chimes; he looked up.'I am very sorry,' he said, gently, 'but I must go. If you are
kind enough to take an interest in my sketch, I will leave it; this
is my dinner-hour.'He took a Scotch cap from the stand, and bowed profoundly.To her it seemed as though the very heavens were losing their
light because he was going away. She looked eagerly at him.'You are going to dine?' she said.  I--I hope that I shall see
you again; you must not think me very strange, but you remind
me of some one, I cannot remember whom. I shall see you
again.'He bowed, with a crimson flush on the fair, boyish face.
How strange she was, this beautiful lady, and how wistfully she
looked at him!She rose and stood before him.'I am Lady Kerston,' she said; 'I should like to know your
name.'But he did not appear to have heard the latter part of the
sentence. A deep, wonderful light, a look of reverence, came over 
his face.'Lady Kerston!' he repeated; 'I have longed to see Lord
Kerston more than any one in this world.'' You shall see him, then--not now. This is your leisure hour,
but you shall come to Irksdale House; I am sure that Lord Kerston will be pleased to see you.'He murmured some confused words of thanks; it was wonderful to him
that this magnificently beautiful woman should be so
gracious to him; then, with a low bow, he raised the velvet curtain
and disappeared from her sight.Diane sat perfectly still, to all intents and purposes she was
still steadily admiring the sketch; in reality she did not see a
single line of it; she saw wonderful blue eyes that seemed to
flash with a strange light of recognition into her own; she saw a
beautiful face that was strange, yet familiar as the faces we see in
dreams; she was listening again to the sound of a sweet, clear
voice, whose tones stirred the very depths of her heart.  What
could it mean?''The boy has bewitched me,' thought Diane.Then she started, and her face grew crimson. Lord Kerston,
with Lady Lilian and Mons. Davard, were all in the room, and
she bad never seen them enter.Mons. Davard approached with a bow. Diane found it so impossible to
speak just then that she rose from her seat and began
once more to inspect the pictures on the wall. Yet not one word
of the conversation that followed escaped her.'There is a sketch,' said the artist to Lord Kerston, 'that I
should like to show you; it is by one of my pupils, for whom I
venture to predict a success that has not been equalled of late
years. He is a genius born. He will be one of the world's wonders, if
be lives and perseveres.'Lord Kerston looked long and earnestly at the sketch, then called
Lady Lilian to admire it.'It is very beautiful,' said Lady Hay. 'Is this by one of your
pupils, Mons. Davard?'' He is not only my pupil,' replied the artist, ' but I look upon
him in some measure as my adopted son. He has a father living,
to be sure, but then his father does not like him.''Not like him,' repeated Lady Hay. 'How strange.'' Truth is often strange,' said the artist. 'It was strange that
I should meet this boy, and grow so interested in him as to discover
the genius that was lying dormant.As the artist spoke, and spoke earnestly, all his little affectations
died away. A grand soul shone in his face, the light of earnestness in his eyes.'Tell us the story, monsieur,' aid Lady Hay.The artist bowed.'Some five years since,' he began, 'business took me down to a
place called Southbay, in Devonshire, a lovely, picturesque watering-place.'They all looked up startled; it was that Diane had caused a
small easel to fall. Quickly enough the artist raised it and
restored it to its place; but as he did so, no one saw Diane's
face.Monsieur continued:' I used to spend a great deal of time in sketching; and one day,
as I was quite engrossed in trying to copy the crimson glow of the
sunset on the waters, a boy came and stood near me. At first I
did not notice him, it was nothing unusual for the country children to
inspect my work; his silence attracted me. After a time
I looked at him, and I saw a face delicately beautiful, full of
genius, yet sensitive as the face of a tender woman; the blue eyes
were swollen with weeping, the face stained with tears  He raised his
eyes to mine with quiet confidence.''Sir,' he said to me, 'you are a great painter; the sun is
really setting in your picture just as it is setting over the sea
there. I would give my life to be able to do what you are
doing.'''Your life?' I said. 'That would be a high price to pay for
being an artist.''''I would pay it,' he said, 'if I could take brushes and
colors to paint out all the pictures that fill my mind, all the
pictures that fill the great wide earth. I should be more than
willing to die.'''Is that because you love painting so much, or because your
life is not happy?' I asked.'He looked thoughtfully at me.''It is both,' he replied, frankly, 'I love painting more dearly
than anything else, and I am so miserable that I would sooner die
than live.'''Poor child?' said Lady Lilian.But Diane, looking still at the pictures, neither stirred nor
spoke.CHAPTER XLVII.
A SAD STORY.'I laid aside my brushes,' continued the artist, 'and began to talk
to him. I have never, before or since, met any one like him. His
whole mind was pictured with graceful thoughts, with beautiful,
noble ideas. I, man as I was, marvelled at so pure, so beautiful a
mind. For the first time in my life I saw an artist, a poet, and a
genius in one. Then I questioned him about his life. Why it was
so unhappy? I can hardly tell, even now, why the boy opened
his mind so freely to me. It was because I was the first artist he
had seen, and, in his simplicity, he fancied they must all be noble
and generous, and good. He trusted me with his story, and from
that moment I took him to my heart as my own son. It was a
simple, sad little story, too--one that touched me inexpressibly.
His name, he told me, was Lawrence Severne; he was the only
son of a farmer, called Bruno Severne, of Larchdale. Hark I what
was that?'For a sudden, strange sound, like a long drawn, quivering sigh
had seemed to fill the room--to linger on the air--then to die away;
a strange, almost terrible sound.The three so deeply interested in the telling of the story, and
the hearing of it, looked up and listened.It must have been fancy, or the wind round the windows. The
silence of the room was unbroken, and Diane was still looking intently
at the pictures.'The boy described the farm to me,' continued the artist, 'and
from his description, I should imagine it to be the most desolate
and dreary home that you could possibly imagine. He painted
it in such graphic colors, all gray and dull, without sunshine,
light, or foliage. He described the life; it had not one redeeming
feature--not one single grace. He told me of a stern, gloomy
father, upon whose face he had never seen a smile, whose time
was spent in hard work and sullen brooding.  He told me of a
cross old crabby maiden aunt, who threatened him with eternal

condemnation if he only laughed. I think that no one living could
imagine such a life.'Then I looked at him.''But, my dear boy,' I said, 'you must have inherited your
beauty, your genius, your poetry from some one. Where is your
mother?''Then his face grew crimson, and his eyes flashed fire.'' My mother,' he replied, with quivering lips. 'I do not
know. I wish that I did. I would walk barefooted over the world
to find her.'''Is she not dead, then?'''No,' he replied, the crimson flush deepening; 'she is not dead
my beautiful mother. I know she was beautiful. They pray for
her at home, and they always speak of her beauty as a sinful
snare--my beautiful mother.'''Where is she, then?' I asked.''Alas ! I do not know, sir. I have never seen her. When I
was a little boy I thought she was dead, and I used to look
over the graves in the church-yard to find her name, but I could
never find it. I do not know even what it was, except that
Aunt Hester said it was heathenish, like everything else belonging to
her. Then I found out that she was not dead, and one
day, when I had been thinking about her, and asking about her,
an old servant, named Anne Clegg, told me all about her. She
told me that my mother was beautiful and young; that she had
a face fair and sweet, like an angel's; eyes that were like wood-
violets steeped in dew; hair like sunshine; and she told me,'
he continued, with a burst of passionate tears, 'oh, such a cruel
story--how they brought her here, so young and fair, and trampled the
life out of her. How she loved me, and they tortured
her, through me. How, when every one thought I was dying,
they sent her from the room, and my poor mother, driven frantic,
driven to despair, ran away. Then, long afterward, she sent back
her wedding-ring, and Anne Clegg told me my father cursed her,
and swore that before he died he would have his revenge. It is
of that revenge,' continued the boy, 'that he broods and dreams
by night and by day.'''What a sad story,' I said; 'and you must be very unhappy.'''I am more than that,' he replied; 'I am miserable. My aunt
says I am old enough to pray for my mother; every morning and
every night they talk, as though Heaven would listen, about her
beauty and sin. It was no sin for her to run away from them;
but I never join their prayers, and I never will. My mother had
an angel's face, Anne Clegg says, and angels do not sin. They
send me to bed without supper because I will not say my mother
is a sinner; but I will not. Would you, sir?'' The simple question, the earnest eyes, staggered me--right or
wrong, I espoused the mother's side.''No, I would not,' I replied. 'I would keep my faith in my
mother.''The boy bent down and kissed my hand.''Thank you,' he said, simply. 'Heaven bless you. Now I
shall love you as long as I live, because you have spoken so well
of my mother. They do not like me at home,' he continued, 'because
they say I am like her, that my eyes and hair are the same
color, and that my voice sounds like hers; but that is all
nonsense. Then Aunt Hester thinks I am on the fair way to perdition
because I want to be an artist, and I detest farming. My
father wants me to be a farmer, sir; I am quite sure Heaven
meant me to be an artist.'''So you shall be one,' I replied.'My mind was quite made up--the boy's beauty, his sad, simple story
had touched me so deeply, I determined to take him
from this wretched home and those ungenial friends, and give
him his heart's desire.''People say that I am a good artist,' I said; 'will you come
away with me? You shall live with me and I shall teach you my
art; then, in my old age, you will be like a son to me. Will you
do it?''He kissed my hand again.''Sir,' said he to me, I believe you are a angel sent to me
from Heaven. I will go with you, and in your old age I will
be a son to you, since my own father neither likes nor needs
me.''Poor child!' said Lady Lilian again; but from Lady Diane
came no word, no sound.'That very day,' continued Mons. Davard, 'that very day I
went to Larchdale-the dullest, the dreariest, the most miserable
place in the world--that it should have been the birth-place of
genius bewildered me. I could imagine the fate of a beautiful
young wife taken home there.'I saw the farmer--Bruno Severne. If I do not fatigue my
Lady Hay, or you, my lord, I should like to describe him. I do
not think there could be another face in the world like his, so full
of cruel memory, or of sullen, brooding, terrible pain. I went
prepared to dislike him, I came away full of the most intense pity.
It struck me--I may have been mistaken--but it struck me that
he had loved this beautiful young wife of his, with a great,
passionate love, and that there had been some misunderstanding between
them. I never saw such repressed passion, such sullen
gloom, such pain and despair on any face before, and I pray Heaven
that I never may again. The Aunt Hester was, what shall I
say--a thin, gaunt, angular, cross old maid.'In a few words I explained my errand, that it seemed to me,
as the boy said, God had created him an artist, and it was not in
man's place to counteract the designs of God, and that if they
would entrust the boy to me I would adopt him and teach him
my art. The farmer raised his heavy eyes to mine, then he looked at the boy.''Would you like to leave u and go with that gentleman,
Laurence?' he asked.''Very much indeed,' was the decisive reply.''In Heaven's name take him,' was the next remark. 'His

mother was the same, she hated us, she ran away from us; take
him lest he should do the same thing.'''I should never run away, father,' said the boy; 'I would
never go unless you gave me your consent; but you do not like
me, you do not need me; I am not happy here; I remind you of
my mother, and for that I should be better away.'''You may go,' said the farmer, in a hard voice.''When I am a great man, a great artist, I shall come and see
you,' cried the boy, with a bright face; 'and then you will say
that you were quite right to let me go.'''How could a son of hers care for me?' said the farmer.'Then the gaunt sister touched my heart; she went up to him
and laid her hand on his shoulder.''Never mind, Bruno,' she said; ' if all the world forsakes you,
I am true to you The boy is, like his mother, fair and fickle--
light of thought, quick with his tongue, full of evil charms and
spells. He is not one of us, brother. In the Lord's name, let
him go from us, lest a worse evil come.''I wish I could describe to you the quiet scorn in the boy's face
as he listened to her words. She went on:''He will be better away, Bruno; already the marks of the
evil one are manifest in him; the walls of the house are covered
with figures no Christian woman cares to see; he calls them muses
graces. I call them----''Then she stopped short, and looked at me. The boy did not
even attempt to answer; he turned to me:"No one here will miss me,' he said. 'Shall I go with you
now, sir?'"Yes,' I replied, 'if your father does not object.'Then again the farmer raised his heavy eyes to mine, and I
was struck by their depths of pain.'I make no complaint,' he said, bitterly. 'It has not pleased
Providence to make me one of those who have the power to win
hearts; I have never won love; no one cares for me but my sister; the
boy never loved me. I do not complain. I  am unpleasing, hard-favored,
cold in manner, cold in heart, they say; and
my only son leaves me, at five minutes' notice, to go with a
stranger. Dare I ask of Providence why its ways are hard with
me?'''Never mind, Bruno,' said the gaunt sister; 'whoever forsakes
you, I will be true to you.'''I believe it,' he said, gravely; 'but the question is now of
my son. I am only a farmer; my home is a humble one; it is
agreed on all sides that I am hard, cold, and stern--anything, in
short, but one of the curled scented darlings of this world; still
I am a proud man and a rich man; my son, if he goes from me,
has no need to depend on a stranger's charity. I can afford to
pay for as much education as you can give him.'''Just as you please,' I replied'And so it was arranged. I must confess, somewhat to my
surprise, he would insist upon my accepting terms that a noble-

man might have offered for his son; the boy wants for nothing
but love.''It is a strange story,' said Lord Kerston.'I am only too pleased that it has interested you,' replied the
artist. 'I did not take the boy away that evening; I advised him
to be patient, and wait. That stern, rugged farmer had touched
my heart; yet I can well imagine that no woman, above all,
young and pretty, could ever have lived with him.''My sympathies are with the farmer,' said Lady Lilian.  'I
always fancy those stern-expressed characters suffer so much.''I am sure of my young hero's success,' continued Monsieur
Davard; 'I could not help smiling when we came away. If I
had been leading him straight into the bottomless pit, instead of
a respectable home, Aunt Hester could not have prophesied greater
ruin and evil for him ; 'she is one----'That sentence was never completed; there was a sound of a
long, gasping sigh, and, looking up hurriedly, they saw that Lady
Diane had fallen, without sense or motion, and lay with her face
on the floor.CHAPTER XLVIII.
'I AM GOING MAD!'In one moment all was wildest confusion. Lord Kerston sprang
from his seat with a loud cry; Monsieur Davard looked the very
picture of confusion and dismay; Lady Hay was the only one
who seemed to retain her self-possession.  She hurried to Lady
Diane's side, and together they raised her from the ground.Lord Kerston cried out again when he saw her white face.'Lilian--Lilian, she is dead!' he cried.But Lady Hay silenced him by a gesture.'There is nothing much the matter. Believe me, it is only a
fainting fit.''Why should she faint?' asked her husband.'She has been standing too long, and the warmth of the room;
perhaps even the slight odor of the wet paints.''I shall never forgive myself,' cried the artist in despair.
But Lady Hay only smiled. She removed Diane's hat, unfastened the
heavy coils of golden hair, she bathed the white face in
cool, fragrant waters, she caused windows and doors to be opened,
so that a current of air might surround her; then she looked kindly
into Lord Kerston's anxious face.'I assure you,' she said, 'it is nothing. Diane will laugh when
she knows how frightened you have been. It is only standing too
long, and the morning is warm.''I am afraid,' said the artist, regretfully, 'that I wearied my
lady with my long story.'Lady Hay shook her head.'I do not really think that she heard it. I looked at her once
or twice, but all her attention was given to the pictures. You

have no idea how Lady Kerston loves art. Nothing could distract
her attention from such pictures as yours.  There, you see there
is no cause for fear, Philip.'For the violet eyes were open and looking from one to another
with a strange, dazed expression. Suddenly Lady Kerston raised
her hand to her head, and touched the golden hair; it was dripping
with fragrant essence.'Have I been ill, Philip?' she asked, faintly.'Yes, my darling; you gave us a terrible fright. You fainted
and fell on the floor. See, there is a bruise on that beautiful face.''I remember,' she said, in a tone of indescribable pain; 'I re-
member.'Lady Hay said, smilingly:'I do not think either of these gentlemen had ever seen a lady
faint before; they were both frightened, Diane. I told them it
was nothing; you had tired yourself by standing too long on a
warm morning.''Yes,' said Diane, still faintly. 'I should like to go home,
Philip.''So you shall, my darling. What a sad ending to our holiday!'There was a strange look, a marvellous light on her face as
she said:'Nay, not a sad ending, dear; it has been a wonderful morning, dear.'His face cleared then; he could not bear to think that the little
pleasure be had planned for her had been a dead failure.Then Diane stood up. Slowly enough the full tide of memory
swept over her; she remained quite silent for a few minutes, perhaps
debating within herself whether the scene of that morning
had been a dream or a reality. A reality surely enough, for there
on the easel lay the sketch.Mons. Davard had in the meantime poured out some wine, and
Diane drank it gratefully. Then, in her own charming fashion,
she held out her hand to him.'I thank you very much,' she said, 'and I am grieved to have
given you so much trouble, Mons. Davard. I must make amends.
You have converted me. I will come whenever it suits you for
the first sitting of my portrait, and I hope you will give me the
opportunity of returning in my home the kindness you have shown
to me in yours.'She held out her white hand, and the artist, although surprised
at her condescension, gratefully touched it.Lord Kerston looked somewhat surprised at his wife's warmth
of manner, but in his eyes everything she did was right Then she
said to her husband:'I will go home, Philip; Lilian is right--I am very tired, although
I should never have found it out if I had not fainted.'She listened as in a dream to the conversation between her two
companions as she drove home. Lord Kerston made her rest comfortably,
and would not allow her to speak.'Lilian and I will do all the talking,' he said, ' you shall listen

Did you hear that strange story Mons. Davard was telling us,
Diane? I suppose not.Then, believing that she had not heard one word, he condensed
the story and repeated it.'I would like to know what the mother was like,' said Lady Hay.'Some uninformed pretty country girl,' said Lord Kerston,
'who perhaps thought she was doing a wonderful thing in marrying a
well-to-do farmer, then ran away because the life was dull
for her. One of the pretty, vapid, soulless women who do occasionally
break men's hearts.''Why should you judge her so harshly? asked Diane, quietly.'I think she was probably one of that kind,' said her husband.
'We will hope she was no worse.''Who can tell how she was tempted--what she suffered--how
she fell,' said Diane.'And Lady Hay interrupted:' What a strange romance to come across in one morning;
the beautiful young mother-the gifted son--the generous artist
--the stern father.  I feel as though I were reading a novel in
three volumes.''I hope the boy will not be like his mother,' said Lord Kerston,
'for Davard's sake, when he has so generously befriended
him. I should not like to hear he had run away from him.'Diane sighed to herself.  It was she herself they were
discussing. If they only knew! Oh, Heaven, if they only knew! Then 
to her infinite relief they reached home.'You looked very tired, Diane,' said her husband, as he helped her
out of the carriage.  'Lilian, what is to be done?  I
cannot bear to see her looking like this; these are white roses, not
red ones.'' Leave her to me,' said Lady Lilian, 'and believe me, that you
shall see her at dinner time just as usual.'Then in her own cheerful, lively fashion, she took possession of
Diane.'That husband of yours will wear himself away with anxiety,'
she said, laughingly. 'I know what you want, Diane; you have
overtired yourself; you want perfect rest in a cool, darkened room
for some hours, and that you shall have.'She went with Lady Kerston into the magnificent room, wherein Diane
was never to know another hour's peace; with her own
hands she drew the blinds and hangings, making a cool, shady
light; she arranged the soft, downy pillows, so that they should
give ease to the aching head; she laid a handkerchief, dipped in
fragrant water, over the hot brow; then bent over Diane, and
kissed her face.'Diane,' she said, In a low voice, 'you are not in trouble about
anything, I hope, are you?' Why do you ask me, Lilian ?''Because, since you have been lying here, you have been sighing
as though your heart would break.''Have I ? Then I will sigh no more.'Still Lady Lilian did not seem satisfied.'If ever anything should trouble you, Diane, you will not forget
that in me you have both sister and friend.''I will not forget,' said Diane, gently; while to herself she
wondered what the fair and noble lady would say if she knew the
truth--if she had but even the faintest notion of it.Then Lady Hay went away, leaving her to what she longed for,
solitude and repose. Diane went to the door and locked it; she
must be alone, quite alone, without danger of interruption, before
she dare look either thought or memory in the face. Away with
the downy pillows and fragrant essence, away with the thought
of sleep or repose; she was wild, almost mad with excitement;
she could hear the rapid beating of her own heart, she could feel
the blood like molten lava in her veins; for he whom she mourned
as dead was living. Surely as Heaven was above her, she had
seen and spoken to her own son--Laurence, her own son! the
golden-haired baby who had lain on her breast, whose lovely little
lips had first murmured her name, whose tiny hands had caressed
her; her own, her only son! She had seen him, heard him
speak, looked into his eyes. Oh, Heaven! how was she to bear
it, what was she to do? She knelt down, she tried to pray; only
confused words came to her lips. She wept, and the tears seemed
to burn her. She paced up and down the magnificent room,
wringing her hands and calling her son, her only son! It was an
hour of the most cruel torture that ever woman endured.Then she tried her best to collect her thoughts and ideas; he
was not dead, after all, this child whom she had mourned so deeply,
whose fancied loss had driven her mad, had driven her from
her desolate home a mourner on the face of the earth. He was
not dead, it was not from his death-bed they had driven her, they
were not so cruel or so hard as she thought--so much the more
guilty and wicked she.Would fire fall from Heaven and consume her? Would the
terrible wrath of God overtake her, and fall on her? She, who
had so horribly transgressed His law; she could have cried aloud
in her fright and anguish. Then she tried to control herself.'I am going mad!' thought Diane. 'Heaven help me, I am
mad!'The son whom she had mourned as dead was living--living,
fair, beautiful, and brave, gifted beyond the sons of men--living,
and loved her. The mother's love, so long repressed, broke out
like a fierce torrent; her heart yearned over him; she thought of
the sad infancy, the desolate boyhood, the lonely youth, and how
he had loved her through it all. How Hester had tortured him
because he had his mother's hair and eyes, how she had emptied
the vials of wrath on his defenceless head, how she had made him
suffer for his mother's sin.'Oh, my boy !' she sobbed. 'How many long, dreary nights
had he lain awake crying, without any one to comfort him? How
often had the wearied head turned and tossed on the pillows without a
mother's loving hand to soothe and caress him? How often,
when the boyish heart was hot and sore with anger, had the sweet
dream of mother come only to mock him?'Well might she lay on the floor hiding her face from the light
of day and calling out that she was a most wretched sinner--Heaven
take pity on her, a most wretched sinner! And the passionate yearning
of mother-love was so strong upon her, that it seemed
to her it must kill her. Oh I to touch those golden clusters of
hair, to kiss the fair face, to bear him say mother; to rest her
face against his, to lavish on him the love that during the long,
silent years had been gathering in strength and in force.She forgot all they said of Bruno, she gave no thought to him;
in the supreme anguish of that hour she even forgot her soul's
dearest love, Philip: she remembered only her son; the mother-
love so long dead lived again, and in full life and vigor. He was
living--her son; there was no little green grave with white daisies
growing on it, such as she had imagined; but, in place of a grave,
what was there? A man, young, handsome, gifted, with genius
in his face and love on his lips. Her own son! Heaven help her,
hapless Diane--her own, only son!Then she tried to collect herself, to still the violent trembling
of her nerves; if ever she was to see him again she must conquer
herself--beautiful, hapless Diane.CHAPTER XLIX.
DIANE AND HER SON.She had conquered herself; she had said to herself she must be
mistress of herself, mistress of her own nerves, if ever she wished
to see him again--her son whom she had thought dead, but was
living.Lord Kerston thought afterward that he had never seen his
wife in better spirits; the pallor and faintness had disappeared,
her face was flushed with the loveliest color, her eyes were bright
as stars; she joined them at dinner, looking superbly beautiful
in a dress of pale blue velvet.Lady Hay had remained, and was rejoiced to see her looking so
much better. Never had Diane laughed and talked more at her
ease; never had she, in the eyes of those who loved her, seemed
more charming. She could talk of nothing but Mons. Davard,
his genius, his kindness; how pleased she was after all that she
bad consented to have her portrait taken.Then Lady Hay looked at her with a smile, and said that she
had never heard anything so peculiar as a presentiment over one's
own picture.Indeed, Diane's ideas seemed to have taken quite an opposite
direction, as before she had hardly tolerated the idea of having
her picture taken, now she seemed unable to rest until it was
begun. She asked so many questions that Lord Kerston laughed at
last.When was the first day that it could be commenced? How
many sittings would it require? She would infinitely prefer go-

ing to the studios; she would feel more at her ease in the studio
surrounded by all that was artistic; and she looked up with keen
wistfulness into Lord Kerston's face. Should he be willing for
her to go there?'I am only too happy for you to accede to my wishes on any
terms you like to propose,' he said. 'As for going to the studio,
half the fashionable ladies in London go--why not you?She laughed, but there was something strange in the sound.
Her husband looked up anxiously.You are sure that you are quite well, Diane ?''Quite well,' she replied. 'When shall I go, Philip--when
will the first sitting take place?''You must write and ask Monsieur Davard about it; when it
will suit his convenience,' said Lord Kerston, who quite enjoyed
her eagerness.Yet even he was a little surprised to see her go at once after
dinner to her little writing-table, and with that lovely flush
deepening on her face, write a letter to the artist; he had not
believed that his fair wife had so much vanity in her composition. He
heard Lady Hay say to her, laughingly:'Have you written already, Diane ? You are determined not
to let the grass grow beneath your feet.'He saw his wife look up with something like alarm.'Does it seem too sudden, unusual, out of place ?' she asked,
eagerly.'No, not at all,' was the smiling reply. 'It looks as though
you were in a great hurry to have your portrait taken, that is all.'He noticed that his wife did nothing, attended to nothing, until
the letter had been dispatched to the post; then she began to
talk to him, with a look of great relief.In the early dawn of the next morning Lord Kerston was surprised to
find that Diane had risen, and was standing against the
window, with a look of dreamy unconsciousness on her face.'Diane!' he cried; and she looked up in fear like one suddenly
aroused from a dream.  'Diane!' he repeated, and then he saw
the light of consciousness return to her eyes.' Yes,' she replied. 'Did you speak to me, Philip?'Why have you risen so early, my darling.  It is not four
o'clock yet. See, the dawn has hardly lighted the skies.'She went to him and laid her hand on his arm.'Philip,' she said, 'I hope I am not going to be ill, but do you
know I was not even aware that I had risen ?''You have overtired yourself,' he replied, not wishing that she
should see how greatly alarmed he was. 'You have overtired
yourself, my darling. I must see that you take a few days' rest.'
Looking in her face, he was horrified to see how pale it was, with
an expression of unrest and disquiet, with great dark circles round
her eyes, and trembling lips.'You have not slept, Diane,' he said. 'My darling, this will
never do.'He laid the tired head on a soft pillow; he closed her eyes with
his kindly hands, and he soothed her until she fell asleep, like a

weary child. Then later in the day she was better, and he felt
greatly relieved; but from mistaken kindness he would not let her
leave her room all day.'She must have perfect rest,' he said.How was he to know that for her perfect rest of body meant
fiercest torture of mind?--that while she lay still, with closed eyes
and folded hands, her whole heart and soul were burning with
fiercest intensity of thought?She had seen him--her only son--her baby, whom for so many
years she had mourned as dead, she had seen him at last; when
should she see him again--and again?   She should be at the
studio soon, and then she could feast her eyes upon him, she
could look at him, listen to him; but when that was over, when
her portrait was painted, and there was no need for more visits,
what should she do then ?--what excuses could she make for
seeing him?A sudden idea came to her--she would try and interest Lord
Kerston in him; she would try so to arrange matters that he
should be a visitor at their house, that her husband should in
time consider him a protege of his own. Her heart beat with
delight as she thought of it, as she saw in fancy, Laurence,
grown to man's estate, the gifted artist, the true genius, visiting
them, spending days and weeks with them, and growing fond of
them because they were so kind to him. No wonder that in the
evening Lord Kerston found her so much better. He said the rest
had cured her.' I shall be careful of you, though, my darling,' be said. 'That
was a great fright for me; I shall not allow you to do so much for
the future. What would life be to me without Diane?'The following day brought a letter from Mons. Davard, saying how
very delighted he was that Lady Kerston had given him
the opportunity of distinguishing himself by painting her portrait,
and that he should hope for the honor of commencing on
Tuesday. He was also grateful that she had chosen to have it
done at the studio.'I have to live as I can until Tuesday,' she said to herself.
'Every hour will seem like a day, every day like an age.'But she did one little thing that made her quite happy; she
went to a jeweller's shop where she was not known, and there
she purchased a pretty watch and chain. If she could have done
what she wished she would have bought the most costly and
valuable one in the shop; but that would not have done--it would
have attracted too much attention; she was content with one
that was good and pretty. She packed it securely in a little box,
and sent it, addressed to Laurence Severne, through the post.
She posted it with her own hands, so that there could never be
any clue as to the sender. And so she made herself more happy
by thinking of her boy.All day on Monday she was in a fever of unrest  Lord Kerston could
not imagine what unusual spirit of activity possessed
his wife; but it seemed to her that if she stopped only for one
minute to think, she should lose her reason. Then Tuesday

came and to Diane it seemed like her bridal day.  Her husband's care
had taught her caution; she did not mention the
studio; she carefully concealed her tremor of delight, her flutter
of spirits, her agitation; there was no trace of them in the calm
face that greeted Lord Kerston at the breakfast-table. He was
the first to mention the subject.'Diane,' he said, 'this is Tuesday. Have you forgotten your
appointment?''No,' she replied, gravely. She had not forgotten it.Then Lord Kerston asked if she would like Lady Lilian to be
with her, and she answered again:'No; that she should prefer to be alone.'Then he suggested that as he had business at the Austrian Embassy
which would occupy him for two hours at least, they should
drive to the studio together; that he should leave her there, and
call for her on his way home.'The only objection I can see to such an arrangement,' he said,
'is that if I am detained, I should keep you waiting, Diane.'That was the very thing she desired; the longer she waited, the
more she should see of her son.So it was arranged. Never, even when Diane had been going
to the grandest fete, when she had been most desirous of looking well, when she had been most anxious to please her husband,
never had she taken such pains as on the morning when she
wished to delight the eyes of her son. He would never know
that she was his mother; he would never know how she loved
him; but if the beauty of her face pleased his artistic taste, oh,
happy Diane!Mons. Davard was all kindness, all politeness. It was so charming,
so good of my lady; he felt himself the most happy, the most
honored of men.Lord Kerston remained for five minutes talking to him, and
Diane's anxious eyes looked wistfully down the suite of
apartments. The velvet hangings were drawn, but beyond, no doubt,
was her son. She started when she found her husband bending
over her; he never left her without a kiss.'Good-by, darling,' he said. 'You will try to make yourself
happy. I will be as quick as I can.'Do not hurry,' said Diane. 'I could not be happier than
among pictures.'Then her husband went away, and Diane was left alone. Mons.
Davard returned in a few minutes, and was beginning to discuss
the details of costume with her, when the Countess Dowager of
Dovedale was announced.'I cannot see her,' said the artist to the footman; 'you must
tell her ladyship that I am engaged.'' Nay,' said Lady Diane, sweetly, ' my time is not so valuable.
I can wait, Mons. Davard.'The artist bowed ; my lady was all that was kind and gracious;
but Lady Dovedale always detained him.Diane smiled with a beating heart; it was the very opportunity
for which she longed. If he would but go and talk to Lady Dove-

dale, she could go to her son, her only son, her boy Laurence, who she
was longing to see. Oh, if he would but go.'She looked at the artist with one of her brightest smiles.'I am quite spoiled,' she said; 'I always have my own way. Do you
know that I enjoy being here, Mons. Davard? I like these art
surroundings, they are the familiar atmosphere of home to me. I pray
you to prolong, not to curtail, my pleasure.'After that, what could the artist say? Only protest how delighted
he was that so beautiful and noble a lady should honor his poor
abode--only pray that she would consider him at her service.'I may look around,' said Diane, 'while you talk to the
countess?''Certainly,' he was only too pleased; then, with a low bow,
Mons. Davard quitted my lady, and soon afterward she heard his voice
in an animated dialogue with the countess of Dovedale.She was going to see her son--she raised her eyes--she would fain
have prayed Heaven to bless him, and to help her; but she did not
dare.She paused one minute while the pallor passed from her face, and
the trembling from her limbs; then she opened the velvet hangings,
and she saw him.CHAPTER L.
THE MOTHER'S GIFT.Laurence looked from his easel; there, before him, stood the
beautiful, noble lady, who had been so kind to him; she was looking
at him now with a smile so sweet, that her face looked like an
angel's.'Good-morning,' she said. and in his own mind the artist thought
her voice sweeter than the sweetest music. 'Mons. Davard is engaged,'
she said, 'so I have come to look again at your sketch.'He rose and bowed; his fair, boyish face flushed with delight.'You are very kind, Lady Kerston,' he said.'I am kind to myself,' she replied; 'you see that I am giving
myself pleasure. May I come and watch you at work?'He looked up with a little laugh.'I am not sure,' he said, 'if I can work while any one is looking
at me. Mons. Davard can, but I have not tried it yet.''Try it now,' she said.She wanted to look well at him, to drink in every  beauty of his
face, to study every expression, to watch him with her hungry eyes.'What shall you think of me if I fail?' asked her boy.'I shall think nothing, but try to make you forget that I am a
stranger,' she said.Her heart was growing lighter every minute, her spirits rising
--she was alone with her only son. Then he returned to his easel,
wondering at the lady's kindness to him; he resumed his occupation,
and she sat looking at him. This was her only son, her
baby Laurence, the little God-sent child that had come to her in
her misery, like light from Heaven, who had slept in her arms,
who had kissed her a thousand times with his baby lips, who had
been the only gleam of comfort she had ever known. How many
times had she laid that golden head on her breast, and sang sweet
lullabies until the child slept?--how many times had she, against
Miss Hester's wish, carried him out into the fields where the
golden buttercups grew, and played with him?--how often had
she taken the tiny little hands in hers, and tried to fancy the child
was saying his prayers? How she had fought for his love; and
when she had seen him last, he lay in that bed, in that gloomy
room, with the death-damp on his brow, dying, as she and every
one else thought; and now her hungry eyes seemed as though
they could never be satisfied with gazing at him--now he was a
fair and gracious youth of noble promise. How many times had
she brushed those golden curls, thinking them more beautiful than
anything she had ever seen!  She longed to touch them now--
her fingers tingled with that longing; she clasped and unclasped
them. Oh, for once, just once, to touch the golden hair--just
once to kiss the boyish face, and tell him how dearly she loved
him, for he was her own son.The boy delighted her, she had never been so charmed--his
conversation and gesture seemed to her perfect; he was so graceful, so
gracious, so modest, so self-possessed.  Oh! but for her 
sin, but for her folly and wickedness, how she might have gained
her boy, how she might have loved him, might have lived another
life in him!Looking up suddenly, the boy saw the beautiful face wet with
tears. He did not speak; already, without his knowing how or
why, there seemed to be some mysterious attraction between the
lady and himself--he felt as though he had known and loved her
all his life--as though, in some strange, vague, uncertain way, he
and she stood alone in the world. So, when he saw her sweet
face bent over him, and her eyes dim with tears, he said nothing;
he could not have explained what he thought or felt for the whole
world, but it seemed strangely natural to him. So they sat for
some time in silence, mother and child, so strangely united, yet
so far apart.'I will talk to him; thought Diane; 'if I sit here watching
him much longer, I shall be compelled to go to him and kiss
him.'The impulse was strong upon her to go to him, and clasp her
arms round him, to kneel at his feet, and tell him that she was
his loving, guilty, wretched mother, and ask him to let her die
there. To conquer t, she must speak.  She went up to him,
and stood looking over his shoulder. She was so near to him that
her hands trembled to touch him, her lips burned to kiss him--
he was her own child!'What made you an artist? she asked, abruptly, not knowing,
just at that moment, what to say.'My own wish,' he replied. 'My father wanted me to be a
farmer, but I did not like the life; it seemed to be more dull than
any other.''And was he, your father, very much disappointed?' she asked.I am afraid so. I should have liked to please him,' replied
Laurence, regretfully, 'for he was not very happy. I did try, but
I failed.'How was it?' she asked.'I could not keep from pictures. When I should have been at
work in the early summer morning, I used to go out and watch
the leaves, the grass, the dew, the flowers, and forget what I had
to do; then he, my father, was ill pleased. I tried hard to interest
myself in corn, and crops, and farm business, but I could not;
when I should have been hardest at work, I used to find myself
combining colors, making sketches; so I said to myself, that Heaven
had made me an artist, and it was useless to rebel.''I think you were right,' said Diane, gently. 'How came you
to have this strong artistic taste ?'' I do not know, indeed,' he replied, with a bright smile, 'I had
an aunt Hester, who used to thank Heaven I did not inherit so
depraved a taste from any of my father's family--they had been
farmers for many generations back.'Then they had never told him that she, Diane, his mother, was
an artist's daughter; that was quite evident. She longed, with
her whole heart, to ask him some question about his mother, to
hear him say the word. She wanted to hear it from his lips, but
her courage failed her.She heard Mons. Davard speaking in more subdued tones, and
she imagined from that his interview was coming to an end--then
hers would do the same. The time was growing short, yet, try
as she would, she had not the courage to ask her boy to say 'mother.'
Suddenly it occurred to her to wonder if he had the least
idea from whence his watch and chain came.I should like to know the precise time, she said. 'I fancy
that clock must be fast.'With all a boy's pride in his first grand possession, he drew out
his watch.' It is three minutes fast,' he said.And then Lady Kerston, bending over him, said, carelessly:'What a pretty little watch.''Ye,' he replied, 'and it came to me so strangely.''Did it?' asked Diane. ' How was that? He laughed.I think it must have been by magic. I had been longing for
a watch and chain for year. I know my father would have given
me one, but I did not like to ask him; and one morning, just as
I was thinking whether I should write to him or not, a parcel
came for me by post, and when I opened it I found this watch
and chain.''That was strange, indeed,' said Diane.'Yes, but I can guess who sent it to me. It must have been

Aunt Hester; she was always cross and curious, but I am sure in
her heart she loved me, though she never said so--she would not
tell me about it, and would not like me to mention it, but I am sure
it came from her, no one else could care for me or think of me.'Heaven help her boy! no one else to think of him but grim
Aunt Hester--no loving mother. She sat silent for a few moments, a
sharp sword of sorrow piercing her heart; then she said'What makes you think that this Aunt Hester cares for you ?''I am sure of it,' he replied. 'Once I had a bad headache, and
she was very cross with me; she said it served me quite right,
that boys were always tiresome, and all kinds of severe things. I
went to bed, and--I was only a little boy--I cried very much; it
seemed so hard for them to be cross when I was ill. She came to
me. and she thought I was asleep: she bent down over me and
kissed me. 'Poor little fellow!' she said, and then I felt something
like tears fall from her eyes on to my face. She must have
cared for me, or she would not have done that.''No,' said Lady Kerston.And it seemed natural enough to both of them that he should
talk and she should feel interested in Aunt Hester.'So,' continued the boy, 'perhaps she has been thinking over
those years when I was a helpless boy, and she was so dreadfully
severe. I look on the watch and chain as a kind of apology, that
she would never make in words, I know.'He little knew how truly in one sense he was speaking; but
what a poor apology,--what a poor excuse.' Whoever gave it to you,' said Lady Kerston, 'it is very pretty.'She felt almost disappointed, she could hardly tell why; but
she would have liked him to have guessed, by instinct, she had
chosen the present that pleased him so greatly. She was almost
disappointed that he did not--and for him to feel grateful to Hester,
perhaps to like that grim maiden all the better for it, it certainly
did seem hard. Then she looked into her boy's pleased face.'Perhaps,' she said, slowly, 'your aunt--what do you call her
--Aunt Hester, may send you more presents in the same way?'I hope so,' he said. 'I wish she would send me Ruskin's
works-all of them.'A little speech which Diane affected not to bear, while she
made up her mind that he should have them soon. She laughed.'If I were in your place,' she said, with a sagacious little nod,
'I should not thank her for anything, as she is so peculiar, or you
may make her ashamed to send again.'And her boy laughed too, a sweet, musical laugh that stirred
her blood like sweetest music.'That would be very wise,' be said, 'if I can remember.'Then Mons. Davard came in, and it seemed to Diane that she
was suddenly shut out from the fairest heaven in a cold, bleak
world. He was full of apologies.'It was in vain,' he declared, 'that he had done all in his power
to induce the countess dowager to shorten her stay. She had so
much to say, and it was not likely that she should go without
saying it; he had been really annoyed at leaving my lady so long
alone.'But he looked in wonder at my lady's face; there was no sign
of weariness, the sweetest smile was on her lips, the clearest light
in her eyes; there was something tender and pathetic in her
loveliness, that even he, beauty lover as he was, had never noticed
before. She turned with a gracious smile to Laurence Severne.'I bid you good-morning, she said, 'and hope to see you again
soon.'The boy's face smiled into hers, and then the velvethangings were
dropped, Diane feeling as though they shut out heaven from her.Mons. Davard wondered how suddenly her keen interest in her
portrait had died away. So he discussed costume and attitude
with her; then, before he had been long at work, Lord Kerston
came for her.' When shall I come again?' said Diane to the artist.And he was struck by the eagerness of her tone.'Whatever time pleases your ladyship; but we must not fatigue
you,' was the polite reply.And Lord Kerston felt quite flattered at what he felt his wife's
evident desire to please him.CHAPTER LI.
ALONE WITH HIM.A bitter disappointment came to Diane--the next time she went
to the studio Laurence was absent. The interview of that first
day had been most delightful to her; she had seen him, talked to
him, looked him in the face, and when the day was ended she
had said:'Heaven pardon me for my sin! I have been punished when
I have been with my own child, yet dare not ask him to say
'mother!''But the second time she went, he was not there. It had happened
quite accidentally; the artist, having a particular commission to
execute, had asked Laurence to attend to it for him.Diane, as usual, wandered through the rooms. She raised the
heavy velvet hangings, for she was beginning now to feel quite at
home; then, to her horrible dismay, she saw no golden head bent
over the easel. She could have cried aloud in her anguish; her
lips turned white.'I am cruelly punished,' she said, ' when I dare not even ask
'Where is my son?'Once or twice the words trembled on her lips, but she did not
dare utter them; it seemed to her that if she spoke of him, there
would be so much love in the sound of her voice, that the artist
would look at her and say:--'He is your son!'So she sat quite still while he went on with the picture, and he
was wondering to himself, at the time, why the light was absent
that he had seen on her face the day before. The minutes flew
more quickly than they had ever done before, yet he did not
come--her heart sank with horrible dread. Would she be compelled 
to go away without seeing him? She must ask, even if
she betrayed herself a hundred times over; so, when the sitting
war over, she, in a careless tone that gave no clue to the earnest
soul, said:'Your protegeis not here to-day, Mons. Davard.  I quite enjoyed a conversation with him the last time I came.'Now, to speak of Laurence or praise him was a sure way to win
the artist's heart. His eyes brightened in a moment.'One so appreciative as my lady could not fail to be pleased
with his gifted adopted son--he had, indeed, the artist's soul. He
was not there--not at work to-day, he had gone into the city on
a very important commission; and my lady thought highly of the
boy, did she?'I think he is a genius,' said Diane, calmly; 'and I like to talk
to him because he is so frank and so unworldly; he has such a
clear, beautiful soul.'And the artist, who listened with such pleasure, little dreamed
that the royally beautiful woman before him could have knelt and
kissed his hands--could have knelt to thank and bless him for his
kindness to her only son.Mons. Davard was charmed to hear his protege praised, and he
said to himself that never should the boy be absent again when
the sweet and generous lady came. She might be a friend to him
for life--she whose position and influence were second to none.So Diane had to go away without seeing her boy, and that
evening Lord Kerston wondered what had happened to his wife--
why she had lost all her animation. As for Diane, she thought
the dreary hours would never end.The French have a proverb that is indeed wise--it says, 'Desire
grows in indulgence.' It is, indeed, terribly true; Diane found
it so. She bad seen her son twice, and the desire, the longing
to see him again, grew painful in its intensity. How could it be
done? She wanted to see him alone somewhere, where she could
talk to him at her ease, without fear of interruption--where she
should find courage to speak to him of his mother, and hear
what he had to say.  A happy idea occurred to her.  She was
not to return to the studio that week, but she would ask Lord
Kerston to invite Mons. Davard and his young protege to dinner; then, under the pretext of showing Laurence her drawing
and art treasures, she could take him to her boudoir and talk to
him at her ease.'Philip,' she said to her husband, as they sat at breakfast on
the following morning, 'Philip, we have no particular engagement for Thursday, have we ?''No,' he replied.  'Lord Rodney and Lady Lilian are coming
to dinner.''Yes, I remember.  I should very much like to invite Mons.
Davard and that handsome young protege of his,
if you quite approve.''Approve, my darling! What a strange notion! It hurts me
-as though I could do anything but approve of anything you
suggest.  Are you not mistress and queen of your own house?
Ask Mons. Davard, by all means, whenever you will; I shall only
be too pleased and happy. As for his protege, I
do not know; he is very young, is he not?''Yes, he is young; but I like him so much. He seemed to me
such a fair youth--so full of gracious promise.''Then by all means, darling, invite him.  You cannot please
me better than by pleasing your own self. Invite him, and I will
show him all the attention in my power, since he is fortunate
enough to be a favorite of my Diane.'So the great desire of her heart was gratified, and she welcomed
her son in her own house. She almost wondered at herself that
day. She could not help the feeling that something very delightful and novel was going to happen. She was going to receive her
own boy under her roof. He looked so handsome in his evening
dress. He was so perfectly a gentleman, so perfectly accustomed
to the usages of good society; he looked so gracious, so fair, so
handsome, with the slight flush on his face, that Diane was charmed with him; she could not take her eyes from him.Oh, if her lot in life had been happier; if this had but been her
son and Philip's--the heir to her beloved husband; if she dare
but have taken the boy in hand, and shown him to the whole
world, saying :--' This is my son!'She was delighted with the attention Lord Kerston paid him.
She saw how he studied the young guest's tastes and likes, how
he tried to make him feel perfectly at home; and she was more
grateful to him than she had ever been in her life before. Still,
her great pleasure had its drawback--she felt it cruelly hard to
have her son there, and be forced to treat him as a stranger; and
she winced terribly when she heard the word 'Severne,' no matter who pronounced it, or how often it was uttered. Each time
it went through her heart, as the pain of a sharp sword might
have done. 'Mr. Severne,' so all the guests called him, and each
time she heard the name she thought of Bruno, and Heather, and
Larchdale.The ordeal of dinner passed over happily enough, and when
ended, the gentlemen remained to discuss a bottle of claret. Then
the ladies withdrew, and Diane said to herself, the time she had
prayed and longed for had come. She turned to Laurence.'You will not care for political discussion and claret,' she said.
'Will you come with me ?'Lord Kerston and his guests only saw in that a kind, graceful
act of courtesy, from a very beautiful and noble lady to a boy;
whose society could have no charm for her.Laurence himself felt grateful; the society and conversation of
these gentlemen were nothing like so attractive as hers. He went
with her and Lady Lilian to the drawing-room. The evening was
warm, and Lady Hay seemed tired.'Will you come with us to my boudoir " said Diane to her
friend. 'I am going to show Mr. Severne some of my drawings.
Will you come with us, Lilian--or will you prefer remaining here?'I am selfish enough to prefer remaining here,' said Lady Hay;
'my eyelids are heavy, they seem to close naturally.'Then Diane led her boy away; she placed her white, jewelled
hand on his arm as they walked through the magnificent suite
of rooms to her boudoir; he was so proud of it; how much
prouder would he have been, poor boy, if he had known it was
his mother's hand.She had her heart's desire realized at last, she had him here in
her own favorite room; here, where she had dreamed of him a
hundred times; here, where she had sat through long evenings,
thinking all the time of a little green grave. She placed her favorite chair for him; she closed the door with trembling bands;
she had him here alone, all to herself at last. Oh, if she dare, if
she could but have knelt on the ground at his feet, and have said,
'Kiss me, Laurence--I am your unhappy mother!' But she controlled herself, she must not alarm him, he was all her own, and
she had him for time, but she must not frighten him; so she placed him in her favorite chair, and brought a large folio of drawings
to show him; she looked at him and said to herself that she
should never forget the aspect of the room with him in it; how he
seemed to brighten it; how doubly like home it was, and how
happy she was-poor Diane--bending over the folio with him, her
hair brushing his golden curls, her hands often touching his; how
happy she was, and how the golden moments seemed to fly. She
listened in a trance of delight to his criticisms, his bright, sunny
laughter, his happy repartees; how graceful he was--this boy of
hers; how her father would have idolized him.'The gloom of your house does not seem to have affected you
much,' she said. She had brought him there purposely to hear
him say 'mother,' and she was thinking how she could best
succeed. His face clouded at once.It is well for me,' he replied.'You spoke of your home as being so gloomy--of your father,
as grave and stern--of your aunt as cross and severe. See, I take
it for granted that you had not a very happy home.'Happy!' said the boy with a shudder. 'I have not one cheerful recollection or pleasant memory of it.''Not one? said Diane, slowly.'No,' he replied, 'not one.' Then she looked in the clear eyes.'I notice,' she said, that you speak only of your father.''I speak only of my father,' he repeated.'Pardon me, she said; 'I take an interest in you; I like you
so much. Will you tell me why it is? He was silent for a minute or two, then, with a flush of his brow he said:I hardly like telling you; I know that great ladies like you
know nothing of the sorrows of the world.'Then he hesitated, and Diane said to herself :--'Great Heaven;
my boy does not even like telling me my own story.'We know more of sorrow than you imagine,' she mid, gently;
'tell me yours.''I never saw my mother,' he said, slowly; and after he had
uttered the word they both sat quite still for some few moments.'Will you say that word again ?' asked Diane, with averted face.'Mother,' he repeated; and the sweet music was like a death-
knell to her.He did not think it strange that she had asked such a thing.'You never saw her?' continued Diane; 'how was that?'She was very young and beautiful, bright and happy, when
my father brought her home to Larchdale, and she was wretched
there, so wretched--my poor, young mother--that she ran away.''Ran away and left you?' said Diane.'Ah, you must not misjudge her; Aunt Hester did not like her,
but even then she would never have left me--she loved me,' he
continued, eagerly, ' but she thought me dead.'His generous defence of her brought tears to Diane's eyes, but
her boy must not see them there, no matter what happened. How
he loved her, and how true he was to her. Poor Diane!CHAPTER LII.
HAPPY DIANE!'You will think me very strange,' said Diane to her boy: 'but
the truth is, years ago--long years ago--I used to know some one
so much like you--so much like you that I cannot remember that
you are a stranger. I have a vague feeling that I have known and
liked you for years.' He smiled.'It is curious, Lady Kerston,' he said, 'for I have just the same
feeling with you. You do not appear to have come suddenly into
my life; it is rather as though you had always been part of it.'
Then he stopped with a crimson glow on his face. 'You will think
me presumptuous,' he said. Diane looked at her boy. Presumptuous--how
could she ever think him that?'You are so like,' she murmured; 'and it is long since I had
any memory of this one whom I loved----'Laurence interrupted her.--'Is he dead?' he asked.'For many years,' she said, slowly, 'I have had no memory of
him but a grave.'She could not have said 'yes' for the world; looking in his dear
face, she could not have spoken untruthfully to him.'A grave?' repeated Laurence; 'that is very sad. I am glad
I remind you of someone whom you liked.'He laughed as he threw his handsome head back. He felt so
perfectly at home with her, so unutterably happy.'Lady Kerston,' he said, in his frank, boyish way, 'you look
just like a beautiful picture. When I used to read in story-books
about lovely ladies, I used to wonder what they were like; I
know now.''You are a flatterer,' said Diane, laughingly, yet her face flushed with delight at these praises from her son.'No, it is no flattery, it is earnest truth,' said Laurence.And it did not require any artistic taste to be struck with
Diane's appearance just then. She wore an evening dress of white
silk, with golden ornaments, a golden zone round her waist,
golden fringe round her bodice; the white neck, the rounded arms,
looked fair, even by contrast with the pale, creamy silk; her
golden hair was carelessly, though artistically, arranged, and in
it glimmered a diamond star; her face was colored with the most
delicate bloom: love sat in her eyes, and played round her lips;
from the golden tresses of her hair, and the folds of her dress,
there seemed to come some sweet, subtle perfume. He might well
think her beautiful--it is not given to many daughters of earth
to be so fair. They were talking happily and unreservedly now,
as though they had known each other for years.'I shall understand all about your life now,' said Diane.  'It
interests me very much. But tell me, where did your mother go
--this young mother of yours, who found life so dull?  You will
not mind talking to me about her.''No,' said the boy; 'far from minding it, Lady Kerston, it does
me good. I have never spoken of her before to any one, except
to Mons. Davard, and he understands.'' Tell me, then,' said Diane, 'where do you think she is?'He bent his head lower, so that it was on a level with hers.'I will tell you,' he said, in a low voice, 'because I know that
you will laugh at me. I believe that my mother is with the angels
in Heaven.'Diane looked into the clear eyes; she could only repeat after him:'With the angels ?''Yes, Lady Kerston. I have my own dreams about my mother;
she belongs to me, and I to her, as no other two people in this
world could belong--so I have my own dreams about her, and in
them I always see her so fair of face. You will not be angry if
I say with a face something like yours--very fair, with golden
hair that falls back from the brow, and white hands that are always sweetly folded. I never see her laughing, as they say she
did, but with a light on her face, such a light as they give in pictures to angels before the great white throne.'She listened intently; not to have saved her life could she have
interrupted him by one single word.'So,' he continued, 'I picture my mother in heaven, standing
among the angels, waiting for me; and while I live my mind is
quite made up I will never do wrong; I will keep from sin, so
that she may stretch out her pure hands to me, and place me by
her side. Ah! Lady Kerston, it is a sad thing to lose one's own
mother; but could any mother do more for me than my mother
in heaven can?''No,' she replied, dreamily. 'You have made for yourself a
most beautiful ideal mother. So you really think she is dead?''Yes,' he replied, calmly; 'she must have been sensitive and
gentle; so Aunt Hester, in her stern, blundering, but not altogether
unkindly fashion, may have broken her heart; in my own 
mind, I feel quite sure that she did not live long after she left my
father's house.' Then he looked at her with increased animation.'This is our great battle-ground,' he said. ' Aunt Hester would
pray for her as though she were some wandering sinner. Imagine
my mother a sinner, as though love of vanity, or pleasure, or
luxury had led her astray; imagine,' he continued. with superb
pride, 'my fair young mother led astray. My father did not exactly
join in the prayers, but he used to groan over them, and say 
'All in the Lord's good time, Hester. All in His own good time."'What did that mean?' asked Diane, gravely.'I can hardly tell you, but it gave me the idea always of my
mother coming home, humbled and sorrowful. I could not bear
it. I would never join in the prayers, and then there ensued a
battle between Aunt Hester and me. Yes, I never could divest
myself of the idea that she in her heart liked me all the better for
my sturdy defence of my mother, my darling mother.'How those two words thrilled Diane! how they made her tremble! 'His
darling mother'  Ah I well, there was one comfort, he would never know.' You are quite right,' she said. 'But suppose it were otherwise?
Suppose that, instead of being among the angels in heaven, 
your mother is among the unhappy ones of the earth? What
should you do if you knew it?' He smiled sadly.'I cannot even suppose such a thing,' he replied. 'Faith in
my mother is part of my religion; but if anything so improbable
could ever be, I should still love her. Nothing will ever make
any difference in that; no matter what she might be, I should
love her and cherish her, and care more for her than for anything
on earth; but it will never be. I shall not see my mother until I
have won heaven for myself, and see her shining among the angels.'You are a brave, noble boy,' said Lady Kerston, impulsively.'No,' he replied, ' I am only a most loving son; but, Lady Kerston,
how freely I am talking to you, you are so kind that you 
spoil me; do not let me presume oh your indulgence; pray stop
me if you think I am saying too much.'It required all her strength to refrain from clasping her arms
round his neck and telling him that he was her only son, that
she was the unhappy, hapless mother whom he believed to be
among the angels.'You cannot say too much to me; I have told you why I am
interested in you, because you are so much like some one whom I
loved once--long ago; the sight of your face gives me keenest
pleasure, a smile from your lips fills my heart with sweetest
memories, the laughing light in your eyes gladdens me, your voice
fills my soul. I ask, as the greatest boon on earth, that you should
learn to care for me, to place confidence in me, to come to me in
your joys and sorrows, to tell me even the least details of your
life, all this would be my honest delight; and now that you know
it, you will never think again that you can tire me.'She held out her white, jeweled hand, and the boy left his in
her warm clasp. He was touched, deeply moved, but not
surprised--nothing that Lady Kerston ever said surprised him;
afterward, when he remembered that, it struck him that he had been
strangely blind.'Make that compact with me,' continued Diane, earnestly,
'you know why I like you; promise that I shall always be your
friend--always as long as you live that you will come to me for
all you want and require--will you promise me this ?''Yes,' he replied, gravely; 'I do promise.  I make no attempt to
thank you, Lady Kerston; but I would give my life if you needed it.'' My poor boy,' she said, gently; and then she dared to gratify
the longing of her heart, she laid her hands on the clusters of
golden hair--how she had longed to do that, no one could tell but
mother who have loved and lost a child; it was years since her
fingers had touched those lovely little curls, now they seemed to
close round them and burn them.' You have such beautiful hair,' she murmured, 'so fine and so
golden, and see, how strange--it is like mine.''I might be your younger brother,' he said, laughingly. 'Oh!
Lady Kerston, you have made earth like heaven to me.'Her beautiful face, her sweet voice, the love in her eyes, the
tender smiles, the soft, caressing touch, the sweet subtle perfume
that came from her hair and dress, all helped to bewilder him.
He could have knelt in wildest worship of this beautiful and gracious
lady, who honored her with her liking.'You overwhelm me, Lady Kerston,' he said; 'you leave me
without a word to say.  I wish that we lived in the olden days,
that I might be your knight and faithful servitor--how I should
draw my sword and fight for you.''Would you fight for me?' she asked, gently.'Yes, to the very death,' he replied.And then Diane--Lady Kerston--knew that whatever might befall her,
she had a champion, in this, her only son.She heard the sound of voices in the distance, and she knew
that the interview was ended.  It had been an hour of unutterable
bliss for her, she was so loth to see it pass; she rose from her
seat, and placing her hands on the boy's shoulders, she looked
steadily in his face.'You will remember your promise?' she said. 'We are to be
fast, faithful friends.''There is little fear of my forgetting, Lady Kerston.''And friendship,' she continued, 'is a very sensitive plant; the
too strong light of day often destroys it; you and I had far better
keep our compact secret; you will not talk of me, nor I of you;
you will often come to see me. When I have an hour to spend, I
will send for you, and there will be no need of saying anything
about it. If you want anything, you will come and ask me for
it, naturally and frankly, as you would go to--to your eldest sister;
you will make me happy by letting me do little things for
you; do you promise me this ?''Yes,' he replied. 'I promise you attention to every word you
say, obedience to every wish you express.'Diane held out her hands, her heart was too full for words.
Her boy took the white hand and touched it with his lips; it was
but a simple act of reverence and homage, a seal of his loyalty
and fealty, yet it had a strange effect on Diane; she trembled and
grew pale, her heart beat as it had never done before at this touch
of her boy's lips. It was hard to recover herself, but she did so,
and looked at him with a smile.'You will be an accomplished courtier In the years to come,'
she said. 'And now we must go; I hear Lord Kerston in the
drawing-room--he will be amused to hear your criticisms on my
folio.' They went to the drawing-room together, and found that
Lady Lilian had enjoyed a refreshing slumber. She said afterward to Diane:'I ought to apologize for leaving you the entire responsibility
of amusing your clever young guest, but I should not have known
what to say to him, whereas your talents are universal; you seem
well able to amuse people of all ages. Happy Diane!' And Diane
did not tell her how very pleasant she had found the task.CHAPTER LIII.
A CRUEL STROKE.Then came a time of unalloyed happiness to Diane--unalloyed,
save for the pain of regret and remorse. She went often to the
studio; she suggested alterations and improvements in the picture,
which greatly amused Mons. Davard. He saw that she 
liked being there, although he had not the most remote idea why,
except that, as she said herself, the surroundings reminded her of
home. He never tried to account for it in any other way, and if
it pleased so beautiful and accomplished a lady to honor him, he
was much pleased; so, without attracting attention and observation,
Diane was often at the studio; Mons. Davard and his pupil
were often, too, at Irksdale House.  Dearer and happier hours
came, too, for the hapless mother. When her husband was away
on business, and she could send for her boy, she wrote him little
notes, but they were so carelessly written that, even if they had
fallen into a stranger's hand, they would not have excited the least
comment. They generally ran as follows:'Lady Kerston would be pleased to see Mr. Severne this afternoon
about the little picture she mentioned, or about the drawing
she wanted.' For Diane was careful over appearances, and kept
up a little stream of business with her boy. Then when Laurence
received such missions, he would say to the artist:' May I go out, sir, for an hour or two?' And Mons. Davard
had such faith in him be never asked where or why.Then he would hasten to Irksdale House, where no one thought
his coming strange. The servants looked upon him as a fortunate
protege of their mistress; they thought her
very kind to him, but then she was kind to every one, so that it made but little difference. He would be shown to her boudoir; then, for mother and
son, came the most pleasant hours of their lives.Lady Hay was greatly amused at Diane's liking for the young
artist; visitors who met him there smiled at what they thought an
amiable caprice of the beautiful Lady Kerston. Her husband was
highly amused over it.'Your protege is very handsome, Diane,' he
would say; ' and if he were a few years older, I should have fair
grounds for being jealous of him.''Jealous!' said Diane, with a look of startled pain. 'Oh, Philip,
you cannot mean that. Jealous! Why, he is only a boy.'Lord Kerston laughed at the dismayed tone.'Only a boy, certainly; I know that, therefore I am not jealous. If
he were ten or twenty years older, the matter would be
more serious.''But you like him, Philip,' said Diane, anxiously.'Most decidedly, I like him. I venture to predict a grand future
for him; he will be a greater artist even than our friend 
Monsieur Davard. I am always pleased to see him, and for your
sake  my darling Diane, because you like him, I will do all in my
power to push his fortunes, you may be quite sure.'She kissed his face in token of her earnest thanks, and Lord
Kerston kept his word. It was in his power to grant many little

favours to Laurence, and he never lost an opportunity. He took
great delight in making him very handsome presents; he was always
sending him trinkets and invitations; he talked of him as
one of the rising young artists of the day; he introduced him to
people of influence who would be useful to him, and Laurence repaid
all his kindness by devotion and affection that was wonderful to
behold. Lord Kerston took him out with him; gave him
all the benefit of his advice and of his experience; and all this he
did for Diane's sake, and because Diane liked him.That was perhaps--setting aside the never ending, never dying
pain of remorse--that was perhaps the happiest part of Diane's
life. She was in the presence of those two she loved with so great
and faithful a love; she had husband and her son. So the month
of May passed; then a cruel stroke of fate was to fall on her
defenceless head. Her portrait was not half completed, but that
she knew well was her own fault; she had caused the numerous
delays by her own suggestions. She went to the studio as usual
one morning, but, arriving some time before the hour settled, she
found Monsieur Davard from home.That did not trouble Diane, for it gave her the chance of seeing
her boy; she hastened to avail herself of it, but she found him
looking graver and more anxious than usual; an open letter lay
by his side. How his face brightened as be saw her; their eyes
met; their hands clasped--their hearts seemed to go out and
meet each other.'I have news this morning,' said Laurence. 'It is not often
that a letter comes to me; this is from my father.'She trembled and grew pale under the shock of the words. A
letter from Bruno Severne! It seemed to her as though she had
been suddenly brought face to face with Bruno himself. Still she
was cautious.' A letter from your father,' she said, trying to speak careless1y;
'that should please you very much.''I am pleased to hear that he is well and all things prospering
at home; but my father's letters always sadden me--they are
real reflections of himself. It seems to me that there is hard pain
--stern, repressed pain--in every line of them.'Then he raised his face to hers.My father is coming to London, Lady Kerston. I wish that I
might bring him to see you--bring him to thank you for all the
kindness that you have lavished on me.'The shock of the words was so great to her that the wonder is
they did not kill her. She turned abruptly away, lest he should
see the ghastly pallor that overspread her face. Her limbs trembled so
that she feared she must fall; she could have cried aloud
in her fear and her anguish, but that all sound died on her white
lips. Bruno Severne coming to London?--Bruno Severne coming
to see her! Oh, Heaven! had she dreamed the awful words, or
were they true? How long bad she been standing there with that
awful dread on her? Then Laurence went to her.'Dear Lady Kerston,' he said, gently, 'have I displeased you?'Her boy displeased her! She turned her white face to him,
unable to speak.'Have I displeased you?' he repeated. 'I am, oh, so sorry!'She forced herself to speak; anything rather than distress him.'No,' she replied, 'I am not displeased; why should I be?''I was afraid that you thought I was taking a liberty in offering
to bring my father to see you; you have been so very good to me.Then he caught sight of her colorless face and shadowed eyes.'Oh! Lady Kerston, you are ill; your face is quite white; all
the color is gone from it. You are ill; what shall I do for you?'The sound of pain and distress in his voice aroused her as nothing
else could have done. She turned to him with a ghastly smile.'I am not ill,' she said, gently. 'Do not be frightened; it is
pain that I have at times--a pain in my heart; it frightens me,
and seems to take away my senses for a time. It is passing now,
and I shall understand what you are saying to me.'He placed a chair for her, and with gentle force made her sit
down. He brought a stool for her feet; he loosened her mantle,
talking to her all the time in a voice clear and sweet as a woman's;
she would have suffered ten times as much to have secured
his sympathy.Then Diane felt that she must rouse herself; she must not do
anything to hurt her boy; she must not grieve him, or let him
think that she was ill-natured, proud, or haughty. He was sensitive
over his father, and she must save him all pain.After all there was no need to refuse to see him. She could
temporize, could get to know when he would be in London, and
leave town before he came. It would be easy enough, even if her
husband had not finished his engagement, she could run down to
Irksdale before he came. She had only to say that she wished for
such an engagement, and he would be all anxiety to carry it out.
What need for such ghastly fear, for such overwhelming, horrible
dread? 80 Diane tried to smile, and turned to her boy.'I am really better,' she said; 'the pain is passing; you need
not look so anxious over me. Now tell me what it was that you
said when I came in; I can understand now.''Do you think that I would tease you about my little troubles ?
he said, 'when you are ill and suffering?''I am neither now,' she said, gently laying her hand on the
boy's arm; and it will grieve me so much if you do not tell me
all about it.''I had a letter from my father,' said Laurence, slowly, 'a letter
that has made me very sad. Oh, Lady Kerston, it seems so horribly
selfish to be talking to you like this.''I am the more selfish of the two, for I like to listen,' she said.
'Why has your letter made you sad?''Because my father writes so depressingly. He says that he is
haunted by a presentiment of some great change, and that change
for him can only mean death--that he longs to see me, and is
coming up to town. He will stay for some days, and I am to
show him London.''That has saddened you. You think his presentiment must
come true and he must die,' said Diane, quickly. 'Nay, have no
fear. Did you not tell me that Larchdale was a very dull, depressing
place?''Yes,' he said, 'it is so, Lady Kerston.  It is a place where
everything living seems half dead?''Then rely upon it there is nothing the matter except that your
father wants change of air and scene; he will be better when he
has been some days in town.'She said what she really thought; even to herself Diane would
not own how great would be the relief if he should die, then she
would in some measure be free, and the greatest part of her sin
would be over--but not to herself, much as she disliked him, would
she own that. She laid one hand on the boy's golden head.'Now you must cheer up,' she said; 'you see that after all you
have more to hope than to fear. You said something else, too,
about your father--what was it?''I asked if I might bring him to see you,' he replied: 'bring
him to thank you for your great goodness to me.''Why not?' she said.'You are all goodness,' cried Laurence. 'I should like my father
just for once to see you, that he may know how beautiful and
noble women can be. I think if he saw you and spoke to you only
once, his ideas of women would be quite changed.Diane smiled a faint, sad smile, yet this unconscious flattery of
her son's was very sweet to her. Then he continued:'I should like him to thank you, you have been so good to me,
so wonderfully kind; he is only a plain farmer--cold in manner,
often rough in speech; it would be a new revelation for him to
see you as it was for me.'' When will he come to London?' asked Diane; and it seemed
to her that he must hear her heart beat as she asked the question.'Next week, I think; he says he shall be here by the ninth of
June; that will be the end of next week.'' Yes,' said Diane; ' well, we shall see. I am very uncertain
yet about our arrangements; we have some idea of leaving town;'
and, as she spoke, she grew ill again. Leaving town meant leaving
Laurence. ' I will think it over,' she said, faintly.  'I can
safely promise you one thing--if I am in London, I will do as you
wish--see your father.' Even while she spoke she knew that no
earthly power could induce her to remain in London; she would
rather have fled a fugitive to the other end of the earth.It was strange that in a matter of such vital consequence to
herself she should not have been more particular in ascertaining the
correct date of his probable coming.CHAPTER LIV.
THE FATAL ERROR.How Diane reached home that day, she did not know. She did
not remain for the sitting. She left a message with Mons. Davard,
saying that she did not feel well, and would return on the morrow. She
was almost dazed by the terrible ruin which seemed
suddenly to have fallen over her life. Strange so say, this phase
of matters had never even occurred to her. She had been so long
accustomed to looking on Bruno Severne as part of a dead past,
that she had long since lost all fear of meeting him. It seemed
to her that they were so far apart as to seem in different worlds.She was one of the highest ladies in her position, second to none,
her wealth, power, influence unlimited; her station so high and
lofty; her position as queen of beauty and fashion, as wife of the
leading statesman in England--what could there be between him
and her? He was a plain, stern, commonplace man.Surely they were as far apart as though they lived in separate
worlds; surely all fear of their meeting was absurd.  But now
there had suddenly arisen this link between them. He loved the
boy, and she loved the boy. It was like a judgment from Heaven
that this love should bring about a meeting between them. She
had overlooked the probability of this in the first delirium of her
joy at meeting her son. She had entirely disassociated him from
home. She had formed pleasant plans of making him a life-long
friend, of seeing him often, of inviting him to Irksdale, of being
his greatest source of happiness; but she had never dreamed that
this would bring her in contact with Bruno Severne. She had
not thought the stern farmer cared enough about his artist boy to
take this long journey to see him.Cold drops of anguish stood on her brow as she thought of the
risk she had run. Suppose--only suppose that Bruno Severne had
gone to the artist's studio while she was there. Would he have
known her after so many years? She went to the mirror and
looked attentively at her face. Would he recognize her? She
was but a girl when she left Larchdale--a girl ignorant and unformed;
now she was a magnificently beautiful woman.  All
that refinement, grace and cultivation could do for her loveliness
bad been done; but it was still the self-same face, the same features,
the same sheen on the golden hair, and wondrous violet
tint in the eyes; she hardly looked ten years older. True, all
that magnificent dress could do toward changing her was done,
but the Diane who looked so anxiously in the mirror to-day was
the same Diane who had lived at Larchdale. She felt that he
would recognize her anywhere.The only thing she could do was to hasten away before he came.
Then, what was she to do In the years to come? Was she to
avoid her son, give up this new and sweet happiness that was already
dearer to her than life ? Was she to give him up, lest seeing him
should bring about a meeting with his dreaded father?
She could not give up her boy. She must be careful and cautious,
she said to herself. After all, it was not often that Bruno saw
his son. If Lord Kerston asked Laurence to Irksdale, it was not
probable his father would follow him there. Even at the worst,
if he did so, she could keep her room while he was there, and he
would not be asked to remain. It would be easy, when she saw
Laurence again, to give him a hint that his father's presence would
only tease Lord Kerston. So Diane tried to reassure herself and
believe that in time all would be well. Hapless Diane!Then there was the present emergency, the present danger to
avert; she must be away from London by the ninth of June; she
must not even run the risk of being in the same city. That would
be easy; she knew that she had but to say one word to her husband, and
all arrangements would be made for her; but she hated
to speak that word.Diane was naturally frank, sincere, and truthful--a false word
was an utter abomination to her. How could she endure to speak
falsely to that noble husband, whose whole soul was centred in
her? How could she feign, and invent, and deceive him? She
could not. Her whole soul rebelled against the thought. She
would not, either. She would go to him, and tell him that she
should prefer leaving town at the beginning of the week. He
might think her capricious; he should not find her insincere. She
would go to him that very evening and tell him; then her mind
would be at rest.Suddenly another and perhaps even greater danger occurred to
her. Bruno Severne would be sure to go to the studio--what if
he happened to see her portrait there? He would most certainly
recognize that; and then Diane grew faint at heart as she remembered
that over this portrait she had always had so great a foreboding of
harm. She clasped her cold hands together with a
bitter cry.  Had it come--this terrible judgment from Heaven--
this terrible judgment she had dreaded so long? Had it come at
last? It was some few minutes before she recovered herself.
Surely there must be some method of escape for her. Yes, there
was one; she would go to Mons. Davard--she would go to him--
he was always kind and anxious to please her. She would send
for him that very morning, and tell him she had a great and special
reason for wishing to have her portrait home that week. She
would ask him to hurry over it--to work at it until it was done.
He would never suspect why it was, and then she should be free.Perhaps, after all, Heaven would spare her; she was so young
when all this happened, young and ignorant.  Would Heaven
remember that, and spare her? Poor Diane! She wrote the note
that evening, and Mons. Davard came at her request. She told
him she had an important reason for wishing to have her portrait
home this week--a most important one--and that she should consider
herself under the greatest obligation to him if he would
manage it.Mons. Davard said he did not think it was possible. Why, it
was a work of art--a work of art could never be hurried. Then
he smiled, and said that the ways of ladies were very wonderful.
My lady had done all in her power to retard the painting of the
picture, now she wanted it completed in a great hurry. Verily the
charming ways of beautiful ladies were hard to understand.'But you will do it for me, Mons. Davard?' she said, with one
of those fascinating smiles that no man ever resisted.  'You will
do it for me?' Mons. Davard declared that for my lady he would
move heaven and earth, he would do the impossible, but he did
not quite see how he was to finish the picture.'But you will finish it,' said Diane, the irresistible; 'you will
finish it and send it home.'Then the artist, charmed out of himself, said he would do it--in
fact, my lady might consider it done, her wish was a law that all
must obey, yet he must remind her that it would require extra exertion
on her part, as well as his; he should have to ask her for 
extra sittings of extra length; that Diane assured him would be a

pleasure. She felt more light of heart when the artist had gone;
it seemed to her a good augury that she should have won even that
little victory. Perhaps Heaven meant to be kind to her and help
her, at least not to pour down on her head that terrible judgment
due to her sin. Then came her husband; she would rather have
done anything on earth than have cajoled him; she hated herself
for it; she resolved to do as little of it as could be done. So when
Lord Kerston had finished dinner she went to him and clasped her
white arms round his neck.'Philip,' she said, 'I want to leave town next week.''Next week! But, my darling Diane, it is quite impossible. I
have some very important engagements.  I could not leave next
week for the whole world.'Could you not, Philip?' she said.'Not even to please you, Diane, and that would be my strongest
motive for doing anything. I am a perfect prisoner.''Until when?' she asked.'Until the third or fourth week in June,' he replied. I do lot
see how it is possible for me to leave before.'That would be all too late for her; she tightened the clasp of
her arm round her husband's neck.'Not until the third week in June, Philip; should you mind
very much if I went without you, if I went at the beginning of the
week to Irksdale?'Lord Kerston was quite silent for a few minutes, then he said:
'We have been married nearly eight years, Diane, and do you
know that this is the first time you have ever offered to leave me.'
She kissed his face, touched keenly by his words.'I know it is,' she said; 'and I wish you could go with me now.''I cannot; what does it mean, Diane? Why do you want to
go away and go alone?'She could not speak falsely to him; she might have made a
hundred excuses--her health, her fatigue--but Diane, who had
been false to her noble womanhood by one terrible crime, could
not stoop to mean falsehood; she was quite silent for a few minutes,-
then Lord Kerston repeated: 'Will you tell me why you
wish to go, Diane?''I have the idea,' she replied, vaguely. 'You will call it a
caprice, I suppose ?'I have never found you capricious, my darling, nor do I think
you will prove so--if you wish to go, I am quite sure you have
some strong and sensible motive for it.'Then Dian became alarmed; if her husband became once convinced
that she had a strong and sensible motive, he would naturally
wish to find out what it was. Better to let him think her
frivolous than to arouse his suspicions, so she looked at him with a
charming smile.'Suppose, Philip,' she said 'that after a long course of
indulgences from the kindest husband in the world, suppose that I
am developing a genius for caprice; what would you say to me?'He looked at her wistfully for a few seconds, then he kissed the
sweet lips, saying: 'Whatever you do is well and wisely done,

Diane; you shall go to Irksdale at the beginning of the week, and
I will follow you the first day I can get away--is that the only
caprice ?I should like to take my portrait with me,' she said; 'and have
it hung in your room there.' It must go to the picture-gallery; it will be the greatest ornament there.''Not while I live, Philip; let me have my own way over this
--let it be in your own room.'She had a nervous dread of being seen; in his own room it was
safe, for strangers who went to look at the place never were shown
there. Some one might recognize it in the gallery. Diane felt as
though the safety of her future depended upon that picture being
kept out of sight.It was not worth while just then to contest the point. Diane
knew that she should carry it when it came to a decision. Then
her mind was more at ease; whatever happened she had done her
best, and nothing would happen. This man who had been her
husband and was her greatest foe would not come to London until the
ninth, and on the eighth she was to go to Irksdale.  The 
whole of Lady Kerston's life turned on this one fact, that Laurence,
her own son, had made a mistake very common--he had
mistaken the figure seven for nine. It was on the seventh that his
father was coming, and he had made an error fatal in its effects.CHAPTER LV.
MEETING HER GREATEST FOE.All arrangements had been made for Diane to leave London on the
eighth of June; she was to go to Irksdale, where her husband was
to follow her, as soon as his duties permitted him. At first she had
been most dreadfully alarmed; it had been a time of fear for her;
but now she was recovering--she was going according to her wish.On the sixth, one whole day before she expected it, her portrait
came home, and Diane never knew how great her fear had been
until she had it safely in her own possession. No fear now that
this man should go to the studio, and seeing it, recognize her.
The portrait was safe, packed up, ready to go to Irksdale, and
Diane drew a breath of relief. Yet, in some vague way, she felt
that she was treading on ice--ice that might at any moment break
beneath her feet. She had to say good-by to Laurence, and that
troubled her. She must leave her boy, and it was the first time
since she had found him. Diane felt it keenly; she would have
to leave him with cold, careless words, that would tell nothing of
her sorrow. And when should she see him again? There had
been some talk of sending him to Italy, where he could continue
his studies. If that was done, Diane asked herself, when should
she see her boy again? Still she must--she would--hope for the
best. When this pain of fear had passed by, she would see if it
were not possible to ask Mons. Davard and Laurence to Irksdale.
If she proposed it, she knew perfectly well her husband would accede
instantly. It might be possible that, instead of the dark
dreams, the haunting faces, something like a gleam of happiness

might be in store for her; she might have her own son under her
own roof for a whole week, and that week would pay for much.
She would not go to the studio to bid him good-by, she decided,
because that might arouse suspicion--it would betray her great
eagerness, her great anxiety and affection; she would send a little
note, asking him to call on her. Then she said to herself that
she should like to make him a present before she went, something
really handsome and useful--she had given him so many books.Lord Kerston had been very kind to him, too, in that respect,
and had given him quantities of books; in fact, he had selected
for him whatever volumes he thought would be useful to a young
student. Now Diane said to herself that she would give him
something that should be handsome and useful--a dressing-case.
All young men, of her son's age especially, rejoiced in the possession
of a handsome dressing-case.There were a few things that she required herself, and Diane
thought she would order the carriage in the afternoon and drive
into New Bond street. She was a well-known customer at the
handsome establishment of Falkland Brothers, whose choice articles of
luxury were the admiration of half London. She drove to
the shop as she returned. It was the afternoon of the seventh--
a day that poor Diane never forgot. She had not sent the note
to the studio, but intended to send it when she returned home.A cheerful afternoon--the park was gay with green, bright foliage and
groups of well-dressed people, the band was playing,
the streets were thronged.As Diane drove along, she felt a sensation of sorrow at leaving
this pleasant city; she loved Irksdale dearly, but here all was full
of life. Yet, in this city, breathing the same air that she breathed,
looking at the same prospect, would be the man she knew to be
her greatest foe.  Better to escape quickly from it. Welcome a
thousand times the silence and seclusion of beautiful Irksdale.She reached the shop and entered; shopmen bowed before her;
a whisper went round that it was Lady Kerston--and there were
few men in that place who did not press forward to look at her
peerless face. The principal himself was informed that Lady
Kerston was there, and he came to wait on her.Handsome dressing-cases, he was glad to inform her ladyship,
they had perhaps the finest stock in all England, and he hastened
to show some. They were of all prices, from a few to two or three
hundred guineas, and Diane was puzzled. She was so engrossed
in examining them, that she never even saw a man enter the shop,
a dark man, of country aspect, who looked around him, until his
eyes fell on her face, and then----He watched her keenly; he asked for some trifle, but when it
was brought to him, he never saw it, and the assistant who was
waiting on him, thinking he was admiring a beautiful face, and
feeling sympathy for his weakness, did not hurry him.Great Heaven! how he watched her, with sullen revenge and
gloomy pain deepening in his eyes. Watched every look--gesture
--light movement of the graceful hands--every play of the lovely
features, for Diane was busily intent. She wanted to take one of

handsomest cases for her boy; yet, common sense told her if she
chose anything too costly, it would expose him, and she herself
also, to remark.She asked Mr. Falkland to show her one that, while it was good
and costly, elegant and beautiful, would not show its worth. He
seemed to divine what she required, and said he knew where there
was one, but he must leave her for a few minutes. Diane assured
him it did not matter, she was at leisure, and, with a smiling bow,
the principal went away.Diane sat still; there was a case that she admired much, but
the silver stoppers were so elaborately chased, that those who saw
it would wonder how anything so handsome could fall into the
hands of a young artist--that would not do.A hand was laid on her shoulder--a heavy hand, a shadow fell
between her and the sunshine--a man was bending over her.'You are my wife, Diane!' a voice hissed in
her ear; and looking up, she saw the stern, dark face of Bruno
Severne.For a moment all was confusion; the shock was so terrible, that
she lost her consciousness; a terrible sound filled her ears, a flash
as of light came before her eyes; then she saw nothing out of the
chaos. One thought rose before her; she must deny it
for Philip's sake--for her husband's sake she must deny it.You are my wife!' repeated the stern voice.She raised her beautiful head, ghastly with the pallor of death.
The force of the shock gave her strength; had the torture been
less, she would have died of it; she rose to the occasion, her courage rose; it was for Philip's sake--Philip, her husband, whose
soul rested in her. She raised her eyes to that dreaded face; she
read love changed to hatred and revenge; her clear eyes looked
straight into his, and seemed to greet the evil spirit there.'I beg your pardon,' she said, in a clear, low voice; 'I do not
understand.' There was no agitation in her voice, nothing but
lady-like surprise. It was for Philip's sake.'You understand well enough,' he replied; 'it is no use, you
cannot deceive me. You are Diane Severne, my wife!' The
smile rippled over her lips; there was a touch of mockery in it
that maddened him.'You are mistaken,' she said. 'I am nothing of the kind. You
are either mistaken or mad.''I am neither,' he replied. 'Do you think you could deceive
me?--you--as though I did not know you better than any one in
the world does--as though you could deceive me! You are my
wife, Diane, you ran away from me years ago; you left your
child dying, and you sent me back your wedding-ring?''I am sorry for you,' she said; 'that is a sad story.''It is your own,' he replied. 'The justice of the Lord is long
in coming, but it falls at last. You are my wife! neither Heaven
nor earth can prevent me declaring it, and claiming you. Where
are you living? What are you doing? These, I suppose,' he added, touching her mantle of royal velvet--'these are the trappings
of shame? You must part with them and come home.''I quite pardon you, said Diane. 'I see you have had some
great sorrow, and it has driven you mad.''Not so mad but I know you to be Diane Balfour, my false,
light, runaway wife. You cannot brave it out; that is what you
are trying to do. Oh, woman! false in name, false in heart and
soul, in your eyes I read mad fear of me; in your eyes I read that
you know and dread me.''Indeed you are mistaken,' she replied. 'I am sorry for you,
but afraid of you--no. You are mistaken. Leave me in peace, or
I shall be compelled to call for help.' His face grew livid.'I will call for help,' he said; 'help to reclaim my lost wife.
Put down those gewgaws and come home with me.' He laid his
hand on her arm as he spoke; Diane made no outcry, she was
calm and still; but at that moment Mr. Falkland returned with
the dressing-case he had gone to seek; he looked angry; Diane
looked appealingly to him.' Mr. Falkland, she said, 'this person has made a terrible mistake;
he is not himself. I think he fancies that I am his wife;
will you convince him of his error ?''Let go that lady's arm!' cried the proprietor of the shop,
angrily.' How dare you insult her!''Nay,' cried Diane, 'do not be angry with him, he seems to
have had some terrible trouble that has driven him mad.'Bruno Severne looked proudly at the angry face.' You have no right to speak to me--to interfere with me. I tell
you this woman is my lawful wife.''I will give you in charge if you repeat that assertion,' cried
Mr. Falkland; 'this lady is the wife of the noblest peer in England.'' I tell you,' repeated Bruno, 'that she is my wife, Diane Severne!
She ran away from me years ago--she left her only child
dying--she sent me back her wedding-ring; she is my wife as
surely as there is a Heaven! Let her deny it if she dare--if she
can! Mr. Falkland turned to her with an apology.'I am sorry, my lady; I am grieved that this should have
happened. You had better allow me to give the man in custody.'' No,' replied Diane, 'it is a case of mistaken identity. Do not
be hard with him, he seems to have suffered. I should not like
him to be hurt.''Your ladyship's wishes shall be obeyed,' said Mr. Falkland.Lady Kerston continued, calmly: ' I will take the dressingcase
you have selected. You can send it to me this evening. Good-morning. You must not be harsh to this poor, unhappy man.''You are too good, my lady. If he is a lunatic, his place should
be the asylum; if he is sane, his place is the prison.'' Nay, he is only mistaken--a mistake is no crime,' said Diane,
gently. And then she turned to go away.CHAPTER LVI.
HUNTING DOWN.But Diane was not easily to escape. She stood up, drawing her
velvet dress around her, and bowed to the principal; but Bruno
Severne, his face darkening with anger, seized her hand.'Do not defy me, Diane!' he cried. 'Do not dare to attempt
to carry on this trick! You know that you are my wife!' She
looked, with an appealing smile, to Mr. Falkland.'I am sorry for him,' she said. 'Will you see me to my carriage?
Next moment one of the assistants had seized him by the
collar, and Mr. Falkland conducted Lady Kerston to the carriage.'I cannot tell your ladyship,' he said, ' how deeply I am annoyed
that you should have been so grossly insulted here. I would
not have such a thing happen in my shop for the whole world. I
entreat you to overlook it.'Pray think no more of it. Evidently the poor man has had
some great trouble, and it may be that I resemble, perhaps, the
wife whose loss has driven him mad.''But it is such an unprovoked insult,' said Mr. Falkland.Diane smiled. 'Pray forget it, as I shall do; all my sympathy
and pity are for him. I shall ask you to promise me two things,
Mr. Falkland.'Your ladyship has but to command,' was the reply.'Promise me that you will see the poor man is not hurt, but
allowed to go freely on his way; and to save him further delusion,
and myself further annoyance, promise me that he shall not find
out my name or address?''I can safely make both promises. I am annoyed, but your
ladyship's view of the case is merciful--he shall go free.' Then
Mr. Falkland bowed, and the carriage drove away.'Oh, great Heaven!' cried Diane, 'it has come at last--the
Judgment has fallen--the punishment has come!'People looked in admiration after the carriage, and the beautiful
lady therein; and no one thought she was the most miserable
woman in the world; she could not recover, the blow had been so
awful, just when she fancied herself most secure; her heart beat
feebly, the breath seemed to die on her white lips. Oh, Heaven!
she shuddered as she thought of the face of her foe, so stern, so
gloomy, so unbending, full of hatred and revenge.'He would never spare me,' thought Diane;  'he would hunt
me to the very death, he would have no mercy on me.'After a time courage and hope came back to her. True, she
had seen him, he had recognised her, he had claimed her as his
wife, he had threatened her; but, after all, there was a chance of
escape: he might not see her again.If Mr. Falkland kept his promise, and she felt sure he would,
he would never be able to find her; suppose that he remained in
London looking for her, she would be safe at Irksdale. He would
be sure to haunt New Bond Street, but she should not go there
again; she might escape, she would go early to-morrow, and
would persuade Lord Kerston to take her abroad. In this, the
hour of her peril, she seemed to have forgotten her son, and to
think only of the husband she idolized--the only man she had
ever loved.Lord Kerston was anxious over his wife that evening, she was
so unlike herself--her face so deadly pale, then flushed crimson;
her manner so changed, her animation so forced.' Diane,' he said, suddenly, 'I know now why you want to go
to Irksdale to-morrow.' He was literally startled at the colorless
face she raised to his, so full of fear.'Do you?' she stammered--then she could say no more.Did he really know? He bent down and kissed the lovely face
over and over again.' I know, my darling, you are ill, and you would not tell me.
I am glad you are going, Diane; this season has been a long one,
and it has been too much for you.'She did not contradict him: she was quite silent, while he caressed
her, and called her his peerless, beloved wife--it was so
sweet to be loved--and how long, oh, Heaven! how long would
that love be hers?'You will start in the morning, Diane, so as to travel in the
best part of the day.''Yes, in the morning.'She would fain have started then, have gone anywhere, have done
anything, rather than remain in the same city with Bruno Severne.
At every sound she looked up, full of fear, lest he had hunted
her down. At every unusual noise her face grew white.'How nervous you are, Diane,' said her husband. 'You make
me ill to see you; it is high time you had rest and change.'As the night wore on she grew calmer. Why fear him? He
would never find her; how should he? He had not followed her
carriage, she was sure of that; there was no cause for dread.'Philip,' said Diane, suddenly, to her husband. 'If I do not
feel better at Irksdale than I do here will you take me abroad?''Certainly, darling, whenever you like.She clasped her arms round his neck, and bent her face to his.'Do you love me well enough to give up your career in England
for my sake?' she asked. 'That is, for a few years.''I love you well enough to give my life for you,' he replied, and
she knew that he meant what he said.Then she felt more at ease, more herself. She was going away
on the morrow, and to Diane, there seemed to be safety in flight.Bruno Severne had not followed the carriage; he had intended
to do so, and had struggled with the young man who held him in
his grasp. Then he heard the carriage drive away, and a look of
despair came over his face. Mr. Falkland returned.'Let him go,' he said to his assistant. 'I ought to punish him,
but I have promised not to do so--let him go.'Bruno went up to him, the calmness of despair on his face.'You have done an evil deed,' he said. 'You have shielded a
guilty woman, and injured an innocent man. That woman is my
wife. She may call herself what she likes, she bears no name but
mine. I married her years ago; she was Diane Balfour, an artist's
daughter, and that artist was my friend. She ran away
from me. Now, if you will call her by any other name but mine
she has no claim to it--she could not marry again, for she is my
wife. Why should I say it if it were not true? Why should I
insult any lady? Prove that I am insane before you judge me.
Before Heaven, she is my wife!'His despairing earnestness amazed Mr. Falkland; he looked
bewildered.'I am sane as you,' continued Bruno. 'I ask you to tell me
that woman's name and address.''What for?' asked Mr. Falkland'That I may follow her and claim her as my wife. I shall so
claim her until all England hears me.''I am sorry for you, but I cannot do so. I assure you that you
are under a delusion. That lady is the honored wife of a great
peer. You are misled by a strong resemblance.''No,' said Bruno; 'I have loved her too long and mourned her
too sadly not to know her when I see her. If lam under a delusion why
need you fear to give me her address? Let it be proved 
that I am wrong--I ask no more.''I could not expose a lady of her rank, and my customer, to
such an annoyance,' said Mr. Falkland. 'I cannot tell you her
address or her name.''You absolutely refuse?' said Bruno.'Yes, I absolutely refuse,' was the reply, 'and I must really
remind you that I have no more time to spare.''You refuse?' again said Bruno.'I refuse distinctly.''And you also?' he said, turning to the shopman.'I know nothing about it,' was the reply.And then, in despair, Bruno went away.After he had gone Mr. Falkland stood for some time thinking
deeply--it was a strange affair. Bruno Severne did not appear to
be mad, and his earnestness made a great impression on the proprietor
of the store.'His wife, Diane!'Surely there could be no truth in it. Still he did not like that
kind of thing; an idea had occurred to him--this stranger had
called his wife Diane--what was Lady Kerston's name? He remembered
that some time since he had prepared a dressing-case
for her; from curiosity he looked at the order book which contained
her initials; they were 'D. K.,' and he wondered if 'D' 
meant Diane. If so, it was a strange affair.'A very unpleasant piece of business, sir,' said the assistant,
looking at his employer.Then Mr. Falkland awoke to the emergencies of the situation.'A strange mistake,' he admitted. 'The man must be mad.''There seemed to be a great method in his madness,' was the
assistant's reply. 'One thing did strike me, sir.''What was that?' asked Mr. Falkland, angrily.'The last time that Lord and Lady Kerston were here together
I heard him call her Diane; I was struck by the name, it was so
uncommon.''A mere coincidence,' said the master.'Still,' persisted the man, 'it is strange there should be a coincidence both in face and name. Do you not think so, sir?'Mr. Falkland looked at his assistant.'I have found it through life,' he said, 'a safe rule not to think
--nothing in this world pays so well as minding one's own
business. You will do well to take the hint. I wish you, if you desire
to continue in my employment, to keep silence.''I will do that, sir; 'but I have my own thoughts.''We may all have those; the danger is when we express them.'Mr. Falkland was puzzled, he could not help owning it; the
man did not seem mad; there was all the sanity of despair in what
he had said. Yet Lady Kerston, of all other ladies, to be called
a false, runaway wife; she whose position was so lofty; who
stood, by virtue of her husband's position, so near the throne,
Then he remembered to have heard she was married abroad; surely there
was a mistake, she could never have been that man's wife.
The bare notion was ridiculous.' She is a beautiful woman,' he said to himself; 'beautiful and
gracious; I should not like any harm to come to her.'Afterward he said to himself and others, that he would rather
this strange meeting--the beginning of this tragedy--had taken
place in any house than his own; the idea of a woman in any sorrow was
unpleasant to him. The assistant, who was opposed to
all distinctions of caste, said there was no equality; there was one
law for the rich, and another for the poor.CHAPTER LVII.
'I MUST HAVE REVENGE.'Bruno Severne left the store in New Bond street, with despair in
his heart. To have been so near victory, yet to have lost. To
have recognized her--then to have lost all clue to her.It was unjust of Heaven; he had barely tasted the delight of
his revenge, when it was snatched from him--it was cruel and
unjust.He had recognised her the moment he bad entered the shop;
he had watched her so keenly, that no change of expression had
escaped him. He had been silent during those first moments of
recognition; his emotion was too great for speech.  He had pictured
her in many strange positions--he had dreamed of her
working for her bread--then he had pictured her as earning a
comfortable living by her artistic talent.But if this was Diane, she was the most superbly-beautiful woman he
had ever seen, and she was dressed with the magnificence
of a queen. The dress of royal purple velvet, with its diamond
buttons, the ostrich plumes, the perfectly fitting gloves--it was
the dress of a woman able to lavish money on her tastes. When
she drew off her gloves, the better to examine the dressing-cases,
he saw the white fingers shining with gems, but he knew them to
be Diane's hands. Then he had gone over to speak to her. She
was quick to recover from her fear. She might deceive others by
her high-bred calm, her lady-like surprise, but it did not deceive
him. The whiteness of death had spread to her lips. That first
minute had betrayed the secret to him, if not to the rest of the
world.So that was Diane, his runaway wife! This beautiful, magnificent
woman, who drove in her carriage, who wore diamonds on
her hands, before whom men bowed as before a queen--this was
Diane; and he might have claimed her, had not the strong grip
of a strong man withheld him.What was her name?  Was she married again ? 'My lady,'
they called her if she were my lady, she must have married a

lord. His Diane!--his wife!--all the mighty love, the jealousy,
bitter and strong as death, rose in his heart at the thought--his
Diane, bis wife, the mother of his son, the girl he had married,
the woman he had worshipped, another man's wife! His face
grew red as he thought of it, and he staggered like one who had
taken too much wine. He swore that he would hunt her down,
tear her from this man should he be a king--he would kill her
rather than that she should belong to another.How should he find her? It was useless to ask at that store;
not only would they refuse him, but they would, under some pretext,
shut him up in prison; then he would have no chance of
finding her He raised his face to the skies--was it just, was it
fair, that he should have suffered this torture of her loss, have
found her only to lose her again? Surely Heaven was harder
on him than on other men. Why should he have been so cruelly
wronged--why should he have married a wife only to lose her?With white lips and clenched hands he stood still in the streets
and prayed Heaven that he might find her again. Passers-by
looked at him, believed that he was mad; but he knew.Then he went to the studio. It had been a grim beckoning of
fate, that had taken him to Falkland Brothers; he had gone there
intending to purchase some trifle for his son--not that presents
were much in his line, but for this trifle his son had expressed a
wish, and he intended to grant it. He had gone to New Bond
street because the firm there had made its name a household word
by advertising. He went to the studio; the artist was from home
but Laurence was there. The boy looked up in wonder at the
strange gloom of his father's face.'Is anything the matter, father?' he asked.'Yes, much,' was the reply. 'Come away from here, Laurence.
I want to talk to you where no one can hear us. Come out; I do
not like this place.'They walked through the park until they came to a seat far
from all others.'Let us sit here,' said the farmer; 'I want to talk to you.'
Yet when they seated side by side he seemed in no hurry to begin. More than once Laurence said to him:'You wanted to speak to me, father; I am all attention.'But Bruno Severne was in no hurry to begin: words seemed to
fail him. Then he turned to the boy, and Laurence saw his lips
were quivering.'Laurence,' he said, 'when Aunt Hester told you, years ago,
your mother's story, I thought she had done a cruel thing; now
I know it was for the best. I have seen your mother!' The
boy's grew pitiful to see; he raised it slowly.' Seen my mother!' he repeated; 'where and how? Seen her!
really seen her, my mother?'Yes,' was the grim reply, 'I have seen her, and she has escaped
me; but I will hunt her down!' Laurence looked horrified.'You will hunt her down!' he said. 'Do you know that it is of
my mother you are speaking?''I am speaking of my own false wife!' cried Bruno Severne 'I

have seen her. She has escaped me, and I will hunt her down!
Laurence, I am not used to the ways of the world; what must I
do to find her? If you wanted, in this world of London, to find
one woman, what should you do?''I hardly know. Tell me, father, when and how did you see her?'
Bruno Severne related how he had seen and recognized his wife.'Are you sure it was my mother ?' asked the boy.'Yes, sure as I am that the sky is above me; do you think I
could fail to recognize your mother? She had sweet, tender eyes.
I could not write a book or paint a picture; but I used to see all
heaven in her eyes, Laurence.  I tell you those same eyes met
mine to-day, full of horrible fear. I would rather see them closed
in death than with that look in them. Then she had sweet lips,
so sweet; and to-day, when she spoke to me, they were white with
fear, they were false with affected smiles.''But have you no clue to her name--to her position?''Yes, they told me she was the wife of one of the noblest peers
in England. Can it be true?''I should imagine.' said Laurence, 'that you have made some
terrible mistake. How can my mother, whom you have represented so
differently, how could she, even if she would, be passing
as a grand lady. Your senses have deceived you.''No,' replied Bruno ; when a man spends all his life brooding
over one face, as I have done, he is not likely to mistake it for
another. I might mistake night for day, darkness for light, but
mistaking the face of the woman whom I have idolized for any
other, is what I shall never do.'Laurence was troubled; he could imagine something of the life
of the fair mother whom he had never known, something of what
she had endured, of her sorrowful life: and the idea that she
should be punished still more was horrible to him.What shall you do?' he asked his father.'Do? Search the world over until I find her, then take my
revenge. I will strip from her the trappings of her shame, her
grandeur, her pride. I will bring her to my feet, and when she
kneels there, asking me to pardon her, I shall please myself.'There was a terrible malignity in his face, a terrible purpose.
Laurence trembled as he looked at him.'But, father,' he said, 'she is a woman and weak--is it well to
crush one so feeble?''Feeble!' repeated Bruno. 'I saw nothing feeble about her.
The proud face that looked into mine was strong in its purpose to
defy me. I fight with a foe whose weapons are better than mine
--a woman's unconquerable obstinacy, her indomitable will; these
are weapons I cannot match.'Laurence laid his hand on his father's arm.'Father,' he said, 'spare her for my sake; because she is my
mother; because she was fair and innocent, spare her.''I cannot,' he said, hoarsely.Spare her because she is the daughter of your friend, because
she was trusted to you, and you will have to meet her father again,
whose legacy to you she was; spare her for Heaven's sake!''I cannot, Laurence, I must have revenge.  I may forgive her
then; I may pardon her when I have crushed her pride and made
her suffer--but not until then!''Shall you take her back to Larchdale-force her to live there?'
asked Diane's boy.'I shall bring the whole force of the law of the land against
her; I will bring every lawyer of eminence in England to my help,
but I will claim her and make her own the truth. I will have my
wife, even if she should leave me again.'Looking up at the clear, blue sky, Laurence said, gently: If
earthly motives fail to move you, shall I try heavenly ones? You
are what they call a religions man, father; you believe in the
merciful gospel of the new law; you have been a shining light in
Little Bethesda for many years--have you learned no higher lesson
there than revenge?''It is useless,' said Bruno. 'See, Laurence--she has made me
suffer so cruelly, that if she were kneeling here, with the pallor of
death on her face, and the cold of death in her heart, and I could
save her by only one word I would not speak that word. I would
have my revenge!''Then,' said the boy, 'you are cruel and wicked. 'Vengeance
is mine! saith the Great God; I will repay.' Take care that what
you would mete out to others is not given to you.'I care for nothing,' said Bruno, 'but my revenge. Laurence,
help me to find her.'No. If I knew who she was, and where she was, at this 
moment, I wouldn't tell you to save my life.''I shall find her myself. Years ago, I had the most skillful
detectives in Scotland Yard employed in tracking her. They failed
--but will not fail now. I shall know how to describe this fair-
haired woman, who was dressed like a queen--who sat in that
store, and was waited upon as though they knew no other service
than hers. London is a vast place, but I shall find her. Nothing
so skillful as revenge. You may refuse to help me, but I shall
find her.''You shall hunt her down ?' said Laurence. 'When I am a
man, I will seek a more noble occupation than that of tracking a
helpless woman, and hunting her to death. Mind, I give you fair
notice, that when you succeed, when you find my mother, I shall
take her part, and defend her, let her be what she may.''Why?' asked Bruno.'Why? Because she is a woman, and my mother! so should
be safe from a man's vengeance,' said Diane's boy.CHAPTER LVIII.
BRUNO'S TACTICS.So it happened that reserve came between Bruno and his son. To
Laurence, large of heart, grand in soul, there was something 
repulsive in this brooding, this desire for revenge.  He could not
understand it; there was less than nothing to be gained by it; so
they bade each other good-day, and Laurence went to the studio.
While Bruno sat to think out his plans, that store in New Bond

street drew him like a magnet; it was there that he had seen her,
and it was there, in all probability, he should learn something
about her; going to the principal, going to the assistant, was
useless, but he resolved to return there and watch. So he went,
walking up and down on the other side of the street; then his
attention was attracted by a porter, who appeared to be taking out
parcels--a man who wore a livery. Certainly his wife had made
a purchase there and had ordered it to be sent home; he had heard
the order given. Could it be possible that this man had taken it?
If so, all his troubles were ended. He had but to bribe him, and
he should know by what name she called herself--this insolent
lady who had defied him. He went up to him, and the man
touched his cap, thinking be had a customer to deal with. Bruno
drew out his purse and produced a five-pound note.'I was in this shop yesterday morning.' he said, 'and I saw a
very beautiful lady, with golden hair, and a purple velvet dress.
I want to find out her name.' The man hesitated.'There are so many ladies at our shop,' he said, 'that it would
be almost impossible to find out.''I will give you this five-pound note if you will try to help me.
I heard her ordering a parcel to be sent home; it seems to me
that you would take it. Does that give you any clue?''I take so many parcels,' he said, 'so many that I do not
remember where I go. Could you tell me what the lady bought 
I had some large parcels and some small ones.''I can tell you what she bought,' said Bruno; 'it was a large
dressing-case.''A dressing-case?' repeated the man; 'that would make a
square parcel, would it not? I took out two such last evening--
one to Colonel Gresham's, in Grosvenor Square, and one to Lady
Kerston's.''Lady Kerston!' repeated Bruno. He remembered that they
had called her 'my lady.' 'Where does she live? Tell me first
--have you seen her? What is she like ?''I have seen her often,' replied the porter; 'but as for telling
you what she is like, it would require a more clever man than I am.
She is talked of as being the most beautiful woman in England.''Is she tall, with a fair face and golden hair?' asked Bruno.'Yes, that is Lady Kerston.'He began to think he was on the right track at last. The
proprietor of the store had spoken of her as the wife of one of the
leading men in England, and he knew Lord Kerston by repute, and had
a great respect for him. Could it be possible that fate or fortune
had done anything so malicious as to convert his lost Diane, his
runaway wife into Lady Kerston ?'I will give you this note if you will take me to Lady Kerston's
house.' The man looked half suspiciously at him.'Do you mean any harm to her?' he asked; 'because I would
not lend myself to that for twice five pounds.''What harm could I do to Lady Kerston? asked Bruno.'I do not see any that is possible, but it seems strange that you
should be willing to pay so heavily for what is no use.''I am the best judge of the use,' said Bruno. 'You can please
yourself about going.' He felt indifferent now; he knew her
name, and if this man would not take him to the house he would
have no difficulty in finding out where Lord Kerston lived.'Five pounds is a deal of money, and I am a poor man,' said
the porter; 'if I go with you, will you promise that it shall not
come to the knowledge of my employers ? I should be sent away
if it did.''You may trust me,' said Bruno. Then the man engaged to
join him in an hour.Bruno went to the park, where it was arranged that he should
meet him. Was he on the right track, and was it possible that
he should discover in the supposed wife of this great statesman,
his lost Diane? It seemed very improbable, almost impossible.
Then how could he, a plain, obscure farmer, how could he claim
her? Who would believe him?'Her rank shall not frighten me, her wealth shall not frighten
me,' he said to himself; 'if she sat on a throne by the side of a
king, I would hunt her down.'The time passed quickly to him waiting there; It would be a
great triumph; how frightened she would be to see him at her
house. She would not defy him there. Then the porter came,
and they went to the house--such a grand mansion; magnificent
terraces; could this be the house of Diane whom he remembered
in the gloomy rooms at Larchdale? Again it seemed impossible.'There would be some pleasure,' he thought, 'in taking her
from a home like this, and making her live at Larchdale again;
that would be vengeance.'He saw the porter looking at him with wondering eyes, wondering,
perhaps, what the gloomy, sullen, brooding face meant; the
man seemed anxious to get away; it was evident he did not like
his work. He went, and Bruno went up the flight of steps. He
had never been near so grand a mansion before, but there was no
fear in his manner; his heart and soul were filled with one purpose;
he was there to ask for his wife. He looked at the liveried
footman who opened the door.'Does Lady Kerston live here?' he asked.'Yes,' was the languid reply.'Is she at home? I wish to see her.''Ladyship not at home,' was the answer.'Not at home,' repeated Bruno. 'Does that mean she is in the
house and unwilling to see any one, or that she is not here?'The man looked aghast. The earnestness of it took him by
surprise; he answered it honestly, before he had time to think
what he was saying.'My lady is at Irksdale,' he said.'Irksdale,' repeated Bruno; ' where is that?'Then the footman recovered himself; he had lost some of his
dignity by being too affable. He looked at Bruno from head to
foot, and decided that he was not a gentleman--no need to waste
civility.'Where is Irksdale?' repeated Bruno.'Sorry I do not know,' was the answer.Then the farmer bethought himself that another golden key was
required; be placed a sovereign in the man's hand.Now try to remember,' he said. 'The fact is that I wish to
see Lady Kerston on important business, and if you will tell me
where she is, I will go there at once.' Then, seeing the servant
hesitate, he added: 'The business is urgent, and relates to her
ladyship's affairs.'The footman thought to himself there could be no harm in
obliging this generous man, so he told him where Irksdale was.
Bruno listened attentively.'What are the best means of getting there? he asked again,
and the servant told him.Bruno hesitated.  According to that, there was no means of
reaching Irksdale that day, and he had sworn that she should not
reign in her splendor twenty-four hours longer. He would see
her husband. It mattered not how the blow was struck, if it
only be struck at all. He asked about Lord Kerston, and said he
would see him instead of her ladyship. But the footman seemed
to consider he had given civility enough for a sovereign. He
assured Bruno it was more than his place was worth to show any
strangers to his lordship--he was always so deeply engaged.'Is he in the house now?' asked Bruno.No; he was at Downing Street; he had driven there some hours
since, and had not returned. Then the door was closed. But Bruno
said to himself he would see Lord Kerston, and he would tell him
Diane's sin. As to going to Downing Street, that was out of the
question; but he would wait outside the house, until he came
back; then he would stop him. He might have to wait for hours.
Never mind, he cared but for revenge.  So he watched there for
the rest of the day.He watched the sun set and the stars rise; he watched the
summer's night fall, and he brooded in silence over his revenge. It
was night when he saw the carriage drive up, and a handsome
man descended from it. Bruno looked at him in wonder--he was
so kingly in his manner. Could it be that Diane had won the love
of this chivalrous man?Lord Kerston spoke a few hasty words to the coachman, then
sprang up the steps, and before Bruno had time to speak, had
admitted himself by a latch-key, and the door was closed behind
him. Bruno sprang up the steps after him.'Lord Kerston !' he cried; but it was too late.Then he rang the bell; the door was opened by the same servant he
had seen in the morning.'Lord Kerston has come home,' said Bruno.  'I know it--I
watched for it--I know he is here--I must see him!''Come, come,' said the man, 'this will not do; we are not used
to this kind of thing. You cannot see my lord.''But I must see him; you have no right to refuse me. I will
not take a refusal--I must and will see Lord Kerston!' The footman
eyed him severely.'I tell you,' he said, 'I shall be sorry to take any violent
 measures; but this will not do at all, you must not make this noise

here. My lord has the whole country to attend to, he cannot be
at every one's beck and call.''I will give you----' began Bruno.'There,' interrupted the man, 'it is of no use, unless you can
keep me independent for the rest of my life, nothing else will
bribe me. I should not only lose my place, but my character, if
I were to interrupt my lord, or let any one see him.'You can please yourself,' said Bruno.  'If I do not see him
now I will wait on the door-step all night, so as to see him the first
thing in the morning.''All right--that will not be my fault at all--you can please
yourself. My lord seldom leaves the house much before noon, and
long before then the police will have removed you. I am sorry
now that I told you where my lady was.''You are an impertinent menial!' cried Bruno, in a rage.'Never mind; get off those steps, and I will be anything you
like.' So saying he closed the door, and Bruno had no resource
but to go away.'What is the matter, Simpson?' asked Lord Kerston.'Only a man, your lordship, who insisted upon seeing you.''At this hour of the night! Was it anything important?''I should say not, my lord.  He asked for my lady first, then
for you. I told him it was impossible.''Some one wanting money, I should imagine,' said his lordship;
but Simpson, remembering the sovereign, knew that his master
was mistaken in that at least.CHAPTER LIX.
'YOU ARE MY WIFE, DIANE!'A lovely summer's morning, and Diane thought to herself that
the flowers were never so fair as at Irksdale. She had risen early
that morning; her dreams were full of terror; whenever her eyes
closed she saw before her the brooding face of Bruno Severne, she
heard the terrible voice with its one accusing sentence: 'You are
my wife, Diane!' If sleep overtook her, she woke with a cry of
alarm; he was always there ready to seize her, to take her from
Philip, whom she loved--Philip, the other half of her soul! Philip,
the husband of her love! So Diane rose; a fancy came to her
that perhaps with the fright of the night her hair had turned gray.
She had read of such things, and surely no woman living had
gone through greater anguish. She was afraid to look in her
mirror to see; but when she did look there was her golden hair, with
its sheen; the fair face, with its queen-like loveliness. Something
like a wan smile came to her lips; how foolish she had been to
fear. Would to Heaven all the rest was s much a fancy as this.'I used to wonder,' thought Diane, 'what people meant by the
agony of death; now I know. This is my agony.'It was so early that she would not call her maid; but she found
a shawl, and went into the garden.Oh! the lovely summer, the golden sun, the fairy flowers, the
singing birds, the fragrant air. Diane stood in the loveliness.
Would those smiling heavens be kind to her, or would the
thunderbolt fall?She was safe here, in her husband's home. Her eyes wandered
round. She looked at the waving woods, at the beautiful park,
at the pleasure grounds, at the emerald lawn, at the gardens, the
long terraces--what foe dare invade this princely home? The sun
shone on the towers and massive turrets, on the oriel windows and
the grand porch. A fancy came to her that if Bruno Severne
tried to take her away she could shut herself up in this stronghold,
and hold it against him; but he would not find her. Heaven
was very merciful; she should not be given up as a captive into
the hands of this cruel man; he would never find her. Listen to
the birds singing, the sweet music--would Heaven be so good to
a bird, feed it, keep it, fill its heart with so much gladness that it
overflowed in song, yet be cruel to her? Look at the flowers--
they laughed in the sunshine--would there be more compassion
for a lily or for a rose than for her?'I am safe here,' she said to herself. 'If I had remained in
London he might have found me--he cannot discover me now.'So she walked through the leafy glades of Irksdale. A running
brook sang its pretty song; she laved her hot hands in it; it was
so cool, this sweet water singing under the shade of the trees, she
bathed her face in it. Ah, what a fever of fear she had passed
through, what a terror of fright; and the water sang on, soothing
her with its melody. How the silence contrasted with the unrest
she had suffered, the fever of heart and soul--a longing came to
her to lie by the brookside while the water sang her soul away.Then she started to find the morning advancing--had she been
sleeping by the brook? She must go back to the house.Her maid was waiting with a smiling face. Then she uttered a
cry of dismay when she caught sight of Diane's face.'You are ill, my lady,' she cried. 'What is the matter.''I am not ill,' said Diane, 'but I could not rest.''Your face is white, and your eyes are so strange. Let me
bring you some tea?'Diane drank the tea--the same strange thirst was on her that
she had felt by the brook's side. Then her maid helped her with
her pretty morning dress.'I shall not ride or drive to-day,' said Diane. 'I shall do
nothing but rest.''And, my lady, you look as though you need it. I do not think
you left London a day too soon.'Diane went to the library; she selected a book she thought
would please her, then she went out to her favorite seat under the
sweeping cedar. What was she reading? there were the printed
letters, yet she could find no sense in them. Was it a story!--was
it her own?--were the words printed, or was she dreaming them?' You cannot deceive me, you are my wife, Diane!'With a startled cry she closed the book; she was surely asleep
and dreaming again.'This will never do,' thought Diane. 'I shall lose my reason
if it goes on. I shall go mad.'She left her seat under the cedar, and walked about the lawn,
trying to interest herself in the bright-winged butterflies and the

lovely flowers, trying to reason with herself and make herself
believe there was no need for fear. How could he trace her?--
how could he possibly find out she was Lady Kerston? They
would not tell him at the store; she had the principal's word for
that; how could he trace her; she was safe there in her husband's
home as though death itself divided her from Bruno Severne;
why fear? She saw a servant coming across to her--Andrew, a
footman, who had been for some years at Irksdale.My lady,' he said, 'did I not understand that by your own
express orders you were not at home to any one?''You are right,' said Diane.'There is a person here--I cannot say be is a gentleman, my
lady, for he does not look like one, and he insists on seeing you.''Insists upon seeing me?' she repeated.'Yes, I told him your ladyship was not at home. He said his
business was urgent, that he knew you were here, and should not
go away without seeing you. He added if I mentioned his name,
Severne, your ladyship would see him at once.'Oh Heaven! it had come at last! the thunderbolt had fallen
from the blue skies! Her heart gave one wild bound, then seemed
to stop: a damp, like the damp of death, came on her brow;
then, with a violent effort, with a vague idea that for Philip's sake
she must control herself before the servants, at least, she turned
away lest the man should see the pallor of her face, and notice
the trembling of her hands.'Severne?' she repeated; 'and he insists upon seeing me?''He has come from London for that purpose,' said the servant.'Tell him to come here; I need not return to the house,' she
said, gently, and the man turned away.He was coming. She gave one despairing glance at the blue
heavens! one low moan of unutterable anguish came from her
lips; then she turned to confront him with the look and gesture
of a queen.He drew back involuntarily, startled in spite of himself. He
had expected to see fear, terror, surprise; instead of that a queenly
woman was looking at him, with nothing but well-bred surprise
in her face. There was no fear, no terror, but the dignified wonder
of one who is interrupted against her will; she was even the
first to speak. She went forward one step in advance; she looked
steadily at him.'You wished to see me?' she said. Then the courteous grace
seemed to leave her. 'You are the person who was so rude to me
the other day,' she added.'I am your husband, Diane--you know it. All the lies, the
effrontery, the boldness, the manoeuvres in the world will not alter
the past or deter me from my purpose. You may lose your soul
by false swearing, but you cannot alter the fact--you are my wife,
Diane!' She looked round her, calmly.'If I had had any idea that it was you,' she said, 'I should have
asked for help rather than have sent for you here. I will be patient
with you, but it is difficult. Will you take my word, once for all,
that I am Lord Kerston's wife, and that I do not know you?''You do not know me, Diane! Great Heaven! that a woman
can be so false! You do not know me? Have you forgotten your
dead father's friend--Laurence Balfour's trusted friend? Have
you forgotten I went to Uplands for you? Have you forgotten
our wedding-day, Diane--the church where we were married?
Have you forgotten my mad love, my passionate delight when I
brought you home? Have you forgotten our son Laurence, who
has your eyes and your hair? Forgotten! you may say it, but it
is not true. Did your hands never lie clasped in mine?--have I
never kissed your lips?--have I never called you wife! Shame on
you that you should say such words!'She turned from him with an air of gentle weariness'I am tired of your raving,' she said. 'I pray you to leave me
peaceably, before I send for my servants to turn you from the
door.' He made one stride toward her. He seized her wrist in
his strong hand.You hypocrite!' he cried. 'You wicked woman! I call Heaven
to witness that you are the most shameful woman I know. I protest
against your sin. If you will not own me by fair means, you
shall by force! I will not spare you! Listen--you need not try to
take your hand from me; I will hold it while I speak. Own your
faults to me, here, now. Say, 'Bruno, I am your guilty wife--
your sinful wife.'  Say that, and I--I will be merciful.  I will
take you where your sin and sorrow can never find you out. I
will keep the story of your crime a secret!'She sighed, and he saw her look round again, in search of help.That exasperated him. 'Refuse at your peril!' he hissed.'I should not care if you killed me,' said Diane: 'if my life is
to be haunted by a madman in this fashion, it will be unbearable.
I must appeal to the law to protect me.' He laughed; but she
would rather have heard any sound on earth than that terrible
laughter.'Great Heaven! Talk of the effrontery of women; I never believed
in it before. I give you one chance, Diane. 'Say, ' Forgive
give me, Bruno,' then I shall know that you recognize the justice
of my claim, and I shall be content. Say it?''How can I say such a thing to a stranger?''Now, hear my alternative. I stood last night for five hours on
the steps of your door, waiting to see Lord Kerston--waiting to
tell him what kind of woman he had honored with his name. I
missed him; but I shall at once proceed against you.''Will you kindly release my hand? she said.'I will not. Listen, while I will tell you what I will do.'CHAPTER LX.
WHAT SHOULD SHE DO?'I will tell you,' said Bruno, 'what I shall do. There are many
people who know you--Hester, my sister, Ralph Thorne, the
curate, Ann Clegg, the servant--they all know you, they will
remember you. Brought face to face with them, you will not dare
to persist in this effrontery.'She shuddered as he pronounced each name--they were like so

many daggers in her heart. Remember them! Could she ever
forget the grim, gray face of Hester? The common-place
features of Ann Clegg, the calm countenance of the curate rose
before her as he spoke--would they recognize her? Her heart
almost stood still with fear. She was at a loss what to say, yet
the instinct of self-preservation was strong within her. Never,
let what might happen, would she give in and plead guilty--
never for Philip's sake. She looked up at the stern, hard face
before her.'There are many cases of mistaken identity: try to believe me,
this is one. Only reflect for a moment how improbable it is.
Supposing even that all you say is true, and that at some time or
other you had an unhappy runaway wife, how could she possibly
be found in the position I now occupy? Common sense, if nothing
else, will tell you how wrong you are.'He looked at her with a certain amount of admiration in his face.'You have plenty of spirit, Diane,' he said, 'but yon will not
vanquish me. I could almost find it in my heart to be sorry for
you, because you are fighting what you think to be a gallant
fight. I could pity you if you were less wicked, or less hardened
in wickedness. I could almost forgive you if you showed any sign
of fear.''I do not feel any fear,' she replied; 'why should I show it?
And now will you forgive me, Mr. Severne, if I say this painful
and absurd conversation must come to an end; my servants will
think it strange, and I am tired of it.''Your servants will see stranger things than this,' he retorted,
laughingly; 'some of them will give evidence against you. You
have heard, I presume, of the Divorce Court?'She grew deadly pale.When all pacific measures have failed,' he said, 'I shall serve
you a citation from the Divorce Court, and you will see what
happens next.'You must please yourself; the only favor I really ask from
you is that you will go at once and leave me.''You shall be obeyed. I know you will be the first to repent
of this morning's work. The man you have deceived, Diane, is a
grand, noble man; how could you so cruelly deceive him? How
could you let him take a dishonored woman to his heart and his
home? If you had no fear of God, no fear of me, no fear of the
consequences that always follow sin, you might at least have
thought of him. The beautiful woman folded her white hands
with an air of calm resignation and despair.'I am compelled to listen,' she said, 'because I cannot help
myself.' His face became distorted with a heavy frown.'If I had meant to spare you,' he said, 'your effrontery would
have forbidden it; now take the consequences of your own folly.'So saying, he strode away and left her standing among the
flowers. She watched the tall, gaunt figure and severe face until
he was out of sight, then she fell down on her knees and wept
aloud. Nothing could save her now; she knew all that must
follow; he would keep his threat, he would bring all these people
to confront her, and then--Well, for Philip's sake--still, for Philip's sake, she could deny
it; but would that be of any avail? If he brought as he threatened,
a string of witnesses against her, they would win in the
end; she might do brave battle with one, but not with all.How did that terrible day pass? Her servants looked at her in
wonder, so white, so silent, with a worn, haggard look in her
beautiful eyes; silent, despairing, as unlike herself as is the
shadow of a flower to a flower--weary, stricken, hopeless. Could
this be the brilliant, beautiful mistress who had once filled the
place with sunshine? Quite involuntarily, and without in the
least knowing the reason why, they connected the terrible change
in her looks with the visit of the gaunt rough man who had
been there that morning.Can any one imagine such a day as she endured--so full of
anguish and sorrow--so full of restless pain and weary suspense?'It would be almost better for me,' she thought, 'if the worst
would happen, and my suspense were ended. Anything would be
easier to bear than this.'They prepared lunch for her, but she could not touch it;
everything seemed to turn to ashes on her lips. What should she
do--what should she do? What would happen? She wandered
through those magnificent rooms, the ghost of her former self--
she could find neither rest nor repose. The sight of her own face
in the glass frightened her; she wrung her hands in unavailing
despair. What should she do--what should she do in the terrible
time coming?There never was a woman so fair, yet so unhappy. There were
times when she flung her white arms above her head and cried:'Let me die! let me die!'There were times when she flung herself with her face on the
ground--writhing in despair--not caring to rise.  So the long
summer day passed. Oh, Heaven, that such days must be!At night she went into her own room, exhausted with violent
emotion, moving mechanically, only alive to the fact that she
must do as others did, and that she must pretend to sleep and
to rest, though her brain was on fire and her heart burning.Of all nights, surely that was the longest and most cruel, surely it
was the most dreary and terrible. It ended as the day had done--
'Be the day short, or be it long,It endeth at last in even song.'Then came another day. There was a brilliant sun mocking
her with golden gleams; there were the happy birds singing sweet
songs; there were the flowers blooming--ah! so fresh. Everything
on earth seemed glad but herself.She went down stairs.  Her husband was coming that day.
What else would happen? Death? Why, she laughed bitterly
at the notion. What was the pain of death compared to the agony
of life? If she could kiss Philip's face, and die without the shame,
the disgrace, she should think herself fortunate.If she could die in Philip's arms--that would be mercy! Poor
Diane! She looked at her trembling hands.'I should go mad,' she thought, 'if this lasted. My nerves are
shaken, my reason is going; I could not bear it.'The roses were all laughing in the sun when her husband came.
She had meant to meet him, but she dared not; he must not see
her white face in the sunshine. She remained in the drawing-
room, trying to look as much like herself as possible; she heard
the noise of his footsteps on the stairs; her heart beat so loudly
that it seemed it must break. Nearer--then he was in the room
his handsome face all beaming with love.'My darling,' he said, 'you have only been gone away two days,
yet it seems like two years.' He kissed her face over and over
again; he clasped her in his arms, whispering sweet words to her. Then
he looked at her.'Great Heaven, Diane!' he cried, 'what have you done to yourself?
Have you been ill? Your face looks changed.'She had known he would say all this, and she had thought how she should parry all attempts at explanation.  Now her one impulse
was to throw herself in his arms, and, clinging to him, beg
him to shield her, to help her, to protect her. She tried to
answer him, but her lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears, and
she turned away.'Diane, my darling ' cried Lord Kerston, ' what is the matter?'
She turned to him and looked at him again.'I have not been well, Philip,' she said.'You look ill, too. Will you go abroad? That London season,
all glare, and gas, and gayety, has been too much for you. You
must have weeks of rest and quiet.''You are right' she said. 'I should like to go abroad, Philip.
Imagine what it must be to get away from all the world. Oh!
Philip,' she cried, ' how I should like to go away with you, where
no one would know us or follow us--some place where we could
be alone, dear--all alone!' Her voice died away in a quivering
sob, and Lord Kerston looked on in amaze.Why, Diane, what is the matter? This will never do,' he said.
'I have never seen you in this state. I believe you have the
complaint that fine ladies call nervousness. I must have you cured,
my beautiful Diane; pale, trembling, with tears in her eyes--this
is a sight I do not understand at all.' She tried to conquer the
agitation that was so nearly mastering her, but could not. She
clung to him, sobbing like a child, her pride all vanished, her
courage gone. He seemed to understand that it was a nervous
complaint of no consequence.He ordered a glass of cordial; he told her all the incidents he
could remember. He was kindness itself to her; when he seemed
to have recovered himself, he said: 'Now, Diane, you must rest.
I would not hare this scene repeated. London shall not drag you
into this vortex again, my beautiful wife.'She turned away in silence, not knowing what to say in answer
to his caresses; thinking it was the greatest kindness he could do
for her, he bade her lie down, and, drawing the blinds, he left
her, bidding her sleep.Sleep!--she could have laughed in the bitterness of her heart.
Sleep!--she, whose every thought was poisoned! There could be
no more sleep for her--no more rest; she had begun to ask her

self would it be better for her to tell Lord Kerston, and trust to
his kindness, or should she fight it out, in defiance to the end.
She could not lower herself in his eyes; she
would not abase her glorious womanhood before him.  No--come what might--she
would not tell him.CHAPTER LXI.
'WHAT HAVE I DONE?'Should she tell him or should she not? She woke from a dreamless
sleep with those words in her ears. Should she go to him,
and kneeling at his feet, tell him the story of her life, the story of
her wrecked marriage and its more wretched result? It was
drawing nearer, this terrible crisis in her life. Even if she herself
did not tell him, he would be compelled to know before long.
Bruno Severne would fulfil his threats, and then---- Diane turned
away with a sigh. If she had but died with her mother, if she
had but waited at that dull Larchdale until death claimed her--if
she had done anything except what she had done. It was all
over now--for years her life had lain among roses, now there was
nothing but thorns; for long years the sun had shone on her, now
there was nothing but shade.A citation from the Divorce Court! Innocent Diane, who was
yet so guilty, wondered what that meant.  Her newspaper reading
had not been extensive, but she knew there were cases of
bigamy, where a man found guilty of marrying two wives was
sentenced to imprisonment and hard labor. If Bruno did fulfil
the threat, would that punishment be hers?  Would they make
her stand before those judges and answer such questions as would
rend her heart in twain? Would she stand still while witnesses
spoke against her, and told that in all truth she had been Bruno
Severne's wife?Would they sentence her to prison and hard
labor? She held up her hands and arms--were chains and irons for these? Would
prison fare and prison toil spoil their lovely contour? What words
were those passing through her mind  'He maketh the sun to
shine on the just and the unjust;' so would the law fall upon her.
They would not spare her because she was delicately nurtured,
because she was graceful, because she was fair and sweet; they
would not spare her because she had lived among the noblest of
the land, because she was accustomed to the 'sheen of satin and
glimmer of pearl.'Who could be more guilty than Diane in the eyes of the world.
She had broken one of its strictest precepts; in the eyes of God
she had broken one of His severest laws.Yet, what could, in its way, be more innocent than her offence.
She had asked what true marriage meant, and they had told her
it was the making one of two half souls; she had so soon found
out, poor child, that her soul was not the twin half of Bruno
Severne's, and she had believed that she was the other half of Lord
Kerston's life. It was wrong, it was weak and wicked, but Diane
had no intention of being either. What had she done.'If I had robbed any one of all they were worth--if I had com-

mitted a murder, if I had done the most deadly deed, they could
but put me in prison. What have I done? I found my true love
--my true husband--the other half of my soul--and I went to him.
I left one who had been unkind, cruel, grim, stern, and
uncongenial; who blighted my life, made me the most wretched
of women. I quitted shade for sunshine, coldness for warmth,
darkness for light; from a desert I went into a paradise--and for
that I must be imprisoned.'Then, with a revulsion of feeling, she flung herself on her knees,
sobbing, with her fair head bowed in humility.'I know it was wrong,' she said. 'Oh, God! pity and pardon
me. I know it was all wrong.'In some dreamy way the hours of that day passed; she would
never remember how. The greater part of them she spent by her
husband's side, looking at him, as good women look at a dying
child; listening to him, touching him with her white fingers, as
though to assure herself it was not a dream, and the day ended
while she still had that dreamy expression, the same dazed look
in her eyes. The morrow was coming--on that morrow God help
her. The morrow dawned--no dread summons came for her. It was
three days since Bruno Severne had left her with those threats on
his lips; surely it could never be that be had relented.She did not see the letters that lay waiting for her husband;
there were none for her. She asked, but was told there were
none; but for him there were several, and among others one in
Bruno Severne's handwriting. Lord Kerston looked at it first
with a smile, the writing was so thick, the envelope coarse.Who is my new correspondent?' he thought. 'I never
remember to have seen this writing before.'The smile died from bis lips as he read:'My Lord Kerston::--I
write this to tell you that the person living 
in your house, whom you call your wife, is no wife of yours, and never
has been. She is my wife, and I claim her.'I am a farmer--Bruno Severne by name, and years ago I had a friend
called Laurence Balfour. We were much attached to each other, and
when Laurence lay dying, although he had not seen me for years, he
left me guardian of his only child, Diane. I am, as I said, a farmer. I
have a good farm called Larchdale, and my sister Miss Hester Severne,
kept house for me. Laurence Balfour had been dead some time before
I knew that his daughter had been left to my charge; he was an artist
--a clever, unreal, dreamy kind of man.'I went at once to the place where she lived; it was called Uplands
and instead of finding her a child, I saw a beautiful girl and, my Lord
Kerston, because I knew no other way of befriending her, I married her
and took her home.'We were not happy. I confess I might have done more to have
brightened her life; but I did not do it. She was young, gay, high-
spirited, fond of everything beautiful and pleasant. I was old and
formal. Still I might have done more.'We did not go the right way to work with her. We made no
allowances. I was not just. All this I own, for I see my fault.'I allowed my sister to be unkind to her; and then, poor Diane, her
baby was born!'My lord. I do not want to trouble you with a long story.'Diane's baby was born, and that which should have made us kinder,
only made us harder to her.'My sister would have her own way over the little one; she gave it

some medicine which nearly killed it, and when the child was lying on
what we thought its death-bed, Diane was not allowed to enter the
room.'My lord, it drove her mad, for she loved the child with a wonderful
love. When she was sent from the room she left the house; my idea is
that she was half-crazed with her misery, and ran away, believing the
child was dead.I spent years in looking for her. I knew she had left me voluntarily
because she sent back my wedding-ring. When I received it, I swore
to be revenged, and I mean to keep my oath!'My son lived and prospered, he grew handsome, intelligent--an
artist. You know him; M. Davard adopted him and took him to London
to teach him his art.'I came to London to see my boy, and while in a store in Bond street
saw my wife Diane.'I recognized  her at once; she he was superbly dressed; she was
magnificently handsome; she had all the prestige of rank, wealth, position,
but I recognized her; I went to her and claimed her at once.''Diane,' I said, 'you are my wife; I recognize you--come home with
me.''She raised to me a wondering face, and said she did not know me.
If you had lost Diane--you having loved her--if you had lost her, and
found her again--should you not know her?'There was a scene; the proprietor of the store interfered. Diane
was escorted to her carriage; I was roughly dismissed. I asked her
name; no one would tell me, but I found it out; and I knew that the
woman who was before God and men my wife passed as yours; that
she was called Lady Kerston, of Irksdale, and she lived in all honor and
esteem,.'I went to your house, hoping to see you, but I was refused. I stood
for five hours outside your door--still could not see you. I found out
that Diane was at Irksdale, and I followed her. We had a long interview,
and she defied me to the last; she defies me now, and I know
that of her own accord she will never own the truth; but I shall wring
it from her--I shall force it from her! I have told her I should send a
citation from the Divorce Court; I have changed my mind--I shall
charge her with having committed bigamy.'If you doubt what I have written, take this letter to Diane, and
watch her while she reads it, watch the lips grow white, watch the
color fade from her face--look well at her, and you will see guilt in her
whole figure!'She is my wife, my lord! She was mine before she was yours. You,
a nobleman, would scorn to put your hand in my pocket and steal my
purse--you would not forge my name to a check--you would not rob my
house--you would not set fire to my hay-ricks, will you then be so
dishonest as to keep my wife--my wife, to whom I have the first and only
claim? You acted innocently enough in marrying her, believing her to
be free; you cannot plead ignorance or innocence now; for I tell you,
most frankly, the woman you call Diane is my lawful wife, Diane
Severne, and I am coming to claim her.'CHAPTER LXII.
OH! THE TERRIBLE SCANDAL.Lord Kerston read every word of that letter. He uttered no
exclamation, he was dazed and bewildered. There was an air of such
truth, and simplicity, determination and earnestness about that
story, how could he doubt it? yet his wife--his beautiful Diane,
she, whose grandeur of soul he had admired; she, whose thoughts,
words and ideas were so noble; she, who had always seemed
superior to him: could she have so basely deceived him?There were cases of mistaken identity, he knew; was this one?He had read of them. It must be that this simple farmer had
mistaken Diane for some one, Then with a sharp pang, the coin-

cidence struck him; the similarity of name, it was not only the
face, but the name.Could there be two Dianes, both queenly women? Diane was
not a common name; he did not remember to have ever heard it
before. Another coincidence; his wife had told him she was an
artist's daughter; could there be two such women? yet, how
could he doubt his wife, his loving Diane? she, with a child--a
son!--it was impossible to imagine it; his whole soul recoiled at
the thought.Diane another man's wife, and that man a plain farmer? Diane
kissed, loved, caressed by such a man as this?--he loathed the
idea. That beautiful, high-bred woman, who was a queen among
those who were queens by right--no! he could not believe it.
Suppose that it were true--if she were the wife of Bruno
Severne, she was less than nothing to him. 'He must put her away
from him,' in the words of the Scripture. The beautiful face must
smile no more on him; the white hands must never lie in his
again! There was no loving wife for him--he must live henceforth,
lonely, wretched, miserable; and oh! the terrible scandal!'Fierce indeed is the light that beats upon a throne,' but that
is no fiercer than the light that beats on men of his position; how
the world would gloat over such a scandal; how his political
enemies would make mountains of it; how it would spread through
the length and breadth, not only of this, but of all lands.Lord Kerston, a leader in council, an eminent politician, a man
who had always been known for the stainless purity of his life, a
man who had been dreaded for the severity of his morals--had
married another man's wife!He shrank from the words as though some one had struck him
a blow; he was so intolerant of wrong; he hated all evil doing,
he would not willingly have done wrong to have saved his life,
and he had married another man's wife!If it were true, then Diane must leave him at once. He had
no control over her, none over her future; he could not say what
she should do, or where she should go, that authority would rest
in other hands; drops of anguish stood on his brow as he thought
of that. She must go from him--if it were
true--whether she went back to her old home or not; and he tried
to imagine what his home would be without Diane, without this graceful woman,
who had ruled there like a queen; this loving, devoted wife, who 
had sympathized with him, who had loved him.Ah, Diane loved him and no one else. Who had made his
career her study--who had been his right hand. Who, to fit
herself for being his companion, had studied politics, mastered
the hardest statistics, who had received his friends, and charmed
them so completely that their influence was great as his own ?
This sweet wife, whose lips never uttered an angry word, whose
sweet eyes had never looked mockingly on him. How was it
possible he could live without her?He was a proud man, and the finger of scorn pointed at him
would annoy him terribly, but he had the consciousness of
innocence--he could appeal to his past life, if appeal were needed; he

could afford to laugh at public opinion it any one could; but,
what of the sorrow of losing his beautiful wife? She was the one
love of his life--he had had no other: she was the sun of his life,
when it was set nothing remained for him but darkness; and she
-what would she do?'If it were true!' those fatal words, she
deserved punishment, but be could not bear she should have it. She had
done a terrible wrong; she had sinned in a manner that to him was
inconceivable, but his tender love pleaded for her.Then he began to doubt whether it was possible for it to be
true. He had met Diane so far removed from any scene of that
kind. How could Bruno Severne's runaway wife have found a
home with his high-bred kinswoman? How could the wife of a
simple farmer have attained the elegance, the refinement that
distinguished Diane?--it was impossible.A farmer's wife? He laughed aloud. How foolish he had
been to grow frightened.Farmers' wives are comely women, with ruddy faces, red arms,
and substantial figures; fine-looking women, with white teeth
and wholesome smiles; he had seen many such. How different
was his queenly Diane, with her dainty loveliness?His heart began to grow warm with hope, the blood ran freely
in his veins, the good, earnest farmer was mistaken--it was a case
of mistaken identity.Diane was close to him; should he go to her and so solve all
doubts? Should he go to her with the letter in his hand, ask her
to read it and watch her as she did so? Would it be honorable
or delicate to do such a thing?If--as he prayed Heaven--it were all a mistake, Diane would
be angry; she would raise her beautiful eyes to his with a look of
sweet, grave reproach, but all doubt would be ended. She would
ask him, why he had wronged her by showing her such a letter.Then he stopped short. This man had met her; there had
been a scene in a shop; he had been to Irksdale; he had seen her
there; he had had a long interview with her. If she were
innocent, why had she not complained to him?  Why had she not
told him of the insult offered to her, and have asked him to set it
straight or to avenge it? That would have been the natural
course of things for an innocent woman. Why had Diane been
so silent?  Why had she kept all this a secret from him?Then another thought struck him with dread. What had made
Diane so ill? Could it be this preying on her mind and filling
her with anxiety, with deepest grief?  He could bear the suspense
no longer, he must go and ask her.Taking the letter in his hand, he went to the room Diane used
in the morning--a bright room, that seemed to be all white lace
and rosebuds, the windows of which opened on to a beautiful
lawn, where roses and white lilies grew.Diane was there, sitting by the open window, so engrossed in
her thoughts that she did not hear him; when she did--how could
he doubt her?--when she did--when she knew he stood there
watching her--a crimson glow overspread her face, a glad light
came into her eyes, a smile parted her beautiful lips.'My darling,' she said, 'I did not know you were there.''Now, Heaven forgive me,' thought Lord Kerston, 'that I have
for one moment doubted my darling; that lovely face is more like
the face of an angel than that of a wicked woman. She is innocent,'
thought Lord Kerston; 'if all the world came forward to
swear to her guilt, I would not believe it.  She is innocent, and
the whole story is a mistake. Could I look upon a face like that,
and believe in its guilt?The revulsion of feeling was so great that he kissed her with
passionate kisses; then, with bitter pain, he bethought himself
that if she were another man's wife, all these kisses were sin.He must solve the doubt, for his own sake as well as hers. He
did not like the feeling of constraint between himself and his wife.'Diane, my darling!' he said, hesitatingly, I have a most unpleasant task to perform.'He paused, for her eyes had caught sight of the open letter, and
they were raised to his face in an agony of fear. He could not mistake
the expression, and he saw her hands clenched together.'I would give my fortune, my life itself to be spared this pain,'
he said; but I must inflict it, Diane, my darling, why have you
kept secrets from me?I have no secrets,' she said, in a low voice.'Why did you not tell me of that man who made that painful
scene in the New Bond street shop--the man who followed you
here to Irksdale--why did you not tell me about him?''I thought you would be very angry with him,' she replied.'Undoubtedly I should have been angry--he deserved it.''I was sorry for him,' she said; 'he--he seemed to fancy that I
was like his wife, and his wife had run away from him. Perhaps,
Philip, he was mad.'She grew whiter with every word, and she trembled like a leaf.'Mad or sane, he must be prevented from annoying you. Why
did you not tell me, Diane?''I was really sorry for him,' she replied, 'and I was frightened,
too.'Then Lord Kerston looked first at her, then at the open letter
in his hand.'Diane, my dear wife, I am sorry,' he said, 'but I am obliged
to ask you to read this.'CHAPTER LXIII.
BITTERNESS OF DEATH.He turned away while she read. Perhaps the temptation to watch
her was strong, but he would not yield to it--gentlemen neither
watch nor torture the women they love. He turned away and
would not look at her. Only once, when he heard the flutter of
paper in her hands, he glanced quickly at her. The white face
was bent over the letter, the whole beautiful figure was still
motionless, quiet as monumental marble.She was not reading it, she knew the story too well; every word
was engraven in letters of fire on her heart. She was not reading
it--she was taking time to reflect.The crisis had come at last; the blow had fallen; the sword so
long suspended overhead lay upon her neck; that which for years
she had dimly foreseen, had now occurred. Her whole soul was
concentrated with one thought--should she tell him, or should she
not? Should she fall down there at his feet and cry out that she
was a guilty woman, a fallen creature; that Bruno Severne's story
was true, she was his wife; that she had basely deceived the noble
gentleman whose faith was all in her? Should she do that, and
ask him to have pity on her, to take her away, to shield her, to
save her? Would he?Once she raised her eyes and looked at him. The noble face,
with its look of stern power and hauteur, the grave, earnest eyes,
the lips so firm and tender--it was the face of a noble man in the
highest sense of the word. Then she remembered the character
that had been given of him. He was so good, so noble, so true,
but so intolerant of wrong, and when once his faith was destroyed
it was gone forever. She remembered all that, asking herself, as
she did so, if he would ever pardon her? It was not likely; the
first moment he knew she was Bruno Severne's wife would be the
last in which she should see him--of that she felt quite assured.She would not give Bruno Severne that victory--he should not
find her humiliated, lowly, meek. He had ill-treated her; he was
narrow-minded and revengeful; she would defy him to the very
last. He should kill her if he would, but she would never yield
to him. A spirit new and strange to her--one of reckless defiance,
of daring revolt, of grim endurance rose within her, and terrified
her; a spirit of endurance that nothing could quell or subdue.
No, she would not own the truth; Bruno Severne should not stand
with his foot on her neck and conquer her; she would fight it out
to the bitter end, she would not voluntarily fling herself into the
hands of the enemy.' I would not tell the truth now,' she said.  'I would not if I
died for it.'Then her husband turned to her, for the paper had fallen from
her hand to the floor.'Diane,' he said, gently.She glanced up at him.'It is not true,' she said, simply, 'I am your wife, Philip.'A great light spread over his face; he turned to her with a glad
happy look in his eyes.'Not true,' he repeated; 'thank Heaven. Oh! thank Heaven,
my darling that I hear you say so!'He clasped her in his arms and kissed her face over and over
again, but the lips he touched were as cold as marble, her hands
like fire. There was something in her manner that did not satisfy
him, a vague coldness--he could not tell what.'So it is not true. Diane, my darling wife, I never thought it.
Deceit and Diane are not compatible. I never believed it.''Is it a plot to extort money,' he said, ' or is the man mad? I
hope Heaven will give me patience, or I shall horsewhip him
within an inch of his life. Then she laid her hand on his arm.'You must be patient,' she said.  And he saw that her lips
were so white and stiff it was with difficulty she moved them.'You must be patient, Philip. I--I think he is mad. I could
not help feeling sorry for him, he had lost his wife.''Even if he had lost twenty wives it is no reason why he should
persecute you, my darling; he shall suffer for it. What a strange
letter, what strange coincidences! Two Dianes, two daughters
of artists, two fair women with golden hair--it is marvellous, it is
like a romance!'She looked up at him quickly, thinking he was mocking her;
but his face was full of good faith and kind affection.'I am so glad, my darling, I had the courage to show you the
letter. At first I did not care to do so; I thought it too insulting.
My peerless Diane, a farmer's wife! I am glad I showed you the
letter, for, although I did not believe it, and would not have
believed it, if the whole world had sworn to it, still, it made me
uncomfortable, as you can imagine, and there would always have
been a shadow between us.''It was best,' she said, but in a manner so unlike her own.He looked at her in doubt and amaze, then blamed himself,
like the chivalrous gentleman he was; she was sure to be strange
in her manner after reading such a letter as that.'Now' said Lord Kerston, ' I will take the matter in my own
hands; he shall find out that it is not a delicate lady whom he
has to torment, to persecute and annoy--not a delicate lady, but
a man, with a strong arm, and the will to use it; there will not
be many more scenes after I have taken him in hand.'Again she said: ' Be patient, Philip; he seemed beside himself.''Beside himself!' said Lord Kerston. 'What right had he to
annoy my wife? Things are coming to a pretty pass when a man
may do as he has done and gain nothing but sympathy! He will
find something more substantial than a woman's pity when he
falls into my hands!Then he kissed his wife again.'Thank Heaven,' he said, 'I can defend you now!  I should
not be surprised, Diane, if this man annoys us further. What a
strange thing it is! There must be something wrong in the laws
of the land when one man has it in his power so terribly to annoy
another. I should not wonder if he does not begin his proceedings
against you--they would soon be stopped. Thank Heaven,
I can defend you, Diane! Yet I did not doubt--believe me,
darling, I did not doubt you.'She looked up at him.'If he should do this wrong and wicked injustice,' she said,
'how can you defend me, Philip?''Nothing could be easier, dear. This man says in a certain
year you married him--you have but to prove where you were
during that year. He says you are the daughter of Laurence
Balfour--you have but to show whose daughter you are, you have but
to mention your father's name. Nothing can be easier than to
defend such a case. You can easily prove where you spent all
these years he says you passed at his place--Larchdale? Nothing
can be more easy than to prove that--one half-hour with a good
solicitor will suffice; if he were mad enough to persevere, no judge
or jury would listen to such a story.'He saw the whiteness of her face give place to a deathly pallor,
an ashen gray hue, terrible to behold.'Then my defence,' she said, would be to prove what people
generally call an alibi?''Yes; and that would be very easy, Diane. You must have
many people who can come forward to testify to having known
you during that time.'He could not help noticing how she trembled. Then he said,
gently:' That man's life would hardly pay me for all the anxiety he has
caused you, Diane.'Then he paused, for there was a confusion as of several arrivals,
and next moment a footman threw open the door.'A person wishes to see you at once, my lord,' he said. Lord
Kerston looked up hurriedly.'A person! What name?' he asked.'A Mr. Severne, my lord; he bade me say that his business was
most important and brooked no delay.'' Show him into the library,' said his lordship; ' I will see him
at once.' Then he turned to Diane.'I will meet this madman,' he said, 'and fight your battles for
you. Thank Heaven, I can do so, Diane! You need not waste
one thought upon it,' and next moment he had gone.Need not waste one thought upon it! Poor Diane. She sank
on the floor, almost dead. What would happen now? It seemed
to her in that moment she tasted the bitterness of death.Lord Kerston walked into the library; his face was dark with
an angry frown. He was startled to see, not only Bruno Severne
awaiting him, but what looked at first a small crowd of people.
He was too true a gentleman to speak angrily before these
strangers--he did not know which of them was his mortal foe, Bruno
Severne. His eyes ranged over the two gentlemen of the party;
one he saw was a clergyman; the other he imagined rightly to be
a farmer. Bruno Severne stepped forward.'I wish to speak to you, my lord. My name is Bruno Severne;
my business is particular.' Lord Kerston bowed.'I will see you alone,' he said: ' follow me.''Not at all, my lord,' replied Bruno. 'My business with you
is no secret--these friends of mine know all about it; they are
here as witnesses. You received my letter, my lord?''I have received a most insolent letter,' said Lord Kerston,
'which I should not deign to notice, but that I think the man
who wrote it deserves punishment.'No, my lord,' said Bruno, 'it will not do for you to take the
high hand with me. I am here to do my best in an unfortunate
affair; but if you attempt anything of the kind with me, it will
be the worse for you and the worse for Diane.'Lord Kerston's face grew white with rage at hearing his wife's
name so familiarly used; be made one step in advance, then
controlled himself by a great effort.' I must trouble you,' he said, 'whenever you speak of that
honored lady to remember that her name is Lady Kerston.''Nay,' said Bruno, 'that is not it. Lord Kerston, I am sorry
for you. I am here--I am sorry that such a great man as you, so
clever and distinguished, should have got into all this trouble--I
am here, if you will excuse my rough manner of speaking, in some
kind of way as your friend. I do not want a great exposure and
scandal; I think, if you and I agree not to quarrel, we shall avert
that.' It was with great difficulty he controlled himself, but for
Diane's own sake, he did so.'I am willing,' he said, 'to listen to you in all patience.'
'Ah, but I shall want more than that,' said Bruno, abruptly.
'Patience is very well, but I want justice, and you must give me
justice. If you do not, I shall have to get it elsewhere. You
read my letter--then you know my story. I repeat that my wife,
Diane Balfour, is here, and I claim her from you!'Was he mad? There was such an air of certainty, of absolute
conviction about him, that Lord Kerston was startled.CHAPTER LXIV.
'I ASK FOR JUSTICE.'Lord Kerston looked round on the little group before he made
any reply. There was an elderly, gray-haired woman, with a
grim malignant face, wearing a half-satisfied smile on her thin
lips, as one who says, 'I told you so--I knew I was right.' She
sat rigidly upright; there was not a bend in her. Her dress, like
her hair, was of iron-gray, spare, ill-made, ill-fitting; there was
not a graceful line about her; her small, shrewd eyes positively
gleamed with delight; she had something of the aspect which a
very lean and hungry spider wears when it is about to dine off a
fat little fly. That was Miss Hester Severne, whose satisfaction
in her present errand is more easily imagined than described.
Near her was another of the grim species, a hard, determined-
looking woman, with red hands, and a face somewhat resembling
a nutmeg-grater. That was Anne Clegg, who had always 
prophesied that 'young Mrs. Bruno would come to no good,' and
was there in virtue of her prophecy.Then he saw a tall, kindly-looking clergyman, whom he
recognized at once as a gentleman; on him Lord Kerston fixed his eyes
and bowed. Then the clergyman stepped forward, and bowing
in his turn, said:'My lord, permit me to introduce myself. I am Ralph Thorne.'
Lord Kerston looked at him with wondering eyes--what had he
to do with it? Mr. Thorne continued:'Mr. Severne came over to see me yesterday, and explained the
whole of this sad affair to me.'' Sad, indeed,' said the two grim females, with a dolorous shake
of the head--comedy and tragedy are always closely allied.Lord Kerston, despite his horror of anxiety, could not help
thinking these two women were like the chorus in a Greek play.Mr. Thorne continued:'I suggested to Mr. Severne that all mild means should be tried
before he had recourse to law, that he should see you, and
knowing you to be a gentleman of honor, should allow you in this case
to be judge.''You are very kind,' said Lord Kerston, satirically.But Ralph Thorne spoke in all earnestness and sincerity.'If there should be,' he said, 'what I pray Heaven to avert,
any truth in this most unhappy story, then it will be better to
spare the lady all that is possible.''Do not speak of her,' said Lord Kerston, angrily; 'her name
shall not be dragged into such a discussion.''Dear me!' said Hester Severne; and 'Dear me!' echoed Anne
Clegg.'I am compelled to speak of her even against your wish,' said
Mr. Thorne; 'but I mention her with all respect. In my
opinion she is the only one in the matter to be considered.  Spare
her all that is possible. If it be a mistake, do not let her be
annoyed by hearing much of it; if it be true, spare her because she
is a woman.''A woman, indeed!' sneered Miss Hester.Lord Kerston turned angrily to them.'Who are these most exasperating women! he asked.Bruno answered.'My sister, Hester Severne, and her servant, Anne Clegg.''We are here' said Miss Hester, 'to give testimony unto the
truth.'But his lordship turned angrily away. Such women as these to
sit in judgment on his beautiful Diane--it was too absurd.Then the clergyman, holding up his hands for silence, went on,'I made a suggestion to Mr. Severne which he has carried out,
and which, I hope will meet your approval. I asked him to be
patient, and before exposing his story to all the length and breadth
of the land, to let us see what could be done. I myself, knew
Diane Balfour; I remember her perfectly, and am quite sure I
should know her were I to see her. I am, I hope, a gentleman,
and should know how to conduct myself without offence. Let me
see the lady and speak to her; my testimony will, at least, be
disinterested.'Lord Kerston bowed.'I think you are right,' he replied; 'if Lady Kerston does not
object, I shall not.''Then, on my part,' added Bruno, 'I ask that my sister and
her maid may see the lady; they lived with her some years, and
knew her well. I tell you what, Lord Kerston--mind, I am only
claiming my own--I am content to abide by the decision of these
three witnesses; let them see the--the lady. If they say she is
not the Diane Balfour I married, then I w1l go down on my knees
and beg her pardon and yours. Can I say fairer than that?''It sounds fairly enough,' said Lord Kerston; 'but how am I
to know that it is not a plot concocted between you?'My lord,' said Ralph Thorne, 'I am a minister of the Most
High God. Should I lend myself to a plot?'And,' added Bruno, 'as a man of sense, let me ask you, Lord
Kerston, why should I plot against your wife--what should I know
of her--what could she be to me? What reason or sense would
there be in such a thing?'It might be done to extort money,' said Lord Kerston. 'I do
not say that it is so for one moment, but I have read of such
things.''I am in no want of money,' said Bruno, with a deep flush on
his face. 'If I did want it, I should work for it, and not seek it
at the price of a woman's honor or fair fame. I have more money
than I shall ever need. If you offered me your whole fortune, my
lord, to forego my just claim to my wife, I should refuse it. I
ask justice; let these, my friends, see her; I will abide by their
decision.'' It is just,' said Ralph Thorne, gravely.Miss Hester added, snappishly:'If Lord Kerston refuses, we shall know that he is afraid to
face the truth, we shall feel quite sure about it. I hope my
brother is mistaken. I never wish to see Diane again.'Lord Kerston hesitated. Ralph Thorne addressed him again:'Mr. Severne has called me his friend, my lord.  Without
meaning anything offensive to him, I should like to say that it is
not as his friend I am here. I am here in the cause of truth. If
my sympathies are with any one it is with Miss Balfour. I say
frankly, she was too young, too bright, too beautiful to have
married a man old enough to be her father.'Miss Hester closed her eyes with a pious groan, her maid looked
unutterable things, and muttered something to her mistress about
'the carnal effects of beauty.' Lord Kerston turned courteously
to the clergyman.'You knew Miss Balfour,' he said.  Will you kindly describe
her to me?'Ralph Thorne smiled sadly.'If I were a poet, I might do so; not having the gift of
eloquence, I shall fail. She was tall and slender, with a certain
nameless grace that I never saw in any other woman.  She
resembled a slender, white lily; then she had golden hair and
violet eyes, her face was like a flower, dainty in color, perfect in
feature, with a charming purity of expression.  She had teeth, I
remember, like little white pearls, and a beautiful mouth. She
was very bright and winsome, graceful in every action; her voice
was low as the whisper of a southern wind; that is something
like Diane Balfour.''And something like my wife,' thought Lord Kerston.'How ridiculous!' sneered Miss Hester.'It is awful for a clergyman,' said Anne Clegg to her mistress.Mr. Thorne continued; 'I admired Miss Balfour very much,
and confess, candidly, that I was not favorably impressed with
her guardian, who seemed to me formal, selfish, narrow-minded.
I think if I had been on the spot I should have done my best to
have stopped the marriage.'Bruno Severne turned angrily to Lord Kerston.'You cannot think, now, that I have bribed him to be my friend,'
he said.'No,' was the thoughtful reply. 'I do not think there has
been any bribery in it. I begin to hope it is simply a case of
mistaken identity.''Then my plan will be best,' said Bruno. 'Let these, my
witnesses, see the lady; if they say I am mistaken, I will apologize
in the most humble fashion. I will stop all proceedings, and I
will promise, most faithfully, never to annoy her again; that is
fair and honest, my lord, is it not?''Yes, that is honest enough,' he replied.'If you refuse them permission, and I am compelled to leave
here without having accomplished the object for which I came,
then I will immediately commence an action against her, and you
will be compelled to do before all England that which you refuse
to do privately. Another thing I wish to add--give us a fair
chance; she has hardihood enough, she looked coolly in my face
and denied me; let her have no preparation, let these women see
her and say what they think.''My wife is a lady, and must not be intruded upon, yet your
desire shall in some measure be gratified. Come with me now,
yourself; one by one you shall bring your friends in. You and
I will both be there to see the result.''That is just and honorable,' said Bruno, his face brightening.'Now shall truth prevail against iniquity,' said Miss Hester.'The way of the wicked is broad,' said Anne, with reference, it
must be supposed, to things in general, as no one appeared to see
its peculiar application.Bruno Severne followed Lord Kerston to the pretty morning
room, where he left Diane.'I should prefer entering alone,' he said; 'my wife is not well
or strong at present.'He went in; Diane sat at the window where he found her
before, her eyes fixed on the distant trees.'Diane,' said Lord Kerston, gently; and there was a whole
world of woe in the glance she turned to him. 'Diane, we have
decided upon a quick solution of the difficulty. Mr. Severne is
here; he has brought with him some of his friends; he begs you
to see them, and we have agreed that he shall abide by their
decision. If they decide against him, he promises to beg your
pardon, and never to annoy you again; if they decide for him, I am
at hand to fight it out for you, so that in any case you cannot do
better than consent.''I am quite willing,' she said.A ray of hope animated her. If she could but go through this
ordeal--if she could pass it, all would be safe and well. She took,
as it were, a momentary view of her own forces. Had she courage
to meet these people--to look at them gravely, firmly, without
quailing, and hold her own? A gleam of color came over her
white face. If she could do that, she would be saved; and for
Philip's sake, she could do it. She even smiled as she looked at Lord
Kerston; her courage was rising now, growing higher every
moment; she would meet and defy the whole world, for Philip's sake.'It will be quite a dramatic scene,' she said, with a smile.
'Whom has he brought?'His sister and her maid, and some one else whose name I
barely heard. Mr. Severne is here now.'And Bruno, awkwardly enough, it must be owned, entered the
room. She rose, tall and queenly, graceful and dignified, with
something like a mocking smile on her lips; and Bruno, half
abashed by her wondrous beauty, her queenly presence, bowed
lowly before her.CHAPTER LXV.
TESTIFYING TO THE TRUTH.Bruno Severne made one step in advance, and looked steadily in
Diane's face--the brilliant face whose beauty was heightened now
by a touch of scorn.'Are you going to persist in the untruth?' he asked. 'You have
defied and denied me; now, in the presence of the man--the
gentleman whom you have deceived and dishonored--I ask you once
more to own the truth.'She never turned her eyes to him, but looked at Lord Kerston.'You promised, Philip,' she said, 'to see that I was not
insulted.''It is useless for you to continue in your obstinacy,' continued
Bruno. 'Do you think there is no justice in Heaven, no justice
on earth  Do you think you can play with honor and morality as
a child plays with a toy?'She looked again at Lord Kerston.'Philip,' she said, 'do not forget your promise.''I shall not forget it,' said Lord Kerston, who was touched by
something in Bruno's manner; 'you need not fear insult while I
am near, Diane but, in common justice, as matters have gone so
far, you must hear what this person says.''I say,' continued Bruno, 'that I am so well satisfied with the
justice of my claim, I am so sure that I am right, so confident in
my own integrity, that I am perfectly sure Heaven itself will
interfere in my favor. I place my trust in God; He will see me
righted, Diane. I prophesy something will happen which will
make the justice of my claim open to all.'She shrank from his words; they were not violently uttered,
they were not fierce or angry--a certain homely dignity seemed to
fall over him, a certain rugged grandeur that almost ennobled him.Diane tried hard to resist the influence of his words. Lord
Kerston appeared struck with them.Bruno's eyes never once left her face--never once wandered from
her. He continued:'Lord Kerston has behaved like a true gentleman, Diane; he
has given me every facility. He has consented to remain here,
and to allow me to remain, while the witnesses I have brought
confront you.'Still her beautiful eyes were never once turned in his direction.'Philip,' she said to Lord Kerston, 'you will make the ordeal
as short as you can!''I will do so,' replied Lord Kerston.Then Bruno, asking his lordship's permission, went into the
anteroom, where the three awaited him.'Hester,' he said, 'will you come first?'A smile came over Miss Hester's face; she flung back her
bonnet-strings with an air of full determination.'Now, she said, 'I will testify unto the truth, even so as to do
credit to Bethesda.'Anne Clegg groaned in concert, and the two passed into the
drawing-room together.Whatever Miss Heater had expected to see, she did not say, but
what she did see, filled her with amaze. She was standing in the
midst of a magnificent room, every luxury and comfort around
her--such grandeur as she had never even heard of, and there
before her stood a tall queenly woman, over whose face a smile,
curiously blended of amusement and scorn, rippled like a sunbeam.Diane bowed her beautiful head courteously to Miss Hester,
who was most decidedly astounded. Some idea of shaking Diane
had faintly occurred to her; she had imagined herself going up
administering a sound sermon--she had pictured Diane frightened,
confused, shrinking from her as she remembered her of old;
instead of which here was a tall, graceful queen, whose beautiful
eyes seemed to take in all Miss Hester's eccentricities; they
glanced lightly over the cotton gloves, the thick boots, the homely
dress; and Miss Hester grew fidgety under their contemptuous
regard. Then, remembering that she was there to testify, she
took courage, and looked into the lovely face; as she did so, she
became convinced.'Yon are Diane,' she said, slowly; 'my brother's wife. I should
know you among a thousand.'Lord Kerston was watching her closely; he saw that, whatever
might be her faults, her disagreeable qualities, she was, in this
instance at least, most certainly speaking the truth. The gleam
of scorn darkened in Diane's eyes.'I came here,' she said, 'to testify to the truth; this woman is
my brother's wife.'Diane turned to Lord Kerston.'She has testified,' she said, with a light smile; 'now let her go.'But Miss Hester was not to be so coolly disposed of; anger and
indignation flamed in her face.' I shall go when I have spoken my mind,' she said.
Lord Kerston, this woman has deceived you, she is Bruno
Severne's wife; I recognize her perfectly, her eyes, her hair, her
mouth; fine feathers make fine birds, but all the fine dresses in
the world would never hide Diane from me. If she were clad in
cloth of gold, and were seated on a throne, I should know her.''The lady uses figurative language,' said Diane to Lord Kerston,
with a smile.'That is the voice of Diane,' continued Miss Hester; 'I should
know it anywhere. I know every trick of her face; all its
smoothness does not deceive me.''I think,' said Diane, gently, 'the lady has said enough.'Miss Hester turned to her abruptly.'You must not try to take the high hand over me,' she said.
'I do not choose to submit to it.  I am an honest woman; you
are not.''Philip,' said Diane, quietly, 'remember your promise.''No harsh words, Miss Severne,' said Lord Kerston. 'I cannot
allow it.''You ought to be ashamed of yourself, my lord,' said Hester,
turning angrily to him.  You ought to be ashamed of yourself
to encourage such a woman. You know she is light and false.''Hush!' said Lord Kerston, angrily.'Nay,' said the undaunted Hester, 'I shall not hush! I do not
intend to hush! I shall say what I think and mean; she was
always light; from the first moment my eyes fell upon her I knew
it; her pretty face beguiled my brother, it never beguiled me,
she had none of the ways of a Christian woman about her. When
she came into our house, she brought things with her not fit for
any modest woman's eyes; she was always false and frivolous.''I think,' said Lord Kerston, that you have said quite enough.'Miss Hester was evidently not of the same opinion.'My brother may feel surprised,' she said; 'I do not--nothing
Diane Balfour could do would ever surprise me. She would have
sold her soul at any time for the gauds and vanities of this world.
She has so sold it, and I hope the price pleases her.'She spoke suddenly, with sundry jerks of the head after the
fashion of angry women in general.Diane never spoke, never answered her; never looked once
toward her.'Philip,' she said, quietly, 'do you not think I have had enough of
this----'Bruno interrupted.'My sister is excited, and speaks too quickly,' he said, in a
grave, sedate fashion; 'she says too much--she is peculiar. You
may not know her ways, but you can judge her character. Lord
Kerston, judge for yourself whether she is speaking the truth or
not.'Lord Kerston turned to her.'Miss Severne,' he said, ' I ask you, solemnly, in the presence
of Heaven, tell me, do you believe this lady to be your brother's
wife?'For once all malignity died away before this grave, simple
earnestness, and Hester Severne replied, with a directness that went
at once to Lord Kerston's heart.'My Lord,' she said, 'I swear it. She is my brother's wife.'She turned angrily to Diane.'Why do you not speak the truth? she said. 'What is the
use of all this pretence and nonsense? Who in the world are you
trying to make yourself out to be? You know very well that you
are Diane Balfour, and no one else.'Then Miss Hester subsided angrily, and Anne Clegg came into
the room. She, like her mistress before her, was somewhat awed
by the grandeur of the surroundings, also by the marvellous beauty
of the face and figure of the stately lady. Bruno Severne was
the first to speak to her.'Come forward, Anne Clegg,' he said, 'and tell Lord Kerston
who this lady is.'The woman raised her eyes to the fair face.'That is Mrs. Severne,' she answered. 'I am quite sure.'Lord Kerston replied:'Are you not perhaps mistaken? One person so often resembles
another.'Anne Clegg smiled, the smile of conscious superiority, then
dropped a courtesy.'No, my lord, there is no mistake,' she replied; 'none in the
world; that is the Lady brought to Larchdale as my master's
wife. I remember her well; she was bright and bonnie enough
in those days, but not so bonnie as now.  She left us in a hurry,
and she left her little babe behind her.'No word from the proud, stately lady--no gleam of recognition;
her purpose of denial, on the contrary, seemed to gather strength
from every word. It was to Lord Kerston she addressed every
word and every look.'This good woman has given her evidence,' she said: 'she can
go, I suppose?'Has it occurred to you, Diane,' said Bruno, 'that out of three
witnesses, two have already given evidence against you ?'The proud eyes glanced calmly over him as though he were
unworthy of a reply. Lord Kerston interrupted.'These ladies have given their evidence; we need not detain
them. Call in your friend, and let this scene end.'Miss Hester rose, with suppressed indignation. She turned to
her maid.'We had better go, Anne,' she said. 'We have no place here;
where such a woman is, we have no right to be. Bruno, I hope
you do not intend this--this person to return to Larchdale ? If
she enters your house, I shall leave it at once. I would not
remain in it. I have not been a frequenter of Bethesda all these
years without learning my duty. She is a child of darkness; we,
thank Heaven, are children of light.''I do not think, Miss Severne,' said Lord Kerston, ' that you
need trouble yourself. I can answer for it that this lady will never
return to Larchdale--even supposing that she has ever lived there.''I can only wish you better sense, my lord,' was the sharp
reply. 'Lady, indeed! she would have been a beggar but for my
brother's charity in marrying her.''She had fine ways with her,' said sturdy Anne; 'but even fine
ways do not make a lady.'A slight expression of weariness came over Diane's face. She
turned to Lord Kerston and said to him in French:Surely we have had enough of this.'Miss Hester shrugged her shoulders.'Come, Anne,' she said, 'let us make haste from here. It is
worse than being in the Tower of Babel.'She looked at Diane as she quitted the room.'Your time will come,' she said; 'you will not always stand
smiling in satin and jewels. The wicked flourish like the bay
tree, but even the bay tree withers and dies.''Good-morning,' said Diane, politely; and that politeness so
exasperated Miss Hester that she fairly trembled with rage.Then they quitted the room.'Now, sir,' said Bruno to Mr. Thorne, 'will you come in?'And, sorely against his will, Ralph Thorne entered the room.CHAPTER LXVI.
SELF-CONDEMNED.The true sense of the comic, a keen appreciation of humor, which
never deserts some people, was not quite killed in Diane. Despite
herself, despite the terrible gravity of the situation, she had been
amused by the two women; it was impossible to help it. There
was something piquant and irresistible in Miss Hester's religious
manner and Anne Clegg's sturdy decision. A slight feeling of
wonder came over her as she tried to think who the next witness
would be; she looked at the door impatiently; the sooner the
ordeal was over the better. Who would it be? She heard the
sound of approaching footsteps--it was certainly a gentleman.
Would it be the clergyman who had married her? Never mind
who it was; she could do as she had done before--deny it all.Then Bruno entered, followed by Ralph Thorne. Lord Kerston
went up to him at once.'Sir,' he said, 'your honest testimony will be invaluable to us.
Will you look at this lady and tell me if you recognize her?Mr. Thorne did not at first even glance toward her.'I would to Heaven,' he said, ' that I could be excused; I
never anticipated anything one-half so painful as this.'You yourself suggested it,' said Bruno. 'Why should you
mind speaking?Slowly enough he raised his eyes to her face. Poor Diane! her
fate, fortune, everything depended on his few words. He looked
at her long and anxiously; he remembered her as the bright,
beautiful girl in whose fate he had been so greatly interested; and now
it rested with him either to condemn or uphold her. That most
fair face--how beautiful it was! those tender lovely eyes--how
passionately they pleaded to him! Could he slay her as she
stood there?'Speak!' cried Bruno Severne, in a voice of thunder. 'You did
not surely come here to stand mute and dumb!''Be frank--never mind the consequences,' said Lord Kerston.
'Who is this lady?'Slowly, surely, each word falling distinctly on the summer air,
he answered:'She is, I believe, Diane Balfour, who afterward became Bruno
Severne's wife.'Then it was that poor Diane condemned herself. No one had
mentioned Mr. Thorne's name, no one had named him. Yet,
raising her eyes sadly to his face, she said:'If all the world condemned me, Mr. Thorne, you, I should
have thought, would hold me guiltless.'Then she perceived the error she had made.'My lord, said Bruno Severne, 'I told you that Heaven would
interfere; she has condemned herself. If she were your wife, and
my story were false, how would she know Mr. Thorne? Ralph
Thorne was the friend and guardian in some sense of Diane
Balfour, and, in showing her knowledge of him, she shows clearly
that she is Diane Balfour.'She saw it, too, herself; one quick glance at her husband's face,
and then she read her fate. He had grown white as death; fear,
horror, despair, were all in his face.'Diane,' he said, hoarsely, 'unless you be Diane Balfour,
explain to me how you know this gentleman?'Then Mr. Thorne spoke; he went up to her, and tried to take
her hand in his.'Diane,' he said, gently; 'God knows I would have given my
right hand to have saved you.'She looked at him then, and while he lived he never forgot the
expression of her face.'I told you,' said Bruno, 'that Heaven would interfere. If she
had not told the truth in this way, she would have told it in some
other; she has condemned herself.'Never once after she had uttered those fatal words, did she look
at Bruno Severne; she saw Lord Kerston bury his white face in
his hands. In all the pride of her magnificent beauty, she swept
across the room and knelt at his feet.'Forgive me, my love,' she whispered, faintly; 'forgive me.'
She beat her golden head and kissed his feet; then without
another word or look, she quitted the room.'Diane!' cried Lord Kerston, in a voice of anguish, but she did
not turn back.'Now,' cried Bruno Severne, in a voice of triumph, 'I hope,
my lord, you are satisfied. The whole affair lies in a nutshell;
no person of common sense could doubt that my story is true.
Mr. Thorne will tell you that he was appointed to the curacy of
Uplands in his youth. It was his first charge, and he has never
left since.''Is it so?' asked his lordship.Yes,' replied Mr. Thorne, 'it is so, my lord. It is no
exaggeration to say that I would have given my right hand to have
averted this; but I must speak the honest truth to you. Surely
as the great God hears me speak, so surely is that unhappy
woman the girl I knew--Bruno Severne's wife.'Lord Kerston raised his haggard face to his.'There is no possibility of a mistake? he said.'No,' was the decided reply; 'there is none. You may believe
me as though I were on my solemn oath.''Then Heaven help me!' said Lord Kerston, and he sat for
some time in silence that no one cared to break. They respected
his grief, and stood by him in silence. Bruno was the first
to speak.'My lord,' he said, 'if the sympathy of an honest man could
help you, mine should. I am indeed sorry for you with all my

heart and soul. In claiming my wife I have simply done my
duty, no more--no less. If you suffer, think--oh! Heaven, think
what I suffered. She loves you--she never loved me.  I laid
my heart at her feet, she only trampled upon it. My lord, I was
a good man once, what has she made of me? I am a fiend now.'Lord Kerston held up his hands, as a gesture praying silence.Mr. Thorne said to him:'I have never been so grieved, so distressed; tell me is there
anything in the wide world I can do for you?''Nothing,' replied the hoarse, changed voice. 'I do not know
how I shall bear my life, Mr. Thorne; she has been the very
light of it.'In the first keen anguish of his pain he turned instinctively to
Mr. Thorne, and shrank from Bruno. But Bruno was determined
to be heard, to be avenged.I am sorry to be so persistent,' he said.  I have no wish to
intrude my presence on you, my lord, but I shall not leave here
without Diane?'Lord Kerston looked at him in wonder.'Without Diane?' he said. 'You surely do not expect that
Diane will go with you?''She will not remain here, my lord,' said Bruno, fiercely.'No; certainly not,' he replied, quickly. 'Mind, I have not
quite given in. I shall fight her battles unto the very last. I
know what she said--what a damaging admission she made, but
until she tells me herself she is really guilty, I will not believe it.
Then, even granting that she is, I shall not deliver her into your
hands bound, chained, and fettered; to be tortured at the discretion
of such women as you have brought here to-day.'No one wishes to torture her,' said Bruno, sullenly.'I do not know,' replied Lord Kerston. 'Granting that all
you say is true, that she is indeed the woman you charge her with
being, if she was condemned to live with such people as you have
shown me, I do not wonder at her running away. That, of course,
would be no excuse for evil doing; but a more terrible woman
than that sister of yours, Mr. Severne, does not live. Then Ralph
Thorne, seeing the sullen anger growing on Bruno's face, interposed.'If there be no mistake,' he said, 'and the unfortunate lady is
really Mr. Severne's lost wife there seems to be no reason why she
should not be kindly treated. She must not be forced anywhere
against her will. I have no doubt whatever that your own good
sense will suggest a life of retirement and peace.''She is my wife,' said Bruno, 'and she must come back with
me to my own home. I shall not leave here until she is given
over into my hands.''It is a most unhappy story,' said Ralph Thorne; 'the less that
public attention is called to it the better. You, Mr. Severne, may
desire to make known your wrong, but if you take my advice, you
will refrain from doing so. Your own share in the story is not a
generous or kindly one.''What have I done?' asked Bruno, angrily.'You have done that which would make the world think evil of
you,' replied Mr. Thorne, 'You have been selfish to say the least
of it; you were left--most unfortunately--as the guardian of a
bright, beautiful girl, whose life ought to have been all sunshine.
Her father, to my thinking, most unwisely, places her under your
care. What do you do? Instead of trying to think what is best
for her, instead of asking yourself how you can best fulfil the
charge--you, after a fashion of your own, fall in love with her and
marry her.''Loving her could not be called selfish,' said Bruno.'But I maintain that it was. Youth loves youth. You were
her father's friend--years too old to marry her.''Can you call marrying her selfish?' asked Bruno. 'I had a
good home, a comfortable livelihood; I could afford to keep her
in solid comfort, and she had nothing. Do you call that selfish?''Most selfish,' replied the curate. I deny that you had the
greater advantages; she had youth and beauty such as belongs to
few women. She was clever, graceful, bright--I consider her
dowry by far the richer of the two. Then you took her home, a
beautiful young wife, who should have made the sunshine of a
man's life, and what did you do with her?''She might have been happy enough if she had been sensible,'
said Bruno.'Nay, I do not think so--she had little chance of happiness.
As Lord Kerston says, she was delivered over to the tortures,
bound hand and foot; instead of letting your wife be, as she
ought to have been, mistress of your house, free--happy--in her
own fashion, you tried to make a second Miss Hester of her. You
shadowed all the brightness of her young life with your narrow
ways. You made no allowance for her youth and natural gayety.
You were cruel to her, as you would have been to a beautiful
singing bird, had you clipped its wings and shut it up in a cold,
dark cell. Then, when to the unhappy girl there came the grand
privilege of motherhood, what did you do, even by your own
confession?''I did for the best,' was the sullen interruption.'A most miserable best! what did you do? you gave the child,
as you had given her, into the hand of the torturers; you allowed
Miss Hester to almost destroy its life; then you drove the
unhappy mother from, what she believed to be, its death-bed;
drove her, with harsh words.'I loved her all the time?' cried Bruno.'Loved her!' said the curate. 'Men and women do not give
the name of love to tyranny, such as yours has been. I advise
you, for your own sake, to beware, before such a story is made
public. Believe me, though the world is, I own, hard upon
women--yet, you would draw upon yourself something like hatred.''I care but little,' said Bruno. 'But I will have Diane!'CHAPTER LXVII.
HESTER INDIGNANT.'I have a voice In the matter,' said Lord Kerston; 'you seem to

have quite overlooked that fact, Mr. Severne. No word of mine
shall ever proclaim that most fair and gentle lady guilty.
Remember, I have also a claim.''I do not see,' said Bruno, 'what your claim can be.''Can you not? Granting even--as for the sake of argument I
do grant, that she is the person whom you declare her to be--still,
I married her in perfect and most honorable good faith; I
married her believing my marriage to be perfectly legal,
perfectly true. I have given her my name, I have shared every
hope, every sorrow, every pain, every pleasure with her; she has
been--whether legally or not I am not deciding--she has been
life of my life, soul of my soul, heart of my heart; and I say
that she cannot be abruptly removed from me without my
having a voice in her welfare as well as yourself.''She is nothing to you,' said Bruno, 'and your only claim on
her lies in her own disgrace.''Perhaps other people may form a different opinion,' said Lord
Kerston, quietly. 'And now, without wishing to be in the least
degree inhospitable, would it not be quite as well that the ladies,
whose presence must be so distasteful to the mistress of the house,
should leave.''They can go,' said Bruno--'I shall wait for Diane.' His face
suddenly flushed crimson, his eyes flamed with rage, he shook his
hand threateningly, while his lips quivered with passion. 'You
need not think it is all because I love her that I refuse to go
without her. A man has not much love for the woman who deceives
and deserts him--who sets aside honor and divine laws to become
another man's wife. It is not all love. She made me a laughing
stock, even at Little Bethesda, where they think little of such
matters; I used to hear them sneer and say, 'May could not live
with December.' She made a dupe of me; my sister sneered at
me; the women in my house laughed at me, because I could not
make my wife love me; friends and neighbors dropped their voice
in affected pity as I passed by. I had a name of some repute--
she made it a jest; she left my child to ask me, with wondering
eyes, where was his mother. It is not all love--there are times
when I hate her; but she is mine, my own property and possession; I
will have her because she is mine--I will have her because
of my just claim--I will have her that I may make her repent of
her evil deeds--that she may atone to me, before the world, for
the wrong she has done! Then I am content.''In short,' said Lord Kerston, quietly, 'you want her simply
for revenge.'' You may call it by that name if you like,' said Bruno. 'It
matters nothing to me, provided only that I have her.''The lady herself is, surely, entitled to some voice in the
matter,' said Ralph Thorne. ' Would it not be best to consult her?'Certainly,' said Lord Kerston; 'and whatever she decides
shall be done.''She will have to go with me,' said Bruno, doggedly, and
neither of the gentlemen answered him one word. Always thoughtful for
her, always considerate and kind, Lord Kenton said:I think we must not intrude upon her just yet. She has been
through a trying scene--a terrible ordeal, and she is not strong.
It will be far better for her to rest for some time, then she will be
better able to judge for herself.'It was strange how he avoided giving her any blame. To
these men, whom be considered his inferiors, Lord Kerston
would not call her Diane; he could not say Lady Kerston; he
would not use any other name. The coarser instinct of Bruno
Severne made him delight in calling her Diane, to show his
claim upon her.  A look of great weariness came over Lord
Kerston's face.'I think, gentlemen,' he said, 'I will leave you; pray consider
the house your own. Dinner will be served. You will excuse
me, I know, from joining you, and in a few hours' time, we can
decide what is to be done.'Bruno agreed.  Mr. Thorne could not remain; it had caused
him great inconvenience to take this sudden journey, and he was
compelled to return; besides which, knowing the truth about
Diane, he could not endure to stay and witness her downfall. He
did not for the moment doubt that she would be compelled to
return with Bruno, and he did not care to witness it; before going,
he spoke frankly, earnestly, fully, with the wisdom and simplicity
of a true Christian minister, and the dignity of a gentleman. His
words made a deep impression on Lord Kerston; he pleaded for
Diane, only for Diane. Diane, who had been so beautiful, so
unhappy; who, tempted, had fallen, whose noble and glorious
womanhood was all soiled and dimmed. There were tears in Lord
Kerston's eyes when he had finished.  Bruno merely glanced at
him, and said again:'I shall take her home because she is mine.'Then Lord Kerston went to his study; he wanted to be alone,
to bear the first, most terrible shock of his pain where no human
eye could see him. What passed there, was between himself and
Heaven.Ralph Thorne went home, uttering as he went, fervent prayers
for the beautiful, unhappy woman, whose fate had been so sad.Bruno Severne joined his sister and Anne Clegg; they had the
grand satisfaction of talking matters over at their ease--of
criticising and abusing Diane.'To think, only to think,' said Miss Hester, 'of such a woman
as Diane, my brother's wife--positively my brother's wife--being
mistress of such a palace as this!'And despite the teachings of Little Bethesda, despite her horror
of wrong; Miss Hester certainly felt some little elevation at the
thought of her brother's wife being mistress of this place.Anne Clegg was inclined to moralize; she looked on the
grandeur and magnificence that surrounded.'It will be a coming down for her,' she said, 'after living in
such a place as this to return to Larchdale.'Miss Hester raised her head proudly.'Larchdale!' she repeated.  'You do not suppose that the
honest home where my parents died, and I have lived, is to be

polluted by such as she! Brother--Bruno, you are not mad
enough to think of taking that lost, fallen woman to Larchdale?''She must atone for her sin, she must be taught to repent, and
where could that be done better than at Larchdale?''Well,' said Hester; 'taking one thing with another, I
have borne a great deal; but I will not bear this. The moment
that false woman enters those doors I leave there forever! You
hear, Bruno ?''I hear,' he replied ; 'and if you mean it, you must go.'Then rose up Miss Hester, mighty in her wrath, grand in her
indignation.'We will go, Anne Clegg; it is high time when such words as
those are uttered--high time! I can only imagine,' she continued,
turning to her brother, with a sneer, ' that the sight of the face
you think pretty has quite upset your better judgment, and that
we are to have all the farce repeated. I could quote something to
you about Solomon, but I will not.''It would simply be loss of time,' said Bruno, shortly; and with
all the dignity of offended majesty the two quitted the room.They were driven over by one of the grooms to the station, and
then, as Bruno thought, there was an end of them.He passed the few hours uncomfortably; he wandered about
the grounds, while the servants wondered much who he could be,
and what was the matter.He employed himself in thinking what he should do with
Diane; how he should treat her. He did not fear any obstacle
now--everything was straightforward; she had, by her own words,
her own fatal admission, condemned herself. Her own words
accused her; she could not now repeat her denial; she had not even
attempted it; and though Lord Kerston had spoken so much in
her favor, it was not probable that he would make any effort
toward keeping her away from him. To prevent the story from
being made public, he did not doubt but that Diane would accede
to his wishes, and go with him quietly. She would do much to
save Lord Kerston's name and fame.Then he had her son, the frank, handsome, gifted boy--her
own, only son; surely, she would love him, and love any home
for his sake!For his own part, he felt he could forgive her; she had been
driven to desperation, and, if she would repent now, and go back
with him, he would overlook her offence, so far as to allow her to
eat of his bread and enjoy the shelter of his roof; but no more--
he should do no more--she could never be his wife again--never
more mistress of his house!Then he fell to dreaming; would there ever be a time when he
should have Diane, and Diane's son both at Larchdale again;
when the gloomy, cheerless house would assume a brighter
aspect; would such a time ever come? He thought of Diane, as
he had seen her that day, so stately, so grand, so beautiful; queen
of all the magnificence that surrounded her. How would she
look, with all her regal grace, in that gloomy farm-house ?There was a strange feeling on him; he could not explain what

it was; an undefined, uncomfortable sensation, he did not know
of what; a strangely restless beating at his heart; a sensation as
though he could breathe but with difficulty.So the time passed, and then Lord Kerston sent to him to ask
him to his study. He went; he was a cold, formal, impassable
man, but the change in that face even touched him. Years of
pain, of toil, of illness, could not have changed it as those few
hours of more than mortal agony had done.'Now,' said Lord Kerston, 'we have all had time to rest
ourselves, to collect our thoughts, to grow calm, to allow better
feelings full play; now it is time to decide what shall be done. I
will send one of the servants to Lady Kerston's room, and ask if
she will join us.''Do not call her Lady Kerston, my lord. I cannot bear it.''I prefer to do so in my house,' was the haughty reply.When the servant answered the bell, Lord Kerston said:'Will you ask her ladyship's maid if it is quite convenient for
me to see her here in the study?The man went to the maid, the maid went to Lady  Kerston's
room, but it was empty.She looked around for some few minutes, then went down to
say that evidently Lady Kerston was from home.The two looked blankly at each other--the same question was
in the eyes of both:'Where was Diane?'CHAPTER LXVIII.
HER FATHER'S GRAVE.Where was Diane? At first Lord Kerston did not feel the least
alarm or uneasiness; if not in her room she was probably in the
grounds. He gave orders that one of the servants should go there
to look for her. It was not until more than an hour had passed
that he understood she could not be found. Look where they
would, do as they would, there was no sign of her; and again,
the two men, the one who had loved her with so gentle
and true a love, the one who hated her with such a fierce
hatred, looked at each other--the same question written on both
faces, 'Where is Diane?' Where was she? Without one word or look to her mortal foes,
she had quitted the room--outwardly calm, proud, graceful,
dignified as ever--inwardly, despairing.What they had said was true--her own lips condemned her;
from her own lips her judgment had gone forth. There was no
one else to blame.She went up to her own room and stood there; no thoughts
came calmly to her, no ideas occurred to her. She was helpless,
hopeless; she stood there feeling that the whole world had
suddenly come to an end for her. Further denial was useless; she
had condemned herself by her recognition of Ralph Thorne.

Ralph Thorne, who had been so kind and good, so devoted to her 
in days gone by, whose kindness had never failed; he, who had
consoled her when her father died, now, in this most singular
fashion, to be the means of her discovery.'It was to be,' said Diane to herself 'Heaven had grown tired
of me and my sin--it was to be.''Now, what was she to do? She was quite ignorant of the law;
she did not know whether, when the real truth was known, she
could be compelled to return to Bruno Severne or not; there
might be a law which could force her to do so. It was just
possible that a policeman, armed with unknown powers, might
be able to force her to Larchdale.One thing she knew quite well--she could not remain any longer
at Irksdale; that tacit admission of her guilt was quite sufficient.
Lord Kerston, she was quite sure, would never see her again, he
was so intolerant of wrong--was it likely that he would submit to
this greatest wrong of all? She could not hope for his forgiveness,
even though she asked for it on her bended knees. Even if
he forgave her, she could not remain under his roof for another
hour; she must leave him, this dear love of hers; she must never
see him again. Could any death be worse than this ?'Philip, my dear love,' she murmured; 'my husband!  Let
them say what they will, Philip, how can I leave you?'Return to Larchdale, to that cruel man who had hunted her, to
that sneering woman who had rejoiced over her sorrow? Even
in the midst of her despair her face grew crimson as she thought
of those women and their insults. What a curious world it was
that such women as those should be accounted good, while she
was looked upon as a sinner; they, whose hearts were filled with
all bitterness, and she who knew nothing to love. No, she would
never go back; it was cowardly to kill herself, but she would
do it a thousand times over rather than go back to them.Then it was that she remembered Uplands and her father's
grave. How she had said to herself that if ever she were in any
trouble she should go there to die. Under the pressure of that
idea she stood quite still. Why had she never thought of it before
--to go home to Uplands to die on her father's grave. It seemed
to her now that she heard her father's voice calling:'Diane! Diane! come to me; there is rest and there is peace
with me!'She stretched out her hands with a strange, solemn smile on
her face.'I am coming, father!' she said.She turned mechanically to the wardrobe, and took from it a
bonnet, vail, and shawl; she dressed herself hurriedly; yet, if
any one had met her and asked her:'Where are you going?''To my father's grave,' she would have answered.The strain upon her had been too great--her brain was already
affected. She went down the broad staircase, and met no one.
The three gentlemen were still anxiously discussing her fate. Miss 
Hester and Anne Clegg were still holding grim converse; the ser- 

vants all busied in talking about the strange events.  There was
no one to see her.She went out of the house where the happiest days of her life
had been spent, and never once looking behind her, she went on
to the woods from whence she could reach to the high road. She
did not think that once in her life before she had run way from
home; then it had been to escape infinite misery, now it was to
seek death on her father's grave. She never asked herself how
she was to reach Uplands; she walked on with a rigid set look on
her white face, her eyes always looking afar off, yet seeing
nothing. Then, when she had walked until she felt weary, she
began to think how she should reach Uplands; more practical
notions came to her, she was not walking to the end of the world,
she was going to one certain place. She went to the railway
station, and there asked about the trains; there would be one in an
hour's time, and it stopped a short distance from Uplands. For
an hour she waited, sitting in one corner of the platform, neither
seeing, hearing, nor understanding what passed, keeping her vail
tightly drawn over her face, and then when the train came taking
her seat. People saw a beautiful woman of stately grace, whose
face gleamed white as marble from under her vail, they saw burning
eyes that seemed to glance without seeing, restless hands were
never still. Who was she? More than one started back, believing
that she must be dead; more than one seeing the white lips
restlessly moving, thought she was lost in some great grief.The journey ended without Diane having once roused herself
from the trance of dreaming pain. She was once more at Uplands,
once more in the distance she saw the farm-house, the garden,
the orchard; there were the trees under whose shade she had
dreamed bright dreams; there was the wood where she had been
sitting on that fatal morning, among the bluebells; how hard it
seemed to realize, that here, in this spot, she had been a laughing,
happy girl; the very murmur of the trees seemed familiar to
her; she recognized the song of the brook, and she had come
here to die.It was quite evening when she had reached Uplands--growing
dusk; the rich, soft fragrance of night lingered over the land, the
birds were singing their hymn. Diane was faint and exhausted;
she sat down in one of the fields, and there fell into a deep,
dreamless sleep; but she never knew how long she had slept, but
when she woke it was dark night, the stars were shining in the
sky and sweet, soft raindrops were falling on her face so lightly,
so quietly that at first she thought they were tears. It was some
minutes before she remembered all that happened; then surely it
was her father's voice calling:--'Diane, Diane!''I am coming,' she answered.She rose from the ground, and then found that the rain bad
been falling heavily while she lay there; her long golden hair,
her dress, were wet through with it. The church-yard was at
some little distance, but she knew her way perfectly well, and the
stars were shining brightly; she walked on, shivering, although

it was a summer's night, until she came to the church. She
thought of her wedding morning, that unhappy day when she had
become Bruno Severne's wife. There were the church with its
gray, square towers, the spreading trees, the green graves; how
well she remembered them all; she had been married there, and
now in her shame and disgrace she had come there to die.Through the little white gate, by the side of which the blackthorn
tree grew, there were the green graves and the quiet sleeping dead;
she knew no fear; although the pale moon threw 
ghastly shadows on the grass, although the tall fir trees looked
like giants, although the white marble crosses gleamed under the
stars, she knew no fear, but went to the green, grassy mound
under which Laurence Balfour slept.'Diane, Diane!' she heard him say.'Father,' she said; 'I am here, I have come.'The rain fell with a sweet, soft murmur; she went up to the
green grass, she parted it and bent her face over it.'The world has gone all wrong with me, father,' she said,
'since you left me. I have been unhappy in my life, my love, in
everything: and I have come here, dear, near you, to die.'She laid her burning face and head on that cool, sweet grass; a
breath of wind shook the leaves down from the trees above her, a
soft murmur of wind among the boughs greeted her; she had lost
all clearness of thought, all power of distinguishing between the
real and unreal--all conscious knowledge; she seemed only to
fancy that she was a child again, and once more with her father.'I do not know how it is, dear, that I have done so wrong,' she
said. 'I did not mean it, I meant to be happy and good. I
meant to love and live well in this fair world, then to go to
Heaven. I did not think of evil, or dream of sin. I cannot tell now
how it happened.'The sweet wind soothed her; it was like the murmur of a mother who
lulls a child to sleep; and those soft, sweet rain-drops,
though fraught with deadly danger, were yet so sweet and
cool to her burning face and head. Ah! she had done well in
seeking peace at her father's grave.She slept, woke again, and seemed to fancy that she was in her
father's arms; she held up her face as though to kiss him.'I cannot tell how it is, she said, 'that I have done such
terrible wrong. I did not mean it. I had no wicked thought in my
mind. Will Heaven forgive me, father?'Surely the night wind whispered 'Yes.''I had such strange ideas about marriage,' she continued. 'I
thought the halves of two souls must come together. Philip had
the half of mine, and Bruno was so cruel, so unkind--they hated
me, and drove me away; you never did; when I was little and
came to you in my troubles, you soothed me always, loved me
always, you were kind to me, and so I have come to you that I may
die.'Such sweet, soft rest, such sweet murmurs from leaf and bough;
such cool, kind rain; she buried her face in the grass, sh
stretched out her arms, and took the green grave into her embrace,

so sweet, so soft; she knew nothing, she remembered nothing
more.She rose once, half-startled, half-dreaming, still believing she
heard a voice in clear, loud tones, calling ' Diane.''I am here,' she answered; then her head sank again, and only
the wind, the rain, and the stars, knew anything of Diane.CHAPTER LXIX.
'GO BACK SHE SHALL!'Where was Diane? Bruno Severne smiled grimly as he said 'If she has run away, it will not be the first time; when she
knows no better way out of a dilemma, Diane runs away.'In his own mind he did not believe it; he said to himself that
she would not dare to go when he so resolutely claimed her. They
searched for her, and when it was found that no trace of her
existed, Lord Kerston was dreadfully alarmed.'She has been driven to do something desperate,' he said, 'and
if so, Bruno Severne, you shall answer to me for her life! Why
could you not have been more patient, more forbearing? Why
have you hunted her to her death?''The fact of her running away, if she has done so,' said Bruno,
'proves her guilt; and if she be guilty, how can you think or say
I have done too much? I have done my duty in exposing a fraud;
I could do no more, and no less.'But Lord Kerston was too anxious, even for argument, Bruno
Severne, and all he could say, sank into insignificance before the
great fact that Diane had gone away, Diane was in danger.He remembered the expression of her face as she knelt before
him and kissed his feet--so fixed, so despairing, so death-like.'Forgive me, my love!' she had whispered, and he said to
himself that she had gone forth from her home to die.Forgive her! Ah! though her crimes were twice as great,
though she had done him a far more deadly wrong, though she
had ruined his life, certainly he would--he must forgive her; his
love was too great, too noble, to have in it any of the elements of
revenge, to have in it any desire of punishment; it was great,
calm, god-like, as is the love of great and noble men. He was
just, too; he knew that nothing could excuse or palliate her guilt,
nothing could make it less; but he remembered all that had passed
before their marriage--her unwillingness, her first refusal, her
evident struggle between two courses, her strange manner--he
remembered all this now, and it was some slight palliation of her
offence if it were so. She had not angled for him, she had not
tried to captivate him, but she had most surely and most truly
loved him, and a man will pardon much when he believes himself
to be loved.Lord Kerston could never overlook her sin; all his great,
passionate love could never induce him to take her hand in his, to

touch her face with his lips--he would have thought his whole 
soul polluted by such a thing; but he could forgive her, he could
make all kinds of excuses for her, he could help and assist her--
above all other things he could not endure the thought that she
should be in danger.In danger! He felt quite sure that she was, if all this
wonderful story were true, and she had been this man's wife; he
knew her too well to think that she could ever go back to him.
He could no longer say to himself that there was even a doubt of
her guilt; those words of hers, containing the fatal admission;
the recognition of Ralph Thorne had condemned her; he could no
longer doubt; a thousand circumstances crowded to his mind,
and confirmed his doubts.Diane had never spoken of her past in any way, now that he
came to really think over it; he found that he knew less of her
history than even the story of a friend. She had never spoken of
parents or friends; of where she had been; of what she had done;
of the places she had visited; and this was the solution of the
mystery--she had been Bruno Severne's wife.What a fate for bright, beautiful Diane; what a lot for that
amiable, graceful woman, who had been an ornament at court
--to whom princes and peers had done homage.  He could not
imagine her in that homely farm-house; he could not fancy her
exchanging even commonplace civilities with Bruno Severne.
Sun and moon, night and day, spring and winter were not more
dissimilar than those two; how could they ever have been
husband and wife?Then he said to himself that it had been a cruel thing to induce
that bright, lovely girl to accept such a fate; she had been
imposed on, cheated, beguiled into accepting a lot altogether
distasteful to her. Then, when she had found out what a mistake
that was--how unsuited to her in every way--her patience had
failed, and she had run away from it. Then, after a lapse of
years, when she really came to know what love was--what it
meant, how it made all the brightness of life--then she had not
resisted the temptation, but had fallen a victim; he could well
understand, and he could forgive her.Where was she? It was hours after when the station-master
came over to Irksdale and asked to see Lord Kerston. His
lordship went to him.  With an apology for troubling him--with an
earnest hope that he was not doing wrong, the station-master
told the purport of his visit.'It was strange. He knew Lady Kerston well by sight,' he
said; 'her marvellous beauty had attracted his attention, as it
had done that of every one else; she had been in the habit of
driving over to the station so often that almost all the officials
there knew her by sight.'Lord Kerston listened impatiently. The station-master saw the
impatience in his face, and hastened to add, that he had been
astonished at seeing her ladyship on the platform alone, and 
looking extremely ill.'I knew her in one moment, my lord,' he continued, 'al- 

though her vail was drawn tightly over her face, and she looked
wild and ill. I passed before her once or twice, each time
bowing in recognition, but she never saw me; she never moved her
eyes or her hands--she was like a marble statue silent and
motionless. I grew frightened at last, and sent one of the porters
to speak to her, but she never heard him; her eyes had a strange,
far-off look, quite unlike herself. I am afraid that she was very
ill. She took a ticket, and, unknown to her, I stood by and
listened. This was the place of her destination, and I thought, my
lord, it would be better for me to come here as soon as I could
and see you.''You have done well,' replied Lord Kerston--'wisely and well.'
Looking at the name of the place on a slip of paper, he saw at
once that Diane had gone back to Uplands. Why had she gone
there?  A terrible fear seized him. He liberally rewarded the
station-master, then made all inquiries about the trains, and found
it impossible to reach Uplands that night. His quickest method
of arriving there was undoubtedly by rail; even if he drove there
at full speed, the drive would take hours longer than the train.
There was nothing for it but patience and waiting.What should he do when he had found Diane? Where
should he take her? How could he best comfort and help her?
Those were thoughts that suggested themselves naturally enough
to him, but he would not decide upon anything until he had
found Diane.When the station-master had gone home, he went to Bruno
and told him what had happened. It was then the difference in
the love of the two men was shown--Bruno's all grounded in
self, narrow, fierce, violent; Lord Kerston's grand, generous,
and noble.'So she has really gone again,' said Bruno, his face livid with
rage. 'She shall not play with me in this fashion; I said she was
to go back to Larchdale, and go back she shall.'Lord Kerston made no reply; he was wise enough to make all
allowance for Bruno's peculiar temperament and disappointment.
The farmer was very angry; he was bitterly annoyed, grieved,
and angry--anger was the predominant feeling.He was baffled in his desire for vengeance  She had made
him suffer so terribly that he had, after a certain fashion, brooded
over his vengeance.  He had thought with delight of the pain
he should cause her; he almost felt capable of inflicting physical
torture on her. That she should escape altogether was
unendurable to him.'Then he remembered what he had heard her say--that she
should go home to Uplands and die.  Would she take her own
life? Would she destroy herself ?  He hoped not, not so much
because he loved her, as because, if she died, he could not make
her suffer for her sin. He was fiercely angry; all pity and
gentleness seemed to have died out of his heart; his whole soul,
roused in anger, was turned against her.  Why should she escape?
She should not escape. Who was this lord, that he should go in

search of her?  If he did go, he, Bruno, would most certainly go
too. It was his wife--he had the first claim--he would go.So when Lord Kerston told him that he should go by the first
train in search of Diane, he looked up fiercely, and said:'Diane is my wife, not yours; it is my right to search for her,
not yours'And Lord Kerston, not knowing how to parry such an attack,
said:'We will go together, if that pleases you best.'Looking at the fiercely angry face, Lord Kerston decided that
it should be so--they would go together; not for the whole world
would he leave Diane to that man's anger. So it was settled; and
while Lord Kerston made his arrangements, Bruno Severne gave
way to the violence and anger which consumed him.It was mingled with such strange sensations, too. At times
a red mist rose before his eyes, and the surging of deep waters
sounded in his ears; at times, a curious sensation of numbness,
of chill, of motionless dread, came over him? What was it? 
He could not understand his own sensations; he hoped he was
not going to be ill--ill, just when he was bent on punishing
Diane!They started together, in the calm of the sweet summer night.
The stars were shining in the sky, the soft air was filled with the
breath of a thousand flowers, the sweet silence of night lay over
the land. As they travelled along, Bruno thought of the first
journey he had ever made in that direction, when he had gone in
search of what he thought to be a troublesome child, and he had
found his love.How little he had foreseen in those days such a journey as this
--how little he dreamed that he should one day go the same road
with fierce hatred against Diane in his heart. It was hatred that
every moment gathered strength--there was no thought of
anything else; the love and the pity, all the more gentle memories
seemed to be lost; he could only think of Diane as having deceived
him, as having deserted him, of abandoning himself and her
child, of marrying another. Hot anger against her inflamed his
whole soul; he could have stretched out his hands to have
strangled her had she been near him. And Lord Kerston, watching
that fierce, sullen face, said to himself, more than once, that he
had done wisely in never for a moment leaving Diane exposed
to his fury.CHAPTER LXX.
'LET HER DIE!'it was in the early hours of the summer morning when they
reached Uplands, and Bruno Severne saw once again the farm-
house, the green lanes, the places he remembered so well.A vision of Diane's fair young face came over him as he saw

the spot; he thought of her as he had seen her in the freshness of
the summer morning, how beautiful he had thought her, how he
had longed with irrepressible longing to take this sunbeam to his
heart and home.Now hot, fierce anger checked his thoughts--now he was going
in search of this guilty wife. Let him find her? that was all he
asked; let him find her.They went first to the farm-house.Strangers dwelt there now, strange faces looked through the
window, strange voices answered; the kindly woman who had
seen Diane married, who had helped her during those few months,
was gone. It was still so early when they knocked at the farm-
house door, no one was stirring; the birds had not even begun to
sing; there was no gleam of light in the western sky, nothing
but a faint, pearly flush. It was Lord Kerston who asked if a
lady--a strange lady--had reached there, and the answer was--
'No; she is not here.'He said, turning to Bruno:She is not here.''I hardly thought it,' he replied. 'We shall find her in the
church-yard, where her father lies buried; we shall find her
somewhere near Laurence Balfour's grave.'In saying that he showed a more intimate knowledge of
Diane's character than might have been expected from him.
They left the farm-house, and went round the green lanes and
through the fields to the church.It was a long walk, and the summer morning dawned into
beauty before it was ended; the birds began to sing shrill, sweet
notes, the dew shone like diamonds on the grass and the leaves,
the faint rose flush in the western heavens was reflected in the
singing brooks, the air was full of vague, sweet music.They reached the church-yard--the gate was open as though
some one had recently passed through. They entered together;
the first morning sunbeam had just tinted the great eastern
window with gold, every blade of long grass shone as though
diamonds had been sown broadcast--the sun tinged the white
monuments, it glistened in the dew, and far-off they saw it
shining on something bright, golden, and tangled. With
hushed footsteps, with white faces, and beating hearts, they
drew near.There was the artist's grave and the white monument; there,
on the green grass, lay the figure of a woman; there, among
the flowers, they saw a tangled mass of golden hair, wet with
dew! they saw the white arms, clinging with desperate force to
the grave, as though nothing living should take her away. The
face was buried in the long grass; but, without seeing that, they
knew it to be Diane--Diane--lying white and cold--drenched
with rain and with dew--on her father's grave.'My God!' cried Lord Kerston. 'She is dead!''Dead--and serve her right!' cried Bruno. 'Dead! and justly
punished.'Yet, the features worked strangely, as he spoke.'Dead in her shame and dishonor! I will not touch her; so
let her die! She deserved her fate. I could have cursed her
living; I curse her, dead!'But Lord Kerston, whose wrong perhaps was greater than 
Bruno Severne's, who had greater cause for wrath and complaint 
against the beautiful and hapless woman lying there--Lord 
Kerston raised her in his arms. Ah! me! the white face with
the tangled mass of beautiful golden hair; the white lips--the
closed eyes; she might have been twice as sinful--he would have
forgotten it all in that moment. He laid the beautiful head on  .
his breast.'My darling!' he said, tenderly. 'My darling--Diane, my
darling!'He fancied, even, as he uttered these words, that he heard a
strange noise near him; but he did not turn to look. Was she
dead? or, was there any life remaining in that cold, silent figure?
He laid his lips on hers; they were chill and motionless. He laid
his hand on her heart; but he could not even distinguish a faint
flutter there!'Diane, Diane, my darling!' he cried, despairingly. 'Oh, my
God, she is dead!'Again that strange noise, but he never turned to see what
caused it. Perhaps a slight sensation of wonder crossed his mind 
that Bruno Severne did not come to see what was the matter.
He took the long shining mass of golden hair into his hand and
wrung the water from it; he called her name in every tender
tone, but the white face never stirred; the eyelids never even
quivered.'Diane, Diane!' he cried aloud, in his grief and despair.The name rang out on the still summer air, in the soft
morning stillness--rang out with a sound almost terrible to
hear.He tried to raise her, and as he did so, he saw the white lips
open with a wistful gesture like that of a dying child.'Diane, Diane! he cried again. 'Oh, thank God, she is not
dead! Diane, I am here!--I love you so! I am here, Diane!'Then, longing to do something to help her, he called out:'Mr. Severne, run back to the farm for some assistance; she is
not dead, and we may perhaps save her life!--run at once!'But there was no movement, no stir.'Mr. Severne!' he cried again.There came no response; then Lord Kerston turned round and
could see nothing of Bruno. He cried out again, and again there
was dead silence. Lord Kerston half laid Diane down while he
looked around him; then a terrible sight met his eyes--Bruno
Severne lay prostrate on the grass, a stream of dark blood
pouring from his lips.Rage, anger, disappointment, baffled fury, wounded love, 
despair, all combined, had mastered Bruno Severne.'Let her die,' he had cried, and with the words on his lips, he  '
fell to the ground.It was a sorry sight, in the dewy calm of a summer morning.

Lord Kerston did not at first know what to do; he looked round,
but there was no one within hearing; he saw two laborers going
to their work in the far-off fields, but there was no one near
him; what could he do between the one dying, and the other, he
feared dead? For the first time in his life he lost his presence of
mind, and was at a loss what to do or say. Then he raised his
voice and called loudly for 'Help, help!'None came, there was no sound, but the singing of the birds
and the rustling of the large boughs.'Help, help!' shouted Lord Kerston; and at length, to his
infinite relief he saw a laborer hastening to him, and then stand
gazing in open-mouthed wonder at the scene. There, on the
green grass, lay a beautiful golden-haired woman, to all
appearance, dead; at some distance from her, lying on the grass
and the ferns, a gentleman who seemed to have met with some
terrible accident.'There has been strange work here,' he thought, as he looked
around; then going to Lord Kerston, he said:'Did you call, sir?''Yes, replied his lordship. 'I want help; go down to the
farm-house, and tell them to send some assistance here at once.
Do not delay, two lives may depend upon your speed.'He did not delay; in all his life he never ran as he ran now.
In less than half an hour Lord Kerston had assistance enough;
they had had the thought to bring a doctor, who attended to
Bruno first. He ordered him to be raised and held in the arms of
the men while he examined him; then with a grave, sad face, he
said they could lay him down again; there was no human help,
no aid available for him--he was dead'Dead!' they repeated, with startled faces--'how had he
died?And the doctor explained in a few words. Some strong and
terrible emotion had caused him to break a blood-vessel, and
the sudden rush of blood had choked him. It had been a
quick, sudden, instantaneous death. There was no more to be done.They laid him down again on the spot where he had stood so
lately with bitter rage and anger in his heart, where he had stood
saying 'Let her die!'--the judgment so swiftly, so terribly reversed.Then the doctor looked critically at Diane.  He said nothing,
although he must have thought the scene a strange one.'No,' he replied, in answer to Lord Kerston's anxious question,
'she is not dead; this is merely the stupor of exhaustion,
nothing  more. She has been lying here in the rain and the dew
all night, I should say.''Yes, there can be little doubt of that,' replied Lord Kerston.'Then the best, wisest, and safest plan will be to see that she is
carried to the farm-house--that is the nearest dwelling-place,
where she can be attended to at once.'It was done, and before long Diane was lying in the same
room wherein, so many years ago, she had been dressed as a
bride. There she fought a long battle with death. All that love
and science, all that skill could do, was done; no trouble, no
expense was spared; there were physicians from London and Paris,
the best trained nurses, every luxury that money could command,
and yet there were times when every one round Diane despaired
of her life.Lord Kerston acted most nobly--every attention was paid to
Bruno's memory; if he had been a prince there could not have
been more respect shown to him. When Lord Kerston knew
for certain that he was dead, he ordered his body to be taken to
the nearest hotel; he sent a telegram for his sister, who came,
accompanied by Anne Clegg, and who, for once in her life, was
compelled to be silent--frightened into good behaviour by the force
of events.Then, when the inquest was over, and the verdict given--a
verdict that corroborated the doctor's statement--he himself
superintended the arrangements for the funeral.  He consulted
Miss Hester in everything, and she, despite the teachings of
little Bethesda, was flattered by the kindly attentions of so
eminent a nobleman as Lord Kerston. One of the kindest things
he did was in sending for Laurence Severne, his dead rival's
son; and the boy's grief was so simple, so honest, so unaffected,
that it was impossible not to share it. Lord Kerston himself felt
more kindly toward Bruno when he heard his son lamenting
his loss.The mystery was never solved. For once in her life Miss
Hester was discreet, and kept her own counsel. No one knew
bow the scene in the church-yard had occurred; no one knew
what it meant. The general impression was, that in a fit of
insanity the lady had run away from home, while the husband had
died of fright.Bruno Severne was buried with all possible state and ceremony.
When his funeral was over Miss Hester returned to Larchdale,
but Lord Kerston never quitted the neighborhood where Diane
lay, battling with King Death.CHAPTER LXXI.
ATONING FOR SIN.The brilliant summer passed, the roses and lilies were dead, the 
hay that had lain sweet and fragrant in the meadow, stood now
in huge ricks, the wheat was gathered into the barns, the butterflies
and bees had made the most of their brief season--it was
autumn now, with golden hue. The leaves were all red and 
brown on the trees, the autumn flowers, gorgeous and often 
scentless, raised their heads; and the autumn, too, was fading. 

There came chill evenings, when the mantle of darkness fell
over the world, bringing cold gloom and desolation with it;
there came cold mornings, when the breath of the wind was
chill, when the birds found no courage for singing, when the
wind wailed mournfully, and the brightness of the world seemed
dying away.It was on one of these mornings that Diane rose first from her
sick bed, white, weak, and weary, the shadow of her former self.
No one who had known her could have recognized her. There
was no light in the large, sad eyes, that wandered wearily around
the rooms; there was no light, no brightness in the face that had
once been beautiful with such imperial beauty; even the sheen
had died from her golden hair, leaving it darkened and dim. It
was no longer the magnificent Lady Kerston, before whom peers
and princes bowed; but Diane, weak as a child, and humbled
even unto death.The battle had ended at last--her faultless constitution, her
natural strength, had carried her through. She had won,
although the victory had left her very little but life.  When
she was able to bear the intelligence they had told her of
Bruno's death. It was a great shock to her; naturally enough she
remembered that for her that terrible, sudden death had solved
the Gordian knot. She was sorry for him, too, and she
repented with her whole heart and soul of the wrong she had
done him. She had tried faintly and feebly to atone for it by
being more than usually kind when grim Miss Hester came to
see her, hearing that she was dying. Hester came to the
conclusion that she ought to visit her.  There must have been a faint
glimmer of kindness in the hard heart after all, for Hester went,
and, bending her stern, wrinkled face over the white on on the
pillow, she said, gently:'They tell me you are dying, Diane! In my brother's name
and my own, I forgive you.'And Diane, meekly bowing her head, owned herself a miserable
sinner. Another great comfort to her had been the presence of
her son; there was no reason, now, why he should not be with
her; and Diane had almost recovered her life, in the sunshine of
his presence.He had heard all her story--she had hidden nothing from him;
and when it was all told he had kissed her hands, reverently, as
though she had been a queen; and had said that, to him, she
would always be the fairest and noblest of women. It was very
precious to her, this honest faith of her son.Now she sat at the window of her room, from whence, in the
far distance, she could see the church-yard, where her husband
and father were buried. She had come to her senses now; looking
back, she felt that she had been mad. She could hardly realize
that she had done that which she had done--that she had wilfully
committed such a terrible crime.The light that shines on the grave had shone fiercely on her.
It had shown her her sins in their true light; it had shown her

that, make it romantic as she would--sentimental as she would
--try to make it poetry, romance, or sentiment--sin was sin,
fraud was fraud! she had deceived a noble, true-hearted man, by
marrying him, while the husband she detested was living. Look
at it now as she would, the sin made her shudder--it was so
terrible a one!She owned herself, before God and man, a most wretched sinner;
all the sophistry about the union of the two souls, that she
had once thought so grand, seemed less than nothing to her now.
There was the clearly defined law of God, there was the no less
clearly defined law of man; she had broken both, and the penalty
she had had to pay was a dreadful one.Diane, with her white face and her widow's cap, looked quite
another and distinct person from the Diane who had reigned as
the most brilliant queen of fashion. She had not seen Lord
Kerston since that terrible morning; he had lingered in the
neighborhood--he could not leave it while it had that attraction
for him. But he had not seen her; she was not his wife.
Poor Diane!On this morning she had received a letter from him--the first
since all this horror--and it lay in her feeble hands as though she
had barely strength to hold it. Such a letter--so kind, so noble,
so generous, so like the writer himself, that Diane wept aloud as
she read it.He told her that he had been thinking over all the
circumstances, that he had weighed them well in his mind; he had
thought of her youth, her inexperience, her want of training,
her ignorance; he had thought how she had been, as it were,
almost forced into this marriage, then how she had been treated;
he remembered her youth, her loveliness, her despair. He
allowed too, for her great love for himself--the first and only
love of her life--and though he condemned her sin, though he
laid it before her in the strongest manner, though he condemned
it without mercy, he offered her his full pardon, without limit or
condition.'Be my wife, Diane,' he wrote; 'we will forget this miserable
past. God is merciful, and takes into account much that men
forget. Let us strive by a better, higher, holier life to atone for
this wrong; I will help you, Diane.'She sat pondering long, with this letter before her; it had
come like a ray of warm, sweet sunshine to her. How kind,
how noble he was! Who, in all the wide world, could compare with him?
Who but himself could have written such a letter--would have offered a pardon so complete and so generous?Once more Diane held her fate in her hands. He asked her 
to be his wife; to forget the terrible past with its black shadow;
to redeem it by a higher, holier, better life.  Should she consent!
Was she worthy of this great happiness? No; a thousand times no.Diane bowed her head, and cried out:'God be merciful to me, a sinner!'No; she must put it from her, for once and forever; she must
give up this one hope; she must be content to spend the remainder
of her life in solitude and repentance--this should be her most bitter atonement.So, with hands trembling with weakness and sorrow, she
wrote her letter, saying how sorry she was that she could
not embrace the happiness offered to her; saying how she loved
him, but that she was all unworthy; she meant to spend the
remainder of her life in atoning for her sin; and that, with a
strong hand, she meant to put all earthly happiness away from
her.It was a most loving, sad, pathetic letter. When it was gone,
Diane felt that she had in some measure atoned for her sin. Lord
Kerston owned to himself the nobility of soul that prompted it,
but determined to try again.When Diane was able to be moved she went away to some
wild, sweet spot on the southern coast; Lord Kerston followed
her. Then he argued his own cause; he told her that,
although self-renunciation and self-sacrifice were noble, grand
virtues, there was something grander and more noble for her to do
still.And when Diane asked him what it was, he told her to take up
again her position as his wife, and lead so good a life that her
example might be followed by others.He explained to her that the world knew little or nothing of
what had happened; the truth of the story was confined exclusively to
themselves; there had been rumors, but no one knew
whether they were true or false, and how she would save all gossip, all scandal ; she would atone to him in the only way possible
for all the unhappiness she had caused him; in fact he told her
that, honestly and before Heaven, he considered that she was
bound to fulfil his wishes.Then he brought Lady Lilian Hay to see her, and to Lady Lilian he
confided the whole story.   Diane raised her face to the
thoughtful countenance of his best friend.'I shall leave it to you, Lady Lilian,' she said.' You are a pure
and noble woman; whose instincts can never be wrong. You shall
decide for me.''If I am to decide,' said Lady Lilian, 'I should strongly advise
that you read the marriage service over again with Lord Kerston
to-morrow, to save scandal and exposure; there ought not
to be an hour's delay.'So it was settled, and in the solemn quiet of a winter's morning,
with Lady Lilian Hay and Laurence Severne as witnesses,
Diane became, this time in all honor and good faith, Lady
Kerston.What more remains to be told?  Only that they lived long
and happily, that the dark shadow passed away, that Lord Kerston
proved his true and grand nobility by never even so much
as naming what had passed, and that Lady Diane strove by

every means in her power to make amends for what she had
done.Lord Kerston acted a most noble part by Diane's son. Laurence
Severne is now one of the most distinguished painters in England,
he married recently, and his bride was the fair, amply-dowered
daughter of a British peer.It was strange that in after years the blessing that Lord Kerston
had always desired was given to him: he had sons and 
daughters of his own, and he often declared laughingly that Diane
renewed her youth in each one.She sinned, but she suffered; she did wrong, but she made, as
she remembers well, A BITTER ATONEMENT.MILNER AND CO., LIMITED, PRINTERS, HALIFAX.