. The story of her mother--the more she knew of
it, the more she realized it, the more sharply it bit into the tissues
of life; the more it seemed to set Juliet Sparling and Juliet Sparling's
child alone by themselves--in a dark world. Diana had never yet had the
courage to venture out-of-doors since the news came to her; she feared
to see even her old friends the Roughsedges, and had been invisible to
them since the Saturday; she feared even the faces of the
village children.

All through she seemed to have been clinging to Marsham's supporting
hand as to the clew which might--when nature had had its way--lead her
back out of this labyrinth of pain. But surely he would let her sorrow
awhile!--would sorrow with her. Under the strange coldness and brevity
of his letter, she felt like the children in the market-place of
old--"We have mourned unto you, and ye have not wept."

Yet if her story was not to be a source of sorrow--of divine pity--it
could only be a source of disgrace and shame. Tears might wash it out!
But to hate and resent it--so it seemed to her--must be--in a world,
where every detail of such a thing was or would be known--to go through
life branded and crushed by it. If the man who was to be her husband
could only face it thus (by a stern ostracism of the dead, by silencing
all mention of them between himself and her), her cheeks could never
cease to burn, her heart to shrink.

Now at last she felt herself weighed indeed to the earth, because
Marsham, in that measured letter, had made her realize the load on him.

All that huge wealth he was to give up for her? His mother had actually
the power to strip him of his inheritance?--and would certainly exercise
it to punish him for marrying her--Diana?

Humiliation came upon her like a flood, and a bitter insight followed.
Between the lines of the letter she read the reluctance, the regrets of
the man who had written it. She saw that he would be faithful to her if
he could, but that in her own concentration of love she had accepted
what Oliver had not in truth the strength to give her. The Marsham she
loved had suddenly disappeared, and in his place was a Marsham whom she
might--at a personal cost he would never forget, and might never
forgive--persuade or compel to marry her.

She sprang up. For the first time since the blow had fallen, vigor had
returned to her movements and life to her eyes.

"Ah, no!" she said to herself, panting a little. "_No!_"