It was now late afternoon, and the sun had come out with extraordinary splendor. It was flooding the western windows and dappling the lawn with a lovely lacework of rain-gemmed cobwebs that sparkled like frosted fairy veils.
Diane went slowly across the hall, and saw the evening mail lying on the little table in the corner. It recalled with a sharp pang the days long ago when she had looked there in vain for a letter from Overton, then on his way to the south pole. There were some letters there now, however, and she turned them over and started violently when she recognized her husband’s handwriting on an envelope addressed to her.
For a moment she leaned forward, her hands on the table, unable to make up her mind to open it. The aversion she had felt at his confession swept back over her in wave on wave of futile passion and shame. Then she took up the letter and, opening it, moved to the window to read more clearly the few lines that he had written in an unsteady hand:
Your father told me you wanted a divorce, Diane, and now his lawyers insist upon it; but it’s hard for me to believe it of you. I know how you felt when you left me, but now—I’ve done nothing against you, and I trusted you to help me to do better things. I ask you to come back, I entreat you to come; but I’ll never try to force you. I have told them that you must answer me yourself. If you don’t, I shall refuse to let it go on, for I love you still. I will not take an answer from any one but you. If you still ask it, I will set you free. But even then I shall love you.
The letter fell from Diane’s hand and fluttered to the floor. She could see him as he had looked that night in the cottage; she could hear his voice making the confession. The letter was like him. It seemed to fall short; it had not even the courage of his love; and yet she knew he loved her. His very weakness in this hour, when he so needed strength, touched her woman’s heart. Her abhorrence of his deed had clouded her own perception of his misery, but now, in a flash, she saw it. It was as great as hers.
She was still standing there, her head bowed, when she heard steps on the piazza and her father’s latch-key in the door. He came in, bringing with him a young man whom Diane recognized as the village notary. She stooped quickly, picked up her husband’s letter, and stood, holding it behind her, as they entered.
The judge looked at her gravely, unable to discern her expression as she stood with her back to the light.
“That paper’s ready, Diane,” he said briefly, “and Mr. Mackay’s come with me to witness it. All we need now, my dear, is your signature.”
Diane turned and acknowledged the young man’s bow with a deep blush. She felt that all the world now knew of her flight from her husband.
The judge went to the library door and opened it, young Mackay waiting at a respectful distance. Diane did not move, and her father looked around.