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!"

A letter fell to the ground--the letter in the unknown handwriting. Some premonition made her open it and prepared her for the signature.

"MY DEAR MISS MALLORY,--I heard of the sad discovery which had taken place, from my cousin, Miss Drake, on Sunday morning, and came up at once from the country to be with my mother; for I know well with what sympathy she had been following Oliver's wishes and desires. It is a very painful business. I do most truly regret the perplexing situation in which you find yourself, and I am sure you will not resent it if, as Oliver's sister, I write you my views on the matter.
"I am afraid it is useless to expect that my mother should give way. And, then, the question is, What is the right course for you and Oliver to pursue? I understand that he proposed to you, and you accepted him, in ignorance of the melancholy truth. And, like a man of honor, he proposes to stand by his engagement--unless, of course, you release him.
"Now, if I were in your place, I should expect to consider such a matter not as affecting myself only, but in its relation to society--and the community. Our first duty is to Society. We owe it everything, and we must not act selfishly toward it. Consider Oliver's position. He has his foot on the political ladder. Every session his influence in Parliament increases. His speech to-night was--as I hear from a man who has just come from the debate--the most brilliant he has yet made. It is extremely likely that when our party comes in again he will have office, and in ten or fifteen years' time what is there to prevent his being even Prime Minister?--with all the mighty influence over millions of human beings which that means?
"But to give him every chance in his career money is, unfortunately, indispensable. Every English Prime Minister has been a rich man. It may be a blot on our English life. I think it is. But, then, I have been all my life on the side of the poor. You, who are a Tory and an Imperialist, who sympathize with militarism and with war, will agree that it is important our politicians should be among the 'Haves,' that a man's possessions do matter to his party and his cause.
"They matter especially--at the present moment--to our party and our cause. We are the poor party, and our rich men are few and far between.
"You may say that you would help him, and that your own money would be at his disposal. But could a man live upon his wife, in such circumstances, with any self-respect? Of course, I know that you are very young, and I trust that your views on many subjects, social and political, will change, and change materially, before long. It is a serious thing for women nowadays to throw themselves across the path of progress. At the same time I see that you have a strong--if I may say so--a vehement character. It may not be easy for you to cast off at once what, I understand, has been your father's influence. And meanwhile Oliver would be fighting all your father's and your ideas--largely on your money; for he has only a thousand a year of his own.
"Please let me assure you that I am not influenced by my mother's views. She attaches importance--an exaggerated--if she were not my mother, I should say an absurd--importance, to the family. Whereas, ideas--the great possibilities of the future--when free men and women shall lead a free and noble life--these are what influence me--these are what I live for.
"It will cause you both pain to separate. I know that. But summon a rational will to your aid, and you will soon see that passion is a poor thing compared to impersonal and unselfish aims. The cause of women--their political and social enfranchisement--the freeing of men from the curse of militarism--of both men and women from the patriotic lies which make us bullies and cowards--it is to these I would invite you--when you have overcome a mere personal grief.
"I fear I shall seem to you a voice crying in the wilderness; but I write in Oliver's interest--and your own.
"Yours sincerely,
"ISABEL FOTHERINGHAM.
"P.S. Our secretary, Mrs. Derrick Smith, at the Mary Wollstonecraft Club, will always be glad to send you any literature you might require."

Diana read to the end. She put it down with something like a smile. As she paced the room, her head thrown back, her hands behind her, the weight had been lifted from her; she breathed from a freer breast.