nd led the file, whose
reasoning was accurate on erratic tracks. All night her heart went at
fever pace. She brought the repentant husband to his knees, and then
doubted, strongly doubted, whether she would, whether in consideration
for her friend she could, intercede with Diana to forgive him. In
the morning she slept heavily. Sir Lukin had gone to London early for
further tidings. She awoke about midday, and found a letter on her
pillow. It was Diana's. Then while her fingers eagerly tore it open, her
heart, the champion rider over-night, sank. It needed support of facts,
and feared them: not in distrust of that dear persecuted soul, but
because the very bravest of hearts is of its nature a shivering
defender, sensitive in the presence of any hostile array, much craving
for material support, until the mind and spirit displace it, depute it
to second them instead of leading.

She read by a dull November fog-light a mixture of the dreadful and the
comforting, and dwelt upon the latter in abandonment, hugged it, though
conscious of evil and the little that there was to veritably console.

The close of the letter struck the blow. After bluntly stating that Mr.
Warwick had served her with a process, and that he had no case without
suborning witnesses, Diana said: 'But I leave the case, and him, to the
world. Ireland, or else America, it is a guiltless kind of suicide to
bury myself abroad. He has my letters. They are such as I can own to
you; and ask you to kiss me--and kiss me when you have heard all the
evidence, all that I can add to it, kiss me. You know me too well to
think I would ask you to kiss criminal lips. But I cannot face the
world. In the dock, yes. Not where I am expected to smile and sparkle,
on pain of incurring suspicion if I show a sign of oppression. I cannot
do that. I see myself wearing a false grin--your Tony! No, I do well
to go. This is my resolution; and in consequence,--my beloved! my only
truly loved on earth! I do not come to you, to grieve you, as I surely
should. Nor would it soothe me, dearest. This will be to you the best of
reasons. It could not soothe me to see myself giving pain to Emma. I am
like a pestilence, and let me swing away to the desert, for there I
do no harm. I know I am right. I have questioned myself--it is not
cowardice. I do not quail. I abhor the part of actress. I should do
it well--too well; destroy my soul in the performance. Is a good
name before such a world as thi