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 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, Edinburgh and London.
 
 
 DIANA WENTWOETH
 
 " I'll walk where my own nature would be leading : 
 It vexes me to choose another guide : 
 Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding ; 
 Where the wild wind blows on the mountain-side. 
 
 What have those lonely mountains worth revealing ? 
 More glory and more grief than I can tell." 
 
 — Emily Bronte.
 
 DIANA WENTWOETH 
 
 BY 
 
 CAEOLINE FOTHEEGILL 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'an ENTHUSIAST,' 'A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS' 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND S0:N^S 
 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
 MDCCCLXXXIX 
 
 All Eights reserved
 
 
 CONTENTS OF THE FIEST YOLUME. 
 
 t 
 
 S 
 
 X 
 
 "^ 
 
 I. 
 
 II. 
 
 III. 
 
 IV. 
 
 V. 
 
 VI. 
 
 VII. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 IX. 
 
 X. 
 
 XI. 
 
 XII. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PROLOGUE, .... 
 
 
 1 
 
 PROFESSOR WENTWORTh's WILL, 
 
 
 10 
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, 
 
 
 
 13 
 
 A FRIEND, 
 
 
 
 26 
 
 A LOVER, 
 
 
 
 41 
 
 THE END OF A JOURNEY, 
 
 
 
 74 
 
 JACEWO, 
 
 
 
 99 
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES, 
 
 
 
 113 
 
 NEAR THE FOREST, 
 
 
 
 141 
 
 BY THE LAKE, 
 
 
 
 158 
 
 " CARISSIMA," 
 
 
 
 182 
 
 GLAMOUR, 
 
 
 
 210 
 
 IN THE FOREST, 
 
 
 
 227 
 
 IN DOUBT, 
 
 
 
 247
 
 DIANA WENTWOETE 
 
 " PEOLOGUE. 
 
 It was an exquisite summer evening, not 
 moonlight, but not yet dark, so that the 
 young man and woman walking slowly 
 along the West Fields could still dimly 
 see one another's features. They were 
 very young : he looked about twenty, 
 she could not be more than seventeen. 
 He had a tall well - made figure, and a 
 face which expressed resolution and a 
 
 VOL. I. A
 
 2 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 certain degree of pride, although his 
 clothing was that of a country work- 
 man, and his speech bewrayed him as a 
 dweller among the hills. The girl was 
 very pretty, with soft brown hair, and 
 eyes which were alternately appealing 
 and roguish. One sought in vain in 
 her features for some sio;n of the hiorh 
 purpose which animated his, yet, in spite 
 of this want, it was a very winning face. 
 She wore neither bonnet nor shawl, so 
 that it was easy to see that her figure 
 was slighter and more upright than is 
 the case with most girls of her class, 
 and the arrangement of her dress be- 
 spoke an evident knowledge and ap- 
 preciation of her advantages. She had 
 slipped her hand through the young
 
 PROLOGUE. 3 
 
 man's arm, and rather nestled against 
 him as they walked along. The light 
 was fading fast ; the river rushing at the 
 foot of the cliffs, on the top of which 
 they were walking, made its presence 
 known to the ear rather than the eye ; 
 the outlines of the hills, which rose around 
 them on all sides, were becoming dim ; the 
 woods on the other side of the valley were 
 an indistinct mass. They had walked for 
 a long time before they began to speak. 
 Then the man said — 
 
 **It's a bonny spot, Mary lass; I shall 
 often think of it when I am far away." 
 
 " Eh, John," she answered, with a little 
 toss of her head, " you are a queer fellow. 
 Any one else would have told me they 
 would think of me."
 
 4 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 *'I shall think of you. This place and 
 you are so bound up in my mind, I 
 can't think of one without the other. We 
 have walked here so often together." 
 
 " An' now I mun walk alone. It'll be 
 dree work. Are you boun' to go to- 
 morrow, John ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I'm off in the morning as soon as 
 it's light. I shall walk to Bellingham, and 
 take the train from there." 
 
 " And you can't tell when you'll be 
 back?" 
 
 " Nay, how can I tell ? I've my fortune 
 to make ; but as soon as I can come back, 
 I will." 
 
 " I doubt it will be a long time to 
 wait," she said, with a sigh. 
 
 "And what if it is?" he answered
 
 PROLOGUE. 5 
 
 rather quickly. "You won't be waiting 
 alone ; I shall be keeping you company, 
 though I am a long way off. You don't 
 think you'll get tired of waiting, Mary?" 
 he concluded, rather anxiously. 
 
 " No," she answered, " no ; I won't get 
 tired, though it is a dull place, and there 
 is very little to see. But I shall be glad 
 when you've made your fortune ; then 
 you'll be a rich man, and I shall be a 
 lady." 
 
 " It's not only riches as makes ladies 
 and gentlemen," he said ; " it's many a 
 lot of other things besides ; and I doubt 
 if ladies and gentlemen is any happier 
 than us poor folk. They've just as hard 
 a time in many ways, and I can't tell 
 why you hanker after it so. A good.
 
 6 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 honest, working woman's better than an 
 idle fine lady; and if you were a lady, 
 Mary, you would be an idle one, I fear : 
 you're not fond of work," he concluded, 
 half playfully. 
 
 *'No," said Mary, 'Tm not. It's a 
 life as would suit me finely, to ride i' 
 my carriage and do nothing all day, 
 because there was servants to do the 
 work. Eh, I should like to have ser- 
 vants, and to keep my hands white and 
 clean." 
 
 He laughed at her tone of enthusiasm, 
 and then said more gravely — 
 
 " I can promise you servants, if you will 
 only have a bit of patience. And now, 
 Mary, we must say good-bye. Here we 
 are at your father's farm, and they will
 
 PROLOGUE. 7 
 
 be angry with me if I keep you out any 
 longer. Promise me once more to be true." 
 
 "Eh," she cried, "how you do go on! 
 Do you doubt me ? " 
 
 "No, I don't doubt you; but I don't 
 like leaving you so long. You are very 
 pretty, and there will be lots of men 
 asking you to wife. And maybe they 
 will try to persuade you at home ; they 
 have not much faith in me, you know." 
 
 "John," she cried, with a sudden tone 
 of fear in her voice, " you never can 
 tell. If father began wishing me for to 
 marry some one else, and you not here to 
 help me, I'd happen say Yes for peace 
 and quietness. Let me swear, and then 
 I shall be quite safe ; I coidd not break 
 an oath."
 
 8 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 " I don't like oaths," said John ; " I 
 would rather have an honest promise 
 from some one I trusted." 
 
 "Ay, but John, to please me," she 
 pleaded. " We will swear to one another, 
 and then we shall both be safe. Do now, 
 John; it's the last thing I shall ask you 
 for a long while." 
 
 "Well," he said, slowly; "but it's to 
 please you, mind." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; and you swear first." 
 
 So he swore. "I, John Garth waite, 
 swear to be true to you, Mary Metcalfe, 
 as you are true to me." 
 
 And Mary said the oath after him. 
 
 " I, Mary Metcalfe, swear to be true 
 to you, John Garth waite, as you are true 
 to me."
 
 PROLOGUE. 9 
 
 Then there came the last parting, kisses, 
 blessings, and a few last words, and then 
 Mary went into her father's house, and 
 John set off home across the hills.
 
 10 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PROFESSOR WENTWORTH's WILL. 
 
 Professor Wentworth was dead and 
 buried, and his will had created a certain 
 sensation among those who heard it, and 
 those who heard of it. It was an un- 
 English will, and those who talked about 
 it said that if he had not all his life been 
 an eccentric man, there would have been 
 grounds for thinking him of unsound mind 
 when he died. To his sons, aged respec- 
 tively twenty-three and eighteen, he left 
 five hundred pounds apiece — all his sav-
 
 PROFESSOR WENTWORTH's WILL. 11 
 
 ings. He had money invested, which was 
 bringing in a hundred and fifty pounds 
 a-year, and this he bequeathed to his 
 widow and only daughter, to be shared 
 equally between them until his widow's 
 death, when it should all go to his 
 daughter. There was a letter directed to 
 his sons, which he had desired they might 
 read after hearing his will, and in which the 
 following passage, relating to the way in 
 which he had left his money, occurred : — 
 " I have done my best for you, and 
 now you are both started in life, and 
 must look to yourselves alone. With five 
 hundred pounds to fall back upon, you 
 cannot come to harm. It is in accord- 
 ance with what I have taught you all 
 your lives, that the women must have the
 
 12 DIANA WENTWORTH, 
 
 settled income. Your sister may never 
 marry, in which case slie must be pro- 
 vided for; or, if she does, she cannot go 
 penniless to her husband." 
 
 The lads were fond and proud of their 
 sister, and had acquiesced in their father's 
 judgment. Wilfrid, the elder, was well 
 placed in New Zealand — Harold, the 
 younger, was in a large AVhitfield ware- 
 house ; clearly it was Diana, beautiful 
 fastidious Diana, who must be provided 
 for, and shielded from the wintry winds 
 of care and privation. As for their 
 mother, they were both good sons, and 
 would always care for her. They thought 
 their father had acted quite rightly, and 
 went back to their work perfectly con- 
 tented with what had fallen to their share.
 
 13 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 "It is from your uncle Philip, Diana; you 
 may read it," said Mrs Wentworth, hand- 
 ing her daughter an open letter. 
 
 Diana put down her mother's breakfast- 
 tray, and sat down on the edge of the bed 
 to read the following letter : — 
 
 "My dear Alice, — I have your letter 
 telling me of your changed arrangements. 
 I think it is a pity Harold cannot make 
 up his mind to stay in England near his
 
 14 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 mother ; but since Wilfrid is doing so well 
 in New Zealand, I suppose it is only 
 natural that he should wish to share his 
 good fortune. Young blood will be young 
 blood, and life in a Whitfield warehouse 
 cannot be as attractive as sheep-farming 
 in New Zealand. I wish the lad every 
 success. Under the circumstances, I think 
 it quite natural you should wish to leave 
 Whitfield, and I feel gratified that you 
 should ask my advice as to a suitable 
 place for your future home. I need not 
 assure you that, were it necessary, any help 
 
 could give you in the expense of re- 
 moving I would willingly offer. I have, 
 however, another proposal to make, which 
 
 trust will prove agreeable to you. You 
 cannot live in comfort anywhere upon
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 the income to which you have been re- 
 duced, and I write now to suggest that 
 you and Diana should henceforth make 
 your home with us. I have consulted 
 Guy and the girls, and I need scarcely 
 say that they join with me in offering 
 you a hearty welcome. Your income will 
 be sufficient for your personal wants ; and 
 as your presence in my house can only be 
 a help and an advantage to my girls, I 
 think the arrangement will be a mutual 
 gain. Of Diana I cannot speak, since I 
 have not the pleasure of knowing her ; 
 but I trust she will be happy with her 
 cousins. Perhaps I am biassed, but I 
 think intercourse with Gertrude and 
 Dora cannot fail to influence her for 
 good."
 
 16 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 There was much more — plans, arrange- 
 ments, and sympathy ; but all breathed a 
 confident spirit, as though the writer felt 
 sure of his invitation being accepted, and 
 the letter concluded very affectionately 
 with a hope of a speedy meeting. 
 
 Diana having finished reading, let her 
 hands sink into her lap, and sat looking at 
 her mother. 
 
 ''How like your uncle ! " said Mrs Went- 
 worth, enthusiastically. " What a noble, 
 generous offer ! and what a simple way 
 out of all my difficulties ! " 
 
 " What does it mean ? " asked Diana ; 
 '' I don't understand it. Have you been 
 writing to uncle Meredith about money 
 matters ? " 
 
 " I wrote to tell him that as Harold is
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 17 
 
 going to join Wilfrid in New Zealand, 
 there is no further need for us to remain 
 in AVhitfield. I asked his advice about 
 a cheaper place to live in, and just hinted 
 that I should be very thankful for any 
 help in the expense of removing, or even 
 for permanent help if he could afford it. 
 This constant anxiety about money mat- 
 ters will drive me into my grave before 
 long. I would not say a word against 
 your poor father ; but I really think he 
 miorht have contrived to leave me a 
 little better off. How^ever, now it is 
 all at an end, thanks to your uncle. I 
 thought he would send me a cheque ; 
 but I never anticipated such generosity 
 as this." 
 
 Diana said nothing, and her mother went 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 18 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 on, having only paused for an instant to 
 wipe her eyes. 
 
 *' Dear Philip ! it is just like him ; and 
 the thought of passing the rest of my life 
 in the old Abbey, the happy, happy home 
 of my girlhood, is almost too much for 
 me. What an unspeakable relief it will 
 be to have everything one wants again, 
 and not to be constantly counting the 
 cost of every little thing ! I shall feel 
 quite young again. I shall write at once 
 and tell him how grateful I am for his 
 kindness. You, of course, will do the same." 
 
 "Nay, mamma," said Diana; *' I have 
 nothing to write about. I did not ask 
 for charity. I do not need it, and I am 
 not going to accept it. I have no grati- 
 tude to express."
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 19 
 
 *'I beg you will not talk in that foolish 
 way," said Mrs Went worth, w^ith some 
 show of irritation. "When I accept, my 
 acceptance will be for us both ; your home 
 must be with me." 
 
 " I shall not go to Garshill," said Diana, 
 in a voice which was neither loud nor ex- 
 cited, but which expressed unshakable de- 
 termination. 
 
 "It is quite useless to talk in that way. 
 I shall not allow such behaviour to my 
 brother." 
 
 *' I don't know him : I have never seen 
 him, or any of my cousins. I know 
 nothing about him, and he knows noth- 
 ing about me, or I don't think he w^ould 
 ask me to go and live at his house," with 
 a sudden gleam of something very like
 
 20 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 wickedness lighting up her face. "Just 
 listen how he speaks of me ! he seems to 
 think I am a child yet," and she picked 
 up the letter again, and read aloud the 
 few words relating to herself. Then she 
 threw the letter aside and laughed, stand- 
 ing in the middle of the room with a 
 satirical smile curling her lip. 
 
 Mrs Wentworth looked at her without 
 speaking, and with a peculiar look in her 
 eyes. What she saw ought to have filled 
 her heart with a glow of joy and pride, 
 and instead she looked gloomy and dis- 
 satisfied. 
 
 She saw before her a tall slim girl of two- 
 and-twenty, with a face and figure of mar- 
 vellous beauty. Hair and eyes were dark, 
 the eyes very large and clear, the com-
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 21 
 
 plexion very fair and delicate. Her 
 features had been moulded in an ex- 
 pression of command, and the general 
 habit of the face was rather proud than 
 sweet. Her whole face and bearing were 
 full of spirit and resoluteness, yet her 
 figure was delicate to fragility. There 
 was something about her which would 
 have made even a stranger feel instinc- 
 tively that she had her whole life before 
 her, and that it would be very difficult, 
 in spite of her two-and-twenty years, to 
 forecast the use she would make of it. 
 
 It has been said that it was a sight to 
 fill a mother's heart with pride, and that 
 Mrs Wentworth looked only gloomy ; 
 perhaps the slight air of defiance in the 
 rounded upturned chin irritated her, for
 
 22 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 her voice was not altogether sweet as she 
 said — 
 
 " It is a long time since I saw your 
 cousins ; but Gertrude was then very hand- 
 some, and Dora an exquisite fairy -like 
 creature. Their father is quite right in 
 thinking them charming, and I quite agree 
 with him that intercourse with them would 
 do you a world of good." 
 
 Diana laughed again ; laughter was very 
 often on her lips. 
 
 " I have no doubt they have every im- 
 aginable beauty and attraction," she said ; 
 ''but I have not the slightest desire to 
 make their acquaintance, nor have I any 
 intention of doing so." 
 
 " You make me very angry," said her 
 mother.
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 23 
 
 " I will go now," said the girl, taking 
 up the breakfast -tray. "I suppose you 
 will get up. We can talk about this 
 later." 
 
 She went clown-stairs into the sitting- 
 room, and stood looking out of the window. 
 It was a dismal winter morning, fog, melt- 
 ing snow, and rain filled the street. She 
 stood for some time lost in thought, and 
 then with a quick graceful movement 
 turned to the inside of the room, saying 
 half aloud — 
 
 "I'll write now, while I am alone. I 
 would rather starve than go to live there." 
 
 She got writing materials and began her 
 letter. Judg-ing; from the smile which so 
 often lit up her face as she wrote, she had 
 reason to be satisfied with her work ; but
 
 24 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 there was that in her smile which made 
 one feel doubtful whether her uncle would 
 be equally pleased. When she had fin- 
 ished, she folded and addressed her letter, 
 saying — 
 
 "Now, my sweet cousins, I wonder if, 
 after this, you will be so anxious to have 
 me, and yet it is polished and perfectly res- 
 pectful, in fact 'deadly polite';" opening 
 her letter again to once more run her eye 
 over its contents. " That is one of the 
 greatest benefits of civilisation ; it enables 
 you to sting people beyond endurance, 
 without casting a shadow on decency and 
 politeness." 
 
 She leaned her elbows on the table, and 
 catching sight of her own reflection in an 
 old-fashioned round mirror which hung
 
 MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. 25 
 
 against the opposite wall, she smiled 
 frankly at herself. 
 
 "One is handsome/' she murmured, 
 " and the other is an exquisite fairy-like 
 creature. I am not afraid of them." 
 There was a pause, during which she con- 
 tinued to gaze into her own eyes, reflected 
 in the old mirror. Then she spoke again, 
 " She did not say they were clever," and 
 she smiled once more.
 
 26 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 A FRIEND. 
 
 At tliat moment the maid -of- all -work 
 knocked at the door and said, " Dr Sher- 
 lock." 
 
 Diana rose from her seat in surprise. 
 
 '* Tom ! " she cried ; " what are you doing 
 at large at this time of day ? " 
 
 " I am not busy this morning, and it is 
 so long since I saw you, I thought I would 
 just look in in passing. How is your 
 mother ? " 
 
 " Very well, and I am very glad to see
 
 A FRIEND. 27 
 
 you. There is sometlimg to relate, and I 
 want you to hear it from me first." 
 
 She told him about her uncle's letter, 
 and the proposal it contained, her expres- 
 sive face all alight with varying emotions 
 as she sat looking up at the tall young 
 man standing on the hearth-rug, his eyes 
 fixed upon her face, as if he did not want 
 to look at anything else. 
 
 He listened in silence : it was a way he 
 had, and sometimes Diana liked it, and 
 sometimes it roused her impatience. This 
 time she liked it. Her mother might come 
 down at any moment, and she wanted to 
 tell her story first. 
 
 Tom was still silent when she had fin- 
 ished. He was slow in everything, slowest 
 of all in speech. He was a tall plain
 
 28 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 young man, with nothing remarkable about 
 him except a very beautiful complexion 
 and an odd drifting way of walking, which 
 made every one smile. He was a young 
 doctor, working his way steadily upwards, 
 with no relatives or connections to help 
 him on, accustomed to look to himself 
 alone, and quite satisfied with his solitary 
 position in the world. He had known the 
 Wentworths for some years before he had 
 come to settle in Whitfield. Diana and 
 he had been fast friends ever since she 
 was a child, and now the hope of some 
 day winning her for his wife was the 
 only feeling which equalled in strength 
 his wish to get on in his profession. 
 
 He remained silent for so long that at 
 last she looked up at him again, and said —
 
 A FKIEND. 29 
 
 '* Well, are you too surprised to speak?" 
 
 *' I don't know. What are you going to 
 do?" 
 
 Each word dropped slowly and separ- 
 ately from his lips, and w^hen he spoke, 
 one heard that his voice was very flex- 
 ible. 
 
 "Mamma is in raptures; she is going to 
 accept." 
 
 " Oh ! Do you think you will like it ? " 
 
 "I am not going." 
 
 " You won't go ? " 
 
 " I think I would rather starve. Ever 
 since I read the letter, one of my favour- 
 ite mottoes has been running in my head : 
 ' It is better to dwell in a forest, haunted 
 by lions and tigers, the trees our habita- 
 tion, flowers, fruits, and water for food.
 
 30 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 the grass for a bed, and the bark of the 
 trees for garments, than to live among 
 relations after the loss of wealth.' That 
 is a pagan proverb, and I like it." 
 
 " Good for the pagans," said Tom, slowly. 
 " That is very vigorous ; but it wouldn't do 
 in our climate, you know." 
 
 " No," said Diana ; " as a medical man, 
 of course, you could not countenance it. 
 But I can do what comes to the same 
 thing, — put up with anything rather 
 than go." 
 
 "But what shall you do?" 
 
 " I have not quite made up my mind 
 yet ; but I think I shall get a situation of 
 some kind." 
 
 *' Oh ! " Dr Sherlock pulled his mous- 
 tache thoughtfully, and then ventured on
 
 A FRIEND. 31 
 
 the mild remonstrance, "Do you think 
 your father would have liked it ? " 
 
 " I don't think he would have objected," 
 said Diana, with a little hesitation. 
 
 " Well, but I do," replied Tom. 
 
 " You see," said Diana, and the fact that 
 she condescended to an explanation im- 
 pressed Tom very much, — " you see, I 
 shall not be really working for my living. 
 I have plenty to fall back upon, and I 
 shan't trouble about a large salary. But 
 if I do definite work in exchange for my 
 maintenance, I shall be independent. I 
 will not receive benefits, I should be so 
 hampered afterwards. I should never be 
 able to do anything to which uncle ob- 
 jected, because of past favours. I could 
 never endure it, — I must be free. I might
 
 32 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 as well go to prison at once, as live in that 
 way. I should be chained hand and foot 
 with invisible chains." 
 
 " What kind of man is your uncle ? " 
 
 '' I have never seen him." 
 
 " Then he may be a monster for an}^- 
 thing we know." 
 
 " He thinks I am a monster, and I will 
 tell you why. Years ago, six or seven, 
 before he had the accident which made 
 him the invalid he has been ever since, 
 he came over here to see mamma. We 
 were sent for, of course, and the boys 
 went, bribed by promises of gold watches 
 and chains, which, to be quite fair, were 
 honourably given to them. I remember 
 I had been in disgrace all day, and was 
 very angry with mamma, so I refused to
 
 A FRIEND. 33 
 
 go. Eepeated messages were sent ; but I 
 paid no heed to them, and when I heard 
 that uncle was coming to the schoolroom 
 to see me, since I would not go to see him, 
 I ran out of the house and stayed away 
 until I was sure he was gone. He was 
 deeply offended, of course. Can't you im- 
 agine the rage of the rich man, accustomed 
 to have every one bow down before him, 
 when he was spurned by a poor relation ? " 
 She leaned back in her chair, and laughed 
 delightedly at this recollection of the past. 
 " And I never feel sorry I did it : I have 
 no doubt it was a wholesome check to his 
 pride. He never forgave me, and I was 
 never invited to the Abbey. The boys 
 have been often, and always came home 
 
 laden with gifts, amongst which there was 
 VOL. I. c
 
 34 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 never anything for me, to my great joy. 
 But you see he has borne malice all these 
 years, and would have gone on all his life, 
 if this had not happened. I would not 
 live in his house for the world. I should 
 feel suffocated in it." 
 
 Dr Sherlock's face had grown very ten- 
 der as he sat and listened to her. He 
 realised, not for the first time, how tem- 
 pestuous and impulsive this girl's nature 
 was ; how passionately she felt about even 
 little things ; and with how dogged a de- 
 termination she would do battle for what 
 she believed to be right, — and her right 
 was seldom that of the world at large. He 
 understood that she looked upon her isola- 
 tion and estrangement from her mother's 
 people as in some way conferring dis-
 
 A FRIEND. 35 
 
 tinction upon her, even though it had orig- 
 inated in a mere fit of girlish naughtiness. 
 She was very full of faults, and she did 
 not make the most of such virtues as she 
 had ; yet Tom loved her dearly, and the 
 thought of such a girl going out to work 
 seemed pitiful to him. An older man 
 might have said it would bring her just 
 the discipline she needed ; but Tom did 
 not think of that. Nevertheless he felt 
 instinctively that this was not the right 
 moment for making the only alternative 
 proposal which seemed to him good. In- 
 stead he said — 
 
 "No, you must not go: it is not the 
 right place for you ; you would not be 
 happy there. We must see what else can 
 be done. I will come in again some
 
 36 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 evening, and we will talk things over 
 at our leisure. Perhaps your friend Mrs 
 Burland might be able to suggest some- 
 thing." 
 
 ^'I will see. Must you go? Come in 
 again as soon as you have time." 
 
 " One thing first, Diana," he said, 
 hesitatingly. "Don't speak so bitter- 
 ly of your mother : it is not fair, you 
 know." 
 
 "It is true," said Diana, knitting her 
 brows. "You know, Tom, that mamma 
 and I do not get on ; and that is another 
 reason why I will not go to GarshilL 
 Mamma and I have lived together long 
 enough. It is her own doing; she her- 
 self got me out of the way of living with 
 her."
 
 A FRIEND. 37 
 
 " I wish you would try to forget that, 
 or to look at it in a diiFerent light. Your 
 mother thought she was acting for the 
 best." 
 
 The girl's face hardened as she said — 
 
 " She did it because she wanted to be rid 
 of me. She condemned me to four years 
 of misery, when there was no need for it, 
 and I shall never forgive her." 
 
 " Well, good-bye, Di. Kemember me to 
 your mother, and tell her I will look in 
 again soon." 
 
 When he was gone, Diana stood by the 
 fireplace, with all the light gone out of her 
 face. He should not have called up those 
 recollections just then, because when her 
 father died she had made a resolution that 
 she would try to live on better terms with
 
 38 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 her mother. A year had gone by since 
 then, and she had kept her resolution fairly 
 well, but she was not happy at home ; and 
 now that both her brothers had left Eng- 
 land, and a change was inevitable, she was 
 determined that the change should be to 
 her own advantage. 
 
 Mrs Wentworth was, in the opinion of 
 most people, a very charming woman. A 
 few, Tom Sherlock amongst them, thought 
 differently, but that was the general ver- 
 dict. Unfortunately she had never known 
 how to live in harmony with her daughter. 
 Diana had always been difficult — from her 
 earliest childhood a strange mixture of 
 apparently diametrically opposed qualities 
 and characteristics — a very ill-balanced 
 mind, many people said, and Mrs Went-
 
 A FRIEND. 39 
 
 worth fully agreed with them. When 
 Diana was fourteen, her mother decided 
 that she had utterly outgrown home in- 
 fluences, and that she must go to school 
 at once — to a school, moreover, where the 
 strictest discipline should be rigorously 
 enforced. Such a school was difficult to 
 meet with ; but the right place had event- 
 ually been found, and for four years Diana 
 had led a life of pure misery in it. She 
 came home for her holidays, each time feel- 
 ing more embittered against her mother, 
 and the last two years had been spent 
 entirely at school. She knew that her 
 mother had sent her from home because 
 she had no sympathy with her, and she 
 judged her with the pitiless intolerance of 
 youth. This four years' banishment from
 
 40 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 home-life had in some degree moulded her 
 character, and was partly answerable for 
 the cynical view she took of domestic 
 happiness, family affection, and other ac- 
 cepted facts of life.
 
 41 
 
 CHAPTEE lY. 
 
 A LOVER. 
 
 DiAXA got her way : Mrs Wentworth 
 yielded, after a not very strong show of 
 resistance. Secretly she was of her daugh- 
 ter's opinion, that they had lived together 
 quite long enough ; and she was well aware 
 that life in the old home, with her brother 
 and two affectionate attentive nieces, would 
 be much more comfortable without this 
 daughter, between whom and herself there 
 seemed always a tacit coldness and misun- 
 derstanding. She knew her brother would
 
 42 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 not approve of Diana going out as a gover- 
 ness, so she said very little about it. 
 
 Diana had no great difficulty in meeting 
 with a situation, for her father's will ren- 
 dered her independent of salary, although 
 she said that on principle she should take 
 what was offered to her. She had been 
 anxious to go on to the Continent, and 
 the situation she finally decided to take 
 was in Polish Prussia. Her employers 
 were called Camphausen, and they lived 
 at a place called Jacewo, a place of which 
 no one had ever heard, which considerably 
 increased Diana's wish to go there. There 
 was a large family — three sons and three 
 daughters, the eldest girls aged respec- 
 tively seventeen and sixteen. Diana was 
 to be companion-governess to them, and
 
 A LOVER. 43 
 
 to share the family life. She at once made 
 up her mind to go there, and her mother 
 only ventured the remonstrance that it 
 seemed a very long way off — three days' 
 journey, without stopping even a night on 
 the way. Diana bore down all opposition, 
 and without consulting any one, wrote to 
 Frau Camphausen to settle the matter, 
 and arrange the time and manner of her 
 journey. 
 
 She and her future employer had ex- 
 changed letters by return of post, so that 
 the whole business had been settled in 
 about a fortnio;ht. Durino; that time Dr 
 Sherlock had been very busy, and had had 
 no time to see the Wentworths, so that 
 he had heard nothing of Diana's plans. 
 He camfe in on the evening of the day
 
 44 DIANA WENTWOETH. 
 
 on which she had written to accept the 
 post, and she lost no time in telling him 
 all about it. They were alone, for Mrs 
 Wentworth was busy packing and arrang- 
 ing for her removal to Garshill. 
 
 " I am so glad it is settled," she said, 
 when she had finished. " I was afraid some 
 obstacle might arise at the last moment." 
 
 The animation in her face found no re- 
 flection in her companion's features. 
 
 " It is a long way," he said, slowly. 
 
 " That is why I like it. I want to get 
 as far from here as I can — thousands of 
 miles away." 
 
 " What for ? " asked the doctor, bluntly. 
 
 " I am weary of this place. I never 
 want to see it again." 
 
 " Oh ! " was all his reply ; but she heard
 
 A LOVER. 45 
 
 him murmurino: in his deliberate 
 
 'O 
 
 way: 
 
 "Bad for me that." 
 
 She said nothing, and presently he went 
 on — 
 
 " I don't like the whole thing ; there is 
 something unnatural in it. You were 
 never made to work for your living ; 
 and I am very much opposed to your 
 going." 
 
 " I am not going to work for my living : 
 it would be rather a dismal prospect if I 
 were, for they offer only a very small 
 salary." 
 
 "Suppose you fall ill." 
 
 " Suppose the world comes to an end." 
 
 " I don't know how your mother can 
 consent to your going." 
 
 Diana smiled as she answered —
 
 46 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 " She is glad." 
 
 " I wish you would not speak in that 
 way," said Tom, looking distressed. "I 
 do not like to hear it." 
 
 " What is the use of trying to disguise 
 the truth ? you might as well try to clothe 
 a deformed man so that he should look 
 straight. Mamma and I feel crookedly 
 towards one another, and always shall. 
 We cannot live together any longer." 
 
 *' What has happened ? Have you 
 quarrelled ? " 
 
 "What need is there to quarrel? It is 
 the constant dropping that wears away a 
 stone, not pouring a bucketful of water 
 over it." 
 
 He made no answer; he had scarcely 
 heard her. He was thinking that the
 
 A LOVEK. 47 
 
 time to speak had come, and he felt 
 horribly shy, and very anxious and 
 doubtful as to the result. She said no 
 more, and he began to feel his way 
 cautiously by saying — 
 
 " I do wish you would give this up, 
 Diana." 
 
 " I can't, Tom. I wrote to Frau Camp- 
 hausen to say I will go as soon as she 
 wants me." 
 
 " That doesn't matter. Write again, and 
 say that on consideration you don't want 
 to go so far from home, and she must find 
 somebody else." 
 
 "I am counting the days till I go," was 
 her only answer. 
 
 " What do you know about these people? 
 They may be very disagreeable."
 
 48 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 " I have no doubt they are ogres at the 
 very least." 
 
 "You are running a great risk." 
 
 " I run a risk every time I skate or 
 dance or drive. In fact," fixing her 
 beautiful eyes upon his face, "I must 
 go; if I gave it up I should have to go 
 and live at Garshill, and I will not do 
 that." 
 
 "No," he said; "that is not the only 
 other thing to do." 
 
 His heart beat very fast, and he felt 
 that now he must go on. But he got 
 little encouragement from the rather 
 puzzled look which came over her face. 
 
 " I can't see any other," she said, at 
 last. 
 
 " I'll show it to you, then. I don't want
 
 A LOVER. 49 
 
 you to go and live at Garsliill ; there is 
 no need. I want you to come and live 
 with me." 
 
 He was looking hard at her as he spoke ; 
 indeed there was an almost stony expres- 
 sion in his eyes, so nervous and uncertain 
 did he feel. For a moment she returned his 
 gaze — wide open and uncomprehending ; 
 then a light seemed to break in uj)on her, 
 and she began — 
 
 *' Do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean that I want you to be my wife ; 
 yes, that is what I mean." 
 
 He heaved a great sigh of relief as he 
 realised that he had at last said what had 
 been on his heart, and he waited anxiously 
 for her answer. 
 
 " Tom ! " she said, in a tone of utter 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 incredulity, whicli brought the colour into 
 his face. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he asked. 
 " Why do you speak like that ? " 
 
 "0 Tom, how could you ever think of 
 such a thing ! " 
 
 "Do you mean to say that you have 
 never thought of it ? " he asked, completely 
 losing his head. 
 
 " Thought of you as a husband ? never — 
 not once. As my comrade and my best 
 friend, who has often taken my side when 
 every one was against me, — I have always 
 thought of you like that, but never as 
 anything else." 
 
 " I have never thought of anything but 
 that ; and won't you begin to think of it 
 too ? Do, Diana."
 
 A LOVER. 51 
 
 " Oh no ; it is quite impossible." 
 
 " Why ? " he asked, desperately. " I 
 don't see it." 
 
 " I can't," she answered. " I simply 
 can't." 
 
 " I have loved you so long and 
 so truly. I can't believe there is no 
 hope." 
 
 " You would not like me to say ' Yes ' 
 when I do not love you." 
 
 "No, I wouldn't — yes, I would. I 
 would rather have you in that way than 
 not at all." 
 
 "0 Tom, don't talk so foolishly! I 
 can't imagine what put such an idea into 
 your head ; you must have seen I never 
 thought of such a thing." 
 
 " Oh, I know you are not to blame," he 

 
 52 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 said bitterly ; " but still I thougbt you 
 liked me." 
 
 " I do — that is, I did ; but if you go on 
 talking like this, I shan't like you any 
 more." 
 
 Her eyes flashed, her foot tapped the 
 floor. Her temper was quick, and her 
 patience soon exhausted ; neither did Dr 
 Sherlock show to advantage as a disap- 
 pointed lover. He had nothing to say to 
 this outburst ; and after a pause she went 
 on — 
 
 " If I married you, I should be chained 
 here for the rest of my life. I should live 
 and die here. I know nothing but Whit- 
 field, and I should never know anything 
 else." 
 
 "It is your home," he said, rather stol-
 
 A LOVER. 53 
 
 idly. " I don't know what you mean by 
 talking in that way." 
 
 " Of course it is my home : that is the 
 very reason. Do you never get tired of 
 home ? " 
 
 " Never. I love it ; I become more and 
 more of a home-man every day. If you 
 would only marry me, it would be per- 
 fect." 
 
 She laughed a little unsteadily before 
 she answered — 
 
 " You see how utterly unsuited we are 
 to one another. We should always be act- 
 ing in opposition to one another." 
 
 '' I don't think it follows at all. People 
 who marry should not be too much alike." 
 
 " Still less, too much unlike," she an- 
 swered quickly, and then they were both
 
 54 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 silent. Diana was sitting in a low chair 
 in front of the fire, and after her own last 
 words, she leaned back and clasped her 
 hands at the back of her head, so that 
 her arm hid her face from Tom. She 
 wished that he would go. Her nerves 
 were naturally highly strung, and just 
 lately she had been going through a good 
 deal. Tom's attitude and manner jarred 
 upon her, and made the temptation to 
 speak sharply almost irresistible. As the 
 minutes went on and he said nothing, she 
 began to find the silence almost more than 
 she could bear, and she bit her lip, in her 
 endeavour not to show her nervous irrita- 
 tion. She was absolutely heart-whole ; no 
 man had as yet touched her feelings below 
 the surface, and she was powerless to enter
 
 A LOVER. 55 
 
 into Tom's state of mind. She only felt 
 angry with him for having spoken at all. 
 When she did at last speak, her words 
 were not calculated to comfort him. 
 
 *' I am so tired of Whitfield : that is 
 why I want to go to this particular place, 
 Jacewo. However disagreeable it and the 
 people may be, they will at least be fresh 
 and different from what I know here. If 
 only for that reason, they are to be pre- 
 ferred." 
 
 "That sounds as if you w^ere fickle." 
 
 ' ' I daresay I am fickle. I get tired of 
 things and people. I don't think I could 
 keep to the same affection for ever and 
 ever." 
 
 She was saying the first thing that came 
 into her head, out of pure contrariness, and
 
 56 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 her mood was not improved by Tom say- 
 ing with great solemnity — 
 
 " You are talking like a child : it is very 
 wrong to talk like that." 
 
 "It would be the height of folly to 
 marry now," she went on, ignoring his 
 interruption. " I have seen nothing of 
 life, and know very few people. I want 
 to see life, and it would be ridiculous to 
 tie my hands at the very beginning ; after- 
 wards I might easily meet some one I 
 liked better than you, which would be 
 very awkward." 
 
 It was natural to her to express herself 
 with a little exaggeration ; but her words 
 were not devoid of wisdom, except to 
 Tom, who did not like them at all, and 
 said —
 
 A LOVER. 57 
 
 " I should think you have seen as many- 
 men as other girls, with your father and 
 brothers, and the open house you have 
 always kept." 
 
 "Do you think I call those people I 
 meet at dances and picnics and tennis 
 men ? You are the nearest to a man I 
 know here, but I can conceive that even 
 you might be surpassed." 
 
 " You are very unkind ; and just let me 
 tell you what I have been thinking. You 
 say you are tired of your home, and this 
 place, and everything about you. I be- 
 lieve that is only because you have never 
 been without them. I don't like this idea 
 of your going away in the least ; but we 
 might do this. I won't ask you to marry 
 me now. After all, though I could offer
 
 58 DIANA WENTWOHTH. 
 
 you a home, it is not such as I should 
 like you to have, and I should not have 
 spoken so soon, if it had not been for this 
 scheme of yours. Go to this outlandish 
 place, since you have set your mind upon 
 it : it may teach you to appreciate what 
 you despise now. In the meantime, I will 
 work hard for us both. I am making two 
 hundred a-year clear now ; will you promise 
 to come home and marry me when I am 
 making four hundred ? " 
 
 "Am I to be banished out there till 
 then? Condemn me to transportation for 
 life at once, and have done with it." 
 
 Her scoff brought the hot colour into 
 his cheeks, and he answered warmly — 
 
 "You are unfair and insulting, Diana. 
 Do you suppose I have not got it in me
 
 A LOVER. 59 
 
 to make a decent livelihood by my pro- 
 fession ? " 
 
 " I hope you may make a hundred thou- 
 sand a-year, as long as you don't ask me 
 to share it with you. I don't ivant to 
 marry you, Tom. I wish you would take 
 my answer, and leave me." 
 
 " I won't. You ought to marry, Diana. 
 You have got a lot of queer crotchets, 
 which only make you unhapj)y. If you 
 got married, you would soon forget them 
 in other things." 
 
 There was truth in what he said, but 
 there was also truth in Diana's answer. 
 
 " You are not the man to make me for- 
 get crotchets, Tom." 
 
 There was a note of sadness in her voice. 
 Beautiful and brilliant though she was, she
 
 60 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 had too marked an individuality ever to 
 be popular. She had many acquaintances ; 
 but the portion of love which had fallen 
 to her share was small. She and her 
 mother were hopelessly at odds, and per- 
 haps each was equally to blame. Tom 
 was the first man who had asked her to 
 share his life, and although she rejected 
 his offer, she felt that he would probably 
 be the last. She was touched by his 
 faithfulness, and she inwardly marvelled 
 when he repeated — 
 
 " Will you promise what I ask ? " 
 She did not speak. Some time before 
 she had risen from her chair, and now she 
 stood with one foot on the fender, her 
 elbows on the mantelpiece, her face shaded 
 by her hands. Some inspiration held Tom
 
 A LOVER. 61 
 
 from disturbing her meditations. He had 
 no idea what was passing in her heart, nor 
 how empty it felt, nor how the emptiness 
 ached in a dull gnawing way, as the 
 empty socket aches after the tooth has 
 been taken from it. At last she turned 
 round. Her face was pale, her eyes 
 burned beneath the contracted brows. She 
 looked at him for a moment. Her lips 
 were so firmly closed, it seemed as if she 
 had difficulty in opening them to speak. 
 At last she said — 
 
 " I cannot engage myself to you ; but 
 if you like, I will promise " 
 
 "Yes — what?" he interrupted, eagerly. 
 
 " Not to engage myself to any one else 
 until we meet again." 
 
 He had expected more, and his face fell.
 
 62 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 " Why do you offer this ? " he asked at 
 last. 
 
 He did not understand her in the least ; 
 he felt puzzled and uneasy at her manner. 
 
 *' To give you satisfaction. You have 
 been very kind to me, and we are old 
 friends ; you deserve something." 
 
 " But I don't see that I am getting any- 
 thing," he said, speaking more from em- 
 barrassment than boldness. 
 
 " Oh yes," with equal gravity, " you 
 are. As long as we do not meet — for this 
 promise dates from my leaving Whitfield 
 — you will have the satisfaction of think- 
 ing, when you do think of me, that I 
 am free, and if not engaged to you, at 
 least not engaged to any other man. And 
 so," with a smile beginning to hover round
 
 A LOVER. 63 
 
 her lips, '' if you are wise, we shall never 
 meet again." 
 
 Bitter disappointment kept him silent 
 for a minute. She had succeeded in rousing 
 his slow but lasting anger. 
 
 " Is that your way of dismissing me ? " 
 he asked at length. "It is ingenious and 
 womanlike, truly." 
 
 "Softly, softly; will you have my 
 promise ? " 
 
 He looked at her, and his anger blazed 
 up anew. He had learnt his lesson at 
 last, and he saw there was no hope for 
 him. He felt just then as if he never 
 did wish to see her again, and if she 
 would not be his, he could at least pre- 
 vent her marrying any one else. That 
 was something : his blood boiled up, and
 
 64 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 speaking quickly, almost savagely, as if he 
 feared she might change her mind, he said — 
 
 "Yes ; I will have it. Promise me that 
 after you leave Whitfield you will engage 
 yourself to no man till we have met 
 again. Get a Bible, and swear it to me." 
 
 "Nay, I will not swear. You often 
 call me a pagan, and with a pagan her 
 word is her bond. I promise on my 
 honour that, after leaving AVhitfield, I 
 will engage myself to no man until you 
 and I have met again." 
 
 " I am satisfied," he said, solemnly ; 
 and she, having recovered her spirits, 
 laughed at his gravity. There was no 
 weak place in her heart, and she gave 
 the promise with the greatest assurance. 
 
 Directly after this he went away, and
 
 A LOVER. 65 
 
 as he went out at the house - door, he 
 met a young lady coming in, with whom 
 he exchanged salutations. She said — 
 
 " I suppose Diana is at home ; " and on 
 his saying she was, the girl went forward 
 unannounced, and knocked at the drawing- 
 room door. 
 
 Diana greeted her visitor with some 
 surprise. 
 
 "You, Amy!" she said; "what has 
 brought you out at this time of night ? " 
 
 " I have not seen you for a week, and 
 I wanted so much to hear if you have 
 come to any arrangement with those 
 German people." 
 
 She sat down as she spoke. She was a 
 fair girl of middle height, with undecided 
 manner and speech, and yet with some- 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 bb DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 thing in her face which seemed to denote 
 obstinacy. She formed a strange contrast 
 to Diana, yet she was the only girl in all 
 Whitfield who stood on terms of any- 
 thing like intimacy with her. The 
 deeper feeling was on the side of Amy 
 Fairbairn, who often served as a vent to 
 Diana's overwrought feelings. It was un- 
 fortunate that she had come just now ; 
 Diana had not yet recovered from her 
 interview with Dr Sherlock, and she was 
 not in the gentlest mood. She told Amy 
 that she was going to Jacewo, and Amy 
 said — 
 
 " How dull it will be when you are gone ! 
 But perhaps you will not like the place, 
 and will be back again soon." 
 
 " If my esteemed friend Tom Sherlock
 
 A LOVER. 67 
 
 could have had his way, I should stay 
 here for ever. He has just asked me to 
 marry him." 
 
 " Diana, I am so glad ! I hope you 
 accepted. Did you accept? It would be 
 so delightful if we lived in the same town : 
 we might be married on the same day. 
 If you had to wait, I should not mind 
 waiting too." 
 
 " Take care how you make rash promises. 
 Tom explained his j)osition to me very 
 clearly, and had I accepted him we might 
 have looked forward to a possibility of 
 marriage in the next world, it would cer- 
 tainly never have taken place in this. 
 If you and your Cartwright decided to 
 wait for me, you would have every pros- 
 pect of dying an old maid."
 
 68 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 Mr Cartwriglit was the curate, to whom 
 Amy was engaged ; waiting for preferment 
 as a necessary preliminary to marriage. 
 
 " You say such strange things, Diana. 
 Is Dr Sherlock so poor ? " 
 
 *' Very poor ; but he had the generosity 
 to offer me a share of his poverty." 
 
 " Then you refused him ? " said Amy, 
 blankly. 
 
 "Yes; although he made another gen- 
 erous proposal. He wanted me to wait 
 for him out at Jacewo ; no doubt he 
 thinks it is a safe place, where I shall 
 not meet with the temptation of a more 
 brilliant offer." 
 
 " I am sorry," said Amy. " His practice 
 is here, and so is Eeggie's curacy. We might 
 have lived here together all our lives."
 
 A LOVER. 69 
 
 "How is your Reggie?" asked Diana. 
 "Is he any better?" 
 
 " Yes, he is better ; but there is still 
 infection, and I may not go near him. 
 It is very hard I can do nothing for him. 
 When mamma is poorly, I brush and comb 
 her hair gently, it soothes her so ; but I 
 cannot even do that for him." 
 
 " Of course not. He might think you 
 wished to assume the mastery, if you began 
 to comb his hair. It would be most un- 
 wise, and might cause your engagement 
 to be broken off." 
 
 She spoke with a gravity which made 
 Amy feel uncertain as to her meaning. 
 Strong as was her affection for Diana, 
 she was often at a loss to know whether 
 she was in jest or earnest.
 
 70 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 " I heard of such a sad thing yesterday," 
 she said presently. "Mr White of the 
 Carlton Koad Bank has died suddenly, in 
 the prime of life, leaving a widow and 
 a large family." 
 
 " I wonder why it is," said Diana, " that 
 men with wives and large families so often 
 die in the prime of life. Poor men, I 
 mean, only poor men have those large 
 families. I suspect they do it in self- 
 defence. They see they have got into 
 a hopeless muddle, with only one way 
 out of it comfortably to themselves, and 
 they naturally take that way, and leave 
 the others to get on as they can." 
 
 " I don't think such a way would be 
 natural at all ; it would be very selfish." 
 
 " It would be natural because it is selfish."
 
 A LOVER. 71 
 
 She spoke almost gloomily. She was 
 leaning forward with her chin in her hand, 
 her dark eyes looking into the glowing 
 coals, her mouth set in a cynical curve. 
 
 " I am very sorry for Mrs White," 
 said Amy, '' she is such a weak, delicate 
 woman. If you think like that, it will 
 be useless for me to ask you w^hat I was 
 going to." 
 
 "Do you mean to join in a subscrip- 
 tion ? " 
 
 *'Yes; I am trying to get a little sum 
 together." 
 
 "I can't help you. It would only 
 encourage others to do the same. If I 
 ever found a charity, it shall not be for 
 destitute clergymen or poor widows' chil- 
 dren, but for old maids who have fought
 
 72 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 their way through life against great odds, 
 and have at last come to the end of their 
 resources." 
 
 Amy said nothing. She was one of 
 those people who remain comparatively 
 indifferent to the privations and sorrows 
 of older people, but who " cannot bear to 
 see the little children suffer." Besides, 
 she took no interest in old maids. Who 
 does ? She thought Diana hard and cold, 
 and rose from her seat, saying — 
 
 " I shall go home. I can't talk to you 
 any more. You are not nice to-night." 
 
 " I will not keep you if you would 
 rather go. Good night. I will let you 
 know when I leave home." 
 
 When she was alone again she resumed 
 her seat by the fire, looking gloomily
 
 A LOVER. 73 
 
 into it ; but lier thoughts, whatever they 
 might be, were not uttered aloud. 
 
 Amy walked home in a glow of in- 
 dignation ao[ainst Diana and of satisfac- 
 tion with herself. Yet every now and 
 then the thought of her friend's deep sad 
 eyes and gloomy speech penetrated to 
 her heart and made her feel uncomfort- 
 able, and as she walked along she mur- 
 mured — 
 
 "Poor Diana ! I wish she were happier, 
 and I believe she would have been if she 
 had accepted Dr Sherlock."
 
 74 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 THE END OF A JOURNEY. 
 
 New Year's Eve was the date fixed for 
 Diana to arrive at Jacewo, and a fort- 
 night before that day she left "Whitfield 
 and went to her friend Mrs Burland, in 
 London : a day or two later, Mrs Went- 
 worth went to Garshill. Diana could not 
 have sj^ent her last days in England with 
 any more congenial companion than An- 
 toinette Burland ; she entered fully into 
 the difficulty of the girl's position, and 
 sympathised entirely with her refusal to
 
 THE END OF A JOURNEY. 75 
 
 go to Garshill. She could sway Diana 
 when no one else had the slightest in- 
 fluence over her, and Diana trusted her 
 implicitly. Antoinette had opposed to 
 the utmost Mrs Wentworth's decision to 
 send her daughter to school, and although 
 her counsel had been disregarded, Diana 
 had never forgotten that the effort had 
 been made. The oases in that four years' 
 desert of existence had been Antoinette's 
 visits, letters, and hampers. Now she 
 discussed her plans with a sympathy and 
 insight which soothed Diana's wounded 
 spirit, and wdiich not even Amy had 
 shown. They had parted friends, and 
 Amy's last words had been to urge 
 Diana to bear in mind her promise, that 
 when she returned to England, her first
 
 76 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 visit must be paid to the future Mrs 
 Cartwright. Mrs Burland's only misgiv- 
 ing was regarding the long journey, more 
 than half - way across Europe, and she 
 was anxious that Diana should let Mr 
 Burland see her safely to her destination. 
 She scouted the idea, and would so evi- 
 dently have been angry if the plan had 
 been persisted in, that Antoinette let it 
 
 drop. 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 She had made her last change in trains ; 
 in less than an hour she would be at 
 Jacewo. She was alone in the railway 
 carriage, and she let down the window 
 and leaned out. She had passed through 
 many patches of wood at an earlier stage 
 of her journey ; now she seemed to be
 
 THE END OF A JOURNEY. 77 
 
 travelling through an endless forest. The 
 tall pine-trees rose straight and motionless, 
 almost within reach of her hand. She 
 crossed the carriage and leaned from the 
 opposite window, the same sight met her 
 eyes. The train was running on a single 
 line, which went straight on into the forest. 
 She looked back, the trees had closed in 
 upon the narrow road, the line traced 
 by the finger of civilisation. She looked 
 forward, and at no great distance the 
 railroad appeared to melt into the trees ; 
 the train seemed imprisoned in the heart 
 of the forest. A chill feelino^ of loneli- 
 ness crept over her, and for the first 
 time she began to ask herself where she 
 was going, and what would be the end 
 of this long journey. Jacewo I Where
 
 78 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 was Jacewo ? She did not know. How 
 was she to know when she had reached 
 Jacewo, and what kind of a- place would 
 it be ? She could not tell ; she knew 
 nothing of it all. She was going she 
 knew not whither. A feeling came over 
 her that she was going where strange 
 things would befall her ; as though she 
 had turned a corner in the road of life, 
 and unproved sights and experiences lay- 
 before her ; as though she had entered a 
 new world, and a voice which she did 
 not know, yet could not disobey, was 
 calling her to advance in the darkness. 
 
 The moon rose higher, and she could 
 see more plainly. From time to time 
 there came a clearing amongst the trees, 
 and, stretching away in the distance, she
 
 THE END OF A JOURNEY. 79 
 
 saw glittering white expanses, frozen tracts 
 of water which occur here and there in 
 the forest, now silvered by the light of 
 the rising moon. She looked at them in 
 fascination, with this strange feeling of 
 awe growing stronger and stronger in 
 her heart, until at last the trees grew 
 thinner, the train slackened speed, and 
 at last stopped. She saw a kind of 
 shanty, and a platform of rough earth 
 frozen hard as iron, and then she hastily 
 looked at her watch : it was already some 
 minutes past the time when the train 
 was due at Jacewo, and she again put 
 her head out of the window and asked 
 of a man who w^as running past if this 
 station was Jacewo. He answered " Yes," 
 without pausing or turning his head, and
 
 80 DIANA WENTWOKTH. 
 
 she collected her things and got out of 
 the train. 
 
 Her luggage placed safely on the ground, 
 and the train having steamed slowly out 
 of sight round an immense curve, which 
 made it look like an enormous serpent, 
 she turned to a group of men who stood 
 near, looking at her with a good deal of 
 curiosity, and, according to her instruc- 
 tions, asked if the Camphausens' carriage 
 was at the station. One of the men 
 shook his head, and when, at his request, 
 she repeated the name, he said he knew 
 it not, he had never heard it before. 
 The other men drew near, and took part 
 in the conversation. A few questions, 
 asked in Diana s quick, rather imperious 
 way, and in German which, though per-
 
 THE END OF A JOURNEY. 81 
 
 feet in grammar and structure, betrayed 
 her nationality in accent and tone, brought 
 out the fact that this station was not 
 Jacewo, but only a kind of small goods 
 station, little more than a signal-box ; that 
 the train she had left was the last ; and 
 that there was no village anywhere near, 
 where she could get either shelter or a 
 conveyance to take her to the end of her 
 journey. 
 
 She did not hesitate to reproach the 
 men with their perfidy in letting her 
 leave the train and giving her her lug- 
 gage. The culprit shrugged his shoulders, 
 and turning to his companions, a sort of 
 council was held, in which the delibera- 
 tions were carried on in Polish. Diana, 
 being left to herself, also set her wits to 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 82 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 work, although she had told the men 
 that as they had got her into this dif- 
 ficulty, she left it to them to find her 
 a way out. It had just occurred to her 
 that she might be able to telegraph to 
 the Camphausens and ask them to send 
 the carriage on to her, and she was just 
 going to make the suggestion when one 
 of the men turned to her and said he 
 thought it possible that she might be 
 able to finish her journey at once. It 
 appeared that a gentleman had driven 
 over from Jacewo in the afternoon, it was 
 not known if he had gone back. If he 
 had not, they knew where to find him, 
 and they were sure he would be glad to 
 share his carriage with her; should one 
 of them go and see after him ?
 
 THE END OF A JOURNEY. 83 
 
 " Certainly," she said ; and when the 
 messenger had departed, the other men 
 invited her to go into the signal-box until 
 he returned. She was accommodated with 
 a chair by the stove, and sat looking out 
 of the window into the forest. The moon 
 had now risen fully, and the night was 
 almost as light as day, with a cold clear 
 light in which the pine-trees looked like 
 ghosts, and the perfect stillness of the 
 place was almost oppressive. She began 
 to believe in the actual existence of bears 
 and wolves, not as likely visitants on this 
 particular night, but as living creatures 
 with an existence outside books. Her 
 companions talked together in Polish, and 
 from time to time addressed her in Ger- 
 man. The messenger had already been
 
 84 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 absent some time, and they spoke openly 
 of the small chance of the gentleman from 
 Jacewo being still in the neighbourhood. 
 Fearless by nature, Diana felt no terror at 
 her position : it never occurred to her that 
 these men could have sinister intentions 
 towards her, and she was perfectly ready 
 to intrust herself to the care of the un- 
 known man, whoever he might be, il he 
 were still at hand and willing to be bur- 
 dened with her. She only felt annoy- 
 ance at being stopped so near the end of 
 her long journey, for she was tired ; and 
 also, after having insisted on travelling 
 alone, it was a little humiliating to find 
 herself in this difficulty, and she quickly 
 made up her mind never to mention it to 
 her friends in England.
 
 THE END OF A JOUENEY. 85 
 
 She was warm and comfortable, and as 
 she sat looking out on the mysterious 
 forest, wondering how the Burlands were 
 spending this New Year's Eve, and how 
 they imagined her to be spending it, the 
 door opened, and the messenger came in, 
 and communicated with his fellows in his 
 own tongue. Then he turned to her and 
 told her he had had a long search for " den 
 Herrn Ingenieur," as he called him, but he 
 had at length found him, and he was per- 
 fectly willing to accommodate her in his 
 carriage, which was even now at the door. 
 If she would take her seat in it, he would 
 join her in a moment ; he was still in the 
 forest. 
 
 She lost no time ; she was out of doors 
 almost before he had finished speaking,
 
 86 DIANA WENTWOKTH. 
 
 and the men followed her and began to pack 
 in her luggage. The carriage was a truly 
 aboriginal vehicle, like an immense basket 
 on wheels, filled with straw, and with a 
 plank placed across it for a seat. In front, 
 on a plank to himself, sat the driver, an 
 aged Pole, in sheepskin coat and cap and 
 green woollen gloves. He appeared to have 
 the utmost confidence in his own power of 
 guiding the four small restive horses which 
 were harnessed to this primitive chariot. 
 
 Diana stood looking on at the group of 
 men, who, with many exclamations, and 
 what seemed the exercise of superhuman 
 strength, were getting her boxes into the 
 cart. She was smiling at them in some 
 derision, when, out of the shadow of the 
 trees, a man emerged into the moonlight.
 
 THE END OF A JOURNEY. 87 
 
 He saw her before she saw him, and he 
 stood still for a minute to look at the 
 English girl standing there alone, the 
 spirited bearing of her slight figure notice- 
 able even in the muffling of the long 
 garment, trimmed and lined with fur, 
 which she wore. (It was a parting gift 
 from Mrs Burland, and Diana had caught 
 it closely round her, to protect her against 
 the stinging cold.) This man was accus- 
 tomed to see and judge at a moment's 
 notice, or even less ; and his keen eyes 
 ran rapidly over the girl's face and figure, 
 as she stood there unconscious of his pres- 
 ence. He noted everything, the beautiful 
 proud features, the slight touch of haughti- 
 ness in the face, caused by the cutting of 
 her nostrils and lips, the exquisite setting
 
 88 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 of the head, the resolution and courage 
 expressed in her attitude. Her face was 
 half turned towards him, and he could 
 see both her smile and the brilliance and 
 depth of her eyes. It was a beautiful 
 sight, and as he looked at her, he mut- 
 tered — 
 
 "Is it possible? There must be some 
 mistake." 
 
 What he saw stirred him ; there re- 
 mained yet to hear her voice, and he was 
 on the point of stepping forward to accost 
 her, when the men, having accomplished 
 their task, fell back, and he saw her take 
 out her purse. 
 
 "That, too, is an indication of char- 
 acter," he thought, and waited a mo- 
 ment.
 
 THE END OF A JOURNEY. 89 
 
 She took out a piece of twenty marks, 
 he saw the gleam of gold in her hand, and 
 gave it to one of the men, saying in Ger- 
 man, which surprised him by its purity — 
 
 "Divide it amongst you, and drink to 
 me : it is New Year's Eve ; wish that I may 
 have everything I want in the new year." 
 
 "We will wish you a handsome hus- 
 band, Fraulein," said the man, touching 
 his cap. 
 
 " A husband ? Ah no," with a little 
 laugh, — " that I could have ; wish me 
 everything I want.'' 
 
 The listener raised his eyebrows and 
 smiled as he heard her. She must be very 
 young. In spite of the dignity of her 
 bearing and her chiselled features, youth 
 was in every line of her face and figure.
 
 90 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 She had just been delivered from a very 
 awkward position, and the chances were a 
 thousand to one that she would never set 
 eyes on any of these men again. The 
 little scene showed that heart and hand 
 were equally open. 
 
 But he had seen enough. He came up 
 to her and raised his hat, saying — 
 
 ''You are the lady who got out here 
 by mistake ? " 
 
 *'You are English!" she said, turning 
 to him in her quick way. 
 
 ''Why, yes; did they not tell you? 
 I was told at once that you were a com- 
 patriot." 
 
 " They did not say what you were ; they 
 spoke of you exclusively as the ' engineer.' " 
 
 " I am an engineer, and an English one."
 
 THE END OF A JOURNEY. 91 
 
 "I am SO glad. I took it for granted 
 you would be German, and I feared you 
 would smoke, — I do so dislike tobacco." 
 
 He bit his lip to hide a smile. He liked 
 to hear her speak ; her voice was clear and 
 delicate, suggestive of lifelong intercourse 
 with people of culture. 
 
 " It is so kind of you to give me a seat 
 in your carriage," she went on. "I am 
 exceedingly grateful to you." 
 
 " I beg you will not mention it ; I am 
 only glad it is in my power to do you any 
 little service. And now, my men," he 
 went on, for they were again occupied with 
 her boxes, " make haste, or the lady will be 
 frozen." 
 
 He turned to help Diana into the car- 
 riage, saying —
 
 92 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 " You had better take your seat at once : 
 it is fearfully cold, and you must be tired. 
 Are you properly wrapped up ? What is 
 this made of ? " touching her long mantle. 
 
 " It is lined with fur," she answered, 
 just turning up a corner of it that he 
 might see. 
 
 " Sit at this side," he said, as she was 
 moving to the other end of the plank, 
 having got into the vehicle with perfect 
 ease and disregard of his offer of help. 
 " We shall drive fast, and the wind comes 
 like a knife across the plain. If you keep 
 at this side, I shall somewhat shelter you 
 from it." 
 
 They were off, flying along the high- 
 road at the reckless rate at which Polish 
 horses generally go, and Diana, feeling
 
 THE END OF A JOURNEY. 93 
 
 very wide awake and intensely alive to 
 everything around her, sat upright on her 
 hard jolting seat, and let her eyes w^ander 
 over the wide monotonous plain over 
 which they were driving. Everything 
 was distinctly visible in that clear moon- 
 light, and distant objects looked strangely 
 near. She shivered as she looked. It 
 was so silent, so lonely, so unlike any- 
 thing she had ever seen before. She 
 glanced at her companion ; she had not 
 yet seen his face clearly, and she could 
 not see it now. His fur cap was pulled 
 down on to his head, and the fur collar 
 of his overcoat was turned up to his ears. 
 He was tall, and she liked his voice and 
 manner, with a touch of authority in it 
 which seemed natural to him. He sat in
 
 94 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 silence, his chin sunk in the fur on his 
 coat, his hands buried deep in his pockets. 
 He appeared quite unconscious of her 
 presence, which was a new experience to 
 her, and caused her to smile. 
 
 AVhile she was looking at him, he 
 suddenly raised his head, and his keen 
 grey eyes met hers. He looked straight 
 at her for a moment, and then said — 
 
 "Well, and where am I to set you 
 down when we get to Jacewo ? I did 
 not hear where you are going to." 
 
 " I am going to some people called 
 Camphausen ; " and as he said nothing, 
 she went on, " do you know them ? " 
 
 " Yes, I know them. They told me they 
 were expecting an English lady to live 
 with them; but I had forgotten, and it
 
 THE END OF A JOURNEY. 95 
 
 would never have entered my head tliat 
 you were the lady." 
 
 " AYhy not ? Do I not look like one ? " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! But there are ladies 
 and ladies : they have different manners, 
 and one associates a certain manner with 
 a certain calling. If I may say so, you 
 do not look in the least like a governess." 
 
 " I am not one yet ; I do not begin till 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " And you have never been one before ? " 
 
 " I will not try to conceal that this is 
 my first attempt." 
 
 " Do you know anything of these 
 people ? " he asked, after a pause. 
 
 " Nothing at all. Since you do, will 
 you tell me something about them?" 
 
 " I know nothing to tell. They are not
 
 96 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 interesting ; they are very respectable, and 
 think very highly of themselves." 
 
 " Kespectable people always do ; they 
 mould their opinions on their reputation." 
 
 "Are you really going to be the 
 children's governess ? " 
 
 "I am really. Perhaps you do not 
 think I look competent, and I must 
 frankly confess that I have no certifi- 
 cates." 
 
 "I do not think you are accustomed 
 to failure," was his somewhat ambiguous 
 reply, and then his chin sank back into 
 his coat -collar, and he said no more. 
 Neither did Diana speak again ; the only 
 human sound came from the old driver, 
 who urged on his horses ever faster and 
 faster, till they seemed to fly over the
 
 THE END OF A JOUENEY. 97 
 
 ground. Presently " the engineer " roused 
 himself, and pointed to where at some 
 distance before them a group of lights 
 was visible near the ground. 
 
 " Those are the lights of the Jacewo 
 railway station," he said ; " we shall soon 
 be at your destination now." 
 
 Ere long they reached the railway, and 
 drove across the line ; the barriers — tall, 
 tapering white poles — were lifted, and 
 showed sharply against the clear sky. 
 Immediately afterwards they crossed an- 
 other line, then the ground rose a little, 
 and in another moment they stopped. 
 
 The house -door was opened almost be- 
 fore they had left the carriage, and a 
 bewildering scene of arrival and explana- 
 tion followed. Diana was aware that she 
 
 VOL. 1. G
 
 98 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 was shaking hands with her countryman, 
 and thanking him for what he had done 
 for her, then the door closed after him 
 with a bang, and he was gone.
 
 99 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 JACEWO. 
 
 By the time Diana had been a month at 
 Jacewo, only pride prevented her from 
 shaking the dust of the God -forgotten 
 spot from her feet, and turning her steps 
 elsewhere. Every one who knew her had 
 opposed her coming out here, and she had 
 persisted in it ; she was resolved, therefore, 
 to bear a great deal before confessing that 
 they had been right, and that she could 
 hold out no lono^er. 
 
 She did not get on with the Camp-
 
 100 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 hausens. Frau Camphausen had never 
 been pleasant, and slie could not resist 
 telling Diana that she had all along been 
 opposed to her coming, from the moment 
 she had seen her photograph. She had 
 only reluctantly yielded to her husband's 
 representations that Miss Wentworth's 
 name would be such excellent practice 
 for the children. The children themselves 
 found no more favour in her eyes : she 
 was not naturally fond of children, and 
 this particular family possessed charac- 
 teristics and qualities which roused her 
 deepest dislike and repulsion. The four 
 younger children attended the local day- 
 schools, the two eldest, Minna and Hedwig, 
 studied with her, and she spoke English 
 to, and superintended the preparation of
 
 JACEWO. 101 
 
 the lessons of all. All the children in- 
 herited their mother s handsome features ; 
 but they were ill brought up, ill-mannered, 
 and selfish. They had been governed 
 from babyhood by force, and understood 
 no other authority. The two elder girls, 
 being of an age to appreciate personal 
 advantages, were jealous of her. Her life 
 was very monotonous, and the social 
 pleasures hinted at in Frau Camphausen s 
 letters consisted almost entirely of sitting 
 in the drawing-room in the evening and 
 plying her needle. Frau Camphausen was 
 a maornificent animal, attached to her 
 children solely by her physical relation- 
 ship to them, ambitious that they should 
 do well at school, and make a good show 
 in the world, because if they failed, the
 
 102 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 discredit of their failure would be re- 
 flected upon herself. In their home 
 training, morals and mind had been left 
 to take care of themselves, and all the 
 energy had been concentrated in bringing 
 their physical points to perfection — as, 
 for instance, they always wore strong 
 walking-boots in the house, lest their feet 
 should deteriorate in shape ; and Diana's 
 slender and daintily slippered feet were 
 regarded by the girls with envy, and by 
 their mother with disapproval. Their 
 dresses were ugly and unsuited to their 
 age; but they were pretty enough to 
 triumph over that, and had not thought 
 much about it, until Diana came with her 
 well-made gowns and indescribable air of 
 wearing them. All her ways and works
 
 JACEWO. 103 
 
 were opposed to theirs, and it was no 
 wonder she did not fall into her place in 
 the family. But Frau Camphausen bore 
 with her. Her music and singing were 
 good, and her English and French irre- 
 proachable ; and she had accepted without 
 a murmur a salary which was small even 
 for a private governess in Germany. 
 
 Jacewo was an ugly little town, with 
 narrow squalid streets, and no public 
 buildings of any size except the prison, 
 from which prisoners now and then es- 
 caped, and fled over the frontier into 
 Russia. There was a shabby town -hall, 
 a shabbier synagogue (half the population 
 were Polish Jews), and a Lutheran church, 
 which surpassed even the other buildings 
 in shabbiness. There was also a ruined
 
 104 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 Polish church, standing a little way out 
 of the town, with the remains of a square 
 tower, upon which storks built their nests ; 
 and a burial-ground, which was strewn 
 with bones and skulls which had been 
 thrown up when, a grave being full, the 
 latest occupant was evicted, to make room 
 for a new-comer. There was a cemetery, 
 but that, too, was overcrowded, and a new 
 one had been made ; but, as Diana ob- 
 served in the sarcastic letter which she 
 wrote to Mrs Burland, descriptive of her 
 new surroundings, it seemed as yet de- 
 signed more for the use of the living than 
 the dead, for while no one had been buried 
 in it, it contained live garden -seats, and 
 was used as a kind of public promenade. 
 The town stood in the vast plain of East-
 
 JACEWO. 105 
 
 ern Europe, in surroundings dreary be- 
 yond description. In that wonderfully 
 clear atmosphere one could see for many 
 miles. Diana, standing at the schoolroom 
 window, could see the train coming in 
 from Pawlowsk half an hour before it 
 reached Jacewo. The only variety, and 
 that was repeated until it became mon- 
 otonous, was the vast stretches of dark 
 pine - wood. Lines of pine - trees fringed 
 the horizon, and patches of the same 
 formed the only shadows in all that 
 shadeless land. There was something 
 impressive in the very flatness and mon- 
 otony of the landscape — on so large a 
 scale it was rescued from the common- 
 place. Diana, although by nature a lover 
 of the hills, did not escape the influence
 
 106 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 and fascination of this " fringe of Siberia " ; 
 the character of the country got into her 
 mind and coloured her thoughts. 
 
 In spite of being uncomfortable, and 
 aware that she was not regarded with 
 favour by her employers, she was not 
 unhappy. She was eager and speculative 
 by nature, and the difference in family 
 life, with the relics of Polish manners and 
 customs which came under her notice, in- 
 terested her; and she was too indifferent 
 to the people among whom for the pres- 
 ent her lot was cast, to be disturbed by 
 their want of affection for herself. She 
 lived curiously apart from them, and was 
 affected merely objectively by what she 
 saw. She felt no disgust or concern of 
 any kind when she saw Herr Nowakow-
 
 JACEWO. 107 
 
 sky, seated opposite to her, take a boiled 
 egg from its cup, divide it lengthwise 
 by a cunning stroke of his broad -bladed 
 table-knife, scoop out half the egg, and 
 tip it down his throat from the end of 
 the same knife. She only looked at him 
 wdth curiosity and interest, and wondered 
 how he did it, and whether he had had 
 to practise very long before he succeeded 
 in accomplishing the feat without any 
 personal risk. She did not lose her self- 
 control or equanimity W'hen she saw Frau 
 Camphausen kick her eldest son, a lad of 
 thirteen, in a rage, or thump her eldest 
 daughters shoulders with her fist, w^hen 
 in the same frame of mind. She only 
 raised her eyebrows, lifted her lip in a 
 half smile, and generally left the room
 
 108 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 with lier head a little higher than usual. 
 She listened with absorbed interest when 
 she heard the youngest boy (a child of 
 eight, and the most inveterate little liar 
 that ever breathed) invent a long and 
 complicated string of falsehoods in an- 
 swering his mother's questions as to why 
 he had been late in coming home from 
 school. She never complained of the 
 children to their mother, she never offered 
 any remark on their manners and cus- 
 toms ; but her face was very expressive, 
 and take it all in all, she was amply 
 revenged for Frau Camphausen's often 
 studied rudeness and neglect, by the 
 embarrassment which appeared in that 
 portly lady's face when, in the midst of 
 some lecture, chastisement, or catechism,
 
 JACEWO. 109 
 
 she encountered Miss Wentworth's calmly 
 critical eyes and composed countenance, 
 with its half-amused, half-cynical expres- 
 sion. Diana herself never punished the 
 children ; she taught them what she had 
 undertaken to teach, but declined to in- 
 terfere in any other department. 
 
 Her compatriot she had not seen again, 
 but she had heard of him from time to 
 time, and the information she got may be 
 condensed into the following : — 
 
 He was an engineer employed by the 
 German Government to construct a new 
 line of railway between Jacewo and Berg, 
 a town on the Eussian frontier. His name 
 was John Garthwaite, and he came from 
 England, but from which part of England 
 no one seemed to know. He divided his
 
 110 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 time between Jacewo and Berg, and when 
 at Jacewo lived at the Adler, the principal 
 hotel in the place. He could visit at any 
 of the houses in the town ; but availed him- 
 self of his privileges to only a very limited 
 extent, being by nature (so Diana was 
 told) reserved and self-contained, to a de- 
 gree unusual even among Englishmen. He 
 was shut out from a good deal of social 
 pleasure because he did not play cards, 
 and cards were the chief amusement of 
 the people of Jacewo. Women played as 
 vigorously as men, and Frau Camphau- 
 sen's bosom friend, Frau Olawska, would 
 sit down to the whist -table in the even- 
 ing, and remain there all night until eleven 
 o'clock the next morning ; but then she 
 had no family, as Frau Camphausen al-
 
 JACEWO. Ill 
 
 ways said in defence of her friend. As 
 Diana merely received the information 
 which was volunteered to her without 
 asking any questions, she got no idea of 
 Mr Garthwaite's character. It appeared 
 that, the very day after her arrival at 
 Jacewo, he had gone to Berg, and had 
 been there ever since, nor was he ex- 
 pected to return for some time yet. 
 
 As the weeks went by, she began to 
 wish Mr Garth wait e would come back. 
 She was tired of the Camphausens, and 
 he would be some one fresh, and then she 
 had never really seen him ; she would not 
 know him again were she to see him, ex- 
 cept from the fact that he would probably 
 look like an Englishman. She thought 
 that the situation was rather amusing,
 
 112 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 and she also enjoyed the reflection that 
 nobody else knew there was any situation, 
 for in her letters to England she had men- 
 tioned neither the mistake she had made, 
 nor the existence of such a person as John 
 Garthwaite. Now, she felt herself in the 
 position of the King of Bavaria, sole spec- 
 tator of a most interesting drama, arranged 
 for her enjoyment alone, and upon which 
 the curtain might go up at any moment.
 
 113 
 
 CHAPTEE YII. 
 
 THE CUETAIN RISES. 
 
 It had been with o;reat unwillingness that 
 John Garthwaite had gone to Berg, the 
 mornino; after his meetino^ with Diana. 
 He very much disliked the whole Camp- 
 hausen family. He had heard all about 
 their project of having an English gover- 
 ness ; they had taken him into their con- 
 fidence, and had discussed the subject in 
 his presence frequently, with constant ap- 
 peals to his judgment and opinion. In 
 the midst of it he had gone to Berg for 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 114 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 some time, and when lie came back the 
 matter had been settled, and he heard 
 with complete indifference that a suitable 
 English lady had been met with and en- 
 gaged. Later, he was told with some ex- 
 citement that she was to arrive on New 
 Year's Eve ; but he had straightway for- 
 gotten all about it. As far as ''Miss 
 Yentvort" occupied his mind at all, she 
 figured as a middle-aged woman, worn with 
 toil, and hardened by a long struggle to 
 keep her place in the world; with few 
 ideas, and those narrowed by limited ex- 
 perience and monotony of existence — in 
 fact, the typical "governess," as she ex- 
 isted years ago. The governess had come ; 
 by an accident he had made her acquaint- 
 ance before she had met her employers
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES. 115 
 
 and their family. He had seen her, and 
 talked to her, and he would never forget 
 her; he felt that at once. After leaving 
 the Camphausens' house, he had gone to 
 his hotel, and had sat for hours smoking 
 and lost in thought. He wondered how 
 Diana would find herself in the new life 
 and surroundings. He had had no ex- 
 perience of governesses, and while ad- 
 mitting his ignorance, he could not per- 
 suade himself that the young lady whose 
 acquaintance he had just made was a fair 
 representative of the class. She had none 
 of the attributes of a woman accustomed 
 to earn her own living. The very douceur 
 she had given the men at the station 
 showed either culpable recklessness or 
 the comfortable knowledge that there was
 
 116 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 plenty more money where that came from. 
 He knew very little about women's dress ; 
 but he had an idea that the garment in 
 which Diana had been wrapped was a 
 costly affair, and that the fur with which 
 it was lined, as she had so obligingly 
 turned up a corner of the mantle that 
 he might see, was very superior to any- 
 thing he had so far seen worn by the 
 ladies of Jacewo. He wondered who and 
 what she was ; he thought of her all even- 
 ing ; he could not get her out of his head. 
 He wondered what she was doing at that 
 moment. Had she had supper? Was 
 she answering the questions which would 
 be poured upon her? Had she gone to 
 bed early, tired with her long journey? 
 Was she sad, disappointed, home-sick?
 
 THE CURTAIN EISES. 117 
 
 Or was she curious, alive, and interested ? 
 Most probably the latter, he thought ; and 
 he hoped it was so. 
 
 He could not help thinking of her : he 
 had known very few women, and none 
 like Miss Wentworth. She was a new 
 type and a revelation to him. He was 
 the second son of a Yorkshire dalesman ; 
 his parents had been middle-aged when 
 he was born, and by the time he was of 
 an age to take notice of people's appear- 
 ance, his mother was merely a hard- 
 featured woman, old beyond her years, 
 and without beauty of any kind to arrest 
 the eye. There was his cousin Susan, 
 who was like his sister, but she had lived 
 at his home since she was a child, and 
 was fast becoming what his mother was.
 
 118 DIANA WENTWOETH. 
 
 It is true he had once loved, and his love 
 had been a bonny lass ; but that was over 
 now, and she had been in no way like 
 this girl he had just seen. He had led 
 too busy a life to think about women. 
 His father had been an unsuccessful man, 
 poor, and as proud as unsuccessful people 
 are apt to be. He had shunned inter- 
 course with his neighbours, and had 
 bidden his boys do the like. The elder 
 son was at home, — he had inherited the 
 bit of land at his father's death. John 
 had been early apprenticed to the en- 
 gineer from whom he had learnt his pro- 
 fession. He had worked hard, for it had 
 been made clear to him betimes that he 
 would have no one to look to but him- 
 self; and as his calling had been his own
 
 THE CURTAIN KISES. 119 
 
 choice, persisted in against the will of his 
 parents, he had been expected to justify 
 that choice by rising high in his profes- 
 sion. There was every external induce- 
 ment, added to natural love, to work hard, 
 and for years he had given little thought 
 to anything outside his work. Now he 
 had his reward. Though still young — 
 thirty -three — he had risen high. His 
 name was known beyond the limits of his 
 own country ; his opinion had an influence 
 out of all proportion to his years ; and he 
 was consulted and deferred to on matters 
 of great public weight in his profession. 
 He had made a good deal of money al- 
 ready, and there was every prospect of 
 his becoming a rich man among rich men. 
 At present he chiefly valued his .money
 
 120 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 for a reason which was known to no one 
 but himself. It was thirteen years since 
 he had been home; but he knew the im- 
 mense disadvantages under which his 
 brother laboured, and he foresaw that, 
 sooner or later, he would come to the 
 end of things, and would be obliged to 
 sell the old farmstead. Few people ever 
 heard John Garthwaite speak of his birth- 
 place ; but none the less had he a deep 
 and abiding love for it, and it was his in- 
 tention to become the purchaser whenever 
 his brother should want to sell it. Up to 
 the present time, he had had no other 
 thought in* amassing money. He knew 
 the time to which he looked forward would 
 come, and it was his intention to be 
 ready for it. Thus, almost his whole life
 
 THE CURTAIN ETSES. 121 
 
 had been spent in work, with rare and 
 short intervals of leisure, leaving little time 
 for intercourse with women ; and to tell 
 truth, he had not hitherto regarded this 
 deprivation in the light of a hardship. 
 That bygone experience had left a bad 
 taste in his mouth, and he rather shunned 
 than sought them, nor had the ladies of 
 Jacewo been destined to correct his taste. 
 Hence the fact that, in speaking to women, 
 he forgot to lay aside the manner he wore 
 in talking to men. The air of authority, 
 and abruptness of speech, which had 
 pleased the one, Diana, offended the ninety- 
 and-nine of Jacewo and elsewhere, and 
 had earned for him the reputation of being 
 rough and disagreeable. He forgot to 
 make allowances for their weakness, or.
 
 122 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 in deference to custom, to outwardly yield 
 the point which he inwardly maintained. 
 He contradicted them, judged them on 
 their merits, and exposed their short- 
 comings in a way which was rendered even 
 more exasperating by the way in which 
 it was done, which showed a perfect un- 
 consciousness of having offended. A fine 
 lady, with languid airs, and indifference 
 to everything which was worth knowing 
 and doing, was an abomination to him ; 
 and there had been a crispness and en- 
 ergy in Diana's speech and action which 
 had impressed him favourably. 
 
 He did not forget her when he went 
 to Berg. He did not believe she would 
 be happy or even comfortable with 
 the Camphausens, and he often found
 
 THE CUETAIN RISES. 123 
 
 himself wondering what she was doing 
 and how she was getting on. He felt 
 that he had had a hand in bringing her 
 to Jacewo, that he was in a measure re- 
 sponsible for her safety and wellbeing 
 while she was there, partly because he 
 was her countryman, the only one of her 
 nation in the place. The feeling that he 
 had some one dependent upon him was 
 new to him, and filled him with an odd 
 pleasure. He enjoyed the feeling for some 
 time, and at the end of a month, made 
 up his mind to go back to Jacewo, and 
 see for himself how she was faring. He 
 had not intended to go so soon ; but he 
 told himself that was not at present to 
 the point, and he went as soon as he 
 could.
 
 124 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 He reached Jacewo in the evening, and 
 having decided to take the earliest oppor- 
 tunity of paying his respects to Miss 
 Wentworth, he contrived to make a spare 
 half-hour on the following afternoon. He 
 was just pushing open the garden -gate, 
 when the house -door opened, and Frau 
 Camphausen appeared. 
 
 She expressed surprise and pleasure at 
 seeing him; and as it never entered into 
 her head that any one not coming to see 
 her husband on business could be calling 
 upon any one but herself, she said at 
 once — 
 
 " You see I am going out. I am going 
 to take coffee with Frau Olawska. Will 
 you walk with me so far, and then perhaps 
 you will come in too ? "
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES. 125 
 
 " Heaven forbid I " thought Garth. waite ; 
 but he only said — 
 
 " I am going to call on Miss Wentworth, 
 and ask how she is. This is the first op- 
 portunity I have had." 
 
 The German lady's face and tone 
 changed at once. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Wentworth ! " she said. '' It 
 is unfortunate ; but she is out walking with 
 the children." 
 
 He felt some surprise, for he knew the 
 ways of the family, and that this was not 
 an hour when it was usual for the children 
 to be out walking. 
 
 *' Perhaps she may have come in again," 
 he said. 
 
 *' She has not come in again," frown- 
 ing, and with a sharp tone in her voice.
 
 126 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 *' Besides," slie went on, "I do not 
 wish Miss Wentworth to have visi- 
 tors. It will take her mind off her 
 work." 
 
 " I see. Has Miss Wentworth many 
 friends here?" 
 
 " She knows no one, nor do I think it 
 necessary she should. You are the first 
 person who has asked for her." 
 
 "Then you don't think it would be 
 pleasant for her to feel that she has one 
 acquaintance here ? " 
 
 His tone was calm and mild. Frau 
 Camphausen walked straight into the trap 
 set for her. 
 
 " She came to teach, not to enjoy her- 
 self; and when I have made a rule, I ad- 
 here to it under all circumstances. If you
 
 THE CURTAIN EISES. 127 
 
 see Miss Went worth, it will be only in 
 my presence." 
 
 "You are really very kind," he said, 
 serenely. "I should be sorry to put you 
 to any inconvenience." 
 
 "I am sure you would," with a happy 
 smile ; " and as I am very much engaged, 
 it will be better for you not to call on 
 her again. At the same time, I will 
 give her any message you intrust to 
 me." 
 
 " Thank you ; but I have no message." 
 
 "Ah, then I will not mention your 
 coming this afternoon ; it might Imsettle 
 her." 
 
 She had walked on, and Garthwaite 
 was almost obliged to accompany her. 
 He strolled along by her side, continuing
 
 128 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 the conversation with his eyes fixed upon 
 the ground. He was thinking about 
 Diana ; had he looked up at the house, 
 he would have seen her at an upper 
 window, looking down upon them. He 
 did not look up, however, but walked by 
 Frau Camphausen's side, until she halted, 
 saying— 
 
 "Here we are at Frau Olawska's. Are 
 you sure you will not come in ? she would 
 be so glad to see you." 
 
 He excused himself on the ground that 
 his half-hour was already at an end, and 
 went away disappointed that he had not 
 seen Diana, and glad that he had come 
 back to look after her. He very much 
 distrusted the tone in which Frau Camp- 
 hausen had spoken of her.
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES. 129 
 
 When Diana had seen him from the 
 window, she had just left Frau Camp- 
 hausen, and had come into this room to 
 get a French book from which to read 
 aloud to the girls as they sat at their 
 needlework. She very seldom looked out 
 of the windows, but on this occasion she 
 did draw aside the curtain and look down 
 into the road. The first objects upon 
 which her eyes fell were Frau Camphausen 
 walking slowly along with a man by her 
 side. She saw at once that it must be 
 Mr Garthwaite. His clothing, carriage, 
 and whole appearance proclaimed him an 
 Englishman, and there was only one 
 Englishman at Jacewo. He had come 
 back, then. She bent forward and looked 
 curiously at him. She still could not 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 130 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 see his face, whicli was turned from her ; 
 but she recognised the general aspect of 
 his figure, and she saw that he wore the 
 same heavy fur-lined coat he had had on 
 the evening of their drive together. She 
 could see now that he looked well in it. 
 His tall spare figure carried it with ease, 
 and a certain distinction which pleased 
 Diana's fastidious young eyes. She 
 watched them for a few moments, and 
 then turned away with an almost imper- 
 ceptible contraction of her forehead. She 
 would not confess, even to herself, that 
 she felt a shade of disappointment at his 
 having returned to Jacewo, and come 
 close to the house without having made 
 any effort to see herself. 
 
 A day or two later Minna Camphausen,
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES. 131 
 
 the eldest of Diana's pupils, burst into 
 the schoolroom and threw herself into a 
 chair. 
 
 "You remember that Englishman who 
 brought you here the night you came ? " 
 she said, addressing herself to Diana. 
 " He has come back to Jacewo, and will 
 have supper with us to-night." 
 
 " Indeed ! " was Diana's reply. 
 
 " Yes, he came back a few days ago ; 
 and last night papa saw him and asked 
 him to come. He does not often take 
 supper with us; he likes better to drop 
 in in the evening, and sit smoking with 
 papa." 
 
 Diana said nothing, and Minna went 
 on — 
 
 " Are you not anxious to see him ? He
 
 132 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 is the only English person who has ever 
 been here except yourself; and his bring- 
 ing you here was quite romantic — moon- 
 light, too." 
 
 " English people see no romance in 
 such a common thing as a gentleman 
 helping a lady out of a difficulty." 
 
 " Oh," said Minna, with a toss of her 
 pretty head, " I know you think German 
 girls are always thinking about love- 
 affairs and husbands, and you despise us 
 for it ; but we must think of these things. 
 You are only a governess, so it does not 
 matter for you ; but mamma is always 
 telling Hedwig and me how careful we 
 must be in the presence of gentlemen, 
 and be sure not to do anything which 
 might make them think us very clever,
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES. 133 
 
 or fond of books, or used to doing things 
 for ourselves." 
 
 " She has not set you a very uncon- 
 genial task," was the reply, given with 
 some dryness ; but Minna sailed serenely 
 on — 
 
 "You know when grandpapa dies we 
 shall have fortunes, and then we shall 
 always have to remember that all these 
 gentlemen who make themselves as^reeable 
 to US may be only fortune-hunters, and 
 we must be very careful to whom we 
 speak." 
 
 " You are very humble, Minna : it does 
 not seem to occur to you that people may 
 like you for your own sake." 
 
 " Oh," said Minna, '' that is what you 
 always do — laugh at people and make
 
 134 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 tliem look ridiculous. There is no talk- 
 ing to you with any comfort ; I shall go 
 away." 
 
 When Diana was alone again, she put 
 down her work and thought of the ex- 
 pected guest. She was glad he was 
 coming ; among other reasons, because 
 she would like to hear English spoken 
 without this excruciating German accent 
 which took all the music out of her native 
 tongue. She felt interested and expec- 
 tant — the curtain was on the point of 
 rising, the play was going to begin. 
 
 They met in the dining-room ; but the 
 few words of greeting they exchanged 
 were the only words which passed between 
 them during supper. Frau Camphausen 
 took care the conversation should never
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES. 135 
 
 fall into their hands, and neither made 
 any effort to frustrate her design. Diana 
 contented herself with studying her com- 
 patriot's face. Like him, she could take 
 in a great deal at little more than a glance, 
 and in a short time she was perfectly 
 familiar with Garth waite's face. She liked 
 it, and the longer she looked at it, the 
 more she liked it. It was not a handsome 
 face, but it was a very characteristic one. 
 The nose and chin were good, clearly cut 
 and well formed, the mouth — scarcely 
 visible under the heavy moustache — closed 
 vdih great determination ; there was a 
 hawk-like keenness and penetration in the 
 iron-grey eyes. It was the face of a man 
 accustomed and naturally fitted to com- 
 mand, yet capable of softening into great
 
 136 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 tenderness. The liead was well set on 
 broad square shoulders, and covered with 
 a mass of dark hair. 
 
 After supper they all went into one of 
 the sitting-rooms. The Olawskis came in, 
 and there was promise of a social evening. 
 Both Frau Camphausen and Frau Olawska 
 flirted with Garthwaite ; Frau Olawska 
 shamelessly, her friend with moderation, 
 remembering the presence of her daughters 
 and their governess. The Englishman 
 bore it with fortitude ; but at the first 
 opportunity he made his way to Diana's 
 side. 
 
 " It is a long time since I saw you," he 
 said. " I was obliged to leave Jacewo 
 the day after 3^our arrival, and I have 
 only just come back. I came to call on
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES. 137 
 
 you one day, but was told you were 
 out." 
 
 " Which day was that, and what time ? " 
 holding her needle suspended over her 
 work as she awaited his answer. 
 
 He told her, adding, " Frau Camp- 
 hausen told me you were out. I met her 
 just as I reached the house." 
 
 " I was in : she knew I was in ; I had 
 but that moment left her ! " she answered, 
 rather emphatically. 
 
 She looked at him as she spoke ; he 
 also looked at her. Their eyes met, and 
 remained fixed on each other for a moment. 
 
 "I suggested that she had made a 
 mistake," he said. 
 
 " I knew you were here," said Diana. 
 " I saw you with Frau Camphausen."
 
 138 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 " Did you think I ouglit to have 
 called?" 
 
 "Yes, I did think so." 
 
 " You have a great respect for social 
 observances ? " 
 
 *' I believe they are good." 
 
 " And social distinctions, do j^-qu be- 
 lieve in them too ? " 
 
 " I don't think it is wise to penetrate 
 too far into the enemy's country, even 
 if you carry the flag of truce in your 
 hand." 
 
 " You would go no further than truce ? 
 Perhaps you don't believe in the sta- 
 bility of contracts drawn up under the 
 soothing influence of the pipe of peace. 
 You know tobacco is a very democratic 
 weed."
 
 THE CURTAIN RISES. 139 
 
 " You know I dislike it," was her reply, 
 given with a half smile. 
 
 " And you believe in the natural en- 
 mity of people in different classes?" 
 
 ''I don't see what they can have in 
 common." 
 
 '' Ah ! " he said ; " you are young yet." 
 
 Frau Olawska had been watching them, 
 devoured with curiosity. She took ad- 
 vantage of the pause which followed 
 Garthwaite's last words, to interrupt with 
 a question of her own. 
 
 " Why have you came back to Jacewo 
 so soon?" she asked. "We did not ex- 
 pect you yet." 
 
 ''I have duties here," he answered, as 
 laconically as Diana herself could have 
 spoken; and although she had no con-
 
 140 DIANA WENTWOETH. 
 
 ception of what the duties were to which 
 he referred, she could not repress a smile 
 at the very effectual way in which he 
 silenced the vivacious little Polish lady.
 
 141 
 
 CHAPTEE YIII. 
 
 NEAR THE FOREST. 
 
 Several days had passed since John had 
 supped at the Camphausens, and he had 
 not seen Diana again. She had excited a 
 strong interest in him, and he was growing 
 impatient for a meeting. Something hap- 
 pened, too, to increase his impatience. 
 
 He had come out to post a letter, and 
 having reached the post-office, he pushed 
 his letter into the box. It would not go 
 in; something already filled the slit, and 
 he put his fingers in to discover the
 
 142 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 cause. He drew out another letter, which 
 had been carelessly posted, and had not 
 dropped into the box; as it came out, 
 with the address side upwards, it was 
 almost unavoidable that he should read 
 it. The envelope was of English paper, 
 and was addressed in an Englishwoman's 
 clear and compact hand, to — 
 
 Mrs Wentworth, 
 
 '^jo Philip Meredith, Esq., 
 The Ahley, 
 Garshill, 
 YorJcs, 
 
 England. 
 
 He held it in his hand for a minute, and 
 then, with a very curious look on his face, 
 looked from it to the letter which he had
 
 NEAR THE FOREST. 143 
 
 himself brought to the post, and which 
 was directed to — 
 
 Susan Morrison, 
 
 Becktop Farm, 
 GarsMll, 
 YorJcs, 
 
 England. 
 
 He looked from one to the other several 
 times, then, smiling to himself, he dropped 
 them both into the letter-box, and went 
 on his way. 
 
 The next day he met Diana out of doors, 
 and alone, for she generally took exercise 
 in addition to the morning constitutional 
 with her pupils. She was walking swiftly 
 along the frost - bound road, wrapped in 
 her fur mantle, and with a fur cap set
 
 144 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 on her dark hair. Exercise had brought 
 the warm colour into her cheeks, and her 
 eyes were brilliantly clear. She was walk- 
 ing along the road to Berg, and had left 
 the last straggling cottage on the outskirts 
 of Jacewo some distance behind, being 
 already within the shadow of the pine- 
 forest through which the road ran almost 
 the whole way. The light was on the 
 point of growing dim, and the flat country 
 stretched out on either side — visible for 
 miles without the slightest elevation. 
 John was going home from the railway, 
 so met her face to face, and after exchang- 
 ing greetings, continued his own way 
 instead of turning back with her. 
 
 " Why don't you turn round with me ? " 
 asked Diana at once.
 
 NEAE THE FOREST. 145 
 
 "I have business at Jacewo which is 
 rather pressing. I must get on ; and, at 
 the same time, I have something to say 
 to you." 
 
 "Then why not say it, and let us each 
 go on our way again ? I was enjoying 
 my walk." 
 
 "It is too late for you to be out on this 
 road alone. It is never very safe ; thieves 
 and cut-throats find it conveniently near 
 the frontier. Berg is under Kussian gov- 
 ernment. You would be exposed to risk 
 at any time, and especially now, with the 
 navvies about." 
 
 " Thieves and cut-throats ! " she echoed, 
 
 with a derisive laugh. " Do you seriously 
 
 expect me to believe in those bogies 
 
 in the nineteenth century in a civilised 
 VOL. I. K
 
 146 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 country? If thieves and cut -throats are 
 the only dangers to be feared, I will under- 
 take to walk from Jacewo to Berg and 
 back again, without a single qualm of fear." 
 
 He heard her out, without being in the 
 least disturbed by her scepticism. 
 
 '•'You talk like a child," he said, when 
 she had done. " They are not only pos- 
 sible but existent. Those woods, which you 
 were on the margin of, extend for miles, 
 and are the shelter of numbers of half- 
 starving men, who will run great risks on 
 the chance of a successful robbery. As 
 for the nineteenth century, and a civilised 
 country, this country is a long way off 
 the nineteenth century, and leaves much 
 to be desired in point of civilisation. You 
 may have noticed as you came along a
 
 NEAR THE FOREST. 14V 
 
 little mound by the side of the road, with 
 a rough wooden cross at one end. That 
 is the grave of a child who has died since 
 I have been here. Its parents were too 
 poor to provide a funeral and pay the 
 expenses, so they buried the child in that 
 field opposite their cottage." 
 
 " I thought it w^as a dog's grave. But I 
 think they were very wise. Why should 
 they have to pay fees ? burying and marry- 
 ing come in the natural scope of a clergy- 
 man's work. Weddings, at least, ought to 
 be performed for love." 
 
 He repressed the smile w^hich came on 
 his lips and said — 
 
 "Possibly; but you will agree that a 
 country in which such things are done 
 and tolerated, cannot be called a civilised
 
 148 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 country in our sense of the word, and 
 may permit other things to go on, which 
 would not be suffered in England." 
 
 ''Oh, well," said Diana, ''England is 
 not everywhere, and what's the harm ? I 
 should think the child is safer and whole- 
 somer in that field than in the churchyard, 
 where in a year or two his bones would 
 be tossed out of his grave again, to make 
 room for some one else." 
 
 John had not enjoyed the privilege of 
 knowing Diana during her childhood, or 
 he would have appreciated this sudden re- 
 version to the tone and phraseology of that 
 happy time. He only smiled and said — 
 
 "That last custom stamps the country 
 at once with the seal of the highest civil- 
 isation."
 
 NEAR THE FOEEST. 149 
 
 " You are undoubtedly my superior in 
 argument," returned the girl, with a move- 
 ment of her long throat, which was both 
 graceful and charming in its half-laughing 
 petulance. " Instead of subjecting me to 
 any further defeat, suppose you tell me 
 this wonderful 'thing' which you have in 
 reserve. I can't imagine what you have 
 to say to me, and I am devoured with 
 curiosity to know." 
 
 John did not answer at once. A walk 
 with a girl like Diana was a totally new 
 experience to him, and he was surprised to 
 find how much he enjoyed it. So little 
 was he used to walking with women, that 
 it never entered his head to alter his 
 habitual long swinging step when walk- 
 ing by Diana's side ; and he was progress-
 
 150 DIANA WENTWOETH. 
 
 ing with his usual speed, lost in reflection, 
 instead of attending to what his compan- 
 ion said, when he heard a breathless voice 
 at his side saying — 
 
 *' How you fly ! You remind me of that 
 mythical creature in the nursery rhyme." 
 
 "What was that?" stopping short in 
 his walk. 
 
 " It was ^ a winged beast with teeth and 
 claws.' You first reduce me to mental 
 mince-meat with your superior logic, and 
 then you fly along like an eagle, leaving 
 me to toil after you as I can." 
 
 She was half laughing as she finished 
 speaking, and after looking at her for a 
 moment, he too burst out laughing, and 
 they both laughed until they nearly cried. 
 
 " Why did you not tell me sooner that
 
 NEAR THE FOREST. 151 
 
 I was going too fast ? " lie asked, as 
 they went on again at a more moderate 
 pace. 
 
 " I kept up witli you as long as I could. 
 English people never like to confess them- 
 selves beaten, and in this hostile land 
 one feels inclined to force one's national 
 characteristics into undue prominence." 
 
 " But none of the enemy were by to 
 see if you had given in." 
 
 '' Oho ! " she answered ; " is that the prin- 
 ciple on which you are making your rail- 
 way ? But now, tell me what you wanted 
 to say; you keep putting it off in the 
 most cunning way. Is it something very 
 disagreeable, which you don't like to bring 
 out ? " 
 
 " That your own conscience must decide
 
 152 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 for you. You post your letters very care- 
 lessly, Miss Wentworth." 
 
 The lightly stepping figure at his side 
 halted ; the dark frank eyes looked 
 straight into his as she asked — 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 He told her what had occurred at the 
 post-office, and she laughed carelessly, and 
 asked with some curiosity — 
 
 " Which one was it ? I posted three." 
 
 He repeated the address to her, and she 
 said — 
 
 "Oh! that — mamma's. It was of no 
 importance." 
 
 " Suppose it had fallen into the hands 
 of some unscrupulous person," he said, 
 with some severity. 
 
 " Yes ; into Frau Camphausen s hands,
 
 NEAR THE FOREST. 153 
 
 for example. She would have o^^ened 
 and read it. She would have been quite 
 pleased at what was in it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Oh, because I have never given any 
 one a true description of this place. No 
 one w^anted me to come, and I would 
 come ; so I have alw^ays practised a little 
 deception on my friends, and told them 
 how comfortable I am here." 
 
 "Are you not comfortable?" he asked, 
 bluntly. 
 
 " Does it strike you as a place in which 
 one w^ould be comfortable ? " she asked, 
 with a little edge in her voice. 
 
 "Well, no. To tell the truth, I was 
 rather surprised to find you still here 
 when I came back from Berg."
 
 154 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 " Were you ? " she answered. " I am 
 not going away yet. I don't like the 
 place, but it interests me a little." 
 
 *' But to go back to your letter. I 
 fancied that before you came the Camp- 
 hausens told me you lived at "Whitfield." 
 
 *' I did ; but when I came here, our 
 house was broken up and my mother 
 went to live at Garshill with her brother. 
 My father had died the year before," she 
 added, in explanation, for she was in an 
 expansive mood, which had come upon 
 her as a sort of reaction from the reserve 
 she practised towards the Camphausens. 
 
 " Is Mr Meredith your mother's brother?" 
 
 " Yes ; the only uncle I have." 
 
 " Have you ever seen him ? " 
 
 " I have never been to his house. I
 
 NEAR THE FOREST. 155 
 
 have never seen him, or any of my 
 cousins. I have four cousins," she con- 
 cluded, with a laugh which was catching 
 in its melody. 
 
 "You seem rather proud of it," he said, 
 with an answering smile. 
 
 " I am ; as a domestic situation, I be- 
 lieve it is unique," she answered. 
 
 There w^as a pause before John said, in 
 a tone of some constraint — 
 
 "Perhaps some day we may be suffici- 
 ently intimate for you to tell me about it." 
 
 " Would you like to know ? " she asked, 
 in a tone of some surprise. 
 
 " It would interest me very much 
 indeed," he said, with some emphasis. 
 
 "Do you know my uncle ? " 
 
 " I know him well by repute : I have
 
 156 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 seen liim. I have relatives who live near 
 Garshill." 
 
 " How curious ! Well, if I tell you my 
 tale, you must tell me yours ; only to 
 make a fair exchange, you know. I am 
 not at all interested in them." 
 
 They had entered Jacewo by this time, 
 and had only a few minutes' walk before 
 them. John wondered that she did not 
 ask questions about Garshill. To him it 
 was his native place, the best-loved spot 
 on earth, to which he felt his heart would 
 draw him from the other side of the world. 
 He did not know — forgetting that she had 
 just said she had never seen the place — 
 that the word " Garshill," which always 
 set his heart-strings vibrating, had no 
 special meaning for her. As these thoughts
 
 NEAR THE FOREST. 157 
 
 passed through his mind, they reached the 
 Camphausens' house, and were shaking 
 hands. He kept her long slender hand 
 in his as he said — 
 
 " Promise me not to walk alone on that 
 road again, Miss Went worth ; I assure you 
 it is not safe." 
 
 *' Nay ; " with the graceful motion of 
 her long throat. " If I promise I shall 
 never rest until I have thoroughly ex- 
 plored it. I shall be safer if you leave 
 me with a warning."
 
 158 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 BY THE LAKE. 
 
 For several times after this, Jolin and 
 Diana met only in the presence of the 
 Camphausens, and on these occasions said 
 very little to one another. Frau Camp- 
 hausen's eagle eye was upon them ; for by 
 slow degrees her intelligence had worked 
 round so far as to grasp the fact that, con- 
 sidering the isolated position of these two 
 English people, they must seek each other's 
 society, unless something should happen to 
 render them reciprocally obnoxious. They
 
 BY THE LAKE. 159 
 
 cared very little for the sanction of lier 
 presence, and still less for the supervision 
 of her eagle eye ; but without ever having 
 spoken on the subject, there seemed a tacit 
 agreement that, except when alone, they 
 should not converse together for any length 
 of time. So, for some three or four weeks, 
 John had no chance of hearing the explana- 
 tion of the unique domestic situation which 
 prevailed in Miss Went worth's family, and 
 Diana on her side had no temptation to 
 lay aside the reserve which characterised 
 her manner with her employers. 
 
 After this long time of meeting and yet 
 not meeting, John felt quite a thrill of 
 pleasure when, walking along the street 
 one golden spring afternoon, he saw Diana 
 just before him. He quickened his pace.
 
 160 DIANA WENTWOETH. 
 
 and soon overtook her and asked whither 
 she was going. 
 
 " Nowhere in particular," she answered ; 
 *'and you ?" 
 
 " I am going to the railway." 
 
 " That is along the road to Berg. Shall 
 we walk together ? " 
 
 *' What are you doing out at this time of 
 day ? " asked John, as they strolled along. 
 '' I should think every other lady in Jacewo 
 is lying on her sofa fast asleep." 
 
 " Yes ; I honour and respect that custom 
 of sleeping through the hot part of the day, 
 because I love the heat, and it sets me free 
 to have a walk by myself. They think I 
 am mad, of course, but that does not dis- 
 tress me, and my dress is thin." 
 
 He glanced at her dress, and, although he
 
 BY THE LAKE. 161 
 
 could not have said why, it produced a feel- 
 ing of coolness and refreshment in him, and 
 pleased his eye at the same time. It was 
 grey, trimmed with lace and long floating 
 ends of ribbon. Her hat was white, with 
 grey ostrich -feathers curling over its up- 
 turned brim ; and over her head she held a 
 large parasol of lace, which harmonised with 
 her hat and gown. She stepped lightly 
 under the blazing sun, and her dainty 
 shoes left slight traces of her passing in 
 the dust. 
 
 They walked through the town, and 
 passed the cemetery gates and the ruined 
 Polish church ; storks flapped lazily through 
 the air, and the windmills creaked and 
 groaned as their sails moved slowly and 
 heavily round ; they left behind them the 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 162 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 last miserable-looking cottage, with mud 
 floor and thatched roof. The primitive 
 and clumsy combination of pump and well 
 before its door excited the contempt and 
 amusement of the engineer. All this they 
 passed, and then John stood still and said — 
 
 *' I am not in a hurry, let us go this way : 
 it is a favourite walk of mine, and you may 
 not have seen it." 
 
 He turned off the road as he spoke, and 
 went along a rough grass -grown track lead- 
 ing through some fields. The ground 
 dipped a little, so that Diana could not 
 see what was coming, and she uttered a 
 little cry of surprise and delight when she 
 found herself standing on the edge of a 
 vast sheet of water, which stretched before 
 them further than the eye could reach, and
 
 BY THE LAKE. 163 
 
 lay motionless beneath the blue sky. On 
 the side of the lake on \yhich they stood 
 there ran for a little way a bit of earthen 
 wall, which rose breast-high, and was over- 
 grown with grass and daisies and flowering 
 weeds. Here they came to a standstill, 
 and, leaning their elbows upon it, looked 
 away beyond — 
 
 " Where the long green reed-beds sway- 
 In the rippled waters grey 
 Of that solitary lake " — 
 
 to where, in the distance, a patch of sombre 
 pine-trees stood brooding over the still water 
 at their feet. 
 
 " I had no idea such a place existed," she 
 said ; " I should never have suspected it." 
 
 "That is only because you don't know 
 the country. You passed numbers of such
 
 164 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 lakes, some smaller, some as large or larger, 
 as you came here in the train. This used 
 to be in the midst of the forest, before they 
 cleared the ground." 
 
 They stood in silence for a while, then 
 Diana said — 
 
 " By the way, since I saw you last, a 
 great event has taken place." 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " They have found a husband for Minna." 
 
 " Is that all ? " 
 
 "All ! For heaven's sake don't let them 
 hear you speak like that. It is the event 
 of the day. You know that on the death 
 of their grandfather they will have fortunes, 
 and the choice of a husband in such a case 
 is a very delicate affair." 
 
 He caught the infection of her tone
 
 BY THE LAKE. 165 
 
 and sparkling eyes, and laughed aloud, 
 asking — 
 
 " Well, what is he like ? Have you seen 
 him?" 
 
 " I have seen him." 
 
 *' What do you think of him ? " 
 
 She made a little grimace as she said — 
 
 " Oh, as to that, I have not studied him. 
 He is not a gentleman." 
 
 He looked at her fixedly for an almost 
 imperceptible time before he asked — 
 
 " Ah, that, what do you mean by it ? 
 What kind of gentleman is he not ? " 
 
 "Not by birth, not by education, not by 
 mind, not by manners." 
 
 " That's tolerably sweeping at all events. 
 You think a great deal of those qualifica- 
 tions ? "
 
 166 DIANA WENTWOKTH. 
 
 " Why, of course," slie answered ; " don't 
 you? Life would be impossible without 
 them." 
 
 He had noticed before this trick on 
 her part, of throwing a question back 
 upon her interlocutor, and he answered 
 now — 
 
 " Oh, my opinion does not matter, at 
 least not at present. I want to have 
 yours. Let's take them in order, as if 
 they were points to be discussed at a con- 
 ference. Birth, now, what's the good of 
 birth ? " 
 
 " A preliminary to life," was her reply. 
 
 "Ah, now," he said, smiling, "don't let 
 us play with words. You know what I 
 mean, and what is the good of birth ? " 
 
 *' Oh," she said, turning her head, for
 
 BY THE LAKE. 167 
 
 she saw that he was going to demolish 
 her, " it is useful to know what any one's 
 ancestors have been, — those, for instance, 
 of a baby from whom one is going to be 
 vaccinated." 
 
 He laughed outright, but persisted in his 
 catechism — 
 
 " But tell me seriously ; I have a reason 
 for asking, and want very much to have 
 your opinion. What advantage do you 
 think a man gets from being born of a 
 stock which has always stood w^ell in the 
 world?" 
 
 " Show me first your penny," she an- 
 swered. " That is, tell me first w^hy you 
 want to know what I think." 
 
 ''No," he said, immovably. "I w^on't tell 
 you now ; but I promise I will tell you some
 
 168 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 time. Will you trust me till I think a fit 
 time has come ? " 
 
 *'0h yes," was her carelessly given an- 
 swer. " Why talk so long about nothing ? 
 let us get to our points. I do think a man, 
 and a woman too, is better for being born 
 of good stock as you call it. I think it 
 tells. It must help people at difficult 
 points in their lives to remember that if 
 they do wrong they will disgrace not only 
 themselves, but those who went before, and 
 those who will come after." 
 
 "That's all theory. When you come to 
 plain fact you find that people think only 
 of themselves and the present ; not of what 
 in my part of the country we call their 
 fore-elders, or their descendants at all. Is 
 crime confined to people without ancestry ?
 
 BY THE LAKE. 169 
 
 I suppose you never heard of kings or 
 dukes, or any suck transcendent beings, 
 breaking laws, did you ? " 
 
 *' Yes ; plenty of them," reddening under 
 his tone ; " but there will always be excep- 
 tions to every rule, and I don't see that 
 they destroy the principle." 
 
 "Not now, perhaps," he said, more 
 gently ; " but I think you will see it 
 when you are older, and have seen more 
 of life — I think you will then." 
 
 " Why do you think so ? " she asked, 
 with some curiosity. 
 
 " Because people who don't see it are 
 narrow and selfish, and incapable of all 
 true greatness, and I don't believe you 
 are like that." 
 
 She was annoyed to feel that she was
 
 170 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 colouring under his fixed gaze, and that 
 she could find no reply to make to him. 
 " So much for birth," he went on ; "as 
 for education — some of the most dastardly 
 men I have known had been educated at 
 our great public schools, and had been at 
 the universities. The most cowardly thing 
 I ever knew done was done by a man be- 
 longing to one of the oldest families in 
 England. Manners, too, are only skin- 
 deep, and are often more the result of 
 habitual intercourse with women than the 
 outcome of genuine tenderness and rever- 
 ence for them. So you see only mind 
 remains ; and the longer you live, the 
 more clearly you will see that the only 
 aristocracy is of the mind, the intellect, 
 and the heart, no matter what the birth
 
 BY THE LAKE. 171 
 
 and education liave been. And every man 
 who is a gentleman by nature will have 
 gentle manners, too." 
 
 He was rather amazed at himself when 
 he had finished speaking. He had not 
 intended to hold forth like this ; but 
 something in Diana's face and attitude, 
 as she listened, had seemed to draw the 
 words from him. The arguments he used, 
 too, were in his estimation so self-evident, 
 he had used them merely because she was 
 clearly such a novice — such a child in her 
 views on these matters. He had spoken 
 simply, that she might easily understand 
 him. 
 
 She was silent for a moment, and before 
 she spoke, he went on — 
 
 " I suppose you have heard such expres-
 
 172 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 sions as ' a born gentleman/ ' a natural 
 gentleman/ used of working men ? You 
 see you have to agree with me at last/' 
 he said, when she had answered in the 
 affirmative. 
 
 " But/' she persisted, although she spoke 
 with a little shyness, which became her 
 very well, " we were not considering 
 merely the question of gentlehood. Minna 
 is going to marry this man, and however 
 much a working man might be a gentle- 
 man, one could not marry him." 
 
 ''Why not?" 
 
 " Oh ! " looking at him with her face full 
 of laughter, as though the idea he had 
 suggested was too ludicrous, " one could 
 not — it would be impossible." 
 
 " Not at all. See, the prophet's mantle
 
 BY THE LAKE. 173 
 
 has fallen upon me, and I am going to 
 foretell what might happen. You yourself, 
 Miss Wentworth, would marry a working 
 man if you thought it desirable." 
 
 " Oh no. In what way am I fitted for 
 life in a cottage ? " 
 
 He looked at her from head to foot 
 before he answered — 
 
 " The workman who aspired to marry 
 you would not be content to live in a 
 cottage." 
 
 " In what way would he aspire, if I am 
 no higher than he ? " 
 
 " Because in whatever position you had 
 been born, you would have been a lady, 
 and a lady must always be aspired to." 
 
 His face looked very pleasant as he said 
 this. He was smiling at the quick way in
 
 174 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 which she had taken him up ; he was 
 smiling at herself, and yet he spoke 
 earnestly, from his reverence for her. 
 
 She met his eyes, and then turned 
 away her head, that she might think of 
 what had been said. All the time she 
 stood thus, with her face turned aside, 
 John's eyes were fixed upon her, and she 
 was keenly conscious that he was looking 
 at her. At length he broke the silence 
 by saying— 
 
 "You told me once, Miss Wentworth, 
 that there are peculiarities in your rela- 
 tions with your family, and you said you 
 would explain them to me : will you tell 
 me now ? " 
 
 ''How? Why?" she asked, rather 
 puzzled. "What do you want to know?"
 
 BY THE LAKE. 175 
 
 "What induced you to come out 
 to such a remote corner of the world as 
 this ? " 
 
 " How can the world have corners, if 
 it is round ? " she asked ; and then went 
 on, "Was it a very extraordinary thing 
 to do?" 
 
 "It seems so to me, knowing the place 
 as I do." 
 
 " But I did not know the place at all. 
 I came because it was quite strange, and 
 I was tired of everything I knew." 
 
 A few more questions from John, and he 
 was in possession of the whole story, with 
 the exception of that part relating to Tom 
 Sherlock. Either she was in a very com- 
 municative mood, or John was a very 
 sympathetic listener ; at any rate he had
 
 176 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 the power of drawing her story from her. 
 He listened without speaking, and then 
 said — 
 
 " I am glad you did not go ; you were 
 right not to go. I sympathise with you 
 entirely." 
 
 " I thought you would," she said, show- 
 ing a confidence in his sympathy and 
 understanding, which he had noticed be- 
 fore. 
 
 "And yet these people are perfect 
 strangers to you ; possibly if you knew 
 them you might like them." 
 
 "Oh no ; that is quite impossible. 
 There are four of them — two men and 
 two girls — but I have never seen them." 
 
 "Perhaps you will make their acquaint- 
 ance some time."
 
 BY THE LAKE. 177 
 
 "I intend to. I know I am quite dif- 
 ferent from what they think, and I should 
 like them to know how mistaken they 
 are." 
 
 It was the sentiment of a very youthful 
 mind, and John smiled as she spoke. 
 
 " Your mother will probably set all that 
 right," he said. 
 
 " Oh no ; her being there will make very 
 little difference." 
 
 He was silent. He knew there were 
 cases of complete want of sympathy be- 
 tween parents and their children. Here 
 was one before his eyes, and he found 
 it very interesting. There was still one 
 test to which he wished to put her ; 
 and suddenly changing his tone, he 
 
 said — 
 
 VOL. L M
 
 178 DIANA WENTWOETH. 
 
 " Now I understand your reluctance to 
 link your lot with a workman, let him be 
 never so chivalrous. It would be against 
 all your family traditions, and you say 
 such things have weight with you. Your 
 people are evidently the great people of 
 the place." 
 
 She coloured, and straightened her figure 
 a little. She had been leaning against 
 the earthen wall, plucking daisies and 
 grass and heaping them up, or throwing 
 them down into the water. 
 
 " I believe they are," she said with 
 dignity ; " but I don't know why you draw 
 attention to it : I have never said such a 
 thing even to myself." 
 
 The sun seemed to have left his humour, 
 for he answered —
 
 BY THE LAKE. 179 
 
 " There is notliing surprising in that. I 
 should imagine you are very tender with 
 yourself." 
 
 She was too angry to speak, and he 
 went on — 
 
 " I am interested in these things, and 
 particularly in the fact that I have a 
 member of the English aristocracy before 
 me, because my people are not at all the 
 great people of the place in which they 
 live. They live in a very small way, 
 and have never done anything else. You 
 ought to know it, for you seem to at- 
 tach great importance to the accident 
 of birth, and I am entirely a self-made 
 man." 
 
 His eyes were cold and keen as they 
 met hers, his whole face had changed,
 
 180 DIANA WENTWOETH. 
 
 and its genial expression had turned into 
 one the very reverse of agreeable. He 
 seemed to be awaiting lier reply or coun- 
 ter-remark with almost a sneer upon his 
 lips. 
 
 She drew a deep breath as he spoke, 
 and her head was very high as she said — 
 
 "You are atrociously rude. Good after- 
 noon." 
 
 She walked home without casting one 
 backward glance. She regained the dusty 
 highroad, and walked for some distance 
 along it without encountering any one. 
 The great elm-trees, which met in a lofty 
 arch above her head, whispered and rustled 
 in the breeze ; she thought of no one but 
 Garthwaite. She told herself that he was 
 a savage and a boor, and that she could
 
 BY THE LAKE. 181 
 
 never forgive him. Doubtless his own 
 ancestry, if he had any, had never lifted 
 themselves from the soil, and all his ideas 
 were of the earth, earthy.
 
 182 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 CARISSIMA/ 
 
 The conversation wliicli had been brought 
 to so abrupt a close by Miss Wentworth's 
 action remained long in the thoughts of 
 both John and Diana. Now that John 
 knew her story, who she was, and how 
 it had come to pass that she was at 
 Jacewo, his thoughts about her were 
 strongly tinged with a sort of fierce sar- 
 castic pleasure which was comprehensible 
 to himself alone. He had heard of parents 
 and children being antipathetic ; he was
 
 <c 
 
 CARISSIMA." 183 
 
 himself a case in point, although he never 
 thought about it or allowed it to influence 
 him. Here was another and more singular 
 instance, for the want of sympathy was 
 between a mother and her only daughter. 
 From what he had seen of Diana he felt 
 sure that, charming and sympathetic 
 though she was to him, many people 
 might find it difficult or even impossible 
 to get on with her, and there was really 
 nothing surprising in the fact that one 
 such person should be her own mother. 
 He soon ceased to dwell on that part 
 of the question ; what did arrest his 
 thoughts, and over and over again bring 
 into his keen face that look of grim 
 sarcastic delight, was the story which 
 Diana had told him, the knowledge of
 
 184 DIANA WENTVVORTH. 
 
 the family to whom she belonged, the 
 extraordinary fate which had, at any rate 
 for a time, linked her lot with his. 
 
 Swinging along the road to Berg, his 
 thoughts ran somewhat in this way — 
 
 " So those are her people, and her 
 mother was that Miss Meredith who mar- 
 ried that Professor Wentworth. How well 
 I remember the wedding and the village 
 festivities ! We were of course forbidden 
 to go near them ; but Susan heard of the 
 cakes and goodies, and cried for them, 
 and I said I would get her some. I did, 
 too, and the father found it out and 
 flogged me soundly. I believe Keuben 
 told him," he went on, smiling as he 
 recalled those distant memories. "And 
 that was her mother's wedding ! I had
 
 "CARISSIMA." 185 
 
 forgotten all about it, but how it comes 
 back to me now ! I wonder how she 
 would look if I were to tell her. She 
 would be amused and curious, as if her 
 attention had been drawn to the habits 
 of some strange creature from another 
 planet ; a little indignant, too, that her 
 kindness and credulity had been imposed 
 upon. Shall I tell her ? No ; it is no use 
 bringing that ugly light into her eyes, or 
 that spirit into her, when I know she is 
 capable of being brought to see the folly 
 of all that, and I intend to be the man 
 to bring her to it. I intended it before, 
 and these revelations don't in the least 
 alter my mind." 
 
 He paused for a moment, and then 
 went on again —
 
 186 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 *'Tlie very idea of letting a girl sucli as 
 slie is come out here ; alone, too ! What 
 were they thinking of? It is true they 
 had never seen her, but her mother knew 
 and seems even to have encouraged it. I 
 thought those people always took such 
 care of their women. But to let a girl 
 like Diana Wentworth come out here ! 
 The Camphausens dislike her, and if I 
 were not here to look after her, there 
 is no telling what might not happen. 
 I to look after her ! There is the cream 
 of the whole affair. Here is a member 
 of the house of Meredith stranded in a 
 remote corner — although the world is 
 round — of semi-civilised Europe, and she 
 owes her comparative comfort and well- 
 being to the fact that she is watched
 
 "CARISSIMA." 18' 
 
 over by a Garth waite ! " He laughed aloud 
 at the thought, and in all that great 
 desert there was no one to hear him ; he 
 could laugh aloud, speak, sing, or cry 
 aloud, and no one would be the wiser. 
 There was not a house, or the sign of 
 a house, within all the range of vision 
 of his keen long-sighted eyes. " What 
 would they say if they knew," he con- 
 tinued, "if they knew that one of the 
 despised race is the guardian angel of the 
 fairest of their whole fair flock ? She is 
 quite right ; as a domestic situation it 
 is indeed unique, more unique than she 
 knows. She is not like them. She is 
 too much unlike them to be thought of 
 as belonging to them. Suppose I had 
 been different from what I am, would
 
 188 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 she still have talked as frankly to me 
 and told me her secrets? Suppose I had 
 been unscrupulous, and had misused my 
 influence over her — I have some, I be- 
 lieve — would she then have been as frank 
 and unsuspicious ? Suppose I had not 
 been here at all, but some one else, would 
 she have been to him what she is to 
 me ? Nay," shaking himself impatiently, 
 for the thought stung him sharply, " that 
 is going too far. Besides, if some one 
 else had been here, she would not have 
 come. She would have come to wherever 
 I was. ' Things will be what they will be.' " 
 Diana was equally thoughtful. G-arth- 
 waite's alternate compliments and jeers 
 stung and thrilled her. The look on 
 his face when he had said he believed
 
 189 
 
 she was capable of great things, thrilled 
 her with a feeling she had never known 
 before, which she only half understood 
 now. Then the remembrance of the rude 
 rough words he had said at the last sent 
 the hot passionate blood in a torrent to 
 her cheeks. What had made him take 
 that manner ? She alternately wished not 
 to see him again, and longed impatiently 
 for a meeting. 
 
 She was thinking of these things as she 
 stood one afternoon alone in the school- 
 room. The younger children were still at 
 school ; their parents, with the two elder 
 girls, were spending the day on the estate 
 of Herr Platen, the future son - in - law. 
 After a few days of spring, summer had 
 come with a burst. It was intensely hot ;
 
 190 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 the cloudless blue sky was almost fatigu- 
 ing to look upon, and the sun beat relent- 
 lessly down upon the thirsty earth ; the 
 air seemed to quiver with the heat. Diana 
 stood at the window looking out. Before 
 her the plain stretched out, fringed on the 
 horizon by a dark line of pine-trees, ten 
 miles away a tall chimney rose sharply 
 against the sky, and in all that wide 
 stretch of country, there was only one 
 house to be seen. To the left were all the 
 surroundings of the railway station, and 
 the railroad to Pawlowsk cut in a straight 
 line through the plain. A train was com- 
 ing along, and Diana watched it idly. 
 She knew by looking at her watch that 
 it was seven or eight miles distant, yet 
 she saw the white steam rising clearly
 
 i( ^*T^TOr,X,T . " 
 
 CARISSIMA. 191 
 
 against tlie blue sky ; then the train itself 
 came in sight, and she wondered who was 
 in it. She turned her eyes to the trees 
 growing near the station, and then, taking 
 some music in her arms, she went down- 
 stairs to practise. 
 
 She felt more inclined to sing than to 
 play, and she began some old English 
 airs, which came with peculiar charm and 
 freshness from her lips. 
 
 In the middle of her singing, the front- 
 door bell rang, and she heard some talk- 
 ing at the door ; but she did not cease 
 singing, and so did not hear that the 
 visitor, whoever it was, came into the 
 house, and towards the room where she 
 sat. She knew nothing until she heard 
 a voice behind her saying —
 
 192 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Miss Wentworth. I 
 was very rude to you the last time we 
 met ; will you forgive me ? " 
 
 She ceased playing, and turned round 
 quickly. 
 
 " How you startled me, Mr Garth waite ! 
 Is that the tone in which you address your 
 navvies ? " 
 
 The meeting, half wished for half avoid- 
 ed, had come, and she was a little startled 
 and bewildered. 
 
 ** I have never had to beg the pardon of 
 any of my navvies yet," he answered. " If 
 I do, I may possibly speak in that tone." 
 
 " I am glad you acknowledge that you 
 were rude." 
 
 She had twisted round on the music- 
 stool, and now sat facing him.
 
 193 
 
 " Of course I acknowledge it," lie said. 
 "I was very rude, and I would have fol- 
 lowed you at the time to say so ; but you 
 walked so fast, I could not overtake you. 
 I thought you would rather not see me 
 again that day." 
 
 ** You were quite right," she said, some- 
 what drily. 
 
 " You are very angry," he said quickly. 
 
 " I luas very angry," she corrected him ; 
 ** but to say I am so now, would be to 
 imply that I attach much weight to your 
 opinion, and I do not." 
 
 The dignity which always underlay 
 Diana's careless manner was predominant 
 now, and John, who was not overwhelmed 
 by it, looked at her critically as she spoke, 
 and decided that this display became her 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 194 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 perfectly. She had risen as she spoke, 
 and the slender white-clad figure looked 
 unusually tall, the beautiful head was 
 held unusually high. John thought her 
 most beautiful as she stood there. 
 
 " There is no reason why you should 
 attach much weight to it, if you do not 
 agree with it," he answered, with perfect 
 composure. '' Our views on some points 
 differ so widely, that if we were to attach 
 much weight to the opinion of the other, 
 we should be very uncomfortable." 
 
 The words were apologetic, the manner 
 was perfectly courteous, and the tone was 
 ironical enough to send the colour into 
 Diana's cheeks. She raised her head even 
 a little higher as she said — 
 
 " If I remember rightly, you urged me
 
 195 
 
 for my opinion ; it was only your own 
 which was given unasked." 
 
 He had some difficulty in repressing the 
 smile which trembled on his lips as she 
 spoke, and he answered hastily — 
 
 " Exactly ; and it is the fact of mine 
 having been given unasked which consti- 
 tutes the rudeness. As an opinion, T had 
 as much right to it as you had to yours ; 
 there can be no rudeness in the mere 
 holding of an opinion. But, as you say, 
 I forced it upon you unasked, which I had 
 no right to do, and for which I here ask 
 your pardon." 
 
 Diana did not speak at once. His words, 
 when he had said them, had stung her 
 very sharply. With time the sting had 
 grown duller ; now that she was reminded
 
 196 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 of them, slie felt the barb quivering in 
 her mind once more. 
 
 "You were rude," she said at last. ''I 
 don't know if I can forgive you." 
 
 "See," he answered, "you are angry 
 still." 
 
 It was true ; and the weight she had 
 herself laid upon her anger lasting so long, 
 returned to her, and made her more angry 
 still — with this difference, that she was 
 now as angry with herself as with him. 
 She knew her colour was rising again, as 
 he stood with his keen clear eyes fixed 
 full upon her. She had got herself into 
 an awkward predicament, and she did not 
 quite know how to get out of it. It was 
 difficult after her last words and his to 
 say anything which should not sound fool-
 
 "CAEISSIMA." 197 
 
 ish. Perhaps lie saw her difficulty, and 
 in his strength was merciful, for he spoke 
 first. 
 
 " I promise you," he said, " that it shall 
 not occur again. I see you are not used 
 to contradiction." 
 
 He could have taken no surer way to 
 gain his end. Diana almost started as he 
 spoke, and though she did not blush again, 
 she felt her face tingling. He wished her 
 to see that he thought of her as a child. 
 He had begun by treating her as a woman, 
 but he found it would not do ; she was too 
 childish and unreasonable. No doubt he 
 would take this as a lesson never to speak 
 seriously to her again, or to take the 
 trouble to dispute her opinions, however 
 foolish they might be. She felt keenly
 
 198 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 the degradation of stepping from her posi- 
 tion as his friend, to that of the girl with 
 whom he exchanged a few words from time 
 to time, because in civility he could not 
 do less. There was nothing either impul- 
 sive or childish in her manner, as she once 
 more turned to him and said — 
 
 " You make too much of it. Pray, say 
 no more, and let us forget such a trifle." 
 
 "With all my heart," he said, a smile 
 lighting up the depth of his eyes. " Will 
 you give me your hand, to show we are 
 friends again ? " 
 
 She put her hand in his, and he held it 
 for a moment, looking down at its slender 
 whiteness : he could have crushed it out of 
 shape with one squeeze of his own fingers. 
 Then he loosened his clasp, and said —
 
 "CARISSIMA." 199 
 
 " I said I would wait for Herr Camp- 
 hausen. Will you, in proof of complete 
 reconciliation, let me wait here, and sing 
 me something ? I heard you singing as 
 I came in." 
 
 " AVhat shall I sing ? " she asked, turning 
 again to the piano; and he replied, "I 
 leave it to you." 
 
 She began without more ado. Her voice 
 was a contralto of some range, and she 
 sang with considerable sympathy ; it was 
 alw^ays a pleasure to hear her, and John 
 felt soothed as he listened. He sat by 
 the side of the piano, turning over her 
 music, and now and then putting aside 
 something which he intended to ask her 
 to sing for him. Presently he came upon 
 a piece of manuscript music which attract-
 
 200 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 ed him more tlian the .others. He held it 
 in his hand, waiting for her to finish. 
 
 She had scarcely taken her fingers from 
 the keys, before he asked — 
 
 " Where did you get this thing ? " 
 
 "That?" taking it from his hand, and 
 looking at it. " The words I found in a 
 novel of Turgeniefi''s, and the air is an old 
 German thing, to which they adapted them- 
 selves in the most obliging way." 
 
 "Sing it for me, will you?" he asked. 
 "The English, I suppose, is yours." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, striking the first 
 notes. 
 
 John did not return to the piano ; he 
 went to the window, and stood in the 
 shadow of the curtain, looking out. It 
 was a doleful song she sang, and his heart
 
 "CARISSIMA." 201 
 
 grew heavy as lie heard it ; yet as in a 
 dream, he saw what was passing around 
 him. The work-people were coming from 
 their work in the fields, the women, old 
 and young alike, wearing neither shoes nor 
 stockings, and with gaily coloured handker- 
 chiefs wound round their heads. They 
 were all chatting together in their soft 
 Polish tongue, and snatches of their con- 
 versation came to him through the open 
 window. In a few minutes they had all 
 passed, the road was empty again, and the 
 words of Diana's song came clearly to him, 
 and filled his soul with their haunting 
 melancholy : — 
 
 " A heart devoid of joy. 
 • •»••• 
 Love and Grief go hand in hand 
 In every land, in every land.
 
 202 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 Is anywhere a love to see 
 
 Alike from pain and sorrow free ? 
 
 Xot anywhere, not anywhere." 
 
 His heart "ached as lie heard her. Was 
 that to be their portion ? Would they have 
 to bear and suffer much before all was 
 clear between them ? Knowing something 
 of her feelings, could he hope that all ever 
 would be clear between them ? He shook 
 off the thought, and when she had fin- 
 ished, went to her side and addressed her 
 in his ordinary manner. 
 
 " That song is like your situation — 
 unique," he said. 
 
 " Yes ; I flattered myself when I found 
 it, that I had come upoji something very 
 uncommon."
 
 a ^AT^TOOTX;r A " 
 
 CARISSIMA. 203 
 
 " Yet, if the song is to be believed, that 
 which it describes is common enough. Is 
 that your opinion ? " 
 
 "Oh," turning her head aside, "as to 
 that, I cannot judge ; I am absolutely 
 without experience. 
 
 He had leaned his elbow on the piano, 
 and was looking straight at her as she 
 spoke. His face was serious, and yet he 
 had the air of being amused. 
 
 " I do not know whether I am wishing 
 for your happiness if I say, I hope you 
 may never have the experience." 
 
 ''Oh, surely. Pain and sorrow, and a 
 heart devoid of joy, cannot be desirable." 
 
 They were speaking more lightly than 
 they felt, and he went on — 
 
 "It depends. There is such a thing
 
 204 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 as compensation, and you know there is 
 always a partner in this particular bar- 
 gain." 
 
 " In that case the partner may take 
 the grief and pain and other disagree- 
 ables, and I will have the compensation." 
 
 He was quite grave again as he said — 
 
 " In this bargain the partner is the 
 compensation : they cannot be separated." 
 
 She would not take her tone from him. 
 She shrugged her shoulders, saying — 
 
 " You are getting into too deep water 
 for me, and I will not venture beyond my 
 depth. I can only wade, not swim." 
 
 He was going to say more, but she 
 interrupted him with — 
 
 " I have never heard you sing, Mr 
 Garth waite ; can you ? "
 
 *' CARISSIMA." 205 
 
 '' Oh yes, I can sing," lie answered, 
 rising to his feet, as if he wished to shake 
 off some unpleasant thought. " Give me 
 your seat for five minutes, and I will 
 show you the best I have to give." 
 
 She went to the window, and stood in 
 the shadow of the window-curtain, as he 
 had done, and without any preamble he 
 began to sing *' Carissima." 
 
 She had never heard it before, and 
 before he had sung many lines, she found 
 herself trembling with excess of feeling, 
 a strange new feeling which had never 
 come to her before. He had a beautiful 
 voice, and the last two lines, with the 
 constant repetition of those two words, 
 " Carissima, carissima," rang in her ears 
 for days afterwards. She suddenly felt
 
 206 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 that if John were ever, in a voice like 
 that, to ask her to do anything for him, 
 she would find it very difficult to resist 
 him, let the request be what it might. 
 When he had finished, she was silent for 
 a moment, she dared not speak at once, 
 lest her emotion should betray itself in 
 her voice. At last she went forward to 
 the piano, speaking even more lightly than 
 usual, in her desire not to betray how his 
 song had moved her. 
 
 "Thank you," she said. "That is new 
 to me; what kind of a song do you call 
 it ? a love-song ? " 
 
 "Oh no, not a love-song particularly. 
 It is a song from any man to any 
 
 woman. " 
 
 ''I see," she said; "just so," and the
 
 "CAEISSIMA." 207 
 
 corner of her lijDs lifted in a lialf smile. 
 "We won't sing any more, I think," she 
 went on, as he began to screw the music- 
 stool back to her level. ''Let lis talk 
 instead. I am afraid you will have to 
 wait a long time for Herr Camphausen : 
 they will not be back until evening ; they 
 have gone to Herr Platen's estate." 
 
 " I will wait a little longer — and that 
 reminds me of something I have wanted 
 to ask you before. Will this approaching 
 marriage make any difference in your 
 arrangements here ? " 
 
 " No. I had a talk with Frau Camp- 
 hausen about it, and I agreed to stay 
 on." 
 
 "To stay on ! " he echoed; "I am sur- 
 prised. Why stay on?"
 
 208 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 " I like the place ; I do not want to 
 go." 
 
 "You do indeed surprise me," was all 
 he said. 
 
 *'Why?" she asked, with heightened 
 colour, and a frown on her brow. 
 
 "I thought you disliked the place." 
 
 " You were mistaken." 
 
 " It appears so." 
 
 They sat in silence for some time after 
 this. Diana, in her white dress, was the 
 only light object in the sombrely fur- 
 nished room. John's heart burned with- 
 in him; she was so very beautiful, so 
 very desirable, he was so sure of his own 
 feelings, so very uncertain, or rather so 
 completely in the dark as to hers. Before 
 he spoke again, a door banged, sounds
 
 "CARISSIMA." 209 
 
 were heard in the house, feet tramping 
 up-stairs, and loud voices raised in dispute. 
 
 "There," said Diana rising, ''our talk 
 is at an end. The children have come in 
 from school ; I must go to them." 
 
 " I am glad we have talked," he said ; 
 " because I think we understand each 
 other better now." 
 
 "Yes, perhaps," she answered somewhat 
 vaguely, as she gave him her hand. 
 
 VOL. I
 
 210 
 
 CHAPTEK XL 
 
 GLAMOUR. 
 
 It was dating from tliis day that Diana 
 began to live in tlie glamour which sur- 
 rounded her during the rest of her stay 
 at Jacewo. She and John met nearly 
 every day out of doors, where they were 
 practically, often really, alone. Their 
 meetings were not brought about by 
 appointment — nothing of the kind had 
 ever been even hinted at. They met by 
 attraction : when both were out it seemed 
 inevitable that they should meet, they
 
 GLAMOUR. 211 
 
 themselves were passive in the matter. 
 When they were together they talked of 
 everything and anything. Diana told 
 John that she had reason to believe 
 that her letters, if put into the house- 
 hold post-bag, were tampered with before 
 leaving the house. Upon this he took 
 from his watch-chain a little gold seal, 
 and told her to keep it and seal all her 
 letters with it. She refused at first, and 
 seemed to be rather shocked at the idea ; 
 but he insisted, and in the end gained 
 his point. The seal now hung from her 
 own watch-chain, its solitary ornament. 
 It had rather a curious device : a globe 
 surmounted by a cross, over which hov- 
 ered a bat ; underneath were the two 
 words "For ever." This seal had an odd
 
 212 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 fascination for her ; she could not discover 
 the connection between the device and the 
 words : it was a shabby little thing, but 
 she grew fond of it, and later used to 
 look at it with a queer smile. 
 
 Their conversations included some odd 
 subjects. That is, they might have seemed 
 odd elsewhere ; here, where everything was 
 strange, they seemed in keeping with the 
 surroundings. Sometimes, but very rarely, 
 John spoke of himself, and it was only after 
 they had separated that Diana, finding she 
 could recall every word of those conversa- 
 tions, knew how deeply they had sunk 
 into her mind. 
 
 "It is curious to me to hear you talk 
 in that way," he said one day, when she 
 had been ridiculing some want of savoir
 
 GLAMOUR. 213 
 
 faire on the part of one of the Jacewo 
 worthies. "You seem to think so much 
 of those things, and in the sense in which 
 you understand the word I am not a gentle- 
 man either. I am entirely ' a self-made 
 man.' It does not seem to me that I 
 have any less right to be in the world 
 for that reason, and I should not think it 
 necessary to mention it to any one but 
 yourself; but if I did not tell you, it 
 might possibly make mischief some time. 
 One of these days, if it is ever necessary, 
 I will tell you all about my people ; but 
 it is not necessary yet, and unless it were, 
 there is nothing to tell. Mine is not an 
 interesting story like yours. I have no 
 domestic situation." 
 
 "Ah," she said, smiling, "you cannot
 
 214 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 forget that. I believe you will laugli at 
 me in your own mind as long as you live." 
 
 "Well, why shouldn't I?" he replied; 
 " it does you no harm." 
 
 There the subject dropped ; she never 
 inquired what he meant by saying he 
 was a self-made man. Either it had no 
 interest for her, or else, he thought, with 
 a smile which his business friends never 
 saw upon his face, " She thinks it would 
 be ill-bred on her part to ask, and might 
 embarrass me to explain." 
 
 It was a relief to him that she never 
 asked any questions about her relatives 
 at Garshill. Her indifference was evi- 
 dently genuine. She never mentioned 
 them, but seemed to have entirely for- 
 gotten them. On that one occasion when
 
 GLAMOUR. 215 
 
 they had talked about them, he had for- 
 gotten himself and spoken to her in an 
 unpardonable way. It should never hap- 
 pen again, even were the provocation to 
 be greater than then. He had not thought 
 of them for long ; when he did, the old 
 fire blazed up in his heart as 'fiercely as 
 ever. 
 
 "That song you sang that day," he 
 began once ; " you said you were abso- 
 lutely without experience. Now I am 
 not, I have been in love. Once I was 
 very deeply in love." 
 
 Diana turned towards him with her face 
 full of interest. They were on the edge 
 of the lake again, leaning against the 
 earthen wall as they had done on that 
 other day. Diana happened to wear the
 
 216 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 very same clothes : it might have been an 
 exact reproduction of that former scene, 
 but that the sky was a deeper, warmer 
 blue, and the sun sent out a fiercer, more 
 ardent glow. They had been talking and 
 had relapsed into silence; suddenly, after 
 a long pause, John broke out in this 
 way. 
 
 "Were you?" she asked. "When was 
 that? Why do you speak as if it were 
 past ? " 
 
 " It is past ; it is all gone, and as though 
 it had never been. I told you once I left 
 home thirteen years ago. I have not been 
 there since. Before I left I asked a girl, 
 with whom I had been in love ever since 
 I was a lad, to marry me. She promised. 
 We plighted our troth with an oath. I
 
 GLAMOUR. 217 
 
 did not believe in those things, but she 
 did. She promised to be true to me — to 
 wait till I came back to marry her. I 
 was just beginning. I had my way to 
 make, and the future was uncertain. But 
 she promised, and I left her." 
 
 He broke off there, and seemed disin- 
 clined to say any more. He had spoken 
 as if under protest, in response to some- 
 thing Diana had said at an earlier stage 
 of their conversation. He would have said 
 no more ; but Diana's interest and curiosity 
 had been aroused, and she was bent upon 
 hearing the whole of the story. It was 
 a revelation to her; she had never asked 
 herself any questions about his past life. 
 The past was disregarded as much as the 
 future. She waited some time for him to
 
 218 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 go on ; but he said nothing, and at last 
 she asked, with some hesitation — 
 
 "And is she waiting yet?" 
 
 "No," he answered, "no. Did I not 
 say it was all at an end?" 
 
 " But how? " she persisted. " You should 
 not have begun, if you did not intend to 
 tell me the whole of the story." 
 
 " Do you care to know ? There is really 
 nothing to tell." 
 
 * ' I care very much, " she answered. " Ah ! 
 do tell me." 
 
 " It was only like lots of other love- 
 stories. She found some one whom she 
 preferred to me." 
 
 "Was it a great trouble to you?" she 
 asked, after a short silence. 
 
 "At the time it tried me sorely; now
 
 GLAMOUR. 219 
 
 I have come to see that it was all for the 
 best." 
 
 *' I wonder if she thinks so too ? " 
 
 " There I cannot help you," he said, 
 with rather an odd tone in his voice. " I 
 have not seen her again." 
 
 " And that is the end of it ? " 
 
 "That is the end of it." 
 
 Little by little she became completely 
 absorbed in her own life. It was far more 
 interesting to her than anything she had 
 ever read, anything she had ever seen on 
 the stage. She did her work faithfully, 
 if mechanically ; but she let everything 
 else drift. She gave up writing letters; 
 at intervals of weeks she sent her mother 
 a post-card, or a mere line, and to her
 
 220 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 other correspondents she did not send even 
 that. She scarcely read the letters she got. 
 These from her mother were empty of all 
 interest, dealing with persons and things 
 totally unknown to her, and not to be 
 weighed against what was going on in 
 this remote spot of semi-eastern Europe in 
 which just now she found herself. She did 
 glance over her mother's letters, scarcely 
 longer than her own, and no more fre- 
 quent ; but the long epistles she received 
 from Amy Fairbairn and Tom Sherlock 
 were tossed into a drawer, generally un- 
 opened, always unread. Whitfield seemed 
 like a dim cloud on the horizon of her 
 memory. What had she to do with it, 
 or those who lived there ? Her past life 
 there was now like a distant dream, once
 
 GLAMOUR. 221 
 
 vivid, but now faded to a mere misty 
 outline. She kept up a show of corres- 
 pondence with Mrs Burland, and was from 
 time to time reminded of the existence of 
 her brothers, by seeing their names in some 
 letter which she was skimming with less 
 abstracted eyes than usual. But she had 
 kept her own counsel, she had mentioned 
 John's name to no one. She enjoyed the 
 thought that, except to themselves, their 
 intimacy was unknown ; that no one could 
 annoy her with foolish or uncomprehending 
 remarks. She put from her the thought 
 that John and she were not equal. From 
 time to time she was reminded of the fact 
 that he was, as he uncompromisingly called 
 himself, " entirely a self-made man." She 
 turned from it, she refused to heed. She
 
 222 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 felt that, liad she once given serious thought 
 to it, once realised that he was not a gentle- 
 man by birth nor made any pretensions to 
 be so, her regard for him must crumble 
 away, their friendship must come to an end. 
 This very feeling, that there was something 
 in their intimacy which she dared not face, 
 gave a zest to the whole affair. She was 
 on the edge of a precipice, the verge of a 
 volcano. She dared not look before her, 
 each step as she took it absorbed all her 
 attention. So she never questioned him, 
 never encouraged him to speak of himself 
 and his past. She shut her eyes resolutely 
 to everything except the present, which 
 held all she wanted. She lived in an ec- 
 stasy — rising each day with a feeling that 
 she had awakened in Paradise ; and what
 
 GLAMOUK. 223 
 
 all this meant, and when or how it was 
 to end, she never asked herself or paused 
 to consider. She took it as it came, feeling 
 only that she had never been so happy in 
 her life, that she had had no conception 
 of what real happiness was. 
 
 Perhaps John was equally under a spell. 
 His calm strong manhood had been con- 
 vulsed. Not even the knowledge of who 
 Diana was, or of the link which existed 
 between them, could destroy the power of 
 her fascination. Had he been asked once, 
 he would have said there could be nothing 
 between them. Before the reality, all that 
 was swept away — to him she was every- 
 thing in the world. He loved to see her, 
 to hear her talk. He loved to quarrel with 
 her, and become reconciled. He loved her
 
 22-1 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 delicate fastidious tastes and ways, and 
 lier utter cliildisli unreasonableness and 
 wrong-headedness on many points. He 
 loved her as lie had never thought to love ; 
 he had made up his mind with his natural 
 determination that he would win her for 
 his wife, to love and to cherish till death 
 should them part. 
 
 There were obstacles to be overcome, 
 and he knew it ; but he would not have 
 been the man he was if the thought of 
 those obstacles had not been an additional 
 spur to him, — if the thought that in order 
 to win her he would have to fight a hard 
 battle, had not both made her still more 
 desirable to him, and strengthened his res- 
 olution that the victory should be his. 
 
 To battle with her people would be
 
 GLAMOUR. 225 
 
 nothing — the thought of it gave him plea- 
 sure ; but he might have to battle with 
 herself — and if she was not for him, if 
 she would not join him, how could he 
 prevail ? There was her love of gentle 
 birth, her almost unconscious assumption 
 that nothing less could be tolerated ; and 
 although he had told her more than once 
 that his own parentage was not up to her 
 standard, she had always treated him as 
 a gentleman, as on a level with herself. 
 What would she say when he told her 
 that, in the opinion of her world, there 
 was a huge social gulf between them? 
 Would her liking survive the shock of 
 finding that, were they to meet at Gars- 
 hill, they would stand on totally distinct 
 social platforms? Had she strength and 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 226 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 faith to put her hand in his, and bridge 
 over that gulf? That was what he 
 wanted to know, that was what he would 
 know. Was a certain dainty flimsiness, 
 which she sometimes took a pleasure in 
 flaunting before him, her real character, 
 all there was of her? Was "her beauty 
 her sole duty," and did it go no deeper 
 than the surface ; or was there a true and 
 noble woman underneath? He had his 
 theory, which sooner or later he intended 
 to put to the test.
 
 227 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 IN THE FOREST. 
 
 Diana was walkiDg along the road to 
 Berg. She was alone at home. The 
 whole family, children included, had gone 
 to sjDcnd the day on the Platen estate. 
 She herself had been included in the in- 
 vitation, but Frau Camphausen had not 
 judged fit to transmit the message. She 
 had spent the morning in practising, the 
 afternoon in those vague half - formed 
 thoughts which so often came to her now ; 
 and having sipped her cup of coffee and
 
 228 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 eaten her supper in all the unusual lux- 
 ury of solitude, she put on her things 
 and came out to walk. Almost invol- 
 untarily her steps turned in the direc- 
 tion of the road to Berg, and she walked 
 along without noticing how far she was 
 going. She passed the track leading from 
 the highroad to the Jacewo lake, she 
 passed the solitary grave by the road- 
 side, she passed many shrines and crosses, 
 and still she walked on. She walked 
 with downcast eyes, for she was thinking 
 deeply, and she did not notice that she 
 had got far beyond the point at which 
 John had once stopped her. Only when 
 a sudden darkness seemed to fall upon her 
 path, did she look up and discover that 
 she was not only in the shadow of the
 
 IN THE FOREST. 229 
 
 forest, but had actually walked some little 
 distance in it. She stood still and looked 
 around her. Intense, deepest silence near 
 at hand — and far away, further in the 
 depths of the forest, a swaying sigh- 
 ing sound, which sent a thrill all through 
 her; for what purely natural sound ap- 
 peals more to the imagination than the 
 wind in pine-trees ? She lifted her head 
 and looked on every side — everywhere 
 the same giant trees standing straight 
 and tall, so that she felt a pigmy in their 
 midst. She walked on a few steps, and 
 the sound of her own footsteps startled 
 her. But those few steps had taken her 
 round a bend in the road, and now, look- 
 ing about her, she saw at some little 
 distance amongst the trees what she took
 
 230 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 to be water, one of those lakes of which 
 John had told her. A strong desire to 
 get to it came over her ; she wanted to 
 see it close at hand. It did not seem 
 far away ; and even had it been a much 
 greater distance, her old childish love of 
 adventure had come over her, and beat 
 down all objections to her wish. She 
 vaguely remembered John's warning about 
 the danger of this forest; but the whole 
 place exercised a fascination over her 
 which she could not resist. Besides, she 
 argued, even if there were robbers in the 
 forest, they were not likely to be so near 
 the highroad while it was still broad day- 
 lio;ht. She overlooked the facts that 
 here in the forest it was nothing like 
 broad daylight any longer, and that the
 
 IN THE FOREST. 231 
 
 further she went in the less light it 
 would be ; also, that for a long distance be- 
 fore reaching the forest she had passed no 
 house anywhere near the roadside. She 
 silenced all warning, and struck straight 
 amongst the trees in the direction of 
 the water. There was no path, it was 
 difficult to get along, and she soon found 
 that the lake was further off than she 
 had expected; but in proportion as her 
 goal seemed to recede, her determination 
 to reach it strengthened ; and at last, 
 after so long a struggle that she was 
 unwilling to think how long a time must 
 have been occupied in it, she did at last 
 stand on the shore of the little lake. 
 
 No one with an imagination less vivid 
 than Diana's would have thought it worth
 
 232 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 all the trouble it had cost to see. It was 
 very small, and the water was very clear. 
 The pine-trees kept a solemn guard over 
 it, and out of a mass of earth which lay 
 in its midst, grew a tall silver birch-tree. 
 That was all ; but Diana stood for a few 
 moments on its brink, and then took out 
 her watch to see how late it might be. 
 
 It was later than she had thought, and 
 she thrust it hastily back into her dress. 
 She could not at once find the right place 
 for it, and she still held it in her hand 
 when she turned round to get back to the 
 road. She stopped short, and her hand 
 was arrested in its motion, when she 
 saw a man standing a few paces from 
 her. 
 
 It was by no means broad daylight,
 
 IN THE FOREST. 233 
 
 but she had no difficulty in seeing the 
 man and distinguishing his features. He 
 was tall, with a thin gaunt figure, and 
 a face with a sullen, rather desperate, ex- 
 pression ; his clothing was almost in rags, 
 he looked as though he would hesitate at 
 very little. Still, in spite of his hungry 
 appearance, he looked like an educated 
 man ; but Diana only thought he was a 
 robber, and for anything she knew, might 
 have a whole band within call. Even 
 were he alone, she was, as she suddenly 
 recollected, a very long way from help of 
 any kind. 
 
 Her heart beat fast, for the encounter 
 was not agreeable, and she stood for a 
 minute looking at him in silence. He 
 spoke first, addressing her in French —
 
 234 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 "Will you have the goodness to give 
 me your watch, mademoiselle ? You seem 
 to have some difficulty in finding a place 
 for it." 
 
 '* Thank you," she answered, in a voice 
 which it cost her some effort to keep 
 steady ; " I can accommodate my watch 
 perfectly well." 
 
 As she spoke she finally deposited it in 
 her dress, and then moved a few steps in 
 the direction of the road. 
 
 She had no belief that she would be 
 allowed to escape so easily ; and in fact 
 no sooner did she move from the spot on 
 which she had been standing, than two 
 swift steps brought the man in front of 
 ner. 
 
 " Pardon, mademoiselle," he said again.
 
 IN THE FOREST. 235 
 
 " I cannot allow you to pass until you 
 have given me your watch and chain." 
 
 He spoke and looked as if he meant 
 what he said ; but Diana was naturally 
 fearless, and her anger and spirit w^ere 
 roused by this unceremonious request. 
 
 " This is nonsense," she said, with the 
 imperious tone which so often came into 
 her voice when she was thwarted or an- 
 noyed; **you must let me pass at once!" 
 
 *'With pleasure, as soon as ever your 
 watch has passed into my hands." 
 
 *' I took you for a gentleman at first," 
 she said ; " but I see you are nothing but 
 a robber." 
 
 The hot temper which had been her 
 bane from childhood was rising, and she 
 scarcely knew what she was saying.
 
 236 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 The man shrugged his shoulders as he 
 answered — 
 
 "Necessity knows no law; often the 
 mighty are brought low. I should advise 
 you to do what I ask quickly ; I should 
 be unwilling to keep you out late." 
 
 *' You shall not have it/' she said, her 
 natural determination coming to her aid. 
 " Let me pass at once. It is cowardly of 
 you to stop a lady who is alone, and to 
 try to frighten her in this way." 
 
 "Ah, mademoiselle," he said, "nothing 
 could give me greater pain than to appear 
 at a disadvantage in your eyes. If I 
 seem rough, you must lay it at the door 
 of my unfortunate condition. In short," 
 his tone suddenly changing, "I am starv- 
 ing, and a starving man is desperate.
 
 IN THE FOREST. 237 
 
 Give me the watch without more delay, 
 or I must take it by force." 
 
 He spoke much more roughly than he 
 had done yet, and Diana bit her lips, and 
 tried to believe that her heart was not 
 beating in a way which almost took away 
 her breath. She began to feel seriously 
 alarmed ; but, in spite of her fear, she was 
 cool enough to reason that the loss of 
 her watch and chain, even had she felt 
 no natural disinclination to part with 
 them, could not possibly remain undis- 
 covered and unremarked. Any explanation 
 would be at once awkward and humili- 
 ating. Pride urged her to stand out as 
 long as possible. She resolved to try 
 persuasion. 
 
 "The watch is of great value to me,"
 
 238 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 she said. " It was a gift from my father, 
 who is dead. I cannot believe you would 
 use force against a woman who is alone, 
 and without defence. I beg of you to let 
 me go." 
 
 " You shall go as soon as you have 
 done what I ask. I am a gentleman, and 
 without great provocation would not harm 
 a hair of your head. God knows I do 
 not live like this from choice. But the 
 watch I must and will have. If we stay 
 here till midnight, I will not go without 
 it. But the moments are precious, and 
 you must remember you are wholly in 
 my power." 
 
 Perhaps with the intention of giving 
 her a gentle reminder of the reality of 
 her position, he came forward a step and
 
 IN THE FOREST. 239 
 
 laid his hand on her arm. It was a very- 
 light touch, but Diana recoiled as if a 
 serpent had darted out its sting at her ; 
 everything swam before her eyes, and she 
 trembled from head to foot. 
 
 " Oh I " she cried, her voice unsteady 
 with mingled anger and horror, " how 
 dare you touch me ! stand back at once ! " 
 
 She looked desperately round as she 
 spoke, her lips half opened to call for 
 help ; and then she closed them again, as 
 the thought came over her, chilling her 
 with sickly fear, that nothing like help 
 was anywhere within reach. She leaned 
 against a tree, scarcely able to stand. 
 
 The man, watching her closely, probably 
 saw the effect of his action, and being 
 really desperate, hoped that a repetition
 
 240 DIANA WENTWOKTH. 
 
 of it would bring the scene to a speedy 
 close. He stepped up to her again, and 
 firmly grasping her arm with one hand, 
 with the other seized the wrist of the 
 hand with which she had clutched that 
 part of her dress where she had put her 
 watch. 
 
 " Now, mademoiselle ! " he said, bringing 
 his face very close to hers. 
 
 Her head swam, as she bent it back as 
 far as possible, so as to withdraw her face 
 from his ; and she shut her eyes, that she 
 might not see the fierce haggard coun- 
 tenance so near her own. A frantic un- 
 reasoning terror took possession of her, 
 -and, pushing him from her, she took out 
 the watch, saying with a half sob — 
 
 "There! take it and let me go."
 
 IN THE FOREST. 241 
 
 His hold relaxed at once, and he seized 
 her watch. The lono^ o-old chain was en- 
 tangled with one of the buttons of her 
 dress, and as she hastily strove to free 
 it, she caught sight of Garthwaite's little 
 shabby seal, which she had forgotten, and 
 which she now suddenly realised was more 
 precious to her than a hundred watches 
 and chains. Her fingers tightened upon 
 it at once, and she said quickly — 
 
 "Wait a moment." 
 
 " What is it ? " he asked, impatiently. 
 
 " This little seal ; you cannot have it. 
 It is of no value except to me. Let me 
 take it off the chain." 
 
 " No, it belongs to me ; quick, let me 
 have it." 
 
 But she was desperate, with the feeling 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 242 DIAXA WENTWORTH. 
 
 that that which she prized most on earth 
 was at stake, that she would endure al- 
 most anything rather than let this go; 
 and she returned doggedly — 
 
 " No ; the watch and chain you may 
 have, but this I will keep." 
 
 He might have snatched it from her 
 hand, but he did not, he only said — 
 
 " I must have it too. How is it that 
 you attach such price to it, if, as you say, 
 it has no value ? Either you are deceiving 
 me, or it is something you prize for its 
 own sake, perhaps a love-token." 
 
 Diana's face burned, but she only tight- 
 ened her hold on the seal without speak- 
 ing. But her head drooped somewhat, so 
 that she did not see the expression which 
 came into her companion's face. He looked
 
 IX THE FOREST. 243 
 
 at her fixedly and in silence for several 
 moments, and then he said more gently — 
 
 "I must request you to give me the 
 seal." 
 
 " No," she said, almost beneath her 
 breath. 
 
 "Then I must take it," beginning to 
 unclasp her fingers one by one. 
 
 He noticed that, in defence of so trum- 
 pery a thing as this seal, she submitted 
 to his touch, which had won from her so 
 valuable an object as her watch. As fast 
 as he raised her fingers, she closed them 
 again, with a strength which he had not 
 believed she possessed. Looking at her 
 again, he saw that she was very pale, her 
 lips were compressed, her brows contracted, 
 her whole face had taken that look of
 
 244 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 sternness which did come upon it some- 
 times. In spite of the sternness she looked 
 very beautiful, and he said — 
 
 " Your faithfulness to this little object 
 touches me, and I am willing you should 
 keep it, but on one condition." 
 
 " Yes ? " she answered, without raising 
 her eyes. 
 
 " The condition is, that you let me kiss 
 your lips." 
 
 ''I would rather die." 
 
 " Nay," he returned ; " not so. And it 
 is possible that you may have to choose, 
 because I am determined to have these 
 things, and I cannot stay here all night." 
 
 She was silent, lost in thought. What 
 was she to do ? She was wholly in this 
 mans power. Help there was none.
 
 IN THE FOEEST. 245 
 
 Only a robber very sure of his position 
 would have taken this affair as deliber- 
 ately as this man had done. She could 
 not give up the seal, she would keep it 
 at any price. But such a price ! Through 
 her mind flitted the recollection of a 
 duchess, who had bought votes with the 
 price she was asked to pay for this ; and 
 what were votes compared with this one 
 gift of her countryman. She made one 
 more effort. 
 
 " Name another condition," she said, 
 hurriedly. 
 
 "That, and no other," he replied; "and 
 choose at once, or I will take both the 
 things I want." 
 
 She drew a long breath, and said — 
 
 " I consent ; give it to me."
 
 246 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 He came nearer to her, bending his 
 head to hers. She lifted her face ; unshed 
 tears sparkled on her eyelashes, she drew 
 a long shivering sigh and shut her eyes, 
 shuddering from head to foot, while she 
 clenched her fingers upon the seal. She 
 felt for a second the breath of her persecu- 
 tor upon her cheek, and then, instead of 
 coming nearer to her, he suddenly started 
 away with a loud exclamation, a well- 
 known voice sounded in her ear, and she 
 was free. 
 
 There was a short parley between Garth- 
 waite and the other man, of which she, in 
 her surprise and relief and joy, did not 
 catch one word, and then the man dis- 
 appeared among the trees, and they were 
 left standing together.
 
 247 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 IN DOUBT. 
 
 They stood for a few minutes, Diana try- 
 ing to realise that her peril was at an 
 end ; John looking at her with a wrathful 
 clouded face — such as she had never seen 
 him wear before. Then he roused him- 
 self, and said abruptly, " Come home," 
 moving as he spoke in the direction of 
 the road. 
 
 Diana followed him in silence, and it 
 was not until they were clear of the trees 
 that she asked —
 
 248 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 " How did you find me ? " 
 
 "You had left this on a thorn, and I 
 went on till I heard voices and saw you." 
 
 " This " was a cobwebby handkerchief 
 with "D. W." interlaced in embroidery in 
 one corner. He held it towards her as he 
 spoke ; but she merely glanced at it, with- 
 out offering to take it, so he withdrew 
 it rather hastily, and pushed it into his 
 pocket without saying anything more. 
 
 They walked on again in silence, till 
 John, turning again to speak to Diana, 
 saw that she was crying. She was com- 
 pletely unstrung, and utterly unable to 
 keep back her tears. When she saw that 
 John had discovered them, she turned 
 aside her face ; but her whole figure shook. 
 Pride, self-control, and all were gone ; and
 
 IN DOUBT. 249 
 
 slie was weeping as John had not thought 
 she could weep. 
 
 "Lean on me," he said, gravely. "You 
 are too much upset to walk alone." 
 
 She accepted his proffered arm, for in- 
 deed she was scarcely able to stand. The 
 strain removed, she began to feel the 
 reaction. Her limbs shook beneath her, 
 and she felt that she could not have 
 walked home alone. 
 
 John was silent while her violent fit of 
 sobbing lasted; but by degrees she grew 
 quieter, and before very long, though while 
 they still had a long walk before them, she 
 had withdrawn her hand from his arm, and 
 was speaking in a low tired voice. 
 
 " How good of you to come to my res- 
 cue ! " she said. " This is the second time."
 
 250 DIANA WENTWOETH. 
 
 *^ You are so heedless," he answered, still 
 speaking with unusual gravity. " You need 
 some one to be constantly looking after 
 you ; you are not to be trusted alone." 
 
 '' You have me completely at your 
 mercy," she said, with a tremulous smile. 
 '^ I cannot defend myself; only remember 
 what Shakespeare says about a giant's 
 strength." 
 
 His features relaxed a little. She had 
 a way of taking him which practically 
 disarmed him, and obtained for her very 
 tender treatment indeed. 
 
 " Why did you go so far ? " he began. 
 '' I had warned you ; I had told you how 
 dangerous these roads were." 
 
 ''I had not noticed how far I had got, 
 or I might have turned back sooner."
 
 IN DOUBT. 251 
 
 ''If you had kept to the road itself it 
 would not have been so bad ; but to 
 positively go right in amongst the trees ! 
 It was most foolhardy; and if I had not 
 seen it, I would not have believed that 
 even you could have been so reckless." 
 
 "You see you do not know me very 
 well yet," was all her reply. 
 
 "I begin to think I do not know you 
 at all." 
 
 He spoke with a little bitterness, and as 
 Diana said nothing, there was silence be- 
 tween them until he said — 
 
 " Here is your watch." 
 
 He spoke abruptly, holding it out, but 
 not looking at her. " In future," he went 
 on, " if you will take these lonely walks, at 
 least leave your valuables at home."
 
 252 DIANA WENT WORTH. 
 
 She blushed crimson as she took it from 
 him. She had forgotten all about her 
 watch ; and the sight of it, and the little 
 seal dangling from the chain, brought all 
 the past scene vividly before her mind — 
 and for the first time she began to ask 
 herself how much John had seen. 
 
 "Thank you," she said, putting it on. 
 " I did not know you had rescued it too. 
 How did you get it ? What did you say 
 to that man?" she asked, hesitatingly. 
 
 " I told him to make off as fast as he 
 could, or he should be relieved of the 
 responsibility of his maintenance by being 
 placed in prison. If you had not been 
 there, he would have got something a little 
 nearer his deserts." 
 
 " You mean you would have knocked
 
 IN DOUBT. 253 
 
 him down, or thrashed him. I am so 
 glad you did not ; I could not bear to see 
 men fight. How surprised he must have 
 been to see you 1 " 
 
 " Probably ; though, I think, scarcely as 
 surprised as I was at what I saw, and what 
 he told me." 
 
 Diana was kept silent by a feeling of 
 guilty confusion which made speech im- 
 possible. 
 
 " Do you know what I did see ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " I suppose you saw that man and me — 
 he trying to get possession of my things, 
 and I doing my best to keep them." 
 
 " Yes, I saw that ; at least I suppose so. 
 At first I saw nothing of what you were 
 holding. I only saw that he was going to
 
 254 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 kiss you, and that you were allowing him 
 to do so." 
 
 She said nothing : his anger was just ; 
 shame and misery kept her silent. 
 
 "Was it so? Am I right?" he asked, 
 in a voice which was stern with the effort 
 which he made to keep it calm. 
 
 *' He would let me keep it on no other 
 terms," she said, forgetting in her wretch- 
 edness of what she was speaking, until 
 after the words had left her lips. 
 
 " And was it worth such a price ? " he 
 asked, with strong scorn ; ** to barter your 
 maidenly dignity for a paltry watch and 
 chain ! Are you so fond of finery ? " 
 
 His words roused her anger, and at the 
 same time caused her keen humiliation; and 
 her reply was prompted by both feelings.
 
 IN DOUBT. 255 
 
 " I set a very high price on them. My 
 father gave them to me years ago, and he 
 is dead." 
 
 She spoke with some constraint — tears 
 were not near her eyes now. She had got 
 long past them ; she saw one question 
 inevitably coming. 
 
 " Even that is not reason enough. But 
 if what that man told me is true, it was 
 not your watch you were going to redeem, 
 but that little seal I gave you. He said 
 you had already yielded the other things. 
 I cannot believe it. Is it true ? " 
 
 She made no reply; she felt cold all 
 over. What should she say ? What could 
 she say? 
 
 He waited for a moment, and then, as 
 she said nothing, he repeated —
 
 256 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 *'Was it SO, Diana? Tell me." 
 His passion would be restrained no 
 longer. It leapt out, and her name came 
 from his lips with an intonation which there 
 could be no mistaking. It thrilled Diana 
 like a chord of music, and in a single 
 second revealed a new world to her startled 
 eyes. She did not speak ; she was fight- 
 ing with herself — torn between two im- 
 pulses. To tell him he was right would be 
 to confess to him what she had not yet 
 confessed to herself, and to tell him more 
 than he had asked for. To tell him, or let 
 him think the other, would be to not only 
 permit an untruth, but to hopelessly lower 
 herself in his esteem, and kill his regard 
 upon the spot. She did not know what 
 to do. She walked by his side in, silence,
 
 IN DOUBT. 257 
 
 unheeding that they had by this time 
 reached Jacewo, and totally oblivious of 
 the suspense in which he must be until 
 she spoke. How long she would have 
 halted between two opinions cannot be 
 known, for before she had made up her 
 mind to speak, or with what words she 
 should break the silence, they were ac- 
 costed by Herr Olawski, who came out 
 of a side - street, and, taking his place 
 by Garthwaite's side, walked on with 
 them. 
 
 By this time it was too dark to see 
 Diana's face, and her silence passed un- 
 noticed, as the conversation was chiefly 
 on business. She was both relieved and 
 impatient at the interruption, for she 
 saw there was no chance of any further 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 258 DIANA WENTWORTH. 
 
 conversation with Jotin. Herr Olawski 
 lived just beyond the Camphausens, and 
 so would go all the way with them. He 
 did. Garthwaite turned off to his hotel 
 when he reached the main street ; only 
 saying, as he shook hands with Diana, 
 " I will see you again, soon," and she 
 concluded her evening walk under the 
 escort of Herr Olawski. 
 
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 22 LIST OF BOOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
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