‘Danvers is getting ready a bed for you; she is airing linen,’ Diana, said.  But the bed was declined, and the hospitality was not pressed.  The offer of it seemed to him significant of an unwary cordiality and thoughtlessness of tattlers that might account possibly for many things—­supposing a fool or madman, or malignants, to interpret them.

‘Then, good night,’ said she.

They joined hands.  He exacted no promise that she would be present in the morning to receive him; and it was a consolation to her desire for freedom, until she reflected on the perfect confidence it implied, and felt as a quivering butterfly impalpably pinned.

CHAPTER X

THE CONFLICT OF THE NIGHT

Her brain was a steam-wheel throughout the night; everything that could be thought of was tossed, nothing grasped.

The unfriendliness of the friends who sought to retain her recurred.  For look—­to fly could not be interpreted as a flight.  It was but a stepping aside, a disdain of defending herself, and a wrapping herself in her dignity.  Women would be with her.  She called on the noblest of them to justify the course she chose, and they did, in an almost audible murmur.

And O the rich reward.  A black archway-gate swung open to the glittering fields of freedom.

Emma was not of the chorus.  Emma meditated as an invalid.  How often had Emma bewailed to her that the most, grievous burden of her malady was her fatal tendency to brood sickly upon human complications!  She could not see the blessedness of the prospect of freedom to a woman abominably yoked.  What if a miserable woman were dragged through mire to reach it!  Married, the mire was her portion, whatever she might do.  That man—­but pass him!

And that other—­the dear, the kind, careless, high-hearted old friend.  He could honestly protest his guiltlessness, and would smilingly leave the case to go its ways.  Of this she was sure, that her decision and her pleasure would be his.  They were tied to the stake.  She had already tasted some of the mortal agony.  Did it matter whether the flames consumed her?

Reflecting on the interview with Redworth, though she had performed her part in it placidly, her skin burned.  It was the beginning of tortures if she stayed in England.

By staying to defend herself she forfeited her attitude of dignity and lost all chance of her reward.  And name the sort of world it is, dear friends, for which we are to sacrifice our one hope of freedom, that we may preserve our fair fame in it!

Diana cried aloud, ‘My freedom!’ feeling as a butterfly flown out of a box to stretches of sunny earth beneath spacious heavens.  Her bitter marriage, joyless in all its chapters, indefensible where the man was right as well as where insensately wrong, had been imprisonment.  She excused him down to his last madness, if only the bonds were broken.  Here, too, in this very house of her happiness with her father, she had bound herself to the man voluntarily, quite inexplicably.  Voluntarily, as we say.  But there must be a spell upon us at times.  Upon young women there certainly is.