Diane of the Green Van | Page 6

repeated.
The black demon of ungovernable temper leaped brutally from Carl's
eyes. Leaning forward he caught the girl's hands in a vicious grip that
hurt her cruelly though for all her swift color she did not flinch.
"Listen, Diane," he said, his face very white; "if there is one thing in
this rotten world of custom and convention and immoral morality
which I honestly respect, it is the memory of my mother. Therefore you
will please abstain from contemptuous reference to her by look or
word."
Diane met the clear, compelling rebuke of his fine eyes with

unwavering directness.
"My mother," said Carl steadily, "was a fine, big, splendid woman,
unconventional like all the Westfalls, and a century ahead of her time.
Moreover, she had a code of morality quite her own. If Aunt Agatha's
shocked sensibilities had not eliminated her from your life so early,
contact with her broad understanding of things would have tempered
your sex insularity." He glanced pityingly at Diane. "You've fire and
vision, Diane," he said bluntly, "but you're intolerant. It's a Westfall
trait." He laughed softly. "How scornfully you used to laugh and jeer at
boys, because you were swifter of foot and keener of vision than any of
them, because you could leap and run and swim like a wild thing!
Intolerance again, Diane, even as a youngster!"
He rose restlessly, smiling down at her with a lazy expression of
deference in his eyes.
"Wonderful, beautiful lady of fire and ebony!" he said gently, with a
bewildering change of mood which brought the vivid color to Diane's
dark cheek. "There's the wild, sweet wine of the forest in your very
blood! And it's always calling!"
"Yes," nodded Diane wistfully, "it's always calling. How did you
know?"
"By the wizardry of eye and intuition!" he laughed lightly. "And the
personal consideration," he added pleasantly; "we've come at last to
that."
A tide of color swept brightly over Diane's face.
"Surely, Carl," she exclaimed with a swift, level glance, "you don't
mean that you care?"
"No," said Carl honestly, "I don't. I mean just this. Will you permit me
to care? To-night as you stood there in the doorway I knew for the first
time that, if I chose, I could love you very greatly."

"Love isn't like that," flashed Diane. "It comes unbidden."
"To different natures come different dawnings of the immortal white
fire!" shrugged Carl. "My love will be largely a matter of will. I'm
armored heavily."
"For a golden key!" scoffed Diane, rising.
"Ah, well," said Carl impudently, "it was well worth a try! I'm sure I
could love with all the fiery appurtenances of the Devil himself if I
shed the armor."

CHAPTER IV
THE VOICE OF THE OPEN COUNTRY
"Aunt Agatha!" Diane rapped lightly at her aunt's bedroom door. "Are
you asleep?"
"No, no indeed!" puffed Aunt Agatha forlornly. "Certainly not. When
in the world did you come back from the farm, child? I've worried so!
And like you, too, to come back as unexpectedly as you went." She
opened the door wider for her niece to enter. "But as for sleep, Diane, I
hope I'm not as callous as that. I shan't sleep a wink to-night, I'm sure
of it."
Aunt Agatha dabbed ineffectually at her round, aggrieved eyes.
"Carl's a terrible responsibility for me, Diane," she went on, "though to
be sure there have been wild nights when I've put cotton in my ears and
locked the door and if I'd only remembered to do that I wouldn't have
heard the glass crash--one of the Florentine set, too, I haven't the ghost
of a doubt. I feel those things, Diane. Mamma, too, had a gift of feeling
things she didn't know for sure--mamma did!--and the servants talk--of
course they do!--who wouldn't? I must say, though, Carl's always kind
to me; I will say that for him but--"

The excellent lady whose mental convolutions permitted her to
speculate wildly in words with the least possible investment of ideas,
rambled by serpentine paths of complaint to a conversational
_cul-de-sac_ and trailed off in a tragic sniff.
Diane resolutely smothered her impatience.
"I--I only ran down overnight. Aunt Agatha," she said, "to--to tell you
something--"
"You can't mean it!" puffed Aunt Agatha helplessly. "What in the
world are you going back to the farm for? Dear me, Diane, you're
growing notional--and farms are very damp in spring."
Diane walked away to the window and stood staring thoughtfully out at
the metropolitan glitter of lights beyond.
"Oh, Aunt Agatha!" she exclaimed restlessly, "you can't imagine how
very tired I grow of it all--of lights and cities and restaurants and
everything artificial! Surely these city days and nights of silly frivolity
are only the froth of life! Have you ever longed to sleep in the