Part III

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THE TESTING OF DIANA MALLORY

by

MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

Illustrated by W. Hatherell, R.I.

1908

[Illustration: "THERE SHE WAITED WHILE THE DAWN STOLE UPON THE NIGHT"]

BOOKS BY MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

THE TESTING OF DIANA MALLORY. Ill'd ... $1.50

LADY ROSE'S DAUGHTER. Illustrated ... 1.50

Two volume edition ... 3.00

THE MARRIAGE OF WILLIAM ASHE. Ill'd ... 1.50

Two volume Autograph edition ... net 4.00

FENWICK'S CAREER. Illustrated ... 1.50

De Luxe edition, two volumes ... net 5.00

ELEANOR ... 1.50

LIFE OF W. T. ARNOLD ... net 1.50

TO

MY KIND HOSTS BEYOND THE ATLANTIC

FROM

A GRATEFUL TRAVELLER

JULY, 1908

Illustrations

"THERE SHE WAITED WHILE THE DAWN STOLE UPON THE NIGHT". . . Frontispiece

"THE MAN'S PULSES LEAPED ANEW". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98

"YOU NEEDN'T BE CROSS WITH ME, DIANA" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174

"'DEAR LADY,' HE SAID, GENTLY, 'I THINK YOU OUGHT TO GIVE WAY!'". . . 256

"ALICIA, UPRIGHT IN HER CORNER--OLIVER, DEEP IN HIS ARMCHAIR" . . . . 332

"SIR JAMES PLAYED DIANA'S GAME WITH PERFECT DISCRETION" . . . . . . . 462

"SIR JAMES MADE HIMSELF DELIGHTFUL TO THEM" . . . . . . . . . . . . . 492

"ROUGHSEDGE STOOD NEAR, RELUCTANTLY WAITING". . . . . . . . . . . . . 514

Part I

_"Action is transitory--a step, a blow,

The motion of a muscle--this way or that--

'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy

We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed:

Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark,

And shares the nature of infinity_."

--THE BORDERERS.

The Testing of Diana Mallory

CHAPTER I

The clock in the tower of the village church had just struck the

quarter. In the southeast a pale dawn light was beginning to show above

the curving hollow of the down wherein the village lay enfolded; but the

face of the down itself was still in darkness. Farther to the south, in

a stretch of clear night sky hardly touched by the mounting dawn, Venus

shone enthroned, so large and brilliant, so near to earth and the

spectator, that she held, she pervaded the whole dusky scene, the

shadowed fields and wintry woods, as though she were their very soul

and voice.

"The Star of Bethlehem!--and Christmas Day!"

Diana Mallory had just drawn back the curtain of her bedroom. Her voice,

as she murmured the words, was full of a joyous delight; eagerness and

yearning expressed themselves in her bending attitude, her parted lips

and eyes intent upon the star.

The panelled room behind her was dimly lit by a solitary candle, just

kindled. The faint dawn in front, the flickering candle-light behind,

illumined Diana's tall figure, wrapped in a white dressing-gown, her

small head and slender neck, the tumbling masses of her dark hair, and

the hand holding the curtain. It was a kind and poetic light; but her

youth and grace needed no softening.

After the striking of the quarter, the church bell began to ring, with a

gentle, yet insistent note which gradually filled the hollows of the

village, and echoed along the side of the down. Once or twice the sound

was effaced by the rush and roar of a distant train; and once the call

of an owl from a wood, a call melancholy and prolonged, was raised as

though in rivalry. But the bell held Diana's strained ear throughout its

course, till its mild clangor passed into the deeper note of the clock

striking the hour, and then all sounds alike died into a profound yet

listening silence.

"Eight o'clock! That was for early service," she thought; and there

flashed into her mind an image of the old parish church, dimly lit for

the Christmas Eucharist, its walls and pillars decorated with ivy and

holly, yet austere and cold through all its adornings, with its bare

walls and pale windows. She shivered a little, for her youth had been

accustomed to churches all color and lights and furnishings--churches of

another type and faith. But instantly some warm leaping instinct met the

shrinking, and overpowered it. She smote her hands together.

"England!--England!--my own, own country!"

She dropped upon the window-seat half laughing, yet the tears in her

eyes. And there, with her face pressed against the glass, she waited

while the dawn stole upon the night, while in the park the trees emerged

upon the grass white with rime, while on the face of the down thickets

and paths became slowly visible, while the first wreaths of smoke began

to curl and hover in the frosty air.

Suddenly, on a path which climbed the hill-side till it was lost in the

beech wood which crowned the summit, she saw a flock of sheep, and

behind them a shepherd boy running from side to side. At the sight, her

eyes kindled again. "Nothing changes," she thought, "in this country

life!" On the morning of Charles I.'s execution--in the winters and

springs when Elizabeth was Queen--while Becket lay dead on Canterbury

steps--when Harold was on his way to Senlac--that hill, that path were

there--sheep were climbing it, and shepherds were herding them. "It has

been so since England began--it will be so when I am dead. We are only

shadows that pass. But England lives always--always--and shall live!"

And still, in a trance of feeling, she feasted her eyes on the quiet

country scene.

The old house which Diana Mallory had just begun to inhabit stood upon

an upland, but it was an upland so surrounded by hills to north and east

and south that it seemed rather a close-girt valley, leaned over and

sheltered by the downs. Pastures studded with trees sloped away from the

house on all sides; the village was hidden from it by boundary woods;

only the church tower emerged. From the deep oriel window where she sat

Diana could see a projecting wing of the house itself, its mellowed red

brick, its Jacobean windows and roof. She could see also a corner of the

moat with its running stream, a moat much older than the building it

encircled, and beneath her eyes lay a small formal garden planned in the

days of John Evelyn--with its fountain and its sundial, and its beds in

arabesque. The cold light of December lay upon it all; there was no

special beauty in the landscape, and no magnificence in the house or its

surroundings. But every detail of what she saw pleased the girl's

taste, and satisfied her heart. All the while she was comparing it with

other scenes and another landscape, amid which she had lived till now--a

monotonous blue sea, mountains scorched and crumbled by the sun, dry

palms in hot gardens, roads choked with dust and tormented with a plague

of motor-cars, white villas crowded among high walls, a wilderness of

hotels, and everywhere a chattering unlovely crowd.

"Thank goodness!--that's done with," she thought--only to fall into a

sudden remorse. "Papa--papa!--if you were only here too!"

She pressed her hands to her eyes, which were moist with sudden tears.

But the happiness in her heart overcame the pang, sharp and real as it

was. Oh! how blessed to have done with the Riviera, and its hybrid empty

life, for good and all!--how blessed even, to have done with the Alps

and Italy!--how blessed, above all, to have come _home!_--home into the

heart of this English land--warm mother-heart, into which she, stranger

and orphan, might creep and be at rest.

The eloquence of her own thoughts possessed her. They flowed on in a

warm, mute rhetoric, till suddenly the Comic Spirit was there, and

patriotic rapture began to see itself. She, the wanderer, the exile,

what did she know of England--or England of her? What did she know of

this village even, this valley in which she had pitched her tent? She

had taken an old house, because it had pleased her fancy, because it had

Tudor gables, pretty panelling, and a sundial. But what natural link had

she with it, or with these peasants and countrymen? She had no true

roots here. What she had done was mere whim and caprice. She was an

alien, like anybody else--like the new men and prowling millionaires,

who bought old English properties, moved thereto by a feeling which was

none the less snobbish because it was also sentimental.

She drew herself up--rebelling hotly--yet not seeing how to disentangle

herself from these associates. And she was still struggling to put

herself back in the romantic mood, and to see herself and her experiment

anew in the romantic light, when her maid knocked at the door, and

distraction entered with letters, and a cup of tea.

* * * * *

An hour later Miss Mallory left her room behind her, and went tripping

down the broad oak staircase of Beechcote Manor.

By this time romance was uppermost again, and self-congratulation. She

was young--just twenty-two; she was--she knew it--agreeable to look

upon; she had as much money as any reasonable woman need want; she had

already seen a great deal of the world outside England; and she had

fallen headlong in love with this charming old house, and had now, in

spite of various difficulties, managed to possess herself of it, and

plant her life in it. Full of ghosts it might be; but _she_ was its

living mistress henceforth; nor was it either ridiculous or snobbish

that she should love it and exult in it--quite the contrary. And she

paused on the slippery stairs, to admire the old panelled hall below,

the play of wintry sunlight on the oaken surfaces she herself had

rescued from desecrating paint, and the effect of some old Persian rugs,

which had only arrived from London the night before, on the dark

polished boards. For Diana, there were two joys connected with the old

house: the joy of entering in, a stranger and conqueror, on its guarded

and matured beauty, and the joy of adding to that beauty by a deft

modernness. Very deft, and tender, and skilful it must be. But no one

could say that time-worn Persian rugs, with their iridescent blue and

greens and rose reds--or old Italian damask and cut-velvet from Genoa,

or Florence, or Venice--were out of harmony with the charming Jacobean

rooms. It was the horrible furniture of the Vavasours, the ancestral

possessors of the place, which had been an offence and a disfigurement.

In moving it out and replacing it, Diana felt that she had become the

spiritual child of the old house, in spite of her alien blood. There is

a kinship not of the flesh; and it thrilled all through her.

But just as her pause of daily homage to the place in which she found

herself was over, and she was about to run down the remaining stairs to

the dining-room, a new thought delayed her for a moment by the staircase

window--the thought of a lady who would no doubt be waiting for her at

the breakfast-table.

Mrs. Colwood, Miss Mallory's new chaperon and companion, had arrived the

night before, on Christmas Eve. She had appeared just in time for

dinner, and the two ladies had spent the evening together. Diana's first

impressions had been pleasant--yes, certainly, pleasant; though Mrs.

Colwood had been shy, and Diana still more so. There could be no

question but that Mrs. Colwood was refined, intelligent, and attractive.

Her gentle, almost childish looks appealed for her. So did her deep

black, and the story which explained it. Diana had heard of her from a

friend in Rome, where Mrs. Colwood's husband, a young Indian Civil

servant, had died of fever and lung mischief, on his way to England for

a long sick leave and where the little widow had touched the hearts of

all who came in contact with her.

Diana thought, with one of her ready compunctions, that she had not been

expansive enough the night before. She ran down-stairs, determined to

make Mrs. Colwood feel at home at once.

When she entered the dining-room the new companion was standing beside

the window looking out upon the formal garden and the lawn beyond it.

Her attitude was a little drooping, and as she turned to greet her

hostess and employer, Diana's quick eyes seemed to perceive a trace of

recent tears on the small face. The girl was deeply touched, though she

made no sign. Poor little thing! A widow, and childless, in a

strange place.

Mrs. Colwood, however, showed no further melancholy. She was full of

admiration for the beauty of the frosty morning, the trees touched with

rime, the browns and purples of the distant woods. She spoke shyly, but

winningly, of the comfort of her room, and the thoughtfulness with which

Miss Mallory had arranged it; she could not say enough of the

picturesqueness of the house. Yet there was nothing fulsome in her

praise. She had the gift which makes the saying of sweet and flattering

things appear the merest simplicity. They escaped her whether she would

or no--that at least was the impression; and Diana found it agreeable.

So agreeable that before they had been ten minutes at table Miss

Mallory, in response, was conscious on her own part of an unusually

strong wish to please her new companion--to make a good effect. Diana,

indeed, was naturally governed by the wish to please. She desired above

all things to be liked--that is, if she could not be loved. Mrs.

Colwood brought with her a warm and favoring atmosphere. Diana unfolded.

* * * * *

In the course of this first exploratory conversation, it appeared that

the two ladies had many experiences in common. Mrs. Colwood had been two

years, her two short years of married life, in India; Diana had

travelled there with her father. Also, as a girl, Mrs. Colwood had spent

a winter at Cannes, and another at Santa Margherita. Diana expressed

with vehemence her weariness of the Riviera; but the fact that Mrs.

Colwood differed from her led to all the more conversation.

"My father would never come home," sighed Diana. "He hated the English

climate, even in summer. Every year I used to beg him to let us go to

England. But he never would. We lived abroad, first, I suppose, for his

health, and then--I can't explain it. Perhaps he thought he had been so

long away he would find no old friends left. And indeed so many of them

had died. But whenever I talked of it he began to look old and ill. So I

never could press it--never!"

The girl's voice fell to a lower note--musical, and full of memory. Mrs.

Colwood noticed the quality of it.

"Of course if my mother had lived," said Diana, in the same tone, "it

would have been different."

"But she died when you were a child?"

"Eighteen years ago. I can just remember it. We were in London then.

Afterwards father took me abroad, and we never came back. Oh! the waste

of all those years!"

"Waste?" Mrs. Colwood probed the phrase a little. Diana insisted, first

with warmth, and then with an eloquence that startled her companion,

that for an Englishwoman to be brought up outside England, away from

country and countrymen, was to waste and forego a hundred precious

things that might have been gathered up. "I used to be ashamed when I

talked to English people. Not that we saw many. We lived for years and

years at a little villa near Rapallo, and in the summer we used to go up

into the mountains, away from everybody. But after we came back from a

long tour, we lived for a time at a hotel in Mentone--our own little

house was let--and I used to talk to people there--though papa never

liked making friends. And I made ridiculous mistakes about English

things--and they'd laugh. But one can't know--unless one has

_lived_--has breathed in a country, from one's birth. That's what

I've lost."

Mrs. Colwood demurred.

"Think of the people who wish they had grown up without ever reading or

hearing about the Bible, so that they might read it for the first time,

when they could really understand it. You _feel_ England all the more

intensely now because you come fresh to her."

Diana sprang up, with a change of face--half laugh, half frown.

"Yes, I feel her! Above all, I feel her enemies!"

She let in her dog, a fine collie, who was scratching at the door. As

she stood before the fire, holding up a biscuit for him to jump at, she

turned a red and conscious face towards her companion. The fire in the

eyes, the smile on the lip seemed to say:

"There!--now we have come to it. This is my passion--my hobby--this is

_me_!"

"Her enemies! You are political?"

"Desperately!"

"A Tory?"

"Fanatical. But that's only part of it, 'What should they know of

England, that only England know!'"

Miss Mallory threw back her head with a gesture that became it.

"Ah, I see--an Imperialist?"

Diana nodded, smiling. She had seated herself in a chair by the

fireside. Her dog's head was on her knees, and one of her slender hands

rested on the black and tan. Mrs. Colwood admired the picture. Miss

Mallory's sloping shoulders and long waist were well shown by her simple

dress of black and closely fitting serge. Her head crowned and piled

with curly black hair, carried itself with an amazing self-possession

and pride, which was yet all feminine. This young woman might talk

politics, thought her new friend; no male man would call her prater,

while she bore herself with that air. Her eyes--the chaperon noticed it

for the first time--owed some of their remarkable intensity, no doubt,

to short sight. They were large, finely colored and thickly fringed, but

their slightly veiled concentration suggested an habitual, though quite

unconscious _struggle to see_--with that clearness which the mind behind

demanded of them. The complexion was a clear brunette, the cheeks rosy;

the nose was slightly tilted, the mouth fresh and beautiful though

large; and the face of a lovely oval. Altogether, an aspect of rich and

glowing youth: no perfect beauty; but something arresting,

ardent--charged, perhaps over-charged, with personality. Mrs. Colwood

said to herself that life at Beechcote would be no stagnant pool.

While they lingered in the drawing-room before church, she kept Diana

talking. It seemed that Miss Mallory had seen Egypt, India, and Canada,

in the course of her last two years of life with her father. Their

travels had spread over more than a year; and Diana had brought Mr.

Mallory back to the Riviera, only, it appeared, to die, after some eight

months of illness. But in securing to her that year of travel, her

father had bestowed his last and best gift upon her. Aided by his

affection, and stimulated by his knowledge, her mind and character had

rapidly developed. And, as through a natural outlet, all her starved

devotion for the England she had never known, had spent itself upon the

Englands she found beyond the seas; upon the hard-worked soldiers and

civilians in lonely Indian stations, upon the captains of English ships,

upon the pioneers of Canadian fields and railways; upon England, in

fact, as the arbiter of oriental faiths--the wrestler with the

desert--the mother and maker of new states. A passion for the work of

her race beyond these narrow seas--a passion of sympathy, which was also

a passion of antagonism, since every phase of that work, according to

Miss Mallory, had been dogged by the hate and calumny of base

minds--expressed itself through her charming mouth, with a quite

astonishing fluency. Mrs. Colwood's mind moved uneasily. She had

expected an orphan girl, ignorant of the world, whom she might mother,

and perhaps mould. She found a young Egeria, talking politics with

raised color and a throbbing voice, as other girls might talk of lovers

or chiffons. Egeria's companion secretly and with some alarm reviewed

her own equipment in these directions. Miss Mallory discoursed of India.

Mrs. Colwood had lived in it. But her husband had entered the Indian

Civil Service, simply in order that he might have money enough to marry

her. And during their short time together, they had probably been more

keenly alive to the depreciation of the rupee than to ideas of

England's imperial mission. But Herbert had done his duty, of course he

had. Once or twice as Miss Mallory talked the little widow's eyes filled

with tears again unseen. The Indian names Diana threw so proudly into

air were, for her companion, symbols of heart-break and death. But she

played her part; and her comments and interjections were all that was

necessary to keep the talk flowing.

In the midst of it voices were suddenly heard outside. Diana started.

"Carols!" she said, with flushing cheeks. "The first time I have heard

them in England itself!"

She flew to the hall, and threw the door open. A handful of children

appeared shouting "Good King Wenceslas" in a hideous variety of keys.

Miss Mallory heard them with enthusiasm; then turned to the butler

behind her.

"Give them a shilling, please, Brown."

A quick change passed over the countenance of the man addressed.

"Lady Emily, ma'am, never gave more than three-pence."

This stately person had formerly served the Vavasours, and was much

inclined to let his present mistress know it.

Diana looked disappointed, but submissive.

"Oh, very well, Brown--I don't want to alter any of the old ways. But I

hear the choir will come up to-night. Now they must have five

shillings--and supper, please, Brown."

Brown drew himself up a little more stiffly.

"Lady Emily always gave 'em supper, ma'am, but, begging your pardon, she

didn't hold at all with giving 'em money."

"Oh, I don't care!" said Miss Mallory, hastily. "I'm sure they'll like

it, Brown! Five shillings, please."

Brown withdrew, and Diana, with a laughing face and her hands over her

ears, to mitigate the farewell bawling of the children, turned to Mrs.

Colwood, with an invitation to dress for church.

"The first time for me," she explained. "I have been coming up and down,

for a month or more, two or three days at a time, to see to the

furnishing. But now I am _at home!_"

* * * * *

The Christmas service in the parish church was agreeable enough. The

Beechcote pew was at the back of the church, and as the new mistress of

the old house entered and walked down the aisle, she drew the eyes of a

large congregation of rustics and small shopkeepers. Diana moved in a

kind of happy absorption, glancing gently from side to side. This

gathering of villagers was to her representative of a spiritual and

national fellowship to which she came now to be joined. The old church,

wreathed in ivy and holly; the tombs in the southern aisle; the loaves

standing near the porch for distribution after service, in accordance

with an old benefaction; the fragments of fifteenth-century glass in the

windows; the school-children to her left; the singing, the prayers, the

sermon--found her in a welcoming, a child-like mood. She knelt, she

sang, she listened, like one undergoing initiation, with a tender

aspiring light in her eyes, and an eager mobility of expression.

Mrs. Colwood was more critical. The clergyman who preached the sermon

did not, in fact, please her at all. He was a thin High Churchman, with

an oblong face and head, narrow shoulders, and a spare frame. He wore

spectacles, and his voice was disagreeably pitched. His sermon was

nevertheless remarkable. A bare yet penetrating style; a stern view of

life; the voice of a prophet, and apparently the views of a

socialist--all these he possessed. None of them, it might have been

thought, were especially fitted to capture either the female or the

rustic mind. Yet it could not be denied that the congregation was

unusually good for a village church; and by the involuntary sigh which

Miss Mallory gave as the sermon ended, Mrs. Colwood was able to gauge

the profound and docile attention with which one at least had

listened to it.

After church there was much lingering in the churchyard for the exchange

of Christmas greetings. Mrs. Colwood found herself introduced to the

Vicar, Mr. Lavery; to a couple of maiden ladies of the name of Bertram,

who seemed to have a good deal to do with the Vicar, and with the Church

affairs of the village; and to an elderly couple, Dr. and Mrs.

Roughsedge, white-haired, courteous, and kind, who were accompanied by a

soldier son, in whom it was evident they took a boundless pride. The

young man, of a handsome and open countenance, looked at Miss Mallory as

much as good manners allowed. She, however, had eyes for no one but the

Vicar, with whom she started, _tête-à-tête_, in the direction of

the Vicarage.

Mrs. Colwood followed, shyly making acquaintance with the Roughsedges,

and the elder Miss Bertram. That lady was tall, fair, and faded; she had

a sharp, handsome nose, and a high forehead; and her eyes, which hardly

ever met those of the person with whom she talked, gave the impression

of a soul preoccupied, with few or none of the ordinary human

curiosities.

Mrs. Roughsedge, on the other hand, was most human, motherly, and

inquisitive. She wore two curls on either side of her face held by small

combs, a large bonnet, and an ample cloak. It was clear that whatever

adoration she could spare from her husband was lavished on her son. But

there was still enough good temper and good will left to overflow upon

the rest of mankind. She perceived in a moment that Mrs. Colwood was the

new "companion" to the heiress, that she was a widow, and sad--in spite

of her cheerfulness.

"Now I hope Miss Mallory is going to _like_ us!" she said, with a touch

of confidential good-humor, as she drew Mrs. Colwood a little behind the

others. "We are all in love with her already. But she must be patient

with us. We're very humdrum folk!"

Mrs. Colwood could only say that Miss Mallory seemed to be in love with

everything--the house, the church, the village, and the neighbors. Mrs.

Roughsedge shook her gray curls, smiling, as she replied that this was

no doubt partly due to novelty. After her long residence abroad, Miss

Mallory was--it was very evident--glad to come home. Poor thing--she

must have known a great deal of trouble--an only child, and no mother!

"Well, I'm sure if there's anything _we_ can do--"

Mrs. Roughsedge nodded cheerfully towards her husband and son in front.

The gesture awakened a certain natural reserve in Mrs. Colwood, followed

by a quick feeling of amusement with herself that she should so soon

have developed the instinct of the watch-dog. But it was not to be

denied that the new mistress of Beechcote was well endowed, as single

women go. Fond mothers with marriageable sons might require some

handling.

But Mrs. Roughsedge's simple kindness soon baffled distrust. And Mrs.

Colwood was beginning to talk freely, when suddenly the Vicar and Miss

Mallory in front came to a stop. The way to the Vicarage lay along a

side road. The Roughsedges also, who had walked so far for sociability's

sake, must return to the village and early dinner. The party broke up.

Miss Mallory, as she made her good-byes, appeared a little flushed and

discomposed. But the unconscious fire in her glance, and the vigor of

her carriage, did but add to her good looks. Captain Roughsedge, as he

touched her hand, asked whether he should find her at home that

afternoon if he called, and Diana absently said yes.

"What a strange impracticable man!" cried Miss Mallory hotly, as the

ladies turned into the Beechcote drive. "It is really a misfortune to

find a man of such opinions in this place."

"The Vicar?" said Mrs. Colwood, bewildered

"A Little Englander!--a _socialist_! And so _rude_ too! I asked him to

let me help him with, his poor--and he threw back my offers in my face.

What they wanted, he said, was not charity, but justice. And justice

apparently means cutting up the property of the rich, and giving it to

the poor. Is it my fault if the Vavasours neglected their cottages? I

just mentioned emigration, and he foamed! I am sure he would give away

the Colonies for a pinch of soap, and abolish the Army and Navy

to-morrow."

Diana's face glowed with indignation--with wounded feeling besides. Mrs.

Colwood endeavored to soothe her, but she remained grave and rather

silent for some time. The flow of Christmas feeling and romantic

pleasure had been arrested, and the memory of a harsh personality

haunted the day. In the afternoon, however, in the unpacking of various

pretty knick-knacks, and in the putting away of books and papers, Diana

recovered herself. She flitted about the house, arranging her favorite

books, hanging pictures, and disposing embroideries. The old walls

glowed afresh under her hand, and from the combination of their antique

beauty with her young taste, a home began to emerge, stamped with a

woman's character and reflecting her enthusiasms. As she assisted in the

task, Mrs. Colwood learned many things. She gathered that Miss Mallory

read two or three languages, that she was passionately fond of French

memoirs and the French classics, that her father had taught her Latin

and German, and guided every phase of her education. Traces indeed of

his poetic and scholarly temper were visible throughout his daughter's

possessions--so plainly, that at last as they came nearly to the end of

the books, Diana's gayety once more disappeared. She moved soberly and

dreamily, as though the past returned upon her; and once or twice Mrs.

Colwood came upon her standing motionless, her finger in an open book,

her eyes wandering absently through the casement windows to the distant

wall of hill. Sometimes, as she bent over the books and packets she

would say little things, or quote stories of her father, which seemed to

show a pretty wish on her part to make the lady who was now to be her

companion understand something of the feelings and memories on which her

life was based. But there was dignity in it all, and, besides, a

fundamental awe and reserve. Mrs. Colwood seemed to see that there were

remembrances connected with her father far too poignant to be touched

in speech.

At tea-time Captain Roughsedge appeared. Mrs. Colwood's first

impression of his good manners and good looks was confirmed. But his

conversation could not be said to flow: and in endeavoring to entertain

him the two ladies fought a rather uphill fight. Then Diana discovered

that he belonged to the Sixtieth Rifles, whereupon the young lady

disclosed a knowledge of the British Army, and its organization, which

struck her visitor as nothing short of astounding. He listened to her

open-mouthed while she rattled on, mainly to fill up the gaps in his own

remarks; and when she paused, he bluntly complimented her on her

information. "Oh, that was papa!" said Diana, with a smile and a sigh.

"He taught me all he could about the Army, though he himself had only

been a Volunteer. There was an old _History of the British Army_ I was

brought up on. It was useful when we went to India--because I knew so

much about the regiments we came across."

This accomplishment of hers proved indeed a god-send; the young man

found his tongue; and the visit ended much better than it began.

As he said good-bye, he looked, round the drawing-room in wonderment.

"How you've altered it! The Vavasours made it hideous. But I've only

been in this room twice before, though my people have lived here thirty

years. We were never smart enough for Lady Emily."

He colored as he spoke, and Diana suspected in him a memory of small

past humiliations. Evidently he was sensitive as well as shy.

"Hard work--dear young man!" she said, with a smile, and a stretch, as

the door closed upon him. "But after all--_'que j'aime le militaire'!_

Now, shall we go back to work?"

There were still some books to unpack. Presently Mrs. Colwood found

herself helping to carry a small but heavy box of papers to the

sitting-room which Diana had arranged for herself next to her bedroom.

Mrs. Colwood noticed that before Diana asked her assistance she

dismissed her new maid, who had been till then actively engaged in the

unpacking. Miss Mallory herself unlocked the trunk in which the

despatch-box had arrived, and took it out. The box had an old green

baize covering which was much frayed and worn. Diana placed it on the

floor of her bedroom, where Mrs. Colwood had been helping her in various

unpackings, and went away for a minute to clear a space for it in the

locked wall-cupboard to which it was to be consigned. Her companion,

left alone, happened to see that an old mended tear in the green baize

had given way in Diana's handling of the box, and quite involuntarily

her eyes caught a brass plate on the morocco lid, which bore the words,

"Sparling papers." Diana came back at the moment, and perceived the

uncovered label. She flushed a little, hesitated, and then said, looking

first at the label and then at Mrs. Colwood: "I think I should like you

to know--my name was not always Mallory. We were Sparlings--but my

father took the name of Mallory after my mother's death. It was _his_

mother's name, and there was an old Mallory uncle who left him a

property. I believe he was glad to change his name. He never spoke to me

of any Sparling relations. He was an only child, and I always suppose

his father must have been very unkind to him--and that they quarrelled.

At any rate, he quite dropped the name, and never would let me speak of

it. My mother had hardly any relations either--only one sister who

married and went to Barbadoes. So our old name was very soon forgotten.

And please"--she looked up appealingly--"now that I have told you, will

you forget it too? It always seemed to hurt papa to hear it, and I never

could bear to do--or say--anything that gave him pain."

She spoke with a sweet seriousness. Mrs. Colwood, who had been conscious

of a slight shock of puzzled recollection, gave an answer which

evidently pleased Diana, for the girl held out her hand and pressed that

of her companion; then they carried the box to its place, and were

leaving the room, when suddenly Diana, with a joyous exclamation,

pounced on a book which was lying on the floor, tumbled among a dozen

others recently unpacked.

"Mr. Marsham's Rossetti! I _am_ glad. Now I can face him!"

She looked up all smiles.

"Do you know that I am going to take you to a party next week?--to the

Marshams? They live near here--at Tallyn Hall. They have asked us for

two nights--Thursday to Saturday. I hope you won't mind."

"Have I got a dress?" said Mrs. Colwood, anxiously.

"Oh, that doesn't matter!--not at the Marshams. I _am_ glad!" repeated

Diana, fondling the book--"If I really had lost it, it would have given

him a horrid advantage!"

"Who is Mr. Marsham?"

"A gentleman we got to know at Rapallo," said Diana, still smiling to

herself. "He and his mother were there last winter. Father and I

quarrelled with him all day long. He is the worst Radical I ever

met, but--"

"But?--but agreeable?"

"Oh yes," said Diana, uncertainly, and Mrs. Colwood thought she

colored--"oh yes--agreeable!"

"And he lives near here?"

"He is the member for the division. Such a crew as we shall meet there!"

Diana laughed out. "I had better warn you. But they have been very kind.

They called directly they knew I had taken the house. 'They' means Mr.

Oliver Marsham and his mother. I _am_ glad I've found his book!" She

went off embracing it.

Mrs. Colwood was left with two impressions--one sharp, the other vague.

One was that Mr. Oliver Marsham might easily become a personage in the

story of which she had just, as it were, turned the first leaf. The

other was connected with the name on the despatch-box. Why did it haunt

her? It had produced a kind of indistinguishable echo in the brain, to

which she could put no words--which was none the less dreary; like a

voice of wailing from a far-off past.

CHAPTER II

During the days immediately following her arrival at Beechcote, Mrs.

Colwood applied herself to a study of Miss Mallory and her

surroundings--none the less penetrating because the student was modest

and her method unperceived. She divined a nature unworldly, impulsive,

steeped, moreover, for all its spiritual and intellectual force, which

was considerable, in a kind of sensuous romance--much connected with

concrete things and symbols, places, persons, emblems, or relics, any

contact with which might at any time bring the color to the girl's

cheeks and the tears to her eyes. _Honor_--personal or national--the

word was to Diana like a spark to dry leaves. Her whole nature flamed to

it, and there were moments when she walked visibly transfigured in the

glow of it. Her mind was rich, moreover, in the delicate, inchoate

lovers, the half-poetic, half-intellectual passions, the mystical

yearnings and aspirations, which haunt a pure expanding youth. Such

human beings, Mrs. Colwood reflected, are not generally made for

happiness. But there were also in Diana signs both of practical ability

and of a rare common-sense. Would this last avail to protect her from

her enthusiasms? Mrs. Colwood remembered a famous Frenchwoman of whom it

was said: "Her _judgment_ is infallible--her _conduct_ one long

mistake!" The little companion was already sufficiently attached to Miss

Mallory to hope that in this case a natural tact and balance might not

be thrown away.

As to suitors and falling in love, the natural accompaniments of such a

charming youth, Mrs. Colwood came across no traces of anything of the

sort. During her journey with her father to India, Japan, and America,

Miss Mallory had indeed for the first time seen something of society.

But in the villa beside the Mediterranean it was evident that her life

with her father had been one of complete seclusion. She and he had lived

for each other. Books, sketching, long walks, a friendly interest in

their peasant neighbors--these had filled their time.

It took, indeed, but a short time to discover in Miss Mallory a hunger

for society which seemed to be the natural result of long starvation.

With her neighbors the Roughsedges she was already on the friendliest

terms. To Dr. Roughsedge, who was infirm, and often a prisoner to his

library, she paid many small attentions which soon won the heart of an

old student. She was in love with Mrs. Roughsedge's gray curls and

motherly ways; and would consult her about servants and tradesmen with

an eager humility. She liked the son, it seemed, for the parents' sake,

nor was it long before he was allowed--at his own pressing request--to

help in hanging pictures and arranging books at Beechcote. A girl's

manner with young men is always a matter of interest to older women.

Mrs. Colwood thought that Diana's manner to the young soldier could not

have been easily bettered. It was frank and gay--with just that tinge of

old-fashioned reserve which might be thought natural in a girl of gentle

breeding, brought up alone by a fastidious father. With all her

impetuosity, indeed, there was about her something markedly virginal

and remote, which is commoner, perhaps, in Irish than English women.

Mrs. Colwood watched the effect of it on Captain Roughsedge. After her

third day of acquaintance with him, she said to herself: "He will fall

in love with her!" But she said it with compassion, and without

troubling to speculate on the lady. Whereas, with regard to the Marsham

visit, she already--she could hardly have told why--found herself full

of curiosity.

Meanwhile, in the few days which elapsed before that visit was due,

Diana was much called on by the country-side. The girl restrained her

restlessness, and sat at home, receiving everybody with a friendliness

which might have been insipid but for its grace and spontaneity. She

disliked no one, was bored by no one. The joy of her home-coming seemed

to halo them all. Even the sour Miss Bertrams could not annoy her; she

thought them sensible and clever; even the tiresome Mrs. Minchin of

Minchin Hall, the "gusher" of the county, who "adored" all mankind and

ill-treated her step-daughter, even she was dubbed "very kind," till

Mrs. Roughsedge, next day, kindled a passion in the girl's eyes by some

tales of the step-daughter. Mrs. Colwood wondered whether, indeed, she

_could_ be bored, as Mrs. Minchin had not achieved it. Those who talk

easily and well, like Diana, are less keenly aware, she thought, of the

platitudes of their neighbors. They are not defenceless, like the shy

and the silent.

Nevertheless, it was clear that if Diana welcomed the neighbors with

pleasure she often saw them go with relief. As soon as the house was

clear of them, she would stand pensively by the fire, looking down into

the blaze like one on whom a dream suddenly descends--then would often

call her dog, and go out alone, into the winter twilight. From these

rambles she would return grave--sometimes with reddened eyes. But at all

times, as Mrs. Colwood soon began to realize, there was but a thin line

of division between her gayety and some inexplicable sadness, some

unspoken grief, which seemed to rise upon her and overshadow her, like a

cloud tangled in the woods of spring. Mrs. Colwood could only suppose

that these times of silence and eclipse were connected in some way with

her father and her loss of him. But whenever they occurred, Mrs. Colwood

found her own mind invincibly recalled to that name on the box of

papers, which still haunted her, still brought with it a vague sense of

something painful and harrowing--a breath of desolation, in strange

harmony, it often seemed, with certain looks and moods of Diana. But

Mrs. Colwood searched her memory in vain. And, indeed, after a little

while, some imperious instinct even forbade her the search--so rapid and

strong was the growth of sympathy with the young life which had called

her to its aid.

* * * * *

The day of the Marsham visit arrived--a January afternoon clear and

frosty. In the morning before they were to start, Diana seemed to be

often closeted with her maid, and once in passing Miss Mallory's open

door, her companion could not help seeing a consultation going on, and a

snowy white dress, with black ribbons, lying on the bed. Heretofore

Diana had only appeared in black, the strict black which French

dressmakers understand, for it was little more than a year since her

father's death. The thought of seeing her in white stirred Mrs.

Colwood's expectations.

Tallyn Hall was eight miles from Beechcote. The ladies were to drive,

but in order to show Mrs. Colwood something of the country, Diana

decreed that they should walk up to the downs by a field path, meeting

the carriage which bore their luggage at a convenient point on the

main road.

The day was a day of beauty--the trees and grass lightly rimed, the air

sparkling and translucent. Nature was held in the rest of winter; but

beneath the outward stillness, one caught as it were the strong

heart-beat of the mighty mother. Diana climbed the steep down without a

pause, save when she turned round from time to time to help her

companion. Her slight firm frame, the graceful decision of her

movements, the absence of all stress and effort showed a creature

accustomed to exercise and open air; Mrs. Colwood, the frail

Anglo-Indian to whom walking was a task, tried to rival her in vain; and

Diana was soon full of apologies and remorse for having tempted her to

the climb.

"Please!--please!"--the little lady panted, as they reached the

top--"wasn't this worth it?"

For they stood in one of the famous wood and common lands of Southern

England--great beeches towering overhead--glades opening to right and

left--ferny paths over green turf-tracks, and avenues of immemorial age,

the highways of a vanished life--old earth-works, overgrown--lanes

deep-sunk in the chalk where the pack-horses once made their

way--gnarled thorns, bent with years, yet still white-mantled in the

spring: a wild, enchanted no-man's country, owned it seemed by rabbits

and birds, solitary, lovely, and barren--yet from its furthest edge, the

high spectator, looking eastward, on a clear night, might see on the

horizon the dim flare of London.

Diana's habitual joy broke out, as she stood gazing at the village

below, the walls and woods of Beechcote, the church, the plough-lands,

and the far-western plain, drawn in pale grays and purples under the

declining sun.

"Isn't it heavenly!--the browns--the blues--the soberness, the delicacy

of it all? Oh, so much better than any tiresome Mediterranean--any

stupid Riviera!--Ah!" She stopped and turned, checked by a sound

behind her.

Captain Roughsedge appeared, carrying his gun, his spaniel beside him.

He greeted the ladies with what seemed to Mrs. Colwood a very evident

start of pleasure, and turned to walk with them.

"You have been shooting?" said Diana.

He admitted it.

"That's what you enjoy?"

He flushed.

"More than anything in the world."

But he looked at his questioner a little askance, as though uncertain

how she might take so gross a confession.

Diana laughed, and hoped he got as much as he desired. Then he was not

like his father--who cared so much for books?

"Oh, books!" He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, the fact is, I--I don't

often read if I can help it. But of course they make you do a lot of

it--with these beastly examinations. They've about spoiled the army

with them."

"You wouldn't do it for pleasure?"

"What--reading?" He shook his head decidedly. "Not while I could be

doing anything else."

"Not history or poetry?"

He looked at her again nervously. But the girl's face was gay, and he

ventured on the truth.

"Well, no, I can't say I do. My father reads a deal of poetry aloud."

"And it bores you?"

"Well, I don't understand it," he said, slowly and candidly.

"Don't you even read the papers?" asked Diana, wondering.

He started.

"Why, I should think I do!" he cried. "I should rather think I do!

That's another thing altogether--that's not books."

"Then perhaps you read the debate last night?" She looked at him with a

kindling eye.

"Of course I did--every word of it! Do you know what those Radical

fellows are up to now? They'll never rest until we've lost the

Khaibar--and then the Lord only knows what'll happen."

Diana flew into discussion--quick breath, red cheeks! Mrs. Colwood

looked on amazed.

Presently both appealed to her, the Anglo-Indian. But she smiled and

stammered--declining the challenge. Beside their eagerness, their

passion, she felt herself tongue-tied. Captain Roughsedge had seen two

years' service on the Northwest Frontier; Diana had ridden through the

Khaibar with her father and a Lieutenant-Governor. In both the sense of

England's historic task as the guardian of a teeming India against

onslaught from the north, had sunk deep, not into brain merely. Figures

of living men, acts of heroism and endurance, the thought of English

soldiers ambushed in mountain defiles, or holding out against Afridi

hordes in lonely forts, dying and battling, not for themselves, but that

the great mountain barrier might hold against the savagery of the north,

and English honor and English power maintain themselves unscathed--these

had mingled, in both, with the chivalry and the red blood of youth. The

eyes of both had seen; the hearts of both had felt.

And now, in the English House of Commons, there were men who doubted and

sneered about these things--who held an Afridi life dearer than an

English one--who cared nothing for the historic task, who would let

India go to-morrow without a pang!

Misguided recreants! But Mrs. Colwood, looking on, could only feel that

had they never played their impish part, the winter afternoon for these

two companions of hers would have been infinitely less agreeable.

For certainly denunication and argument became Diana--all the more that

she was no "female franzy" who must have all the best of the talk; she

listened--she evoked--she drew on, and drew out. Mrs. Colwood was

secretly sure that this very modest and ordinarily stupid young man had

never talked so well before, that his mother would have been astonished

could she have beheld him. What had come to the young women of this

generation! Their grandmothers cared for politics only so far as they

advanced the fortunes of their lords--otherwise what was Hecuba to them,

or they to Hecuba? But these women have minds for the impersonal. Diana

was not talking to make an effect on Captain Roughsedge--that was the

strange part of it. Hundreds of women can make politics serve the

primitive woman's game; the "come hither in the ee" can use that weapon

as well as any other. But here was an intellectual, a patriotic

passion, veritable, genuine, not feigned.

Well!--the spectator admitted it--unwillingly--so long as the debater,

the orator, were still desirable, still lovely. She stole a glance at

Captain Roughsedge. Was he, too, so unconscious of sex, of opportunity?

Ah! _that_ she doubted! The young man played his part stoutly; flung

back the ball without a break; but there were glances, and movements and

expressions, which to this shrewd feminine eye appeared to betray what

no scrutiny could detect in Diana--a pleasure within a pleasure, and

thoughts behind thoughts. At any rate, he prolonged the walk as long as

it could be prolonged; he accompanied them to the very door of their

carriage, and would have delayed them there but that Diana looked at her

watch in dismay.

"You'll hear plenty of that sort of stuff to-night!" he said, as he

helped them to their wraps. "'Perish India!' and all the rest of it. All

they'll mind at Tallyn will be that the Afridis haven't killed a few

more Britishers."

Diana gave him a rather grave smile and bow as the carriage drove on.

Mrs. Colwood wondered whether the Captain's last remark had somehow

offended her companion. But Miss Mallory made no reference to it.

Instead, she began to give her companion some preliminary information as

to the party they were likely to find at Tallyn.

As Mrs. Colwood already knew, Mr. Oliver Marsham, member for the Western

division of Brookshire, was young and unmarried. He lived with his

mother, Lady Lucy Marsham, the owner of Tallyn Hall; and his widowed

sister, Mrs. Fotheringham, was also a constant inmate of the house.

Mrs. Fotheringham was if possible more extreme in opinions than her

brother, frequented platforms, had quarrelled with all her Conservative

relations, including a family of stepsons, and supported Women's

Suffrage. It was evident that Diana was steeling herself to some

endurance in this quarter. As to the other guests whom they might

expect, Diana knew little. She had heard that Mr. Ferrier was to be

there--ex-Home Secretary, and now leader of the Opposition--and old Lady

Niton. Diana retailed what gossip she knew of this rather famous

personage, whom three-fourths of the world found insolent and the rest

witty. "They say, anyway, that she can snub Mrs. Fotheringham," said

Diana, laughing.

"You met them abroad?"

"Only Mr. Marsham and Lady Lucy. Papa and I were walking over the hills

at Portofino. We fell in with him, and he asked us the way to San

Fruttuoso. We were going there, so we showed him. Papa liked him, and he

came to see us afterwards--several times. Lady Lucy came once."

"She is nice?"

"Oh yes," said Diana, vaguely, "she is quite beautiful for her age. You

never saw such lovely hands. And so fastidious--so dainty! I remember

feeling uncomfortable all the time, because I knew I had a tear in my

dress, and my hair was untidy--and I was certain she noticed."

"It's all rather alarming," said Mrs. Colwood, smiling.

"No, no!"--Diana turned upon her eagerly. "They're very kind--very, very

kind!"

* * * * *

The winter day was nearly gone when they reached their destination. But

there was just light enough, as they stepped out of the carriage, to

show a large modern building, built of red brick, with many gables and

bow-windows, and a generally restless effect. As they followed the

butler through the outer hall, a babel of voices made itself heard, and

when he threw open the door into the inner hall, they found themselves

ushered into a large party.

There was a pleased exclamation from a tall fair man standing near the

fire, who came forward at once to meet them.

"So glad to see you! But we hoped for you earlier! Mother, here is Miss

Mallory."

Lady Lucy, a woman of sixty, still slender and stately, greeted them

kindly, Mrs. Colwood was introduced, and room was made for the

new-comers in the circle round the tea-table, which was presided over by

a lady with red hair and an eye-glass, who gave a hand to Diana, and a

bow, or more precisely a nod, to Mrs. Colwood.

"I'm Oliver's sister--my name's Fotheringham. That's my

cousin--Madeleine Varley. Madeleine, find me some cups! This is Mr.

Ferrier--Mr. Ferrier, Miss Mallory.--expect you know Lady Niton.--Sir

James Chide, Miss Mallory.--Perhaps that'll do to begin with!" said Mrs.

Fotheringham, carelessly, glancing at a further group of people. "Now

I'll give you some tea."

Diana sat down, very shy, and a little flushed. Mr. Marsham hovered

about her, inducing her to loosen her furs, bringing her tea, and asking

questions about her settlement at Beechcote. He showed also a marked

courtesy to Mrs. Colwood, and the little widow, susceptible to every

breath of kindness, formed the prompt opinion that he was both handsome

and agreeable.

Oliver Marsham, indeed, was not a person to be overlooked. His height

was about six foot three; and his long slender limbs and spare frame had

earned him, as a lad, among the men of his father's works, the

description of "two yards o' pump-waater, straight oop an' down." But in

his thin lengthiness there was nothing awkward--rather a graceful

readiness and vigor. And the head which surmounted this lightly built

body gave to the whole personality the force and weight it might

otherwise have missed. The hair was very thick and very fair, though

already slightly grizzled. It lay in heavy curly masses across a broad

head, defining a strong brow above deeply set small eyes of a pale

conspicuous blue. The nose, aquiline and large; the mouth large also,

but thin-lipped and flexible; slight hollows in the cheeks, and a long,

lantern jaw. The whole figure made an impression of ease, power, and

self-confidence.

"So you like your old house?" he said, presently, to Diana, sitting down

beside her, and dropping his voice a little.

"It suits me perfectly."

"I am certain the moat is rheumatic! But you will never admit it."

"I would, if it were true," she said, smiling.

"No!--you are much too romantic. You see, I remember our conversations."

"Did I never admit the truth?"

"You would never admit it _was_ the truth. And my difficulty was to find

an arbiter between us."

Diana's face changed a little. He perceived it instantly.

"Your father was sometimes arbiter," he said, in a still lower

tone--"but naturally he took your side. I shall always rejoice I had

that chance of meeting him."

Diana said nothing, but her dark eyes turned on him with a soft friendly

look. His own smiled in response, and he resumed:

"I suppose you don't know many of these people here?"

"Not any."

"I'm sure you'll like Mr. Ferrier. He is our very old friend--almost my

guardian. Of course--on politics--you won't agree!"

"I didn't expect to agree with anybody here," said Diana, slyly.

He laughed.

"I might offer you Lady Niton--but I refrain. To-morrow I have reason to

believe that two Tories are coming to dinner."

"Which am I to admire?--your liberality, or their courage?"

"I have matched them by two socialists. Which will you sit next?"

"Oh, I am proof!" said Diana. "'Come one, come all.'"

He looked at her smilingly.

"Is it always the same? Are you still in love with all the dear old

abuses?"

"And do you still hate everything that wasn't made last week?"

"Oh no! We only hate what cheats or oppresses the people."

"The people?" echoed Diana, with an involuntary lift of the eyebrows,

and she looked round the immense hall, with its costly furniture, its

glaring electric lights, and the band of bad fresco which ran round its

lower walls.

Oliver Marsham reddened a little; then said:

"I see my cousin Miss Drake. May I introduce her?--Alicia!"

A young lady had entered, from a curtained archway dividing the hall

from a passage beyond. She paused a moment examining the company. The

dark curtain behind her made an effective background for the brilliance

of her hair, dress, and complexion, of which fact--such at least was

Diana's instant impression--she was most composedly aware. At least she

lingered a few leisurely seconds, till everybody in the hall had had the

opportunity of marking her entrance. Then beckoned by Oliver Marsham,

she moved toward Diana.

"How do you do? I suppose you've had a long drive? Don't you hate

driving?"

And without waiting for an answer, she turned affectedly away, and took

a place at the tea-table where room had been made for her by two young

men. Reaching out a white hand, she chose a cake, and began to nibble it

slowly, her elbows resting on the table, the ruffles of white lace

falling back from her bare and rounded arms. Her look meanwhile, half

absent, half audacious, seemed to wander round the persons near, as

though she saw them, without taking any real account of them.

"What have you been doing, Alicia, all this time?" said Marsham, as he

handed her a cup of tea.

"Dressing."

An incredulous shout from the table.

"Since lunch!"

Miss Drake nodded. Lady Lucy put in an explanatory remark about a

"dressmaker from town," but was not heard. The table was engaged in

watching the new-comer.

"May we congratulate you on the result?" said Mr. Ferrier, putting up

his eye-glass.

"If you like," said Miss Drake, indifferently, still gently munching at

her cake. Then suddenly she smiled--a glittering infectious smile, to

which unconsciously all the faces near her responded. "I have been

reading the book you lent me!" she said, addressing Mr. Ferrier.

"Well?"

"I'm too stupid--I can't understand it."

Mr. Ferrier laughed.

"I'm afraid that excuse won't do, Miss Alicia. You must find another."

She was silent a moment, finished her cake, then took some grapes, and

began to play with them in the same conscious provocative way--till at

last she turned upon her immediate neighbor, a young barrister with a

broad boyish face.

"Well, I wonder whether _you'd_ mind?"

"Mind what?"

"If your father had done something shocking--forged--or murdered--or

done something of that kind--supposing, of course, he were dead."

"Do you mean--if I suddenly found out?"

She nodded assent.

"Well!" he reflected; "it would be disagreeable!"

"Yes--but would it make you give up all the things you

like?--golfing--and cards--and parties--and the girl you were engaged

to--and take to slumming, and that kind of thing?"

The slight inflection of the last words drew smiles. Mr. Ferrier held

up a finger.

"Miss Alicia, I shall lend you no more books."

"Why? Because I can't appreciate them?"

Mr. Ferrier laughed.

"I maintain that book is a book to melt the heart of a stone."

"Well, I tried to cry," said the girl, putting another grape into her

mouth, and quietly nodding at her interlocutor--"I did--honor bright.

But--really--what does it matter what your father did?"

"My _dear!_" said Lady Lucy, softly. Her singularly white and finely

wrinkled face, framed in a delicate capote of old lace, looked coldly at

the speaker.

"By-the-way," said Mr. Ferrier, "does not the question rather concern

you in this neighborhood? I hear young Brenner has just come to live at

West Hill. I don't now what sort of a youth he is, but if he's a decent

fellow, I don't imagine anybody will boycott him on account of his

father's misdoings."

He referred to one of the worst financial scandals of the preceding

generation. Lady Lucy made no answer, but any one closely observing her

might have noticed a sudden and sharp stiffening of the lips, which was

in truth her reply.

"Oh, you can always ask a man like that to garden-parties!" said a

shrill, distant voice. The group round the table turned. The remark was

made by old Lady Niton, who sat enthroned in an arm-chair near the fire,

sometimes knitting, and sometimes observing her neighbors with a

malicious eye.

"Anything's good enough, isn't it, for garden-parties?" said Mrs.

Fotheringham, with a little sneer.

Lady Niton's face kindled. "Let us be Radicals, my dear," she said,

briskly, "but not hypocrites. Garden-parties are invaluable--for people

you can't ask into the house. By-the-way, wasn't it you, Oliver, who

scolded me last night, because I said somebody wasn't 'in Society'?"

"You said it of a particular hero of mine," laughed Marsham. "I

naturally pitied Society."

"What is Society? Where is it?" said Sir James Chide, contemptuously. "I

suppose Lady Palmerston knew."

The famous lawyer sat a little apart from the rest. Diana, who had only

caught his name, and knew nothing else of him, looked with sudden

interest at the man's great brow and haughty look. Lady Niton shook her

head emphatically.

"We know quite as well as she did. Society is just as strong and just as

exclusive as it ever was. But it is clever enough now to hide the fact

from outsiders."

"I am afraid we must agree that standards have been much relaxed," said

Lady Lucy.

"Not at all--not at all!" cried Lady Niton. "There were black sheep

then; and there are black sheep now."

Lady Lucy held her own.

"I am sure that people take less care in their invitations," she said,

with soft obstinacy. "I have often heard my mother speak of society in

her young days,--how the dear Queen's example purified it--and how much

less people bowed down to money then than now."

"Ah, that was before the Americans and the Jews," said Sir James Chide.

"People forget their responsibility," said Lady Lucy, turning to Diana,

and speaking so as not to be heard by the whole table. "In old days it

was birth; but now--now when we are all democratic--it should be

_character_.--Don't you agree with me?"

"Other people's character?" asked Diana.

"Oh, we mustn't be unkind, of course. But when a thing is notorious.

Take this young Brenner. His father's frauds ruined hundreds of poor

people. How can I receive him here, as if nothing had happened? It ought

not to be forgotten. He himself ought to _wish_ to live quietly!"

Diana gave a hesitating assent, adding: "But I'm sorry for Mr. Brenner!"

Mr. Ferrier, as she spoke, leaned slightly across the tea-table as

though to listen to what she said. Lady Lucy moved away, and Mr.

Ferrier, after spending a moment of quiet scrutiny on the young mistress

of Beechcote, came to sit beside her.

Mrs. Fotheringham threw herself back in her chair with a little yawn.

"Mamma is more difficult than the Almighty!" she said, in a loud aside

to Sir James Chide. "One sin--or even somebody else's sin--and you are

done for."

Sir James, who was a Catholic, and scrupulous in speech, pursed his lips

slightly, drummed on the table with his fingers, and finally rose

without reply, and betook himself to the _Times_. Miss Drake meanwhile

had been carried off to play billiards at the farther end of the hall by

the young men of the party. It might have been noticed that, before she

went, she had spent a few minutes of close though masked observation of

her cousin Oliver's new friend. Also, that she tried to carry Oliver

Marsham with her, but unsuccessfully. He had returned to Diana's

neighborhood, and stood leaning over a chair beside her, listening to

her conversation with Mr. Ferrier.

His sister, Mrs. Fotheringham, was not content to listen. Diana's

impressions of the country-side, which presently caught her ear,

evidently roused her pugnacity. She threw herself on all the girl's

rose-colored appreciations with a scorn hardly disguised. All the

"locals," according to her, were stupid or snobbish--bores, in fact, of

the first water. And to Diana's discomfort and amazement, Oliver Marsham

joined in. He showed himself possessed of a sharper and more caustic

tongue than Diana had yet suspected. His sister's sallies only amused

him, and sometimes he improved on them, with epithets or comments,

shrewder than hers indeed, but quite as biting.

"His neighbors and constituents!" thought Diana, in a young

astonishment. "The people who send him to Parliament!"

Mr. Ferrier seemed to become aware of her surprise and disapproval, for

he once or twice threw in a satirical word or two, at the expense, not

of the criticised, but of the critics. The well-known Leader of the

Opposition was a stout man of middle height, with a round head and face,

at first sight wholly undistinguished, an ample figure, and smooth,

straight hair. But there was so much honesty and acuteness in the eyes,

so much humor in the mouth, and so much kindness in the general aspect,

that Diana felt herself at once attracted; and when the master of the

house was summoned by his head gamekeeper to give directions for the

shooting-party of the following day, and Mrs. Fotheringham had gone off

to attend what seemed to be a vast correspondence, the politician and

the young girl fell into a conversation which soon became agreeable and

even absorbing to both. Mrs. Colwood, sitting on the other side of the

hall, timidly discussing fancy work with the Miss Varleys, Lady Lucy's

young nieces, saw that Diana was making a conquest; and it seemed to

her, moreover, that Mr. Ferrier's scrutiny of his companion was somewhat

more attentive and more close than was quite explained by the mere

casual encounter of a man of middle-age with a young and charming girl.

Was he--like herself--aware that matters of moment might be here at

their beginning?

Meanwhile, if Mr. Ferrier was making discoveries, so was Diana. A man,

it appeared, could be not only one of the busiest and most powerful

politicians in England, but also a philosopher, and a reader, one whose

secret tastes were as unworldly and romantic as her own. Books, music,

art--he could handle these subjects no less skilfully than others

political or personal. And, throughout, his deference to a young and

pretty woman was never at fault. Diana was encouraged to talk, and then,

without a word of flattery, given to understand that her talk pleased.

Under this stimulus, her soft dark beauty was soon glowing at its best;

innocence, intelligence, and youth, spread as it were their tendrils

to the sun.

Meanwhile, Sir James Chide, a few yards off, was apparently absorbed

partly in the _Times_, partly in the endeavor to make Lady Lucy's fox

terrier go through its tricks.

Once Mr. Ferrier drew Diana's attention to her neighbor.

"You know him?"

"I never saw him before."

"You know who he is?"

"Ought I?--I am so sorry!"

"He is perhaps the greatest criminal advocate we have. And a very

distinguished politician too.--Whenever our party comes in, he will be

in the Cabinet.--You must make him talk this evening."

"I?" said Diana, laughing and blushing.

"You can!" smiled Mr. Ferrier. "Witness how you have been making me

chatter! But I think I read you right? You do not mind if one

chatters?--if one gives you information?"

"Mind!--How could I be anything but grateful? It puzzles me so--this--"

she hesitated.

"This English life?--especially the political life? Well!--let me be

your guide. I have been in it for a long while."

Diana thanked him, and rose.

"You want your room?" he asked her, kindly.--"Mrs. Fotheringham, I

think, is in the drawing-room. Let me take you to her. But, first, look

at two or three of these pictures as you go."

"These--pictures?" faltered Diana, looking round her, her tone changing.

"Oh, not those horrible frescos! Those were perpetrated by Marsham's

father. They represent, as you see, the different processes of the Iron

Trade. Old Henry Marsham liked them, because, as he said, they explained

him, and the house. Oliver would like to whitewash them--but for filial

piety. People might suppose him ashamed of his origin. No, no!--I mean

those two or three old pictures at the end of the room. Come and look at

them--they are on our way."

He led her to inspect them. They proved to be two Gainsboroughs and a

Raeburn, representing ancestors on Lady Lucy's side. Mr. Ferrier's talk

of them showed his intimate knowledge both of Varleys and Marshams, the

knowledge rather of a kinsman than a friend. Diana perceived, indeed,

how great must be the affection, the intimacy, between him and them.

Meanwhile, as the man of fifty and the slender girl in black passed

before him, on their way to examine the pictures, Sir James Chide,

casually looking up, was apparently struck by some rapid and powerful

impression. It arrested the hand playing with the dog; it held and

transformed the whole man. His eyes, open as though in astonishment or

pain, followed every movement of Diana, scrutinized every look and

gesture. His face had flushed slightly--his lips were parted. He had the

aspect of one trying eagerly, passionately, to follow up some clew that

would not unwind itself; and every now and then he bent

forward--listening--trying to catch her voice.

Presently the inspection was over. Diana turned and beckoned to Mrs.

Colwood. The two ladies went toward the drawing-room, Mr. Ferrier

showing the way.

When he returned to the hall, Sir James Chide, its sole occupant, was

walking up and down.

"Who was that young lady?" said Sir James, turning abruptly.

"Isn't she charming? Her name is Mallory--and she has just settled at

Beechcote, near here. That small fair lady was her companion. Oliver

tells me she is an orphan--well off--with no kith or kin. She has just

come to England, it seems, for the first time. Her father brought her up

abroad away from everybody. She will have a success! But of all the

little Jingoes!"

Mr. Ferrier's face expressed an amused recollection of some of Diana's

speeches.

"Mallory?" said Sir James, under his breath--"_Mallory?_" He walked to

the window, and stood looking out, his hands in his pockets.

Mr. Ferrier went up-stairs to write letters. In a few minutes the man at

the window came slowly back toward the fire, staring at the ground.

"The look in the eyes!" he said to himself--"the mouth!--the voice!"

He stood by the vast and pompous fireplace--hanging over the blaze--the

prey of some profound agitation, some flooding onset of memory. Servants

passed and repassed through the hall; sounds loud and merry came from

the drawing-room. Sir James neither saw nor heard.

CHAPTER III

Alicia Drake--a vision of pale pink--had just appeared in the long

gallery at Tallyn, on her way to dinner. Her dress, her jewels, and all

her minor appointments were of that quality and perfection to which only

much thought and plentiful money can attain. She had not, in fact, been

romancing in that account of her afternoon which has been already

quoted. Dress was her weapon and her stock in trade; it was, she said,

necessary to her "career." And on this plea she steadily exacted in its

support a proportion of the family income which left but small pickings

for the schooling of her younger brothers and the allowances of her two

younger sisters. But so great were the indulgence and the pride of her

parents--small Devonshire land-owners living on an impoverished

estate--that Alicia's demands were conceded without a murmur. They

themselves were insignificant folk, who had, in their own opinion,

failed in life; and most of their children seemed to them to possess the

same ineffective qualities--or the same absence of qualities--as

themselves. But Alicia represented their one chance of something

brilliant and interesting, something to lift them above their neighbors

and break up the monotony of their later lives. Their devotion was a

strange mixture of love and selfishness; at any rate, Alicia could

always feel, and did always feel, that she was playing her family's game

as well as her own.

Her own game, of course, came first. She was not a beauty, in the sense

in which Diana Mallory was a beauty; and of that fact she had been

perfectly aware after her first apparently careless glance at the

new-comer of the afternoon. But she had points that never failed to

attract notice: a free and rather insolent carriage, audaciously

beautiful eyes, a general roundness and softness, and a

grace--unfailing, deliberate, and provocative, even in actions, morally,

the most graceless--that would have alone secured her the "career" on

which she was bent.

Of her mental qualities, one of the most profitable was a very shrewd

power of observation. As she swept slowly along the corridor, which

overlooked the hall at Tallyn, none of the details of the house were

lost upon her. Tallyn was vast, ugly--above all, rich. Henry Marsham,

the deceased husband of Lady Lucy and father of Oliver and Mrs.

Fotheringham, had made an enormous fortune in the Iron Trade of the

north, retiring at sixty that he might enjoy some of those pleasures of

life for which business had left him too little time. One of these

pleasures was building. Henry Marsham had spent ten years in building

Tallyn, and at the end of that time, feeling it impossible to live in

the huge incoherent place he had created, he hired a small villa at Nice

and went to die there in privacy and peace. Nevertheless, his will laid

strict injunctions upon his widow to inhabit and keep up Tallyn;

injunctions backed by considerable sanctions of a financial kind. His

will, indeed, had been altogether a document of some eccentricity;

though as eight years had now elapsed since his death, the knowledge of

its provisions possessed by outsiders had had time to grow vague. Still,

there were strong general impressions abroad, and as Alicia Drake

surveyed the house which the old man had built to be the incubus of his

descendants, some of them teased her mind. It was said, for instance,

that Oliver Marsham and his sister only possessed pittances of about a

thousand a year apiece, while Tallyn, together with the vast bulk of

Henry Marsham's fortune, had been willed to Lady Lucy, and lay,

moreover, at her absolute disposal. Was this so, or no? Miss Drake's

curiosity, for some time past, would have been glad to be informed.

Meanwhile, here was the house--about which there was no mystery--least

of all, as to its cost. Interminable broad corridors, carpeted with ugly

Brussels and suggesting a railway hotel, branched out before Miss

Drake's eyes in various directions; upon them opened not bedrooms but

"suites," as Mr. Marsham père had loved to call them, of which the

number was legion, while the bachelors' wing alone would have lodged a

regiment. Every bedroom was like every other, except for such variations

as Tottenham Court Road, rioting at will, could suggest. Copies in

marble or bronze of well-known statues ranged along the corridors--a

forlorn troupe of nude and shivering divinities. The immense hall below,

with its violent frescos and its brand-new Turkey carpets, was panelled

in oak, from which some device of stain or varnish had managed to

abstract every particle of charm. A whole oak wood, indeed, had been

lavished on the swathing and sheathing of the house, With the only

result that the spectator beheld it steeped in a repellent yellow-brown

from top to toe, against which no ornament, no piece of china, no

picture, even did they possess some individual beauty, could possibly

make it prevail.

And the drawing-room! As Alicia Drake advanced alone into its empty and

blazing magnificence she could only laugh in its face--so eager and

restless was the effort which it made, and so hopeless the defeat.

Enormous mirrors, spread on white and gold walls; large copies from

Italian pictures, collected by Henry Marsham in Rome; more facile

statues holding innumerable lights; great pieces of modern china painted

with realistic roses and poppies; crimson carpets, gilt furniture, and

flaring cabinets--Miss Drake frowned as she looked at it. "What _could_

be done with it?" she said to herself, walking slowly up and down, and

glancing from side to side--"What _could_ be done with it?"

A rustle in the hall announced another guest. Mrs. Fotheringham entered.

Marsham's sister dressed with severity; and as she approached her cousin

she put up her eye-glass for what was evidently a hostile inspection of

the dazzling effect presented by the young lady. But Alicia was not

afraid of Mrs. Fotheringham.

"How early we are!" she said, still quietly looking at the reflection of

herself in the mirror over the mantel-piece and warming a slender foot

at the fire. "Haven't some more people arrived, Cousin Isabel? I thought

I heard a carriage while I was dressing."

"Yes; Miss Vincent and three men came by the late train."

"All Labor members?" asked Alicia, with a laugh.

Mrs. Fotheringham explained, with some tartness, that only one of the

three was a Labor member--Mr. Barton. Of the other two, one was Edgar

Frobisher, the other Mr. McEwart, a Liberal M.P., who had just won a

hotly contested bye-election. At the name of Edgar Frobisher, Miss

Drake's countenance showed some animation. She inquired if he had been

doing anything madder than usual. Mrs. Fotheringham replied, without

enthusiasm, that she knew nothing about his recent doings--nor about Mr.

McEwart, who was said, however, to be of the right stuff. Mr. Barton, on

the other hand, "is a _great_ friend of mine--and a most remarkable man.

Oliver has been very lucky to get him."

Alicia inquired whether he was likely to appear in dress clothes.

"Certainly not. He never does anything out of keeping with his

class--and he knows that we lay no stress on that kind of thing." This,

with another glance at the elegant Paris frock which adorned the person

of Alicia--a frock, in Mrs. Fotheringham's opinion, far too expensive

for the girl's circumstances. Alicia received the glance without

flinching. It was one of her good points that she was never meek with

the people who disliked her. She merely threw out another inquiry as to

"Miss Vincent."

"One of mamma's acquaintances. She was a private secretary to some one

mamma knows, and she is going to do some work for Oliver when the

session begins.

"Didn't Oliver tell me she is a Socialist?"

Mrs. Fotheringham believed it might be said.

"How Miss Mallory will enjoy herself!" said Alicia, with a little laugh.

"Have you been talking to Oliver about her?" Mrs. Fotheringham stared

rather hard at her cousin.

"Of course. Oliver likes her."

"Oliver likes a good many people."

"Oh no, Cousin Isabel! Oliver likes very few people--very, very few,"

said Miss Drake, decidedly, looking down into the fire.

"I don't know why you give Oliver such an unamiable character! In my

opinion, he is often not so much on his guard as I should like to

see him."

"Oh, well, we can't all be as critical as you, dear Cousin Isabel! But,

anyway, Oliver admires Miss Mallory extremely. We can all see that."

The girl turned a steady face on her companion. Mrs. Fotheringham was

conscious of a certain secret admiration. But her own point of view had

nothing to do with Miss Drake's.

"It amuses him to talk to her," she said, sharply; "I am sure I hope it

won't come to anything more. It would be very unsuitable."

"Why? Politics? Oh! that doesn't matter a bit."

"I beg your pardon. Oliver is becoming an important man, and it will

never do for him to hamper himself with a wife who cannot sympathize

with any of his enthusiasms and ideals."

Miss Drake shrugged her shoulders.

"He would convert her--and he likes triumphing. Oh! Cousin Isabel!--look

at that lamp!"

An oil lamp in an inner drawing-room, placed to illuminate an easel

portrait of Lady Lucy, was smoking atrociously. The two ladies' flew

toward it, and were soon lost to sight and hearing amid a labyrinth of

furniture and palms.

The place they left vacant was almost immediately filled by Oliver

Marsham himself, who came in studying a pencilled paper, containing the

names of the guests. He and his mother had not found the dinner very

easy to arrange. Upon his heels followed Mr. Ferrier, who hurried to the

fire, rubbing his hands and complaining of the cold.

"I never felt this house cold before. Has anything happened to your

_calorifère_? These rooms are too big! By-the-way, Oliver"--Mr. Ferrier

turned his back to the blaze, and looked round him--"when are you going

to reform this one?"

Oliver surveyed it.

"Of course I should like nothing better than to make a bonfire of it

all! But mother--"

"Of course--of course! Ah, well, perhaps when you marry, my dear boy!

Another reason for making haste!"

The older man turned a laughing eye on his companion. Marsham merely

smiled, a little vaguely, without reply. Ferrier observed him, then

began abstractedly to study the carpet. After a moment he looked up--

"I like your little friend, Oliver--I like her particularly!"

"Miss Mallory? Yes, I saw you had been making acquaintance. Well?"

His voice affected a light indifference, but hardly succeeded.

"A very attractive personality!--fresh and womanly--no nonsense--heart

enough for a dozen. But all the same the intellect is hungry, and wants

feeding. No one will ever succeed with her, Oliver, who forgets she has

a brain. Ah! here she is!"

For the door had been thrown open, and Diana entered, followed by Mrs.

Colwood. She came in slowly, her brow slightly knit, and her black eyes

touched with the intent seeking look which was natural to them. Her

dress of the freshest simplest white fell about her in plain folds. It

made the same young impression as the childish curls on the brow and

temples, and both men watched her with delight, Marsham went to

meet her.

"Will you sit on my left? I must take in Lady Niton."

Diana smiled and nodded.

"And who is to be my fate?"

"Mr. Edgar Frobisher. You will quarrel with him--and like him!"

"One of the 'Socialists'?"

"Ah--you must find out!"

He threw her a laughing backward glance as he went off to give

directions to some of his other guests. The room filled up. Diana was

aware of a tall young man, fair-haired, and evidently Scotch, whom she

had not seen before, and then of a girl, whose appearance and dress

riveted her attention. She was thin and small--handsome, but for a

certain strained emaciated air, a lack of complexion and of bloom. But

her blue eyes, black-lashed and black-browed, were superb; they made

indeed the note, the distinction of the whole figure. The thick hair,

cut short in the neck, was brushed back and held by a blue ribbon, the

only trace of ornament in a singular costume, which consisted of a very

simple morning dress, of some woollen material, nearly black, garnished

at the throat and wrists by some plain white frills. The dress hung

loosely on the girl's starved frame, the hands were long and thin, the

face sallow. Yet such was the force of the eyes, the energy of the

strong chin and mouth, the flashing freedom of her smile, as she stood

talking to Lady Lucy, that all the ugly plainness of the dress seemed to

Diana, as she watched her, merely to increase her strange effectiveness,

to mark her out the more favorably from the glittering room, from Lady

Lucy's satin and diamonds, or the shimmering elegance of Alicia Drake.

As she bowed to Mr. Frobisher, and took his arm amid the pairs moving

toward the dining-room, Diana asked him eagerly who the lady in the dark

dress might be.

"Oh! a great friend of mine," he said, pleasantly. "Isn't she splendid?

Did you notice her evening dress?"

"Is it an evening dress?"

"It's _her_ evening dress. She possesses two costumes--both made of the

same stuff, only the morning one has a straight collar, and the evening

one has frills."

"She doesn't think it right to dress like other people?"

"Well--she has very little money, and what she has she can't afford to

spend on dress. No--I suppose she doesn't think it right."

By this time they were settled at table, and Diana, convinced that she

had found one of the two Socialists promised her, looked round for the

other. Ah! there he was, beside Mrs. Fotheringham--who was talking to

him with an eagerness rarely vouchsafed to her acquaintances. A

powerful, short-necked man, in the black Sunday coat of the workman,

with sandy hair, blunt features, and a furrowed brow--he had none of the

magnetism, the strange refinement of the lady in the frills. Diana drew

a long breath.

"How odd it all is!" she said, as though to herself.

Her companion looked at her with amusement.

"What is odd? The combination of this house--with Barton--and Miss

Vincent?"

"Why do they consent to come here?" she asked, wondering. "I suppose

they despise the rich."

"Not at all! The poor things--the rich--can't help themselves--just yet.

_We_ come here--because we mean to use the rich."

"You!--you too?"

"A Fabian--" he said, smiling. "Which means that I am not in such a

hurry as Barton."

"To ruin your country? You would only murder her by degrees?"--flashed

Diana.

"Ah!--you throw down the glove?--so soon? Shall we postpone it for a

course or two? I am no use till I have fed."

Diana laughed. They fell into a gossip about their neighbors. The plain

young man, with a shock of fair hair, a merry eye, a short chin, and the

spirits of a school-boy, sitting on Lady Niton's left, was, it seemed,

the particular pet and protégé of that masterful old lady. Diana

remembered to have seen him at tea-time in Miss Drake's train. Lady

Niton, she was told, disliked her own sons, but was never tired of

befriending two or three young men who took her fancy. Bobbie Forbes was

a constant frequenter of her house on Campden Hill. "But he is no toady.

He tells her a number of plain truths--and amuses her guests. In return

she provides him with what she calls 'the best society'--and pushes his

interests in season and out of season. He is in the Foreign Office, and

she is at present manoeuvring to get him attached to the Special Mission

which is going out to Constantinople."

Diana glanced across the table, and in doing so met the eyes of Mr.

Bobbie Forbes, which laughed into hers--involuntarily--as much as to

say--"You see my plight?--ridiculous, isn't it?"

For Lady Niton was keeping a greedy conversational hold on both Marsham

and the young man, pouncing to right or left, as either showed a

disposition to escape from it--so that Forbes was violently withheld

from Alicia Drake, his rightful lady, and Marsham could engage in no

consecutive conversation with Diana.

"No escape for you!" smiled Mr. Frobisher, presently, observing the

position. "Lady Niton always devastates a dinner-party."

Diana protested that she was quite content. Might she assume, after the

fourth course, that his hunger was at least scotched and conversation

thrown open?

"I am fortified--thank you. Shall we go back to where we left off? You

had just accused me of ruining the country?"

"By easy stages," said Diana. "Wasn't that where we had come to? But

first--tell me, because it's all so puzzling!--do you and Mr.

Marsham agree?"

"A good deal. But he thinks _he_ can use _us_--which is his mistake."

"And Mr. Ferrier?"

Mr. Frobisher shook his head good-humoredly.

"No, no!--Ferrier is a Whig--the Whig of to-day, _bien entendu_, who is

a very different person from the Whig of yesterday--still, a Whig, an

individualist, a moderate man. He leads the Liberal party--and it is

changing all the time under his hand into something he dreads and

detests. The party can't do without him now--but--"

He paused, smiling.

"It will shed him some day?"

"It must!"

"And where will Mr. Marsham be then?"

"On the winning side--I think."

The tone was innocent and careless; but the words offended her.

She drew herself up a little.

"He would never betray his friends!"

"Certainly not," said Mr. Frobisher, hastily; "I didn't mean that. But

Marsham has a mind more open, more elastic, more modern than

Ferrier--great man as he is."

Diana was silent. She seemed still to hear some of the phrases and

inflections of Mr. Ferrier's talk of the afternoon. Mr. Frobisher's

prophecy wounded some new-born sympathy in her. She turned the

conversation.

With Oliver Marsham she talked when she could, as Lady Niton allowed

her. She succeeded, at least, in learning something more of her

right-hand neighbor and of Miss Vincent. Mr. Frobisher, it appeared, was

a Fellow of Magdalen, and was at present lodging in Limehouse, near the

docks, studying poverty and Trade-unionism, and living upon a pound a

week. As for Miss Vincent, in her capacity of secretary to a well-known

Radical member of Parliament, she had been employed, for his benefit, in

gathering information first-hand, very often in the same fields where

Mr. Frobisher was at work. This brought them often together--and they

were the best of comrades, and allies.

Diana's eyes betrayed her curiosity; she seemed to be asking for clews

in a strange world. Marsham apparently felt that nothing could be more

agreeable than to guide her. He began to describe for her the life of

such a woman of the people as Marion Vincent. An orphan at fourteen,

earning her own living from the first; self-dependent, self-protected;

the friend, on perfectly equal terms, of a group of able men, interested

in the same social ideals as herself; living alone, in contempt of all

ordinary conventions, now in Kensington or Belgravia, and now in a back

street of Stepney, or Poplar, and equally at home and her own mistress

in both; exacting from a rich employer the full market value of the

services she rendered him, and refusing to accept the smallest gift or

favor beyond; a convinced Socialist and champion of the poor, who had

within the past twelve months, to Marsham's knowledge, refused an offer

of marriage from a man of large income, passionately devoted to her,

whom she liked--mainly, it was believed, because his wealth was based on

sweated labor: such was the character sketched by Marsham for his

neighbor in the intermittent conversation, which was all that Lady Niton

allowed him.

Diana listened silently, but inwardly her mind was full of critical

reactions. Was this what Mr. Marsham most admired, his ideal of what a

woman should be? Was he exalting, exaggerating it a little, by way of

antithesis to those old-fashioned surroundings, that unreal atmosphere,

as he would call it, in which, for instance, he had found her--Diana--at

Rapallo--under her father's influence and bringing up? The notion

spurred her pride as well as her loyalty to her father. She began to

hold herself rather stiffly, to throw in a critical remark or two, to be

a little flippant even, at Miss Vincent's expense. Homage so warm laid

at the feet of one ideal was--she felt it--a disparagement of others;

she stood for those others; and presently Marsham began to realize a

hurtling of shafts in the air, an incipient battle between them.

He accepted it with delight. Still the same poetical, combative,

impulsive creature, with the deep soft voice! She pleased his senses;

she stirred his mind; and he would have thrown himself into one of the

old Rapallo arguments with her then and there but for the gad-fly at

his elbow.

* * * * *

Immediately after dinner Lady Niton possessed herself of Diana. "Come

here, please, Miss Mallory! I wish to make your acquaintance," Thus

commanded, the laughing but rebellious Diana allowed herself to be led

to a corner of the over-illuminated drawing-room.

"Well!"--said Lady Niton, observing her--"so you have come to settle in

these parts?"

Diana assented.

"What made you choose Brookshire?" The question was enforced by a pair

of needle-sharp eyes. "There isn't a person worth talking to within a

radius of twenty miles."

Diana declined to agree with her; whereupon Lady Niton impatiently

exclaimed: "Tut--tut! One might as well milk he-goats as talk to the

people here. Nothing to be got out of any of them. Do you like

conversation?"

"Immensely!"

"Hum!--But mind you don't talk too much. Oliver talks a great deal more

than is good for him. So you met Oliver in Italy? What do you think

of him?"

Diana, keeping a grip on laughter, said something civil.

"Oh, Oliver's clever enough--and _ambitious!_" Lady Niton threw up her

hands. "But I'll tell you what stands in his way. He says too sharp

things of people. Do you notice that?"

"He is very critical," said Diana, evasively.

"Oh, Lord, much worse than that!" said Lady Niton, coolly. "He makes

himself very unpopular. You should tell him so."

"That would be hardly my place." said Diana, flushing a little.

Lady Niton stared at her a moment rather hard--then said: "But he's

honey and balm itself compared to Isabel! The Marshams are old friends

of mine, but I don't pretend to like Isabel Fotheringham at all. She

calls herself a Radical, and there's no one insists more upon their

birth and their advantages than she. Don't let her bully you--come to me

if she does--I'll protect you."

Diana said vaguely that Mrs. Fotheringham had been very kind.

"You haven't had time to find out," said Lady Niton, grimly. She leaned

back fanning herself, her queer white face and small black eyes alive

with malice. "Did you ever see such a crew as we were at dinner? I

reminded Oliver of the rhyme--'The animals went in two by two.'--It's

always the way here. There's no _society_ in this house, because you

can't take anything or any one for granted. One must always begin from

the beginning. What can I have in common with that man Barton? The last

time I talked to him, he thought Lord Grey--the Reform Bill Lord

Grey--was a Tory--and had never heard of Louis Philippe. He knows

nothing that _we_ know--and what do I care about his Socialist

stuff?--Well, now--Alicia"--her tone changed--"do you admire Alicia?"

Diana, in discomfort, glanced through the archway, leading to the inner

drawing-room, which framed the sparkling figure of Miss Drake--and

murmured a complimentary remark.

"No!"--said Lady Niton, with emphasis; "no--she's not handsome--though

she makes people believe she is. You'll see--in five years. Of course

the stupid men admire her, and she plays her cards very cleverly;

but--my dear!"--suddenly the formidable old woman bent forward, and

tapped Diana's arm with her fan--"let me give you a word of advice.

Don't be too innocent here--or too amiable. Don't give yourself

away--especially to Alicia!"

Diana had the disagreeable feeling of being looked through and through,

physically and mentally; though at the same time she was only very

vaguely conscious as to what there might be either for Lady Niton or

Miss Drake to see.

"Thank you very much," she said, trying to laugh it off. "It is very

kind of you to warn me--but really I don't think you need." She looked

round her waveringly.

"May I introduce you to my friend? Mrs. Colwood--Lady Niton." For her

glance of appeal had brought Mrs. Colwood to her aid, and between them

they coped with this _enfant terrible_ among dowagers till the

gentlemen came in.

"Here is Sir James Childe," said Lady Niton, rising. "He wants to talk

to you, and he don't like me. So I'll go."

Sir James, not without a sly smile, discharged arrow-like at the

retreating enemy, took the seat she had vacated.

"This is your first visit to Tallyn, Miss Mallory?"

The voice speaking was the _voix d'or_ familiar to Englishmen in many a

famous case, capable of any note, any inflection, to which sarcasm or

wrath, shrewdness or pathos, might desire to tune it. In this case it

was gentleness itself; and so was the countenance he turned upon Diana.

Yet it was a countenance built rather for the sterner than the milder

uses of life. A natural majesty expressed itself in the domed forehead,

and in the fine head, lightly touched with gray; the eyes too were gray,

the lips prominent and sensitive, the face long, and, in line, finely

regular. A face of feeling and of power; the face of a Celt, disciplined

by the stress and conflict of a non-Celtic world. Diana's young

sympathies sprang to meet it, and they were soon in easy conversation.

Sir James questioned her kindly, but discreetly. This was really her

first visit to Brookshire?

"To England!" said Diana; and then, on a little wooing, came out the

girl's first impressions, natural, enthusiastic, gay. Sir James

listened, with eyes half-closed, following every movement of her lips,

every gesture of head and hand.

"Your parents took you abroad quite as a child?"

"I went with my father. My mother died when I was quite small."

Sir James did not speak for a moment. At last he said:

"But before you went abroad, you lived in London?"

"Yes--in Kensington Square."

Sir James made a sudden movement which displaced a book on a little

table beside him. He stooped to pick it up.

"And your father was tired of England?"

Diana hesitated--

"I--I think he had gone through great trouble. He never got over mamma's

death."

"Oh yes, I see," said Sir James, gently. Then, in another tone:

"So you settled on that beautiful coast? I wonder if that was the winter

I first saw Italy?"

He named the year.

"Yes--that was the year," said Diana. "Had you never seen Italy before

that?" She looked at him in a little surprise.

"Do I seem to you so old?" said Sir James, smiling. "I had been a very

busy man, Miss Mallory, and my holidays had been generally spent in

Ireland. But that year"--he paused a moment--"that year I had been ill,

and the doctors sent me abroad--in October," he added, slowly and

precisely. "I went first to Paris, and I was at Genoa in November."

"We must have been there--just about then! Mamma died in October. And I

remember the winter was just beginning at Genoa--it was very cold--and I

got bronchitis--I was only a little thing."

"And Oliver tells me you found a home at Portofino?"

Diana replied. He kept her talking; yet her impression was that he did

not listen very much to what she said. At the same time she felt herself

_studied_, in a way which made her self-conscious, which perhaps she

might have resented in any man less polished and less courteous.

"Pardon me--" he said, abruptly, at a pause in the conversation. "Your

name interests me particularly. It is Welsh, is it not? I knew two or

three persons of that name; and they were Welsh."

Diana's look changed a little.

"Yes, it is Welsh," she said, in a hesitating, reserved voice; and then

looked round her as though in search of a change of topic.

Sir James bent forward.

"May I come and see you some day at Beechcote?"

Diana flushed with surprise and pleasure.

"Oh! I should be so honored!"

"The honor would be mine," he said, with pleasant deference. "Now I

think I see that Marsham is wroth with me for monopolizing you

like this."

He rose and walked away, just as Marsham brought up Mr. Barton to

introduce him to Diana.

Sir James wandered on into a small drawing-room at the end of the long

suite of rooms; in its seclusion he turned back to look at the group he

had left behind. His face, always delicately pale, had grown strained

and white.

"Is it _possible_"--he said to himself--"that she knows nothing?--that

that man was able to keep it all from her?"

He walked up and down a little by himself--pondering--the prey of the

same emotion as had seized him in the afternoon; till at last his ear

was caught by some hubbub, some agitation in the big drawing-room,

especially by the sound of the girlish voice he had just been listening

to, only speaking this time in quite another key. He returned to see

what was the matter.

* * * * *

He found Miss Mallory the centre of a circle of spectators and

listeners, engaged apparently in a three-cornered and very hot

discussion with Mr. Barton, the Socialist member, and Oliver Marsham.

Diana had entirely forgotten herself, her shyness, the strange house,

and all her alarms. If Lady Niton took nothing for granted at Tallyn,

that was not, it seemed, the case with John Barton. He, on the contrary,

took it for granted that everybody there was at least a good Radical,

and as stoutly opposed as himself to the "wild-cat" and "Jingo" policy

of the Government on the Indian frontier, where one of our perennial

little wars was then proceeding. News had arrived that afternoon of an

indecisive engagement, in which the lives of three English officers and

some fifty men of a Sikh regiment had been lost. Mr. Barton, in taking

up the evening paper, lying beside Diana, which contained the news, had

made very much the remark foretold by Captain Roughsedge in the

afternoon. It was, he thought, a pity the repulse had not been more

decisive--so as to show all the world into what a hornet's nest the

Government was going--"and a hornet's nest which will cost us half a

million to take before we've done."

Diana's cheeks flamed. Did Mr. Barton mean to regret that no more

English lives had been lost?

Mr. Barton was of opinion that if the defeat had been a bit worse,

bloodshed might have been saved in the end. A Jingo Viceroy and a Jingo

press could only be stopped by disaster--

On the contrary, said Diana, we could not afford to be stopped by

disaster. Disaster must be retrieved.

Mr. Barton asked her--why? Were we never to admit that we were in the

wrong?

The Viceroy and his advisers, she declared, were not likely to be wrong.

And prestige had to be maintained.

At the word "prestige" the rugged face of the Labor member grew

contemptuous and a little angry. He dealt with it as he was accustomed

to deal with it in Socialist meetings or in Parliament. His touch in

doing so was neither light nor conciliatory; the young lady, he thought,

required plain speaking.

But so far from intimidating the young lady, he found in the course of a

few more thrusts and parries that he had roused a by no means despicable

antagonist. Diana was a mere mouth-piece; but she was the mouth-piece of

eye-witnesses; whereas Barton was the mouth-piece of his daily newspaper

and a handful of partisan books written to please the political section

to which he belonged.

He began to stumble and to make mistakes--gross elementary mistakes in

geography and fact--and there-with to lose his temper. Diana was upon

him in a moment--very cool and graceful--controlling herself well; and

it is probable that she would have won the day triumphantly but for the

sudden intervention of her host.

Oliver Marsham had been watching her with mingled amusement and

admiration. The slender figure held defiantly erect, the hands

close-locked on the knee, the curly head with the air of a Niké--he

could almost _see_ the palm branch in the hand, the white dress and the

silky hair, blown back by the blasts of victory!--appealed to a

rhetorical element in his nature always closely combined both with his

feelings and his ambitions. Headlong energy and partisanship--he was

enchanted to find how beautiful they could be, and he threw himself into

the discussion simply--at first--that he might prolong an emotion, might

keep the red burning on her lip and cheek. That blundering fellow Barton

should not have it all to himself!

But he was no sooner well in it than he too began to flounder. He rode

off upon an inaccurate telegram in a morning paper; Diana fell upon it

at once, tripped it up, exposed it, drove it from the field, while Mr.

Ferrier approved her from the background with a smiling eye and a

quietly applauding hand. Then Marsham quoted a speech in the

Indian Council.

Diana dismissed it with contempt, as the shaft of a _frondeur_

discredited by both parties. He fell back on Blue Books, and other

ponderosities--Barton by this time silent, or playing a clumsy chorus.

But if Diana was not acquainted with these things in the ore, so to

speak, she was more than a little acquainted with the missiles that

could be forged from them. That very afternoon Hugh Roughsedge had

pointed her to some of the best. She took them up--a little wildly

now--for her coolness was departing--and for a time Marsham could hardly

keep his footing.

A good many listeners were by now gathered round the disputants. Lady

Niton, wielding some noisy knitting needles by the fireside, was

enjoying the fray all the more that it seemed to be telling against

Oliver. Mrs. Fotheringham, on the other hand, who came up occasionally

to the circle, listened and went away again, was clearly seething with

suppressed wrath, and had to be restrained once or twice by her brother

from interfering, in a tone which would at once have put an end to a

duel he himself only wished to prolong.

Mr. Ferrier perceived her annoyance, and smiled over it. In spite of his

long friendship with the family, Isabel Fotheringham was no favorite

with the great man. She had long seemed to him a type--a strange and

modern type--of the feminine fanatic who allows political difference to

interfere not only with private friendship but with the nearest and most

sacred ties; and his philosopher's soul revolted. Let a woman talk

politics, if she must, like this eager idealist girl--not with the venom

and gall of the half-educated politician. "As if we hadn't enough of

that already!"

Other spectators paid more frivolous visits to the scene. Bobbie Forbes

and Alicia Drake, attracted by the sounds of war, looked in from the

next room. Forbes listened a moment, shrugged his shoulders, made a

whistling mouth, and then walked off to a glass bookcase--the one sign

of civilization in the vast room--where he was soon absorbed in early

editions of English poets, Lady Lucy's inheritance from a literary

father. Alicia moved about, a little restless and scornful, now

listening unwillingly, and now attempting diversions. But in these she

found no one to second her, not even the two pink-and-white nieces of

Lady Lucy, who did not understand a word of what was going on, but were

none the less gazing open-mouthed at Diana.

Marion Vincent meanwhile had drawn nearer to Diana. Her strong

significant face wore a quiet smile; there was a friendly, even an

admiring penetration in the look with which she watched the young

prophetess of Empire and of War. As for Lady Lucy, she was silent, and

rather grave. In her secret mind she thought that young girls should not

be vehement or presumptuous. It was a misfortune that this pretty

creature had not been more reasonably brought up; a mother's hand had

been wanting. While not only Mr. Ferrier and Mrs. Colwood, sitting side

by side in the background, but everybody else present, in some measure

or degree, was aware of some play of feeling in the scene, beyond and

behind the obvious, some hidden forces, or rather, perhaps, some

emerging relation, which gave it significance and thrill. The duel was a

duel of brains--unequal at that; what made it fascinating was the

universal or typical element in the clash of the two personalities--the

man using his whole strength, more and more tyrannously, more and more

stubbornly--the girl resisting, flashing, appealing, fighting for dear

life, now gaining, now retreating--and finally overborne.

For Marsham's staying powers, naturally, were the greater. He summoned

finally all his nerve and all his knowledge. The air of the

carpet-knight with which he had opened battle disappeared; he fought

seriously and for victory. And suddenly Diana laughed--a little

hysterically--and gave in. He had carried her into regions of history

and politics where she could not follow. She dropped her head in her

hands a moment--then fell back in her chair--silenced--her beautiful

passionate eyes fixed on Marsham, as his were on her.

"Brava! Brava!" cried Mr. Ferrier, clapping his hands. The room joined

in laughter and applause.

* * * * *

A few minutes later the ladies streamed out into the hall on their way

to bed. Marsham came to light a candle for Diana.

"Do you forgive me?" he said, as he gave it to her.

The tone was gay and apologetic.

She laughed unsteadily, without reply.

"When will you take your revenge?"

She shook her head, touched his hand for "good-night," and went

up-stairs.

As Diana reached her room she drew Mrs. Colwood in with her--but not, it

seemed, for purposes of conversation. She stood absently by the fire

taking off her bracelets and necklace. Mrs. Colwood made a few remarks

about the evening and the guests, with little response, and presently

wondered why she was detained. At last Diana put up her hands, and

smoothed back the hair from her temples with a long sigh. Then she laid

a sudden grasp upon Mrs. Colwood, and looked earnestly and imploringly

into her face.

"Will you--please--call me Diana? And--and--will you kiss me?"

She humbly stooped her head. Mrs. Colwood, much touched, threw her arms

around her, and kissed her heartily. Then a few warm words fell from

her--as to the scene of the evening. Diana withdrew herself at once,

shivering a little.

"Oh, I want papa!" she said--"I want him so much!"

And she hid her eyes against the mantel-piece.

Mrs. Colwood soothed her affectionately, perhaps expecting some outburst

of confidence, which, however, did not come. Diana said a quiet

"good-night," and they parted.

But it was long before Mrs. Colwood could sleep. Was the emotion she had

just witnessed--flinging itself geyserlike into sight, only to sink back

as swiftly out of ken--was it an effect of the past or an omen of the

future? The longing expressed in the girl's heart and voice, after the

brave show she had made--had it overpowered her just because she felt

herself alone, without natural protectors, on the brink of her

woman's destiny?

CHAPTER IV

The next day, when Diana looked out from her window, she saw a large and

dreary park wrapped in scudding rain which promised evil things for the

shooting-party of the day. Mr. Marsham senior had apparently laid out

his park and grounds on the same principles as those on which he had

built his house. Everything was large and expensive. The woods and

plantations were kept to a nicety; not a twig was out of place. Enormous

cost had been incurred in the planting of rare evergreens; full-grown

trees had been transplanted wholesale from a distance, and still wore in

many cases a sickly and invalided air; and elaborate contrasts in dark

and light foliage had been arranged by the landscape-gardener employed.

Dark plantations had a light border--light plantations a dark one. A

lake or large pond, with concrete banks and two artificial islands, held

the centre of the park, and on the monotonous stretches of immaculate

grass there were deer to be seen wherever anybody could reasonably

expect them.

Diana surveyed it all with a lively dislike. She pitied Lady Lucy and

Mr. Marsham because they must live in such a place. Especially, surely,

must it be hampering and disconcerting to a man, preaching the

democratic gospel, and looking forward to the democratic millennium, to

be burdened with a house and estate which could offer so few excuses for

the wealth of which they made an arrogant and uninviting display.

Immense possessions and lavish expenditure may be, as we all know, so

softened by antiquity, or so masked by taste, as not to jar with ideals

the most different or remote. But here "proputty! proputty!" was the cry

of every ugly wood and tasteless shrubbery, whereas the prospective

owner of them, according to his public utterances and career, was

magnificently careless of property--was, in fact, in the eyes of the

lovers of property, its enemy. The house again spoke loudly and

aggressively of money; yet it was the home of a champion of the poor.

Well--a man cannot help it, if his father has suffered from stupidity

and bad taste; and encumbrances of this kind are more easily created

than got rid of. No doubt Oliver Marsham's democratic opinions had been

partly bred in him by opposition and recoil. Diana seemed to get a good

deal of rather comforting light on the problem by looking at it from

this point of view.

Indeed, she thought over it persistently while she dressed. From the

normal seven-hours' sleep of youth she had awakened with braced nerves.

To remember her duel of the night before was no longer to thrill with an

excitement inexplicable even to herself, and strangely mingled with a

sense of loneliness or foreboding. Under the morning light she looked at

things more sanely. Her natural vanity, which was the reflection of her

wish to please, told her that she had not done badly. She felt a

childish pleasure in the memory of Mr. Barton's discomfiture; and as to

Mr. Marsham, it was she, and not her beliefs, not the great Imperial

"cause" which had been beaten. How could she expect to hold her own with

the professional politician when it came really to business? In her

heart of hearts she knew that she would have despised Oliver Marsham if

he had not been able to best her in argument. "If it had been papa," she

thought, proudly, "that would have been another story!"

Nevertheless, as she sat meekly under the hands of her maid, smiles

"went out and in," as she remembered the points where she had pressed

him hard, had almost overcome him. An inclination to measure herself

with him again danced within her. Will against will, mind against

mind--her temperament, in its morning rally, delighted in the thought.

And all the time there hovered before her the living man, with his

agreeable, energetic, challenging presence. How much better she had

liked him, even in his victory of the evening, than in the carping

sarcastic mood of the afternoon!

In spite of gayety and expectation, however, she felt her courage fail

her a little as she left her room and ventured out into the big populous

house. Her solitary bringing-up had made her liable to fits of shyness

amid her general expansiveness, and it was a relief to meet no

one--least of all, Alicia Drake--on her way down-stairs. Mrs. Colwood,

indeed, was waiting for her at the end of the passage, and Diana held

her hand a little as they descended.

A male voice was speaking in the hall--Mr. Marsham giving the last

directions for the day to the head keeper. The voice was sharp and

peremptory--too peremptory, one might have thought, for democracy

addressing a brother. But the keeper, a gray-haired, weather-beaten man

of fifty, bowed himself out respectfully, and Marsham turned to greet

Diana. Mrs. Colwood saw the kindling of his eyes as they fell on the

girl's morning freshness. No sharpness in the voice now!--he was all

eagerness to escort and serve his guests.

He led them to the breakfast-room, which seemed to be in an uproar,

caused apparently by Bobbie Forbes and Lady Niton, who were talking at

each other across the table.

"What is the matter?" asked Diana, as she slipped into a place to which

Sir James Chide smilingly invited her--between himself and Mr. Bobbie.

Sir James, making a pretence of shutting his ears against the din,

replied that he believed Mr. Forbes was protesting against the tyranny

of Lady Niton in obliging him to go to church.

"She never enters a place of worship herself, but she insists that her

young men friends shall go.--Mr. Bobbie is putting his foot down!"

"Miss Mallory, let me get you some fish," said Forbes, turning to her

with a flushed and determined countenance. "I have now vindicated the

rights of man, and am ready to attend--if you will allow me--to the

wants of woman. Fish?--or bacon?"

Diana made her choice, and the young man supplied her; then bristling

with victory, and surrounded by samples of whatever food the

breakfast-table afforded, he sat down to his own meal. "No!" he said,

with energy, addressing Diana. "One must really draw the line. The last

Sunday Lady Niton took me to church, the service lasted an hour and

three-quarters. I am a High Churchman--I vow I am--an out-and-outer. I

go in for snippets--and shortening things. The man here is a dreadful

old Erastian--piles on everything you can pile on--so I just felt it

necessary to give Lady Niton notice. To-morrow I have work for the

department--_at home!_ Take my advice, Miss Mallory--don't go."

"I'm not staying over Sunday," smiled Diana.

The young man expressed his regret. "I say," he said, with a quick look

round, "you didn't think I was rude last night, did you?"

"Rude? When?"

"In not listening. I can't listen when people talk politics. I want to

drown myself. Now, if it was poetry--or something reasonable. You know

the only things worth looking at--in this beastly house"--he lowered his

voice--"are the books in that glass bookcase. It was Lady Lucy's

father--old Lord Merston--collected them. Lady Lucy never looks at them.

Marsham does, I suppose--sometimes. Do you know Marsham well?"

"I made acquaintance with him and Lady Lucy on the Riviera."

Mr. Bobbie observed her with a shrewd eye. In spite of his inattention

of the night before, the interest of Miss Mallory's appearance upon the

scene at Tallyn had not been lost upon him, any more than upon other

people. The rumor had preceded her arrival that Marsham had been very

much "smitten" with her amid the pine woods of Portofino. Marsham's

taste was good--emphatically good. At the same time it was clear that

the lady was no mere facile and commonplace girl. It was Forbes's

opinion, based on the scene of the previous evening, that there might be

a good deal of wooing to be done.

* * * * *

"There are so many things I wanted to show you--and to talk about!" said

Oliver Marsham, confidentially, to Diana, in the hall after

breakfast--"but this horrid shoot will take up all the day! If the

weather is not too bad, I think some of the ladies meant to join us at

luncheon. Will you venture?"

His tone was earnest; his eyes indorsed it. Diana hoped it might be

possible to come. Marsham lingered beside her to the last minute; but

presently final orders had to be given to keepers, and country neighbors

began to arrive.

"They do the thing here on an enormous scale," said Bobbie Forbes,

lounging and smoking beside Diana; "it's almost the biggest shoot in the

county. Amusing, isn't it?--in this Radical house. Do you see that

man McEwart?"

Diana turned her attention upon the young member of Parliament who had

arrived the night before--plain, sandy-haired, with a long flat-backed

head, and a gentlemanly manner.

"I suspect a good deal's going on here behind the scenes," said Bobbie,

dropping his voice. "That man Barton may be a fool to talk, but he's a

great power in the House with the other Labor men. And McEwart has been

hand and glove with Marsham all this Session. They're trying to force

Ferrier's hand. Some Bill the Labor men want--and Ferrier won't hear of.

A good many people say we shall see Marsham at the head of a Fourth

Party of his own very soon, _Se soumettre, ou se démettre!_--well, it

may come to that--for old Ferrier. But I'll back him to fight his

way through."

"How can Mr. Marsham oppose him?" asked Diana, in wonder, and some

indignation with her companion. "He is the Leader of the party, and

besides--they are such friends!"

Forbes looked rather amused at her womanish view of things. "Friends? I

should rather think so!"

By this time he and Diana were strolling up and down the winter garden

opening out of the hall, which was now full of a merry crowd waiting

for the departure of the shooters. Suddenly Forbes paused.

"Do you see that?"

Diana's eyes followed his till they perceived Lady Lucy sitting a little

way off under a camellia-tree covered with red blossom. Her lap was

heaped with the letters of the morning. Mr. Ferrier, with a cigarette in

his mouth, stood beside her, reading the sheets of a letter which she

handed to him as she herself finished them. Every now and then she spoke

to him, and he replied. In the little scene, between the slender

white-haired woman and the middle-aged man, there was something so

intimate, so conjugal even, that Diana involuntarily turned away as

though to watch it were an impertinence.

"Rather touching, isn't it?" said the youth, smiling benevolently. "Of

course you know--there's a romance, or rather _was_--long ago. My mother

knew all about it. Since old Marsham's death, Lady Lucy's never done a

thing without Ferrier to advise her. Why she hasn't married him, that's

the puzzle.--But she's a curious woman, is Lady Lucy. Looks so soft,

but--" He pursed up his lips with an important air.

"Anyhow, she depends a lot on Ferrier. He's constantly here whenever he

can be spared from London and Parliament. He got Oliver into

Parliament--his first seat I mean--for Manchester. The Ferriers are very

big people up there, and old Ferrier's recommendation of him just put

him in straight--no trouble about it! Oh! and before that when he was at

Eton--and Oxford too--Ferrier looked after him like a father.--Used to

have him up for exeats--and talk to the Head--and keep his mother

straight--like an old brick. Ferrier's a splendid chap!"

Diana warmly agreed.

"Perhaps you know," pursued the chatterbox, "that this place is all

hers--Lady Lucy's. She can leave it and her money exactly as she

pleases. It is to be hoped she won't leave much of it to Mrs.

Fotheringham. _Isn't_ that a woman! Ah! you don't know her yet.

Hullo!--there's Marsham after me."

For Marsham was beckoning from the hall. They returned hurriedly.

"Who made Oliver that waistcoat?" said Lady Niton, putting on her

spectacles.

"I did," said Alicia Drake, as she came up, with her arm round the

younger of Lady Niton's nieces. "Isn't it becoming?"

"Hum!" said Lady Niton, in a gruff tone, "young ladies can always find

new ways of wasting their time."

Marsham approached Diana.

"We're just off," he said, smiling. "The clouds are lifting. You'll

come?"

"What, to lunch?" said Lady Niton, just behind. "Of course they will.

What else is there for the women to do? Congratulate you on your

waistcoat, Oliver."

"Isn't it superb?" he said, drawing himself up with mock majesty, so as

to show it off. "I am Alicia's debtor for life."

Yet a careful ear might have detected something a little hollow in the

tone.

Lady Niton looked at him, and then at Miss Drake, evidently restraining

her sharp tongue for once, though with difficulty. Marsham lingered a

moment making some last arrangements for the day with his sister. Diana

noticed that he towered over the men among whom he stood; and she felt

herself suddenly delighting in his height, in his voice which was

remarkably refined and agreeable, in his whole capable and masterful

presence. Bobbie Forbes standing beside him was dwarfed to

insignificance, and he seemed to be conscious of it, for he rose on his

toes a little, involuntarily copying Marsham's attitude, and looking

up at him.

As the shooters departed, Forbes bringing up the rear, Lady Niton laid

her wrinkled hand on his arm.

"Never mind, Bobbie, never mind!"--she smiled at him confidentially. "We

can't all be six foot."

Bobbie stared at her--first fiercely--then exploded with laughter, shook

off her hand and departed.

Lady Niton, evidently much pleased with herself, came back to the window

where most of the other ladies stood watching the shooters with their

line of beaters crossing the lawn toward the park beyond. "Ah!" she

said, "I thought Alicia would see the last of them!"

For Miss Drake, in defiance of wind and spitting rain, was walking over

the lawn the centre of a large group, with Marsham beside her. Her white

serge dress and the blue shawl she had thrown over her fair head made a

brilliant spot in the dark wavering line.

"Alicia is very picturesque," said Mrs. Fotheringham, turning away.

"Yes--and last summer Oliver seemed to be well aware of it," said Lady

Niton, in her ear.

"Was he? He has always been very good friends with Alicia."

"He could have done without the waistcoat," said Lady Niton, sharply.

"Aren't you rather unkind? She began it last summer, and finished it

yesterday. Then, of course, she presented it to him. I don't see why

that should expose her to remarks."

"One can't help making remarks about Alicia," said Lady Niton, calmly,

"and she can defend herself so well."

"Poor Alicia!"

"Confess you wouldn't like Oliver to marry her."

"Oliver never had any thought of it."

Lady Niton shook her queer gray head.

"Oliver paid her a good deal of attention last summer. Alicia must

certainly have considered the matter. And she is a young lady not

easily baffled."

"Baffled!" Mrs. Fotheringham laughed. "What can she do?"

"Well, it's true that Oliver seems to have got another idea in his head.

What do you think of that pretty child who came yesterday--the

Mallory girl?"

Mrs. Fotheringham hesitated, then said, coldly:

"I don't like discussing these things. Oliver has plenty of time before

him."

"If he is turning his thoughts in that quarter," persisted Lady Niton,

"I give him my blessing. Well bred, handsome, and well off--what's your

objection?"

Mrs. Fotheringham laughed impatiently. "Really, Lady Niton, I made no

objection."

"You don't like her!"

"I have only known her twenty-four hours. How can I have formed any

opinion about her?"

"No--you don't like her! I suppose you thought she talked stuff last

night?"

"Well, there can be no two opinions about that!" cried Mrs.

Fotheringham. "Her father seems to have filled her head with all sorts

of false Jingo notions, and I must say I wondered Oliver was so patient

with her."

Lady Niton glanced at the thin fanatical face of the speaker.

"Oliver had great difficulty in holding his own. She is no fool, and

you'll find it out, Isabel, if you try to argue her down--"

"I shouldn't dream of arguing with such a child!"

"Well, all I know is Ferrier seemed to admire her performance."

Mrs. Fotheringham paused a moment, then said, with harsh intensity:

"Men have not the same sense of responsibility."

"You mean their brains are befogged by a pretty face?"

"They don't put non-essentials aside, as we do. A girl like that, in

love with what she calls 'glory' and 'prestige,' is a dangerous and

demoralizing influence. That glorification of the Army is at the root of

half our crimes!"

Mrs. Fotheringham's pale skin had flushed till it made one red with her

red hair. Lady Niton looked at her with mingled amusement and

irritation. She wondered why men married such women as Isabel

Fotheringham. Certainly Ned Fotheringham himself--deceased some three

years before this date--had paid heavily for his mistake; especially

through the endless disputes which had arisen between his children and

his second wife--partly on questions of religion, partly on this matter

of the Army. Mrs. Fotheringham was an agnostic; her stepsons, the

children of a devout mother, were churchmen. Influenced, moreover, by a

small coterie, in which, to the dismay of her elderly husband, she had

passed most of her early married years, she detested the Army as a

brutal influence on the national life. Her youngest step-son, however,

had insisted on becoming a soldier. She broke with him, and with his

brothers who supported him. Now a childless widow, without ties and

moderately rich, she was free to devote herself to her ideas. In former

days she would have been a religious bigot of the first water; the

bigotry was still there; only the subjects of it were changed.

Lady Niton delighted in attacking her; yet was not without a certain

respect for her. Old sceptic that she was, ideals of any sort imposed

upon her. How people came by them, she herself could never imagine.

On this particular morning, however, Mrs. Fotheringham did not allow

herself as long a wrangle as usual with her old adversary. She went off,

carrying an armful of letters with large enclosures, and Lady Niton

understood that for the rest of the morning she would be as much

absorbed by her correspondence--mostly on public questions--as the

Leader of the Opposition himself, to whom the library was sacredly

given up.

"When that woman takes a dislike," she thought to herself, "it sticks!

She has taken a dislike to the Mallory girl. Well, if Oliver wants her,

let him fight for her. I hope she won't drop into his mouth! Mallory!

Mallory! I wonder where she comes from, and who her people are."

* * * * *

Meanwhile Diana was sitting among her letters, which mainly concerned

the last details of the Beechcote furnishing. She and Mrs. Colwood were

now "Muriel" and "Diana" to each other, and Mrs. Colwood had been

admitted to a practical share in Diana's small anxieties.

Suddenly Diana, who had just opened a hitherto unread letter, exclaimed:

"Oh, but _how_ delightful!"

Mrs. Colwood looked up; Diana's aspect was one of sparkling pleasure and

surprise.

"One of my Barbadoes' cousins is here--in London--actually in

London--and I knew nothing of her coming. She writes to me.--Of course

she must come to Beechcote--she must come at once!"

She sprang up, and went to a writing-table near, to look for a telegraph

form. She wrote a message with eagerness, despatched it, and then

explained as coherently as her evident emotion and excitement

would allow.

"They are my only relations in the world--that I know of--that papa ever

spoke to me about. Mamma's sister married Mr. Merton. He was a planter

in Barbadoes. He died about three years ago, but his widow and daughters

have lived on there. They were very poor and couldn't afford to come

home. Fanny is the eldest--I think she must be about twenty."

Diana paced up and down, with her hands behind her, wondering when her

telegram would reach her cousin, who was staying at a London

boarding-house, when she might be expected at Beechcote, how long she

could be persuaded to stay--speculations, in fact, innumerable. Her

agitation was pathetic in Mrs. Colwood's eyes. It testified to the

girl's secret sense of forlornness, to her natural hunger for the ties

and relationships other girls possessed in such abundance.

Mrs. Colwood inquired if it was long since she had had news of her

cousins.

"Oh, some years!" said Diana, vaguely. "I remember a letter

coming--before we went to the East--and papa reading it. I know"--she

hesitated--"I know he didn't like Mr. Merton."

She stood still a moment, thinking. The lights and shadows of reviving

memory crossed her face, and presently her thought emerged, with very

little hint to her companion of the course it had been taking out

of sight.

"Papa always thought it a horrid life for them--Aunt Merton and the

girls--especially after they gave up their estate and came to live in

the town. But how could they help it? They must have been very poor.

Fanny"--she took up the letter--"Fanny says she has come home to learn

music and French--that she may earn money by teaching when she goes

back. She doesn't write very well, does she?"

She held out the sheet.

The handwriting, indeed, was remarkably illiterate, and Mrs. Colwood

could only say that probably a girl of Miss Merton's circumstances had

had few advantages.

"But then, you see, we'll _give_ her advantages!" cried Diana, throwing

herself down at Mrs. Colwood's feet, and beginning to plan aloud.--"You

know if she will only stay with us, we can easily have people down from

London for lessons. And she can have the green bedroom--over the

dining-room--can't she?--and the library to practise in. It would be

absurd that she should stay in London, at a horrid boarding-house, when

there's Beechcote, wouldn't it?"

Mrs. Colwood agreed that Beechcote would probably be quite convenient

for Miss Merton's plans. If she felt a little pang at the thought that

her pleasant _tête-à-tête_ with her new charge was to be so soon

interrupted, and for an indefinite period, by a young lady with the

handwriting of a scullery-maid, she kept it entirely hidden.

Diana talked herself into the most rose-colored plans for Fanny Merton's

benefit--so voluminous, indeed, that Mrs. Colwood had to leave her in

the middle of them that she might go up-stairs and mend a rent in her

walking-dress. Diana was left alone in the drawing-room, still smiling

and dreaming. In her impulsive generosity she saw herself as the earthly

providence of her cousin, sharing with a dear kinswoman her own unjustly

plentiful well-being.

Then she took up the letter again. It ran thus:

"My dear Diana,--You mustn't think it cheeky my calling you

that, but I am your real cousin, and mother told me to write

to you. I hope too you won't be ashamed of us though we are

poor. Everybody knows us in Barbadoes, though of course

that's not London. I am the eldest of the family, and I got

very tired of living all in a pie, and so I've come home to

England to better myself.--A year ago I was engaged to be

married, but the young man behaved badly. A good riddance,

all my friends told me--but it wasn't a pleasant experience.

Anyway now I want to earn some money, and see the world a

little. I have got rather a good voice, and I am considered

handsome--at least smart-looking. If you are not too grand to

invite me to your place, I should like to come and see you,

but of course you must do as you please. I got your address

from the bank Uncle Mallory used to send us checks on. I can

tell you we have missed those checks pretty badly this last

year. I hope you have now got over your great sorrow.--This

boarding-house is horribly poky but cheap, which is the great

thing. I arrived the night before last,

"And I am

Your affectionate cousin

FANNY MERTON."

No, it really was not an attractive letter. On the second reading, Diana

pushed it away from her, rather hastily. Then she reminded herself

again, elaborately, of the Mertons' disadvantages in life, painting them

in imagination as black as possible. And before she had gone far with

this process all doubt and distaste were once more swept away by the

rush of yearning, of an interest she could not subdue, in this being of

her own flesh and blood, the child of her mother's sister. She sat with

flushed cheeks, absorbed in a stream of thoughts and reminiscence.

"You look as though you had had good news," said Sir James Chide, as he

paused beside her on his way through the drawing-room. He was not a

sportsman; nor was Mr. Ferrier.

His eyes rested upon her with such a kind interest, his manner showed so

plainly yet again that he desired to be her friend, that Diana

responded at once.

"I have found a cousin!" she said, gayly, and told the story of her

expected visitor.

Outwardly--perfunctorily--Sir James's aspect while she was speaking

answered to hers. If she was pleased, he was pleased too. He

congratulated her; he entered into her schemes for Miss Merton's

amusement. Really, all the time, the man's aspect was singularly grave,

he listened carefully to every word; he observed the speaker.

"The young lady's mother is your aunt?"

"She was my mother's sister."

"And they have been long in Barbadoes?"

"I think they migrated there just about the same time we went

abroad--after my mother's death."

Sir James said little. He encouraged her to talk on; he listened to the

phrases of memory or expectation which revealed her history--her

solitary bringing-up--her reserved and scholarly father--the singular

closeness, and yet as it seemed strangeness of her relation to him. It

appeared, for instance, that it was only an accident, some years before,

which had revealed to Diana the very existence of these cousins. Her

father had never spoken of them spontaneously.

"I hope she will be everything that is charming and delightful," he said

at last as he rose. "And remember--I am to come and see you!"

He stooped his gray head, and gently touched her hand with an old man's

freedom.

Diana warmly renewed her invitation.

"There is a house near you that I often go to--Sir William Felton's. I

am to be there in a few weeks. Perhaps I shall even be able to make

acquaintance with Miss Fanny!"

He walked away from her.

Diana could not see the instant change of countenance which accompanied

the movement. Urbanity, gentleness, kind indulgence vanished. Sir James

looked anxious and disturbed; and he seemed to be talking to himself.

The rest of the morning passed heavily. Diana wrote some letters, and

devoutly hoped the rain would stop. In the intervals of her

letter-writing, or her study of the clouds, she tried to make friends

with Miss Drake and Mrs. Fotheringham. But neither effort came to good.

Alicia, so expansive, so theatrical, so much the centre of the

situation, when she chose, could be equally prickly, monosyllabic, and

repellent when it suited her to be so. Diana talked timidly of dress, of

London, and the Season. They were the subjects on which it seemed most

natural to approach Miss Drake; Diana's attitude was inquiring and

propitiatory. But Alicia could find none but careless or scanty replies

till Madeleine Varley came up. Then Miss Drake's tongue was loosened. To

her, as to an equal and intimate, she displayed her expert knowledge of

shops and _modistes_, of "people" and their stories. Diana sat snubbed

and silent, a little provincial outsider, for whom "seasons" are not

made. Nor was it any better with Mrs. Fotheringham. At twelve o'clock

that lady brought the London papers into the drawing-room. Further

information had been received from the Afghan frontier. The English loss

in the engagement already reported was greater than had been at first

supposed; and Diana found the name of an officer she had known in India

among the dead. As she pondered the telegram, the tears in her eyes, she

heard Mrs. Fotheringham describe the news as "on the whole very

satisfactory." The nation required the lesson. Whereupon Diana's tongue

was loosed and would not be quieted. She dwelt hotly on the "sniping,"

the treacheries, the midnight murders which had preceded the expedition,

Mrs. Fotheringham listened to her with flashing looks, and suddenly she

broke into a denunciation of war, the military spirit, and the ignorant

and unscrupulous persons at home, especially women, who aid and abet

politicians in violence and iniquity, the passion of which soon struck

Diana dumb. Here was no honorable fight of equal minds. She was being

punished for her advocacy of the night before, by an older woman of

tyrannical temper, toward whom she stood in the relation of guest to

host. It was in vain to look round for defenders. The only man present

was Mr. Barton, who sat listening with ill-concealed smiles to what was

going on, without taking part in it.

Diana extricated herself with as much dignity as she could muster, but

she was too young to take the matter philosophically. She went up-stairs

burning with anger, the tears of hurt feeling in her eyes. It seemed to

her that Mrs. Fotheringham's attack implied a personal dislike; Mr.

Marsham's sister had been glad to "take it out of her." To this young

cherished creature it was almost her first experience of the kind.

On the way up-stairs she paused to look wistfully out of a staircase

window. Still raining--alack! She thought with longing of the open

fields, and the shooters. Was there to be no escape all day from the

ugly oppressive house, and some of its inmates? Half shyly, yet with a

quickening of the heart, she remembered Marsham's farewell to her of

that morning, his look of the night before. Intellectually, she was

comparatively mature; in other respects, as inexperienced and

impressionable as any convent girl.

"I fear luncheon is impossible!" said Lady Lucy's voice.

Diana looked up and saw her descending the stairs.

"Such a pity! Oliver will be so disappointed."

She paused beside her guest--an attractive and distinguished figure. On

her white hair she wore a lace cap which was tied very precisely under

her delicate chin. Her dress, of black satin, was made in a full plain

fashion of her own; she had long since ceased to allow her dressmaker

any voice in it; and her still beautiful hands flashed with diamonds,

not however in any vulgar profusion. Lady Lucy's mother had been of a

Quaker family, and though Quakerism in her had been deeply alloyed with

other metals, the moral and intellectual self-dependence of Quakerism,

its fastidious reserves and discrimination were very strong in her.

Discrimination indeed was the note of her being. For every Christian,

some Christian precepts are obsolete. For Lady Lucy that which

runs--"Judge Not!"--had never been alive.

Her emphatic reference to Marsham had brought the ready color to Diana's

cheeks.

"Yes--there seems no chance!--" she said, shyly, and regretfully, as the

rain beat on the window.

"Oh, dear me, yes!" said a voice behind them. "The glass is going up.

It'll be a fine afternoon--and we'll go and meet them at Holme Copse.

Sha'n't we, Lady Lucy?"

Mr. Ferrier appeared, coming up from the library laden with papers. The

three stood chatting together on the broad gallery which ran round the

hall. The kindness of the two elders was so marked that Diana's spirits

returned; she was not to be quite a pariah it seemed! As she walked away

toward her room, Mr. Ferrier's eyes pursued her--the slim round figure,

the young loveliness of her head and neck.

"Well!--what are you thinking about her?" he said, eagerly, turning to

the mistress of the house.

Lady Lucy smiled.

"I should prefer it if she didn't talk politics," she said, with the

slightest possible stiffness, "But she seems a very charming girl."

"She talks politics, my dear lady, because living alone with her father

and with her books, she has had nothing else to talk about but politics

and books. Would you rather she talked scandal--or Monte Carlo?"

The Quaker in Lady Lucy laughed.

"Of course if she married Oliver, she would subordinate her opinions to

his."

"Would she!" said Mr. Ferrier--"I'm not so sure!"

Lady Lucy replied that if not, it would be calamitous. In which she

spoke sincerely. For although now the ruler, and, if the truth were

known, the somewhat despotic ruler of Tallyn, in her husband's lifetime

she had known very well how to obey.

"I have asked various people about the Mallorys," she resumed. "But

nobody seems to be able to tell me anything."

"I trace her to Sir Thomas of that ilk. Why not? It is a Welsh name!"

"I have no idea who her mother was," said Lady Lucy, musing. "Her father

was very refined--_quite_ a gentleman."

"She bears, I think, very respectable witness to her mother," laughed

Ferrier. "Good stock on both sides; she carries it in her face."

"That's all I ask," said Lady Lucy, quietly.

"But that you _do_ ask!" Her companion looked at her with an eye half

affectionate, half ironic. "Most exclusive of women! I sometimes wish I

might unveil your real opinions to the Radical fellows who come here."

Lady Lucy colored faintly.

"That has nothing to do with politics."

"Hasn't it? I can't imagine anything that has more to do with them."

"I was thinking of character--honorable tradition--not blood."

Ferrier shook his head.

"Won't do. Barton wouldn't pass you--'A man's a man for a' that'--and a

woman too."

"Then I am a Tory!" said Lady Lucy, with a smile that shot pleasantly

through her gray eyes.

"At last you confess it!" cried Ferrier, as he carried off his papers.

But his gayety soon departed. He stood awhile at the window in his room,

looking out upon the sodden park--a rather gray and sombre figure. Over

his ugly impressiveness a veil of weariness had dropped. Politics and

the strife of parties, the devices of enemies and the dissatisfaction of

friends--his soul was tired of them. And the emergence of this possible

love-affair--for the moment, ardent and deep as were the man's

affections and sympathies, toward this Marsham household, it did but

increase his sense of moral fatigue. If the flutter in the blood--and

the long companionship of equal love--if these were the only things of

real value in life--how had _his_ been worth living?

CHAPTER V

The last covert had been shot, and as Marsham and his party, followed by

scattered groups of beaters, turned homeward over the few fields that

separated them from the park, figures appeared coming toward them in the

rosy dusk--Mr. Ferrier and Diana in front, with most of the other guests

of the house in their train. There was a merry fraternization between

the two parties--a characteristic English scene, in a characteristic

setting: the men in their tweed shooting-suits, some with their guns

over their shoulders, for the most part young and tall, clean-limbed and

clear-eyed, the well-to-do Englishman at his most English moment, and

brimming with the joy of life; the girls dressed in the same tweed

stuffs, and with the same skilled and expensive simplicity, but wearing,

some of them, over their cloth caps, bright veils, white or green or

blue, which were tied under their chins, and framed faces aglow with

exercise and health.

Marsham's eyes flew to Diana, who was in black, with a white veil. Some

of the natural curls on her temples, which reminded him of a Vandyck

picture, had been a little blown by the wind across her beautiful brow;

he liked the touch of wildness that they gave; and he was charmed anew

by the contrast between her frank young strength, and the wistful look,

so full of _relation_ to all about it, as though seeking to understand

and be one with it. He perceived too her childish pleasure in each

fresh incident and experience of the English winter, which proved to

her anew that she had come home; and he flattered himself, as he went

straight to her side, that his coming had at least no dimming effect on

the radiance that had been there before.

"I believe you are not pining for the Mediterranean!" he said, laughing,

as they walked on together.

In a smiling silence she drew in a great breath of the frosty air while

her eyes ranged along the chalk down, on the western edge of which they

were walking, and then over the plain at their feet, the smoke wreaths

that hung above the villages, the western sky filled stormily with the

purples and grays and crimsons of the sunset, the woods that climbed the

down, or ran in a dark rampart along its crest.

"No one can ever love it as much as I do!"--she said at last--"because I

have been an exile. That will be my advantage always."

"Your compensation--perhaps."

"Mrs. Colwood puts it that way. Only I don't like having my grievance

taken away."

"Against whom?"

"Ah! not against papa!" she said, hurriedly--"against Fate!"

"If you dislike being deprived of a grievance--so do I. You have

returned me my Rossetti."

She laughed merrily.

"You made sure I should lose or keep it?"

"It is the first book that anybody has returned to me for years. I was

quite resigned."

"To a damaging estimate of my character? Thank you very much!"

"I wonder"--he said, in another tone--"what sort of estimate you have

of _my_ character--false, or true?"

"Well, there have been a great many surprises!" said Diana, raising her

eyebrows.

"In the matter of my character?"

"Not altogether."

"My surroundings? You mean I talked Radicalism--or, as you would call

it, Socialism--to you at Portofino, and here you find me in the

character of a sporting Squire?"

"I hear"--she said, deliberately looking about her--"that this is the

finest shoot in the county."

"It is. There is no denying it. But, in the first place, it's my

mother's shoot, not mine--the estate is hers, not mine--and she wishes

old customs to be kept up. In the next--well, of course, the truth is

that I like it abominably!"

He had thrust his cap into his pocket, and was walking bareheaded. In

the glow of the evening air his strong manhood seemed to gain an added

force and vitality. He moved beside her, magnified and haloed, as it

were, by the dusk and the sunset. Yet his effect upon her was no mere

physical effect of good looks and a fine stature. It was rather the

effect of a personality which strangely fitted with and evoked her

own--of that congruity, indeed, from which all else springs.

She laughed at his confession.

"I hear also that you are the best shot in the neighborhood."

"Who has been talking to you about me?" he asked, with a slight knitting

of the brows.

"Mr. Ferrier--a little."

He gave an impatient sigh, so disproportionate to the tone of their

conversation, that Diana looked at him in sudden surprise.

"Haven't you often wondered how it is that the very people who know you

best know you least?"

The question was impetuously delivered. Diana recalled Mr. Forbes's

remarks as to dissensions behind the scenes. She stepped cautiously.

"I thought Mr. Ferrier knew everything!"

"I wish he knew something about his party--and the House of Commons!"

cried Marsham, as though a passion within leaped to the surface.

The startled eyes beside him beguiled him further.

"I didn't mean to say anything indiscreet--or disloyal," he said, with a

smile, recovering himself. "It is often the greatest men who cling to

the old world--when the new is clamoring. But the new means to be heard

all the same."

Diana's color flashed.

"I would rather be in that old world with Mr. Ferrier than in the new

with Mr. Barton!"

"What is the use of talking of preferences? The world is what it is--and

will be what it will be. Barton is our master--Ferrier's and mine. The

point is to come to terms, and make the best of it."

"No!--the point is--to hold the gate!--and die on the threshold, if need

be."

They had come to a stile. Marsham had crossed it, and Diana mounted. Her

young form showed sharply against the west; he looked into her eyes,

divided between laughter and feeling; she gave him her hand. The man's

pulses leaped anew. He was naturally of a cool and self-possessed

temperament--the life of the brain much stronger in him than the life of

the senses. But at that moment he recognized--as perhaps, for the first

time, the night before--that Nature and youth had him at last in grip.

At the same time the remembrance of a walk over the same ground that he

had taken in the autumn With Alicia Drake flashed, unwelcomed, into his

mind. It stirred a half-uneasy, half-laughing compunction. He could not

flatter himself--yet--that his cousin had forgotten it.

"What gate?--and what threshold?" he asked Diana, as they moved on. "If

you mean the gate of power--it is too late. Democracy is in the

citadel--and has run up its own flag. Or to take another metaphor--the

Whirlwind is in possession--the only question is who shall ride it!"

Diana declared that the Socialists would ride it to the abyss--with

England on the crupper.

"Magnificent!" said Marsham, "but merely rhetorical. Besides--all that

we ask, is that Ferrier should ride it. Let him only try the beast--and

he will find it tame enough."

"And if he won't?--"

"Ah, if he won't--" said Marsham, uncertainly, and paused. In the

growing darkness she could no longer see his face plainly. But presently

he resumed, more earnestly and simply.

"Don't misunderstand me! Ferrier is our chief--my chief, above all--and

one does not even discuss whether one is loyal to him. The party owes

him an enormous debt. As for myself--" He drew a long breath, which was

again a sigh.

Then with a change of manner, and in a lighter tone: "I seem to have

given myself away--to an enemy!"

"Poor enemy!"

[Illustration: "The man's pulses leaped anew".]

He looked at her, half laughing, half anxious.

"Tell me!--last night--you thought me intolerant--overbearing?"

"I disliked being beaten," said Diana, candidly; "especially as it was

only my ignorance that was beaten--not my cause."

"Shall we begin again?"

Through his gayety, however, a male satisfaction in victory pierced very

plainly. Diana winced a little.

"No, no! I must go back to Captain Roughsedge first and get some new

arguments!"

"Roughsedge!" he said, in surprise. "Roughsedge? He never carried an

argument through in his life!"

Diana defended her new friend to ears unsympathetic. Her defence,

indeed, evoked from him a series of the same impatient, sarcastic

remarks on the subject of the neighbors as had scandalized her the day

before. She fired up, and they were soon in the midst of another

battle-royal, partly on the merits of particular persons and partly on a

more general theme--the advantage or disadvantage of an optimist view of

your fellow-creatures.

Marsham was, before long, hard put to it in argument, and very

delicately and discreetly convicted of arrogance or worse. They were

entering the woods of the park when he suddenly stopped and said:

"Do you know that you have had a jolly good revenge--pressed down and

running over?"

Diana smiled, and said nothing. She had delighted in the encounter; so,

in spite of castigation, had he. There surged up in him a happy excited

consciousness of quickened life and hurrying hours. He looked with

distaste at the nearness of the house; and at the group of figures

which had paused in front of them, waiting for them, on the farther edge

of the broad lawn.

"You have convicted me of an odious, exclusive, bullying temper--or you

think you have--and all you will allow _me_ in the way of victory is

that I got the best of it because Captain Roughsedge wasn't there!"

"Not at all. I respect your critical faculty!"

"You wish to hear me gush like Mrs. Minchin. It is simply astounding the

number of people you like!"

Diana's laugh broke into a sigh.

"Perhaps it's like a hungry boy in a goody-shop. He wants to eat them

all."

"Were you so very solitary as a child?" he asked her, gently, in a

changed tone, which was itself an act of homage, almost a caress.

"Yes--I was very solitary," she said, after a pause. "And I am really

gregarious--dreadfully fond of people!--and curious about them. And I

think, oddly enough, papa was too."

A question rose naturally to his lips, but was checked unspoken. He well

remembered Mr. Mallory at Portofino; a pleasant courteous man, evidently

by nature a man of the world, interested in affairs and in literature,

with all the signs on him of the English governing class. It was

certainly curious that he should have spent all those years in exile

with his child, in a remote villa on the Italian coast. Health, Marsham

supposed, or finance--the two chief motives of life. For himself, the

thought of Diana's childhood between the pine woods and the sea gave him

pleasure; it added another to the poetical and romantic ideas which she

suggested. There came back on him the plash of the waves beneath the

Portofino headland, the murmur of the pines, the fragrance of the

underwood. He felt the kindred between all these, and her maidenly

energy, her unspoiled beauty.

"One moment!" he said, as they began to cross the lawn. "Has my sister

attacked you yet?"

The smile with which the words were spoken could be heard though not

seen. Diana laughed, a little awkwardly.

"I am afraid Mrs. Fotheringham thinks me a child of blood and thunder! I

am so sorry!"

"If she presses you too hard, call me in. Isabel and I understand each

other."

Diana murmured something polite.

Mr. Frobisher meanwhile came to meet them with a remark upon the beauty

of the evening, and Alicia Drake followed.

"I expect you found it a horrid long way," she said to Diana. Diana

disclaimed fatigue.

"You came _so_ slowly, we thought you must be tired."

Something in the drawling manner and the slightly insolent expression

made the words sting. Diana hurried on to Marion Vincent's side. That

lady was leaning on a stick, and for the first time Diana saw that she

was slightly lame. She looked up with a pleasant smile and greeting; but

before they could move on across the ample drive, Mr. Frobisher

overtook them.

"Won't you take my arm?" he said, in a low voice.

Miss Vincent slipped her hand inside his arm, and rested on him. He

supported her with what seemed to Diana a tender carefulness, his head

bent to hers, while he talked and she replied.

Diana followed, her girl's heart kindling.

"Surely!--surely!--they are in love?--engaged?"

But no one else appeared to take any notice or made any remark.

Long did the memory of the evening which followed live warm in the heart

of Diana. It was to her an evening of triumph--triumph innocent,

harmless, and complete. Her charm, her personality had by now captured

the whole party, save for an opposition of three--and the three realized

that they had for the moment no chance of influencing the popular voice.

The rugged face of Mr. Barton stiffened as she approached; it seemed to

him that the night before he had been snubbed by a chit, and he was not

the man to forget it easily. Alicia Drake was a little pale and a little

silent during the evening, till, late in its course, she succeeded in

carrying off a group of young men who had come for the shoot and were

staying the night, and in establishing a noisy court among them Mrs.

Fotheringham disapproved, by now, of almost everything that concerned

Miss Mallory: of her taste in music or in books, of the touch of

effusion in her manner, which was of course "affected" or

"aristocratic"; of the enthusiasms she did _not_ possess, no less than

of those She did. On the sacred subject of the suffrage, for instance,

which with Mrs. Fotheringham was a matter for propaganda everywhere and

at all times, Diana was but a cracked cymbal, when struck she gave back

either no sound at all, or a wavering one. Her beautiful eyes were blank

or hostile; she would escape like a fawn from the hunter. As for other

politics, no one but Mrs. Fotheringham dreamed of introducing them. She,

however, would have discovered many ways of dragging them in, and of

setting down Diana; but here her brother was on the watch, and time

after time she found herself checked or warded off.

Diana, indeed, was well defended. The more ill-humored Mrs. Fotheringham

grew, the more Lady Niton enjoyed the evening and her own "Nitonisms."

It was she who after dinner suggested the clearing of the hall and an

impromptu dance--on the ground that "girls must waltz for their living."

And when Diana proved to be one of those in whom dancing is a natural

and shining gift, so that even the gilded youths of the party, who were

perhaps inclined to fight shy of Miss Mallory as "a girl who talked

clever," even they came crowding about her, like flies about a

milk-pail--it was Lady Niton who drew Isabel Fotheringham's attention to

it loudly and repeatedly. It was she also who, at a pause in the dancing

and at a hint from Mrs. Colwood, insisted on making Diana sing, to the

grand piano which had been pushed into a corner of the hall. And when

the singing, helped by the looks and personality of the singer, had

added to the girl's success, Lady Niton sat fanning herself in reflected

triumph, appealing to the spectators on all sides for applause. The

topics that Diana fled from, Lady Niton took up; and when Mrs.

Fotheringham, bewildered by an avalanche of words, would say--"Give me

time, please, Lady Niton--I must think!"--Lady Niton would reply,

coolly--"Not unless you're accustomed to it"; while she finally capped

her misdeeds by insisting that it was no good to say Mr. Barton had a

warm heart if he were without that much more useful possession--a

narrow mind.

Thus buttressed and befriended on almost all sides, Diana drank her cup

of pleasure. Once in an interval between two dances, as she passed on

Oliver Marsham's arm, close to Lady Lucy, that lady put up her frail old

hand, and gently touched Diana's. "Do not overtire yourself, my dear!"

she said, with effusion; and Oliver, looking down, knew very well what

his mother's rare effusion meant, if Diana did not. On several

occasions Mr. Perrier sought her out, with every mark of flattering

attention, while it often seemed to Diana as if the protecting kindness

of Sir James Chide was never far away. In her white _ingenue's_ dress

she was an embodiment of youth, simplicity, and joy, such as perhaps our

grandmothers knew more commonly than we, in our more hurried and complex

day. And at the same time there floated round her something more than

youth--something more thrilling and challenging than mere girlish

delight--an effluence, a passion, a "swell of soul," which made this

dawn of her life more bewitching even for its promise than for its

performance.

For Marsham, too, the hours flew. He was carried away, enchanted; he had

eyes for no one, time for no one but Diana; and before the end of the

evening the gossip among the Tallyn guests ran fast and free. When at

last the dance broke up, many a curious eye watched the parting between

Marsham and Diana; and in their bedroom on the top floor Lady Lucy's two

nieces sat up till the small hours discussing, first, the situation--was

Oliver really caught at last?--and then, Alicia's refusal to discuss it.

She had said bluntly that she was dog-tired--and shut her door

upon them.

* * * * *

On a hint from his mother, Marsham went to say good-night to her in her

room. She threw her arms round his neck, whispering: "Dear Oliver!--dear

Oliver!--I just wished you to know--if it is as I think--that you had my

blessing."

He drew back, a little shrinking and reluctant--yet still flushed, as it

were, with the last rays Diana's sun had shed upon him.

"Things mustn't be hurried, mother."

"No--no--they sha'n't. But you know how I have wished to see you

happy--how ambitious I have been for you!"

"Yes, mother, I know. You have been always very good to me." He had

recovered his composure, and stood holding her hand and smiling at her.

"What a charming creature, Oliver! It is a pity, of course, her father

has indoctrinated her with those opinions, but--"

"Opinions!" he said, scornfully--"what do they matter!" But he could not

discuss Diana. His blood was still too hot within him.

"Of course--of course!" said Lady Lucy, soothingly. "She is so

young--she will develop. But what a wife, Oliver, she will make--how she

might help a man on--with her talents and her beauty and her refinement.

She has such dignity, too, for her years."

He made no reply, except to repeat:

"Don't hurry it, mother--don't hurry it."

"No--no"--she said, laughing--"I am not such a fool. There will be many

natural opportunities of meeting."

"There are some difficulties with the Vavasours. They have been

disagreeable about the gardens. Ferrier and I have promised to go over

and advise her."

"Good!" said Lady Lucy, delighted that the Vavasours had been

disagreeable. "Good-night, my son, good-night!"

A minute later Oliver stood meditating in his own room, where he had

just donned his smoking-jacket. By one of the natural ironies of life,

at a moment when he was more in love than he had ever been yet, he was,

nevertheless, thinking eagerly of prospects and of money. Owing to his

peculiar relation to his mother, and his father's estate, marriage would

be to him no mere satisfaction of a personal passion. It would be a

vital incident in a politician's career, to whom larger means and

greater independence were now urgently necessary. To marry with his

mother's full approval would at last bring about that provision for

himself which his father's will had most unjustly postponed. He was

monstrously dependent upon her. It had been one of the chief checks on a

strong and concentrated ambition. But Lady Lucy had long made him

understand that to marry according to her wishes would mean

emancipation: a much larger income in the present, and the final

settlement of her will in his favor. It was amazing how she had taken to

Diana! Diana had only to accept him, and his future was secured.

But though thoughts of this kind passed in tumultuous procession through

the grooves of consciousness, they were soon expelled by others. Marsham

was no mere interested schemer. Diana should help him to his career; but

above all and before all she was the adorable brown-eyed creature, whose

looks had just been shining upon him, whose soft hand had just been

lingering in his! As he stood alone and spellbound in the dark, yielding

himself to the surging waves of feeling which broke over his mind, the

thought, the dream, of holding Diana Mallory in his arms--of her head

against his breast--came upon him with a sudden and stinging delight.

Yet the delight was under control--the control of a keen and practical

intelligence. There rose in him a sharp sense of the unfathomed depths

and possibilities in such a nature as Diana's. Once or twice that

evening, through all her sweet forthcomingness, when he had forced the

note a little, she had looked at him in sudden surprise or shrinking.

No!--nothing premature! It seemed to him, as it had seemed to Bobbie

Forbes, that she could only be won by the slow and gradual conquest of a

rich personality. He set himself to the task.

* * * * *

Down-stairs Mr. Ferrier and Sir James Chide were sitting together in a

remote corner of the hall. Mr. Ferrier, in great good-humor with the

state of things, was discussing Oliver's chances, confidentially, with

his old friend. Sir James sat smoking in silence. He listened to

Ferrier's praises of Miss Mallory, to his generous appreciation of

Marsham's future, to his speculations as to what Lady Lucy would do for

her son, upon his marriage, or as to the part which a creature so

brilliant and so winning as Diana might be expected to play in London

and in political life.

Sir James said little or nothing. He knew Lady Lucy well, and had known

her long. Presently he rose abruptly and went up-stairs to bed.

"Ought I to speak?" he asked himself, in an agony of doubt. "Perhaps a

word to Ferrier?--"

No!--impossible!--impossible! Yet, as he mounted the stairs, over the

house which had just seen the triumph of Diana, over that radiant figure

itself, the second sight of the great lawyer perceived the brooding of a

cloud of fate; nor could he do anything to avert or soften its downfall.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Diana's golden hour had found an unexpected epilogue. After

her good-night to Marsham she was walking along the gallery corridor

going toward her room, when she perceived Miss Vincent in front of her

moving slowly and, as it seemed, with difficulty. A sudden impulse made

Diana fly after her.

"Do let me help you!" she said, shyly.

Marion Vincent smiled, and put her hand in the girl's arm.

"How do people manage to live at all in these big houses, and with

dinner-parties every night!" she said, laughing. "After a day in the

East End I am never half so tired."

She was indeed so pale that Diana was rather frightened, and remembering

that in the afternoon she had seen Miss Vincent descend from an upper

floor, she offered a rest in her own room, which was close by, before

the evidently lame woman attempted further stairs.

Marion Vincent hesitated a moment, then accepted. Diana hurried up a

chair to the fire, installed her there, and herself sat on the floor

watching her guest with some anxiety.

Yet, as she did so, she felt a certain antagonism. The face, of which

the eyes were now closed, was nobly grave. The expression of its deeply

marked lines appealed to her heart. But why this singularity--this

eccentricity? Miss Vincent wore the same dress of dark woollen stuff,

garnished with white frills, in which she had appeared the night before,

and her morning attire, as Mr. Frobisher had foretold, had consisted of

a precisely similar garment, adorned with a straight collar instead of

frills. Surely a piece of acting!--of unnecessary self-assertion!

Yet all through the day--and the evening--Diana had been conscious of

this woman's presence, in a strange penetrating way, even when they had

had least to do with each other. In the intervals of her own joyous

progress she had been often aware of Miss Vincent sitting apart,

sometimes with Mr. Frobisher, who was reading or talking to her,

sometimes with Lady Lucy, and--during the dance--with John Barton.

Barton might have been the Jeremiah or the Ezekiel of the occasion. He

sat astride upon a chair, in his respectable workman's clothes, his eyes

under their shaggy brows, his weather-beaten features and compressed

lips expressing an ill-concealed contempt for the scene before him. It

was rumored that he had wished to depart before dinner, having concluded

his consultation with Mr. Ferrier, but that Mrs. Fotheringham had

persuaded him to remain for the night. His presence seemed to make

dancing a misdemeanor, and the rich house, with its services and

appurtenances, an organized crime. But if his personality was the

storm-point of the scene, charged with potential lightning, Marion

Vincent's was the still small voice, without threat or bitterness, which

every now and then spoke to a quick imagination like Diana's its message

from a world of poverty and pain. And sometimes Diana had been startled

by the perception that the message seemed to be specially for her. Miss

Vincent's eyes followed her; whenever Diana passed near her, she

smiled--she admired. But always, as it seemed to Diana, with a meaning

behind the smile. Yet what that meaning might be the girl could

not tell.

At last, as she watched her, Marion Vincent looked up.

"Mr. Barton would talk to me just now about the history of his own life.

I suppose it was the dance and the supper excited him. He began to

testify! Sometimes when he does that he is magnificent. He said some

fine things to-night. But I am run down and couldn't stand it."

Diana asked if Mr. Barton had himself gone through a great struggle with

poverty.

"The usual struggle. No more than thousands of others. Only in him it is

vocal--he can reflect upon it.--You had an easy triumph over him last

night," she added, with a smile, turning to her companion.

"Who wouldn't have?" cried Diana. "What outrageous things he said!"

"He doesn't know much about India--or the Colonies. He hasn't travelled;

he reads very little. He showed badly. But on his own subjects he is

good enough. I have known him impress or convert the most unlikely

people--by nothing but a bare sincerity. Just now--while the servants

were handing champagne--he and I were standing a little way off under

the gallery. His eyes are weak, and he can't bear the glare of all these

lights. Suddenly he told me the story of his father's death."

She paused, and drew her hand across her eyes. Diana saw that they were

wet. But although startled, the girl held herself a little aloof and

erect, as though ready at a moment's notice to defend herself against a

softening which might involve a treachery to glorious and sacred things.

"It so chanced"--Miss Vincent resumed--"that it had a bearing on

experiences of my own--just now."

"You are living in the East End?"

"At present. I am trying to find out the causes of a great wave of

poverty and unemployment in a particular district."--She named it.--"It

is hard work--and not particularly good for the nerves."

She smiled, but at the same moment she turned extremely white, and as

she fell back in her chair, Diana saw her clinch her hand as though in

a strong effort for physical self-control.

Diana sprang up.

"Let me get you some water!"

"Don't go. Don't tell anybody. Just open that window." Diana obeyed, and

the northwest wind, sweeping in, seemed to revive her pale companion

almost at once.

"I am very sorry!" said Miss Vincent, after a few minutes, in her

natural voice. "Now I am all right." She drank some water, and

looked up.

"Shall I tell you the story he told me? It is very short, and it might

change your view of him."

"If you feel able--if you are strong enough," said Diana, uncomfortably,

wondering why it should matter to Miss Vincent or anybody else what view

she might happen to take of Mr. Barton.

"He said he remembered his father (who was a house-painter--a very

decent and hard-working man) having been out of work for eight weeks. He

used to go out looking for work every day--and there was the usual

story, of course, of pawning or selling all their possessions--odd

jobs--increasing starvation--and so on. Meanwhile, _his_ only

pleasure--he was ten--was to go with his sister after school to look at

two shops in the East India Dock Road--one a draper's with a 'Christmas

Bazaar'--the other a confectioner's. He declares it made him not more

starved, but less, to look at the goodies and the cakes; they _imagined_

eating them; but they were both too sickly, he thinks, to be really

hungry. As for the bazaar, with its dolls and toys, and its Father

Christmas, and bright lights, they both thought it paradise. They used

to flatten their noses against the glass; sometimes a shopman drove

them away; but they came back and back. At last the iron shutters would

come down--slowly. Then he and his sister would stoop--and stoop--to get

a last look. Presently there would be only a foot of bliss left; then

they both sank down flat on their stomachs on the pavement, and so

stayed--greedily--till all was dark, and paradise had been swallowed up.

Well, one night, the show had been specially gorgeous; they took hands

afterward, and ran home. Their father had just come in. Mr. Barton can

remember his staggering into the room. I'll give it in his words.

'Mother, have you got anything in the house?' 'Nothing, Tom.' And mother

began to cry. 'Not a bit of bread, mother?' 'I gave the last bit to the

children for their teas.' Father said nothing, but he lay down on the

bed. Then he called me. 'Johnnie,' he said, 'I've got work--for next

week--but I sha'n't never go to it--it's too late,' and then he asked me

to hold his hand, and turned his face on the pillow. When my mother came

to look, he was dead. 'Starvation and exhaustion'--the doctor said."

Marion Vincent paused.

"It's just like any other story of the kind--isn't it?" Her smile turned

on Diana. "The charitable societies and missions send them out by scores

in their appeals. But somehow as he told it just now, down-stairs, in

that glaring hall, with the champagne going round--it seemed

intolerable."

"And you mean also"--said Diana, slowly--"that a man with that history

can't know or care very much about the Empire?"

"Our minds are all picture-books," said the woman beside her, in a low,

dreamy voice: "it depends upon what the pictures are. To you the words

'England'--and the 'Empire'--represent one set of pictures--all bright

and magnificent--like the Christmas Bazaar. To John Barton and me"--she

smiled--"they represent another. We too have seen the lights, and the

candles, and the toys; we have admired them, as you have; but we know

the reality is not there. The reality is in the dark streets, where men

tramp, looking for work; it is in the rooms where their wives and

children live stifled and hungry--the rooms where our working folk

die--without having lived."

Her eyes, above her pale cheeks, had opened to their fullest extent--the

eyes of a seer. They held Diana. So did the voice, which was the voice

of one in whom tragic passion and emotion are forever wearing away the

physical frame, as the sea waves break down a crumbling shore.

Suddenly Diana bent over her, and took her hands.

"I wonder why you thought me worth talking to like this?" she said,

impetuously.

"I liked you!" said Marion Vincent, simply. "I liked you as you talked

last night. Only I wanted to add some more pictures to your

picture-book. _Your_ set--the popular one--is called _The Glories of

England_. There is another--I recommend it to you: _The Shames of

England_."

"You think poverty a disgrace?" murmured Diana, held by the glowing

fanatical look of the speaker.

"_Our_ poverty is a disgrace--the life of our poor is a disgrace. What

does the Empire matter--what do Afghan campaigns matter--while London is

rotten? However" (she smiled again, and caressed Diana's hand), "will

you make friends with me?"

"Is it worth while for you?" said Diana, laughing. "I shall always

prefer my picture-book to yours, I am afraid. And--I am not poor--and I

don't give all my money away."

Miss Vincent surveyed her gayly.

"Well, I come here," (she looked significantly round the luxurious

room), "and I am very good friends with the Marshams. Oliver Marsham is

one of the persons from whom I hope most."

"Not in pulling down wealth--and property!" cried Diana.

"Why not? Every revolution has its Philippe Égalité Oh, it will come

slowly--it will come slowly," said the other, quietly. "And of course

there will be tragedy--there always is--in everything. But not, I hope,

for you--never for you!" And once more her hand dropped softly

on Diana's.

"You were happy to-night?--you enjoyed the dance?"

The question, so put, with such a look, from another mouth, would have

been an impertinence. Diana shrank, but could not resent it. Yet,

against her will, she flushed deeply.

"Yes. It was delightful. I did not expect to enjoy it so much, but--"

"But you did! That's well. That's good!"

Marion Vincent rose feebly. And as she stood, leaning on the chair, she

touched the folds of Diana's white dress.

"When shall I see you again?--and that dress?"

"I shall be in London in May," said Diana, eagerly--May I come then? You

must tell me where."

"Ah, you won't come to Bethnal Green in that dress. What a pity!"

Diana helped her to her room, where they shook hands and parted. Then

Diana came back to her own quarters. She had put out the electric light

for Miss Vincent's sake. The room was lit only by the fire. In the

full-length mirror of the toilet-table Diana saw her own white

reflection, and the ivy leaves in her hair. The absence of her mourning

was first a pain; then the joy of the evening surged up again. Oh, was

it wrong, was it wrong to be happy--in this world "where men sit and

hear each other groan"? She clasped her hands to her soft breast, as

though defending the warmth, the hope that were springing there, against

any dark protesting force that might threaten to take them from her.

CHAPTER VI

"Henry," said Mrs. Roughsedge to her husband, "I think it would do you

good to walk to Beechcote."

"No, my dear, no! I have many proofs to get through before dinner. Take

Hugh. Only--"

Dr. Roughsedge, smiling, held up a beckoning finger. His wife

approached.

"Don't let him fall in love with that young woman. It's no good."

"Well, she must marry somebody, Henry."

"Big fishes mate with big fishes--minnows with minnows."

"Don't run down your own son, sir. Who, pray, is too good for him?"

"The world is divided into wise men, fools, and mothers. The characters

of the first two are mingled--disproportionately--in the last," said Dr.

Roughsedge, patiently enduring the kiss his wife inflicted on him.

"Don't kiss me, Patricia--don't tread on my proofs--go away--and tell

Jane not to forget my tea because you have gone out."

Mrs. Roughsedge departed, and the doctor, who was devoted to her, sank

at once into that disorderly welter of proofs and smoke which

represented to him the best of the day. The morning he reserved for hard

work, and during the course of it he smoked but one pipe. A quotation

from Fuller which was often on his lips expressed his point of view:

"Spill not the morning, which is the quintessence of the day, in

recreation. For sleep itself is a recreation. And to open the morning

thereto is to add sauce to sauce."

But in the afternoon he gave himself to all the delightful bye-tasks:

the works of supererogation, the excursions into side paths, the

niggling with proofs, the toying with style, the potterings and

polishings, the ruminations, and rewritings and refinements which make

the joy of the man of letters. For five-and-twenty years he had been a

busy Cambridge coach, tied year in and year out to the same strictness

of hours, the same monotony of subjects, the same patient drumming on

thick heads and dull brains. Now that was all over. A brother had left

him a little money; he had saved the rest. At sixty he had begun to

live. He was editing a series of reprints for the Cambridge University

Press, and what mortal man could want more than a good wife and son, a

cottage to live in, a fair cook, unlimited pipes, no debts, and the best

of English literature to browse in? The rural afternoon, especially,

when he smoked and grubbed and divagated as he pleased, was alone enough

to make the five-and-twenty years of "swink" worth while.

Mrs. Roughsedge stayed to give very particular orders to the

house-parlormaid about the doctor's tea, to open a window in the tiny

drawing-room, and to put up in brown paper a pair of bed-socks

that she had just finished knitting for an old man in one of the

parish-houses. Then she joined her son, who was already waiting for

her--impatiently--in the garden.

Hugh Roughsedge had only just returned from a month's stay in London,

made necessary by those new Army examinations which his soul detested.

By dint of strenuous coaching he had come off moderately victorious, and

had now returned home for a week's extra leave before rejoining his

regiment. One of the first questions on his tongue, as his mother

instantly noticed, had been a question as to Miss Mallory. Was she still

at Beechcote? Had his mother seen anything of her?

Yes, she was still at Beechcote. Mrs. Roughsedge, however, had seen her

but seldom and slightly since her son's departure for London. If she had

made one or two observations from a distance, with respect to the young

lady, she withheld them. And like the discerning mother that she was, at

the very first opportunity she proposed a call at Beechcote.

On their way thither, this February afternoon, they talked in a

desultory way about some new War-Office reforms, which, as usual, the

entire Army believed to be merely intended--wilfully and

deliberately--for its destruction; about a recent gambling scandal in

the regiment, or the peculiarities of Hugh's commanding officer.

Meanwhile he held his peace on the subject of some letters he had

received that morning. There was to be an expedition in Nigeria.

Officers were wanted; and he had volunteered. The result of his

application was not yet known. He had no intention whatever of upsetting

his parents till it was known.

"I wonder how Miss Mallory liked Tallyn," said Mrs. Roughsedge, briskly.

She had already expressed the same wonder once or twice. But as neither

she nor her son had any materials for deciding the point the remark

hardly promoted conversation. She added to it another of more effect.

"The Miss Bertrams have already made up their minds that she is to marry

Oliver Marsham."

"The deuce!" cried the startled Roughsedge. "Beg your pardon, mother,

but how can those old cats possibly know?"

"They can't know," said Mrs. Roughsedge, placidly. "But as soon as you

get a young woman like that into the neighborhood, of course everybody

begins to speculate."

"They mumble any fresh person, like a dog with a bone," said Roughsedge,

indignantly.

They were passing across the broad village street. On either hand were

old timbered cottages, sun-mellowed and rain-beaten; a thatched roof

showing here and there; or a bit of mean new building, breaking the

time-worn line. To their left, keeping watch over the graves which

encircled it, rose the fourteenth-century church; amid the trees around

it rooks were cawing and wheeling; and close beneath it huddled other

cottages, ivy-grown, about the village well. Afternoon school was just

over, and the children were skipping and running about the streets.

Through the cottage doors could be seen occasionally the gleam of a fire

or a white cloth spread for tea. For the womenfolk, at least, tea was

the great meal of the day in Beechcote. So that what with the flickering

of the fires, and the sunset light on the windows, the skipping

children, the dogs, the tea-tables, and the rooks, Beechcote wore a

cheerful and idyllic air. But Mrs. Roughsedge knew too much about these

cottages. In this one to the left a girl had just borne her second

illegitimate child; in that one farther on were two mentally deficient

children, the offspring of feeble-minded parents; in the next, an old

woman, the victim of pernicious anæmia, was moaning her life away; in

the last to the right the mother of five small children had just died in

her sixth confinement. Mrs. Roughsedge gave a long sigh as she looked at

it. The tragedy was but forty-eight hours old; she had sat up with the

mother through her dying hours.

"Oh, my dear!" said Mrs. Roughsedge, suddenly--"here comes the Vicar. Do

you know, it's so unlucky--and so strange!--but he has certainly taken a

dislike to Miss Mallory--I believe it was because he had hoped some

Christian Socialist friends of his would have taken Beechcote, and he

was disappointed to find it let to some one with what he calls 'silly

Tory notions' and no particular ideas about Church matters. Now there's

a regular fuss--something about the Book Club. I don't understand--"

The Vicar advanced toward them. He came along at a great pace, his lean

figure closely sheathed in his long clerical coat, his face a little

frowning and set.

At the sight of Mrs. Roughsedge he drew up, and greeted the mother and

son.

"May I have a few words with you?" he asked Mrs. Roughsedge, as he

turned back with them toward the Beechcote lane. "I don't know whether

you are acquainted, Mrs. Roughsedge, with what has just happened in the

Book Club, to which we both belong?"

The Book Club was a village institution of some antiquity. It embraced

some ten families, who drew up their Mudie lists in common and sent the

books from house to house. The Vicar and Dr. Roughsedge had been till

now mainly responsible for these lists--so far, at least, as "serious

books" were concerned, the ladies being allowed the chief voice in

the novels.

Mrs. Roughsedge, a little fluttered, asked for information.

"Miss Mallory has recommended two books which, in my opinion, should not

be circulated among us," said the Vicar. "I have protested--in vain.

Miss Mallory maintains her recommendation. I propose, therefore, to

withdraw from the Club."

"Are they improper?" cried Mrs. Roughsedge, much distressed. Captain

Roughsedge threw an angry look first at his mother and then at

the Vicar.

"Not in the usual sense," said the Vicar, stiffly--"but highly improper

for the reading of Christian people. One is by a Unitarian, and the

other reproduces some of the worst speculations of an infidel German

theology. I pointed out the nature of the books to Miss Mallory. She

replied that they were both by authors whom her father liked. I

regretted it. Then she fired up, refused to withdraw the names, and

offered to resign. Miss Mallory's subscription to the Club is, however,

much larger than mine. _I_ shall therefore resign--protesting, of

course, against the reason which induces me to take this course."

"What's wrong with the books?" asked Hugh Roughsedge.

The Vicar drew himself up.

"I have given my reasons."

"Why, you see that kind of thing in every newspaper," said Roughsedge,

bluntly.

"All the more reason why I should endeavor to keep my parish free from

it," was the Vicar's resolute reply. "However, there is no more to be

said. I wished Mrs. Roughsedge to understand what had happened--that

is all."

He paused, and offered a limp hand in good-bye.

"Let me speak to Miss Mallory," said Mrs. Roughsedge, soothingly.

The Vicar shook his head.

"She is a young lady of strong will." And with a hasty nod of farewell

to the Captain, whose hostility he divined, he walked away.

"And what about obstinate and pig-headed parsons!" said Roughsedge,

hotly, addressing his remark, however, safely to the Vicar's back, and

to his mother. "Who makes him a judge of what we shall read! I shall

make a point of asking for both the books!"

"Oh, my dear Hugh!" cried his mother, in rather troubled protest. Then

she happily reflected that if he asked for them, he was not in the least

likely to read them. "I hope Miss Mallory is not really an unbeliever."

"Mother! Of course, what that poker in a wide-awake did was to say

something uncivil about her father, and she wasn't going to stand that.

Quite right, too."

"She did come to church on Christmas Day," said Mrs. Roughsedge,

reflecting. "But, then, a great many people do that who don't believe

anything. Anyway, she has always been quite charming to your father and

me. And I think, besides, the Vicar might have been satisfied with your

father's opinion--_he_ made no complaint about the books. Oh, now the

Miss Bertrams are going to stop us! They'll of course know all

about it!"

If Captain Roughsedge growled ugly words into his mustache, his mother

was able to pretend not to hear them, in the gentle excitement of

shaking hands with the Miss Bertrams. These middle-aged ladies, the

daughters of a deceased doctor from the neighboring county town of

Dunscombe, were, if possible, more plainly dressed than usual, and their

manners more forbidding.

"You will have heard of this disagreeable incident which has occurred,"

said Miss Maria to Mrs. Roughsedge, with a pinched mouth. "My sister and

I shall, of course, remove our names from the Club."

"I say--don't your subscribers order the books they like?" asked

Roughsedge, half wroth and half laughing, surveying the lady with his

hand on his side.

"There is a very clear understanding among us," said Miss Maria,

sharply, "as to the character of the books to be ordered. No member of

the Club has yet transgressed it."

"There must be give and take, mustn't there?" said Miss Elizabeth, in a

deprecatory voice. She was the more amiable and the weaker of the two

sisters. "_We_ should _never_ order books that would be offensive to

Miss Mallory."

"But if you haven't read the books?"

"The Vicar's word is quite enough," said Miss Maria, with her most

determined air.

They all moved on together, Captain Roughsedge smoothing or tugging at

his mustache with a restless hand.

But Miss Bertram, presently, dropping a little behind, drew Mrs.

Roughsedge with her.

"There are all sorts of changes at the house," she said, confidentially.

"The laundry maids are allowed to go out every evening, if they

like--and Miss Mallory makes no attempt to influence the servants to

come to church. The Vicar says the seats for the Beechcote servants have

never been so empty."

"Dear, dear!" murmured Mrs. Roughsedge.

"And money is improperly given away. Several people whom the Vicar

thinks most unfit objects of charity have been assisted. And in a

conversation with her last week Miss Mallory expressed herself in a very

sad way about foreign missions. Her father's idea, again, no doubt--but

it is all very distressing. The Vicar doubts"--Miss Maria spoke warily,

bringing her face very close to the gray curls--"whether she has ever

been confirmed."

This final stroke, however, fell flat. Mrs. Roughsedge showed no

emotion. "Most of my aunts," she said, stoutly, "were never confirmed,

and they were good Christians and communicants all their lives."

Miss Maria's expression showed that this reference to a preceding

barbaric age of the Church had no relevance to the existing order

of things.

"Of course," she added, hastily, "I do not wish to make myself

troublesome or conspicuous in any way. I merely mention these things as

explaining why the Vicar felt bound to make a stand. The Church feeling

in this parish has been so strong it would, indeed, be a pity if

anything occurred to weaken it."

Mrs. Roughsedge gave a doubtful assent. As to the Church feeling, she

was not so clear as Miss Bertram. One of her chief friends was a

secularist cobbler who lived under the very shadow of the church. The

Miss Bertrams shuddered at his conversation. Mrs. Roughsedge found him

racy company, and he presented to her aspects of village life and

opinion with which the Miss Bertrams were not at all acquainted.

* * * * *

As the mother and son approached the old house in the sunset light, its

aspect of mellow and intimate congruity with the woods and fields about

it had never been more winning. The red, gray, and orange of its old

brickwork played into the brown and purples of its engirdling trees,

into the lilacs and golds and crimsons of the western sky behind it,

into the cool and quiet tones of the meadows from which it rose. A

spirit of beauty had been at work fusing man's perishable and passing

work with Nature's eternal masterpiece; so that the old house had in it

something immortal, and the light which played upon it something gently

personal, relative, and fleeting. Winter was still dominant; a northeast

wind blew. But on the grass under the spreading oaks which sheltered the

eastern front a few snow-drops were out. And Diana was gathering them.

She came toward her visitors with alacrity. "Oh! what a long time since

you have been to see me!"

Mrs. Roughsedge explained that she had been entertaining some relations,

and Hugh had been in London. She hoped that Miss Mallory had enjoyed her

stay at Tallyn. It certainly seemed to both mother and son that the

ingenuous young face colored a little as its owner replied--"Thank

you--it was very amusing"--and then added, with a little

hesitation--"Mr. Marsham has been kindly advising me since, about the

gardens--and the Vavasours. _They_ were to keep up the gardens, you

know--and now they practically leave it to me--which isn't fair."

Mrs. Roughsedge secretly wondered whether this statement was meant to

account for the frequent presence of Oliver Marsham at Beechcote. She

had herself met him in the lane riding away from Beechcote no less than

three times during the past fortnight.

"Please come in to tea!" said Diana; "I am just expecting my

cousin--Miss Merton. Mrs. Colwood and I are so excited!--we have never

had a visitor here before. I came out to try and find some snow-drops

for her room. There is really nothing in the greenhouses--and I can't

make the house look nice."

Certainly as they entered and passed through the panelled hall to the

drawing-room Hugh Roughsedge saw no need for apology. Amid the warm

dimness of the house he was aware of a few starry flowers, a few

gleaming and beautiful stuffs, the white and black of an engraving, or

the blurred golds and reds of an old Italian picture, humble school-work

perhaps, collected at small cost by Diana's father, yet still breathing

the magic of the Enchanted Land. The house was refined, pleading,

eager--like its mistress. It made no display--but it admitted no

vulgarity. "These things are not here for mere decoration's sake," it

seemed to say. "Dear kind hands have touched them; dear silent voices

have spoken of them. Love them a little, you also!--and be at home."

Not that Hugh Roughsedge made any such conscious analysis of his

impressions. Yet the house appealed to him strangely. He thought Miss

Mallory's taste marvellous; and it is one of the superiorities in women

to which men submit most readily.

The drawing-room had especially a festive air. Mrs. Colwood was keeping

tea-cakes hot, and building up a blazing fire with logs of beech-wood.

When she had seated her guests, Diana put the snow-drops she had

gathered into an empty vase, and looked round her happily, as though now

she had put the last touch to all her preparations. She talked readily

of her cousin's coming to Mrs. Roughsedge; and she inquired minutely of

Hugh when the next meet was to be, that she might take her guest to

see it.

"Fanny will be just as new to it all as I!" she said. "That's so nice,

isn't it?" Then she offered Mrs. Roughsedge cake, and looked at her

askance with a hanging head. "Have you heard--about the Vicar?"

Mrs. Roughsedge admitted it.

"I did lose my temper," said Diana, repentantly. "But _really!_--papa

used to tell me it was a sign of weakness to say violent things you

couldn't prove. Wasn't it Lord Shaftesbury that said some book he didn't

like was 'vomited out of the jaws of hell'? Well, the Vicar said things

very like that. He did indeed!"

"Oh no, my dear, no!" cried Mrs. Roughsedge, disturbed by the quotation,

even, of such a remark. Hugh Roughsedge grinned. Diana,

however, insisted.

"Of course, I would have given them up. Only I just happened to say that

papa always read everything he could by those two men--and then"--she

flushed--"Well, I don't exactly remember what Mr. Lavery said. But I

know that when he'd said it I wouldn't have given up either of those

books for the world!"

"I hope, Miss Mallory, you won't think of giving them up," said Hugh,

with vigor. "It will be an excellent thing for Lavery."

Mrs. Roughsedge, as the habitual peacemaker of the village, said hastily

that Dr. Roughsedge should talk to the Vicar. Of course, he must not be

allowed to do anything so foolish as to withdraw from the Club, or the

Miss Bertrams either."

"Oh! my goodness," cried Diana, hiding her face--and then raising it,

crimson. "The Miss Bertrams, too! Why, it's only six weeks since I

first came to this place, and now I'm setting it by the ears!"

Her aspect of mingled mirth and dismay had in it something so childish

and disarming that Mrs. Roughsedge could only wish the Vicar had been

there to see. His heretical parishioner fell into meditation.

"What can I do? If I could only be sure that he would never say things

like that to me again--"

"But he will!" said Captain Roughsedge. "Don't give in, Miss Mallory."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Roughsedge, as the door opened, "shall we ask Mr.

Marsham?"

Diana turned with a startled movement. It was evident that Marsham was

not expected. But Mrs. Roughsedge also inferred from a shrewd

observation of her hostess that he was not unwelcome. He had, in fact,

looked in on his way home from hunting to give a message from his

mother; that, at least, was the pretext. Hugh Roughsedge, reading him

with a hostile eye, said to himself that if it hadn't been Lady Lucy it

would have been something else. As it happened, he was quite as well

aware as his mother that Marsham's visits to Beechcote of late had been

far more frequent than mere neighborliness required.

Marsham was in hunting dress, and made his usual handsome and energetic

impression. Diana treated him with great self-possession, asking after

Mr. Ferrier, who had just returned to Tallyn for the last fortnight

before the opening of Parliament, and betraying to the Roughsedges that

she was already on intimate terms with Lady Lucy, who was lending her

patterns for her embroidery, driving over once or twice a week, and

advising her about various household affairs. Mrs. Roughsedge, who had

been Diana's first protector, saw herself supplanted--not without a

little natural chagrin.

The controversy of the moment was submitted to Marsham, who decided

hotly against the Vicar, and implored Diana to stand firm. But somehow

his intervention only hastened the compunction that had already begun to

work in her. She followed the Roughsedges to the door when

they departed.

"What must I do?" she said, sheepishly, to Mrs. Roughsedge. "Write to

him?"

"The Vicar? Oh, dear Miss Mallory, the doctor will settle it. You

_would_-change the books?"

"Mother!" cried Hugh Roughsedge, indignantly, "we're all bullied--you

know we are--and now you want Miss Mallory bullied too."

"'Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow,'" laughed Marsham,

in the background, as he stood toying with his tea beside Mrs. Colwood.

Diana shook her head.

"I can't be friends with him," she said, naively, "for a long long time.

But I'll rewrite my list. And _must_ I go and call on the Miss Bertrams

to-morrow?"

Her mock and smiling submission, as she stood, slender and lovely, amid

the shadows of the hall, seemed to Hugh Roughsedge, as he looked back

upon her, the prettiest piece of acting. Then she turned, and he knew

that she was going back to Marsham. At the same moment he saw Mrs.

Colwood's little figure disappearing up the main stairway. Frowning and

silent, he followed his mother out of the house.

Diana looked round rather wistfully for Mrs. Colwood as she re-entered

the room; but that lady had many letters to write.

Marsham noticed Mrs. Colwood's retreat with a thrill of pleasure. Yet

even now he had no immediate declaration in his mind. The course that he

had marked out for himself had been exactly followed. There had been no

"hurrying it." Only in these weeks before Parliament, while matters of

great moment to his own political future were going forward, and his

participation in them was not a whit less cool and keen than it had

always been, he had still found abundant time for the wooing of Diana.

He had assumed a kind of guardian's attitude in the matter of her

relations to the Vavasours--who in business affairs had proved both

greedy and muddle-headed; he had flattered her woman's vanity by the

insight he had freely allowed her into the possibilities and the

difficulties of his own Parliamentary position, and of his relations to

Ferrier; and he had kept alive a kind of perpetual interest and flutter

in her mind concerning him, by the challenge he was perpetually offering

to the opinions and ideas in which she had been brought up--while yet

combining it with a respect toward her father's memory, so courteous,

and, in truth, sincere, that she was alternately roused and subdued.

On this February evening, it seemed to his exultant sense, as Diana sat

chatting to him beside the fire, that his power with her had

substantially advanced, that by a hundred subtle signs--quite

involuntary on her part--she let him understand that his personality was

pressing upon hers, penetrating her will, transforming her gay and

fearless composure.

For instance, he had been lending her books representing his own

political and social opinions. To her they were anathema. Her father's

soul in her regarded them as forces of the pit, rising in ugly clamor to

drag down England from her ancient place. But to hate and shudder at

them from afar had been comparatively easy. To battle with them at close

quarters, as presented by this able and courteous antagonist, who passed

so easily and without presumption from the opponent into the teacher,

was a more teasing matter. She had many small successes and

side-victories, but they soon ceased to satisfy her, in presence of the

knowledge and ability of a man who had been ten years in Parliament, and

had made for himself--she began to understand--a considerable position

there. She was hotly loyal to her own faiths; but she was conscious of

what often seemed to her a dangerous and demoralizing interest in his! A

demoralizing pleasure, too, in listening--in sometimes laying aside the

watchful, hostile air, in showing herself sweet, yielding, receptive.

These melting moods, indeed, were rare. But no one watching the two on

this February evening could have failed to see in Diana signs of

happiness, of a joyous and growing dependence, of something that refused

to know itself, that masqueraded now as this feeling, now as that, yet

was all the time stealing upon the sources of life, bewitching blood and

brain. Marsham lamented that in ten days he and his mother must be in

town for the Parliamentary season. Diana clearly endeavored to show

nothing more than a polite regret. But in the half-laughing,

half-forlorn requests she made to him for advice in certain practical

matters which must be decided in his absence she betrayed herself; and

Marsham found it amazingly sweet that she should do so. He said eagerly

that he and Lady Lucy must certainly come down to Tallyn every alternate

Sunday, so that the various small matters he had made Diana intrust to

him--the finding of a new gardener; negotiations with the Vavasours,

connected with the cutting of certain trees--or the repairs of a ruinous

gable of the house--should still be carried forward with all possible

care and speed. Whereupon Diana inquired how such things could possibly

engage the time and thought of a politician in the full stream of

Parliament.

"They will be much more interesting to me," said Marsham, in a low

steady voice, "than anything I shall be doing in Parliament."

Diana rose, in sudden vague terror--as though with the roar in her ears

of rapids ahead--murmured some stammering thanks, walked across the

room, lowered a lamp which was flaming, and recovered all her smiling

self-possession. But she talked no more of her own affairs. She asked

him, instead, for news of Miss Vincent.

Marsham answered, with difficulty. If there had been sudden alarm in

her, there had been a sudden tumult of the blood in him. He had almost

lost his hold upon himself; the great words had been almost spoken.

But when the conversation had been once more guided into normal

channels, he felt that he had escaped a risk. No, no, not yet! One false

step--one check--and he might still find himself groping in the dark.

Better let himself be missed a little!--than move too soon. As to

Roughsedge--he had kept his eyes open. There was nothing there.

So he gave what news of Marion Vincent he had to give. She was still in

Bethnal Green working at her inquiry, often very ill, but quite

indomitable. As soon as Parliament began she had promised to do some

secretarial work for Marsham on two or three mornings a week.

"I saw her last week," said Marsham. "She always asks after you."

"I am so glad! I fell in love with her. Surely"--Diana

hesitated--"surely--some day--she will marry Mr. Frobisher?"

Marsham shook his head.

"I think she feels herself too frail."

Diana remembered that little scene of intimacy--of tenderness--and

Marsham's words stirred about her, as it were, winds of sadness and

renunciation. She shivered under them a little, feeling, almost

guiltily, the glow of her own life, the passion of her own hopes.

Marsham watched her as she sat on the other side of the fire, her

beautiful head a little bent and pensive, the firelight playing on the

oval of her cheek. How glad he was that he had not spoken!--that the

barrier between them still held. A man may find heaven or hell on the

other side of it. But merely to have crossed it makes life the poorer.

One more of the great, the irrevocable moments spent and done--yielded

to devouring time. He hugged the thought that it was still before him.

The very timidity and anxiety he felt were delightful to him; he had

never felt them before. And once more--involuntarily, disagreeably--he

thought of Alicia Drake, and of the passages between them in the

preceding summer.

Alicia was still at Tallyn, and her presence was, in truth, a constant

embarrassment to him. Lady Lucy, on the contrary, had a strong sense of

family duty toward her young cousin, and liked to have her for long

visits at Tallyn or in London. Marsham believed his mother knew nothing

of the old flirtation between them. Alicia, indeed, rarely showed any

special interest in him now. He admitted her general discretion. Yet

occasionally she would put in a claim, a light word, now mocking, now

caressing, which betrayed the old intimacy, and Marsham would wince

under it. It was like a creeping touch in the dark. He had known what it

was to feel both compunction and a kind of fear with regard to Alicia.

But, normally, he told himself that both feelings were ridiculous. He

had done nothing to compromise either himself or her. He had certainly

flirted with Alicia; but he could not honestly feel that the chief part

in the matter had been his.

These thoughts passed in a flash. The clock struck, and regretfully he

got up to take his leave. Diana rose, too, with a kindling face.

"My cousin will be here directly!" she said, joyously.

"Shall I find her installed when I come next time?"

"I mean to keep her as long--as long--as ever I can!"

Marsham held her hand close and warm a moment, felt her look waver a

second beneath his, and then, with a quick and resolute step, he

went his way.

He was just putting on his coat in the outer hall when there was a sound

of approaching wheels. A carriage stopped at the door, to which the

butler hurried. As he opened it Marsham saw in the light of the porch

lamp the face of a girl peering out of the carriage window. It was a

little awkward. His own horse was held by a groom on the other side of

the carriage. There was nothing to do but to wait till the young lady

had passed. He drew to one side.

Miss Merton descended. There was just time for Marsham to notice an

extravagant hat, smothered in ostrich feathers, a large-featured, rather

handsome face, framed in a tangled mass of black hair, a pair of sharp

eyes that seemed to take in hungrily all they saw--the old hall, the

butler, and himself, as he stood in the shadow. He heard the new guest

speak to the butler about her luggage. Then the door of the inner hall

opened, and he caught Diana's hurrying feet, and her cry--

"Fanny!"

He passed the lady and escaped. As he rode away into the darkness of the

lanes he was conscious of an impression which had for the moment checked

the happy flutter of blood and pulse. Was _that_ the long-expected

cousin? Poor Diana! A common-looking, vulgar young woman--with a most

unpleasant voice and accent. An unpleasant manner, too, to the

servants--half arrogant, half familiar. What a hat!--and what a

fringe!--worthy of some young "lidy" in the Old Kent Road! The thought

of Diana sitting at table with such a person on equal terms pricked him

with annoyance; for he had all his mother's fastidiousness, though it

showed itself in different forms. He blamed Mrs. Colwood--Diana ought to

have been more cautiously guided. The thought of all the tender

preparation made for the girl was both amusing and repellent.

Miss Merton, he understood, was Diana's cousin on the mother's side--the

daughter of her mother's sister. A swarm of questions suddenly arose in

his mind--questions not hitherto entertained. Had there been, in fact, a

_mésalliance_--some disagreeable story--which accounted, perhaps, for

the self-banishment of Mr. Mallory?--the seclusion in which Diana had

been brought up? The idea was most unwelcome, but the sight of Fanny

Merton had inevitably provoked it. And it led on to a good many other

ideas and speculations of a mingled sort connected, now with Diana, now

with recollections, pleasant and unpleasant, of the eight or ten years

which had preceded his first sight of her.

For Oliver Marsham was now thirty-six, and he had not reached that age

without at least one serious attempt--quite apart from any passages with

Alicia Drake--to provide himself with a wife. Some two years before this

date he had proposed to a pretty girl of great family and no money, with

whom he supposed himself ardently in love. She, after some hesitation,

had refused him, and Marsham had had some reason to believe that in

spite of his mother's great fortune and his own expectations, his

_provenance_ had not been regarded as sufficiently aristocratic by the

girl's fond parents. Perhaps had he--and not Lady Lucy--been the owner

of Tallyn and its £18,000 a year, things might have been different. As

it was, Marsham had felt the affront, as a strong and self-confident man

was likely to feel it; and it was perhaps in reaction from it that he

had allowed himself those passages with Alicia Drake which had, at

least, soothed his self-love.

In this affair Marsham had acted on one of the convictions with which he

had entered public life--that there is no greater help to a politician

than a distinguished, clever, and, if possible, beautiful wife.

Distinction, Radical though he was, had once seemed to him a matter of

family and "connection." But after the failure of his first attempt,

"family," in the ordinary sense, had ceased to attract him. Personal

breeding, intelligence, and charm--these, after all, are what the

politician who is already provided with money, wants to secure in his

wife; without, of course, any obvious disqualification in the way of

family history. Diana, as he had first met her among the woods at

Portofino, side by side with her dignified and gentlemanly father, had

made upon him precisely that impression of personal distinction of which

he was in search--upon his mother also.

The appearance and the accent, however, of the cousin had struck him

with surprise; nor was it till he was nearing Tallyn that he succeeded

in shaking off the impression. Absurd! Everybody has some relations that

require to be masked--like the stables, or the back door--in a skilful

arrangement of life. Diana, his beautiful, unapproachable Diana, would

soon, no doubt, be relieved of this young lady, with whom she could have

no possible interests in common. And, perhaps, on one of his week-end

visits to Tallyn and Beechcote, he might get a few minutes' conversation

with Mrs. Colwood which would throw some light on the new guest.

* * * * *

Diana meanwhile, assisted by Mrs. Colwood, was hovering about her

cousin. She and Miss Merton had kissed each other in the hall, and then

Diana, seized with a sudden shyness, led her guest into the drawing-room

and stood there speechless, a little; holding her by both hands and

gazing at her; mastered by feeling and excitement.

"Well, you _have_ got a queer old place!" said Fanny Merton, withdrawing

herself. She turned and looked about her, at the room, the flowers, the

wide hearth, with its blazing logs, at Mrs. Colwood, and finally

at Diana.

"We are so fond of it already!" said Diana. "Come and get warm." She

settled her guest in a chair by the fire, and took a stool beside her.

"Did you like Devonshire?"

The girl made a little face.

"It was awfully quiet. Oh, my friends, of course, made a lot of fuss

over me--and that kind of thing. But I wouldn't live there, not if

you paid me."

"We're very quiet here," said Diana, timidly. She was examining the face

beside her, with its bright crude color, its bold eyes, and sulky mouth,

slightly underhung.

"Oh, well, you've got some good families about, I guess. I saw one or

two awfully smart carriages waiting at the station."

"There are a good many nice people," murmured Diana. "But there is not

much going on."

"I expect you could invite a good many here if you wanted," said the

girl, once more looking round her. "Whatever made you take this place?"

"I like old things so much," laughed Diana. "Don't you?"

"Well, I don't know. I think there's more style about a new house. You

can have electric light and all that sort of thing."

Diana admitted it, and changed the subject. "Had the journey been cold?"

Freezing, said Miss Merton. But a young man had lent her his fur coat to

put over her knees, which had improved matters. She laughed--rather

consciously.

"He lives near here. I told him I was sure you'd ask him to something,

if he called."

"Who was he?"

With much rattling of the bangles on her wrists, Fanny produced a card

from her hand-bag. Diana looked at it in dismay. It was the card of a

young solicitor whom she had once met at a local tea-party, and decided

to avoid thenceforward.

She said nothing, however, and plunged into inquiries as to her aunt and

cousins.

"Oh! they're all right. Mother's worried out of her life about money;

but, then, we've always been that poor you couldn't skin a cent off us,

so that's nothing new."

Diana murmured sympathy. She knew vaguely that her father had done a

good deal to subsidize these relations. She could only suppose that in

his ignorance he had not done enough.

Meanwhile Fanny Merton had fixed her eyes upon Diana with a curious

hostile look, almost a stare, which had entered them as she spoke of the

family poverty, and persisted as they travelled from Diana's face and

figure to the pretty and spacious room beyond. She examined everything,

in a swift keen scrutiny, and then as the pouncing glance came back to

her cousin, the girl suddenly exclaimed:

"Goodness! but you are like Aunt Sparling!"

Diana flushed crimson. She drew back and said, hurriedly, to Mrs.

Colwood:

"Muriel, would you see if they have taken the luggage up-stairs?"

Mrs. Colwood went at once.

Fanny Merton had herself changed color, and looked a little embarrassed.

She did not repeat her remark, but began to take her furs off, to smooth

her hair deliberately, and settle her bracelets. Diana came nearer to

her as soon as they were alone.

"Do you really think I am like mamma?" she said, tremulously, all her

eyes fixed upon her cousin.

"Well, of course I never saw her!" said Miss Merton, looking down at the

fire. "How could I? But mother has a picture of her, and you're as like

as two peas."

"I never saw any picture of mamma," said Diana; "I don't know at all

what she was like."

"Ah, well--" said Miss Merton, still looking down. Then she stopped, and

said no more. She took out her handkerchief, and began to rub a spot of

mud off her dress. It seemed to Diana that her manner was a little

strange, and rather rude. But she had made up her mind there would be

peculiarities in Fanny, and she did not mean to be repelled by them.

"Shall I take you to your room?" she said. "You must be tired, and we

shall be dining directly."

Miss Merton allowed herself to be led up-stairs, looking curiously round

her at every step.

"I say, you must be well off!" she burst out, as they came to the head

of the stairs, "or you'd never be able to run a place like this!"

"Papa left me all his money," said Diana, coloring again. "I hope he

wouldn't have thought it extravagant."

She passed on in front of her guest, holding a candle. Fanny Merton

followed. At Diana's statement as to her father's money the girl's face

had suddenly resumed its sly hostility. And as Diana walked before her,

Miss Merton again examined the house, the furniture, the pictures; but

this time, and unknown to Diana, with the air of one half jealous and

half contemptuous of all she saw.

Part II

"_The soberest saints are more stiff-neckèd

Than the hottest-headed of the wicked._"

CHAPTER VII

"I shall soon be back," said Diana--"very soon. I'll just take this book

to Dr. Roughsedge. You don't mind?"

The question was addressed--in a deprecatory tone--to Mrs. Colwood, who

stood beside her at the Beechcote front door.

Muriel Colwood smiled, and drew the furs closer round the girl's slim

throat.

"I shall mind very much if you don't stay out a full hour and get a good

walk."

Diana ran off, followed by her dog. There was something in the manner

both of the dog and its mistress that seemed to show impetuous

escape--and relief.

"She looks tired out!" said the little companion to herself, as she

turned to enter the hall. "How on earth is she going to get through six

weeks of it?--or six months!"

The house as she walked back through it made upon her the odd impression

of having suddenly lost some of its charm. The peculiar sentiment--as of

a warmly human, yet delicately ordered life, which it had breathed out

so freely only twenty-four hours before, seemed to her quick feeling

to have been somehow obscured or dissipated. All its defects,

old or new--the patches in the panelling, the darkness of the

passages--stood out.

And "all along of Eliza!" All because of Miss Fanny Merton! Mrs. Colwood

recalled the morning--Miss Merton's late arrival at the breakfast-table,

and the discovery from her talk that she was accustomed to breakfast in

bed, waited upon by her younger sisters; her conversation at breakfast,

partly about the prices of clothes and eatables, partly in boasting

reminiscence of her winnings at cards, or in sweepstakes on the "run,"

on board the steamer. Diana had then devoted herself to the display of

the house, and her maid had helped Miss Merton to unpack. The process

had been diversified by raids made by Miss Fanny on Diana's own

wardrobe, which she had inspected from end to end, to an accompaniment

of critical remark. According to her, there was very little that was

really "shick" in it, and Diana should change her dressmaker. The number

of her own dresses was large; and as to their colors and make, Mrs.

Colwood, who had helped to put away some of them, could only suppose

that tropical surroundings made tropical tastes. At the same time the

contrast between Miss Fanny's wardrobe, and what she herself reported,

in every tone of grievance and disgust, of the family poverty, was

surprising, though no doubt a great deal of the finery had been as

cheaply bought as possible.

By luncheon-time Diana had shown some symptoms of fatigue, perhaps--Mrs.

Colwood hoped!--of revolt. She had been already sharply questioned as to

the number of servants she kept and the wages they received, as to the

people in the neighborhood who gave parties, and the ages and incomes of

such young or unmarried men as might be met with at these parties. Miss

Merton had boasted already of two love-affairs--one the unsuccessful

engagement in Barbadoes, the other--"a near thing"--which had enlivened

the voyage to England; and she had extracted a promise from Diana to ask

the young solicitor she had met with in the train--Mr. Fred Birch--to

lunch, without delay. Meanwhile she had not--of her own initiative--said

one word of those educational objects, in pursuit of which she was

supposed to have come to England. Diana had proposed to her the names of

certain teachers both of music and languages--names which she had

obtained with much trouble. Miss Fanny had replied, rather carelessly,

that she would think about it.

It was at this that the eager sweetness of Diana's manner to her cousin

had shown its first cooling. And Mrs. Colwood had curiously observed

that at the first sign of shrinking on her part, Miss Fanny's demeanor

had instantly changed. It had become sugared and flattering to a degree.

Everything in the house was "sweet"; the old silver used at table, with

the Mallory crest, was praised extravagantly; the cooking no less. Yet

still Diana's tired silence had grown; and the watching eyes of this

amazing young woman had been, in Mrs. Colwood's belief, now insolently

and now anxiously, aware of it.

Insolence!--that really, if one came to think of it, had been the note

of Miss Merton's whole behavior from the beginning--an ill-concealed,

hardly restrained insolence, toward the girl, two years older than

herself, who had received her with such tender effusion, and was,

moreover, in a position to help her so materially. What could it--what

did it mean?

Mrs. Colwood stood at the foot of the stairs a moment, lost in a trance

of wonderment. Her heart was really sore for Diana's disappointment, for

the look in her face, as she left the house. How on earth could the

visit be shortened and the young lady removed?

The striking of three o'clock reminded Muriel Colwood that she was to

take the new-comer out for an hour. They had taken coffee in the

morning-room up-stairs, Diana's own sitting-room, where she wrote her

letters and followed out the lines of reading her father had laid down

for her. Mrs. Colwood returned thither; found Miss Merton, as it seemed

to her, in the act of examining the letters in Diana's blotting-book;

and hastily proposed to her to take a turn in the garden.

Fanny Merton hesitated, looked at Mrs. Colwood a moment dubiously, and

finally walked up to her.

"Oh, I don't care about going out, it's so cold and nasty. And, besides,

I--I want to talk to you."

"Miss Mallory thought you might like to see the old gardens," said Mrs.

Colwood. "But if you would rather not venture out, I'm afraid I must go

and write some letters."

"Why, you were writing letters all the morning! My fingers would drop

off if I was to go on at it like that. Do you like being a companion? I

should think it was rather beastly--if you ask me. At home they did talk

about it for me. But I said: 'No, thank you! My own mistress, if

you please!'"

The speaker sat down by the fire, raised her skirt of purple cloth, and

stretched a pair of shapely feet to the warmth. Her look was

good-humored and lazy.

"I am very happy here," said Mrs. Colwood, quietly. "Miss Mallory is so

charming and so kind."

Miss Fanny cleared her throat, poked the fire with the tip of her shoe,

fidgeted with her dress, and finally said--abruptly:

"I say--have all the people about here called?"

The tone was so low and furtive that Mrs. Colwood, who had been putting

away some embroidery silks which had been left on the table by Diana,

turned in some astonishment. She found the girl's eyes fixed upon

her--eager and hungry.

"Miss Mallory has had a great many visitors"--she tried to pitch her

words in the lightest possible tone--"I am afraid it will take her a

long time to return all her calls."

"Well, I'm glad it's all right about that!--anyway. As mamma said, you

never know. People are so queer about these things, aren't they? As if

it was Diana's fault!"

Through all her wrath, Muriel Colwood was conscious of a sudden pang of

alarm--which was, in truth, the reawakening of something already vaguely

felt or surmised. She looked rather sternly at her companion.

"I really don't know what you mean, Miss Merton. And I never discuss

Miss Mallory's affairs. Perhaps you will kindly allow me to go to

my letters."

She was moving away when the girl beside her laughed again--rather

angrily--and Mrs. Colwood paused, touched again by instinctive fear.

"Oh, of course if I'm not to say a word about it--I'm not--that's all!

Well, now, look here--Diana needn't suppose that I've come all this way

just for fun. I had to say that about lessons, and that kind of thing--I

didn't want to set her against me--but I've ... Well!--why should I be

ashamed, I should like to know?"--she broke out, shrilly, sitting erect,

her face flushing deeply, her eyes on fire. "If some one owes you

something--why shouldn't you come and get it? Diana owes my mother

_money!_--a lot of money!--and we can't afford to lose it. Mother's

awfully sweet about Diana--she said, 'Oh no, it's unkind'--but I say

it's unkind to _us_, not to speak, when we all want money so bad--and

there are the boys to bring up--and--"

"Miss Merton--I'm very sorry--but really I cannot let you talk to me of

Miss Mallory's private affairs. It would neither be right--nor

honorable. You must see that. She will be in by tea-time herself.

Please!--"

Muriel's tone was gentle; but her attitude was resolution itself. Fanny

Merton stared at the frail slim creature in her deep widow's black; her

color rose.

"Oh, very well. Do as you like!--I'm agreeable! Only I thought

perhaps--as you and Diana seem to be such tremendous friends--you'd like

to talk it over with me first. I don't know how much Diana knows; and I

thought perhaps you'd give me a hint. Of course, she'll know all there

was in the papers. But my mother claims a deal more than the trust

money--jewels, and that kind of thing. And Uncle Mallory treated us

shamefully about them--_shamefully_! That's why I'm come over. I made

mother let me! Oh, she's so soft, is mother, she'd let anybody off. But

I said, 'Diana's rich, and she _ought_ to make it up to us! If nobody

else'll ask her, I will!'"

The girl had grown pale, but it was a pallor of determination and of

passion. Mrs. Colwood had listened to the torrent of words, held against

her will, first by astonishment, then by something else. If it should be

her duty to listen?--for the sake of this young life, which in these few

weeks had so won upon her heart?

She retraced a few steps.

"Miss Merton, I do not understand what you have been saying. If you have

any claim upon Miss Mallory, you know well that she is the soul of

honor and generosity. Her one desire is to give everybody _more_ than

their due. She is _too_ generous--I often have to protect her. But, as I

have said before, it is not for me to discuss any claim you may have

upon her."

Fanny Merton was silent for a minute--staring at her companion. Then she

said, abruptly:

"Does she ever talk to you about Aunt Sparling?"

"Her mother?"

The girl nodded.

Mrs. Colwood hesitated--then said, unwillingly: "No. She has mentioned

her once or twice. One can see how she missed her as a child--how she

misses her still."

"Well, I don't know what call she has to miss her!" cried Fanny Merton,

in a note of angry scorn. "A precious good thing she died when she

did--for everybody."

Mrs. Colwood felt her hands trembling. In the growing darkness of the

winter afternoon it seemed to her startled imagination as though this

black-eyed black-browed girl, with her scowling passionate face, were

entering into possession of the house and of Diana--an evil and invading

power. She tried to choose her words carefully.

"Miss Mallory has never talked to me of her parents. And, if you will

excuse me, Miss Merton--if there is anything sad--or tragic--in their

history, I would rather hear it from Miss Mallory than from you!"

"Anything sad?--anything _sad_? Well, upon my word!--"

The girl breathed fast. So, involuntarily, did Mrs. Colwood.

"You don't mean to say"--the speaker threw her body forward, and brought

her face close to Mrs. Colwood--"you are not going to tell me that you

don't know about Diana's mother?"

She laid her hand upon Muriel's dress.

"Why should I know? Please, Miss Merton!" and with a resolute movement

Mrs. Colwood tried to withdraw her dress.

"Why, _everybody_ knows!--everybody!--everybody! Ask anybody in the

world about Juliet Sparling--and you'll see. In the saloon, coming over,

I heard people talk about her all one night--they didn't know who _I_

was--and of course I didn't tell. And there was a book in the ship's

library--_Famous Trials_--or some name of that sort--with the whole

thing in it. You don't know--about--Diana's _mother_?"

The fierce, incredulous emphasis on the last word, for a moment,

withered all reply on Mrs. Colwood's lips. She walked to the door

mechanically, to see that it was fast shut. Then she returned. She sat

down beside Diana's guest, and it might have been seen that she had

silenced fear and dismissed hesitation. "After all," she said, with

quiet command, "I think I will ask you, Miss Merton, to explain what

you mean?"

* * * * *

The February afternoon darkened round the old house. There was a light

powdering of snow on grass and trees. Yet still there were breathings

and bird-notes in the air, and tones of color in the distance, which

obscurely prophesied the spring. Through the wood behind the house the

snow-drops were rising, in a white invading host, over the ground

covered with the red-brown deposit of innumerable autumns. Above their

glittering white, rose an undergrowth of laurels and box, through which

again shot up the magnificent trunks--gray and smooth and round--of the

great beeches, which held and peopled the country-side, heirs of its

ancestral forest. Any one standing in the wood could see, through the

leafless trees, the dusky blues and rich violets of the encircling

hill--hung there, like the tapestry of some vast hall; or hear from time

to time the loud wings of the wood-pigeons as they clattered through the

topmost boughs.

Diana was still in the village. She had been spending her hour of escape

mostly with the Roughsedges. The old doctor among his books was now

sufficiently at his ease with her to pet her, teach her, and, when

necessary, laugh at her. And Mrs. Roughsedge, however she might feel

herself eclipsed by Lady Lucy, was, in truth, much more fit to minister

to such ruffled feelings as Diana was now conscious of than that

delicate and dignified lady. Diana's disillusion about her cousin was,

so far, no very lofty matter. It hurt; but on her run to the village the

natural common-sense Mrs. Colwood had detected had wrestled stoutly with

her wounded feelings. Better take it with a laugh! To laugh, however,

one must be distracted; and Mrs. Roughsedge, bubbling over with gossip

and good-humor, was distraction personified. Stern Justice, in the

person of Lord M.'s gamekeeper, had that morning brought back Diana's

two dogs in leash, a pair of abject and convicted villains, from the

delirium of a night's hunting. The son of Miss Bertram's coachman had

only just missed an appointment under the District Council by one place

on the list of candidates. A "Red Van" bursting with Socialist

literature had that morning taken up its place on the village green; and

Diana's poor housemaid, in payment for a lifetime's neglect, must now

lose every tooth in her head, according to the verdict of the local

dentist, an excellent young man, in Mrs. Roughsedge's opinion, but

ready to give you almost too much pulling out for your money. On all

these topics she overflowed--with much fun and unfailing good-humor. So

that after half an hour spent with Mrs. Roughsedge and Hugh in the

little drawing-room at the White Cottage, Diana's aspect was very

different from what it had been when she arrived.

Hugh, however, had noticed her pallor and depression. He was obstinately

certain that Oliver Marsham was not the man to make such a girl happy.

Between the rich Radical member and the young officer--poor, slow of

speech and wits, and passionately devoted to the old-fashioned ideals

and traditions in which he had been brought up--there was a natural

antagonism. But Roughsedge's contempt for his brilliant and successful

neighbor--on the ground of selfish ambitions and unpatriotic

trucklings--was, in truth, much more active than anything Marsham had

ever shown--or felt--toward himself. For in the young soldier there

slept potentialities of feeling and of action, of which neither he nor

others were as yet aware.

Nevertheless, he faced the facts. He remembered the look with which

Diana had returned to the Beechcote drawing-room, where Marsham awaited

her, the day before--and told himself not to be a fool.

Meanwhile he had found an opportunity in which to tell her, unheard by

his parents, that he was practically certain of his Nigerian

appointment, and must that night break it to his father and mother. And

Diana had listened like a sister, all sympathy and kind looks, promising

in the young man's ear, as he said good-bye at the garden gate, that she

would come again next day to cheer his mother up.

He stood looking after her as she walked away; his hands in his pockets,

a flush on his handsome face. How her coming had glorified and

transformed the place! No womanish nonsense, too, about this going of

his!--though she knew well that it meant fighting. Only a kindling of

the eyes--a few questions as practical as they were eager--and then that

fluttering of the soft breath which he had noticed as she bent over

his mother.

But she was not for him! Thus it is that women--the noblest and the

dearest--throw themselves away. She, with all the right and proper

feelings of an Englishwoman, to mate with this plausible Radical and

Little Englander! Hugh kicked the stones of the gravel savagely to right

and left as he walked back to the house--in a black temper with his

poverty and Diana's foolishness.

But was she really in love? "Why then so pale, fond lover?" He found a

kind of angry comfort in the remembrance of her drooping looks. They

were no credit to Marsham, anyway.

Meanwhile Diana walked home, lingering by the way in two or three

cottages. She was shyly beginning to make friends with the people. An

old road-mender kept her listening while he told her how a Tallyn keeper

had peppered him in the eye, ten years before, as he was crossing Barrow

Common at dusk. One eye had been taken out, and the other was almost

useless; there he sat, blind, and cheerfully telling the tale--"Muster

Marsham--Muster Henry Marsham--had been verra kind--ten shillin' a week,

and an odd job now and then. I do suffer terr'ble, miss, at times--but

ther's noa good in grumblin'--is there?"

Next door, in a straggling line of cottages, she found a gentle,

chattering widow whose husband had been drowned in the brew-house at

Beechcote twenty years before, drowned in the big vat!--before any one

had heard a cry or a sound. The widow was proud of so exceptional a

tragedy; eager to tell the tale. How had she lived since? Oh, a bit here

and a bit there. And, of late, half a crown from the parish.

Last of all, in a cottage midway between the village and Beechcote, she

paused to see a jolly middle-aged woman, with a humorous eye and a

stream of conversation--held prisoner by an incurable disease. She was

absolutely alone in the world. Nobody knew what she had to live on. But

she could always find a crust for some one more destitute than herself,

and she ranked high among the wits of the village. To Diana she talked

of her predecessors--the Vavasours--whose feudal presence seemed to be

still brooding over the village. With little chuckles of laughter, she

gave instance after instance of the tyranny with which they had lorded

it over the country-side in early Victorian days: how the "Madam

Vavasour" of those days had pulled the feathers from the village-girls'

hats, and turned a family who had offended her, with all their

belongings, out into the village street. But when Diana rejoiced that

such days were done, the old woman gave a tolerant: "Noa--noa! They were

none so bad--were t' Vavasours. Only they war no good at heirin."

"Airing?" said Diana, mystified.

"Heirin," repeated Betty Dyson, emphatically. "Theer was old Squire

Henry--wi' noabody to follow 'im--an' Mr. Edward noa better--and now

thissun, wi nobbut lasses. Noa--they war noa good at heirin--moor's t'

pity." Then she looked slyly at her companion: "An' yo', miss? yo'll be

gettin' married one o' these days, I'll uphowd yer."

Diana colored and laughed.

"Ay," said the old woman, laughing too, with the merriment of a girl.

"Sweethearts is noa good--but you mun ha' a sweetheart!"

Diana fled, pursued by Betty's raillery, and then by the thought of this

lonely laughing woman, often tormented by pain, standing on the brink of

ugly death, and yet turning back to look with this merry indulgent eye

upon the past; and on this dingy old world, in which she had played so

ragged and limping a part. Yet clearly she would play it again if she

could--so sweet is mere life!--and so hard to silence in the breast.

Diana walked quickly through the woods, the prey of one of those vague

storms of feeling which test and stretch the soul of youth.

To what horrors had she been listening?--the suffering of the blinded

road-mender--the grotesque and hideous death of the young laborer in his

full strength--the griefs of a childless and penniless old woman? Yet

life had somehow engulfed the horrors; and had spread its quiet waves

above them, under a pale, late-born sunshine. The stoicism of the poor

rebuked her, as she thought of the sharp impatience and disappointment

in which she had parted from Mrs. Colwood.

She seemed to hear her father's voice. "No shirking, Diana! You asked

her--you formed absurd and exaggerated expectations. She is here; and

she is not responsible for your expectations. Make the best of her, and

do your duty!"

And eagerly the child's heart answered: "Yes, yes, papa!--dear papa!"

And there, sharp in color and line, it rose on the breast of memory, the

beloved face. It set pulses beating in Diana which from her childhood

onward had been a life within her life, a pain answering to pain, the

child's inevitable response to the father's misery, always discerned,

never understood.

This abiding remembrance of a dumb unmitigable grief beside which she

had grown up, of which she had never known the secret, was indeed one of

the main factors in Diana's personality. Muriel Colwood had at once

perceived it; Marsham had been sometimes puzzled by the signs of it.

To-day--because of Fanny and this toppling of her dreams--the dark mood,

to which Diana was always liable, had descended heavily upon her. She

had no sooner rebuked it--by the example of the poor, or the remembrance

of her father's long patience--than she was torn by questions, vehement,

insistent, full of a new anguish.

Why had her father been so unhappy? What was the meaning of that cloud

under which she had grown up?

She had repeated to Muriel Colwood the stock explanations she had been

accustomed to give herself of the manner and circumstances of her

bringing-up. To-day they seemed to her own mind, for the first time,

utterly insufficient. In a sudden crash and confusion of feeling it was

as though she were tearing open the heart of the past, passionately

probing and searching.

Certain looks and phrases of Fanny Merton were really working in her

memory. They were so light--yet so ugly. They suggested something, but

so vaguely that Diana could find no words for it: a note of desecration,

of cheapening--a breath of dishonor. It was as though a mourner, shut

in for years with sacred memories, became suddenly aware that all the

time, in a sordid world outside, these very memories had been the sport

of an unkind and insolent chatter that besmirched them.

Her mother!

In the silence of the wood the girl's slender figure stiffened itself

against an attacking thought. In her inmost mind she knew well that it

was from her mother--and her mother's death--that all the strangeness of

the past descended. But yet the death and grief she remembered had never

presented themselves to her as they appear to other bereaved ones. Why

had nobody ever spoken to her of her mother in her childhood and

youth?--neither father, nor nurses, nor her old French governess? Why

had she no picture--no relics--no letters? In the box of "Sparling

Papers" there was nothing that related to Mrs. Sparling; that she knew,

for her father had abruptly told her so not long before his death. They

were old family records which he could not bear to destroy--the

honorable records of an upright race, which some day, he thought, "might

be a pleasure to her."

Often during the last six months of his life, it seemed to her now, in

this intensity of memory, that he had been on the point of breaking the

silence of a lifetime. She recalled moments and looks of agonized effort

and yearning. But he died of a growth in the throat; and for weeks

before the end speech was forbidden them, on account of the constant

danger of hemorrhage. So that Diana had always felt herself starved of

those last words and messages which make the treasure of bereaved love.

Often and often the cry of her loneliness to her dead father had been

the bitter cry of Andromache to Hector; "I had from thee, in dying, no

memorable word on which I might ever think in the year of mourning while

I wept for thee."

Had there been a quarrel between her father and mother?--or something

worse?--at which Diana's ignorance of life, imposed upon her by her

upbringing, could only glance in shuddering? She knew her mother had

died at twenty-six; and that in the two years before her death Mr.

Mallory had been much away, travelling and exploring in Asia Minor. The

young wife must have been often alone. Diana, with a sudden catching of

the breath, envisaged possibilities of which no rational being of full

age who reads a newspaper can be unaware.

Then, with an inward passion of denial, she shook the whole nightmare

from her. Outrage!--treason!--to those helpless memories of which she

was now the only guardian. In these easy, forgetting days, when the old

passions and endurances look to us either affected or eccentric, such a

life, such an exile as her father's, may seem strange even--so she

accused herself--to that father's child. But that is because we are mean

souls beside those who begot us. We cannot feel as they; and our

constancy, compared to theirs, is fickleness.

So, in spirit, she knelt again beside her dead, embracing their cold

feet and asking pardon.

The tears clouded her eyes; she wandered blindly on through the wood

till she was conscious of sudden light and space. She had come to a

clearing, where several huge beeches had been torn up by a storm some

years before. Their place had been filled by a tangle of many saplings,

and in their midst rose an elder-bush, already showing leaf, amid the

bare winterly wood. The last western light caught the twinkling leaf

buds, and made of the tree a Burning Bush, first herald of the spring.

The sight of it unloosed some swell of passion in Diana; she found

herself smiling amid her tears, and saying incoherent things that only

the wood caught.

To-day was the meeting of Parliament. She pictured the scene. Marsham

was there, full of projects and ambitions. Innocently, exultantly, she

reminded herself how much she knew of them. If he could not have her

sympathy, he must have her antagonism. But no chilling exclusions and

reserves! Rather, a generous confidence on his side; and a gradual, a

child-like melting and kindling on hers. In politics she would never

agree with him--never!--she would fight him with all her breath and

strength. But not with the methods of Mrs. Fotheringham. No!--what have

politics to do with--with--

She dropped her face in her hands, laughing to herself, the delicious

tremors of first love running through her. Would she hear from him? She

understood she was to be written to, though she had never asked it. But

ought she to allow it? Was it _convenable_? She knew that girls now did

what they liked--threw all the old rules overboard. But--proudly--she

stood by the old rules; she would do nothing "fast" or forward. Yet she

was an orphan--standing alone; surely for her there might be more

freedom than for others?

She hurried home. With the rush of new happiness had come back the old

pity, the old yearning. It wasn't, wasn't Fanny's fault! She--Diana--had

always understood that Mr. Merton was a vulgar, grasping man of no

breeding who had somehow entrapped "your aunt Bertha--who was very

foolish and very young"--into a most undesirable marriage. As for Mrs.

Merton--Aunt Bertha--Fanny had with her many photographs, among them

several of her mother. A weak, heavy face, rather pretty still. Diana

had sought her own mother in it, with a passionate yet shrinking

curiosity, only to provoke a rather curt reply from Fanny, in answer to

a question she had, with difficulty, brought herself to put:

"Not a bit! There wasn't a scrap of likeness between mother and Aunt

Sparling."

* * * * *

The evening passed off better than the morning had done. Eyes more acute

in her own interests than Diana's might have perceived a change in Fanny

Merton, after her long conversation with Mrs. Colwood. A certain

excitement, a certain triumph, perhaps an occasional relenting and

compunction: all these might have been observed or guessed. She made

herself quite amiable: showed more photographs, talked still more

frankly of her card-winnings on the steamer, and of the flirtation which

had beguiled the voyage; bespoke the immediate services of Diana's maid

for a dress that must be done up; and expressed a desire for another and

a bigger wardrobe in her room. Gradually a tone of possession, almost of

command, crept in. Diana, astonished and amused, made no resistance.

These, she supposed, were West-Indian manners. The Colonies are like

healthy children that submit in their youth, and then grow up and order

the household about. What matter!

Meanwhile Mrs. Colwood looked a little pale, and confessed to a

headache. Diana was pleased, however, to see that she and Fanny were

getting on better than had seemed to be probable in the morning. Fanny

wished--nay, was resolved--to be entertained and amused, Mrs. Colwood

threw herself with new zest into the various plans Diana had made for

her cousin. There was to be a luncheon-party, an afternoon tea, and so

forth. Only Diana, pricked by a new mistrust, said nothing in public

about an engagement she had (to spend a Saturday-to-Monday with Lady

Lucy at Tallyn three weeks later), though she and Muriel made anxious

plans as to what could be done to amuse Fanny during the two days.

Diana was alone in her room at night when Mrs. Colwood knocked. Would

Diana give her some lavender-water?--her headache was still severe.

Diana new to minister to her; but, once admitted, Muriel said no more of

her headache. Rather she began to soothe and caress Diana. Was she in

better spirits? Let her only intrust the entertaining of Fanny Merton to

her friend and companion--Mrs. Colwood would see to it. Diana laughed,

and silenced her with a kiss.

Presently they were sitting by the fire, Muriel Colwood in a large

arm-chair, a frail, fair creature, with her large dark-circled eyes, and

her thin hands and arms; Diana kneeling beside her.

"I had no idea what a poison poverty could be!" said Muriel, abruptly,

with her gaze on the fire.

"My cousin?" Diana looked up startled. "Was that what she was saying to

you?"

Muriel nodded assent. Her look--so anxious and tender--held, enveloped

her companion.

"Are they in debt?" said Diana, slowly.

"Terribly. They seem to be going to break up their home."

"Did she tell you all about it?"

Mrs. Colwood hesitated.

"A great deal more than I wanted to know!" she said, at last, as though

the words broke from her.

Diana thought a little.

"I wonder--whether that was--what she came home for?"

Mrs. Colwood moved uneasily.

"I suppose if you are in those straits you don't really think of

anything else--though you may wish to."

"Did she tell you how much they want?" said Diana, quickly.

"She named a thousand pounds!"

Muriel might have been describing her own embarrassments, so scarlet had

she become.

"A thousand pounds!" cried Diana, in amazement. "But then why--why--does

she have so many frocks--and play cards for money--and bet on races?"

She threw her arms round Mrs. Colwood's knees impetuously.

Muriel's small hand smoothed back the girl's hair, timidly yet eagerly.

"I suppose that's the way they've been brought up."

"A thousand pounds! And does she expect me to provide it?"

"I am afraid--she hopes it."

"But I haven't got it!" cried Diana, sitting down on the floor. "I've

spent more than I ought on this place; I'm overdrawn; I ought to be

economical for a long time. You know, Muriel, I'm not really rich."

Mrs. Colwood colored deeper than ever. But apparently she could think of

nothing to say. Her eyes were riveted on her companion.

"No, I'm not rich," resumed Diana, with a frown, drawing circles on the

ground with her finger. "Perhaps I oughtn't to have taken this house. I

dare say it was horrid of me. But I couldn't have known--could I?--that

Fanny would be coming and want a thousand pounds?"

She looked up expecting sympathy--perhaps a little indignation. Mrs.

Colwood only said:

"I suppose she would not have come over--if things had not been _very_

bad."

"Why didn't she give me some warning?" cried Diana--"instead of talking

about French lessons! But am I bound--do _you_ think I am bound?--to

give the Mertons a thousand pounds? I know papa got tired of giving them

money. I wonder if it's _right_!"

She frowned. Her voice was a little stern. Her eyes flashed.

Mrs. Colwood again touched her hair with a hand that trembled.

"They are your only relations, aren't they?" she said, pleadingly.

"Yes," said Diana, still with the same roused look.

"Perhaps it would set them on their feet altogether."

The girl gave a puzzled laugh.

"Did she--Muriel, did she ask you to tell me?"

"I think she wanted me to break it to you," said Mrs. Colwood, after a

moment. "And I thought it--it might save you pain."

"Just like you!" Diana stooped to kiss her hand. "That's what your

headache meant! Well, but now--ought I--ought I--to do it?"

She clasped her hands round her knees and swayed backward and

forward--pondering--with a rather sombre brow. Mrs. Colwood's expression

was hidden in the darkness of the big chair.

"--Always supposing I can do it," resumed Diana. "And I certainly

couldn't do it at once; I haven't got it. I should have to sell

something, or borrow from the bank. No, I must think--I must think over

it," she added more resolutely, as though her way cleared.

"Of course," said Mrs. Colwood, faintly. Then she raised herself. "Let

me tell her so--let me save you the conversation."

"You dear!--but why should you!" said Diana, in amazement.

"Let me."

"If you like! But I can't have Fanny making you look like this. Please,

please go to bed."

* * * * *

An hour later Mrs. Colwood, in her room, was still up and dressed,

hanging motionless, and deep in thought, over the dying fire. And before

she went to sleep--far in the small hours--her pillow was wet

with crying.

CHAPTER VIII

"I thought I'd perhaps better let you know--I'm--well, I'm going to have

a talk with Diana this morning!"

The voice was determined. Muriel Colwood--startled and

dismayed--surveyed the speaker. She had been waylaid on the threshold of

her room. The morning was half-way through. Visitors, including Mr. Fred

Birch, were expected to lunch, and Miss Merton, who had been lately

invisible, had already, she saw, changed her dress. At breakfast, it

seemed to Mrs. Colwood, she had been barely presentable: untidy hair, a

dress with various hooks missing, and ruffles much in need of washing.

Muriel could only suppose that the carelessness of her attire was meant

to mark the completeness of her conquest of Beechcote. But now her gown

of scarlet velveteen, her arms bare to the elbow, her frizzled and

curled hair, the powder which gave a bluish white to her complexion, the

bangles and beads which adorned her, showed her armed to the last pin

for the encounters of the luncheon-table.

Mrs. Colwood, however, after a first dazzled look at what she wore,

thought only of what she said. She hurriedly drew the girl into her own

room, and shut the door. When, after some conversation, Fanny emerged,

Mrs. Colwood was left in a state of agitation that was partly fear,

partly helpless indignation. During the fortnight since Miss Merton's

arrival all the energies of the house had been devoted to her amusement.

A little whirlwind of dissipation had blown through the days. Two meets,

a hockey-match, a concert at the neighboring town, a dinner-party and

various "drums," besides a luncheon-party and afternoon tea at Beechcote

itself in honor of the guest--Mrs. Colwood thought the girl might have

been content! But she had examined everything presented to her with a

very critical eye, and all through it had been plain that she was

impatient and dissatisfied; for, inevitably, her social success was not

great. Diana, on the other hand, was still a new sensation, and

something of a queen wherever she went. Her welcoming eyes, her

impetuous smile drew a natural homage; and Fanny followed sulkily in her

wake, accepted--not without surprise--as Miss Mallory's kinswoman, but

distinguished by no special attentions.

In any case, she would have rebelled against the situation. Her vanity

was amazing, her temper violent. At home she had been treated as a

beauty, and had ruled the family with a firm view to her own interests.

What in Alicia Drake was disguised by a thousand subleties of class and

training was here seen in its crudest form. But there was more

besides--miserably plain now to this trembling spectator. The resentment

of Diana's place in life, as of something robbed, not earned--the

scarcely concealed claim either to share it or attack it--these things

were no longer riddles to Muriel Colwood. Rather they were the

storm-signs of a coming tempest, already darkening above an

innocent head.

What could she do? The little lady gave her days and nights to the

question, and saw no way out. Sometimes she hoped that Diana's

personality had made an impression on this sinister guest; she traced a

grudging consciousness in Fanny of her cousin's generosity and charm.

But this perception only led to fresh despondency. Whenever Fanny

softened, it showed itself in a claim to intimacy, as sudden and as

violent as her ill-temper. She must be Diana's first and dearest--be

admitted to all Diana's secrets and friendships. Then on Diana's side,

inevitable withdrawal, shrinking, self-defence--and on Fanny's a hotter

and more acrid jealousy.

Meanwhile, as Mrs. Colwood knew, Diana had been engaged in

correspondence with her solicitors, who had been giving her some prudent

and rather stringent advice on the subject of income and expenditure.

This morning, so Mrs. Colwood believed, a letter had arrived.

Presently she stole out of her room to the head of the stairs. There she

remained, pale and irresolute, for a little while, listening to the

sounds in the house. But the striking of the hall clock, the sighing of

a stormy wind round the house, and, occasionally, a sound of talking in

the drawing-room, was all she heard.

* * * * *

Diana had been busy in the hanging of some last pictures in the

drawing-room--photographs from Italian pictures and monuments. They had

belonged to her father, and had been the dear companions of her

childhood. Each, as she handled it, breathed its own memory; of the

little villa on the Portofino road, with its green shutters, and rooms

closed against the sun; or of the two short visits to Lucca and Florence

she had made with her father.

Among the photographs was one of the "Annunciation" by Donatello, which

glorifies the southern wall of Santa Croce. Diana had just hung it in a

panelled corner, where its silvery brilliance on dark wood made a point

of pleasure for the eye. She lingered before it, wondering whether it

would please _him_ when he came. Unconsciously her life had slipped into

this habit of referring all its pains and pleasures to the unseen

friend--holding with him that constant dialogue of the heart without

which love neither begins nor grows.

Yet she no longer dreamed of discussing Fanny, and the perplexities

Fanny had let loose on Beechcote, with the living Marsham. Money affairs

must be kept to one's self; and somehow Fanny's visit had become neither

more nor less than a money affair.

That morning Diana had received a letter from old Mr. Riley, the head of

the firm of Riley & Bonner--a letter which was almost a lecture. If the

case were indeed urgent, said Mr. Riley, if the money must be found, she

could, of course, borrow on her securities, and the firm would arrange

it for her. But Mr. Riley, excusing himself as her father's old friend,

wrote with his own hand to beg her to consider the matter further. Her

expenses had lately been many, and some of her property might possibly

decline in value during the next few years. A prudent management of her

affairs was really essential. Could not the money be gradually saved out

of income?

Diana colored uncomfortably as she thought of the letter. What did the

dear old man suppose she wanted the money for? It hurt her pride that

she must appear in this spendthrift light to eyes so honest and

scrupulous.

But what could she do? Fanny poured out ugly reports of her mother's

financial necessities to Muriel Colwood; Mrs. Colwood repeated them to

Diana. And the Mertons were Diana's only kinsfolk. The claim of blood

pressed her hard.

Meanwhile, with a shrinking distaste, she had tried to avoid the

personal discussion of the matter with Fanny. The task of curbing the

girl's impatience, day after day, had fallen to Mrs. Colwood.

Diana was still standing in a reverie before the "Annunciation" when the

drawing-room door opened. As she looked round her, she drew herself

sharply together with the movement of a sudden and instinctive

antipathy.

"That's all right," said Fanny Merton, surveying the room with

satisfaction, and closing the door behind her. "I thought I'd find

you alone."

Diana remained nervously standing before the picture, awaiting her

cousin, her eyes wider than usual, one hand at her throat.

"Look here," said Fanny, approaching her, "I want to talk to you."

Diana braced herself. "All right." She threw a look at the clock. "Just

give me time to get tidy before lunch."

"Oh, there's an hour--time enough!"

Diana drew forward an arm-chair for Fanny, and settled herself into the

corner of a sofa. Her dog jumped up beside her, and laid his nose on

her lap.

Fanny held herself straight. Her color under the powder had heightened a

little. The two girls confronted each other, and, vaguely, perhaps, each

felt the strangeness of the situation. Fanny was twenty, Diana

twenty-three. They were of an age when girls are generally under the

guidance or authority of their elders; comparatively little accustomed,

in the normal family, to discuss affairs or take independent decisions.

Yet here they met, alone and untrammelled; as hostess and guest in the

first place; as kinswomen, yet comparative strangers to each other, and

conscious of a secret dislike, each for the other. On the one side, an

exultant and partly cruel consciousness of power; on the other, feelings

of repugnance and revolt, only held in check by the forces of a tender

and scrupulous nature.

Fanny cleared her throat.

"Well, of course, Mrs. Colwood's told me all you've been saying to her.

And I don't say I'm surprised."

Diana opened her large eyes.

"Surprised at what?"

"Surprised--well!--surprised you didn't see your way all at once, and

that kind of thing. I know I'd want to ask a lot of questions--shouldn't

I, just! Why, that's what I expected. But, you see, my time in England's

getting on. I've nothing to say to my people, and they bother my life

out every mail."

"What did you really come to England for?" said Diana, in a low voice.

Her attitude, curled up among the cushions of the sofa, gave her an

almost childish air. Fanny, on the other hand, resplendent in her

scarlet dress and high coiffure, might have been years older than her

cousin. And any stranger watching the face in which the hardness of an

"old campaigner" already strove with youth, would have thought her, and

not Diana, the mistress of the house.

At Diana's question, Fanny's eyes flickered a moment.

"Oh, well, I had lots of things in my mind. But it was the money that

mattered most."

"I see," murmured Diana.

Fanny fidgeted a little with one of the three bead necklaces which

adorned her. Then she broke out:

"Look here, Diana, you've never been poor in your life, so you don't

know what it's like being awfully hard up. But ever since father died,

mother's had a frightful lot of trouble--all of us to keep, and the

boys' schooling to pay, and next to nothing to do it on. Father left

everything in a dreadful muddle. He never had a bit of sense--"

Diana made a sudden movement. Fanny looked at her astonished, expecting

her to speak. Diana, however, said nothing, and the girl resumed:

"I mean, in business. He'd got everything into a shocking state, and

instead of six hundred a year for us--as we'd always been led on to

expect--well, there wasn't three! Then, you know, Uncle Mallory used to

send us money. Well" (she cleared her throat again and looked away from

Diana), "about a year before he died he and father fell out about

something--so _that_ didn't come in any more. Then we thought perhaps

he'd remember us in his will. And that was another disappointment. So,

you see, really mother didn't know where to turn."

"I suppose papa thought he had done all he could," said Diana, in a

voice which tried to keep quite steady. "He never denied any claim he

felt just. I feel I must say that, because you seem to blame papa. But,

of course, I am very sorry for Aunt Bertha."

At the words "claim" and "just" there was a quick change of expression

in Fanny's eyes. She broke out angrily: "Well, you really don't know

about it, Diana, so it's no good talking. And I'm not going to rake up

old things--"

"But if I don't know," said Diana, interrupting, "hadn't you better tell

me? Why did papa and Uncle Merton disagree? And why did you think papa

ought to have left you money?" She bent forward insistently. There was a

dignity--perhaps also a touch of haughtiness--in her bearing which

exasperated the girl beside her. The haughtiness was that of one who

protects the dead. But Fanny's mind was not one that perceived the

finer shades.

"Well, I'm not going to say!" said Fanny, with vehemence. "But I can

tell you, mother _has_ a claim!--and Uncle Mallory _ought_ to have left

us something!"

The instant the words were out she regretted them. Diana abandoned her

childish attitude. She drew herself together, and sat upright on the

edge of the sofa. The color had come flooding back hotly into her

cheeks, and the slightly frowning look produced by the effort to see the

face before her distinctly gave a peculiar intensity to the eyes.

"Fanny, please!--you must tell me why!"

The tone, resolute, yet appealing, put Fanny in an evident

embarrassment.

"Well, I can't," she said, after a moment--"so it's no good asking me."

Then suddenly, she hesitated--"or--at least--"

"At least what? Please go on."

Fanny wriggled again, then said, with a burst:

"Well, my mother was Aunt Sparling's younger sister--you know

that--don't you?--"

"Of course."

"And our grandfather died a year before Aunt Sparling. She was mother's

trustee. Oh, the money's all right--the trust money, I mean," said the

girl, hastily. "But it was a lot of other things--that mother says

grandpapa always meant to divide between her and Aunt Sparling--and she

never had them--nor a farthing out of them!"

"What other things? I don't understand."

"Jewels!--there!--jewels--and a lot of plate. Mother says she had a

right to half the things that belonged to her mother. Grandpapa always

told her she should have them. And there wasn't a word about them in

the will."

"_I_ haven't any diamonds," said Diana, quietly, "or any jewels at all,

except a string of pearls papa gave me when I was nineteen, and two or

three little things we bought in Florence."

Fanny Merton grew still redder; she stared aggressively at her cousin:

"Well--that was because--Aunt Sparling sold all the things!"

Diana started and recoiled.

"You mean," she said--her breath fluttering--"that--mamma sold things

she had no right to--and never gave Aunt Bertha the money!"

The restrained passion of her look had an odd effect upon her companion.

Fanny first wavered under it, then laughed--a laugh that was partly

perplexity, partly something else, indecipherable.

"Well, as I wasn't born then, I don't know. You needn't be cross with

me, Diana; I didn't mean to say any harm of anybody. But--mother

says"--she laid an obstinate stress on each word--"that she remembers

quite well--grandpapa meant her to have: a diamond necklace; a

_rivière_" (she began to check the items off on her fingers)--"there

were two, and of course Aunt Sparling had the best; two bracelets, one

with turquoises and one with pearls; a diamond brooch; an opal pendant;

a little watch set with diamonds grandma used to wear; and then a lot of

plate! Mother wrote me out a list--I've got it here."

She opened a beaded bag on her wrist, took out half a sheet of paper,

and handed it to Diana.

Diana looked at it in silence. Even her lips were white, and her fingers

shook.

"Did you ever send this to papa?" she asked, after a minute.

Fanny fidgeted again.

"Yes."

"And what did he say? Have you got his letter?"

"No; I haven't got his letter."

"Did he admit that--that mamma had done this?"

Fanny hesitated: but her intelligence, which was of a simple kind, did

not suggest to her an ingenious line of reply.

"Well, I dare say he didn't. But that doesn't make any difference."

"Was that what he and Uncle Merton quarrelled about?"

Fanny hesitated again; then broke out: "Father only did what he

ought--he asked for what was owed mother!"

"And papa wouldn't give it!" cried Diana, in a strange note of scorn;

"papa, who never could rest if he owed a farthing to anybody--who always

overpaid everybody--whom everybody--"

[Illustration: "YOU NEEDN'T BE CROSS WITH ME, DIANA"]

She rose suddenly with a bitten lip. Her eyes blazed--and her cheeks.

She walked to the window and stood looking out, in a whirlwind of

feeling and memory, hiding her face as best she could from the girl

who sat watching her with an expression half sulky, half insolent. Diana

was thinking of moments--recalling forgotten fragments of dialogue--in

the past, which showed her father's opinion of his Barbadoes

brother-in-law: "A grasping, ill-bred fellow"--"neither gratitude, nor

delicacy"--"has been the evil genius of his wife, and will be the ruin

of his children." She did not believe a word of Fanny's story--not a

word of it!

She turned impetuously. Then, as her eyes met Fanny's, a shock ran

through her--the same sudden, inexplicable fear which had seized on Mrs.

Colwood, only more sickening, more paralyzing. And it was a fear which

ran back to and linked itself with the hour of heart-searching in the

wood. What was Fanny thinking of?--what was in her mind--on her lips?

Impulses she could not have defined, terrors to which she could give no

name, crept over Diana's will and disabled it. She trembled from head to

foot--and gave way.

She walked up to her cousin.

"Fanny, is there any letter--anything of grandpapa's--or of my

mother's--that you could show me?"

"No! It was a promise, I tell you--there was no writing. But my mother

could swear to it."

The girl faced her cousin without flinching. Diana sat down again, white

and tremulous, the moment of energy, of resistance, gone. In a wavering

voice she began to explain that she had, in fact, been inquiring into

her affairs, that the money was not actually at her disposal, that to

provide it would require an arrangement with her bankers, and the

depositing of some securities; but that, before long, it should be

available.

Fanny drew a long breath. She had not expected the surrender. Her eyes

sparkled, and she began to stammer thanks.

"Don't!" said Diana, putting out a hand. "If I owe it you--and I take it

on your word--the money shall be paid--that's all. Only--only, I wish

you had not written to me like that; and I ask that--that--you will

never, please, speak to me about it again!"

She had risen, and was standing, very tall and rigid, her hands pressing

against each other.

Fanny's face clouded.

"Very well," she said, as she rose from her seat, "I'm sure I don't want

to talk about it. I didn't like the job a bit--nor did mother. But if

you are poor--and somebody owes you something--you can't help trying to

get it--that's all!"

Diana said nothing. She went to the writing-table and began to arrange

some letters. Fanny looked at her.

"I say, Diana!--perhaps you won't want me to stay here after--You seem

to have taken against me."

Diana turned.

"No," she said, faintly. Then, with a little sob: "I thought of nothing

but your coming."

Fanny flushed.

"Well, of course you've been very kind to me--and all that sort of

thing. I wasn't saying you hadn't been. Except--Well, no, there's one

thing I _do_ think you've been rather nasty about!"

The girl threw back her head defiantly.

Diana's pale face questioned her.

"I was talking to your maid yesterday," said Fanny, slowly, "and she

says you're going to stay at some smart place next week, and you've been

getting a new dress for it. And you've never said a _word_ to me about

it--let alone ask me to go with you!"

Diana looked at her amazed.

"You mean--I'm going to Tallyn!"

"That's it," said Fanny, reproachfully. "And you know I don't get a lot

of fun at home--and I might as well be seeing people--and going about

with you--though I do have to play second fiddle. You're rich, of

course--everybody's nice to you--"

She paused. Diana, struck dumb, could find, for the moment, nothing to

say. The red named in Fanny's cheeks, and she turned away with

a flounce.

"Oh, well, you'd better say it at once--you're ashamed of me! I haven't

had your blessed advantages! Do you think I don't know that!"

In the girl's heightened voice and frowning brow there was a touch of

fury, of goaded pride, that touched Diana with a sudden remorse. She ran

toward her cousin--appealing:

"I'm _very_ sorry, Fanny. I--I don't like to leave you--but they are my

great friends--and Lady Lucy, though she's very kind, is very

old-fashioned. One couldn't take the smallest liberty with her. I don't

think I could ask to take you--when they are quite by themselves--and

the house is only half mounted. But Mrs. Colwood and I had been thinking

of several things that might amuse you--and I shall only be two

nights away."

"I don't want any amusing--thanks!" said Fanny, walking to the door.

She closed it behind her. Diana clasped her hands overhead in a gesture

of amazement.

"To quarrel with me about that--after--the other thing!"

No!--not Tallyn!--not Tallyn!--anywhere, anything, but that!

Was she proud?--snobbish? Her eyes filled with tears, but her will

hardened. What was to be gained? Fanny would not like them, nor

they her.

* * * * *

The luncheon-party had been arranged for Mr. Birch, Fanny's train

acquaintance. Diana had asked the Roughsedges, explaining the matter,

with a half-deprecating, half-humorous face, to the comfortable ear of

Mrs. Roughsedge. Explanation was necessary, for this particular young

man was only welcome in those houses of the neighborhood which were not

socially dainty. Mrs. Roughsedge understood at once--laughed

heartily--accepted with equal heartiness--and then, taking Diana's hand,

she said, with a shining of her gray eye:

"My dear, if you want Henry and me to stand on our heads we will attempt

it with pleasure. You are an angel!--and angels are not to be worried by

solicitors."

The first part of which remark referred to a certain morning after

Hugh's announcement of his appointment to the Nigerian expedition, when

Diana had shown the old people a sweet and daughter-like sympathy, which

had entirely won whatever portion of their hearts remained still to

be captured.

Hugh, meanwhile, was not yet gone, though he was within a fortnight of

departure. He was coming to luncheon, with his parents, in order to

support Diana. The family had seen Miss Merton some two or three times,

and were all strongly of opinion that Diana very much wanted supporting.

"Why should one be civil to one's cousin?" Dr. Roughsedge inquired of

his wife. "If they are nice, let them stand on their own merits. If

not, they are disagreeable people who know a deal too much about you.

Miss Diana should have consulted me!"

The Roughsedges arrived early, and found Diana alone in the

drawing-room. Again Captain Roughsedge thought her pale, and was even

sure that she had lost flesh. This time it was hardly possible to put

these symptoms down to Marsham's account. He chafed under the thought

that he should be no longer there in case a league, offensive and

defensive, had in the end to be made with Mrs. Colwood for the handling

of cousins. It was quite clear that Miss Fanny was a vulgar little minx,

and that Beechcote would have no peace till it was rid of her.

Meanwhile, the indefinable change which had come over his mother's face,

during the preceding week, had escaped even the quick eyes of an

affectionate son. Alas! for mothers--when Lalage appears!

Mr. Birch arrived to the minute, and when he was engaged in affable

conversation with Diana, Fanny, last of the party--the door being

ceremoniously thrown open by the butler--entered, with an air. Mr. Birch

sprang effusively to his feet, and there was a noisy greeting between

him and his travelling companion. The young man was slim, and

effeminately good-looking. His frock-coat and gray trousers were new and

immaculate; his small feet were encased in shining patent-leather boots,

and his blue eyes gave the impression of having been carefully matched

with his tie. He was evidently delighted to find himself at Beechcote,

and it might have been divined that there was a spice of malice in his

pleasure. The Vavasours had always snubbed him; Miss Mallory herself had

not been over-polite to him on one or two occasions; but her cousin was

a "stunner," and, secure in Fanny's exuberant favor, he made himself

quite at home. Placed on Diana's left at table, he gave her much voluble

information about her neighbors, mostly ill-natured; he spoke familiarly

of "that clever chap Marsham," as of a politician who owed his election

for the division entirely to the good offices of Mr. Fred Birch's firm,

and described Lady Lucy as "an old dear," though very "frowsty" in her

ideas. He was strongly of opinion that Marsham should find an heiress as

soon as possible, for there was no saying how "long the old lady would

see him out of his money," and everybody knew that at present "she kept

him beastly short." "As for me," the speaker wound up, with an engaging

and pensive _naïveté_, "I've talked to him till I'm tired."

At last he was headed away from Tallyn and its owners, only to fall into

a rapturous debate with Fanny over a racing bet which seemed to have

been offered and taken on the journey which first made them acquainted.

Fanny had lost, but the young man gallantly excused her.

"No--no, couldn't think of it! Not till next time. Then--my word!--I'll

come down upon you--won't I? Teach you to know your way about--eh?"

Loud laughter from Fanny, who professed to know her way about already.

They exchanged "tips"--until at last Mr. Birch, lost in admiration of

his companion, pronounced her a "ripper"--he had never yet met a lady so

well up--"why, you know as much as a man!"

Dr. Roughsedge meanwhile observed the type. The father, an old-fashioned

steady-going solicitor, had sent the son to expensive schools, and

allowed him two years at Oxford, until the College had politely

requested the youth's withdrawal. The business was long established,

and had been sound. This young man had now been a partner in it for two

years, and the same period had seen the rise to eminence of another and

hitherto obscure firm in the county town. Mr. Fred Birch spoke

contemptuously of the rival firm as "smugs"; but the district was

beginning to intrust its wills and mortgages to the "smugs" with a sad

and increasing alacrity.

There were, indeed, some secret discomforts in the young man's soul; and

while he sported with Fanny he did not forget business. The tenant of

Beechcote was, _ipso facto_, of some social importance, and Diana was

reported to be rich; the Roughsedges also, though negligible

financially, were not without influence in high places; and the doctor

was governor of an important grammar-school recently revived and

reorganized, wherewith the Birches would have been glad to be officially

connected. He therefore made himself agreeable.

"You read, sir, a great deal?" he said to the doctor, with a

professional change of voice.

The doctor, who, like most great men, was a trifle greedy, was silently

enjoying a dish of oysters delicately rolled in bacon. He looked up at

his questioner.

"A great deal, Mr. Birch."

"Everything, in fact?"

"Everything--except, of course, what is indispensable."

Mr. Birch looked puzzled.

"I heard of you from the Duchess, doctor. She says you are one of the

most learned men in England."

"The Duchess?" The doctor screwed up his eyes and looked round the

table.

Mr. Birch, with complacency, named the wife of a neighboring potentate

who owned half the county.

"Don't know her," said the doctor--"don't know her; and--excuse the

barbarity--don't wish to know her."

"Oh, but so charming!" cried Mr. Birch--"and so kind!"

The doctor shook his head, and declared that great ladies were not to

his taste. "Poodles, sir, poodles! 'fed on cream and muffins!'--there is

no trusting them."

"Poodles!" said Fanny, in astonishment. "Why are duchesses like

poodles?"

The doctor bowed to her.

"I give it up, Miss Merton. Ask Sydney Smith."

Fanny was mystified, and the sulky look appeared.

"Well, I know I should like to be a duchess. Why shouldn't one want to

be a duchess?"

"Why not indeed?" said the doctor, helping himself to another oyster.

"That's why they exist."

"I suppose you're teasing," said Fanny, rather crossly.

"I am quite incapable of it," protested the doctor. "Shall we not all

agree that duchesses exist for the envy and jealousy of mankind?"

"Womankind?" put in Diana. The doctor smiled at her, and finished his

oyster. Brave child! Had that odious young woman been behaving in

character that morning? He would like to have the dealing with her! As

for Diana, her face reminded him of Cowper's rose "just washed by a

shower"--delicately fresh--yet eloquent of some past storm.--Good

Heavens! Where was that fellow Marsham? Philandering with

politics?--when there was this flower for the gathering!

* * * * *

Luncheon was half-way through when a rattling sound of horses' hoofs

outside drew the attention of the table.

"Somebody else coming to lunch," said Mr. Birch. "Sorry for 'em, Miss

Mallory. We haven't left 'em much. You've done us so uncommon well."

Diana herself looked in some alarm round the table.

"Plenty, my dear lady, plenty!" said the doctor, on her other hand.

"Cold beef, and bread and cheese--what does any mortal want more? Don't

disturb yourself."

Diana wondered who the visitors might be. The butler entered.

"Sir James Chide, ma'am, and Miss Drake. They have ridden over from

Overton Park, and didn't think it was so far. They told me to say they

didn't wish to disturb you at luncheon, and might they have a cup

of coffee?"

Diana excused herself, and hurried out. Mr. Birch explained at length to

Mrs. Colwood and Fanny that Overton Park belonged to the Judge, Sir

William Felton; that Sir James Chide was often there; and no doubt Miss

Drake had been invited for the ball of the night before; awfully smart

affair!--the coming-out ball of the youngest daughter.

"Who is Miss Drake?" asked Fanny, thinking enviously of the ball, to

which she had not been invited. Mr. Birch turned to her with

confidential jocosity.

"Lady Lucy Marsham's cousin; and it is generally supposed that she might

by now have been something else but for--"

He nodded toward the chair at the head of the table which Diana had left

vacant.

"Whatever do you mean?" said Fanny. The Marshams to her were, so far,

mere shadows. They represented rich people on the horizon whom Diana

selfishly wished to keep to herself.

"I'm telling tales, I declare I am!" said Mr. Birch. "Haven't you seen

Mr. Oliver Marsham yet, Miss Merton?"

"No. I don't know anything about him."

"Ah!" said Mr. Birch, smiling, and peeling an apple with deliberation.

Fanny flushed.

"Is there anything up--between him and Diana?" she said in his ear.

Mr. Birch smiled again.

"I saw old Mr. Vavasour the other day--clients of ours, you understand.

A close-fisted old boy, Miss Merton. They imagined they'd get a good

deal out of your cousin. But not a bit of it. Oliver Marsham does all

her business for her. The Vavasours don't like it, I can tell you."

"I haven't seen either him or Lady Lucy--is that her name?--since I

came."

"Let me see. You came about a fortnight ago--just when Parliament

reassembled. Mr. Marsham is our member. He and Lady Lucy went up to town

the day before Parliament met."

"And what about Miss Drake?"

"Ah!--poor Miss Drake!" Mr. Birch raised a humorous eyebrow. "Those

little things will happen, won't they? It was just at Christmas, I

understand, that your cousin paid her first visit to Tallyn. A man who

was shooting there told me all about it."

"And Miss Drake was there too?"

Mr. Birch nodded.

"And Diana cut her out?" said Fanny, bending toward him eagerly.

Mr. Birch smiled again. Voices were heard in the hall, but before the

new guests entered, the young man put up a finger to his lips:

"Don't you quote me, please, Miss Merton. But, I can tell you, your

cousin's very high up in the running just now. And Oliver Marsham will

have twenty thousand a year some day if he has a penny. Miss Mallory

hasn't told you anything--hasn't she? Ha--ha! Still waters, you

know--still waters!"

* * * * *

A few minutes later Sir James Chide was seated between Diana and Fanny

Merton, Mr. Birch having obligingly vacated his seat and passed to the

other side of the table, where his attempts at conversation were coldly

received by Miss Drake. That young lady dazzled the eyes of Fanny, who

sat opposite to her. The closely fitting habit and black riding-hat gave

to her fine figure and silky wealth of hair the maximum of effect. Fanny

perfectly understood that only money and fashion could attain to Miss

Drake's costly simplicity. She envied her from the bottom of her heart;

she would have given worlds to see the dress in which she had figured at

the ball. Miss Drake, no doubt, went to two or three balls a week, and

could spend anything she liked upon her clothes.

Yet Diana had cut her out--Diana was to carry off the prize! Twenty

thousand a year! Fanny's mind was in a ferment--the mind of a raw and

envious provincial, trained to small ambitions and hungry desires. Half

an hour before, she had been writing a letter home, in a whirl of

delight and self-glorification. The money Diana had promised would set

the whole family on its legs, and Fanny had stipulated that after the

debts were paid she was to have a clear, cool hundred for her own

pocket, and no nonsense about it. It was she who had done it all, and

if it hadn't been for her, they might all have gone to the workhouse.

But now her success was to her as dross. The thought of Diana's future

wealth and glory produced in her a feeling which was an acute physical

distress. So Diana was to be married!--and to the great _parti_ of the

neighborhood! Fanny already saw her in the bridal white, surrounded by

glittering bridesmaids; and a churchful of titled people, bowing before

her as she passed in state, like poppies under a breeze.

And Diana had never said a word to her about it--to her own cousin!

Nasty, close, mean ways! Fanny was not good enough for Tallyn--oh no!

_She_ was asked to Beechcote when there was nothing going on--or next to

nothing--and one might yawn one's self to sleep with dulness from

morning till night. But as soon as she was safely packed off, then there

would be fine times, no doubt; the engagement would be announced; the

presents would begin to come in; the bridesmaids would be chosen. But

she would get nothing out of it--not she; she would not be asked to be

bridesmaid. She was not genteel enough for Diana.

Diana--_Diana_!--the daughter--

Fanny's whole nature gathered itself as though for a spring upon some

prey, at once tempting and exasperating. In one short fortnight the

inbred and fated antagonism between the two natures had developed

itself--on Fanny's side--to the point of hatred. In the depths of her

being she knew that Diana had yearned to love her, and had not been

able. That failure was not her crime, but Diana's.

Fanny looked haughtily round the table. How many of them knew what she

knew? Suddenly a name recurred to her!--the name announced by the butler

and repeated by Mr. Birch. At the moment she had been thinking of other

things; it had roused no sleeping associations. But now the obscure

under-self sent it echoing through the brain. Fanny caught her breath.

The sudden excitement made her head swim.--She turned and looked at the

white-haired elderly man sitting between her and Diana.

Sir James Chide!

Memories of the common gossip in her home, of the talk of the people on

the steamer, of pages in that volume of _Famous Trials_ she had studied

on the voyage with such a close and unsavory curiosity danced through

the girl's consciousness. Well, _he_ knew! No good pretending there. And

he came to see Diana--and still Diana knew nothing! Mrs. Colwood must

simply be telling lies--silly lies! Fanny glanced at her with contempt.

Yet so bewildered was she that when Sir James addressed her, she stared

at him in what seemed a fit of shyness. And when she began to talk it

was at random, for her mind was in a tumult. But Sir James soon divined

her. Vulgarity, conceit, ill-breeding--the great lawyer detected them in

five minutes' conversation. Nor were they unexpected; for he was well

acquainted with Miss Fanny's origins. Yet the perception of them made

the situation still more painfully interesting to him, and no less

mysterious than before. For he saw no substantial change in it; and he

was, in truth, no less perplexed than Fanny. If certain things had

happened in consequence of Miss Merton's advent, neither he nor any

other guest would be sitting at Diana Mallory's table that day; of that

he was morally certain. Therefore, they had not happened.

He returned with a redoubled tenderness of feeling to his conversation

with Diana. He had come to Overton for the Sunday, at great professional

inconvenience, for nothing in the world but that he must pay this visit

to Beechcote; and he had approached the house with dread--dread lest he

should find a face stricken with the truth. That dread was momentarily

lifted, for in those beautiful dark eyes of Diana innocence and

ignorance were still written; but none the less he trembled for her; he

saw her as he had seen her at Tallyn, a creature doomed, and consecrate

to pain. Why, in the name of justice and pity, had her father done this

thing? So it is that a man's love, for lack of a little simple courage

and common-sense, turns to cruelty.

Poor, poor child!--At first sight he, like the Roughsedges, had thought

her pale and depressed. Then he had given his message. "Marsham has

arrived!--turned up at Overton a couple of hours ago--and told us to say

he would follow us here after luncheon. He wired to Lady Felton this

morning to ask if she would take him in for the Sunday. Some big

political meeting he had for to-night is off. Lady Lucy stays in

town--and Tallyn is shut up. But Lady Felton was, of course, delighted

to get him. He arrived about noon. Civility to his hostess kept him to

luncheon--then he pursues us!"

Since then!--no lack of sparkle in the eyes or color in the cheek! Yet

even so, to Sir James's keen sense, there was an increase, a sharpening,

in Diana's personality, of the wistful, appealing note, which had been

always touching, always perceptible, even through the radiant days of

her Tallyn visit.

Ah, well!--like Dr. Roughsedge, only with a far deeper urgency, he, too,

for want of any better plan, invoked the coming lover. In God's name,

let Marsham take the thing into his own hands!--stand on his own

feet!--dissipate a nightmare which ought never to have arisen--and

gather the girl to his heart.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Fanny's attention--and the surging anger of her thoughts--were

more and more directed upon the girl with the fair hair opposite. A

natural bond of sympathy seemed somehow to have arisen between her and

this Miss Drake--Diana's victim. Alicia Drake, looking up, was

astonished, time after time, to find herself stared at by the

common-looking young woman across the table, who was, she understood,

Miss Mallory's cousin. What dress, and what manners! One did not often

meet that kind of person in society. She wished Oliver joy of his future

relations.

* * * * *

In the old panelled drawing-room the coffee was circulating. Sir James

was making friends with Mrs. Colwood, whose gentle looks and widow's

dress appealed to him. Fanny, Miss Drake, and Mr. Birch made a group by

the fireplace; Mr. Birch was posing as an authority on the drama; Fanny,

her dark eyes fixed upon Alicia, was not paying much attention; and

Alicia, with ill-concealed impatience, was yawning behind her glove.

Hugh Roughsedge was examining the Donatello photograph.

"Do you like it?" said Diana, standing beside him. She was conscious of

having rather neglected him at lunch, and there was a dancing something

in her own heart which impelled her to kindness and compunction. Was not

the good, inarticulate youth, too, going out into the wilds, his life

in his hands, in the typical English way? The soft look in her eyes

which expressed this mingled feeling did not mislead the recipient. He

had overheard Sir James Glide's message; he understood her.

Presently, Mrs. Roughsedge, seeing that it was a sunny day and the

garden looked tempting, asked to be allowed to inspect a new greenhouse

that Diana was putting up. The door leading out of the drawing-room to

the moat and the formal garden was thrown open; cloaks and hats were

brought, and the guests streamed out.

"You are not coming?" said Hugh Roughsedge to Diana.

At this question he saw a delicate flush, beyond her control, creep over

her cheek and throat.

"I--I am expecting Mr. Marsham," she said. "Perhaps I ought to stay."

Sir James Chide looked at his watch.

"He should be here any minute. We will overtake you, Captain

Roughsedge."

Hugh went off beside Mrs. Colwood. Well, well, it was all plain enough!

It was only a fortnight since the Marshams had gone up to town for the

Parliamentary season. And here he was, again upon the scene. Impossible,

evidently, to separate them longer. Let them only get engaged, and be

done with it! He stalked on beside Mrs. Colwood, tongue-tied and

miserable.

Meanwhile, Sir James lingered with Diana. "A charming old place!" he

said, looking about him. "But Marsham tells me the Vavasours have

been odious."

"We have got the better of them! Mr. Marsham helped me."

"He has an excellent head, has Oliver. This year he will have special

need of it. It will be a critical time for him."

Diana gave a vague assent. She had, in truth, two recent letters from

Marsham in her pocket at that moment, giving a brilliant and minute

account of the Parliamentary situation. But she hid the fact, warm and

close, like a brooding bird; only drawing on her companion to talk

politics, that she might hear Marsham's name sometimes, and realize the

situation Marsham had described to her, from another point of view.--And

all the time her ear listened for the sound of hoofs, and for the front

door bell.

At last! The peal echoed through the old house. Sir James rose, and,

instinctively, Diana rose too. Was there a smile--humorous and

tender--in the lawyer's blue eyes?

"I'll go and finish my cigarette out-of-doors. Such a tempting

afternoon!"

And out he hurried, before Diana could stop him. She remained standing,

with soft hurrying breath, looking out into the garden. On a lower

terrace she saw Fanny and Alicia Drake walking together, and could not

help a little laugh of amusement that seemed to come out of a heart of

content. Then the door opened, and Marsham was there.

CHAPTER IX

Marsham's first feeling, as he advanced into the room, and, looking

round him, saw that Diana was alone, was one of acute physical pleasure.

The old room with its mingling of color, at once dim and rich; the

sunlit garden through the casement windows; the scent of the logs

burning on the hearth, and of the hyacinths and narcissus with which the

warm air was perfumed; the signs everywhere of a woman's life and charm;

all these first impressions leaped upon him, aiding the remembered spell

which had recalled him--hot-foot and eager--from London, to this place,

on the very first opportunity.

And if her surroundings were poetic, how much more so was the

girl-figure itself!--the slender form, the dark head, and that shrinking

joy which spoke in her gesture, in the movement she made toward him

across the room. She checked it at once, but not before a certain

wildness in it had let loose upon him a rush of delight.

"Sir James explained?" he said, as he took her hand.

"Yes. I had no notion you would be here--this week-end."

"Nor had I--till last night. Then an appointment broken down--and--_me

voici_!"

"You stay over to-morrow?"

"Of course! But it is absurd that the Feltons should be five miles

away!"

She stammered:

"It is a charming ride."

"But too long!--One does not want to lose time."

She was now sitting; and he beside her. Mechanically she had taken up

some embroidery--to shield her eyes. He examined the reds and blues of

the pattern, the white fingers, the bending cheek. Suddenly, like Sir

James Chide or Hugh Roughsedge, he was struck with a sense of change.

The Dian look which matched her name, the proud gayety and frankness of

it, were somehow muffled and softened. And altogether her aspect was a

little frail and weary. The perception brought with it an appeal to the

protective strength of the man. What were her cares? Trifling, womanish

things! He would make her confess them; and then conjure them away!

"You have your cousin with you?"

"Yes."

"She will make you a long visit?"

"Another week or two, I think."

"You are a believer in family traditions?--But of course you are!"

"Why 'of course'?" Her color had sparkled again, but the laugh was not

spontaneous.

"I see that you are in love with even your furthest kinsmen--you must

be--being an Imperialist! Now I am frankly bored by my kinsmen--near

and far."

"All the same--you ask their help!"

"Oh yes, in war; pure self-interest on both sides."

"You have been preaching this in the House of Commons?"

The teasing had answered. No more veiling of the eyes!

"No--I have made no speeches. Next week, in the Vote of Censure debate,

I shall get my chance."

"To talk Little Englandism? Alack!"

The tone was soft--it ended in a sigh.

"Does it really trouble you?"

She was looking down at her work. Her fingers drew the silk out and

in--a little at random. She shook her head slightly, without reply.

"I believe it does," he said, gently, still smiling. "Well, when I make

my speech, I shall remember that."

She looked up suddenly. Their eyes met full. On her just parted lips the

words she had meant to say remained unspoken. Then a murmur of voices

from the garden reached them, as though some one approached.

Marsham rose.

"Shall we go into the garden? I ought to speak to Robins. How is he

getting on?"

Robins was the new head gardener, appointed on Marsham's recommendation.

"Excellently." Diana had also risen. "I will get my hat."

He opened the door for her. Hang those people outside! But for them she

would have been already in his arms.

Left to himself, he walked to and fro, restless and smiling. No more

self-repression--no more politic delay! The great moment of

life--grasped--captured at last! He in his turn understood the

Faust-cry--"Linger awhile!--thou art so fair!" Only let him pierce to

the heart of it--realize it, covetously, to the full! All the ordinary

worldly motives were placated and at rest; due sacrifice had been done

to them; they teased no more. Upgathered and rolled away, like

storm-winds from the sea, they had left a shining and a festal wave for

love to venture on. Let him only yield himself--feel the full swell of

the divine force!

He moved to the window, and looked out.

_Birch_!--What on earth brought that creature to Beechcote. His

astonishment was great, and perhaps in the depths of his mind there

emerged the half-amused perception of a feminine softness and tolerance

which masculine judgment must correct. She did not know how precious she

was; and that it must not be made too easy for the common world to

approach her. All that was picturesque and important, of course, in the

lower classes; labor men, Socialists, and the like. But not vulgar

half-baked fellows, who meant nothing politically, and must yet be

treated like gentlemen. Ah! There were the Roughsedges--the Captain not

gone yet?--Sir James and Mrs. Colwood--nice little creature, that

companion--they would find some use for her in the future. And on the

lower terrace, Alicia Drake, and--that girl? He laughed, amusing himself

with the thought of Alicia's plight. Alicia, the arrogant, the

fastidious! The odd thing was that she seemed to be absorbed in the

conversation that was going on. He saw her pause at the end of the

terrace, look round her, and deliberately lead the way down a long grass

path, away from the rest of the party. Was the cousin good company,

after all?

Diana returned. A broad black hat, and sables which had been her

father's last gift to her, provided the slight change in surroundings

which pleases the eye and sense of a lover. And as a man brought up in

wealth, and himself potentially rich, he found it secretly agreeable

that costly things became her. There should be no lack of them in

the future.

They stepped out upon the terrace. At sight of them the Roughsedges

approached, while Mr. Fred Birch lagged behind to inspect the sundial.

After a few words' conversation, Marsham turned resolutely away.

"Miss Mallory wants to show me a new gardener."

The old doctor smiled at his wife. Hugh Roughsedge watched the departing

figures. Excellently matched, he must needs admit, in aspect and in

height. Was it about to happen?--or had it already happened? He braced

himself, soldierlike, to the inevitable.

"You know Mr. Birch," said Diana to her companion, as they descended to

the lower terrace, and passed not very far from that gentleman.

"I just know him," said Marsham, carelessly, and bestowed a nod in the

direction of the solicitor.

"Had he not something to do with your election?" said Diana, astonished.

"My election?" cried Marsham. Then he laughed. "I suppose he has been

drawing the long bow, as usual. Am I impertinent?--or may I ask, how you

came to know him?"

He looked at her smiling. Diana colored.

"My cousin Fanny made acquaintance with him--in the train."

"I see. Here are our two cousins--coming to meet us. Will you introduce

me?"

For Fanny and Miss Drake were now returning slowly along the gravel path

which led to the kitchen garden. The eyes of both girls were fixed on

the pair advancing toward them. Alicia was no longer impassive or

haughty. Like her companion, she appeared to have been engaged in an

intimate and absorbing conversation. Diana could not help looking at her

in a vague surprise as she paused in front of them. But she addressed

herself to her cousin.

"Fanny, I want to introduce Mr. Marsham to you."

Fanny Merton held out her hand, staring a little oddly at the gentleman

presented to her. Alicia meanwhile was looking at Diana, while she

spoke--with emphasis--to Marsham.

"Could you order my horse, Oliver? I think we ought to be going back."

"Would you mind asking Sir James?" Marsham pointed to the upper terrace.

"I have something to see to in the garden."

Diana said hurriedly that Mrs. Colwood would send the order to the

stables, and that she herself would not be long. Alicia took no notice

of this remark. She still looked at Oliver.

"You'll come back with us, won't you?"

Marsham flushed. "I have only just arrived," he said, rather sharply.

"Please don't wait for me.--Shall we go on?" he said, turning to Diana.

They walked on. As Diana paused at the iron gate which closed the long

walk, she looked round her involuntarily, and saw that Alicia and Fanny

were now standing on the lower terrace, gazing after them. It struck her

as strange and rude, and she felt the slight shock she had felt several

times already, both in her intercourse with Fanny and in her

acquaintance with Miss Drake--as of one unceremoniously jostled

or repulsed.

Marsham meanwhile was full of annoyance. That Alicia should still treat

him in that domestic, possessive way--and in Diana's presence--was

really intolerable. It must be stopped.

He paused on the other side of the gate.

"After all, I am not in a mood to see Robins to-day. Look!--the light is

going. Will you show me the path on to the hill? You spoke to me once

of a path you were fond of."

She tried to laugh.

"You take Robins for granted?"

"I am quite indifferent to his virtues--even his vices! This chance--is

too precious. I have so much to say to you."

She led the way in silence. The hand which held up her dress from the

mire trembled a little unseen. But her sense of the impending crisis had

given her more rather than less dignity. She bore her dark head finely,

with that unconscious long-descended instinct of the woman, waiting

to be sued.

They found a path beyond the garden, winding up through a leafless wood.

Marsham talked of indifferent things, and she answered him with spirit,

feeling it all, so far, a queer piece of acting. Then they emerged on

the side of the hill beside a little basin in the chalk, where a gnarled

thorn or two, an overhanging beech, and a bed of withered heather, made

a kind of intimate, furnished place, which appealed to the passer-by.

"Here is the sunset," said Marsham, looking round him. "Are you afraid

to sit a little?"

He took a light overcoat he had been carrying over his arm and spread it

on the heather. She protested that it was winter, and coats were for

wearing. He took no notice, and she tamely submitted. He placed her

regally, with an old thorn for support and canopy; and then he stood a

moment beside her gazing westward.

They looked over undulations of the chalk, bare stubble fields and

climbing woods, bathed in the pale gold of a February sunset. The light

was pure and wan--the resting earth shone through it gently yet

austerely; only the great woods darkly massed on the horizon gave an

accent of mysterious power to a scene in which Nature otherwise showed

herself the tamed and homely servant of men. Below were the trees of

Beechcote, the gray walls, and the windows touched with a last

festal gleam.

Suddenly Marsham dropped down beside her.

"I see it all with new eyes," he said, passionately. "I have lived in

this country from my childhood; and I never saw it before! Diana!--"

He raised her hand, which only faintly resisted; he looked into her

eyes. She had grown very pale--enchantingly pale. There was in her the

dim sense of a great fulfilment; the fulfilment of Nature's promise to

her; implicit in her woman's lot from the beginning.

"Diana!--" the low voice searched her heart--"You know--what I have come

to say? I meant to have waited a little longer--I was afraid!--but I

couldn't wait--it was beyond my strength. Diana!--come to me,

darling!--be my wife!"

He kissed the hand he held. His eyes beseeched; and into hers, widely

fixed upon him, had sprung tears--the tears of life's supremest joy. Her

lip trembled.

"I'm not worthy!" she said, in a whisper--"I'm not worthy!"

"Foolish Diana!--Darling, foolish Diana!--Give me my answer!"

And now he held both hands, and his confident smile dazzled her.

"I--" Her voice broke. She tried again, still in a whisper. "I will be

everything to you--that a woman can."

At that he put his arm round her, and she let him take that first kiss,

in which she gave him her youth, her life--all that she had and was.

Then she withdrew herself, and he saw her brow contract, and her mouth.

"I know!"--he said, tenderly--"I know! Dear, I think he would have been

glad. He and I made friends from the first."

She plucked at the heather beside her, trying for composure. "He would

have been so glad of a son--so glad--"

And then, by contrast with her own happiness, the piteous memory of her

father overcame her; and she cried a little, hiding her eyes against

Marsham's shoulder.

"There!" she said, at last, withdrawing herself, and brushing the tears

away. "That's all--that's done with--except in one's heart. Did--did

Lady Lucy know?"

She looked at him timidly. Her aspect had never been more lovely. Tears

did not disfigure her, and as compared with his first remembrance of

her, there was now a touching significance, an incomparable softness in

all she said and did, which gave him a bewildering sense of treasures to

come, of joys for the gathering.

Suddenly--involuntarily--there flashed through his mind the recollection

of his first love-passage with Alicia--how she had stung him on, teased,

and excited him. He crushed it at once, angrily.

As to Lady Lucy, he smilingly declared that she had no doubt guessed

something was in the wind.

"I have been 'gey ill to live with' since we got up to town. And when

the stupid meeting I had promised to speak at was put off, my mother

thought I had gone off my head--from my behavior. 'What are you going to

the Feltons' for?--You never care a bit about them.' So at last I

brought her the map and made her look at it--'Felton Park to Brinton, 3

miles--Haylesford, 4 miles--Beechcote, 2 miles and 1/2--Beechcote Manor,

half a mile--total, ten miles.'--'Oliver!'--she got so red!--'you are

going to propose to Miss Mallory!' 'Well, mother!--and what have you got

to say?' So then she smiled--and kissed me--and sent you messages--which

I'll give you when there's time. My mother is a rather formidable

person--no one who knew her would ever dream of taking her consent to

anything for granted; but this time"--his laugh was merry--"I didn't

even think of asking it!"

"I shall love her--dearly," murmured Diana.

"Yes, because you won't be afraid of her. Her standards are hardly made

for this wicked world. But you'll hold her--you'll manage her. If you'd

said 'No' to me, she would have felt cheated of a daughter."

"I'm afraid Mrs. Fotheringham won't like it," said Diana, ruefully,

letting herself be gathered again into his arms.

"My sister? I don't know what to say about Isabel, dearest--unless I

parody an old saying. She and I have never agreed--except in opinion. We

have been on the same side--and in hot opposition--since our childhood.

No--I dare say she will be thorny! Why did you fight me so well,

little rebel?"

He looked down into her dark eyes, revelling in their sweetness, and in

the bliss of her surrendered beauty. If this was not his first proposal,

it was his first true passion--of that he was certain.

She released herself--rosy--and still thinking of Mrs. Fotheringham.

"Oliver!"--she laid her hand shyly on his--"neither she nor you will

want me to stifle what I think--to deny what I do really believe? I dare

say a woman's politics aren't worth much"--she laughed and sighed.

"I say!--don't take that line with Isabel!"

"Well, mine probably aren't worth much--but they are mine--and papa

taught them me--and I can't give them up."

"What'll you do, darling?--canvass against me?" He kissed her hand

again.

"No--but I _can't_ agree with you!"

"Of course you can't. Which of us, _I_ wonder, will shake the other? How

do you know that I'm not in a blue fright for my principles?"

"You'll explain to me?--you'll not despise me?" she said, softly,

bending toward him; "I'll always, always try and understand."

Who could resist an attitude so feminine, yet so loyal, at once so old

and new? Marsham felt himself already attacked by the poison of Toryism,

and Diana, with a happy start, envisaged horizons that her father never

knew, and questions where she had everything to learn.

Hand in hand, trembling still under the thrill of the moment which had

fused their lives, they fell into happy discursive talk: of the Tallyn

visit--of her thoughts and his--of what Lady Lucy and Mr. Ferrier had

said, or would say. In the midst of it the fall of temperature, which

came with the sunset, touched them, and Marsham sprang up with the

peremptoriness of a new relationship, insisting that he must take her

home out of the chilly dusk. As they stood lingering in the hollow,

unwilling to leave the gnarled thorns, the heather-carpet, and the glow

of western light--symbols to them henceforth that they too, in their

turn, amid the endless generations, had drunk the mystic cup, and shared

the sacred feast--Diana perceived some movement far below, on the open

space in front of Beechcote. A little peering through the twilight

showed them two horses with their riders leaving the Beechcote door.

"Oh! your cousin--and Sir James!" cried Diana, in distress, "and I

haven't said good-bye--"

"You will see them soon again. And I shall carry them the news

to-night."

"Will you? Shall I allow it?"

Marsham laughed; he caught her hand again, slipped it possessively

within his left arm, and held it there as they went slowly down the

path. Diana could not think with any zest of Alicia and her reception of

the news. A succession of trifles had shown her quite clearly that

Alicia was not her friend; why, she did not know. She remembered many

small advances on her own part.

But at the mention of Sir James Chide, her face lit up.

"He has been so kind to me!" she said, looking up into Marsham's

face--"so very kind!"

Her eyes showed a touch of passion; the passion that some natures can

throw into gratitude; whether for little or much. Marsham smiled.

"He fell in love with you! Yes--he is a dear old boy. One can well

imagine that he has had a romance!"

"Has he?"

"It is always said that he was in love with a woman whom he defended on

a charge of murder."

Diana exclaimed.

"He had met her when they were both very young, and lost his heart to

her. Then she married and he lost sight of her. He accepted a brief in

this murder case, ten years later, not knowing her identity, and they

met for the first time when he went to see her with her solicitor

in prison."

Diana breathlessly asked for the rest of the story.

"He defended her magnificently. It was a shocking case. The sentence was

commuted, but she died almost immediately. They say Sir James has never

got over it."

Diana pondered; her eyes dim.

"How one would like to do something for him!--to give him pleasure!"

Marsham caressed her hand.

"So you shall, darling. He shall be one of our best friends. But he

mustn't make Ferrier jealous."

Diana smiled happily. She looked forward to all the new ties of kindred

or friendship that Marsham was to bring her--modestly indeed, yet in the

temper of one who feels herself spiritually rich and capable of giving.

"I shall love all your friends," she said, with a bright look. "I'm glad

you have so many!"

"Does that mean that you've felt rather lonely sometimes? Poor darling!"

he said, tenderly, "it must have been solitary often at Portofino."

"Oh no--I had papa." Then her truthfulness overcame her. "I don't mean

to say I didn't often want friends of my own age--girl friends

especially."

"You can't have them now!"--he said, passionately, as they paused at a

wicket-gate, under a yew-tree. "I want you all--all--to myself." And in

the shadow of the yew he put his arms round her again, and their hearts

beat together.

But our nature moves within its own inexorable limits. In Diana,

Marsham's touch, Marsham's embrace awakened that strange mingled

happiness, that happiness reared and based on tragedy, which the pure

and sensitive feel in the crowning moments of life. Love is tortured by

its own intensity; and the thought of death strikes through the

experience which means the life of the race. As her lips felt Marsham's

kiss, she knew, as generations of women have known before her, that life

could give her no more; and she also knew that it was transiency and

parting that made it so intolerably sweet.

"Till death us do part," she said to herself. And in the intensity of

her submission to the common lot she saw down the years the end of what

had now begun--herself lying quiet and blessed, in the last sleep, her

dead hand in Marsham's.

* * * * *

"Why must we go home?" he said, discontentedly, as he released her. "One

turn more!--up the avenue! There is light enough yet!"

She yielded weakly; pacifying her social conscience by the half-penitent

remark that Mrs. Colwood would have said good-bye to her guests, and

that--she--she supposed they would soon have to know.

"Well, as I want you to marry me in six weeks," said Marsham, joyously,

"I suppose they will."

"Six weeks!" She gasped. "Oh, how unreasonable!"

"Dearest!--A fortnight would do for frocks. And whom have we to consult

but ourselves? I know you have no near relations. As for cousins, it

doesn't take long to write them a few notes, and ask them to

the wedding."

Diana sighed.

"My only cousins are the Mertons. They are all in Barbadoes but Fanny."

Her tone changed a little. In her thoughts, she added, hurriedly: "I

sha'n't have any bridesmaids!"

Marsham, discreetly, made no reply. Personally, he hoped that Miss

Merton's engagements might take her safely back to Barbadoes before the

wedding-day. But if not, he and his would no doubt know how to deal with

her--civilly and firmly--as people must learn to deal with their

distasteful relations.

Meanwhile on Diana's mind there had descended a sudden cloud of thought,

dimming the ecstasy of her joy. The February day was dying in a

yellowish dusk, full of beauty. They were walking along a narrow avenue

of tall limes which skirted the Beechcote lands, and took them past the

house. Above their heads the trees met in a brown-and-purple tracery of

boughs, and on their right, through the branches, they saw a pale full

moon, throning it in a silver sky. The mild air, the movements of the

birds, the scents from the earth and bushes spoke of spring; and

suddenly Diana perceived the gate leading to the wood where that very

morning the subtle message of the changing year had come upon her,

rending and probing. A longing to tell Marsham all her vague troubles

rose in her, held back by a natural shrinking. But the longing

prevailed, quickened by the loyal sense that she must quickly tell him

all she knew about herself and her history, since there was nobody else

to tell him.

"Oliver!"--she began, hurriedly--"I ought to tell you--I don't think you

know. My name wasn't Mallory to begin with--my father took that name."

Marsham gave a little start.

"Dear--how surprising!--and how interesting! Tell me all you can--from

the year One."

He smiled upon her, with a sparkling look that asked for all her

history. But secretly he had been conscious of a shock. Lately he had

made a few inquiries about the Welsh Mallorys. And the answers had been

agreeable; though the old central stock of the name, to which he

presumed Diana belonged, was said to be extinct. No doubt--so he had

reflected--it had come to an end in her father.

"Mallory was the name of my father's mother. He took it for various

reasons--I never quite understood--and I know a good deal of property

came to him. But his original name--my name--was Sparling."

"Sparling!" A pause. "And have you any Sparling relations."

"No. They all died out--I think--but I know so little!--when I was

small. However, I have a box of Sparling papers which I have never

examined. Perhaps--some day--we might look at them together."

Her voice shook a little.

"You have never looked at them?"

"Never."

"But why, dearest?"

"It always seemed to make papa so unhappy--anything to do with his old

name. Oliver!"--she turned upon him suddenly, and for the first time she

clung to him, hiding her face against his shoulder--"Oliver!--I don't

know what made him unhappy--I don't know why he changed his name.

Sometimes I think--there may have been some terrible thing between

him--and my mother."

He put his arm round her, close and tenderly.

"What makes you think that?" Then he whispered to her--"Tell your

lover--your husband--tell him everything."

She shrank in delicious tremor from the great word, and it was a few

moments before she could collect her thoughts. Then she said--still

resting against him in the dark--and in a low rapid voice, as though she

followed the visions of an inner sense:

"She died when I was only four. I just remember--it is almost my first

recollection of anything--seeing her carried up-stairs--" She broke off.

"And oh! it's so strange!--"

"Strange? She was ill?"

"Yes, but--what I seem to remember never explains itself--and I did not

dare to ask papa. She hadn't been with us--for a long time. Papa and I

had been alone. Then one day I saw them carrying her up-stairs--my

father and two nurses--I ran out before my nurse could catch me--and saw

her--she was in her hat and cloak. I didn't know her, and when she

called me, I ran away. Then afterward they took me in to see her in

bed--two or three times--and I remember once"--Diana began to sob

herself--"seeing her cry. She lay sobbing--and my father beside her; he

held her hand--and I saw him hide his eyes upon it. They never noticed

me; I don't know that they saw me. Then they told me she was dead--I saw

her lying on the bed--and my nurse gave me some flowers to put beside

her--some violets. They were the only flowers. I can see her still,

lying there--with her hands closed over them."

She released herself from Marsham, and, with her hand in his, she drew

him slowly along the path, while she went on speaking, with an effort

indeed, yet with a marvellous sense of deliverance--after the silence of

years. She described the entire seclusion of their life at Portofino.

"Papa never spoke to me of mamma, and I never remember a picture of

her. After his death I saw a closed locket on his breast for the first

time. I would not have opened it for the world--I just kissed it--" Her

voice broke again; but after a moment she quietly resumed. "He changed

his name--I think--when I was about nine years old. I remember that

somehow it seemed to give him comfort--he was more cheerful with me

afterward--"

"And you have no idea what led him to go abroad?"

She shook her head. Marsham's changed and rapid tone had betrayed some

agitation in the mind behind; but Diana did not notice it. In her story

she had come to what, in truth, had been the determining and formative

influence on her own life--her father's melancholy, and the mystery in

which it had been enwrapped; and even the perceptions of love were for

the moment blinded as the old tyrannous grief overshadowed her.

"His life"--she said, slowly--"seemed for years--one long struggle to

bear--what was really--unbearable. Then when I was about nineteen there

was a change. He no longer shunned people quite in the same way, and he

took me to Egypt and India. We came across old friends of his whom I, of

course, had never seen before; and I used to wonder at the way in which

they treated him--with a kind of reverence--as though they would not

have touched him roughly for the world. Then directly after we got home

to the Riviera his illness began--"

She dwelt on the long days of dumbness, and her constant sense that he

wished--in vain--to communicate something to her.

"He wanted something--and I could not give it him--could not even tell

what it was. It was misery! One day he managed to write: 'If you are in

trouble, go to Riley & Bonner--ask them.' They were his solicitors, whom

he had depended on from his boyhood. But since his death I have never

wanted anything from them but a little help in business. They have been

very good; but--I could not go and question them. If there was anything

to know--papa had not been able to tell me--I did not want anybody

else--to--"

Her voice dropped. Only half an hour since the flowering of life! What a

change in both! She was pacing along slowly, her head thrown back; the

oval of her face white among her furs, under the ghostly touch of the

moonlight; a suggestion of something austere--finely remote--in her

attitude and movement. His eyes were on the ground, his shoulders bent;

she could not see his face.

"We must try and unravel it--together," he said, at last, with an

effort. "Can you tell me your mother's name?"

"It was an old Staffordshire family. But she and papa met in America,

and they married there. Her father died not long afterward, I think. And

I have never heard of any relations but the one sister, Mrs. Merton. Her

name was Wentworth. Oh!" It was an involuntary cry of physical pain.

"Diana!--Did I hurt your hand? my darling!"

The sudden tightness of his grip had crushed her fingers. She smiled at

him, as he kissed them, in hasty remorse.

"And her Christian name?" he asked, in a low voice.

"Juliet."

There was a pause. They had turned back, and were walking toward the

house. The air had grown much colder; frosty stars were twinkling, and

a chilly wind was blowing light clouds across the moon. The two figures

moved slowly in and out of the bands of light and shadow which crossed

the avenue.

Diana stopped suddenly.

"If there were something terrible to know!"--she said,

trembling--"something which would make you ashamed of me!--"

Her tall slenderness bent toward him--she held out her hands piteously.

Marsham's manhood asserted itself. He encircled her again with his

strong arm, and she hid her face against him. The contact of her soft

body, her fresh cheek, intoxicated him afresh. In the strength of his

desire for her, it was as though he were fighting off black vultures of

the night, forces of horror that threatened them both. He would not

believe what yet he already knew to be true. The thought of his mother

clamored at the door of his mind, and he would not open to it. In a

reckless defiance of what had overtaken him, he poured out tender and

passionate speech which gradually stilled the girl's tumult of memory

and foreboding, and brought back the heaven of their first moment on the

hill-side. Her own reserve broke down, and from her murmured words, her

sweetness, her infinite gratitude, Marsham might divine still more fully

the richness of that harvest which such a nature promised to a lover.

* * * * *

"I won't tell any one--but Muriel--till you have seen Lady Lucy," said

Diana, as they approached the house, and found Marsham's horse waiting

at the door.

He acquiesced, and it was arranged that he should go up to town the

following day, Sunday--see Lady Lucy--and return on the Monday.

Then he rode away, waving his hand through the darkness.

* * * * *

Marsham's horse carried him swiftly through country roads, where the

moon made magic, and peace reigned. But the mind of the rider groped in

confusion and despair, seeing no way out.

Only one definite purpose gathered strength--to throw himself on the

counsel of Sir James Chide. Chide had known--from the beginning!

CHAPTER X

Marsham reached Felton Hall about six o'clock. The house, a large

Georgian erection, belonging to pleasant easy-going people with many

friends, was full of guests, and the thought of the large party which he

must face at dinner and in the evening had been an additional weight in

his burden during the long ride home.

No means of escaping it, or the gossip with regard to himself, which

must, he knew, be raging among the guests!

That gossip had not troubled him when he had set forth in the early

afternoon. Quite the contrary. It had amused him as he rode to

Beechcote, full of confident hope, to think of announcing his

engagement. What reason would there be for delay or concealment? He

looked forward to the congratulations of old friends; the more

the better.

The antithesis between "then" and "now" struck him sharply, as he

dismounted. But for that last quarter of an hour with Diana, how

jubilantly would he have entered the house! Ten minutes with Lady

Felton--a dear, chattering woman!--and all would have been known. He

pictured instinctively the joyous flutter in the house--the merry

dinner--perhaps the toasts.

As it was, he slipped quietly into the house, hoping that his return

might pass unnoticed. He was thankful to find no one about--the hall and

drawing-room deserted. The women had gone up to rest before dinner; the

men had not long before come back muddy from hunting, and were

changing clothes.

Where was Sir James Chide?

He looked into the smoking-room. A solitary figure was sitting by the

fire. Sir James had a new novel beside him; but he was not reading, and

his cigar lay half smoked on the ash-tray beside him.

He was gazing into the blaze, his head on his hand, and his quick start

and turn as the door of the smoking-room opened showed him to be not

merely thoughtful but expectant.

He sprang up.

"Is that you, Oliver?"

He came forward eagerly. He had known Marsham from a child, had watched

his career, and formed a very shrewd opinion of his character. But how

this supreme moment would turn--if, indeed, the supreme moment had

arrived--Sir James had no idea.

Marsham closed the door behind him, and in the lamplight the two men

looked at each other. Marsham's brow was furrowed, his cheeks pale. His

eyes, restless and bright, interrogated his old friend. At the first

glance Sir James understood. He thrust his hands into his pockets.

"You know?" he said, under his breath.

Marsham nodded.

"And you--have known it all along?"

"From the first moment, almost, that I set eyes on that poor child. Does

_she_ know? Have you broken it to her?"

The questions hurried on each other's heels. Marsham shook his head, and

Sir James, turning away, made a sound that was almost a groan.

"You have proposed to her?"

"Yes."

"And she has accepted you?"

"Yes." Marsham walked to the mantel-piece, and hung over the fire.

Sir James watched him for a moment, twisting his mouth. Then he walked

up to his companion and laid a hand on his arm.

"Stick it out, Oliver!" he said, breathing quick. "Stick it out! You'll

have to fight--but she's worth it."

Marsham's hand groped for his. Sir James pressed it, and walked away

again, his eyes on the carpet. When he came back, he said, shortly:

"You know your mother will resist it to the last?"

By this, Marsham had collected his forces, and as he turned to the

lamplight, Sir James saw a countenance that reassured him.

"I have no hope of persuading her. It will have to be faced."

"No, I fear there is no hope. She sees all such things in a false light.

Forgive me--we must both speak plainly. She will shudder at the bare

idea of Juliet Sparling's daughter as your wife; she will think it means

a serious injury to your career--in reality it does nothing of the

sort--and she will regard it as her duty to assert herself."

"You and Ferrier must do all you can for me," said Marsham, slowly.

"We shall do everything we can, but I do not flatter myself it will be

of the smallest use. And supposing we make no impression--what then?"

Marsham paused a moment; then looked up.

"You know the terms of my father's will? I am absolutely dependent on my

mother. The allowance she makes me at present is quite inadequate for a

man in Parliament, and she could stop it to-morrow."

"You might have to give up Parliament?"

"I should very likely have to give up Parliament."

Sir James ruminated, and took up his half-smoked cigar for counsel.

"I can't imagine, Oliver, that your mother would push her opposition to

quite that point. But, in any case, you have forgotten Miss Mallory's

own fortune."

"It has never entered into my thoughts!" cried Marsham, with an emphasis

which Sir James knew to be honest. "But, in any case, I cannot live upon

my wife. If I could not find something to do, I should certainly give up

politics."

His tone had become a little dry and bitter, his aspect gray.

Sir James surveyed him a moment--pondering.

"You will find plenty of ways out, Oliver--plenty! The sympathy of all

the world will be with you. You have won a beautiful and noble creature.

She has been brought up under a more than Greek fate. You will rescue

her from it. You will show her how to face it--and how to conquer it."

A tremor swept across Marsham's handsome mouth. But the perplexity and

depression in the face remained.

Sir James had a slight consciousness of rebuff. But it disappeared in

his own emotion. He resumed:

"She ought to be told the story--perhaps with some omissions--at once.

Her mother"--he spoke with a slow precision, forcing out the words--"was

not a bad woman. If you like, I will break it to Miss Mallory. I am

probably more intimately acquainted with the story than any one else

now living."

Something in the tone, in the solemnity of the blue eyes, in the

carriage of the gray head, touched Marsham to the quick. He laid a hand

on his old friend's shoulder--affectionately--in mute thanks.

"Diana mentioned her father's solicitors--"

"I know"--interrupted Sir James--"Riley & Bonner--excellent

fellows--both of them still living. They probably have all the records.

And I shouldn't wonder if they have a letter--from Sparling. He _must_

have made provision--for the occasion that has now arisen."

"A letter?--for Diana?"

Sir James nodded. "His behavior to her was a piece of moral cowardice, I

suppose. I saw a good deal of him during the trial, of course, though it

is years now since I lost all trace of him. He was a sensitive, shy

fellow, wrapped up in his archæology, and very ignorant of the

world--when it all happened. It tore him up by the roots. His life

withered in a day."

Marsham flushed.

"He had no right to bring her up in this complete ignorance! He could

not have done anything more cruel!--more fatal! No one knows what the

effect may be upon her."

And with a sudden rush of passion through the blood, he seemed to hold

her once more in his arms, he felt the warmth of her cheek on his; all

her fresh and fragrant youth was present to him, the love in her voice,

and in her proud eyes. He turned away, threw himself into a chair, and

buried his face in his hands.

Sir James looked down upon him. Instead of sympathy, there was a

positive lightening in the elder man's face--a gleam of satisfaction.

"Cheer up, old fellow!" he said, in a low voice. "You'll bring her

through. You stand by her, and you'll reap your reward. By Gad, there

are many men who would envy you the chance!"

Marsham made no reply. Was it his silence that evoked in the mind of Sir

James the figure which already held the mind of his companion?--the

figure of Lady Lucy? He paced up and down, with the image before

him--the spare form, resolutely erect, the delicate resolution of the

face, the prim perfection of the dress, judged by the Quakerish standard

of its owner. Lady Lucy almost always wore gloves--white or gray. In Sir

James's mind the remembrance of them took a symbolic importance. What

use in expecting the wearer of them to handle the blood and mire of

Juliet Sparling's story with breadth and pity?

"Look here!" he said, coming to a sudden stop. "Let us decide at once on

what is to be done. You said nothing to Miss Mallory?"

"Nothing. But she is already in some trouble and misgiving about the

past. She is in the mood to inquire; she has been, I think, for some

time. And, naturally, she wishes to hide nothing from me."

"She will write to Riley & Bonner," said Sir James, quietly. "She will

probably write to-night. They may take steps to acquaint her with her

history--or they may not. It depends. Meanwhile, who else is likely to

know anything about the engagement?"

"Diana was to tell Mrs. Colwood--her companion; no one else."

"Nice little woman!--all right there! But"--Sir James gave a slight

start--"what about the cousin?"

"Miss Merton? Oh no! There is clearly no sympathy between her and Diana.

How could there be?"

"Yes--but my dear fellow!--that girl knows--must know--everything there

is to know! And she dislikes Diana; she is jealous of her; that I saw

quite plainly this afternoon. And, moreover, she is probably quite well

informed about you and your intentions. She gossiped half through lunch

with that ill-bred fellow Birch. I heard your name once or twice.

Oh!--and by-the-way!"--Sir James turned sharply on his heel--"what was

she confabulating about with Miss Drake all that time in the garden? Did

they know each other before?"

Marsham replied in the negative. But he, too, was disagreeably arrested

by the recollection of the two girls walking together, and of the

intimacy and animation of their talk. And he could recall what Sir James

had not seen--the strangeness of Alicia's manner, and the peremptoriness

with which she had endeavored to carry him home with her. Had she--after

hearing the story--tried to interrupt or postpone the crucial scene with

Diana? That seemed to him the probable explanation, and the idea roused

in him a hot and impotent anger. What business was it of hers?

"H'm!" said Sir James. "You may be sure that Miss Drake is now in the

secret. She was very discreet on the way home. But she will take sides;

and not, I think, with us. She seems to have a good deal of influence

with your mother."

Marsham reluctantly admitted it.

"My sister, too, will be hostile. Don't let's forget that."

Sir James shrugged his shoulders, with the smile of one who is

determined to keep his spirits up.

"Well, my dear Marsham, you have your battle cut out for you! Don't

delay it. Where is Lady Lucy?"

"In town."

"Can't you devise some excuse that will take you back to her early

to-morrow morning?"

Marsham thought over it. Easy enough, if only the engagement were

announced! But both agreed that silence was imperative. Whatever chance

there might be with Lady Lucy would be entirely destroyed were the

matter made public before her son had consulted her.

"Everybody here is on the tiptoe of expectation," said Sir James. "But

that you know; you must face it somehow. Invent a letter from

Ferrier--some party _contretemps_--anything!--I'll help you through. And

if you see your mother in the morning, I will turn up in the afternoon."

The two men paused. They were standing together--in conference; but each

was conscious of a background of hurrying thoughts that had so far been

hardly expressed at all.

Marsham suddenly broke out:

"Sir James!--I know you thought there were excuses--almost

justification--for what that poor creature did. I was a boy of fifteen

at the time you made your famous speech, and I only know it by report.

You spoke, of course, as an advocate--but I have heard it said--that you

expressed your own personal belief. Wherever the case is discussed,

there are still--as you know--two opinions--one more merciful than the

other. If the line you took was not merely professional; if you

personally believed your own case; can you give me some of the

arguments--you were probably unable to state them all in court--that

convinced you? Let me have something wherewith to meet my mother. She

won't look at this altogether from the worldly point of view. She will

have a standard of her own. Merely to belittle the thing, as long past

and forgotten, won't help me. But if I _could_ awaken her pity!--if you

could give me the wherewithal--"

Sir James turned away. He walked to the window and stood there a minute,

his face invisible. When he returned, his pallor betrayed what his

steady and dignified composure would otherwise have concealed.

"I can tell you what Mrs. Sparling told me--in prison--with the accents

of a dying woman--what I believed then--what I believe now.--Moreover, I

have some comparatively recent confirmation of this belief.--But this is

too public!"--he looked round the library--"we might be disturbed. Come

to my room to-night. I shall go up early, on the plea of letters. I

always carry with me--certain documents. For her child's sake, I will

show them to you."

At the last words the voice of the speaker, rich in every tender and

tragic note, no less than in those of irony or invective, wavered for

the first time. He stooped abruptly, took up the book he had been

reading, and left the room.

Marsham, too, went up-stairs. As he passed along the main corridor to

his room, lost in perplexity and foreboding, he heard the sound of a

woman's dress, and, looking up, saw Alicia Drake coming toward him.

She started at sight of him, and under the bright electric light of the

passage he saw her redden.

"Well, Oliver!--you stayed a good while."

"Not so very long. I have been home nearly an hour. I hope the horses

went well!"

"Excellently. Do you know where Sir James is?"

It seemed to him the question was significantly asked. He gave it a cold

answer.

"Not at this moment. He was in the smoking-room a little while ago."

He passed her abruptly. Alicia Drake pursued her way to the hall. She

was carrying some letters to the post-box near the front door. When she

arrived there she dropped two of them in at once, and held the other a

moment in her hand, looking at it. It was addressed to "Mrs.

Fotheringham, Manningham House, Leeds."

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Diana herself was wrestling with her own fate.

When Marsham rode away from her, and she had watched his tall figure

disappear into the dusk, she turned back toward the house, and saw it

and the world round it with new eyes. The moon shone on the old front,

mellowing it to a brownish ivory; the shadows of the trees lay clear on

the whitened grass; and in the luminous air colors of sunrise and of

moonrise blended, tints of pearl, of gold, and purple. A consecrating

beauty lay on all visible things, and spoke to the girl's tender and

passionate heart. In the shadow of the trees she stood a moment, her

hands clasped on her breast, recalling Marsham's words of love and

comfort, resting on him, reaching out through him to the Power behind

the world, which spoke surely through this loveliness of the night, this

joy in the soul!

And yet, her mood, her outlook--like Marsham's--was no longer what it

had been on the hill-side. No ugly light of revelation had broken upon

her, as upon him. But the conversation in the lime-walk had sobered the

first young exaltation of love; it had somehow divided them from the

happy lovers of every day; it had also divided them--she hardly knew how

or why--from that moment on the hill when Oliver had spoken of immediate

announcement and immediate marriage. Nothing was to be said--except to

Muriel--till Lady Lucy knew. She was glad. It made her bliss, in this

intervening moment, more fully her own. She thought with yearning of

Oliver's interview with his mother. A filial, though a trembling love

sprang up in her. And the sense of having come to shelter and to haven

seemed to give her strength for what she had never yet dared to face.

The past was now to be probed, interrogated. She was firmly resolved to

write to Riley & Bonner, to examine any papers there might be; not

because she was afraid that anything might come between her and Oliver;

rather because now, with his love to support her, she could bear

whatever there might be to bear.

She stepped into the house. Some one was strumming in the

drawing-room--with intervals between the strummings--as though the

player stopped to listen for something or some one. Diana shrank into

herself. She ran up-stairs noiselessly to her sitting-room, and opened

the door as quietly as possible.

"Muriel!"

The voice was almost a whisper. Mrs. Colwood did not hear it. She was

bending over the fire, with her back to the door, and a reading-lamp

beside her. To her amazement, Diana heard a sob, a sound of stifled

grief, which struck a sudden chill through her own excitement. She

paused a moment, and repeated her friend's name. Mrs. Colwood started.

She hastily rose, turning her face from Diana.

"Is that you? I thought you were still out."

Diana crossed the floor, and put her arm round the little gentle woman,

whose breath was still shaken by the quiet sobs she was trying

desperately to repress.

"Muriel, dear!--what is it?"

Mrs. Colwood found her voice, and her composure.

"Nothing! I was foolish--it doesn't matter."

Diana was sure she understood. She was suddenly ashamed to bring her own

happiness into this desolate and widowed presence, and the kisses with

which, mutely, she tried to comfort her friend, were almost a plea to

be forgiven.

But Muriel drew herself away. She looked searchingly, with recovered

self-command, into Diana's face.

"Has Mr. Marsham gone?"

"Yes," said Diana, looking at her.

Then the smile within broke out, flooding eyes and lips. Under the

influence of it, Mrs. Colwood's small tear-stained face passed through a

quick instinctive change. She, too, smiled as though she could not help

it; then she bent forward and kissed Diana.

"Is it all right?"

The peculiar eagerness in the tone struck Diana. She returned the kiss,

a little wistfully.

"Were you so anxious about me? Wasn't it--rather plain?"

Mrs. Colwood laughed.

"Sit down there, and tell me all about it."

She pushed Diana into a chair and sat down at her feet. Diana, with some

difficulty, her hand over her eyes, told all that could be told of a

moment the heart of which no true lover betrays. Muriel Colwood listened

with her face against the girl's dress, sometimes pressing her lips to

the hand beside her.

"Is he going to see Lady Lucy to-morrow?" she asked, when Diana paused.

"Yes. He goes up by the first train."

Both were silent awhile. Diana, in the midst of all the natural flutter

of blood and pulse, was conscious of a strong yearning to tell her

friend more--to say: "And he has brought me comfort and courage--as well

as love! I shall dare now to look into the past--to take up my father's

burden. If it hurts, Oliver will help me."

But she had been brought up in a school of reticence, and her loyalty to

her father and mother sealed her lips. That anxiety, that burden, nobody

must share with her but Oliver--and perhaps his mother; his mother, so

soon to be hers.

Muriel Colwood, watching her face, could hardly restrain herself. But

the moment for which her whole being was waiting in a tension scarcely

to be borne had not yet come. She chastened and rebuked her own dread.

They talked a little of the future. Diana, in a blessed fatigue, threw

herself back in her chair, and chattered softly, listening now and then

for the sounds of the piano in the room below, and evidently relieved

whenever, after a silence, fresh fragments from some comic opera of the

day, much belied in the playing, penetrated to the upper floor.

Meanwhile, neither of them spoke of Fanny Merton. Diana, with a laugh,

repeated Marsham's proposal for a six weeks' engagement. That was

absurd! But, after all, it could not be very long. She hoped Oliver

would be content to keep Beechcote. They could, of course, always spend

a good deal of time with Lady Lucy.

And in mentioning that name she showed not the smallest misgiving, not

a trace of uneasiness, while every time it was uttered it pricked the

shrinking sense of her companion. Mrs. Colwood had not watched and

listened during her Tallyn visit for nothing.

At last a clock struck down-stairs, and a door opened. Diana sprang up.

"Time to dress! And I've left Fanny alone all this while!"

She hurried toward the door; then turned back.

"Please!--I'm not going to tell Fanny just yet. Neither Fanny nor any

one--till Lady Lucy knows. What happened after we went away? Was

Fanny amused?"

"Very much, I should say."

"She made friends with Miss Drake?"

"They were inseparable, till Miss Drake departed."

Diana laughed.

"How odd! That I should never have prophesied. And Mr. Birch? I needn't

have him to lunch again, need I?"

"Miss Merton invited him to tea--on Saturday."

Diana reddened.

"Must I--!" she said, impetuously; then stopped herself, and opened the

door.

Outside, Fanny Merton was just mounting the stairs, a candle in her

hand. She stopped in astonishment at the sight of Diana.

"Diana! where have you been all this time?"

"Only talking to Muriel. We heard you playing; so we thought you weren't

dull," said Diana, rather penitently.

"I was only playing till you came in," was the sharp reply. "When did

Mr. Marsham go?"

Diana by this time was crossing the landing to the door of her room,

with Fanny behind her.

"Oh, quite an hour ago. Hadn't we better dress? Dinner will be ready

directly."

Fanny took no notice. She entered her cousin's room, in Diana's wake.

"Well?" she said, interrogatively. She leaned her back against the

wardrobe, and folded her arms.

Diana turned. She met Fanny's black eyes, sparkling with excitement.

"I'll give you my news at dinner," said Diana, flushing against her

will. "And I want to know how you liked Miss Drake."

Fanny's eyes shot fire.

"That's all very fine! That means, of course, that you're not going to

tell me anything!"

"Fanny!" cried Diana, helplessly. She was held spellbound by the

passion, the menace in the girl's look. But the touch of shrinking in

her attitude roused brutal violence in Fanny.

"Yes, it does!" she said, fiercely. "I understand!--don't I! I am not

good enough for you, and you'll make me feel it. You're going to make a

smart marriage, and you won't care whether you ever set eyes on any of

us again. Oh! I know you've given us money--or you say you will. If I

knew which side my bread was buttered, I suppose I should hold my

tongue.--But when you treat me like the dirt under your feet--when you

tell everything to that woman Mrs. Colwood, who's no relation, and

nothing in the world to you--and leave me kicking my heels all alone,

because I'm not the kind you want, and you wish to goodness I'd never

come--when you show as plain as you can that I'm a common creature--not

fit to pick up your gloves!--I tell you I just won't stand it. No one

would--who knew what I know!"

The last words were flung in Diana's teeth with all the force that

wounded pride and envious wrath could give them. Diana tottered a

little. Her hand clung to the dressing-table behind her.

"What do you know?" she said. "Tell me at once--what you mean."

Fanny contemptuously shook her head. She walked to the door, and before

Diana could stop her, she had rushed across to her own room and locked

herself in.

There she walked up and down panting. She hardly understood her own

rage, and she was quite conscious that, for her own interests, she had

acted during the whole afternoon like a fool. First, stung by the pique

excited in her by the talk of the luncheon-table, she had let herself be

exploited and explored by Alicia Drake. She had not meant to tell her

secret, but somehow she had told it, simply to give herself importance

with this smart lady, and to feel her power over Diana. Then, it was no

sooner told than she was quickly conscious that she had given away an

advantage, which from a tactical point of view she had infinitely better

have kept; and that the command of the situation might have passed from

her to this girl whom Diana had supplanted. Furious with herself, she

had tried to swear Miss Drake to silence, only to be politely but rather

scornfully put aside.

Then the party had broken up. Mr. Birch had been offended by the absence

of the hostess, and had vouchsafed but a careless good-bye to Miss

Merton. The Roughsedges went off without asking her to visit them; and

as for the Captain, he was an odious young man. Since their departure,

Mrs. Colwood had neglected her, and now Diana's secret return, her long

talk with Mrs. Colwood, had filled the girl's cup of bitterness. She had

secured that day a thousand pounds for her family and herself; and at

the end of it, she merely felt that the day had been an abject and

intolerable failure! Did the fact that she so felt it bear strange

witness to the truth that at the bottom of her anger and her cruelty

there was a masked and distorted something which was not wholly

vile--which was, in fact, the nature's tribute to something nobler than

itself? That Diana shivered at and repulsed her was the hot-iron that

burned and seared. And that she richly deserved it--and knew it--made

its smart not a whit the less.

* * * * *

Fanny did not appear at dinner. Mrs. Colwood and Diana dined

alone--Diana very white and silent. After dinner, Diana began slowly to

climb the shallow old staircase. Mrs. Colwood followed her.

"Where are you going?" she said, trying to hold her back.

Diana looked at her. In the girl's eyes there was a sudden and tragic

indignation.

"Do you all know?" she said, under her breath--"all--all of you?" And

again she began to mount, with a resolute step.

Mrs. Colwood dared not follow her any farther. Diana went quickly up and

along the gallery; she knocked at Fanny's door. After a moment Mrs.

Colwood heard it opened, and a parley of voices--Fanny's short and

sullen, Diana's very low. Then the door closed, and Mrs. Colwood knew

that the cousins were together.

How the next twenty minutes passed, Mrs. Colwood could never remember.

At the end of them she heard steps slowly coming down the stairs, and a

cry--her own name--not in Diana's voice. She ran out into the hall.

At the top of the stairs, stood Fanny Merton, not daring to move

farther. Her eyes were starting out of her head, her face flushed and

distorted.

"You go to her!" She stooped, panting, over the balusters, addressing

Mrs. Colwood. "She won't let me touch her."

Diana descended, groping. At the foot of the stairs she caught at Mrs.

Colwood's hand, went swaying across the hall and into the drawing-room.

There she closed the door, and looked into Mrs. Colwood's eyes. Muriel

saw a face in which bloom and first youth were forever dead, though in

its delicate features horror was still beautiful. She threw her arms

round the girl, weeping. But Diana put her aside. She walked to a chair,

and sat down. "My mother--" she said, looking up.

Her voice dropped. She moistened her dry lips, and began once more: "My

mother--"

But the brain could maintain its flickering strength no longer. There

was a low cry of "Oliver!" that stabbed the heart; then, suddenly, her

limbs were loosened, and she sank back, unconscious, out of her friend's

grasp and ken.

CHAPTER XI

"Her ladyship will be here directly, sir." Lady Lucy's immaculate butler

opened the door of her drawing-room in Eaton Square, ushered in Sir

James Chide, noiselessly crossed the room to see to the fire, and then

as noiselessly withdrew.

"Impossible that any one should be as respectable as that man looks!"

thought Sir James, impatiently. He walked forward to the fire, warmed

hands and feet chilled by a nipping east wind, and then, with his back

to the warmth, he examined the room.

It was very characteristic of its mistress. At Tallyn Henry Marsham had

worked his will; here, in this house taken since his death, it was the

will and taste of his widow which had prevailed. A gray paper with a

small gold sprig upon it, sofas and chairs not too luxurious, a Brussels

carpet, dark and unobtrusive, and chintz curtains; on the walls,

drawings by David Cox, Copley Fielding, and De Wint; a few books with

Mudie labels; costly photographs of friends and relations, especially of

the relations' babies; on one table, and under a glass case, a model in

pith of Lincoln Cathedral, made by Lady Lucy's uncle, who had been a

Canon of Lincoln; on another, a set of fine carved chessmen; such was

the furniture of the room. It expressed--and with emphasis--the tastes

and likings of that section of English society in which, firmly based as

it is upon an ample supply of all material goods, a seemly and

intelligent interest in things ideal and spiritual is also to be found.

Everything in the room was in its place, and had been in its place for

years. Sir James got no help from the contemplation of it.

The door opened, and Lady Lucy came quietly in. Sir James looked at her

sharply as they shook hands. She had more color than usual; but the

result was to make the face look older, and certain lines in it

disagreeably prominent. Very likely she had been crying. He hoped

she had.

"Oliver told you to expect me?"

She assented. Then, still standing, she looked at him steadily.

"This is a very terrible affair, Sir James."

"Yes. It must have been a great shock to you."

"Oh! that does not matter," she said, impatiently. "I must not think of

myself. I must think of Oliver. Will you sit down?"

She motioned him, in her stately way, to a seat. He realized, as he

faced her, that he beheld her in a new aspect. She was no longer the

gracious and smiling hostess, as her familiar friends knew her, both at

Tallyn and in London. Her manner threw a sudden light on certain

features in her history: Marsham's continued dependence on his mother

and inadequate allowance, the autocratic ability shown in the management

of the Tallyn household and estates, management in which Marsham was

allowed practically no share at all, and other traits and facts long

known to him. The gentle, scrupulous, composed woman of every day had

vanished in something far more vigorously drawn; he felt himself

confronted by a personality as strong as, and probably more stubborn

than his own.

Lady Lucy seated herself. She quietly arranged the folds of her black

satin dress; she drew forward a stool, and rested her feet upon it. Sir

James watched her, uncertain how to begin. But she saved him

the decision.

"I have had a painful interview with my son" she said, quietly. "It

could not be otherwise, and I can only hope that in a little while he

will do me justice. Oliver will join us presently. And now--first, Sir

James, let me ask you--you really believe that Miss Mallory has been

till now in ignorance of her mother's history?"

Sir James started.

"Good Heavens, Lady Lucy! Can you--do you--suppose anything else?"

Lady Lucy paused before replying.

"I cannot suppose it--since both you and my son--and Mr. Ferrier--have

so high an opinion of her. But it is a strange and mysterious thing that

she should have remained in this complete ignorance all these years--and

a cruel thing, of course--to everybody concerned."

Sir James nodded.

"I agree. It was a cruel thing, though it was done, no doubt, from the

tenderest motives. The suffering was bound to be not less but more,

sooner or later."

"Miss Mallory is very greatly to be pitied. But it is, of course, clear

that my son proposed to her, not knowing what it was essential that he

should know."

Sir James paused.

"We are old friends, Lady Lucy--you and I," he said at last, with

deliberation; and as he spoke he bent forward and took her hand. "I am

sure you will let me ask you a few questions."

Lady Lucy made no reply. Her hand--without any movement of withdrawal

or rebuff--gently dropped from his.

"You have been, I think, much attracted by Miss Mallory herself?"

"Very much attracted. Up to this morning I thought that she would make

an excellent wife for Oliver. But I have been acting, of course,

throughout under a false impression."

"Is it your feeling that to marry her would injure Oliver's career?"

"Certainly. But that is not what weighs with me most heavily."

"I did not for a moment believe that it would. However, let us take the

career first. This is how I look at it. If the marriage went forward,

there would no doubt be some scandal and excitement at first, when the

truth was known. But Oliver's personality and the girl's charm would

soon live it down. In this strange world I am not at all sure it might

not in the end help their future. Oliver would be thought to have done a

generous and romantic thing, and his wife's goodness and beauty would be

all the more appreciated for the background of tragedy."

Lady Lucy moved impatiently.

"Sir James--I am a plain person, with plain ideas. The case would

present itself to me very differently; and I believe that my view would

be that of the ordinary man and woman. However, I repeat, that is not

what I think of first--by any means."

"You think of the criminal taint?--the risk to Oliver--and to Oliver's

children?"

She made a sign of assent.

"Character--and the protection of character--is not that what we have

to think of--above all--in this world of temptation? We can none of us

afford to throw away the ordinary helps and safeguards. How can I

possibly aid and abet Oliver's marriage with the daughter of a woman who

first robbed her own young sister, in a peculiarly mean and cruel way,

and then committed a deliberate and treacherous murder?"

"Wait a moment!" exclaimed Sir James, holding up his hand. "Those

adjectives, believe me, are unjust."

"I know that you think so," was the animated reply. "But I remember the

case; I have my own opinion."

"They are unjust," repeated Sir James, with emphasis. "Then it is really

the horror of the thing itself--not so much its possible effect on

social position and opinion, which decides you?"

"I ask myself--I must ask myself," said his companion, with equal

emphasis, forcing the words: "can I help Oliver to marry the

daughter--of a convicted murderess--and adulteress?"

"No!" said Sir James, holding up his hand again--"_No!"_

Lady Lucy fell back in her chair. Her unwonted color had disappeared,

and the old hand lying in her lap--a hand thin to emaciation--shook

a little.

"Is not this too painful for us both, Sir James?--can we continue it? I

have my duty to think of; and yet--I cannot, naturally, speak to you

with entire frankness. Nor can I possibly regard your view as an

impartial one. Forgive me. I should not have dreamed of referring to the

matter in any other circumstances."

"Certainly, I am not impartial," said Sir James, looking up. "You know

that, of course, well enough."

He spoke in a strong full voice. Lady Lucy encountered a singular

vivacity in the gray eyes, as though the whole power of the man's

personality backed the words.

"Believe me," she said, with dignity, and not without kindness, "it is

not I who would revive such memories."

Sir James nodded quietly.

"I am not impartial; but I am well informed. It was my view which

affected the judge, and ultimately the Home Office. And since the

trial--in quite recent years--I have received a strange confirmation of

it which has never been made public. Did Oliver report this to you?"

"He told me certain facts," said Lady Lucy, unwillingly; "but I did not

see that they made much difference."

"Perhaps he did not give them the right emphasis," said Sir James,

calmly. "Will you allow _me_ to tell you the whole story?--as it

appears to me."

Lady Lucy looked distressed.

"Is it worth while," she said, earnestly, "to give yourself so much

pain? I cannot imagine that it could alter the view I take of my duty."

Sir James flushed, and sternly straightened himself. It was a well-known

gesture, and ominous to many a prisoner in the dock.

"Worth while!" he said. "Worth while!--when your son's future may depend

on the judgment you form."

The sharpness of his tone called the red also to Lady Lucy's cheek.

"Can anything that may be said now alter the irrevocable?" she asked, in

protest.

"It cannot bring the dead to life; but if you are really more

influenced in this matter by the heinousness of the crime itself, by the

moral infection, so to speak--that may spring from any kinship with

Juliet Sparling or inheritance from her--than by any dread of social

disgrace or disadvantage--if that be true!--then for Oliver's sake--for

that poor child's sake--you _ought_ to listen to me! There, I can meet

you--there, I have much to say."

He looked at her earnestly. The slight, involuntary changes of

expression in Lady Lucy, as he was speaking, made him say to himself:

"She is _not_ indifferent to the social stigma--she deceives herself!"

But he made no sign of his perception; he held her to her word.

She paused, in evident hesitation, saying at last, with some coldness:

"If you wish it, Sir James, of course I am quite ready to listen. I

desire to do nothing harshly."

"I will not keep you long."

Bending forward, his hands on his knees, his eyes upon the ground, he

thought a moment. When he began to speak, it was in a quiet and

perfectly colorless tone.

"I knew Juliet Wentworth first--when she was seventeen. I was on the

Midland Circuit, and went down to the Milchester Assizes. Her father was

High Sheriff, and asked me, with other barristers of the Circuit, not

only to his official dinner in the county town, but to luncheon at his

house, a mile or two away. There I saw Miss Wentworth. She made a deep

impression on me. After the Assizes were over, I stayed at her father's

house and in the neighborhood. Within a month I proposed to her. She

refused me. I merely mention these circumstances for the sake of

reporting my first impressions of her character. She was very young, and

of an extraordinarily nervous and sensitive organization. She used to

remind me of Horace's image of the young fawn trembling and starting in

the mountain paths at the rustling of a leaf or the movement of a

lizard. I felt then that her life might very well be a tragedy, and I

passionately desired to be able to protect and help her. However, she

would have nothing to do with me, and after a little while I lost sight

of her. I did happen to hear that her father, having lost his first

wife, had married again, that the girl was not happy at home, and had

gone off on a long visit to some friends in the United States. Then for

years I heard nothing. One evening, about ten years after my first

meeting with her, I read in the evening papers the accounts of a

'Supposed Murder at Brighton.' Next morning Riley & Bonner retained me

for the defence. Mr. Riley came to see me, with Mr. Sparling, the

husband of the incriminated lady, and it was in the course of my

consultation with them that I learned who Mrs. Sparling was. I had to

consider whether to take up the case or not; I saw at once it would be a

fight for her life, and I accepted it."

"What a terrible--terrible--position!" murmured Lady Lucy, who was

shading her eyes with her hand.

Sir James took no notice. His trained mind and sense were now wholly

concerned with the presentation of his story.

"The main facts, as I see them, were these. Juliet Wentworth had

married--four years before this date--a scholar and archæologist whom

she had met at Harvard during her American stay. Mr. Sparling was an

Englishman, and a man of some means who was devoting himself to

exploration in Asia Minor. The marriage was not really happy, though

they were in love with each other. In both there was a temperament

touched with melancholy, and a curious incapacity to accept the common

facts of life. Both hated routine, and were always restless for new

experience. Mrs. Sparling was brilliant in society. She was wonderfully

handsome, in a small slight way; her face was not unlike Miss Curran's

picture of Shelley--the same wildness and splendor in the eyes, the same

delicacy of feature, the same slight excess of breadth across the

cheek-bones, and curly mass of hair. She was odd, wayward,

eccentric--yet always lovable and full of charm. He was a fine creature

in many ways, but utterly unfit for practical life. His mind was always

dreaming of buried treasure--the treasure of the archæologist: tombs,

vases, gold ornaments, papyri; he had the passion of the excavator

and explorer.

"They came back to England from America shortly after their marriage,

and their child was born. The little girl was three years old when

Sparling went off to dig in a remote part of Asia Minor. His wife

resented his going; but there is no doubt that she was still deeply in

love with him. She herself took a little house at Brighton for the

child's sake. Her small startling beauty soon made her remarked, and her

acquaintances rapidly increased. She was too independent and

unconventional to ask many questions about the people that amused her;

she took them as they came--"

"Sir James!--dear Sir James." Lady Lucy raised a pair of imploring

hands. "What good can it do that you should tell me all this? It shows

that this poor creature had a wild, undisciplined character. Could any

one ever doubt it?"

"Wild? undisciplined?" repeated Sir James. "Well, if you think that you

have disposed of the mystery of it by those adjectives! For me--looking

back--she was what life and temperament and heredity had made her. Up

to this point it was an innocent wildness. She could lose herself in art

or music; she did often the most romantic and generous things; she

adored her child; and but for some strange kink in the tie that bound

them, she would have adored her husband. Well!"--he shrugged his

shoulders mournfully--"there it is: she was alone--she was

beautiful--she had no doubt a sense of being neglected--she was

thirsting for some deeper draught of life than had yet been hers--and by

the hideous irony of fate she found it--in gambling!--and in the

friendship which ruined her!"

Sir James paused. Rising from his chair, he began to pace the large

room. The immaculate butler came in, made up the fire, and placed the

tea: domestic and comfortable rites, in grim contrast with the story

that held the minds of Lady Lucy and her guest. She sat motionless

meanwhile; the butler withdrew, and the tea remained untouched.

"Sir Francis and Lady Wing--the two fiends who got possession of

her--had been settled at Brighton for about a year. Their debts had

obliged them to leave London, and they had not yet piled up a sufficient

mountain of fresh ones to drive them out of Brighton. The man was the

disreputable son of a rich and hard-working father who, in the usual

way, had damned his son by removing all incentives to work, and turning

him loose with a pile of money. He had married an adventuress--a girl

with a music-hall history, some beauty, plenty of vicious ability, and

no more conscience than a stone. They were the centre of a gambling and

racing set; but Lady Wing was also a very fine musician, and it was

through this talent of hers that she and Juliet Sparling became

acquainted. They met, first, at a charity concert! Mrs. Sparling had a

fine voice, Lady Wing accompanied her. The Wings flattered her, and

professed to adore her. Her absent whimsical character prevented her

from understanding what kind of people they were; and in her great

ignorance of the world, combined with her love of the romantic and the

extreme, she took the persons who haunted their house for Bohemians,

when she should have known them--the majority of them--for scoundrels.

You will remember that baccarat was then the rage. The Wings played it

incessantly, and were very skilful in the decoying and plunder of young

men. Juliet Sparling was soon seized by the excitement of the game, and

her beauty, her evident good breeding and good faith, were of

considerable use to the Wings' _ménage_. Very soon she had lost all the

money that her husband had left to her credit, and her bankers wrote to

notify her that she was overdrawn. A sudden terror of Sparling's

displeasure seized her; she sold a bracelet, and tried to win back what

she had lost. The result was only fresh loss, and in a panic she played

on and on, till one disastrous night she got up from the baccarat-table

heavily in debt to one or two persons, including Sir Francis Wing. With

the morning came a letter from her husband, remonstrating in a rather

sharp tone on what her own letters--and probably an account from some

other source--had told him of her life at Brighton; insisting on the

need for economy, owing to his own heavy expenses in the great

excavation he was engaged upon; and expressing the peremptory hope that

she would make the money he had left her last for another two months--"

Sir James lingered in his walk. He stared out of window at the square

garden for a few moments, then turned to look frowning at his companion.

"Then came her temptation. Her father had died a year before, leaving

her the trustee of her only sister, who was not yet of age. It had taken

some little time to wind up his affairs; but on the day after she

received her husband's letter of remonstrance, six thousand pounds out

of her father's estate was paid into her banking account. By this time

she was in one of those states of excitement and unreasoning terror to

which she had been liable from her childhood. She took the trust money

in order to pay the debts, and then gambled again in order to replace

the trust money. Her motive throughout was the motive of the hunted

creature. She was afraid of confessing to her husband, especially by

letter. She believed he would cast her off--and in her despair and

remorse she clung to his affection, and to the hope of his coming home,

as she had never yet done.

"In less than a month--in spite of ups and downs of fortune, probably

skilfully contrived by Francis Wing and his accomplices--for there can

be no question that the play was fraudulent--she had lost four thousand

out of the six; and it is clear that more than once she thought of

suicide as the only way out, and nothing but the remembrance of the

child restrained her. By this time Francis Wing, who was a most

handsome, well-bred, and plausible villain, was desperately in love with

her--if one can use the word love for such a passion. He began to lend

her money in small sums. She was induced to look upon him as her only

friend, and forced by the mere terror of the situation in which she

found herself to propitiate and play him as best she might. One day, in

an unguarded moment of remorse, she let him guess what had happened

about the trust money. Thenceforward she was wholly in his power. He

pressed his attentions upon her; and she, alternately civil and

repellent, as her mood went, was regarded by some of the guests in the

house as not unlikely to respond to them in the end. Meanwhile he had

told his wife the secret of the trust money for his own purposes. Lady

Wing, who was an extremely jealous woman, believed at this time that he

was merely pretending a passion for Mrs. Sparling in order the more

securely to plunder what still remained of the six thousand pounds. She

therefore aided and abetted him; and _her_ plan, no doubt, was to wait

till they and their accomplices had absorbed the last of Mrs. Sparling's

money, and then to make a midnight flitting, leaving their victim to

her fate.

"The _dénouement_, however, came with frightful rapidity. The Wings had

taken an old house at the back of the downs for the summer, no doubt to

escape from some of the notoriety they had gained in Brighton. There--to

her final ruin--Juliet Sparling was induced to join them, and gambling

began again; she still desperately hoping to replace the trust money,

and salving her conscience, as to her sister, by drawing for the time on

the sums lent her by Francis Wing.--Here at last Lady Wing's suspicion

was aroused, and Mrs. Sparling found herself between the hatred of the

wife and the dishonorable passion of the husband. Yet to leave them

would be the signal for exposure. For some time the presence of other

guests protected her. Then the guests left, and one August night after

dinner, Francis Wing, who had drunk a great deal of champagne, made

frantic love to her. She escaped from him with difficulty, in a passion

of loathing and terror, and rushed in-doors, where she found Lady Wing

in the gallery of the old house, on the first floor, walking up and down

in a jealous fury. Juliet Sparling burst in upon her with the reproaches

of a woman driven to bay, threatening to go at once to her husband and

make a clean breast of the whole history of their miserable

acquaintance. She was practically beside herself--already, as the sequel

showed, mortally ill, worn out by remorse and sleeplessness, and

quivering under the insult which had been offered her. Lady Wing

recovered her own self-possession under the stimulus of Juliet's

breakdown. She taunted her in the cruelest way, accused her of being the

temptress in the case of Sir Francis, and of simulating a hypocritical

indignation in order to save herself with her husband, and finally

charged her with the robbery of her sister's money, declaring that as

soon as daylight came she would take steps to set the criminal law in

motion, and so protect both herself and her husband from any charge such

a woman might bring against them. The threat, of course, was mere bluff.

But Mrs. Sparling, in her frenzy and her ignorance, took it for truth.

Finally, the fierce creature came up to her, snatching at a brooch in

the bosom of her dress, and crying out in the vilest language that it

was Sir Francis's gift. Juliet, pushed up against the panelling of the

gallery, caught at a dagger belonging to a trophy of Eastern arms

displayed on the wall, close to her hand, and struck wildly at her

tormentor. The dagger pierced Lady Wing's left breast--she was in

evening dress and _décolletée_; it penetrated to the heart, and she fell

dead at Juliet's feet as her husband entered the gallery. Juliet dropped

the dagger; and as Sir Francis rushed to his wife, she fled shrieking up

the stairs--her white dress covered with blood--to her own room, falling

unconscious before she reached it. She was carried to her room by the

servants--the police were sent for--and the rest--or most of the

rest--you know."

Sir James ceased speaking. A heavy silence possessed the room.

Sir James walked quickly up to his companion.

"Now I ask you to notice two points in the story as I have told it. My

cross-examination of Wing served its purpose as an exposure of the

man--except in one direction. He swore that Mrs. Sparling had made

dishonorable advances to him, and had finally become his mistress, in

order to buy his silence on the trust money and the continuance of his

financial help. On the other hand, the case for the defence was that--as

I have stated--it was in the maddened state of feeling, provoked by his

attack upon her honor, and made intolerable by the wife's taunts and

threats, that Juliet Sparling struck the fatal blow. At the trial the

judge believed me; the jury--and a large part of the public--you, I have

no doubt among them--believed Wing. The jury were probably influenced by

some of the evidence given by the fellow-guests in the house, which

seemed to me simply to amount to this--that a woman in the strait in

which Juliet Sparling was will endeavor, out of mortal fear, to keep the

ruffian who has her in his power in a good-humor."

"However, I have now confirmatory evidence for my theory of the

matter--evidence which has never been produced--and which I tell you now

simply because the happiness of her child--and of your son--is

at stake."

Lady Lucy moved a little. The color returned to her cheeks. Sir James,

however, gave her no time to interrupt. He stood before her, smiting

one hand against another, to emphasize his words, as he continued:

"Francis Wing lived for some eighteen years after Mrs. Sparling's death.

Then, just as the police were at last on his track as the avengers of a

long series of frauds, he died at Antwerp in extreme poverty and

degradation. The day before he died he dictated a letter to me, which

reached me, through a priest, twenty-four hours after his death. For his

son's sake, he invited me to regard it as confidential. If Mrs. Sparling

had been alive I should, of course, have taken no notice of the request.

But she had been dead for eighteen years; I had lost sight completely of

Sparling and the child, and, curiously enough, I knew something of

Wing's son. He was about ten years old at the death of his mother, and

was then rescued from his father by the Wing kindred and decently

brought up. At the time the letter reached me he was a promising young

man of eight-and-twenty, he had just been called to the Bar, and he was

in the chambers of a friend of mine. By publishing Wing's confession I

could do no good to the dead, and I might harm the living. So I held my

tongue. Whether, now, I should still hold it is, no doubt, a question.

"However, to go back to the statement. Wing declared to me in this

letter that Juliet Sparling's relation to him had been absolutely

innocent, that he had persecuted her with his suit, and she had never

given him a friendly word, except out of fear. On the fatal evening he

had driven her out of her mind, he said, by his behavior in the garden;

she was not answerable for her actions; and his evidence at the trial

was merely dictated either by the desire to make his own case look less

black or by the fiendish wish to punish Juliet Sparling for her

loathing of him.

"But he confessed something else!--more important still. I must go back

a little. You will remember my version of the dagger incident? I

represented Mrs. Sparling as finding the dagger on the wall as she was

pushed or dragged up against the panelling by her antagonist--as it

were, under her hand. Wing swore at the trial that the dagger was not

there, and had never been there. The house belonged to an old traveller

and sportsman who had brought home arms of different sorts from all

parts of the world. The house was full of them. There were two

collections of them on the wall of the dining-room, one in the hall, and

one or two in the gallery. Wing declared that the dagger used was taken

by Juliet Sparling from the hall trophy, and must have been carried

up-stairs with a deliberate purpose of murder. According to him, their

quarrel in the garden had been a quarrel about money matters, and Mrs.

Sparling had left him, in great excitement, convinced that the chief

obstacle in the way of her complete control of Wing and his money lay in

the wife. There again--as to the weapon--I had no means of refuting him.

As far as the appearance--after the murder--of the racks holding the

arms was concerned, the weapon might have been taken from either place.

And again--on the whole--the jury believed Wing. The robbery of the

sister's money--the incredible rapidity of Juliet Sparling's

deterioration--had set them against her. Her wild beauty, her proud and

dumb misery in the dock, were of a kind rather to alienate the plain man

than to move him. They believed her capable of anything--and it was

natural enough.

"But Wing confessed to me that he knew perfectly well that the dagger

belonged to the stand in the gallery. He had often examined the arms

there, and was quite certain of the fact. He swore this to the priest.

Here, again, you can only explain his evidence by a desire for revenge."

Sir James paused. As he moved a little away from his companion his

expression altered. It was as though he put from him the external

incidents and considerations with which he had been dealing, and the

vivacity of manner which fitted them. Feelings and forces of another

kind emerged, clothing themselves in the beauty of an incomparable

voice, and in an aspect of humane and melancholy dignity.

He turned to Lady Lucy.

"Now then," he said, gently, "I am in a position to put the matter to

you finally, as--before God--it appears to me. Juliet Sparling--as I

said to Oliver last night--was not a bad woman! She sinned deeply, but

she was never false to her husband in thought or deed; none of her

wrong-doing was deliberate; she was tortured by remorse; and her

murderous act was the impulse of a moment, and partly in self-defence.

It was wholly unpremeditated; and it killed her no less than her victim.

When, next day, she was removed by the police, she was already a dying

woman. I have in my possession a letter--written to me by her--after her

release, in view of her impending death, by the order of the Home

Office--a few days before she died. It is humble--it is

heart-rending--it breathes the sincerity of one who had turned all her

thoughts from earth; but it thanked me for having read her aright; and

if ever I could have felt a doubt of my own interpretation of the

case--but, thank God, I never did!--that letter would have shamed it

out of me! Poor soul, poor soul! She sinned, and she suffered--agonies,

beyond any penalty of man's inflicting. Will you prolong her punishment

in her child?"

Lady Lucy had covered her face with her hand. He saw her breath flutter

in her breast. And sitting down beside her, blanched by the effort he

had made, and by the emotion he had at last permitted himself, yet

fixing his eyes steadily on the woman before him, he waited for

her reply.

CHAPTER XII

Lady Lucy did not reply at once. She slowly drew forward the neglected

tea-table, made tea, and offered it to Sir James. He took it

impatiently, the Irish blood in him running hot and fast; and when she

had finished her cup, and still the silence lasted, except for the

trivial question-and-answer of the tea-making, he broke in upon it with

a somewhat peremptory--

"Well?"

Lady Lucy clasped her hands on her lap. The hand which had been so far

bare was now gloved like the other, and something in the spectacle of

the long fingers, calmly interlocked and clad in spotless white kid,

increased the secret exasperation in her companion.

"Believe me, dear Sir James," she said at last, lifting her clear brown

eyes, "I am very grateful to you. It must have been a great effort for

you to tell me this awful story, and I thank you for the confidence you

have reposed in me."

Sir James pushed his chair back.

"I did it, of course, for a special reason," he said, sharply. "I hope I

have given you cause to change your mind."

She shook her head slowly.

"What have you proved to me? That Mrs. Sparling's crime was not so

hideous as some of us supposed?--that she did not fall to the lowest

depths of all?--and that she endured great provocation? But could

anything really be more vile than the history of those weeks of

excitement and fraud?--of base yielding to temptation?--of cruelty to

her husband and child?--even as you have told it? Her conduct led

directly to adultery and violence. If, by God's mercy, she was saved

from the worst crimes imputed to her, does it make much difference to

the moral judgment we must form?"

He looked at her in amazement.

"No difference!--between murder and a kind of accident?--between

adultery and fidelity?"

Lady Lucy hesitated--then resumed, with stubbornness: "You put it--like

an advocate. But look at the indelible facts--look at the future. If my

son married the daughter of such a woman and had children, what must

happen? First of all, could he, could any one, be free from the dread of

inherited lawlessness and passion? A woman does not gamble, steal, and

take life in a moment of violence without some exceptional flaw in

temperament and will, and we see again and again how such flaws reappear

in the descendants of weak and wicked people. Then again--Oliver must

renounce and throw away all that is implied in family memories and

traditions. His wife could never speak to her children and his of her

own mother and bringing up. They would be kept in ignorance, as she

herself was kept, till the time came that they must know. Say what you

will, Juliet Sparling was condemned to death for murder in a notorious

case--after a trial which also branded her as a thief. Think of a boy at

Eton or Oxford--a girl in her first youth--hearing for the first

time--perhaps in some casual way--the story of the woman whose blood ran

in theirs!--What a cloud on a family!--what a danger and drawback for

young lives!"

Her delicate features, under the crown of white hair, were once more

flooded with color, and the passion in her eyes held them steady under

Sir James's penetrating look. Through his inner mind there ran the cry:

"Pharisee!--Hypocrite!"

But he fought on.

"Lady Lucy!--your son loves this girl--remember that! And in herself you

admit that she is blameless--all that you could desire for his

wife--remember that also."

"I remember both. But I was brought up by people who never admitted that

any feeling was beyond our control or ought to be indulged--against

right and reason."

"Supposing Oliver entirely declines to take your view?--supposing he

marries Miss Mallory?"

"He will not break my heart," she said, drawing a quicker breath. "He

will get over it."

"But if he persists?"

"He must take the consequences. I cannot aid and abet him."

"And the girl herself? She has accepted him. She is young, innocent,

full of tender and sensitive feeling. Is it possible that you should not

weigh her claim against your fears and scruples?"

"I feel for her most sincerely."

Sir James suddenly threw out a restless foot, which caught Lady Lucy's

fox terrier, who was snoozing under the tea-table. He hastily

apologized, and the speaker resumed:

"But, in my opinion, she would do a far nobler thing if she regarded

herself as bound to some extent to bear her mother's burden--to pay her

mother's debt to society. It may sound harsh--but is it? Is a dedicated

life necessarily an unhappy life? Would not everybody respect and revere

her? She would sacrifice herself, as the Sister of Mercy does, or the

missionary, and she would find her reward. But to enter a family with an

unstained record, bearing with her such a name and such associations,

would be, in my opinion, a wrong and selfish act!"

Lady Lucy drew herself to her full height. In the dusk of the declining

afternoon the black satin and white ruffles of her dress, her white head

in its lace cap, her thin neck and shoulders, her tall slenderness, and

the rigidity of her attitude, made a formidable study in personality.

Sir James's whole soul rose in one scornful and indignant protest. But

he felt himself beaten. The only hope lay in Oliver himself.

He rose slowly from his chair.

"It is useless, I see, to try and argue the matter further. But I warn

you: I do not believe that Oliver will obey you, and--forgive me Lady

Lucy!--but--frankly--I hope he will not. Nor will he suffer too

severely, even if you, his mother, desert him. Miss Mallory has some

fortune--"

"Oliver will not live upon his wife!"

"He may accept her aid till he has found some way of earning money. What

amazes me--if you will allow me the liberty of an old friend--is that

you should think a woman justified in coercing a son of mature age in

such a matter!"

His tone, his manner pierced Lady Lucy's pride. She threw back her head

nervously, but her tone was calm:

"A woman to whom property has been intrusted must do her best to see

that the will and desires of those who placed it in her hands are

carried out!"

"Well, well!"--Sir James looked for his stick--"I am sorry for

Oliver--but"--he straightened himself--"it will make a bigger man

of him."

Lady Lucy made no reply, but her expression was eloquent of a patience

which her old friend might abuse if he would.

"Does Ferrier know? Have you consulted him?" asked Sir James, turning

abruptly.

"He will be here, I think, this afternoon--as usual," said Lady Lucy,

evasively. "And, of course, he must know what concerns us so deeply."

As she spoke the hall-door bell was heard.

"That is probably he." She looked at her companion uncertainly. "Don't

go, Sir James--unless you are really in a hurry."

The invitation was not urgent; but Sir James stayed, all the same.

Ferrier was a man so interesting to his friends that no judgment of his

could be indifferent to them. Moreover, there was a certain angry

curiosity as to how far Lady Lucy's influence would affect him. Chide

took inward note of the fact that his speculation took this form, and

not another. Oh! the hypocritical obstinacy of decent women!--the lack

in them of heart, of generosity, of imagination!

The door opened, and Ferrier entered, with Marsham and the butler behind

him. Mr. Ferrier, in his London frock-coat, appeared rounder and heavier

than ever but for the contradictory vigor and lightness of his step, the

shrewd cheerfulness of the eyes. It had been a hard week in Parliament,

however, and his features and complexion showed signs of overwork and

short sleep.

For a few minutes, while tea was renewed, and the curtains closed, he

maintained a pleasant chat with Lady Lucy, while the other two looked at

each other in silence.

But when the servant had gone, Ferrier put down his cup unfinished. "I

am very sorry for you both," he said, gravely, looking from Lady Lucy to

her son. "I need not say your letter this morning took me wholly by

surprise. I have since been doing my best to think of a way out."

There was a short pause--broken by Marsham, who was sitting a little

apart from the others, restlessly fingering a paper-knife.

"If you could persuade my mother to take a kind and reasonable view," he

said, abruptly; "that is really the only way out."

Lady Lucy stiffened under the attack. Drawn on by Ferrier's

interrogative glance, she quietly repeated, with more detail, and even

greater austerity, the arguments and considerations she had made use of

in her wrestle with Sir James. Chide clearly perceived that her

opposition was hardening with every successive explanation of it. What

had been at first, no doubt, an instinctive recoil was now being

converted into a plausible and reasoned case, and the oftener she

repeated it the stronger would she become on her own side and the more

in love with her own contentions.

Ferrier listened attentively; took note of what she reported as to Sir

James's fresh evidence; and when she ceased called upon Chide to

explain. Chide's second defence of Juliet Sparling as given to a

fellow-lawyer was a remarkable piece of technical statement, admirably

arranged, and unmarked by any trace of the personal feeling he had not

been able to hide from Lady Lucy.

"Most interesting--most interesting," murmured Ferrier, as the story

came to an end. "A tragic and memorable case."

He pondered a little, his eyes on the carpet, while the others waited.

Then he turned to Lady Lucy and took her hand.

"Dear lady!" he said, gently, "I think--you ought to give way!"

Lady Lucy's face quivered a little. She decidedly withdrew her hand.

"I am sorry you are both against me," she said, looking from one to the

other. "I am sorry you help Oliver to think unkindly of me. But if I

must stand alone, I must. I cannot give way."

Ferrier raised his eyebrows with a little perplexed look. Thrusting his

hands into his pockets, he went to stand by the fire, staring down into

it a minute or two, as though the flames might bring counsel.

"Miss Mallory is still ignorant, Oliver--is that so?" he said, at last.

"Entirely. But it is not possible she should continue to be so. She has

begun to make inquiries, and I agree with Sir James it is right she

should be told--"

"I propose to go down to Beechcote to-morrow," put in Sir James.

"Have you any idea what view Miss Mallory would be likely to take of the

matter--as affecting her engagement?"

"She could have no view that was not unselfish and noble--like herself,"

said Marsham, hotly. "What has that to do with it?" [Illustration:

"'DEAR LADY,' HE SAID, GENTLY, 'I THINK YOU OUGHT TO GIVE WAY!'"]

"She might release you," was Ferrier's slow reply.

Marsham flushed.

"And you think I should be such a hound as to let her!"

Sir James only just prevented himself from throwing a triumphant look at

his hostess.

"You will, of course, inform her of your mother's opposition?" said

Ferrier.

"It will be impossible to keep it from her."

"Poor child!" murmured Ferrier--"poor child!"

Then he looked at Lady Lucy.

"May I take Oliver into the inner room a little while?" he asked,

pointing to a farther drawing-room.

"By all means. I shall be here when you return."

Sir James had a few hurried words in private with Marsham, and then took

his leave. As he and Lady Lucy shook hands, he gave her a

penetrating look.

"Try and think of the girl!" he said, in a low voice; "_the girl_--in

her first youth."

"I think of my son," was the unmoved reply. "Good-bye, Sir James. I feel

that we are adversaries, and I wish it were not so."

Sir James walked away, possessed by a savage desire to do some damage to

the cathedral in pith, as he passed it on his way to the door; or to

shake his fist in the faces of Wilberforce and Lord Shaftesbury, whose

portraits adorned the staircase. The type of Catholic woman which he

most admired rose in his mind; compassionate, tender, infinitely soft

and loving--like the saints; save where "the faith" was concerned--like

the saints, again. This Protestant rigidity and self-sufficiency were

the deuce!

But he would go down to Beechcote, and he and Oliver between them would

see that child through.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Ferrier and Marsham were in anxious conclave. Ferrier

counselled delay. "Let the thing sleep a little. Don't announce the

engagement. You and Miss Mallory will, of course, understand each other.

You will correspond. But don't hurry it. So much consideration, at

least, is due to your mother's strong feeling."

Marsham assented, but despondently.

"You know my mother; time will make no difference."

"I'm not so sure--I'm not so sure," said Ferrier, cheerfully. "Did your

mother say anything about--finances?"

Marsham gave a gloomy smile.

"I shall be a pauper, of course--that was made quite plain to me."

"No, no!--that must be prevented!" said Ferrier, with energy.

Marsham was not quick to reply. His manner as he stood with his back to

the fire, his distinguished head well thrown back on his straight, lean

shoulders, was the manner of a proud man suffering humiliation. He was

thirty-six, and rapidly becoming a politician of importance. Yet here he

was--poor and impotent, in the midst of great wealth, wholly dependent,

by his father's monstrous will, on his mother's caprice--liable to be

thwarted and commanded, as though he were a boy of fifteen. Up till now

Lady Lucy's yoke had been tolerable; to-day it galled beyond endurance.

Moreover, there was something peculiarly irritating at the moment in

Ferrier's intervention. There had been increased Parliamentary friction

of late between the two men, in spite of the intimacy of their personal

relations. To be forced to owe fortune, career, and the permission to

marry as he pleased to Ferrier's influence with his mother was, at this

juncture, a bitter pill for Oliver Marsham.

Ferrier understood him perfectly, and he had never displayed more

kindness or more tact than in the conversation which passed between

them. Marsham finally agreed that Diana must be frankly informed of his

mother's state of mind, and that a waiting policy offered the only hope.

On this they were retiring to the front drawing-room when Lady Lucy

opened the communicating door.

"A letter for you, Oliver."

He took it, and turned it over. The handwriting was unknown to him.

"Who brought this?" he asked of the butler standing behind his mother.

"A servant, sir, from Beechcote Manor, He was told to wait for an

answer."

"I will send one. Come when I ring."

The butler departed, and Marsham went hurriedly into the inner room,

closing the door behind him. Ferrier and Lady Lucy were left, looking at

each other in anxiety. But before they could put it into words, Marsham

reappeared, in evident agitation. He hurried to the bell and rang it.

Lady Lucy pointedly made no inquiry. But Ferrier spoke.

"No bad news, I hope?"

Marsham turned.

"She has been told?" he said, hoarsely, "Mrs. Colwood, her companion,

speaks of 'shock.' I must go down at once."

Lady Lucy said nothing. She, too, had grown white.

The butler appeared. Marsham asked for the Sunday trains, ordered some

packing, went down-stairs to speak to the Beechcote messenger,

and returned.

Ferrier retired into the farthest window, and Marsham approached his

mother.

"Good-bye, mother. I will write to you from Beechcote, where I shall

stay at the little inn in the village. Have you no kind word that I may

carry with me?"

Lady Lucy looked at him steadily.

"I shall write myself to Miss Mallory, Oliver."

His pallor gave place to a flush of indignation.

"Is it necessary to do anything so cruel, mother?"

"I shall not write cruelly."

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"Considering what you have made up your mind to do, I should have

thought least said, soonest mended. However, if you must, you must. I

can only prepare Diana for your letter and soften it when it comes."

"In your new love, Oliver, have you quite forgotten the old?" Lady

Lucy's voice shook for the first time.

"I shall be only too glad to remember it, when you give me the

opportunity," he said, sombrely.

"I have not been a bad mother to you, Oliver. I have claims upon you."

He did not reply, and his silence wounded Lady Lucy to the quick. Was it

her fault if her husband, out of an eccentric distrust of the character

of his son, and moved by a kind of old-fashioned and Spartan belief that

a man must endure hardness before he is fit for luxury, had made her and

not Oliver the arbiter and legatee of his wealth? But Oliver had never

wanted for anything. He had only to ask. What right had she to thwart

her husband's decision?

"Good-bye, mother," said Marsham again. "If you are writing to Isabel

you will, I suppose, discuss the matter with her. She is not unlikely to

side with you--not for your reason, however--but because of some silly

nonsense about politics. If she does, I beg she will not write to me. It

could only embitter matters."

"I will give her your message. Good-bye, Oliver." He left the room, with

a gesture of farewell to Ferrier.

* * * * *

Ferrier came back toward the fire. As he did so he was struck--painfully

struck--by a change in Lady Lucy. She was not pale, and her eyes were

singularly bright. Yet age was, for the first time, written in a face

from which Time had so far taken but his lightest toll. It moved him

strangely; though, as to the matter in hand, his sympathies were all

with Oliver. But through thirty years Lady Lucy had been the only woman

for him. Since first, as a youth of twenty, he had seen her in her

father's house, he had never wavered. She was his senior by five years,

and their first acquaintance had been one of boy-adoration on his side

and a charming elder-sisterliness on hers. Then he had declared himself,

and she had refused him in order to marry Henry Marsham and Henry

Marsham's fortune. It seemed to him then that he would soon forget

her--soon find a warmer and more generous heart. But that was mere

ignorance of himself. After awhile he became the intimate friend of her

husband, herself, and her child. Something, indeed, had happened to his

affection for her. He felt himself in no danger beside her, so far as

passion was concerned; and he knew very well that she would have

banished him forever at a moment's notice rather than give her husband

an hour's uneasiness. But to be near her, to be in her world, consulted,

trusted, and flattered by her, to slip daily into his accustomed chair,

to feel year by year the strands of friendship and of intimacy woven

more closely between him and her--between him and hers--these things

gradually filled all the space in his life left by politics or by

thought. They deprived him of any other home, and this home became a

necessity.

Then Henry Marsham died. Once more Ferrier asked Lady Lucy to marry him,

and again she refused. He acquiesced; their old friendship was resumed;

but, once more, with a difference. In a sense he had no longer any

illusions about her. He saw that while she believed herself to be acting

under the influence of religion and other high matters, she was, in

truth, a narrow and rather cold-hearted woman, with a strong element of

worldliness, disguised in much placid moralizing. At the bottom of his

soul he resented her treatment of him, and despised himself for

submitting to it. But the old habit had become a tyranny not to be

broken. Where else could he go for talk, for intimacy, for rest? And for

all his disillusion there were still at her command occasional

felicities of manner and strains of feeling--ethereally delicate and

spiritual, like a stanza from the _Christian Year_--that moved him and

pleased his taste as nothing else had power to move and please; steeped,

as they were, in a far-off magic of youth and memory.

So he stayed by her, and she knew very well that he would stay by her to

the end.

He sat down beside her and took her hand.

"You are tired."

"It has been a miserable day."

"Shall I read to you? It would be wise, I think, to put it out of your

mind for a while, and come back to it fresh."

"It will be difficult to attend." Her smile was faint and sad. "But I

will do my best."

He took up a volume of Dean Church's sermons, and began to read.

Presently, as always, his subtler self became conscious of the irony of

the situation. He was endeavoring to soothe her trouble by applying to

it some of the noblest religious thought of our day, expressed in the

noblest language. Such an attempt implied some moral correspondence

between the message and the listener. Yet all the time he was conscious

himself of cowardice and hypocrisy. What part of the Christian message

really applied to Lady Lucy this afternoon but the searching words: "He

that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom

he hath not seen?"

Yet he read on. The delicate ascetic face of his companion grew calmer;

he himself felt a certain refreshment and rest. There was no one else in

the world with whom he could sit like this, to whom he could speak or

read of the inner life. Lucy Marsham had made him what he was, a

childless bachelor, with certain memories in his past life of which he

was ashamed--representing the revenge of a strong man's temperament and

physical nature. But in the old age she had all but reached, and he was

approaching, she was still the one dear and indispensable friend. If she

must needs be harsh and tyrannical--well, he must try and mitigate the

effects, for herself and others. But his utmost effort must restrain

itself within certain limits. He was not at all sure that if offended

in some mortal point, she might not do without him. But so long as they

both lived, he could not do without her.

* * * * *

Early the following morning Alicia Drake appeared in Eaton Square, and

by two o'clock Mrs. Fotheringham was also there. She had rushed up from

Leeds by the first possible train, summoned by Alicia's letter. Lady

Lucy and her daughter held conference, and Miss Drake was admitted to

their counsels.

"Of course, mamma," said Isabel Fotheringham, "I don't at all agree with

you in the matter. Nobody is responsible for their mothers and fathers.

We make ourselves. But I shall not be sorry if the discovery frees

Oliver from a marriage which would have been a rope round his neck. She

is a foolish, arrogant, sentimental girl, brought up on the most

wrong-headed principles, and she could _never_ have made a decent wife

for him. She will, I hope, have the sense to see it--and he will be well

out of it."

"Oliver, at present, is very determined," said Lady Lucy, in a tone of

depression.

"Oh, well, of course, having just proposed to her, he must, of course,

behave like a gentleman--and not like a cad. But she can't possibly hold

him to it. You will write to her, mamma--and so shall I."

"We shall make him, I fear, very angry."

"Oliver? Well, there are moments in every family when it is no use

shirking. We have to think of Oliver's career, and what he may do for

his party, and for reform. You think he proposed to her in that walk on

the hill?" said Mrs. Fotheringham, turning to her cousin Alicia.

Alicia woke up from a brown-study of her own. She was dressed with her

usual perfection in a gray cloth, just suggesting the change of season.

Her felt hat with its plume of feathers lay on her lap, and her hair,

slightly loosened by the journey, captured the eye by its abundance and

beauty. The violets on her breast perfumed the room, and the rings upon

her hands flashed just as much as is permitted to an unmarried girl, and

no more. As Mrs. Fotheringham looked at her, she said to herself:

"Another Redfern! Really Alicia is too extravagant!"

On that head no one could have reproached herself. A cheap coat and

skirt, much worn, a hat of no particular color or shape, frayed gloves

and disreputable boots, proclaimed both the parsimony of her father's

will and the independence of her opinions.

"Oh, of course he proposed on the hill," replied Alicia, thoughtfully.

"And you say, Aunt Lucy, that _he_ guessed--and she knew nothing?

Yes!--I was certain he guessed."

"But she knows now," said Lady Lucy; "and, of course, we must all be

very sorry for her."

"Oh, of course!" said Isabel. "But she will soon get over it. You won't

find it will do her any harm. People will make her a heroine."

"I should advise her not to go about with that cousin," said Alicia,

softly.

"The girl who told you?"

"She was an outsider! She told me, evidently, to spite her cousin, who

seemed not to have paid her enough attention, and then wanted me to

swear secrecy."

"Well, if her mother was a sister of Juliet Sparling, you can't expect

much, can you? What a mercy it has all come out so soon! The mess would

have been infinitely greater if the engagement had gone on a

few weeks."

"My dear," said her mother, gravely, "we must not reckon upon Oliver's

yielding to our persuasions."

Isabel smiled and shrugged her shoulders. Oliver condemn himself to the

simple life!--to the forfeiture of half a million of money--for the sake

of the _beaux yeux_ of Diana Mallory! Oliver, who had never faced any

hardship or gone without any luxury in his life!

Alicia said nothing; but the alertness of her brilliant eyes showed the

activity of the brain behind them. While Mrs. Fotheringham went off to

committees, Miss Drake spent the rest of the day in ministering to Lady

Lucy, who found her company, her gossip about Beechcote, her sympathetic

yet restrained attitude toward the whole matter, quite invaluable. But,

in spite of these aids, the hours of waiting and suspense passed

heavily, and Alicia said to herself that Cousin Lucy was beginning to

look frail.

CHAPTER XIII

Owing to the scantiness of Sunday trains, Marsham did not arrive at

Beechcote village till between nine and ten at night. He left his bag at

the village inn, tried to ignore the scarcely concealed astonishment

with which the well-known master--or reputed master--of Tallyn was

received within its extremely modest walls, and walked up to the

manor-house. There he had a short conversation with Mrs. Colwood, who

did not propose to tell Diana of his arrival till the morning.

"She does not know that I wrote to you," said the little lady, in her

pale distress. "She wrote to you herself this evening. I hope I have not

done wrong."

Marsham reassured her, and they had a melancholy consultation. Diana, it

seemed, had insisted on getting up that day as usual. She had tottered

across to her sitting-room and had spent the day there alone, writing a

few letters, or sitting motionless in her chair for hours together. She

had scarcely eaten, and Mrs. Colwood was sure she had not slept at all

since the shock. It was to be hoped that out of sheer fatigue she might

sleep, on this, the second night. But it was essential there should be

no fresh excitement, such as the knowledge of Marsham's arrival would

certainly arouse.

Mrs. Colwood could hardly bring herself to speak of Fanny Merton. She

was, of course, still in the house--sulking--and inclined to blame

everybody, her dead uncle in particular, rather than herself. But,

mercifully, she was departing early on the Monday morning--to some

friends in London.

"If you come after breakfast you will find Miss Mallory alone. I will

tell her first thing that you are here."

Marsham assented, and got up to take his leave. Involuntarily he looked

round the drawing-room where he had first seen Diana the day before.

Then it was flooded by spring sunshine--not more radiant than her face.

Now a solitary lamp made a faint spot of light amid the shadows of the

panelled walls. He and Mrs. Colwood spoke almost in whispers. The old

house, generally so winning and sympathetic, seemed to hold itself

silent and aloof--as though in this touch of calamity the living were no

longer its master and the dead generations woke. And, up-stairs, Diana

lay perhaps in her white bed, miserable and alone, not knowing that he

was there, within a few yards of her.

Mrs. Colwood noiselessly opened a garden door and so dismissed him. It

was moonlight outside, and instead of returning to the inn he took the

road up the hill to the crest of the encircling down. Diverging a little

to the left, he found himself on the open hill-side, at a point

commanding the village and Beechcote itself, ringed by its ancient

woods. In the village two dim lights, far apart, were visible; lights,

he thought, of sickness or of birth?--for the poor sleep early. One of

the Beechcote windows shone with a dim illumination. Was she there, and

sleepless? The sky was full of light; the blanched chalk down on which

he stood ran northward in a shining curve, bare in the moon; but in the

hollow below, and on the horizon, the dark huddled woods kept watch,

guarding the secrets of night. The owls were calling in the trees

behind him--some in faint prolonged cry, one in a sharp shrieking note.

And at whiles a train rushed upon the ear, held it, and died away; or a

breeze crept among the dead beech leaves at his feet. Otherwise not a

sound or show of life; Marsham was alone with night and himself.

Twenty-four hours--little more--since on that same hill-side he had held

Diana in his arms in the first rapture of love. What was it that had

changed? How was it--for he was frank with himself--that the love which

had been then the top and completion of his life, the angel of all

good-fortune within and without, had become now, to some extent, a

burden to be borne, an obligation to be met?

Certainly, he loved her well. But she came to him now, bringing as her

marriage portion, not easy joy and success, the full years of prosperity

and ambition, but poverty, effort, a certain measure of disgrace, and

the perpetual presence of a ghastly and heart-breaking memory. He shrank

from this last in a positive and sharp impatience. Why should Juliet

Sparling's crime affect him?--depress the vigor and cheerfulness of

his life?

As to the effort before him, he felt toward it as a man of weak

unpractised muscle who endeavors with straining to raise a physical

weight. He would make the effort, but it would tax his whole strength.

As he strolled along the down, dismally smoking and pondering, he made

himself contemplate the then and now--taking stock, as it were, of his

life. In this truth-compelling darkness, apart from the stimulus of his

mother's tyranny, he felt himself to be two men: one in love with Diana,

the other in love with success and political ambition, and money as the

agent and servant of both. He had never for one moment envisaged the

first love--Diana--as the alternative to, or substitute for the second

love--success. As he had conceived her up to twenty-four hours before,

Diana was to be, indeed, one of the chief elements and ministers of

success. In winning her, he was, in fact, to make the best of both

worlds. A certain cool analytic gift that he possessed put all this

plainly before him. And now it must be a choice between Diana and all

those other desirable things.

Take the poverty first. What would it amount to? He knew approximately

what was Diana's fortune. He had meant--with easy generosity--to leave

it all in her hands, to do what she would with. Now, until his mother

came to her senses, they must chiefly depend upon it. What could he add

to it? He had been called to the Bar, but had never practised.

Directorships no doubt, he might get, like other men; though not so

easily now, if it was to be known that his mother meant to make a pauper

of him. And once a man whom he had met in political life, who was no

doubt ignorant of his private circumstances, had sounded him as to

whether he would become the London correspondent of a great American

paper. He had laughed then, good-humoredly, at the proposal. Perhaps the

thing might still be open. It would mean a few extra hundreds.

He laughed again as he thought of it, but not good-humoredly. The whole

thing was so monstrous! His mother had close on twenty thousand a year!

For all her puritanical training she liked luxury--of a certain

kind--and had brought up her son in it. Marsham had never gambled or

speculated or raced. It was part of his democratic creed and his Quaker

Ancestry to despise such modes of wasting money, and to be scornful of

the men who indulged in them. But the best of housing, service, and

clothes; the best shooting, whether in England or Scotland; the best

golfing, fishing, and travelling: all these had come to him year after

year since his boyhood, without question. His mother, of course, had

provided the majority of them, for his own small income and his

allowance from her were absorbed by his personal expenses, his

Parliamentary life, and the subscriptions to the party, which--in

addition to his mother's--made him, as he was well aware, a person of

importance in its ranks, quite apart from his record in the House.

Now all that must be given up. He would be reduced to an

income--including what he imagined to be Diana's--of less than half his

personal spending hitherto; and those vast perspectives implied in the

inheritance at his mother's death of his father's half million must also

be renounced.

No doubt he could just maintain himself in Parliament. But

everything--judged by the standards he had been brought up in--would be

difficult where everything till now had been ease.

He knew his mother too well to doubt her stubbornness, and his feeling

was bitter, indeed. Bitter, too, against his father, who had left him in

this plight. Why had his father distrusted and wronged him so? He

recalled with discomfort certain collisions of his youth; certain

disappointments at school and college he had inflicted on his father's

ambition; certain lectures and gibes from that strong mouth, in his

early manhood. Absurd! If his father had had to do with a really

spendthrift and unsatisfactory son, there might have been some sense in

it. But for these trifles--these suspicions--these foolish notions of a

doctrinaire--to inflict this stigma and this yoke on him all his days!

Suddenly his wanderings along the moon-lit hill came to a stand-still.

For he recognized the hollow in the chalk--the gnarled thorn--the wide

outlook. He stood gazing about him--a shamed lover; conscious of a dozen

contradictory feelings. Beautiful and tender Diana!--"Stick to her,

Oliver!--she is worth it!" Chide's eager and peremptory tone smote on

the inward ear. Of course he would stick to her. The only thing which it

gave him any pleasure to remember in this nightmare of a day was his own

answer to Ferrier's suggestion that Diana might release him: "Do you

imagine I could be such a hound as to let her?" As he said it, he had

been conscious that the words rang well; that he had struck the right

attitude, and done the right thing. Of course he had done the right

thing! What would he, or any other decent person, have thought of a man

who could draw back from his word, for such a cause?

No!--he resigned himself. He would do nothing mean and ungentlemanly. A

policy of waiting and diplomacy should be tried. Ferrier might be of

some use. But, if nothing availed, he must marry and make the best of

it. He wondered to what charitable societies his mother would leave

her money!

Slowly he strolled back along the hill. That dim light, high up on the

shrouded walls of Beechcote, seemed to go with him, softly, insistently

reminding him of Diana. The thought of her moved him deeply. He longed

to have her in his arms, to comfort her, to feel her dependent on him

for the recovery of joy and vitality. It was only by an obstinate and

eager dwelling upon her sweetness and charm that he could protect

himself against the rise of an invading wave of repugnance and

depression; the same repugnance, the same instinctive longing to escape,

which he had always felt, as boy or man, in the presence of sickness, or

death, or mourning.

* * * * *

Marsham had been long asleep in his queer little room at "The Green

Man." The last lights were out in the village, and the moon had set.

Diana stole out of bed; Muriel must not hear her, Muriel whose eyes were

already so tired and tear-worn with another's grief. She went to the

window, and, throwing a shawl over her, she knelt there, looking out.

She was dimly conscious of stars, of the hill, the woods; what she

really _saw_ was a prison room as she was able to imagine it, and her

mother lying there--her young mother--only four years older than she,

Diana, was now. Or again she saw the court of law--the judge in the

black cap--and her mother looking up. Fanny had said she was small and

slight--with dark hair.

The strange frozen horror of it made tears--or sleep--or

rest--impossible. She did not think much of Marsham; she could hardly

remember what she had written to him. Love was only another anguish. Nor

could it protect her from the images which pursued her. The only thought

which seemed to soothe the torture of imagination was the thought

stamped on her brain tissue by the long inheritance of centuries--the

thought of Christ on Calvary. "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken

me?" The words repeated themselves again and again. She did not pray in

words. But her agony crept to the foot of what has become through the

action and interaction of two thousand years, the typical and

representative agony of the world, and, clinging there, made wild

appeal, like the generations before her, to a God in whose hand lie the

creatures of His will.

* * * * *

"Mrs. Colwood said I might come and say good-bye to you," said Fanny

Merton, holding her head high.

She stood on the threshold of Diana's little sitting-room, looking in.

There was an injured pride in her bearing, balanced by a certain anxiety

which seemed to keep it within bounds.

"Please come in," said Diana.

She rose with difficulty from the table where she was forcing herself to

write a letter. Had she followed her own will she would have been up at

her usual time and down to breakfast. But she had turned faint while

dressing, and Mrs. Colwood had persuaded her to let some tea be brought

up-stairs.

Fanny came in, half closing the door.

"Well, I'm off," she said, flushing. "I dare say you won't want to see

_me_ again."

Diana came feebly forward, clinging to the chairs.

"It wasn't your fault. I must have known--some time."

Fanny looked at her uneasily.

"Well, of course, that's true. But I dare say I--well I'm no good at

beating about the bush, never was! And I was in a temper, too--that was

at the bottom of it."

Diana made no reply. Her eyes, magnified by exhaustion and pallor,

seemed to be keeping a pitiful shrinking watch lest she should be hurt

again--past bearing. It was like the shrinking of a child that has been

tortured, from its tormentor.

"You are going to London?"

"Yes. You remember those Devonshire people I went to stay with? One of

the girls is up in London with her aunt. I'm going to board with them

a bit."

"My lawyers will send the thousand pounds to Aunt Merton when they have

arranged for it," said Diana, quietly. "Is that what you wish?"

A look of relief she could not conceal slipped into Fanny's countenance.

"You're going to give it us--after all?" she said, stumbling over the

words.

"I promised to give it you."

Fanny fidgeted, but even her perceptions told her that further thanks

would be out of place.

"Mother'll write to you, of course. And you'd better send fifty pounds

of it to me. I can't go home under three months, and I shall run short."

"Very well," said Diana.

"Good-bye," said Fanny, coming a little nearer. Then she looked round

her, with a first genuine impulse of something like remorse--if the word

is not too strong. It was rather, perhaps, a consciousness of having

managed her opportunities extremely badly. "I'm sorry you didn't like

me." she said, abruptly, "and I didn't mean to be nasty."

"Good-bye." Diana held out her hand; yet trembling involuntarily as she

did so. Fanny broke out:

"Diana, why do you look like that? It's all so long ago--you can't do

anything--you ought to try and forget it."

"No, I can't do anything," said Diana, withdrawing her right hand from

her cousin, and clasping both on her breast. "I can only--"

But the word died on her lips; she turned abruptly away, adding,

hurriedly, in another tone: "If you ever want anything, you know we're

always here--Mrs. Colwood and I. Please give us your address."

"Thanks." Fanny retreated; but could not forbear, as she reached the

door, from letting loose the thought which burned her inner mind. She

turned round deliberately. "Mr. Marsham'll cheer you up, Diana!--you'll

see. Of course, he'll behave like a gentleman. It won't make a bit of

difference to you. I'll just ask Mrs. Colwood to tell me when it's all

fixed up."

Diana said nothing. She was hanging over the fire, and her face was

hidden. Fanny waited a moment, then opened the door and went.

* * * * *

As soon as the carriage conveying Miss Merton to the station had safely

driven off, Mrs. Colwood, who, in no conventional sense, had been

speeding the parting guest, ran up-stairs again to Diana's room.

"She's gone?" said Diana, faintly. She was standing by the window. As

she spoke the carriage came into view at a bend of the drive and

disappeared into the trees beyond. Mrs. Colwood saw her shiver.

"Did she leave you her address?"

"Yes. Don't think any more about her. I have something to tell you."

Diana's painful start was the measure of her state. Muriel Colwood put

her arms tenderly round the slight form.

"Mr. Marsham will be here directly. He came last night--too late--I

would not let him see you. Ah!" She released Diana, and made a rapid

step to the window. "There he is!--coming by the fields."

Diana sat down, as though her limbs trembled under her.

"Did you send for him?"

"Yes. You forgive me?"

"Then--he hasn't got my letter."

She said it without looking up, as though to herself.

Mrs. Colwood knelt down beside her.

"It is right he should be here," she said, with energy, almost with

command; "it is the right, natural thing."

Diana stooped, mechanically, and kissed her; then sprang up, quivering,

the color rushing into her cheeks. "Why, he mayn't even know!" She threw

a piteous look at her companion.

"He does know, dear--he does know."

Diana composed herself. She lifted her hands to a tress of hair that was

unfastened, and put it in its place. Instinctively she straightened her

belt, her white collar. Mrs. Colwood noticed that she was in black

again, in one of the dresses of her mourning.

* * * * *

When Marsham turned, at the sound of the latch, to see Diana coming in,

all the man's secret calculations and revolts were for the moment

scattered and drowned in sheer pity and dismay. In a few short hours can

grief so work on youth? He ran to her, but she held up a hand which

arrested him half-way. Then she closed the door, but still stood near

it, as though she feared to move, or speak, looking at him with her

appealing eyes.

"Oliver!"

He held out his hands.

"My poor, poor darling!"

She gave a little cry, as though some tension broke. Her lips almost

smiled; but she held him away from her.

"You're not--not ashamed of me?"

His protests were the natural, the inevitable protests that any man with

red blood in his veins must need have uttered, brought face to face with

so much sorrow and so much beauty. She let him make them, while her left

hand gently stroked and caressed his right hand which held hers; yet all

the time resolutely turning her face and her soft breast away, as though

she dreaded to be kissed, to lose will and identity in the mere delight

of his touch. And he felt, too, in some strange way, as though the blow

that had fallen upon her had placed her at a distance from him; not

disgraced--but consecrate.

"Will you please sit down and let us talk?" she said, after a moment,

withdrawing herself.

She pushed a chair forward, and sat down herself. The tears were in her

eyes, but she brushed them away unconsciously.

"If papa had told me!" she said, in a low voice--"if he had only told

me--before he died."

"It was out of love," said Marsham; "but yes--it would have been

wiser--kinder--to have spoken."

She started.

"Oh no--not that. But we might have sorrowed--together. And he was

always alone--he bore it all alone--even when he was dying."

"But you, dearest, shall not bear it alone!" cried Marsham, finding her

hand again and kissing it. "My first task shall be to comfort you--to

make you forget."

He thought she winced at the word "forget."

"When did you first guess--or know?"

He hesitated--then thought it best to tell the truth.

"When we were in the lime-walk."

"When you asked--her name? I remember"--her voice broke--"how you wrung

my hand! And you never had any suspicion before?"

"Never. And it makes no difference, Diana--to you and me--none. I want

you to understand that now--at once."

She looked at him, smiling tremulously. His words became him; even in

her sorrow her eyes delighted in his shrewd thin face; in the fair hair,

prematurely touched with gray, and lying heavily on the broad brow; in

the intelligence and distinction of his whole aspect.

"You are so good to me--" she said, with a little sob. "No--no!--please,

dear Oliver!--we have so much to talk of." And again she prevented him

from taking her in his arms. "Tell me"--she laid her hand on his

persuasively: "Sir James, of course, knew from the beginning?"

"Yes--from the beginning--that first night at Tallyn. He is coming down

this afternoon, dearest. He knew you would want to see him. But it may

not be till late."

"After all, I know so little yet," she said, bewildered. "Only--only

what Fanny told me."

"What made her tell you?"

"She was angry with me--I forget about what. I did not understand at

first what she was saying. Oliver"--she grasped his hand tightly, while

the lids dropped over the eyes, as though she would shut out even his

face as she asked her question--"is it true that--that--the death

sentence--"

"Yes," said Marsham, reluctantly. "But it was at once commuted. And

three weeks after the sentence she was released. She lived, Sir James

tells me, nearly two months after your father brought her home."

"I wrote last night to the lawyers"--Diana breathed it almost in a

whisper. "I am sure there is a letter for me--I am sure papa wrote."

"Promise me one thing!" said Marsham. "If they send you newspapers--for

my sake, don't read them. Sir James will tell you, this afternoon,

things the public have never known--facts which would certainly have

altered the verdict if the jury had known. Your poor mother struck the

blow in what was practically an impulse of self-defence, and the

evidence which mainly convicted her was perjured evidence, as the liar

who gave it confessed years afterward. Sir James will tell you that. He

has the confession."

Her face relaxed, her mouth trembled violently.

"Oh, Oliver!--Oliver!" She was unable to bear the relief his words

brought her: she broke down under it.

He caught her in his arms at last, and she gave way--she let herself be

weak--and woman. Clinging to him with all the pure passion of a woman

and all the trust of a child, she felt his kisses on her cheek, and her

deep sobs shook her upon his breast. Marsham's being was stirred to its

depths. He gave her the best he had to give; and in that moment of

mortal appeal on her side and desperate pity on his, their natures met

in that fusion of spirit and desire wherewith love can lend even tragedy

and pain to its own uses.

* * * * *

And yet--and yet!--was it in that very moment that feeling--on the man's

side--"o'erleaped itself, and fell on the other"? When they resumed

conversation, Marsham's tacit expectation was that Diana would now show

herself comforted; that, sure of him and of his affection, she would now

be ready to put the tragic past aside; to think first and foremost of

her own present life and his, and face the future cheerfully. A

misunderstanding arose between them, indeed, which is, perhaps, one of

the typical misunderstandings between men and women. The man, impatient

of painful thoughts and recollections, eager to be quit of them as

weakening and unprofitable, determined to silence them by the pleasant

clamor of his own ambitions and desires; the woman, priestess of the

past, clinging to all the pieties of memory, in terror lest she forget

the dead, feeling it a disloyalty even to draw the dagger from the

wound--between these two figures and dispositions there is a deep and

natural antagonism.

It showed itself rapidly in the case of Marsham and Diana; for their

moment of high feeling was no sooner over, and she sitting quietly

again, her hand in his, the blinding tears dashed away, than Marsham's

mind flew inevitably to his own great sacrifice. She must be comforted,

indeed, poor child! yet he could not but feel that he, too, deserved

consolation, and that his own most actual plight was no less worthy of

her thoughts than the ghastly details of a tragedy twenty years old.

Yet she seemed to have forgotten Lady Lucy!--to have no inkling of the

real situation. And he could find no way in which to break it.

For, in little broken sentences of horror and recollection, she kept

going back to her mother's story--her father's silence and suffering. It

was as though her mind could not disentangle itself from the load which

had been flung upon it--could not recover its healthiness of action amid

the phantom sights and sounds which beset imagination. Again and again

she must ask him for details--and shrink from the answers; must hide her

eyes with the little moan that wrung his heart; and break out in

ejaculations, as though of bewilderment, under a revelation so singular

and so terrible.

It was to be expected, of course; he could only hope it would soon pass.

Secretly, after a time, he was repelled and wearied. He answered her

with the same tender words, he tried to be all kindness; but more

perfunctorily. The oneness of that supreme moment vanished and did

not return.

Meanwhile, Diana's perceptions, stunned by the one overmastering

thought, gave her no warning. And, in truth, if Marsham could have

understood, the process of mental recovery was set going in her by just

this freedom of utterance to the man she loved--these words and looks

and tears--that brought ease after the dumb horror of the first hours.

At last he made an effort, hiding the nascent impatience in a caress.

"If I could only persuade you not to dwell upon it too persistently--to

put it from your thoughts as soon and as much as you can! Dear, we shall

have our own anxieties!"

She looked up with a sudden start.

"My mother," he said, reluctantly, "may give us trouble."

The color rushed into Diana's cheeks, and ebbed with equal suddenness.

"Lady Lucy! Oh!--how could I forget? Oliver!--she thinks--I am not fit!"

And in her eyes he saw for the first time the self-abasement he had

dreaded, yet perhaps expected, to see there before. For in her first

question to him there had been no real doubt of him; it had been the

natural humility of wounded love that cries out, expecting the reply

that no power on earth could check itself from giving were the

case reversed.

"Dearest! you know my mother's bringing up: her Quaker training, and her

rather stern ideas. We shall persuade her--in time."

"In time? And now--she--she forbids it?"

Her voice faltered. And yet, unconsciously, she had drawn herself a

little together and away.

Marsham began to give a somewhat confused and yet guarded account of his

mother's state of mind, endeavoring to prepare her for the letter which

might arrive on the morrow. He got up and moved about the room as he

spoke, while Diana sat, looking at him, her lips trembling from time to

time. Presently he mentioned Ferrier's name, and Diana started.

"Does _he_ think it would do you harm--that you ought to give me up?"

"Not he! And if anybody can make my mother hear reason, it will be

Ferrier."

"Lady Lucy believes it would injure you in Parliament?" faltered Diana.

"No, I don't believe she does. No sane person could."

"Then it's because--of the disgrace? Oliver!--perhaps--you ought to give

me up?"

She breathed quick. It stabbed him to see the flush in her cheeks

contending with the misery in her eyes. She could not pose, or play a

part. What she could not hide from him was just the conflict between her

love and her new-born shame. Before that scene on the hill there would

have been her girlish dignity also to reckon with. But the greater had

swallowed up the less; and from her own love--in innocent and simple

faith--she imagined his.

So that when she spoke of his giving her up, it was not her pride that

spoke, but only and truly her fear of doing him a hurt--by which she

meant a hurt in public estimation or repute. The whole business side of

the matter was unknown to her. She had never speculated on his

circumstances, and she was constitutionally and rather proudly

indifferent to questions of money. Vaguely, of course, she knew that the

Marshams were rich and that Tallyn was Lady Lucy's. Beyond, she had

never inquired.

This absence of all self-love in her attitude--together with her

complete ignorance of the calculation in which she was involved--touched

him sharply. It kept him silent about the money; it seemed impossible to

speak of it. And yet all the time the thought of it clamored--perhaps

increasingly--in his own mind.

He told her that they must stand firm--that she must be patient--that

Ferrier would work for them--and Lady Lucy would come round. And she,

loving him more and more with every word, seeing in him a god of

consolation and of chivalry, trusted him wholly. It was characteristic

of her that she did not attempt heroics for the heroics' sake; there was

no idea of renouncing him with a flourish of trumpets. He said he loved

her, and she believed him. But her heart went on its knees to him in a

gratitude that doubled love, even in the midst of her aching

bewilderment and pain.

* * * * *

He made her come out with him before luncheon; he talked with her of

politics and their future; he did his best to scatter the nightmare in

which she moved.

But after awhile he felt his efforts fail. The scenes that held her mind

betrayed themselves in her recurrent pallor, the trembling of her hand

in his, her piteous, sudden looks. She did not talk of her mother, but

he could not presently rouse her to talk of anything else; she sat

silent in her chair, gazing before her, her slender hands on her knee,

dreaming and forlorn.

Then he remembered, and with involuntary relief, that he must get back

to town, and to the House, for an important division. He told her, and

she made no protest. Evidently she was already absorbed in the thought

of Sir James Chide's visit. But when the time came for him to go she let

herself be kissed, and then, as he was moving away, she caught his hand,

and held it wildly to her lips.

"Oh, if you hadn't come!--if you hadn't come!" Her tears fell on the

hand.

"But I did come!" he said, caressing her. "I was here last night--did

Mrs. Colwood tell you? Afterward--in the dark--I walked up to the hill,

only to look down upon this house, that held you."

"If I had known," she murmured, on his breast, "I should have slept."

He went--in exaltation; overwhelmed by her charm even in this eclipse of

grief, and by the perception of her passion.

But before he was half-way to London he felt that he had been rather

foolish and quixotic in not having told her simply and practically what

his mother's opposition meant. She must learn it some day; better from

him than others. His mother, indeed, might tell her in the letter she

had threatened to write. But he thought not. Nobody was more loftily

secret as to business affairs than Lady Lucy; money might not have

existed for the rare mention she made of it. No; she would base her

opposition on other grounds.

These reflections brought him back to earth, and to the gloomy pondering

of the situation. Half a million!--because of the ill-doing of a poor

neurotic woman--twenty years ago!

It filled him with a curious resentment against Juliet Sparling herself,

which left him still more out of sympathy with Diana's horror and grief.

It must really be understood, when they married, that Mrs. Sparling's

name was never to be mentioned between them--that the whole grimy

business was buried out of sight forever.

And with a great and morbid impatience he shook the recollection from

him. The bustle of Whitehall, as he drove down it, was like wine in his

veins; the crowd and the gossip of the Central Lobby, as he pressed his

way through to the door of the House of Commons, had never been so full

of stimulus or savor. In this agreeable, exciting world he knew his

place; the relief was enormous; and, for a time, Marsham was

himself again.

* * * * *

Sir James Chide came in the late afternoon; and in her two hours with

him, Diana learned, from lips that spared her all they could, the

heart-breaking story of which Fanny had given her but the

crudest outlines.

The full story, and its telling, taxed the courage both of hearer and

speaker. Diana bore it, as it seemed to Sir James, with the piteous

simplicity of one in whose nature grief had no pretences to overcome.

The iron entered into her soul, and her quick imagination made her

torment. But her father had taught her lessons of self-conquest, and in

this first testing of her youth she did not fail. Sir James was

astonished at the quiet she was able to maintain, and touched to the

heart by the suffering she could not conceal.

Nothing was said of his own relation to her mother's case; but he saw

that she understood it, and their hearts moved together. When he rose to

take his leave she held his hand in hers with such a look in her eyes as

a daughter might have worn; and he, with an emotion to which he gave

little outward expression, vowed to himself that henceforward she should

lack no fatherly help or counsel that he could give her.

He gathered, with relief, that the engagement persisted, and the

perception led him to praise Marsham in a warm Irish way. But he could

not find anything hopeful to say of Lady Lucy. "If you only hold to each

other, my dear young lady, things will come right!" Diana flushed and

shrank a little, and he felt--helplessly--that the battle was for their

fighting, and not his.

Meanwhile, as he had seen Mr. Riley, he did his best to prepare her for

the letters and enclosures, which had been for twenty years in the

custody of the firm, and would reach her on the morrow.

But what he did not prepare her for was the letter from Lady Lucy

Marsham which reached Beechcote by the evening post, after Sir James

had left.

The letter lay awhile on Diana's knee, unopened. Muriel Colwood,

glancing at her, went away with the tears in her eyes, and at last the

stumbling fingers broke the seal.

"MY DEAR MISS MALLORY,--I want you to understand why it is

that I must oppose your marriage with my son. You know well,

I think, how gladly I should have welcomed you as a daughter

but for this terrible revelation. As it is, I cannot consent

to the engagement, and if it is carried out Oliver must

renounce the inheritance of his father's fortune. I do not

say this as any vulgar threat. It is simply that I cannot

allow my husband's wealth to be used in furthering what he

would never have permitted. He had--and so have I--the

strongest feeling as to the sacredness of the family and its

traditions. He held, as I do, that it ought to be founded in

mutual respect and honor, and that children should have round

about them the help that comes from the memory of unstained

and God-fearing ancestors. Do you not also feel this? Is it

not a great principle, to which personal happiness and

gratification may justly be sacrificed? And would not such a

sacrifice bring with it the highest happiness of all?

"Do not think that I am cruel or hard-hearted. I grieve for

you with all my soul, and I have prayed for you earnestly,

though, perhaps, you will consider this mere hypocrisy. But I

must first think of my son--and of my husband. Very possibly

you and Oliver may disregard what I say. But if so, I warn

you that Oliver is not indifferent to money, simply because

the full development of his career depends on it. He will

regret what he has done, and your mutual happiness will be

endangered. Moreover, he shrinks from all painful thoughts

and associations; he seems to have no power to bear them; yet

how can you protect him from them?

"I beg you to be counselled in time, to think of him rather

than yourself--if, indeed, you care for him. And should you

decide rightly, an old woman's love and gratitude will be

yours as long as she lives.

"Believe me, dear Miss Mallory, very sincerely yours,

"LUCY MARSHAM."

Diana dragged herself up-stairs and locked her door. At ten o'clock Mrs.

Colwood knocked, and heard a low voice asking to be left alone. She went

away wondering, in her astonishment and terror, what new blow had

fallen. No sound reached her during the night--except the bluster of a

north wind rushing in great gusts upon the hill-side and the woods.

CHAPTER XIV

Late on Monday afternoon Lady Niton paid a call in Eaton Square. She and

Lady Lucy were very old friends, and rarely passed a week when they were

both in town without seeing each other.

Mr. Ferrier lunched with her on Monday, and casually remarked that Lady

Lucy was not as well as usual. Lady Niton replied that she would look

her up that afternoon; and she added: "And what about that

procrastinating fellow Oliver? Is he engaged yet?"

"Not to my knowledge," said Mr. Ferrier, after a pause.

"Then he ought to be! What on earth is he shilly-shallying for? In my

days young men had proper blood in their veins."

Ferrier did not pursue the subject, and Lady Niton at once jumped to the

conclusion that something had happened. By five o'clock she was in

Eaton Square.

Only Alicia Drake was in the drawing-room when she was announced.

"I hear Lucy's seedy," said the old lady, abruptly, after vouchsafing a

couple of fingers to Miss Drake. "I suppose she's been starving herself,

as usual?"

Oliver's mother enjoyed an appetite as fastidious as her judgments on

men and morals, and Lady Niton had a running quarrel with her on

the subject.

Alicia replied that it had been, indeed, unusually difficult of late to

persuade Lady Lucy to eat.

"The less you eat the less you may eat," said Lady Niton, with vigor.

"The stomach contracts unless you give it something to do. That's what's

the matter with Lucy, my dear--though, of course, I never dare name the

organ. But I suppose she's been worrying herself about something?"

"I am afraid she has."

"Is Oliver engaged?" asked Lady Niton, suddenly, observing the young

lady.

Alicia replied demurely that that question had perhaps better be

addressed to Lady Lucy.

"What's the matter? Can't the young people make up their minds? Do they

want Lucy to make them up for them?"

Alicia looked at her companion a little under her brows, and did not

reply. Lady Niton was so piqued by the girl's expression that she

immediately threw herself on the mystery she divined--tearing and

scratching at it, like a dog in a rabbit-hole. And very soon she had

dragged it to the light. Miss Drake merely remarked that it was very

sad, but it appeared that Miss Mallory was not really a Mallory at all,

but the daughter of a certain Mrs. Sparling--Juliet Sparling, who--"

"Juliet Sparling!" cried Lady Niton, her queer small eyes starting in

their sockets. "My dear, you must be mad!"

Alicia smiled, though gravely. She was afraid Lady Niton would find that

what she said was true.

A cross-examination followed, after which Lady Niton sat speechless for

a while. She took a fan out of her large reticule and fanned herself, a

proceeding by which she often protested against the temperature at which

Lady Lucy kept her drawing-room. She then asked for a window to be

opened, and when she had been sufficiently oxygenated she

delivered herself:

"Well, and why not? We really didn't have the picking and choosing of

our mothers or fathers, though Lucy always behaves as though we had--to

the fourth generation. Besides, I always took the side of that poor

creature, and Lucy believed the worst--as usual. Well, and so she's

going to make Oliver back out of it?"

At this point the door opened, and Lady Lucy glided in, clad in a frail

majesty which would have overawed any one but Elizabeth Niton. Alicia

discreetly disappeared, and Lady Niton, after an inquiry as to her

friend's health--delivered, as it were, at the point of the bayonet, and

followed by a flying remark on the absurdity of treating your body as if

it were only given you to be harried--plunged headlong into the great

topic. What an amazing business! Now at last one would see what Oliver

was made of!

Lady Lucy summoned all her dignity, expounded her view, and entirely

declined to be laughed or rated out of it. For Elizabeth Niton, her wig

much awry, her old eyes and cheeks blazing, took up the cause of Diana

with alternate sarcasm and eloquence. As for the social

disrepute--stuff! All that was wanting to such a beautiful creature as

Diana Mallory was a story and a scandal. Positively she would be the

rage, and Oliver's fortune was made.

Lady Lucy sat in pale endurance, throwing in an occasional protest, not

budging by one inch--and no doubt reminding herself from time to time,

in the intervals of her old friend's attacks, of the letter she had just

despatched to Beechcote--until, at last, Lady Niton, having worked

herself up into a fine frenzy to no purpose at all, thought it was time

to depart.

"Well, my dear," she said, leaning on her stick, the queerest rag-bag of

a figure--crooked wig, rusty black dress, and an unspeakable

bonnet--"you are a saint, of course, and I am a quarrelsome old sinner;

I like society, and you, I believe, regard it as a grove of barren

fig-trees. I don't care a rap for my neighbor if he doesn't amuse me,

and you live in a puddle of good works. But, upon my word, I wouldn't be

you when it comes to the sheep and the goats business! Here is a young

girl, sweet and good and beautifully brought up--money and manners and

everything handsome about her--she is in love with Oliver, and he with

her--and just because you happen to find out that she is the daughter of

a poor creature who made a tragic mess of her life, and suffered for it

infinitely more than you and I are ever likely to suffer for our

intolerably respectable peccadilloes--you will break her heart and

his--if he's the good-luck to have one!--and there you sit, looking like

a suffering angel, and expecting all your old friends, I suppose, to

pity and admire you. Well, I won't, Lucy!--I won't! That's flat. There's

my hand. Good-bye!"

Lady Lucy took it patiently, though from no other person in the world

save Elizabeth Niton would she have so taken it.

"I thought, Elizabeth, you would have tried to understand me."

Elizabeth Niton shook her head.

"There's only your Maker could do that, Lucy. And He must be pretty

puzzled to account for you sometimes. Good-bye. I thought Alicia looked

uncommonly cheerful!"

This last remark was delivered as a parting shot as Lady Niton hobbled

to the door. She could not, however, resist pausing to see its effect.

Lady Lucy turned indignantly.

"I don't know what you mean by that remark. Alicia has behaved with

great kindness and tact!"

"I dare say! We're all darlings when we get our way. What does Ferrier

say?"

Lady Lucy hesitated.

"If my old friends cannot see it as I do--if they blame me--I am very

sorry. But it is my responsibility."

"A precious good thing, my dear, for everybody else! But as far as I can

make out, they _are_ engaged?"

"Nothing is settled," said Lady Lucy, hastily; "and I need not say,

Elizabeth, that if you have any affection for us--or any consideration

for Miss Mallory--you will not breathe a word of this most sad business

to anybody."

"Well, for Oliver's sake, if he doesn't intend to behave like a man, I

do certainly hope it may be kept dark!" cried Lady Niton. "For if he

does desert her, under such circumstances, I suppose you know that a

great many people will be inclined to cut him? I shall hold my tongue.

But, of course, it will come out."

With which final shaft she departed, leaving Lady Lucy a little uneasy.

She mentioned Elizabeth Niton's "foolish remark" to Mrs. Fotheringham in

the course of the evening. Isabel Fotheringham laughed it to scorn.

"You may be quite sure there will be plenty of ill-natured talk either

way, whether Oliver gives her up or doesn't. The real thing to bear in

mind is that if Oliver yields to your wishes, mamma--as you certainly

deserve that he should, after all you have done for him--he will be

delivered from an ignorant and reactionary wife who might have spoiled

his career. I like to call a spade a spade. Oliver belongs to his

_party_, and his party have a right to count upon him. He has no right

to jeopardize either his opinions or his money; _we_ have a claim

on both."

Lady Lucy gave an unconscious sigh. She was glad of any arguments, from

anybody, that offered her support. But it did occur to her that if Diana

Mallory had not shown a weakness for the soldiers of her country, and if

her heart had been right on Women's Suffrage, Isabel would have judged

her case differently; so that her approval was not worth all it might

have been.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, in the House of Commons, Isabel Fotheringham's arguments was

being put in other forms.

On the Tuesday morning Marsham went down to the House, for a Committee,

in a curious mood--half love, half martyrdom. The thought of Diana was

very sweet; it warmed and thrilled his heart. But somehow, with every

hour, he realized more fully what a magnificent thing he was doing, and

how serious was his position.

In a few hurried words with Ferrier, before the meeting of the House,

Marsham gave the result of his visit to Beechcote. Diana had been, of

course, very much shaken, but was bearing the thing bravely. They were

engaged, but nothing was to be said in public for at least six months,

so as to give Lady Lucy time to reconsider.

"Though, of course, I know, as far as that is concerned, we might as

well be married to-morrow and have done with it!"

"Ah!--but it is due to her--to your mother."

"I suppose it is. But the whole situation is grotesque. I must look out

for some way of making money. Any suggestions thankfully received!"

Marsham spoke with an irritable flippancy. Ferrier's hazel eyes, set and

almost lost in spreading cheeks, dwelt upon him thoughtfully.

"All right; I will think of some. You explained the position to Miss

Mallory?"

"No," said Marsham, shortly. "How could I?"

The alternatives flew through Ferrier's mind: "Cowardice?--or delicacy?"

Aloud, he said: "I am afraid she will not be long in ignorance. It will

be a big fight for her, too."

Marsham shrugged his thin shoulders.

"Of course. And all for nothing. Hullo, Fleming!--do you want me?"

For the Liberal Chief Whip had paused beside them where they stood, in a

corner of the smoking-room, as though wishing to speak to one or other

of them, yet not liking to break up their conversation.

"Don't let me interrupt," he said to Marsham. "But can I have a word

presently?"

"Now, if you like."

"Come to the Terrace," said the other, and they went out into the gray

of a March afternoon. There they walked up and down for some time,

engaged in an extremely confidential conversation. Signs of a general

election were beginning to be strong and numerous. The Tory Government

was weakening visibly, and the Liberals felt themselves in sight of an

autumn, if not a summer, dissolution. But--funds!--there was the rub.

The party coffers were very poorly supplied, and unless they could be

largely replenished, and at once, the prospects of the election were

not rosy.

Marsham had hitherto counted as one of the men on whom the party could

rely. It was known that his own personal resources were not great, but

he commanded his mother's ample purse. Lady Lucy had always shown

herself both loyal and generous, and at her death it was, of course,

assumed that he would be her heir. Lady Lucy's check, in fact, sent,

through her son, to the leading party club, had been of considerable

importance in the election five years before this date, in which Marsham

himself had been returned; the Chief Whip wanted to assure himself that

in case of need it would be repeated.

But for the first time in a conversation of this kind Marsham's reply

was halting and uncertain. He would do his best, but he could not pledge

himself. When the Chief Whip, disappointed and astonished, broke up

their conference, Marsham walked into the House after him, in the morbid

belief that a large part of his influence and prestige with his party

was already gone. Let those fellows, he thought, who imagine that the

popular party can be run without money, inform themselves, and not talk

like asses!

* * * * *

In the afternoon, during an exciting debate on a subject Marsham had

made to some extent his own, and in which he was expected to speak, two

letters were brought to him. One was from Diana. He put it into his

pocket, feeling an instinctive recoil--with his speech in sight--from

the emotion it must needs express and arouse. The other was from the

chairman of a Committee in Dunscombe, the chief town of his division.

The town was, so far, without any proper hall for public meetings. It

was proposed to build a new Liberal Club with a hall attached. The

leading local supporter of the scheme wrote--with apologies--to ask

Marsham what he was prepared to subscribe. It was early days to make the

inquiry, but--in confidence--he might state that he was afraid local

support for the scheme would mean more talk than money. Marsham pondered

the letter gloomily. A week earlier he would have gone to his mother for

a thousand pounds without any doubt of her reply.

It was just toward the close of the dinner-hour that Marsham caught the

Speaker's eye. Perhaps the special effort that had been necessary to

recall his thoughts to the point had given his nerves a stimulus. At any

rate, he spoke unusually well, and sat down amid the cheers of his

party, conscious that he had advanced his Parliamentary career. A good

many congratulations reached him during the evening; he "drank delight

of battle with his peers," for the division went well, and when he left

the House at one o'clock in the morning it was in a mood of tingling

exhilaration, and with a sense of heightened powers.

It was not till he reached his own room, in his mother's hushed and

darkened house, that he opened Diana's letter.

The mere sight of it, as he drew it out of his pocket, jarred upon him

strangely. It recalled to him the fears and discomforts, the sense of

sudden misfortune and of ugly associations, which had been, for a time,

obliterated in the stress and interest of politics. He opened it almost

reluctantly, wondering at himself.

"MY DEAR OLIVER,--This letter from your mother reached me

last night. I don't know what to say, though I have thought

for many hours. I ought not to do you this great injury; that

seems plain to me. Yet, then, I think of all you said to me,

and I feel you must decide. You must do what is best for

your future and your career; and I shall never blame you,

_whatever_ you think right. I wish I had known, or realized,

the whole truth about your mother when you were still here.

It was my stupidity.

"I have no claim--none--against what is best for you. Just

two words, Oliver!--and I think they _ought_ to be

'Good-bye.'

"Sir James Chide came after you left, and was most dear and

kind. To-day I have my father's letter--and one from my

mother--that she wrote for me--twenty years ago. I mustn't

write any more. My eyes are so tired.

"Your grateful DIANA."

He laid down the blurred note, and turned to the enclosure. Then he read

his mother's letter. And he had imagined, in his folly, that his

mother's refinement would at least make use of some other weapon than

the money! Why, it was _all_ money!--a blunderbuss of the crudest kind,

held at Diana's head in the crudest way. This is how the saints

behave--the people of delicacy--when it comes to a pinch! He saw his

mother stripped of all her pretensions, her spiritual airs, and for the

first time in his life--his life of unwilling subordination--he dared to

despise her.

But neither contempt nor indignation helped him much. How was he to

answer Diana? He paced up and down for an hour considering it, then sat

down and wrote.

His letter ran as follows:

"DEAREST DIANA,--I asked you to be my wife, and I stand by my

word. I did not like to say too much about my mother's state

of mind when we were together yesterday, but I am afraid it

is very true that she will withdraw her present allowance to

me, and deprive me of the money which my father left. Most

unjustly, as it has always seemed to me, she has complete

control over it. Never mind. I must see what can be done. No

doubt my political career will be, for a time, much affected.

We must hope it will only be for a time.

"Ferrier and Sir James believe that my mother cannot maintain

her present attitude. But I do not, alack! share their

belief. I realize, as no one can who does not live in the

same house with her, the strength and obstinacy of her will.

She will, I suppose, leave my father's half-million to some

of the charitable societies in which she believes, and we

must try and behave as though it had never existed. I don't

regret it for myself. But, of course, there are many public

causes one would have liked to help.

"If I can, I will come down to Beechcote on Saturday again.

Meanwhile, do let me urge you to take care of your health,

and not to dwell too much on a past that nothing can alter. I

understand, of course, how it must affect you; but I am sure

it will be best--best, indeed, for us both--that you should

now put it as much as possible out of your mind. It may not

be possible to hide the sad truth. I fear it will not be. But

I am sure that the less said--or even thought--about it, the

better. You won't think me unkind, will you?

"You will see a report of my speech in the debate to-morrow.

It certainly made an impression, and I must manage, if I can,

to stick to Parliament. But we will consult when we meet.

"Your most loving OLIVER."

As he wrote it Marsham had been uncomfortably conscious of another self

beside him--mocking, or critical.

"I don't regret it for myself." Pshaw! What was there to choose between

him and his mother? There, on his writing-table, lay a number of recent

bills, and some correspondence as to a Scotch moor he had persuaded his

mother to take for the coming season. There was now to be an end, he

supposed, to the expenditure which the bills represented, and an end to

expensive moors. "I don't regret it for myself." Damned humbug! When did

any man, brought up in wealth, make the cold descent to poverty and

self-denial without caring? Yet he let the sentence stand. He was too

sleepy, too inert, to rewrite it.

And how cold were all his references to the catastrophe! He groaned as

he thought of Diana--as though he actually saw the vulture gnawing at

the tender breast. Had she slept?--had the tears stopped? Let him tear

up the beastly thing, and begin again!

No. His head fell forward on his arm. Some dull weight of character--of

disillusion--interposed. He could do no better. He shut, stamped, and

posted what he had written.

* * * * *

At mid-day, in her Brookshire village, Diana received the letter--with

another from London, in a handwriting she did not know.

When she had read Marsham's it dropped from her hand. The color flooded

her cheeks--as though the heart leaped beneath a fresh blow which it

could not realize or measure. Was it so she would have written to

Oliver if--

She was sitting at her writing-table in the drawing-room. Her eyes

wandered through the mullioned window beside her to the hill-side and

the woods. This was Wednesday. Four days since, among those trees,

Oliver had spoken to her. During those four days it seemed to her that,

in the old Hebrew phrase, she had gone down into the pit. All the

nameless dreads and terrors of her youth, all the intensified fears of

the last few weeks, had in a few minutes become real and verified--only

in a shape infinitely more terrible than any fear among them all had

ever dared to prophesy. The story of her mother--the more she knew of

it, the more she realized it, the more sharply it bit into the tissues

of life; the more it seemed to set Juliet Sparling and Juliet Sparling's

child alone by themselves--in a dark world. Diana had never yet had the

courage to venture out-of-doors since the news came to her; she feared

to see even her old friends the Roughsedges, and had been invisible to

them since the Saturday; she feared even the faces of the

village children.

All through she seemed to have been clinging to Marsham's supporting

hand as to the clew which might--when nature had had its way--lead her

back out of this labyrinth of pain. But surely he would let her sorrow

awhile!--would sorrow with her. Under the strange coldness and brevity

of his letter, she felt like the children in the market-place of

old--"We have mourned unto you, and ye have not wept."

Yet if her story was not to be a source of sorrow--of divine pity--it

could only be a source of disgrace and shame. Tears might wash it out!

But to hate and resent it--so it seemed to her--must be--in a world,

where every detail of such a thing was or would be known--to go through

life branded and crushed by it. If the man who was to be her husband

could only face it thus (by a stern ostracism of the dead, by silencing

all mention of them between himself and her), her cheeks could never

cease to burn, her heart to shrink.

Now at last she felt herself weighed indeed to the earth, because

Marsham, in that measured letter, had made her realize the load on him.

All that huge wealth he was to give up for her? His mother had actually

the power to strip him of his inheritance?--and would certainly exercise

it to punish him for marrying her--Diana?

Humiliation came upon her like a flood, and a bitter insight followed.

Between the lines of the letter she read the reluctance, the regrets of

the man who had written it. She saw that he would be faithful to her if

he could, but that in her own concentration of love she had accepted

what Oliver had not in truth the strength to give her. The Marsham she

loved had suddenly disappeared, and in his place was a Marsham whom she

might--at a personal cost he would never forget, and might never

forgive--persuade or compel to marry her.

She sprang up. For the first time since the blow had fallen, vigor had

returned to her movements and life to her eyes.

"Ah, no!" she said to herself, panting a little. "_No!_"

A letter fell to the ground--the letter in the unknown handwriting. Some

premonition made her open it and prepared her for the signature.

"MY DEAR MISS MALLORY,--I heard of the sad discovery which

had taken place, from my cousin, Miss Drake, on Sunday

morning, and came up at once from the country to be with my

mother; for I know well with what sympathy she had been

following Oliver's wishes and desires. It is a very painful

business. I do most truly regret the perplexing situation in

which you find yourself, and I am sure you will not resent it

if, as Oliver's sister, I write you my views on the matter.

"I am afraid it is useless to expect that my mother should

give way. And, then, the question is, What is the right

course for you and Oliver to pursue? I understand that he

proposed to you, and you accepted him, in ignorance of the

melancholy truth. And, like a man of honor, he proposes to

stand by his engagement--unless, of course, you release him.

"Now, if I were in your place, I should expect to consider

such a matter not as affecting myself only, but in its

relation to society--and the community. Our first duty is to

Society. We owe it everything, and we must not act selfishly

toward it. Consider Oliver's position. He has his foot on the

political ladder. Every session his influence in Parliament

increases. His speech to-night was--as I hear from a man who

has just come from the debate--the most brilliant he has yet

made. It is extremely likely that when our party comes in

again he will have office, and in ten or fifteen years' time

what is there to prevent his being even Prime Minister?--with

all the mighty influence over millions of human beings which

that means?

"But to give him every chance in his career money is,

unfortunately, indispensable. Every English Prime Minister

has been a rich man. It may be a blot on our English life. I

think it is. But, then, I have been all my life on the side

of the poor. You, who are a Tory and an Imperialist, who

sympathize with militarism and with war, will agree that it

is important our politicians should be among the 'Haves,'

that a man's possessions _do_ matter to his party and

his cause.

"They matter especially--at the present moment--to _our_

party and _our_ cause. We are the poor party, and our rich

men are few and far between.

"You may say that you would help him, and that your own money

would be at his disposal. But could a man live upon his wife,

in such circumstances, with any self-respect? Of course, I

know that you are very young, and I trust that your views on

many subjects, social and political, will change, and change

materially, before long. It is a serious thing for women

nowadays to throw themselves across the path of progress. At

the same time I see that you have a strong--if I may say

so--a vehement character. It may not be easy for you to cast

off at once what, I understand, has been your father's

influence. And meanwhile Oliver would be fighting all your

father's and your ideas--largely on your money; for he has

only a thousand a year of his own.

"Please let me assure you that I am not influenced by my

mother's views. She attaches importance--an exaggerated--if

she were not my mother, I should say an absurd--importance,

to the family. Whereas, ideas--the great possibilities of the

future--when free men and women shall lead a free and noble

life--these are what influence _me_--these are what I

live for.

"It will cause you both pain to separate. I know that. But

summon a rational will to your aid, and you will soon see

that passion is a poor thing compared to impersonal and

unselfish aims. The cause of women--their political and

social enfranchisement--the freeing of men from the curse of

militarism--of both men and women from the patriotic lies

which make us bullies and cowards--it is to these I would

invite you--when you have overcome a mere personal grief.

"I fear I shall seem to you a voice crying in the wilderness;

but I write in Oliver's interest--and your own.

"Yours sincerely,

"ISABEL FOTHERINGHAM.

"P.S. Our secretary, Mrs. Derrick Smith, at the Mary

Wollstonecraft Club, will always be glad to send you any

literature you might require."

Diana read to the end. She put it down with something like a smile. As

she paced the room, her head thrown back, her hands behind her, the

weight had been lifted from her; she breathed from a freer breast.

Very soon she went back to her desk and began to write.

"My dear Oliver,--I did not realize how things were when you

came yesterday. Now I see. You must not marry me. I could not

bear to bring poverty upon you, and--to-day--I do not feel

that I have the strength to meet your mother's and your

sister's opposition.

"Will you please tell Lady Lucy and Mrs. Fotheringham that I

have received their letters? It will not be necessary to

answer them. You will tell them that I have broken off the

engagement.

"You were very good to me yesterday. I thank you with all my

heart. But it is not in my power--yet--to forget it all. My

mother was so young--and it seems but the other day.

"I would not injure your career for the world. I hope that

all good will come to you--always.

"Probably Mrs. Colwood and I shall go abroad for a little

while. I want to be alone--and it will be easiest so. Indeed,

if possible, we shall leave London to-morrow night. Good-bye.

"DIANA."

She rose, and stood looking down upon the letter. A thought struck her.

Would he take the sentence giving the probable time of her departure as

an invitation to him to come and meet her at the station?--as showing a

hope that he might yet persist--and prevail?

She stooped impetuously to rewrite the letter. Instead, her tears fell

on it. Sobbing, she put it up--she pressed it to her lips. If he did

come--might they not press hands?--look into each other's eyes?--just

once, once more?

* * * * *

An hour later the home was in a bustle of packing and housekeeping

arrangements. Muriel Colwood, with a small set face and lips, and eyes

that would this time have scorned to cry, was writing notes and giving

directions. Meanwhile, Diana had written to Mrs. Roughsedge, and,

instead of answering the letter, the recipient appeared in person,

breathless with the haste she had made, the gray curls displaced.

Diana told her story, her slender fingers quivering in the large

motherly hand whose grasp soothed her, her eyes avoiding the tender

dismay and pity writ large on the old face beside her; and at the end

she said, with an effort:

"Perhaps you have all expected me to be engaged to Mr. Marsham. He did

propose to me--but--I have refused him."

She faltered a little as she told her first falsehood, but she told it.

"My dear!" cried Mrs. Roughsedge, "he can't--he won't--accept that! If

he ever cared for you, he will care for you tenfold more now!"

"It was I," said Diana, hurriedly--"I have done it. And, please, I would

rather it were now all forgotten. Nobody else need know, need they, that

he proposed?"

She stroked her friend's hand piteously. Mrs. Roughsedge, foreseeing the

storm of gossip that would be sweeping in a day or two through the

village and the neighborhood, could not command herself to speak. Her

questions--her indignation--choked her. At the end of the conversation,

when Diana had described such plans as she had, and the elder lady rose

to go, she said, faltering:

"May Hugh come and say good-bye?"

Diana shrank a moment, and then assented. Mrs. Roughsedge folded the

girl to her heart, and fairly broke down. Diana comforted her; but it

seemed as if her own tears were now dry. When they were parting, she

called her friend back a moment.

"I think," she said, steadily, "it would be best now that everybody here

should know what my name was, and who I am. Will you tell the Vicar, and

anybody else you think of? I shall come back to live here. I know

everybody will be kind--" Her voice died away.

The March sun had set and the lamps were lit when Hugh Roughsedge

entered the drawing-room where Diana sat writing letters, paying bills,

absorbing herself in all the details of departure. The meeting between

them was short. Diana was embarrassed, above all, by the tumult of

suppressed feeling she divined in Roughsedge. For the first time she

must perforce recognize what hitherto she had preferred not to see: what

now she was determined not to know. The young soldier, on his side, was

stifled by his own emotions--wrath--contempt--pity; and by a maddening

desire to wrap this pale stricken creature in his arms, and so protect

her from an abominable world. But something told him--to his

despair--that she had been in Marsham's arms; had given her heart

irrevocably; and that, Marsham's wife or no, all was done and over for

him, Hugh Roughsedge.

Yet surely in time--in time! That was the inner clamor of the mind, as

he bid her good-bye, after twenty minutes' disjointed talk, in which,

finally, neither dared to go beyond commonplace. Only at the last, as he

held her hand, he asked her:

"I may write to you from Nigeria?"

Rather shyly, she assented; adding, with a smile:

"But I am a bad letter-writer!"

"You are an angel!" he said, hoarsely, lifted her hand, kissed it, and

rushed away.

She was shaken by the scene, and had hardly composed herself again to a

weary grappling with business when the front door bell rang once more,

and the butler appeared.

"Mr. Lavery wishes to know, miss, if you will see him."

The Vicar! Diana's heart sank. Must she? But some deep instinct--some

yearning--interfered, and she bade him be admitted.

Then she stood waiting, dreading some onslaught on the secrets of her

mind and heart--some presumption in the name of religion.

The tall form entered, in the close-buttoned coat, the gaunt oblong of

the face poked forward, between the large protruding ears, the

spectacled eyes blinking.

"May I come in? I will only keep you a few minutes."

She came forward and gave him her hand. The door shut behind him.

"Won't you sit down?"

"I think not. You must be very busy. I only came to say a few words.

Miss Mallory!"

He still held her hand. Diana trembled, and looked up.

"--I fear you may have thought me harsh. _I_ blame myself in many

respects. Will you forgive me? Mrs. Roughsedge has told me what you

wished her to tell me. Before you go, will you still let me give you

Christ's message?"

The tears rushed back to Diana's eyes; she looked at him silently.

"'Blessed are they that mourn,'" he said, gently, with a tender dignity,

"'for they shall be comforted!'"

Their eyes met. From the man's face and manner everything had dropped

but the passion of Christian charity, mingled with a touch of

remorse--as though, in what had been revealed to him, the servant had

realized some mysterious rebuke of his Lord.

"Remember that!" he went on. "Your mourning is your blessing. God's love

will come to you through it--and the sense of fellowship with Christ.

Don't cast it from you--don't put it away."

"I know," she said, brokenly. "It is agony, but it is sacred."

His eyes grew dim. She withdrew her hand, and they talked a little about

her journey.

"But you will come back," he said to her, presently, with earnestness;

"your friends here will think it an honor and a privilege to

welcome you."

"Oh yes, I shall come back. Unless--I have some friends in London--East

London. Perhaps I might work there."

He shook his head.

"No, you are not strong enough. Come back here. There is God's work to

be done in this village, Miss Mallory. Come and put your hand to it. But

not yet--not yet."

Then her weariness told him that he had said enough, and he went.

* * * * *

Late that night Diana tore herself from Muriel Colwood, went alone to

her room, and locked her door. Then she drew back the curtains, and

gazed once more on the same line of hills she had seen rise out of the

wintry mists on Christmas morning. The moon was still behind the down,

and a few stars showed among the clouds.

She turned away, unlocked a drawer, and, falling upon her knees by the

bed, she spread out before her the fragile and time-stained paper that

held her mother's last words to her.

"MY LITTLE DIANA--my precious child,--It may be--it will

be--years before this reaches you. I have made your father

promise to let you grow up without any knowledge or reminder

of me. It was difficult, but at last--he promised. Yet there

must come a time when it will hurt you to think of your

mother. When it does--listen, my darling. Your father knows

that I loved him always! He knows--and he has forgiven. He

knows too what I did--and how--so does Sir James. There is no

place, no pardon for me on earth--but you may still love me,

Diana--still love me--and pray for me. Oh, my little

one!--they brought you in to kiss me a little while ago--and

you looked at me with your blue deep eyes--and then you

kissed me--so softly--a little strangely--with your cool

lips--and now I have made the nurse lift me up that I may

write. A few days--perhaps even a few hours--will bring me

rest. I long for it. And yet it is sweet to be with your

father, and to hear your little feet on the stairs. But most

sweet, perhaps, because it must end so soon. Death makes

these days possible, and for that I bless and welcome death.

I seem to be slipping away on the great stream--so

gently--tired--only your father's hand. Good-bye--my precious

Diana--your dying--and very weary

"MOTHER."

The words sank into Diana's young heart. They dulled the smart of her

crushed love; they awakened a sense of those forces ineffable and

majestic, terrible and yet "to be entreated," which hold and stamp the

human life. Oliver had forsaken her. His kiss was still on her lips. Yet

he had forsaken her. She must stand alone. Only--in the spirit--she put

out clinging hands; she drew her mother to her breast; she smiled into

her father's eyes. One with them; and so one with all who suffer! She

offered her life to those great Forces; to the hidden Will. And thus,

after three days of torture, agony passed into a trance of ecstasy--of

aspiration.

* * * * *

But these were the exaltations of night and silence. With the returning

day, Diana was again the mere girl, struggling with misery and nervous

shock. In the middle of the morning arrived a special messenger with a

letter from Marsham. It contained arguments and protestations which in

the living mouth might have had some power. That the living mouth was

not there to make them was a fact more eloquent than any letter. For the

first time Diana was conscious of impatience, of a natural indignation.

She merely asked the messenger to say that "there was no answer."

Yet, as they crossed London her heart fluttered within her. One moment

her eyes were at the window scanning the bustle of the streets; the next

she would force herself to talk and smile with Muriel Colwood.

Mrs. Colwood insisted on dinner at the Charing Cross Hotel. Diana

submitted. Afterward they made their way, along the departure platform,

to the Dover-Calais train. They took their seats. Muriel Colwood

knew--felt it indeed, through every nerve--that the girl with her was

still watching, still hoping, still straining each bodily perception in

a listening expectancy.

The train was very full, and the platform crowded with friends, luggage,

and officials. Upon the tumult the great electric lamps threw their cold

ugly light. The roar and whistling of the trains filled the vast

station. Diana, meanwhile, sat motionless in her corner, looking out,

one hand propping her face.

But no one came. The signal was given for departure. The train glided

out. Diana's head slipped back and her eyes closed. Muriel, stifling her

tears, dared not approach her.

* * * * *

Northward and eastward from Dover Harbor, sweep beyond sweep, rose the

white cliffs that are to the arriving and departing Englishman the

symbols of his country.

Diana, on deck, wrapped in veil and cloak, watched them disappear, in

mists already touched by the moonrise. Six months before she had seen

them for the first time, had fed her eyes upon the "dear, dear land," as

cliffs and fields and houses flashed upon the sight, yearning toward it

with the passion of a daughter and an exile.

In those six months she had lived out the first chapter of her youth.

She stood between two shores of life, like the vessel from which she

gazed; vanishing lights and shapes behind her; darkness in front.

"Where lies the land to which the ship must go?

Far, far ahead is all the seamen know!"

Part III

"_Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no,

How can it? O how can Love's eye be true

That is so vexed with watching and with tears?_"