Y «M^^ GIFT OF MICHAEL REESE DIANA MALLORY DIANA MALLOKY BY MES HUMPHKY WAED FIFTH IMPRESSION (THIRD EDITION) LONDON SMITH, ELDEE, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 1908 [All rights reserved] TO MY KIND HOSTS BEYOND THE ATLANTIC FBOM A GRATEFUL TRAVELLER July 190$ 285492 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 : Sufiering is permanent, obscure, and dark, And shares the nature of infinity, ' — CHAPTER I The clock in the tower of the village church had just struck the quarter. In the south-east, 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. Further to the south, in a stretch of clear night sky hardly touched by the rnounting 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, w^as 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 gowm, 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. ) B 2 DIANA MALLORY AiH'Cr the s'^rikiiig 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 pro- longed, was raised as though in rivalry. But the bell held Diana's strained ear throughout its course ; till its mild clangour 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 1 That w^.s 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 colour 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 I — 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 eyua DIANA MALLORY 3 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 Hve!' 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 vt.lley, 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 land- scape, 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 B 2 4 DIANA MALLORY 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 over- came the pang, sharp and real as it was. Oh ! how blessed to have done with the Eiviera, and its hybrid empty Hfe, 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 Enghsh 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 panelhng and a sundial. But what natural link had she vdth 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 prowhng 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 DIANA MALLORY 5 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 Beech- cote 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 Hving 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 con- nected 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 iri- descent 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 Va^^'S^^^iii^j the ancestral possessors of the place^ which had been an offence and a disfigurement. In moving it out and 6 DIANA MALLORY 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. Col- wood 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 Eome, 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 downstairs, 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 DIANA MALLORY 7 deeply touched, though she made no sign. Poor little thing 1 A widow, and childless, in a strange place. Mrs. Colwood however showed no further melan- choly. 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 Malloryhad 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 simpHcity. 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 favouring 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 Eiviera; 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 8 DIANA MALLORY 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 EngHsh people. Not that we saw many. We lived for years and years at a little villa near Eapallo, 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 DIANA MALLORY 9 they might read it for the first tinie, 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 1 ' 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 cm-ly 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 coloured and thickly fringed, but their lo DIANA MALLORY slightly veiled concentration suggested an habitual though quite unconscious struggle to sec, — with that clearness which the mind behind demanded of them. The com- plexion 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 Eiviera, 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 Eng- land, 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 DIANA MALLORY ii 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 colour and a throbbing voice, as other girls might talk of lovers or chiffons. Egeria's companion secretly and with some alarm reviewed her own equip- ment 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 heartbreak 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 hand- ful of children appeared shouting * Good King Wenceslas ' in a hideous variety of keys. Miss MaUory 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. 12 DIANA MALLORY 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 ! Eive 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. Golwell, 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. DIANA MALLORY 13 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 \Yas 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 pene- trating 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 congre- gation 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 church- yard 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. Eoughsedge, white- haired, courteous and kind, who were accompanied by a soldier son, in whom it was evident they took a bound- less 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, tete-d-Utc, in the direction of the Vicarage. Mrs. Colwood followed, shyly making acquaintance with the Eoughsedges, and the elder Miss Bertram. 14 DIANA MALLORY 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 I * she said with a touch of confidential good-humour, 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 neighbours. Mrs. Eoughsedge shook her grey 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. Eoughsedge nodded cheerfully towards her hus- band 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 DIANA MALLORY 1$ Be«chcote was well endowed, as single women go. Fond mothers with marriageable sons might require some handling. But Mrs. Eoughsedge'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 Eoughsedges 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 dis- composed. But the unconscious fire in her glance, and the vigour of her carriage, did but add to her good looks. Captain Eoughsedge, 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 I — a socialist ! And so riide 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 propeiiy 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 aboHsh the Army and Navy to- morrow.' Diana's face glowed with indignation, — with wounded feeling besides. Mrs. Colwood endeavom-ed to soothe her, but she remained grave and rather silent for some time. The flow of Christmas feeling and romantic V _ l6 DIANA MALLORY pleasure had been arrested, and the memory of a harsh personaUty 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 favourite books, hanging pictures, and disposing em- broideries. 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 learnt 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 gaiety 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 j&nger 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 w^as 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 Eoughsedge appeared* Mrs. Colwood's first impression of his good manners and DIANA MALLORY r; good looks was confirmed. But his conversation could not be said to flo^Y : and in endeavouring to entertain him, the two ladies fought a rather uphill fight. Then Diana discovered that he belonged to the Hundredth Eifles, whereupon the young lady disclosed a knowledge of the British Army, and its organisation, 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 BO much about the regiments we came across.' This accompHshment 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 coloured as he spoke, and Diana suspected in him a memory of small past humihations. 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 viilitaire ! " 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 o 18 DIANA MALLORY 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. W3 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, DIANA MALLORY 19 who had been conscious of a slight shock of puzzled recollection, gave an answer which evidently pleased Diana, for the gui 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 Eossetti ! 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. Col wood 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 Eapallo,' said Diana, still smiHng to herself. * He and his mother were there last winter. Father and I quarrelled with him all day long. He is the worst Eadical I ever met, but ' ' But ?— but agreeable ? ' * Oh yes,' said Diana uncertainly, and Mrs. Colwood thought she coloured, — * oh yes — agreeable ! ' ' And he lives near here ? ' 'He is the member for the division. Such a crew as we shall meet there f ' 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 aw glad I've found his book ! ' She went off embracing it. Mrs. Colwood was left with two impressions — one sharp, 2 20 DIANA MALLORY 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 indis- tinguishable 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. CHAPTEE 11 DuEiNG the days immediately following her arrival alrj 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 colour to the girl's cheeks, and the tears to her eyes. Honour — 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 deHcate, inchoate loves, the half-poetic, half-intellectual passions, the mystical yearnings and aspirations, w^hich haunt a pure expanding youth. Such human beings, Mrs. Col- wood 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 re- , j membered a famous Frenchwoman of whom it was said : ' Her judgment is infallible — her conduct one long mis- take 1 ' The little companion was already sufficiently 22 DIANA MALLORY 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 accom- paniments 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 some- thing of society. But in the villa beside the Mediter- ranean, 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 neighbours, — 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 neighbours the Eoughsedges, she was already on the friendliest terms. To Dr. Eoughsedge, 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. Eoughsedge's grey 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 oq DIANA MALLORY 23 Captain Eoughsedge. 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. Eoughsedge, 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, Hke Diana, are less keenly aware, she thought, of the plati- tudes of their neighbours. They are not defenceless, like the shy and the silent. Nevertheless it was clear that if Diana welcomed the neighbours 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 twihght. From these rambles she would return grave, — sometimes with reddened eyes. But at all times, as Mrs. Colwood soon began to realise, there was but a thin line of division between her gaiety, and some inexplicable 24 DIANA MALLORY sadness, some unspoken grief, which seemed to rise upon her and overshadow her, Uke a cloud tangled in the woods of spring. Mrs. Cohvood could only suppose that these times of silence and eclipse w^ere 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 w^ere 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 gras3 lightly rimed, the air sparkling and translucent. Nature DIANA MALLORY 25 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. Col wood, 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 ^:eached 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 imme- morial age, the highways of a vanished life, — old earth- works, over-grown, — lanes deep-sunk in the chalk where the pack-horses once made then- 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, soUtary, 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 Beech- cote, the church, the plough-lands, and the far-western plain, drawn in pale greys and purples under the de- clining sun. * Isn't it heavenly! — the browns — the blues—the soberness, the deUcacy of it all ? Oh, so much better than any tiresome Mediterranean— any stupid Riviera !— 26 DIANA MALLORY 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 v^th 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 con- fession. 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 spoilt 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. DIANA MALLORY 37 He started. * Why, I should think I do ! * he cried. * I should rather think I do I That's another thing altogether — that's not books.' * Then perhaps you read the debate last night ? ' She looked at him with a kindHng eye. * Of course I did — every word of it ! Do you know what those Eadical 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 Eoughsedge had seen two years' service on the North- West 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 honour 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 ! 23 DIANA MALLORY Misguided recreanta ! But Mrs. Colwood, looking on, could only feel that had they never played their impish part, the winter afternoon for these two com- panions of hers would have been infinitely less agree- able. For certainly denunciation 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 Eoughsedge — that was the strange part of it. Hundreds of women can make politics serve the primitive woman's game ; the * come hither in the eo ' 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 Eoughsedge. Was he. too, so unconscious of sex, of opportunity ? Ah ! that she doubted 1 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 carnage, and would have DIANA MALLORY 2^ delayed them there, but that Diana looked at her watoh 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 com- panion. But Miss Mallory made no reference to it. Instead, she began to give her companion some pre- liminary 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 TaUyn 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 plat- forms, 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 Secre- tary, 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, any way, that she can snub Mrs. Fotheringham,' said Diana, laughing. * You met them abroad ? ' ' Only Mr Marsham, and Lady Lucy. Papa and I 30 DIANA MALLORY 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 uncomfort- able 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 I Mother, here is Miss Mallory.' Lady Lucy, a woman of sixty, still slender and stately, greeted them kindly, Mrs. Colwood was intro- duced, and room was made for the newcomers in the circle round the tea-table, which was presided over by DIANA MALLORY 31 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. Col wood. ' I'm OHver's sister, — my name's Fotheringham. That's my cousin, — Madehne Varley. Madehne, find me some cups ! This is Mr. Ferrier — Mr. Ferrier, Miss Mallory. — I 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 Httle 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 over- looked. His height was about six foot three ; and his long slender hmbs 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 vigour. And the head which surmounted this hghtly 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 shghtly 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 32 DIANA MALLORY 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 re- member 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 in- stantly. * 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 Sociahsts. Which will you sit next ? DIANA MALLORY 33 * Oh, I am proof ! ' said Diana. ' " Come one, come aU." ' He looked at her smihngly. * 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 ? — AHcia ! ' 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 bril- liance 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 towards 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. Beaching 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 D 34 DIANA MALLORY 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 explana- tory 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 neighbour, a young barrister, with a broad boyish face. * Well, I wonder whether ycyiCd mind ? ' 'Mind what?' * If your father had done something shocking, — forged — or murdered — or done something of that kind, — suppos- ing, of course, he were dead.' * Do you mean — if I suddenly found out ? ' DIANA MALLORY 35 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 inter- locutor, — * I did, — honour 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 neighbourhood ? I hear young Brenner has just come to live at West Hill. I don't know 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 anyone 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 armchair near the fire, o 2 36 DIANA MALLORY sometimes knitting, and sometimes observing her neighbours 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 Eadicals, 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 invita- tions,* 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.* DIANA MALLORY 37 '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 luish to live quietly ! ' Diana gave a hesitating assent, adding — ' But I'm sorry for Mr. Brenner ! ' Mr. Ferrier, as she spoke, leant 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 Beech- cote, 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 further 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 38 DIANA MALLORY Oliver Marsham with her, but unsuccessfully. He had returned to Diana's neighbourhood, 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-coloured appre- ciations, 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 amaze- ment, 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 neighbours 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 Opposi- tion was a stout man of middle height, with a round head and face, at first sight wholly undistinguished, an ample figure, and strong grizzled hair. But there was so much honesty and acuteness in the eyes, so much humour in the mouth, and so much kindness in the general aspect, that Diana felt herself at onc3 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 to what seemed to be a vast correspond- ence, the politician and the young girl fell into a con- DIANA MALLORY 39 versation 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 — Hke 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 skil- fully 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 endeavour to make Lady Lucy's fox terrier go through its tricks. Once Mr. Ferrier drew Diana's attention to her neigh- bour. * 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. — When- 40 DIANA MALLORY ever 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 poHtical life ? Well! — let me be your guide. I have been in it for a long while.' Diana thanked liim, 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 frescoes ! Those were per- petrated 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 fihal 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 Eaeburn, 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. DIANA MALLORY 41 Meanwhile, as the man of fifty, and the slender girl in black passed before him, on their way to examine the pictm-es, Sir James Chide, casually look- ing 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, scrutinised every look and gesture. His face had flushed sHghtly— his lips were parted. He had the aspect of one trying eagerly, passion- ately to follow up some clue that would not unwind itself ; and every now and then he bent forward — listen- ing — trying to catch her voice. Presently the inspection was over. Diana turned and beckoned to Mrs. Colwood. The two ladies went towards 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 Jam.es, 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 I 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 upstairs to write letters. In a few minutes the man at the window came slowly back to- wards the fire, staring at the ground. 42 DIANA MALLORY * 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 landowners living on an impoverished estate, — that Alicia's demands were con- ceded without a murmur. They themselves were in- significant 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, some- thing to Hft them above their neighbours, and break up the monotony of their later Hves. Their devotion was a strange mixture of love and selfishness ; at any rate, Alicia could always feel, and did always feel, that she was plajdng her family's game as well as her own. 44 DIANA MALLORY 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 pro- vocative, even in actions, morally, the most graceless, — that would have alone secured her the * career * en v/hich she was bent. Of her mental qualities, one of the most profitable, was a verj' 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 con- siderable sanctions of a financial kind. His wdll 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 DIANA MALLORY 45 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 Mar- sham'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. Inter- minable 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 pere 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 Eoad, 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 frescoes, 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. 46 DIANA MALLORY Enormous mirrors, spread on white and gold walls ; large copies from Italian pictures, collected by Henry Marsham in Eome ; 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 mantelpiece, 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 Labour members ? ' asked Alicia with a laugh. Mrs. Fotheringham explained with some tartness, that only one of the three was a Labour member, — Mr. Barton. Of the other two, one was Edgar Frobisher, the other Mr. McEwart, a Liberal M.R, who had just won a hotly-contested bye-election. At the name of Edgar Frobisher, Miss Drake's countenance showed some anim- ation. 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 DIANA MALLORY 47 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 keep- ing 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 hkes 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 un- amiable 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- 48 DIANA MALLORY Fotheringham was conscious of a certain secret admira- iVon. 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 ? PoUtics ? 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 sympathise 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 towards it, and were soon lost to sight and hearing amid a labyrinth of furni- ture 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 calorifere ? 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 — ' DIANA MALLORY 49 ' 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 com- panion. Marsham merely smiled, a little vaguely, with- out reply. Ferrier observed him, then began abstractedly to study the carpet. After a moment, he looked up — 'I like your littb friend, Oliver,— I like her par- ticularly ! ' *j\liss Mallory? Yes, I saw you had been making acquaintance. Well ? ' His voice affected a light indifference, but hardly suc- ceeded. ' 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 I ' For the door had been thrown open, and Diana entered, followed by Mrs. Colwood. She came in slowly, her brow sUghtly 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. ' x\nd who is to be my fate ? ' ' Mr. Edgar Frobisher. You will quarrel with him, — and like him ! ' ' One of the " Sociahsts " ? ' * 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 E so DIANA MALLORY 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, — hand- some, 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 favourably 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 towards 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.' DIANA I^IALLORY 51 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 acquaint- ances. 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 tho 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 3-11 ! 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 neighbours. The plain young man, with a shock of fair hair, a merry eye, a short chin, and the spirits of a schoolboy, sitting on Lady Niton's left, was, it seemed, the particular pet and protege 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 e2 52 DIANA MALLORY young men who took her fancy. Bobby 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 mc, 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-humouredly. DIANA MALLORY 53 *No, no! — Ferrier is a Whig — the Whig of to-day, Men 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. Marsh am 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 modem 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 conversa- tion. 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 neighbour and of I^Iiss Vincent. Mr. Frobisher, it appeared, was a Fellow of Magdalen, and was at present lodging in Lime- house, near the docks, studjdng poverty and Trade Unionism, and living upon a pound a week. As for Miss Vincent, in her capacity of secretary to a well-kno^vn Kadical member of Parliament, she had been employed, 54 DIANA MALLORY 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 aUies. Diana's eyes betrayed her curiosity; she seemed to be asking for clues in a strange world. Marsham ap- parently felt that nothing could be more agreeable than to guide her. He began to describe for her the life of Buch 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 favour 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 labour : — such was the character sketched by Marsham for his neighbour 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 anti- thesis to those old-fasiiioned surroundings, that unreal atmosphere, as he would call it, in which, for instance, he had found her — Diana — at Eapallo — under her father's influence and bringing up? The notion spurred her pride, as well as her loyalty to her father. She began to DIANA MALLORY 55 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 realise a hurt- ling 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 Eapallo arguments with her then and there, but for the gad-fly at his elbow. Immediately after dinner Lady Niton possessed her- self 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 hke conversa- tion?' ' 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 ? ' 56 DIANA MALLORY 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 Eadical, 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 leant 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 anyone 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? — DIANA MALLORY 57 Well now — Alicia ' — her tone changed — ' Do j'ou admire Alicia ? ' Diana in discomfort, glanced through the archway, leading to the inner drawing-room, which framed the sparkling figm^e of Miss Drake, — and murmm-ed a com- plimentary remark. * No ! ' — said Lady Niton, vrith 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 waver- ingly. ' 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 Chide,' 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. 58 DIANA MALLORY ' This is your first visit to Tally n, 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 grey ; the eyes too were grey, 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 sym- pathies 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 woo- ing, came out the girl's first impressions, natural, enthusi- astic, 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 — DIANA MALLORY 59 ' 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 pohshed 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. 6o DIANA MALLORY 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 honom'ed I ' * The honour would be mine,* he said, with pleasant deference. * Now I think I see that Marsham is wroth with me for monopolising 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 — ponder- ing, — 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, especi- ally 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 spec- tators 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 Eadical, and as stoutly opposed as himself to the ' wild-cat ' and ' Jingo * DIANA MALLORY 6i policy of the Government on the Indian frontier, where one of oiir perennial little wars was then proceeding. News had arrived that afternoon of an indecisive engage- ment, 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 Eoughsedge in the after- noon. 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 milHon 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 Labour 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 mouthpiece; but she was the mouthpiece of 62 DIANA MALLORY eye-witnesses; whereas Barton was the mouthpiece 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, — controlliag herself well ; and it is probable that she w^ould 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 Nik6, — 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 com- bined both with his feelings and his ambitions. Head- long 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 DIANA MALLORY 63 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 Eoughsedge 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 knit- ting 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 inter- fering, 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 favourite with the great man. She , had long seemed to him a type — a strange and modern f type — of the feminine fanatic who allows political differ- ence 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 book- case, — the one sign of civilisation in the vast room — 64 • DIANA MALLORY where he was soon absorbed in early editions of EngHsh 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 w^as silent, and rather grave. In her secret mind she thought that young girls should not be vehement, or presump- tuous. 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 signifi- cance 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 tyran- nously, 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 hys- DIANA MALLORY 65 terically — and gave in. He had carried her into region3 of history and poUtics 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 upstairs. As Diana reached her room, she drew Mrs. Colwood in with her. But not it seemed for purposes of conversa- tion. 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.' F 66 DIANA MALLORY And she hid her eyes against the mantelpiece. Mrs. Colwood soothed her affectionately, perhaps ex- pecting 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 geyser-like 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 over- powered her just because she felt herself alone, without natural protectors, on the brink of her woman's des- tiny? 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 con- crete 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 BO few excuses for the wealth of which they made an f2 68 DIANA MALLORY 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 pubUc 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 dis- comfiture ; 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 pohtician 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, — ' DIANA MALLORY 69 she thought proudly, — 'that would have been another story 1 ' 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, dehghted 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 gaiety and expectation however, she felt her courage fail her a httle 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 downstairs. Mrs. Colwood indeed was waiting for her at the end of the passage, and Diana held her hand a little as they de- scended. 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 grey-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. 70 DIANA MALLORY * 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 I * * 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 Church- man — I vow I am — an out-and-outer. I go in for snip- pers — and shortening things. The man here is a dread- ful old Erastian, — piles on everything you can pile on — BO I just felt it necessary to give Lady Niton notice. To- morrow I have work for the department — at home 1 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 poetiy, DIANA MALLORY 71 — 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 book-case. It was Lady Lucy's father — old Lord Merston — collected them. Lady Lucy never looks at them. Marsham does, I sup- pose, — sometimes. Do you know Marsham well ? ' ' I made acquaintance with him and Lady Lucy on the Eiviera.' 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 rumour had preceded her arrival that Marsham had been very much ' smitten ' with her amid the pinewoods 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 endorsed 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 neighbours 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 ? ' 72 DIANA MALLORY 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 gentle- manly 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 Labour men. And McEwart has been hand and glove with Marsham all this Session. They're trying to force Ferrier's hand. Some Bill the Labour 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 ddmettre ! — 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 DIANA MALLORY ?3 SO intimate, so conjugal even, that Diana involuntarily turned away as though to watch it were an imperti- nence. •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 con- stantly here whenever he can be spared from London and Parliament. He got Oliver into Parliament — his first seat I mean, — for Wanchester. 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. Ifc is to be hoped she won't leave much of it to Mrs. Fotheringham. Isn't that a woman ! Ah 1 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 ? ' 74 DIANA MALLORY * 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 amongst 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 DIANA MALLORY 75 crossing the lawn towards the park beyond. ' Ah 1 — ' 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 Gady 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 AHcia,' 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 grey head. ' Oliver paid her a good deal of attention last summer. AHcia must certainly have considered the matter. And she is a young lady not easily baffled.' * Baffled I ' 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 ? ' 76 DIANA MALLORY 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. *Eeally, 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 difiBculty 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 per- formance.' Mrs. Fotheringham paused a moment, then said with harsh intensity — ' Men have not the same sense of rosponsibiHty.' 'You mean their brains are be-fogged 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 demoralising influence. That glorification of the army is at the root of half our crimes ! ' DIANA MALLORY ^^ 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 step- sons, 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 stepson, 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. Fothering- ham 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 under- stood 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 78 DIANA MALLORY 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 Beech- cote — 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 Bar- badoes. 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, DIANA MALLORY 79 when she might be expected at Beechcote, how long she could be persuaded to stay, — speculations in fact innumer- able. 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 Hke 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 com'se it had been taking out of sight. * Papa always thought it a hoiTid 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 bed-room, — over the dining-room — can't she? — and the library to practise in. It would be absurd that she should 8o DIANA MALLORY Btay 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 tcte-d-tcte with her new charge was to be so soon interrupted, and for an indefinite period, by a young lady with the hand- writing of a scullery-maid, she kept it entirely hidden. Diana talked herself into the most rose-coloured 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 upstairs 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 cheques on. I can tell you we have DIANA MALLORY 8i missed those cheques 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 Meeton.' 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 dramng-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 gaily, and told ths 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. Eeally, all the time, the man's aspect was singularly grave, he listened carefully to every word ; he obser^^ed the speaker, a 82 DIANA MALLORY ' 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 close- ness, 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 grey 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 I ' 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 DIANA MALLORY 83 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 Madeline 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 7nodistes, of * people ' and their stories. Diana sat snubbed and silent, a Httle 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 sup- posed ; 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. Fothering- ham describe the news as 'on the whole very satis- factory.' 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. Fother- ingham 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 honourable fight of equal minds. She was being punished for her advocacy of the night before, by an older woman of tyrannical temper, towards whom she stood in the relation of guest to hosi It was in vain to look round for defenders. The only q2 84 DIANA MALLORY 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 upstairs burning with anger, the tears of hurt feeling in her eyes. It seemed to her that Mrs. Fotheringham's attack implied a personal dis- like ; 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 upstairs 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 oppres- sive 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 1 ' 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 dis- tinguished 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 DIANA MALLORY 85 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 aUve. Her emphatic reference to Marsham had brought the ready colour 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. Shan'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 1 As she walked away towards 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 sHghtest possible stiffness. ' But she seems a very charming girl.' ' She talks pohtics, 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. 86 DIANA MALLORY 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 gentle- man.' ' 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 1 I sometimes wish I might unveil your real opinions to the Eadical fellows who come here.' Lady Lucy coloured 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 — honourable 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 grey eyes. ' At last you confess it ! ' cried Ferrier, as he carried off his papers. But his gaiety soon departed. He stood awhile at the window in his room, looking out upon the Bodden park, — a rather grey and sombre figure. Over his DIANA MALLORY 87 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, towards this Marsham house- hold, 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 towards 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 fraternisation between the two parties, — a character- istic 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 DIANA MALLORY 89 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 greys 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 Bossetti.* 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 ? ■ 90 DIANA MALLORY ' 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 EadicaHsm, 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 abomin- ably I • 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 neigh- bourhood.' * Who has been talking to y^u 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 ? ' DIANA MALLORY 91 The question was impetuously delivered. Diana re- cafled 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 leapt 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 clamouring. But the new means to be heard all the same.' Diana's colour 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 leapt 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 recognised — 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 02 DIANA MALLORY 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 I ' 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 w^on'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 I ' He looked at her, half laughing, half anxious. ' Tell me I— last night — you thought me intolerant- overbearing ? ' ' I dishked being beaten,' said Diana, candidly ; * especially as it was only my ignorance that was beaten,— not my cause.* ' Shall we begin again ? DIANA MALLORY 93 Through his gaiety however, a male satisfaction in victory pierced very plainly. Diana winced a little. ' No, no ! I must go back to Captain Eoughsedge first, and get some new arguments ! ' ' Eoughsedge ! ' he said, in surprise. * Eoughsedge ? 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 neigh- bours, as had scandalised 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 dis- advantage 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 further edge of the broad lawn. * You have convicted me of an odious, exclusive, bulljdng temper, — or you think you have, — and all you will allow vie in the way of victory, is that I got the best of it because Captain Eoughsedge wasn't there I ' * Not at all. I respect your critical faculty I * ' You wish to hear me gush like Mrs. Minohin. It is simply astounding the number of people you like ! ' Diana's laugh broke into a sigh. 94 DIANA MALLORY Perhaps it*s like a hungry boy in a goodie -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 Porto- fino ; 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 unspoilt 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. DIANA MALLORY 95 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 realised 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 Uttle pale, and a little silent during the evening, till, late in its course, she succeeded in carrying off a group 96 DIANA MALLORY of young men who had come for the shoot and were staying the night, and in estabhshing 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 propa- ganda everywhere, and at all times, Diana was but a cracked cymbal ; when struck she gave back either no Bound 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 'dreamt of introducing them. She how- ever 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- humoured 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 DIANA MALLORY 97 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 t ' — 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 Ohver Marsham's arm, close to Lady Lucy, that lady put up her frail old hand, and gently touched Diana's. ' Do not over-tire yourself my dear ! ' she said with effusion, — and Ohver looking down, knew very well what his mother's rare effusion meant, if Diana did not. On several occasions Mr. Ferrier 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 ingdnue's dress, she was an embodi- ment 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 dehght, — 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 B 98 DIANA MALLORY 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 I — 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 shan'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.' DIANA MALLORY 99 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 1 ' 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 satisfac- tion 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 favour. 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 ; h2 loo DIANA MALLORY 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 spell-bound 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 I 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. Downstairs, Mr. Ferrier and Sir James Chide were sitting together in a remote corner of the hall. Mr. Ferrier in great good-humour 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 abiiiptly, and went upstairs to bed. * Ought I to speak ? ' he asked himself, in an agony of doubt. * Perhaps a word to Ferrier ? * DIANA MALLORV tcr, No ! — impossible ! — impossible ! Yet as he mounted the stairs, over the house which had just seen the triumph of Diana, over that radiant iBgure 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 un- expected epilogue. After her good-night to Marsham, she was walking along the gallery corridor going towards 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 I ' 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 102. DIANA MALLORY 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 rumoured that he had wished to depart before dinner, having concluded his con- sultation with Mr. Ferrier, but that Mrs. Fotheringham had persuaded him to remain for the night. His presence seemed to make dancing a misdemeanour, and the rich house, with its services and appurtenances, an organised 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 DIANA MALLORY 103 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 Httle 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 li\dng 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 nerv^es."* 104 DIANA MALLORY She smiled, but at the same moment she turned extremely white, and as she fell back in her chair, Diana saw her clench her hand as though in a strong effort for physical self-control. Diana sprang up. ' Let me get you some water 1 ' 'Don't go. Don't tell anybody. Just open that window.* Diana obeyed, and the north-west 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. Mean- while, his only pleasure — he was ten — was to go with his sister after school to look at two shops in the East India Dock Eoad, — 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 DIANA MALLCRY 105 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 afterwards, 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 shan'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, downstairs, 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 io6 DIANA MALLORY 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 for ever 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 gaily. DIANA MALLORY 107 * "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 1 ' cried Diana. ' Why not ? Every revolution has its Philippe Egalit^. 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 re- flection, and the ivy leaves in her hair. The absence of her mourning was first a pain ; then the joy of the evening loS DIANA MALLORY Burged up again. Ob, was it wrong, was it wrong to be happy, — in this world * whore men sit and hear each other groan.' She clasped her hands to her soft breast, as though defending the warmth, the hope that were spring- ing there, against any dark protesting force that might threaten to take them from her. CHAPTER VI ' Henky,' — said Mrs. Eoughsedge 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 Jano 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 no DIANA MALLORY 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 de- lightful bye-tasks, the works of supererogation, the excur- sions into side paths, the niggling with proofs, the toying with style, the potterings and polishings, the ruminations, and re-writings 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. Eoughsedge stayed to give very particular orders to the house-parlourmaid 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 the parish-houses. Then she joined her son, who was already waiting for her — im- patiently — in the garden. Hugh Eoughsedge 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 homo for a week's DIANA MALLORY in 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. Eoughsedge, however, had seen her but seldom and shghtly 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 de- struction ; about a recent gambling scandal in the regi- ment, 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 ex- pedition 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. Eoughsedge 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 con- versation. She added to it another of more effect. 'The Miss Bertrams have already made up their minds that she is to marry Oliver Marsh am.' * The deuce ! '—cried the startled Eoughsedge. * Beg your pardon, mother, but how can those old cats possibly know ? • H2 DIANA MALLORY 'They can't know,' said Mrs. Eoughsedge, placidly. * But as soon as you get a j^'oung woman like that into the neighbourhood, 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-w^orn 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. Eoughsedge knew too much about these cottages. In this one to the left, a girl had just borne her second illegitimate child ; in that one further on, were two mentally deficient children, the ofi'spring of feeble-minded parents ; in the next, an old woman, the victim of pernicious anaemia, 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. Eoughsedge 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. Eoughsedge suddenly — DIANA MALLORY 113 ' 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 towards them. He came along at a great pace, his lean figure closely sheathed in his long clerical coat, his face a Uttle frowning and set. At the sight of Mrs. Eoughsedge, he drew up, and greeted the mother and son. * May I have a few words with you ? ' he asked Mrs. Eoughsedge, as he turned back with them towards the Beechcote lane. ' I don't know whether you are acquainted, Mrs. Eoughsedge, 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. Eoughsedge 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. Eoughsedge, a little fluttered, asked for in- formation. * 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 th-e Club.* ' Are they improper ? ' cried Mrs. Eoughsedge, much I 1 » 114 DIANA MALLORY distressed. Captain Eoughsedge threw an angry look first at his mother and then at the Vicar. * Not in the usual sense,' said the Vicar stififly, — ' 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 Eoughsedge. The Vicar drew himself up. ' I have given my reasons.' ' Why, you see that kind of thing in every newspaper,' said Eoughsedge bluntly. * All the more reason why I should endeavour to keep my parish free from it,' was the Vicar's resolute reply. ' However there is no more to be said. I wished Mrs. Eoughsedge 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, Eoughsedge 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 Eoughsedge hotly, addressing his remark however safely to the Vicar's back, and to his mother. * Who DIANA MALLORY 115 makes him a judge of what we shall read I I shall make a point of asking for both the books I ' * 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 un- believer.* * Mother ! Of course what that poker in a wideawake 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. Eoughsedge, 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 1 ' If Captain Eoughsedge growled ugly words into his moustache, his mother was able to pretend not to hear them, in the gentle excitement of shaking hands v^ith the Miss Bertrams. These middle-aged ladies, the daughters of a deceased doctor from the neighbouring county town of Dunscombe, were, if possible, more plainly dressed than usual, and their manners more forbidding. 'You will have heard of this disagi'eeable incident, which has occurred,' said Miss Maria, to Mrs. Eoughsedge, 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 Eoughsedge, 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 i2 Ii6 DIANA MALLORY be ordered. No member of the Club has yet trans- gressed 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 Boughsedge smoothing or tugging at his moustache with a restless hand. But Miss Bertram, presently, dropping a little behind, drew Mrs. Eoughsedge 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. Eoughsedge. '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 grey curls, — ' whether she has ever been confirmed.' This final stroke however fell flat. Mrs. Eoughsedge 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 DIANA MALLORY 117 to a preceding barbaric age of the Church had no rele- vance 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.' j Mrs. Eough sedge 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. Eough- sedge 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 congmity with the woods and fields about it had never been more winning. The red, grey, 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 some- thing immortal, and the light which played upon it, something gently personal, relative and fleeting. Winter was still dominant ; a north-east wind blew. But on the grass under the spreading oaks which sheltered the eastern front a few snowdrops were out. And Diana was gather- ing them. She came towards her" visitors with alacrity. 'Oh I what a long time since you have been to see me 1 ' ii8 DIANA MALLORY Mrs. Koughsedge explained that she had been enter- taining 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 coloured 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. Eoughsedge secretly wondered whether this state- ment 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 ex- pecting 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 snowdrops 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 Eoughsedge 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 En- chanted 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.' DIANA MALLORY 119 Nofc that Hugh Eoughsedge made any such conscious analysis of his impressions. Yet the house appealed to him strangely. He thought Miss Mallory's taste marvel- lous ; and it is one of the superiorities in women to which men submit most readily. The drawing-room had especially a festive ah'. Mrs. Col wood 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 snowdrops 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. Eoughsedge ; 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 ! ' slie said. * That's so nice, isn't it ? ' Then she offered Mrs. Eough- sedge cake, and looked at her askance with a hanging head. * Have you heard— about the Vicar ? ' Mrs. Eoughsedge 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 ! ' *0h no, my dear, no ! ' cried Mrs. Eoughsedge, dis- turbed by the quotation even, of such a remark. Hugh Eoughsedge 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 ! ' lao DIANA MALLORY ' I hope, Miss Mallory, you won't think of giving them up,' said Hugh, with vigour. 'It will be an excellent thing for Lavery.* Mrs. Eoughsedge, as the habitual peacemaker of the village, said hastily that Dr. Eoughsedge should talk to the Vicar. Of course he must not be allowed to do any- thing BO foolish as to withdraw from the Club, or the Miss Bertrams either. ' Oh 1 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. Eoughsedge 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 Eoughsedge. ' Don't give in, Miss Mallory.' ' Ah ! * said Mrs. Eoughsedge, — 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. Eoughsedge 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 banting to give a message from his mother. That at least was the pretext. Hugh Eoughsedge, 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 neighbourli- ness required. Marsham was in hunting dress, and made his usual DIANA MALLORY 121 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 Eough- sedges 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. Eoughsedge, 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 Yicar, and implored Diana to stand firm. But somehow his inter- vention only hastened the compunction that had already begun to work in her. She followed the Eoughsedges to the door when they departed. * What must I do ? ' she said sheepishly to Mrs. Eoughsedge. ' Write to him ? ' ' The Yicar ? Oh, dear Miss Mallory, the Doctor will settle it. You tvould change the books ? ' ' Mother ! ' cried Hugh Eoughsedge indignantly, • we're all bulhed — you know we are — and now you want Miss Mallory bulhed 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 re-write 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 Eoughsedge, 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 ia2 DIANA MALLORY 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 declara- tion 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 diflSculties 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 towards her father's memory, 80 courteous, and, in truth, sincere, that she was alter- nately 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. DIANA MALLORY 123 For instance, he had been lending her books, repre- senting 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 clamour 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 him- self, — 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 demoralising interest in his ! A demoralising 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 endeavoured 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 124 DIANA MALLORY various small matters he had made Diana entrust 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 diflBculty. If there had been Budden 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 Eough- Bedge, — he had kept his eyes open. There was nothing there. So ho gave what news of Marion Vincent be 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. DIANA MALLORY 125 ' 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 hfe, 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 firehght 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 — involun- tarily, disagreeably, — he thought of Ahcia 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 towards her young cousin, and liked to have her for long visits at Tallyn or in London. Marsham beUeved 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 126 DIANA MALLORY 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 1 * 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 — DIANA MALLORY 127 ' Fanny I 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 Eoad ! 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. Col- wood, — 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 mesalliance, — 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 128 DIANA MALLORY 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-con- fident 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 con- victions 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, Eadical 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 dis- qualification in the way of family history. Diana, as ho 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 bo masked, — hke the stables, or the back- door, — in a skilful arrangement of life. Diana, his DIANA MALLORY 129 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 wdth 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 Devon- shire ? ' 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 colour, its bold eyes, and sulky mouth, slightly under-hung. ' 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 I30 DIANA MALLORY 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 handbag. Diana looked at it in dismay. It was the card of a young soHcitor 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 subsidise these rela- tions. 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 DIANA MALLORY 131 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 upstairs ? ' Mrs. Colwood went at once, Fanny Merton had herself changed colour, 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 nofe 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 upstairs, 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 ! ' K 2 132 DIANA MALLORY ' Papa left mo all his money,' said Diana, colouring 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 hostihty. And as Diana walked before her, Miss Merton again examined tho 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-necked Thau 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. Eoughsedge. 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 some- thing 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 136 DIANA MALLORY Merton ( Mrs. Col wood recalled the morning, — Miss Merton's late arrival at the breakfast table, and the dis- covery from her talk that she was accustomed to breakfast in bed, waited upon by her younger sisters ; her conversa- tion 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 colours and make, Mrs. Colwood, who had helped to put away some of them, could only suppose that tropical sur- roundings 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. Cohvood hoped ! — of revolt. She had been already sharply questioned as to the num- ber of servants she kept, and the wages they received, as to the people in the neighbourhood 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 Eng- land ; and she had extracted a promise from Diana to ask the young solicitor she had met with in the train — DIANA MALLORY 137 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 demeanour 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 behaviour from the beginning, — an ill-concealed, hardly restrained insolence, towards 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 newcomer out for an hour. They had taken coffee in the morning room upstairs, 138 DIANA MALLORY Diana's own sitting-room, wliere 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 IMerton 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 w^as 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-humoured 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 ])een left on the table ])y Diana, turned in some astonishment. She found tlie girl's eyes fixed upon her, — eager and hungry. 'Miss Mallory has had a great many visitors,'— she DIANA MALLORY 139 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 ! — an}n;vay. 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 01 something already vaguely felt, or sur- mised. 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 un- kind," — but I say it's unkind to iiSy 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 honourable. You must see that. She will be in by tea-time herself. Please ! ' I40 DIANA MALLORY ^luriel's tone wag gentle ; but her attitude was resolu- tion itself. Fanny Merton stared at the frail slim creature, in her deep widow's black ; her colour rose. ' Oh, very well. Do as you like ! — I'm agreeable I Only I thought perhaps — as you and Diana seem to be such tremendous friends — you'd like to talk it over with mo 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 Mallorj^ you know well that she is the soul of honour and gene- rosity. 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 w^as silent for a minute — staring at her companion. Then she said abruptly — ' Does she ever talk to you about Aunt SparHng ? ' ' Her mother ? ' The girl nodded. Mrs. Colwood hesitated,— then said unwillingly, ' No. DIANA MALLORY 141 She has mentioned her once or twice. One can see how she missed her as a child, — how she misses her stiu; ' 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 w^hen she did, — for everybody.' Mrs. Colwood felt her hands trembling. In the grow- ing 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 any- thing 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 w^ith 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 142 DIANA MALLORY of that sort — with the whole thing in it. You don't know — about — Diana's vwther ? ' 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 colour in the distance, which obscurely prophesied the spring. Through the wood behind the house, the snowdrops were rising, in a white invading host, over 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 — grey and smooth and round — of the great beeches, which held and peopled the country-side, heirs of its ancestral forest. Anyone 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 wangs of the wood pigeons, as they clattered through the topmost boughs. Diana was still in the village. She had been spend- ing 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, how- ever she might feel herself eclipsed by Lady Lucy, w^as DIANA MALLORY 143 in truth much more fit to minister to such ruffled feeUngs 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. Eoughsedge, bubbling over with gossip and good humour, 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 * Eed Van ' bursting with Socialist literatm-e 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. Kough- sedge's opinion, but ready to give you almost too much pulling out for your money. On all these topics she over- flowed, — with much fun and unfailing good-humour. So that after half an hour spent with Mrs. Eoughsedge 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 Eadical 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 144 DIANA MALLORY neighbour, — on the ground of selfish ambitions, and unpatriotic trucklings, — was in truth much more active than anything Marsham had ever sliown — or felt — towards 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 bre§ik 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 English- woman, to mate with this plausible Eadical 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, DIANA MALLORY 145 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 telUng 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 brewhouse at Beechcote, twenty years before, drowned in the big vat ! — before anyone 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 conversa- tion, — 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 pre- sence 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 li 146 DIANA MALLORY couatry-sido 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 in'o 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 James — 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'U be gettin' married one o* these days, I'll uphowd yer.' Diana coloured 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 tor- mented 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 w^hich 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 sufifering of the blinded road-mender, — the grotesque and hideous death of the young labourer in his full strength, — the griefs of a childless and penniless old woman ? Yet life DIANA MALLORY 147 had somehow engulfed the horrors ; and had spread its quiet waves above them, under a pale, late-born sun- shine. 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 exag- gerated expectations. She is here ; and she is not re- sponsible 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 colour and line, it rose on the breast of memory, the beloved face. It set pulses beat- ing in Diana, which from her childhood onwards 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 re- buked it, — by the example of the poor, — or the remem- brance 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 explan- ations she had been accustomed to give herself of the L 2 148 DIANA MALLORY manner and circumstances of her bringing up. To-day, they seemed to her own mind, for the first time, utterly insufiicient. 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 Mertonwere 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 dishonour. It w^as as though a mourner shut in for years with sacred memories became suddenly aw^are 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 honourable 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 DIANA MALLORY 149 recalled moments and looks of agonised effort and yearning. But he died of a gi'owth in the throat; and for weeks before the end, speech was forbidden them, on account of the constant danger of haemorrhage. 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 djdng, 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 ignor- ance 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, v^ith 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 I — 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, em- bracing their cold feet, and asking pardon. The tears clouded her eyes ; she wandered blindly on through the wood ; till she was conscious of Budden light I50 DIANA MALLORY and space. She had come to a clearing, where several huge iDeeches had heen 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, ah'eady showing leaf, amid the bare winterly w^ood. 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 her- self how much she knew of them. If he could not have her sympathy, he must have her antagonism. But no chilling exclusions and reserves 1 Eather, a generous confidence on his side ; and a gradual, a childlike 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 convenahle'> She knew that gills 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 1 She, — Diana — had always under- DIANA MALLORY 151 stood 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, hea\^ 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 excite- ment, a certain triumph, perhaps an occasional relent- ing 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 con- fessed 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 — 152 DIANA MALLORY nay wag 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 flew 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 entrust the entertaining of Fanny Merton to her friend and com- panion, — 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 armchair, 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 MALLORY 153 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 embarrass- ments, 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 coloured deeper than ever. But ap- parently 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 ? ' 154 DIANA MALLORY She looked up expecting sympathy — perhaps a little indignation. Mrs. Cohvood 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 backwards and forwards — 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 DIANA MALLORY 155 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 di-essed, 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 ciying. 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 way- laid 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 DIANA MALLORY 157 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 neighbouring town, a dinner-party, and various ' drums,' besides a luncheon party, and afternoon tea at Beechcote itself in honour of the guest : — Mrs. Colwood thought the girl might have been content ! But she had examined everything pre- sented 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 some- thing 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 dis- tinguished 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 subtleties 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 con- cealed claim either to share it, or attack it, — these things were no longer riddles to Muriel Colwood. Eather 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. Some- times 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. 158 DIANA MALLORY Wlienever 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 IMrs. 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 * Annuncia- tion ' 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. Uncon- sciously her life had slipped into this habit of referring all its pains and pleasures to tlie unseen friend, — holding DIANA MALLORY 159 with him that constant dialogue of the heart without which love neither begins nor grows. Yet she no longer dreamt of discussing Fanny, and the perplexities Fanny had let loose on Beechcote, with the living Marsham. Money affairs must be kept to oneself ; 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. Eiley, the head of the firm of Riley & Bonner — a letter which was almost a lecture. If the case were indeed urgent, said Mr. Biley, if the money must be found, she could of course borrow on her securities, and the firm would arrange it for her. But Mr. Eiley, 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 coloured 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 scru- pulous. 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, w^ith 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 l6o DIANA MALLORY '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 colour under the powder had heightened a little. The two girls confronted each other, and, vaguely, perhaps, each felt the strange- ness 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 conscious- ness 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. DIANA MALLORY i6i * Well, of course Mrs. Colwood's told me all you've been saying to her. And I don't say I'm sm'prised.' 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 neck- laces 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 aw^fully 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 — M i62 DIANA MALLORY ' 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 dis- appointment. 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 haughti- ness, 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 oicght to have left us something ! ' The instant the words were out, she regretted them. Diana abandoned her childish attitude. She drew herself DIANA MALLORY 163 together, and sat upright on the edge of the soia. The colour 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 aggres- sively at her cousin — M 2 i64 DIANA MALLORY ' Well — that was because — Aunt Sparling sold all the things 1 ' Diana started and recoiled. * You mean ' — she said, her breath fluttering, — * that^ Mam in a 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 riviere ; — ' (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 pen- dant, — a little watch set wnth 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 DIANA MALLORY 163 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 ' 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 memoiy, 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 — recalHng 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 deHcacy ' — * 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, inexpHcable fear which had seized on Mrs. Colwood, only more sickening, more paralysing. 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. I66 DIANA MALLORY She walked up to her cousin. ' Fanny I — Ig tliere any letter — anything of Grand- papa's — or of my Mother's— that you could show me ? ' ' No ! — It wag a promise, I tell you — there was no writing. But my Mother could swear to it.' The girl faced her cousin without flinching. Diana Bat 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 dis- posal, 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 j^ou 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. DIANA MALLORY 167 ' 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 Tall}Ti ! ' ' 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 com'se — every- body's nice to you. — ' She paused. Diana, struck dumb, could find for the moment, nothing to say. The red flamed 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 towards 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 tliink I could I68 DIANA MALLORY 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 over head in a gesture of amazement. * To quarrel with me about that — after — the other thing 1 ' No 1 — 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 Rough- sedges, explaining the matter, with a half deprecating, half humorous face, to the comfortable ear of Mrs. Eoughsedge. Explanation was necessary, for this par- ticular young man was only welcome in those houses of the neighbourhood which were not socially dainty. Mrs. Eoughsedge understood at once — laughed heartily — accepted with equal heartiness — and then taking Diana's hand, she said with a shining of her grey 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 etill to be captured. DIANA MALLORY 169 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 cousins ? ' Dr. Eoughsedge 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 Eoughsedges 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 be 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 grey 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 I70 DIANA MALLORY carefully matched with his tie. He was evidently delighted to find himself at Beechcote, and it might have been divined that there w^as 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 favour, he made himself quite at home. Placed on Diana's left at table, he gave her much voluble information about her neighbours, 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 pre- sent ' she kept him beastly short.' ' As for me — ' the speaker wound up, with an engaging and pensive tiwiveU — ' 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 wath 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 1 Not till next time. Then — my w^ord ! — 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 1 ' Dr. Eoughsedge meanwhile obseiTed the type. The DIANA MALLORY 171 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 entrust 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 re- ported to be rich ; the Eoughsedges also, though negligible financially, were not without influence in high places ; and the Doctor was governor of an important grammar school recently revived and reorganised, W'herewith 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, w^as 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. 172 DIANA MALLORY Mr. Birch, with complacency, named the wife of a neighbouring 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 BO charming ! ' cried Mr. Birch — * and bo 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 elo- quent of some past storm. — Good Heavens ! Where was that fellow Marsham? Philandering with politics? — when there was this flower for the gathering ! Luncheon w^as half way through, when a rattling Bound of horses' hoofs outside drew the attention of the table. DIANA MALLORY 173 * 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 towards 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 telhng tales, I declare I am ! ' said Mr. Birch. 174 DIANA MALLORY • Haven't you seon Mr. Oliver Marsham yefe, 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 towards 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 Hps, — ' Don't you quote me, please Miss Merton. But I can DIANA MALLORY 175 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 1 A few minutes later Sir James Chide was seated betw^een 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 pro- vincial, trained to small ambitions and hungry desires. Half an hour before, she had been writing a letter home, in a whirl of dehght, and self-glorification. The money Diana had promised \Yould 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 176 DIANA MALLORV physical distress. So Diana was to be married ! — and to the great parti of the neighbourhood ! Fanny already saw her in the bridal white, surrounded by glittering bridesmaids ; and a church-full 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 oneself 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 exaspera- ting. 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 re- curred 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 DIANA MALLORY I77 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 unsavoury 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 tell- ing 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 178 DIANA MALLORY 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 Eough- sedges, 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 colour in the cheek! Yet even so, to Sir James's keen sense, there was an increase, a sharpening, in Diana's person- ality, 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. Eoughsedge, 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, DIANA iMALLORY 179 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 Kough- sedge was examining the Donatello photograph. ' Do you like it ? ' said Diana, standing beside him. She w^as 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 Chide's message ; he understood her. Presently, Mrs. Eoughsedge 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 Eoughsedge to Diana. At his qu-estion he saw a delicate flush, beyond her control, creep over her cheek and throat. N * i8o DIANA MALLORY ' 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 Eoughsedge.' 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. Im- possible, 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 poHtics, that she might hear Marsham's name sometimes, and realise 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 grey eyes? * I'll go and finish my cigarette out of doors. Such a tempting afternoon ! DIANA MALLORY i8i 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. CHAPTEE 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 colour, 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 leapt 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 BO 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 towards 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 3^ou would be here, — this week end.' * Nor had I — till last night. Then an appointment broken down — and — mc void ! ' * You stay over to-morrow ? ' ' Of course ! But it is absurd that the Feltons should be five miles away ! ' She stammered, — DIANA MALLORY 183 •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 Eoughsedge, he was struck with a sense of change. The Dian look which matched her name, the proud gaiety and frankness of it were somehow muffied 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 colour 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. i84 DIANA MALLORY ' 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 Bobins. How is he getting on ? ' Eobins 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 out- side I 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 1 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 — realise 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 I — What on earth brought that creature to Beech- cote. His astonishment was great, and perhaps in the DIANA MALLORY 1S5 depths of his mmd there emerged the half-amused percep- tion 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 ; labour 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 Rough- sedges, — 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 him- self 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. Mar sham 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 i86 DIANA MALLORY about to happen ? — or had it already happened ? lie braced himself, soldier-like, to the inevitable. ' You know Mr. Birch,' said Diana to her companion, as they descended to the lower terrace, and passed not rery 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 coloured. ' 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 towards 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 wa ought to be going back ? ' 'Would you mind asking Sir James?' Marsham DIANA MALLORY 187 pointed to the upper terrace. * I have something to see to in the garden.' Diana said hurriedly that Mrs. Colwood would Bend 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 involun- tarily, 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 Eobins to-day. Look I — 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 I 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 188 DIANA MALLORY rather than less dignity. She bore her dark head finely, with that unconscious long descended instinct of the woman, w^aiting 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 w^oods darkly massed on the horizon gave an accent of mysterious power to a scene in which Nature otherwise show^ed herself the tamed and homely servant of men. Below were the trees of Beech- cote, the grey 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, w^hich only faintly resisted ; he looked into her eyes. She had grown very pale — enchant- DIANA MALLORY 189 ingly 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 I ' — she said, in a whisper, * I'm not worthy ! ' * Foolish Diana I — 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 hfe, — all that she had and was. Then she with- drew 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. lyo DIANA MALLORY • There I ' she said at last, witlidrawing 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 w^e got up to town. And when the stupid meeting I had promised to speak at w^as put off, my mother thought I had gone otf my head — from my behaviour. " 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 i miles — Beechcote 2 miles and J — 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 DIANA MALLORY 191 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 child- hood. 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 cant 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 towards him ; ' I'll always, always try and understand.' Who could resist an attitude so feminine, yet so loyal, — at once to old and new? Marshamfelt himself already 192 DIANA MALLORY 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. Uand in hand ; trembhng 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 ! ' DIANA MALLORY 193 Her eyes showed a touch of passion ; the passion that some natui'is 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 v/hen they were both very young, and lost his heart to her. Then she married and he lost sight ol 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 plea mre ! ' 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 some- times ? Poor darling ! ' he said, tenderly, ' it must have been solitary often at Portofino.' ' Oh no, — I had Papa.' Then her truthfulness over- o 194 DIANA MALLORY came 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 DIANA MALLORY 195 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 shan'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 move- ments 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 shrink- ing. 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 o2 196 DIANA MALLORY 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 1 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 Httle. * You have never looked at them ? ' * Never.' ' But why, dearest ? ' *It always seemed to make Papa so unhappy — any- thing 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 motrher.* DIANA MALLORY 197 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 every- thing.' 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 upstairs — ' 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 upstairs — 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 w^hen she called me, I ran away. Then afterwards 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 ft marvellous sense of deliverance,— after the silence of 198 DIANA MALLORY 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 V70uld 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 afterwards — ' * 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 Eiviera, 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 — DIANA MALLORY 199 could not even tell what it was. It was misery ! One day he managed to write — " If you are in trouble, go to Eiley & Bonner — ask them." — They were his solici- tors, 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 afterwards, 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 towards the house. The air had grown much 200 DIANA MALLORY colder; frosty stars were twinkling, and a chilly wind wa3 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 towards 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 clamoured 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 hillside. Her own reserve broke down, and from her murmured words, her sweet- ness, 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. DIANA MALLORY 2dl 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 thi'ow himself on the counsel of Sir James Chide. Chide had known — from the beginning I CHAPTEK X Mabsham 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. DIANA MALLORY 203 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 tm^n 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. Mar- sham 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 mantelpiece, and hung over the fire. 204 DIANA MALLORY 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 abso- lutely 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. DIANA MALLORY 205 * 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 grey. 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 anyone else now living.' Something in the tone, in the solemnity of the blue eyes, in the carriage of the grey 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 — ' Eiley & Bonner — excellent fellows — both of them still living. They probably have all the records. And I shouldn't wonder if 2o6 DIANA MALLORY 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 behaviour to her v^as 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 archaeology, 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 I — more fatal I 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 sym- pathy, there was a positive lightening in the elder man's face, — a gleam of satisfaction. ' Cheer up, old fellow I ' 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 tne 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 resolu- tion of the face, the prim perfection of the dress, judged by the Quakerish standard of its owner. Lady Lucy DIANA MALLORY 207 almost always wore gloves — white or grey. 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 Sparhng'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 Mcllory ? ' 'Nothing. But she is akeady 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 Eiley & 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 con- fabulating 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 2o8 DIANA MALLORY 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 peremptori- ness with which she had endeavoured 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 ? ' Hm ! ' 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 tip-toe 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, DIANA MALLORY 209 — 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 per- sonally 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,' p 2IO DIANA MALLORY 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 upstairs. As he passed along the main corridor to his room, lost in perplexity and fore- boding, he heard the sound of a woman's dress, and look- ing up saw Alicia Drake coming towards 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 towards 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 DIANA MALLORY 21 1 air, colours 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 pas- sionate 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 — iike 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 Ume-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 frdly her own. She thought with yearning of Oliver's interview with his mother. A fihal, 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 Eiley & 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. Someone was strumming in the drawing-room, — with intervals between the strum- mings — as though the player stopped to listen for some- thing or someone. Diana shrank into herself. She ran p2 212 DIANA MALLORY upstairs noiselessly to her sitting-room, and opened the door as quietly as possible. ' Muriel I ' 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 alm^ost 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. Cohvood'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 D^ana. She returned the kiss, a little wistfully, DIANA MALLORY 213 ' 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 a while. 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 wath 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 214 DIANA MALLORY Fanny Merton. Diana, with a laugh, repeated Mar- sham's proposal for a six weeks' engagement. That was absurd I 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. Col wood had not watched and listened during her Tallyn visit for nothing. At last a clock struck downstairs, and a door opened. Diana sprang up — ' Time to dress ! And I've left Fanny alone all this while.' She hurried towards the door ; then turned back. 'Please ! — I'm not going to tell Fanny just yet. Neither Fanny nor anyone — 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 1 where have you been all this time ? ' ' Only talking to Muriel. We heard you playing ; DIANA MALLORY 215 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 leant 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, aid DIANA MALLORY 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 WTath could give them. Diana tottered a little. Her hand blung 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 her- self 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 com- mand 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 Eough- sedges went off without asking her to visit them ; and as for the Captain, he was an odious young man. Since their df^parture, Mrs. Colwood had neglected her, and now DIANA MALLORY iji; Diana's secret return, her long talk vrith Mrs. Colwood, had filled the gM'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 burnt 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 stair- case. 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 further, 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 voiea^ She ran out into the hall. 2i8 DIANA MALLORY At the top of the stairs, stood Fanny Merton, not daring to move further. Her eyes were starting out of her head ; her face flushed and distorted. ' You go to her ! ' She stooped, panting, over the bannisters, 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 for ever 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. CHAPTEE XI ' Hee ladyship will be here directly, sir.* Lady Lucy's iramaculate 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 anyone 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 grey 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 aU material goods, a seemly and intelligent interest in things ideal and 220 DIANA MALLORY 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 colour than usual ; but the result was to make the face look older, and certain lines in it dis- agreeably 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 Ohver. Will you sit down ? ' She motioned him, in her stately way, to a seat. He realised, 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, DIANA MALLORY 221 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 com'se — 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 222 DIANA MALLORY 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. How- ever, 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 ! ' DIANA MALLORY 223 ' Wait a moment ! ' exclaimed Sir James, hold- ing 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 colour 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 dreamt 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 en- countered a singular vivacity in the grey 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 224 DIANA MALLORY Home OfiQce. 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, un- willingly ; ' 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 7ne 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 irre- vocable ? ' 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 inherit- ance from her — than by any dread of social disgrace or disadvantage — if that be true I — then for Oliver's sake — for that poor child's sake — you otight 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 DIANA MALLORY 225 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 ajid perfectly colourless tone — * I knew Juliet Went worth first — when she was seven- teen. I was on the Midland Circuit, and went down to the MUchester 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 neighbourhood. Within a month I proposed to her. She refused me. I merely mention these cir- cumstances for the sake of reporting my first impressions of her character. She was very young, and of an extra- ordinarily nervous and sensitive organisation. 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 226 DIANA MALLORY papers the accounts of a " Supposed Murder at Brighton." Next morning, Eiley & Bonner retained me for the defence. Mr. Eiley 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 learnt 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 Went worth had married — four years before this date — a scholar and archaeologist whom she had met at Harvard, during her American stay. Mr. Sparling was an English- man, and a man of some means who was devoting him- self 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 splendour 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 loveable 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 archaeologist ; tombs, vases, gold ornaments, papyri — he had the passion of the excavator and explorer. DIANA MALLORY 227 * They came back to England from America Bhortly 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 in- creased. 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 anyone 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. Eising 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 com- fortable rites, in grim contrast with the story that held q2 328 DIANA MALLORY 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 hardworking 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' menage. 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 Sparhng's DIANA MALLORY 229 (lispleasui^e 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 tha 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 230 DIANA MALLORY Riid 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 d^no'LUiment, 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, DIANA MALLORY 231 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 dishonourable 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 indoors, 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, w^orn 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 break- down. She taunted her in the cruellest way, accused her of being the temptress in the case of Sir Francis, and of simulating a hypocritical mdignation 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. Sparhng 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 232 DIANA MALLORY of the gallery, caught at a dagger belonging to a tiophy 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 decolletee ; 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 befoie 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 direc- tion. He swore that Mrs. Sparling had made dis- honourable 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 honour, 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 amongst 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 endeavour out of mortal fear to keep the ruffian who has her in his power in a good humour. DIANA MALLORY 233 ' 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 colour returned to her cheeks. Sir James, however, gave her no time to interrupt. He stood before her, smiting one hand against another, to emphasise 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 com- pletely 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 234 DIANA MALLORY driven her out of her mind, he said, by his behaviour in the garden ; she w&q not ansvv^erable 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 elsel — 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 upstairs 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 deteri- oration — 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 DIANA MALLORY 235 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 Httle 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 deaUng, 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 un- premeditated ; 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 ow^n interpretation of the case — but thank God, I never did ! — that letter would have shamed it out 236 DIANA MALLORY 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 foi her reply. CHAPTEE 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 baro, 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 re- posed 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, aaS DIANA MALLORY 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 stubborn- ness, * 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 anyone 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 I ' Her delicate features, under the crown of white hair, were once more flooded with colour, and the passion in DIANA MALLORY 259 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 apologised 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 340 DIANA MALLORY %vould find her reward. But to enter a family with an nnstained 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 shndemes::, and the rigidity of her attitude, made a formidable study in personality. Sir James's whole soul rose in one scornful and in- dignant 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 entrusted 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 abus© if he would. DIANA MALLORY 241 * 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 cmdosity 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 vigour and lightness of his step, the shrewd cheerfulness of the eyes. It had been a hard week in ParHament, however, and his features and com- plexion showed signs of over- work 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 sur- prise. I have since been doing my best to think of a way out.' There was a short pause — broken by Marsham, who B 242 DIANA MALLORY 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 oppo- sition 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 SparHng 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 Fer- rier, as the story came to an end. — ' A tragic and memor- able 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, look- ing from one to the other. ' I am soiTy you help Oliver DIANA MALLORY 243 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 ? ' * She might release you,' was Terrier'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 further drawing- room. ' By all means. T shall be here when you return.* Sir James had a few hurried words in private with 244 DIANA MALLORY 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 ^Yilberforce 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 differ- ence.' * 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.* DIANA MALLORY 245 * 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-five, 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 rela- tions. 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 con- versation 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 communi- cating 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. 246 DIANA MALLORY ' A servant, sir, from Beeohcote 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 re- appeared, 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. Col- wood, 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 downstairs to speak to the Beechcote messenger, and returned. Ferrier retired into the furthest window, and Marsham approached his mother. ' Good-bye, mother. I will write to you from Beech- cote, 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. Hjwever, if you must, you must. I can only prepare Diana for your letter and soften it when it comes.* DIANA MALLORY 247 * 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 pohtics. If she does, I beg she vdll 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 towards 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 hghtest toll. It moved him strangely ; though as to the matter in hand, his sympathies were all with OUver. 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 248 DIANA MALLORY elder-sisterliness on hers. Then he had deolared him' self, 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 a while he became the inti- mate friend of her husband, herself, and her child. Some- thing, 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 for ever 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 poHtics 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 moralising. 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 — etherially delicate and spiritual, like a stanza from the DIANA MALLORY 249 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 endeavouring 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 aU the time he was conscious himself of cowardice and h}^ocrisy. What part of the Christian message really applied to Lady Lucy this after- noon, 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 refresh- ment 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 250 DIANA MALLORY he "was approaching, she was still the one dear and indispensable friend. If she must needs be harsh and tyrannical — well, ho must try to mitigate the effects, for herself and others. But his utmost eflfort 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 i^'otheringham — * I don't at all agree with you in the matter. Nobody is responsible for their mothers and fathers. We make our- selves. 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 vnrong-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 wdll 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 DIANA MALLORY 251 reform. You think he proposed to her in that walk on the hill ? ' — said Mrs. Fotheringham, turning to her cottsin AUcia. Alicia woke up from a brown study of her own. She was dressed with her usual perfection in a grey cloth, just suggesting the change of season Her felt hat with its plume of feathers lay on her lap, and her hair, sHghtly loosened by the journey, captured the eye by its abund- ance 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 Eedfem ! Eeally AUcia is too extravagant ! ' On that head, no one could have reproached herself. A cheap coat and skirt, much worn, a hat of no particular colour 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,' repHed 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 1 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 252 DIANA MALLORY all come out so soon ! The mess would have been in- finitely 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. OHver condemn himself to the simple life ! — to the forfeiture of half a million of money — for the sake of the hcaux yeux of Diana Malloryl OHver, 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 Beech- cote, her sympathetic yet restrained attitude towards the whole matter, quite invaluable. But in spite of these aids, the hours of waiting and suspense passed heavily, and AHcia said to herself that Cousin Lucy was beginning to look frail. CHAPTEE 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 shs 254 DIANA MALLORY was departing early on the Monday morning — to som« 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. Col- wood spokeialmost in whispers, The old house, generally 80 winning and sympathetic, seemed to hold itself silent and aloof ; as though in this touch of calamity, the living were no longer its masters, and the dead generations woke. And upstairs, 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 hillside, 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 northwards 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 DIANA MALLORY 25$ dead beech leaves at his feet. Otherwise not a sound or show of Ufe ; Marsham was alone with night and himself. Twenty-four hours — little more — since on that same hillside 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 vigour and cheerfulness of his life ? As to the effort before him, he felt towards it as a man of weak unpractised muscle who endeavours with strain- ing 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 him- self 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 256 DIANA MALLORY 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-humouredly 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- humouredly. 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 boy- hood, without question. His mother of course had pro- vided the majority of them, for his own small income, and his allowance from her were absorbed by his personal DIANA MALLORY 257 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 Parlia- ment. But everything — judged by the standards he had been brought up in — would be difficulty, where everything till now had been ease. He knew his mother too well to doubt her stubborn- ness ; and his feeling was bitter indeed. Bitter too against his father, who had left him in this plight. Why had his father distrusted and vn:onged him so ? He re- called with discomfort certain colhsions 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 spend- thrift 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 standstill. For he recognised the hollow in the chalk — the gnarled thorn — the wide outlook. He stood gazing about him — a shamed lover ; conscious of a dozen contradictory feehngs. 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 S 258 DIANA MALLORY which it gave him any pleasure to remember in this night- mare 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, DIANA MALLORY 259 of the hill, the woods ; what she really saio 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 s2 26o DIANA MALLORY dressing, and Mrs. Colwood had persuaded ber to let some tea be brought upstairs. Fanny came in, half closing the door. ' Well, I'm off,' she said, flushing. * I dare say you won't want to see mc 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 exhaus- tion 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 fidgetted, but even her perceptions told her that further thanks would be out of place. ' Mother '11 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 DIANA MALLORY 261 she looked round her, with a first genuine impulse of something Hke 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 burnt her inner mind. She turned round de- liberately. 'Mr. Marsham '11 cheer you up, Diana! — you'll see. — Of course he'll behave Hke 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 upstairs again to Diana's room. ' She's gone ? ' said Diana faintly. She was standing by the window. As she spoke the carriage came into 262 DIANA MALLORY 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 some- thing 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 colour 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 DIANA MALLORY 263 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 darhng ! * 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 con- secrate. ' 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 — a64 DIANA MALLORY 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 grey, 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 whp.t. I did not understand at first what she was saying. Oliver,' — Bhe grasped his hand tightly, while the lids dropped over DIANA MALLORY 265 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 Marsh am rehictantly. ' 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 afterwards. 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 bend even tragedy and pain to its own uses. And yet— and yet ! — Was it in that very moment, that 266 DIANA MALLORY feeling — on the man's side — ' o'erleapt 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 Hfe 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, deter- mined to silence them by the pleasant clamour 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 I — 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 recollec- tion, 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 DIANA MALLORY 267 flung upon it, could not recover its healthiness of action amid the phantom sights and sounds which beset imagina- tion. Again and again she must ask him for details — and shrink from the answers ; must hide her eyes with the Httle 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 perfunc- torily. The one-ness 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 colour 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-abase- ment he had dreaded yet perhaps expected to see there I 268 DIANA MALLORY 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, endeavouring to prepare her for the letter which might arrive on the morrow. He got up and moved about the room as he spoke, w^hile 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 bs Ferrier.' 'Lady Lucy believes it would injure you in Parlia- ment ? ' faltered Diana. 'No, I don't believe she does. No sane person could.' * Then it's because — of the disgrace ? Oliver I— 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 ; DIANA MALLORY 269 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 indiflferent 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 clamoured — 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 a while he felt his efforts fail. The scenes that held her mind betrayed themselves in her recurrent 270 DIANA MALLORY 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 1 — 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 ? Afterwards — 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 DIANA MALLORY 271 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 under- stood, when they married, that Mrs. Sparling's name was never mentioned between them ; that the whole grimy business was buried out of sight for ever. 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 savour. 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 learnt from Hps 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 J73 DIANA MALLORY 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 him- self that henceforward she should lack no fatherly help or counsel that he could give her. He gathered — with relief — that the engagement per- sisted ; 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. Eiley, 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, wetit 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 reve- lation. 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. Ha DIANA MALLORY 273 held, as I do, that it ought to be founded in mutual respect and honour ; 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 ^YOuld 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 associa- tions ; 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 Maesham.* Diana dragged herself upstairs, 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 hillside 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. DIANA MALLORY 275 ' The less you eat, the less you may eat, — ' said Lady Niton with vigour. * 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 tem.perature at which Lady Lucy kept her drawing-room. She then asked for a window to be opened ; and when she had been suflQciently oxygenated, she delivered herself — T 2 376 DIANA MALLORY ' Well, and why not ? Wo 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 anyone 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 was 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 1 Lady Lucy summoned all her dignity, expounded her view, and entirely declined to be laughed or rated out of it. For EHzabeth 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 dis- repute — 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 ragbag of a figure, — crooked wig, rusty black DIANA MALLORY 277 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 neighbour, 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 under- stand 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 some- times. 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 how- ever 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 * 278 DIANA MALLORY ' 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 Ehzabeth 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 jeopardise 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 sup- port. But it did occur to her that if Diana Mallory DIANA MALLORY 279 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 Fother- ingham's argument 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 realised 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 con- cerned ! — we might as well be married to-morrow and have done with it.' * Ah 1 — 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 — ' 1 am 28o DIANA MALLORY afraid she will nob 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 1— 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 grey 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 com- manded 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 cheque in fact— a large cheque, the result of old economies — sent through her son, to the leading party club, had been of considerable importance in tlie 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. DIANA MALLORY 28t 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 behef 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 sub- ject 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 towards 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 282 DIANA MALLORY 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 realised, the whole truth about your mother, when you were still here. It was my stupidity. * I Lave 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.' DIANA MALLORY 283 He laid down the blurred note, and turned to the en- closure. 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 Hfe 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 realise, 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. 284 DIANA MALLORY 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 con- scious 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 per- suaded 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 re-write it. And how cold were all his references to the catastrophe I He groaned as he thought of Diana, — as though he actually saw the vulture gnawing at the tender breast. DIANA MALLORY 285 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 colour flooded her cheeks ; as though the heart leapt beneath a fresh blow, which it could not realise or measure. Was it so she would have written to Ohver?— if— She was sitting at her writing-table in the drawing- room. Her eyes wandered through the mullioned ^^'indow beside her to the hillside 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 reahsed it, the more sharply it bit into the tissues of life ; the more it seemed to set Juliet SparHng 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 seo even her old friends the Eoughsedges, and had been invisible to them since the Saturday; she feared even the faces of the village- children. 286 DIANA MALLORY All through, sho seemed to have been clinging to Marsham's supporting hand, as to the clue 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 realise 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 inherit- ance ? — and would certainly exercise it, to pujnish 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 per- sonal cost he would never forget, and might never for- give, — persuade or compel to marry her. DIANA MALLORY 287 She sprang up. For the first time, since the blow had fallen, vigour had returned to her movements, and life to her eyes. * Ah, no ! ' — she said to hers^f , 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 OUver to pursue? I understand that he proposed to you, and you accepted him, in ignorance of the melancholy truth. And, like a man of honour, he proposes to stand by his engage- ment, — 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 towards 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 288 DIANA MALLORY 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 ImperiaUst, who sympathise 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 oiir 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 them- selves across the path of progress. At the same time I see that you have a strong, — if I may say so, — a vehe- ment 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 possibiUties of the future— when free men and DIANA MALLORY 289 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 im- personal 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 Fotheeingham. * 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 some- thing Uke 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 realise 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. Fothering- ham that I have received their letters ? It will not be u 290 DIANA MALLORY necessary to answer them. You will tell them that I have broken ofif 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 injiire 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 re-write 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. Kough- sedge, and instead of answering the letter, the recipient appeared in person, breathless with the haste she had made, the grey curls displaced. Diana told her story, her slender fingers quivering in the large motherly hand whose grasp soothed her, her DIANA MALLORY 291 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 tald it. ' My dear ! — ' cried Mrs. Eoughsedge — ' 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 for- gotten. Nobody else need know, need they, that he proposed ? ' She stroked her friend's hand piteously. Mrs. Eough- sedge, foreseeing the storm of gossip that would be sweeping in a day or two through the village and the neighbourhood, 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. Eoughsedge 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 u 2 292 DIANA MALLORY Hugh Koughsedge 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 Koughsedge. For the first time, she must perforce recognise 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 irre- vocably ; and that Marsham's wife or no, all was done and over for him, Hugh Koughsedge. Yet surely in time — in time ! That was the inner clamour 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 ? * Eather 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 com- posed 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 1 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 DIANA MALLORY 293 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 dowri ? ' ' 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 com- forted I ' 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 hi, the servant had realised some mysterious rebuke of his Lord. * Eemember 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.* 294 DIANA MALLORY 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 honour and a privilege to welcome you.' ' Oh yes — I shall come back. Unless — I have some friends in LoAdon — 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 DIANA MALLORY 295 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 nm'se 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 intreated,' 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 296 DIANA MALLORY from Mareham. It contained arguments and protes- tations 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 her- self to talk and smile with Muriel Col wood. Mrs. Colwood insisted on dinner at the Charing Cross Hotel. Diana submitted. Afterwards 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 Harbour, 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 moon- rise. Six months before, she had seen them for the first DIANA MALLORY 297 time, had fed her eyes upon the 'dear, dear land,' a3 cliffs and fields and houses flashed upon the sight, yearn- ing towards 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 gc ? Far, far ahead is all the seamen know I PART III * Love'g eye is not so true as all men's : no, How can it ? how can Love's eye be true That is so vexed with watching and with tears?' CHAPTEE XV London \\b,3 in full season. But it was a cold May, and both the town and its inhabitants wore a grey and pinched aspect. Under the east wind, an unsavouiy dust blew along Piccadilly ; the ladies were still in furs ; the trees were venturing out reluctantly, showing many a young leaf bitten by night-frosts; the Park had but a scanty crowd ; and the drapers oppressed with summer goods, saw their muslins and gauzes in the windows give up their freshness for naught. Nevertheless the ferment of political and social life had seldom been greater. A Eoyal wedding in the near future was supposed to account for the vigour of London's social pulse ; the streets indeed were already putting up poles and decorations. And a general election, expected in the autumn, if not before, accounted for the vivacity of the clubs, the heat of the newspapers, and the energy of the House of Commons, where all-night sittings were lightly risked by the Government, and recklessly challenged by the Opposition. Everybody was playing to the gallery — i.e. the country. Old members were wooing their constituencies afresh ; young candidates were spending feverish energies on new hazards, and anxiously inquiring at what particular date in the campaign tea-parties became unlawful. Great issues were at stake ; for old parties were breaking up under the pressure of new interests and 302 DIANA MALLORY passions ; within the Liberal party the bubbling of new faiths was at its crudest and hottest; and those who stood by the slow and safe ripening of Freedom, from * precedent to precedent,' were in much anxiety as to what shape or shapes might ultimately emerge from a brew so strong and heady. Which only means that now as always, Whigs and Eadicals were at odds ; and the * unauthorised programme ' of the day was sending its fiery cross through the towns, and the industrial districts of the north. A debate of some importance was going on in the House of Commons. The Tory Government had brought in a Land Bill, intended no doubt rather as bait for electors, than practical politics. It was timid and ill- drafted, and the Opposition, in days when there were still some chances in debate, joyously meant to kill it, either by frontal attack, or by obstruction. But in the opinion of the Left Wing of the party, the chief weapon of its killing should be the promise of a much larger and more revolutionary measure from the Liberal side. The powerful Eight Wing, however, largely represented on the front bench, held that you could no more make farmers than saints by Act of Parliament, and that only by slow and indirect methods could the people be drawn back to the land. There was in fact little difference between them and the front bench opposite, except a difference in method; only the Whig brains were the keener ; and in John Ferrier the Eight Wing had a personality and an oratorical gift, which the whole Tory party admired and envied. There had been a party meeting on the subject of the Bill, and Ferrier and the front bench had on the whole carried the endorsement of their policy. But there was an active and discontented minority, full of rebellious projects for the general election. DIANA MALLORY 303 On this particular afternoon Ferrier had been dealing with the Government Bill on the lines laid down by the meeting at Grenville House. His large pale face, — the face of a student rather than a politician, — with its small eyes, and overhanging brows; the straight hair and massive head ; the heavy figure closely buttoned in the familiar frock coat ; the gesture easy, animated, still young : — on these well-known aspects a crowded House had bent its undivided attention. Then Ferrier sat dovni ; a bore rose ; and out flowed the escaping tide to the lobbies and the Terrace. Marsham found himself on the Terrace, among a group of malcontents. Barton, — grim and unkempt, prophet-eyes blazing, mouth contemptuous ; the Scotch- man McEwart, who had been one of the New Year's visitors to Tallyn, tall, wiry, red-haired, the embodiment of all things shrewd and efficient ; and two or three more. A young London member was holding forth, masking what was really a passion of disgust, in a slangy nonchalance. ' What's the good of turning these fellows out — will anybody tell me? — if that's all Ferrier can do for us? Think I prefer 'em to that kind of mush ! As for Barton, — I've had to hold him down by the coat- tails ! ' Barton allowed the slightest glint of a smile to show iteelf for an instant. The speaker — Eoland Lankester — was one of his few weaknesses. But the frovni returned. He strolled along with his hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ground ; his silence was the silence of one in whom the fire was hot. * Most disappointing — all through! — ' said McEwart with emphasis. ' The facts wrongly chosen — the argu- ment absurd. It'll take all the heait out of our fellows in the country.* 304 DIANA MALLORY Marsham looked up. * Well, it isn't for want of pressure. Ferrier's life hasn't been worth living this last month.' The tone was ambiguous. It fitted either with defence or indictment. The London member — Eoland Lankester, — who was a friend of Marion Vincent, and of Frobisher, represented an East End constituency, and lived there, — looked at the speaker with a laugh. * That's perfectly true. What have we all been doing but " gingering " Ferrier for the last six months ? And here's the result ! No earthly good in wearing oneself to fiddle-strings over this election 1 I shall go and keep pigs in Canada ! ' The group strolled along the Terrace, leaving behind them an animated crowd, all busy with the same subject. In the middle of it they passed Ferrier himself, — flushed, — with the puffy eyes of a man who never gets more than a quarter allowance of sleep ; his aspect nevertheless smiling and defiant, and a crowd of friends round him. The wind blew chill up the river, crisping the incoming tide ; and the few ladies who were being entertained at tea drew their furs about them, shivering. * He'll have to go to the Lords ! — that's flat — if we win this election. If we come back, the new members will never stand him ; and if we don't, — well, I suppose in that case, he does as well as anybody else.' The remarks were McEwart's. Lankester turned a sarcastic eye upon him. * Don't you be unjust, my boy. Ferrier's one of the smartest Parliamentary hands England has ever turned out.' At this Barton roused. ' What's the good of that ? ' he asked, with quiet ferocity, in his strong Lancashire accent. ' What does DIANA MALLORY 305 Ferrier's smartness matter to us ? The Labour men are sick of it ! All he's asked to do, is to run straight ! — as the party wants him to run.' ' All right. Ad leo7ies ! — Ferrier to the Lords. I'm agreeable. Only I don't know what Marsham will say to it.' Lankester pushed back a very shabby pot-hat to a still more rakish angle, buttoning up an equally shabby coat the while against the east wind. He was a tall fair- haired fellow, half a Dane in race and aspect ; broad- shouldered, loose-limbed ; with a Franciscan passion for poverty and the poor. But a certain humorous tolerance for all sorts and conditions of men, together with certain spiritual gifts, made him friends in all camps. Bishops consulted him, the Socialists claimed him ; perhaps it was the East End children who possessed him most wholly. Nevertheless there was a fierce strain in him ; he could be a fanatic, even a hard fanatic, on occasion. Marsham did not show much readiness to take up the reference to himself. As he walked beside the others, his slender elegance, his handsome head, and fashionable clothes marked him out from the rugged force of Barton, the middle-class alertness of McEwart, the rubbed apostolicity of Lankester. But the face was fretful and worried. ' Ferrier has not the smallest intention of going to the Lords ! ' he said at last ; not without a touch of impatience. ' That's the party's affair.' * The party owes him a deal too much to insist upon anything against his will.' ' Does it ! — does it ! ' said Lankester. ' Ferrier always reminds me of a cat we possessed at home, — who brought forth many kittens. She loved them dearly, and licked them all over — tenderly — all day. But by the end of the second day, they were always dead. Somehow — she 3o6 DIANA MALLORY had killed them all. That's what Ferrier does with all our little Radical measures — loves 'em all — and kills 'em all.* McEwart flushed. ' Well, it's no good talking,' he said, doggedly ; * we've done enough of that ! There will he a meeting of the Forward Club next week, and we shall decide on our line of action.* * Broadstone will never throw him over.* Lankester threw another glance at Marsham. * You'll only waste your breath.' Lord Broadstone was the veteran leader of the party ; who in the event of victory at the polls would un- doubtedly be Prime Minister. ' He can take Foreign Affairs, and go to the Lords in a blaze of glory,' said McEwart. * But he's impossible ! — as leader in the Commons. The party wants grit — not dialectic' Marsham still said nothing. The others fell to dis- cussing the situation in much detail, gradually elaborating what were in truth the first outlines of a serious campaign against Ferrier's leadership. Marsham listened, but took no active part in it. It was plain however, that none of the group felt himself in any way checked by Marsham's presence or silence. Presently Marsham — the debate in the House having fallen to levels of dulness, * measureless to man,' — remembered that his mother had expressed a wish that he might come home to dinner. He left the House, lengthening his walk for exercise, by way of Whitehall and Piccadilly. His expression was still worried and pre- occupied. Mechanically he stopped to look into a picture dealer's shop, still open, somewhere about the middle of Piccadilly. A picture he saw there made him start. DIANA MALLORY 307 It was a drawing of the chestnut woods of Vallombrosa, in the first flush and glitter of spring ; with a corner of one of the monastic buildings, now used as a hotel. She was there. At an official crush the night before, he had heard Chide say to Lady Niton, that Miss Mallory had written to him from Vallombrosa, and was hoping to stay there till the end of June. So that she was sitting, walking, reading, among those woods. In what mood ? — with what courage ? In any case she was alone; fighting her grief alone; looking forward to the future alone. Except of course for Mrs. Colwood — nice, devoted little thing ! He moved on, consumed with regrets and discomfort. During the two months which had elapsed since Diana had left England, he had, in his own opinion, gone through a good deal. He was pursued by the memory of that wretched afternoon, when he had debated with himself whether he should not after all go and intercept her at Charing Cross, plead his mother's age and frail health, implore her to give him time; not to break off all relations ; to revert at least to the old friendship. He had actually risen from his seat in the House of Commons half an hour before the starting of the train; had made his way to the Central Lobby, torn by indecision ; and had there been pounced upon by an important and fussy constituent. Of course he could have shaken the man off. But just the extra resolution required to do it, had seemed absolutely beyond his power; and when next he looked at the clock it was too late. He went back to the House, haunted by the imagination of a face. She would never have mentioned her route, unless she had meant — ' Come and say good- bye ! ' — unless she had longed for a parting look and word. And he — coward that he was — had shirked it, — had denied her last mute petition. z2 3o8 DIANA MALLORY Well ! — after all — might it not simply have made matters worse ? — for her no less than for him ? The whole thing was his mother's responsibiUty. He might no doubt have pushed it all through, regardless of con- eequences ; he might have accepted the Juliet Sparling heritage, thrown over his career, braved his mother, and carried off Diana by storm, — if, that is, she would ever have allowed him to make the sacrijQce, as soon as she fully understood it. But it would have been one of the most Quixotic things ever done. He had made his effort to do it ; and — frankly — he had not been capable of it. He wondered how many men of his acquaintance would have been capable of it. Nevertheless he had fallen seriously in his own esti- mation. Nor was he unaware that he had lost a certain amount of consideration with the world at large. His courtship of Diana had been watched by a great many people : and at the same moment that it came to an end, and she left England, the story of her parentage had become known in Brookshire. There had been a remark- able outburst of public sympathy and pity ; testifying no doubt in a striking way to the effect produced by the girl's personality even in those few months of residence. And the fact that she was not there, that only the empty house that she had furnished with so much girhsh pleasure, remained to bear its mute testimony to her grief, — made feeling all the hotter. Brookshire beheld her as a charming and innocent victim ; and not being able to tell her so, found relief in blaming and mocking at the man who had not stood by her. For it appeared there was to be no engagement ; although all Brookshire had expected it. Instead of it, came the announcement of the tragic truth, — the girl's hurried departure, — and the passionate feeling on her behalf of people like the Boughsedges, or her quondam critic, the Vicar, DIANA MALLORY 309 Mar sham, thereupon, had become conscious of a wind of unpopularity, blowing through his constituency. Some of the nice women of the neighbourhood, with whom he had been always hitherto a welcome and desired guest, had begun to neglect him ; men who would never have dreamed of allowing their own sons to marry a girl in Diana'i position, greeted him with a shade less consideration than usual ; and the Liberal agent in the division had suddenly ceased to clamour for his attendance and speeches at rural meetings. There could be no question that by some means or other the story had got abroad, — no doubt in a most inaccurate and unjust form — and was doing harm. Reflections of this kind were passing through his mind as he crossed Hyde Park Corner on his way to Eaton Square. Opposite St. George's Hospital, he suddenly became aware of Sir James Chide on the other side of the road. At sight of him, Marsham waved his hand, quickening his pace that he might come up with him. Sir James seeing him, gave him a perfunctory greeting, and suddenly turned aside to hail a hansom, into which he jumped, and was carried promptly out of sight. Marsham was conscious of a sudden heat in the face. He had never yet been so sharply reminded of a changed relation. After Diana's departure, he had himself written to Chide, defending his own share in the matter, speaking bitterly of the action taken by his mother and sister, and lamenting that Diana had not been willing to adopt the waiting and temporising policy, which alone offered any hope of subduing his mother's opposition. Marsham declared — persuading himself, as he wrote, of the com- plete truth of the statement,— that he had been quite willing to relinquish his father's inheritance for Diana's sake, and that it was her own action alone that had 3IO DIANA MALLORY separated them. Sir James had rather coldly acknow- ledged the letter, with the remark that few words were best, on a subject so painful ; and since then there had been no intimacy between the two men. Marsham could only think with discomfort of the scene at Felton Park, when a man of passionate nature, and romantic heart had allowed him access to the most sacred and tragic memories of his life. Sir James felt, he supposed, that he had been cheated out of his confidence ; cheated out of his sympathy. Well ! — it was unjust ! — He reached Eaton Square in good time for dinner, and found his mother in the drawing-room. * You look tired, Oliver,' she said, as he kissed her. ' It's the East wind, I suppose, — beastly day ! ' Lady Lucy surveyed him, as he stood, moody and physically chilled, with his back to the fire. ' Was the debate interesting ? ' ' Ferrier made a very disappointing speech. All our fellows are getting restive.' Lady Lucy looked astonished. * Surely they ought to trust his judgment ! He has done so splendidly for the party.' Marsham shook his head. ' I wish you would use your influence,' he said, slowly. ' There is a regular revolt coming on. A large number of men on our side say they won't be led by him ; — that if we come in, he must go to the Lords.* Lady Lucy started. ' Oliver ! — ' she said, indignantly, — ' You know it would break his heart 1 ' And before both minds there rose a vision of Ferrier' s future, as he himself certainly conceived it. A triumphant election, — the Liberals in office, — himself. Chancellor of the Exchequer, and leader of the Commons, — with the DIANA MALLORY 311 reversion of the Premiership whenever old Lord Broad- stone should die or retire, — this indeed had been Ferrier's working understanding with his party for years ; years of strenuous labour, and on the whole of magnifi- cent generalship. Deposition from the leadership of the Commons, with whatever compensations, could only mean to him, and to the world in general, the failure of his career. ' They would give him Foreign Affairs, of course,* said Marsham after a pause. * Nothing that they could give him, would make up I ' said Lady Lucy with energy. ' You certainly, Oliver, could not lend yourself to any intrigue of the kind.' Marsham shrugged his shoulders. ' My position is not exactly agreeable ! — I don't agree with Ferrier ; and I do agree with the malcontents. — Moreover when we come in, they will represent the strongest element in the party — with the future in their hands.' Lady Lucy looked at him with sparkling eyes. ' You can't desert him, Oliver ! — not you ! ' ' Perhaps I'd better drop out of Parliament ! ' he said, impatiently. ' The game sometimes doesn't seem worth the candle.' Lady Lucy — alarmed — laid a hand on his. ' Don't say those things, Oliver. You know you have never done so well as this year.* ' Yes — up to two months ago.' His mother withdrew her hand. She perfectly under- stood. Oliver often allowed himself allusions of this kind, and the relations of mother and son were not thereby improved. Silence reigned for a few minutes. With a hand that shook slightly Lady Lucy drew towards her a small piece of knitting she had been occupied with when 312 DIANA MALLORY Marsham came in, and resumed it. Meanwhile there flashed through his mind, one of those recollections that are only apparently incongruous. He was thinking of a dinner-party which his mother had given the night before ; a vast dinner of twenty people ; all well-fed, prosperous, moderately distinguished, and, in his opinion, less than moderately amused. The dinner had dragged ; the guests had left early; and he had come back to the drawing-room after seeing off the last of them, stifled with yawns. Waste of food, waste of money, waste of time, — waste of everything ! He had suddenly been seized with a passionate sense of the dulness of his home-life ; with a wonder how long he could go on submitting to it. And as he recalled these feelings — as of dust in the mouth — there struck across them, an image from a dream-world. Diana sat at the head of the long table ; Diana in white, with her slender neck, and the brown eyes, with their dear short-sighted look, her smile, and the masses of her dark hair. The dull faces on either side faded away ; the lights, the flowers were iai her — for her alone ! He roused himself with an effort. His mother was putting up her knitting, which indeed she had only pretended to work at. * We must go and dress, Oliver. Oh ! I forgot to tell you, — Alicia arrived an hour ago.' * Ah ? ' He raised his eyebrows indifferently. ' I hope she's well.' * Brilliantly well — and as handsome as ever.' * Any love affairs ? ' * Several, apparently, — but nothing suitable, said Lady Lucy with a smile, as she rose and gathered together her possessions. ' It's time, I think, that Alicia made up her mind. Bhe has been out a good while.' DIANA MALLORY 313 It gave him a curious pleasure — he could hardly tell why — to say this slighting thing of Alicia. After all he had no evidence that she had done anything unfriendly or malicious at the time of the crisis. Instinctively, he had ranged her then and since as an enemy ; as a person who had worked against him. But in truth he knew nothing for certain. Perhaps, after the foolish passages between them, a year ago, it was natural that she should dishke and be critical of Diana. As to her coming now, it was completely indifferent to him. It would be a good thing, no doubt, for his mother to have her com- panionship. As he opened the door for Lady Lucy to leave the room, he noticed her grey and fragile look. ' I believe you have had enough of London, Mother. You ought to be getting abroad.' ' I am all right,' said Lady Lucy hastily. ' Like you, I hate East winds. Oliver, I have had a charming letter from Mr. Heath.' Mr. Heath had been for some months Marsham's local correspondent on the subject of the new Liberal hall in the county town. Lady Lucy had recently sent a cheque to the Committee, which had set all their buildiog anxieties at rest. Oliver looked down rather moodily upon her. * It's pretty easy to write charming letters, when people send you money. It would have been more to the purpose, I think, if they had taken a little trouble to raise some themselves I ' Lady Lucy flushed. ' I don't suppose Dunscombe is a place with many rich people in it,' — she said, in a voice of protest, as she passed him. Her thoughts hurt her as she mounted the stairs. Oliver had not received her gift, — for after all it was a gift to him, — verj^ graciously. And the same 314 DIANA MALLORY might have been said of various other things that she had tried to do for him, during the preceding months. As to Marsham, while he dressed, he too recalled other cheques that had been recently paid for him, other anxious attempts that had been made to please him. Since Diana had vanished from the scene, no com- plaisance, no liberality had been too much for his mother's good will. He had never been so conscious of an atmosphere of money, — much money. And there were moments, — what he himself would have described as morbid moments — when it seemed to him the price of blood ; when he felt himself to be a mere, crude moral tale embodied and walking about. Yet how ridiculous ! What reasonable man, knowing what money means, and the power of it, but must have flinched a little under such a test as had been offered to him ? His flinching had been nothing final or damnable. It was Diana, who in her ignorance of the world, had expected him to take the sacrifice as though it were nothing, and meant nothing; as no honest man of the world, in fact, could have taken it. When Marsham descended he found Alicia already in possession of the drawing-room. Her gown of a brilliant shade of blue put the room out of joint, and beside the startling effect of her hair, all the washed-out decoration, and conventional ornament which it contained made a worse effect than usual. There was nothing con- ventional or effaced about Alicia. She had become steadily more emphatic, more triumphant, more self- confident. * Well ! — what have you been doing with yourself? — nothing but politics ? ' The careless, provocative smile with which the words were accompanied, roused a kind of instant antagonism in Marsham. DIANA MALLORY 315 * Nothing, — nothing, at least worth anybody's remem- bering.' ' You spoke at Dunscombe last week.' ' I did.' ' And you went to help Mr. Collins at the Sheffield bye-election.' * I did. I am very much flattered that you know so much about my movements.' * I always know everything that you are doing, — ' said Alicia quietly, — ' you, and Cousin Lucy.' ' You have the advantage of me then ' ; his laugh was embarrassed, but not amicable ; * for I am afraid I have no idea what you have been doing since Easter ! ' ' I have been at home — flirting with the Curate,' said Alicia, with a laugh. As she sat, with her head thrown back against the chair, the light sparkling on her white skin, on her necklace of yellow topazes, and the jewelled fan in her hands, the