The Testing of Diana Mallory Read online

  THE TESTING OF DIANA MALLORY

  by

  MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

  Illustrated by W. Hatherell, R.I.

  1908

  "THERE SHE WAITED WHILE THE DAWN STOLE UPON THE NIGHT"]

  BOOKS BY MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

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

  LADY ROSE'S DAUGHTER. Illustrated ... 1.50 Two volume edition ... 3.00

  THE MARRIAGE OF WILLIAM ASHE. Ill'd ... 1.50 Two volume Autograph edition ... net 4.00

  FENWICK'S CAREER. Illustrated ... 1.50 De Luxe edition, two volumes ... net 5.00

  ELEANOR ... 1.50

  LIFE OF W. T. ARNOLD ... net 1.50

  TOMY KIND HOSTS BEYOND THE ATLANTIC

  FROM

  A GRATEFUL TRAVELLER

  JULY, 1908

  Illustrations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Part I

  _"Action is transitory--a step, a blow, The motion of a muscle--this way or that-- 'Tis done, and in the after-vacancy We wonder at ourselves like men betrayed: Suffering is permanent, obscure, and dark, And shares the nature of infinity_." --THE BORDERERS.

  The Testing of Diana Mallory

  CHAPTER I

  The clock in the tower of the village church had just struck thequarter. In the southeast a pale dawn light was beginning to show abovethe curving hollow of the down wherein the village lay enfolded; but theface of the down itself was still in darkness. Farther to the south, ina stretch of clear night sky hardly touched by the mounting dawn, Venusshone enthroned, so large and brilliant, so near to earth and thespectator, that she held, she pervaded the whole dusky scene, theshadowed fields and wintry woods, as though she were their very souland voice.

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

  Diana Mallory had just drawn back the curtain of her bedroom. Her voice,as she murmured the words, was full of a joyous delight; eagerness andyearning expressed themselves in her bending attitude, her parted lipsand eyes intent upon the star.

  The panelled room behind her was dimly lit by a solitary candle, justkindled. The faint dawn in front, the flickering candle-light behind,illumined Diana's tall figure, wrapped in a white dressing-gown, hersmall head and slender neck, the tumbling masses of her dark hair, andthe hand holding the curtain. It was a kind and poetic light; but heryouth and grace needed no softening.

  After the striking of the quarter, the church bell began to ring, with agentle, yet insistent note which gradually filled the hollows of thevillage, and echoed along the side of the down. Once or twice the soundwas effaced by the rush and roar of a distant train; and once the callof an owl from a wood, a call melancholy and prolonged, was raised asthough in rivalry. But the bell held Diana's strained ear throughout itscourse, till its mild clangor passed into the deeper note of the clockstriking the hour, and then all sounds alike died into a profound yetlistening silence.

  "Eight o'clock! That was for early service," she thought; and thereflashed into her mind an image of the old parish church, dimly lit forthe Christmas Eucharist, its walls and pillars decorated with ivy andholly, yet austere and cold through all its adornings, with its barewalls and pale windows. She shivered a little, for her youth had beenaccustomed to churches all color and lights and furnishings--churches ofanother type and faith. But instantly some warm leaping instinct met theshrinking, and overpowered it. She smote her hands together.

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

  She dropped upon the window-seat half laughing, yet the tears in hereyes. And there, with her face pressed against the glass, she waitedwhile the dawn stole upon the night, while in the park the trees emergedupon the grass white with rime, while on the face of the down thicketsand paths became slowly visible, while the first wreaths of smoke beganto curl and hover in the frosty air.

  Suddenly, on a path which climbed the hill-side till it was lost in thebeech wood which crowned the summit, she saw a flock of sheep, andbehind them a shepherd boy running from side to side. At the sight, hereyes kindled again. "Nothing changes," she thought, "in this countrylife!" On the morning of Charles I.'s execution--in the winters andsprings when Elizabeth was Queen--while Becket lay dead on Canterburysteps--when Harold was on his way to Senlac--that hill, that path werethere--sheep were climbing it, and shepherds were herding them. "It hasbeen so since England began--it will be so when I am dead. We are onlyshadows that pass. But England lives always--always--and shall live!"

  And still, in a trance of feeling, she feasted her eyes on the quietcountry scene.

  The old house which Diana Mallory had just begun to inhabit stood uponan upland, but it was an upland so surrounded by hills to north and eastand south that it seemed rather a close-girt valley, leaned over andsheltered by the downs. Pastures studded with trees sloped away from thehouse on all sides; the village was hidden from it by boundary woods;only the church tower emerged. From the deep oriel window where she satDiana could see a projecting wing of the house itself, its mellowed redbrick, its Jacobean windows and roof. She could see also a corner of themoat with its running stream, a moat much older than the building itencircled, and beneath her eyes lay a small formal garden planned in thedays of John Evelyn--with its fountain and its sundial, and its beds inarabesque. The cold light of December lay upon it all; there was nospecial beauty in the landscape, and no magnificence in the house or itssurroundings. But every detail of what she saw pleased the girl'staste, and satisfied her heart. All the while she was comparing it withother scenes and another landscape, amid which she had lived till now--amonotonous blue sea, mountains scorched and crumbled by the sun, drypalms in hot gardens, roads choked with dust and tormented with a plagueof motor-cars, white villas crowded among high walls, a wilderness ofhotels, and everywhere a chattering unlovely crowd.

  "Thank goodness!--that's done with," she thought--only to fall into asudden remorse. "Papa--papa!--if you were only here too!"

  She pressed her hands to her eyes, which were moist with sudden tears.But the happiness in her heart overcame the pang, sharp and real as itwas. Oh! how blessed to have done with the Riviera, and its hybrid emptylife, for good and all!--how blessed even, to have done with the Alpsand Italy!--how blessed, above all, to have come _home!_--home into theheart of this English land--warm mother-heart, into which she, strangerand orphan, might creep and be at rest.

  The eloquence of her own thoughts possessed her. They flowed on in awarm, mute rhetoric, till suddenly the Comic Spirit was there, andpatriotic rapture began to see itself. She, the wanderer, the exile,what did she know of England--or England of her? What did she know ofthis village even, this valley in which she had pitched her tent? Shehad taken an old house, because it had pleased her fancy, because it hadTudor gables, pretty panelling, and a sundial. But what natural link hadshe with it, or with these peasants and countrymen? She had no trueroots here. What she had done was mere whim and caprice. She was analien, like anybody else--like the new men and prowling millionaires,who bought old English pr
operties, moved thereto by a feeling which wasnone the less snobbish because it was also sentimental.

  She drew herself up--rebelling hotly--yet not seeing how to disentangleherself from these associates. And she was still struggling to putherself back in the romantic mood, and to see herself and her experimentanew in the romantic light, when her maid knocked at the door, anddistraction entered with letters, and a cup of tea.

  * * * * *

  An hour later Miss Mallory left her room behind her, and went trippingdown the broad oak staircase of Beechcote Manor.

  By this time romance was uppermost again, and self-congratulation. Shewas young--just twenty-two; she was--she knew it--agreeable to lookupon; she had as much money as any reasonable woman need want; she hadalready seen a great deal of the world outside England; and she hadfallen headlong in love with this charming old house, and had now, inspite of various difficulties, managed to possess herself of it, andplant her life in it. Full of ghosts it might be; but _she_ was itsliving mistress henceforth; nor was it either ridiculous or snobbishthat she should love it and exult in it--quite the contrary. And shepaused on the slippery stairs, to admire the old panelled hall below,the play of wintry sunlight on the oaken surfaces she herself hadrescued from desecrating paint, and the effect of some old Persian rugs,which had only arrived from London the night before, on the darkpolished boards. For Diana, there were two joys connected with the oldhouse: the joy of entering in, a stranger and conqueror, on its guardedand matured beauty, and the joy of adding to that beauty by a deftmodernness. Very deft, and tender, and skilful it must be. But no onecould say that time-worn Persian rugs, with their iridescent blue andgreens and rose reds--or old Italian damask and cut-velvet from Genoa,or Florence, or Venice--were out of harmony with the charming Jacobeanrooms. It was the horrible furniture of the Vavasours, the ancestralpossessors of the place, which had been an offence and a disfigurement.In moving it out and replacing it, Diana felt that she had become thespiritual child of the old house, in spite of her alien blood. There isa 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 foundherself was over, and she was about to run down the remaining stairs tothe dining-room, a new thought delayed her for a moment by the staircasewindow--the thought of a lady who would no doubt be waiting for her atthe breakfast-table.

  Mrs. Colwood, Miss Mallory's new chaperon and companion, had arrived thenight before, on Christmas Eve. She had appeared just in time fordinner, and the two ladies had spent the evening together. Diana's firstimpressions had been pleasant--yes, certainly, pleasant; though Mrs.Colwood had been shy, and Diana still more so. There could be noquestion but that Mrs. Colwood was refined, intelligent, and attractive.Her gentle, almost childish looks appealed for her. So did her deepblack, and the story which explained it. Diana had heard of her from afriend in Rome, where Mrs. Colwood's husband, a young Indian Civilservant, had died of fever and lung mischief, on his way to England fora long sick leave and where the little widow had touched the hearts ofall who came in contact with her.

  Diana thought, with one of her ready compunctions, that she had not beenexpansive enough the night before. She ran down-stairs, determined tomake Mrs. Colwood feel at home at once.

  When she entered the dining-room the new companion was standing besidethe window looking out upon the formal garden and the lawn beyond it.Her attitude was a little drooping, and as she turned to greet herhostess and employer, Diana's quick eyes seemed to perceive a trace ofrecent tears on the small face. The girl was deeply touched, though shemade no sign. Poor little thing! A widow, and childless, in astrange place.

  Mrs. Colwood, however, showed no further melancholy. She was full ofadmiration for the beauty of the frosty morning, the trees touched withrime, the browns and purples of the distant woods. She spoke shyly, butwinningly, of the comfort of her room, and the thoughtfulness with whichMiss Mallory had arranged it; she could not say enough of thepicturesqueness of the house. Yet there was nothing fulsome in herpraise. She had the gift which makes the saying of sweet and flatteringthings appear the merest simplicity. They escaped her whether she wouldor no--that at least was the impression; and Diana found it agreeable.So agreeable that before they had been ten minutes at table MissMallory, in response, was conscious on her own part of an unusuallystrong wish to please her new companion--to make a good effect. Diana,indeed, was naturally governed by the wish to please. She desired aboveall things to be liked--that is, if she could not be loved. Mrs.Colwood brought with her a warm and favoring atmosphere. Diana unfolded.

  * * * * *

  In the course of this first exploratory conversation, it appeared thatthe two ladies had many experiences in common. Mrs. Colwood had been twoyears, her two short years of married life, in India; Diana hadtravelled there with her father. Also, as a girl, Mrs. Colwood had spenta winter at Cannes, and another at Santa Margherita. Diana expressedwith vehemence her weariness of the Riviera; but the fact that Mrs.Colwood differed from her led to all the more conversation.

  "My father would never come home," sighed Diana. "He hated the Englishclimate, even in summer. Every year I used to beg him to let us go toEngland. But he never would. We lived abroad, first, I suppose, for hishealth, and then--I can't explain it. Perhaps he thought he had been solong away he would find no old friends left. And indeed so many of themhad died. But whenever I talked of it he began to look old and ill. So Inever 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, "itwould 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 wasteof all those years!"

  "Waste?" Mrs. Colwood probed the phrase a little. Diana insisted, firstwith warmth, and then with an eloquence that startled her companion,that for an Englishwoman to be brought up outside England, away fromcountry and countrymen, was to waste and forego a hundred preciousthings that might have been gathered up. "I used to be ashamed when Italked to English people. Not that we saw many. We lived for years andyears at a little villa near Rapallo, and in the summer we used to go upinto the mountains, away from everybody. But after we came back from along tour, we lived for a time at a hotel in Mentone--our own littlehouse was let--and I used to talk to people there--though papa neverliked making friends. And I made ridiculous mistakes about Englishthings--and they'd laugh. But one can't know--unless one has_lived_--has breathed in a country, from one's birth. That's whatI've lost."

  Mrs. Colwood demurred.

  "Think of the people who wish they had grown up without ever reading orhearing about the Bible, so that they might read it for the first time,when they could really understand it. You _feel_ England all the moreintensely now because you come fresh to her."

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

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

  She let in her dog, a fine collie, who was scratching at the door. Asshe stood before the fire, holding up a biscuit for him to jump at, sheturned a red and conscious face towards her companion. The fire in theeyes, 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 ofEngland, 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 thefireside. Her dog's head was on her knees, and one of her slender handsrested on the black and tan. Mrs.
Colwood admired the picture. MissMallory's sloping shoulders and long waist were well shown by her simpledress of black and closely fitting serge. Her head crowned and piledwith curly black hair, carried itself with an amazing self-possessionand pride, which was yet all feminine. This young woman might talkpolitics, thought her new friend; no male man would call her prater,while she bore herself with that air. Her eyes--the chaperon noticed itfor the first time--owed some of their remarkable intensity, no doubt,to short sight. They were large, finely colored and thickly fringed, buttheir slightly veiled concentration suggested an habitual, though quiteunconscious _struggle to see_--with that clearness which the mind behinddemanded of them. The complexion was a clear brunette, the cheeks rosy;the nose was slightly tilted, the mouth fresh and beautiful thoughlarge; and the face of a lovely oval. Altogether, an aspect of rich andglowing youth: no perfect beauty; but something arresting,ardent--charged, perhaps over-charged, with personality. Mrs. Colwoodsaid to herself that life at Beechcote would be no stagnant pool.

  While they lingered in the drawing-room before church, she kept Dianatalking. It seemed that Miss Mallory had seen Egypt, India, and Canada,in the course of her last two years of life with her father. Theirtravels had spread over more than a year; and Diana had brought Mr.Mallory back to the Riviera, only, it appeared, to die, after some eightmonths of illness. But in securing to her that year of travel, herfather had bestowed his last and best gift upon her. Aided by hisaffection, and stimulated by his knowledge, her mind and character hadrapidly developed. And, as through a natural outlet, all her starveddevotion for the England she had never known, had spent itself upon theEnglands she found beyond the seas; upon the hard-worked soldiers andcivilians in lonely Indian stations, upon the captains of English ships,upon the pioneers of Canadian fields and railways; upon England, infact, as the arbiter of oriental faiths--the wrestler with thedesert--the mother and maker of new states. A passion for the work ofher race beyond these narrow seas--a passion of sympathy, which was alsoa passion of antagonism, since every phase of that work, according toMiss Mallory, had been dogged by the hate and calumny of baseminds--expressed itself through her charming mouth, with a quiteastonishing fluency. Mrs. Colwood's mind moved uneasily. She hadexpected an orphan girl, ignorant of the world, whom she might mother,and perhaps mould. She found a young Egeria, talking politics withraised color and a throbbing voice, as other girls might talk of loversor chiffons. Egeria's companion secretly and with some alarm reviewedher own equipment in these directions. Miss Mallory discoursed of India.Mrs. Colwood had lived in it. But her husband had entered the IndianCivil Service, simply in order that he might have money enough to marryher. And during their short time together, they had probably been morekeenly alive to the depreciation of the rupee than to ideas ofEngland's imperial mission. But Herbert had done his duty, of course hehad. Once or twice as Miss Mallory talked the little widow's eyes filledwith tears again unseen. The Indian names Diana threw so proudly intoair were, for her companion, symbols of heart-break and death. But sheplayed her part; and her comments and interjections were all that wasnecessary 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 heardthem in England itself!"

  She flew to the hall, and threw the door open. A handful of childrenappeared shouting "Good King Wenceslas" in a hideous variety of keys.Miss Mallory heard them with enthusiasm; then turned to the butlerbehind 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 muchinclined to let his present mistress know it.

  Diana looked disappointed, but submissive.

  "Oh, very well, Brown--I don't want to alter any of the old ways. But Ihear the choir will come up to-night. Now they must have fiveshillings--and supper, please, Brown."

  Brown drew himself up a little more stiffly.

  "Lady Emily always gave 'em supper, ma'am, but, begging your pardon, shedidn't hold at all with giving 'em money."

  "Oh, I don't care!" said Miss Mallory, hastily. "I'm sure they'll likeit, Brown! Five shillings, please."

  Brown withdrew, and Diana, with a laughing face and her hands over herears, to mitigate the farewell bawling of the children, turned to Mrs.Colwood, with an invitation to dress for church.

  "The first time for me," she explained. "I have been coming up and down,for a month or more, two or three days at a time, to see to thefurnishing. But now I am _at home!_"

  * * * * *

  The Christmas service in the parish church was agreeable enough. TheBeechcote pew was at the back of the church, and as the new mistress ofthe old house entered and walked down the aisle, she drew the eyes of alarge congregation of rustics and small shopkeepers. Diana moved in akind of happy absorption, glancing gently from side to side. Thisgathering of villagers was to her representative of a spiritual andnational fellowship to which she came now to be joined. The old church,wreathed in ivy and holly; the tombs in the southern aisle; the loavesstanding near the porch for distribution after service, in accordancewith an old benefaction; the fragments of fifteenth-century glass in thewindows; the school-children to her left; the singing, the prayers, thesermon--found her in a welcoming, a child-like mood. She knelt, shesang, she listened, like one undergoing initiation, with a tenderaspiring light in her eyes, and an eager mobility of expression.

  Mrs. Colwood was more critical. The clergyman who preached the sermondid not, in fact, please her at all. He was a thin High Churchman, withan oblong face and head, narrow shoulders, and a spare frame. He worespectacles, and his voice was disagreeably pitched. His sermon wasnevertheless remarkable. A bare yet penetrating style; a stern view oflife; the voice of a prophet, and apparently the views of asocialist--all these he possessed. None of them, it might have beenthought, were especially fitted to capture either the female or therustic mind. Yet it could not be denied that the congregation wasunusually good for a village church; and by the involuntary sigh whichMiss Mallory gave as the sermon ended, Mrs. Colwood was able to gaugethe profound and docile attention with which one at least hadlistened to it.

  After church there was much lingering in the churchyard for the exchangeof Christmas greetings. Mrs. Colwood found herself introduced to theVicar, 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 Churchaffairs of the village; and to an elderly couple, Dr. and Mrs.Roughsedge, white-haired, courteous, and kind, who were accompanied by asoldier son, in whom it was evident they took a boundless pride. Theyoung man, of a handsome and open countenance, looked at Miss Mallory asmuch as good manners allowed. She, however, had eyes for no one but theVicar, with whom she started, _tete-a-tete_, in the direction ofthe Vicarage.

  Mrs. Colwood followed, shyly making acquaintance with the Roughsedges,and the elder Miss Bertram. That lady was tall, fair, and faded; she hada sharp, handsome nose, and a high forehead; and her eyes, which hardlyever met those of the person with whom she talked, gave the impressionof a soul preoccupied, with few or none of the ordinary humancuriosities.

  Mrs. Roughsedge, on the other hand, was most human, motherly, andinquisitive. She wore two curls on either side of her face held by smallcombs, a large bonnet, and an ample cloak. It was clear that whateveradoration she could spare from her husband was lavished on her son. Butthere was still enough good temper and good will left to overflow uponthe rest of mankind. She perceived in a moment that Mrs. Colwood was thenew "companion" to the heiress, that she was a widow, and sad--in spiteof her cheerfulness.

  "Now I hope Miss Mallory is going to _like_ us!" she said, with a touchof confidential good-humor, as she drew Mrs. Colwood a little behind theothers. "We are all in love with her already. But she must
be patientwith us. We're very humdrum folk!"

  Mrs. Colwood could only say that Miss Mallory seemed to be in love witheverything--the house, the church, the village, and the neighbors. Mrs.Roughsedge shook her gray curls, smiling, as she replied that this wasno doubt partly due to novelty. After her long residence abroad, MissMallory was--it was very evident--glad to come home. Poor thing--shemust have known a great deal of trouble--an only child, and no mother!"Well, I'm sure if there's anything _we_ can do--"

  Mrs. Roughsedge nodded cheerfully towards her husband and son in front.The gesture awakened a certain natural reserve in Mrs. Colwood, followedby a quick feeling of amusement with herself that she should so soonhave developed the instinct of the watch-dog. But it was not to bedenied that the new mistress of Beechcote was well endowed, as singlewomen go. Fond mothers with marriageable sons might require somehandling.

  But Mrs. Roughsedge's simple kindness soon baffled distrust. And Mrs.Colwood was beginning to talk freely, when suddenly the Vicar and MissMallory in front came to a stop. The way to the Vicarage lay along aside road. The Roughsedges also, who had walked so far for sociability'ssake, must return to the village and early dinner. The party broke up.Miss Mallory, as she made her good-byes, appeared a little flushed anddiscomposed. But the unconscious fire in her glance, and the vigor ofher carriage, did but add to her good looks. Captain Roughsedge, as hetouched her hand, asked whether he should find her at home thatafternoon if he called, and Diana absently said yes.

  "What a strange impracticable man!" cried Miss Mallory hotly, as theladies turned into the Beechcote drive. "It is really a misfortune tofind a man of such opinions in this place."

  "The Vicar?" said Mrs. Colwood, bewildered

  "A Little Englander!--a _socialist_! And so _rude_ too! I asked him tolet 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 justiceapparently means cutting up the property of the rich, and giving it tothe poor. Is it my fault if the Vavasours neglected their cottages? Ijust mentioned emigration, and he foamed! I am sure he would give awaythe Colonies for a pinch of soap, and abolish the Army and Navyto-morrow."

  Diana's face glowed with indignation--with wounded feeling besides. Mrs.Colwood endeavored to soothe her, but she remained grave and rathersilent for some time. The flow of Christmas feeling and romanticpleasure had been arrested, and the memory of a harsh personalityhaunted the day. In the afternoon, however, in the unpacking of variouspretty knick-knacks, and in the putting away of books and papers, Dianarecovered herself. She flitted about the house, arranging her favoritebooks, hanging pictures, and disposing embroideries. The old wallsglowed afresh under her hand, and from the combination of their antiquebeauty with her young taste, a home began to emerge, stamped with awoman's character and reflecting her enthusiasms. As she assisted in thetask, Mrs. Colwood learned many things. She gathered that Miss Malloryread two or three languages, that she was passionately fond of Frenchmemoirs and the French classics, that her father had taught her Latinand German, and guided every phase of her education. Traces indeed ofhis poetic and scholarly temper were visible throughout his daughter'spossessions--so plainly, that at last as they came nearly to the end ofthe books, Diana's gayety once more disappeared. She moved soberly anddreamily, as though the past returned upon her; and once or twice Mrs.Colwood came upon her standing motionless, her finger in an open book,her eyes wandering absently through the casement windows to the distantwall of hill. Sometimes, as she bent over the books and packets shewould say little things, or quote stories of her father, which seemed toshow a pretty wish on her part to make the lady who was now to be hercompanion understand something of the feelings and memories on which herlife was based. But there was dignity in it all, and, besides, afundamental awe and reserve. Mrs. Colwood seemed to see that there wereremembrances connected with her father far too poignant to be touchedin speech.

  At tea-time Captain Roughsedge appeared. Mrs. Colwood's firstimpression of his good manners and good looks was confirmed. But hisconversation could not be said to flow: and in endeavoring to entertainhim the two ladies fought a rather uphill fight. Then Diana discoveredthat he belonged to the Sixtieth Rifles, whereupon the young ladydisclosed a knowledge of the British Army, and its organization, whichstruck her visitor as nothing short of astounding. He listened to heropen-mouthed while she rattled on, mainly to fill up the gaps in his ownremarks; and when she paused, he bluntly complimented her on herinformation. "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 onlybeen a Volunteer. There was an old _History of the British Army_ I wasbrought up on. It was useful when we went to India--because I knew somuch about the regiments we came across."

  This accomplishment of hers proved indeed a god-send; the young manfound 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 onlybeen in this room twice before, though my people have lived here thirtyyears. We were never smart enough for Lady Emily."

  He colored as he spoke, and Diana suspected in him a memory of smallpast humiliations. Evidently he was sensitive as well as shy.

  "Hard work--dear young man!" she said, with a smile, and a stretch, asthe door closed upon him. "But after all--_'que j'aime le militaire'!_Now, shall we go back to work?"

  There were still some books to unpack. Presently Mrs. Colwood foundherself helping to carry a small but heavy box of papers to thesitting-room which Diana had arranged for herself next to her bedroom.Mrs. Colwood noticed that before Diana asked her assistance shedismissed her new maid, who had been till then actively engaged in theunpacking. Miss Mallory herself unlocked the trunk in which thedespatch-box had arrived, and took it out. The box had an old greenbaize covering which was much frayed and worn. Diana placed it on thefloor of her bedroom, where Mrs. Colwood had been helping her in variousunpackings, and went away for a minute to clear a space for it in thelocked wall-cupboard to which it was to be consigned. Her companion,left alone, happened to see that an old mended tear in the green baizehad given way in Diana's handling of the box, and quite involuntarilyher eyes caught a brass plate on the morocco lid, which bore the words,"Sparling papers." Diana came back at the moment, and perceived theuncovered label. She flushed a little, hesitated, and then said, lookingfirst at the label and then at Mrs. Colwood: "I think I should like youto know--my name was not always Mallory. We were Sparlings--but myfather 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 aproperty. I believe he was glad to change his name. He never spoke to meof any Sparling relations. He was an only child, and I always supposehis 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 ofit. My mother had hardly any relations either--only one sister whomarried and went to Barbadoes. So our old name was very soon forgotten.And please"--she looked up appealingly--"now that I have told you, willyou forget it too? It always seemed to hurt papa to hear it, and I nevercould bear to do--or say--anything that gave him pain."

  She spoke with a sweet seriousness. Mrs. Colwood, who had been consciousof a slight shock of puzzled recollection, gave an answer whichevidently pleased Diana, for the girl held out her hand and pressed thatof her companion; then they carried the box to its place, and wereleaving the room, when suddenly Diana, with a joyous exclamation,pounced on a book which was lying on the floor, tumbled among a dozenothers recently unpacked.

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

  She looked up all smiles.

  "Do you know that I am going to take you to a party next week?--to theMarshams? They live near here--at Tallyn Hall. They have asked us fortwo nights--Thursday to Saturday. I hope you won't mind."

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

  "Oh, that doesn't matter!--not at the Marshams. I _am_ glad!" repeatedDiana, fondling the book--"If I really had lost it, it would have givenhim a horrid advantage!"

  "Who is Mr. Marsham?"

  "A gentleman we got to know at Rapallo," said Diana, still smiling toherself. "He and his mother were there last winter. Father and Iquarrelled with him all day long. He is the worst Radical I evermet, but--"

  "But?--but agreeable?"

  "Oh yes," said Diana, uncertainly, and Mrs. Colwood thought shecolored--"oh yes--agreeable!"

  "And he lives near here?"

  "He is the member for the division. Such a crew as we shall meet there!"Diana laughed out. "I had better warn you. But they have been very kind.They called directly they knew I had taken the house. 'They' means Mr.Oliver Marsham and his mother. I _am_ glad I've found his book!" Shewent off embracing it.

  Mrs. Colwood was left with two impressions--one sharp, the other vague.One was that Mr. Oliver Marsham might easily become a personage in thestory of which she had just, as it were, turned the first leaf. Theother was connected with the name on the despatch-box. Why did it haunther? It had produced a kind of indistinguishable echo in the brain, towhich she could put no words--which was none the less dreary; like avoice of wailing from a far-off past.