The Testing of Diana Mallory Page 10

  CHAPTER X

  Marsham reached Felton Hall about six o'clock. The house, a largeGeorgian erection, belonging to pleasant easy-going people with manyfriends, was full of guests, and the thought of the large party which hemust face at dinner and in the evening had been an additional weight inhis burden during the long ride home.

  No means of escaping it, or the gossip with regard to himself, whichmust, he knew, be raging among the guests!

  That gossip had not troubled him when he had set forth in the earlyafternoon. Quite the contrary. It had amused him as he rode toBeechcote, full of confident hope, to think of announcing hisengagement. What reason would there be for delay or concealment? Helooked forward to the congratulations of old friends; the morethe better.

  The antithesis between "then" and "now" struck him sharply, as hedismounted. But for that last quarter of an hour with Diana, howjubilantly would he have entered the house! Ten minutes with LadyFelton--a dear, chattering woman!--and all would have been known. Hepictured instinctively the joyous flutter in the house--the merrydinner--perhaps the toasts.

  As it was, he slipped quietly into the house, hoping that his returnmight pass unnoticed. He was thankful to find no one about--the hall anddrawing-room deserted. The women had gone up to rest before dinner; themen had not long before come back muddy from hunting, and werechanging clothes.

  Where was Sir James Chide?

  He looked into the smoking-room. A solitary figure was sitting by thefire. Sir James had a new novel beside him; but he was not reading, andhis cigar lay half smoked on the ash-tray beside him.

  He was gazing into the blaze, his head on his hand, and his quick startand turn as the door of the smoking-room opened showed him to be notmerely thoughtful but expectant.

  He sprang up.

  "Is that you, Oliver?"

  He came forward eagerly. He had known Marsham from a child, had watchedhis career, and formed a very shrewd opinion of his character. But howthis supreme moment would turn--if, indeed, the supreme moment hadarrived--Sir James had no idea.

  Marsham closed the door behind him, and in the lamplight the two menlooked at each other. Marsham's brow was furrowed, his cheeks pale. Hiseyes, restless and bright, interrogated his old friend. At the firstglance Sir James understood. He thrust his hands into his pockets.

  "You know?" he said, under his breath.

  Marsham nodded.

  "And you--have known it all along?"

  "From the first moment, almost, that I set eyes on that poor child. Does_she_ know? Have you broken it to her?"

  The questions hurried on each other's heels. Marsham shook his head, andSir James, turning away, made a sound that was almost a groan.

  "You have proposed to her?"

  "Yes."

  "And she has accepted you?"

  "Yes." Marsham walked to the mantel-piece, and hung over the fire.

  Sir James watched him for a moment, twisting his mouth. Then he walkedup to his companion and laid a hand on his arm.

  "Stick it out, Oliver!" he said, breathing quick. "Stick it out! You'llhave to fight--but she's worth it."

  Marsham's hand groped for his. Sir James pressed it, and walked awayagain, 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 thelamplight, 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 bareidea of Juliet Sparling's daughter as your wife; she will think it meansa serious injury to your career--in reality it does nothing of thesort--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 beof the smallest use. And supposing we make no impression--what then?"

  Marsham paused a moment; then looked up.

  "You know the terms of my father's will? I am absolutely dependent on mymother. The allowance she makes me at present is quite inadequate for aman in Parliament, and she could stop it to-morrow."

  "You might have to give up Parliament?"

  "I should very likely have to give up Parliament."

  Sir James ruminated, and took up his half-smoked cigar for counsel.

  "I can't imagine, Oliver, that your mother would push her opposition toquite that point. But, in any case, you have forgotten Miss Mallory'sown fortune."

  "It has never entered into my thoughts!" cried Marsham, with an emphasiswhich Sir James knew to be honest. "But, in any case, I cannot live uponmy wife. If I could not find something to do, I should certainly give uppolitics."

  His tone had become a little dry and bitter, his aspect gray.

  Sir James surveyed him a moment--pondering.

  "You will find plenty of ways out, Oliver--plenty! The sympathy of allthe 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 rescueher 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 anddepression in the face remained.

  Sir James had a slight consciousness of rebuff. But it disappeared inhis 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--"wasnot a bad woman. If you like, I will break it to Miss Mallory. I amprobably more intimately acquainted with the story than any one elsenow living."

  Something in the tone, in the solemnity of the blue eyes, in thecarriage of the gray head, touched Marsham to the quick. He laid a handon his old friend's shoulder--affectionately--in mute thanks.

  "Diana mentioned her father's solicitors--"

  "I know"--interrupted Sir James--"Riley & Bonner--excellentfellows--both of them still living. They probably have all the records.And I shouldn't wonder if they have a letter--from Sparling. He _must_have made provision--for the occasion that has now arisen."

  "A letter?--for Diana?"

  Sir James nodded. "His behavior to her was a piece of moral cowardice, Isuppose. I saw a good deal of him during the trial, of course, though itis years now since I lost all trace of him. He was a sensitive, shyfellow, wrapped up in his archaeology, and very ignorant of theworld--when it all happened. It tore him up by the roots. His lifewithered in a day."

  Marsham flushed.

  "He had no right to bring her up in this complete ignorance! He couldnot have done anything more cruel!--more fatal! No one knows what theeffect may be upon her."

  And with a sudden rush of passion through the blood, he seemed to holdher once more in his arms, he felt the warmth of her cheek on his; allher 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, andburied his face in his hands.

  Sir James looked down upon him. Instead of sympathy, there was apositive lightening in the elder man's face--a gleam of satisfaction.

  "Cheer up, old fellow!" he said, in a low voice. "You'll bring herthrough. You stand by her, and you'll reap your reward. By Gad, thereare many men who would envy you the chance!"

  Marsham made no reply. Was it his silence that evoked in the mind of SirJames the figure which already held the mind of his companion?--thefigure of Lady Lucy? He paced up and down, with the image beforehim--the spare form, resolutely erect, the delicate resolution of theface, the prim perfection of the dress, judged by the Quakerish standardof its owner. Lady Lucy almost always wore gloves--white or gray. In SirJames's mind the remembrance of them took a symbolic importance. Whatuse in expecting the wearer of them to handle the blood and mire ofJuliet Sparling's story with breadth and pity?

  "Look here!" he said,
coming to a sudden stop. "Let us decide at once onwhat is to be done. You said nothing to Miss Mallory?"

  "Nothing. But she is already in some trouble and misgiving about thepast. She is in the mood to inquire; she has been, I think, for sometime. And, naturally, she wishes to hide nothing from me."

  "She will write to Riley & Bonner," said Sir James, quietly. "She willprobably write to-night. They may take steps to acquaint her with herhistory--or they may not. It depends. Meanwhile, who else is likely toknow 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 slightstart--"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 thereis to know! And she dislikes Diana; she is jealous of her; that I sawquite plainly this afternoon. And, moreover, she is probably quite wellinformed about you and your intentions. She gossiped half through lunchwith 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 wasshe confabulating about with Miss Drake all that time in the garden? Didthey know each other before?"

  Marsham replied in the negative. But he, too, was disagreeably arrestedby the recollection of the two girls walking together, and of theintimacy and animation of their talk. And he could recall what Sir Jameshad not seen--the strangeness of Alicia's manner, and the peremptorinesswith which she had endeavored to carry him home with her. Had she--afterhearing the story--tried to interrupt or postpone the crucial scene withDiana? That seemed to him the probable explanation, and the idea rousedin him a hot and impotent anger. What business was it of hers?

  "H'm!" said Sir James. "You may be sure that Miss Drake is now in thesecret. 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 influencewith 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 isdetermined to keep his spirits up.

  "Well, my dear Marsham, you have your battle cut out for you! Don'tdelay it. Where is Lady Lucy?"

  "In town."

  "Can't you devise some excuse that will take you back to her earlyto-morrow morning?"

  Marsham thought over it. Easy enough, if only the engagement wereannounced! But both agreed that silence was imperative. Whatever chancethere might be with Lady Lucy would be entirely destroyed were thematter made public before her son had consulted her.

  "Everybody here is on the tiptoe of expectation," said Sir James. "Butthat you know; you must face it somehow. Invent a letter fromFerrier--some party _contretemps_--anything!--I'll help you through. Andif you see your mother in the morning, I will turn up in the afternoon."

  The two men paused. They were standing together--in conference; but eachwas conscious of a background of hurrying thoughts that had so far beenhardly expressed at all.

  Marsham suddenly broke out:

  "Sir James!--I know you thought there were excuses--almostjustification--for what that poor creature did. I was a boy of fifteenat 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 youexpressed your own personal belief. Wherever the case is discussed,there are still--as you know--two opinions--one more merciful than theother. If the line you took was not merely professional; if youpersonally believed your own case; can you give me some of thearguments--you were probably unable to state them all in court--thatconvinced you? Let me have something wherewith to meet my mother. Shewon't look at this altogether from the worldly point of view. She willhave a standard of her own. Merely to belittle the thing, as long pastand forgotten, won't help me. But if I _could_ awaken her pity!--if youcould 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 hissteady and dignified composure would otherwise have concealed.

  "I can tell you what Mrs. Sparling told me--in prison--with the accentsof a dying woman--what I believed then--what I believe now.--Moreover, Ihave some comparatively recent confirmation of this belief.--But this istoo public!"--he looked round the library--"we might be disturbed. Cometo my room to-night. I shall go up early, on the plea of letters. Ialways carry with me--certain documents. For her child's sake, I willshow them to you."

  At the last words the voice of the speaker, rich in every tender andtragic note, no less than in those of irony or invective, wavered forthe first time. He stooped abruptly, took up the book he had beenreading, and left the room.

  Marsham, too, went up-stairs. As he passed along the main corridor tohis room, lost in perplexity and foreboding, he heard the sound of awoman's dress, and, looking up, saw Alicia Drake coming toward him.

  She started at sight of him, and under the bright electric light of thepassage 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 horseswent well!"

  "Excellently. Do you know where Sir James is?"

  It seemed to him the question was significantly asked. He gave it a coldanswer.

  "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. Shewas carrying some letters to the post-box near the front door. When shearrived there she dropped two of them in at once, and held the other amoment 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 figuredisappear into the dusk, she turned back toward the house, and saw itand 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 onthe whitened grass; and in the luminous air colors of sunrise and ofmoonrise blended, tints of pearl, of gold, and purple. A consecratingbeauty lay on all visible things, and spoke to the girl's tender andpassionate heart. In the shadow of the trees she stood a moment, herhands clasped on her breast, recalling Marsham's words of love andcomfort, resting on him, reaching out through him to the Power behindthe world, which spoke surely through this loveliness of the night, thisjoy in the soul!

  And yet, her mood, her outlook--like Marsham's--was no longer what ithad been on the hill-side. No ugly light of revelation had broken uponher, as upon him. But the conversation in the lime-walk had sobered thefirst young exaltation of love; it had somehow divided them from thehappy lovers of every day; it had also divided them--she hardly knew howor why--from that moment on the hill when Oliver had spoken of immediateannouncement and immediate marriage. Nothing was to be said--except toMuriel--till Lady Lucy knew. She was glad. It made her bliss, in thisintervening moment, more fully her own. She thought with yearning ofOliver's interview with his mother. A filial, though a trembling lovesprang up in her. And the sense of having come to shelter and to havenseemed 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 towrite to Riley & Bonner, to examine any papers there might be; notbecause she was afraid that anything might come between her and Oliver;rather because now, with his love to support her, she could bearwhatever there might be to bear.

  She stepped into the house. Some one was strumming in thedrawing-room--with intervals between the strummings--as though theplayer stopped to listen for something or some one. Diana shrank intoherself. She ran up-stairs noiselessly to her sitting-room, and openedthe door as quietly as possible.

  "Muriel!"

  The voice was almost a whisper. Mrs. Colw
ood did not hear it. She wasbending over the fire, with her back to the door, and a reading-lampbeside her. To her amazement, Diana heard a sob, a sound of stifledgrief, which struck a sudden chill through her own excitement. Shepaused 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 tryingdesperately 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 ownhappiness into this desolate and widowed presence, and the kisses withwhich, mutely, she tried to comfort her friend, were almost a plea tobe forgiven.

  But Muriel drew herself away. She looked searchingly, with recoveredself-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 theinfluence of it, Mrs. Colwood's small tear-stained face passed through aquick instinctive change. She, too, smiled as though she could not helpit; then she bent forward and kissed Diana.

  "Is it all right?"

  The peculiar eagerness in the tone struck Diana. She returned the kiss,a little wistfully.

  "Were you so anxious about me? Wasn't it--rather plain?"

  Mrs. Colwood laughed.

  "Sit down there, and tell me all about it."

  She pushed Diana into a chair and sat down at her feet. Diana, with somedifficulty, her hand over her eyes, told all that could be told of amoment the heart of which no true lover betrays. Muriel Colwood listenedwith her face against the girl's dress, sometimes pressing her lips tothe hand beside her.

  "Is he going to see Lady Lucy to-morrow?" she asked, when Diana paused.

  "Yes. He goes up by the first train."

  Both were silent awhile. Diana, in the midst of all the natural flutterof blood and pulse, was conscious of a strong yearning to tell herfriend more--to say: "And he has brought me comfort and courage--as wellas love! I shall dare now to look into the past--to take up my father'sburden. If it hurts, Oliver will help me."

  But she had been brought up in a school of reticence, and her loyalty toher father and mother sealed her lips. That anxiety, that burden, nobodymust share with her but Oliver--and perhaps his mother; his mother, sosoon to be hers.

  Muriel Colwood, watching her face, could hardly restrain herself. Butthe moment for which her whole being was waiting in a tension scarcelyto 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, threwherself back in her chair, and chattered softly, listening now and thenfor the sounds of the piano in the room below, and evidently relievedwhenever, after a silence, fresh fragments from some comic opera of theday, much belied in the playing, penetrated to the upper floor.Meanwhile, neither of them spoke of Fanny Merton. Diana, with a laugh,repeated Marsham's proposal for a six weeks' engagement. That wasabsurd! But, after all, it could not be very long. She hoped Oliverwould be content to keep Beechcote. They could, of course, always spenda good deal of time with Lady Lucy.

  And in mentioning that name she showed not the smallest misgiving, nota trace of uneasiness, while every time it was uttered it pricked theshrinking sense of her companion. Mrs. Colwood had not watched andlistened during her Tallyn visit for nothing.

  At last a clock struck down-stairs, and a door opened. Diana sprang up.

  "Time to dress! And I've left Fanny alone all this while!"

  She hurried toward the door; then turned back.

  "Please!--I'm not going to tell Fanny just yet. Neither Fanny nor anyone--till Lady Lucy knows. What happened after we went away? WasFanny 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'thave 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 thedoor.

  Outside, Fanny Merton was just mounting the stairs, a candle in herhand. She stopped in astonishment at the sight of Diana.

  "Diana! where have you been all this time?"

  "Only talking to Muriel. We heard you playing; so we thought you weren'tdull," said Diana, rather penitently.

  "I was only playing till you came in," was the sharp reply. "When didMr. 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 readydirectly."

  Fanny took no notice. She entered her cousin's room, in Diana's wake.

  "Well?" she said, interrogatively. She leaned her back against thewardrobe, 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 herwill. "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 totell me anything!"

  "Fanny!" cried Diana, helplessly. She was held spellbound by thepassion, the menace in the girl's look. But the touch of shrinking inher attitude roused brutal violence in Fanny.

  "Yes, it does!" she said, fiercely. "I understand!--don't I! I am notgood enough for you, and you'll make me feel it. You're going to make asmart marriage, and you won't care whether you ever set eyes on any ofus again. Oh! I know you've given us money--or you say you will. If Iknew which side my bread was buttered, I suppose I should hold mytongue.--But when you treat me like the dirt under your feet--when youtell everything to that woman Mrs. Colwood, who's no relation, andnothing in the world to you--and leave me kicking my heels all alone,because I'm not the kind you want, and you wish to goodness I'd nevercome--when you show as plain as you can that I'm a common creature--notfit to pick up your gloves!--I tell you I just won't stand it. No onewould--who knew what I know!"

  The last words were flung in Diana's teeth with all the force thatwounded pride and envious wrath could give them. Diana tottered alittle. Her hand clung to the dressing-table behind her.

  "What do you know?" she said. "Tell me at once--what you mean."

  Fanny contemptuously shook her head. She walked to the door, and beforeDiana could stop her, she had rushed across to her own room and lockedherself in.

  There she walked up and down panting. She hardly understood her ownrage, and she was quite conscious that, for her own interests, she hadacted during the whole afternoon like a fool. First, stung by the piqueexcited in her by the talk of the luncheon-table, she had let herself beexploited and explored by Alicia Drake. She had not meant to tell hersecret, but somehow she had told it, simply to give herself importancewith this smart lady, and to feel her power over Diana. Then, it was nosooner told than she was quickly conscious that she had given away anadvantage, which from a tactical point of view she had infinitely betterhave kept; and that the command of the situation might have passed fromher to this girl whom Diana had supplanted. Furious with herself, shehad tried to swear Miss Drake to silence, only to be politely but ratherscornfully put aside.

  Then the party had broken up. Mr. Birch had been offended by the absenceof the hostess, and had vouchsafed but a careless good-bye to MissMerton. The Roughsedges went off without asking her to visit them; andas for the Captain, he was an odious young man. Since their departure,Mrs. Colwood had neglected her, and now Diana's secret return, her longtalk with Mrs. Colwood, had filled the girl's cup of bitterness
. She hadsecured that day a thousand pounds for her family and herself; and atthe end of it, she merely felt that the day had been an abject andintolerable failure! Did the fact that she so felt it bear strangewitness to the truth that at the bottom of her anger and her crueltythere was a masked and distorted something which was not whollyvile--which was, in fact, the nature's tribute to something nobler thanitself? That Diana shivered at and repulsed her was the hot-iron thatburned and seared. And that she richly deserved it--and knew it--madeits smart not a whit the less.

  * * * * *

  Fanny did not appear at dinner. Mrs. Colwood and Diana dinedalone--Diana very white and silent. After dinner, Diana began slowly toclimb the shallow old staircase. Mrs. Colwood followed her.

  "Where are you going?" she said, trying to hold her back.

  Diana looked at her. In the girl's eyes there was a sudden and tragicindignation.

  "Do you all know?" she said, under her breath--"all--all of you?" Andagain she began to mount, with a resolute step.

  Mrs. Colwood dared not follow her any farther. Diana went quickly up andalong the gallery; she knocked at Fanny's door. After a moment Mrs.Colwood heard it opened, and a parley of voices--Fanny's short andsullen, Diana's very low. Then the door closed, and Mrs. Colwood knewthat 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 acry--her own name--not in Diana's voice. She ran out into the hall.

  At the top of the stairs, stood Fanny Merton, not daring to movefarther. Her eyes were starting out of her head, her face flushed anddistorted.

  "You go to her!" She stooped, panting, over the balusters, addressingMrs. 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. Murielsaw a face in which bloom and first youth were forever dead, though inits delicate features horror was still beautiful. She threw her armsround 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: "Mymother--"

  But the brain could maintain its flickering strength no longer. Therewas a low cry of "Oliver!" that stabbed the heart; then, suddenly, herlimbs were loosened, and she sank back, unconscious, out of her friend'sgrasp and ken.