The Testing of Diana Mallory Read online

  CHAPTER XVII

  The Whitsuntide recess passed--for the wanderers in Italy--in a gloriousprodigality of sun, a rushing of bud and leaf to "feed in air," atwittering of birds, a splendor of warm nights, which for once indorsedthe traditional rhapsodies of the poets. The little party of friendswhich had met at Assisi moved on together to Siena and Perugia, exceptfor Marion Vincent and Frobisher. They quietly bade farewell, and wenttheir way.

  When Marion kissed Diana at parting, she said, with emphasis:

  "Now, remember!--you are not to come to London! You are not to go towork in the East End. I forbid it! You are to go home--and looklovely--and be happy!"

  Diana's eyes gazed wistfully into hers.

  "I am afraid--I hadn't thought lately of coming to London," shemurmured. "I suppose--I'm a coward. And just now I should be no goodto anybody."

  "All right. I don't care for your reasons--so long as you go home--anddon't uproot."

  Marion held her close. She had heard all the girl's story, had shown herthe most tender sympathy. And on this strange wedding journey of hersshe knew that she carried with her Diana's awed love and yearningremembrance.

  But now she was eager to be gone--to be alone again with her bestfriend, in this breathing-space that remained to them.

  So Diana saw them off--the shabby, handsome man, with his lean, proud,sincere face, and the woman, so frail and white, yet so indomitable.They carried various bags and parcels, mostly tied up with string, whichrepresented all their luggage; they travelled with the peasants,fraternizing with them where they could; and it was useless, as Dianasaw, to press luxuries on either of them. Many heads turned to look atthem, in the streets or on the railway platform. There was somethingtragic in their aspect; yet not a trace of abjectness; nothing thatasked for pity. When Diana last caught sight of them, Marion had a_contadino's_ child on her knee, in the corner of a third-classcarriage, and Frobisher opposite--he spoke a fluent Italian--waslaughing and jesting with the father. Marion, smiling, waved her hand,and the train bore them away.

  * * * * *

  The others moved to Perugia, and the hours they spent together in thehigh and beautiful town were for all of them hours of well-being. Dianawas the centre of the group. In the eyes of the three men her storyinvested her with a peculiar and touching interest. Their knowledge ofit, and her silent acceptance of their knowledge, made a bond betweenher and them which showed itself in a hundred ways. Neither Ferrier, norChide, nor young Forbes could ever do too much for her, or think for hertoo loyally. And, on the other hand, it was her inevitable perception oftheir unspoken thoughts which gave her courage toward them--a kind offreedom which it is very difficult for women to feel or exercise in theordinary circumstances of life. She gave them each--gratefully--a bit ofher heart, in different ways.

  Bobbie had adopted her as elder sister, having none of his own; and bynow she knew all about his engagement, his distaste for the ForeignOffice, his lack of prospects there, and his determination to change itfor some less expensive and more remunerative calling. But Lady Nitonwas the dragon in the path. She had all sorts of ambitious projects forhim, none of which, according to Forbes, ever came off, there beingalways some better fellow to be had. Diplomacy, in her eyes, was thenatural sphere of a young man of parts and family, and as for the money,if he would only show the smallest signs of getting on, she would findit. But in the service of his country Bobbie showed no signs whatever of"getting on." He hinted uncomfortably, in his conversations with Diana,at the long list of his obligations to Lady Niton--money lent, influenceexerted, services of many kinds--spread over four or five years, eversince, after a chance meeting in a country-house, she had appointedherself his earthly, providence, and he--an orphan of good family, witha small income and extravagant tastes--had weakly accepted her bounties.

  "Now, of course, she insists on my marrying somebody with money. As ifany chaperon would look at me! Two years ago I did make up to a nicegirl--a real nice girl--and only a thousand a year!--nothing sotremendous, after all. But her mother twice carried her off, in themiddle of a rattling ball, because she had engaged herself to me--justlike sending a naughty child to bed! And the next time the mother mademe take _her_ down to supper, and expounded to me her view of achaperon's duties: 'My business, Mr. Forbes'--you should have seen herstony eye--'is to _mar_, not to make. The suitable marriages makethemselves, or are made in heaven. I have nothing to do with them,except to keep a fair field. The unsuitable marriages have to beprevented, and will be prevented. You understand me?' 'Perfectly,' Isaid. 'I understand perfectly. To _mar_ is human, and to make divine?Thank you. Have some more jelly? No? Shall I ask for your carriage?Good-night.' But Lady Niton won't believe a word of it! She thinks I'veonly to ask and have. She'll be rude to Ettie, and I shall have to punchher head--metaphorically. And how can you punch a person's head whenthey've lent you money?"

  Diana could only laugh, and commend him to his Ettie, who, to judge fromher letters, was a girl of sense, and might be trusted to get him out ofhis scrape.

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile, Ferrier, the man of affairs, statesman, thinker, andpessimist, found in his new friendship with Diana at once that"agreement," that relaxation, which men of his sort can only find in thesociety of those women who, without competing with them, can yet bysympathy and native wit make their companionship abundantly worth while;and also, a means, as it were, of vicarious amends, which he veryeagerly took.

  He was, in fact, ashamed for Lady Lucy; humiliated, moreover, by his ownsmall influence with her in a vital matter. And both shame andhumiliation took the form of tender consideration for LadyLucy's victim.

  It did not at all diminish the value of his kindness, that--mosthumanly--it largely showed itself in what many people would haveconsidered egotistical confessions to a charming girl. Diana found aconstant distraction, a constant interest, in listening. Her solitarylife with her scholar father had prepared her for such a friend. In theoverthrow of love and feeling, she bravely tried to pick up the threadsof the old intellectual pleasures. And both Ferrier and Chide, two ofthe ablest men of their generation, were never tired of helping her thusto recover herself. Chide was an admirable story-teller; and his meredaily life had stored him with tales, humorous and grim; while Ferriertalked history and poetry, as they strolled about Siena or Perugia; and,as he sat at night among the letters of the day, had a score ofinteresting or amusing comments to make upon the politics of the moment.He reserved his "confessions," of course, for the _tete-a-tete_ ofcountry walks. It was then that Diana seemed to be holding in hergirlish hands something very complex and rare; a nature not easily to beunderstood by one so much younger. His extraordinary gifts, hisdisinterested temper, his astonishing powers of work raised him in hereyes to heroic stature. And then some very human weakness, some naturalvanity, such as wives love and foster in their husbands, but which, inhis case appeared merely forlorn and eccentric--some deep note ofloneliness--would touch her heart, and rouse her pity. He talkedgenerally with an amazing confidence, not untouched perhaps witharrogance, of the political struggle before him; believed he shouldcarry the country with him, and impose his policy on a divided party.Yet again and again, amid the flow of hopeful speculation, Diana becameaware, as on the first evening of Assisi, of some hidden and tragicdoubt, both of fate and of himself, some deep-rooted weariness, againstwhich the energy of his talk seemed to be perpetually reacting andprotesting. And the solitariness and meagreness of his life in all itspersonal and domestic aspects appalled her. She saw him often as a greatman--a really great man--yet starved and shelterless--amid the stormsthat were beating up around him.

  The friendship between him and Chide appeared to be very close, yet nota little surprising. They were old comrades in Parliament, and Chide wasin the main a whole-hearted supporter of Ferrier's policy and views;resenting in particular, as Diana soon discovered, Marsham's change ofattitude. But the two men had hardly anything else in
common. Ferrierwas an enormous reader, most variously accomplished; while his politicalWhiggery was balanced by a restless scepticism in philosophy andreligion. For the rest he was an ascetic, even in the stream of Londonlife; he cared nothing for most of the ordinary amusements; he played avile hand at whist (bridge had not yet dawned upon a waiting world); hedrank no wine, and was contentedly ignorant both of sport and games.

  Chide, on the other hand, was as innocent of books as Lord Palmerston.All that was necessary for his career as a great advocate he couldpossess himself of in the twinkling of an eye; his natural judgment andacuteness were of the first order; his powers of eloquence among themost famous of his time; but it is doubtful whether Lady Niton wouldhave found him much better informed about the politics of her youth thanBarton himself; Sir James, too, was hazy about Louis Philippe, and couldnever remember, in the order of Prime Ministers, whether Canning or LordLiverpool came first. With this, he was a simple and devout Catholic;loved on his holiday to serve the mass of some poor priest in a mountainvalley; and had more than once been known to carry off some laxCatholic junior on his circuit to the performance of his Easter duties,willy-nilly--by a mixture of magnetism and authority. For all games ofchance he had a perfect passion; would play whist all night, and conducta case magnificently all day. And although he was no sportsman in theordinary sense, having had no opportunities in a very penurious youth,he had an Irishman's love of horseflesh, and knew the Derby winners fromthe beginning with as much accuracy as Macaulay knew the SeniorWranglers.

  Yet the two men loved, respected, and understood each other. Dianawondered secretly, indeed, whether Sir James could have explained to herthe bond between Ferrier and Lady Lucy. That, to her inexperience, was acomplete mystery! Almost every day Ferrier wrote to Tallyn, and twice aweek at least, as the letters were delivered at _table d'hote,_ Dianacould not help seeing the long pointed writing on the thin black-edgedpaper which had once been for her the signal of doom. She hardlysuspected, indeed, how often she herself made the subject of the man'sletters. Ferrier wrote of her persistently to Lady Lucy, beingdetermined that so much punishment at least should be meted out to thatlady. The mistress of Tallyn, on her side, never mentioned the name ofMiss Mallory. All the pages in his letters which concerned her mightnever have been written, and he was well aware that not a word of themwould ever reach Oliver. Diana's pale and saddened beauty; the dignitywhich grief, tragic grief, free from all sordid or ignoble elements, caninfuse into a personality; the affection she inspired, the universalsympathy that was felt for her: he dwelt on these things, till LadyLucy, exasperated, could hardly bring herself to open the envelopeswhich contained his lucubrations. Could any subject, in correspondencewith herself, be more unfitting or more futile?--and what differencecould it all possibly make to the girl's shocking antecedents?

  * * * * *

  One radiant afternoon, after a long day of sight-seeing, Diana and Mrs.Colwood retreated to their rooms to write letters and to rest; Forbeswas hotly engaged in bargaining for an Umbrian _primitif_, which he hadjust discovered in an old house in a back street, whither, no doubt, theskilful antiquario had that morning transported it from his shop; andSir James had gone out for a stroll, on the splendid road which windsgradually down the hill on which Perugia stands, to the tomb of theVolumnii, on the edge of the plain, and so on to Assisi and Foligno, inthe blue distance.

  Half-way down he met Ferrier, ascending from the tomb. Sir James turned,and they strolled back together. The Umbrian landscape girdling thesuperb town showed itself unveiled. Every gash on the torn white sidesof the eastern Apennines, every tint of purple or porcelain-blue on thenearer hills, every plane of the smiling valley as it wound southward,lay bathed in a broad and searching light which yet was a light ofbeauty--of infinite illusion.

  "I must say I have enjoyed my life," said Ferrier, abruptly, as theypaused to look back, "though I don't put it altogether in thefirst class!"

  Sir James raised his eyebrows--smiled--and did not immediately reply.

  "Chide, old fellow," Ferrier resumed, turning to him, "before I leftEngland I signed my will. Do you object that I have named you one ofthe two executors?"

  Sir James gave him a cordial glance.

  "All right, I'll do my best--if need arises. I suppose, Johnnie, you'rea rich man?"

  The name "Johnnie," very rarely heard between them, went back to earlydays at the Bar, when Ferrier was for a time in the same chambers withthe young Irishman who, within three years of being called, was making alarge income; whereas Ferrier had very soon convinced himself that theBar was not for him, nor he for the Bar, and being a man of means had"plumped" for politics.

  "Yes, I'm not badly off," said Ferrier; "I'm almost the last of myfamily; and a lot of money has found its way to me first and last. It'sbeen precious difficult to know what to do with it. If Oliver Marshamhad stuck to that delightful girl I should have left it to him."

  Sir James made a growling sound, more expressive than articulate.

  "As it is," Ferrier resumed, "I have left half of it to my old Oxfordcollege, and half to the University."

  Chide nodded. Presently a slight flush rose in his very clearcomplexion, and he looked round on his companion with sparkling eyes.

  "It is odd that you should have started this subject. I too have justsigned a new will."

  "Ah!" Ferrier's broad countenance showed a very human curiosity. "Ibelieve you are scarcely more blessed with kindred than I?"

  "No. In the main I could please myself. I have left the bulk of what Ihad to leave--to Miss Mallory."

  "Excellent!" cried Ferrier. "She treats you already like a daughter."

  "She is very kind to me," said Sir James, with a touch of ceremony thatbecame him. "And there is no one in whom I feel a deeper interest."

  "She must be made happy!" exclaimed Ferrier--"she _must_! Is there noone--besides Oliver?"

  Sir James drew himself up. "I hope she has put all thought of Oliver outof her mind long since. Well!--I had a letter from Lady Felton lastweek--dear woman that!--all the love-affairs in the county come to roostin her mind. She talks of young Roughsedge. Perhaps you don't knowanything of the gentleman?"

  He explained, so far as his own knowledge went. Ferrier listenedattentively. A soldier? Good. Handsome, modest, and capable?--better.Had just distinguished himself in this Nigerian expedition--mentioned indespatches last week. Better still!--so long as he kept clear of thefolly of allowing himself to be killed. But as to the feelings of theyoung lady?

  Sir James sighed. "I sometimes see in her traces of--ofinheritance--which make one anxious."

  Ferrier's astonishment showed itself in mouth and eyes.

  "What I mean is," said Sir James, hastily, "a dramatic, impassioned wayof looking at things. It would never do if she were to get any damnednonsense about 'expiation,' or not being free to marry, into her head."

  Ferrier agreed, but a little awkwardly, since the "damned nonsense" wasLady Lucy's nonsense, and both knew it.

  They walked slowly back to Assisi, first putting their elderly headstogether a little further on the subject of Diana, and then passing onto the politics of the moment--to the ever present subject of the partyrevolt, and its effect on the election.

  "Pshaw!--let them attack you as they please!" said Chide, after they hadtalked awhile. "You are safe enough. There is no one else. You are likethe hero in a novel, 'the indispensable.'"

  Ferrier laughed.

  "Don't be so sure. There is always a 'supplanter'--when the time isripe."

  "Where is he? Who is he?"

  "I had a very curious letter from Lord Philip this morning," saidFerrier, thoughtfully.

  Chide's expression changed.

  Lord Philip Darcy, a brilliant but quite subordinate member of theformer Liberal Government, had made but occasional appearances inParliament during the five years' rule of the Tories. He was a travellerand explorer, and when in England a passionate votary of the Turf. Anincisive
tongue, never more amusing than when it was engaged in railingat the English workman and democracy in general, a handsome person, anda strong leaning to Ritualism--these qualities and distinctions had notfor some time done much to advance his Parliamentary position. Butduring the preceding session he had been more regular in his attendanceat the House, and had made a considerable impression there--as a man ofeccentric, but possibly great ability. On the whole, he had been a loyalsupporter of Ferrier's; but in two or three recent speeches there hadbeen signs of coquetting with the extremists.

  Ferrier, having mentioned the letter, relapsed into silence. Sir James,with a little contemptuous laugh, inquired what the nature of theletter might be.

  "Oh, well, he wants certain pledges." Ferrier drew the letter from hispocket, and handed it to his friend. Sir James perused it, and handedit back with a sarcastic lip.

  "He imagines you are going to accept that programme?"

  "I don't know. But it is clear that the letter implies a threat if Idon't."

  "A threat of desertion? Let him."

  "That letter wasn't written off his own bat. There is a good deal behindit. The plot, in fact, is thickening. From the letters of this morning Isee that a regular press campaign is beginning."

  He mentioned two party papers which had already gone over to thedissidents--one of some importance, the other of none.

  "All right," said Chide; "so long as the _Herald_ and the _Flag_ dotheir duty. By-the-way, hasn't the _Herald_ got a new editor?"

  "Yes; a man called Barrington--a friend of Oliver's."

  "Ah!--a good deal sounder on many points than Oliver!" grumbled SirJames.

  Ferrier did not reply.

  Chide noticed the invariable way in which Marsham's name dropped betweenthem whenever it was introduced in this connection.

  As they neared the gate of the town they parted, Chide returning to thehotel, while Ferrier, the most indefatigable of sight-seers, hurried offtoward San Pietro.

  He spent a quiet hour on the Peruginos, deciding, however, with himselfin the end that they gave him but a moderate pleasure; and then came outagain into the glow of an incomparable evening. Something in the lightand splendor of the scene, as he lingered on the high terrace, hangingover the plain, looking down as though from the battlements, the_flagrantia moenia_ of some celestial city, challenged the whole lifeand virility of the man.

  "Yet what ails me?" he thought to himself, curiously, and quite withoutanxiety. "It is as though I were listening--for the approach of someperson or event--as though a door were open--or about to open--"

  What more natural?--in this pause before the fight? And yet politicsseemed to have little to do with it. The expectancy seemed to liedeeper, in a region of the soul to which none were or ever had beenadmitted, except some friends of his Oxford youth--long since dead.

  And, suddenly, the contest which lay before him appeared to him under anew aspect, bathed in a broad philosophic air; a light serene andtransforming, like the light of the Umbrian evening. Was it not possiblytrue that he had no future place as the leader of English Liberalism?Forces were welling up in its midst, forces of violent and revolutionarychange, with which it might well be he had no power to cope. He sawhimself, in a waking dream, as one of the last defenders of a lostposition. The day of Utopias was dawning; and what has the critical mindto do with Utopias? Yet if men desire to attempt them, who shallstay them?

  Barton, McEwart, Lankester--with their boundless faith in the power of afew sessions and measures to remake this old, old England--with theirimpatiences, their readiness at any moment to fling some wild arrow fromthe string, amid the crowded long-descended growths of English life: hefelt a strong intellectual contempt both for their optimisms andaudacities--mingled, perhaps; with a certain envy.

  Sadness and despondency returned. His hand sought in his pocket for thelittle volume of Leopardi which he had taken out with him. On that kingof pessimists, that prince of all despairs, he had just spent half anhour among the olives. Could renunciation of life and contempt of thehuman destiny go further?

  Well, Leopardi's case was not his. It was true, what he had said toChide. With all drawbacks, he had enjoyed his life, had found itabundantly worth living.

  And, after all, was not Leopardi himself a witness to the life herejected, to the Nature he denounced. Ferrier recalled his cry to hisbrother: "Love me, Carlo, for God's sake! I need love, love,love!--fire, enthusiasm, life."

  "_Fire, enthusiasm, life_." Does the human lot contain these things, orno? If it does, have the gods mocked us, after all?

  Pondering these great words, Ferrier strolled homeward, while theoutpouring of the evening splendor died from Perusia Augusta, and themountains sank deeper into the gold and purple of the twilight.

  As for love, he had missed it long ago. But existence was still rich,still full of savor, so long as a man's will held his grip on men andcircumstance.

  All action, he thought, is the climbing of a precipice, upheld aboveinfinity by one slender sustaining rope. Call it what we like--will,faith, ambition, the wish to live--in the end it fails us all. And inthat moment, when we begin to imagine how and when it may fail us, wehear, across the sea of time, the first phantom tolling of thefuneral bell.

  There were times now when he seemed to feel the cold approaching breathof such a moment. But they were still invariably succeeded by apassionate recoil of life and energy. By the time he reached the hotelhe was once more plunged in all the preoccupations, the schemes, thepugnacities of the party leader.

  * * * * *

  A month later, on an evening toward the end of June, Dr. Roughsedge,lying reading in the shade of his little garden, saw his wifeapproaching. He raised himself with alacrity.

  "You've seen her?"

  "Yes."

  With this monosyllabic answer Mrs. Roughsedge seated herself, and slowlyuntied her bonnet-strings.

  "My dear, you seem discomposed."

  "I hate _men_!" said Mrs. Roughsedge, vehemently.

  The doctor raised his eyebrows. "I apologize for my existence. But youmight go so far as to explain."

  Mrs. Roughsedge was silent.

  "How is that child?" said the doctor, abruptly. "Come!--I am as fond ofher as you are."

  Mrs. Roughsedge raised her handkerchief.

  "That any man with a heart--" she began, in a stifled voice.

  "Why you should speculate on anything so abnormal!" cried the doctor,impatiently. "I suppose your remark applies to Oliver Marsham. Is shebreaking her own heart?--that's all that signifies."

  "She is extremely well and cheerful."

  "Well, then, what's the matter?"

  Mrs. Roughsedge looked out of the window, twisting her handkerchief.

  "Nothing--only--everything seems done and finished."

  "At twenty-two?" The doctor laughed, "And it's not quite four monthsyet since the poor thing discovered that her doll was stuffed withsawdust. Really, Patricia!"

  Mrs. Roughsedge slowly shook her head.

  "I suspect what it all means," said her husband, "is that she did notshow as much interest as she ought in Hugh's performance."

  "She was most kind, and asked me endless questions. She made me promiseto bring her the press-cuttings and read her his letters. She could notpossibly have shown more sympathy."

  "H'm!--well, I give it up."

  "Henry!"--his wife turned upon him--"I am convinced that poor child willnever marry!"

  "Give her time, my dear, and don't talk nonsense!"

  "It isn't nonsense! I tell you I felt just as I did when I went to seeMary Theed, years ago--you remember that pretty cousin of mine whobecame a Carmelite nun?--for the first time after she had taken theveil. She spoke to one from another world--it gave one the shivers!--andwas just as smiling and cheerful over it as Diana--and it was just asghastly and unbearable and abominable--as this is."

  "Well, then," said the doctor, after a pause, "I suppose she'll take togood works. I hope you
can provide her with a lot of hopeless cases inthe village. Did she mention Marsham at all?"

  "Not exactly. But she asked about the election--"

  "The writs are out," interrupted the doctor. "I see the first boroughelections are fixed for three weeks hence; ours will be one of the lastof the counties; six weeks to-day."

  "I told her you thought he would get in."

  "Yes--by the skin of his teeth. All his real popularity has vanishedlike smoke. But there's the big estate--and his mother's money--and thecollieries."

  "The Vicar tells me the colliers are discontented--all through thedistrict--and there may be a big strike--"

  "Yes, perhaps in the autumn, when the three years' agreement comes to anend--not yet. Marsham's vote will run down heavily in the miningvillages, but it'll serve--this time. They won't put the other man in."

  Mrs. Roughsedge rose to take off her things, remarking, as she movedaway, that Marsham was said to be holding meetings nightly already, andthat Lady Lucy and Miss Drake were both hard at work.

  "Miss Drake?" said the doctor, looking up. "Handsome girl! I saw Marshamin a dog-cart with her yesterday afternoon."

  Mrs. Roughsedge flushed an angry red, but she said nothing. She wasencumbered with parcels, and her husband rose to open the door for her.He stooped and looked into her face.

  "You didn't say anything about _that_, Patricia, I'll be bound!"

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile, Diana was wandering about the Beechcote garden, with herhands full of roses, just gathered. The garden glowed under thewestering sun. In the field just below it the silvery lines of new-cuthay lay hot and fragrant in the quivering light. The woods on thehill-side were at the richest moment of their new life, the earth-forcesswelling and rioting through every root and branch, wild roses climbingevery hedge--the miracle of summer at its height.

  Diana sat down upon a grass-bank, to look and dream. The flowersdropped beside her; she propped her face on her hands.

  The home-coming had been hard. And perhaps the element in it she hadfelt most difficult to bear had been the universal sympathy with whichshe had been greeted. It spoke from the faces of the poor--the men andwomen, the lads and girls of the village; with their looks of curiosity,sometimes frank, sometimes furtive or embarrassed. It was more politelydisguised in the manners and tones of the gentle people; but everywhereit was evident; and sometimes it was beyond her endurance.

  She could not help imagining the talk about her in her absence; thediscussion of the case in the country-houses or in the village. To thevillage people, unused to the fine discussions which turn on motive andenvironment, and slow to revise an old opinion, she was just thedaughter--

  She covered her eyes--one hideous word ringing brutally, involuntarily,through her brain. By a kind of miserable obsession the talk in thevillage public-houses shaped itself in her mind. "Ay, they didn't hangher because she was a lady. She got off, trust her! But if it had beenyou or me--"

  She rose, trembling, trying to shake off the horror, walking vaguelythrough the garden into the fields, as though to escape it. But thehorror pursued her, only in different forms. Among the educatedpeople--people who liked dissecting "interesting" or "mysterious"crimes--there had been no doubt long discussions of Sir James Chide'sletter to the _Times_, of Sir Francis Wing's confession. But through allthe talk, rustic or refined, she heard the name of her mother bandied;forever soiled and dishonored; with no right to privacy or courtesy anymore--"Juliet Sparling" to all the world: the loafer at the streetcorner--the drunkard in the tavern--

  The thought of this vast publicity, this careless or cruel scorn of thebig world--toward one so frail, so anguished, so helpless indeath--clutched Diana many times in each day and night. And it led tothat perpetual image in the mind which we saw haunting her in the firsthours of her grief, as though she carried her dying mother in her arms,passionately clasping and protecting her, their faces turned to eachother, and hidden from all eyes besides.

  Also, it deadened in her the sense of her own case--in relation to thegossip of the neighborhood. Ostrich-like, she persuaded herself that notmany people could have known anything about her five days' engagement.Dear kind folk like the Roughsedges would not talk of it, nor Lady Lucysurely. And Oliver himself--never!

  She had reached a point in the field walk where the hill-side opened toher right, and the little winding path was disclosed which had been toher on that mild February evening the path of Paradise. She stood stilla moment, looking upward, the deep sob of loss rising in her throat.

  But she wrestled with herself, and presently turned back to the house,calm and self-possessed. There were things to be thankful for. She knewthe worst. And she felt herself singularly set free--from ordinaryconventions and judgments. Nobody could ever quarrel with her if, nowthat she had come back, she lived her own life in her own way. Nobodycould blame her--surely most people would approve her--if she stoodaloof from ordinary society, and ordinary gayeties for a while, at anyrate. Oh! she would do nothing singular or rude. But she was often tiredand weak--not physically, but in mind. Mrs. Roughsedge knew--and Muriel.

  Dear Hugh Roughsedge!--he was indeed a faithful understanding friend.She was proud of his letters; she was proud of his conduct in the shortcampaign just over; she looked forward to his return in the autumn. Buthe must not cherish foolish thoughts or wishes. She would never marry.What Lady Lucy said was true. She had probably no right to marry. Shestood apart.

  But--but--she must not be asked yet to give herself to any greatmission--any set task of charity or philanthropy. Her poor heartfluttered within her at the thought, and she clung gratefully to therecollection of Marion's imperious words to her. That exaltation withwhich, in February, she had spoken to the Vicar of going to the East Endto work had dropped--quite dropped.

  Of course, there was a child in the village--a dear child--ill andwasting--in a spinal jacket, for whom one would do anything--justanything! And there was Betty Dyson--plucky, cheerful old soul. But thatwas another matter.

  What, she asked, had she to give the poor? She wanted guiding andhelping and putting in the right way herself. She could not preach toany one--wrestle with any one. And ought one to make out of others' woesplasters for one's own? To use the poor as the means of a spiritual"cure" seemed a dubious indecent thing; more than a touch in it ofarrogance--or sacrilege.

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile she had been fighting her fight in the old ways. She had beenfalling back on her education, appealing to books and thought, remindingherself of what the life of the mind had been to her father in hismisery, and of those means of cultivating it to which he would certainlyhave commended her. She was trying to learn a new foreign language, and,under Marion Vincent's urging, the table in the little sitting-room waspiled with books on social and industrial matters, which she diligentlyread and pondered.

  It was all struggle and effort. But it had brought her some reward. Andespecially through Marion Vincent's letters, and through the long daywith Marion in London, which she had now to look back upon. For MissVincent and Frobisher had returned, and Marion was once more in herStepney rooms. She was apparently not much worse; would allow no talkabout herself; and though she had quietly relinquished all her oldactivities, her room was still the centre it had long been for theLondon thinker and reformer.

  Diana found there an infinity to learn. The sages and saints, it seemed,are of all sides and all opinions. That had not been the lesson of heryouth. In a comforting heat of prejudice her father had found relieffrom suffering, and his creeds had been fused with her young blood.Lately she had seen their opposites embodied in a woman from whom sheshrank in repulsion--whose name never passed her lips--Oliver'ssister--who had trampled on her in her misery. Yet here, in Marion'sdingy lodging, she saw the very same ideas which Isabel Fotheringhammade hateful, clothed in light, speaking from the rugged or noble facesof men and women who saw in them the salvation of their kind.

>   The intellect in Diana, the critical instinct resisted. And, moreover,to have abandoned any fraction of the conservative and traditionalbeliefs in which she had been reared was impossible for her of allwomen; it would have seemed to her that she was thereby leaving thosetwo suffering ones, whom only her love sheltered, still lonelier indeath. So, beneath the clatter of talk and opinion, run the deepomnipotent tides of our real being.

  But if the mind resisted, the heart felt, and therewith, the soul--thattotal personality which absorbs and transmutes the contradictions oflife--grew kinder and gentler within her.

  One day, after a discussion on votes for women which had taken placebeside Marion's sofa, Diana, when the talkers were gone, had thrownherself on her friend.

  "Dear, you can't wish it!--you can't believe it! To brutalize--unsexus!"

  Marion raised herself on her elbow, and looked down the narrow crossstreet beneath the windows of her lodging. It was a stifling evening.The street was strewn with refuse, the odors from it filled the room.Ragged children with smeared faces were sitting or playing listlessly inthe gutters. The public-house at the corner was full of animation, andwomen were passing in and out. Through the roar of traffic from the mainstreet beyond a nearer sound persisted: a note of wailing--thewailing of babes.

  "There are the unsexed!" said Marion, panting. "Is their brutalizationthe price we pay for our refinement?" Then, as she sank back: "Tryanything--everything--to change that."

  Diana pressed the speaker's hand to her lips.

  But from Marion Vincent, the girl's thoughts, as she wandered in thesummer garden, had passed on to the news which Mrs. Roughsedge hadbrought her. Oliver was speaking every night, almost, in the villagesround Beechcote. Last week he had spoken at Beechcote itself. Since Mrs.Roughsedge's visit, Diana had borrowed the local paper from Brown, andhad read two of Oliver's speeches therein reported. As she looked up tothe downs, or caught through the nearer trees the lines of distantwoods, it was as though the whole scene--earth and air--were once morehaunted for her by Oliver--his presence--his voice. Beechcote lay on thehigh-road from Tallyn to Dunscombe, the chief town of the division.Several times a week, at least, he must pass the gate. At any momentthey might meet face to face.

  The sooner the better! Unless she abandoned Beechcote, they must learnto meet on the footing of ordinary acquaintances; and it were bestdone quickly.

  Voices on the lawn! Diana, peeping through the trees, beheld the Vicarin conversation with Muriel Colwood. She turned and fled, pausing atlast in the deepest covert of the wood, breathless and a little ashamed.

  She had seen him once since her return. Everybody was so kind to her,the Vicar, the Miss Bertrams--everybody; only the pity and the kindnessburned so. She wrestled with these feelings in the wood, but she nonethe less kept a thick screen between herself and Mr. Lavery.

  She could never forget that night of her misery when--good man that hewas!--he had brought her the message of his faith.

  But the great melting moments of life are rare, and the tracts betweenare full of small frictions. What an incredible sermon he had preachedon the preceding Sunday! That any minister of the nationalchurch--representing all sorts and conditions of men--should think itright to bring his party politics into the pulpit in that way! Unseemly!unpardonable!

  Her dark eyes flashed--and then clouded. She had walked home from thesermon in a heat of wrath, had straightway sought out some blue ribbon,and made Tory rosettes for herself and her dog. Muriel had laughed--hadbeen delighted to see her doing it.

  But the rosettes were put away now--thrown into the bottom of a drawer.She would never wear them.

  The Vicar, it seemed, was no friend of Oliver's--would not vote for him,and had been trying to induce the miners at Hartingfield to run a Laborman. On the other hand, she understood that the Ferrier party in thedivision were dissatisfied with him on quite other grounds: that theyreproached him with a leaning to violent and extreme views, and with afar too lukewarm support of the leader of the party and the leader'spolicy. The local papers were full of grumbling letters to that effect.

  Her brow knit over Oliver's difficulties. The day before, Mr. Lavery,meeting Muriel in the village street, had suggested that Miss Mallorymight lend him the barn for a Socialist meeting--a meeting, in fact, forthe harassing and heckling of Oliver.

  Had he come now to urge the same plea again? A woman's politics werenot, of course, worth remembering!

  She moved on to a point where, still hidden, she could see the lawn. TheVicar was in full career; the harsh creaking voice came to her from thedistance. What an awkward unhandsome figure, with his long, lankcountenance, his large ears and spectacled eyes! Yet an apostle, sheadmitted, in his way--a whole-hearted, single-minded gentleman. But thebarn he should not have.

  She watched him depart, and then slowly emerged from her hiding-place.Muriel, putting loving hands on her shoulders, looked at her with eyesthat mocked a little--tenderly.

  "Yes, I know," said Diana--"I know. I shirked. Did he want the barn?"

  "Oh no. I convinced him, the other day, you were past praying for."

  "Was he shocked? 'It is a serious thing for women to throw themselvesacross the path of progress,'" said Diana, in a queer voice.

  Muriel looked at her, puzzled. Diana reddened, and kissed her.

  "What did he want, then?"

  "He came to ask whether you would take the visiting of Fetter Lane--anda class in Sunday-school."

  Diana gasped.

  "What did you say?"

  "Never mind. He went away quelled."

  "No doubt he thought I ought to be glad to be set to work."

  "Oh! they are all masterful--that sort."

  Diana walked on.

  "I suppose he gossiped about the election?"

  "Yes. He has all sorts of stories--about the mines--and the Tallynestates," said Muriel, unwillingly.

  Diana's look flashed.

  "Do you believe he has any power of collecting evidence fairly? I don't.He sees what he wants to see."

  Mrs. Colwood agreed; but did not feel called upon to confirm Diana'sview by illustrations. She kept Mr. Lavery's talk to herself.

  Presently, as the evening fell, Diana sitting under the limes watchingthe shadows lengthen on the new-mown grass, wondered whether she had anymind--any opinions of her own at all. Her father; Oliver; Mr. Ferrier;Marion Vincent--she saw and felt with them all in turn. In the eyes of aMrs. Fotheringham could anything be more despicable?

  The sun was sinking when she stole out of the garden with some flowersand peaches for Betty Dyson. Her frequent visits to Betty's cottage wereoften the bright spots in her day. With her, almost alone among the poorpeople, Diana was conscious of no greedy curiosity behind the spokenwords. Yet Betty was the living chronicle of the village, and what shedid not know about its inhabitants was not worth knowing.

  Diana found her white and suffering as usual, but so bubbling with newsthat she had no patience either with her own ailments or with thepeaches. Waving both aside, she pounced imperiously upon her visitor,her queer yellowish eyes aglow with "eventful living."

  "Did you hear of old Tom Murthly dropping dead in the medder lastThursday?"

  Diana had just heard of the death of the eccentric old man who for fiftyyears--bachelor and miser--had inhabited a dilapidated house inthe village.

  "Well, he did. Yo may take it at that--yo may." (A mysterious phrase,equivalent, no doubt, to the masculine oath.) "'Ee 'ad a lot ofmoney--Tom 'ad. Them two 'ouses was 'is what stands right be'indLearoyds', down the village."

  "Who will they go to now, Betty?"

  Betty's round, shapeless countenance, furrowed and scarred by time,beamed with the joy of communication.

  "_Chancery!_" she said, nodding. "Chancery'll 'ave 'em, in atwelvemonth's time from now, if Mrs. Jack Murthly's Tom--youngTom--don't claim 'em from South Africa--and the Lord knows where_ee_ is!"

  Diana tried to follow, held captive by a tyrannical pair of eyes.

  "A
nd what relation is Mrs. Jack Murthly to the man who died?"

  "Brother's wife!" said Betty, sharply. "I thought you'd ha' known that."

  "But if nothing is heard of the son, Betty--of young Tom--Mrs. Murthly'stwo daughters will have the cottages, won't they?"

  Betty's scorn made her rattle her stick on the flagged floor.

  "They ain't daughters!--they're only 'alves."

  "Halves?" said Diana, bewildered.

  "Jack Murthly worn't their father!" A fresh shower of nods. "Yo may takeit at that!"

  "Well, then, who--?"

  Betty bent hastily forward--Diana had placed herself on a stool beforeher--and, thrusting out her wrinkled lips, said, in a hoarse whisper:

  "Two fathers!"

  There was a silence.

  "I don't understand, Betty," said Diana, softly.

  "Jack was '_is_ father, all right--Tom's in South Africa. But he worn't_their_ father, Mrs. Jack bein' a widder--or said so. They're only'alves--and 'alves ain't no good in law; so inter Chancery those 'ouses'll go, come a twelvemonth--yo may take it at that!" Diana laughed--ayoung spontaneous laugh--the first since she had come home. She keptBetty gossiping for half an hour, and as the stream of the village lifepoured about her, in Betty's racy speech, it was as though someprimitive virtue entered into her and cheered her--some bracing voicefrom the Earth-spirit--whose purpose is not missed

  "If birth proceeds--if things subsist."

  She rose at last, held Betty's hand tenderly, and went her way,conscious of a return of natural pleasure, such as Italy had neverbrought her, her heart opening afresh to England and the English life.

  Perhaps she would find at home a letter from Mr. Ferrier--her dear,famous friend, who never forgot her, ignorant as she was of the greataffairs in which he was plunged. But she meant to be ignorant no longer.No more brooding and dreaming! It was pleasant to remember that SirJames Chide had taken a furnished house--Lytchett Manor--only a fewmiles from Beechcote, and that Mr. Ferrier was to be his guest there assoon as politics allowed. For her, Diana, that was well, for if he wereat Tallyn they could have met but seldom if at all.

  She had made a round through a distant and sequestered lane in order toprolong her walk. Presently she came to a deep cutting in the chalk,where the road, embowered in wild roses and clematis, turned sharply atthe foot of a hill. As she approached the turn she heard sounds--a man'svoice. Her heart suddenly failed her. She looked to either side--nogate, no escape. Nothing for it but to go forward. She turnedthe corner.

  Before her was a low pony carriage which Alicia Drake was driving. Itwas drawn up by the side of the road, and Alicia sat in it, laughing andtalking, while Oliver Marsham gathered a bunch of wild roses from theroad-side. As Diana appeared, and before either of them saw her, Marshamreturned to the carriage, his hands full of flowers.

  "Will that content you? I have torn myself to ribbons for you!"

  "Oh, don't expect too much gratitude--_Oliver!_" The last word was lowand hurried. Alicia gathered up the reins hastily, and Marsham lookedround him--startled.

  He saw a tall and slender girl coming toward them, accompanied by aScotch collie. She bowed to him and to Alicia, and passed quickly on.

  "Never mind any more roses," said Alicia. "We ought to get home."

  They drove toward Tallyn in silence. Alicia's startling hat of whitemuslin framed the red gold of her hair, and the brilliantcolor--assisted here and there by rouge--of her cheeks and lips. Shesaid presently, in a sympathetic voice:

  "How sorry one is for her!"

  Marsham made no reply. They passed into the darkness of overarchingtrees, and there, veiled from him in the green twilight, Alicia nolonger checked the dancing triumph in her eyes.