The Testing of Diana Mallory Read online

  CHAPTER IX

  Marsham's first feeling, as he advanced into the room, and, lookinground him, saw that Diana was alone, was one of acute physical pleasure.The old room with its mingling of color, at once dim and rich; thesunlit garden through the casement windows; the scent of the logsburning on the hearth, and of the hyacinths and narcissus with which thewarm air was perfumed; the signs everywhere of a woman's life and charm;all these first impressions leaped upon him, aiding the remembered spellwhich had recalled him--hot-foot and eager--from London, to this place,on the very first opportunity.

  And if her surroundings were poetic, how much more so was thegirl-figure itself!--the slender form, the dark head, and that shrinkingjoy which spoke in her gesture, in the movement she made toward himacross the room. She checked it at once, but not before a certainwildness in it had let loose upon him a rush of delight.

  "Sir James explained?" he said, as he took her hand.

  "Yes. I had no notion you would be here--this week-end."

  "Nor had I--till last night. Then an appointment broken down--and--_mevoici_!"

  "You stay over to-morrow?"

  "Of course! But it is absurd that the Feltons should be five milesaway!"

  She stammered:

  "It is a charming ride."

  "But too long!--One does not want to lose time."

  She was now sitting; and he beside her. Mechanically she had taken upsome embroidery--to shield her eyes. He examined the reds and blues ofthe pattern, the white fingers, the bending cheek. Suddenly, like SirJames Chide or Hugh Roughsedge, he was struck with a sense of change.The Dian look which matched her name, the proud gayety and frankness ofit, were somehow muffled and softened. And altogether her aspect was alittle frail and weary. The perception brought with it an appeal to theprotective strength of the man. What were her cares? Trifling, womanishthings! He would make her confess them; and then conjure them away!

  "You have your cousin with you?"

  "Yes."

  "She will make you a long visit?"

  "Another week or two, I think."

  "You are a believer in family traditions?--But of course you are!"

  "Why 'of course'?" Her color had sparkled again, but the laugh was notspontaneous.

  "I see that you are in love with even your furthest kinsmen--you mustbe--being an Imperialist! Now I am frankly bored by my kinsmen--nearand far."

  "All the same--you ask their help!"

  "Oh yes, in war; pure self-interest on both sides."

  "You have been preaching this in the House of Commons?"

  The teasing had answered. No more veiling of the eyes!

  "No--I have made no speeches. Next week, in the Vote of Censure debate,I shall get my chance."

  "To talk Little Englandism? Alack!"

  The tone was soft--it ended in a sigh.

  "Does it really trouble you?"

  She was looking down at her work. Her fingers drew the silk out andin--a little at random. She shook her head slightly, without reply.

  "I believe it does," he said, gently, still smiling. "Well, when I makemy speech, I shall remember that."

  She looked up suddenly. Their eyes met full. On her just parted lips thewords she had meant to say remained unspoken. Then a murmur of voicesfrom the garden reached them, as though some one approached.Marsham rose.

  "Shall we go into the garden? I ought to speak to Robins. How is hegetting on?"

  Robins was the new head gardener, appointed on Marsham's recommendation.

  "Excellently." Diana had also risen. "I will get my hat."

  He opened the door for her. Hang those people outside! But for them shewould have been already in his arms.

  Left to himself, he walked to and fro, restless and smiling. No moreself-repression--no more politic delay! The great moment oflife--grasped--captured at last! He in his turn understood theFaust-cry--"Linger awhile!--thou art so fair!" Only let him pierce tothe heart of it--realize it, covetously, to the full! All the ordinaryworldly motives were placated and at rest; due sacrifice had been doneto them; they teased no more. Upgathered and rolled away, likestorm-winds from the sea, they had left a shining and a festal wave forlove to venture on. Let him only yield himself--feel the full swell ofthe divine force!

  He moved to the window, and looked out.

  _Birch_!--What on earth brought that creature to Beechcote. Hisastonishment was great, and perhaps in the depths of his mind thereemerged the half-amused perception of a feminine softness and tolerancewhich masculine judgment must correct. She did not know how precious shewas; and that it must not be made too easy for the common world toapproach her. All that was picturesque and important, of course, in thelower classes; labor men, Socialists, and the like. But not vulgarhalf-baked fellows, who meant nothing politically, and must yet betreated like gentlemen. Ah! There were the Roughsedges--the Captain notgone yet?--Sir James and Mrs. Colwood--nice little creature, thatcompanion--they would find some use for her in the future. And on thelower terrace, Alicia Drake, and--that girl? He laughed, amusing himselfwith the thought of Alicia's plight. Alicia, the arrogant, thefastidious! The odd thing was that she seemed to be absorbed in theconversation that was going on. He saw her pause at the end of theterrace, look round her, and deliberately lead the way down a long grasspath, away from the rest of the party. Was the cousin good company,after all?

  Diana returned. A broad black hat, and sables which had been herfather's last gift to her, provided the slight change in surroundingswhich pleases the eye and sense of a lover. And as a man brought up inwealth, and himself potentially rich, he found it secretly agreeablethat costly things became her. There should be no lack of them inthe future.

  They stepped out upon the terrace. At sight of them the Roughsedgesapproached, while Mr. Fred Birch lagged behind to inspect the sundial.After a few words' conversation, Marsham turned resolutely away.

  "Miss Mallory wants to show me a new gardener."

  The old doctor smiled at his wife. Hugh Roughsedge watched the departingfigures. Excellently matched, he must needs admit, in aspect and inheight. Was it about to happen?--or had it already happened? He bracedhimself, soldierlike, to the inevitable.

  "You know Mr. Birch," said Diana to her companion, as they descended tothe lower terrace, and passed not very far from that gentleman.

  "I just know him," said Marsham, carelessly, and bestowed a nod in thedirection of the solicitor.

  "Had he not something to do with your election?" said Diana, astonished.

  "My election?" cried Marsham. Then he laughed. "I suppose he has beendrawing the long bow, as usual. Am I impertinent?--or may I ask, how youcame to know him?"

  He looked at her smiling. Diana colored.

  "My cousin Fanny made acquaintance with him--in the train."

  "I see. Here are our two cousins--coming to meet us. Will you introduceme?"

  For Fanny and Miss Drake were now returning slowly along the gravel pathwhich led to the kitchen garden. The eyes of both girls were fixed onthe pair advancing toward them. Alicia was no longer impassive orhaughty. Like her companion, she appeared to have been engaged in anintimate and absorbing conversation. Diana could not help looking at herin a vague surprise as she paused in front of them. But she addressedherself to her cousin.

  "Fanny, I want to introduce Mr. Marsham to you."

  Fanny Merton held out her hand, staring a little oddly at the gentlemanpresented to her. Alicia meanwhile was looking at Diana, while shespoke--with emphasis--to Marsham.

  "Could you order my horse, Oliver? I think we ought to be going back."

  "Would you mind asking Sir James?" Marsham pointed to the upper terrace."I have something to see to in the garden."

  Diana said hurriedly that Mrs. Colwood would send the order to thestables, and that she herself would not be long. Alicia took no noticeof this remark. She still looked at Oliver.

  "You'll come back with us, won't you?"

  Marsham flushed. "I have only just arrived," he said,
rather sharply."Please don't wait for me.--Shall we go on?" he said, turning to Diana.

  They walked on. As Diana paused at the iron gate which closed the longwalk, she looked round her involuntarily, and saw that Alicia and Fannywere now standing on the lower terrace, gazing after them. It struck heras strange and rude, and she felt the slight shock she had felt severaltimes already, both in her intercourse with Fanny and in heracquaintance with Miss Drake--as of one unceremoniously jostledor repulsed.

  Marsham meanwhile was full of annoyance. That Alicia should still treathim in that domestic, possessive way--and in Diana's presence--wasreally intolerable. It must be stopped.

  He paused on the other side of the gate.

  "After all, I am not in a mood to see Robins to-day. Look!--the light isgoing. Will you show me the path on to the hill? You spoke to me onceof a path you were fond of."

  She tried to laugh.

  "You take Robins for granted?"

  "I am quite indifferent to his virtues--even his vices! This chance--istoo precious. I have so much to say to you."

  She led the way in silence. The hand which held up her dress from themire trembled a little unseen. But her sense of the impending crisis hadgiven her more rather than less dignity. She bore her dark head finely,with that unconscious long-descended instinct of the woman, waitingto be sued.

  They found a path beyond the garden, winding up through a leafless wood.Marsham talked of indifferent things, and she answered him with spirit,feeling it all, so far, a queer piece of acting. Then they emerged onthe side of the hill beside a little basin in the chalk, where a gnarledthorn or two, an overhanging beech, and a bed of withered heather, madea kind of intimate, furnished place, which appealed to the passer-by.

  "Here is the sunset," said Marsham, looking round him. "Are you afraidto sit a little?"

  He took a light overcoat he had been carrying over his arm and spread iton the heather. She protested that it was winter, and coats were forwearing. He took no notice, and she tamely submitted. He placed herregally, with an old thorn for support and canopy; and then he stood amoment beside her gazing westward.

  They looked over undulations of the chalk, bare stubble fields andclimbing woods, bathed in the pale gold of a February sunset. The lightwas pure and wan--the resting earth shone through it gently yetausterely; only the great woods darkly massed on the horizon gave anaccent of mysterious power to a scene in which Nature otherwise showedherself the tamed and homely servant of men. Below were the trees ofBeechcote, the gray walls, and the windows touched with a lastfestal gleam.

  Suddenly Marsham dropped down beside her.

  "I see it all with new eyes," he said, passionately. "I have lived inthis country from my childhood; and I never saw it before! Diana!--"

  He raised her hand, which only faintly resisted; he looked into hereyes. She had grown very pale--enchantingly pale. There was in her thedim sense of a great fulfilment; the fulfilment of Nature's promise toher; implicit in her woman's lot from the beginning.

  "Diana!--" the low voice searched her heart--"You know--what I have cometo say? I meant to have waited a little longer--I was afraid!--but Icouldn't wait--it was beyond my strength. Diana!--come to me,darling!--be my wife!"

  He kissed the hand he held. His eyes beseeched; and into hers, widelyfixed upon him, had sprung tears--the tears of life's supremest joy. Herlip trembled.

  "I'm not worthy!" she said, in a whisper--"I'm not worthy!"

  "Foolish Diana!--Darling, foolish Diana!--Give me my answer!"

  And now he held both hands, and his confident smile dazzled her.

  "I--" Her voice broke. She tried again, still in a whisper. "I will beeverything to you--that a woman can."

  At that he put his arm round her, and she let him take that first kiss,in which she gave him her youth, her life--all that she had and was.Then she withdrew herself, and he saw her brow contract, and her mouth.

  "I know!"--he said, tenderly--"I know! Dear, I think he would have beenglad. He and I made friends from the first."

  She plucked at the heather beside her, trying for composure. "He wouldhave been so glad of a son--so glad--"

  And then, by contrast with her own happiness, the piteous memory of herfather overcame her; and she cried a little, hiding her eyes againstMarsham's shoulder.

  "There!" she said, at last, withdrawing herself, and brushing the tearsaway. "That's all--that's done with--except in one's heart. Did--didLady Lucy know?"

  She looked at him timidly. Her aspect had never been more lovely. Tearsdid not disfigure her, and as compared with his first remembrance ofher, there was now a touching significance, an incomparable softness inall she said and did, which gave him a bewildering sense of treasures tocome, of joys for the gathering.

  Suddenly--involuntarily--there flashed through his mind the recollectionof his first love-passage with Alicia--how she had stung him on, teased,and excited him. He crushed it at once, angrily.

  As to Lady Lucy, he smilingly declared that she had no doubt guessedsomething was in the wind.

  "I have been 'gey ill to live with' since we got up to town. And whenthe stupid meeting I had promised to speak at was put off, my motherthought I had gone off my head--from my behavior. 'What are you going tothe Feltons' for?--You never care a bit about them.' So at last Ibrought her the map and made her look at it--'Felton Park to Brinton, 3miles--Haylesford, 4 miles--Beechcote, 2 miles and 1/2--Beechcote Manor,half a mile--total, ten miles.'--'Oliver!'--she got so red!--'you aregoing to propose to Miss Mallory!' 'Well, mother!--and what have you gotto say?' So then she smiled--and kissed me--and sent you messages--whichI'll give you when there's time. My mother is a rather formidableperson--no one who knew her would ever dream of taking her consent toanything for granted; but this time"--his laugh was merry--"I didn'teven think of asking it!"

  "I shall love her--dearly," murmured Diana.

  "Yes, because you won't be afraid of her. Her standards are hardly madefor this wicked world. But you'll hold her--you'll manage her. If you'dsaid 'No' to me, she would have felt cheated of a daughter."

  "I'm afraid Mrs. Fotheringham won't like it," said Diana, ruefully,letting herself be gathered again into his arms.

  "My sister? I don't know what to say about Isabel, dearest--unless Iparody an old saying. She and I have never agreed--except in opinion. Wehave been on the same side--and in hot opposition--since our childhood.No--I dare say she will be thorny! Why did you fight me so well,little rebel?"

  He looked down into her dark eyes, revelling in their sweetness, and inthe bliss of her surrendered beauty. If this was not his first proposal,it was his first true passion--of that he was certain.

  She released herself--rosy--and still thinking of Mrs. Fotheringham."Oliver!"--she laid her hand shyly on his--"neither she nor you willwant me to stifle what I think--to deny what I do really believe? I daresay a woman's politics aren't worth much"--she laughed and sighed.

  "I say!--don't take that line with Isabel!"

  "Well, mine probably aren't worth much--but they are mine--and papataught them me--and I can't give them up."

  "What'll you do, darling?--canvass against me?" He kissed her handagain.

  "No--but I _can't_ agree with you!"

  "Of course you can't. Which of us, _I_ wonder, will shake the other? Howdo you know that I'm not in a blue fright for my principles?"

  "You'll explain to me?--you'll not despise me?" she said, softly,bending toward him; "I'll always, always try and understand."

  Who could resist an attitude so feminine, yet so loyal, at once so oldand new? Marsham felt himself already attacked by the poison of Toryism,and Diana, with a happy start, envisaged horizons that her father neverknew, and questions where she had everything to learn.

  Hand in hand, trembling still under the thrill of the moment which hadfused their lives, they fell into happy discursive talk: of the Tallynvisit--of her thoughts and his--of what Lady Lucy and Mr. Ferrier hadsaid, or would say. In the midst of it the fall of
temperature, whichcame with the sunset, touched them, and Marsham sprang up with theperemptoriness of a new relationship, insisting that he must take herhome out of the chilly dusk. As they stood lingering in the hollow,unwilling to leave the gnarled thorns, the heather-carpet, and the glowof western light--symbols to them henceforth that they too, in theirturn, amid the endless generations, had drunk the mystic cup, and sharedthe sacred feast--Diana perceived some movement far below, on the openspace in front of Beechcote. A little peering through the twilightshowed them two horses with their riders leaving the Beechcote door.

  "Oh! your cousin--and Sir James!" cried Diana, in distress, "and Ihaven't said good-bye--"

  "You will see them soon again. And I shall carry them the newsto-night."

  "Will you? Shall I allow it?"

  Marsham laughed; he caught her hand again, slipped it possessivelywithin his left arm, and held it there as they went slowly down thepath. Diana could not think with any zest of Alicia and her reception ofthe news. A succession of trifles had shown her quite clearly thatAlicia was not her friend; why, she did not know. She remembered manysmall advances on her own part.

  But at the mention of Sir James Chide, her face lit up.

  "He has been so kind to me!" she said, looking up into Marsham'sface--"so very kind!"

  Her eyes showed a touch of passion; the passion that some natures canthrow into gratitude; whether for little or much. Marsham smiled.

  "He fell in love with you! Yes--he is a dear old boy. One can wellimagine that he has had a romance!"

  "Has he?"

  "It is always said that he was in love with a woman whom he defended ona charge of murder."

  Diana exclaimed.

  "He had met her when they were both very young, and lost his heart toher. Then she married and he lost sight of her. He accepted a brief inthis murder case, ten years later, not knowing her identity, and theymet for the first time when he went to see her with her solicitorin prison."

  Diana breathlessly asked for the rest of the story.

  "He defended her magnificently. It was a shocking case. The sentence wascommuted, but she died almost immediately. They say Sir James has nevergot over it."

  Diana pondered; her eyes dim.

  "How one would like to do something for him!--to give him pleasure!"

  Marsham caressed her hand.

  "So you shall, darling. He shall be one of our best friends. But hemustn't make Ferrier jealous."

  Diana smiled happily. She looked forward to all the new ties of kindredor friendship that Marsham was to bring her--modestly indeed, yet in thetemper of one who feels herself spiritually rich and capable of giving.

  "I shall love all your friends," she said, with a bright look. "I'm gladyou have so many!"

  "Does that mean that you've felt rather lonely sometimes? Poor darling!"he said, tenderly, "it must have been solitary often at Portofino."

  "Oh no--I had papa." Then her truthfulness overcame her. "I don't meanto say I didn't often want friends of my own age--girl friendsespecially."

  "You can't have them now!"--he said, passionately, as they paused at awicket-gate, under a yew-tree. "I want you all--all--to myself." And inthe shadow of the yew he put his arms round her again, and their heartsbeat together.

  But our nature moves within its own inexorable limits. In Diana,Marsham's touch, Marsham's embrace awakened that strange mingledhappiness, that happiness reared and based on tragedy, which the pureand sensitive feel in the crowning moments of life. Love is tortured byits own intensity; and the thought of death strikes through theexperience which means the life of the race. As her lips felt Marsham'skiss, she knew, as generations of women have known before her, that lifecould give her no more; and she also knew that it was transiency andparting that made it so intolerably sweet.

  "Till death us do part," she said to herself. And in the intensity ofher submission to the common lot she saw down the years the end of whathad now begun--herself lying quiet and blessed, in the last sleep, herdead hand in Marsham's.

  * * * * *

  "Why must we go home?" he said, discontentedly, as he released her. "Oneturn more!--up the avenue! There is light enough yet!"

  She yielded weakly; pacifying her social conscience by the half-penitentremark that Mrs. Colwood would have said good-bye to her guests, andthat--she--she supposed they would soon have to know.

  "Well, as I want you to marry me in six weeks," said Marsham, joyously,"I suppose they will."

  "Six weeks!" She gasped. "Oh, how unreasonable!"

  "Dearest!--A fortnight would do for frocks. And whom have we to consultbut ourselves? I know you have no near relations. As for cousins, itdoesn't take long to write them a few notes, and ask them tothe wedding."

  Diana sighed.

  "My only cousins are the Mertons. They are all in Barbadoes but Fanny."

  Her tone changed a little. In her thoughts, she added, hurriedly: "Isha'n't have any bridesmaids!"

  Marsham, discreetly, made no reply. Personally, he hoped that MissMerton's engagements might take her safely back to Barbadoes before thewedding-day. But if not, he and his would no doubt know how to deal withher--civilly and firmly--as people must learn to deal with theirdistasteful relations.

  Meanwhile on Diana's mind there had descended a sudden cloud of thought,dimming the ecstasy of her joy. The February day was dying in ayellowish dusk, full of beauty. They were walking along a narrow avenueof tall limes which skirted the Beechcote lands, and took them past thehouse. Above their heads the trees met in a brown-and-purple tracery ofboughs, and on their right, through the branches, they saw a pale fullmoon, throning it in a silver sky. The mild air, the movements of thebirds, the scents from the earth and bushes spoke of spring; andsuddenly Diana perceived the gate leading to the wood where that verymorning the subtle message of the changing year had come upon her,rending and probing. A longing to tell Marsham all her vague troublesrose in her, held back by a natural shrinking. But the longingprevailed, quickened by the loyal sense that she must quickly tell himall she knew about herself and her history, since there was nobody elseto tell him.

  "Oliver!"--she began, hurriedly--"I ought to tell you--I don't think youknow. My name wasn't Mallory to begin with--my father took that name."

  Marsham gave a little start.

  "Dear--how surprising!--and how interesting! Tell me all you can--fromthe year One."

  He smiled upon her, with a sparkling look that asked for all herhistory. But secretly he had been conscious of a shock. Lately he hadmade a few inquiries about the Welsh Mallorys. And the answers had beenagreeable; though the old central stock of the name, to which hepresumed Diana belonged, was said to be extinct. No doubt--so he hadreflected--it had come to an end in her father.

  "Mallory was the name of my father's mother. He took it for variousreasons--I never quite understood--and I know a good deal of propertycame to him. But his original name--my name--was Sparling."

  "Sparling!" A pause. "And have you any Sparling relations."

  "No. They all died out--I think--but I know so little!--when I wassmall. However, I have a box of Sparling papers which I have neverexamined. Perhaps--some day--we might look at them together."

  Her voice shook a little.

  "You have never looked at them?"

  "Never."

  "But why, dearest?"

  "It always seemed to make papa so unhappy--anything to do with his oldname. Oliver!"--she turned upon him suddenly, and for the first time sheclung to him, hiding her face against his shoulder--"Oliver!--I don'tknow what made him unhappy--I don't know why he changed his name.Sometimes I think--there may have been some terrible thing betweenhim--and my mother."

  He put his arm round her, close and tenderly.

  "What makes you think that?" Then he whispered to her--"Tell yourlover--your husband--tell him everything."

  She shrank in delicious tremor from the great word, and it was a fewmoments before she could collect her thou
ghts. Then she said--stillresting against him in the dark--and in a low rapid voice, as though shefollowed the visions of an inner sense:

  "She died when I was only four. I just remember--it is almost my firstrecollection of anything--seeing her carried up-stairs--" She broke off."And oh! it's so strange!--"

  "Strange? She was ill?"

  "Yes, but--what I seem to remember never explains itself--and I did notdare to ask papa. She hadn't been with us--for a long time. Papa and Ihad been alone. Then one day I saw them carrying her up-stairs--myfather and two nurses--I ran out before my nurse could catch me--and sawher--she was in her hat and cloak. I didn't know her, and when shecalled me, I ran away. Then afterward they took me in to see her inbed--two or three times--and I remember once"--Diana began to sobherself--"seeing her cry. She lay sobbing--and my father beside her; heheld her hand--and I saw him hide his eyes upon it. They never noticedme; I don't know that they saw me. Then they told me she was dead--I sawher lying on the bed--and my nurse gave me some flowers to put besideher--some violets. They were the only flowers. I can see her still,lying there--with her hands closed over them."

  She released herself from Marsham, and, with her hand in his, she drewhim slowly along the path, while she went on speaking, with an effortindeed, yet with a marvellous sense of deliverance--after the silence ofyears. She described the entire seclusion of their life at Portofino.

  "Papa never spoke to me of mamma, and I never remember a picture ofher. After his death I saw a closed locket on his breast for the firsttime. I would not have opened it for the world--I just kissed it--" Hervoice broke again; but after a moment she quietly resumed. "He changedhis name--I think--when I was about nine years old. I remember thatsomehow it seemed to give him comfort--he was more cheerful with meafterward--"

  "And you have no idea what led him to go abroad?"

  She shook her head. Marsham's changed and rapid tone had betrayed someagitation in the mind behind; but Diana did not notice it. In her storyshe had come to what, in truth, had been the determining and formativeinfluence on her own life--her father's melancholy, and the mystery inwhich it had been enwrapped; and even the perceptions of love were forthe moment blinded as the old tyrannous grief overshadowed her.

  "His life"--she said, slowly--"seemed for years--one long struggle tobear--what was really--unbearable. Then when I was about nineteen therewas a change. He no longer shunned people quite in the same way, and hetook me to Egypt and India. We came across old friends of his whom I, ofcourse, had never seen before; and I used to wonder at the way in whichthey treated him--with a kind of reverence--as though they would nothave touched him roughly for the world. Then directly after we got hometo the Riviera his illness began--"

  She dwelt on the long days of dumbness, and her constant sense that hewished--in vain--to communicate something to her.

  "He wanted something--and I could not give it him--could not even tellwhat it was. It was misery! One day he managed to write: 'If you are introuble, go to Riley & Bonner--ask them.' They were his solicitors, whomhe had depended on from his boyhood. But since his death I have neverwanted anything from them but a little help in business. They have beenvery good; but--I could not go and question them. If there was anythingto know--papa had not been able to tell me--I did not want anybodyelse--to--"

  Her voice dropped. Only half an hour since the flowering of life! What achange in both! She was pacing along slowly, her head thrown back; theoval of her face white among her furs, under the ghostly touch of themoonlight; a suggestion of something austere--finely remote--in herattitude and movement. His eyes were on the ground, his shoulders bent;she could not see his face.

  "We must try and unravel it--together," he said, at last, with aneffort. "Can you tell me your mother's name?"

  "It was an old Staffordshire family. But she and papa met in America,and they married there. Her father died not long afterward, I think. AndI have never heard of any relations but the one sister, Mrs. Merton. Hername was Wentworth. Oh!" It was an involuntary cry of physical pain.

  "Diana!--Did I hurt your hand? my darling!"

  The sudden tightness of his grip had crushed her fingers. She smiled athim, as he kissed them, in hasty remorse.

  "And her Christian name?" he asked, in a low voice.

  "Juliet."

  There was a pause. They had turned back, and were walking toward thehouse. The air had grown much colder; frosty stars were twinkling, anda chilly wind was blowing light clouds across the moon. The two figuresmoved slowly in and out of the bands of light and shadow which crossedthe avenue.

  Diana stopped suddenly.

  "If there were something terrible to know!"--she said,trembling--"something which would make you ashamed of me!--"

  Her tall slenderness bent toward him--she held out her hands piteously.Marsham's manhood asserted itself. He encircled her again with hisstrong arm, and she hid her face against him. The contact of her softbody, her fresh cheek, intoxicated him afresh. In the strength of hisdesire for her, it was as though he were fighting off black vultures ofthe night, forces of horror that threatened them both. He would notbelieve what yet he already knew to be true. The thought of his motherclamored at the door of his mind, and he would not open to it. In areckless defiance of what had overtaken him, he poured out tender andpassionate speech which gradually stilled the girl's tumult of memoryand foreboding, and brought back the heaven of their first moment on thehill-side. Her own reserve broke down, and from her murmured words, hersweetness, her infinite gratitude, Marsham might divine still more fullythe richness of that harvest which such a nature promised to a lover.

  * * * * *

  "I won't tell any one--but Muriel--till you have seen Lady Lucy," saidDiana, as they approached the house, and found Marsham's horse waitingat the door.

  He acquiesced, and it was arranged that he should go up to town thefollowing day, Sunday--see Lady Lucy--and return on the Monday.

  Then he rode away, waving his hand through the darkness.

  * * * * *

  Marsham's horse carried him swiftly through country roads, where themoon made magic, and peace reigned. But the mind of the rider groped inconfusion and despair, seeing no way out.

  Only one definite purpose gathered strength--to throw himself on thecounsel of Sir James Chide. Chide had known--from the beginning!