CHAPTER VI
"Henry," said Mrs. Roughsedge to her husband, "I think it would do yougood to walk to Beechcote."
"No, my dear, no! I have many proofs to get through before dinner. TakeHugh. Only--"
Dr. Roughsedge, smiling, held up a beckoning finger. His wifeapproached.
"Don't let him fall in love with that young woman. It's no good."
"Well, she must marry somebody, Henry."
"Big fishes mate with big fishes--minnows with minnows."
"Don't run down your own son, sir. Who, pray, is too good for him?"
"The world is divided into wise men, fools, and mothers. The charactersof the first two are mingled--disproportionately--in the last," said Dr.Roughsedge, patiently enduring the kiss his wife inflicted on him."Don't kiss me, Patricia--don't tread on my proofs--go away--and tellJane not to forget my tea because you have gone out."
Mrs. Roughsedge departed, and the doctor, who was devoted to her, sankat once into that disorderly welter of proofs and smoke whichrepresented to him the best of the day. The morning he reserved for hardwork, and during the course of it he smoked but one pipe. A quotationfrom Fuller which was often on his lips expressed his point of view:"Spill not the morning, which is the quintessence of the day, inrecreation. For sleep itself is a recreation. And to open the morningthereto is to add sauce to sauce."
But in the afternoon he gave himself to all the delightful bye-tasks:the works of supererogation, the excursions into side paths, theniggling with proofs, the toying with style, the potterings andpolishings, the ruminations, and rewritings and refinements which makethe joy of the man of letters. For five-and-twenty years he had been abusy Cambridge coach, tied year in and year out to the same strictnessof hours, the same monotony of subjects, the same patient drumming onthick heads and dull brains. Now that was all over. A brother had lefthim a little money; he had saved the rest. At sixty he had begun tolive. He was editing a series of reprints for the Cambridge UniversityPress, and what mortal man could want more than a good wife and son, acottage to live in, a fair cook, unlimited pipes, no debts, and the bestof English literature to browse in? The rural afternoon, especially,when he smoked and grubbed and divagated as he pleased, was alone enoughto make the five-and-twenty years of "swink" worth while.
Mrs. Roughsedge stayed to give very particular orders to thehouse-parlormaid about the doctor's tea, to open a window in the tinydrawing-room, and to put up in brown paper a pair of bed-socksthat she had just finished knitting for an old man in one of theparish-houses. Then she joined her son, who was already waiting forher--impatiently--in the garden.
Hugh Roughsedge had only just returned from a month's stay in London,made necessary by those new Army examinations which his soul detested.By dint of strenuous coaching he had come off moderately victorious, andhad now returned home for a week's extra leave before rejoining hisregiment. One of the first questions on his tongue, as his motherinstantly noticed, had been a question as to Miss Mallory. Was she stillat Beechcote? Had his mother seen anything of her?
Yes, she was still at Beechcote. Mrs. Roughsedge, however, had seen herbut seldom and slightly since her son's departure for London. If she hadmade one or two observations from a distance, with respect to the younglady, she withheld them. And like the discerning mother that she was, atthe very first opportunity she proposed a call at Beechcote.
On their way thither, this February afternoon, they talked in adesultory way about some new War-Office reforms, which, as usual, theentire Army believed to be merely intended--wilfully anddeliberately--for its destruction; about a recent gambling scandal inthe regiment, or the peculiarities of Hugh's commanding officer.Meanwhile he held his peace on the subject of some letters he hadreceived that morning. There was to be an expedition in Nigeria.Officers were wanted; and he had volunteered. The result of hisapplication was not yet known. He had no intention whatever of upsettinghis parents till it was known.
"I wonder how Miss Mallory liked Tallyn," said Mrs. Roughsedge, briskly.
She had already expressed the same wonder once or twice. But as neithershe nor her son had any materials for deciding the point the remarkhardly promoted conversation. She added to it another of more effect.
"The Miss Bertrams have already made up their minds that she is to marryOliver Marsham."
"The deuce!" cried the startled Roughsedge. "Beg your pardon, mother,but how can those old cats possibly know?"
"They can't know," said Mrs. Roughsedge, placidly. "But as soon as youget a young woman like that into the neighborhood, of course everybodybegins to speculate."
"They mumble any fresh person, like a dog with a bone," said Roughsedge,indignantly.
They were passing across the broad village street. On either hand wereold timbered cottages, sun-mellowed and rain-beaten; a thatched roofshowing here and there; or a bit of mean new building, breaking thetime-worn line. To their left, keeping watch over the graves whichencircled it, rose the fourteenth-century church; amid the trees aroundit rooks were cawing and wheeling; and close beneath it huddled othercottages, ivy-grown, about the village well. Afternoon school was justover, and the children were skipping and running about the streets.Through the cottage doors could be seen occasionally the gleam of a fireor a white cloth spread for tea. For the womenfolk, at least, tea wasthe great meal of the day in Beechcote. So that what with the flickeringof the fires, and the sunset light on the windows, the skippingchildren, the dogs, the tea-tables, and the rooks, Beechcote wore acheerful and idyllic air. But Mrs. Roughsedge knew too much about thesecottages. In this one to the left a girl had just borne her secondillegitimate child; in that one farther on were two mentally deficientchildren, the offspring of feeble-minded parents; in the next, an oldwoman, the victim of pernicious anaemia, was moaning her life away; inthe last to the right the mother of five small children had just died inher sixth confinement. Mrs. Roughsedge gave a long sigh as she looked atit. The tragedy was but forty-eight hours old; she had sat up with themother through her dying hours.
"Oh, my dear!" said Mrs. Roughsedge, suddenly--"here comes the Vicar. Doyou know, it's so unlucky--and so strange!--but he has certainly taken adislike to Miss Mallory--I believe it was because he had hoped someChristian Socialist friends of his would have taken Beechcote, and hewas disappointed to find it let to some one with what he calls 'sillyTory notions' and no particular ideas about Church matters. Now there'sa regular fuss--something about the Book Club. I don't understand--"
The Vicar advanced toward them. He came along at a great pace, his leanfigure closely sheathed in his long clerical coat, his face a littlefrowning and set.
At the sight of Mrs. Roughsedge he drew up, and greeted the mother andson.
"May I have a few words with you?" he asked Mrs. Roughsedge, as heturned back with them toward the Beechcote lane. "I don't know whetheryou are acquainted, Mrs. Roughsedge, with what has just happened in theBook Club, to which we both belong?"
The Book Club was a village institution of some antiquity. It embracedsome ten families, who drew up their Mudie lists in common and sent thebooks from house to house. The Vicar and Dr. Roughsedge had been tillnow mainly responsible for these lists--so far, at least, as "seriousbooks" were concerned, the ladies being allowed the chief voice inthe novels.
Mrs. Roughsedge, a little fluttered, asked for information.
"Miss Mallory has recommended two books which, in my opinion, should notbe circulated among us," said the Vicar. "I have protested--in vain.Miss Mallory maintains her recommendation. I propose, therefore, towithdraw from the Club."
"Are they improper?" cried Mrs. Roughsedge, much distressed. CaptainRoughsedge threw an angry look first at his mother and then atthe Vicar.
"Not in the usual sense," said the Vicar, stiffly--"but highly improperfor the reading of Christian people. One is by a Unitarian, and theother reproduces some of the worst speculations of an infidel Germantheology. I pointed out the nature of the books to Miss Mallory. Shereplied that they were bo
th by authors whom her father liked. Iregretted it. Then she fired up, refused to withdraw the names, andoffered to resign. Miss Mallory's subscription to the Club is, however,much larger than mine. _I_ shall therefore resign--protesting, ofcourse, against the reason which induces me to take this course."
"What's wrong with the books?" asked Hugh Roughsedge.
The Vicar drew himself up.
"I have given my reasons."
"Why, you see that kind of thing in every newspaper," said Roughsedge,bluntly.
"All the more reason why I should endeavor to keep my parish free fromit," was the Vicar's resolute reply. "However, there is no more to besaid. I wished Mrs. Roughsedge to understand what had happened--thatis all."
He paused, and offered a limp hand in good-bye.
"Let me speak to Miss Mallory," said Mrs. Roughsedge, soothingly.
The Vicar shook his head.
"She is a young lady of strong will." And with a hasty nod of farewellto the Captain, whose hostility he divined, he walked away.
"And what about obstinate and pig-headed parsons!" said Roughsedge,hotly, addressing his remark, however, safely to the Vicar's back, andto his mother. "Who makes him a judge of what we shall read! I shallmake a point of asking for both the books!"
"Oh, my dear Hugh!" cried his mother, in rather troubled protest. Thenshe happily reflected that if he asked for them, he was not in the leastlikely to read them. "I hope Miss Mallory is not really an unbeliever."
"Mother! Of course, what that poker in a wide-awake did was to saysomething uncivil about her father, and she wasn't going to stand that.Quite right, too."
"She did come to church on Christmas Day," said Mrs. Roughsedge,reflecting. "But, then, a great many people do that who don't believeanything. Anyway, she has always been quite charming to your father andme. And I think, besides, the Vicar might have been satisfied with yourfather's opinion--_he_ made no complaint about the books. Oh, now theMiss Bertrams are going to stop us! They'll of course know allabout it!"
If Captain Roughsedge growled ugly words into his mustache, his motherwas able to pretend not to hear them, in the gentle excitement ofshaking hands with the Miss Bertrams. These middle-aged ladies, thedaughters of a deceased doctor from the neighboring county town ofDunscombe, were, if possible, more plainly dressed than usual, and theirmanners more forbidding.
"You will have heard of this disagreeable incident which has occurred,"said Miss Maria to Mrs. Roughsedge, with a pinched mouth. "My sister andI shall, of course, remove our names from the Club."
"I say--don't your subscribers order the books they like?" askedRoughsedge, half wroth and half laughing, surveying the lady with hishand on his side.
"There is a very clear understanding among us," said Miss Maria,sharply, "as to the character of the books to be ordered. No member ofthe Club has yet transgressed it."
"There must be give and take, mustn't there?" said Miss Elizabeth, in adeprecatory voice. She was the more amiable and the weaker of the twosisters. "_We_ should _never_ order books that would be offensive toMiss Mallory."
"But if you haven't read the books?"
"The Vicar's word is quite enough," said Miss Maria, with her mostdetermined air.
They all moved on together, Captain Roughsedge smoothing or tugging athis mustache with a restless hand.
But Miss Bertram, presently, dropping a little behind, drew Mrs.Roughsedge with her.
"There are all sorts of changes at the house," she said, confidentially."The laundry maids are allowed to go out every evening, if theylike--and Miss Mallory makes no attempt to influence the servants tocome to church. The Vicar says the seats for the Beechcote servants havenever been so empty."
"Dear, dear!" murmured Mrs. Roughsedge.
"And money is improperly given away. Several people whom the Vicarthinks most unfit objects of charity have been assisted. And in aconversation with her last week Miss Mallory expressed herself in a verysad way about foreign missions. Her father's idea, again, no doubt--butit is all very distressing. The Vicar doubts"--Miss Maria spoke warily,bringing her face very close to the gray curls--"whether she has everbeen confirmed."
This final stroke, however, fell flat. Mrs. Roughsedge showed noemotion. "Most of my aunts," she said, stoutly, "were never confirmed,and they were good Christians and communicants all their lives."
Miss Maria's expression showed that this reference to a precedingbarbaric age of the Church had no relevance to the existing orderof things.
"Of course," she added, hastily, "I do not wish to make myselftroublesome or conspicuous in any way. I merely mention these things asexplaining why the Vicar felt bound to make a stand. The Church feelingin this parish has been so strong it would, indeed, be a pity ifanything occurred to weaken it."
Mrs. Roughsedge gave a doubtful assent. As to the Church feeling, shewas not so clear as Miss Bertram. One of her chief friends was asecularist cobbler who lived under the very shadow of the church. TheMiss Bertrams shuddered at his conversation. Mrs. Roughsedge found himracy company, and he presented to her aspects of village life andopinion with which the Miss Bertrams were not at all acquainted.
* * * * *
As the mother and son approached the old house in the sunset light, itsaspect of mellow and intimate congruity with the woods and fields aboutit had never been more winning. The red, gray, and orange of its oldbrickwork played into the brown and purples of its engirdling trees,into the lilacs and golds and crimsons of the western sky behind it,into the cool and quiet tones of the meadows from which it rose. Aspirit of beauty had been at work fusing man's perishable and passingwork with Nature's eternal masterpiece; so that the old house had in itsomething immortal, and the light which played upon it something gentlypersonal, relative, and fleeting. Winter was still dominant; a northeastwind blew. But on the grass under the spreading oaks which sheltered theeastern front a few snow-drops were out. And Diana was gathering them.
She came toward her visitors with alacrity. "Oh! what a long time sinceyou have been to see me!"
Mrs. Roughsedge explained that she had been entertaining some relations,and Hugh had been in London. She hoped that Miss Mallory had enjoyed herstay at Tallyn. It certainly seemed to both mother and son that theingenuous young face colored a little as its owner replied--"Thankyou--it was very amusing"--and then added, with a littlehesitation--"Mr. Marsham has been kindly advising me since, about thegardens--and the Vavasours. _They_ were to keep up the gardens, youknow--and now they practically leave it to me--which isn't fair."
Mrs. Roughsedge secretly wondered whether this statement was meant toaccount for the frequent presence of Oliver Marsham at Beechcote. Shehad herself met him in the lane riding away from Beechcote no less thanthree times during the past fortnight.
"Please come in to tea!" said Diana; "I am just expecting mycousin--Miss Merton. Mrs. Colwood and I are so excited!--we have neverhad a visitor here before. I came out to try and find some snow-dropsfor her room. There is really nothing in the greenhouses--and I can'tmake the house look nice."
Certainly as they entered and passed through the panelled hall to thedrawing-room Hugh Roughsedge saw no need for apology. Amid the warmdimness of the house he was aware of a few starry flowers, a fewgleaming and beautiful stuffs, the white and black of an engraving, orthe blurred golds and reds of an old Italian picture, humble school-workperhaps, collected at small cost by Diana's father, yet still breathingthe magic of the Enchanted Land. The house was refined, pleading,eager--like its mistress. It made no display--but it admitted novulgarity. "These things are not here for mere decoration's sake," itseemed to say. "Dear kind hands have touched them; dear silent voiceshave spoken of them. Love them a little, you also!--and be at home."
Not that Hugh Roughsedge made any such conscious analysis of hisimpressions. Yet the house appealed to him strangely. He thought MissMallory's taste marvellous; and it is one of the superiorities in womento which men submit most readily.
&nbs
p; The drawing-room had especially a festive air. Mrs. Colwood was keepingtea-cakes hot, and building up a blazing fire with logs of beech-wood.When she had seated her guests, Diana put the snow-drops she hadgathered into an empty vase, and looked round her happily, as though nowshe had put the last touch to all her preparations. She talked readilyof her cousin's coming to Mrs. Roughsedge; and she inquired minutely ofHugh when the next meet was to be, that she might take her guest tosee it.
"Fanny will be just as new to it all as I!" she said. "That's so nice,isn't it?" Then she offered Mrs. Roughsedge cake, and looked at heraskance with a hanging head. "Have you heard--about the Vicar?"
Mrs. Roughsedge admitted it.
"I did lose my temper," said Diana, repentantly. "But _really!_--papaused to tell me it was a sign of weakness to say violent things youcouldn't prove. Wasn't it Lord Shaftesbury that said some book he didn'tlike was 'vomited out of the jaws of hell'? Well, the Vicar said thingsvery like that. He did indeed!"
"Oh no, my dear, no!" cried Mrs. Roughsedge, disturbed by the quotation,even, of such a remark. Hugh Roughsedge grinned. Diana,however, insisted.
"Of course, I would have given them up. Only I just happened to say thatpapa always read everything he could by those two men--and then"--sheflushed--"Well, I don't exactly remember what Mr. Lavery said. But Iknow that when he'd said it I wouldn't have given up either of thosebooks for the world!"
"I hope, Miss Mallory, you won't think of giving them up," said Hugh,with vigor. "It will be an excellent thing for Lavery."
Mrs. Roughsedge, as the habitual peacemaker of the village, said hastilythat Dr. Roughsedge should talk to the Vicar. Of course, he must not beallowed to do anything so foolish as to withdraw from the Club, or theMiss Bertrams either."
"Oh! my goodness," cried Diana, hiding her face--and then raising it,crimson. "The Miss Bertrams, too! Why, it's only six weeks since Ifirst came to this place, and now I'm setting it by the ears!"
Her aspect of mingled mirth and dismay had in it something so childishand disarming that Mrs. Roughsedge could only wish the Vicar had beenthere to see. His heretical parishioner fell into meditation.
"What can I do? If I could only be sure that he would never say thingslike that to me again--"
"But he will!" said Captain Roughsedge. "Don't give in, Miss Mallory."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Roughsedge, as the door opened, "shall we ask Mr.Marsham?"
Diana turned with a startled movement. It was evident that Marsham wasnot expected. But Mrs. Roughsedge also inferred from a shrewdobservation of her hostess that he was not unwelcome. He had, in fact,looked in on his way home from hunting to give a message from hismother; that, at least, was the pretext. Hugh Roughsedge, reading himwith a hostile eye, said to himself that if it hadn't been Lady Lucy itwould have been something else. As it happened, he was quite as wellaware as his mother that Marsham's visits to Beechcote of late had beenfar more frequent than mere neighborliness required.
Marsham was in hunting dress, and made his usual handsome and energeticimpression. Diana treated him with great self-possession, asking afterMr. Ferrier, who had just returned to Tallyn for the last fortnightbefore the opening of Parliament, and betraying to the Roughsedges thatshe was already on intimate terms with Lady Lucy, who was lending herpatterns for her embroidery, driving over once or twice a week, andadvising her about various household affairs. Mrs. Roughsedge, who hadbeen Diana's first protector, saw herself supplanted--not without alittle natural chagrin.
The controversy of the moment was submitted to Marsham, who decidedhotly against the Vicar, and implored Diana to stand firm. But somehowhis intervention only hastened the compunction that had already begun towork in her. She followed the Roughsedges to the door whenthey departed.
"What must I do?" she said, sheepishly, to Mrs. Roughsedge. "Write tohim?"
"The Vicar? Oh, dear Miss Mallory, the doctor will settle it. You_would_-change the books?"
"Mother!" cried Hugh Roughsedge, indignantly, "we're all bullied--youknow we are--and now you want Miss Mallory bullied too."
"'Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow,'" laughed Marsham,in the background, as he stood toying with his tea beside Mrs. Colwood.
Diana shook her head.
"I can't be friends with him," she said, naively, "for a long long time.But I'll rewrite my list. And _must_ I go and call on the Miss Bertramsto-morrow?"
Her mock and smiling submission, as she stood, slender and lovely, amidthe shadows of the hall, seemed to Hugh Roughsedge, as he looked backupon her, the prettiest piece of acting. Then she turned, and he knewthat she was going back to Marsham. At the same moment he saw Mrs.Colwood's little figure disappearing up the main stairway. Frowning andsilent, he followed his mother out of the house.
Diana looked round rather wistfully for Mrs. Colwood as she re-enteredthe room; but that lady had many letters to write.
Marsham noticed Mrs. Colwood's retreat with a thrill of pleasure. Yeteven now he had no immediate declaration in his mind. The course that hehad marked out for himself had been exactly followed. There had been no"hurrying it." Only in these weeks before Parliament, while matters ofgreat moment to his own political future were going forward, and hisparticipation in them was not a whit less cool and keen than it hadalways been, he had still found abundant time for the wooing of Diana.He had assumed a kind of guardian's attitude in the matter of herrelations to the Vavasours--who in business affairs had proved bothgreedy and muddle-headed; he had flattered her woman's vanity by theinsight he had freely allowed her into the possibilities and thedifficulties of his own Parliamentary position, and of his relations toFerrier; and he had kept alive a kind of perpetual interest and flutterin her mind concerning him, by the challenge he was perpetually offeringto the opinions and ideas in which she had been brought up--while yetcombining it with a respect toward her father's memory, so courteous,and, in truth, sincere, that she was alternately roused and subdued.
On this February evening, it seemed to his exultant sense, as Diana satchatting to him beside the fire, that his power with her hadsubstantially advanced, that by a hundred subtle signs--quiteinvoluntary on her part--she let him understand that his personality waspressing upon hers, penetrating her will, transforming her gay andfearless composure.
For instance, he had been lending her books representing his ownpolitical and social opinions. To her they were anathema. Her father'ssoul in her regarded them as forces of the pit, rising in ugly clamor todrag down England from her ancient place. But to hate and shudder atthem from afar had been comparatively easy. To battle with them at closequarters, as presented by this able and courteous antagonist, who passedso easily and without presumption from the opponent into the teacher,was a more teasing matter. She had many small successes andside-victories, but they soon ceased to satisfy her, in presence of theknowledge and ability of a man who had been ten years in Parliament, andhad made for himself--she began to understand--a considerable positionthere. She was hotly loyal to her own faiths; but she was conscious ofwhat often seemed to her a dangerous and demoralizing interest in his! Ademoralizing pleasure, too, in listening--in sometimes laying aside thewatchful, hostile air, in showing herself sweet, yielding, receptive.
These melting moods, indeed, were rare. But no one watching the two onthis February evening could have failed to see in Diana signs ofhappiness, of a joyous and growing dependence, of something that refusedto know itself, that masqueraded now as this feeling, now as that, yetwas all the time stealing upon the sources of life, bewitching blood andbrain. Marsham lamented that in ten days he and his mother must be intown for the Parliamentary season. Diana clearly endeavored to shownothing more than a polite regret. But in the half-laughing,half-forlorn requests she made to him for advice in certain practicalmatters which must be decided in his absence she betrayed herself; andMarsham found it amazingly sweet that she should do so. He said eagerlythat he and Lady Lucy must certainly come down to Tallyn every alternateSunday, so that the various
small matters he had made Diana intrust tohim--the finding of a new gardener; negotiations with the Vavasours,connected with the cutting of certain trees--or the repairs of a ruinousgable of the house--should still be carried forward with all possiblecare and speed. Whereupon Diana inquired how such things could possiblyengage the time and thought of a politician in the full stream ofParliament.
"They will be much more interesting to me," said Marsham, in a lowsteady voice, "than anything I shall be doing in Parliament."
Diana rose, in sudden vague terror--as though with the roar in her earsof rapids ahead--murmured some stammering thanks, walked across theroom, lowered a lamp which was flaming, and recovered all her smilingself-possession. But she talked no more of her own affairs. She askedhim, instead, for news of Miss Vincent.
Marsham answered, with difficulty. If there had been sudden alarm inher, there had been a sudden tumult of the blood in him. He had almostlost his hold upon himself; the great words had been almost spoken.
But when the conversation had been once more guided into normalchannels, he felt that he had escaped a risk. No, no, not yet! One falsestep--one check--and he might still find himself groping in the dark.Better let himself be missed a little!--than move too soon. As toRoughsedge--he had kept his eyes open. There was nothing there.
So he gave what news of Marion Vincent he had to give. She was still inBethnal Green working at her inquiry, often very ill, but quiteindomitable. As soon as Parliament began she had promised to do somesecretarial work for Marsham on two or three mornings a week.
"I saw her last week," said Marsham. "She always asks after you."
"I am so glad! I fell in love with her. Surely"--Dianahesitated--"surely--some day--she will marry Mr. Frobisher?"
Marsham shook his head.
"I think she feels herself too frail."
Diana remembered that little scene of intimacy--of tenderness--andMarsham's words stirred about her, as it were, winds of sadness andrenunciation. She shivered under them a little, feeling, almostguiltily, the glow of her own life, the passion of her own hopes.
Marsham watched her as she sat on the other side of the fire, herbeautiful head a little bent and pensive, the firelight playing on theoval of her cheek. How glad he was that he had not spoken!--that thebarrier between them still held. A man may find heaven or hell on theother side of it. But merely to have crossed it makes life the poorer.One more of the great, the irrevocable moments spent and done--yieldedto devouring time. He hugged the thought that it was still before him.The very timidity and anxiety he felt were delightful to him; he hadnever felt them before. And once more--involuntarily, disagreeably--hethought of Alicia Drake, and of the passages between them in thepreceding summer.
Alicia was still at Tallyn, and her presence was, in truth, a constantembarrassment to him. Lady Lucy, on the contrary, had a strong sense offamily duty toward her young cousin, and liked to have her for longvisits at Tallyn or in London. Marsham believed his mother knew nothingof the old flirtation between them. Alicia, indeed, rarely showed anyspecial interest in him now. He admitted her general discretion. Yetoccasionally she would put in a claim, a light word, now mocking, nowcaressing, which betrayed the old intimacy, and Marsham would winceunder it. It was like a creeping touch in the dark. He had known what itwas to feel both compunction and a kind of fear with regard to Alicia.But, normally, he told himself that both feelings were ridiculous. Hehad done nothing to compromise either himself or her. He had certainlyflirted with Alicia; but he could not honestly feel that the chief partin the matter had been his.
These thoughts passed in a flash. The clock struck, and regretfully hegot up to take his leave. Diana rose, too, with a kindling face.
"My cousin will be here directly!" she said, joyously.
"Shall I find her installed when I come next time?"
"I mean to keep her as long--as long--as ever I can!"
Marsham held her hand close and warm a moment, felt her look waver asecond beneath his, and then, with a quick and resolute step, hewent his way.
He was just putting on his coat in the outer hall when there was a soundof approaching wheels. A carriage stopped at the door, to which thebutler hurried. As he opened it Marsham saw in the light of the porchlamp the face of a girl peering out of the carriage window. It was alittle awkward. His own horse was held by a groom on the other side ofthe carriage. There was nothing to do but to wait till the young ladyhad passed. He drew to one side.
Miss Merton descended. There was just time for Marsham to notice anextravagant hat, smothered in ostrich feathers, a large-featured, ratherhandsome face, framed in a tangled mass of black hair, a pair of sharpeyes that seemed to take in hungrily all they saw--the old hall, thebutler, and himself, as he stood in the shadow. He heard the new guestspeak to the butler about her luggage. Then the door of the inner hallopened, and he caught Diana's hurrying feet, and her cry--
"Fanny!"
He passed the lady and escaped. As he rode away into the darkness of thelanes he was conscious of an impression which had for the moment checkedthe happy flutter of blood and pulse. Was _that_ the long-expectedcousin? Poor Diana! A common-looking, vulgar young woman--with a mostunpleasant voice and accent. An unpleasant manner, too, to theservants--half arrogant, half familiar. What a hat!--and what afringe!--worthy of some young "lidy" in the Old Kent Road! The thoughtof Diana sitting at table with such a person on equal terms pricked himwith annoyance; for he had all his mother's fastidiousness, though itshowed itself in different forms. He blamed Mrs. Colwood--Diana ought tohave been more cautiously guided. The thought of all the tenderpreparation made for the girl was both amusing and repellent.
Miss Merton, he understood, was Diana's cousin on the mother's side--thedaughter of her mother's sister. A swarm of questions suddenly arose inhis mind--questions not hitherto entertained. Had there been, in fact, a_mesalliance_--some disagreeable story--which accounted, perhaps, forthe self-banishment of Mr. Mallory?--the seclusion in which Diana hadbeen brought up? The idea was most unwelcome, but the sight of FannyMerton had inevitably provoked it. And it led on to a good many otherideas and speculations of a mingled sort connected, now with Diana, nowwith recollections, pleasant and unpleasant, of the eight or ten yearswhich had preceded his first sight of her.
For Oliver Marsham was now thirty-six, and he had not reached that agewithout at least one serious attempt--quite apart from any passages withAlicia Drake--to provide himself with a wife. Some two years before thisdate he had proposed to a pretty girl of great family and no money, withwhom he supposed himself ardently in love. She, after some hesitation,had refused him, and Marsham had had some reason to believe that inspite of his mother's great fortune and his own expectations, his_provenance_ had not been regarded as sufficiently aristocratic by thegirl's fond parents. Perhaps had he--and not Lady Lucy--been the ownerof Tallyn and its L18,000 a year, things might have been different. Asit was, Marsham had felt the affront, as a strong and self-confident manwas likely to feel it; and it was perhaps in reaction from it that hehad allowed himself those passages with Alicia Drake which had, atleast, soothed his self-love.
In this affair Marsham had acted on one of the convictions with which hehad entered public life--that there is no greater help to a politicianthan a distinguished, clever, and, if possible, beautiful wife.Distinction, Radical though he was, had once seemed to him a matter offamily and "connection." But after the failure of his first attempt,"family," in the ordinary sense, had ceased to attract him. Personalbreeding, intelligence, and charm--these, after all, are what thepolitician who is already provided with money, wants to secure in hiswife; without, of course, any obvious disqualification in the way offamily history. Diana, as he had first met her among the woods atPortofino, side by side with her dignified and gentlemanly father, hadmade upon him precisely that impression of personal distinction of whichhe was in search--upon his mother also.
The appearance and the accent, however, of the cousin had struck himwith surprise; n
or was it till he was nearing Tallyn that he succeededin shaking off the impression. Absurd! Everybody has some relations thatrequire to be masked--like the stables, or the back door--in a skilfularrangement of life. Diana, his beautiful, unapproachable Diana, wouldsoon, no doubt, be relieved of this young lady, with whom she could haveno possible interests in common. And, perhaps, on one of his week-endvisits to Tallyn and Beechcote, he might get a few minutes' conversationwith Mrs. Colwood which would throw some light on the new guest.
* * * * *
Diana meanwhile, assisted by Mrs. Colwood, was hovering about hercousin. She and Miss Merton had kissed each other in the hall, and thenDiana, seized with a sudden shyness, led her guest into the drawing-roomand stood there speechless, a little; holding her by both hands andgazing at her; mastered by feeling and excitement.
"Well, you _have_ got a queer old place!" said Fanny Merton, withdrawingherself. She turned and looked about her, at the room, the flowers, thewide hearth, with its blazing logs, at Mrs. Colwood, and finallyat Diana.
"We are so fond of it already!" said Diana. "Come and get warm." Shesettled her guest in a chair by the fire, and took a stool beside her."Did you like Devonshire?"
The girl made a little face.
"It was awfully quiet. Oh, my friends, of course, made a lot of fussover me--and that kind of thing. But I wouldn't live there, not ifyou paid me."
"We're very quiet here," said Diana, timidly. She was examining the facebeside her, with its bright crude color, its bold eyes, and sulky mouth,slightly underhung.
"Oh, well, you've got some good families about, I guess. I saw one ortwo awfully smart carriages waiting at the station."
"There are a good many nice people," murmured Diana. "But there is notmuch going on."
"I expect you could invite a good many here if you wanted," said thegirl, once more looking round her. "Whatever made you take this place?"
"I like old things so much," laughed Diana. "Don't you?"
"Well, I don't know. I think there's more style about a new house. Youcan have electric light and all that sort of thing."
Diana admitted it, and changed the subject. "Had the journey been cold?"
Freezing, said Miss Merton. But a young man had lent her his fur coat toput over her knees, which had improved matters. She laughed--ratherconsciously.
"He lives near here. I told him I was sure you'd ask him to something,if he called."
"Who was he?"
With much rattling of the bangles on her wrists, Fanny produced a cardfrom her hand-bag. Diana looked at it in dismay. It was the card of ayoung solicitor whom she had once met at a local tea-party, and decidedto avoid thenceforward.
She said nothing, however, and plunged into inquiries as to her aunt andcousins.
"Oh! they're all right. Mother's worried out of her life about money;but, then, we've always been that poor you couldn't skin a cent off us,so that's nothing new."
Diana murmured sympathy. She knew vaguely that her father had done agood deal to subsidize these relations. She could only suppose that inhis ignorance he had not done enough.
Meanwhile Fanny Merton had fixed her eyes upon Diana with a curioushostile look, almost a stare, which had entered them as she spoke of thefamily poverty, and persisted as they travelled from Diana's face andfigure to the pretty and spacious room beyond. She examined everything,in a swift keen scrutiny, and then as the pouncing glance came back toher cousin, the girl suddenly exclaimed:
"Goodness! but you are like Aunt Sparling!"
Diana flushed crimson. She drew back and said, hurriedly, to Mrs.Colwood:
"Muriel, would you see if they have taken the luggage up-stairs?"
Mrs. Colwood went at once.
Fanny Merton had herself changed color, and looked a little embarrassed.She did not repeat her remark, but began to take her furs off, to smoothher hair deliberately, and settle her bracelets. Diana came nearer toher as soon as they were alone.
"Do you really think I am like mamma?" she said, tremulously, all hereyes fixed upon her cousin.
"Well, of course I never saw her!" said Miss Merton, looking down at thefire. "How could I? But mother has a picture of her, and you're as likeas two peas."
"I never saw any picture of mamma," said Diana; "I don't know at allwhat she was like."
"Ah, well--" said Miss Merton, still looking down. Then she stopped, andsaid no more. She took out her handkerchief, and began to rub a spot ofmud off her dress. It seemed to Diana that her manner was a littlestrange, and rather rude. But she had made up her mind there would bepeculiarities in Fanny, and she did not mean to be repelled by them.
"Shall I take you to your room?" she said. "You must be tired, and weshall be dining directly."
Miss Merton allowed herself to be led up-stairs, looking curiously roundher at every step.
"I say, you must be well off!" she burst out, as they came to the headof the stairs, "or you'd never be able to run a place like this!"
"Papa left me all his money," said Diana, coloring again. "I hope hewouldn't have thought it extravagant."
She passed on in front of her guest, holding a candle. Fanny Mertonfollowed. At Diana's statement as to her father's money the girl's facehad suddenly resumed its sly hostility. And as Diana walked before her,Miss Merton again examined the house, the furniture, the pictures; butthis time, and unknown to Diana, with the air of one half jealous andhalf contemptuous of all she saw.
Part II
"_The soberest saints are more stiff-necked Than the hottest-headed of the wicked._"
The Testing of Diana Mallory Page 6
