Chapter 10

"I thought I'd perhaps better let you know--I'm--well, I'm going to have a talk with Diana this morning!"

The voice was determined. Muriel Colwood--startled and dismayed--surveyed the speaker. She had been waylaid on the threshold of her room. The morning was half-way through. Visitors, including Mr. Fred Birch, were expected to lunch, and Miss Merton, who had been lately invisible, had already, she saw, changed her dress. At breakfast, it seemed to Mrs. Colwood, she had been barely presentable: untidy hair, a dress with various hooks missing, and ruffles much in need of washing. Muriel could only suppose that the carelessness of her attire was meant to mark the completeness of her conquest of Beechcote. But now her gown of scarlet velveteen, her arms bare to the elbow, her frizzled and curled hair, the powder which gave a bluish white to her complexion, the bangles and beads which adorned her, showed her armed to the last pin for the encounters of the luncheon-table.

Mrs. Colwood, however, after a first dazzled look at what she wore, thought only of what she said. She hurriedly drew the girl into her own room, and shut the door. When, after some conversation, Fanny emerged, Mrs. Colwood was left in a state of agitation that was partly fear, partly helpless indignation. During the fortnight since Miss Merton's arrival all the energies of the house had been devoted to her amusement. A little whirlwind of dissipation had blown through the days. Two meets, a hockey-match, a concert at the neighboring town, a dinner-party and various "drums," besides a luncheon-party and afternoon tea at Beechcote itself in honor of the guest--Mrs. Colwood thought the girl might have been content! But she had examined everything presented to her with a very critical eye, and all through it had been plain that she was impatient and dissatisfied; for, inevitably, her social success was not great. Diana, on the other hand, was still a new sensation, and something of a queen wherever she went. Her welcoming eyes, her impetuous smile drew a natural homage; and Fanny followed sulkily in her wake, accepted--not without surprise--as Miss Mallory's kinswoman, but distinguished by no special attentions.

In any case, she would have rebelled against the situation. Her vanity was amazing, her temper violent. At home she had been treated as a beauty, and had ruled the family with a firm view to her own interests. What in Alicia Drake was disguised by a thousand subleties of class and training was here seen in its crudest form. But there was more besides--miserably plain now to this trembling spectator. The resentment of Diana's place in life, as of something robbed, not earned--the scarcely concealed claim either to share it or attack it--these things were no longer riddles to Muriel Colwood. Rather they were the storm-signs of a coming tempest, already darkening above an innocent head.

What could she do? The little lady gave her days and nights to the question, and saw no way out. Sometimes she hoped that Diana's personality had made an impression on this sinister guest; she traced a grudging consciousness in Fanny of her cousin's generosity and charm. But this perception only led to fresh despondency. Whenever Fanny softened, it showed itself in a claim to intimacy, as sudden and as violent as her ill-temper. She must be Diana's first and dearest--be admitted to all Diana's secrets and friendships. Then on Diana's side, inevitable withdrawal, shrinking, self-defence--and on Fanny's a hotter and more acrid jealousy.

Meanwhile, as Mrs. Colwood knew, Diana had been engaged in correspondence with her solicitors, who had been giving her some prudent and rather stringent advice on the subject of income and expenditure. This morning, so Mrs. Colwood believed, a letter had arrived.

Presently she stole out of her room to the head of the stairs. There she remained, pale and irresolute, for a little while, listening to the sounds in the house. But the striking of the hall clock, the sighing of a stormy wind round the house, and, occasionally, a sound of talking in the drawing-room, was all she heard.

* * * * *

Diana had been busy in the hanging of some last pictures in the drawing-room--photographs from Italian pictures and monuments. They had belonged to her father, and had been the dear companions of her childhood. Each, as she handled it, breathed its own memory; of the little villa on the Portofino road, with its green shutters, and rooms closed against the sun; or of the two short visits to Lucca and Florence she had made with her father.

Among the photographs was one of the "Annunciation" by Donatello, which glorifies the southern wall of Santa Croce. Diana had just hung it in a panelled corner, where its silvery brilliance on dark wood made a point of pleasure for the eye. She lingered before it, wondering whether it would please _him_ when he came. Unconsciously her life had slipped into this habit of referring all its pains and pleasures to the unseen friend--holding with him that constant dialogue of the heart without which love neither begins nor grows.

Yet she no longer dreamed of discussing Fanny, and the perplexities Fanny had let loose on Beechcote, with the living Marsham. Money affairs must be kept to one's self; and somehow Fanny's visit had become neither more nor less than a money affair.

That morning Diana had received a letter from old Mr. Riley, the head of the firm of Riley & Bonner--a letter which was almost a lecture. If the case were indeed urgent, said Mr. Riley, if the money must be found, she could, of course, borrow on her securities, and the firm would arrange it for her. But Mr. Riley, excusing himself as her father's old friend, wrote with his own hand to beg her to consider the matter further. Her expenses had lately been many, and some of her property might possibly decline in value during the next few years. A prudent management of her affairs was really essential. Could not the money be gradually saved out of income?

Diana colored uncomfortably as she thought of the letter. What did the dear old man suppose she wanted the money for? It hurt her pride that she must appear in this spendthrift light to eyes so honest and scrupulous.

But what could she do? Fanny poured out ugly reports of her mother's financial necessities to Muriel Colwood; Mrs. Colwood repeated them to Diana. And the Mertons were Diana's only kinsfolk. The claim of blood pressed her hard.

Meanwhile, with a shrinking distaste, she had tried to avoid the personal discussion of the matter with Fanny. The task of curbing the girl's impatience, day after day, had fallen to Mrs. Colwood.

Diana was still standing in a reverie before the "Annunciation" when the drawing-room door opened. As she looked round her, she drew herself sharply together with the movement of a sudden and instinctive antipathy.

"That's all right," said Fanny Merton, surveying the room with satisfaction, and closing the door behind her. "I thought I'd find you alone."

Diana remained nervously standing before the picture, awaiting her cousin, her eyes wider than usual, one hand at her throat.

"Look here," said Fanny, approaching her, "I want to talk to you."

Diana braced herself. "All right." She threw a look at the clock. "Just give me time to get tidy before lunch."

"Oh, there's an hour--time enough!"

Diana drew forward an arm-chair for Fanny, and settled herself into the corner of a sofa. Her dog jumped up beside her, and laid his nose on her lap.

Fanny held herself straight. Her color under the powder had heightened a little. The two girls confronted each other, and, vaguely, perhaps, each felt the strangeness of the situation. Fanny was twenty, Diana twenty-three. They were of an age when girls are generally under the guidance or authority of their elders; comparatively little accustomed, in the normal family, to discuss affairs or take independent decisions. Yet here they met, alone and untrammelled; as hostess and guest in the first place; as kinswomen, yet comparative strangers to each other, and conscious of a secret dislike, each for the other. On the one side, an exultant and partly cruel consciousness of power; on the other, feelings of repugnance and revolt, only held in check by the forces of a tender and scrupulous nature.

Fanny cleared her throat.

"Well, of course, Mrs. Colwood's told me all you've been saying to her. And I don't say I'm surprised."

Diana opened her large eyes.

"Surprised at what?"

"Surprised--well!--surprised you didn't see your way all at once, and that kind of thing. I know I'd want to ask a lot of questions--shouldn't I, just! Why, that's what I expected. But, you see, my time in England's getting on. I've nothing to say to my people, and they bother my life out every mail."

"What did you really come to England for?" said Diana, in a low voice. Her attitude, curled up among the cushions of the sofa, gave her an almost childish air. Fanny, on the other hand, resplendent in her scarlet dress and high coiffure, might have been years older than her cousin. And any stranger watching the face in which the hardness of an "old campaigner" already strove with youth, would have thought her, and not Diana, the mistress of the house.

At Diana's question, Fanny's eyes flickered a moment.

"Oh, well, I had lots of things in my mind. But it was the money that mattered most."

"I see," murmured Diana.

Fanny fidgeted a little with one of the three bead necklaces which adorned her. Then she broke out:

"Look here, Diana, you've never been poor in your life, so you don't know what it's like being awfully hard up. But ever since father died, mother's had a frightful lot of trouble--all of us to keep, and the boys' schooling to pay, and next to nothing to do it on. Father left everything in a dreadful muddle. He never had a bit of sense--"

Diana made a sudden movement. Fanny looked at her astonished, expecting her to speak. Diana, however, said nothing, and the girl resumed:

"I mean, in business. He'd got everything into a shocking state, and instead of six hundred a year for us--as we'd always been led on to expect--well, there wasn't three! Then, you know, Uncle Mallory used to send us money. Well" (she cleared her throat again and looked away from Diana), "about a year before he died he and father fell out about something--so _that_ didn't come in any more. Then we thought perhaps he'd remember us in his will. And that was another disappointment. So, you see, really mother didn't know where to turn."

"I suppose papa thought he had done all he could," said Diana, in a voice which tried to keep quite steady. "He never denied any claim he felt just. I feel I must say that, because you seem to blame papa. But, of course, I am very sorry for Aunt Bertha."

At the words "claim" and "just" there was a quick change of expression in Fanny's eyes. She broke out angrily: "Well, you really don't know about it, Diana, so it's no good talking. And I'm not going to rake up old things--"

"But if I don't know," said Diana, interrupting, "hadn't you better tell me? Why did papa and Uncle Merton disagree? And why did you think papa ought to have left you money?" She bent forward insistently. There was a dignity--perhaps also a touch of haughtiness--in her bearing which exasperated the girl beside her. The haughtiness was that of one who protects the dead. But Fanny's mind was not one that perceived the finer shades.

"Well, I'm not going to say!" said Fanny, with vehemence. "But I can tell you, mother _has_ a claim!--and Uncle Mallory _ought_ to have left us something!"

The instant the words were out she regretted them. Diana abandoned her childish attitude. She drew herself together, and sat upright on the edge of the sofa. The color had come flooding back hotly into her cheeks, and the slightly frowning look produced by the effort to see the face before her distinctly gave a peculiar intensity to the eyes.

"Fanny, please!--you must tell me why!"

The tone, resolute, yet appealing, put Fanny in an evident embarrassment.

"Well, I can't," she said, after a moment--"so it's no good asking me." Then suddenly, she hesitated--"or--at least--"

"At least what? Please go on."

Fanny wriggled again, then said, with a burst:

"Well, my mother was Aunt Sparling's younger sister--you know that--don't you?--"

"Of course."

"And our grandfather died a year before Aunt Sparling. She was mother's trustee. Oh, the money's all right--the trust money, I mean," said the girl, hastily. "But it was a lot of other things--that mother says grandpapa always meant to divide between her and Aunt Sparling--and she never had them--nor a farthing out of them!"

"What other things? I don't understand."

"Jewels!--there!--jewels--and a lot of plate. Mother says she had a right to half the things that belonged to her mother. Grandpapa always told her she should have them. And there wasn't a word about them in the will."

"_I_ haven't any diamonds," said Diana, quietly, "or any jewels at all, except a string of pearls papa gave me when I was nineteen, and two or three little things we bought in Florence."

Fanny Merton grew still redder; she stared aggressively at her cousin:

"Well--that was because--Aunt Sparling sold all the things!"

Diana started and recoiled.

"You mean," she said--her breath fluttering--"that--mamma sold things she had no right to--and never gave Aunt Bertha the money!"

The restrained passion of her look had an odd effect upon her companion. Fanny first wavered under it, then laughed--a laugh that was partly perplexity, partly something else, indecipherable.

"Well, as I wasn't born then, I don't know. You needn't be cross with me, Diana; I didn't mean to say any harm of anybody. But--mother says"--she laid an obstinate stress on each word--"that she remembers quite well--grandpapa meant her to have: a diamond necklace; a _rivière_" (she began to check the items off on her fingers)--"there were two, and of course Aunt Sparling had the best; two bracelets, one with turquoises and one with pearls; a diamond brooch; an opal pendant; a little watch set with diamonds grandma used to wear; and then a lot of plate! Mother wrote me out a list--I've got it here."

She opened a beaded bag on her wrist, took out half a sheet of paper, and handed it to Diana.

Diana looked at it in silence. Even her lips were white, and her fingers shook.

"Did you ever send this to papa?" she asked, after a minute.

Fanny fidgeted again.

"Yes."

"And what did he say? Have you got his letter?"

"No; I haven't got his letter."

"Did he admit that--that mamma had done this?"

Fanny hesitated: but her intelligence, which was of a simple kind, did not suggest to her an ingenious line of reply.

"Well, I dare say he didn't. But that doesn't make any difference."

"Was that what he and Uncle Merton quarrelled about?"

Fanny hesitated again; then broke out: "Father only did what he ought--he asked for what was owed mother!"

"And papa wouldn't give it!" cried Diana, in a strange note of scorn; "papa, who never could rest if he owed a farthing to anybody--who always overpaid everybody--whom everybody--"

She rose suddenly with a bitten lip. Her eyes blazed--and her cheeks. She walked to the window and stood looking out, in a whirlwind of feeling and memory, hiding her face as best she could from the girl who sat watching her with an expression half sulky, half insolent. Diana was thinking of moments--recalling forgotten fragments of dialogue--in the past, which showed her father's opinion of his Barbadoes brother-in-law: "A grasping, ill-bred fellow"--"neither gratitude, nor delicacy"--"has been the evil genius of his wife, and will be the ruin of his children." She did not believe a word of Fanny's story--not a word of it!

She turned impetuously. Then, as her eyes met Fanny's, a shock ran through her--the same sudden, inexplicable fear which had seized on Mrs. Colwood, only more sickening, more paralyzing. And it was a fear which ran back to and linked itself with the hour of heart-searching in the wood. What was Fanny thinking of?--what was in her mind--on her lips? Impulses she could not have defined, terrors to which she could give no name, crept over Diana's will and disabled it. She trembled from head to foot--and gave way.

She walked up to her cousin.

"Fanny, is there any letter--anything of grandpapa's--or of my mother's--that you could show me?"

"No! It was a promise, I tell you--there was no writing. But my mother could swear to it."

The girl faced her cousin without flinching. Diana sat down again, white and tremulous, the moment of energy, of resistance, gone. In a wavering voice she began to explain that she had, in fact, been inquiring into her affairs, that the money was not actually at her disposal, that to provide it would require an arrangement with her bankers, and the depositing of some securities; but that, before long, it should be available.

Fanny drew a long breath. She had not expected the surrender. Her eyes sparkled, and she began to stammer thanks.

"Don't!" said Diana, putting out a hand. "If I owe it you--and I take it on your word--the money shall be paid--that's all. Only--only, I wish you had not written to me like that; and I ask that--that--you will never, please, speak to me about it again!"

She had risen, and was standing, very tall and rigid, her hands pressing against each other.

Fanny's face clouded.

"Very well," she said, as she rose from her seat, "I'm sure I don't want to talk about it. I didn't like the job a bit--nor did mother. But if you are poor--and somebody owes you something--you can't help trying to get it--that's all!"

Diana said nothing. She went to the writing-table and began to arrange some letters. Fanny looked at her.

"I say, Diana!--perhaps you won't want me to stay here after--You seem to have taken against me."

Diana turned.

"No," she said, faintly. Then, with a little sob: "I thought of nothing but your coming."

Fanny flushed.

"Well, of course you've been very kind to me--and all that sort of thing. I wasn't saying you hadn't been. Except--Well, no, there's one thing I _do_ think you've been rather nasty about!"

The girl threw back her head defiantly.

Diana's pale face questioned her.

"I was talking to your maid yesterday," said Fanny, slowly, "and she says you're going to stay at some smart place next week, and you've been getting a new dress for it. And you've never said a _word_ to me about it--let alone ask me to go with you!"

Diana looked at her amazed.

"You mean--I'm going to Tallyn!"

"That's it," said Fanny, reproachfully. "And you know I don't get a lot of fun at home--and I might as well be seeing people--and going about with you--though I do have to play second fiddle. You're rich, of course--everybody's nice to you--"

She paused. Diana, struck dumb, could find, for the moment, nothing to say. The red named in Fanny's cheeks, and she turned away with a flounce.

"Oh, well, you'd better say it at once--you're ashamed of me! I haven't had your blessed advantages! Do you think I don't know that!"

In the girl's heightened voice and frowning brow there was a touch of fury, of goaded pride, that touched Diana with a sudden remorse. She ran toward her cousin--appealing:

"I'm _very_ sorry, Fanny. I--I don't like to leave you--but they are my great friends--and Lady Lucy, though she's very kind, is very old-fashioned. One couldn't take the smallest liberty with her. I don't think I could ask to take you--when they are quite by themselves--and the house is only half mounted. But Mrs. Colwood and I had been thinking of several things that might amuse you--and I shall only be two nights away."

"I don't want any amusing--thanks!" said Fanny, walking to the door.

She closed it behind her. Diana clasped her hands overhead in a gesture of amazement.

"To quarrel with me about that--after--the other thing!"

No!--not Tallyn!--not Tallyn!--anywhere, anything, but that!

Was she proud?--snobbish? Her eyes filled with tears, but her will hardened. What was to be gained? Fanny would not like them, nor they her.

* * * * *

The luncheon-party had been arranged for Mr. Birch, Fanny's train acquaintance. Diana had asked the Roughsedges, explaining the matter, with a half-deprecating, half-humorous face, to the comfortable ear of Mrs. Roughsedge. Explanation was necessary, for this particular young man was only welcome in those houses of the neighborhood which were not socially dainty. Mrs. Roughsedge understood at once--laughed heartily--accepted with equal heartiness--and then, taking Diana's hand, she said, with a shining of her gray eye:

"My dear, if you want Henry and me to stand on our heads we will attempt it with pleasure. You are an angel!--and angels are not to be worried by solicitors."

The first part of which remark referred to a certain morning after Hugh's announcement of his appointment to the Nigerian expedition, when Diana had shown the old people a sweet and daughter-like sympathy, which had entirely won whatever portion of their hearts remained still to be captured.

Hugh, meanwhile, was not yet gone, though he was within a fortnight of departure. He was coming to luncheon, with his parents, in order to support Diana. The family had seen Miss Merton some two or three times, and were all strongly of opinion that Diana very much wanted supporting. "Why should one be civil to one's cousin?" Dr. Roughsedge inquired of his wife. "If they are nice, let them stand on their own merits. If not, they are disagreeable people who know a deal too much about you. Miss Diana should have consulted me!"

The Roughsedges arrived early, and found Diana alone in the drawing-room. Again Captain Roughsedge thought her pale, and was even sure that she had lost flesh. This time it was hardly possible to put these symptoms down to Marsham's account. He chafed under the thought that he should be no longer there in case a league, offensive and defensive, had in the end to be made with Mrs. Colwood for the handling of cousins. It was quite clear that Miss Fanny was a vulgar little minx, and that Beechcote would have no peace till it was rid of her. Meanwhile, the indefinable change which had come over his mother's face, during the preceding week, had escaped even the quick eyes of an affectionate son. Alas! for mothers--when Lalage appears!

Mr. Birch arrived to the minute, and when he was engaged in affable conversation with Diana, Fanny, last of the party--the door being ceremoniously thrown open by the butler--entered, with an air. Mr. Birch sprang effusively to his feet, and there was a noisy greeting between him and his travelling companion. The young man was slim, and effeminately good-looking. His frock-coat and gray trousers were new and immaculate; his small feet were encased in shining patent-leather boots, and his blue eyes gave the impression of having been carefully matched with his tie. He was evidently delighted to find himself at Beechcote, and it might have been divined that there was a spice of malice in his pleasure. The Vavasours had always snubbed him; Miss Mallory herself had not been over-polite to him on one or two occasions; but her cousin was a "stunner," and, secure in Fanny's exuberant favor, he made himself quite at home. Placed on Diana's left at table, he gave her much voluble information about her neighbors, mostly ill-natured; he spoke familiarly of "that clever chap Marsham," as of a politician who owed his election for the division entirely to the good offices of Mr. Fred Birch's firm, and described Lady Lucy as "an old dear," though very "frowsty" in her ideas. He was strongly of opinion that Marsham should find an heiress as soon as possible, for there was no saying how "long the old lady would see him out of his money," and everybody knew that at present "she kept him beastly short." "As for me," the speaker wound up, with an engaging and pensive _naïveté_, "I've talked to him till I'm tired."

At last he was headed away from Tallyn and its owners, only to fall into a rapturous debate with Fanny over a racing bet which seemed to have been offered and taken on the journey which first made them acquainted. Fanny had lost, but the young man gallantly excused her.

"No--no, couldn't think of it! Not till next time. Then--my word!--I'll come down upon you--won't I? Teach you to know your way about--eh?"

Loud laughter from Fanny, who professed to know her way about already. They exchanged "tips"--until at last Mr. Birch, lost in admiration of his companion, pronounced her a "ripper"--he had never yet met a lady so well up--"why, you know as much as a man!"

Dr. Roughsedge meanwhile observed the type. The father, an old-fashioned steady-going solicitor, had sent the son to expensive schools, and allowed him two years at Oxford, until the College had politely requested the youth's withdrawal. The business was long established, and had been sound. This young man had now been a partner in it for two years, and the same period had seen the rise to eminence of another and hitherto obscure firm in the county town. Mr. Fred Birch spoke contemptuously of the rival firm as "smugs"; but the district was beginning to intrust its wills and mortgages to the "smugs" with a sad and increasing alacrity.

There were, indeed, some secret discomforts in the young man's soul; and while he sported with Fanny he did not forget business. The tenant of Beechcote was, _ipso facto_, of some social importance, and Diana was reported to be rich; the Roughsedges also, though negligible financially, were not without influence in high places; and the doctor was governor of an important grammar-school recently revived and reorganized, wherewith the Birches would have been glad to be officially connected. He therefore made himself agreeable.

"You read, sir, a great deal?" he said to the doctor, with a professional change of voice.

The doctor, who, like most great men, was a trifle greedy, was silently enjoying a dish of oysters delicately rolled in bacon. He looked up at his questioner.

"A great deal, Mr. Birch."

"Everything, in fact?"

"Everything--except, of course, what is indispensable."

Mr. Birch looked puzzled.

"I heard of you from the Duchess, doctor. She says you are one of the most learned men in England."

"The Duchess?" The doctor screwed up his eyes and looked round the table.

Mr. Birch, with complacency, named the wife of a neighboring potentate who owned half the county.

"Don't know her," said the doctor--"don't know her; and--excuse the barbarity--don't wish to know her."

"Oh, but so charming!" cried Mr. Birch--"and so kind!"

The doctor shook his head, and declared that great ladies were not to his taste. "Poodles, sir, poodles! 'fed on cream and muffins!'--there is no trusting them."

"Poodles!" said Fanny, in astonishment. "Why are duchesses like poodles?"

The doctor bowed to her.

"I give it up, Miss Merton. Ask Sydney Smith."

Fanny was mystified, and the sulky look appeared.

"Well, I know I should like to be a duchess. Why shouldn't one want to be a duchess?"

"Why not indeed?" said the doctor, helping himself to another oyster. "That's why they exist."

"I suppose you're teasing," said Fanny, rather crossly.

"I am quite incapable of it," protested the doctor. "Shall we not all agree that duchesses exist for the envy and jealousy of mankind?"

"Womankind?" put in Diana. The doctor smiled at her, and finished his oyster. Brave child! Had that odious young woman been behaving in character that morning? He would like to have the dealing with her! As for Diana, her face reminded him of Cowper's rose "just washed by a shower"--delicately fresh--yet eloquent of some past storm.--Good Heavens! Where was that fellow Marsham? Philandering with politics?--when there was this flower for the gathering!

* * * * *

Luncheon was half-way through when a rattling sound of horses' hoofs outside drew the attention of the table.

"Somebody else coming to lunch," said Mr. Birch. "Sorry for 'em, Miss Mallory. We haven't left 'em much. You've done us so uncommon well."

Diana herself looked in some alarm round the table.

"Plenty, my dear lady, plenty!" said the doctor, on her other hand. "Cold beef, and bread and cheese--what does any mortal want more? Don't disturb yourself."

Diana wondered who the visitors might be. The butler entered.

"Sir James Chide, ma'am, and Miss Drake. They have ridden over from Overton Park, and didn't think it was so far. They told me to say they didn't wish to disturb you at luncheon, and might they have a cup of coffee?"

Diana excused herself, and hurried out. Mr. Birch explained at length to Mrs. Colwood and Fanny that Overton Park belonged to the Judge, Sir William Felton; that Sir James Chide was often there; and no doubt Miss Drake had been invited for the ball of the night before; awfully smart affair!--the coming-out ball of the youngest daughter.

"Who is Miss Drake?" asked Fanny, thinking enviously of the ball, to which she had not been invited. Mr. Birch turned to her with confidential jocosity.

"Lady Lucy Marsham's cousin; and it is generally supposed that she might by now have been something else but for--"

He nodded toward the chair at the head of the table which Diana had left vacant.

"Whatever do you mean?" said Fanny. The Marshams to her were, so far, mere shadows. They represented rich people on the horizon whom Diana selfishly wished to keep to herself.

"I'm telling tales, I declare I am!" said Mr. Birch. "Haven't you seen Mr. Oliver Marsham yet, Miss Merton?"

"No. I don't know anything about him."

"Ah!" said Mr. Birch, smiling, and peeling an apple with deliberation.

Fanny flushed.

"Is there anything up--between him and Diana?" she said in his ear.

Mr. Birch smiled again.

"I saw old Mr. Vavasour the other day--clients of ours, you understand. A close-fisted old boy, Miss Merton. They imagined they'd get a good deal out of your cousin. But not a bit of it. Oliver Marsham does all her business for her. The Vavasours don't like it, I can tell you."

"I haven't seen either him or Lady Lucy--is that her name?--since I came."

"Let me see. You came about a fortnight ago--just when Parliament reassembled. Mr. Marsham is our member. He and Lady Lucy went up to town the day before Parliament met."

"And what about Miss Drake?"

"Ah!--poor Miss Drake!" Mr. Birch raised a humorous eyebrow. "Those little things will happen, won't they? It was just at Christmas, I understand, that your cousin paid her first visit to Tallyn. A man who was shooting there told me all about it."

"And Miss Drake was there too?"

Mr. Birch nodded.

"And Diana cut her out?" said Fanny, bending toward him eagerly.

Mr. Birch smiled again. Voices were heard in the hall, but before the new guests entered, the young man put up a finger to his lips:

"Don't you quote me, please, Miss Merton. But, I can tell you, your cousin's very high up in the running just now. And Oliver Marsham will have twenty thousand a year some day if he has a penny. Miss Mallory hasn't told you anything--hasn't she? Ha--ha! Still waters, you know--still waters!"

* * * * *

A few minutes later Sir James Chide was seated between Diana and Fanny Merton, Mr. Birch having obligingly vacated his seat and passed to the other side of the table, where his attempts at conversation were coldly received by Miss Drake. That young lady dazzled the eyes of Fanny, who sat opposite to her. The closely fitting habit and black riding-hat gave to her fine figure and silky wealth of hair the maximum of effect. Fanny perfectly understood that only money and fashion could attain to Miss Drake's costly simplicity. She envied her from the bottom of her heart; she would have given worlds to see the dress in which she had figured at the ball. Miss Drake, no doubt, went to two or three balls a week, and could spend anything she liked upon her clothes.

Yet Diana had cut her out--Diana was to carry off the prize! Twenty thousand a year! Fanny's mind was in a ferment--the mind of a raw and envious provincial, trained to small ambitions and hungry desires. Half an hour before, she had been writing a letter home, in a whirl of delight and self-glorification. The money Diana had promised would set the whole family on its legs, and Fanny had stipulated that after the debts were paid she was to have a clear, cool hundred for her own pocket, and no nonsense about it. It was she who had done it all, and if it hadn't been for her, they might all have gone to the workhouse. But now her success was to her as dross. The thought of Diana's future wealth and glory produced in her a feeling which was an acute physical distress. So Diana was to be married!--and to the great _parti_ of the neighborhood! Fanny already saw her in the bridal white, surrounded by glittering bridesmaids; and a churchful of titled people, bowing before her as she passed in state, like poppies under a breeze.

And Diana had never said a word to her about it--to her own cousin! Nasty, close, mean ways! Fanny was not good enough for Tallyn--oh no! _She_ was asked to Beechcote when there was nothing going on--or next to nothing--and one might yawn one's self to sleep with dulness from morning till night. But as soon as she was safely packed off, then there would be fine times, no doubt; the engagement would be announced; the presents would begin to come in; the bridesmaids would be chosen. But she would get nothing out of it--not she; she would not be asked to be bridesmaid. She was not genteel enough for Diana.

Diana--_Diana_!--the daughter--

Fanny's whole nature gathered itself as though for a spring upon some prey, at once tempting and exasperating. In one short fortnight the inbred and fated antagonism between the two natures had developed itself--on Fanny's side--to the point of hatred. In the depths of her being she knew that Diana had yearned to love her, and had not been able. That failure was not her crime, but Diana's.

Fanny looked haughtily round the table. How many of them knew what she knew? Suddenly a name recurred to her!--the name announced by the butler and repeated by Mr. Birch. At the moment she had been thinking of other things; it had roused no sleeping associations. But now the obscure under-self sent it echoing through the brain. Fanny caught her breath. The sudden excitement made her head swim.--She turned and looked at the white-haired elderly man sitting between her and Diana.

Sir James Chide!

Memories of the common gossip in her home, of the talk of the people on the steamer, of pages in that volume of _Famous Trials_ she had studied on the voyage with such a close and unsavory curiosity danced through the girl's consciousness. Well, _he_ knew! No good pretending there. And he came to see Diana--and still Diana knew nothing! Mrs. Colwood must simply be telling lies--silly lies! Fanny glanced at her with contempt.

Yet so bewildered was she that when Sir James addressed her, she stared at him in what seemed a fit of shyness. And when she began to talk it was at random, for her mind was in a tumult. But Sir James soon divined her. Vulgarity, conceit, ill-breeding--the great lawyer detected them in five minutes' conversation. Nor were they unexpected; for he was well acquainted with Miss Fanny's origins. Yet the perception of them made the situation still more painfully interesting to him, and no less mysterious than before. For he saw no substantial change in it; and he was, in truth, no less perplexed than Fanny. If certain things had happened in consequence of Miss Merton's advent, neither he nor any other guest would be sitting at Diana Mallory's table that day; of that he was morally certain. Therefore, they had not happened.

He returned with a redoubled tenderness of feeling to his conversation with Diana. He had come to Overton for the Sunday, at great professional inconvenience, for nothing in the world but that he must pay this visit to Beechcote; and he had approached the house with dread--dread lest he should find a face stricken with the truth. That dread was momentarily lifted, for in those beautiful dark eyes of Diana innocence and ignorance were still written; but none the less he trembled for her; he saw her as he had seen her at Tallyn, a creature doomed, and consecrate to pain. Why, in the name of justice and pity, had her father done this thing? So it is that a man's love, for lack of a little simple courage and common-sense, turns to cruelty.

Poor, poor child!--At first sight he, like the Roughsedges, had thought her pale and depressed. Then he had given his message. "Marsham has arrived!--turned up at Overton a couple of hours ago--and told us to say he would follow us here after luncheon. He wired to Lady Felton this morning to ask if she would take him in for the Sunday. Some big political meeting he had for to-night is off. Lady Lucy stays in town--and Tallyn is shut up. But Lady Felton was, of course, delighted to get him. He arrived about noon. Civility to his hostess kept him to luncheon--then he pursues us!"

Since then!--no lack of sparkle in the eyes or color in the cheek! Yet even so, to Sir James's keen sense, there was an increase, a sharpening, in Diana's personality, of the wistful, appealing note, which had been always touching, always perceptible, even through the radiant days of her Tallyn visit.

Ah, well!--like Dr. Roughsedge, only with a far deeper urgency, he, too, for want of any better plan, invoked the coming lover. In God's name, let Marsham take the thing into his own hands!--stand on his own feet!--dissipate a nightmare which ought never to have arisen--and gather the girl to his heart.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Fanny's attention--and the surging anger of her thoughts--were more and more directed upon the girl with the fair hair opposite. A natural bond of sympathy seemed somehow to have arisen between her and this Miss Drake--Diana's victim. Alicia Drake, looking up, was astonished, time after time, to find herself stared at by the common-looking young woman across the table, who was, she understood, Miss Mallory's cousin. What dress, and what manners! One did not often meet that kind of person in society. She wished Oliver joy of his future relations.

* * * * *

In the old panelled drawing-room the coffee was circulating. Sir James was making friends with Mrs. Colwood, whose gentle looks and widow's dress appealed to him. Fanny, Miss Drake, and Mr. Birch made a group by the fireplace; Mr. Birch was posing as an authority on the drama; Fanny, her dark eyes fixed upon Alicia, was not paying much attention; and Alicia, with ill-concealed impatience, was yawning behind her glove. Hugh Roughsedge was examining the Donatello photograph.

"Do you like it?" said Diana, standing beside him. She was conscious of having rather neglected him at lunch, and there was a dancing something in her own heart which impelled her to kindness and compunction. Was not the good, inarticulate youth, too, going out into the wilds, his life in his hands, in the typical English way? The soft look in her eyes which expressed this mingled feeling did not mislead the recipient. He had overheard Sir James Glide's message; he understood her.

Presently, Mrs. Roughsedge, seeing that it was a sunny day and the garden looked tempting, asked to be allowed to inspect a new greenhouse that Diana was putting up. The door leading out of the drawing-room to the moat and the formal garden was thrown open; cloaks and hats were brought, and the guests streamed out.

"You are not coming?" said Hugh Roughsedge to Diana.

At this question he saw a delicate flush, beyond her control, creep over her cheek and throat.

"I--I am expecting Mr. Marsham," she said. "Perhaps I ought to stay."

Sir James Chide looked at his watch.

"He should be here any minute. We will overtake you, Captain Roughsedge."

Hugh went off beside Mrs. Colwood. Well, well, it was all plain enough! It was only a fortnight since the Marshams had gone up to town for the Parliamentary season. And here he was, again upon the scene. Impossible, evidently, to separate them longer. Let them only get engaged, and be done with it! He stalked on beside Mrs. Colwood, tongue-tied and miserable.

Meanwhile, Sir James lingered with Diana. "A charming old place!" he said, looking about him. "But Marsham tells me the Vavasours have been odious."

"We have got the better of them! Mr. Marsham helped me."

"He has an excellent head, has Oliver. This year he will have special need of it. It will be a critical time for him."

Diana gave a vague assent. She had, in truth, two recent letters from Marsham in her pocket at that moment, giving a brilliant and minute account of the Parliamentary situation. But she hid the fact, warm and close, like a brooding bird; only drawing on her companion to talk politics, that she might hear Marsham's name sometimes, and realize the situation Marsham had described to her, from another point of view.--And all the time her ear listened for the sound of hoofs, and for the front door bell.

At last! The peal echoed through the old house. Sir James rose, and, instinctively, Diana rose too. Was there a smile--humorous and tender--in the lawyer's blue eyes?

"I'll go and finish my cigarette out-of-doors. Such a tempting afternoon!"

And out he hurried, before Diana could stop him. She remained standing, with soft hurrying breath, looking out into the garden. On a lower terrace she saw Fanny and Alicia Drake walking together, and could not help a little laugh of amusement that seemed to come out of a heart of content. Then the door opened, and Marsham was there.