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 f.a.n.n.y, and the perplexities f.a.n.n.y had let loose on Beechcote, with the living Marsham. Money affairs must be kept to one"s self; and somehow f.a.n.n.y"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? f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y. 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y, 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 f.a.n.n.y, and settled herself into the corner of a sofa. Her dog jumped up beside her, and laid his nose on her lap.
f.a.n.n.y 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. f.a.n.n.y 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.
f.a.n.n.y 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 att.i.tude, curled up among the cushions of the sofa, gave her an almost childish air. f.a.n.n.y, 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, f.a.n.n.y"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.
f.a.n.n.y 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. f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y"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 f.a.n.n.y"s mind was not one that perceived the finer shades.
"Well, I"m not going to say!" said f.a.n.n.y, 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 att.i.tude. 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.
"f.a.n.n.y, please!--you must tell me why!"
The tone, resolute, yet appealing, put f.a.n.n.y in an evident embarra.s.sment.
"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."
f.a.n.n.y 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."
f.a.n.n.y Merton grew still redder; she stared aggressively at her cousin:
"Well--that was because--Aunt Sparling sold all the things!"
Diana started and recoiled.