"Good-bye." Diana held out her hand; yet trembling involuntarily as she did so. f.a.n.n.y broke out:
"Diana, why do you look like that? It"s all so long ago--you can"t do anything--you ought to try and forget it."
"No, I can"t do anything," said Diana, withdrawing her right hand from her cousin, and clasping both on her breast. "I can only--"
But the word died on her lips; she turned abruptly away, adding, hurriedly, in another tone: "If you ever want anything, you know we"re always here--Mrs. Colwood and I. Please give us your address."
"Thanks." f.a.n.n.y retreated; but could not forbear, as she reached the door, from letting loose the thought which burned her inner mind. She turned round deliberately. "Mr. Marsham"ll cheer you up, Diana!--you"ll see. Of course, he"ll behave like a gentleman. It won"t make a bit of difference to you. I"ll just ask Mrs. Colwood to tell me when it"s all fixed up."
Diana said nothing. She was hanging over the fire, and her face was hidden. f.a.n.n.y waited a moment, then opened the door and went.
As soon as the carriage conveying Miss Merton to the station had safely driven off, Mrs. Colwood, who, in no conventional sense, had been speeding the parting guest, ran up-stairs again to Diana"s room.
"She"s gone?" said Diana, faintly. She was standing by the window. As she spoke the carriage came into view at a bend of the drive and disappeared into the trees beyond. Mrs. Colwood saw her shiver.
"Did she leave you her address?"
"Yes. Don"t think any more about her. I have something to tell you."
Diana"s painful start was the measure of her state. Muriel Colwood put her arms tenderly round the slight form.
"Mr. Marsham will be here directly. He came last night--too late--I would not let him see you. Ah!" She released Diana, and made a rapid step to the window. "There he is!--coming by the fields."
Diana sat down, as though her limbs trembled under her.
"Did you send for him?"
"Yes. You forgive me?"
"Then--he hasn"t got my letter."
She said it without looking up, as though to herself.
Mrs. Colwood knelt down beside her.
"It is right he should be here," she said, with energy, almost with command; "it is the right, natural thing."
Diana stooped, mechanically, and kissed her; then sprang up, quivering, the color rushing into her cheeks. "Why, he mayn"t even know!" She threw a piteous look at her companion.
"He does know, dear--he does know."
Diana composed herself. She lifted her hands to a tress of hair that was unfastened, and put it in its place. Instinctively she straightened her belt, her white collar. Mrs. Colwood noticed that she was in black again, in one of the dresses of her mourning.
When Marsham turned, at the sound of the latch, to see Diana coming in, all the man"s secret calculations and revolts were for the moment scattered and drowned in sheer pity and dismay. In a few short hours can grief so work on youth? He ran to her, but she held up a hand which arrested him half-way. Then she closed the door, but still stood near it, as though she feared to move, or speak, looking at him with her appealing eyes.
"Oliver!"
He held out his hands.
"My poor, poor darling!"
She gave a little cry, as though some tension broke. Her lips almost smiled; but she held him away from her.
"You"re not--not ashamed of me?"
His protests were the natural, the inevitable protests that any man with red blood in his veins must need have uttered, brought face to face with so much sorrow and so much beauty. She let him make them, while her left hand gently stroked and caressed his right hand which held hers; yet all the time resolutely turning her face and her soft breast away, as though she dreaded to be kissed, to lose will and ident.i.ty in the mere delight of his touch. And he felt, too, in some strange way, as though the blow that had fallen upon her had placed her at a distance from him; not disgraced--but consecrate.
"Will you please sit down and let us talk?" she said, after a moment, withdrawing herself.
She pushed a chair forward, and sat down herself. The tears were in her eyes, but she brushed them away unconsciously.
"If papa had told me!" she said, in a low voice--"if he had only told me--before he died."
"It was out of love," said Marsham; "but yes--it would have been wiser--kinder--to have spoken."
She started.
"Oh no--not that. But we might have sorrowed--together. And he was always alone--he bore it all alone--even when he was dying."
"But you, dearest, shall not bear it alone!" cried Marsham, finding her hand again and kissing it. "My first task shall be to comfort you--to make you forget."
He thought she winced at the word "forget."
"When did you first guess--or know?"
He hesitated--then thought it best to tell the truth.
"When we were in the lime-walk."
"When you asked--her name? I remember"--her voice broke--"how you wrung my hand! And you never had any suspicion before?"
"Never. And it makes no difference, Diana--to you and me--none. I want you to understand that now--at once."
She looked at him, smiling tremulously. His words became him; even in her sorrow her eyes delighted in his shrewd thin face; in the fair hair, prematurely touched with gray, and lying heavily on the broad brow; in the intelligence and distinction of his whole aspect.
"You are so good to me--" she said, with a little sob. "No--no!--please, dear Oliver!--we have so much to talk of." And again she prevented him from taking her in his arms. "Tell me"--she laid her hand on his persuasively: "Sir James, of course, knew from the beginning?"
"Yes--from the beginning--that first night at Tallyn. He is coming down this afternoon, dearest. He knew you would want to see him. But it may not be till late."
"After all, I know so little yet," she said, bewildered. "Only--only what f.a.n.n.y told me."
"What made her tell you?"
"She was angry with me--I forget about what. I did not understand at first what she was saying. Oliver"--she grasped his hand tightly, while the lids dropped over the eyes, as though she would shut out even his face as she asked her question--"is it true that--that--the death sentence--"