The Testing of Diana Mallory, Mrs. Humphry Ward [e book reader online TXT] 📗

and silent fury. He answered Sir James in monosyllables, lying, dressed, upon his sofa, the neuralgic portion of the spine packed and cushioned from any possible friction, his forehead drawn and frowning.

Sir James shrank from asking him about himself. But it was useless to talk of politics; Oliver made no response, and was evidently no longer abreast even of the newspapers.

"Does your man read you the _Times_?" asked Sir James, noticing that it lay unopened beside him.

Oliver nodded. "There was a dreadful being my mother found a fortnight ago. I got rid of him."

He had evidently not strength to be more explicit. But Sir James had heard from Lady Lucy of the failure of her secretarial attempt.

"I hear they talk of moving you for the winter."

"They talk of it. I shall oppose it."

"I hope not!--for Lady Lucy's sake. She is so hopeful about it, and she is not fit herself to spend the winter in England."

"My mother must go," said Oliver, closing his eyes.

"She will never leave you."

Marsham made no reply; then, without closing his eyes again, he said, between his teeth: "What is the use of going from one hell to another hell--through a third--which is the worst of all?"

"You dread the journey?" said Sir James, gently. "But there are ways and means."

"No!" Oliver's voice was sudden and loud. "There are none!--that make any difference."

Sir James was left perplexed, cudgelling his brains as to what to attempt next. It was Marsham, however, who broke the silence. With his dimmed sight he looked, at last, intently, at his companion.

"Is--is Miss Mallory still at Beechcote?"

Sir James moved involuntarily.

"Yes, certainly."

"You see a great deal of her?"

"I do--I--" Sir James cleared his throat a little--I look upon her as my adopted daughter."

"I should like to be remembered to her."

"You shall be," said Sir James, rising. "I will give her your message. Meanwhile, may I tell Lady Lucy that you feel a little easier this morning?"

Oliver slowly and sombrely shook his head. Then, however, he made a visible effort.

"But I want to see her. Will you tell her?"

Lady Lucy, however, was already in the room. Probably she had heard the message from the open doorway where she often hovered. Oliver held out his hand to her, and she stooped and kissed him. She asked him a few low-voiced questions, to which he mostly answered by a shake of the head. Then she attempted some ordinary conversation, during which it was very evident that the sick man wished to be left alone.

She and Sir James retreated to her sitting-room, and there Lady Lucy, sitting helplessly by the fire, brushed away some tears of which she was only half conscious. Sir James walked up and down, coming at last to a stop beside her.

"It seems to me this is as much a moral as a physical breakdown. Can nothing be done to take him out of himself?--give him fresh heart?"

"We have tried everything--suggested everything. But it seems impossible to rouse him to make an effort."

Sir James resumed his walk--only to come to another stop.

"Do you know--that he just now--sent a message by me to Miss Mallory?"

Lady Lucy started.

"Did he?" she said, faintly, her eyes on the blaze. He came up to her.

"_There_ is a woman who would never have deserted you!--or him!" he said, in a burst of irrepressible feeling, which would out.

Lady Lucy's glance met his--silently, a little proudly. She said nothing and presently he took his leave.

* * * * *

The day wore on. A misty sunshine enwrapped the beech woods. The great trees stood marked here and there by the first fiery summons of the frost. Their supreme moment was approaching which would strike them, head to foot, into gold and amber, in a purple air. Lady Lucy took her drive among them as a duty, but between her and the enchanted woodland there was a gulf fixed.

She paid a visit to Oliver, trembling, as she always did, lest some obscure catastrophe, of which she was ever vaguely in dread, should have developed. But she found him in a rather easier phase, with Lankester, who had just returned from town, reading aloud to him. She gave them tea, thinking, as she did so, of the noisy parties gathered so recently, during the election weeks, round the tea-tables in the hall. And then she returned to her own room to write some letters.

She looked once more with distaste and weariness at the pile of letters and notes awaiting her. All the business of the house, the estate, the village--she was getting an old woman; she was weary of it. And with sudden bitterness she remembered that she had a daughter, and that Isabel had never been a real day's help to her in her life. Where was she now? Campaigning in the north--speaking at a bye-election--lecturing for the suffrage. Since the accident she had paid two flying visits to her mother and brother. Oliver had got no help from her--nor her mother; she was the Mrs. Jellyby of a more hypocritical day. Yet Lady Lucy in her youth had been a very motherly mother; she could still recall in the depths of her being the thrill of baby palms pressed "against the circle of the breast."

She sat down to her task, when the door opened behind her. A footman came in, saying something which she did not catch. "My letters are not ready yet"--she threw over her shoulder, irritably, without looking at him. The door closed. But some one was still in the room. She turned sharply in astonishment.

"May I disturb you, Lady Lucy?" said a tremulous voice.

She saw a tall and slender woman, in black, bending toward her, with a willowy appealing grace, and eyes that beseeched. Diana Mallory stood before her. There was a pause. Then Lady Lucy rose slowly, laid down her spectacles, and held out her hand.

"It is very kind of you to come and see me," she said, mechanically. "Will you sit down?"

Diana gazed at her, with the childish short-sighted pucker of the brow that Lady Lucy remembered well. Then she came closer, still holding Lady Lucy's hand.

"Sir James thought I might come," she said, breathlessly. "Isn't there--isn't there anything I might do? I wanted you to let me help you--like a secretary--won't you? Sir James thought you looked so tired--and this big place!--I am sure there are things I might do--and oh! it would make me so happy!"

Now she had her two hands clasping, fondling Lady Lucy's. Her eyes shone with tears, her mouth trembled.

"Oh, you must--you must!" she cried, suddenly; "don't let's remember anything but that we were friends--that you were so kind to me--you and Mr. Oliver--in the spring. I can't bear sitting there at Beechcote doing nothing--amusing myself--when you--and Mr. Oliver--"

She stopped, forcing back the tears that would drive their way up, studying in dismay the lined and dwindled face before her. Lady Lucy colored deeply. During the months which had elapsed since the broken engagement, she, even in her remote and hostile distance, had become fully aware of the singular prestige, the homage of a whole district's admiration and tenderness, which had gathered round Diana. She had resented the prestige and the homage, as telling against Oliver, unfairly. Yet as she looked at her visitor she felt the breath of their ascendency. Tender courage and self-control--the woman, where the girl had been--a nature steadied and ennobled--these facts and victories spoke from Diana's face, her touch; they gave even something of maternity to her maiden youth.

"You come to a sad house," said Lady Lucy, holding her away a little.

"I know." The voice was quivering and sweet. "But he will recover--of course he'll recover!"

Lady Lucy shook her head.

"He seems to have no will to recover."

Then her limbs failed her. She sank into a chair by the fire, and there was Diana on a stool at her feet--timidly daring--dropping soft caresses on the hand she held, drawing out the tragic history of the preceding weeks, bringing, indeed, to this sad and failing mother what she had perforce done without till now--that electric sympathy of women with each other which is the natural relief and sustenance of the sex.

Lady Lucy forgot her letters--forgot, in her mind-weariness, all the agitating facts about this girl that she had once so vividly remembered. She had not the strength to battle and hold aloof. Who now could talk of marrying or giving in marriage? They met under a shadow of death; the situation between them reduced to bare elemental things.

"You'll stay and dine with me?" she said at last, feebly. "We'll send you home. The carriages have nothing to do. And"--she straightened herself--"you must see Oliver. He will know that you are here."

Diana said nothing. Lady Lucy rose and left the room. Diana leaned her head against the chair in which the older lady had been sitting, and covered her eyes. Her whole being was gathered into the moment of waiting.

Lady Lucy returned and beckoned. Once more Diana found herself hurrying along the ugly, interminable corridors with which she had been so familiar in the spring. The house had never seemed to her so forlorn. They paused at an open door, guarded by a screen.

"Go in, please," said Lady Lucy, making room for her to pass.

Diana entered, shaken with inward fear. She passed the screen, and there beyond it was an invalid couch--a man lying on it--and a hand held out to her.

That shrunken and wasted being the Oliver Marsham of two months before! Her heart beat against her breast. Surely she was looking at the irreparable! Her high courage wavered and sank.

* * * * *

But Marsham did not perceive it. He saw, as in a cloud, the lovely oval of the face, the fringed eyes, the bending form.

"Will you sit down?" he said, hoarsely.

She took a chair beside him, still holding his hand. It seemed as though she were struck dumb by what she saw. He inquired if she was at Beechcote.

"Yes." Her head drooped. "But I want Lady Lucy to let me come and stay here--a little."

"No one ought to stay here," he said, abruptly, two spots of feverish color appearing on his cheeks. "Sir James would advise you not. So do I."

She looked up softly.

"Your mother is so tired; she wants help. Won't you let me?"

Their eyes met. His hand trembled violently in hers.

"Why did you come?" he said, suddenly, breathing fast.

She found no words, only tears. She had relinquished his hand, but he stretched it out again and touched her bent head.

"There's no time left," he said, impatiently, "to--to fence in. Look here! I can't stand this pain many minutes more." He moved with a stifled groan. "They'll give me morphia--it's the only thing. But I want you to know. I was engaged to Alicia Drake--after--we broke