XXIX
THE agony of the night and the ensuing morning left Diana feeling lifeless. Her only consolation was in the fact that her father was able to be up and in his chair, and by nine o’clock they had received a message that poor Jinny Eaton showed signs of recovering her senses. Of Jacob nothing was heard, to her great relief. A trial and imprisonment would have capped the climax of Colonel Royall’s mortification. She did not know that Dr. Cheyney had saved her that. Nor did she tell the doctor, nor any one, that she and Kingdom-Come had gone down the night before to Caleb’s house to see to the welfare of Sammy and the dog.
She had found Aunt Charity there and bribed her heavily to stay over night, but Diana had no faith in Charity and another project was shaping itself in her mind. She would have liked to consult her father, but she could not trouble him and the trials of the last few months had been developing Diana. All that was sweet and malleable in the girl’s nature had crystallized into greater strength, and a greater sweetness, too; she was no longer a girl, but a woman, and her greatness of heart showed in the breadth of her charity. She had sat down in the old leather chair inCaleb’s office and lifted Jean Bartlett’s child to her knee without a shudder of repulsion at that shameful story. Instead, she touched the child’s head tenderly and crooned over it, womanlike. Oh, if Caleb could have seen her in the old worn chair!
Her own thoughts were filled with him to the exclusion of everything else on earth. She was almost frightened at the strength of her feeling for him, he seemed even to put aside her anxiety for her father, his life was her one passionate petition to Heaven. And she was conscious now that she wanted not only his life, but his love.
Dr. Cheyney had installed a trained nurse, and there was a young surgeon from the hospital in charge. Diana’s only privilege was to go to the door and inquire, and wait upon the doctors. She did this to the exclusion of the negroes, who considered it their duty to remonstrate with Miss Diana. In the afternoon Dr. Cheyney told her that Caleb had borne the operation so well that there was much hope. Then Diana went out bareheaded into the deserted grounds and wandered about them aimlessly, trying to regain her natural composure.
They had arrested Zeb Bartlett, and he had given his sister’s disgrace as his reason for shooting Caleb,—a belated vengeance, but one that suited the public appetite for scandal. Diana had heard it unmoved. In that dreadful moment when he lay at her feet, seemingly dead, she had forgotten Jean Bartlett, and even now, nothing in the world mattered to her buthis life. Her face flushed with shame for her own indifference, the deadening of every instinct but her agonizing anxiety for his life. She had learned that love is greater than judgment and as great as mercy. She walked slowly along the path between the box-bordered flower-beds; here and there a late rose bloomed in the autumn sunshine, and in the arbor the great ungathered clusters of grapes hung purple, sweetened by frost.
Before her was the same vista which showed from the Shut Room, and she saw the river. That view recalled the room and the days her father had sat there before his illness, and she thought of her mother with that vague sweet regret with which we think of the unknown dead whom we would have loved. Then she looked up and saw a woman coming toward her from the gate. She was a stranger, yet Diana was instinctively aware of a familiarity in her bearing and her gait. She stood waiting for her approach, looking keenly at her face, which was beautiful though it looked a little haggard and worn. The woman came on, looking eagerly, in her turn, at Diana. For one so apparently wealthy and at ease, her manner was almost timid; there was a hesitation even in its eagerness as though she feared her welcome. The girl saw it and was faintly surprised. In another moment the stranger was in front of her, and she saw that she breathed like a person who had been running or was in great trepidation. She stopped, and involuntarily her hand went to her heart.
“You are Diana Royall,� she said abruptly.
Diana looked at her gently, vaguely alarmed, though at what she could not divine. Her first thought, strangely enough, was a message from Jacob, and her manner grew cold. “Yes,� she said quietly, “I am Diana Royall; can I do anything for you?�
The stranger hesitated; then her natural manner, which was full of self-command, asserted itself. “I am Mrs. Fenwick. I know you do not know me, but�—she glanced down the long garden path—“will you walk with me a moment?� she said. “I have something to say to you.�
Diana assented reluctantly. Her own heart was behind the half-closed shutters in that upper room, and at another time she would have thought the request at once remarkable and unwarranted. They turned and walked together down the garden path, and as Diana stooped to unlatch the wicket gate which shut off the rose garden from the larger grounds, her companion shaded her eyes with her hand and looked off toward the river.
“There have been some changes in this view, I think,� she said abruptly, her eyes on the landscape; “the river was more obscured by trees.�
“The railroad cut cleared a bit of forest and gave us a finer view,� replied Diana, and then she glanced quickly at her visitor, who was evidently familiar with the prospect.
“I thought so,� said Mrs. Fenwick softly, “thisview is familiar; it is the same that one sees from your mother’s old room.�
Diana stood still, with her hand on the wicket. “Did you know my mother?� she asked quickly.
The older woman turned and looked fully at her. She had been very beautiful in her first youth, and Diana was conscious of a charm at once subtle and persuasive. “Is your mother dead?� she asked gently.
The girl was deeply perplexed. “She died twenty years ago,� she replied.
“She died twenty years ago?� her visitor repeated dreamily, looking away again. “It may be so! She may have died to this life here, to this place, to these people, but believe me, Diana, she is not dead.�
They had passed through the wicket and were standing on the lower lawn. Instinctively Diana drew further away from her; she did not understand her, and she disliked her familiarity, but as yet she was unalarmed. “My mother died in that room up there,� she said, with gentle dignity, “and my father has mourned her ever since, and has taught me to mourn her, too.�
A deep flush passed over Mrs. Fenwick’s face, and her hands trembled a little as they hung clasped before her. Diana, watching her, noticed it and noticed the grace of her pose. The girl thought that the elder woman never forgot herself, that her actions, even her gestures, were considered, that there was something artificial in them, yet her emotion was evident and unfeigned.
“It was good of him,� said Mrs. Fenwick slowly, “it was, I suppose, a beautiful idea, but it was an untruthful one. Diana, I am your mother.�
Diana thought her mad. She drew away from her again, and this time with instinctive repugnance, yet she was pitiful. This was evidently a delusion; the woman was insane and to be pitied and dealt with compassionately.
“You are mistaken, Mrs. Fenwick,� she said gently; “my mother is dead.�
“I tell you that I am your mother!� cried Letty, with sudden passion. “Your mother never died; she was wicked, she ran away from your father and from you with another man. I am that wretched woman, Diana; forgive me!�
“I think you are quite mad,� said Diana coldly; “I am sure you are.�
“Good God, she will not believe me!� Letty exclaimed; “how wonderful the web of deception must have been; I did not know before that David Royall was a liar!�
“Silence!� Diana towered. “Do not dare to say one word against my father here!� she commanded.
“Ah, it was for this he wrought so well!� said Mrs. Fenwick bitterly, “to shut out the sinner. Diana, forgive me, look at me; is there no likeness in my face to my own picture? There was a large one of me in my first youth. Don’t you know me?�
Diana was very pale. “There is no picture of my mother,� she said deliberately, “and I do not believe you are my mother.�
Letty Fenwick looked at her despairingly. She had come with the mad impulse of affection, long pent up in her warped and passionate heart; she had wanted her daughter, and she had never dreamed that her daughter would not want her. That, instead, the girl’s outraged feelings would leap up in defense of the deserted father; that, never having known a living mother, her mind had created an image at once beautiful and noble, and that this revelation shocked every instinct of her nature. The older woman was vividly aware of the girl’s instinctive aversion, of her reluctance to acknowledge her dawning conviction, and in that very reluctance Letty read her own exile and defeat. She was, indeed, dead. Colonel Royall’s curious way of guarding her secret from her daughter had absolutely estranged her forever. He had accomplished through forbearance and love what he could never have accomplished through passion and revenge; she was forever dead to her own child. This, then, was the punishment. She stood looking at Diana in a kind of dull despair.
“You are very beautiful,� she said, “more beautiful than I was at your age, Diana, and I thank Heaven that you will not be like me. You are stronger, braver, less foolish. I was both foolish and wicked; I deserted you, but, oh, my child, I suffered for it! And I am asking for so little now,—your love, that I may see you sometimes, your forgiveness!�
Her voice was full of pleading; it had a sweetness, too, at once touching and eloquent. Diana returnedher look sadly. Conviction had been growing in her heart; a hundred little things sprang to mind to confirm this strange story,—hints, suggestions of Jinny Eaton’s, inexplicable actions of her father. It might be true, but she was appalled at the stillness of her heart. She had loved her mother’s memory, but, confronted with this strange woman, she found no response. She battled against conviction; the shattering of her beautiful dream of an ideal mother was bitter indeed.
“I cannot believe it!� she exclaimed, “I cannot believe it!�
Her mother drew a long breath. “You mean you will not believe it,� she said quietly, “because you would rather repudiate the sinner! I do not blame you. But it is true, I am your mother.� She broke off, her parched lips quivered, but she shed no tears. “Diana,� she said after a moment, “thank God that you are not like me—and forgive me.�
“I cannot believe you!� reiterated Diana.
But as she spoke they both saw Dr. Cheyney crossing the lawn to the house, and her mother beckoned to him. The old man came reluctantly, instinctively aware of the cause of the summons.
“Dr. Cheyney,� Mrs. Fenwick said with forced composure, “tell Diana that I am her mother.�
The old man stood with his hand at his chin; he was very pale. Diana looked up and met his eyes, and a slow painful blush went up to her hair.
“She is your mother,� said the doctor abruptly, and turned his back.
As he walked away Letty Fenwick held out both hands pleadingly. “Diana,� she said softly, “will you kiss me?�
The hot tears came into Diana’s eyes and fell slowly on her pale cheeks. “Mother!� she said, in a choked voice.
Her mother caught her in her arms and kissed her. “My child!� she murmured, “my child, can you forgive me?�
Diana could not speak, her mother was weeping. “Dear girl,� she said, “I’m rich, I know your father’s in trouble; let me help you, come to me. Oh, Diana, I have longed for you!�
“And leave my father?� Diana’s pale face was stern. “Leave him in sorrow and loss and loneliness? Never!�
“Ah!� said her mother bitterly, “you love him; it is he who has all your heart!�
“I love him dearly,� said the girl, “now more than ever.�
Letty turned away. “He is revenged!� she said passionately.
Diana took a step nearer and laid her hand on her arm. “Mother,� she said quietly, “I will try to love you also, but remember that for twenty years I have known only a beautiful image of you that his love erected to save your memory for me. But I will try to love you, I will certainly come to see you, I will do anything I can, but only on one condition—�
“My God!� cried Letty passionately, “you makea condition? You bargain with me—I must beg for and buy your love?�
“No,� replied Diana, “love you cannot buy, but I will do all I can, if you will promise me never to let this great sorrow mar his life again, if you will help me guard him, if you will remember how beautifully he shielded your name for your child.�
Letty covered her face with her hands. “Alas!� she said, “you have found a way to punish me, but I promise, Diana.�
“He has been ill,� Diana went on hurriedly, “he has been in trouble, he needs me every moment, and I love him dearly; for his sake, because he wishes it, I love you also.�
Mrs. Fenwick still wept; involuntarily they turned together and walked slowly toward the gate. “I want to see him,� she said at last, “I want to ask his forgiveness.�
“You have it,� said Diana simply. “I dare not take you to him now, not to-night. Dr. Cheyney must tell him, I—I cannot. But his forgiveness, it is yours already.�
Letty looked back over the house. A thousand haunting memories swept over her, and she shivered. “Diana,� she said, “I am rich, I must help you now.�
Diana’s pale face crimsoned; her father’s honor had never seemed more sacred to her. “No,� she said simply, “you cannot.�
Her mother met her eyes and turned away abruptly.At the gate she put out her hand blindly and touched Diana’s; the girl took it and kissed her.
“Forgive me—mother!� she murmured.
Letty clung to her a moment and then turned to go out alone. “My sin has found me out!� she cried bitterly, and dropped her veil over her face.
Diana, standing in the gate, watched her go away alone. In her own anguish she was scarcely conscious of the tragic picture of the exile. In moments so poignant with feeling the great lesson of life is lost. Diana had instinctively obeyed the impulse of love and duty, for once irreconcilable with mercy, and she was unaware that she had been an instrument of one woman’s punishment. She went back to the house and found her father alone. Every impulse of her heart clamored to tell him that she knew, to sympathize, to go to him for comfort, as she had all her life. But he looked up as she entered.
“Diana,� he said gently, “you look to-day as your mother did at your age.�
Diana slipped down on the arm of his chair and threw her arms around his neck. “Was she beautiful, father?� she asked quietly.
“Very, dear, like you,� he said; for twenty years he had woven his simple romance.
Diana laid her cheek against his. “Thank you, dear,� she said, “for her memory—we will always love it together.�