The Lamp of Fate | Page 9

eyes gleamed like steel.
"Will you answer my question?" he said curtly.

Lancaster sprang up.
"Diane is in as good health now as ever she was," he said violently.
And strode out of the room.

During the period of her convalescence Diane, attended by Nurse
Maynard, had occupied rooms situated in a distant wing of the house,
where the invalid was not likely to be disturbed by the coming and
going of other members of the household, and it was with almost the
excitement of a schoolgirl coming home for the holidays that, when she
was at last released from the doctor's supervision, she retook possession
of her own room. She superintended joyously the restoration to their
accustomed place her various little personal possessions, and finally
peeped into her husband's adjoining room, thinking she heard him
moving there.
On the threshold she paused irresolutely, conscious of an odd sense of
confusion. The room was vacant. But, beyond that, its whole aspect
was different somehow, unfamiliar. Her eyes wandered to the dressing-
table. Instead of holding its usual array of silver-backed brushes and
polished shaving tackle, winking in the sunshine, it was empty. She
stared at it blankly. Then her glance travelled slowly round the room. It
had a strangely untenanted look. There was no sign of masculine attire
left carelessly about--not a chair or table was a hairbreadth out of its
appointed place.
Her hand, resting lightly on the door-handle, gripped it with a sudden
tensity. The next moment she had crossed the room and torn open the
doors of the great armoire where Hugh kept his clothes. This, too, was
empty--shelves and hanger alike. Impulsively she rang the bell and,
when a maid appeared in response, demanded to know the meaning of
the alteration.
The girl glanced at her with the veiled curiosity of her class.
"It was made by Sir Hugh's orders, my lady."

With an effort, Diane hid the sudden tumult of bewilderment and fear
that filled her. Her dream! Had it been only a dream? Or had it been an
actual happening--that terrible little scene with her husband when,
standing rigid and unbending beside her bed, he had told her that the
birth of their daughter was a just retribution for a union he regarded as
a sin?
Memories of their brief year of marriage came surging over her in a
torrent--Catherine's narrow-minded opposition and disapproval, Hugh's
own moodiness and irritability and, latterly, his not infrequent censure.
There had been times when Diane--rebuked incessantly--had fancied
she must be the Scarlet Woman herself, or at least a very near relative.
And then had come moments when Hugh, carried away by his ardour,
had once more played the lover as he alone knew how, with all the
warmth and abandon of those days when he had wooed her in Italy, and
Diane would forget her unhappiness and fears in the sure knowledge
that she was a passionately beloved woman.
But always she was subconsciously aware of a sense of strife--of
struggle, as though Hugh loved her in spite of himself, in defiance of
some inner mandate of conscience which accused him.
And now, fear mastered her. Her dream had been a reality. And this--
this sweeping away from what had been his room of every familiar
little personal possession--was the symbol of some new and terribly
changed relation between them.
Forcing herself to move composedly while the maid still watched her,
she walked slowly out of the room, but the instant the door had closed
behind her she flew downstairs to her husband's study and, not pausing
to comply with the unwritten law which forbade entrance there without
express permission, broke in upon him as he sat at his desk, busily
occupied with his morning mail.
"Diane!"
Hugh turned towards her with a cold light of astonished disapproval in
his eyes.

"You know I don't like to be interrupted----"
"I know, I know. But I /had/ to come. Something's happened. There's
been a mistake. . . . Hugh, they've taken everything out of your room.
All your things."
She stood beside him breathlessly awaiting his reply--her passionate
dark eyes fixed on his face, two patches of brilliant colour showing on
the high cheek-bones that bore witness to her Russian origin.
They made a curious contrast--husband and wife. She, a slender thing
of fire and flame, hands clenched, lips quivering--woman every inch of
her; he, immaculate and composed, his face coldly expressionless, yet
with a hint of something warmer, a suppressed glow, beneath the
deliberately chill glance of those curious light-grey eyes--the man and
bigoted fanatic fighting for supremacy within him.
"Hugh! Answer me! Don't sit staring at me like that!" Diane's voice
held a sharpened sound.
At last he spoke, very slowly and carefully.
"There has been no mistake, Diane.