The Testing of Diana Mallory | Page 8

assistance she
dismissed her new maid, who had been till then actively engaged in the
unpacking. Miss Mallory herself unlocked the trunk in which the
despatch-box had arrived, and took it out. The box had an old green
baize covering which was much frayed and worn. Diana placed it on
the floor of her bedroom, where Mrs. Colwood had been helping her in
various unpackings, and went away for a minute to clear a space for it
in the locked wall-cupboard to which it was to be consigned. Her
companion, left alone, happened to see that an old mended tear in the
green baize had given way in Diana's handling of the box, and quite
involuntarily her eyes caught a brass plate on the morocco lid, which
bore the words, "Sparling papers." Diana came back at the moment,
and perceived the uncovered label. She flushed a little, hesitated, and

then said, looking first at the label and then at Mrs. Colwood: "I think I
should like you to know--my name was not always Mallory. We were
Sparlings--but my father took the name of Mallory after my mother's
death. It was his mother's name, and there was an old Mallory uncle
who left him a property. I believe he was glad to change his name. He
never spoke to me of any Sparling relations. He was an only child, and
I always suppose his father must have been very unkind to him--and
that they quarrelled. At any rate, he quite dropped the name, and never
would let me speak of it. My mother had hardly any relations
either--only one sister who married and went to Barbadoes. So our old
name was very soon forgotten. And please"--she looked up
appealingly--"now that I have told you, will you forget it too? It always
seemed to hurt papa to hear it, and I never could bear to do--or
say--anything that gave him pain."
She spoke with a sweet seriousness. Mrs. Colwood, who had been
conscious of a slight shock of puzzled recollection, gave an answer
which evidently pleased Diana, for the girl held out her hand and
pressed that of her companion; then they carried the box to its place,
and were leaving the room, when suddenly Diana, with a joyous
exclamation, pounced on a book which was lying on the floor, tumbled
among a dozen others recently unpacked.
"Mr. Marsham's Rossetti! I am glad. Now I can face him!"
She looked up all smiles.
"Do you know that I am going to take you to a party next week?--to the
Marshams? They live near here--at Tallyn Hall. They have asked us for
two nights--Thursday to Saturday. I hope you won't mind."
"Have I got a dress?" said Mrs. Colwood, anxiously.
"Oh, that doesn't matter!--not at the Marshams. I am glad!" repeated
Diana, fondling the book--"If I really had lost it, it would have given
him a horrid advantage!"
"Who is Mr. Marsham?"

"A gentleman we got to know at Rapallo," said Diana, still smiling to
herself. "He and his mother were there last winter. Father and I
quarrelled with him all day long. He is the worst Radical I ever met,
but--"
"But?--but agreeable?"
"Oh yes," said Diana, uncertainly, and Mrs. Colwood thought she
colored--"oh yes--agreeable!"
"And he lives near here?"
"He is the member for the division. Such a crew as we shall meet
there!" Diana laughed out. "I had better warn you. But they have been
very kind. They called directly they knew I had taken the house. 'They'
means Mr. Oliver Marsham and his mother. I am glad I've found his
book!" She went off embracing it.
Mrs. Colwood was left with two impressions--one sharp, the other
vague. One was that Mr. Oliver Marsham might easily become a
personage in the story of which she had just, as it were, turned the first
leaf. The other was connected with the name on the despatch-box. Why
did it haunt her? It had produced a kind of indistinguishable echo in the
brain, to which she could put no words--which was none the less dreary;
like a voice of wailing from a far-off past.
CHAPTER II
During the days immediately following her arrival at Beechcote, Mrs.
Colwood applied herself to a study of Miss Mallory and her
surroundings--none the less penetrating because the student was modest
and her method unperceived. She divined a nature unworldly,
impulsive, steeped, moreover, for all its spiritual and intellectual force,
which was considerable, in a kind of sensuous romance--much
connected with concrete things and symbols, places, persons, emblems,
or relics, any contact with which might at any time bring the color to
the girl's cheeks and the tears to her eyes. Honor--personal or
national--the word was to Diana like a spark to dry leaves. Her whole

nature flamed to it, and