Chapter XIII.
DIANA VYELL.
"Have you not finished yet?" Miss Diana closed the door, glanced fromone to the other, and laughed with a genial brutality. "Well, it's timeI came. Dear mamma, you seem to be getting your feathers pulled."
There was a byword among the Whig families at home (who, byintermarrying, had learned to gauge another's weaknesses), that"the Pett medal showed ill in reverse." Miss Diana had heard thesaying. As a Vyell--the Vyells were, before all things, critical--sheknew it to be just, as well as malicious; but as a dutiful daughter sheought to have remembered.
As it was, her cool comment stung her mother to fury. The poor ladypointed a finger at Ruth, and spluttered (there is no more elegant wordfor the very inelegant exhibition),--
"A strumpet! One that has been whipped through the public streets."
There was a dreadful pause. Miss Diana, the first to recover herself,stepped back to the door and held it open.
"You must excuse dear mamma," she said coolly. "She has overtiredherself."
But Lady Caroline continued to point a finger trembling with passion.
"Her price!" she shrilled. "Ask her that. It is all these creaturesever understand!"
Miss Diana slipped an arm beneath her elbow and firmly conducted herforth. Ruth, hearing the door shut, supposed that both women hadwithdrawn. She sank into a chair, and was stretching out her arms overthe table to bury her face in them and sob, when the voice of theyounger said quietly behind her shoulder,--
"It is always hard, after mamma's tantrums, to bring the talk back to adecent level. Nevertheless, shall we try?"
Ruth had drawn herself up again, rallying the spirit in her. It wasweary, bruised; but its hour of default was not yet. Her voice dragged,but just perceptibly, as she answered Miss Vyell, who nodded, noting hercourage and wondering a little,--
"I am sorry."
"Sorry?"
"Yes; it was partly my fault--very largely my fault. But your motherangered me from the first by assuming--what she had no right to assume.It was horrible."
Diana Vyell seated herself, eyed her steadily for a moment, and noddedagain. "Mamma can be _raide_, there's no denying. She was wrong, ofcourse; that's understood. . . . Still, on the whole you have donepretty well, and had your revenge."
Ruth's eyes widened, for this was beyond her.
Diana explained. "You have let us make the most impossible fools ofourselves. It may have been more by luck than by good management, asthey say; but there it is. Now don't say that revenge isn't sweet.. . . I've done you what justice I can; but if you pose as an angel fromheaven, it's asking too much." While Ruth considered this, she added,"I don't know if you can put yourself in mamma's place for a moment; butif you can, the hoax is complete enough, you'll admit."
"I had rather put myself in yours."
Their eyes met, and Diana's cheek reddened slightly. "You are anextraordinary girl," she said, "and there seems no way but to be honestwith you. Unfortunately, it's not so easy, even with the best will inthe world. Can you understand _that?_"
"If you love him--"
"Oh, for pity's sake spare me!" Diana bounced up and stepped to thewindow. The red on her cheek had deepened, and she averted it to stareout at the poultry in the yard. "You are unconscionable," she saidafter a while, with a vexed laugh. "I have known my cousin Oliver sincewe were children together. Really, you know, you're almost as brutal asmamma. . . . The truth? Let me see. Well, the truth, so near as I cantell it, is that I just let mamma have her head, and waited to see whatwould happen. This was her expedition, and I took no responsibility forit from the first."
"I understand." Ruth, watching the back of her head, spoke musingly,with pursed lips.
"Excuse me"--Diana wheeled about suddenly--"you cannot possiblyunderstand just yet. This last was my tenth season in London.One grows weary . . . and then in the confusion of papa's death--It comes to this, that I was ready for anything to get out of the oldrut. I--I--shall we say that I just cast myself on fate? It may havebeen at the back of my head that whatever happened might be worse, butcouldn't well be wearier. But if you think I had any design of settingmy cap at him--"
"Hush!" said Ruth softly. "I had no such thought."
"And if you had, you would not have cared," said Diana, eyeing her againlong and steadily. "Mamma--you really must forgive mamma. If you knewthem, there was never a Pett that was not _impayable_. Mamma spoke ofasking your price. . . . As if, for any price, he would give you up!"
"I have no price to ask, of him or of any one."
"No, and you need have none. I am often very disagreeable," said Dianacandidly, "but my worst enemy won't charge me with disparaging goodlooks in other women."
"May I use your words," said Ruth, with a shy smile, "and say that youhave no need?"
"Rubbish! And don't talk like that to me, sitting here and staring youin the face, or I may change my mind again and hate you! I never said Ididn't _envy_. . . . But there, the fault was mine for speaking of'good looks' when I should have said, 'Oh, you wonder!'" broke offDiana. "May I ask it--one question?"
"Twenty, if you will."
"It is a brutal one; horrible; worse even than mamma's."
"As I remember," said Ruth gravely, "Lady Caroline asked none. It was Iwho did the questioning, and--and I am afraid that led to the trouble."
Diana laughed, and after a moment the two were laughing together.
"But what is your question?"
"No, I cannot ask it now." Diana shook her head, and was grave again.
"Please!"
"Well, then, tell me--" She drew back, slightly tilting her chin andnarrowing her eyes, as one who contemplates a beautiful statue or otherwork of art. "Is it true they whipped _that_, naked, through thestreets?"
Ruth bent her head.
"It is true."
"I wonder it did not kill you," Diana murmured.
"I am strong; strong and very healthy. . . . It broke something inside;I hardly know what. But there's a story--I read it the other day--abouta man who wandered in a dark wood, and came to a place where he lookedinto hell. Just one glimpse. He fainted, and when he awoke it wasdaylight, with the birds singing all around him. But he was changedmore than the place, for he listened and understood all the woodlandtalk--what the birds were saying, and the small creeping things.And when he went back among men he answered at random, and yet in a waythat astonished them; for he saw and heard what their hearts weresaying, at the back of their talk. . . . Of course," smiled Ruth,"I am not nearly so wonderful as that. But something has happened tome--"
Diana nodded slowly. "--Something that, at any rate, makes you terriblydisconcerting. But what about Oliver? They tell me that he browbeatthe magistrates and insisted on sitting beside you."
Ruth's eyes confirmed it. They were moist, yet proud. They shone.
"I had always," mused Diana, "looked on my cousin as a carefully selfishperson, even in the matter of that Dance woman. You must have turnedhis head completely."
"It was not _that_."
Diana stared, the low tone was so earnest, vehement even. "Well, at allevents I know him well enough to assure you he will never give you up."
"Ah!" Ruth drew a long sigh over the joy in her heart, and, a secondlater, hated herself for it.
"--until afterwards."
"Afterwards?" the girl echoed.
"Afterwards. My cousin Oliver is a tenacious man, and you would seem tohave worked him up to temporary heroics. But I beg you to reflect thatwhat for you must have been a real glimpse into hell"--Diana shivered--"was likely enough for him no more than an occasion for posing.Fine posing, I'll allow." She paused. "It didn't degrade him, actually.He's a Vyell; and as another of 'em I may tell you there never was aVyell could face out actual degradation. You almost make me wish wewere capable of it. To lose everything--" She paused again."You make it more alluring, somehow, than the prospect of endless Londonsea
sons--Diana Vyell, with a fading face and her market missed--that'show they'll put it--and, _pour me distraire_ this side of the grave, thedower-house, a coach, a pair of wind-broken horses, and the consolationsof religion! If we were capable of it. . . . But where's the use oftalking? We're Vyells. And--here's my point--Oliver is a Vyell.He may be strong-willed, but--did mamma happen to talk at all about the'Family'?"
"I think," answered Ruth with another faint flash of mirth, "it was Iwho asked her questions about it."
Diana threw out her hands, laughing. "You are invincible! Well, Icannot hate you; and I've given you my warning. Make him marry you; youcan if you choose, and now is your time. If there should be children--legitimate children, O my poor mamma!--there will be the devil to payand helpless family councils, all of which I shall charge myself toenjoy and to report to you. If there should be none, we're safe withMrs. Harry. She'll breed a dozen. . . . Am I coarse? Oh, yes, theVyells can be coarse! while as for the Petts--but you have heard dearmamma."
They talked together for a few minutes after this. But their talk shallnot be reported: for with what do you suppose it dealt?
--With Dress. As I am a living man, with Dress.
In the midst of it, and while Ruth listened eagerly to what Diana had totell of London fashions, Lady Caroline's voice was heard summoning herdaughter away.
Diana rose. "It is close upon dusk," she said, "and Mrs. Harry hascommand of the waggon. She drives very well--not better than I perhaps;but she understands this country better. All the same, the road--callit an apology for one--bristles with tree-stumps, and mamma's temperwill be unendurable if the dark overtakes us before we reach the nextfarm. I forget its name."
"Natchett?"
"Yes, Natchett. We spend the night there."
"But why did not Mr. Silk drive you over?"
"Did mamma tell you he was escorting us?"
"No. I guessed."
"Nasty little fellow. Sloppy underlip. I cannot bear him. Can you?"
"I do not like him."
"It's a marvel to me that my cousin tolerates him. . . . By the way, Ishall not wonder if he--Oliver, I mean--loses his temper heavily when helearns of our expedition, and bundles us straight back to Europe.I warned mamma."
"So--I am afraid--did I."
"Yes?"--and again they laughed together.
"My poor parent! . . . She assured me that her duty to the Family washer armour of proof. Hark! She's calling again."
They found Lady Caroline impatient in the verandah. Ruth, to avoidspeech with her, walked away to the waggon. Farmer Cordery stood at thehorse's head, and Mrs. Harry beside the step, ready to mount and takethe reins.
But for some reason Mrs. Harry delayed to mount. "Is it you?" she saidvaguely and put out a hand, swaying slightly. Ruth caught it.
"Are you ill?"
They were alone together for a moment and hidden from the farmer, whostood on the far side of the horse.
"Nothing--a sudden giddiness. It's quite absurd, too; when I've been asstrong as a donkey all my life."
Ruth asked her a question. . . . Some word of woman's lore, droppedyears ago by her own silly mother, crossed her memory. (They had beenoutspoken, in the cottage above the beach.) It surprised Mrs. Harry,who answered it before she was well aware, and so stood staring,trembling with surmise.
"God bless you!" Ruth put out an arm on an impulse to clasp her waist,but checked it and beckoned instead to Diana.
"_You_ take the reins and drive," she commanded.
Diana questioned her with a glance, but obeyed and climbed on board.Ruth was helping Mrs. Harry to mount after her when Lady Caroline thrustherself forward, by the step.
Now since Diana had hold of the reins, and Mrs. Harry was for the momentin no condition to lend a hand, and since Lady Caroline would as liefhave touched leprosy as have accepted help from Ruth Josselin, herascent into the van fell something short of dignity. The rearward ofher person was ample; she hitched her skirt in the step, thus exposingan inordinate amount of not over-clean white stocking; and, to makematters worse, Farmer Cordery cast off at the wrong moment and stoodback from the horse's head.
"Losh! but I'm sorry," said he, gazing after the catastrophic result."Look at her, there, kickin' like a cast ewe. . . ." He turned aserious face on Ruth and added, "Vigorous, too, for her years."
Ruth, returning to the verandah, bent over little Miss Quiney, who satunsmiling, with rigid eyes. "Dear Tatty,"--she kissed her--"were theyso very dreadful?"
Miss Quiney started as if awaking from a nightmare.
"That woman--darling, whatever her rank, I _cannot_ term her a lady!--"
"Go on, dear."
"I cannot. Sit beside me, here, for a while, and let me feel my armabout you. . . ."
They sat thus for a long while silent, while twilight crept over theplain and wrapped itself about the homestead.
Ruth was thinking. "If I forfeit this, it will be hardest of all."