CHAPTER II

It was London in full swing. A wild April shower had sprung up and was quickly driving people into the shelter of passing hansoms. There was a sudden exodus from the park of gayly gowned women, hurrying to their waiting carriages. Bewildered nurses gathered their young charges into protecting corners. Only a few minutes before it had been radiant sunshine. Open high-swung see-victorias, with their powdered, liveried men on the boxes, and unprotected occupants driving from a royal house to a ducal assemblage, were caught in the congested mass of hansoms, top-heavy 'busses, and passing carts. Stalwart, blue-coated giants were trying to stem the rush and scramble.

Diana crossed from the couch where she had been sitting to the open window. In a week's time she was to be married. She held a note in her hand, which had just come by messenger. It was from Henry. He could not take her to Ranelagh as he had planned, he wrote. Unexpected business had arisen, but he would see her later in the evening.

The room in which Diana stood faced Hyde Park. The house was one of those built a century ago by the mad Duke of Delford, and was famous for the purity of its architecture. On this spring day the front looked like a hanging garden, so abundant and exquisite were the large boxes of trailing flowers. The room with its Adam ceiling and mantel, its crimson brocade curtains against the pale-cream walls, its rare specimens of Sheraton and Chippendale and precious bits of china, made a harmonious setting for Diana in her dove-colored gown. Bowls of yellow jonquils and daffodils gleamed like golden bits of imprisoned sunlight on slender-legged tables.

Diana was alone. Lady Dillingham, her aunt, and the mistress of the Park Lane House was confined to her room with a sharp attack of gout. From the window looking out across the park, the rain glinted like a fine sheet of steel. It beat down the great beds of flaming hyacinths and daffodils that lined the park walk with their glory of purple and yellow. The blue-and-white fleecy sky of a past half-hour now hung over the town like a dirty ship's sail, with puffing, dun-colored clouds sweeping past.

Diana half consciously watched the amusing scurry of the passers-by. Through the long, open windows protected by a projecting balcony she could hear the splashing of the rain against the pavement. The confusion of carriages began to straighten itself out. The hurrying crowds disappeared as though swallowed up in the drenched ground. What had been a fantastic, brilliantly colored panorama was now a desolate space.

As Diana stood there, a rising resentment at the broken promise filled her mind. It was not because of the disappointment. So often, at the last moment, her plans had been changed by Henry's failure to keep his engagements with her. A sharp gust of wind blew its damp air into the room and made her shiver. She closed the window and walked to the open log fire. The spring days of an English climate still permitted this luxury within doors. As she sat before the hearth, the letter still in her hand hanging listlessly by her side, the door quietly opened and her father entered. On the previous day he had come up from the country to join Diana, who was visiting his sister while the necessary wedding preparations were being completed. The passing years had greatly aged Sir Charles. The delicate, high-bred face had grown more spiritual, and he seemed further aloof from material influences.

With a pang Diana noticed the change. She rose and crossed to him, her tall figure hovering protectingly over the old man. The maternal instinct was deeply embedded in Diana's nature. Quite tenderly he took the young face in his withered but exquisitely modelled hands and kissed her.

"Alone, dear?" he said. "I thought Henry was to take you to join some people at Ranelagh."

"Henry has just sent me word that he is unexpectedly detained in the city."

Something in her tone made Sir Charles wince.

She was very beautiful, in a curious, contradictory way. Her tender, serious eyes suggested the Madonna, but her arched, full mouth made her a half Venus. More than tall, there was in the lithe, girlish figure an embodiment of latent reliance and vitality. Her usually calm face was disturbed at the moment by a look of intense perplexity. It seemed as though she were vainly trying to combat her doubts.

She stood for a moment irresolute, then in a burst of tears she slipped down beside the big chair in which her father sat.

"I can't marry Henry—I can't," she sobbed, as she hid her face in her hands.

For a moment Sir Charles was startled; then, smiling at what he divined to be a lover's quarrel, he patiently patted the bent head as though humoring a wayward child. Absorbed in his own narrow life, he had no knowledge of men, and to him Henry Wynnegate was an ideal match for his motherless girl.

He had known the late Earl well, and in the reflected glory of the parents he saw the son. His heart was set on seeing Diana safely moored in the house of Wynnegate and the brilliant position hers, which she could assume as the Countess of Kerhill. These tears, of course, were the foolish outcome of the afternoon's disappointment. He let her have her cry out; then gradually drew the slender hands from her face.

"You are unreasonable, my child," he began. "Surely you can hope for no better husband than the son of my late friend. Why, I have known him from childhood. Think," he went on, "of his career as a soldier; of the respect of his tenantry; of his position in the world." He forgot the dominance of Lady Elizabeth, who, by her plans and generalship had commanded all these attributes for her son. "With his knowledge of life and the future assured him," he continued, "he can give you all that so far has been denied to you. What more can you desire, my dear?"

Diana raised her tear-stained face and listened.

He drew her close to him, his feeble body vibrating with sudden emotion as he said, "I am very feeble—far older than my years, and I long to see you safely placed." He waited a moment as though expecting a reply, but there was no answer to his appeal. "We are poor, Diana—very poor. I have carried a heavy burden for years. This marriage will make me supremely happy; it will make my remaining days peaceful." He paused. "You can trust me, dear, in this matter. Say that you can."

Something in the tense, pathetic face forced back Diana's words of opposition. Perhaps she was wrong, There was no tangible reason for this rebellion that her perplexed mind could grasp. Her father, so gentle, so wise, so loving, could not be doubted. Sir Charles watched her eagerly. He loved her, but in his short-sighted desire for her happiness he failed to see the depths of her troubled heart. Almost convinced that her frightened instinct was wrong, Diana rose, and, with a gentle pressure of her father's hand, yielded to his importunities. Tactfully, and in silence, Sir Charles accepted her consent.

A strained pause followed. Sir Charles reflectively sank into the cushions of his high-backed chair. He was sure that Diana's outburst was mere nervousness; it was often so with young, inexperienced girls before marriage. The excitement of the London life was a great fatigue to him. Even the muffled, vibrating roar that half penetrated into the dwellings of Mayfair, told on his sensitive nature. He closed his eyes.

Diana's girlhood had been singularly isolated from the world. Shortly after Jim's departure for India, she had been sent abroad to a school on the Continent. She had usually spent the summers with her father at some peaceful, out of the way corner. Her education completed, she had returned during the April previous, to the quiet life of her father's home.

There followed the lonely weeks with her awakening womanhood crying out for comprehension. Then one day Henry Wynnegate returned to the Towers. She had only a vague memory of the subsequent days of amusement that passed so quickly. All that her youth and gayety had so long desired was given her. She was unconsciously swept on by the passion of Henry's love and could hardly recall when she promised to be his wife. That was in the autumn.

At the beginning of the season she was presented at court. Her youth and beauty made a sensation, and her marriage was arranged to take place within a month.

Eager to grasp the bloom of the fresh flower he had plucked, Henry would tolerate no delay. Backed by the dominant influence of his mother, who in Diana saw not only the gratification of Henry's desires, but a gracious bearer of his name, and, with the persuasion of Sir Charles, Diana acquiesced to an early marriage. She was in love with love, not with the man, and her loveliness and the purity of her fresh young soul made her idealize the best of Henry's shifting, many-sided nature.

Sir Charles dozed peacefully. Diana, with feverish cheeks and burning eyes, longed to escape from the warm room. Through the closed windows she could see that the rain had ceased. She wanted to be alone, to calm the battling emotions of the past hour. As she tiptoed to the door, it was thrown open, and the Countess of Kerhill and Lady Mabel Wynnegate were announced.

Sir Charles aroused, rose quickly from his chair to greet the visitors.

"My dear," Lady Kerhill began, as she entered the room and embraced Diana, "we are going to ask you for our tea at once if you will take pity on us. Such an afternoon! We were obliged to turn back from Ranelagh because of the storm. Fortunately we had a closed carriage, but Mabel and I were so anxious to know whether you and Henry had started before the shower sprang up"—with a quick look of surprise about the room, she exclaimed, "Why, where is Henry?"

Diana rang the bell for tea.

"I had a note from Henry, dear Lady Elizabeth, saying he was detained by some unexpected business."

Sir Charles noticed with great satisfaction Diana's superb control. Her rebellious mood, as he surmised, had been a mere whim.

For a moment a half-frightened look came into Lady Elizabeth's eyes. She was never quite sure of Henry, but even to herself she never admitted it. She had cast him for a role that he neither suggested nor attempted to play, but she never flinched before the duty of wilfully blinding herself to these truths. Her love and her belief would win, and out of it all would be created the son she so desired Henry to be—that was her unconscious prayer. She threw off the moment's anxiety.

"No doubt it is a busy week for Henry," she said. She crossed to a chair near the fire, and with the announcement of tea began to gossip with Sir Charles. Mabel moved close to Diana's side at the tea-table. She had grown into a fairy-like creature, with exquisite, youthful coloring. Very shy and utterly subordinate to her mother and brother, she lavished upon Diana a great affection in return for her sympathy. She stole shy glances at Diana's unusual color, as the latter poured the tea mechanically, but joined little in the conversation. Diana caught Mabel's eyes wonderingly fastened upon her. She could no longer endure the close room.

"I must get a breath of air. Can Mabel go with me?" she said, as she rose from her untouched tea.

Sir Charles was explaining to Lady Elizabeth some details of the previous night's rowdy conduct at the House. They both paused for a moment.

"Do take a turn with Mabel in the park," said Sir Charles. "It will refresh you."

"Remember we are due at the opera to-night," Lady Elizabeth said, as she rose. Sir Charles protested. "But it's just why I'm going myself," Lady Elizabeth confessed. "I'll send the carriage back for Mabel."

A few minutes later Diana and Mabel entered the park. The pungent smell of the damp earth filled the air. Great crimson and yellow pools of color dotted the ground; they were the battered-down blossoms of the afternoon. Some stronger plants than the others were lifting their swaying stems. The paths were covered with bruised leaves, and from the branches came the drip-drip of the gleaming rain-drops. At times under interlaced branches it seemed as though the storm still continued, so heavy was the splashing of the drenched trees. The usually crowded meeting-ground of fashion was practically deserted; even the guards had not left their corners of refuge. Here and there a stray gardener in a by-path was pityingly regarding his damaged beds.

The fresh, wet air blew against Diana's face and calmed her troubled spirit. Mabel linked her arm through Diana's: neither spoke. On and on they walked, in and out of deserted side-paths, until a turn in the road brought them opposite to the Serpentine Bridge, and they faced the public driveway of the park. A gust of wind blew across the ground a deluge of broken boughs; it caused them to hesitate on the edge of the crossing. Mabel started forward as a cab dashed towards them at a tremendous speed.

"Why, Di, there's Henry in that hansom," Mabel gasped, as she blew a tangle of loosened hair out of her eyes.

But Diana could only see the occupant nearest to her in the cab—it was a woman with a strangely interesting foreign face.

"Nonsense," she answered, as she held firm the wind-blown hat. "Henry is in the city. You are mistaken, dear."

As she spoke the storm began afresh. The wind blew the sodden blossom leaves and broken branches into a hurricane cloud around them. Grasping Mabel by the hand, Diana made her way against the violence of the wind and finally reached the entrance to the park. In the rush of keen air and the fight against it, everything else was forgotten. They quickly reached the house, and Diana saw Mabel drive away in the shelter of the waiting carriage. A few minutes later she was in her own room.

She loosened her long, brown hair, and kneeling before the glowing fire held the wet coils to its warmth. On her bed lay a gown to be worn that night, and the light from the fire cast a delicate sheen over its folds. It flickered and blazed with merry bursts of flame, lighting up the old-fashioned chintz draperies of the quaintly furnished room. Through the closed window she could hear the faint splutter of the rain on the casement. As she leaned against the tall chair close to the fireplace, a soft, warm languor stole over her and the tension of her mind relaxed. The beauty of her present life stretched out innumerable magic wands that lulled into insensibility the frightened thoughts of the afternoon. Soothed by the warmth and comfort of the room after the fatigue of her walk against the gale in the park, she abandoned herself to pleasant, intangible dreams. A knock at the door aroused her.

It was her aunt's maid, who carried a large box of flowers. Diana opened them; they were from Henry. Again they reiterated his apologies for the afternoon's disappointment. The perfume of the gardenias filled the room as she sank into a chair before her dressing-table and buried her face in the masses of delicate blossoms. The quiet servant gathered up the tangled hair.

"Her ladyship would like you to come to her room before you leave for the opera," she said, as she drew the brush across the soft brown locks.

Diana did not reply.

Yes, she was admitting to herself she had been unreasonable, as her father said. Life was beautiful and wonderful, and she meant to gather all its sweetness and bloom.