Before she had finished lacing her boots, however, the sitting-room door was opened, and Di heard her father calling wildly to her.
Colonel Tempest was not allowed to move, except with great precaution, owing to the slow healing of the obstinate internal injury caused by that unlucky pistol-shot.
She rushed headlong downstairs.
"Father!" she cried, horrified to find him standing on the landing. "Father, come back at once!" And she put her arms round him, and supported him back to the sofa.
He was trembling from head to foot. She saw that something had happened, but he was not in a state to be questioned. She administered what restoratives she had at hand, and presently the constantly moving lips got out the words, "Read it;" and Colonel Tempest pointed to a letter on the floor.
"Read it," repeated Colonel Tempest, lying back on his cushions, and recovering from his momentary collapse. "Read it."
Di picked up the letter and sat down by the window. She was suddenly too tired to stand. Her father was talking wildly, but she did not hear him; was calling to her to read it aloud, but she did not hear him. She saw only John's strong, small handwriting.
It was a business letter, couched in the most matter-of-fact terms. John stated his case—expressed a formal regret that the facts he mentioned had not come to light at Mr. Tempest's death, mentioned that the accumulation of income during his minority had fortunately remained untouched, that he had desired his lawyer to communicate with Colonel Tempest, and signed himself "John Fane." He had written the word "Tempest," and had then struck it through.
Di pressed her forehead against the glass on which the rain was beating.
Was the emotion which was shattering her joy or sorrow, or both?