“I thought so,� said Mrs. Fenwick softly, “this view is familiar; it is the same that one sees from your mother’s old room.�
Diana stood still, with her hand on the wicket. “Did you know my mother?� she asked quickly.
The older woman turned and looked fully at her. She had been very beautiful in her first youth, and Diana was conscious of a charm at once subtle and persuasive. “Is your mother dead?� she asked gently.
The girl was deeply perplexed. “She died twenty years ago,� she replied.
“She died twenty years ago?� her visitor repeated dreamily, looking away again. “It may be so! She may have died to this life here, to this place, to these people, but believe me, Diana, she is not dead.�
They had passed through the wicket and were standing on the lower lawn. Instinctively Diana drew further away from her; she did not understand her, and she disliked her familiarity, but as yet she was unalarmed. “My mother died in that room up there,� she said, with gentle dignity, “and my father has mourned her ever since, and has taught me to mourn her, too.�
A deep flush passed over Mrs. Fenwick’s face, and her hands trembled a little as they hung clasped before her. Diana, watching her, noticed it and noticed the grace of her pose. The girl thought that the elder woman never forgot herself, that her actions, even her gestures, were considered, that there was something artificial in them, yet her emotion was evident and unfeigned.
“It was good of him,� said Mrs. Fenwick slowly, “it was, I suppose, a beautiful idea, but it was an untruthful one. Diana, I am your mother.�
Diana thought her mad. She drew away from her again, and this time with instinctive repugnance, yet she was pitiful. This was evidently a delusion; the woman was insane and to be pitied and dealt with compassionately.
“You are mistaken, Mrs. Fenwick,� she said gently; “my mother is dead.�