Diana of Kara-Kara

In ordinary intercourse as between lawyer and client, he was a stern, reserved man with a cold passion for compromise. Litigants entered his office charged with bubbling joy that their enemies had delivered themselves into their hands; they came talking five figure damages and the stark ruin of men and corporations who and which had offended them. They slunk out again into the glare of an Australian sun, their cases demolished, their spirits broken, their futures clouded. Mr. Collings did not believe in litigation. He believed that things could be arranged.

If it was possible for a murdered man to walk into Mr. Collings’ office and say: “I’ve got an excellent case against Binks: he has just shot me dead. Do you think I can get damages?” Mr. Collings would reply: “I very much doubt it. There is a great deal to be said for Binks. And aren’t you in rather an awkward position yourself? You are carrying about a bullet which undoubtedly is the property of Binks. You never know what point of view a jury will take. You had better let me try to settle this.”

But in the matter of orphans Mr. Collings was slightly unbalanced. He was strictly brought up by parents who compelled him to read books on Sunday that were entirely devoted to orphans and good organ-grinders and little girls who quoted extensively from precious books and died surrounded by weeping negroes. In such literature the villains of the piece were young scoundrels who surreptitiously threw away their crusts and only ate the crumbly part of bread; desperadoes who kicked dogs and threw large flies into spiders’ webs and watched the spider at his fell work with glee.

“She is an orphan,” said Mr. Collings again, and blew his nose loudly.

“She has been an orphan for ten years,” said Mr. William Cathcart cynically.

Mr. Collings was stout, bald, given to afternoon naps; Mr. Cathcart was thin, narrow-faced, not so bald, and never slept at all, so far as anybody knew. He hated orphans. They stood for questions of cestui que use, problems of cy-pres, perplexities of donatio mortis causa and the Guardianship of Infants Act. He never saw an orphan without his hand going instinctively to his hip pocket.

“And the most irregular orphan I have ever met,” continued Mr. William Cathcart remorselessly. “An infant in law with a bank balance of a hundred thousand! I refuse to drop a tear--positively!”

Mr. Collings wiped his eyes.

“She is an orphan,” he insisted. “Mrs. Tetherby gave her the money during her lifetime: there is nothing irregular in that. If I gave an--an orphan”--he swallowed hard--“a penny, a pound--a thousand--is that a breach of the law, an impropriety, even though it is practised de die in diem?”

Mr. Cathcart considered.

“You might in certain circumstances be acting de sont tort,” he said.

Mr. Collings pondered this; found the term almost inapplicable, but not so much so that he could be offensive in a gentlemanly way. Wisely he returned to lamb.

“Mrs. Tetherby was inert. Stout women are often inert----”

“Lazy,” suggested the dyspeptic Cathcart.

“She was fond of Diana. Few aunts are fond of nieces. Her will proves that. She left everything----”

“There was nothing to leave,” interrupted Mr. William Cathcart with sour satisfaction. How that man hated orphans! “There was nothing to leave because in her lifetime she gave Diana full control of her money.”

“She was inert,” murmured Mr. Collings. “She loved this orphan child----”

“If there was one woman in the world who ought never to have been allowed----”

“Never ought have been,” corrected Mr. Collings gently.

“--to have charge of a girl of Diana Ford’s temperament, it is or was Mrs. Tetherby. A child of sixteen who has a raging love affair with a student----”

“A theological student,” insisted Mr. Collings. “Don’t forget that. A young woman may well feel that she could give her heart to a theological student when a medical student would have revolted all that was most sensitive in her nature.”

“A theological student makes it worse.”

“At least Mrs. Tetherby consulted us on that matter.” Mr. Collings was a shade reproachful. “Inert or energetic, she consulted us.”

“She consulted us to discover whether she would be liable to trial for murder if she waylaid and shot Mr. Dempsi. She said that she had set a dog on to him, but he was incapable of taking a hint. Those were her words.”

“Dempsi is dead,” said Mr. Collings in a hushed voice. “I spoke to Diana on the subject only eight months ago--when her dear aunt died. I asked her if the wound had left a scar. She said she scarcely remembered a scratch, and that she often amused herself in the evenings by trying to draw him from memory.”

“A heartless little devil,” said Mr. Cathcart.

“A child--youth has no memory, not even for its stomach aches,” said Mr. Collings oracularly.

“Did you discuss those too?” sneered his partner.

Mr. Collings raised his eyebrows. Such a man as he is hopeless in the face of sheer vulgarity.

“An orphan....” he began.

The clerk at the door spoke in the strained way of managing clerks.

“Miss Diana Ford, sir,” he said.

The legal house of Collings & Cathcart exchanged glances.

“Show the young lady in.” The door closed. “Be gentle with her, William.”

Mr. Cathcart writhed.

“Will she be gentle with me?” he asked bitterly. “Will you guarantee that she will be reasonably polite to me--and back your guarantee with real money?”

There came through the door a peach tree, blossoming in the spring of the year; summer dawn on riverside meadows with the dew winking from a thousand gossamers. The froth of hawthorn in an English country lane; a crystal brook whispering between slim larches. Miss Diana Ford.

During the war Mr. Cathcart had held a commission in the Army Service Corps (Home Service) and had acquired the inventory habit. He saw:

Girl: Slim, medium size. One.

Eyes: Grey-blue; large, more or less innocent. Two.