The Project Gutenberg eBook of Diana Carew
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Title: Diana Carew
or, for a woman's sake
Author: Mrs. Forrester
Release date: July 15, 2026 [eBook #79096]
Language: English
Original publication: Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1900
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79096
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIANA CAREW ***
DIANA CAREW;
OR,
FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE.
BY
MRS. FORRESTER,
AUTHOR OF "DOLORES," "FAIR WOMEN," "MY HERO," ETC. ETC.
"Yet, when we look deeply into life, we shall perhaps find hardly any
stretch of invention more singular than the scenes daily realizing
around us: nevertheless, if one idea not familiar to the mind nor in
the scope of our own immediate knowledge be presented to ne, we all
cry 'Romance!' nor recollect that this word is the most comprehensive
one in the whole dictionary, as it includes every idea unknown to the
person who pronounces it."--_Life of a Lover_.
PHILADELPHIA:
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1900.
NOTICE.--It was intended to call this Novel by its second title, "FOR
A WOMAN'S SAKE," under the impression that it was an original one.
The work had been thus printed when it was discovered that the title
had been used before. The Author has therefore prefixed it by
another.
Contents
I. Diana's Story
II. Diana's Story
III. Diana's Story
IV. Diana's Story
V. Diana's Story
VI. Diana's Story
VII. Diana's Story
VIII. Diana's Story
IX. Diana's Story
X. Diana's Story
XI. Diana's Story
XII. Diana's Story
XIII. Diana's Story
XIV. Not Told by Diana
XV. Not Told by Diana
XVI. Not Told by Diana
XVII. Diana's Story
XVIII. Diana's Story
XIX. Diana's Story
XX. Diana's Story
XXI. Diana's Story
XXII. Not Told by Diana
XXIII. Not Told by Diana
XXIV. Not Told by Diana
XXV. Not Told by Diana
XXVI. Diana's Story
XXVII. Diana's Story
XXVIII. Diana's Story
XXIX. Diana's Story
XXX. Diana's Story
XXXI. Diana's Story
XXXII. Diana's Story
XXXIII. Diana's Story
XXXIV. Diana's Story
XXXV. Diana's Story
XXXVI. Diana's Story
XXXVII. Not Told by Diana
XXXVIII. Not Told by Diana
XXXIX. Not Told by Diana
XL. Not Told by Diana
XLI. Diana's Story
XLII. Diana's Story
XLIII. Diana's Story
XLIV. Not Told by Diana
XLV. Diana's Story
XLVI. Not Told by Diana
FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE.
CHAPTER I
DIANA'S STORY.
"Here comes Diana of the Ephesians! Ask her what the thinks!"
I, Diana Carew, am the person thus apostrophized. The speaker is my
only brother, Wyndham--commonly called Curly--Carew. The third
person is my father,--God bless him! A dearer, kinder father never
breathed.
He smiles, and lays his hand on my shoulder, as having deposited my
burden--a jet-black kitten and a creamy-white one--one on each of
Curly's shoulders, I seat myself on his knee.
"Read that, Di," he says, putting into my hand a heavily-crested and
monogramed envelope, directed in a lady-like hand to Wyndham Carew,
Esq.
With eager curiosity I take out the note it contains, and read as
follows:
"DEAR MR. CAREW,--
"We really cannot allow you to condemn your pretty daughter"--(I feel
flattered, and blush a little: it is not often I have that adjective
applied to me.)
"Aha, Miss Vanity!" cries Curly, "I see the rose come to your damask
cheek at the soft impeachment. Proceed, _pretty daughter_."
"Don't interrupt her, Curly."
--"To the hermit's life," I read on, "you persist in leading
yourself,--much to the regret and disappointment of your neighbors."
"Who is this polite lady?" I inquire, referring to the end of the
note. "Oh, Mrs. Warrington!"
"We have some friends coming to us on New Year's Day, and if you,
with your son and daughter, will spend a few days here, we shall be
delighted to see you all. We hope to prevail upon you to join us;
but, if you are as resolute as usual in declining all invitations, do
not deprive us of the pleasure of seeing your young people. Mr.
Warrington has still some fair shooting left, if that will be any
inducement to you personally; and he bids me say he will mount your
son as often as he likes. Tell Miss Carew we shall have a little
dancing, and, I hope, some other amusements for the young ladies. I
warn you I do not intend to take any refusal as far as she is
concerned; and if you do not yield at once to my request, I shall
come over and press it personally.
"Mr. Warrington joins me in kindest regards, and believe me, dear Mr.
Carew,
"Very sincerely yours,
"GEORGIANA WARRINGTON."
My eyes glisten, the color deepens in my face as I read, and when I
have finished I look up eagerly in my father's face.
"Well, my dear" (his kind eyes shining tenderly upon me), "what do
you say?"
"Oh, papa, _could_ we go?"
"I suppose you would like it very much?"
"Oh!" (with a great sigh, which, if it expresses what I feel, must
speak volumes).
"If you do not, people will think I am a tyrannical old ogre, who
keeps you shut up like the fathers in story-books."
"Oh, dad, do let us go!" cries Curly, with enthusiasm. "It will be
such glorious fun!--and old Warrington has such splendid horses.
_I'll_ show them the way!" (his blue eyes flashing with delight at
the bare thought of hunting on one of Mr. Warrington's mounts).
"My dear fellow, suppose you staked or broke the back or threw one of
his two-hundred-guinea hunters! How would you feel?"
"Never fear, dad: I'll be as steady as old Time."
"Well," says papa, thoughtfully, "if you are both so anxious, I do
not see any very important objection to your going."
"But you will go too?" we both cry, in a breath.
He shakes his head, and sighs a little.
"No, children, my visiting days are over, and you know I do not care
to accept kindnesses I cannot return."
"Then _I_ shall not go,--that is very certain," I say, decisively,
but with a little swelling of disappointment in my throat.
"Nor I," adds Curly, in a dejected tone.
Our father looks at us both with a fond smile.
"What! do you think I am not to be trusted by myself for a few days?"
he asks, putting a hand on each of our shoulders. "Mrs. Warrington
is quite right. I must not keep Di shut up forever. It is time she
came out; and I do not know any one under whose auspices I should
better like her to do so than Mrs. Warrington's. Why, how old are
you, Di? Seventeen?"
"Eighteen last month, papa, you know," I answer, reproachfully. "But
I shall _not_ go without you. I shouldn't care the _least_ for it.
And, besides," as a sudden and most important reflection occurs to
me, "_I have nothing to go in._"
"Beauty unadorned's adorned the most," spouts Curly. "Thank Heaven!"
(grandly), "those considerations don't affect me!"
"Ah!" says my father, ruefully, "I forgot that. To be sure, that is
a very important point. And I suppose" (looking at me inquiringly)
"ladies' dress is a tremendous business in the present day."
"Oh, yes," I reply, cheerfully, having quite made up my mind now to
the impossibility of going. "Miss Pratt told me that when she was at
Lady Gwyneth Desborough's for three days, the ladies changed their
dresses four times a day, and had different ones every day."
"Indeed!" says papa, smiling. "But I do not suppose you would be
expected to dress like Lady Gwyneth, though I hardly fancy she had
many more dresses than you have, before she married poor little
Desborough."
"Well," I reply, with more emphasis than elegance, "I would rather go
about in a cotton gown all my life than have married _him_!"
"Oh, he isn't a bad little chap," remarks Curly, "if he wasn't so
dreadfully ashamed of the shop, and so fond of talking about his
father-in-law the earl."
"But, Di," puts in my father, "you must have one or two dresses, I
suppose. You always seem to me" (doubtfully) "to look very nice."
I shake my head.
"Only this," pointing to my well-worn serge, "and an old black silk
for Sundays, that has been turned twice, and a white muslin, so
shrunk that the body wouldn't meet last time it came from the wash.
No" (with mournful emphasis), "it is very certain I cannot go to Mrs.
Warrington's."
"Oh, dear!" cries Curly, ruefully, "what a selfish beggar I have
been, running the Dad up such tailors' bills at Eton, and all the
time poor little Di has had to do without."
"Why, Curly," I respond, quickly, "what in the world do I want with
clothes here? And if you were different from the other boys--I mean
fellows--at Eton, it would never do."
"Come," says my father, "it's not too late now. Gay and you must lay
your heads together and see what can be done. I think I have a
ten-pound note somewhere, and I suppose if you had a dress for the
day, and another for the evening, that would do just for a few days."
"Ten pounds!" I cry. The idea of spending such a sum all at once
upon my dress seems preposterous. "But I am not going. Curly can
go; you and I will stop at home together, papa, and be as happy
as--as----"
"As what?" asks papa, smiling.
"As anything," I respond, lamely, not finding a suitable, comparison.
"Now, I have made up my mind that you shall both go," says my father,
"so I shall proceed to my room and write to Mrs. Warrington that you
and Curly will be there on New Year's Day. And you, Di, go and
consult with Gay; you have a fortnight before you to prepare."
"Papa," I say, obstinately, "I will _not_ go. I do not care about
it; indeed I do not."
"You will be a good, obedient little daughter, and do as I tell you,"
he answers, going off to write the letter, and leaving me irresolute
and uncomfortable in my mind.
"Curly," I say, appealing distressedly to my brother, "I _can't_--I
_won't_ go, and leave papa."
"Nonsense, Di! the Dad will be happy enough. You'll have to leave
him some day, when you get married."
"Get married!" I retort, in exceeding scorn. "Yes, a great deal of
chance of that! Why" (reflecting), "I don't suppose I've spoken to a
man--a gentleman, at least--since I was grown up."
"What, not old Stiggins?"
"Don't speak disrespectfully of your spiritual pastors and masters,
sir; but I don't call him a man."
"Ho, ho! I wonder which he would call the most disrespectful?--you
or I?"
"Well" (sighing), "I will go and talk to Gay. Oh, Curly! don't pull
Othello's tail."
Othello is the black kitten; the white one rejoices in the name of
Desdemona.
"I'll come too." And he marches off to the housekeeper's room, by
courtesy, where Gay, our faithful old nurse and general factotum,
sits darning stockings for the million.
Curly throws open the door.
"Her Majesty the Queen and His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales,"
he commences, in a loud and important voice, "having for some time
past remarked a dearth of beauty about the court, and hearing that,
in the wilds of Blankshire, there blooms unseen an exquisite creature
of the name of Diana Carew, hereby intimate that her presence is
forthwith commanded at Buckingham Palace; which being interpreted, my
dear old Susannah, means that Di is going to pay a swell visit, and
that you have to set about providing her with a suitable wardrobe."
"What ever does the boy mean?" cries Gay, bewildered, looking up at
us over her spectacles.
"What I say, O unbelieving Jewess," dragging her work from her
surprised hands and shying it to the farther corner of the room.
"Away with melancholy!--away with worsted stockings! From henceforth
Diana will walk in silk attire,--will captivate the heart of some
lord of high degree, and restore the shattered fortunes of the house
of Carew." And Curly, in the blitheness of his young heart, hugs his
old nurse, to the great detriment of her cap-strings.
She tries to look angry and to expostulate, but who can be angry with
Curly? Of all the cheery faces, of all the beaming blue eyes brimful
of laughter, of all the curly golden locks whence he gets his
sobriquet, there are none to equal those of my young brother; and,
more than that, he has the sweetest disposition and the kindest heart
in the world. If he is a little aggravating sometimes, I should like
to know what a boy is worth whose animal spirits do not run away with
him now and then.
"Now, Miss Di, my dear, do you tell me what it's all to do with,"
says Gay, apostrophizing me in despair of getting any rational answer
out of her pet,--for Curly is her pet without a shadow of doubt, and
I don't know that I am very jealous of her preference. Don't we all
pet and adore him?
"We are invited to Warrington Hall," I answer, "and papa wishes us to
go; he won't go himself."
"Oh, my dear, what _will_ you do for clothes?" cries practical Gay,
at once closing with the obstacle that had only been an after-thought
with me.
"Papa has offered to give me ten pounds; but what is the use of
wasting _all_ that money in clothes?" I say, lugubriously. "After
all, I don't suppose I should enjoy going to Warrington very much. I
think I'll run down and ask papa to decline for me."
"Rash girl, forbear!" cries Curly, catching me by the arm, and
striking a tragic attitude. "I've made up my mind you _shall_ go,
and I prophesy you will meet my future brother-in-law, who will be
rich, and who will mount me and give me shooting, pay my debts, and,
in short, make himself a convenience to me generally. You know, Di"
(holding me at arm's length and looking critically at me), "though I
say it who shouldn't, you're not altogether what one would call an
ugly girl; rather the other way.
Your hair is like the raven's wing,
Your brown eyes flash like anything.
Hold on I till I get two more lines to rhyme.
Your pearly teeth and coral lip,
And nose just turned up at the tip,
I end, laughing.
"By jingo, that makes a complete portrait: don't it, Susannah, my
dear?"
"Well, Master Curly, _I_ don't see that her nose turns up at the tip.
I'm sure a straighter one----"
"Now, Gay," I cry, rudely breaking in upon her defense of my
appearance, "never mind my nose, but let's think of what I am to
wear, if I do go after all."
"I suppose ten pounds wouldn't buy a velvet gown, would it?" asks
Curly, doubtfully.
"A velvet gown!" I laugh. "A nice matronly old person you would make
of me!"
"Indeed," he retorts, "I can tell you Archdale's sisters both have
velvet gowns, and they are younger than you,--at least, one of them
is; but," dropping his voice, "he told me they cost five-and-twenty
guineas each."
"Well," I return, with some contempt, "I am not Archdale's sister,
and if I had twenty-five guineas I think I could employ them better."
"Di," says Curly, laying a hand on my shoulder, "I don't think you'll
find ten pounds go quite so far as you think, and" (blushing a
little) "if you should want any more I have a fiver that I've been
saving up and haven't any very particular use for."
For answer I throw my arms round his neck and give him a fervent hug,
whilst Gay contemplates us both with an expression of beatitude,
murmuring,--
"Lord bless the dear children!"
CHAPTER II.
DIANA'S STORY.
The house of Carew is not in a flourishing state at the present time;
far from it. Gay has wild legends about the days of the old squire,
when the Carews were great people in the county, of the grand doings,
the entertainments, the carriages and horses, the powdered footmen,
and all the _apanages_ of wealth and distinction. She has told us a
score of times, as we have sat round the nursery fire, of the ox
roasted whole, the barrels of beer, the dancing and feasting that
took place when our father came of age, and the gay doings five years
later, when he brought our mother home, and the people took the
horses out of the carriage and dragged the bride and bridegroom home.
That is only twenty years ago. Whence, then, this sudden and rapid
decline in the fortunes of our house? Alas! I scarcely know. My
father has never entered into any explanation of the causes of our
poverty, though he occasionally recurs, with mingled sorrow and
bitterness, to the fact. As for Gay, she cannot give us absolute
information, but thinks that at our grandfather's death his affairs
were found in an unsatisfactory state, and that papa, in the hope of
setting matters straight, speculated, and thereby brought the ruin to
a climax. Well, it cannot be helped. One thing I am _quite_
satisfied of,--whatever papa did, he did for the best, and the very
cleverest people may be misled sometimes. I know this, that his life
has been one long self-abnegation for Curly's sake, that somewhere in
the future he may be able to hold up his head and take his own place
in the county. We have often talked the dear fellow's prospects
over, papa and I, and we are both agreed that at any rate every
sacrifice must be made for him. What does it matter about a girl?
but a boy, the heir to a good property, the head of an old house, how
he is brought up is everything! He must go to Eton, if papa and I
live on rabbits and pork all the year round, and have new clothes
once in three years.
And how we sit in the twilight, the dear Dad and I, talking over our
darling's future, and of his sayings and doings when he was last at
home! Sometimes papa says, stroking my hair as I sit at his feet,--
"Di, my dear, I don't think it's quite fair on you: you ought to go
to school, or have masters at home, or do something for your
education."
"Oh, papa," I answer, deprecatingly, "I am sure I know as much as
most girls of my age. I have kept up everything I used to learn with
Miss Carter, except" (sighing) "geography and arithmetic. I always
did hate those. I speak pretty good grammar, don't I, dear? I write
a decent hand. I know enough French to get on abroad, if I ever went
there,--which I don't suppose I shall. I can play pretty well on the
piano, and I think" (a smile of conscious vanity parting my lips)--"I
think I can sing a little."
"Ay," says papa, smiling, "you can that; and" (patting me on the
shoulder) "I don't think all the Italian masters in the world could
make my little nightingale's voice sweeter."
I blush with pleasure: no praise comes so sweet to me as my father's.
My voice is my one little possession, my ewe-lamb, the great delight
of my life. For hours I am wont to sit at our old-fashioned piano,
that has been a good one once, and, like all good things, bears to
the end the trace of its better days. I sit and sing the daylight
into twilight, the twilight into evening,--sometimes jocund melodies,
but oftener plaintive ones, until I am carried out of myself into
sweet dreams and happy trances and shadowy griefs, that have as yet
no form, but only guess at sorrow. For I have never been unhappy in
my life.
My mother died when I was too young to remember her; and papa and
Curly and I have always been so happy together, Of course I have had
my troubles; for instance, when Curly first went to school, and once
when Gay was ill; and when my pet cat was shot by the keeper, I
thought my heart was broken. Our poverty has never made me unhappy.
Sometimes I have longed very much for things,--most of all for a
horse to ride; but I always consoled myself by thinking that it was
no good wishing for what one could not have, so my desires melted
back into contentment with my lot. I have papa and Curly and
Gay,--the three very dearest creatures in the world; I have the
handsomest and faithfulest pug ever known; and a tabby cat lined with
apricot, as Curly describes its tawny bosom, that I would not change
for any other living cat.
_Que voulez-vous_? One cannot have everything. I am poor. I have
no fine clothes to wear, no horses to ride, no lovers to flatter me,
but I am happy, and Lady Gwyneth, who has all that money can buy, is,
by her own confession, I have heard, the most miserable woman alive.
_Apropos_ of lovers, I am ashamed almost to say it, but I _should_,
oh, I _should_ like to have a lover; only I have done so long without
that I am afraid I shall never get one to please me now. Literally
and truthfully, I don't think I have spoken to a man except the
clergyman and the doctor since I was grown up,--not even a boy, one
of Curly's school-fellows, for naturally enough he does not care to
ask them home; and I am sure it would put us all out very much to
entertain them.
Our home is a fine handsome old place, but more than two-thirds of it
is shut up, and we only live in the smaller rooms, with the exception
of the dining-room, full of splendid old carved oak, and family
portraits, where we always take our meals. It is a fine room. We
have a great screen put halfway across, to make it less cold and vast
in the winter. But there are curious contrasts in it. There is the
grand carved chimney-piece that reaches the ceiling, and the old
brass dogs on the hearth; there are the numerous portraits of former
Carews; there is the splendid old sideboard and bookcase, and the
fine pair of bronzes which have always filled my youthful soul with
admiration. But in contrast there is the poor threadbare old Turkey
carpet, that Gay has so often repaired on her knees with colored
worsteds, until she has declared her back was fain to break; there
are the old curtains, which tradition says were once magnificent
crimson velvet, but which have now assumed the yellowish-brown hue
one sees sometimes in the hangings of a very old pulpit in a very old
church; the gilding of most of the frames is very dingy, and the
ceiling, and what little is visible of the walls, sadly requires
paint and whitewash. The leather on the handsome old chairs is in a
melancholy condition: age and the vagaries of numerous kittens have
done their fell work upon them, and now nothing but the backs of them
are really respectable. The room is certainly a wreck, if you come
to think of it; but we are all so used to it, I don't believe we ever
_do_ think of it. And then we don't sit there, but in a much snugger
room that used to be the morning-room, and where, though the
furniture and the carpet and the curtains are old too, they look more
comfortable and homely. I think papa would have let the house long
ago,--the rent of it would have made us comparatively rich,--only
there is a clause somewhere forbidding it; and I do verily believe we
would all rather be poor and live there ourselves than feel it was in
the hands of strangers.
We have the greatest veneration for the family heirlooms, the old oak
and pictures, and plate and china, of which there is great store, and
which once now and again Gay allows us to feast our eyes upon. I
suppose papa does feel being poor dreadfully. Gay thinks he does:
she was under-nurse to him when he was a baby, and has lived in the
family ever since. But he nearly always seems cheerful, and goes
about with his gun, or works in the garden, where we both help him,
or sits in his study, reading and writing. He hardly ever alludes to
our poverty: when he does, it is with such bitter sadness, it makes
my heart bleed for him. Dear, darling father! I do believe he
blames himself, and thinks that we are suffering from his fault; and
I long sometimes to throw my arms round his neck and tell him how
satisfied we are, Curly and I; that all he has done was for the very
best, only I would not have him think there had ever been even
question of it in our minds. Why should he feel so dreadfully for
us, when I am sure we do not for ourselves? Curly is as happy as the
day is long; what boy is not at Eton?--and he is always thoroughly
delighted to come home,--poor though home may be. He knows there are
no hearts elsewhere that beat so lovingly and tenderly for him. As
for me, I am never idle a moment, so I cannot be unhappy; what with
my household cares,--and really a good deal of contriving is required
to make ends meet, to provide not only for our own small household,
but for the sick and poor who often stand in need of our help, and
rather than send whom empty away, papa would go dinnerless himself.
Then there are all my pets to be looked after,--my cat and kittens,
the two retrievers, my pug, Curly's ferrets to be taken for their
daily airing. They are as friendly and affectionate as the kittens,
and I might like them better if their coats did not exhale such a
very pungent odor. Then there is my old pony Tommy, whom I ride and
drive, and make a general convenience of, and my devotion to whom is
not one whit lessened by my contempt for his powers and appearance.
Poor old fellow! he is twenty-one,--just of age, we laugh and say,
and he is more often turned out than not. What can you expect? Our
establishment consists of Gay, the cook, and a very young housemaid
and parlor-maid combined, who is a thorn in Gay's side, and more
plague to her, as she is wont irritably to aver, than if she had to
do the whole of the work herself. It is a come-down for the Carews,
I suppose; but I do not remember anything different: so it troubles
me but very little. I have my ideas of love, riches, and grandeur,
but they are mostly derived from historical novels and Gay's old
stories, certainly not from any experience I have had of any one of
them.
I am not going to pretend for an instant that I never think about my
personal appearance, nor speculate upon my looks, nor what effect
they are likely to produce upon the other sex, when they are blessed
with a sight of me. I do not believe there is a girl living who is
utterly devoid of the instinct of vanity. Often and often I have sat
before the glass and arranged my hair in different fashions, and
tried on the old brocaded gowns of my grandmother, which I have
coaxed Gay to lend me for an afternoon; and once I was so well
satisfied with my appearance that I could not resist the impulse of
running down to show myself to papa, though I fully expected to be
called a vain puss for my pains. There is a portrait in the
dining-room of one Diana Carew (I know not exactly what ancestress of
mine), gorgeously attired in blue and white brocade, with pearls
twisted in her dark hair.
It was one wet autumn afternoon, and I was sitting at Gay's feet as
she darned the eternal stockings, and she was regaling me with
stories of our departed glories.
"I've got the very gownd put away up-stairs as Miss Diana, that was
your great--no, it must have been great-great--well, I'm not certain,
so I'll say your great-grand-aunt--was painted in."
"What!" I cry, rising excitedly to my feet. "You wicked, unkind,
good-for-nothing old creature!--and you have never shown it to me all
this time! I have a great mind to shake you" (standing threateningly
over her).
"Well" (with a benevolent smile, and no appearance of fear on her
kind old face), "I always thought I would keep it as a treat; so now,
if you like" (taking her hand out of the foot of the stocking), "I'll
get my keys, and you shall have the treat, my dear."
So, preceded by my impatient footsteps, with the pug following
excitedly at my heels, she ascends the broad staircase, traverses the
long gallery, and unlocks the door of one of the principal bedrooms.
"Faugh!" I say, holding my nose, "how fusty it smells!"
"Ah!" responds Gay, who always has a reminiscence for every
disparaging remark of mine, "it wasn't fusty when the Duke and
Duchess of Blankshire slept here the night of your papa's coming of
age. Well I mind saying, as I went in to look at it before their
Graces arrived, I'd be bound they didn't sleep in a handsomer room at
home."
"Hm!" I say, with a doubtful glance around me, as she undoes a
shutter and lets in the daylight.
It is a vast and lofty room. An enormous oak bedstead, with lions
couchant at the foot, stands in the centre; a gigantic wardrobe lines
nearly one side; all the furniture gives one an idea of having been
made for a larger race of men. There is no carpet OH the polished
floor, the old, heavy-framed mirrors are dim and lustreless, and
altogether the room, in spite of its gloomy grandeur, has a
wreck-like appearance. My voice sounds preternaturally loud and
hollow as I make unflattering comments upon the furniture generally
and particularly.
I wait with breathless eagerness as Gay unlocks the wide door of the
wardrobe, pulls out the heavy drawers, and proceeds to unfold from
its numerous wrappings the treasure my eyes desire to behold.
"There," she says, triumphantly, as, having taken off the last fold
of silver paper, she holds it before my longing eyes.
"It's very scanty," I remark, disparagingly.
"Well, my dear" (tartly), "when gownds was made of such splendid
material, they didn't want to cover them all over with flounces and
furbelows. It'll stand by itself, this will."
"Nearly," I assent. "It is handsome, certainly" (regarding the stiff
brocade with my head on one side). "Nurse, I shall try it on."
But Gay regards my proposition almost in the light of sacrilege.
However, after infinite coaxing, I get not only her permission but
her help. Rapture! It fits me as if it had been made for me. I
rush off to my own room, Gay loudly expostulating at my heels. There
I build my hair up on high after the manner of Miss Diana
below-stairs, twist a string of mock pearls I possess among other
treasures through it, and, this done, survey myself with extreme
content in the long glass which hangs on the wall of my room.
"Well, to be sure!" says Gay, in a voice wherein surprise and
admiration contend for mastery. "Any one might think you'd just
stepped out of the picture!"
"Would not they?" I exclaim, in great glee, parading up and down in
my creamy train and sky-blue bunched-up tunic, not at all so unlike
the fashion of to-day. "I shall go and show myself to papa."
"No, don't you, now, Miss Di! don't you!" entreats Gay. "Your papa
might be displeased with me."
"Did you ever know him displeased in your life, you old goose?" I
cry, gayly, eluding her grasp, and rushing off as well as my train
will permit, the pug in full pursuit.
"You'll sile the bottom on those stairs!" cries Gay after me, in an
agonized tone. "That Sally never half does them down."
But I am already outside the study door. It is getting dusk,
twilight is creeping on at least half an hour before its time this
dull afternoon, and I quietly open the door, and with a low step, and
somewhat beating heart, advance to my father. He looks up with a
bewildered glance; then a curious look comes into his face, a proud,
fond, tender kind of smile, then he puts his hand before his eyes,
and, rising abruptly, turns to the window.
I grow red and pale by turns. What have I done? Why is he so moved?
A thousand thoughts flash through my mind in an instant. Have I
reminded him of my mother? But no; Curly is like her. I take after
him.
"Oh, papa," I cry, running towards him, "I am so sorry! Have I vexed
you?"
"Vexed me!" he answers, turning and stretching out his arms, to which
I fly. "No, indeed, child. But when I see" (his voice trembling)
"how well fine clothes become my little girl, it makes me grieve to
think that but for my folly she would have had them to wear always."
"Oh, papa, why do you say such things? I hate fine clothes!" I cry,
passionately. "Horrid, uncomfortable, stiff, ugly things! I should
be very sorry to wear them often. I will run and get out of them as
quickly as I can."
As I go crestfallenly up-stairs, I hate myself for my stupid,
unseemly joke; my vanity has melted into shame and regret. Probably
my feelings are depicted on my face, for, as I enter my bedroom, Gay,
who is awaiting me, says, reproachfully,--
"There, now, Miss Di! I told you your papa wouldn't like it."
I tear off my finery in a rage, and fling it on the bed, where Gay
pats and pulls it out apologetically. Then I bury my face in my
pillow and cry bitterly.
CHAPTER III.
DIANA'S STORY.
The eventful day arrives. All obstacles have been surmounted, even
the important one of my dress, though I must confess the ten pounds
did not go nearly so far as I had expected. However, I am equipped
so that no one can carp very much at my attire, and the reflection
that gives me the greatest satisfaction is, that my clothes are
undeniably well made, and fit to perfection. Elise herself could not
have done more for my figure. It so happens that the daughter of an
old servant, who lived with the family in its palmy days, is home for
her holiday. She is lady's maid in what her mother is pleased to
term a very grand family, and, as we have always kept up friendly
relations, Hester has most good-naturedly offered, on hearing of my
projected visit, to make my dresses. When she brings them home I am
so dazzled with the magnitude of my possessions that Hester is
obliged to give me a good-natured hint not to be too much elated
until I have seen the splendor of the other guests.
Warrington Hall is ten miles distant, and we have post horses from
the neighboring town put to our old brougham (another dreadful
expense, I think, lugubriously).
Curly is in tremendous spirits, which I cannot say I altogether
share. I feel rather frightened, and a little sad, for I have never
left papa before. My eyes are so dim I can hardly see his dear, kind
face, as he comes to see us off, and wishes us a cheery good-by and a
pleasant visit.
"Oh, Curly, how dull papa will be without us!" I say, in a melancholy
voice, as we turn away from the door.
"Not he; he is delighted we are going. It is just the very thing he
wished for you: he told me so this morning. I say, Di, let's look at
you. What a swell you are!"
"Am I not?" (proudly glancing down at myself with considerable
satisfaction). "But I dare say," I add, mindful of Hester's
warning,--"I dare say I shall not think much of myself when I see the
others."
"Oh," replies Curly, patronizingly, "girls can't be expected to dress
like married women, which I expect they'll mostly be; and you look
like a lady, and that's the great thing."
"Curly," I hazard, presently, as, though he is nearly two years my
junior, I look up to him in compliment to his having seen a great
deal more of the world, "do you feel at all nervous?"
"Nervous!" (with considerable scorn). "What about?"
"Of course" (apologetically) "you've stayed in big houses before, but
I haven't; and, Curly, dear" (blushing), "if you should see me do
anything awkward, or not quite right, you'll be sure and tell me,
won't you?"
"Of course I will; but you've only got to be natural," responds my
young brother, oracularly, "and do just as you would at home."
I feel rather doubtful about the last part of the sentence,
remembering how I am wont to scamper about the house, race upstairs
two and three at a time, sing at the top of my voice, and give my
opinion freely and unhesitatingly upon every subject.
"I wonder who will be there," I say.
"Oh, the Desboroughs, most likely, and perhaps some of the Montagus;
or they may not have any county people at all. I don't know, I
should think Lady Gwyneth will be there. She and old Warrington are
great allies."
"I hope she will. I want to see her," I reply.
We have arrived. From the cold and darkness we are ushered into a
blaze of warmth and light. My shyness prevents me from mastering any
details at first. I only know that my dazzled senses are filled with
new ideas of luxury, comfort, costliness. A soft, rose-colored light
pervades the room, there is a delicate scent of hothouse flowers, and
round the blazing fire is a large group of people, talking with
considerable animation. Out from the group, from behind a shining
silver tea-service, a tall, gracious-looking woman comes towards
me,--not young, but still handsome, and with an unmistakable air of
_grande dame_, that even unsophisticated I recognize at once. She
greets us with kindly warmth, draws me forward to the circle round
the fire, utters a few words of presentation to the rest of the
company, which I am too nervous to gather, and seats herself beside
me on a sofa.
"I am so disappointed you have not brought your father," she
whispers, kindly. "You must entice him out a little by degrees: we
cannot have Carew Court made into a hermitage, such a gay, pleasant
house as it used to be." And then she asks me about the journey, and
in a few minutes I begin to feel at home, and my first agony of
shyness subsides. The rest of the party have relapsed into their
cheery talk; the charmed circle has another addition in Curly, who is
perfectly at his ease. "Hector," says Mrs. Warrington, presently,
"will you pour Miss Carew out a cup of tea?"
A tall dark man separates himself from the rest and obeys Mrs.
Warrington's behest. When he brings it I am introduced to him. "My
dear, let me introduce Mr. Montagu to you. Hector, this is a
neighbor of yours as well as ours. Miss Carew."
Mr. Montagu sits down on the other side of me. He has a
distinguished face, though not exactly a handsome one; but there is
something awe-inspiring about him. I feel afraid of him. He wears a
cold, almost contemptuous expression, and yet now he smiles it is not
an unpleasant face, rather the reverse; but I do not feel at ease
with him. He utters a few cold, civil words to me, and, to my
chagrin, Mrs. Warrington leaves us and goes out of the room. Is it
possible that my face betrays my feelings? Mr. Montagu fixes his
keen eyes upon me, and his mouth curves with a smile that is by no
means a genial one.
"Do not be afraid," he says, in a low voice; "I dare say Mrs.
Warrington will soon return."
To say that I am embarrassed is to give but poor and inadequate
expression to the confusion that covers me. Seeing it, he adds,
hastily,--
"I was only joking; but indeed you did look frightened. People are
rather by way of being afraid of me at first, but really and truly"
(laughing) "I am not so awful as I look."
"Mr. Montagu," says a dark, imperious-looking woman at this moment,
"as Mrs. Warrington has delegated the duty of pouring out tea to you,
perhaps you will come and attend to my wants."
There is another man at her elbow, doing nothing; but I am very glad
to have Mr. Montagu's attention distracted from me. He rises, not
very graciously, and I, being left to myself, take the opportunity of
making a closer inspection of my entourage. The pleasant, becoming
light issues from two rose-shaded lamps, the delicate odors from a
profusion of choice flowers scattered liberally about the frequent
tables, the hearth is piled with blazing logs, every object glows
with rich warm tints. The thick carpet, that feels like a well-kept
lawn to my unaccustomed feet, is crimson, the hangings and furniture
are a lovely shade of blue, the doors and cornices are black and
gold, of which there are also quaint-shaped tables and ornaments.
You can scarcely see the creamy walls for the little gems of pictures
in heavy gold frames, the mirrors, velvet brackets, china plates,
vases, cups and saucers that cover them. An immense tiger-skin rug
lies in front of the fire, and there are draped velvet curtains to
the mantel-piece.
Incidentally I observe the rest of the party. The small fair woman
in a riding-habit, talking volubly and laughing rather loudly, is of
course Lady Gwyneth Desborough. She has fair hair, cut short like a
boy's, a _retroussé_ nose, and scarcely that aristocratic air and
tone I should have expected from an earl's daughter.
At this period of my life, utterly untaught by experience, my ideas
savor somewhat of foregone conclusions. I imagine that all people of
noble birth must have distinguished manners and perfect breeding;
just as I am persuaded all clergymen must be pious, all women modest,
all servants respectful, and so on. I do not particularly admire
Lady Gwyneth, nor does she seem to me very lady-like, in spite of her
birth. It may be difficult to manage a habit gracefully in the room,
but she need not sit cross-legged, and lean back, with one arm thrown
over the sofa: indeed, she looks more like a very small man than a
woman. She is talking with the utmost animation to two or three men,
and employing, to say the least of it, very technical terms: the
subject is the day's run.
I feel rather glad papa is not here. I think I should feel a little
ashamed if he were. The lady who has summoned Mr. Montagu from my
side is dark and handsome, though very slight and thin. She is
magnificently dressed in dark-green velvet and fur, which well
becomes her imperial air. Her dark brows nearly meet over her large
eyes, giving a dissatisfied, almost angry look to the face that
wellnigh amounts to a scowl. Then there is a pretty, fair girl, who
has been engaged in deepest conversation with a long-moustached man
ever since I came in. They are sitting rather apart from the rest:
it occurs to me that they must be engaged.
There are five men present; I do not know who they are, in spite of
Mrs. Warrington's introduction. There is only one in whom I feel
much interest. He is talking to Lady Gwyneth; and once or twice our
eyes have met,--such kind, pleasant eyes, though I cannot see the
color. The rest of the face is not exactly handsome, but it is the
face of a thorough gentleman. Behind him is an insignificant little
man, whom I take to be Mr. Desborough, from the contemptuous looks
and words that Lady Gwyneth now and again throws at him when he
presumes to join in her conversation. He is at this moment making
some remark about his prowess in the hunting-field; she breaks in in
a rasping, contemptuous voice:
"You as near as possible brought Lady-love to grief to-day; if you
had quite, I should have discharged Stevens without a character, for
putting you upon her with that bit."
Involuntarily my eyes open and my mouth falls. Is that the way women
in society talk to their husbands? I expect him to make some furious
reply,--her tone has made even my neutral blood boil,--but he only
turns away with a cowed, uneasy laugh. Involuntarily I look at my
friend with the kind eyes (I don't know why I should call him my
friend, though, since we have not yet exchanged one word): they meet
mine with a half-amused, half-disgusted smile,--the former, I
suppose, called forth by the expression of amazement on my face,
which I hastily endeavor to modify.
Mr. Montagu, having performed the duties required of him, returns to
my side.
"A nice civil little speech that of Lady Gwyneth's to her lord, was
it not?" he whispers. "Is that the way you will treat the victim of
your bow and spear?"
I look up at him.
"You seem to have the gift of reading my face," I answer, with rather
an injured air. "Do you think I shall? Do I look as if I should?"
He smiles; it is not a sneer this time.
"I don't think you would, though your eyes look quite capable of
holding their own. Lady Gwyneth does not look like a vixen; we are
all very much creatures of circumstance, and Desborough is
irritating."
"Why did she marry him?--she could never have liked him," I say, and
then am overtaken with a horror lest I have been indiscreet.
"At your age of course you think all marriages should be
love-matches," he says, eying me with a certain curiosity.
"Yes--no--I do not know!" I stammer.
"Well, there is a couple of whom you will quite approve" (indicating
with his eyes the pair whom I have already speculated upon): "they
are very much in love, and will not have five hundred a year between
them."
This sum does not seem so appallingly small to me as it evidently
does to him. Realizing this by a glance at my face, he continues,
hastily:
"What do you think of Mrs. Huntingdon?"
"The lady in green velvet?"
"Is it green? I thought it was black. She is handsome, is she not?"
"Yes," I answer, trying to keep my voice under control this time,
"very."
"Rather a hard face?"
"She is very handsome," I say, resolved not to give an opinion
adverse to any of the party.
"That is her husband, Major Huntingdon, just going to stir the fire.
They are another attached couple."
"Who is that talking to Lady Gwyneth?" I ask, plucking up courage to
ask the question I have been dying to put for the last ten minutes.
"The best fellow living,--a very old friend of mine,--Fane,--Colonel
Rochester Fane. His sister is coming to-morrow,--the nicest woman in
the world. I am very glad for your sake she is coming, for I hardly
know whom you would have to fraternize with else. Nelly Gore is too
wrapped up in her soldier; and I don't think you will take much to
Lady Gwyneth or Mrs. Huntingdon."
"Nor they to me," I hazard.
"Nor they to you," he acquiesces. "I should be rather sorry"
(looking at me kindly) "if they did."
"My dear, will you not like to see your room?" says Mrs. Warrington,
coming up to me. And, I assenting, she carries me off to a charming
little room, all white lace and pink ribbons, with pretty pictures
hung upon the walls, and a hundred elegant nicknacks disposed about.
I cannot but give vent to my hearty admiration.
"Do you like it, my dear? I am very glad," she says, kindly. And
then she draws me to her and kisses me, and a mist comes across my
eyes. "Your brother's room is next door," she tells me; "I thought
you would like to be together."
When she is gone, I sit down by the fire and begin to think. How
strange, how refined, how luxurious this new life to which I am
suddenly introduced seems! I look around me, and then summon up the
vision of my own bare room at home, with its strips of faded carpet,
its old though clean dimity hangings, and its ponderous furniture.
"Never mind, dear, darling old home," I say to myself, as if it were
feeling a pang at my comparison, "I love you ten times better than
any other place, though the walls were gold and it was paved with
diamonds. You hold all I love."
But all the same I busy my brain to think whether I cannot take a few
hints away from Warrington for the beautifying and improving of our
house.
My reflections are disturbed by Curly coming into the adjoining room.
I try the door of communication between us.
"Who's there?" he shouts.
"It's me,--Di," I answer.
"Hooray! Wait a minute; there's a key on this side."
And in a moment we are comparing notes on the magnificence of our
respective apartments.
Curly's room is very much like mine, except that his walls are
adorned with pictures of horses and dogs.
"This is fine!--isn't it?" he cries, delightedly, giving me a hug.
"How do you feel, Di? Aren't you enjoying yourself _immensely_?"
"Well, not exactly" (doubtfully). "You see, I have hardly spoken to
any one but Mrs. Warrington yet. I _love_ her, but I don't think I
shall care much about the other women."
"Oh, Lady Gwyneth is awfully jolly."
"Is she?" I answer, dryly. "I shouldn't have thought she was an
earl's daughter."
"What!" he says, laughing, "did you suppose earl's daughters talked
blank verse in the bosoms of their families? My dear little Di,
you'll find them very much like other people" (with an air of
superiority).
"Rather more vulgar, perhaps?" I suggest.
"Vulgar!--not a bit of it. You don't know anything about society.
People always talk in that sort of way."
"Do they? Well, I must dress, or I shall be late," I say, shutting
the door. "Curly, _be sure_ you don't go down without me."
"All right. I say" (through the door) "shall I part my hair down the
middle, or on one side?"
"Down the middle," I reply, promptly.
"You don't think I shall look too much like a girl?" (anxiously).
"I think you will look more like a girl than Lady Gwyneth," I say,
maliciously. "She wears hers on one side, you know."
I do not catch Curly's rejoinder, but the tone sounds rather cross.
"Never mind, dear boy," I say, humbly, opening the door again. "I
did not mean to vex you."
"Of course not," he rejoins, heartily. "Look alive, Di, or you'll be
late."
I feel a very small individual when we are all assembled in the
handsome amber drawing-room and I see the toilettes of the other
women. Lady Gwyneth looks very different from what she did an hour
ago, and I must confess there is a little something of the _grande
dame_ about her. She is dressed entirely in white,--the softest,
finest muslin and lace. I know very little about lace, except that
this is Valenciennes, and from the quantity and quality must be very
costly. It is quite the loveliest dress I have ever seen. Mrs.
Huntingdon is simply gorgeous. She wears a pale greenish-blue satin
trimmed with humming-birds' breasts and beetles' wings. Miss Gore,
too, is elegant. But, though my dress is plain compared with the
others, thanks to Hester, I do not feel dowdy I am introduced to my
host. He is a loud-voiced, jolly-looking man,--quite in the English
squire style, or, rather, what I imagine it to be. He greets us both
very kindly and cordially, particularly Curly, whom he has seen
before.
Dinner is announced, and I am taken in by Major Huntingdon. Here new
surprises await me. It seems like a series of enchantments. I feel
as Aladdin must have done in the magician's cave. So occupied am I
with looking and wondering at all I see, that I scarcely hear my
neighbor's civil little remarks, and reply no doubt in a very _mal à
propos_ manner. But as soon as he is served with soup he gives me
up, and I may make my observations at my leisure. The table gives me
at least ten minutes' occupation,--the lovely flowers and exquisite
glass ornaments, the glistening gold and silver plate. I think of
papa sitting down alone to his meagre, unbeautiful meal in our dull,
bare dining-room. _I_ will have flowers on the table, I say to
myself. We have plenty of handsome china vases, and I might have our
little homely dessert decorated with pretty leaves and berries. The
warmth, the light, the laughter, all seem wonderfully pleasant to me;
most of all I love to catch Curly's ringing voice. He is sitting by
Lady Gwyneth. I heard her ask Mr. Warrington to put him next her,
and, though I feel a sort of instinctive dislike to her, I am glad
that she is kind to him, since it makes him happy.
The pictures on the wall, the rich draperies, the numerous servants
in their handsome liveries, all come in for my observation and
admiration; as for the butler, I firmly believe, from his
distinguished manners, that he is a gentleman in reduced
circumstances. I should not be surprised to hear he had been a
clergyman: he pours out the wine very much as though he were
performing some sacred rite. Major Huntingdon has quite given me up:
he is absorbed in his dinner. Most of the men, I notice, take a
kindly interest in the business on hand; some of the ladies, also,
are not wholly indifferent to or disdainful of it.
CHAPTER IV.
DIANA'S STORY.
Presently I am aware that the squeaky little voice of my other
neighbor, Mr. Desborough, is addressing me. His conversation is by
no means entertaining; it consists solely and entirely of the sayings
and doings of the Upper Ten, with which the humblest village girl
could not be less acquainted than myself. He gives me a considerable
amount of information about various members of the aristocracy,--what
the Duke of this said, how his father-in-law the earl did so and so,
and a good deal about his sisters-in-law, Lady Bell, Lady Hyacinth,
and Lady Audrey. I am quite ignorant of the ways of society, but it
does not strike me as particularly well-bred to bore a person with
pointless anecdotes about people they never saw or heard of, nor do I
imagine a constant interlarding of the conversation with people's
titles to be a proof of blue blood. Mr. Desborough's antecedents are
unknown to me, but, whatever they may be, I think him a snob all the
same. He has got to royalty now.
"The Prince of Wales was saying--" he begins, in his mean, swaggering
voice.
"_Do you know the Prince of Wales?_" I interrupt, so astonished at
the idea of his having acquaintance with royalty that I rather forget
my own manners. For I am only a little country-girl, and in my
rustic mind royalty is elevated on such a pedestal that to think of
commonplace people being on speaking-terms with it takes my breath
away.
In my surprise, I speak in rather a loud key. Unfortunately, at this
moment there is a lull in the conversation, and my question is heard
by every one at the table. There is a general titter. Lady Gwyneth
laughs aloud, and her unfortunate little husband crimsons with
mortification as he stammers,--
"Not exactly,--not personally."
I am quite as confused as he is. I hate making people uncomfortable,
and feel dreadfully ashamed of my _gaucherie_. Mr. Desborough does
not trouble me with any more of his conversation, and I believe from
that moment hates me cordially. I hear him say something to his next
neighbor in an aggressive voice about bread-and-butter school-girls,
which of course is meant for me. I really am very sorry for him. I
did not mean to hurt his feelings as I think he does mine.
"That was one for Desborough," remarks Major Huntingdon, in an amused
undertone.
"What have I said?" I ask, hastily. "I am sure I am very sorry."
"It is worse than you think for," he whispers, laughing. "Three
years ago his old father, who is the biggest snob out, gave a
tremendous entertainment, and moved heaven and earth to get the
Prince there; but he did not go. It was a dreadful mortification."
"How sorry I am!" I murmur, not a bit amused, and longing, if it
would not be adding insult to injury, to apologize to Mr. Desborough.
"You need not be" (laughing): "he wants taking down, with his
insufferable snobbish airs; he would not be tolerated but for Lady
Gwyneth."
Here Major Huntingdon's attention is taken off by the arrival of a
snipe, and I am left to continue my wistful stare at the clock's
broad gold face, round which the hands appear to travel so slowly.
We have already been an hour and five minutes at dinner, and it does
not seem near its end yet.
"Good heavens!" I think, "do they have all these dishes every day,
and can these people always eat and drink as they are doing to-night?"
I am getting very tired of watching them, for, though I have an
excellent appetite, I cannot go on eating forever, and after soup,
fish, and one _entrée_, I came to a stand-still. The room is getting
warm, most faces are flushed, the mirth sounds rather boisterous in
my unaccustomed ears, and I am longing devoutly for dinner to be
over. I glance furtively at the _menu_. Macedoine de Fruit.
Soufflé glace à l'Abricot. Ramequins, I read. What are ramequins, I
wonder? And after that there will be dessert, I suppose, glancing at
the pine, grapes, and various fruits and sweetmeats which decorate
the table.
I wearily resume my contemplation of the company. Mrs. Huntingdon
sits opposite, and next her is a young, fair, good-looking man, whom
I hear people call Sir George. They have been whispering together
all dinner-time: apparently they do not find it long. The scowl has
gone from her handsome face, but I do not altogether admire the
expression that has replaced it. I am young and ignorant, but I know
that even I, who am so humble a personage compared with her, should
feel indignant if any man looked at me in the way he does at her; and
how can she have so little command over her eyes, with her husband
sitting opposite. What is he made of? Does he not see? Is he not
burning, raging with jealousy? I glance furtively at him. At this
very moment his eyes, which are traveling round the table, rest on
them, and pass on, evidently without seeing anything that causes him
a moment's uneasiness. I begin to wonder whether there is anything
wrong with my own mind.
At last dinner comes to an end. When the elaborate hands have
laboriously worked themselves round to twenty minutes to ten, Mrs.
Warrington inclines her head to Lady Gwyneth, and we are released.
If I yielded to my natural impulse, I should jump up, probably
oversetting my chair, and skip nimbly across the broad hall; but, as
it is, I march demurely after Miss Gore, hoping she will think fit to
take some little notice of me. But being engaged seems very
preoccupying. She seats herself listlessly in a corner, and is soon
buried in thought. (I suppose, of her soldier, whom she has not left
two minutes.) So I betake myself to the conservatory at the farther
end of the room, and luxuriate in the sight and smell of the sweet
rare flowers. When I return to the fire, Mrs. Huntingdon and Lady
Gwyneth are sitting on two low chairs, talking, Mrs. Warrington is
indulging in a gentle doze, and Miss Gore still maintains her pensive
attitude.
"Charlie Montagu is coming to-morrow," Mrs. Huntingdon is saying, in
her cold, languid voice, as I approach. "Do you know him?"
"Brother of the man who is here?" asks Lady Gwyneth.
"Yes. Do you not know him?"
"No. What is he like?"
"The handsomest man in England."
"Really!" (indifferently). "I do not care for handsome men. What
can he do?"
"Smoke, drink champagne, play écarté, and allow himself to be adored."
Lady Gwyneth utters an expression of contempt, in which I must say I
concur.
"Doesn't he ride, or shoot, or do anything?"
"Oh, yes, he can, but I don't know that he distinguishes himself
particularly in any sport. It is too much trouble. But when a man
is so good to look at, he can dispense with accomplishments."
Lady Gwyneth takes no pains to repress the hearty scorn she feels at
this remark.
"Why don't they show him about in a caravan?" she says. "I suppose
he is poor, with expensive tastes, like most younger sons; and
possibly women who expect nothing more of a man than that he should
be good-looking would not mind paying their guineas for the pleasure
of contemplating him. He might smoke and drink champagne, you know,
at the same time."
Mrs. Huntingdon looks supremely indifferent to Lady Gwyneth's sneer.
"I wonder you never met him in London," she remarks.
"I never was in London for the season before my marriage last year."
"Really!" (elevating her eyebrows a little). "What a dreadful waste
of life!"
"Rather what a dreadful waste of life to be there!" retorts Lady
Gwyneth. "I never spent a stupider time in my life,--ambling up and
down the Row, or driving one's ponies half a mile an hour down the
drive in the afternoon. I cannot conceive what pleasure people find
in it."
"I have no Amazon proclivities myself," says Mrs. Huntingdon, with a
slight yawn; "and I think it the only place to live in. I merely
exist out of it."
I am rather glad that at this juncture a man appears in the doorway.
Neither of the ladies are looking very amiable, but at the sight of
broadcloth their faces undergo a transformation. Mrs. Warrington
wakes up briskly, and Miss Gore's eyes kindle with eager expectation
as she looks towards the door through which all the black coats are
entering, some briskly, some languidly, some as if they were glad to
join the ladies, others as if they were sorry to leave the wine.
Miss Gore is asked to sing, and her soldier bends tenderly over her
while she executes rather an elaborate Italian song. I hope they
won't ask me, in an agony of shyness; but no sooner has Mrs.
Warrington thanked and complimented Miss Gore than she makes straight
for me.
"Do you sing, Miss Carew? I am sure you do. Let me send for your
music."
Here my anguish is so great that I do think I might have been tempted
into telling a falsehood, had not Curly, whom I never felt so near
hating in my life, interposed.
"Sing!--I should rather think she does. You must hear her, Mrs.
Warrington." I dart an angry glance at him, to which he responds by
the sweetest of smiles. I am led off like a lamb to the slaughter.
The room swims before me, my hands shake as if I had the palsy, my
teeth verily chatter in my head: how can one sing under such
circumstances? I begin miserably, get from bad to worse, and come to
a lame and impotent conclusion.
It may be very kind of the audience to applaud me so heartily, no
doubt it is intended to be very reassuring, but it only makes me
tenfold more ashamed of myself: indeed, I have not even courage to
leave the piano, and long to turn myself, like Hezekiah, with my face
to the wall.
"Why, Miss Carew," cries my host, in his jolly voice, "we had no idea
we had such a star down here in the provinces." Star, indeed! he
might have said sun, looking at my flaming face. I evidently was not
meant for society; at home I do not blush once in six months, but
since my arrival at Warrington I have done nothing else. Why was
blushing invented, or why cannot it be properly controlled for
suitable occasions, or left altogether to the mock modest who would
set great value on the acquirement? To add to my pleasurable
sensations, Curly comes up with a flushed, cross face.
"I say, Di, what an awful mess you made of it!" he ejaculates,
reassuringly. "Do show them you can do something better than that!"
"Eh? What!" cries Mr. Warrington, catching him by the shoulder, and
giving it a friendly shake. "You critical young jackanapes! What do
you know about it, I should like to know? Stick to your football and
cricket, and don't pretend to come the singing-master over us."
"Well, sir, I should just like you to hear what she _can_ do,"
responds Curly, who, I am glad to see, in spite of his acquaintance
with society, hangs out the same tokens of distress in his cheeks
that I do. Perhaps it runs in the family.
"Come, Di" (with a frown and a wink), "sing 'Old Robin Gray,' or one
of those."
"Oh, do, do!" cry half a dozen voices.
I look round me, as I have seen my cat do in the yard when two or
three strange dogs came in. If there were any way of escape, I would
flee incontinently there and then; but there is not. So, with the
courage of despair, I say to myself, I _will_ do better this time,
and, thank Heaven, I do. And when I have got half-way through that
fine old song, that, hackneyed as it is, will always be sweet and
touching, I forget my audience, and sing it as I do to myself,
feeling all the while just as heart-broken as if I were tied to Auld
Robin and my Jamie had just taken his one kiss and torn himself away.
There is no applause this time; people are regarding me curiously,
and I am utterly surprised as I rise to see Lady Gwyneth sitting near
me with tears in her eyes, and her small nose pink with suppressed
emotion. Mr. Desborough is not old, I think to myself, but it occurs
to me that there may perhaps be young Robins as well as old ones.
I sink shyly down on the nearest couch, and at this moment Mrs.
Warrington comes up with my friend. Yes, I know he is going to be my
friend by that inexplicable feeling of attraction that once or twice
in a life-time draws two strangers together, before they have had
time to know or even to speculate about each other.
"My dear, Colonel Fane wishes to be introduced to you. Miss Carew,
Colonel Rochester Fane."
Having performed this ceremony, she goes, and he seats himself beside
me.
"I want your advice, Miss Carew," he says, in an easy, off-hand
manner, as though we had known each other for years.
"Mine?" I say, looking and feeling very much surprised.
"Yes. How is one to make sufficient distinction in one's voice when
one desires to express extreme gratitude, or has to pronounce a mere
formal compliment, when precisely the same words are given one to do
it in?"
"I don't think I quite understand," I answer, regarding him
doubtfully.
"For instance" (bending a little nearer, and speaking in a lower
key), "Miss Gore's singing gave me no pleasure at all, but I was
obliged to say, 'Thank you;' yours gave me the greatest pleasure I
have had for a long time, and yet I can find nothing more to say for
it than, 'Thank you.'"
"Oh," I answer, a little puzzled how to reply to what I imagine to be
the polite jargon of society, "'Thank you' is quite enough; and I did
not sing it very well. You know" (speaking with as much confidence
as if I had known him for years instead of minutes) "I have never
been out before, and I was so dreadfully nervous."
"And how do you like your first glimpse of the world?"
"I like Mrs. Warrington _immensely_!" I reply; "and the house is
beautiful!"
He laughs.
"Is that all you can say?"
"The fact is" (apologetically), "I had never been to a dinner-party
before, and dinner seemed so _very_ long. Is it always as long?"
"Sometimes longer," he answers, laughing. "We got through in pretty
good time to-night, I thought. Why, we joined you at five minutes
past ten."
"Two hours!" I exclaim. "What a waste of time!"
"You don't care about eating, I suppose," he continues, still with
the same friendly, inquisitorial look in his handsome eyes. "What
will you think of me when I tell you that I not only enjoy my dinner,
but _look forward to it_?"
"Oh, so do I," I answer, not at all wishing to feign a delicate
appetite, having a very healthy and excellent one. "Perhaps I should
not have found it so long if I had had some one pleasant to talk to."
I stop awkwardly, thinking I have been impolitely frank.
"Why, you had Desborough" (with a smile); "was not his talk very
entertaining and instructive? Did he not put you through your
Catechism about the nobility and landed gentry of Great Britain and
Ireland?"
"Yes; but when he discovered my utter and total ignorance on the
subject he desisted. I wonder what made Lady Gwyneth marry him?"
"I suppose you never heard of such a thing as a _mariage de
convenance_?"
"Yes, I have,--in France," I cry, eagerly, wishing to show that I am
not ignorant upon every subject.
He laughs his pleasant laugh again.
"You will be surprised, perhaps, if I tell you that they sometimes
take place in our own country. Lady Gwyneth's was one. She had rank
and--well, I won't say beauty, but a fair amount of good looks, and
he had money. Do you know his antecedents?"
"No."
"His father was a draper, by the name of Puggins; he speculated as
well, and made a tremendous fortune; changed his name to Desborough,
christened his son Harold de Courcy, and sent him to Eton to get
licked into shape. They did all they could for him there; but I dare
say you know a homely proverb about a silk purse?"
I nod my head.
"A draper!" I say; for I am afraid in my ignorance I am far behind my
age, and am imbued with rather a contempt for trade.
"Suppose I were to tell you," says Colonel Fane, gravely, remarking
no doubt the expression of my countenance, "that my father was in the
same line?"
"I should not believe you," I say, without a moment's hesitation.
"Well, if he had been," he says, laughing, "I hope I should not be so
ashamed of him as poor little Desborough is of his. If any one
breathes the word trade, he is ready to sink through the earth. I
don't suppose he has got the yard-measure or the golden sheep in the
quarterings of his splendid coat of arms."
"I think," I utter, reflectively, "that _I_ should feel rather
ashamed if my father were a draper. Fancy papa a draper!" I say,
laughing heartily at the bare notion.
"No, you would not," he answers, eagerly. "_Bon sang ne peut
mentir!_"
"But in that case it probably would not be _bon sang_," I return.
And then I laugh again to myself.
"Are you trying to fancy your father serving out a yard of ribbon?"
he asks.
"Yes" (laughing still); "but" (presuming my gravity, as the proud
blood rushes to my heart), "if I saw my father serving ribbon, or"
(with great energy) "sweeping a crossing, he would still be the
finest gentleman in the land to me!"
CHAPTER V.
DIANA'S STORY.
"I am afraid that is the signal for retiring," says Colonel Fane, as
we see Mrs. Warrington make a move. "You will be going to bed now."
"Yes," I answer, looking at the clock. "It is very late,--ten
minutes past eleven."
"Pray" (smiling), "what time do you go to bed at home?"
"Oh, generally between half-past nine and ten."
"Really! You must get a good deal of beauty sleep. I have heard it
is only to be obtained before twelve o'clock. Do you know that
saying?"
"Yes. Nurse always tells it me when I am late."
"Oh! you have a nurse, have you?" (looking amused). "By the way,
though, so had Juliet."
"And I am older than Juliet by three years," I add, slyly. "Must not
I be a baby to want a nurse at my age?"
"And yet," he says, musingly, replying to the first part of my
sentence, "I fancy Juliet must have been very much more of a woman
than you are."
I feel slightly offended. It is rather ignominious to be thought
young. I rise to wish him good-night.
"Good-night," he says, holding my hand rather longer than necessary.
The next day it pours in torrents. There is a meet three miles off,
and most of the party had intended hunting. A few adventurous
spirits appear in pink, but after they have stood a few minutes at
the window, dismally contemplating the project, having each and every
of them tapped the glass, and looked out at the hall-door, to observe
the weather from a fresh point of view, they for the most part make
up their minds that it is hopeless, and fifty to one against the
hounds meeting.
"Shall I go, or stay?" whispers Colonel Fane, who has found his way
to my side at the breakfast-table.
"You will get very wet if you go," I reply, demurely.
At this moment Lady Gwyneth enters, fully equipped.
"You don't mean to say you are going, Lady Gwyneth!" cry half a dozen
voices, in various accents of surprise.
"Isn't everybody going?" she asks, coolly taking her seat.
"Look at the weather!" "The hounds won't meet!" "What's the use of
getting wet through?" say voices, again.
"Oh, if you are afraid of a little rain, no doubt you are all better
at home," she retorts, contemptuously.
"I'll go if you do, Lady Gwyneth," cries Curly, flushing up, and
looking very eager.
"Oh, Curly!" I utter, involuntarily.
"Bravo!--so you shall," she answers, taking no notice of me. "And
you shall ride Mr. Desborough's mare. I think" (contemptuously) "I
can answer for his not being of the party."
Her husband looks up, not very well pleased, but too much afraid of
her to offer any but the mildest opposition.
"I am sure the earl, your father--" he begins.
"Pray leave the earl, my father, out of the question" (looking
daggers at him). "I am not always bringing up your father, the--dear
me, I am afraid I was going to say the draper!" (with a short and
very unpleasant laugh). "'Mais nous avons changé tout cela.'"
I do not think any one present thinks any the more of Lady Gwyneth
for this outrageous speech; indeed, I fancy she is rather ashamed of
it herself, for she says, hastily,--
"Come, Mr. Warrington, the weather won't keep you, I know. If the
hounds don't meet, we can turn tail and come back: at all events, we
shall have had a ride. I never take off my habit when I have once
put it on."
"All right, Lady Gwyn!" cries the jolly voice of our host, "I'm your
man.
"'If you will, you will, we may depend on 't,'
I suppose. How soon shall I order the horses?"
"Curly," I say, in a small voice, my anxiety overcoming my shyness,
"if Mr. Warrington is going, there is no necessity for you to go.
You know you have rather a cough."
"Oh, yes, stop at home, and put your feet in mustard-and-water, and
let your sister give you gruel," sneers Lady Gwyneth; and, I think
for the first time in his life, my brother darts an angry glance at
me.
"Pray mind your own business, Di," he says, crossly.
At this moment I hate Lady Gwyneth.
"My dear fellow," interposes Colonel Fane, quietly, "you ought to be
tremendously obliged to your sister for being so anxious about you.
You see" (with a little flash in his eyes), "it is a matter of utter
indifference to Lady Gwyneth whether you lay in consumption or a
cough for the winter, as long as you do her bidding when she wants
you."
"Thank you, Colonel Fane," says Lady Gwyneth, coloring a little.
"You give me a charming character."
"I shall be delighted if you prove that it is undeserved," he
answers, with a little smile.
"No one shall accuse me of helping to make a milksop of a boy," she
replies, defiantly. "Come, Mr. Carew, are you ready?"
Curly jumps up with flattered alacrity, and I feel discomfited.
"Never mind," says Colonel Fane, encouragingly, "I dare say he has
had many a good wetting before now; and I cannot say he looks at all
delicate."
"Oh, no!" I answer, hastily, "not a bit! But one hears such stories,
you know; and papa and I are frightened to death if he ails the least
thing."
"What a devoted family you seem!"
"Yes," I answer, simply; "we all think there is no one like each
other."
The sentence is not a very well-turned one, but it expresses my
meaning, and he seems to understand it.
"Have you any brothers and sisters?" I ask.
"One sister. The only relation--the only near one, at least--I have
in the world. She is coming to-day."
"I am very glad," I say, taking it as a matter of course that I shall
like her. "Is she like you?"
"Why?--would you wish her to be?" (a little curiously).
"Yes," I say, frankly, for somehow I do not feel at all shy with him.
"No," he says, with a sigh, "she is not much like me, or rather I am
not much like her. I wish I were. She is, I verily believe, the
best woman in the world."
"Then I suppose she is not very young or pretty." I remark, with a
_naïveté_ of which I am unconscious for the moment.
"Don't the two go together?" he asks, smiling; then, looking
earnestly at me, "I am sure they do sometimes."
I blush, and am furiously angry with myself for doing so. Of course
it looks as though I take his speech to myself; and how on earth can
he know whether I am good or not? I, alas! know how far short I fall
of meriting that desirable adjective.
"She is not what you would call young," Colonel Fane proceeds. "I
believe" (with a smile) "young girls think every member of their own
sex over five-and-twenty uninterestingly old; and she is thirty; but
pretty she certainly is, if I am to believe the world's unanimous
verdict."
"I hope she will like me," I say, diffidently, "for I have not spoken
two words to any lady but Mrs. Warrington since I entered the house."
"Well," he says, smiling, "Miss Gore must be excused for being
preoccupied; and as for Lady Gwyneth and Mrs. Huntingdon, they never
think of speaking to one of their own sex as long as there is a man
present."
There is a general move.
"Can you play billiards?" he asks me.
I answer in the affirmative, being tolerably proficient from constant
practice.
"Then come into the billiard-room."
I shake my head.
"I had rather not."
"Why? Mrs. Huntingdon will keep you in countenance. She always goes
into the billiard-room after breakfast."
"Does she play?"
"No; but, as she says, she loathes doing needle-work with a parcel of
women in a boudoir. She never does anything, as far as I know, but
recline, magnificently dressed, in a lounging-chair, with her hands
in her lap, covered with diamonds--and--flirt," he adds.
I suppose I look rather surprised, for he says, quickly,--
"No doubt you think it rather strange for a married woman to flirt,
and it slipped out unawares" (looking rather vexed with himself);
"only you cannot very well be in the house very long with her and not
find it out."
"But her husband?" I say, opening my eyes: "does he not mind?"
"Not in the least, I think. I am not sure he is even aware of it."
"How dreadful!" I ejaculate, in so serious a voice that he laughs.
"Come," he says, "let us go into the billiard-room. How many will
you give me?"
The morning passes away very quickly and pleasantly. After billiards
we take to battledore and shuttlecock,--a game provocative of much
laughter when one is not very proficient, as neither Colonel Fane nor
I are. Mrs. Huntingdon perfectly carries out the programme allotted
to her.
"Di," says my brother through the keyhole, as I am arranging my
ruffled locks before luncheon,--"Di, open the door."
I comply, and, the door being opened, he gives me a hearty embrace.
"I'm awfully sorry I spoke so crossly to you this morning, dear old
Di!"
"I don't think you ever said a harsh word hardly to me in your life
before," I reply, the tears starting to my eyes; "and to think she
should be the cause!"
I suppose there is a ring of the contempt I feel in my voice, for he
says, quickly,--
"Don't abuse her, Di. She's an awfully kind, jolly little woman, and
she has asked me over there to stay; and, by jingo! can't she just
ride!"
My face falls,--I don't know why; but, independently of losing his
society, I hate the thought of his going to her. I feel a desire to
disparage her that I never felt for any one before; but then I have
hardly ever seen any of my own sex but the rector's wife and
daughters, and the doctor's sister.
"I suppose you think everything she does nice?" I say. "I suppose"
(raising my voice a little) "you think it was nice of her to say what
she did to her husband at breakfast?"
"No, I don't; but you have no idea" (earnestly) "what a miserable
life hers is. He is such a sickening little cad!"
My lip curls in scorn. My opinion of Lady Gwyneth is in no way
heightened by the thought that she has been confiding her troubles to
a boy of sixteen, whose acquaintance she has not had twenty-four
hours.
"Never mind," I say, kissing him, as the gong sounds. "At all
events, never let her make you unkind to me, dear." And we proceed
down-stairs together amicably.
Whilst we are sitting at lunch, the clouds break, the sun comes out
in all his glory, and every one begins to make plans for spending the
afternoon out of doors. Mrs. Warrington invites Mrs. Huntingdon to
drive with her in the barouche, and that lady accedes. Then our
hostess, turning to me, kindly asks me to be of the party. I do not
want to go in the least, but, not knowing how to excuse myself, thank
her, and accept.
"Quite wrong, Miss Carew," says Colonel Fane, who is again next to
me: "it would do you ten times more good to go for a good walk."
"I like walking," I answer, eagerly.
"So do I. Let us make up a party: may we, Mrs. Warrington? Who is
for a walk?"
"We are," cries Miss Gore. Then, correcting herself, with a
blush,--"At least, I am."
"And I," says her soldier, tenderly.
No one else volunteers. Mr. Warrington is going to drive Lady
Gwyneth and two or three of the men on his coach, since it is too wet
to shoot.
"You will come too, Curly?" says Lady Gwyneth; and for the world I
cannot help an angry flash coming into my eyes at this increase of
intimacy.
Half an hour later we four are starting for our walk. The air is
delicious, the sun as bright and hot as it can be in January; such
birds as there are are singing, whistling, twittering; the bright
rain-drops stand on every leaf and twig, like unset diamonds; little
rivulets of rain run and sparkle;
"From the green rivage, many a fall
Of diamond rillets musical"
work on their way to the brook below. It is such a day as one
sometimes gets in midwinter, giving one a heavenly foretaste of the
spring.
"How glad I am you thought of a walk!" I say, joyously. "I hate
driving,--or, rather, being driven. But I wish we had some dogs to
take; that is half the fun of a walk."
"We had better get ahead of the other couple," he whispers.
"Why?"
"Why, because," he answers, laughing, "we should make a point of
following them religiously, which they would think a great nuisance;
and I don't suppose they will have the same scruples with regard to
us."
"I see; but really I do not know why lovers should require to be left
alone in such a public thing as a walk."
"My dear fellow," cries Colonel Fane, as, stepping out briskly, we
pass them, "what a snail's pace you are going! Miss Carew and I
cannot curb our impatient feet, so we will show you the way."
And on we go, nor ever cast a glance behind for a couple of miles,
when Colonel Fane looks over his shoulder, and says, with a laugh,--
"I thought as much. Miss Gore and her soldier are nowhere in sight."
I feel as if I had known my companion all my life, and talk away to
him about my father, Curly, home, and most things that concern us;
and he listens as if I were telling him the most amusing, interesting
stories in the world.
"Dear me," I say, with sudden compunction, as after a walk of about
an hour and a half we are drawing homewards again, "how I must have
been boring you all this time! I am nearly as bad as Mr. Desborough,
only in a different line."
"You cannot think how interested I have been," he answers, eagerly.
"I quite long to see you at home. I wonder if your father would
consider it a liberty if I were to call upon him?"
"Oh no," I begin, quickly, and then pause, remembering Papa's
aversion for any society.
"I shall ride over one day," he says, not remarking my hesitation:
"you know I live only eleven miles from you, and my father and your
grandfather used to know each other very well. After all you have
told me, I should like immensely to see Mr. Carew. I wish he were
here!"
"So do I," I respond, with a big sigh. "I do miss him so. I did not
want to come at all, but he insisted upon it."
"Quite right, too," says Colonel Fane, approvingly: "you ought to
leave him sometimes, to get him accustomed to it against the time
when you leave him altogether."
"You mean when I get married?" I say, not pretending to misunderstand
him.
"Exactly" (smiling).
"But," I return, triumphantly, "I shall not get married! I never see
a man."
"Thank you" (taking off his hat).
"This is the first time I have ever been out, and I do not suppose I
shall ever go anywhere again, unless Mrs. Warrington invites me next
year, if I behave properly this time."
"Then you don't look forward to getting married, as most girls do."
"No" (shaking my head), "not at all."
"Have you never" (very earnestly) "thought it would be pleasant to
have some one to love and care for you intensely, in a different way
from a father or mother?"
"Yes," I answer, reluctantly, blushing a little, "I have. I have
been desperately in love, too, with men in books; but" (smiling),
"after those heroes, I do not think I should find an ordinary man to
come up to my expectations. One would have to be so very fond of a
man to marry him, would not one?" (looking up earnestly at him).
"_Vide_ Lady Gwyneth and Mrs. Huntingdon," he says, laughing, but as
quickly becoming grave again.
"God forbid that you should ever marry except for love!" he adds,
locking at me very kindly.
CHAPTER VI.
DIANA'S STORY.
There is to be a dance to-night, and more visitors have arrived at
the Hall. We are to dine an hour earlier, that we may be ready to
dance when we are piped to. Now we are all sitting over five-o'clock
tea. I begin to feel quite at home. Most of the men in the house
have been introduced to and have talked to me; some have even invited
me to dance,--rather a risky thing to do to a little country-girl who
has never been out. Well, thanks and Curly be praised, I can dance,
for Archdale's sisters, who are renowned waltzers, took his education
in hand last summer, and he has extended his knowledge to me. Many a
waltz have he and I had on the polished floor of our big bare
drawing-room, whilst good-natured Miss Cross has played unweariedly
for us on the old piano. Curly says I dance as well and better than
Archdale's sisters; but I take that "with a grain of salt," as papa
says. I have never danced with any one except my brother; but I
cannot imagine anything more graceful or buoyant than his step; and,
although he is two years my junior, he is half a head taller, and I
am not short. I hear him now supplicating Lady Gwyneth to promise
him a waltz.
"Don't promise him anything of the sort, Lady Gwyneth," says a
good-looking young cornet who has come over from the neighboring town
to dine and dance. "He will tear your dress, stamp on your toes, and
probably throw you down. Boys are so lungeous."
The cornet is hanging over Lady Gwyneth's chair, and speaks in a
lazy, good-natured, chaffing tone.
Curly looks at him for a moment with a stare of well-bred
impertinence that startles me. Where on earth did he learn it?
"I shall be very happy to match my performance with yours either in
the ball-room or the hunting-field," he remarks.
If I had been surprised at his look, his speech and the coolness with
which he makes it nearly take my breath away.
There is a general shout from the bystanders. "Bravo, young un!"
cries our host. "Spoken like a man!" And Lady Gwyneth, laughing,
heartily says, "I'll give you two waltzes for that, Curly. I'm sure
you would not swagger about a thing you could not do; and if you
dance as well as you ride I should not mind waltzing all night with
you."
"What a surprising infant it must be!" sneers the discomfited cornet.
"Quite a phenomenon!"
"There's something I think I could surpass you in," says Curly,
flushing a little.
"No doubt a hundred; but what might the particular one be?"
"Manners!" replies Curly, calmly, turning on his heel.
"What a dear boy that is!" cries Lady Gwyneth. "I declare I am
positively in love with him."
"Are you?" I think, grimly. "I am very sorry to hear it."
The door is flung open, and Captain Montagu is announced. I look up
expectantly to see the man whom Mrs. Huntingdon has pronounced "the
handsomest in England."
"How are you, Charlie?" resounds on all sides; he is evidently
popular. It is a minute or two before I can get a glimpse of him,
surrounded as he is by people shaking hands and asking questions. I
gather from the conversation that he has just come from a house where
royalty was being entertained.
He is coming towards the fire. I can see him now. I suppose my
nature must be rather a contradictory one, for when Mrs. Huntingdon
praised him I made up my mind that I should not admire him. I was
wrong. I do admire him with that profound love of beauty, in
whatever form, that was born and I believe will die in me. Handsome!
yes, handsome as my ideal heroes and fairy princes,--handsomer than
anything real I believed possible. He is good to look at as he
stands by the fireplace in a careless, easy posture, that becomes him
admirably. I know nothing of the fashion of men's clothes, have
always thought them hideous, but the traveling-suit he wears is
faultless and looks as if it must have grown upon him. I need not
stop to chronicle his features: they are engraven on my heart, and I
dare say the outside world can do without an inventory of them.
I am sitting away from the light and fire, for my brisk walk in the
winter air has made my cheeks all aglow, and I can feast my eyes
unobserved, I think, upon this face whose contemplation gives me
infinite pleasure.
I am mistaken, and acknowledge it with a violent start, as a low
voice behind me says,--
"What is the result of your very minute investigation?"
I am reassured when I find my interlocutor is only Colonel Fane, and
answer, simply, with that strong instinct of confidence with which he
inspires me,--
"I never in my life saw any one so handsome before."
"Really!" and I fancy his voice sounds a little cold and
disappointed. "I suppose he is a good-looking fellow: at least most
women seem to think so."
"How could any one think otherwise?" I say, warmly. "Do you know"
(with a confidence which I am not at the time aware displays great
want of tact), "he is handsomer even than the ideal heroes of my
youth."
"Is he?" (coldly). "You seem to set an enormous value on looks."
"I think I do" (reflectively). "I am sure I do" (positively). "You
cannot think what pleasure it is to me to feast my eyes on anything
that is good to look at."
"And I suppose you do not stop to consider whether there may be any
sterling qualities behind the exterior that pleases you?"
"Well, you know," I reply, argumentatively, beginning with a favorite
form of speech papa constantly finds fault with, "generally speaking
if things are good-looking they are good.--for instance, a dog or a
horse."
"And do you think the same applies to the human animal?" (smiling).
"I do not know that I have ever seen any one very
good-looking,--except papa and Curly."
"At all events, you are very faithful to them. Still" (after a
moment's silence), "I should have thought you would have looked for a
little more mind than Charlie Montagu's face indicates."
"I don't think I care for clever men," I say, with some shame. "My
heroes were never particularly clever. They were brave as lions, and
handsome as--as----" I pause for a metaphor.
"Beautiful, evil-hearted Paris," he suggests.
"Why will you have it a man cannot be good if he is handsome?" I say,
rather vexed.
"Why did you conclude this morning," he asks, slyly, "that as my
sister was good she could neither be young nor pretty?"
"Oh, that was different," I say, discomfited.
"I think it was deduced from the same kind of reasoning," he says,
laughing; and I go away to dress.
On this evening Colonel Fane takes me in to dinner. Why should I not
be delighted? I know and like him ten times better than any one else
here. I wonder what sort of foolish vague unacknowledged hope that
by a fortuitous concourse of atoms Captain Montagu might fall to my
lot, or rather I to his, entered my foolish brain.
"I asked Mrs. Warrington to let me take you to dinner," says Colonel
Fane, triumphantly, as we wend our way through the velvet-carpeted,
antler- and banner-hung hall to the dining-room.
"Did you?" I respond, trying to look pleased.
"She was a little difficult at first, said she had destined you for
some one else; but I persuaded her in the end."
"Who was it?--do you know?" I ask, looking into my soup and trying to
speak naturally.
"Montagu," he replies, between two spoonfuls of soup.
The flame shoots from brow to neck; so hot the flush is, it brings
the tears to my eyes. How thankful I am that my neighbor's head is
bent over his plate! And yet I am not sure it escapes him, for he
says, dryly, without looking up,--
"Not Charlie; his elder brother, who will have the title and the
money. You prefer the younger one, perhaps?"
"Hyperion to a Satyr," I say, briefly.
"You seem well up in Shakspeare," he says, looking rather amused.
"But why don't you like Hector?"
"He has a cold sarcastic manner that I dislike. I am afraid of him."
"He will have twelve thousand a year when his father dies."
"Does that make him any nicer?"
"It would in most women's eyes."
I glance down the table; between the ferns and gold plate I get a
glimpse of the Greek head. At this moment it is bending towards Mrs.
Huntingdon, who is employing the same blandishments upon him she used
upon Sir George last night. He is on her other side, and evidently
resents the diversion of her attention from him. I feel a slight
pang of jealousy. Is it not too ridiculous! My memory supplies me
with another quotation from my favorite Shakspeare:
"What am I to Hecuba, or what is Hecuba to me?"
What, indeed? and, thinking thus, I resolutely turn from
contemplation of him.
"I wonder if it will be a pleasant dance to-night?" I say, forcibly
diverting the channel of my thoughts.
"I should think it would for you" (kindly). "You have everything to
make it pleasant."
"How so?" I ask.
"Youth and health to enjoy, good looks to get you partners, and,
beyond all, the charm of novelty."
"Fancy!" I remark, thoughtfully; "I am eighteen years old, and I have
never been to a dance!"
"Delightful!" he says. "I wish I was eighteen again, and an ensign;
though, by the way, I don't think I was doing much dancing at that
age."
"No?" (inquisitively). "What were you doing?"
"Spending my evenings very agreeably in the trenches."
"Were you in the Crimea? Did you fight? Were you wounded?" I ask,
eagerly.
"I was not killed, at all events," he replies, smiling; "but, before
it is too late, I want you to promise me a dance. May I have the
first one?"
"That will be a square one," I say, with a freedom which surprises
myself. "I suppose" (with a touch of pique) "you think I can't
waltz?"
"On the contrary" (looking amused), "I would make a very heavy wager
on your capabilities in that respect. But _I_ do not waltz."
"Do you not?" (rather disappointed). "Why not?"
"In the first place, I am getting old."
"Very," I remark, derisively.
"And in the second----"
"Yes, in the second?"
"Well" (looking hard at me), "I do not think I ever told any one but
my sister the second reason."
I am silent, though curious.
"I don't mind telling you," he says, suddenly.
"Do!" I say, having the feminine (by the way, why feminine?) instinct
of curiosity strongly developed.
"Five years ago" (balancing a fork on the edge of the table rather
nervously) "I was engaged to be married."
"Yes."
"I am rather a jealous sort of fellow, and I hated to see any other
man's arm round the waist of my intended wife."
"Did you?" I say, with reluctant disapproval.
"Yes, I did" (with a little flash of the eyes); "and I think I should
do the same now."
"Should you?" I say, again, with more pronounced disapproval.
"I see you disagree with me" (a little impatiently): "most women
would, I suppose. However, I promised her that if she would leave
off dancing round dances, I would never dance one again."
"You did not care for waltzing, I suppose?"
"On the contrary" (coldly), "I was passionately fond of it. She
promised, but some time after that the marriage was broken off: she
broke it off, and I dare say" (bitterly) "has danced to her heart's
content ever since."
"But surely that absolved you also?" I say, in a surprised voice.
"I dare say. It was a Quixotic idea of mine, was it not? But, as I
had given my word, I did not feel I could take it back again because
she was untrue to hers; and, to tell the truth, I was
'In half disgust of life, love, all things,'
as Tennyson says. But you have not answered me yet. Will you dance
the first dance with me?"
"Yes, with pleasure."
"And perhaps one or two more, if I don't bore you very much?"
"I can answer for your not doing that," I reply, heartily.
"Can you? I wish I could----"
"There is Mrs. Warrington making signals already," I interrupt.
"Dinner has not been half so long to-night."
"I am sorry to contradict you, but, for my vanity's sake, I must tell
you it has been exactly seven minutes longer."
I follow the trailing robes of the lady in front of me to the
drawing-room, where Colonel Fane's sister at once comes up to me.
Looking back the years (they are not many, though they have been so
full of joy and pain to me they seem many) since that evening, I can
still distinctly remember the impression she made upon me. She was
quite different from any other woman I had ever seen. She seemed of
the world but yet not worldly; there was something so genial, so
kind, and yet so dignified about her. She was almost the only good
person I have ever known who, being really good, neither felt nor
claimed superiority on that account, but I verily believe, in her
true pure heart thought herself, what we all so often and glibly
confess ourselves without even thinking of its meaning, a sinner. I
never remember to have heard her condemn another human being. Many
things were wrong, faulty, sinful in herself, but for others whose
faults (as they mostly could not help but be) were a thousand times
more glaring, more condemnable, there were always extenuating
circumstances. She had indeed
"Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign
The summer calm of golden charity."
Handsome, spirited, full of life and gayety, she mixed freely in
society, dressed well, talked well, was admired; her influence was
not a compelling one, but something subtle, that made people in her
presence instinctively desire to be and seem something better than
they had been content to be and seem before.
I cannot help remarking even on this first evening that I meet her,
as she stands by the fireplace drawing the conversation gradually to
be a general one (which it had certainly never been before), how Lady
Gwyneth and Mrs. Huntingdon seem pleasanter and less fast and rude (I
confess to that having been my mental verdict on their manners) than
before. She enters with great interest upon the subject of the
dance, though she dances but little herself.
"I can't conceive why you don't dance round dances," Mrs. Huntingdon
remarks, with more of affability in her tone than I imagined her
capable of. "I suppose you think it wrong?"
"Not at all; it is a very nice, healthy amusement. Really, I hardly
know why I do not. I don't think I should care much about it. And
now I am getting too old,--I am thirty."
"I hope I shall look as well at thirty," says Mrs. Huntingdon, who I
am sure looks years older than Miss Fane. "Tell me: how have you
managed to preserve yourself so wonderfully?"
"A light heart, and not too much brains, I suppose," she returns,
gayly.
"Come, my dear," says kind Mrs. Warrington, "I cannot have you
disparaging yourself. You will get no one to agree with you. Come;
it is time we adjourned to the ball-room."
"Will you come with me?" Miss Fane asks me; and I give a glad assent.
I take an early opportunity of putting a question that has been on my
mind ever since dinner.
"Colonel Fane was in the Crimea, was he not? Was he wounded? Did he
distinguish himself?"
"Yes, both; but nothing will induce him to speak of his exploits. He
was quite a boy; but he did some very gallant things, and I know we
were all very proud of him. There is no one to be proud of him but
me now," she says, rather sally: "he is the dearest, kindest fellow
in the world."
At this moment there is a scraping of strings, a tuning of
instruments, the trumpet sounds to battle, and Colonel Fane comes to
bid me join the fray. My heart beats with excitement, my hand
trembles violently upon his arm. I can scarcely hear the gay
pleasant words he is whispering in my ear. The feet-inspiring music,
the lights, the sight of other women airily, daintily dressed, the
hum of voices and low laughter steal across my senses, and I feel
fairly intoxicated with pleasure. I cannot restrain the smiles which
will beam and broaden across my happy face. I dare not look at any
one, for fear they should think I am laughing at them. Never, no,
never in all my life have I felt so radiantly, excitedly happy as
when the band strikes up, and I seem to swim across the waxed floor
to meet another ethereal being who floats towards me. At this moment
I catch sight of Curly's handsome face, flushed with pleasure, his
eyes dancing with excitement, and I see Colonel Fane look from one to
the other of us.
"You are envying us," I cry, joyously.
"No," he answers, smiling, "to envy is to wish to take something from
another. I would not rob you of a tithe of your pleasure, either of
you, for all the world."
CHAPTER VII.
DIANA'S STORY.
I am engaged for the first four dances: my second partner is Mr.
Montagu, the elder brother. Although I do not feel particularly
drawn to him, I am in such a happy humor that I can sow pleasant
looks and words broadcast for every one; and really he waxes
pleasanter on acquaintance. I am sure he intends to be very kind and
civil, but long habit, I suppose, has so confirmed the cold proud
expression of his face, that he cannot alter it now, even at will.
His words are kind, and he dances well, but I am not altogether sorry
when our dance is done and he hands me over to the cornet whom Curly
so successfully sat upon. I do not bear him the slightest malice,
since he got the worst of the encounter. He is a good-looking,
good-natured young fellow, inordinately proud of his profession and
regiment, and at an age (as I know by later experience) when young
men give as much consideration to their clothes and appearance as any
vain woman. But he has not shaken off college and country life at
home long enough not to be thoroughly full of spirits and boyish
pranks. We get on tremendously well. He dances perfectly: we seem
to swim away together, our pleasure and confidence in each other
waxing greater every moment.
"I say," he remarks, confidentially, as after a long time we pause
for sheer want of breath, "what an awful lot of practice you must
have had to waltz so well!"
"I have never been at a dance before," I say, gleefully, looking up
at him.
"By Jove!" in a voice expressive of as much astonishment as though I
had announced to him that I had discovered the eighth wonder of the
world. "By Jove!" (a second time, even more expressive).
"I have never waltzed before, except with Curly," (triumphantly).
"Curly again!" he says, rather discontentedly,--"the universally
accomplished Curly. So you know him too, do you?"
"Yes," (with a malicious smile). "I know him."
"And I suppose you think him a paragon too?" (a little sulkily).
"Indeed I do."
"As great a paragon as Lady Gwyneth does?"
"A great deal more of one," (indignantly).
"Well, there's no accounting for tastes," he returns, pulling his
incipient moustache. "Now, I think he's a self-sufficient----"
"Stop!" I cry, breathlessly; "he's my brother."
"By Jove!" and until this moment I could not have conceived any one
being able to put so much expression into two words. He blushes, and
says, "I am sure I beg you ten thousand pardons. I did not catch
your name when I was introduced to you; and" (looking hard at me)
"you are so very unlike each other."
"I forgive you," I say, laughing; "and when you know him, you'll like
him as much as every one else does."
"I dare say," (politely). "I suppose I had left Eton before he went
there. But it's an awful shame to be losing this delicious waltz."
And off we go again, uttering simultaneously a grievous "Oh!" as it
very soon after comes to an abrupt conclusion.
"We must have another," cries Mr. Tempest.
I am no way loath, but when I see him continue to make hieroglyphics
down my card, I am forced to remonstrate. What vain, foolish,
unacknowledged hope makes me desire to keep two or three waltzes
free? At the beginning of the last dance, the languid Mrs.
Huntingdon, marvelously elegant in clouds of tulle, had floated
before me in the arms of Captain Montagu. I could not imagine
anything more graceful than their dancing. Other couples were
stopping to watch them too. What would I not give to be chosen as a
partner by him! As at last I divert my rapt gaze from the pair, I
find Colonel Fane's eyes fixed upon me, and a little later I see him
approach Captain Montagu, who is leaning against the wall, and
whisper to him. I see Captain Montagu glance at me, shrug his
shoulders slightly, and move languidly across the room towards me in
the wake of Colonel Fane. I cannot tell why, but in a moment my
heart gives a throb of indignant, outraged pride; a wild instinct of
flight seizes upon me, and in a moment, before I even know what I am
doing, I slip my hand from my partner's arm, and, rushing through the
door that is near, fly across the hall and up the stairs, as
Cinderella might have fled when she found herself in her rags among
the brilliant company. I will vouch for it she was not filled with
more biting, stinging shame than I,--feeling that out of kindness
Colonel Fane has asked him to be introduced to me, and that he has
felt, as I read in his face, unmistakably bored. I sit on the edge
of my bed, blushing burning blushes both in my face and in my heart.
Never have I felt so mortified before. For in the tranquil life at
home, if there are no great pleasures and excitements, neither are
there any heart-burnings or wounded vanities. I feel very small. I
am already ashamed of having yielded to my impulse: with the
ignorance of people unaccustomed to the ways of the world, I imagine
every one must be commenting upon my strange behavior. I even half
expect some one to come in search of me. But ten minutes elapse, I
am still sitting on the edge of my bed, and I begin to think I may as
well go down again. So, shame-facedly, I creep down the broad
staircase, and there at the bottom stands my disconsolate partner,
waiting for me.
"I could not think what on earth had become of you!" he exclaims at
the sight of me. "Did you tear your dress, or were you taken ill,
or" (with a smile which evidently mocks the extreme improbability of
his suggestion) "did you want to get out of dancing with me?"
I have no answer ready to his remark. I have not yet learned the
necessity and propriety of white lies in society, so am silent.
"I must conclude the last, I suppose," he says, looking at me with an
expression that infers a doubt whether I am quite right in my mind.
"Oh, no!" I reply, feebly. "Let us begin now, shall we?"
"Considering that one galop is over and they are now forming for the
Lancers, that would be difficult," he says provoked. "I am certainly
not going to be put off with them."
"And I am engaged to some one else," I say.
At this moment Mr. Montagu, who is to be my partner, claims me, and,
having promised another galop to my indignant partner, we go to join
our set.
The Lancers are over. Mercifully, I have encountered neither Colonel
Fane or Captain Montagu. His brother takes me into the conservatory,
and we are bending over a lovely tea-rose, when a voice that makes me
start and tremble says softly behind us,--
"Hector, will you introduce me to Miss Carew?"
Mr. Montagu scowls at his brother, but performs the ceremony in a
frigid voice.
He is asking me to dance, in those low pleasant tones; his glance is
caressing me. For a moment I feel an impulse to refuse rudely, but
there is something stronger than I, and I give him my card. He
writes his name for the eleventh dance,--my first disengaged
one,--thanks me, and turns away. Somehow I feel radiantly happy. I
keep saying to myself, "I am going to dance with him; it is a long
way off, but I am going to dance with him." I seem to tread on air;
I am so bright and full of laughter that even his stern brother
catches the contagion and laughs without a sneer. I feel like a
child who has put its _bonne bouche_ on the side of its plate, and is
looking at it all the time it eats its less delicious morsels.
The tenth dance is over; the dowagers have gone off to supper, and
the room is deliciously cool and clear. I am waiting in eager,
delightful expectation to be claimed. The strains of one of Gung'l's
entrancing waltzes are wafted towards me. He is not yet here. Oh,
how grievous to lose one bar of it! Two or three men, seeing me sit
partnerless, come and ask me to dance.
"I am engaged," I answer to each; but still he does not come.
It seems utterly ridiculous, when I look back, to think I could feel
such intense pain as I did sitting there, waiting feverishly as the
delicious music poured on, trying to wreathe my features into a smile
when I was ready to cry with passionate disappointment.
Curly comes up to me.
"Hullo, Di!--not dancing? I'll find you a partner: shall I?"
"I am engaged," I answer, trying to make my voice sound indifferent,
"to Captain Montagu."
"Montagu! I saw him not a moment since, sitting in the conservatory
with Mrs. Huntingdon. I'll tell him you are waiting: shall I?"
"Not for the world!" I cry, hastily. "There is Colonel Fane: ask him
to come to me."
Curly obeys; and Colonel Fane comes up at once.
"Will you take me in to supper?" I say, hastily. "I am so hungry!"
And, without even waiting for his answer, I rise and take his arm.
We go into the dining-room, and he places me on a low velvet couch in
a window.
"What shall I get you?"
"I do not think I am hungry, after all," I say; for I am so nervous
and excited, the very sight of food gives me a nausea.
"I see you exert your woman's privilege of changing your mind," he
remarks, smiling. "Shall I get you a glass of champagne?"
"Please," I answer; and when he is gone, remembering that I never
drink wine, it occurs to me that it may get into my head. So when he
returns I say,--
"If you do not mind, I would rather have a glass of lemonade or
water," (for my lips are burning with thirst).
Without a word, he takes it away, and fetches what I have asked for.
"You must think me troublesome," I say, apologetically.
"I think you are qualifying for a woman of fashion," he returns.
I do not know whether he intends it as a rebuke, but I take it as
such, and feel rather ashamed.
"Tell me," he says, sitting down by me, "what made you fly off in
such hot haste when I was bringing Montagu over to introduce to you?"
Colonel Fane's is certainly a most truth-compelling gaze. I do not
want to tell him why I fled, and I look down at the floor, round the
room, back at my fan, from none of which do I receive inspiration or
courage.
"Because," I say, at last, hanging my head, to hide, if might be, the
hot shame that dyes my cheeks, "I thought you were introducing him to
me because you fancied I was anxious to know him, and he--he--did not
seem equally desirous of the honor of my acquaintance."
"How sensitive you are!" he says, looking at me compassionately.
"Besides, that is only Montagu's way of doing everything, just as if
it were a bore. He would probably have done just the same if I had
proposed to introduce him lo the greatest lady in the land."
"Then," I retort, warmly, "had I been the greatest lady in the land,
I should have refused to be introduced to him."
"Oh! then you have made up your mind not to know him?"
I am silent. Not for anything in the world can I tell him how
Captain Montagu has been introduced to and how he has insulted me.
At this very moment, the man in question enters the room and comes
towards me.
"This is our dance, I think," he says, standing before me; and as
soon as the words are spoken, Colonel Fane, rising, moves away. As
for me, I am bewildered: my mind is equally full of doubt, surprise,
and wrath. I look up at him, and answer, coldly,--
"No. You asked me for the last."
"Impossible!" with well-feigned (if it is feigned) surprise. "Allow
me to see your card."
"You had better refer to yours."
"Unfortunately, I have dropped it," (looking concerned). "I am
afraid that is how the mistake occurred. But" (persuasively) "will
you not forgive me and dance this one instead?"
"I am engaged."
"Cannot you throw the other fellow over?" he says, calmly; and I
reply, indignantly,--
"No."
"Because," he murmurs, looking caressingly at me, "I should so
awfully like to waltz with you. I am afraid I shall not have another
chance to-night."
Could any one believe--could I have believed myself--that I was
capable of being so mean, so weak-minded? I feel very small and
ashamed of myself; but, as a matter of fact, after a little more
persuasion I yield.
Trembling lest I should meet Mr. Tempest, my _bona fide_ partner, I
walk, supported on Captain Montagu's arm, back to the ball-room. The
music has commenced: in the distance I see my cornet making for me,
and whisper, desperately,--
"Let us begin!"
A few moments of the most intense felicity I have ever tasted in my
life,--the enchantment of the delicious music, the airy floating
motion, the touch of the man I love. What have I said! the man I
love? Well, let it stand. I believe I already loved him then.
Heaven knows whether I have loved him since.
A few moments, then, of sweet intoxication, and I am again leaning on
his arm, with such a beating heart, such exultation in my eyes, when
my Nemesis arrives. It takes the form of Georgy Tempest, who,
standing in front of me and looking very black and dignified, says,
"If you will refer to your card, Miss Carew, I think you will find
you are engaged to me for this dance."
I stand convicted, and acknowledge it by silence. Already, even, I
am reluctantly drawing my hand away from Captain Montagu's arm; but,
pressing it tighter, he holds it there, and says,--
"Some mistake. Yours was the last: this is mine."
If he expects me to aid and abet his falsehood by another, he must be
disappointed in me, for I still stand silent between them. An older
man than Mr. Tempest would probably read in my expressive face what
bent my inclinations take, and would leave me, however annoyed at
heart, with an acquiescent bow; but Mr. Tempest is only bent on one
thing,--which is, to have his own way and not to be outdone by
another man.
"May I see your card?" he says, with angry persistence.
"Don't show it him, Miss Carew," interposes Captain Montagu,
languidly. "He ought to be satisfied with your word."
"I shall be perfectly satisfied with Miss Carew's word if she gives
it," replies the cornet, looking unutterable things at him.
"It is no use," I say, dragging my hand away, and with it hope,
delight, ecstasy: "I am engaged to Mr. Tempest."
Captain Montagu drops my hand, makes me a cold bow, and retires. I
may safely vary the charming words of [OE]none--
"All my heart went out to meet him, coming as he came,"
By
"All my heart went after him, going as he went."
Mr. Tempest puts his arm round me, and we join the waltzers. Did I
say he danced well? He seems awkward and clumsy now. But then all
my heart has gone out of it, and is standing leaning against the door
with a somewhat sulky expression, in the person of Captain Charles
Montagu.
"It was awfully good of you to confess the truth," says my partner,
radiantly. "One doesn't often get a rise out of that fellow Montagu.
You don't regret it, do you?" (eagerly). "I don't dance much worse
than he does, do I?"
The words with which I answer him are polite, but I am conscious that
my candid face is very long and doleful. I try to widen it by a
smile, but I have an idea that the result is about as truthful and
becoming as one's reflection in the bowl of a spoon. Every time we
pause in the dance, I glance shyly and wistfully towards that happy
portion of the wall which is supporting the languid figure of Captain
Montagu. I cannot catch his eye or he might read how genuinely
afflicted I am; but he seems to look everywhere except at me.
The ball is over. I am sitting by my bedroom fire in maiden
meditation, but not fancy free,--oh, no! not fancy free! Twelve
hours ago I had not seen the man who occupies all my thoughts now.
"I do not occupy many of his," think I, forlornly, for he has taken
no smallest notice of me since I drew my reluctant hand from his arm,
but has devoted himself entirely to Mrs. Huntingdon, of whom I feel
wildly, bitterly jealous. My first ball! Well, there has been more
of pain than pleasure in it, though at first it seemed to promise so
fair.
CHAPTER VIII.
DIANA'S STORY.
The next or, more correctly speaking, the same day, the gentlemen of
the party go out shooting, all with one exception. Captain Montagu
has not yet made his appearance: it is rumored indeed that, like a
woman of fashion, he generally takes tea and toast in his room, and
does not appear until the day has been thoroughly aired for him.
Hearing this, I ought naturally to be smitten with a supreme scorn of
my handsome ideal, but am not. I am a very staunch friend: for me
"the King can do no wrong," and whosoever may be king or friend of
mine is safe from my caviling.
Lady Gwyneth has gone with the shooting-party. She, like Mrs.
Huntingdon, "cannot stand doing needlework with a parcel of women in
a boudoir," and is so far more fortunate than the other in that she
can join in most manly sports. She copies men to the best of her
ability, since, to her infinite and constantly-expressed regret, she
has not been born one of them. This morning she wears a home-spun
Norfolk jacket over a short narrow velvet petticoat; her feet are
incased in laced boots of stoutest make, and gaiters; a wide-awake,
adorned with woodcock's feathers shot by herself, crowns her head;
and she shoulders resolutely her own light gun, disdaining to have it
carried either by keeper or friend.
She patronizes Curly more than ever this morning, to my infinite
disgust, calls him "dear boy," and pets him with what I consider
ostentatiously bad taste. I, who have heard and read that modesty,
delicacy, and womanliness are most highly commended and desired in
our sex by the other, am at some pains to reconcile the statement
with the evident popularity Lady Gwyneth enjoys with men. True, they
treat her with a _camaraderie_ which savors more of familiarity than
respect; but that they are amused in her company, and seek it, is a
fact too patent to be controverted.
At this period of my life I am not aware that a woman who is young,
rich, and well-born, who has a pleasant house and entertains
hospitably, can follow, with the world's toleration if not
admiration, her own sweet will, be it never so opposed to the rules
laid down for less fortunate mortals. But is she fortunate? I think
not. I am inexperienced in the world, and have never had any
opportunity of judging character, but I fancy I read in her constant
restlessness, in the troubled expression which now and again flits
over her face, that she is dissatisfied with and disapproves of
herself.
Luncheon is to be sent to the shooting-party at two o'clock, and it
is ordained that Miss Gore and I shall join it at a kind of
summer-house in the wood. Mrs. Warrington can make no arrangement
for herself until she has ascertained Mrs. Huntingdon's pleasure, and
that lady does not make her appearance until after the sportsmen have
started. My hostess takes me all round her conservatories and
hothouses,--a real treat, for I love flowers passionately; then she
leaves me to go and see Claire Fane, who is suffering from a severe
headache, and bids me go to her boudoir and amuse myself until she
joins me there. We part in the hall, and I bound up-stairs very much
as is my wont at home, throw open the boudoir door, and am in the
middle of the floor before the fact flashes upon me that I have
rudely broken up a _tète-à-tète_. Mrs. Huntingdon is reclining in a
low chair by the fire, and Captain Montagu, handsomer, more
fascinating than ever this morning, leans against the mantel-shelf
close beside her. She scowls; he smiles; I--need it be said?--I do
what I have hardly ceased to do since I entered the house,--blush
until the water stands in my eyes. I know not how to act; it would
surely look too pointed to go out again, as though they were
lovers,--she a married woman! So I stand where I am, and blurt out,--
"Oh, Mrs. Warrington is wanting to see you, to know whether you will
go up to the wood to lunch?"
"Thank you," she returns, icily. "Captain Montagu has promised to
drive me there in the pony-carriage. Would you kindly shut the door?"
"I--I will go and tell her," I stammer, feeling very much as though a
door had been shut in my face.
"Pray don't go away, Miss Carew," says Captain Montagu, coming
forward. "You look the very incarnation of spring. You bring in a
volume of fresh air and a scent of violets and primroses and a host
of sweet things!"
Bewildered, flattered by his pleasant words, I hesitate on the
threshold, my hand still on the handle of the door, unmindful of Mrs.
Huntingdon's imperious command. She gives a shiver, rises, pulls her
rich draperies about her, and, with a frown that reminds me of
"Great Here's angry eyes,"
sweeps past me out of the room. I feel and probably look
crestfallen, for Captain Montagu laughs lightly, and says,--
"Don't look so frightened! Looks don't kill, you know! Come in,
won't you?"
I shut the door, and go forward, as I am bidden.
"And how did you like the dance last night?" he asks, in a tone the
patronage of which I might resent from any one else.
"Very much," I say, taking off my hat and looking fixedly at it, to
prevent my eyes straying, as they long to do, to his face. "It was
the first I ever was at."
"Really!" (with languid curiosity). "Oh, then you must have enjoyed
it intensely!"
"Must I?" I say, still not looking at him. "Why?"
"Because I believe it is delightful to do anything for the first
time,--anything pleasant, at least. At all events, it can't bore
you; and being bored is the curse of most people's lives."
"Are you often bored?" I ask, looking at him with a great desire and
curiosity to know something of his real feelings.
"Very often" (smiling). "I was bored last night when you forsook me
for the cornet."
"Were you?" I say, eagerly. "So was I." And then, smitten with
shame at my youthful sincerity, I bury my face in a book of
photographs.
"It would have been so easy," says the seductive voice, which has
come a little nearer,--"so easy to say you were engaged to me."
"But it would not have been true," I answer, contemplating fixedly
the portrait of a grizzly warrior with
"An eye like Jove to threaten and command."
"But you don't mean to say" (persuasively) "that you think there
would be any harm in a little perversion of truth like that?"
"Yes, I do," I respond, stoutly. "And even if I had said it, my face
would have betrayed me. And--and he would have felt mortified. I
hate to be mortified myself. It wouldn't have been doing as you
would be done by."
Charlie Montagu languidly bestrides the chair in front of me. I feel
his laughing eyes (are they gray or blue?--I long to look, but dare
not) straying over my face as he says,--
"I was young once. They taught me all those nice moral little
sentiments; but I'm afraid I wasn't a good boy: I didn't act upon
them. Good heavens!" (with a wicked little laugh), "if people had
done to me what I've many a time done to them, I shouldn't have liked
it a bit!"
"Of course it's impossible for any of us always to do right," I say,
anxious to defend him even against himself.
"But I am always doing what is wrong," he answers (maliciously making
the worst of himself to vex me, I believe). "Somehow I seem to fall
into it naturally. Ask my brother. He would tell you I wasn't at
all fit company for such a good, well-brought-up little lady as you."
"I should not believe him," I say, with some warmth. "I do not
believe you; you only say it to tease me."
I stop, horribly ashamed of my _naïveté_. Oh, why was I suddenly let
loose from my rustic life upon society without any preparation?
"No?" he says, softly. "Would it really tease you to think I was a
miserable sinner?" And all this time he has never once taken his
eyes off me.
"I should be sorry to think anybody was a miserable sinner," I
answer, confusedly.
"Oh!" (in a disappointed tone,--probably feigned); "then you are only
a general missionary? you don't take any particular interest in me?
You would be as sorry for the footman or the gardener if they were in
a similarly unconverted state!"
"Don't laugh at me, please," I say, looking imploringly at him. "You
know I am only a little country-girl; and I do so hate to be made fun
of."
"I assure you----" he protests; but just then the door opens, and
Mrs. Huntingdon sweeps in again, equipped all in gray velvet and fur,
only wanting a pleasant expression to make her exceedingly handsome.
"Come, Charlie," she says (whereat my heart gives an indignant
throb), "get ready: the ponies will be round in five minutes."
"But it is only twelve yet" (looking at the clock), "and it is not
ten minutes' drive."
"We shall take a drive first," she returns, imperiously. "I want
some fresh air, and so must you, unless" (with an indefinable sneer)
"you have imbibed sufficient from Miss Carew."
I feel so angry, I would I had the wit to rejoin with some polished
sneer; but the world has not yet armed me with its subtle weapons, so
I look more earnestly still at the photographs.
"_Tu es ravissante, ma belle_," murmurs Captain Montagu, addressing
Mrs. Huntingdon, and I cannot but concur reluctantly in my own mind.
I have never seen so elegant-looking a woman. "But such a toilette
is worthy of something better than to-day's occupation," he resumes.
"Faugh! I know the whole horrid programme. A damp worm-eaten
summer-house, and lukewarm Irish stew out of a tin pan, and wedges of
plum-cake,--that's the invariable menu of old Warrington's
shooting-lunches. Much better take a drive and return to lunch here,
where we are sure of having something fit to eat."
I hold my breath with fear lest she should accept a proposal which
would not have cost me a moment's reflection. Mrs. Huntingdon, to my
infinite relief, shakes her head.
"I must go: I promised."
"_Raison de plus_," he laughs, going towards the door. "I did not
know a woman's promise was ever considered binding."
Mrs. Huntingdon sinks into her chair by the fire, holding to it
alternately either small and delicately-shod foot. Not one word or a
look does she condescend to fling to me, and I glance furtively at
her with a forlorn conviction of how little chance a poor untutored
rustic like myself has against her. But I recover myself when I
remember a fact that I have forgotten for the moment,--_she has a
husband_! Blessed thought! It restores peace to my mind.
Her fish has come out of the sea; she has hooked, devoured him; he
purveys her with rich garments, with much store of worldly wealth,
for which she requites him with frowns and sulks; but my fish is
still in his native ocean. I have not even baited my hook yet. I
may angle for a triton or a minnow, and catch--who knows?
They are starting; I watch them jealously from behind the curtain,
such a pair as limner might desire to paint or poet to immortalize in
love-songs. The frown has gone from her brow; nay, she smiles as she
looks up at him. Yes, she is very handsome, I tell myself
reluctantly.
The day seems dull and blank, now they are gone and the sound of
their laughing voices has died away. And this time yesterday I had
not seen him. I lean my arms on the table, resting my face between
my hands. Whence comes this blank feeling that spreads a chill over
all my being, that makes the day seem cheerless even in the noonday
sun, that makes my heart void because the sound of one voice has
ceased, that makes space vacant because one form is no longer within
my horizon? Is it love? Oh, unmaidenly, immodest thought! My very
ears tingle with the shame of it. Love for a man who has scarce
spoken half a dozen words to me, a man on whose mind I shall not cast
one faint reflection. No! no! no!--it is my ignorance of the world.
I have scarcely ever seen a man,--certainly not one like Captain
Montagu,--and my foolish eyes are dazzled. As I see more of society,
I shall not be so easily impressed. See more of society! I repeat
blankly to myself: small chance of that! And then somehow a sort of
pain comes across me, a pain I stifle quickly as ungrateful, to think
I shall go back to the old quiet life with its round of simple
pleasures and duties that have always been enough for me until now.
Miss Gore disturbs my unsatisfactory soliloquy, and we start together
for the wood. She is very bright and pleasant this morning, and
chatters away gayly. True, her conversation has mostly reference to
her soldier, but she has a sympathizing if slightly envious auditor
in me. To love, to have your love fully returned, to be able to
show, to speak of, to be proud of it! And yet, ignorant as I am in
love-lore, I think I would prefer to invest it with sacredness into
which the outer world should not intrude.
The shooting-party comes up just as we reach our destination. Lady
Gwyneth is "in great form," as Curly would say: she has slain five
pheasants to her own gun. I am sometimes called absurdly
tender-hearted; may I ever remain so! To see poor animals suffer has
always caused me intense pain. It seems to me if I were a man I
could not love or regard a woman who was callous to the suffering of
dumb creatures, far less one who would delight to cause it. But
men--at all events the men here--do not seem to be of my way of
thinking, for they flatter and congratulate Lady Gwyneth with every
appearance of sincerity. As for Curly, his admiration for her has
evidently increased fourfold. Even Colonel Fane makes her a
compliment. Why does he avoid me to-day? Have I offended him? He
does not offer to join me, nor did he take his accustomed seat next
me at breakfast this morning. I suppose he is already weary of me,
despite his protestations yesterday. No doubt it was not very
entertaining to hear my simple gossip about our humdrum life at home,
only, as a man of the world, politeness forbade him to show that he
was bored. Mr. Montagu has taken his place at my side. I am sure I
wish him anywhere else; he is repugnant to me, somehow,--I know not
why. I could give no better reason than the one assigned by the
person who immortalized the unfortunate Dr. Fell; but few reasons are
more cogent or un-get-over-able.
"You are not a sportsman, or rather sportswoman?" he says, as he
joins me.
"No, indeed," I answer.
"You say that very heartily," he rejoins, with a smile. "Your tone
almost implies a censure of sport altogether."
"Yes, I hate sport," I confess, frankly: "it always entails misery
and suffering upon something. But" (apologetically) "I suppose men
must be amused, and if they had not something to expend their
energies upon they would get very effeminate."
"But confess, now, you think us horrible barbarians for always
wanting something to torture," he says. "I don't suppose it is very
_manly_ to set dogs on a poor timid hare, or shoot pigeons out of a
trap, or even set on terriers to kill a barnful of rats; and yet do
you know several of your fair sex whom I have the honor to be
acquainted with take supreme delight in a rat-hunt, and enjoy nothing
more than to sit for a whole afternoon exquisitely dressed and watch
hundreds of poor birds cruelly maimed and torn?"
"I hate a cruel woman!" I say, vindictively. "I could not, no, I
_could not_ care for one if I were a man,--not if she were as
beautiful as----"
"As what?"
"As an angel," I return, feeling the extreme difficulty of finding a
comparison that people who make hasty and impusive remarks are wont
to do.
"An angel! I never saw one; but their style of beauty as depicted by
the limner's art has always struck me as peculiarly insipid. By the
way, I never remember to have seen a dark angel; and I do not admire
fair women. Then, according to your idea, I suppose, all women
should be tender-hearted, religious, modest, retiring,--in short,
everything that we are not?"
Is he sneering at me? and why does he look so intently at me? I wish
he would not: his eyes always embarrass me.
I laugh rather uneasily.
"It is not for me to say what women ought to be. Besides, if I set
up a standard I should be expected to act up to it: should I not?"
"And I have no doubt you would," he answers. Now of course I know he
is laughing at me: so I say, coldly,---
"I can at all events tell you what I think about sport. Sport ought
to mean equal risk on both sides: hunting lions or tigers, wild boars
or grizzly bears,--that," I say, emphatically, "must be something
like sport."
"I am afraid," he answers, laughing, "that according to your ideas
sport must remain unattainable for nine hundred and ninety-nine men
out of a thousand; but, talking about risk, I think we get a
tolerable chance of breaking our necks out hunting, and I really know
few things more perilous to life and limb than the present fashion of
_battue_-shooting."
Mr. Warrington's hearty voice here summons us to lunch, and at this
moment I see Captain Montagu and Mrs. Huntingdon coming slowly up the
glade. The sun gleams upon them through the branches of the leafless
trees, making the thick-strewn leaves of many years into a ruddy
carpet for their feet: they are in truth a goodly pair, I think,
looking at them wistfully.
"Do you know I am a thought-reader?" says the cold voice of the elder
brother beside me; and I start, feeling a positive terror of him. My
speaking countenance probably betrays me, for he turns his eyes away,
and says, lightly,--
"You were thinking what a charming toilette Mrs. Huntingdon wears.
She has perfect taste in dress."
But I know that was not what he was going to say. I feel afraid of
him. I almost dislike him.
CHAPTER IX.
DIANA'S STORY.
We are seated at lunch,--we four ladies, and as many men as the
little summer-house can accommodate, partaking of the fare which
Captain Montagu so contemptuously predicted; only it is not lukewarm,
but very hot and good. It is by no means despised, if we may judge
by the zest with which the party fall to, Captain Montagu included.
He throws me a little comic smile across the table.
"_L'appétit vient en mangeant_," he says.
"Mine came before," I answer, in the same tone.
"What is the joke?" asks the elder brother, who is leaning against
the doorpost, eating his lunch under difficulties.
"My dear fellow, don't be inquisitive. Let Miss Carew and I have our
little secrets."
"By all means," returns Mr. Montagu, coldly, looking anything but
pleased.
For my part, he may frown as much as he likes, as long as his brother
smiles upon me.
I am delighted to notice that Captain Montagu has left Mrs.
Huntingdon, even though he is devoting himself to Lady Gwyneth, whom
of the two perhaps I dislike the more.
"Have you heard of my prowess?" she asks him, with great glee. "Two
brace and a half of pheasants, and all rocketers!"
"Delightful!" he utters, in his lazy, pleasant voice. "How charming
to have a wife who does all the hard work! I hope Desborough
appreciates it."
"If I were only a man, I wouldn't mind any amount of hard work," she
rejoins. "I should be no carpet-knight, I promise you."
"Like me, for instance!" (smiling).
"Yes, like you. You would make a lovely woman, and could dawdle
about all day choicely appareled. While I--if I were you--would
catch big salmon, hunt six days a week in the season, shoot when
there was a frost, and--and--I'd go to Mexico and shoot a grizzly.
Oh to have had the immeasurable privilege of being born a man and to
abuse it so shamefully!"
"You might retaliate, I think, Charlie," interposes Mrs. Huntingdon,
maliciously. She calls him Charlie before her husband, and no one
looks surprised. Perhaps, though, they are very old friends.
"I never argue with a lady," he answers, with lazy good nature.
"With my deplorable want of energy, I should be sure to get the worst
of it."
At this moment I happen to glance at Hector Montagu, and see him cast
a look of supreme scorn upon his handsome brother. Yes, I positively
dislike him. Lady Gwyneth takes no notice of Mrs. Huntingdon's
remark, but continues, petulantly:
"Men have everything, we have nothing."
"I think we have a great many privileges," drawls Mrs. Huntingdon.
"What may they be?" flashes out Lady Gwyneth.
"We always have everything done for us. We don't have to interview
bailiffs, or pay bills, or buy horses, or look after any horrid
details. We have the best places everywhere. We sit comfortably at
the opera, whilst unhappy men have to stand behind us on one leg."
"Pshaw!" utters Lady Gwyneth, contemptuously. "I always interview
the bailiff and pay the bills; and as to letting Harold buy a horse,
I should as soon think of flinging the money out of window at once.
And as for having the best seats everywhere, I'd rather stand than
sit, any day,--yes, and stand on one leg all my life, for the
inestimable privilege of being a man. Men can always do something,
always go somewhere, when they are bored; while we have to sit at
home and curse our fate."
"Lady Gwyneth," interposes Captain Montagu, laughing, "you are
astonishing Miss Carew. See how shocked she looks."
Oh, how could he be so unkind? If I am silly and ignorant enough to
show what I think in my unmanageable face, surely he need not be the
one to call down retribution upon me.
"Girls should be kept in the school-room till they know how to behave
in society," says Lady Gwyneth, with aggressive rudeness.
I feel so angry,--I never knew until this moment that I had so hot a
temper. Reply is on my lips, but ere I have time to unclose them a
champion is at hand.
"I quite agree with you, Lady Gwyneth," utters Colonel Fane's quiet
voice. "I do not think innocent minds are likely to derive much
benefit from listening to the conversation of men and women of the
world."
"Hear! hear!" says Mr. Montagu.
It is Lady Gwyneth's turn to redden with anger. Mrs. Huntingdon
knits her dark brows closer together, but, before either has time to
say anything, Mr. Warrington's jolly face appears in the doorway, and
he calls out,--
"Come, it's time to be off again!"
But some of the sportsmen show signs of defection. Sir George has
made up his mind to go back with Mrs. Huntingdon; Miss Gore has
evidently tampered with her soldier; and Mr. Montagu says in an
undertone to me,--
"I would much rather walk with you. I've had quite shooting enough
for to-day."
But I answer, quickly, "I think Mr. Warrington will not like to have
his party broken up;" and he says no more.
Keepers and dogs are waiting at a respectful distance; the men who
mean shooting are shouldering their guns; I am reflecting that I
shall be left to the pleasure of my own company,--when Captain
Montagu turns towards me and says,--
"Miss Carew, shall we console each other?--we seem to stand a fair
chance of being deserted by our cruel friends, like the babes in the
wood."
Probably the pleasure I feel at this proposal shines from my eyes.
Hector Montagu looks sharply at me, and turns to go.
"Take my gun, Charlie!" cries Sir George over his shoulder (with
questionable taste, _I_ think); "exchange is no robbery."
"Thank you," says Mrs. Huntingdon, haughtily.
"Something better than his gun, a little dearer than his dog,"
laughs Captain Montagu, maliciously, paraphrasing the poet-laureate.
I suppose poor little Sir George meant to be funny, and, like many
other people, did not know until he was told that he had been rude.
At all events, I see him doing his best to make the _amende_ as they
stroll down the glade together. I wonder at, though I bless, the
taste that has made Mrs. Huntingdon give up one escort for the other.
"Is not this the way home?" I say, as Captain Montagu turns his steps
in the opposite direction from that by which we came.
"You are not thinking of going home, surely," he answers. "Why"
(yawning), "what on earth will you do with yourself all the
afternoon?--it is an eternity to dinner-time. Let's do the 'truly
rural,' and get rid of the odious souvenir of Irish stew. Faugh!
it's a barbarous dish, though it seemed pleasant for the moment."
Taking him at his word, I start at a good round pace for a
constitutional.
"My dear Miss Carew," he cries, plaintively, in about a minute, "have
you borrowed the seven-league boots? Have mercy on a miserable
victim to patent leather and corns!"
"Corns!" I repeat (desperately discomfited by the thought of a hero
with corns). "Corns!" (looking down involuntarily at his shapely
feet); then, with the triumph of faith and sight too, "I don't
believe you!"
"Well," he rejoins, laughing, "it isn't my fault if I haven't, but
please consider that I have, and suit your pace to the idea."
So we saunter on, side by side, in the pleasant afternoon sun, across
the crackling leaves, out into the open. He talks away in a merry
half-ironic vein, and if my sense does not approve of all he says,
woman-like, since the speaker pleases me, my heart finds no fault. I
do not--I will not--believe that he is as selfish as he seems to take
pleasure in painting himself: surely nature would not delight to
cheat one by making such beautiful windows as his eyes to a soul, to
find when one looked through them only something worse than
nothingness. Even irrational, inconsequent mortals do not put
stained-glass windows into a barn; and should the fair goddess, who
does all things well, be more foolish and capricious than they?
We have arrived at a stile; he, petitioning me to rest, leans against
a post beside it, whilst I, sitting perched upon it, hearken unto his
discourse.
"Your charming sex," he is saying, "always get cherished and taken
care of, but what's to become of poor fellows like me if we don't
look after ourselves? And you have no idea what selfish, crotchety
old brutes fathers are. Now, don't look indignant. I know you adore
yours. I mean men's fathers. Sometimes I make a feeble attempt to
get mine to see reason, but he won't. I know lots of fellows who've
got the same sort of fathers. I begin by saying to him, suavely,
'Pray, sir, did I come into the world for my pleasure or yours?' To
which he replies, with asperity, 'Not for mine, begad, or I'd have
had something better than a confounded puppy like you!'"
I laugh, not, I think, because his story is very amusing, but
because, standing there, the winter sun shining warmly on his face,
as though it loved him, his eyes shine, his lips curve in smiles, and
he looks so radiantly full of spirits I cannot help but smile too for
sympathy. I am sure there was never a more sincere adorer of good
looks than I. Be it man, woman, child, dog, horse, picture, scene,
statue, if it is beautiful my heart goes out to it for its mere
beauty's sake. It is an instinct implanted in me by nature. I
cannot alter it; I would not if I could.
"To which I reply," he proceeds, laughing, "that granted we are
neither of us responsible for my existence, still, as I am, in the
world, I require to be clothed, fed, and lodged like my fellow-men,
and that, as he has the onus of being my progenitor, he is bound to
provide me with the means."
"I would work for my living," I say, energetically, with a forlorn
hope of stimulating him to independence.
"Work! my dear Miss Carew, work! but I positively slave! You little
dream of the frightful fatigue and exposure I incur in the service of
an ungrateful country. Could you but conceive the toil of field-days
in the Park in a July sun, of going the rounds on winter nights, of
marches, reviews, guards of honor, above all barrack duty. Fancy
being dragged out of bed at half-past seven in the morning to go and
inspect slaughtered carcases, followed by a minute examination of the
men's rooms, to see if they've hidden their boots in their beds,
spilt grease on the table or floors, or committed any other atrocity;
from there into the kitchen, to be poisoned by the smell of
onions--faugh! that reminds me of that horrible Irish stew we had for
lunch."
"No?" I say, inquisitively; "do you really have to do such things? I
thought the Guards had nothing to do but to wear fine clothes, look
magnificent, and allow themselves to be admired."
He laughs.
"That is the popular superstition. There is no class of men so
fatally misunderstood as we poor Guardsmen. We ought to have a
chapter devoted to us in that book called 'Things not generally
known.' Why, there are lots of people, in spite of that sweet thing
in memorials in Waterloo Place, who firmly believe we never go to
war."
"Well," I say, pleased to find he does not live altogether the
self-indulgent and sybaritic life I had imagined, "I had no idea,
really, that you had to work so hard."
"Oh, I haven't half finished yet. After the onions I go to the
tailor's and shoemaker's shops, where the bouquet of leather is most
refreshing; then I go round the messes to see if the men have any
complaints to make about their dinner, then, for a little agreeable
diversion, to the hospital,--after which it is quite on the cards
that I may have the delightful amusement of drilling defaulters for
an hour in a blazing sun. Now, then" (looking at me with a
triumphant smile), "have I vindicated my character, and do you still
wonder that _I_ take every opportunity of recruiting my shattered
forces?"
"And does your father know all this?" I ask.
"Oh, yes. I constantly remind him of it, and he says, pish! and
pshaw! and pooh! By the way, Miss Carew, you are the latest from
school,--what part of speech are pish and pshaw and pooh?'
"Interjections?" I hazard, timidly, not being great in the rules of
grammar.
"Interjections," he repeats, with more assurance. "Yes, I've no
doubt that's it. My father's tremendously fond of interjections.
Now, to let you into more family secrets, that unreasonable old
gentleman is always making a deuce of a row because I spend double
what he allows me, sometimes more. Now, I put it to you, do you
think a father has any right to send you into an expensive regiment,
where most of the fellows are or will be well off, and not allow you
enough to live decently and comfortably on?"
"No," I respond, warmly, "I don't. I think it is very unfair."
"Of course it is, my dear Miss Carew! I knew you would say so. I
saw from the first that you were _sympathique_. As a rule, you can't
conceive how frightened I am of--of unmarried ladies."
"Frightened?" (with an incredulous laugh).
"Yes, frightened, positively. But, as I was telling you, my father
has twelve thousand a year, and no expenses but keeping up the place.
Hector is not extravagant, and there are no girls, thank Heaven, to
want dowries, and yet he has the indecency, I can call it nothing
less, to think I can live on six hundred a year."
"Six hundred a year!" I echo. "Why, papa and I and Curly have not
more than that to live upon."
"Wonderful!" he says, not really looking surprised, for I suppose he
as well as everybody else knows how poor we are. "It is
extraordinary how some people can do everything upon nothing, and do
it better, too, very often, than their richer neighbors."
"But," I say, looking at him very doubtfully, "do you really mean to
say that you don't think six hundred a year enough to live upon?"
"Not half!" shaking his head; "honestly and truly, not half."
Seeing that I am still incredulous, still unconvinced, he says,
laughing,--
"Ah, it is very evident you don't know much about the great Babylon,
nor the wants of the dwellers therein. But, take my word for it, six
hundred a year is only a drop in the ocean, even if one were not a
careless felloe like me, with refined, not to say expensive, tastes.
Don't look so horrified! I don't cheat anybody. My father is the
only sufferer, and it is a capital thing for his liver to have a
little genuine excitement now and then. I'm so desperately unlucky,
too, in my attempts to turn an honest penny: if I back a horse it is
certain to go wrong, and at cards I hardly ever know the sensation of
holding a trump."
I cannot help sighing,--it seems so sad to think of him frittering
away his life on such vanity and frivolity, when he looks like a
hero, and ought to "ride abroad, redressing human wrongs." I have no
right to preach to him: it is impertinent, presumptuous. What do I
know of life, that I should advise or warn? And yet I feel such an
intense admiration for him, I want him to be good and noble inwardly
as he is outwardly.
"Don't you think," I say, coloring deeply, but putting all the
earnestness I feel into my voice,--"don't you think there's something
better and nobler in the world than just merely to live for one's own
pleasure and gratification? Oh, if you saw, like I do, people so
poor, so hungry, so wanting every bare necessary, I know you would
not feel happy to think of squandering away money on things you don't
want and that can't give you any real pleasure."
Thinking over it afterwards, I could not in the least realize how I
found boldness to say such things to him, a stranger, a man of
fashion, one of the world's spoiled darlings. I wonder if any other
girl or woman ever ventured to speak such truths to him. Ah, I think
they would have done so if they had desired his good as earnestly as
I did.
When I have finished my sentence, I feel abashed, and quite expect
him to resent my rudeness; but he does not. He looks a little
surprised, a pleasant smile curves his handsome mouth, and he says,--
"What a charming little priest it is! I shouldn't wonder if I became
quite a converted and respectable character if I had you to talk to
me often. You would soon be able to show me about in a caravan, as a
tamed heathen."
I cannot help smiling as I remember the conversation be tween Lady
Gwyneth and Mrs. Huntingdon.
"I am not such a very wicked fellow, after all," he goes on,
plaintively. "Now, if you want a sinner it would be a real credit to
convert, you'll have a chance to-night. Rexborough is coming. Do
you know him? You must have heard of him."
"I dare say not to know him argues myself unknown," I make answer,
"but I have never even heard his name. Who is he?"
"He is Lord Rexborough, a wicked nobleman, like the heroes of some
fashionable novels, with a cruel jaw and a columnar throat,
deep-chested and thin-flanked, and all that sort of thing, you know."
"Why does Mrs. Warrington invite him?" I ask, innocently.
"Oh" (laughing), "he is not so wicked as to be out of the pale of
good society, and he is very popular. He isn't a carpet-knight like
me: he hunts lions and tigers and bears, and Heaven knows what! I
dare say you will be enormously taken with him,--won't look at me
afterwards, I shouldn't wonder."
I laugh a low small laugh to myself. Then I say, descending from my
perch before he has time to proffer assistance.--
"We must be going home."
CHAPTER X.
DIANA'S STORY.
I find it a very unwelcome exchange when, an hour or so later, the
party being all assembled at five o'clock tea, I have to listen to
and answer his elder brother. He came up to me as soon as I entered
the room, looking half displeased and yet as though he were trying to
conquer the feeling.
"Well, did you have a very delightful walk?" he asks, in that cold,
rather sneering voice which always chills me.
"Yes," I reply, stoutly, "it was very pleasant. The sun was quite
warm. We sat on a stile for a long time."
"Indeed!" (knitting his brows with evident displeasure), "A
delightful occupation for a January afternoon!"
"It was quite warm," I answer, a little maliciously (what right has
he to question my actions?), "and we were talking."
"Conversations at second-hand are not generally amusing," he says, in
his most objectionable tone, "but might I be privileged to ask what
was the subject of a discourse so enchaining as to make you oblivious
of cold?"
"Your brother was talking to me about London and describing his life
there."
"Really?" (raising his eyebrows about half an inch): "that must have
been a very improving conversation for you!"
"It was very improving for me, I can tell you," breaks in the voice
of his brother, who has been standing a little way off with his back
to us, and now turns round. "Miss Carew thinks me a shocking bad
fellow, and has taken my conversion in hand. She began this
afternoon."
Oh that the earth would open and swallow me! I feel as if I should
like never to see or speak to him again.
"Miss Carew seems to think she has a general vocation for remodeling
society," sneers Lady Gwyneth.
"Oh, Lady Gwyn!" cries Curly, flushing a little, "you mustn't be down
on Di, please. You know she has never been out before."
Poor dear fellow! he meant to champion me, but of the two I think
Lady Gwyneth's speech was the less crushing. I bury my face in a
book, utterly, thoroughly discomfited. Mr. Montagu is evidently
sorry for me, and tries to say something encouraging; but I do not
even reply.
At this juncture Lord Rexborough is announced. I look up, prepared
to adore the man who has diverted attention from me. His big frame
looms in the doorway. Now he is the centre of a group over which he
towers by a head. No! I am grateful to him, but I shall not like
him! Mr. Montagu goes forward, so I am at leisure to contemplate the
new arrival. His hair and beard are coal-black (I have a rooted
dislike to very dark men); his face is bronzed, the features large
and coarse, particularly the mouth, which protrudes from under the
heavy moustache. I suppose he is at his best now, responding
cordially to cordial greetings, but his smile, to my mind, is
anything but pleasant,--it is bold and familiar.--and his voice is
loud, his manner boisterous.
"I see the new-comer has not displaced yesterday's arrival!" whispers
Colonel Fane, who has come up to me.
"I hope no one will ever ask me out again," I retort, pettishly;
"everything I say is wrong, and when I am silent, people seem to know
what I am thinking about. It is very evident I am not fit for
society, and it will be a good thing when I am back with my pigs and
chickens."
He looks at me in some surprise.
"Now I know what you are thinking," I say, laughing in spite of
myself. "You had no idea I had such a temper."
"It is quite right to have a spirit," he answers, "and you have been
bullied shamefully. Please forgive me my share."
"I forgive you," I say, and then, reddening a little, "I cannot help
thinking you have something to forgive me too."
"I?" he rejoins, looking surprised. "I?"
"I thought," I murmur, a good deal confused, "you were a little
offended at supper last night. I--I gave you so much trouble, and
you went away and did not speak to me again, and you have not spoken
to me all to-day."
He laughs.
"I have been doing penance in keeping away," he says. "I have a
great mind to tell you why."
"Oh, do!" I cry, eagerly.
"Do you promise not to betray me?" he whispers, looking round
cautiously.
"Yes, faithfully."
"Mrs. Warrington told me I had monopolized you too much, and that I
might be standing in your light."
"How?" I ask, and yet with an uneasy suspicion of what he means.
"As I told you, Hector Montagu is the heir to a fine property, and
Mrs. Warrington, who, like all good women, is a matchmaker, has
selected you for him, or, I should say him for you."
My breath comes quickly, and I answer, in an eager whisper,--
"I do not like him; I quite dislike him; and please don't believe I
am so conceited as to fancy he thinks anything of me, but promise me,
oh, do promise me, Colonel Fane, that if ever you see him talking to
me you will come up and join in the conversation."
"And the same with his brother?" asks Colonel Fane, with a slight
smile.
I hang my head, and he continues:
"Do you know Hector Montagu is really a good fellow at heart? it is
only his look and manner that are against him and that really belie
him. He is worth a dozen of Charlie."
My heart gives an indignant throb.
"I dare say," I answer, coldly. "I know so little of either."
There is a moment's pause, and then Colonel Fane says, a little
nervously,--
"I am going to say something to you that I know you won't thank me
for. Charlie Montagu is fascinating, and women are very apt to fall
in love with him. I think him a very nice fellow; he has a charming
manner, in spite of that affectation of languor and effeminacy; but"
(looking keenly at me) "he is almost the last man I should like to
see a sister of mine give her affections to, unless she had a
fortune."
Before I can make any answer, he has left me, and is talking to Mrs.
Warrington. He is right. I do not thank him for what he has
said,--all the more, perhaps, because dimly, remotely in my heart I
know he is right. But what then? Captain Montagu is not likely to
bestow a thought on me, and I (and I sigh), I, when I no longer see
him shall forget him. "I will forget him," I say, resolutely, as I
rise to go to my room. Captain Montagu, seeing my movement, moves to
the door to open it for me. I intend to pass through without even
looking at him, but he lingers a moment before turning the handle,
and says, in his most caressing tone,--
"Don't be angry with me." I look up, irresistibly fascinated, and
smile. Woe is me! that look scatters to the wind all the resolves
Colonel Fane's words have sown in my bosom. Light is my heart and
swift my feet as I ascend the stairs to my room, where I fling myself
into a low chair, smiling happy smiles at the bare recollection of
his look and words. Oh, women who have grown old! who have lived and
loved and suffered! do you, I wonder, lose all memory of that ardent
spring-time when a look, a voice, could translate you into a seventh
heaven? I am still dreaming when, after a vigorous rap, Curly puts
his head in.
"Oh, Di!" he says, enthusiastically, "isn't it awfully jolly being
here? I never enjoyed myself so much in my life before. I wish it
could last forever: don't you?"
"I don't think I should mind," I return, "if we had papa and Gay and
all the animals here. Poor papa! how dull he must be without us!"
"Yes, the Dad, of course. But I say, Di," (regretfully), "isn't it
an awful bore being poor? Only fancy if we could have swell parties
and ask everybody to our place and put 'em up and entertain them in
this sort of way, wouldn't it be fine?"
"Yes," I respond, heartily, "it would. But you know, dear boy," I
add, with a qualm of conscience, "it's no use repining about what
can't be helped; and we have a great deal to be thankful for. And
after all," I continue, thinking of Mrs. Warrington's guests in
general and one in particular, "these people who are accustomed to so
much society don't seem very contented, and things don't amuse them
like they do you and me."
"Bosh!" retorts Curly: "that's only because it's the fashion for
people to seem bored with everything. You should have seen Lady Gwyn
to-day--why, she was as keen and pleased as I was."
"Oh," I remark, dryly, "it has got to 'Lady Gwyn' and 'dear boy' now,
has it?" Whereat Curly blushes furiously.
"Well," he says, defiantly, "you seem to be amusing yourself too: you
walked off very coolly with Captain Montagu after lunch to-day."
It is my turn to blush now.
"If I had not gone with him, I should have had the pleasure of
walking home alone."
"He's an awfully nice fellow, but Lady Gwyneth says you are only
wasting your time with him; he's a detrimental, and, besides, he
wants a woman with money. She said I was to be sure and not let you
fall in love with him, which she could see you were beginning to."
I am too wroth for speech. I cross the room and adjust something on
the toilet-table, and Curly, unaware of my feelings, continues his
oration.
"By jingo, Di! I wish you could catch the other one! he isn't half a
bad fellow, though he don't look so nice as Charlie. He was awfully
civil to me to-day, and said something about his mother going over to
call on you when you get back. I say, only fancy you being My Lady
with twelve thousand a year!"
I am still contending with my indignation, and Curly rattles on:
"It's awful hard lines: if a fellow hasn't got money he has to work
for or wait for it, and here a girl has only to be pretty and liked,
and plump she drops into any quantity of thousands a year."
"Oh!" I say, with some bitterness; "then you only look upon your
sister as a marketable object, and don't think her inclinations are
to be consulted."
"Oh, that's all stuff. Lady Gwyneth says----"
"Now, Curly," I cry, within an ace of losing my temper, "please not
to tell me any more of Lady Gwyn's delightful theories. Her practice
is quite enough warning for me. And as for Hector Montagu" (raising
my voice), "I would not have him if he had twenty-four or forty-eight
thousand a year, or--or double that sum," I say, not being, as I have
before hinted, very good at arithmetic, and unable at a moment's
notice to calculate what double forty-eight amounts to. "Besides"
(calming down), "it is about as likely he will ask me as that" (I
pause, as usual, for a simile)----
"As that plum-puddings will grow on a gooseberry-bush," says Curly,
kindly coming to my rescue. "But a truce to marrying and giving in
marriage," he continues, declamatorily. "Know, O Diana, that the
festivities of the evening are to comprise a dance, and that----"
"A dance!" I cry, rapturously, as the thought of dancing with _him_
(he surely will ask me) flashes across my brain. "Oh, Curly!"
"Quite true, O goddess! Lady Gwyneth's doing: perhaps for once"
(with slight sarcasm) "she will have done what seemeth good in your
eyes."
"It seemeth very good," I answer, laughing, and shutting the door
upon him previous to commencing my toilette. Never before have I
been so anxious about my personal appearance, never so diffident.
How shall I look my best? A sudden inspiration comes to me: I will
wear white, spotless white, all white, unrelieved by the smallest
dash of color. When I am thus equipped, I present myself to the eyes
of my brother, who is in the agonies of parting his hair down the
middle. He sees my reflection in the glass, and turns sharply round.
"I say!" he exclaims, as he contemplates me with deliberation,
"you've done it this time! By jingo! you only want the parson and
the right man, and a what-you-may-call-it over your head, a veil, and
you might be married off the reel. I say, Di" (coming nearer, while
his face widens into a smile of satisfaction), "you'll take the shine
out of some of 'em to-night."
His words are homely, but a compliment turned by Lord Chesterfield
and delivered by Sir Charles Grandison would give me less pleasure.
One may always rely on the sincerity at least of a brother's
compliment.
Mr. Montagu takes me in to dinner. To-night two daughters of a
neighboring baronet are dining,--pretty, stylish-looking girls.
Captain Montagu takes one of them, Colonel Fane the other. My
neighbor does his best to be agreeable to me: he has dropped his
sarcastic tone, and tries to draw me out about my home life; but,
though I could gossip so volubly about it to Colonel Fane, the
confidences Mr. Montagu invites will not flow, but are strangled into
monosyllabic replies to his questions. He might listen with a
polite, even kind, show of interest, but somehow I do not feel that
he would care to hear the insignificant details of our humdrum life,
would not care to know about the accomplishments and abilities of my
four-footed friends, nor the vicissitudes of their lives, nor the
homely sayings and doings of Gay. Least of all do I feel inclined to
talk to him about papa. In his presence I seem weighed down by a
crushing sense of inferiority: nothing surprises me more than that he
should seek my society or care to talk to me: to save my life I don't
think I could originate a remark.
There has been a pause of a few minutes, when he turns rather
suddenly towards me, and says, in a low voice,--
"What is there in me that repels you so intensely?"
Taken thus at unawares, I am covered with confusion, and have not the
presence of mind to utter even a faint denegation. He hardly waits
for it, but goes on:
"I admire that exceeding honesty and truthfulness in you that at this
very moment forbids you to utter a civil falsehood, as ninety-nine
out of a hundred of your sex would do. I am afraid I am rather a
disagreeable sort of fellow, at least I seem so; but if I only knew
how to conquer that sort of--of repugnance (but I hope that is too
harsh a name) I inspire in you, believe me I would make a very great
effort."
I am quite touched by his tone. Is it possible that so insignificant
a person as myself can have given pain to this apparently hard,
callous man of the world?
"Indeed----" I begin, hastily.
"You need not attempt a disclaimer," he says, gently. "I watched you
all through dinner last night, when Fane sat next you: you were
bright and laughing the whole time; he did not do all the talking, as
I am doing to-night. If you could only see the difference in your
face,--yesterday so gay and animated, to-night" (with a forced smile)
"so dull and dejected."
I feel a little indignant at this open criticism.
"If you like the truth, then," I say, bridling up, "I am afraid of
you. I have never been in society, I have been shut up in the
country all my life: if I talked to you about my dogs and cats, my
pigs and chickens, how you would sneer at me! If I say nothing, you
can at the most think me stupid."
He laughs, quite a genial laugh.
"At all events, I have roused you into saying something," he says;
then, lowering his voice, "and if you think I do not take an interest
in homely country pursuits, that is because my face is always, unlike
yours, expressing what I do not think. Now, there is my brother," he
goes on, bitterly: "the moment he enters a room, every one says,
'What a charming fellow!' just because he had the luck to be born
with a pleasing expression, and I always get credit for exactly the
reverse. It's all humbug the face being an index to the mind. I
have the bad luck to take after my father,--only in feature, though,
I trust," he adds, devoutly, "and Charlie resembles my mother's
family."
Sir Hector cannot be a very nice old gentleman, I reflect if both his
sons speak so undutifully of him.
"I should like you to know my mother," continues Mr. Montagu, warmly.
"You would love her, and she you, I know,--she is so sweet and good
and gentle, and, poor soul! she leads such a life with my father. By
Heaven!" (with suppressed fire), "if I thought I should ever treat a
woman like that, I think I would hang myself before I got the chance."
"Or not marry at all," I suggest, slyly.
"Ah!" he replies, gloomily, "I see you think a woman wouldn't have
much of a time with me. But you are wrong," he goes on, bending
towards me, and speaking eagerly: "if a woman loved me you don't know
how good I would be to her,--you don't know----"
I am destined not to know, for at this moment the ladies rise to
retire. Part of the ball-room has been screened off for our
Terpsichorean rites to-night, and a priestess, in the shape of a lady
who plays the piano, has been convened from the neighboring town. I
am tremulous with excitement: will he ask me? No, Mrs. Huntingdon is
on his arm, and I am fain to accept Sir George (I don't yet know his
surname), who invites me. My envious eyes scan the splendid pair as
they glide down the room. My partner is evidently as ill pleased to
watch them as I am; we do not say very much to each other. I walk
through a quadrille with Colonel Fane. Then comes another waltz. My
heart beats faster than ever: will he ask me now? No! he is inviting
the girl he took in to dinner, and his brother is my partner. The
waltz is to be followed by a galop. Mrs. Warrington brings up Lord
Rexborough and introduces him to me, and I am obliged to accept his
invitation to dance. No sooner have I done so than Captain Montagu
approaches.
"Miss Carew, I have been impatiently awaiting this blissful
opportunity: this dance must be ours."
"Too late, my boy!" says my lord, laying a heavy hand on the other's
shoulder. "Gad, Charlie!" (with his coarse laugh), "it isn't often
one gets a pull over you."
"Don't have anything to do with him, Miss Carew!" laughs the other,
gayly linking his arm in Lord Rexborough's. In my prejudiced eyes
they look like the Archangel Michael and Apollyon, only that I never
saw the two depicted on such friendly terms. "He's a mighty hunter,
and all that sort of thing,--
"'A terror to the Umbrian, a terror to the Gaul,'
but he isn't a bit of good at dancing. He'll probably tear that
pretty gown of yours to ribbons, tread on your toes and lame you for
life, or bring you to unutterable grief of some kind or other."
"He only wants to make you appreciate me all the more when you see
what I can do," says my lord, with a look which, if intended to
fascinate me, has precisely the opposite effect. "You had better go
and do your duty by the lovely H., Master Charlie. I see her looking
daggers this way."
I cast an appealing glance at Captain Montagu: not only do I want to
dance with him, but I most emphatically do not want to dance with the
other.
He responds to my look, and, drawing Lord Rexborough a little aside,
whispers something to him which escapes my ear. Not so the answer.
"Exception proves the rule. I like the look of this filly,
clean-limbed and thorough-bred. You can have the next turn."
In my disgust, I feel inclined to turn and flee, but something
stronger chains me to my seat and makes me try to look as if I had
not heard.
"This fellow is quite impracticable," says Captain Montagu, turning
to me, "and perhaps" (bending down and smiling) "I ought to give him
a chance. You know what I told you this afternoon."
"Come, get out, Charlie!" observes my lord, with his charming,
polished manner: "you always were a most infernal poacher, and Miss
Carew is mine, for the next fifteen minutes at all events."
"Keep the next waltz for me," whispers Captain Montagu, going.
"Don't you waste your time on him!" says my partner, facetiously:
"he's no good to girls on their promotion. Wait till you've got a
husband with money, and then you can take a turn at Charlie, like all
the other pretty married women."
I am glad for once that my face is expressive. I do not attempt this
time to control the disgust and disapprobation his remark calls up on
it. Lord Rexborough evidently sees and enjoys it.
"Haw haw!" he laughs. "I suppose I've put my foot in it. Fact is, I
hardly ever talk to a girl, and hang me if I know what to say to
them!"
Mercifully, the music begins. I say mercifully; but whether of the
two is less disgusting--to be stared at by his bold eyes and talked
to in a style such as I should imagine a commercial traveler might
adopt to a bar-maid, or to be encircled by his odious arm with his
hot breath streaming on my neck, I am somewhat at a loss to
pronounce. He does not dance badly, and he is pleased to compliment
me, in his delicate, subtle manner, on my performance.
"By George! we must have another!" he says, when it is over. "I know
it's no use asking for Charlie's waltz, eh?" (looking down in my face
with his most satanic look) "I saw how you frowned when I insisted on
my rights, by George I did, but I like to see a pretty woman
frown--hanged if I don't! I like a horse and a woman with a spirit:
shows they've got go in 'em. Let's take a turn in the conservatory,
eh?"
"I had rather not, thank you," I reply, stiffly.
"Do you good, a little fresh air," he rejoins. "I'll bring you back
in time for Charlie." And he continues his march towards the door,
with my hand cramped like a vice between his arm and side, so that
without positively stopping and struggling I could not get away from
him. That would be ignominious: so I yield, solacing my indignant
heart with the thought that no human power shall make me dance with
him again.
"Rattling good place to spoon!" he says, when we have arrived there.
"Come and sit down!" (pointing to a lounge at the farther end).
"No, thank you," I answer, curtly.
"Nonsense! you can't catch cold: hot-water pipes all round. I'll
send for a shawl, if you like. I want to talk to you."
"I can talk quite as well standing," I say, coldly.
"No, you can't,--it's so unsociable; and I'm awfully tired,--been
traveling all day."
Without being downright rude and running the risk of offending Mrs.
Warrington through her guest, I cannot well refuse: so reluctantly I
seat myself, and he brings down his ponderous frame so close to me
that he sits half on my dress. He evidently enjoys my embarrassment,
and leans towards me so near that I feel his breath upon my face.
"Now," he says, gloating upon me with his hateful dark eyes, "I am
going to give you a little advice about Charlie Montagu."
"I think you are rather premature," I remark, flashing an indignant
look upon him.
"Hot a bit," he answers, composedly. "I'm uncommon quick at jumping
at conclusions. I saw the young gentleman open the door for you just
after I came, and how you looked up at him. I watched you when the
dancing began, and he asked Mrs. Huntingdon, and then the other,
and----"
But, before he can proceed any further, I have wrenched my skirts
from him and fled. In my hot haste I run into the arms of some one:
it is Captain Montagu.
"Why, Miss Carew!" he utters in his laughing voice; "where are you
rushing to like a small whirlwind? Do you know you all but knocked
me down?" Then, as he sees my agitation, he draws my hand gently
through his arm.
I hear a heavy footstep in the distance.
"Oh, come away," I whisper, excitedly; "please come away."
He complies with my request, and takes me across the hall into Mr.
Warrington's room, which is empty and lighted only by a single lamp.
Without a word he leads me gently to a sofa. I am ashamed to
chronicle such incredible foolishness, but I actually begin to cry.
"What is it?" says Captain Montagu, soothingly stroking my hand as
one might a child's in trouble. "What has that brute Rexborough been
doing or saying to you?"
"Nothing," I say, making a great effort to recover myself.
"But you would not be so distressed if it were nothing, you would not
have been flying away as I found you. Tell me" (caressingly), "and I
will go to him and----"
"Not for the world!" I cry, apprehensively. "Do not, please do not
mention my name to him!" I repeat, in an agony lest the wretch should
tell him what was the source of his offense; "but I dislike him, I
cannot bear him. I hope he will never speak to me again."
"He shall not," says Captain Montagu, very softly; and my mourning is
turned into joy as I look up with courage regained, and see his
handsome face stooped tenderly towards me. He still holds my hand,
and blushingly I re-take possession of it, saying,--
"The waltz will be nearly over."
"Then you will give me the next as well, will not you?" he says,
caressingly.
When, an hour later, the party breaks up, I chronicle this evening as
the happiest of my life. I have forgotten that such a person as Lord
Rexborough exists, until Curly, coming in, says,--
"What a splendid fellow Lord Rexborough is!"
"Splendid!" I echo, with wide-open eyes.
"He has been telling us all about his tiger-hunts; and he was so
awfully kind to me, and has asked me to go and breakfast with him at
Windsor some day."
I sigh, but say nothing. Curly with such friends as Lady Gwyneth and
Lord Rexborough!
"What do you look so glum for, Di?"
"Nothing, dear boy," I answer, not wanting to spoil his pleasure by
moralizing. "I am sleepy. Good-night."
We kiss and part, and I fall to wondering whether is better, our own
homely healthy life, or that world's life into which we are just
getting initiated.
CHAPTER XI.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
Lord Rexborough is rather astonished at Diana's flight.
"What the deuce did I say to make her start off like that?" he
wonders to himself. "I only meant to give her a friendly word of
caution because she seemed a nice fresh innocent little thing, and
it's no more use her thinking of Charlie than the Emperor of China.
And then she cuts up rough and flies off like a young deer. Nothing
so silly as trying to do any one a good turn, particularly a woman
when she's sweet on a man! Well, I've done with her!" And Lord
Rexborough rises and saunters along the conservatory into the hall.
Lady Gwyneth is crossing it, alone. They both pause: a pink flush
crosses her face, he looks a shade embarrassed.
"Will you come into the conservatory?" he asks her, in a low voice.
She shakes her head.
"No, not there: in the billiard-room,--it would seem more natural to
find me there." And she forces a laugh that is hardly mirthful.
He follows her down the corridor to the billiard-room, which is, as
they probably expect to find it, untenanted. Lady Gwyneth takes up a
cue and begins to knock the balls about. Curiously enough, she, who
is an exceptionally good player, misses more than once. After about
a minute she desists, and faces him, leaning on her cue. His eyes
are fixed upon her, have been, as she knows, ever since they entered
the room. A curious contrast, these two,--she so _mignonne_,
white-faced, fair-haired, he so dark and big.
"Well?" she says, at last; but the inflexion of her voice is softer
than it is wont to be, and he, looking at her with a searching
glance, asks,--
"Is it well?"
She utters a little scornful laugh.
"Of course it is well. Am I not rich? and when you saw me last I was
poor, poor as a church mouse. Am I not heart-whole? and when you saw
me last" (her voice trembling a little) "I was heart-broken. I shall
never break my heart for love again: diamonds, not willows, for me.
And you" (turning upon him), "I've never had an opportunity of
congratulating you since that tremendous piece of good luck befell
you a year ago. Odd, our happening to meet here! I suppose Mrs.
Warrington never heard of that little episode in the wilds of
Ireland. What a good thing for you your uncle and cousin did not die
a fortnight sooner! I might have been Lady Rexborough now, or"
(looking keenly at him) "perhaps your love would not have survived
your sudden honors."
"Gwyneth!" he says, in a low tone of reproach. He does not look like
the same man for whom willful Miss Diana took such a violent disgust;
there is nothing coarse or harsh about him now: the dark eyes that
are looking down upon Lady Gwyneth's quivering, excited face are very
sad and soft. As they stand there together, their thoughts go back
to a time, not so very long ago,--something under two years,--when
both their fates had seemed as different from what they are as the
mind could well conceive. She was a penniless, free-hearted,
frank-mannered hoyden, the daughter of an Irish peer, and he was Jack
Blount, with no expectations, not particularly celebrated for morals
or manners, "a bear," most women pronounced, "not a bad fellow," men
said, "and a sportsman to the backbone." The two met and fell in
love. It happened on this wise:
The Earl of Mallow, Lady Gwyneth's father, was as poor as a peer well
could be. He had, what many poor men have, a large family. The sons
went into the army, and the daughters ran wild at home. There was no
going up to London for the season, important as it was that the girls
should make good matches. Lady Gwyneth, the only one old enough, was
presented in Dublin, and now and then got invited to London for a few
weeks, to stay with friends. One May her brother brought home Jack
Blount for salmon-fishing (Lord Mallow had some of the best fishing
on the Blackwater), and Jack was a noted angler. The invitation was
given in this way:
"If you like fishing, and don't mind roughing it, come down home with
me. I can promise you any quantity of salmon; and you won't be
bothered with women. My sisters are more like boys than girls; in
fact, you'd be puzzled to know which they were! They can ride,
shoot, and fish as well as any of us boys."
Colonel Blount rather liked the idea. He did not care for ladies, he
did not believe in them, and thought it a stupid farce to have to
treat them as if he did. Poor Jack's experience of women had been an
unfortunate one. His own mother had been the subject of one of the
most notorious scandals of the day, and from his father, whom he
adored, he never heard anything but curses and invectives against the
sex. He was brought up religiously to love sport and to distrust
women, to look upon them as enemies, to be got the best of if
possible, and to give no quarter to when they fell into his hands.
So Jack had always been used to steer clear of ladies. But when he
came to Ireland and saw this intrepid little maiden, who would have
alarmed most men, he had a new sensation. A fine lady, who wanted to
be waited upon and made love to, if she had the loveliest face in the
world, would have made no impression upon him, steeled as he was
against these subtle wiles; but a girl who could bear any amount of
hardship and fatigue, who could throw a fly and play a twenty-pound
salmon as well as himself, who would ride any horse they put her on,
and not funk a big jump in cold blood,--that was a very different
specimen of womanhood from any it had been his lot to encounter, and
his rough, rude, but withal honest heart went out to her at once.
And to her he was the very _beau-idéal_ of what a man should
be,--utterly manly and fearless, an adept at every sport. She would
have thought a polished, courtly-mannered man a fool; but Jack's
brusque rough-and-ready ways just suited her. She was eminently
un-Desdemona like, but that fair and weak-minded damsel never
listened with more rapt attention to the Moor than Lady Gwyneth to
Jack's adventures in flood and field,--some of them thrilling enough,
though told with due modesty. For sport had filled up the crevices
of Jack Blount's life, much as love-making does other men's: his
blood had been stirred quicker by danger than love; the conquest of a
lion or a grizzly had filled his head with more passionate delight
than the winning of the fairest of women could have done hitherto.
But three weeks in the constant society of this little Amazon had
given him fresh thoughts about womankind: he who had scoffed with
many a bitter, unseemly joke at marriage woke up one morning and
found himself filled with one great desire,--to have this little pale
girl for company during the rest of his pilgrimage through life. And
before nightfall, as they wandered home together from their fishing
expedition, lagging, by mutual though unspoken consent, behind the
rest of the party, there, in the dim wood, the trees making canopy
above their heads, and the dark river swirling round the big rocks
below, he told his "plain, unvarnished tale."
There was not much romance or sentiment about them, but their hearts
were none the less honest or steadfast of purpose one to the other
for that. And so they gave their tryst, and he took the thick gold
ring from his strong hand and gave it to her until he should replace
it by another. To this day Lady Gwyneth wears it, not in the shape
in which he gave it, but beaten out into a heart; and she wears it
next her own.
It was arranged between them that he should speak to Lord Mallow next
day. He felt diffident about it,--he had so little, so very little,
to offer any woman, much less an earl's daughter. But that same
night, when all the household had retired, and he and Lady Gwyneth's
brother smoked their nocturnal pipe together, he heard his fate in
this wise. There had been silence for some minutes, and Lord Vayn
had fidgeted about uneasily. It was lost upon Jack: he was following
the smoke-wreaths up in the air where his castles were, little
thinking, poor fellow, how a few minutes would see them toppling down
into ruined fragments at his feet.
Lord Vayn, having thought over one or two modes of attack, and not
liking either, ended by blurting out his mind pell-mell without much
consideration for his hearer's feelings, only anxious to get his own
share of the unpleasant business over.
"Look here, Jack, old fellow! I've got something deuced disagreeable
to say to you. I may be right, or I may be wrong, I hope to Heaven
wrong. I dare say you can guess what it's about."
"About your sister?" asks Jack, a strange nervous feeling creeping
over him.
"You know, when I asked you here," proceeds Lord Vayn, rushing at his
subject like a horse at a fence he wants to be over, "I thought you
were the safest fellow in the world with women: I thought you hated
them,--you always swore you did. And my sisters are not soft, spoony
sort of girls, Gwyneth least of all. But I can't help seeing that
she's getting fond of you, and, as your marrying her is out of the
question, it's no use playing the fool any longer, and if you're a
gentleman, as I take you to be, I needn't say anything more."
Jack's heavy brows bend together, his teeth clinch. For a minute or
more he makes no answer. Then he says, huskily,--
"I know I have very little to offer a girl,--nothing, indeed; and
what you say about my hating women has been true enough up to the
present moment; but I swear, if you let me have her, neither she nor
any of you shall ever repent it, and I don't think she is a girl who
cares much for money and luxury."
"I dare say you think," returns Lord Vayn, with some heat, "that
because we are poor, as you see we are, the girls are not to look for
much in their husbands; but you're wrong. Because they've nothing
themselves they've got to marry men who have. My dear Blount" (in a
quieter voice), "it's useless your thinking about it. My father and
mother would not hear of it for an instant: they are furious already,
and I have had the pleasant task delegated to me of--of--well, of
giving you your _congé_."
Jack's face grows dark and angry.
"It is rather late in the day," he says. "You should have spoken
sooner."
"Spoken sooner!" retorts the other, angrily. "Why, until three days
ago it never entered our brains that you could--could----"
"Presume to aspire to Lady Gwyneth's hand!" finishes Jack, grimly.
"Something like that," returns Lord Vayn. "Hang it, Blount! it's not
a very pleasant thing to have to say to a fellow, but you must know
that though you're a very good fellow in some ways, and a sportsman,
you're hardly the sort of man in any respect that one would care to
give one's daughter or sister to, even if you had anything to keep
her on."
Jack listens in silence to the words whose bitter truth goes well
home: he does not feel any anger against the man who speaks them,
only a chill pain creeps into his heart. He begins to see the folly
of which he has been guilty, and the thought that pains him most is
that she will suffer for it. Poor little girl! He heaves a bitter
sigh.
"Can't I do anything?" he says, almost humbly. "If I waited----"
"My good fellow," retorts the other, angrily, "you are a man of the
world. You know that if you waited forever it would be as impossible
as it is now. And I am commissioned by my father and mother both, to
say that under no circumstances would they hear of you as a husband
for Gwyneth, Don't make my task any harder than you can help."
"That is enough," says poor Jack. "You need say no more. I will
pack my things to-night, and to-morrow you will have seen the last of
me."
So saying, he goes, leaving Lord Vayn savage with himself for his own
roughness, savage with his sister for her folly, most savage of all
with his parents, who have thrust this hateful office upon him and
lost him a friend. Somehow he feels that even rough, downright Jack
Blount would have acquitted himself more tenderly had the ungracious
task been his. Jack goes to his room, and begins to pack, with a
heavier heart than he has known since his father died. Four weeks
ago how little he dreamed
"His heart would ever ache or break
For love's sake,"
He had some poor consolation in feeling that he had but to speak the
word and she would go to him anywhere; she was not a girl to be
daunted by parents' vetoes; but that word he did not mean to speak.
No! now it was put before him, he saw how poor and untempting was the
fate he had to offer her: parting from her friends with only him to
depend upon (and poor Jack's opinion of himself was the very
humblest), she would have a hard time of it, poor little girl! he
told himself. One thing he bitterly regretted,--having spoken to
her: he blamed himself: he had meant to speak to her father first,
but it had slipped out unawares.
The next morning Lord and Lady Mallow met him at breakfast with
serene faces, as though unconscious of what had passed the night
before. They made no allusion to his departure, though the dog-cart
was ordered for ten o'clock. Lady Gwyneth was not present, neither
was Lord Vayn. Breakfast over, the two other girls went out. Jack
brought his courage to the sticking-point.
"Lady Mallow," he said, quietly, "will you allow me to wish your
daughter good-by before I go?"
Lady Mallow looked at her husband.
"Better not," he uttered, suavely.
"I ask it as a great favor," says Jack, huskily. "I can see her in
your presence, if you wish it so."
"Under those circumstances, I think, my dear," remarks Lord Mallow to
his wife, "we need not object to grant Colonel Blount's last request.
Will you fetch Gwyneth?"
Lady Mallow goes out, and returns, after a short absence, with her
daughter.
Lady Gwyneth is pale, heavy-eyed: it is easy to see she too has heard
her fate. Poor Jack's honest heart goes out to her: something in his
throat chokes him, a mist gathers before his eyes.
He goes up to her and takes her hand in his.
"Good-by!" he says, huskily. "I was wrong in speaking to you without
Lord Mallow's consent. I forgot I was poor and had no right to think
of you, but I know I could have made you happy if they would have let
me."
"Colonel Blount!" interrupts Lady Mallow.
"Good-by," he says, once more, taking both her hands in his; and,
looking up through a mist of tears, she sees his stalwart form
towering above her, meets his dark, sad, honest eyes, and then he is
gone. Mechanically she stands until she hears the dog-cart drive
away, and then she goes away silently to her room. If he had only
said to her, "Come to me, and you and I will face the world
together," she would have gone to him, would have defied parents,
poverty, anything, everything, for his sake; but he had acquiesced;
he had bidden her good-by: what was there left for her to do? So,
silently, with all the more in her heart because she bore a brave
face, she went away to her own room and fought it out alone. Somehow
she did not believe he would give her up tamely. She buoyed herself
up with the hope that she would hear from him. She did not know that
the strongest argument he used against the impulse to see or write to
her was herself. He was giving her up for her own sake, and that
lent him courage.
But in time she gave up hope, and when some months afterwards she was
in London, and Mr. Desborough proposed to her, she accepted him. She
did it with characteristic frankness.
"I do not care for you," she said. "I will marry you if you like,
but I shall expect to have everything my own way, and to do just as I
like."
Mr. Desborough, who was not in love with her either, but who was
particularly anxious to have a lady of title for his wife, assented
with the best grace he might.
"I hope time----" he murmured.
"No," she answered, brusquely, "time will do nothing more for you;
but if you like to marry me without expecting anything of me, it
makes very little difference to me."
So Mr. Desborough married her, and, by one of the strange ironies in
which fate delights, on the very day that she became his wife, Lord
Rexborough and his son were upset from a boat and drowned, and Jack
Blount was sent for from Mexico to reign in their stead.
This is what lies between them and the past. He looks at her with a
curious emotion. The time that severs them from their last meeting
seems doubly long from all that has happened between; life is changed
for him as her; he is no longer poor Jack Blount with an indifferent
reputation and "that unfortunate story of his mother" attached to
him,--he is my lord, whom mothers and chaperons receive with open
arms, whose free manners and coarse jokes they smile indulgently at,
as proofs of "delightful eccentricity." With a certain grim humor
since his accession to title and fortune, he enjoys making the worst
of himself before ladies, and seeing how much they will not only
tolerate but take from him with a good grace. He rarely meets with a
rebuff. Diana's is the first for many a long day; and he likes her
none the less for it. But he is not improved since he was Jack
Blount. And Lady Gwyneth? She is not improved either; from a frank,
merry hoyden, she has become a fast, brusque woman, careless of the
world's opinion, and only bent on finding opium in excitement, to
still the voice that reminds her of her spoiled life.
And thus they meet. Neither has a guilty thought in their heart of
ever being aught again to the other, and yet, however hopeless, it is
sweet to be together once again, together and alone.
"I watched you all this evening," he says, in a low voice. "I wanted
to find out if you were happy. You laughed and talked."
"Is it only happy people who laugh and talk?" she interrupts him.
"Oh, if so, what a voiceless, mirthless world it would be! Laugh and
talk! I do all day and half the night; and yet----"
"Who is happy?" he answers. "Once now and then, perhaps. It is
happiness to kill a wild beast that has been within an ace of killing
you; it is happiness to land a big salmon you have played for an
hour,--you know that; it is happiness to be well up in a good run on
a good horse. But those things don't last. If I knew what the
hereafter was, if there is one, or, better still, if there is none, I
should say it was happiest of all to be lying fathoms deep under the
sea, or on a battle-field with your foe under you, and a bullet
through your heart."
The speech was eminently characteristic of the man. Lady Gwyneth
recognized the old Jack Blount in it, and smiled a little sadly to
herself.
"You used to talk to me like that long ago," she says. "I did not
understand you then; I thought life a happy thing; but I can
understand you well enough now."
"Are you really unhappy?" he asks, anxiously.
"Have you seen my _husband_?" she says, briefly. "Well, you know
what I was, frank, high-spirited, outspoken. What do you think the
effect would be on me of being tied to a man whom I despise" (with a
gesture of loathing), "despise, oh, more than any words can tell!
All my nature is changed; I hate myself too; I treat him shamefully,
yes! I know it quite as well as other people can tell me; and yet
something in me won't let me alter myself,--I can't. Why does he not
turn round upon me? I should respect him far more if he flew into a
passion with me or bullied me; but he is afraid of me--_afraid of
me_!"
"You are a very little woman," says Lord Rexborough, smiling, "but I
expect you can be rather terrible."
"Do you think so?" she asks, lifting her eyes to his face. "Then"
(sighing) "I suppose I have become rather a vixen."
The door opens: Mr. Warrington and Colonel Fane come in. Neither
knows the story of these two, or dreams of interrupting a
_tête-à-tête_. Mr. Warrington challenges Lady Gwyneth to a game of
billiards, and, as she plays, Lord Rexborough, whilst carrying on a
conversation with Colonel Fane, watches her, and thinks somehow that
the cotton gown in which she used to trip round the worn old
billiard-table at home became her better than the costly lace and
diamonds of to-night; anyhow, it seemed more appropriate.
Presently Mrs. Huntingdon comes in with Captain Montagu.
"Charlie," cries Lord Rexborough, "I'm afraid I frightened that
pretty little friend of yours. I'm too rough for her: she won't have
me at any price."
"Really," utters Mrs. Huntingdon, impatiently, "I am getting
perfectly sick of that girl. Her virtuous airs are quite
insufferable!"
"I don't think they are airs," interposes Colonel Fane. "I fancy the
virtue is quite natural."
"How down you women always are upon each other!" says Lord
Rexborough. "You can never forgive each other for being pretty."
"Pretty!" interrupts Lady Gwyneth: "I should hardly call her that:
she has the _beauté de diable_, freshness."
"Really, Lady Gwyneth," says Captain Montagu, "I think you must allow
that she is pretty."
"Decidedly pretty!" the other men agree.
Mrs. Huntingdon lifts her handsome eyes scornfully.
"I never knew a more striking instance of beauty being 'in the eye of
the beholder,'" she says, throwing herself into a low chair.
"Hush! here is the boy!" whispers Colonel Fane.
CHAPTER XII.
DIANA'S STORY.
The days go swiftly by: every morning I say to myself, "I am a day
nearer to papa and Gay and the animals;" and yet, it is no unfaith or
treachery to them, there is something so fascinating and desirable in
this unaccustomed life that I cannot think of leaving it without a
pang. After the luxury, the flattery and laughter, the old home will
seem quiet and dull and sombre; but it is not that,--oh, not that! I
do not think I should ever be one of those who think meanly of a
friend because he wears a shabby coat. It is not the dullness or the
poverty of home that frightens me: it is the thought that I shall
lose the sight of one face, the sound of one voice, that my poor
foolish eyes and ears have grown to feast on. A cold chill strikes
my heart every time I remember that a few days, such a few days
hence, he will have gone forever out of my life. And I am nothing to
him! he will go on with his gay pleasant life, which no faintest
recollection of the little country-bred girl will cross.
One evening again I sing: he does not come near me, nor thank me, as
the others do. But later he comes and whispers to me,--
"I want you to do me a great favor. Will you?"
My eyes glisten. What would I not do to favor him?
"I have a passion for singing,--some singing,--like yours. The
Opera, as a rule, bores me to death, except a few of those lovely,
plaintive solos. After all, I would rather hear Patti sing 'Home,
Sweet Home,' than all the operas in creation. I'm awfully fond of
hymn-tunes, those lovely ones they sing at Wells Street (ah! I
forget you don't know London). I go there nearly every Sunday
afternoon. But best of all I love to sit in an arm-chair and listen
to those dear old-fashioned ballads sung by a voice like yours. Not
that I often get the chance: I have not heard many such. The only
time I ever feel as if I had a soul is when I listen to sweet
singing. I think" (smiling) "you might quite convert me with your
voice: you know Orpheus charmed the wild beasts with his lyre, and I
don't suppose you think me far removed from them."
I laugh from sheer happiness at his praise.
"But the favor!" I say, interrogatively.
"I want" (bending still nearer)--"I want you to sing to me alone."
"Alone?" I repeat; "but how can I? Do you mean to ask all the other
people to go out of the room?"
"I want you to make a rendezvous with me for to-morrow. Every one
goes out in the afternoon. Say you have a headache and stop at home."
"But I never had a headache in my life."
"No? I thought ladies always had headaches as often as they liked.
What is your particular complaint when you want an excuse?"
"I never do want one. I have only to say to papa 'I wish to go out;'
or, 'I wish to stay at home,' and he never questions it."
"I wish my papa was like that!" laughs Captain Montagu.
"Unfortunately, he is the exact opposite of yours. But come"
(persuasively), "do manage it for me somehow, and I shall be ever so
grateful to you."
I should dearly like to do what he asks me,--there could be no harm
in singing to him; but to scheme to be alone with him, even for so
innocent a purpose! No: impossible.
"I would sing to you for hours, and welcome," I say, "but we must
take our chance of there being some one else present who might
object."
"I tell you how we'll manage it: we'll start for a walk with Miss
Gore and Irvine: they always walk,--I suppose" (laughing) "because
it's the only chance they have of getting away from their kind here.
They are sure to lose us, or we them, and then we will come back and
have it all to ourselves. Shall we?"
A guilty joy steals across me as I smile consent, and then he leaves
me, and his brother, who has been scowling at us from the other side
of the room, takes his place.
"What has my brother been imparting to you that makes you look so
happy?" he asks, in his cold voice.
"If I look happy," I retort, rather indignantly, "it is because I
reflect the faces of the people I talk to. Your brother smiles and
looks pleasant, so I do the same."
"And you are reflecting my face now, I suppose," he says, with slight
sarcasm. "Your expression is quite different from what it was a
moment ago."
"Probably," I reply, for I am considerably nettled by his constant
personalities.
He gnaws his lip for a moment, and then says, much more softly,--
"I wish I had the knack of pleasing you! Do you know I long
sometimes to play eavesdropper and hear what these fellows say who
make you smile and look so bright?"
"You would not hear much wit or wisdom," I respond, relaxing into a
smile: "the subject of our mirth would probably cause you to embrace
us all in one supreme and infinite contempt."
"Why will you persist in thinking me such a prig?" he says,
impatiently. "Do you think _I_ cannot laugh and be gay and amused
too?"
I look askance at him, and answer, doubtfully, "I don't know: I dare
say."
He laughs in spite of himself.
"I suppose you think I never was a boy and trundled a hoop or played
marbles."
For once he succeeds in making me laugh, as my vivid imagination
pictures the grave and dignified individual before me occupied with
such youthful pastimes.
"You see," I say, when I recover myself, "what a small thing it takes
to amuse me."
"Anyhow, I am fortunate to have done so once," he observes, quite
good-temperedly; and, having so far broken the ice, we continue quite
friendly for the short time that remains before the party breaks up
for the night.
I go to my room exuberantly happy at the thought of to-morrow's
programme, but trembling, too, for fear something may interfere with
it. But it comes to pass as he has decreed. Most of the gentlemen
are shooting,---all, indeed, except Captain Montagu, Miss Gore's
lover, and Lord Rexborough, who has gone hunting with Lady Gwyneth.
We start for our walk, and in due course lose our companions; and
little more than half an hour later we are back in Mrs. Warrington's
boudoir, I at the piano, Captain Montagu a little distance off,
buried in the easiest chair in the room. His eyes are shut, and his
face slightly averted from me.
"I am not asleep," he says, "but I cannot use my eyes and ears both;
and the prettiest woman in the world looks less pretty with her mouth
open, singing. I shall not say, 'Thank you;' and please not to stop
for a long time."
So I sing on and on, more anxious to give him pleasure than I could
feel to win the approbation of a thousand other folk. Once now and
then I let my eyes steal over his face with secret delight, and still
I sing on.
It begins to grow dusk,--the days are at their shortest. I look at
the clock: it is a whole hour since I sat down. I close the piano
softly, not altogether sure that my voice has not had the soothing
though unflattering effect of sending him to sleep; but no sooner
have I done so than he opens his eyes, and, rising, comes towards me.
"Do you know," he says, softly, bending down to me, "do you know that
you have given me more pleasure than I have felt for years? I can't
tell you how I have enjoyed this afternoon. You are not tired, are
you?" (tenderly). "I am such a selfish brute,--I am afraid I never
think of any one but myself."
"I am glad if I have pleased you," I say, looking at him, but turning
my eyes as quickly away again, feeling, I know not why, unable to
meet his gaze. There is a moment's pause, and then he stretches out
his hand and takes one of mine which lies on the closed piano. His
touch thrills me like an electric flame,--I scarce know if it be pain
or pleasure At this moment I hear two laughs, one loud, one shrill.
Burning with shame, I essay to tear my hand away, but Captain Montagu
holds it tightly. He is not one whit embarrassed.
"I am giving Miss Carew a lesson in palmistry," he says, coolly. "Do
you understand the science, Lady Gwyneth?"
"I think I do, as practiced by you," she answers, with a burst of
merriment, in which Lord Rexborough's voice joins.
Captain Montagu opens my reluctant palm with gentle force.
"She has a very long line of life," he remarks, imperturbably gazing
into it.
"How about the line of the heart, eh, Charlie?" roars my lord,
approaching: "let's have a look."
As he approaches, I tear my hand away and put both behind my back.
"What a timid little dove it is!" he cries. "Lady Gwyneth, now is it
that I scare Miss Carew so horribly?"
"I don't know, I'm sure," she returns, in the same tone. "I should
not have given Miss Carew credit for being shy. Evidently Captain
Montagu does not inspire her with similar terror."
"You're such a great hulking fellow, you know, Jack," laughs Captain
Montagu, putting his hand on the other's shoulder; "and you look so
frightfully fierce; and then, with your reputation as a lion-slayer
and your sojourn in wild parts, I shouldn't wonder if Miss Carew
thinks you eat human flesh, and is rather in terror of her life when
you come too near."
"Of the two I don't suppose I'm as dangerous to the young lady as you
are," replies my lord. "Come, Miss Carew, won't you give us another
of those sweet songs you were favoring this lucky fellow with just
now."
"Do," says Lady Gwyn, imperiously. "Sing 'Auld Robin Gray.'"
But my voice feels choked; I could not sing now to please any one: so
I rise and walk away from the piano, saying, "I am afraid I have no
voice left."
"What a charming, good-natured girl!" says Lady Gwyn, _sotto voce_,
to her companion, but loud enough for me to hear; and, vexed and
indignant, I leave the boudoir and seek my own room. There is always
a reverse to every picture. Still, I have pleased him, and that is
fifty thousand times more to me than the displeasure of all the lords
and ladies in creation.
During the last few days I have seen a great deal of Claire Fane, and
every day I like her better. She is so thoroughly kind and good, so
pleasant to every one, and somehow seems to have a way of drawing
together the most uncongenial materials and of making the best of
them. Lord Rexborough seems less loud and coarse in her society,
Lady Gwyneth less fast, Mrs. Huntingdon less ill-tempered, Hector
Montagu less stiff and formal.
I have an idea,--it may be groundless,--but I fancy she has a great
regard for Mr. Montagu: a faint blush comes to her kind pretty face
when he addresses her sometimes, she is a little embarrassed now and
then in his presence, and she never finds fault with what he says,
even when he is most cynical and uncharitable. She rather apologizes
to him for what he condemns than blames him as I think she might do
for his fault-finding. But is it possible that she can care for him?
Indeed I cannot understand his attracting any one,--far less so sweet
and amiable a creature as Claire. I hope I shall see more of her
when I leave here. I love her already; and I know papa would too if
he could only see her; and I think he and Colonel Fane would get on
famously.
The last day of our stay has come: to-morrow we are going home. I
long to see them all again, but, oh, I wish these few little golden
hours that are left would not speed on so swiftly. On this last
evening, Captain Montagu takes me in to dinner for the first time.
It is only seven nights removed from the dinner that I found so
grievously long, but to-night I am inclined to quarrel with the great
gold hands that run so swiftly round the clock, and the pendulum that
swings to and fro with such ill-natured haste. I feel in boundless
spirits: I know that my lips are curved in smiles, that my eyes are
eager; I read it in the half-regretful, half-amused expression on
Colonel Fane's face, in the angry looks of Mr. Montagu, in the scorn
of Mrs. Huntingdon's handsome, discontented face, and the kind smile
on Claire's. Our stream of talk ripples on: it is neither wise nor
witty, but sweeter to me than any pearls of eloquence that could flow
from the lips of any other man. The words that make such music in my
ears are commonplace enough, and, were they uttered by another voice,
would hold none of their present charm.
"I am so awfully sorry you are going to-morrow," say the mouth and
eyes I find so handsome. "I can't forgive myself for having wasted
so many hours when I first came. But then you know" (smiling) "I
never expected to find an unmarried lady so charming."
I laugh gleefully.
"What shall I do for pretty speeches when I get back to my rustic
life?" I ask. "To-morrow" (with a shade of sadness) "I shall have
dropped out of fairy-land and be a little Cinderella again."
"I wish I could be your fairy godmother," he says. "I should like to
take you to London and show you a little of life: I wouldn't even
mind turning into a plumed and turbaned chaperon for one season to
attend you everywhere. How tremendously indulgent and long-suffering
I should be, and how confoundedly jealous of all your admirers!"
I laugh outright.
"What! if you were a plumed and turbaned dowager!"
"Ah, I am afraid I was mixing up identities," he laughs. "Never
mind: to-night, thank Heaven, I am admirer only; and I have persuaded
Mrs. Warrington to let us have a dance, and you" (whispering) "are
going to waltz with me twice, if Hector shoots me for it to-morrow."
"Never mind your brother!" I exclaim, impatiently.
"I'm afraid your education has been sadly neglected on some important
points," says Captain Montagu, with an amused smile. "You don't seem
to understand the difference between a _parti_ and a _detrimental_."
"What is a detrimental?" I ask, curiously.
"A man who cannot marry you himself, and who keeps other men off. I
am a detrimental."
My cheeks are aflame in an instant. Fortunately, Mrs. Warrington is
just rising to go. Oh, I wish he had not said that! Surely he does
not think for one moment that I am so conceited and silly as to need
a caution from him that he is only beguiling an idle hour in my
society. Why did he poison the cup that was so sweet a moment ago,
by giving me foretaste of the dregs?
We are in the hall, and Claire passes her arm through mine.
"I am glad your last evening is such a pleasant one!" she says,
kindly; and I answer, "Yes, it is, very,--thanks;" but my tone is not
so hearty as it would have been a minute since.
"Rochester is going to drive me over to see you soon," she says.
"And I hope we are going to be real neighbors, and to see a great
deal of each other."
"Oh, I shall be so glad!" I exclaim, heartily; "we are so very dull
and quiet at home, and I dare say I shall feel it more now that I
have had all this gayety. It will be delightful having something to
look forward to. Only," I continue, reddening a little, yet feeling
constrained to tell her, "we live in a very small, quiet way, you
know, because----"
"My dear," she says, interrupting me, and giving my hand a kind
little squeeze, "I am coming to see you, and the dogs and the kittens
and all your other pets."
CHAPTER XIII.
DIANA'S STORY.
My last evening is a triumphant one. Every one is kind; every one
except Lady Gwyneth and Mrs. Huntingdon tell me they are sorry I am
going; but I hear Lady Gwyn, to whom Curly is paying devoted
attention, deploring his leaving Warrington, and making him promise
(which he does eagerly) to go and stay with her at the Castle. Our
kind host and hostess press us to remain, but I feel, and I think
Curly does, that papa will be expecting us and might be disappointed.
Half my pleasure is over. I have had one delicious waltz, and
forgotten all about the little speech that vexed me. I have danced
with kind Colonel Fane, who has been kinder than ever, and with Mr.
Montagu, who has struggled very hard to keep down his displeasure and
to be genial, and with nearly every one but Lord Rexborough. For one
moment I am alone, and he takes the opportunity to come and stretch
his huge bulk on the sofa beside me.
"Won't you make it up?" he says, putting his face close to mine with
his most satyrish look. "This is your last chance, you know."
"I do not know of anything to make up," I reply, stiffly.
"Oh, yes, you do," he retorts. "You were deuced angry because I
warned you about Master Charlie. You'd much better have spent your
pleasant looks and smiles on the other brother, or on me for the
matter of that" (with a laugh). "I've sworn not to marry; but I
don't at all know, if you were to look at me like you do at Charlie,
that I shouldn't be capable of breaking my vow. Here he
comes,--confound the fellow! always in my way. I say, Charlie, just
you leave us together for a minute, will you?--we're making our
peace."
But Captain Montagu reads the entreaty in my face too well to comply.
"My time is so short, I am not going to give up a minute of it," he
says, laughing. "Why haven't you done it before? It's too late now.
_L'occasion perdu ne revient jamais_."
"What a selfish dog you are! Why don't you stick to the marines and
leave the ingénues alone?"
"I hear music. Come, Miss Carew." And in another minute we are
floating down the ball-room. I shall never forget that waltz. It is
over, and he leads me away into the conservatory, and seats me on the
couch from which I once fled in such hot haste from Lord Rexborough.
"And you are really going to-morrow!" he says, regretfully, turning
his blue eyes upon me.
"Really," I say, regretfully too.
"So am I, for the matter of that," he continues, "and we are both
going home. Your father will be glad to see you. Wall, I can't
flatter myself that the sight of me will awaken much joy in the
paternal breast. I'm the prodigal who has returned once too often.
They've given up killing the fatted calf for me,--which, on the
whole," he adds, laughing, "I don't regret; for I hate veal."
"And shall you be long at home?" I ask, with a vague sense that it
will be pleasant to think he is still in the same county.
"Only for a day or two; and then I return to those arduous duties
about which I once told you. But I shall be down again before long.
How should you greet me if I walked suddenly in upon you one day?"
My heart beats faster, my eyes glisten, but I say nothing, for I
remember our homely manner of life, and think how uncongenial it
would seem to this fine gentleman.
"You do not wish me to come?" he says, softly.
"You would not care to," I answer. "And in a week--in less, I dare
say--you will have forgotten you ever met such a humble personage as
I."
"No, I shall not," he whispers, taking my hand and holding it so
gently that I am fain to leave it there. "I shall never forget you."
It seems like a dream. I half close my eyes with a dread of awaking
from so much happiness.
"Darling!" he whispers, and his lips touch mine. I start away, and
stand angrily against the trellis-work: the spell is broken.
"How could you?" I say, reproachfully, feeling dreadfully hurt and
ashamed.
"Don't be angry!" he entreats. "I could not help it: I am awfully
sorry,--no, that is not true," he says, with a little smile, "but I
will not offend again."
So we go back to the dancing-room, where every one is saying
good-night, and I go up-stairs with light feet but a heavy heart I am
going away to-morrow,--to-day, even: in fifteen hours I shall have
turned my back on all these new-found delights, and nine of those
must be given to dull sleep or duller waking. A tinge of bitterness
flavors the cup that would otherwise be so sweet. Does he think
lightly of me, and have I given him cause? Is it not some want of
maidenly modesty that even now sends a thrill of joy to my heart at
the remembrance of the touch of his lips? Red shame dyes my face, my
neck, glows even to my finger-tips. Oh, if that one sweet moment
should have lost me his esteem!
The next morning is wet. No one goes out, and I am asked to sing.
Captain Montagu has not had an opportunity of speaking to me this
morning even had he wished it. I do not know if he does. His
brother has scarcely left me for a moment, and _he_,--he has been
talking to Mrs. Huntingdon, who for once has come down to breakfast.
I feel the keenest pangs of jealousy. I try hard not to let my eyes
glance in their direction, but in spite of me they will. His smile,
which seems so unutterably sweet when it falls on me,--I hate it now
it is bent on another woman. What can he be saying to her?--her dark
brows are unbent and wide with smiles; she looks up in his face with
that expression which made me wonder once how her husband could bear
it. Involuntarily I look round for him. I wish he would see and
resent it, but he is there in full sight of her, discoursing most
cheerfully to Lady Gwyneth. I feel a contempt for him in my secret
heart. But I am going to sing now: it is my one weapon against all
hers,--against her handsome face, her exquisite apparel, her jewels,
and those other charms unknown to me which seem to harass the souls
of men. I am not nervous now: I throw all my heart--that foolish
heart which will have no more use after to-day--into my voice. She
talks on loudly. He makes a little sign of hush, but her eyes flash
angrily and she talks louder still. Then, oh, triumph! he moves
softly away and ensconces himself in a low arm-chair with closed eyes
and listens. And I sing on to him,--yes, to him, though it may be
his brother who thanks and praises me, or Colonel Fane, or Sir
George, or Mr. Warrington. And when I have sung my last and my best,
he uncloses those long-fringed lids that I have seen all the time,
though I seemed not to look, and comes towards me.
"Miss Carew," he says, in the pleasant languid tone which he
particularly affects, and which I believe provokes men (that is, the
men who are jealous of him) and pleases women, "what an inestimable
treasure you will be to some one! Only I hope you won't be like most
women and give up singing when you marry."
"I don't know what I may do," I answer, "when anything so improbable
occurs."
"Improbable!" echoes his brother, on the other side. "Pray, Miss
Carew, do you contemplate taking the veil?"
"I might as well," I answer, laughing: "when I am at home, my life is
something like a nun's."
"We'll come over and invade the sanctuary; won't we, Hector?" but the
latter only frowns. "I believe we are only about fifteen miles from
you," pursues Captain Montagu, "and tradition says that your family
and ours were bosom friends once."
"Ah," I reply, coloring, "but it was different then. We----" but
here I stop.
"As soon as I get to London," says Captain Montagu, adroitly changing
the conversation, "I am going to send you some lovely songs by Gounod
and Sullivan, and then if ever I do have the bliss of meeting you
again, and" (laughing) "you have not given up your music. I hope I
shall have the extreme gratification of hearing you sing them."
Our visit is over: we have gone through all the cordial
hand-shakings, and kind regrets, and hopes for future meetings. I
have wished all good-by but one. Where is he? My heart sinks with
bitter disappointment: we are on the eve of starting,--when a voice
cries, "Stop!" and Captain Montagu appears beside me at the window
with a lovely bouquet.
"I asked permission first, and then I robbed the greenhouses," he
says, putting it in my hand: "it is a little foreign custom which I
always took to, sending off your friends with a floral souvenir.
Good-by, Curly: I shall see lots of you this summer at Windsor.
Adieu, belle déesse--au revoir, I hope." And he presses my hand
softly, takes off his hat, and we are rolling down the avenue.
"Oh, Di!" says Curly, regretfully, "what an awfully jolly time we
have had! Aren't you dreadfully sorry it is all over?"
But just at the moment I am triumphantly happy; this little episode
of the flowers has turned my mourning into joy.
"It has been delightful," I answer; "but we are going to see papa;
how glad he will be to see us! and Gay,--I dare say what a state of
fuss and expectation she is in at this very moment. It will be very
nice telling them all about it."
"Yes," Curly assents, but he is looking out of the window rather
blankly. Presently he turns his face to me again: it has lost its
usual joyous expression, and wears a shade of mortification.
"Isn't it an awful bore to be poor, Di!" he says, despondingly.
"Perhaps it is, dear boy," I assent, consolingly. "But you know"
(with secret conviction) "it does not strike me that all these people
we have just left are so particularly happy, and yet I suppose they
have everything that money can command. I don't believe they enjoyed
themselves half so much as we did. Captain Montagu" (turning a
little aside) "told me he was dreadfully bored nearly always."
"Oh, that was his humbug! all those fellows talk in that way. But
what I feel is, you know, it's awfully nice getting asked out, and
every one being so kind and good-natured, but--but, Di" (coloring a
little), "one feels so shabby at not being able to return it."
"Yes, I know, dear," I respond; "but" (putting my arm round his neck)
"I don't think you need feel like that. Why, if we were ever so
rich, what could we give them more than they are used to have every
day of their lives? but you amuse them and make them laugh, and they
like to see your bright cheery face; so I consider you make them an
ample return, and I am sure they are quite satisfied with that, and
would be sorry perhaps if you could make them any other."
"I think our visit was a success. We both got on capitally; didn't
we?" he remarks, with returning complacency. "Really, Di, you looked
uncommon well; you did, now, indeed. All the fellows liked you. I
wish you hadn't snubbed Rexborough so; he's a thundering good fellow,
really."
"Is he?" I respond, dryly. "Well, his thunder is as terrible to me
as Jove's might have been to the ancients; but it does not follow,
dear boy, that we are always to like the same people: indeed, it
isn't natural we should. But you may be sure I shall not quarrel
with any one for liking you," I add, putting my hand on his crisp
gold curls in quite a maternal way. I do feel very motherly towards
him, though there is only two years' difference between us. We are
drawing near home.
"Curly," I say, with some diffidence,--"don't mind my saying it,--of
course I know you won't, but, dear, I should not like you to hint
anything before papa about our not being able to make people any
return."
"Why, of course not, Di. As if I should! You need not be afraid of
my saying anything to hurt the dear old Dad. There he is. Hurrah!"
(waving his hat frantically out of the window).
Yes, there he stands waiting for us on the doorstep, looking so glad,
and there behind him at a respectful distance are fluttering
cap-ribbons, which I know adorn the person of none other than Mrs.
Susannah Gay. A minute later, and I have flung myself round papa's
neck like a young whirlwind, with an odd swelling in my throat and
foolish but happy tears brimming in my eyes. What a goose I must be!
And then I turn to Gay, radiant and red from Curly's embrace. The
pug is nearly tearing me to pieces with excitement, cook in the
distance bobs respectful curtsies, the girl stands with wide grins of
welcome, holding Othello and Desdemona under each arm. It is a
homely home-coming, but I think it would have given us less pleasure
to walk through the old hall if it had been lined with obsequious
retainers. There is such a fire in the morning room, such a cake,
such hot buttered toast, and "the kettle came to the bile just as the
carriage turned into the avenue," says Gay. And while she busies
herself with the teapot, Curly and I breathlessly recite our tales of
splendor and delight, and papa beams with smiles, and looks happier,
I think, than I have ever seen him.
"And we shall be losing Di soon, Dad!" rattles Curly; "I can tell
you, she's taken all the fellows by storm, and there'll be duels and
rumors of duels, and somebody carrying her off one of these fine days
under our very noses."
"Curly, you goose, hold your tongue!" I cry. "Ah, papa, he is afraid
of my having the first word. You have no idea what a young Admirable
Crichton this boy is, and what a fuss all the lovely ladies make
about him!"
"At any rate," says our father, smiling, "you both seem to have
enjoyed your visit."
Gay, having poured out the tea, modestly makes a show of retiring,
but is not allowed. She is one of the family, and we have no secrets
from her. But she is always very shy and respectful in papa's
presence, and only looks the "Law's! Well, I never's! Dear bless my
heart's!" with which she notes and commentates our stories in
private. We spend a delightful evening in the recital of all our
fine doings, and somehow I forget to make any disparaging contrasts
between our own shabbiness and the luxury from which we have just
come. Ah! there is something about home, when it is a happy one,
with which the stateliest palace in the world cannot compete.
But next morning, when all our tales are told, when we have visited
our pets and all our usual haunts, when papa and Curly have gone off
with their guns, I am conscious of a certain sensation of blankness
and void that I have never known before: it is the reaction, I
suppose. A sort of despair creeps into my heart as I stand looking
at the flowers he gave me. This time yesterday I was singing to him,
and now perhaps I shall never see him again. I dare say he has
already forgotten me.
The flowers grow blurred and dim; their delicate hues are merged
mistily in each other for a moment, and then two great tears roll
down my cheeks. Alas! I have eaten of the fruit of the tree of
knowledge. When I knew of nothing different, I was blithe and happy
in my home. "Oh, why, why should I have had this glimpse of
Paradise," I cry, passionately, to myself, "if it is only to make me
discontented with what sufficed me well enough before?" For, looking
back, it all seems to me like Paradise.
CHAPTER XIV.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
Alford Court is one of the oldest places in England. It has not one
but many histories, as even the most unpretentious, unromantic house
is bound to have after standing a certain number of centuries. It
has its venerable oaks, hundreds of years old, with sides riven and
branches scathed by many a fierce storm; it has its big lake, full of
carp, some of them as old, it is said, as the oaks; it has its grand
old gateway, with the ball-room over, in which fair young forms once
tripped gayly that are now but as few grains of dust. Inside the
house are many silver and brass-bound oaken presses and cabinets; the
carved mantel-pieces ascend to the ceilings, the brass dogs still
stand, brightly burnished, on the hearths. There is a great store of
china; huge bowls and jars filled with _pot-pourri_ as sweet now as
when it was confectioned by the dainty fingers of some long-since
dead _châtelaine_. There are long, oaken, picture-hung corridors
with mullioned windows looking out over a sea of lawn, broken here
and there by some grand old cedar. It is easy to see that emerald
velvet turf has never been ruffled by croquet-hoops: only one donkey
is ever allowed there, as the host says with grim facetiousness, and
that is the leather-booted one which draws the mowing-machine. Sir
Hector Montagu, the master of Alford Court and of many adjacent
demesnes, has a rooted aversion for croquet,--the cause of more
_mésalliances_, he avers, than any pastime ever invented.
"A parcel of silly women," quoth he, "glad of any excuse for idling
away their time and making eyes at somebody,--if it's only the poor
little whipper-snapper curate, and ready to pull caps even over him;
then one fine day your daughter (thank God, my lady, you never
blessed me with one), your daughter comes to you in hysterics and
informs you she never can love anybody but the Reverend Jones, whose
income if probably something under a hundred a year." So Sir Hector,
though he has no daughter, still declines to encourage folly in those
of other men; and, although no young lady ever comes to the place
without exclaiming "What a heavenly lawn for croquet!" (this being in
the days before it was superseded by lawn tennis and Badminton), Sir
Hector's fiat having once gone forth was unalterable as the laws of
the Medes and Persians.
The master of Alford Court was an autocrat: _de tout ce qu'il y a de
plus autocr[oe]te_,--not even the Emperor of all the Russias could be
more absolute than Sir Hector in his own domain. If he had been a
Turkish pacha in the good old times, how he would have had his
wretched subjects bowstrung and bastinadoed! if a Chinese potentate,
what rows of grinning heads would have chronicled his attacks of
liver! if a West Indian planter, what scourgings would have testified
to the disagreeing of last night's banquet! Living in the highly
civilized nineteenth century, when moral scourging and the laceration
of our friends' hearts and our foes' feelings are the only cruelties
tolerated in polite society, and being also one of the most highly
cultivated and polished gentlemen of his time (in company), Sir
Hector had still a victim whom he was wont habitually to bowstring
and bastinado, to decapitate and to whip,--a victim perpetually at
hand, too, a great convenience, and who was--need I say it?--his
wife. Poor lady! what a time she had with her remorseless old
tyrant! It was not alone her own shortcomings she suffered for, but
for those of the whole household and neighborhood. Sons, butler,
men-servants and maid-servants, grooms and gardeners, tenants and
laborers, on the slim shoulders of poor Lady Montagu fell all the
weight of their frequent misdoings. Was the soup too hot or too
cold, a sarcastic compliment to my lady on her cook and her own
housewifely proclivities testified to his displeasure; if Charlie got
into debt, his mother of course was alone responsible; so from the
most trivial to the greatest incident that vexed him, my lady was the
fetish he banged and battered incessantly. Sir Hector affected the
old school; his creed forbade him to bluster or bully: sarcasm was
the weapon on which he transfixed the luckless ones who came under
his sovereign displeasure, and, as a natural consequence, was the one
he was himself totally unable to bear. Only one member of the
household could and dared meet the autocrat upon his own ground,--his
heir; and he rarely, but in defense of his mother or some other
oppressed mortal. Before the world, Sir Hector had a grand, stately
demeanor: it impressed strangers immensely. Towards women especially
he comported himself with a delightful mixture of old-fashioned
courtesy and bland protection: on first acquaintance they always
pronounced him "a charming old man," though their enthusiasm
generally abated on closer acquaintance. "Finish the prologue and
draw up the curtain!" says the reader.
Tinkle goes the bell, up rolls the curtain and discloses--Sir Hector
and Lady Montagu with their two sons seated at dinner, in a
magnificent banqueting-hall, each with a gorgeous liveried servant
behind his chair. This is one of Sir Hector's whims, and one that is
a peculiar abomination to his sons. Sir Hector _will_ dine in
state,--company or no company. There is a charming cosy little
dining-room close by, perfection for a small party, where the other
three members of the family would fain dine, waited on by one
servant, or two at the most. Sir Hector wills it otherwise; he likes
to dine in the vast hall,--the only concession to whose vastness is a
great screen placed half-way across; and he likes to eat his dinner
with ten watchful eyes obsequiously observant of every morsel that he
transfers from his plate to his mouth. For if he and my lady are
dining _tête-à-tête_ he will have the butler and four footmen in the
room, though they do nothing but stand at attention in front of or at
ease behind him all through dinner.
"Gad!" says poor Charlie to his mother, "I don't know how you stand
this sort of thing night after night, my poor dear Mater. Don't you
long and pray for the old man's death?"
"Oh, Charlie dear, pray hush!" cries his mother, in a terrified
whisper, looking over her shoulder. "Pray, pray don't say such
dreadful things."
"Why, mother," laughs her scapegrace son, "you look as terrified as
if you had the real old gentleman behind you. Don't be alarmed: his
prototype is ten miles off at this moment, and there is no fear of
that steady-going old cob of his doing anything indiscreet,--worse
luck! But to return to our mutton, served up on the family plate
with that old raven and his four paroquets staring down our throats
as if they begrudged us every morsel. Gad! it takes every bit of my
appetite away, and makes me so confoundedly nervous I spill something
down the front of my shirt nearly every night. And all this swagger
for a little trumpery country baronet!"
"Charlie! Charlie!" interposes his mother, quite shocked.
"Have as much state as you like when you are entertaining,--twenty
servants, thirty, in all the colors of the rainbow; but, when we're
alone, for Heaven's sake let's be comfortable. Why, when I was
staying with Simplicitas, we had the Prince there, and nothing could
have been more regal than the way everything was done; and the night
they all left, the duke and duchess and I dined in a little nutshell
of a room, with two maid-servants to wait upon us. I haven't told
the governor that yet, but I will to-night."
"Now, my dear hoy, what is the use of vexing your father?" pleads
Lady Montagu. "You know nothing will alter him."
"I hate the very sight of those long-legged cringing fools," pursues
Captain Montagu, disgustedly. "I've done my best to make them
enlist. I've tried to inspire them with a desire for martial glory.
I've dimly hinted at the becomingness of a scarlet coat and its
attractions in the eyes of the fair. I've tried to shame them out of
their present ignoble life; but not a bit of it! The governor caught
me at it one day.
"'And pray, sir,' he remarked, in that agreeable tone which he has
made peculiarly his own,--'and pray, sir' (mimicking the baronet's
pompous, sneering voice), 'what the devil do you mean by trying to
corrupt my servants?'
"'Surely, sir,' I replied, meekly, 'you don't call it corruption to
wish to make them defenders of their country. We're very badly off
for recruits.'
"'Country be hanged, sir! and pray what the deuce are the old county
families to do for footmen? Make them soldiers, indeed! A parcel of
dissolute, lazy, good-for-nothing fellows,--that's what you Guardsmen
are! I'll trouble you, sir, to seek recruits elsewhere, and not
tamper with my household!'
"Poor little mother!" says Charlie, resuming his own lazy caressing
tones and looking at his mother, "what a time you must have had of it
all these years! Tell me" (confidentially), "what on earth made you
marry the governor?"
Lady Montagu looks back in her son's face with that idolatrous
expression with which mothers are wont to regard their handsome
offspring. "I don't know, my dear: we have always got on very well
together. It is only your father's way, and, besides" (smiling), "if
I had not married him you would not be here now."
"And that would have been a great loss, little mother, wouldn't it?"
he says, kissing her hand. "Thank Heaven,
Hector inherited all the governor's amiable qualities and left none
for me. 'Pon my soul, mother, he'll be the old gentleman's very
duplicate; and the next Lady Montagu, unless she has plenty of
spirit, will share your fate."
"But, my dear, you see I have survived it," is the answer; and the
pair stroll out together into the garden, Lady Montagu supremely
happy as she leans on the arm of her handsome son. After all, there
is compensation in almost everything.
But to come back from our wandering. It is the day of the two sons'
return from Warrington Hall, and they are dining with their parents
in the usual state. Dinner over, the conversation falls on their
visit, and the party staying in the house.
"Mr. Carew's son and daughter were there," says Hector after having
enumerated the rest of the company.
"Is it possible," remarks Lady Montagu, "that those children can be
grown up? Why, it seems only the other day----"
"Everything seems only the other day with you, my lady," interrupts
Sir Hector's cold snarl. "I should have thought your looking-glass
might occasionally remind you of the flight of time."
"The boy is still at Eton," says Hector, "and Miss Carew is just
eighteen, and a very charming girl," he adds, a slight flush
deepening his bronzed cheek. "I think, mother, it would be kind of
you to call upon her."
"Indeed I will," she responds, "if" (looking diffidently at her
tyrant), "if your father----"
Sir Hector sips his port and pretends not to hear.
"I have heard that our family and the Carews were on the most
intimate terms,--before their misfortunes," pursues Hector, in a tone
that has some faint, though very faint, resemblance to his father's.
"It is high time intimacy should cease when people forget their
position and make infernal fools of themselves," says the baronet,
agreeably. "However, it was Carew who dropped his friends in this
case, as it happens, not they who dropped him."
"And is she pretty?" asks my lady, appealing to her younger son.
"Yes, she is," he replies, meditatively, "decidedly pretty, quite
unformed, of course."
"_Fortunately_," interposes Hector, with emphasis.
"_C'est selon!_" retorts Captain Montagu; (then, mischievously) "it's
quite on the cards, mother, that you may have the fair Diana for a
daughter-in-law."
"What!" cries Sir Hector, whilst my lady looks from one to the other
of her sons. Hector darts an angry glance at his brother, who,
nothing daunted, proceeds, laughing, "He is of age: ask him; let him
speak for himself."
"H'm!" says the baronet, "I thought you were speaking for _your_self.
A man without a shilling but his debts generally selects a penniless
bride. I am not at all afraid of Hector making an ass of himself."
There is a slight working of Hector's features as he remarks, very
coldly,--
"It is taking a great liberty with Miss Carew's name to couple it
with any man's at present. At the same time" (looking steadily at
his father), "if I ever do marry, the last thing I shall look for in
my wife will be a fortune."
"Do you already, then, fancy yourself in my shoes?" sneers Sir Hector.
"My income is quite sufficient to share with a woman who has not
extravagant tastes," retorts Hector, in a cold, defiant tone.
"Oh, in that case, my lady," says the baronet, with bland sarcasm,
"pray lose no time in calling on the young lady and introducing her
as your successor."
Sir Hector has the best of it: his heir loses his temper, and, for
fear of showing it, beats a hasty retreat.
"Were you really serious, Charlie?" asks his mother, anxiously.
"Yes,--no,--I don't know, I'm sure," he answers, yawning: "it's such
a confounded bore to have to weigh every word. I think Mrs.
Warrington was trying to work it."
"Very good of her, I'm sure!" says Sir Hector, dryly.
"I cannot think how people can be so officious," exclaims his wife,
with more show of resentment than is habitual to her. "It is not
kind of Mrs. Warrington."
"My dear mother, pray don't agitate yourself. Mrs. Warrington did
nothing: what could she do?--what could any one do with Hector if he
did not choose? Besides, the Carews are as good as we are, and she
is quite a charming girl; but, _entre nous_, whatever Hector may feel
for her, I do not fancy she reciprocates in the very least."
"Indeed, Charlie," says his mother, bridling a little, "I think
Hector is not at all likely to meet with a rebuff in any quarter
where he offered his attentions."
"I should be sorry for him to ask her on the chance of her refusing,"
snarls Sir Hector; and there the conversation drops.
The next morning Lady Montagu received a visit from her eldest son in
her boudoir.
"Mother," he commenced, abruptly, "I was very much annoyed at what
Charlie said last night about Miss Carew, but all the same I shall be
very glad indeed if you will go and call on her; and, mother" (taking
a turn up and down the room), "could you not ask her over here to
stay?"
If Charlie is her favorite, Lady Montagu has a very sincere affection
for her elder son; so she replies, looking anxiously at him,--
"Certainly, my dear; I will do anything you wish (if your father does
not object). But have you really, seriously any idea of Miss Carew?"
"My dear mother" (impatiently), "why want to jump to conclusions?
She is a very charming, unaffected, lady-like girl, and I should like
to see more of her. Besides" (lowering his voice), "there are two
parties to a contract, and though I might be ever so much in love
with her, it does not follow that she should care for me; rather the
other way. Mother" (stopping suddenly in his walk and confronting
her), "I'm afraid I'm not a very taking sort of fellow: am I? I
frighten people even when I want to be most kind; even you, poor
mother" (taking her hand), "are not quite at ease with me. There's
Charlie," he continues, dropping her hand gently, and resuming his
walk up and down: "he has only to smile at you women in his sweet
languid way" (with rising passion), "and you all adore him and would
do anything for him, and we, we miserable dogs who haven't had the
luck to be born with pretty faces and soft manners,--we who would lay
down our lives for you and sacrifice anything on earth to make you
happy,--we only inspire you with fear and shrinking! Poor mother!"
(stopping suddenly, his voice subsiding from the harshness of violent
emotion to extreme tenderness, as though he were talking to some
little child); "why, I have quite scared you. You didn't think I was
such a violent, blustering fellow: did you? Come; it's over now. I
don't know what possessed me. Well, you will do as I ask you, won't
you? And now I must go over to Willington about that stupid business
of Cartwright's. Good-by, mother dear!" And he goes.
Lady Montagu sighs as the door closes; she has a vague feeling that
she ought to understand her eldest son better,--that there is, after
all, something behind that chill surface that a mother's heart ought
to read; but the momentary intelligence soon slumbers again. It
leaves one strong impression, though, and that is, that Miss Carew is
something more to him than any other daughter of Eve has been before.
CHAPTER XV.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
As Hector Montagu drove his handsome brown mare into Willington, his
thoughts ran very little on "that stupid business of Cartwright's."
He could not help wondering to himself at the emotion into which he
had been betrayed before his mother, and the remembrance of it vexed
him. But after the mare had trotted two or three miles along the
road to Willington that memory began to fade from his mind, and
another to take its place. The picture of Diana rose before him.
What a witchery she was beginning to exercise over him! Diana, with
great eyes, a soft voice, rippling brown hair, and red lips, was as
clear in his mental vision as though she stood there before him: he
could see her face flashing with laughter or petulance, and the
honest love shining in her eyes when they rested even for a moment on
her brother. She was the incarnation of his idea of what a girl
should be--pure, modest, bright, affectionate, full of sweet sympathy
and kindliness. He was not one of the men who "went in for married
women," whom "girls bored." Compare her with Lady Gwyneth or Mrs.
Huntingdon! as well put side by side an angel with the heroine of a
bad French novel! _They_ dare to sneer at her and call her forward
and mock-modest! Involuntarily Hector gave the reins such a grip
that the mare started off with an indignant bound.
"Soho! gently, old lady: what's the matter?" he said, soothingly;
and, as she settled down again, his thoughts flew back to Diana.
_She_ ever become a fashionable woman! _She_ marry for money! _She_
be false to her husband, her pure mind come down to find immoral
plays _piquant_ and impure romances stimulating! "Never! never!" he
muttered, half aloud, in his energetic defense of her, again
forgetting the brown mare's mettle. Decidedly there must be some
very potent influence at work to rouse Hector Montagu after this
fashion. "What I would give to make that girl love me!" he cried to
himself, passionately. "If I could but win her, I would _make_ her
love me!" he told himself, with that stupid reasoning, or rather
unreasoning, which men always use at such times. He saw her bright
face about the old Court,--saw her lovable tender ways with his
mother,--saw even his father relax and soften under her dear
influence,--saw a thousand sweet things such as men picture to
themselves; nay, he even felt her soft arms about his neck; and his
heart beat and his breath came quicker. Then the sound of the
horse's hoofs on the pavement brought him back with a rude shock to
earth, and he remembered that he was in Willington, and had to see to
"that business of Cartwright's."
Hector had certain notions about women, notions that are considered
curious and old-fashioned by most of the world nowadays. He was not
particularly virtuous or moral himself: if he had been, want of
knowledge might perhaps have made his idea of what a lady ought to be
less rigid: he insisted upon the widest line of demarkation between a
virtuous woman and her frailer sisters; "there must be both," he
said, "but let it not be in the power of any human being to mistake
one for the other." He did not scruple to make his views public: so,
although he was an undeniable _parti_, there were not found many
damsels enterprising enough to aspire to the châtelaineship of Alford
Court.
"_Figure-toi, ma chère_," cried little Lady Georgy Wild to her sister
the Countess of Newmarket. "I devoted all yesterday afternoon at
Holland House to that bear Montagu; I tried to draw him out; and what
do you think he said? He had the impertinence to tell me that this
was a most unfortunate age for girls to live in; that the atmosphere
of society was frightfully unwholesome,--the _haute société_ in
particular; that if we only knew what really pleased men, and wished
for their respect, we should adopt a very different course from our
present style and behavior; _und so weiter_. What a heavenly time
the future Lady Montagu will have! She is not to go to races, nor
drive ponies in London, nor see French plays, nor read French
novels,--oh, and fifty other things. Don't you pity her, Gwen?"
"He must marry the rector's daughter and keep her shut up in the
country. From all I've heard, though, he isn't such a saint himself."
"So I told him!" laughed Georgy. "Oh, my dear! if you could only
have seen his face! I was bent on shocking him, for the fun of the
thing: so I told him that the very first place I meant to go to after
I was married was Cremorne."
"Well, and what did he say?"
"He made me a polite bow, and remarked that, with my proclivities, it
must be very _contrariant_ for me to have been born in my present
sphere."
"I think, my dear, you had rather the worst of that encounter,"
observed Lady Newmarket, dryly.
"That business of Cartwright's" brought Mr. Montagu down from the
ideal to the real, and, as he drove homewards, his thoughts took a
more practical turn. Did Diana like him?--was there any ground for
hoping that she ever would? He could not answer this at the same
time satisfactorily and truthfully. But then circumstances had been
against him. She was out for the first time, was a little dazzled by
the silly, superficial attentions of men who meant nothing (he could
not bear to think of his brother individually in connection with
Diana). When he had her to himself (as he would have if she came to
the Court, for he did not mean his mother to ask her until Charlie
was gone back to town), when he could lavish all his kindness and
care upon her undeterred by the presence of others, uninfluenced by
the feelings of jealousy that had made his manner seem cold and
severe to her,--when she saw all the desirable things at
Alford,--yes, in spite of his refusing a little while since to
believe in her being influenced by sordid views, he was not above
appreciating the aid of these auxiliary circumstances in his own
case: things would be different. Why should he not win her? he was
not repulsive; if he was stiff and severe to others, he would be
tender and gentle with her. She had few opportunities of seeing
other men; why should he not win her! As he drove under the grand
old gateway on reaching home, he told himself between his clinched
teeth that _he would_.
It has been the fate of few people to be more misunderstood than
Hector Montagu. People said he was "so like his father." He knew
they said so, and it drove him wild: moreover, it was not true. Like
in feature he certainly was; some likeness there was too in manner;
but his cold proud demeanor was caused by the workings of a shy
sensitive nature thrown back upon itself, not the haughty domineering
spirit of Sir Hector. His cynicism was in reality but skin-deep,
though the world, with its usual want of discernment, believed it of
far deeper root.
"Nay, the world, the world,
All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart
To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue
To blare its own interpretation."
Oh, what a difference in life does that outer shell make to us which
we are constantly reminded is so perishable! A winsome face, a
pleasant trick of speech and manner, and the world's favorable
verdict is ours at once, an accepted bill payable at sight; but
lacking these happy attributes how must we struggle up-hill into its
favor! Hector's greatest misfortune was his resemblance to his
father; because he had the same features, the same voice, and
something of the same manner, he was accredited with his father's
disposition. Even his own mother did not understand him. She never
guessed how the partiality she had unconsciously shown the younger
from childhood had rankled in the elder's breast. Charlie rushed to
her arms with his bright joyous face, trampling her gown, tearing her
lace, to ask for some toy or treat only too readily accorded; whilst
Hector stood aloof, shy, proud, hurt, craving nothing but to feel his
mother's arms round him and to be quite sure she loved him, even him
also. Charlie's glib tongue could ask for sweets and kisses.
Hector, shy and yearning, waited until they were offered him, and
often waited in vain.
So he grew up, always seeing his brother preferred before him, and
always uttering in his heart an indignant protest against the
injustice dealt him. Small wonder that, child, boy, man, perpetually
feeling his birthright wrested from him, he should become bitter and
disappointed. His features lent themselves more naturally to a grave
than a gay expression; he could not even assume at will the genial
smile his father wore in society when he chose to unbend. Perhaps he
would not: he hated that lying semblance of _bonhomie_ more than Sir
Hector's direst frown. He did not fear his father: if he yielded him
the outward respect which his own sense of propriety told him was due
from son to father, he despised him in his heart. His soul revolted
against petty tyrannies exercised on the weak, against the selfish
overbearing spirit that delighted to crush every independent thought
in the breasts of those over whom he ruled. He heard his father once
flattering described as a fine specimen of the old Tory school; upon
which he reflected to himself, "I always thought my principles were
Conservative; but, if he is a fine specimen of my party, I would
rather yell with the mob and help pull down the Park railings."
Mr. Montagu had a fine scorn for meanness and time-servingness, and
poured it unsparingly on those who to his mind deserved it. He was
true, honest, straightforward; but these qualities did not atone in
the eyes of the world for his want of tact and his cold manner.
And yet there was one woman who understood and felt for and had kind
thoughts of him,--a woman, too, who was all that his stern code
required of her sex. Nay, in her gentle heart Claire Fane loved and
esteemed him as she had never, would never do another man. And he
might have been so happy with her. But Hector did not see this;
perhaps he would not.
Once his mother said to him, "Why do you not marry Claire? I should
love to have her for a daughter, and she is all even you could desire
in a wife."
Hector raised his eyebrows.
"I marry Claire? What an idea, mother! Do men ever marry the woman
they have grown up from childhood with? We look upon each other as
brother and sister. I shall never marry."
He thought so then. But now it was different.
CHAPTER XVI.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
Two days passed. Hector felt strangely irritable and
unsettled,--Hector, who was usually so cold and quiet, never in a
hurry about anything. He longed for his brother to go; he could do
nothing towards seeing Diana again until Charlie was out of the way:
though he would not acknowledge it to himself, he was bitterly
jealous of him.
On the evening of the second day Mr. Montagu had an inspiration. He
would drive over the next day and bring Curly back to Alford for a
day's hunting; he did not care much for boys as a rule, but this one
seemed a nice sort of lad, and he could talk to him about his sister,
and then of course he should see Diana when he drove over. He would
ask his father about it next morning at breakfast, and be off before
Charlie was down. Sir Hector always chose to be asked if any one
might be invited, or took good care to show the guest that he had not
come by his invitation.
The baronet was in anything but an amiable humor in the morning: the
post had brought him rather an impertinent letter from a tenant, with
whom, however, he did not care to quarrel.
Remarkable to relate, cool, collected Hector was a little nervous.
"I'm going over to call on the Carews this morning, sir," he said, as
he came in (having conned his words all the time he was dressing, and
trying to assume an off-hand manner which was not natural to him, and
therefore enough in itself to excite suspicion). "I suppose you have
no objection to my bringing the boy back with me?"
"Hey! what?" cried Sir Hector, snappishly, bending his brows; "what
do you want with boys here? Not much in your line, I should say."
"Do you mean that you object to my asking him?" said Hector, looking
rather dark.
"Ask the devil if you like, sir," retorted the baronet, angrily; "but
just tell him to leave his d----d tops and marbles at home. My lady"
(turning furiously upon his unhappy spouse), "this tea is no better
than hog's-wash, the toast is as hard as a brick-bat, and the kidneys
tough as leather. If you think I pay your fine lady of a cook sixty
guineas a year to send me up a breakfast that would be a disgrace to
the scullery-maid, I can tell you you're very much mistaken. And
I'll thank you to tell her so this very morning."
"Shall I have some more made?" says Lady Montagu, submissively.
"Two makings of tea for three persons!" growls her lord, furiously:
"there's no end to the extravagance in this house. You seem to
think, my lady, that I have the fortune of a retired iron-master or
linen-draper, and that the servants may be allowed to waste things
just as they like. If you looked after things a little, instead of
loitering about with a parcel of trashy worsted-work all day long, I
might have a little more comfort perhaps in my home. As it is, I
have had an infernal bad breakfast, and I'm very much indebted to you
for it."
Saying which, Sir Hector rises angrily, and goes out, slamming the
door after him. The tears stand in poor Lady Montagu's eyes.
"Dear me!" she says, nervously, "now your father is vexed again. I
don't really notice much the matter with the breakfast: do you,
Hector? And if the kidneys are tough, there are plenty of other
things on the table."
"Why, mother," answers Hector, "don't you Know the signs of the times
yet? The tea is capital; so are the kidneys; but he has had a letter
he does not like, and you are the scapegoat, as usual."
"So you are going over to the Carews? Had you not better take a
message from me?"
"Thanks," says her son, taking her hand,--an unusual demonstration
for him; "or, mother, would you mind writing a line to say you hope
to go over and call when the days are a little longer?"
Lady Montagu does as she is told obediently, and half an hour later
Hector is on the way to Carew Court. It is a crisp, frosty morning;
the roads are dry and hard, and the horse's hoofs make a sharp
ringing sound as they beat the ground with a quick regular tread.
The January sun shines with what force he can this wintry month, and
to Hector everything seems cheery and exhilarating. He has liked
women before to-day, has even fancied himself in love; but never,
never until now has he felt that keen longing for the sight of a face
that has possessed him these three days. It is not likely she will
be absent from home, but, if she should be, he feels the
disappointment will be almost greater than he can bear. Probably he
conveys his impatience through his finger-tips to the brown mare's
sensitive mouth, for, nothing loath, she flies over the crisp road,
and when Hector draws rein at Carew Court he finds it is only an hour
and thirty-five minutes since he started. His groom, who wears the
mask of stolid impenetrability which becomes a good servant, has
nevertheless been speculating as to the cause of this hot and unusual
haste of his master; but when he sees a pretty young lady with a
blushing face and smiling brown eyes come forward, measure in hand
from which she is feeding her poultry, and welcome Mr. Montagu, who
jumps down with a glad bright look such as is seldom seen on his
stern face, Jim thinks he sees his way to it.
"Oh, how d'ye do, Mr. Montagu? How good of you to come and see us!"
cries Diana, looking, as she really feels, very glad to see him.
"How hot your poor horse is! What a shame to drive him so fast! You
must put him up, and I'll get some hay and corn for him." And at
this juncture Curly, who has heard the sound of wheels, comes rushing
out and does the honors of the stables. Neither of them had cared
very much about their present visitor at Warrington, but they have
both, though they kept it bravely to themselves, felt a little bit
moped and dull since their return home, and Mr. Montagu seems a link
of that pleasant past which they look back to so fondly. There is
another reason, too, why blushing Miss Diana feels so glad to see
him; but, oh, if it could only have been his brother!
Hector--poor fellow!--cannot fathom the reason of her gladness, but
he can see that she is glad, and takes it all joyfully and eagerly to
himself. He is quite genial; he laughs, he shows the greatest
interest in all her pets, insists on being introduced to the dogs and
cats and ferrets, and seems charmed, as he is for her sake, with
everything that he sees.
"How could I think he was not nice?" Diana says to herself,
reproachfully. He has given her his mother's note, the kindest one
imaginable: it opens a vista of undreamed joys before her, and she
looks upon him as a benefactor. But he is not the fairy-prince: he
is only the beneficent genius come to conduct her to him. Poor
Hector!
Then he is taken into the house and introduced to Mr. Carew. He sees
a dark, handsome man, of erect and stately bearing, in the prime of
life, though with many gray hairs, and a worn look about the mouth
and eyes. His manner is polished and kindly, if a shade stiff at
first, but Hector goes forward in his most genial manner, and the two
men take to each other at once. Hector chronicled that morning
afterwards as the happiest he had ever spent. He had only intended
putting the mare up for an hour and taking Curly back with him to
lunch, but father and daughter both pressed him so hospitably to stay
that he retracted his faint excuse and consented, nothing loath,
though he stoutly averred that he never ate lunch. Miss Diana ran to
Gay, on hospitable thoughts intent.
"Gay," she cried, bursting into the housekeeper's room, "Mr. Montagu
is going to stay to lunch."
"Oh, my dear, what ever will you do?" cries Gay, dismayed.
"He won't expect much," returns Diana, "and, if he does, he must be
disappointed."
"But, my dear," remonstrates Gay, "I'm sure if things isn't nice your
pa will feel hurt."
"Well, then, he sha'n't feel hurt. We have a chicken in the
house,--isn't it lucky I had it killed!--and some neck of
mutton,--you make lovely cutlets, you know, Gay, and--and a milk
pudding; and there's a lunch fit for a king."
"Well that might do," says Gay, taking a more hopeful view of things;
"but there's that Sally: she'll go and spile all,--drop all the
things, I shouldn't wonder, and make a clatter with the plates which
is sure to vex your pa."
"She shall not come in at all," answers Diana, promptly. "Curly says
it is the proper thing to wait upon yourselves at lunch. And, Gay,
give me out that big Dresden vase: I will fill it with flowers and
put it in the middle of the table, and we shall be quite smart."
Hector, talking to Mr. Carew, looks out of the window and sees a
slight form flitting to and fro, basket in hand, snipping off
chrysanthemums with a ruthless hand.
"I think Miss Carew want's a little help," he says, dreadfully
disconcerted to find the color mounting to his face. Miss Carew's
father takes the hint.
"Perhaps you would like to go into the garden," he remarks, rising,
and opening the window. After Hector has gone out, he looks
thoughtfully at the pair in the distance.
"I suppose I cannot expect to keep her forever, poor little girl!" he
is thinking, "and Montagu seems a good sort of fellow."
"Do let me help you: may I?" says Hector, when he reaches Diana, as
if he was asking some great favor.
"You may hold the basket," she answers, beaming a friendly look upon
him out of her brown eyes as she hands him the basket. "I don't care
a bit for chrysanthemums: do you?" she proceeds, snipping off
another: "they are so dull and sober-looking. Oh!" (with enthusiasm)
"how happy I should be if I could have a hot-house full of roses and
geraniums and lovely rare flowers like Mrs. Warrington! I love
flowers in the summer, but I love them ten times more in the winter."
Hector thinks of the hot-houses at home, thinks how easily they may
be hers, with all other desirable things that he possesses or will
possess, if she only deigns to accept them: he longs to tell her so,
but feels it is too soon yet. So he only says, eagerly,--
"We have plenty at home. I will bring you over baskets full. May I,
sometimes?"
"May you?" asks Diana, archly; "indeed you may. But what would Lady
Montagu say?"
"She would be delighted, of course. I do so want you to know her. I
am sure you will like her. She is so kind and gentle. And I know
she will love you."
"It is very rash for a man to answer for women liking each other,"
laughs Diana; "at least I have heard so."
"How can they help it when they are both sweet and kind and good?"
answers Hector, warmly.
"How do you know I am kind and good?" asks Diana, with laughing eyes.
"I think you found me anything but that at Warrington: we used to
quarrel rather."
"But we never shall again," he says, with an eagerness that rather
abashes her. "I am not really such a disagreeable fellow as you
thought me, am I?"
"I think you are very nice," answers Diana, a little confused, but
wishing to be polite.
"You will come and stay with my mother, will you not?" he continues.
"And then I hope I shall make you think better of me than you did at
Warrington. I don't think I shine very much in
society,--particularly" (his face darkening) "when my brother is
there."
Diana stoops to gather a flower. She wants to hide her face for fear
it should betray her disappointment. Going to Alford does not seem
very tempting if Captain Montagu is not to be there.
Curly is radiant with delight at the thought of his visit: he is to
hunt one day, shoot the next, and Mr. Montagu is to bring him back on
the third. He was not quite sure at first if it was right to leave
his father and Diana now that he would so soon be going back to Eton;
but they will not hear of his refusing.
Diana and her father stand at the door, watching them off. The last
adieux have been waved, they are out of sight now, and the two turn
to go into the house.
"What a fine thing it is to be young and to have life before one!"
says Mr. Carew, with a smile that is yet very sad.
Diana puts her hand through her father's arm, and rubs her cheek
against his shoulder. She does not feel very blithe, somehow,
although whilst their visitor was with them she had been quite gay
and cheerful. Curly had asked the question she longed yet dared not
to put: Was Captain Montagu at Alford? And Hector had answered in
the affirmative and changed the subject at once. Poor Diana's heart
has gone after Curly, who is to have the unutterable bliss of seeing
him so soon: he is scarcely gone, and she is longing for him to be
back, that she may ask him a thousand questions about her love. She
cannot get him out of her poor little head, nor home nor father nor
pug nor kittens can fill that void which has lately crept into her
heart. What though she knows her love is hopeless?
"One cannot take back love at will."
She has gone with her father into his study, and is sitting looking
dreamily out of window, whilst her hands lie idle in her lap.
"Montagu seems a sterling good fellow," says her father, breaking in
upon her reverie.
"Yes," she assents, not warmly, nor coldly, but in the same sort of
tone that she would have used in answer to the proposition that it
was a fine day.
"I am glad he has taken to Curly," proceeds Mr. Carew. "I am glad
both you children seem to be making friends. If Lady Montagu invites
you to Alford, you must go, Di. I don't intend to keep you shut up
here forever."
"What, leave you again, papa?" says Diana, blushing a little, and
feeling rather guilty as in her secret heart she cannot help
acknowledging to herself that she longs to go there.
"I cannot expect you to stay with me always," says her father,
smiling, "and it will be good for me to get broken in to losing you
by degrees."
Mr. Carew had taken an idea into his head,--a wrong one, such as is
the wont of fathers with regard to their daughters. He has seen that
Mr. Montagu has a great regard for her, and he thinks he sees that it
is reciprocated. Was she not evidently glad to see him, and is she
not dull now he is gone? The Montagus are a good old family; it
would be an excellent match for Diana, and he thinks Hector a
gentleman and a very nice right-minded sort of fellow. Many an
anxious thought has he had about Di's future; he fancies he sees his
way to it now, and feels happier than he has done for many a long day.
The appointed days of Curly's visit dawdle away; on the third he
comes back, radiant, but alone. Just as Hector was stepping into the
dog-cart to drive him home, a telegram came which obliged him to go
to London by the two-o'clock train. "So I drove myself," cries
Curly, with enthusiasm; "and, by jingo! didn't we come along at a
spanking rate just! She is a clipper, and no mistake, that brown
mare of his. And I've brought no end of game, and a great bouquet
for you, Di, and Lady Montagu is coming over next week, and she wants
you and the Dad to go and stay as soon as I get back to Eton. And
I'm to go over just whenever I like, and they'll always send a trap
for me. And Charlie's battalion is going to Windsor this summer, and
I'm to go and breakfast with him, and we're going to have an awful
lark on the fourth of June."
So Curly pours forth his flood of news with a radiant face, and his
audience listen eagerly.
"And is it a nice place, Curly?" asks Diana.
"I should think it is, just," he responds, "and kept in such
apple-pie order. He's an awful old Tartar the old fellow, though he
was wonderfully civil to me; but she is the dearest, sweetest,
kindest, prettiest old lady I ever saw. Charlie's just like her."
"Is Captain Montagu still there?" says his sister, trying very hard
to speak unconcernedly.
"He goes up to London to-night; and precious glad he is to go; he
can't stand home for long at a time, he says; it's too grand for him.
The old fellow will have such a lot of state kept up, and all the
others hate it. By jingo! how he does bully 'em all round, except
Hector, and he won't stand it. He can't get a rise out of Charlie,
neither, for he does the languid dodge just to aggravate the old
fellow; and it just does, too. Then he turns round upon 'My lady,'
and abuses her for everything that goes wrong, in a nasty, sneering
tone, though pretending to be very polite all the time."
"Did you have good sport?" asks Mr. Carew; and Curly forthwith
launches into a long account of the day's hunt and his splendid
mount, followed by the fullest details of the next day's shooting.
Diana waits patiently until she can get him to herself, that she may
put certain questions on a subject of particular interest. As she is
dressing for dinner, a knock comes at the door.
"Di," says Curly, putting his head in, "here's a note from the
captain I forgot to give you."
Diana's hand trembles so she can scarcely take it from his
outstretched hand. Luckily for her, he is in a tremendous hurry and
does not wait. In her excitement and haste, she can scarcely open
it: she has a strange fluttering at her heart, and is obliged to sit
down before she can read it. It runs thus:
"MY DEAR MISS CAREW,--
"Why did you not come over with that nice brother of yours? I have
done nothing but wish you were here; rather selfish on my part, for
it is about the slowest house to stop in I know of. Having had a
great deal of leisure for reflection, I've been thinking over all the
good advice you gave me (by the way, you really ought to have given
Rexborough a chance, too), and the result is that I have made no end
of good resolutions. Among others, I intend to retrench in some of
my little extravagances, so I send you in advance some of my
contemplated savings for your poor _protégés_ you told me about who
have to dine off dry bread and all that sort of thing. It was too
bad of that solemn brother of mine to steal a march upon me and go
off in the gray of early dawn to call at Carew Court; but I shall be
even with him some day. If you ever should be induced to visit Fogy
Hall, pray send me a line to the Guards' Club, Pall Mall. Meanwhile,
give an occasional pitying thought to the hapless victim who is
sacrificing all to the love of his country.
"Yours ever,
"C. E. MONTAGU."
CHAPTER XVII.
DIANA'S STORY.
It is May, and I am at Alford. My visit, which was to have been made
in January, had to be deferred in consequence of Lady Montagu's
illness: she has had bronchitis, and is only just returned from
Hastings. At Easter, papa, Curly and I spent a week with the Fanes.
A wonderful event,--papa being beguiled from home: however, I think
he enjoyed the change thoroughly, and it did him all the good in the
world. I was glad he went; he seemed quite to come out of his shell,
and was so bright, so genial and delightful, that I am sure if I had
been any one but his daughter I should have fallen in love with him.
He took an immense fancy to Claire, and, but that she is so dear and
sweet and good, I could almost have found it in my heart to be
jealous of her. It was a charming week. Colonel Fane was kinder
than ever; we were the only visitors, and they made us thoroughly
happy and at home. I have grown to like Hector Montagu, though I
shall never quite get over my awe of him. All through the winter he
used to come over frequently, always bringing me lovely flowers or
books and music,--anything he thought I should like. Papa has taken
wonderfully to Mr. Montagu, and seems to like to speak of him and
always in his praise. I wonder if he would like--the other one. I
am afraid he would think him frivolous. But, oh, I believe in my
heart that he is capable of better things, and it is the useless idle
life of pleasure he lives that makes him seem what he does: how could
he Lave those kind pleasant ways if he were not really good at heart?
How nice of him to send me all that money for my poor people! I took
care to tell them it came from a good, kind gentleman, and they
blessed him with tears in their eyes. Those blessings must do him
some good: at all events, I like to think so.
Papa was most anxious about my visit to Alford. Here I am at last.
They pressed him very hard to come, but he excused himself. So I
arrived alone the day before yesterday Mr. Montagu was on the steps
to receive me, and gave me such a hearty welcome that I felt at home
at once. Then he carried me off to his mother's boudoir, and as I
entered she rose, and, taking both my hands, kissed me, and said, so
sweetly and kindly, how glad she was that I had come at last, and I
fell in love with her on the spot. My eyes grew quite dim: for the
first time in my life, I was conscious of the wish that I had a
mother. Presently Sir Hector came in, and greeted me very kindly,
and I thought to myself that he had been very unduly abused, but
changed my mind no later than that very evening. It is a grand old
place, but there is more state than comfort about it, except in Lady
Montagu's boudoir, which is the essence of cosiness. Sir Hector said
contemptuously that it was nothing but "a litter of untidy trash;"
but I do not agree with him. I take care, though, to be very meek
and modest with him, and not to venture an opinion unless I know it
will be well received. I am terribly afraid of him: my awe of his
son disappears completely in his presence, and I look upon him as a
friendly power. I vexed him quite unintentionally the day I arrived.
I can understand it now, though I did not then. It was soon after my
arrival. Sir Hector, having had a little pleasant chat with me,
asking kindly after papa, and regretting that he had not come, went
out.
"How like you are to your father!" I remarked, innocently, thinking
rather that I was paying him a compliment, for Sir Hector is a very
fine old man.
The color flushed into his face, and he said, looking dreadfully
hurt,--
"Do not you, of all people, say that!" Then, as I looked and felt
horribly confused, he went on, trying to smile, "I dare say you think
it rather a compliment now; but you will soon understand why I do not
consider it one."
"Hector! my dear Hector!" cried his mother, reproachfully; but he
laughed, and said,--
"My mother, like all good women, loves her tyrant, and hugs her
chains. I dare say you would too" (looking at me keenly), "only let
us hope a better fate is in store for you."
"You must not let my son give you any wrong impressions," says Lady
Montagu, nervously: "indeed, he should not say such things. Sir
Hector is----"
"I was wrong, mother," he answered. "I ought to have left Miss Carew
to draw her own conclusions, unprejudiced. I should have done so if
she had not greeted me with the remark that never fails to get a rise
out of me, as Curly would say" (looking at me and laughing).
"I quite fell in love with your brother," utters Lady Montagu,
gently, "he is so frank and open, and so handsome. He reminds me
very much of what dear Charlie was at his age."
"Will you not like to see your room?" Hector breaks in, abruptly,
much to my chagrin, just as the dear name I am longing to hear is
uttered.
A tinge of pink comes into his mother's pale cheeks, and she darts a
little nervous glance at him, evidently thinking she has been
indiscreet.
"Yes, you will like to take your hat off, will you not? I ought to
have asked you before. Hector, please ring the bell and tell them to
send Ford to Miss Carew's room."
So I go, feeling a little bit indignant with Mr. Montagu.
"The second bell rings five minutes before dinner," he whispers: "be
sure you are in the small drawing-room three minutes after it sounds.
We live by clock-work here."
I do not fail to take his hint: to the moment indicated I make my
appearance. Sir Hector is there, standing pompously in front of the
fire; his son is reading the "Times" by the window. There is still
faint daylight. Sir Hector nods approvingly at me as I enter.
"I am glad to see you possess the virtue of punctuality," he says,
looking at me over his big white neck-cloth with a patronizing smile.
"Nothing to be done without it. It is the one thing I insist upon."
The clock chimes the half-hour: simultaneously the gong sounds;
simultaneously the door opens, and the butler, entering, announces,--
"Dinner is served, Sir Hector."
My host extends his arm to me. I half hesitate; Lady Montagu is not
there.
"_I never wait for any one_," says Sir Hector, sternly, and forthwith
conveys me to the dining-hall.
On the way we meet Lady Montagu hastening to the drawing-room, and
clasping a bracelet as she goes.
"I had no idea I was late," she says, nervously.
"Lady Montagu," says her husband, addressing me in a voice audible to
the servants as well as to herself,--"Lady Montagu has brought
unpunctuality to a science. She would undoubtedly have been one of
the five foolish virgins of the parable. For what we are about to
receive may the Lord make us truly thankful! I only trust to-day"
(speaking to me as he consults his menu) "that there may be something
for which we may have cause to be grateful. Our cook, thanks to my
lady, is anything but a _cordon bleu_. As usual" (tasting his soup),
"the cayenne-box has been upset into the soup. Simkins, take it
away" (addressing the butler savagely, and proceeding to write
something on a porcelain slate with a pencil).
I quite understand now why he is not popular, and why Hector was
vexed at my innocently-meant speech. I feel dreadfully
uncomfortable. This is my first taste of the stalled ox with strife.
Oh for my dinner of herbs! Presently I take courage to look round
me. We four people are dining in a banqueting-room big enough for a
hundred guests, and, although a long screen of gold-stamped leather
divides it in half, it still feels out of all proportion to the
party. It does not look bare, for it is magnificently decorated
throughout. Our table is lighted by mediæval lamps from above; there
is a great show of silver and gold plate, with many flowers, on the
table and the grand old oaken side-board. Through the great
mullioned windows opposite me I can see in the waning light a sea of
velvet turf shaded by dark cedars, and the last red streaks of a
gorgeous sunset. Inside there is so much to be seen that I can only
at present get a confused general idea of all the beautiful things
crowded together; but next morning I get Mr. Montagu, after
breakfast, to show and explain everything to me. Then I am fairly
astonished by all the treasures. The carved chimney-piece, a gem in
itself, ascends to the ceiling. On either side of it are quaint
brass sconces. Oak chests and cabinets, curious marqueterie
cupboards abound, with antique side-boards and chiffoniers, covered
with Nankin and Majolica ware, with Venice, Dutch, and German glass.
Scarce an inch of the wall that is not covered with paintings, china
plaques, vast round dishes, sconces, brass shields, brackets,
carving. Dutch scenes here, old-fashioned portraits there, quaint
carvings on wood, ivory, mother-of-pearl. There is a magnificent old
Amsterdam clock, with sweet ringing chimes, that tells you all sorts
of things about the sun, moon, stars, days, weeks, months, and I know
not what. Mr. Montagu is greatly amused at my childish delight in
pretty things, and does cicerone very pleasantly.
I am very glad when dinner is over; it has not been a cheerful meal;
for, although Sir Hector has been all that is kind and polite to me,
he has quite destroyed any pleasant impression he might have made by
his frequent and savage invectives against the dinner and servants,
and the sneers directed to his wife. Glad am I when Lady Montagu
gives me the signal to retire.
"We shall not be long," says Mr. Montagu, smiling as I pass through
the door which he holds open for us. I return his smile. I am not
one whit afraid of him since I have seen his father. As I follow my
hostess to the drawing-room, I am conscious of a hope that we are
going to have some pleasant chat wherein I shall hear mention of her
younger son; but it soon becomes evident to me that my lady is
sleepily inclined. She indeed makes two or three attempts to talk,
but I see her head begin to droop and her eyelids to close, and, that
I may not interrupt her doze, I retire to a distant sofa with a book.
She wakes up for a moment to decline the coffee that is brought her,
and when her husband and son enter, but relapses again into a sweet
and gentle slumber. Sir Hector comes up to me, asks blandly what my
book is, passes a sweeping and comprehensive censure upon modern
literature in general and lady novelists in particular, and then,
retiring to an arm-chair near the fire, follows suit most audibly to
my lady. Portentous snores issue from his aristocratic nose, but
they have only the effect of lulling his wife into a sounder though
soft-breathed slumber.
"We are rather a cheerful family of an evening," says Hector, sitting
down beside me. "I have a sort of guilty feeling that I ought to
have prepared you for this."
"I suppose you are not going to do the same," I answer, in a whisper.
"Don't be afraid to speak out!" he remarks, laughing: "nothing short
of an earthquake would rouse him for the next half-hour. My mother"
(with a softer inflection of his voice) "sleeps so badly, I am always
glad to see her dozing. Tell me," he goes on, speaking eagerly,--"I
have been burning to ask you for the last hour,--do you still think
me like my father?"
"Not a bit," I answer, emphatically; "not a little bit."
"But do you think," he proceeds, earnestly,--"do you think I have the
making of what he is in me? I don't want you to flatter me; you are
sincere, I know: tell me the honest truth. Do you think if I had a
sweet amiable wife, who gave in to me as my poor mother has done to
him all her life,--do you think I might end by becoming selfish and
hard and tyrannical like he is? Sometimes I have a horrid misgiving
about myself. I am oppressed with a sort of nightmare that I really
am like him, and it makes me wretched."
"I will tell you what I think," I answer, with the candor for which
he has asked with such apparent sincerity. "I don't think you are a
bit like him really, but some--times--sometimes" (I hesitate).
"Well?" he says, eagerly, fixing his dark eyes on my face.
"I think," I proceed, timidly, "you try to make one afraid of you;
you look rather stern and terrible. You did at Warrington. I used
to feel rather in awe of you there."
"But you don't now?" he whispers, looking almost beseechingly at me.
His eyes have a strange expression: if eyes could look fierce and yet
soft at the same time (I know it sounds paradoxical), I should say
his looked so.
"No," I answer, confidently, "not now."
"Promise me you never will again," he says, hurriedly. "I may have,
I believe I have, a trick of looking stern and sneering. I don't
care a straw what most people think of me, but _it would hurt me_ to
know you could feel fear or repugnance towards me,--you who----"
He checks himself, seeing perhaps some wonder in my eyes. Why should
he be concerned about my thoughts of him?
"Do you play chess?" he asks, with rather a rapid change of subject.
I answer in the affirmative.
"Then I must prepare you," he says, smiling. "My father will wake up
in precisely twenty minutes: he will then ask you if you play chess.
By the way, are you a good loser? does it vex you to be beaten?"
"Not in the very least," I answer, truthfully.
"Well, I must warn you, if you play indifferently, my father will
make genial little sneers at you; if you play well and beat him, he
will be furious, although he will endeavor not to vent his anger upon
you; if you play well and he beats you, he will simply adore you, and
be radiantly good-humored."
"Forewarned is forearmed," I whisper, laughing.
"I am afraid," he says, in a vexed tone, "you will conceive a most
odious impression of us as a family. Confess, now, you will go to
bed to-night with anything but pleasant thoughts of us: you will be
longing for that happy home of yours, where you are all so bright and
loving and unselfish. Do you know" (looking intently at me) "I feel
a different being when I escape from the atmosphere of this place and
get over to Carew Court? that is" (very softly) "why I longed to have
your sweet presence here to bring sunshine. I feel like Pluto did
when he carried off Proserpine, only that I should want to make you
eat all the pomegranate."
What he has predicted of Sir Hector comes true to the letter: as the
clock chimes half-past nine he awakes, and, turning his head in my
direction, inquires if I play chess.
I make the proper answer under the circumstances:
"A little."
"Let us have a game!" he exclaims, rising briskly. "Hector, oblige
me by getting the board."
"You play with white men, of course: ladies always do," he remarks,
when we are seated,--which, being interpreted, means that he plays
with red. I am a tolerable player: papa and I spend many an evening
over the game; and I dare safely say that never yet did one of us
take umbrage at the other winning. Mindful of Hector's warning, I
play my best, but take care, after a protracted contest, to lose.
The result is as he predicted; Sir Hector is radiant, and pays me a
thousand compliments.
"Ah, my dear, you will win next time," he says, with cheerful
patronage. "You play an excellent game. I have rarely, if ever, met
so accomplished a chess-player at your age. Twenty minutes to
eleven: you must be quite tired. Be good enough to ring for candles,
Hector. Come, my lady, wake up. No wonder you cannot sleep at
night."
Lady Montagu rouses herself.
"My dear," she says, kindly, as she bids me good-night, "I have been
very rude. But I am a very stupid person in the evening. To-morrow
I hope we shall have a nice long chat. Meantime, promise me to ask
for everything you want. I do hope you will sleep well." She draws
me to her and kisses me gently on the cheek. Again the thought comes
across me that I should like to have a mother. I say as much to
Hector as he walks beside me along the corridor.
"I wish my mother were yours," he says, softly.
"So do I," I answer, without any _arrière-pensée_.
"Do you?" he whispers. "I wonder if you wish it in the same way that
I do."
A vexed blush mounts to my forehead.
"Good-night," I say, rather shortly, giving him my hand, without
looking up.
"Good-night," he answers, lingeringly, holding it until I am forced
to look at him. "Do not be vexed with me. I shall never offend you
intentionally."
CHAPTER XVIII.
DIANA'S STORY.
I have been three days at Alford Court. I love Lady Montagu; and no
one could be kinder than her son. I can hardly realize that he is
the same man who used to frighten and bore me at Warrington. After
breakfast we always go out together, sometimes riding, sometimes
walking. He occupies himself a great deal about the property, and
always has some business on hand.
One thing I remark which surprises me not a little: it is his
pleasant manner with his inferiors. As we pass the cottages he
always has a kind word for the women and children: he seems quite
unostentatiously to know about, and take an interest in, their
personal affairs. I notice, too, that they all brighten up and look
very pleased and cheerful when he speaks to them. His manner to
servants and laborers is just my idea of what a gentleman's manner
should be,--oh, such a contrast from Sir Hector's! it is kind and
dignified, it commands respect, and, I can see, affection as well. I
have never once heard him speak harshly to or of any one, excepting
perhaps his father; and I really cannot wonder at that. One morning
he has to go to Willington on business, and I occupy my leisure in
visiting some of his mother's poor. My first visit is made to one of
her special _protégées_, a woman dying of consumption.
I find the poor patient by the fire, though it is a warm May morning,
in a room beautifully clean and neat, and with many comforts which I
am surprised to see, but which she explains to me presently by
pointing them out as gifts from my lady or Mr. Montagu. She is
propped on soft pillows in an easy-chair, but she looks terribly
haggard and worn: there is a bright spot on either cheek; her voice
is faint and low, and seems to come with an effort. She is immensely
interested in hearing about Lady Montagu, and, when I have told her
all I know, she goes on to tell me, in her feeble voice, of my lady's
goodness to her.
"We should all ha' been in the House, or starving, if it hadn't ha'
been for her. Sir Hector's a hard man, miss: he don't seem to think
us poor folks is made of the same flesh and blood as him. I don't
say as we are, miss, altogether like" (in an apologetic tone which
makes me smile): "still, we are flesh and blood, an' we hev our
feelings, an' when the gentry is good to us, like my lady and Mr.
Montagu, we're ready to fall down an' worship 'em. I've heard tell
as poor people's so ongrateful, but I never see it so, nor I don't
believe it. I know there's hardly one in this village as wouldn't
lay down their lives for my lady if so be as they was called upon to
do it. And I'm sure I wouldn't wish harm to no one, standing as you
may say with one foot in the grave myself, but it'll be a blessed day
for Alford when Mr. Montagu steps into Sir Hector's shoes. He's all
for doin' everything for the poor, an' buildin' new cottages, an'
raisin' wages, an' encouragin' poor folks to take a pride in
themselves; an' I have heard tell that he an' Sir Hector do quarrel
dreadful at times about it. I know he does a deal out of his own
pocket, for Sir Hector is one of those as 'ud skin a flint, as the
sayin' is, although he keeps up such a deal o' grandeur at the Court."
I have more talk with her, and then I go on to pay a few more visits
in the parish. All the cottages I go into are very clean. Most of
them boast some present from my lady or Mr. Montagu, which is shown
me with great pride.
I come away from my round of visits with a greatly heightened opinion
of Hector and a certain sense of shame at having so misjudged him.
Of his sweet kind mother I had been prepared to hear only praise.
"Where have you been?" cries the object of my thoughts, reining up
beside me, and looking, I think (feeling as I do excellently disposed
towards him), stalwart and handsome on his fine gray horse.
"I have been making calls," I reply, laughing.
"Calls?" he echoes, surprised. "Alone? Oh, at the rectory, I
suppose."
"No; guess again."
"But there is no one else to guess."
"I have been to see Mrs. Seward, and poor old Brown, and Mrs. Banks,
and Janet Hill,--quite a round of morning calls."
"Have you really?" he says, eagerly.
"Yes, and I heard a great deal of news," I continue, nodding my head
wisely,--"about you too."
"What did you hear?"
"Never mind: I am not going to make you conceited."
He laughs lightly.
"That's the worst of poor people," he says: "they do chatter so
dreadfully. Of course they would be sure to say everything that was
civil about us, as you come from the Court."
"Ah," I remark, mysteriously, "but they did not say everything that
was civil about _everybody_. And" (laughing) "they did not say, as I
did, that you were 'so like your father.'"
"Thank God for that!" he says, laughing too. "What are we going to
do this afternoon? Does my mother think of driving?"
"No, the wind is easterly, although it is so fine, and she is afraid."
"I wonder----" begins Hector, musingly, and then pauses.
"What do you wonder?"
"I wonder if I put the horses in the mail-phaeton if you would let me
drive you out?"
"Oh, I _should_ like it," I cry, eagerly. The proprieties have never
been impressed upon my young mind, probably because I have never had
the least chance of infringing them.
"I must not be selfish," he says. "I would not for the world let you
do anything that is not quite _en règle_. Tell me" (hesitating), "do
you think Mr. Carew would object in any way?"
"Object!" I exclaim, wonderingly: "why should he? You can drive,
can't you?"
He looks amused.
"My misgivings are not on that head. Let us go in and ask my mother."
We have reached the stables: the groom takes his horse, and we
saunter towards the house.
Lady Montagu, when appealed to, does not see any objection, thinks it
will be a nice change for me, will not find it dull alone, has a most
interesting book she is anxious to finish.
Very blithe and glad I feel that afternoon when Hector, having helped
me in, jumps up beside me. It is a heavenly afternoon: the sun is
hot and bright, the sweet spring scents come balmily across us from
the hedgerows, and the keen cool wind plays in our face as we cleave
it swiftly. Perched high up behind a dashing pair of horses with
proud tossed heads and foam-flecked bits, sitting beside a man who is
pleasant company and who cares to please me, I feel life such a good
thing: a delicious exhilaration floats through every sense. I feel
happy; I look happy; glad laughter bubbles from my lips. It is
contagious: he sees it, he laughs too. There is not one unkind or
sneering curve about his lips to-day. He looks at me ever so kindly.
"Are you pleased?" he asks me. "I think you are. As for me, I feel
like a school-boy out for a holiday after the long term. And to
think I was so near not going to Warrington! If I had not, you would
not be here now; I might never have known you."
"What a loss!" I laugh.
"It would have been a loss," he says, gravely; "perhaps, though"
(with a sigh), "it might have been better for me."
"It would not have better for me," I answer, feeling too happy and
_insouciante_ to weigh my words.
He turns towards me, as if to say something; then, checking himself
abruptly, he points with his whip to the hedge.
"Is not that hawthorn delicious?" he says.
"Yes," I answer; "but that is not what you were going to say."
I feel a delicious little sense of coquetry: something in the
sunshine, the keen air, the May odors, inspires me: I long to hear
soft and pleasant words; if I knew what the sensation was, I could
almost fancy I feel inclined to flirt with my companion. He looks at
me with a grave smile that seems to penetrate my sensuous enjoyment
of the moment.
"You are right," he says: "I was going to say something else; but I
will not say it now. You are full of impulse; you are a child; but I
am a man, and I ought to be superior to the temptations of sudden
emotion."
"Now," said I, pettishly, "you remind me of what you were at
Warrington. In another moment I shall be afraid of you again----"
"Do not," he says, quickly. "Why, child" (with a pleasant smile),
"how could you fear me? Have you not learned yet that you are
everything I most admire and reverence,--young, pure, sweet,
unselfish, modest, charitable?" He speaks in a whisper, but there is
a ring of subdued feeling in it. "When I was at Warrington you saw
me stern and cold, because one or other of those women (you know whom
I mean) chafed and angered me every moment: I could not even bear you
to come in contact with them. I felt half disposed to quarrel with
Mrs. Warrington, for the first time in my life, because she had asked
an innocent child like you to meet them. And then, too" (sinking his
voice still lower), "though I hate confessing it, I did feel a little
jealous when I saw you so gay and merry with others, and I seemed
only to have a sort of wet-blanket effect upon you."
"Well, you have not that effect now," I laugh. "I shall always like
you and feel at home with you in future."
"How can you tell?" he says, rather grimly. "I have no one to stand
in my way; there is no other man here except my father" (laughing),
"and I do not think he is dangerous. Suppose, now" (his face
darkening suddenly)----
"Do not let us suppose anything," I interrupt quickly, with an uneasy
intuition of his thought. "Let us enjoy this lovely afternoon and be
happy."
"Let us!" he echoes, brightening up. "You are quite right.
Sufficient for the day let the good thereof be, and don't let us
spoil it by anticipating evil for to-morrow. I think if the text had
been worded in that way it would have been even more applicable than
it is."
So we drive along the smooth white roads, up hills where we get
lovely little glimpses of green valleys and winding shimmering
waters, and down again into sweet-smelling, hedge-bound lanes, past
cottages, with thin blue streaks of smoke curling from their
chimneys, and trim gardens sown with red and white daisies, with
wallflowers, and hedges of sweet-brier, scenting the air around, past
farms with their neat rows of golden stacks, past green meadows
ablaze with buttercups, where the sleek cattle stand almost
knee-deep, past village churches with their quaint old towers, their
grass-grown mounds and moss-covered tombstones. It seems sad to
think of the dead this fair spring day, when only to live is so glad
a thing. A little shudder creeps through me at the bare thought that
I too some day shall be with those that sleep.
"Of lips full of love and laughter,
Fair brows and radiant eyes,
There is left but a grinning skull,
And perhaps a headstone that lies."
We have passed. The thought is gone again. We are looking in at the
village blacksmith's, where the great fire roars and blazes up, while
the smith stands in the ruddy light, beating a thousand sparks from
his anvil, and the big patient horses wait until their turn comes.
We pass some tumbledown-looking cottages, and our talk falls on our
poorer neighbors.
"Ah," I say, with some enthusiasm, "I know that when Alford is yours,
you will be a model landlord: you will try to make your people better
off; you will encourage them to respect themselves, and that they
cannot do until they are put in the way of it by having tidy, clean,
convenient homes."
"It does not do to count upon dead men's shoes, you know," he
answers, with a grave smile; "and property is, after all, a very
serious responsibility, if one looks upon it as one ought to do, not
as a vehicle for selfish indulgence, but as a means to benefit those
about one. Then it is so difficult to know how really to do good to
one's fellow-creatures: it isn't enough to have the will, or even the
means, but one must have a practical head and a certain familiarity
with the working of their minds. You have only to take up the
newspapers every day to see how the most benevolent intentions come
to grief, and how hundreds of thousands of pounds are subscribed
yearly that hardly do one iota of good. It won't do to insist upon
benefiting people in your own particular way: you have to find out
what their way is, and then set to work. And you want," he goes on,
his voice deepening and his eyes flashing, "help and sympathy more
than anything in this world; because there is nothing so
heart-wearing, so bitterly disappointing, as having a keen desire to
help your brother-man, and finding all your strivings, as they are
half the time, dead failures. Look at my mother, what a sweet, kind,
sympathetic, loving nature she has,--what a helpmate would she have
been for a man in my father's position if he had ever tried to do any
good, or thought of anything or any one but himself,--and see how he
has crushed everything out of her but her sweet goodness of heart and
pity, which nothing could destroy. Can you wonder" (with suppressed
passion) "that I hate and despise him, as, God forgive me, I do
sometimes? I dare say, though" (changing his voice), "if ever I do
come into Alford I shall not do a quarter that I think and believe I
should now: 'a liberal-minded heir often makes a stingy lord,' they
say. But I should love to think," he whispers, "that, if ever I am
master here, I shall have a loving, tender-hearted woman for my wife,
who would help and influence me to do what was right."
He fixes his dark eyes upon my face. His words seem to thrill
through me: the quick crimson dyes my face. What does he mean? At
this moment we drive under the splendid gateway of Alford, and a
minute later stop at the house door.
CHAPTER XIX.
DIANA'S STORY.
"How provoking!" exclaims Mr. Montagu next morning at breakfast,
looking really vexed as he puts down the letter he has been reading.
"What is provoking?" I ask.
"I suppose there is nothing for it but to go" (_sotto voce_ to
himself). Then, aloud, in answer to me, "I am obliged to go to
London, and I cannot by any possibility get back before to-morrow
afternoon."
"What a pity!" I say, reflecting that it will be rather dull in his
absence.
"If I had only had this yesterday" (crumpling it in his hands),
"writing would have done as well; but now I am bound to go,--confound
the fellow!"
He rings the bell with some impatience, and Simkins appears.
"Tell Gibbs to put the mare in the dog-cart and be round in half an
hour, sharp."
"May I go with you to the station?" I whisper.
Sir Hector, with his head out of window, is withering up the
head-gardener with one of his genial sarcasms.
"Will you?" he says, looking pleased. "Won't it be hurrying you too
much over your breakfast?"
"Not a bit. I shall love a drive this heavenly morning. I only wish
it was ten miles instead of three."
"So do I," he answers, laughing: "on this occasion only, though."
It is the heavenliest May morning the mind of man can conceive, or
his heart desire. There has been a shower in the morning, and now
every leaf is a shining, radiant green, every flower exhales its
sweetest odors, every bird is shouting its triumphant song of joy and
welcome to the new day.
"Hark! there is the nightingale!" I say to Hector, as we bowl swiftly
along through the park. "Do you remember the lines in Enid?"
"No," he answers: "I am not good at poetry. Tell me them."
"When first the liquid note, beloved of man,
Comes flying over many a windy wave
To Britain, and in April suddenly
Breaks from a coppice gemmed with green and red,
And he suspends his converse with a friend
To think or say, 'There is the nightingale.'"
And Hector says, looking at me kindly,--
"I should soon get to like poetry if you said and read it to me."
"It strikes me," I remark, evading the compliment, "that reading
would be dull work if there were no poetry."
"And life would be dull work if there were no love," he says, gently.
"There is the station already," I exclaim, in a tone of
disappointment: "it cannot possibly be three miles."
"Three and a quarter exactly," he answers. "I am glad you found it
so short. Good-by," giving me the reins, and holding my hand for a
moment in a strong, kind clasp. "Think of me once or twice while I
am away!" I smile assent.
"Drive home very carefully," he says to the groom. "Jump up."
As we drive gently back to Alford, I feel sorry that he is gone: the
day will not be so pleasant or so short without him. I am obeying
his request, and thinking of him all the way home. What shall I do?
it is only half-past ten, and Lady Montagu will not be down for at
least an hour. One cannot sit in-doors this heavenly morning. All
at once I bethink me of the boat on the lake, and thither I betake
myself. One of the gardeners unlocks the padlock, brings out the
cushions, and asks if I will have some one to row me. I decline. I
want freedom to enjoy all the sweets of this May morning; I will have
it all to myself. So, when he has loosed the boat from its moorings,
I lie luxuriously back on the cushions and let it drift lazily where
it will. Sometimes a little current carries us into midwater,
sometimes a puff of wind blows us back under the deep shade of the
low-hanging branches. Shoals of big carp, unmindful of me, are lying
atop of the water, their burnished brazen sides gleaming like
cuirasses in the broad sunshine: they come so near the boat I can
almost put out my hand and touch them. The big green lily-leaves are
spreading over the water; now and then we catch in them until a
little gust blows us off again. The warm rain that fell in the
morning has brought out a thousand new buds and flowers. Yon
hawthorn that was green last night is white with fairy-blossoms this
morning; the laburnums are dropping their lavish golden showers; the
lilacs fling up their heads proudly above the evergreens; a rich
scent rises from the moist earth. Through the branches the cool,
soft wind makes a tender soughing sound, swelling and falling in a
plaintive cadence like waves plashing on a distant shore. The
blackbird's joyous whistle pierces the clear air; just above me where
I lie, a thrush's bright eye looks down suspiciously upon me from her
nest; a wren flits into her neat-thatched hole in the bank; a tom-tit
flies into his house in the pear-tree; a tiny robin sits on a
yew-branch close to my head, and trills me a little song with his
head on one side, whilst a thousand of his full-throated fellows are
shouting their pæan to the sun. In the fir-trees yonder the
wood-pigeons are cooing their tender little love-song, and in the
distance the cuckoo chants the only two notes he knows.
An indolent sense of _bien-être_ fills me. "I am quite happy!" I
murmur to myself.
"And, ev'n in saying this,
Her memory, from old habit of the mind,
Went slipping back upon the golden days
In which she saw him first."
"If he were here!" I think, and a slight pang thrills through me. I
hear my name called by a gentle voice. It is Lady Montagu, who is
standing on the bank.
"Is it you?" I cry, springing up, and punting myself shorewards. "Do
come in and let me row you." She shakes her head.
"I am afraid of the water, and the sun is so hot," she answers,
smiling. "Come and walk in the shade with me;" and I obey. "I have
just had such delightful news," she continues, as I set foot on the
bank; "Charlie is coming to-day."
My heart gives a great bound, the treacherous riotous blood springs
into my face, and I stoop quickly and pretend to busy myself in
arranging the cushions.
"The telegram came half an hour ago," she proceeds, unaware of my
confusion; "he will be here in time for dinner to-night."
My heart beats tumultuously, exultantly; in vain I say to myself, "He
is nothing to you,--he cares nothing for you;" it will not be
repressed.
Lady Montagu places her hand upon my arm, I take charge of her
camp-stool, and we pace up and down under the fragrant firs.
"You have met him, have you not?" she asks of me; and I try to say
"yes" indifferently.
"He is a dear fellow," she goes on, all the mother's love shining in
her beautiful gray eyes. "It is a great trial to me seeing so little
of him; but" (sighing) "of course his profession takes him away a
great deal, and then this is not a very lively place for a man who
loves pleasant society and has as much of it as he does. I am glad
you are here; it will make it less dull for him."
As she speaks, a little sudden flush comes into her face, and I know
quite well what thought has brought it there.
"I want him to marry," she says, after a slight pause. "You know"
(looking at me) "he is not like Hector; he is only a younger son, and
must marry a woman with money. It seems almost a pity their
positions cannot be reversed. Hector is not in the least
extravagant, and poor dear Charlie,--well, it is very natural with
his disposition that he should value luxury and elegance." That is
how the fond mother puts it. "My sons were always so different," she
continues. "Hector is so high-minded and good, he will make an
excellent husband; people are sometimes a little afraid of him at
first, but you, my dear" (with a little pressure of her arm on mine),
"you seem quite to understand him."
"I was a little afraid of Mr. Montagu at first," I answer, "but I see
now how really good he is, and I--I admire and respect him very
much." In spite of myself, my voice sounds cold and constrained.
"He has a very great admiration for you," she says, kindly, "and you
have a wonderful effect upon him. I never saw him so bright and
lively before; he is of a very sedate disposition. Now, Charlie"
(warming with her subject)--"Charlie is so very cheerful and amusing,
in spite of that little indolent manner he affects. It is really not
natural to him. I cannot think why he does it."
I long to burst forth into eager praise of him, but do not dare, lest
I should betray myself. I have no fortune. I am not for him, even
(I think, sighing) if he had a thought to bestow upon me. So I
content myself with listening whilst the fond mother talks gladly on
upon the theme which has of all others the most charm for me. And
all that happy afternoon, as we drive along the scented lanes, or sit
together over our needle-work, or I read aloud, a triumphant voice is
shouting in my ear, "He is coming!"
And when he does come at last, and his cheery voice sounds in the
hall, I am almost afraid at the wild rush of joy that flies to my
heart. The door opens; his mother runs towards it; she is in his
arms, and he is bending over her, looking handsomer than ever, and
kissing her affectionately. Then, lifting his eyes, they meet mine,
that are trying ever so hard not to look glad and eager.
"What! Miss Carew! By Jove!"
That is all he says; but he looks pleased, and, coming forward, takes
my hand with the warmest, friendliest clasp, as if he had known me a
lifetime.
"This is a surprise!" he ejaculates. "Why, mother, you did not tell
me when you wrote that you were expecting such a charming guest.
Where is Hector?"
"So unfortunate!" says Lady Montagu, looking as if she could not take
her smiling eyes from her son's face. "He had a letter this morning
that obliged him to go up to London immediately."
"So unfortunate!" echoes Charlie, looking at me with eyes brimful of
laughter. "I wonder now whether I shall be able to take his place
for the next four-and-twenty hours. By Jove! how glad I am to find
you here! I shall write for extension of leave, and you and I
between us will turn the house out of windows, and drive the old
gentleman to the verge of madness."
"Diana will not aid and abet you," returns his mother. "I can answer
for her."
"You don't know, my dear," he retorts, gayly, "what Miss Carew's
capabilities are. I suppose she has felt so sat upon here, between
the governor and Hector, that she hasn't dared call her soul her own."
"Indeed I have been very happy," I hasten to interpose.
"Not a doubt" (his eyes laughing more than ever); "and now that I
have arrived you are going to be happier still."
I forget all about my promise to Hector to think of him, or, if I do,
it is to be secretly glad, ungrateful as it seems, that he is away.
I fancied I was happy and contented yesterday; to-night my heart is
full of joy: it was the difference between negative and positive
happiness. What care I bestow upon my toilette! how anxiously I
consult my mirror! how I long to know what is his favorite color!
Oh, if some fairy godmother would but step in for once and make me
passing fair for my Prince Charming! Yet all the time an uneasy
mocking voice within me keeps saying, Foolish one! what can you hope
to be to him? You are at best but a _pis-aller_: when he goes back
to the lovely high-bred women of his society, what chance have you of
being remembered by him? Any more than you remember Hector? adds a
reproachful Mentor within. But I heed no warning to-night: my only
thought is for the present, and "let what will come after," I say,
recklessly.
When I take my final glance in the cheval glass, I am satisfied and
yet not satisfied. I look as well, I think, as I can look: but, oh,
how much fairer I must be before I could be worthy to please him! It
wants still ten minutes to dinner-time. Shall I go down? He will
not be there, of course; he is always late; but---- But still I go.
He is there, after all,--a little guilty blush steals into my
cheeks,--there, and alone.
"Fancy my being ready in time!" he says, gayly, coming forward.
"Wonders will never cease,'" I answer, laughing rather constrainedly.
"I was determined everything should go off harmoniously this
evening," he says. "Tell me" (eying me with some curiosity), "what
sort of time have you had of it here? Has my father d----d the
servants much, and visited everybody's short-comings upon my poor
mother?"
"Much the same as usual," I reply, in a half-whisper, stealing a
backward glance over my shoulder, to make sure Sir Hector is not
within earshot.
"Awfully jolly house to stay in! Jolly is just the right word, isn't
it?" he goes on, seating himself in front of me, and contemplating me
with perfect deliberation. "I see that already a great deal of
spirit has gone out of you: you have lost that mischievous sparkle in
the eyes you had at Warrington. I shall devote myself to the
agreeable task of bringing it back. I feel ready for any enormity,
if you will only back me up. With your help and countenance, I
believe I am capable of making the old gentleman an apple-pie bed,
hiding his brushes, tying a string to the bedclothes, or practicing
any other witty little joke of the kind."
The idea, in conjunction with the autocrat of Alford, is so
irreverently comic, and he enunciates it with such perfect gravity,
that I burst into a peal of laughter.
"That is right," he says, approvingly: "let us laugh and be merry for
once. Hector" (with a wry face) "is coming back to-morrow. Let us
eat and drink, for to-morrow we die. I suppose my father lapses into
his usual musical slumber after dinner, unrestrained by your
presence?"
"Until half-past nine," I answer. "As the clock chimes he wakes up,
and then we play chess until bedtime."
"Chess! Angels and ministers of grace defend us! And has it come to
this?" cries Captain Montagu, so tragically that I laugh again.
"Never mind: he shall go without to-night. As soon as he is off to
sleep, we will steal out into the garden: it will be a heavenly
night. I will smoke, and you shall talk to me." And for the first
time he puts on the languid caressing voice I remember so well.
"Not for worlds!" I cry. "I have played myself steadily into Sir
Hector's good graces, and in one evening I should undo the work of a
week."
A frown ruffles his smooth forehead.
"Too bad!" he says. "Why cannot he snore on as usual until bedtime,
and let us enjoy ourselves? Never mind" (whispering): "I will bring
him out early from dinner, and then we will slip out. I have set my
heart" (smiling) "on seeing the moon to-night, and with you too."
A guilty throb of joy goes through me. At this moment the baronet
comes in. He greets his younger son with some show of warmth: even
he, I can see, is under the influence of that winning face and manner.
"Charlie in time for dinner!" he exclaims, blandly, addressing me.
"We must be indebted to you for this, I think."
"I have been doing a great deal of duty lately," says Captain
Montagu: "give that some of the credit, if possible, without
detracting from Miss Carew's share of it."
My lady comes in at this moment. She, too, has bestowed unusual care
on her toilette, and looks like some rare piece of delicate
porcelain. The pale silvery satin of her dress shimmers through soft
lace, her fingers glitter with diamonds, there is a faint tinge like
the heart of a shell in her cheeks.
"Mother, you look positively lovely!" says her son, going up to her.
"I must kiss you, to see that you are real and have not stepped out
of a picture."
As they stand together, the delicate high-bred mother, her fond humid
eyes turned upwards, and the handsome son, his face bent down to her,
his golden moustache brushing her cheek, it seems to me a fairer
picture than any I ever saw framed.
"Pshaw!" sneers Sir Hector: "I never saw such a fellow! he must make
love to his own mother if there is no other woman by."
"That is a compliment to you," laughs Charlie, looking at me.
"Oh, Miss Carew is Hector's property," says his father.
His tone is half joking, half authoritative, I do not like it; the
indignant protest rises in my cheek; but at this moment the clock
chimes, the gong sounds, and Simkins appears in the doorway.
CHAPTER XX.
DIANA'S STORY.
The solemn rite of the day is over. Dinner is never a gregarious
meal at Alford, although to-day, thanks to Captain Montagu, it is far
more cheerful than usual. I am longing for it to be over, thinking,
with a certain guilty secret pleasure, of the stroll in the moonlight
that is to come presently. Daylight is almost gone; the faint
silvery light is rising behind the dark trees: in half an hour more
we shall be out together in the dewy fragrant night. A feeling
almost akin to fear comes over me: I tremble at what I am going to
do. Why, I wonder? If on any of the preceding evenings Hector had
asked me to go out with him, I should have gone at once, without the
shadow of an _arrière-pensée_; but to-night I feel as if I were about
to commit a great indiscretion. Nevertheless, I mean to commit it,
if the Fates are propitious. Captain Montagu, holding the door open
for us, whispers softly, as I pass, "Remember!"
"Remember!" As if there was the very smallest faintest chance of my
forgetting! I take a book into my favorite corner; but I cannot
read: every moment I glance nervously at the clock, which ticks so
slowly to night. Lady Montagu is unusually wakeful: she even takes a
book. I give myself up miserably to disappointment,--this half-hour
that I have longed for as I have never longed for anything in my life
before. Tears are rising in my eyes; I feel my mouth quivering. To
hide my face I put my book before it, and then I say dismally to
myself, "It is not to be!" A soft thud rouses me. I glance from
behind my screen. The book has fallen from Lady Montagu's hands; her
head is leaning gently back, her eyes are closed, and there is hope
again. It is twenty minutes since we left the dinner-table; the door
opens, and the gentlemen appear.
"I am not going to give you so easy a victory to-night, I promise
you," says Sir Hector, approaching me, for I am obliged to win a game
occasionally, in order not to betray my tactics.
I smile as pleasantly as I can, and make some answering remark, and
he goes to his accustomed chair.
Captain Montagu comes up to me and whispers,--
"I am going now. I will wait for you at the front door. Do not be
long."
He is gone, and I am holding my breath to listen to the first
incipient snore that is to bring my release. Oh, blessed
sound!--welcomer to-night than the sweetest melody ever composed by
Rossini or Mozart. If I had not my eyes fixed upon the clock, I
should believe half an hour had elapsed before my anxious ear caught
the sound; but when it comes, the dial shows it to be four minutes
exactly. I wait another minute, until it has settled into a regular
prolonged snore, and then, softly, tremblingly, on tiptoe I creep
towards the door, as Jack of the Beanstalk did when he went to carry
off the giant's harp. Once safely outside the door, I fly along the
corridor to the front door. I can hear the beats of my heart as I
stand looking out. A slow step crunches the gravel. In another
moment he sees me, and quickens his pace.
"But," he says, looking at me, "you must have something more on.
Remember it is only May, although it is so warm." And, coming in, he
takes his mother's black lace shawl from a peg and puts it round me.
He does it so gently, without ruffling a single hair, and I think to
myself, with a sort of pang, that he must have had plenty of practice.
"You don't mind my smoking, do you?" he asks.
As if I minded anything that gave him pleasure!
The moon is shining out full now, transmuting everything she looks
upon to silver: her fair face is mirrored in the dark water, and
lingeringly, Narcissus-like, she seems to dwell on her own loveliness.
"After all," says Captain Montagu, breaking silence at last, as we
pace together under the broad trees, through which the silver light
is trickling,--"after all, the country is very pleasant, especially"
(with a low laugh) "when one has a charming companion,--and a good
cigar. Under present circumstances, I think I could exist here a
long time."
I do not make any reply, for no appropriate answer occurs to me at
the moment.
"The worst of it is, it won't last very long," he continues, with an
accent of discontent. "Somehow, pleasant things never do. Hector
will be here to-morrow. Tell me" (stopping and looking down at me
inquisitively), "what did my father mean when he said that you were
Hector's property?"
"I do not know what he meant," I exclaim, the eager crimson mounting
to my cheek, "unless it was that he was the means of my being here,
which," I add, reluctantly, "of course he was."
"Come and sit down," he says, in a pleasantly authoritative voice,
pointing to a seat under a big tree; and I, nothing loath, obey.
"He will be very angry when he comes back to-morrow and finds me
here," he remarks, thoughtfully, as, leaning back, he brings the full
light of his handsome eyes upon my face, in which I am painfully
conscious the color is shifting uneasily. "He is as jealous as
Othello. But, upon my soul, I did not know you were here. If I had,
I do not think I should have come."
"Thank you," I say, with some indignation.
"I do not, really," he repeats, in his most lazy, most caressing
tone, ignoring utterly my displeasure. "You know I never can be ten
minutes alone with a pretty woman without wanting to make love to
her. I feel it creeping over me now; and I don't think it would be
right towards Hector."
For the life of me, I cannot help laughing,--there is something so
naïve about his confession, and the way he makes it. "You shouldn't
laugh at a fellow when he is battling with his weakness and his
scruples," he utters, with an air of comic reproach. "You see, to me
it is an every-day occurrence to fall in love, but it's a tremendous
affair for Hector."
"I don't know what you mean," I exclaim, impatiently, feeling also a
little mortified, and rather inclined to wish I had not come out.
"Sir Hector will be waking up soon, and I must go and set the
chess-men."
"Do not go," he says, laying a detaining hand on my arm: "it is so
delicious here, and I should be so dull if you were to leave me. I
should begin to hate the country, and to wish I had not come
immediately." (Then, irrelevantly), "Always wear crimson flowers in
your hair: you can't think how well they become you."
There is a pause. He is silent, and I do not feel inclined to speak.
I am thinking with some bitterness how eagerly I looked forward to
this half-hour with him, and how little enjoyment I am deriving from
it. Presently he throws away the end of his cigar, and moves nearer
to me.
"I want to ask you a question," he says, softly. "I know I have no
right to: indeed, I think it is very bad taste on my part; but I am
an inquisitive fellow, and have been rather spoiled. Tell me"
(taking my hand, and fixing his eyes on mine), "is there any chance
of your ever becoming my sister? I always wanted a little sister
awfully. Don't look angry" (reading the indignant flush in my face).
"I know Hector is in love with you. I know he wants to marry you; my
mother told me as much; he will tell you himself very soon, if he has
not done so already; and what" (rather eagerly)--"what shall you say?"
An undefined sense of pain steals across me as I withdraw my hand
from his.
"Until he tells me so," I answer, drawing myself up coldly, "I think
it is quite superfluous for me or any one else to speculate on my
reply."
And, drawing my skirts away from him, I rise to go. He springs up
and stands in my path.
"No," he says, hurriedly, "upon my soul you shall not go away angry
with me."
He looks so handsome, standing before me with a slight flush on his
face and an eager look in his eyes,--who could be angry with him? I
smile.
"I am not angry," I say; "but I do not think you should have asked
me, on your brother's account even more than on mine. You are quite
mistaken. We are very good friends, but----"
"But what?"
"Nothing more."
"Nothing more?"
"Nor likely to be."
"Nor likely to be?"
"I wish," he begins, eagerly, then checks himself, and says, almost
coldly, "Hector is a good fellow; he is very fond of you, and Alford
is not a bad place to be mistress of, is it?"
The stable clock strikes ten.
"Oh," I cry, terrified, "what will Sir Hector say? Do, pray, come in
with me!"
"I had much better not, for your sake," he answers. "If we go in
together, they will know we have been out together. You may have
been in your own room,--anywhere. I suppose, tyrant as he is, he
cannot expect his guests to sit in the drawing-room all the evening
to listen to his snores."
I sneak in, feeling terribly guilty. After all, how little pleasure
I have had out of that stroll which I looked forward to with such
delight! For once Fortune favors me. Sir Hector is still asleep,
and only wakes up as I enter.
"Bless my soul!" he cries, jumping up with alacrity; "why, I am
twenty-two minutes over my time. Why did you not awake me?"
Ten minutes later, Captain Montagu walks in, looking radiantly
unconscious, and, sitting down beside his mother, begins a whispered
conversation.
"It is utterly impossible," says Sir Hector, irritably, "to
concentrate one's mind on the game whilst you and your son are
chattering like a couple of magpies, my lady."
"Let us go to your boudoir, mother," I hear Captain Montagu whisper;
and rising, they go out, leaving us at our dreary game. It requires
no great effort of genius on Sir Hector's part to checkmate me
to-night. He wins three games honestly in half an hour.
"Not at all your usual form," he remarks. "I suppose" (jocosely)
"your thoughts are a long way off to-night--eh?" and I feel vexed in
my soul.
The family have evidently apportioned me to Hector, and do not seem
for an instant to contemplate the possibility of my not acquiescing
in it.
After his third triumph Sir Hector is good enough to let me go. I
wish him good-night, and go slowly and not very cheerfully to my
room. Under any other circumstances I should have gone to her
boudoir to wish Lady Montagu good-night; but now I cannot. I do not
choose her son to think I am running after him. Lingeringly I pass
the door with a faint hope that it may open; but they are talking. I
catch the smothered sound of their voices; they do not hear me pass,
and I go on my lonely way.
"I wish he had not come," I say, petulantly, to myself, as I put my
candle down on the dressing-table and throw myself info the big
arm-chair beside it. "I was much happier before. This is the end of
my eager anticipation and delight in his coming! Of course I am
nothing to him; did I not tell myself so all along? And yet--and
yet" (unbidden tears rising)--"he need not have said that about
falling in love being an every-day occurrence with him, and about his
never being ten minutes alone with a woman without wanting to make
love to her. Is it possible" (and I blush to the very heart at the
bare thought) "that I have betrayed the pleasure I feel in his
society, and that he thought it necessary to give me a friendly
warning?" For a moment I almost hate him. Hector is not so
handsome, but he is much nicer, I say; but all the same though I
asseverate it strongly I do not believe myself. Then I begin to
think uneasily of what he has said about Hector wanting to marry me.
It is not true; I do not believe it; but if it were true he had no
right to speak to me about it. I marry Hector!--no, no, no! I cry to
myself, hotly. He is very kind and good--I admire and respect him;
but to marry him--Never!
I wake in the morning with the same sense of disappointment; it is
going to be a lovely day again, but somehow I do not feel the same
appreciation of its beauties that I did yesterday.
Sir Hector and I sit down to breakfast together. Of course I knew
perfectly well that Captain Montagu would not be down; so it is
rather unreasonable of me to feel so chagrined at seeing his empty
place. Breakfast is only half over, however, when the door opens,
and he comes in, looking as fresh, as crisp, as, clean as only an
Englishman can look (this is naturally an opinion derived from a
later experience).
"What?" says his father, laying down his knife and fork and looking
utterly amazed.
"Stood still to gaze,
And gazing blessed the scene,"
laughs Captain Montagu, shaking me by the hand, and walking to the
side-board to make a selection among the viands displayed. "This is
one of the 'queer things of the service,' eh, sir? my appearing in
the early dawn before the dew is off the grass. All owing to Miss
Carew's charms."
"Wait a bit; wait a bit," says the baronet, smiling grimly. "I doubt
very much whether you will turn up this time to-morrow morning."
"Make hay while the sun shines," remarks Captain Montagu, with a
twinkle in his blue eyes, as he comes and seats himself on my left
hand. "_Apropos_, sir, how do the hay crops promise this year?"
"Devilish bad! devilish bad!" growls Sir Hector. "This confounded
weather is burning it all up; we have hardly had a drop of rain these
two months."
I glance furtively at my neighbor from behind the big silver urn; he
is busy with his breakfast, and I can take in every detail of his
appearance without being detected. How handsome he is! Men always
say it is quite immaterial what a man is like, provided he looks like
a gentleman. I don't believe they think it, though: the good-looking
ones say so in order not to look conscious or conceited, and the
plain ones for reasons too obvious to need explanation. My eyes
linger on his short, crisp, gold-brown hair, that would curl if it
were long enough (I wish men had not such a mania for being cropped),
his white smooth forehead and sun-bronzed cheeks, the straight brows,
Greek nose, and curved lips shaded by a soft golden moustache.
Nothing escapes me,--not even the pattern of his shooting-coat, the
snowy shirt striped with blue, the thick gold rings on his shapely
hands, the exquisite perfection of his filbert nails. I dare say it
sounds very silly to chronicle such things, but these minutiæ _do_
make a difference in a woman's estimate of a man, however small it
may make one look to own it. Sir Hector has a little way of stalking
out from breakfast the very second he has finished, quite unmindful
of the state of progress to which any one else has arrived. Upon
this occasion I am rather disposed to bless that little way as the
door slams behind him.
"What a jolly thing it must be," says Captain Montagu, glancing at me
with eyes brimful of laughter, "to be untrammeled by any sense of
decency or civility! By Jove! I can't stand this any longer." And,
jumping up before I know what he is about, he lifts the gigantic urn
and moves it from between us. "Family plate is respectable"
(resuming his seat), "but in this instance decidedly in the way.
Now" (suiting the action to the word) "I can look at you. I like to
feast all my senses at once."
CHAPTER XXI.
DIANA'S STORY
"Did you ever hear of Rosherville?" asks Captain Montagu.
"No," I answer, rather wondering at his irrelevancy.
"Rosherville," he proceeds, in an explanatory tone, "is 'the place to
spend a happy day.' If you had ever been to London you would have
seen that fact advertised conspicuously in a great number of
prominent situations. It is a place to which the lower orders resort
by steamboat in the dog-days, and where they enjoy a singular variety
of amusements and a singular want of variety of food. Now, although"
he proceeds (still as if he were reading from Murray's
handbook,)--"although in this, as in every other respect, Rosherville
and Alford are two places about as unlike each other as one could
possibly pitch upon, I intend the effect produced by both to be
identical: in short, I mean to spend a happy day. Will you help me?"
"That I will," I say, still smiling at his tirade; then, relapsing
into gravity, I add, rather wistfully, "It is so nice to be happy."
"A proposition too obvious to be contradicted," he laughs.
"What are you going to do?" I ask.
"What am _I_ going to do? Positively, literally, nothing: it is to
be one unclouded day of _far niente_ for me. It is to you I look for
the happy day."
"And what am I to do?" I ask, feeling very proud and glad.
"First you are to repair to the small drawing-room, where, when I
have finished this" (taking from his case a cigarette), "I shall join
you. You will then sing to me the songs that my soul loveth (I see
your store has greatly increased since the winter), until you are
quite tired."
"Or you are," I suggest, with a smile.
"Until you are quite tired," he repeats. "Then--then we will go and
bask in the sunshine, and watch the carp jump, and hear the birds
sing; and if we feel inclined we will talk, and if not, we will be
silent. We won't argue; we won't have a single word but what is
sweet and harmonious. If I choose to tell you pleasant truths, you
shall not contradict me; and as for Hector" (gayly), "Hector shall
not exist for you and me the whole livelong day until dinner-time."
I go as he has bidden me to the drawing-room and look out all my
prettiest songs, thinking a little remorsefully the while that it is
to his brother I am indebted for most of them. I lay them one by one
on the desk, "Golden Days" on the top.
"Now," he says, coming in and preparing himself the cosiest chair in
the room, as he did once on a previous occasion. "By the way, do I
at all remind you" (with smiling eyes) "of my father? It just struck
me that I had been laying down the law a little bit in his style.
Family likeness will crop up in odd ways. _Apropos_ of that, is not
Hector a most wonderful counterpart of the old gentleman?"
"No," I say, turning myself round on the music-stool, resolved to be
just towards him in his absence, all the more because I am guiltily
glad of it. "I do not think he is at all, really."
"All right" (languidly). "You remember the compact. No arguing
allowed. Upon my soul" (his lip curving with a suspicion of
merriment), "I never saw two people more dissimilar, now I come to
think of it. The only wonder is how they ever came to be father and
son."
I cannot help laughing.
"Hush!" I say. "I am going to begin."
"What is it to be?"
"'Golden Days.'"
"'Golden Days!' By Jove!" (jumping up) "the very song of all others
I love. And what a happy thought for to-day, too! 'Once in the days
of golden weather.' This" (stooping over me) "shall be a golden day,
shall it not?"
Our eyes meet, a tremulous thrill of pleasure creeps through me, then
he turns away abruptly and resumes his seat. I sing on and on, and
he listens with closed eyes, as he did that day at Warrington.
"I am tired," I say, at last, getting off my stool.
"Are you?" (jumping up). "What a selfish brute I am! How shall I
thank you!" (taking my hand and kissing it in his own gracious,
caressing manner). "The first hour of the golden day is gone"
(regretfully); "how it has flown!"
"Lady Montagu will be coming down very soon now," I suggest.
"Poor mother! I did not tell you before: I thought it would take the
heart out of your singing. She has one of her frightful headaches:
while they last she cannot raise her head from the pillow nor bear
the sound of a voice."
"Why did you not tell me before?" I cry, remorsefully. "Perhaps she
may have been disturbed by my singing."
"Quite impossible, I assure you. Why" (reproachfully), "you don't
think I'm such a brute as to run the risk of making her worse for my
own selfish gratification, do you?"
I utter a hasty dissent.
"Get your hat and let us go out." And I obey silently, as I did in
the matter of the music. "I have had two comfortable chairs taken
out," he tells me, as I join him in the hall. "I abhor the
abominations called garden-seats. They don't in the least give to
the gentle undulations of the figure in repose. I have selected a
charming spot near the water and we will be tranquilly oblivious of
everything but the moment, like the lotos-eaters."
We stroll gently along until we come to a big chestnut, under which
stand two inviting chairs.
I feel as blithe as a bird this morning. All doubt and
disappointment have vanished from my heart, like last night's dew
before the sun. Life is once again a God-given gift, to be made the
most of this fair day. For a little while we are both silent, whilst
we drink in lovingly the morning's beauty. The warm west wind
breathes tenderly through the branches, wafting towards us the heavy
scent of the sweet spring blossoms. Wayward zephyrs play
hide-and-seek among the cool green leaves, that, swaying to and fro,
fan our faces softly. A whole army of big bees, in their handsome
black and orange velvet coats, are dipping into the pink hearts of
the chestnut-blossoms, and booming their deep sonorous content in a
melodious ear-lulling chorus. On one side the view stretches over a
great expanse, half park, half meadow-land, all golden-yellow with
buttercups, save where here and there thick-strewn daisies make a
galaxy across their green heaven. Clumps of trees of
exquisitely-blended shades are dotted about, and afar off is the long
belt that skirts the park, rich with every subtle tint of spring, the
pale, soft, tender green of budding elm and oak, the chestnut's full
rich verdure, the sombre fir, and here and there, scattered between,
the bronze of the copper beech. In front of us is the mimic lake, on
which a flotilla of white ducks is sailing, looking a little bit like
small swans, but lacking the grace and dignity of those majestic
birds. I am feeling rather sentimental: the warm air, the heavy
odors wafted towards us from yon flaming sea of amber azalea, the
deep booming of the bees above our heads,--all these things have an
enervating, luxurious effect upon my senses. I glance furtively at
my companion, to see if he shares my feelings. He is reclining
luxuriously in the low long chair; his hat has fallen off backwards
on the grass, and the little sunbeams are glinting in through the
broad leaves, making golden streaks across his hair. Through
half-closed eyelids he is looking sleepily at the water; his face
wears a pensive look: yes, he, like me, feels the warm, sensuous
effect )f this May morning. He is about to speak: if he breaks (his
golden silence, it must surely be with some poetic thought.
"I would give a great deal at this moment for a pea-shooter and a bag
of peas, to aim at those ducks standing on their heads. How
surprised they would be!"
This is the sentimental remark for which his lips unclose. My
romance is swept away. I laugh. Now he mentions it, there is
certainly something very tempting about their position as they stand
literally upon their heads, in quest of hidden treasures. We amuse
ourselves by watching them, until they scramble awkwardly up on the
bank and spread themselves out for a nap in the sunshine.
"By Jove!" exclaims my companion, as a monstrous carp flings a
somersault out of the water and splashes back with as much noise as a
retriever plunging in off the bank, "the fish seem pretty lively this
morning. There goes another!"
There is a great swirling and plashing and bubbling among the lily
leaves. Now and then we see gleaming golden sides tossing above the
water as the big fish dart through the glassy water in hot pursuit of
each other.
Captain Montagu signals a passing gardener. "Bring me a landing-net,
will you?" he says.
The man hurries off, and presently returns with one.
"Now I am going to fish," remarks my companion, rising and walking
cautiously towards the bank. A moment later he plunges it in, and
brings it out again with three monstrous shining fish struggling in
it.
"Fishing made easy!" he says, laughing.
"Oh, put them back!" I cry, eagerly, as he lays them panting on the
bank; "do put them back: they are not good to eat. Don't let the
poor things die out here!"
"What a tender-hearted little soul it is!" he says, looking amused.
"Now" (contemplating them), "if our _cordon bleu_ here had only one
of the receipts for dressing them that those old monks possessed, I
could not possibly grant your prayer, being a tremendous _gourmet_;
but----"
"Let them be happy 'this golden day,'" I plead, looking up at him.
"Here goes!" he says, flinging them back with a great souse; and they
dart off, apparently fully aware what a narrow escape they have had.
"I can't help thinking," he remarks, reflectively, "that in those
days when carp were esteemed such a delicacy, they could not get
salmon or mullet."
"I never tasted one," I say.
"Take the advice Punch once gave to intending Benedicts: 'Don't.'"
We have resumed our comfortable chairs under the chestnut-boughs. I
suddenly bethink myself that I have omitted to thank him for his
munificent donation to my poor people last winter.
"I am afraid," I begin, rather uneasily, "you must have thought me
very ungrateful for not thanking you for the ten pounds you sent me.
You don't know what good it did, and how the people thanked and
blessed you."
I blurt my words out hurriedly and eagerly, whilst he regards me with
an expression of comic terror.
"You are positively becoming excited," he says. "Have you forgotten
there is to be no emotion this morning,--nothing but the most perfect
tranquillity?"
"You may try and turn it off," I say, warmly, "but I shall tell you
all the same. I think it is very selfish of people to do kind
actions and then refuse to be thanked for them."
"'People' means me, I suppose?" he utters, lazily. "Go on" (with an
air of resignation); "tell me all about it,--how many night-caps and
flannel petticoats you bought for the old women, and what you laid
out on snuff and tobacco for the old men."
"Do be serious," I say, reproachfully. "If you could only dream the
good it really did! I should like to tell you one case. Poor Atkins
had been out of work for weeks from hurting his hand; two of the
children had scarlet fever; and they had not a morsel of food in the
house, when----"
"Don't harrow up my feelings!" he interrupts, imploringly, taking out
his pocket-handkerchief.
"It is too bad of you to laugh at me!" I cry, feeling vexed.
"A change of air and scene will be good for us both," he says, rising
promptly, and stretching out a hand to me. "Come, and I will take
you into the wood."
I follow him as he bids me, and say no more about the money. We
stroll along past the fir-trees and out through a gate into the wood.
Suddenly we pause as we come to a great open space. There, spread
like a carpet from some cunning loom, grows a great sea of primroses,
of wood-violets and dark hyacinths mingled with rich emerald green.
"Groves that looked a Paradise
Of blossom, and sheets of hyacinth
That seemed the heavens, upbreaking through the earth."
He points to a felled tree, and we sit down and let our eyes range
feastingly around.
"After all," says my companion, thoughtfully, with an air of
conviction, "the country has its pleasures even out of the hunting
and shooting seasons. Do you know" (solemnly, looking at me
impressively, as though he is not sure I shall believe him without a
great deal of asseveration) "I do not think I ever spent a happier
morning than this in my life?"
"I am sure I never did;" I say, truthfully, but sighing a little as I
remember how short-lived our happiness is doomed to be. I fancy I
hear him sigh too. He takes out his watch.
"It is half-past twelve," he remarks, with an accent of disgust, "and
they lunch at one. How the time has flown!"
Silence reigns for a few minutes; then he stretches out his hand
towards me, and brings the full light of his dark-blue eyes to bear
on mine. I endure it for a moment, and then mine droop, but my hand
still lies in the clasp of his. I feel no strength or will to move
it.
"I told you," he says, presently, "that we were not to have any
explanations to-day, did I not? nothing but harmonious tranquillity.
I ought not to break my own rules, ought I? But tell me" (in a
pleading voice), "you are not angry with me now. If I vexed you last
night, you have forgiven me, have you not?"
"There is nothing to forgive," I answer, trying to withdraw my hand,
and vexed because I feel the tell-tale color mantling over cheek and
brow.
"If you forgive me, you will let me keep your hand," he says, softly;
and all this time I _feel_ that he has never once taken his eyes from
my face. It is dangerous to look at him; my heart is throbbing
wildly even now; but I cannot resist the charm: some unknown force
compels my reluctant eyelids upwards.
"'Tears in the radiant eyes,'" he whispers, quoting from our favorite
song. "Oh" (drawing me towards him), "what a perverse world this is!
Why do we always covet just those things we cannot have!"
There is a strange ring in his voice; he has risen, and is standing
with one arm round me. For one ecstatic moment I droop my head on
his shoulder, his warm breath hovers over my cheek and ear; then I
break away from him, and stand abashed, trembling, leaning with
downcast eyes against the trunk of a big tree. He follows me
swiftly, with flushed face and eager eyes.
"No, no," I say, putting out my hands with a gesture of repulsion,
whilst my heart beats with furious shame.
He stops.
"I beg your pardon," he utters, in a contrite voice. "Don't be
afraid! you do not think for one moment I would say or do anything to
displease you. I lost my head a little for a moment. Come, let us
go towards the house."
We walk on side by side until we come to the gate that separates the
wood from the park: there he stops.
"I don't know what possessed me," he says, in an apologetic tone; "I
suppose it is rather dangerous being long with a young and very
pretty woman. Do you know," looking at me with some vexation, "I am
half sorry I came? If I stay much longer I shall run the risk of
making a fool of myself; and that would be unsatisfactory to myself,
as well as unfair to Hector."
I stand staring stupidly before me, ignorant how to reply. Hector!
Hector! why will he always drag him into our talk? Hector is nothing
to me! I feel a blind unjust repugnance to him. And yet I cannot
tell his brother this! it might make him think I entertained
hopes----what folly! has he not shown me clearly enough that I can be
nothing to him mort than a passing fancy? Seeing that I make no
reply, he opens the gate for me, and we pass on silently to the
house. Half the golden day is gone: is it golden still? I hardly
know,--at this moment it seems so equally made up of sweet and
bitter. When I reach the house, there is only just time to smooth my
ruffled hair before the gong sounds for lunch. Sir Hector offers a
diversion,--not an agreeable one by any means: he is in one of his
most vindictive tempers: an "infernal fool of a groom" (luckless
wight! how I pity him!) has thrown down one of the horses. I have
remarked that when a horse comes to grief it is never his own fault,
unless his master is on his back: the grooms always throw them down.
What little consolation is to be derived from discharging him with
the threat of no character Sir Hector has, but it is all insufficient
to appease his wrath. Everybody, everything, is wrong. I ask after
my lady's headache. He does not know (snappishly): all he knows is
that if women will lie in bed half the day, and take no exercise, and
eat and drink just the same, it is no wonder they have headaches.
Poor Lady Montagu, who has the smallest, most delicate appetite
conceivable! I hazard that it is a lovely day, and he retorts, with
a growl, that it may be a lovely day for a parcel of idle people, who
have nothing better to do than to lie about in the sunshine like
lapdogs, but that to him, with the grass-crops shriveling up to
nothing, it is simply heart-breaking. Snubbed savagely for the first
time in my life, I retire, feeling much depressed, to the
contemplation of lunch. Captain Montagu's eyes are on his plate: he
does not come to my rescue, nor does he attempt any original remark
on his own account.
"What are _you_ going to do?" Sir Hector asks him presently, in a
snappish voice.
"I, sir?" looking up imperturbably. "Nothing."
"Nothing!" with a growl. "I might have guessed as much. Then you
had better drive over to Okewood with me."
"Much too hot, sir, thank you all the same for thinking of me" (with
a little twitch of his flexible upper lip). "I might get a
sunstroke."
"Sunstroke!" retorts Sir Hector, wrathfully. "Pretty fellows you
Guardsmen must be, to be afraid of a May sun!--very fit for a
campaign!"
Captain Montagu's lip twitches more than ever, and I am filled with
nervous dread lest he should actually break into a laugh.
"It is by taking care of ourselves in time of peace," he says, with a
wicked glance at me, "that we are able to come to the fore when the
country wants us."
Sir Hector pushes away his plate, and mutters something that sounds
like "A parcel of blanked puppies!" but his son does not seem to take
offense.
"Always dangling after a petticoat!" is the next growling amenity;
and with that he flings out of the room.
"Dear old man, bless him!" utters his son, sweetly, as the door
closes with a bang. "I think" (with a smile that has some malice in
it), "if I remember rightly, I rather shocked you once at Warrington
by not going into rhapsodies over the mere delightful fact of having
a father. Perhaps you look at the matter rather more from my point
of view now."
"I thought all fathers must be like mine," I say, _naïvely_.
"Certainly he is rather" (hesitating)--"rather _trying_; but I
suppose one ought to make allowances for one's father."
"I wish one's father would make one more allowance," ha says,
laughing. "Come, let us go up into the state drawing-room: it will
be the coolest place to-day. I wish to heaven Alford belonged to me,
or was ever likely to: what rattling good parties I would have here!"
And he sighs.
We mount the carven stair-case and traverse the long gallery lined
with pictures. There are niches in all the embrasured windows which
look out upon the green sea of turf without, and big silver-bound oak
and marqueterie cabinets stand within them, while quaint carvings and
curious pictures look down upon us from above. Eastern figures as
large as life, bearing lamps, stand on either side of the five steps
that lead to the state drawing-room.
"Those grim faces used to frighten me into fits when I was a child,"
says Captain Montagu, as he gives me an unneeded hand to help ire up
the low easy stairs. "Come and sit in my favorite seat" (opening the
door and leading me towards the window).
I am half afraid of another _tête-à-tête_ with him, and yet it is
exquisite happiness to be alone with him, to hear his thrilling
voice, and to meet the glances of his kind eyes. And it will be over
so soon now!
"We shall not have much longer together," he says, softly, as if
divining my thought from the half-reluctant manner in which I follow
him.
"No," I answer, with a long sigh, which I hope is only audible to
myself.
So we seat ourselves on the low couch that fills up the deep
mullioned window, and for a little while neither breaks the silence.
He is looking out upon the greensward, and I am contemplating the
room and it's furniture,--from the dark polished parquet floor to the
painted ceiling. The huge carved chimney-piece empanels the portrait
of the oldest known ancestor of the Montagus: it is a hideous stiff
painting by Holbein, and in the eyelashless eyes and shadowless face
I amuse myself by finding a likeness to Sir Hector.
"By Jove, so there is, now you mention it!" laughs Captain Montagu.
"Tell him so. If a man could be flattered and unflattered in a
breath, I should think such a remark would be calculated to inspire
that paradoxical sensation in him."
"_I_ tell him!" I echo, laughing too; "not for the world, I don't
think I shall ever venture another remark: my conversation shall be
Yea, yea, and Nay, nay. Not even the weather is a safe topic with
him to-day. I can see a likeness to you there" (pointing to a
full-length portrait, in cavalier dress, of a very handsome man).
"Thanks," he answers, making me a little bow. "That is Sir Rupert,
the scapegrace of the family."
"I wonder why scapegraces are always good-looking," I say,
reflectively.
Captain Montagu laughs merrily.
"Perhaps they would not have so many temptations if they were not
endowed with certain outward advantages."
"That is true," I think, taking him _au serieux_ and heaving a little
jealous sigh.
Then he relapses into silence, and I let my eyes wander round again
over the portraits, the carved, tapestry-covered couches, the quaint
seats of crimson velvet embroidered in gold, the heavily-framed
mirrors with beveled edges, the cabinets and stools and sconces.
After my eyes have traveled carefully round, they return to the
polished parquet.
"What a floor for dancing!" I utter, regretfully, breaking the long
silence at last.
"_Apropos_," he says, jumping up and holding out his arms, "let us
have a waltz."
"Without music?" I ask, doubtfully.
"We will sing the 'Blue Danube' until we are out of breath," he
answers, gayly.
Our voices mingle in that thrilling air, his arm is round me, and we
are floating deliciously over the polished floor. Suddenly we stop
as the door is thrown wide open. Hector, black and frowning, is
confronting us.
CHAPTER XXII.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
The pair stop dancing, but they are so surprised at Hector's
appearance that for a moment Captain Montagu still keeps his arm
round Diana's waist. Hector comes forward trying rather
unsuccessfully to cover his frown with a smile, and shakes hands
coldly with Diana.
"I did not know you were coming," he remarks, pointedly, to his
brother.
"Nor did I until yesterday morning. I sent a telegram; but I suppose
you had left before it arrived. I had no idea there was such an
agreeable surprise in store for me as finding Miss Carew here."
Hector looks aggressively disbelieving, and Diana, feeling a strange
unpleasant awkwardness, makes excuse that she will inquire after Lady
Montagu's headache. Hector opens the door for her with stiff
politeness, but his eyes seek her eagerly. She says "Thank you"
without looking at him. He closes the door, and returns to the
window where his brother is standing, his face working as though
moved by no pleasant emotion. Charlie is drumming imperturbably on
the window-pane. Hector stands for a moment looking at him,--the
expression in his eyes does not indicate much brotherly affection;
then he speaks in a constrained voice and with apparent effort.
"Is it a _fact_ you did not know before you came that Miss Carew was
staying here?"
"It is," returns the other, still playing the "Blue Danube" on the
glass with much apparent interest in his occupation.
"Oh!" replies Hector, shortly, and relapses into silence.
Charlie carefully finishes his tune, and then turns to confront his
brother. He is very good-tempered, he hates quarreling and argument;
but there is something so aggressive and dictatorial in his brother's
manner that he cannot well pass it over as if he had not remarked it.
Moreover, he has a guilty feeling of not having done quite the right
thing, and that feeling makes him doubly resentful of Hector's
behavior. There is just the least increase of color in his face as
he turns to him and says, deliberately,--
"I did not know Miss Carew was here; but, had I done so, I am not
aware that it would have been any reason for my staying away."
Hector is silent: in truth, Charlie's remark is not an easy one to
reply to.
"Are you engaged to Miss Carew?" he proceeds; "because, if not"
(warmly), "it strikes me, my dear fellow, you are giving yourself
airs of proprietorship that are rather absurd, and, to say the least,
uncalled-for."
Hector's dark brows almost meet, and he clutches angrily at a carved
chair-back.
"I know what you are," he exclaims: "you can no more let a woman
alone than" (somewhat at a loss for a simile)--"than a dog can help
chasing a rabbit. If I had been engaged to her ten times over, it
would not have hindered your making love to her the moment my back
was turned."
There is just sufficient truth in his remark to make it unpalatable
to his hearer.
"Well, but are you engaged to her?" he persists.
"No, I am not" (shortly); "but I dare say our mother has told you
that it is my dearest wish to marry her, and that I have only been
afraid of asking her for fear of frightening or repelling her by
being in too great a hurry."
"Oh," returns Charlie, coolly; "and when you have proposed and she
has accepted you, am I to understand that you expect me to keep me
away from Alford altogether? And am I to be the only victim? or do
you propose to keep every other man under sixty away from the house,
for fear of endangering your peace of mind? If so" (Charlie has
lashed himself into most unwonted bitterness), "I must say it betrays
a singular want of confidence in your own powers of pleasing, and the
future Mrs. Montagu seems likely to have rather a lively time of it."
Every word goes home, far more keenly than the speaker has any idea
or intention of. Hector turns fiercely away, and walks to the other
end of the room, and Captain Montagu resumes the "Blue Danube" where
he left off.
Hector is away some five minutes; to judge by his face, an intense
struggle is going on within him; then he comes slowly back to the
couch on which his brother has thrown himself full length. He takes
no notice of Hector: with his hands under his head, he is apparently
absorbed in contemplation of a fly that is making frantic efforts to
extricate itself from a spider's cunning web. Hector evidently wants
to say something, but cannot bring himself to the utterance: he
stands for a moment looking at his brother, then takes another hasty
turn. This time he plunges desperately into his subject.
"I have something to say to you," he begins, in a harsh tone.
Charlie brings his eyes slowly from the ceiling to his brother's
face, and Hector cannot but own in his heart, grudgingly though he
does it, what a handsome fellow he is.
"I dare say you know," he proceeds, in a voice quite hoarse from
strangled emotion, "that I have never been in love before in my life,
not really in love. I have never cared intensely for a woman, never
thought much of them except as toys to while away one's idle hours.
Well" (pausing, and finding the next words bitterly hard to say), "my
whole soul is in this. Of course I know what you think about me: you
think I'm a cold, hard sort of fellow without a grain of sentiment.
_I_ haven't frittered away my heart" (with some contempt), "and given
a thousand bits to a thousand different women; so, now" (dropping his
voice) "that I have come to love at last, it goes rather hard with
me. My life and soul are in it" (passionately); "if I thought I
should lose her, my God!" (wildly), "I don't know what would become
of me."
Charlie has risen to a sitting posture, astonished, almost shocked,
at his brother's vehemence.
"My dear fellow----" he begins, but Hector cuts him short.
"What I want to say to you is this. She is nothing, can be nothing,
to you: you don't want to marry her, you could not if you did: for
heaven's sake do not come between us. I know you have some wonderful
influence over women, though" (roughly) "God knows what it is except
your good-looking face and soft voice; but I ask you, I entreat you,
the first favor I ever asked of you in my life, to go away until it
is all settled. Then" (hesitatingly), "if she does come to care for
me, I need not be afraid of you, nor" (smiling uneasily) "the whole
brigade of Guards at your back."
Charlie is very weak and very good-natured. He is vastly taken with
Diana; in the wood that morning he had felt himself on the verge of
falling in love with her; but now that his brother appeals to him so
earnestly, with the conviction also staring him in the face that any
idea of marrying her himself would be utterly, ridiculously
impossible, he behaves in the gracious pleasant way that is the key
to the charm he exercises over people.
"My dear old fellow," he says, holding out his hand, "I did not know
it was such a serious business. Of course she likes you; of course
she will have you; and if you think, though you greatly overrate my
powers, that I am likely to stand in your way, I'll be off to-morrow
by the first train. So now" (gayly) "set your mind at rest. I'll go
off and have a ride, and next time I see you both I hope to say,
'Bless you, my children!'"
Hector grasps his brother's hand with a warmer clasp than he has done
for many a long day; and so they part, Charlie for his ride, Hector
with a beating heart to look for Diana. He finds her presently in
the small drawing-room. She greets him with a cold, civil little
smile as he comes eagerly up to her. In her heart she is thinking
very unkindly of him for having spoiled her _tête-à-tête_ with his
brother.
"Have you seen my mother?--is she better?" he asks, sitting down in
front of her.
"Her head is better, but she wishes to keep very quiet, that she may
come down to dinner: so I did not see her."
"You are not going to stay in-doors all the afternoon, are you?" he
says. "Won't you come out for a drive?"
"Thanks" (coldly): "I do not care to drive to-day."
She fancies that he wants to take her away from his brother, and
resents it.
"I thought you were so fond of driving."
"So I am; but----"
"But what?"
"I do not care to be always driving" (pettishly).
"Come into the garden, then, or let me row you in the boat."
She assents to this, thinking Captain Montagu will join them.
As they cross towards the water, she catches sight of a mounted
figure, and her heart gives a little indignant throb.
"We might all have gone out riding," she says, in a tone whose regret
is extremely apparent.
"Why not now?" he answers, eagerly: "there is plenty of time. I will
go and order the horses."
She pauses, irresolute: her heart has gone after the solitary
horseman, but she feels it would be undignified to seem to run after
him.
"No," she says (shaking her head): "I do not care for it to-day: it
is too hot."
He helps her into the boat, ana rows her about untiringly. She is
vexedly conscious that his dark eyes are fixed upon her, and that he
scarcely ever averts them. Hector is beginning to love her
idolatrously: he feels as if he could never look too long at that
sweet face, with its clear soft color, its red, half-parted lips, its
lovely fringed eyelids. Anon his eyes travel to the pillar-like
throat, so creamily white, and the slender fingers that she holds
over the boat's side, that the cool water may trickle through them.
He cannot but see that she is a little perverse and pettish this
afternoon, but he loves her none the less for it, only it sends a
quick pang through his heart as he conjectures the cause. But when
_he_ is gone, he tells himself, she will be her own bright self
again, as she was yesterday (only yesterday! it seems a week), when
she wished him "good-by" at the station.
Captain Montagu is seen no more until dinner. Diana spends nearly an
hour in trying to look her fairest. She goes softly down-stairs ten
minutes before the bell rings, but has the drawing-room all to
herself. Captain Montagu does not join them until the gong has
sounded. At dinner he devotes himself to his mother, who is well
enough just to sit at the table; and Hector monopolizes Diana
entirely. She is miserable: she longs for only one kind glance, but
longs in vain. She looks wistfully across at him many a time, but he
seems studiously to avoid her.
"He will look at me when I pass him after dinner," she thinks; but,
though he rises from his seat, he leaves Hector to open the door.
Lady Montagu, after a few kind words, goes back to her bedroom, not
being sufficiently recovered to stay up longer, and Diana is left to
herself. The tears spring to her eyes: is this the end of "the
golden day"? Her poor little heart is quivering with the stabs of
Captain Montagu's indifference; she longs agonizingly for one of
those looks that he was prodigal enough of this morning. And for one
wild foolish moment in the wood she had fancied she might be
something to him. She has forgotten the friendly, pleasant liking
she had for Hector only yesterday; a passionate anger against him is
creeping into her heart; his love for her, which she is forced to
see, pleads no excuse for him in her indignant disappointment. She
thinks of last night,--of her walk in the moonlight with Captain
Montagu. She has forgotten how little pleasure it really gave her,
and magnifies the delight of it a thousandfold. She is feverish and
restless: she feels she cannot sit and talk to Hector; she will be
forced into saying something sharp or rude to him; and as for chess!
no, she cannot, will not undergo that torture to-night, let Sir
Hector think or say what he will. Let him be angry! her fear of him
is swallowed up by a much greater emotion. She will plead
indisposition and go to her room. But how will that be better? she
thinks, forlornly. She cannot sleep, and will have cut herself off
from all chance of seeing him. She goes to the window and looks out.
The moon is rising in all her splendor behind the dark trees; her
pure cold light is flooding garden, lawn, and lake with silver. A
sudden thought makes Diana's heart throb. She will go out, not with
any thought of meeting him,--she is too proud for that,--but out in
the clear soft stillness of the night she will not feel oppressed as
she does here. In a moment she has opened the door and is rushing
along the corridor. Many pairs of eyes look down upon her from the
carved oaken panels, but the lips that belong to them can tell no
tales. She snatches up the lace shawl with a pang, as she remembers
how tenderly he wrapped her in it last night, and then she flits
hurriedly away out into the hush of the radiant night.
Unpremeditatedly, unconsciously almost, she takes the path towards
the wood, not pausing until she comes to the gate that leads into it.
Stopping, she leans over it, her soul filled full of the bitter sweet
of memory. It was here they stopped and leaned together in the
morning of the golden day that was to have been. Golden morning,
leaden afternoon! she thinks, drearily. Diana has not a very
courageous soul, she is not used to lonely night-wanderings, but
to-night she feels no fear.
"I will go into the wood," she thinks, "and sit on the felled tree
where we sat this morning." And thither she goes.
If the pale primroses were fair in the gold sunshine, they are fairer
still steeped in the silver moonbeams, shining out white and virginal
from among the dark clumps of hyacinths, too dark to be irradiated by
the pure pale light. Diana tries to recall the memory of the
morning: closing her eyes, she sees him standing there before her,
with arms outstretched to her, his blue eyes looking down upon her
full of love.
"Ah! but he is used to look like that," she tells herself,
desolately. "Did he not own that he could not be ten minutes in the
company of a woman without wanting to make love to her?"
At this bitter thought, all courage and hope forsake her, and she
falls to weeping piteously. The distant click of the gate's latch
arouses her, and makes her heart beat with wild terror. Who can it
be? She is fain to fly, but remembers that she does not know her
way. If she goes towards the house, she must meet whoever it is. It
may be a poacher: he may murder her, she thinks, in an agony of fear.
Her quick, frightened ear catches the sound of a slow, measured
footfall: it does not sound like a poacher's tread: it may be Hector
come to look for her; but then he would be walking fast. It may
be--and her heart beats more wildly still--it may be his brother,
bound on the same errand as herself. Another minute solves the
doubt, as Captain Montagu, in evening dress, except the coat, which
he has exchanged for a shooting-jacket, bareheaded, cigar in mouth,
strolls leisurely into view. She jumps up in an ecstasy of mingled
joy and shame,--joy at being with him once more, shame at the
recollection of her tear-stained face. He sees her, and utters an
exclamation of strong surprise.
"Is it really you?" he says, coming quickly towards her. "Can I
believe my eyes?"
Diana smiles (it is not hard to smile, looking back into those
kindling eyes), and stammers a little lame excuse.
"It was such a lovely night, the room was warm, and--and I don't feel
equal to chess to-night."
He has thrown his cigar away, and is looking at her, thinking how
fair she is, knowing she has been crying about him, wishing he had
not made that promise to Hector. He had fully meant, he does mean,
to keep it: has he not come out here on purpose to leave the field
clear for his brother? Is he not going away to-morrow morning by the
first train (a most awful nuisance, too, getting up in the dead of
night) to oblige him?
But Charlie is very weak, especially about women, and Diana is very
fair: it is the old, old story.
"And I came out here on purpose to avoid you," he says. The words
are not flattering, but they are uttered in a tone which leaves Diana
nothing to resent.
"I can go in," she answers, making as if to leave him. He lets her
go three paces, and then cries,--
"Do not go."
She turns and stands there half reluctant.
"Let us sit down together where we did this morning," he whispers:
"it will be the last time we shall be together."
"The last time?" she echoes, with a startled look. "Why?"
"Because I am going away to-morrow by the first train."
Diana looks away; a great knot rises in her throat, the pale clear
primroses are a blurred confused mass of white; for all the shame of
it, for all her eager desire to repress them, two great shining tears
_will_ gather before her bright eyes, _will_ stand trembling like
diamonds on the sweet lids, _will_ fall with a little plash into her
lap, and, though her face is half averted, he sees it. Oh, what
utter irremediable mischief women's tears have worked since the
beginning of time!
CHAPTER XXIII.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
A struggle takes place in Captain Montagu's mind: it is short-lived.
He has never accustomed himself to conquer self, it has always been
so pleasant to act on the impulse of the moment, and very rarely in
his life has it been followed by unpleasant consequences for him. It
is unfair after his promise to be sitting here now, it is as unfair
to Diana as to Hector, and yet on this fair warm night, with the
sweet spring scents filling his senses, with the amorous song of the
nightingale thrilling through the soft night air, with the proximity
of a fair and loving woman, he is morally incapable of jumping up, as
he knows he ought to do, and walking off briskly in the opposite
direction. The knowledge of its being wrong makes the temptation
stronger still. But how could he, he told himself afterwards, when
it was too late, see her in distress and not attempt to soothe her!
In distress for him, too! It would have been simply brutal.
"Darling," he whispers, stealing one arm round her, and drawing her
head on to his shoulder, "don't let me see tears in those dear eyes!"
As he sees two more impending, he bends down and kisses them away.
She leaves her head where he has laid it; she is very young, very
innocent, she has not been brought up with strict cautions about the
proprieties; the heroes of her books have always kissed the heroines
(at parting from them, or on some supreme occasion like this), and
for the most part the heroines have taken it as she is doing now,
happily, unresistingly. She is not overtaken by a paroxysm of
indignant virtue, as perhaps a well-tutored young lady would have
been, because her mind is too pure to think any harm. It would have
seemed horrible, loathsome, to her to have been kissed by a man whom
she did not love; but here, where all her heart is given, it does not
seem wrong,--not even unnatural.
Captain Montagu, having made no resistance to temptation, is, as
happens to most of us, swept away by it altogether.
"My darling," he cries, the warm blood stirring in his veins, finding
her doubly dear because he knows she cannot be his, "do you think I
can give you up without a struggle! Only this time last night I had
no more thought of _loving_ you than I had of flying, and now
to-night I feel as if parting with you was like parting with my
heart's blood." Her lips are so near to his, how can they help but
meet? Then she draws herself away from him, and, sitting upright,
pushes back her hair with a confused motion. She is silent, but her
heart is saying, wildly, "He will not, he cannot leave me now."
But he too has pulled himself together; he has been through scenes
something of the kind before, and he feels that he must make an
effort, or the witchery of the night and this fair girl may plunge
him into an act of folly that will bring a life-long repentance. It
is bitterly hard to be practical under present circumstances. If
Diana had been town-bred, if she had mixed in society, it would have
been unnecessary to attempt any explanation as to the impossibility
of their thinking of marriage; but she is a simple unsophisticated
girl (however sweet and dear), who knows nothing of the world's ways,
and who, worst of all, is accustomed to comparative poverty. Feeling
and expediency are equally mixed as he says (hating himself the while
for saying it),--"I never in my life cared for a girl before as I do
for you. I never dreamed of marrying except as a means of paying my
debts and launching me afresh in the world; but I swear to you it
gives me the most horrible pain that I cannot ask you to be my wife."
"I know," she answers, hurriedly, though a pang shoots through her
breast, but wanting to gave him the pain of a confession,--"I know it
is quite impossible. I never thought of anything of _that sort_.
If" (drooping her sweet face in shame), "if I might think you--you
liked me a little."
"Liked you!" cries the young man, passionately: "what a poor little
miserable cold word! Think and be quite sure that I love you, and
that I would give my right hand to make you mine."
Diana looks up into his face with radiant eyes.
"I shall not mind anything now I have heard you say that," she says,
innocently: "it will be enough to live on all the rest of my life."
"Oh, darling!" he utters, remorsefully, taking her hand in his, "why
do you make me feel such a brute? How can you care for such a
miserable, selfish fellow as I am? Why, even now this moment, loving
you as I do" (moved to the confession by a worthy sense of shame),
"do you not see that I am sacrificing you to my selfishness in the
most hateful, cold-blooded way?"
"Hush!" she says, laying her slim fingers on his lips; "do not
breathe a word against yourself; it would be the only thing" (with
loving emphasis) "you could say that I should not believe."
Her sweetness, her fairness, her love, rise up before him, and
overcome all which prudence, worldliness, and selfishness had
whispered to him before.
"My sweet!" he cries, catching her in his arms, "I can, I will give
up everything in the world for your sake, if you can put up with me
as I am."
She yields for one moment to his passionate embrace; then, with a
sigh, she withdraws herself gently from his binding arms.
"Do you think," she says, laying one slim white hand on his arm, and
fixing her shining eyes upon his passion-wrought face,--"do you think
I love you so little as that? No, no, no! it is very generous of
you, but it is impossible. I know it even better than you do."
Her words stab him. He generous! he feels intensely, more intensely
than he has ever felt anything in his life, how selfish and ignoble
his conduct has been. He feels in truth
"There is no after-pang
Can deal that vengeance on the self-condemned
He deals on his own soul."
Yet, even now, as he dwells upon her fairness and thinks it will be
Hector's, not his, he grudges her bitterly to him.
"What unlucky chance brought us out here together to-night?" he says,
miserably. "I had resolved not to put myself in the way of
temptation again, and" (half to himself) "I had given him my word."
"What?" cries Diana, with kindling eyes, catching the words and
understanding them all too well.
"What is the use of mincing matters?" he says, moodily, leaning
against the stalwart oak trunk through whose as yet sparsely-filled
branches the moonbeams glint on the workings of his face. "You know
that Hector loves you, you know he wants to marry you, and"
(bitterly) "in time of course you will marry him. He is young
enough, he is not bad-looking, he is devoted to you, and all this"
(with a little wave of his hand) "will be his."
Speaking, Captain Montagu takes some little credit to himself that,
however reluctantly, with however ill a grace, he is still pleading
his brother's cause. If it were possible for scorn to creep into so
great a love as Diana's, it glances for one moment upon him from her
flashing eyes. But as she looks upon that dear face it dies out.
"Do not," she whispers, softly; "you hurt me. If you cared ever so
little for me you could not bear to think of my belonging to him. I
know nothing of love" (looking at him with clear steadfast eyes),
"but, oh, I know, I feel that by a sort of instinct."
"You are right," he says, catching at her hand. "I hate the thought
like death. Well" (eagerly), "say the word, take me for worse and
for poorer, and then I shall not have to think of giving you up to
any one."
She is only a child, a child without experience, but she knows, even
if he thinks it for the moment, that he is not in earnest about it,
that if she yielded he would regret it even to-night. If the
sacrifice, the self-abnegation, had been for her in the future, would
she not have consented joyfully, without a fear, without a pang? But
it would be on his part; and she knows, without its detracting from
her love for him one whit, that he would grudge the sacrifice later,
if not now. She laughs to scorn the bare idea that she can be worthy
of him: what has she to give him but her love, her poor little
worthless love, that is, after all, only an involuntary tribute to
his perfection?
The church-clock strikes ten with a slow sonorous sound.
"Your father is awake, and waiting for his game," she says, looking
up with an awed face and returning to sudden consciousness of the
present.
Captain Montagu cannot help laughing.
"Poor little darling!" he whispers: "how they have cowed you already!"
"He will wake up," says Diana, in a low, prophetic voice; "he will
look about for me, and then he will ring and ask for me; they will go
to my room and not find me there; then," her voice rising, "they will
come out and look for me. Oh," (grasping his arm and looking in his
face with a blanched, frightened gaze)--"if they find me here with
you _I shall die_."
"They shall not find you here with me," he says, in a soothing voice,
seeing that she is really terrified and that her nerves are
over-strung. "Come; we will go towards the house, and then, when we
are in the garden, if we hear any one coming we can separate."
"Come!" she cries, making her way swiftly towards the gate, he
following her.
At the gate they pause, as they did in the morning.
"Is it to be 'good-by,' then?" he whispers, looking regret fully at
her.
"Why need you go to-morrow?" she asks, evasively.
"Because I have promised."
"But," she urges, in an earnest voice, "if he--if Mr. Montagu _knows_
that I can never be anything more to him than" (falteringly) "to you,
why should we not all be happy together?"
"Did you ever hear of Cain and Abel? One brother murdered the other
because he was jealous; though I never heard that a woman had
anything to do with it in that case. But it strikes me that if we
were in the same house with you for another week with our present
feelings, we should both feel pretty much towards each other as Cain
and Abel did; or rather, I should say, as Cain did to Abel."
"Good-by, then," she sighs, with bitter reluctance, stretching out
her hand.
"Not yet," he cries. "Oh, little darling, I don't feel as if I
_could_ part from you!"
"I must go," she whispers. "They would know it was unnatural for me
to be out so late alone. I think your mother would not be pleased.
She is the only one I should be really grieved to vex."
"Good-by," she whispers, again, and lifts her sweet face to take one
last look at him. He sees the tremulous red mouth, the bright eyes
shining through unshed tears, the white, fair face, in which the warm
color ebbs and flows; he hears the quiver in the soft voice, and
again he thinks remorsefully of all he will lose in parting from her.
He draws her back a few paces out of the moonlight into the deep
shadow of the tree. Once more his arms are round her, once more he
kisses her sweet lips. For a moment she clings to him, as though to
part from him were to part with her whole soul; and then she leaves
him standing there alone, fighting with a passionate love and regret
for her, and goes swiftly towards the house. In front of the door,
in the full white light, Hector is standing.
"Miss Carew!" he exclaims, in a voice wherein surprise and anger
fight for mastery, and then, with a swift change of voice, speaking
very eagerly, "How pale you are! Have you been frightened?"
"I! no," she answers, staring at him, and trembling in every limb.
Her nerves are overwrought: a deadly fear and sickness comes across
her.
"You look quite ill," he says, anxiously. "Let me get you a glass of
wine." And, without waiting for her answer, he draws her unresisting
hand through his arm, and leads her away into the house. There is a
light in the smoking-room, and he pushes the door open and takes her
in and places her in a low chair by the open window. Then he hurries
off for wine. Whilst he is gone, she collects herself, and is able
to smile upon him when he returns, and to make a pretense even of
sipping what he brings her.
"And answered with such craft as women use,
Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chance
That breaks upon them perilously."
"Were you frightened?" Hector asks her again, pertinatiously.
"No--yes," she stammers. "The moon throws such strange ghostly
shadows these bright nights."
"Did you go out alone?" he asks, eying her with stern curiosity.
Diana pauses: she has never told a lie in her life. But a quick
thought comes to her rescue; he has asked her if she went alone, and
to that she can answer "Yes," truthfully.
"Why did you not wait for me?" he says, with gentle reproach, coming
a little nearer to her. "Did you not know how glad I should have
been to go with you?"
She shrinks from him imperceptibly, and utters a little forced laugh.
"Thank you," she says. "I felt oppressed by the heat, and thought
the fresh air would do me good. What did Sir Hector say?"
"He took it for granted you had gone to bed," answers Mr. Montagu,
stiffly. He is still haunted by a vague, horrible suspicion,
although he believes firmly in her truthfulness. Certainly she is
not the same gay laughing Diana he drove along the hawthorn-bound
lanes, and wished good-by to, only yesterday morning, before that
hateful journey.
She has relapsed into weary silence, and, glancing at her,
"Right through his manful breast darted the pang
That makes a man, in the sweet face of her
Whom he loves most, lonely and miserable."
"I shall steal off to bed," she says, rising, and forcing rather a
wan smile. "Do not betray me to your father. Good-night!"
Somehow he has no heart to ask her to linger. He bids her a cold
good-night.
"To-morrow!" he whispers to himself, as he looks after her retreating
figure; "to-morrow!" But still he sighs, and his heart is heavy
within him. Even his cigar affords him but poor consolation to-night.
CHAPTER XXIV.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
Diana is awake early next morning: indeed, she has not passed a very
tranquil night. A great crisis in her life has come; but what lies
beyond? She hardly dares to think: fain would she content herself
with the present, but the thought of what is to follow will creep in.
She had imagined for the minute, whilst the man she loved was at her
side, that she could live for all time on that memory; and yet
already she is hankering and longing to see him again, and thinking
how blank and void to-day will be without him. She hears the sound
of wheels, and springs out of bed. She can just catch a glimpse of
the dog-cart, and the horse pawing and scraping the ground. A minute
later she hears the sound of Captain Montagu's voice, and cranes her
neck eagerly behind the blind to get one more glimpse of him. _His_
face is not pale nor haggard, as, somehow, she half expects to see
it, as hers is, unless her mirror tells a false tale; he looks cheery
and _debonnair_, and gives a pleasant farewell smile and nod to
Simkins who comes out to wish him God-speed. His portmanteau and bag
are in, he lights a cigar, takes the reins, jumps in, and--is gone.
Gone! Diana feels acutely at this moment how much of pain one little
four-lettered word can hold. She whispers it painfully to herself
over and over again, Gone from her forever! Will he remember her?
Will he think longingly, lingeringly, as she does, over last night's
scene?--or is it only a repetition, with a trifling variation, of
scenes that he has gone through many a time before? Why, why did he
make that hateful speech?--why tell her he could never be alone with
a woman without making love to her? And was it always the same,--the
man in play, the woman in earnest? A passage from Madame de Staël
will haunt her: "_L'amour est l'histoire de la vie des femmes cest un
épisode dans celle des hommes_." Over and over again it repeats
itself as she plaits her long hair and dresses tardily for
breakfast,--breakfast that was so cheery yesterday, that will be so
dull, she thinks, sighing, to-day. It is a bright, warm day again:
she wishes it were stormy and wet; she would rather hear the wind
howling dismally in the wide chimney, and the rain pattering against
the window-panes: it would be far more in consonance with her
feelings.
"I cannot stay here any longer," she says to herself. "I will write
to-day and tell papa that he _must_ send for me home."
Sir Hector is short and snappish with her this morning: evidently he
is ill pleased at her defalcation the previous evening; but his son
tries by every means in his power to make things pleasant.
"Will you ride this morning?" he asks her. "There is a charming ride
for a sunny morning that I have not yet taken you,--all through shady
lanes and a delicious wood."
Sha shivers a little at the last word, but tries to smile as she
assents to his proposal. Yes, she will like to ride very much.
Anything for a change; anything to take her out of herself. Hector
feels, and is, quite another man this morning: the nightmare of his
brother's presence being removed, he can smile and be genial again,
and the ugly curves about his mouth shrink away to nothing. It is a
morning to make any one blithe who has the faintest, smallest reason
for being glad; it is a morning to break the heart of any one who has
a secret sorrow gnawing at his breast. When nature is so passing
fair and one is at discord with her, at discord with happiness, what
is her loveliness but "sweet bells jangled out of tune"?
Is this grave silent maiden, who forces a little pale smile in answer
when he speaks to her, the joyous laughing Diana of three days ago?
so full of life and spirits that she would have let him make love to
her had he willed it, out of sheer high spirits and the pleasure of
life? He will be very patient with her, but as they ride along he
falls to wondering what charm his brother possesses for winning
smiles and gay glad words from every woman he comes across.
"I never in my life heard him say anything that was not utterly
commonplace," he thinks. "Are women, even good women, really so
shallow as to be caught by a merely handsome face and a trick of
manner?"
"What did you do yesterday?" he asks, abruptly,--so abruptly that the
quick color rushes uncontrollably through her fair face.
"How you startle one!" she says, with some pettishness.
"Did I?" he replies, penitently. "I am very sorry. I am afraid I am
rather a bear."
"Not that," she says, recovering herself; "but you are silent for a
long time, and then you burst out suddenly upon one in a way that
takes one's breath away."
"Do I?" he exclaims, eagerly. "I am so sorry,--awfully sorry, as the
correct phrase is now. But," returning to his former question, "what
_did _you do yesterday?"
"I don't know" (carelessly): "nothing, I think,--pottered about the
garden."
"Is that all?"
"Do you insist upon the minutest details?" she asks, with a look he
does not quite comprehend.
"I don't insist on anything," he rejoins, with some coldness.
"After breakfast I sang for an hour; then we went into the garden and
sat under a tree, and your brother caught three carp."
She does not tell him how; and he chooses to imagine, not being a
fisherman, nor knowing the exceeding difficulty of catching those
wily fish with fly or worm, that Captain Montagu angled for them in
the usual manner, "a worm at one end of the rod, a fool at the
other." He reflects to himself with inward satisfaction that fishing
and love-making are two things that do not go very well together.
"And after that?"
"After that" (averting her face and pulling leaves off the
low-hanging boughs within her reach), "oh, after that we strolled
into the wood to look at the primroses and hyacinths. Have you seen
them?--they are exquisite. I never saw so many together before."
"Will you show them to me?" he asks, bending a little towards her;
but they have emerged into the open, and she puts her horse into a
canter without answering. Go there with him! not for worlds! is it
not sacred to a memory? Let no unhallowed feet profane its precincts.
When they reach home, Diana finds Lady Montagu in the drawing-room.
Is it her fancy, or is the kiss my lady bestows upon her a shade less
warm and her manner a little less affectionate than usual?
"She is angry with me because her favorite son has gone," Diana
thinks, forlornly. "Why does she not blame the right person for
sending him away?--am I not tenfold more grieved than she? As long
as she lives, he will always be the same to her, and now" (tears
rising at the thought) "he is never to be anything more to me." She
takes her embroidery, and the two ladies work assiduously: very
little conversation passes between them. After lunch they drive
together, but still Diana feels painfully that she is under a cloud.
The only thing that could have consoled her would be to hear Captain
Montagu's mother speak of him, and she has never even so much as
mentioned his name. Well, she will be back at the dear old home
soon: why did she ever leave it? She has written to her father
telling him that she is home-sick, and that she _will positively_
return home the next day but one following. He must write her by
return of post summoning her back, but, if not, why, she will go
without; but in any case _she will go home_. This is an unusual
display of willfulness for Miss Diana; but then it is a very unusual
occasion. All through the drive she is thinking how she will broach
the subject to her hostess (the letter is safely on its way by now);
at last she says, rushing at her subject,--
"I fear I must be leaving you very soon, Lady Montagu. I have had
a--a delightful visit; but papa will be missing me sadly, and I quite
expect a summons" (feeling guilty), "perhaps to-morrow or the next
day."
"My dear, you must not think of it," answers my lady, with her old
kind manner. "What should we do without you? I, for one, cannot
spare you. Sir Hector will be quite lost without his chess; and as
for Hector----"
"I think you could all do better without me than papa," interrupts
Diana; "though it is very kind of you to say you will miss me."
"But, my dear," says Lady Montagu, with a pleasant smile, "your papa
will have to spare you altogether some day; and it is better to
accustom him to the idea by degrees."
"He will never have to spare me for long," answers Diana, heaving a
great sigh, but speaking in a resolute tone so unusual to her that
Lady Montagu looks askance at her.
"Young girls always talk like that," she says, but lets the subject
drop. Later in the day she tells Hector what has passed. She has
sent for him to her boudoir, and he has answered the summons in haste.
He looks bitterly pained.
"Oh, mother!" he says, at last, "why of all days should you have had
a headache on that one unlucky day?"
"My dear," answers Lady Montagu, softly, "I think you take alarm too
easily. I do not imagine Diana can be so foolish as to think
anything of Charlie. I am sure she is too lady-like and right-minded
to care for a man who has not given her any encouragement."
"_Encouragement_! Grant me patience!" mutters Hector, in a fierce
_sotto voce_, turning sharply to the window.
"What did you say?" asks Lady Montagu, mildly, and he makes the
answer that people generally do when they say and mean a good deal.
"Nothing!"
"We know," proceeds my lady, gently, all unconscious of the daggers
she is planting in the heart of her first-born, "that Charlie has a
very winning manner; but no girl, I should hope, would be foolish
enough to construe his pleasant little caressing ways into any
serious intentions. He is the same to every woman, even to me"
(smiling a little), "your father says."
"You remember the old fable of the boys and the frog, mother," Hector
interrupts, roughly, unconsciously betraying the fear that he has
been chary of acknowledging even to himself. "What is play to you is
death to me."
"You do not think, really," says Lady Montagu, incredulously, "that
Diana has taken a serious fancy to Charlie?"
"Fancy!" murmurs Hector to himself; "ay, that is a good word to apply
to a woman's liking." Then, aloud,--
"I don't know what to think; my heart is so in this matter that I
have not the least chance of judging impartially. Mother"
(earnestly), "I have not courage to speak to her myself. I love her
so much that I am actually afraid of her. Will you not" (pleadingly)
"speak for me,--tell her how intensely I love her, and--and" (smiling
rather doubtfully) "say the best you can of me, mother? I don't
think I am the sort of fellow to take a girl's _fancy_,--that was the
word you used,--and yet we seemed to get on very well before--before
I went away. I had great hope of her that morning when she went to
the station with me."
"Of course, dear," Lady Montagu replies, nervously, "I will do
anything to contribute to your happiness; but" (smiling up in his
face) "I hardly think a mother is a good medium for a man's
love-making,--in this country, at all events. Why not tell her
yourself? Indeed it would come much better from you."
He shakes his head.
"I cannot; but you--at all events you can prepare her mind. Not
to-night,--somehow, I do not think she would take it so well
to-night,--but to-morrow. Don't refuse me, mother!"
His heart is in his voice, and so his mother consents so the
unthankful task. On the following afternoon, when she and Diana have
come in from their drive and are sitting together over their work,
Lady Montagu, with a little ruffled uncomfortable sensation at her
heart, broaches the theme.
"I shall be very lonely this time to-morrow," she says, gently,
lifting her sweet gray eyes from the gorgeous silks with which she is
embroidering a great damask rose; "that is, if you persist in leaving
us."
"You are very, very kind," Diana replies, answering the look with one
equally pleasant and affectionate; "and I shall miss you every bit as
much,--perhaps more. You know" (most unwittingly giving the very cue
that the other wants) "you are the first person who ever made me feel
the want of a mother."
"Come and sit by me," says Lady Montagu, holding out her hand; and
Diana, rising, crosses over and sits beside her on the sofa.
Lady Montagu takes one of her hands and strokes it softly.
"Let me be your mother in reality," she whispers, softly, looking in
Diana's face with kind, humid eyes. "Let me plead my son's cause
with you."
Diana's head droops: the tears are welling in her eyes too: what
would she ask better than to be daughter to so kind and sweet a
mother?--daughter, but not in the way she means. She is silent, but
her silence may signify anything, and Lady Montagu takes heart of
grace.
"Ever since Hector first saw you," she proceeds, still caressing the
slim white hand, "he has loved you,--devotedly. I never thought it
possible he could come to care so much for any one." In truth, his
worship of Diana has caused his mother much secret wonder. "Let me
give him good news: may I?" she urges. "I need not praise him to
you; you have seen how good, how noble-minded he is, and I feel sure
he would make you a devoted husband."
Diana looks up at last. She has been wanting all the time to stop
her friend, but has not known how.
"Don't think me ungrateful," she says, in a low, constrained voice.
"I feel deeply the--the honor and the kindness that you and--and Mr.
Montagu do me, but indeed" (turning away her head) "it is impossible
for me to think of him except as a friend."
"My love," cries Lady Montagu, feeling as if somehow she had
fulfilled her mission badly, "do not be in haste to decide. You are
such a child,--what are you? only eighteen,--he can afford to wait;
and in time--in time, I hope, you will think differently. Only,
pray, pray do not say positively that it is impossible: he would take
it so to heart. I have been a little too sudden: it _is_ rather
shocking to the feelings of a young girl to hear so solemn a subject
broached hastily. I remember quite well" (a pink blush rising in her
delicate face) "when there was first question of my marrying Sir
Hector, I could not bring myself all at once to the idea. Let me
tell him that you will think about it."
"No," Diana answers, in a low, firm voice; "it would only be
deceiving him. I like, I respect Mr. Montagu very much, but _I_
could not ever care for him enough to be his wife."
Lady Montagu, glancing at her, sees that she is not to be moved.
Ever so slight a feeling of anger at the rejection of her son creeps
into her kind heart.
"I think," she says, "it would be hardly possible for you to be so
decided in your refusal of my son unless there was some one else whom
you preferred. Perhaps there is already some one of whom we have not
heard, who----"
"No, no, no!" interrupts Diana, hastily, turning her head away to
hide the hot blushes that are dyeing her cheek.
"My love," whispers Lady Montagu, urged by a sudden impulse, "I may
be wrong--I hope I am, but I do trust" (very earnestly) "that you are
not allowing any thought of--of my younger son to interfere with your
happiness. It would be utterly impossible for him, with his
extravagant habits, to marry any but a rich woman; and--forgive my
saying so--that little manner of his which is so charming and
caressing does not really mean anything."
Diana rises suddenly and walks to the window, and as suddenly returns
and confronts Lady Montagu.
"I should be extremely sorry, Lady Montagu," she says, with great
spirit, "for you to labor under any erroneous impressions with regard
to my feelings for Captain Montagu. I have as little thought of
marrying your younger as your elder son!" And, flying off to her
room, she flings herself into a chair in a passion of tears.
CHAPTER XXV.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
Hector, who is reading the "Times" in the library, with the door
ajar, sees a slight form flit hurriedly by, and conjectures that his
mother has fulfilled her mission. He throws aside the paper, for
whose contents indeed he is not much the wiser, and goes with slow
steps towards the small drawing-room; with slow steps, not because he
is not eager, but because, full-grown man as he is, accredited with
the coolest, most perfect self-control, his heart is beating loudly,
and he is as nervous as a girl at her first "drawing-room." He
pauses, with his hand upon the door, feeling positively sick with
apprehension. His life seems to hang upon the fiat of this slim
young girl. In another moment he has read his doom in his mother's
eyes, even before she has had time to unclose her lips.
"I knew it,--I was quite sure of it," he utters, very calmly,
standing in front of her. "Still, I should like to know what she
said, what reason she gave."
"She said," replies his mother, slowly, turning over in her mind how
best to soften the narration,--"she said she liked you very much as a
friend, that she admired and respected you, but----"
"But," says Hector, finishing the sentence for her, "she could never
care sufficiently for me to marry me. Was that it?"
"Yes" (reluctantly).
"Did she say" (faltering a little) "that she could not care for me
because she--she loved some one else?"
"No, indeed," replies his mother, eagerly; "and I am afraid I have
offended her by hinting about Charlie. She sprang up with such
spirit,--I could not have fancied it was in her,--and told me that
she had as little thought of one of you as the other; and then she
rushed out of the room."
"I wish to God," says Hector, bitterly, turning away, "that I had
never set eyes on her! Mother" (confronting her again sharply), "you
are very good and religious,--do you really and honestly believe, in
your heart of hearts, that there is some beneficent purpose in our
being denied everything we want and care for here, or do you think it
pleases the Almighty to torture us as a cat likes to play with a
mouse?"
Then he turns on his heel and goes, before Lady Montagu, who looks
deeply shocked, has time to utter a syllable.
Diana appears at dinner with a pale face, but perfectly composed.
This is the last evening she will ever spend at Alford, and she
musters the best grace she can to go through it. After all, they
have meant kindly by her. But she feels dreadfully embarrassed at
meeting both Hector and his mother, and devotes her conversation
during the dreary ceremony for the most part to Sir Hector, who,
unconscious of what has happened, and still looking upon her as his
prospective daughter-in-law, is pleased to be very gracious. Little
does the proud old autocrat dream that a chit like this, without a
half-penny to her fortune, could have the presumption to refuse his
heir. He does not even know that she contemplates leaving Alford
next day.
"I am going to let you off to-night," he tells her, with a frosty
smile. "I have business with my bailiff; so we must forego our game
for once."
"For a long time, then, I fear," says Diana, quietly, "as I am going
away to-morrow."
"Going to-morrow!" cries the old autocrat. "Pooh! pshaw! nonsense!
impossible! not likely we are going to let you run away in such a
hurry!" His tone is a curious compound of the imperative,
benevolent, and patronizing.
"My father wants me," answers Diana.
"Tell him he must do without you a little longer. There are other
people who have claims besides fathers, eh, Hector?" (with a
facetious glance at his son).
Being behind the scenes, we may conjecture the agreeable effect
produced by this speech upon the other members of the party. But
Hector comes swiftly to the rescue.
"We shall all miss Miss Carew very much," he says, "but her father
can perhaps spare her even less."
"Heyday!" cries the baronet, raising his eyebrows, "you young men
take things very coolly in these days, it seems to me. It was not
like that with our generation, eh, my lady?"
Hector looks significantly at his mother, and she, hastily gathering
up her fan and scent-bottle, beats a hasty retreat.
Diana passes a dreary half-hour in the drawing-room, looking out of
window at the bright moonlight, and wishing she were out in it. Then
Hector comes in. He feels embarrassed, and knows that she is feeling
the same; he does not want to add to it.
"Would you like to come out?" he asks, politely, seeing her wistful
glance out of window; and then, as she hesitates, he adds, quickly,
"Not unless you feel inclined."
"Yes," she answers; "let us go."
Since she must be alone with him, for Lady Montagu asleep counts as
no one, as well out in the cool, pleasant night as in this warm room,
and if he still has anything to say to her. why, let him say it once
for all, and understand finally that she can be nothing more to him
than a friend. But as they pace up and down the gravel walk
together, he makes no sign, his conversation is perfectly
commonplace. Suddenly he says,--
"Let us go into the wood and see the primroses you told me of by
moonlight."
"No," she answers, resolutely. "There might be snakes," she adds, in
answer to his inquiring glance. "I should like to go in the boat."
They take their way across the short green turf to the lake, and
stand for a moment by its margin looking into it. Still and clear it
lies like a vast burnished mirror, and in it are reflected the trees
and tall shrubs; so bright it is they can see in its clear depths the
pink May blossoms, the towering lilacs, and the gold showers of
laburnum. No wonder the moon loves to see herself mirrored in it.
Her pale face looks more radiantly bright there than where she rides
aloft in the blue heavens; now and again a rustling little breeze
comes rippling along and turns her into a flood of sparkling diamonds.
Hector brings out the boat and lays the cushions in it; then he helps
her in. There is some subtle influence in the gliding of a boat
through still waters; it has a lulling, dream-compelling effect; one
cannot feel actively miserable. Diana leans back among the cushions;
she is not unhappy now; young blood runs in her veins, and she is
keenly conscious of, and acted upon always by, Nature's beauty. As
in a dream she floats along, seeing the dark fir-trees standing out
against the clear sky, and the pointed tops of the tall shrubs, the
glittering stars and the bright moon, and hearing almost
unconsciously the nightingale,
"Shedding his song upon height, upon hollow,
From tawny body and small sweet mouth,
Feeding the heart of the night with fire."
Hector disturbs her by never a word. He has grown strangely humble;
he is content that she shall _not be unhappy_ in his presence. And
so they glide along together, this strangely silent couple,--the girl
with her fair face and star-like eyes turned heavenwards, and the
man's dark face shadowed by his hat bent down on her. She cannot see
that he is looking at her,--she does not feel it to-night; she is
dreamily content with the night's beauty and the pleasant gliding
motion. The oars dip steadily in the water and come out flashing and
shining with diamonds dropping from them. Hector goes on rowing
unweariedly, only dreading the breaking of the spell. After a long
time, Diana says, reluctantly,--
"Is it not getting very late?"
"Would you like to go in?" he asks.
"I suppose one ought to." And he rows her to the bank without
another word. As she gets out, her foot slips. Hector catches her
in his arms and strains her for a moment to his beating heart. She
tears herself away from him, and stands trembling on the bank,
feeling angry and repellent. He springs after her, and, drawing her
unwilling hand through his arm, leads her a few paces to a bench
under an old tree whose gnarled and twisted branches overhang the
water. He had not meant to say one word to her of his love when he
brought her out, but it is too strong for him.
"Can I do nothing to make you care for me?" he says, in a deep,
tremulous voice.
Diana is very sorry for him, and she is tender-hearted; she would not
willingly give pain to any living thing, much less a man who pays her
the compliment of loving her.
"I do like you very much," she urges, softly. "Will you not be
content with my friendship?"
"Friendship!" he says, with impatient scorn; "what is friendship? If
a dozen men came to you to-morrow and asked for your friendship, you
would accord it as kindly and politely as you do to me to-night. How
am I, who love you with all my soul, the better for your friendship?
Pshaw! it is a thing that cannot exist between men and women until
they both have one foot in the grave."
"Oh, indeed it can," Diana answers, earnestly. "Friendship means a
great deal: it is" (dropping her voice) "the next thing to love. You
have been very kind to me, and I like you, and honor and respect you
besides: how could I feel the same towards strangers of whom I know
nothing?"
"Honor and respect!" he cries, impatiently, only answering one part
of her little speech: "that is what one gives the aged, what one
gives one's parents,--at least" (with a grim smile) "some of us do.
What satisfaction do you think it can give a man who craves
passionately for your love, for something as far removed from mere
honor and respect as light is from darkness? Oh, child!" (bitterly),
"pray God you may never ask for bread and be given a stone!"
Diana looks sorrowfully at him.
"You do not believe I would pain you willingly," she says; "but how
is it possible to compel love? You say you love me: well"
(earnestly), "if to-night some other woman came and besought you for
your love, could you give it her?"
She speaks all unconscious that she is betraying herself.
"Are the cases analogous?" he says, sharply. "Is it because you have
given your love elsewhere that you cannot give it to me?"
Seeing the pit which she has unwittingly digged for herself, and into
which she has so untowardly fallen, Diana colors deeply and is silent.
"Is it so?" he asks, more sharply still.
"And if it is!" she says, looking up defiantly from the corner into
which he has driven her.
"Then I have no more to say," he answers, feeling the grasp of an icy
hand clutching at his heart.
There follows a short, unbroken silence; then he says, almost
pathetically,--
"You are very young, child; you have not seen anything of life or the
world. Just now you offered me your friendship. Well, let me make
use of it this once to say something to you. I am not impartial, you
may think and say: I know it; but I know, too, that any real friend
would tell you the same. I am not going to mention any name: you
need not be angry with me. Suppose you, who are very young and
innocent and unworldly, come across a man who is none of the
three,--at all events, not the two latter; suppose that he, with his
eyes wide open, having no serious thought of you, makes protestations
of love to you which you in your guileless heart may believe sincere,
but which others know, which he knows himself, mean nothing but his
own selfish desire to gratify a pleasant feeling: would your friend
advise you to give your pure gold in exchange for his spurious coin?"
Diana is passionately indignant,--indignant as, in her eighteen years
of life, she has never been before. Carried away by her anger, she
makes him an answer that in her cooler moments she would not have
made for all the world.
"You need mention no name!" she cries, passionately; "you are
speaking of _your brother_. At all events, I never heard him breathe
a syllable against you. It is very kind of you to try and humble me
by saying that he had no thought of me, no intention but to gratify
himself, but _you are quite wrong_. Captain Montagu _asked_ me to
marry him, and for his own sake I _refused him_."
Hector stares stupidly at her.
"When, may I ask?" he says, in a low, smothered voice.
"The night before he went away."
"So," says Hector, between his teeth, "my _honorable_ brother, who
went away to leave the field clear for me."
Diana is on her swift way to the house, but he does not attempt to
follow her. For the moment his fierce wrath has swallowed up his
love.
CHAPTER XXVI.
DIANA'S STORY.
I am back again at home,--glad, most glad, to be there. Everything
pleases me,--even our simplicity and poverty: the absence of that
heavy wearisome state which oppressed me at Alford is in itself
delightful; but pleasantest change of all is my father's kind, gentle
manner, which to my mind has far more of dignity in it than Sir
Hector's pompous bluster.
I can scarcely take my eyes off his dear face as we sit _tête-à-tête_
over our roast chicken; very often he looks over at me too, and when
our eyes meet we exchange a friendly smile.
"It is good to go away sometimes," I say meditatively, with my elbows
on the table, in happy freedom from all restraint (fancy putting
one's elbows on Sir Hector's dinner-table!) "It makes one so glad to
come back."
"Does it, Di?" remarks papa, looking pleased. "I am very glad to
hear you say so. I was afraid it would have quite a contrary effect."
"If you only knew," I say, with a little air of superior wisdom, "how
dreadful it is to have three or four immense men standing about,
watching every morsel you eat, and snatching up your plate almost
before you have put down your knife and fork! It is delightful music
to me now to hear Sally clatter the plates and shuffle about in her
slip-shod way. And then to hear that dreadful old man bullying and
worrying them all the time, it made me so nervous at first I could
hardly eat anything."
"The dreadful old man is Sir Hector, I presume?" smiles papa.
"Yes,--Sir Hector. What a capital name for him! It was very
thoughtful of his godfather and godmother in his baptism to give him
that name; though they could hardly have told at the time how
appropriate it would be, could they? He does nothing but hector from
morning till night."
"But," says papa, "his son has the same name: is it as appropriate in
his case?"
"No, no!" I cry, with energy, more anxious to defend him because I
have unwittingly done him wrong; "not in the very least. I never
heard any one more courteous to his inferiors."
"I should have thought so," papa answers, with a little air of
satisfaction. "I should be much mistaken in him if he were not a
gentleman; and a gentleman is always considerate and courteous to
those beneath him. And Lady Montagu,--you liked her?"
"_I loved her!_" I reply, with enthusiasm; "the dearest, sweetest,
kindest old lady I ever saw."
"She can hardly come under the denomination of an _old_ lady,"
remarks papa. "She cannot be more than fifty-one or two."
"Well, no," I assent, "perhaps hardly old; but her hair is silvery,
and she is rather an invalid, and altogether she gives one the idea
of being--well, not young."
"Sir Hector is a good many years older," says papa. "But I do not
think he ever seemed a young man,--never since I remember him; he was
always stiff and pompous, and rather bald. She was a very lovely
girl when he married her. I remember losing my heart to her when I
was a boy in jackets just before they were married. I believe"
(laughing) "I had serious thoughts of asking her to fly with me, and
of fighting a duel with him afterwards. I suppose he has quite
succeeded in crushing all spirit out of her by this time."
"Horrid old wretch!" I exclaim, with vindictive energy. "It would be
a very good thing for everybody if he were to break his neck! The
people about hate him; and Mr. Montagu, I am sure, would make an
excellent landlord."
"I am sure he would," says papa, with approving warmth.
"Papa," I say, looking at him inquisitively, "what makes you so fond
of Mr. Montagu?"
"Is it surprising that I should like him?" asks papa. "Do not you?"
"Oh, yes," I answer, indifferently.
There the subject drops, and we fall to talking about Curly.
The following day I observe that papa is preoccupied. He does not
talk much, and ever and anon I feel his eyes fixed on me, and I fancy
he sighs. It is a wet, cold day, and in the evening we have a fire.
I sit down on the hearth in my favorite attitude, with my arm resting
on papa's knees. He is silent, and I too am seeing pictures in the
live coals, and thinking unprofitable thoughts. Presently I feel his
hand upon my head, and hear his voice.
"Di," it says, "what made you refuse Mr. Montagu?"
My heart leaps into my mouth: for the first time it strikes me that I
am not the only person whom the matter concerns.
"How do you know that I did?" I ask, evasively, keeping my face,
which vies with them, turned towards the glowing coals.
"I had a letter from him this morning,--a most manly,
straightforward, and, I must say, touching letter."
"Where is it?" I ask, in a faltering voice, as the dreadful thought
crosses me that he will have laid the blame upon his brother. And
what account, I think with shame, can I give papa of what has taken
place between him and me?
"Here is the letter," says papa gravely, drawing it from his pocket;
and with trembling hands and downcast eyes I take it, and read thus:
"DEAR MR. CAREW,--
"When you gave permission for your daughter to visit my mother, you
also consented, if there appeared any chance of my suit being
successful, to my asking her to become my wife. I have ventured to
put my fortune to the test, not, I must frankly own, because Miss
Carew gave me any encouragement, but because, being constantly in her
presence and seeing how altogether sweet and lovable she is, I could
no longer control my impatience. I spoke my heart to her, I fear,
without due reflection, and I cannot but blame myself for my haste
and warmth, which may perhaps have repelled her. But after what
passed between us I no longer dare encourage the hope of being more
to her than a friend. It is my own fault, of course,--I am not, I
fear, a man calculated to inspire love in a young, high-spirited
girl,--and yet _not my fault_, for God knows if I could change
anything in myself to make me more pleasing to one whom I love so
devotedly, no effort would seem to me too great. My feeling for Miss
Carew will never undergo any change: that need be no matter for
speculation: it is a certainty on which I should like her to rely,
though not to vex herself with. If it were possible for her ever to
entertain a warmer feeling for me, I want her to _know_ that my love
for her will always be what it is now. I go abroad to-night: at some
future time, when I am better able than I should be now to endure the
sight of her, knowing that my love is hopeless, you will, I trust,
let me visit your house on the old friendly terms. Meanwhile,
believe me always most sincerely yours, HECTOR MONTAGU.
"P.S.--I have read over the few cold, formal lines that I have
written: they must remain what they are, lest I should be unmanned by
writing what is in my heart."
I read the letter carefully. It strikes me with a cold chill: to me
it does not seem a natural letter from a man who loved passionately,
despairingly. I do not even feel sorry for him; my chief sensation
is one of thankfulness that he has avoided all mention of his
brother, and a slightly aggrieved feeling against papa for having
consented to Mr. Montagu's proposal without the slightest hint to me.
I understand it all now,--why at Alford they looked upon me as
_Hector's property_. Papa had given consent, so they thought mine
was sure to follow: it must be a settled affair. I do not return the
letter after reading it, but sit staring at the fire. A mist gathers
before my eyes. At last I say, reproachfully,--
"Papa, how could you?"
"How could I do what, Di?"
"Let me go there knowing all the time--Why did you not ask me? I
should have told you the truth, that I never could care for him
except as a friend. If I had known, nothing would have induced me to
go to Alford."
"That is what I felt sure of," answers papa, gravely. "To tell a
girl that she is going on a visit with such an end in view is
naturally to make her utterly disinclined to it. And yet" (sighing)
"that was the end in view. I saw that he was devoted to you; I knew
that if you married him it would relieve me of the anxiety that has
always tormented me about your future; and I believed firmly that
seeing him at home and becoming aware of the good qualities which I
know he possesses, and which his natural shyness impels him to hide
in society, you would come to care for him. I think still that such
would have been the case had he not, as he admits, been in too great
a hurry."
"Never!" I cry, emphatically; "never!"
"I wonder," says papa, wearily, "what perverse fate makes girls
always go dead against their parents' wishes in these matters?"
"And I wonder," I answer, mournfully, "why parents never think their
daughters can have any feeling of their own about the men they are to
marry? Papa" (stealing one hand into his), "am I a burden to you?"
(tears springing in my eyes). "Do you want to get rid of me?"
"God forbid, child!" says papa, his eyes becoming misty too, as he
strokes my head fondly. "It is an unfortunate business, but we will
say no more about it."
So the subject drops.
Life wears a changed aspect for me since that visit to Warrington.
Before then I was as blithe as a bird,--not a care had I; and now my
heart is often heavy and full of strange passionate longings.
Sometimes I almost hate my life. I weary so bitterly for the sight
of one face, for the sound of one voice; and as yet only one week has
passed since I left Alford. My simple home pursuits have lost their
interest for me. I go through them as dull, dreary duties. My
books, too, no longer have the same charm: now that I have my own
romance, all others seem stale and flat.
One afternoon I have been for a long walk. I want to tire my body in
order to benumb my mind, and I come in wearied out and fling myself
into a chair.
"Why, my dear," exclaims Gay, reproachfully, "what ever's come to
you, to make you go tag-ragging about the country, wearing yourself
to a shadow? Why, it's my belief you've fell away pounds and pounds
since you came back from Alford, only a week since. I misdoubt me"
(with a shrewd glance) "as you've left a little bit of your heart
behind you there."
"You are an old goose!" I answer. "Get me some tea; I am dying for
something to eat. When people are in love, you know," I add, with a
somewhat lugubrious smile, "they don't want to eat."
"Don't tell me!" returns Gay, with scorn. "I've seen many a score of
folks in love in my time, and I never know'd it to interfere with
their appetites yet; that I didn't. But all through your being out
tiring yourself for no good, you've gone and missed a grand visitor
as wanted most particular to see you."
A pang of expectation goes through my heart; it takes my breath away.
Oh, if it should be----
"Who was it?" I ask, in a quivering voice, doing violence to myself
not to seem eager.
"Well, it was Mrs. Warrington," returns Gay; and my heart sinks to
its proper level.
"Mrs. Warrington," I repeat, musingly. "I am sorry I was out. Did
she see papa?"
"Ay, that she did; she was with him the best part of an hour, I
reckon."
"Where is he?" I inquire.
"In the study. Now, my dear, do wait until you've had your tea"
(seeing that I am hastily about to go).
"I shall be back directly," I answer, with my hand on the door.
"So you have had a visitor!" I cry, breaking in suddenly upon papa.
"Yes," he replies, rather gravely.
"What is the matter?" I ask, quickly, divining by his face that
something is wrong.
"She brought rather a shocking piece of news," says papa.
I feel myself turning ghostly white.
Why is it that my first thought is always of him now?
"What is it?" I ask, with a faltering voice.
"Sir Hector Montagu was thrown from his horse the day before
yesterday, and is not expected to live. He has not spoken since."
I am intensely shocked, and forget, as one always does on such
occasions, how little I had liked him. My only feeling is one of
sympathy and distress at his being overtaken by so awful a fate.
"His son," continues papa, not looking at me, "has gone off suddenly
abroad, and they do not quite know where to find him. That adds
greatly to poor Lady Montagu's distress."
I hang my head and feel guilty,--though indeed I scarcely know why I
should.
"The other son was telegraphed for, and has arrived."
To this I make no answer. Although he is so near me, I know there is
as little chance of my seeing him as if he were in Kamschatka.
"But," says papa, changing his tone and looking at me with a slight
smile, "Mrs. Warrington's errand to-day was of a cheerful nature;
though I have hardly prepared you very well to receive it. What do
you think she came for, Di?"
I shake my head, not feeling in the humor to guess or be expectant.
"I do not know, unless it was to invite us there," I reply; "and that
is not very probable, as Claire told me she was going to London for
six weeks almost immediately."
"What do you say to her wanting to take you with her?"
I feel my eyes opening very wide, but my voice fails me for sheer
surprise. Then, as one or two important facts occur to me, I return
from wonder-land, and remark, calmly,--
"Of course you told her it was impossible?"
"But suppose I thought it was not altogether impossible?" returns
papa, looking a little amused: "what then?"
"What then?" I echo, placing myself on his knee and drawing the dark
hair lovingly back from his white forehead, "I should think my
dearest Dad was qualifying for the County Asylum."
"I should have been inclined to think so myself a few hours ago," he
returns; "but Mrs. Warrington has reduced my objections to nothing,
and I have almost given consent."
"Mrs. Warrington must be a very wonderful woman," I remark, amazed.
"But, papa, you must know quite well when we come to think it over
calmly, that it is quite impossible on account of money, if nothing
else."
"Listen, and judge for yourself. Mrs. Warrington was going to bring
out one of her nieces this year; she had already presented her at
court, and was to have been in London now to chaperon her. Three
weeks ago the young lady eloped with the curate, much to the
indignation of the family, and the aunt's chagrin. 'Now,' said Mrs.
Warrington, very pleasantly, 'I am getting an old woman, but sad to
say, I am as fond of gayety as ever, though I have sufficient
discretion to see that it does not look well for me to be going about
to all sorts of gay parties without some apparent excuse. That is
why I always undertake every year to bring out some pretty girl of my
acquaintance. I won't have a plain one. So,' she finished, 'if you
will intrust your daughter to my care, you will be conferring a real
favor upon me, and it will be a good thing for her at the same time.'"
I shake my head, feeling mournfully how little pleasure gayety would
be capable of giving me now.
"I do not want to leave you, papa; and pray where is the money to
come from?"
"That will be all right," says papa, smiling; "and I wish you to
go,--more particularly" (looking grave again) "after what has
happened lately."
"Let us think about it," I petition. But in the end it is decided
that I am to go. I take it very calmly. Somehow things that would
have filled me with wonder and delight six months ago make very
little impression upon me now.
CHAPTER XXVII.
DIANA'S STORY.
I suppose it would be utterly impossible to a bred-and-born dweller
in cities faintly to conjecture the feelings of the country mouse who
for the first time enters a big city, never having seen any larger
agglomeration of houses and shops than her own little country town.
I was as utterly bewildered the first few days of my stay in London
as if I had been suddenly transplanted to another world. The noise,
the tumult, the splendor, the misery, the countless crowds of people,
the endless stream of carriages, vans, carts, cabs, omnibuses, filled
me with a wonder that words are utterly inadequate to express. For
the first week, I believe, my mouth never assumed any shape but one
round O of astonishment. Mr. Warrington was delighted, and insisted
upon taking me everywhere, and telling every one we met, rather to my
confusion, what a treat it was to go about with a young lady who had
never been in London before, and who was not _blasée_. The utter
change certainly did my spirits good. I had no time to think in the
day, and at night I was so tired out that the moment I put my head on
the pillow I was asleep.
Before I left home, we heard that Sir Hector Montagu was dead, and
that his eldest son had returned. I wrote to poor Lady Montagu. It
was a difficult task, as it needs must be when one can truthfully say
nothing good of the dead; but I did my best.
One day, when we were driving down St. James Street, we met Captain
Montagu coming up. He smiled, bowed, and would have passed on, but
Mrs. Warrington stopped the carriage. It was a moment of utter and
intense happiness to me, after the first confusion, to hear his voice
and meet his eyes once more.
Mrs. Warrington asked after his mother, and he looked grave as he
answered that she was really ill, and took his poor father's death
most grievously to heart. She had a cousin staying with her, and
Hector was at home now.
Mrs. Warrington begged him to call, and to come some evening to dine
in a friendly way. He replied that he was not going out at present,
but would come some night when they were quite alone. Then he wished
us good-by, and as we rolled on our way I felt radiant; everything
seemed to take a rosy hue. The days roll by, and he has not called.
Every afternoon I look eagerly over the array of cards. Sometimes a
black-bordered one raises hope in my breast, but only to dash it to
the ground on nearer inspection.
"Does he not care to see me?" I think, grieved in my very heart.
I meet many men, some of whom I like very much; most of them are kind
and pleasant to me, but not one in my eyes can be compared with him.
Colonel Fane is in town. I am always glad to see him: he seems, by
the side of my new acquaintances, quite an old friend.
Nearly a fortnight has elapsed, when one morning Mrs. Warrington,
amidst her numerous engagements, remembers that Captain Montagu has
not called.
"I will write a line and ask him to dine with us on Sunday," she
exclaims. "It is our only disengaged evening for a long time. By
the way, Diana" (drawing a sheet of paper before her), "did I not
hear that you had been staying at Alford?"
"I was there nearly a fortnight," I answer.
"Was Charlie at home?"
"Only for one day," I say, bending over my work.
"Hector of course was there?"
"Yes."
"And how did you get on with him?" (looking up at me).
"Oh, very well," I stammer.
"Do you like him?"
"Yes," I answer, indifferently.
"How came you to stay there?" Mrs. Warrington is evidently in a very
questioning mood.
"Lady Montagu asked me."
"And Hector--Sir Hector now--asked his mother to invite you, I
suppose. Ah, my dear, I have great hopes of seeing you Lady Montagu
yet!"
I feel a little impatient. "That you never will," I say, briskly.
"I do not mean to marry at all."
"Oh, indeed!" she rejoins, looking amused. "Well, time will show.
But I thought it was only girls who could not marry the object of
their affections who said that; and you have not had any opportunity
yet of contracting a hopeless attachment." And she laughs
good-humoredly.
Captain Montagu writes to say that he will dine on Sunday, and again
my spirits rise. It is seven o'clock on Thursday evening when I hear
the joyful intelligence: from that moment I count the hours until I
shall see him. As the time draws near, an overpowering anxiety
seizes me lest he should be prevented coming; if he is, I feel the
disappointment will be greater than I can bear.
I am not called on to bear it. Sunday comes. I attend morning
church with Mr. Warrington; we have visitors to lunch, visitors after
lunch; we take a stroll in the Park, sit under the trees, greet many
acquaintances, and the hours, however slowly they may drag themselves
along, do pass somehow to make way for the hours that will gallop
furiously as all hours do that are pleasant. And that they will be
pleasant it never enters my mind to doubt.
Eight o'clock comes at last, and with it the guest. It seems
happiness enough for the present to be in the same room with him, but
I have a vague expectation that at some time in the evening he will
find means to press my hand or whisper some kind word to me that will
give my hungry heart food to live upon until I see him again. During
dinner he laughs and talks much in his usual strain; perhaps he is a
shade more subdued; now and then he addresses some pleasant remark to
me, but there is nothing in his voice or glance that makes me feel as
if I were anything more to him than an ordinary acquaintance. After
dinner he asks me to sing, and we go together to the piano at the
farther end of the room, while Mr. and Mrs. Warrington subside into a
pleasant doze.
I feel my heart beating and my hands trembling as I turn over the
music. Has he nothing to say to me in memory of that moonlight night
in the woods with the silver primroses? Apparently nothing. I try
to sing, but something in my throat chokes me,--tears, perhaps. He
does not press me to continue, but talks about my visit to London,
the sights I have seen, the balls I have been to, the acquaintances I
have made.
"I am surprised," he says, laughing, "that you have not been to
Madame Tussaud's and the Tower."
"I should like to see the Tower," I answer, "but I do not think
Madame Tussaud's would amuse me."
"I will ask Mrs. Warrington to come and lunch with me at the Tower,
and we will show you all the wonders, if you like. Mrs. Warrington,
will you come? and afterwards you must have tea in my rooms: you have
promised me dozens of times, but it has never come off yet."
Mrs. Warrington assents, the day is fixed, and presently Captain
Montagu takes his leave. I rush away to my room; my heart feels
ready to break; not by one little look or sign has he given me to
understand that he even remembers that "golden day" at Alford. I try
to pluck up my pride, to bring it to the rescue of my foolish love,
but it will not be goaded or urged, however sharp the lash with which
I scourge it. "I know--I always knew--I never could be anything to
him, but he might have shown some little sign that he remembered," I
keep on saying miserably to myself. I lose all hope. I do not even
look forward to the luncheon-party at the Tower. "Perhaps," I say
indignantly to myself, "he is afraid of my taking in serious earnest
what passed that night in the wood, and wishes to convince me that it
was only said in haste and repented at leisure. He might have
trusted me," I think, bitterly.
"Remember," says Mrs. Warrington, playfully, "I am not going to have
you fall in love with Charlie Montagu, both for your sake and his."
She does not dream how much too late her caution comes; that is one
mercy to be thankful for. I have tried so hard to feel bitter and
angry with him, and yet when he comes out to receive us, looking so
handsome and so glad to see us, the little mountain of wrath I have
labored to raise crumbles away to dust.
"We are to be a _parti carré_," he says, gayly, to Mrs. Warrington.
"We cannot tax Miss Carew to do third to our flirtation, can we? And
she would not do it well. It wants a great deal of experience to
make a good third. So I have asked Seldon; you know him, I think."
"Slightly," Mrs. Warrington answers. Then she looks at me and
whispers something to Captain Montagu, and they both laugh.
"Here he is," says the latter, as a hansom rattles up. "How are you,
Seldon? You know Mrs. Warrington. Miss Carew. Lord Seldon."
The new-comer has a very bright, cheery face. He looks extremely
young,--younger, I should think, than he is, or his education would
hardly be completed; he is very fair, with light-blue eyes, a large
nose, and a good-tempered mouth, shaded by the silkiest down; not
handsome, certainly, but perhaps if he were not standing next to
Captain Montagu he might be rather good-looking. He reminds me ever
such a little bit of Curly. We get on famously together: he makes me
laugh as every now and then his natural boyishness peeps through his
assumption of manhood. He has brought the sweetest Collie dog with
him, which he puts through a variety of performances for my benefit.
We look out of window together, and are very much amused by an
officer in a blue coat, who is superintending with evident anxiety
the trying on of the men's new red coats.
"I wish I was a soldier!--by George I do!" cries my young lord,
regretfully. "Isn't it an awful shame they wouldn't let me be one?"
"Why would they not?" I ask.
"My governor's so frightfully nervous; he thinks I should get killed;
and I am, unfortunately, the only son. He can't even bear me to go
out hunting. It's only a wonder I haven't broken my neck fifty
times, for his worrying me makes me do things I shouldn't otherwise,
just because I won't be made a molly-coddle of. Talking of
hunting,--I suppose you hunt?"
"No," I answer.
"What do you do?" (curiously). "You don't" (looking at me
doubtfully)--"surely you don't go about reading to old women and
teaching the choir?"
"Why," I ask, laughing, "am I bound to do either one or the other?"
"Well, you know," he answers, explanatorily, "I have two sisters: one
is rather--well, not exactly fast--lively, and she is never happy out
of the saddle; and the other,--the other is religious, and is always
taken up with what she calls parish-work. Parish-work!" he repeats,
with an accent of disgust: "doesn't it sound the reverse of tempting?
It's dreadful for me being between two fires!--my youngest sister is
always making fun of the eldest, and the eldest tries to sit upon the
youngest, and you know its rather a bore for me, because I like 'em
both. By the way" (with a rapid change of subject), "have you ever
seen polo? Of course you've seen polo?"
"Not yet," I say; "we are going one day, but I am not sure I shall
like it. I have an idea that it must be cruel."
"Cruel!--not a bit of it!--the ponies love it as much as the men: on
my honor they do. I've got the loveliest pony,--bought her of one of
the 9th. I give you my word when I go into the stable and say, 'Polo
day, old girl!' she pricks up her ears and neighs with delight."
"When you've quite done yarning, Seldon," calls Captain Montagu,
"bring Miss Carew to lunch."
Everything goes off pleasantly: that is to say, every one laughs and
talks and eats. After lunch, we go over the Tower, Captain Montagu
remaining in strict attendance on Mrs. Warrington. It is quite
evident he has resolved to have nothing more to say to me than to an
ordinary acquaintance; and, however bitterly I may feel it, I am
forced outwardly to acquiesce with a smile. My escort is exceedingly
lively: he makes fun of everything, and I cannot help laughing at his
sallies. It is not that they are very witty or have much point, but
his gay spirits are infectious, and I am ready to laugh at anything,
for I feel so near crying.
"Remember," says Captain Montagu, when we have seen everything and
emerge again into the open air, "the tea-party is still before you.
I have ordered it for half-past four. I will send for your carriage,
and Seldon and I will follow in a hansom."
But Mrs. Warrington insists upon their accompanying us in the
carriage.
How often have I thought about those rooms of which he once told me,
and wondered what they were like, and tried to picture him at home in
them.
"I feel quite a 'frisky matron,'" laughs good-natured Mrs.
Warrington, as he lets us in with his latch-key and then precedes us
up-stairs. "Diana, my dear, it is you who have led me into this."
"I wish," whispers young Seldon in my ear from behind, "you would
persuade her to come and have tea or lunch in my rooms. They're
rattling nice ones; though I don't mean to say for a moment they're
furnished like these."
Captain Montagu throws the door open, and we pass in.
"This _is_ charming!" exclaims Mrs. Warrington. "I must really
congratulate you. I have heard of your rooms before, but this quite
surpasses my expectations."
"I am delighted with your approval," he answers, gayly. "Have I
yours too, Miss Carew?" And, without waiting for my answer, he calls
his servant and gives some orders in an under-tone. I look round me.
The room is not large, but it would take hours, rather than minutes,
to inventory all the treasures in it. They seem scattered about in
careless profusion, but the carelessness is evidently the result of
most artistic study. The furniture is of ebony, covered in richest
satin, on which bloom roses embroidered in the land of roses; the
luxurious carpet laid down in the centre of the room is of an
exquisite shade of blue; the chandelier, sconces, mirror-frames, are
of Venetian glass, with raised flowers of rose-color and blue. Every
couch, every chair, every stool, is studiously luxurious; the walls
are covered with charming pictures; there are bronzes, statuettes,
groups of china, cabinets of rare wood, inlaid with Sèvres, and yet
the thing that strikes me as the most strange is that the room looks
as if it were lived in; there is even, however slight, the faintest
_soupçon_ of cigar-smoke. Mrs. Warrington detects it at once.
"You do not mean to say," she says, in a horrified tone, "that you
smoke here?"
"Not often," he answers. "Only when I am quite alone; but my
smoking-room adjoins, and it will creep through, you know. Come and
see my bedroom. I have one or two things I want to show you. I must
not ask Miss Carew" (laughing). "Seldon, make yourself very
entertaining till we come back."
"Do you think she would come if I asked her?" whispers the latter,
indicating the retreating figure of Mrs. Warrington with a gesture of
his head.
"I do not know," I answer.
"Do persuade her, some day after the Park. I should be so awfully
proud and delighted if you would both lunch with me, and I'd ask
Montagu too" (as if catching at a happy thought); "they seem to be so
fond of each other. I didn't know" (irreverently) "that he had such
a taste for old women."
I half laugh, half sigh, as I think to myself what is the object of
all this attention towards my friend.
"Blankshire is your county, is it not?" inquires my _vis-à-vis_, in
an interested tone, and I respond affirmatively.
I think he has had the conversation chiefly to himself all the
afternoon, but he seems quite equal to it.
"I don't know many people there, but I shall try and get some
invitations this winter. By the way, I dare say Montagu would ask
me; he lives not very far from you, doesn't he?"
"About fifteen miles," I say.
"Do you see much of him?"
"Nothing at all,--at least" (correcting myself) "very little."
"By George!" (opening his blue eyes), "I know if I lived within
fifteen miles you'd see a good deal of me."
At this very barefaced compliment from my youthful companion I am so
inordinately diverted that I laugh outright. He colors up, and
begins to trace rather viciously with his stick a rose-blossom that
looks as though it had fallen by some happy accident on the couch
where it lies.
"That lovely rose," I cry, in terror of seeing the stick go through
it: "pray don't spoil it!"
"Why did you laugh?" he asks, desisting as I beg him, but still
looking slightly aggrieved.
"I hardly know," I say, trying to compose my features to gravity.
"Perhaps because you reminded me rather of Curly."
"Who is Curly?--some very mirth-inspiring fellow?"
"Curly is my brother. By the way, I wonder if he was at Eton with
you. I suppose you were at Eton?" (interrogatively).
"When did he go?"
"Three years last January."
Lord Seldon glances at me with rather a disgusted expression.
"Pray, how old do you take me for?" he says, lifting a dainty
shell-like cup, wreathed with raised strawberries, and putting it
down again with as little care as if it was a mug with "For a good
boy" inscribed in gold letters upon it.
"I am a very bad hand at guessing ages," I reply. "Twenty?"
(thinking I will give him the benefit of a year's doubt).
"Twenty!" (indignantly). "I came of age last September. I am very
nearly twenty-two."
Here we are joined by the other members of the party.
"It is a good thing you have come," I say, trying to assume a gay
manner. "Lord Seldon has been very nearly doing a mischief to some
of your lovely things."
"No wonder," retorts my lord, with a shade of pique. "Such very
young children are not to be trusted with pretty things."
"Come and have tea," interrupts Captain Montagu, "and see what nectar
a wretched lonely bachelor can brew."
We follow him as he lifts a heavy portière and opens a door behind it.
"By George, Charlie!" exclaims his friend, in a tone that betrays a
mixture of admiration and regret, "what a fellow you are to think of
everything!"
The table is strewn with choice flowers; a great bowl of roses stands
in the centre; big strawberries peep from exquisitely-shaped china
dishes; grapes and flowers hang from Dresden baskets; every kind of
fanciful and pretty sweetmeat is heaped in shells and horns, or in
tiny baskets on the heads of Watteau-like shepherdesses. There is
not a single ornament on the table that is not of some quaint elegant
device; the chased silver service is a marvel of elegance, and the
jeweled Sèvres, from which we drink our delicious tea, must represent
a small fortune.
"You wicked, extravagant boy!" exclaims Mrs. Warrington, after having
praised everything with enthusiasm; "how dare you have such a taste
for splendor and luxury, with nothing to keep it up on but your
younger son's allowance of good looks?"
"That's the worst of these fellows," joins in Lord Seldon, so
plaintively that we all laugh: "they are so deuced good-looking and
have such taste. They think of things that never enter our brains."
"I must certainly set to work at once to get you a rich wife," says
Mrs. Warrington, little guessing what a dagger her playful words are
planting in my breast.
"Do!" Captain Montagu says, smiling lazily, and looking as utterly
unconscious as if he had never taken me in his arms and asked me to
be his wife. "Lots of my friends are looking out. I am quite ready
to be knocked down to the highest bidder." The others laugh: how can
I join them, when I am suffering the acutest pain that has ever yet
fallen to my lot?
"Your face is your fortune, eh, Charlie?" laughs Lord Seldon; then,
with a gesture of disgust, "But what a horrid bore to marry a woman
you didn't care for! What a horrid bore _not_ to marry the woman you
love!"
"My dear fellow," returns Captain Montagu, subsiding from his mirth
to unmistakable gravity, "if you marry the woman you love, yours will
be a very happy fate, and a very _exceptional_ one."
Mrs. Warrington rises to go. As the young men bid us good-by at the
carriage-door, she invites Lord Seldon to call upon her.
"Thanks; I shall be most delighted," he answers, beaming with smiles,
and shaking us as cordially by the hand as if we were his oldest
friends.
"That is on your account, Diana," says Mrs. Warrington, with a smile,
as we drive off. "He is the Duke of Landermere's only son. The duke
is a great invalid, and fabulously rich."
CHAPTER XXVIII.
DIANA'S STORY.
My heart is full of grief at the shattering of my idol; for shattered
he is, crumbled into dust, this fair fetish, golden with my faith,
jeweled with my love. The gold has turned to dross, the jewels are
bits of gaudy painted glass that have no worth. With all my wish to
shield him, with the humblest consciousness of my own unworthiness,
my sense of justice will creep in and whisper to me with relentless
iteration that he has not done by me the thing that is right. Did I
expect anything from him? Did I in my wildest dreams hope to be
anything to him? Would I have permitted him to sacrifice himself to
me, even if he had really willed it? No. I had only asked of him
that one small boon,--to be allowed to think that he cared a little
for me. And it would have been so easy. One meaning pressure of my
hand, one look of his eyes into mine, I should have been content, and
we would have held to the bargain which he made with me that May
night with the nightingales and the pale primroses for witnesses.
"And now," I think, bitterly, "I am numbered among those other women
in whose society he could not be ten minutes without making love to
them." Have any of them, I wonder, with pained curiosity, suffered
as I am doing? Who feels any pity for disappointment in love? Pity!
nay, rather it is a cause for mirth: it is like a cold in the
head,--however uncomfortable for the time, it is not dangerous, the
patient will get over it. There is one mighty consolation I can hug
to my breast: my secret is in my own keeping: if my life has grown
blank, if my cherished illusions are scattered to the four winds if
my heart within me is consumed by pain, it is unguessed at by those
around me. I talk, laugh, dance, do all that is expected of me, and
doubtless am considered very fortunate and enviable. And so I am, I
tell myself over and over again,--very fortunate, very enviable: not
to think myself so would be rank ingratitude to the friends who are
so kind to me. How altogether delightful the life I am leading would
be if--if there were no ifs!
Captain Montagu does not come again to the house during our stay in
town, although Mrs. Warrington invites him more than once; but his
friend is a frequent guest. He has become a great favorite with both
Mr. and Mrs. Warrington, he is so bright and cheery, so full of all a
boy's pranks and spirits, and he makes himself most perfectly at
home. He persuades Mrs. Warrington into the lunch at his rooms; he
insists upon a Greenwich dinner for the especial purpose of
initiating me into that hitherto unknown delight; he cajoles us into
driving down on hot afternoons to witness his prowess at polo; he
wins over Mrs. Warrington to let him drive me down to Richmond on his
drag, with Mr. Warrington in attendance as chaperon, after
considerable demur, I must say, on her part; he goes down to Eton
with us to see Curly, and the two become fast friends at once; we
meet him constantly at balls, and he is oftener my partner than any
one else (for he dances perfectly),--though, counseled by my
chaperon, I refuse his appeals when they become too frequent or too
importunate. He does me good. I feel ten times more cheerful in his
company: he reminds me of Curly grown older and less handsome. One
night at a ball, before I have the least idea of what he is going to
do, he takes me up to a very stately lady ablaze with diamonds.
"Miss Carew," he says, "I want to introduce you to my mother.
Mother, you have often heard me speak of Miss Carew."
In the embarrassment caused by the suddenness and unexpectedness of
his movement, I blush and look conscious,--the very last thing I
would have elected to do, could I have controlled myself. The
duchess receives me with perfect politeness, but in a manner that
convinces me the introduction is as unwelcome to her as to me. Her
son remarks it too, I think, for he colors uneasily, and very soon
leads me away,--to my infinite relief. As we are passing into
another room, a handsome woman taps him on the arm with her fan.
"Lord Seldon, how is it we never see you now? You are quite a
stranger."
He makes what I consider rather a brusque response, and hurries on.
"That," he whispers, with an accent of disgust, when we are out of
earshot,--"that is the woman my mother wants me to marry."
"Why, she must be years older than you!" I remark, betraying my
surprise very plainly in my voice; and then I fall to laughing.
"What a ridiculous idea!" I continue, uttering my thoughts aloud, for
we are very free of speech to each other.
"I don't know so much about its being ridiculous," he says, rather
huffily; "if you said unsuitable, now----"
"I don't mean that," I hasten to explain. "The ridiculousness was
the idea of a boy like you thinking of marrying at all." We have
sunk upon a couch, and I am still laughing. "I shall expect to hear
next that Curly is looking out for a wife."
Lord Seldon, for once, does not join in my mirth; the color mounts to
his face, and he looks at me with angry curiosity.
"Is your amusement genuine?" he asks, "or is it put on for the
occasion?"
"Do I look as if it were put on?" I say, not quite able, in spite of
his evident displeasure, to resume my gravity.
"If I am not a man now," he says, with an air of importance which
nearly sets me off again, "I'm afraid I haven't much chance of ever
becoming one. I am of age, I can marry to-morrow if I choose, and,
what's more, I can marry whom I choose," he adds, looking at me with
exultation.
"Very well," I say, smiling. "Ask me to the wedding."
"If you are not there," he says, fixing his eyes on me with an
expression I do not quite understand, "I don't know who will be."
At this moment my partner for the waltz claims me, and I go off,
leaving my lord sitting, with rather a sulky expression, on the couch.
"Seldon will be getting into disgrace," says the new-comer, as he
leads me away. "I see Mrs. Hastings looking daggers at him, and Lady
Egidia anything but pleased."
"Why?" I ask.
"Oh, you know he is generally in close attendance upon Mrs. Hastings;
and it is popularly supposed that he is to marry Lady Egidia."
"Oh!" I answer, being somewhat puzzled by these rival claims.
"Lady Egidia and Mrs. Hastings don't mind each other," he proceeds,
explanatorily, "but they won't stand anybody else in the field, if
they can help it."
"Oh!" I say, again, not feeling much enlightened, but not wishing to
betray my ignorance by asking further information.
The days pass quickly by. Now there is only a week left, for we are
to leave town on the Monday following the Eton and Harrow match.
It is a lovely day, and we are going to a garden-party. It is to be
a very grand affair; royalty is expected, and I look forward to it
with some pleasure. Lord Seldon, who is lunching with us, asks Mrs.
Warrington to drive him down, but, for some reason best known to
herself, she refuses his most urgent entreaties.
"Never mind," he says, laughing. "I won't be got rid of in that way.
I'll get there first, and hang about the gate until you come."
He is as good as his word. The very first person we see upon
entering is his noble self.
"Did I not tell you so?" he whispers, triumphantly, a few minutes
later, as he joins me and we all go together to salute our hosts.
To all intents and purposes he might have gone down in the carriage
with us. The Duchess of Landermere and Lady Egidia are standing
among the group around the hostess; both dart angry glances in Lord
Seldon's direction, which that self-willed young gentleman chooses to
ignore utterly.
"Ah, mother, got here first, I see! How do, Lady Egidia?" And then
the abominable boy turns his back upon them and laughs, and whispers
to me in the most pointed manner. I feel rather angry with him.
"Why do you not join the duchess?" I say, in a low voice. "She is
evidently displeased, and Lady Egidia is looking daggers."
"Let them: who cares?" he answers, defiantly. "I am going to enjoy
myself. Come along; I'll show you all over the grounds. They're
awfully pretty,--well worth seeing. Mrs. Warrington, I am going to
do _cicerone_ to Miss Carew. You know what a good hand I am at that
sort of thing."
"Do not be away long," says Mrs. Warrington, smiling graciously, for
by this time we have moved off from the duchess's group, and are
mixed up with the general throng of guests.
"I'm in tremendous spirits to-day," says the young fellow, gayly.
"Let's get out of the way of all these people, and then we can enjoy
ourselves. I've got a new hat on, and the brim will be off presently
if I have to take it off much more" (performing as he speaks repeated
salutations right and left, in answer to the gracious bows that are
being bestowed upon him from many members of my sex). "I only wish
to goodness they would invent some new mode of greeting; for
instance,--happy thought!--wave your hand to a man and kiss it to a
woman. By Jove! I'll get some one to start the idea."
We are getting out of the crowd now,--out of the sunshine, which is
rather oppressive, into a shady avenue of fine old trees. We have it
all to ourselves. Here and there comfortable garden-chairs are
placed in niches at long intervals. My companion flings himself into
one, takes off his hat, stretches his arms, and gives vent to a sigh
of intense relief.
"This _is_ bliss!" he ejaculates. "Now," turning to me with dancing
eyes and the most radiant expression of face, "guess why I have
brought you here!" And, before I can utter a word, he seizes both my
hands, and cries, "I love you, and I have brought you here, however
ridiculous it may be" (a look of triumph belying his words), "to ask
you to be my wife."
To say I am astonished would be to give very poor expression to the
bewilderment that overpowers my senses. Honestly and truthfully, I
had no more idea of such a climax to our merry friendship
than--than--oh, why does not some one invent a new set of similes?
"Well?" he says, joyously, looking eagerly in my face as though there
was but one answer possible to his appeal, and then again yet more
eagerly and with a dash of impatience. "Well?"
I feel as perplexed as I might do if my pug-dog were to become
suddenly unmanageable. Then I say, still leaving my hands in his,
and looking blankly at him,--
"My dear boy, have you taken leave of your senses?"
"What do you mean?" he cries, drawing back for a moment in angry
surprise. "Why do you look so astonished? You knew--you must have
known for days past--what was coming; at all events, every one else
did."
We are still staring at each other, both acted upon by the same
emotion of surprise; but his is marked by angry incredulity, and mine
is nothing but the pure, simple, unadulterated feeling.
"Di," he says, appealingly, evidently making an effort over himself,
"of course I know it's the correct thing, at least I've always heard
so, for girls to pretend to be surprised and get up a little bit of
acting, that they mayn't seem to jump at a fellow; but I should have
thought you were above that sort of thing; and, besides, you know me
so well" (reproachfully), "and that I mean all I say, so there isn't
any need for that sort of humbug between us."
If I were not so sorry, I should feel inclined to smile at the boy's
unconscious egotism; but I am sorry, and vexed with myself too. Is
it possible there can have been anything in his manner I ought to
have seen or guessed at if I had not been so blindly taken up with my
own unhappy, miserable love?
"Come," I say, coaxingly, laying my hand on his arm, and humoring
him, as one might a child one was persuading to something unpleasant;
"let us talk calmly and rationally."
"Calmly and rationally!" he says, the angry tears starting to his
blue eyes; "calmly and rationally!" (with indignant
iteration),--"when I've been thinking and dreaming of nothing but you
for days and nights, and last night I never closed my eyes for
thinking how happy I was going to be to-day. But" (with a sudden
change of manner, bringing his fair young face close to mine, and
speaking in a pleading voice) "you are not in earnest, really,
darling? You do care a little bit about me. If it's only because
you think I'm too young, T shall soon mend of that. After all, I am
two years older than you."
All the time that he is pouring out his impetuous words, I am looking
regretfully at his bright, young, impassioned face, and wondering
what I can say to make him sec reason.
"Lord Seldon," I begin.
"Don't call me that!" he exclaims, impatiently: "call me Hubert, or,
better still, Bertie."
"Very well, Bertie," I say. At which he seizes my hand and kisses
it. "No," I cry, drawing it away, "you must not do that. Sit
farther away, or I cannot talk to you."
He starts up in a rage.
"Oh, of course, if I disgust you," he begins, furiously, "there's an
end of everything."
I feel petrified by the airs of manhood he is giving himself. I
really do not know how to treat him. Suddenly it occurs to me to
meet him on his own ground. Rising, I say,--
"Perhaps you will be so good as to take me back to Mrs. Warrington."
"Certainly," he answers, with bitter politeness.
We walk silently side by side a few yards, then he turns off to the
left along a smaller avenue, and, turning once again, we find
ourselves in an open space, laid with velvety turf, in the centre of
which a fountain plays into a marble basin.
"This is not the way back," I say.
"No," he answers. "Sit down here with me a moment." And, as I sit
on the edge of the wide basin, he throws himself down on the sward.
"Now," he says, looking up at me, "it is your turn. You haven't
really said anything; it has only been your face that has spoken;
but, anyhow, that was plain enough."
And he tilts the brim of his hat over his eyes, that he may look up
into my face.
"Don't you know," I cry, regretfully, "how much I like you, and that
I would not willingly give you pain" (hesitating), "any more than I
would Curly?"
"Curly!" (impatiently)--"a boy of sixteen! Any one would imagine you
were an old woman. Why will you persist in thinking of me only as a
boy?"
"It's not that," I say, hastily. "I have thought of you in that way;
but, even if I were ten years older, I could not look upon you as
anything but a friend. Let me be your friend."
As I utter the word, my thoughts fly back to that night at Alford,
when Hector Montagu and I sat together under the bent boughs of the
old tree beside the glittering water. I can see the angry scorn
flashing from his eyes as I proffer him all I have to give,--my
friendship.
Such scorn, though differing in intensity as the man's dark face
differs from the boy's fair young one, comes into Lord Seldon's eyes.
"Friend!" he says. "Thanks; I have plenty of friends. I don't want
your friendship; I ask for your love. And if you won't give me that,
I have at all events a right to know" (passionately) "why, after
seeming to care for me, you throw me over."
"Won't you believe me," I cry, eagerly, "when I tell you that I no
more dreamed of your being--well, in love with me, than" (in my usual
strait for a simile)--"than the Prince of Wales?"
"How was it, then, that every one else saw it?" (incredulously).
"Mrs. Warrington saw it, Lady Egidia saw it plain enough, my mother
saw it. I have heard of nothing else this week past."
I see a loophole of escape in his last words.
"It is very evident," I say, "if the duchess saw it that she did not
approve of it. I could not help remarking even this afternoon how
vexed she looked to see you with me, and you can hardly say she
looked pleased when you introduced me to her that night. However
much I might like a man," I add, with dignity, "it is very unlikely I
should accept him if his family disapproved of me."
"Is _that_ all?" he cries, eagerly, jumping up and coming to sit
beside me on the edge of the fountain. "My darling, don't let a
thought of that enter your brain. My mother is a little bit crusty
just now because she has set her heart on my marrying Lady Egidia;
but she worships me; if she knew that I couldn't live without
you,--and I couldn't; I should blow my brains out,--she would come to
you on her knees and ask you to marry me. Besides, if it comes to
that, your family's an older one than ours."
"That may be," I answer, promptly, "but our position now is not equal
to yours, and, if you married me, people would think you had thrown
yourself away."
"Let them think, and be hanged to them. Who cares?" he cries,
impetuously.
I give vent to a sigh. After all, I am not a whit nearer a
satisfactory ending than when I began.
"What am I to say to you?" I cry, in despair. "I cannot marry you,
because I do not love you."
He throws himself on his knees before me, regardless of the havoc
that the green moss may make with his light trousers, and, whether I
will or no, puts both his arms round me and looks up into my face.
"But, darling," he cries, passionately, "you would in time. If you
like me as you say you do now, surely I'm not such a beast that you
couldn't get to love me. Don't break my heart; for God's sake do try
and care for me; there's nothing in this world I won't do if you will
only give me some hope!"
He buries his face in my lap, and a horrible suspicion comes across
me that he is crying. The fountain sends up its sparkling stream
into the sunshine, faintly from afar the notes of the "Blue Danube"
are wafted towards us, but nor sunshine nor music can lighten the
load that weighs upon my heart. I look down at the fair-haired head
and the broad young shoulders, and a sorrowful thought comes across
me that some day Curly may be pleading to some woman in vain. What
can I say to him? A sudden inspiration comes to me, and I act upon
it as suddenly, without a moment's reflection as to whether I may not
regret it later.
CHAPTER XXIX.
DIANA'S STORY.
It is a curious position, that in which I find myself this July
afternoon, sitting on the edge of a fountain, with a future duke in
tears at my feet, not two hundred yards away from a gay and select
crowd, any member or members of whom may at any moment come suddenly
upon us without warning. And I, who have all along hugged my bitter
secret to my heart of hearts, am about to confide it to this boy, who
only one short half-hour ago would have seemed to me the most
impossible recipient for such a confidence.
The little white cloudlets are sailing aloft in the blue heaven, a
tiny breeze stirs the topmost leaves of the big trees, the fountain
sparkles in the sun and comes plashing musically down again into the
broad basin, and I, plucking up heart, force out the words that are
to console my boy lover and make him see reason.
"I want you to believe," I say, laying my hand on his arm, while the
tears spring into my eyes, "that I would not for the world give you
pain willingly. I know myself" (and my voice falters) "how bitter it
is to love in vain."
"What!" he cries, looking up into my face; "do you mean that you love
some one else?"
It is hard, bitterly hard, to say it, but his eager eyes compel the
words out of me.
"Yes," I answer.
"Well," he cries, starting up wrathfully, "you have kept it dark very
carefully, I must say. Pray" (trying to be sarcastic, but failing
utterly), "may I be privileged to know who is my rival?"
"You need not know," I answer, slowly, "since there is no more chance
of my marrying him than of my marrying you."
"Is he married, then?"
"Married!" I repeat, shocked; "of course not! How could one care for
a married man?"
"I have heard of such things," he remarks, bitterly. "Well, then, if
he is not married, what obstacle can there be to his marrying you?"
I avert my face, to hide, if may be, the sudden traitorous color that
dyes my cheeks.
"He does not want to."
There is a pause, during which I watch the movements of a stray
gold-fish in the water whilst my face recovers its normal tint.
"_He does not want to!_" echoes Lord Seldon, at last. "Then, in
heaven's name" (coming round and seating himself beside me), "are you
going to give up everything in life for a man who does not care for
you? Why, you can't go on caring about him forever; nobody does:
people are bound to get over that sort of thing in time"
(unconsciously arguing against his own cause). "Well" (eagerly), "if
you have no heart, have you no ambition? Don't you care to be a
duchess? I know," he says, his bright face flushing, "it sounds very
snobbish to remind you of that, but surely it must go for something."
"What!" I say, looking at him, "would you be content that I should
take you without loving you, just because some day you may be a duke?"
"Lots of women would," he answers, glumly. "No, of course I should
not be content; but, oh, darling" (looking up at me with honest love
in his blue eyes), "I would rather you took me for that than not at
all. Give me a month, two months, let me try to make you love me,
and then, if I fail, I swear to you upon my honor, I will take all
the blame to myself if you find you can't like me."
"It is no use," I cry, feeling the ground slipping away from under
me. "Do not pain me by saying any more: be generous, and believe me
when I tell you that it is utterly, utterly impossible."
He looks at me with eyes in which anger and incredulity are equally
blended.
"Do you mean to say positively," he asks, forcing the words out
slowly, "that you refuse me?--refuse me for good and all?"
"Do not put it in that way," I say, rising to go. "Forget that you
ever asked me, and believe that I would not for the world have given
you pain willingly. Come" (laying my hand on his arm), "let us go
back to Mrs. Warrington."
For the first time he thinks of his appearance. He looks down at the
faint green stains on his clothes, and passes his hand over his hair.
"I can't go back among those people," he says, with hurt boyish
vanity: "it is not pleasant to look as well as to feel that you've
made a fool of yourself."
I look rather ruefully at my own pale gown of _bleu, Watteau ciel_,
as the confectioner thereof fancifully called it, and see on it the
poor boy's tear-stains.
"How am I to get back?" I say, doubtfully, but not wishing to put him
to any pain that I can spare him. "I can hardly go alone."
"Come, then," he utters, brusquely, turning to go.
I feel sorry for him from the bottom of my heart. He has never been
used to contradiction, and takes it very badly. I want to make
friends with him. I long to restore to him his shattered
self-conceit, but am afraid of adding fuel to the fire by anything I
may say: so we hurry along in profound silence. As we emerge from
the avenue I encounter an old friend.
"There is Colonel Fane!" I exclaim: "he will take me to Mrs.
Warrington;" and as he comes towards me Lord Seldon abruptly raises
his hat and leaves me.
"How wild that boy looks!" utters Fane, looking fixedly at me. "What
have you been doing to him?"
"I?--nothing!" I answer, trying vainly to look unconscious. "Have
you seen Mrs. Warrington? She will think I am lost."
"My dear Diana," says that lady, with slight reproach in her voice,
as I join her, "where have you been all this immense time?"
A little later we are on our way to the gate. Mrs. Warrington stops
to speak to some friends, and I stand listlessly aside until she
shall have finished. There are two elegantly-dressed women standing
with their backs to me, and, to my surprise, I hear my name mentioned.
"What can she have done to Lord Seldon?" says one.
"I saw him go off half an hour ago looking as wild as a March hare,
and not long before that they went up the avenue together. She can't
have refused him!"
"My dear," retorts the other, contemptuously, "did the beggar maid
refuse King Cophetua?"
Happily, Mrs. Warrington is moving on. As we drive homewards I feel
very little inclination to talk, nor, apparently, does my companion.
But suddenly, when I am enveloped in a train of thought, she turns to
me, and says,--
"Diana, what became of Lord Seldon?"
"I don't know," I stammer. "I think he went away----"
"Was he ill?"
"I do not think so. He did not say so."
There is a moment's pause. Then she says, looking intently at me,--
"It is not possible that he has proposed to you and that you have
refused him! It is not possible!" she reiterates, as I turn my head
away to conceal my embarrassment. Still I am silent. I will not
tell the truth, but I cannot deny it.
"Diana!" whispers my usually placid friend, with vindictive energy,
"I should like to shake you!"
For the rest of our drive the silence remains unbroken. But later on
there is much conflict of words between us. She insists upon hearing
the whole story, and, under the strictest promise of secrecy, I
repeat it to her, with one exception: I do not tell her the reason I
gave for refusing him; I content myself with saying that I feel it
impossible to care sufficiently for him. She treats this reason with
hottest scorn and contempt. Not like a bright handsome young fellow
like that, the heir to a dukedom and any number of thousands a year!
Preposterous! If he were ugly, ill-tempered, sickly, deformed,
extraordinarily vicious, one could understand it; but a young fellow
with every gift the world values, and devoted to me into the bargain,
as every one could see,--it was sheer suicidal folly.
"Why did you not tell me," I say, reproachfully, "if you really saw
that he cared for me?"
"Because," Mrs. Warrington returns, with exasperation, "such is the
delightful perversity of girls, that if they think a man likes them,
or that their friends want them to marry him, they immediately set
their faces dead against it and say the y can't love him. Love!"
(wrathfully): "I am sick of the very name of love! And what do girls
know about it, pray, if they are modest and properly brought up? I
am more convinced every day of my life that the French system is the
proper one,--don't allow girls to have a voice in the matter.
Love-matches indeed! A pretty end they generally come to! It is
almost always the case that, if you meet with a married couple who
dislike each other and quarrel more than usual, it was a
_love_-match."
I do not believe for a moment that these are my dear Mrs.
Warrington's real sentiments; only, for some cause or other, she
seems to have set her heart upon my marrying Lord Seldon. Indeed, it
is a far harder task to encounter all her arguments, her entreaties,
her reasons, her insistance, than it was to repel his. Finally she
leaves me in anger. What can I do? I would not for the world
displease her willingly; and yet the other alternative is simply
impossible. I shut myself up in my room: we were engaged to a ball
that evening, but I had no heart to go, and my hostess excused me.
Then, as I lay on my couch, chewing the cud of fancies that were,
alas! all bitter, a letter was brought to me. I knew the scrawling
hand, more scrawling than ever to-night: the inside was blurred and
blotted, but you may depend I looked upon it in no unkind spirit of
criticism.
"DEAREST" (he wrote),--"I know I behaved like a _brute_ this
afternoon. I lost my temper, and it was very presumptuous of me to
be so sure of you; but somehow I suppose I have been brought up to
think I had only to ask and have, and I dare say it will do me good
to have a little of the conceit knocked out of me. Only, darling,
don't, for God's sake, make up your mind against me; don't settle
anything in a hurry. Perhaps after a time you will see that it's no
good thinking about that other fellow (oh, how I wish I could shoot
him!--what a dunder-headed ass he must be!), or he may get married,
and you know it's simply ridiculous to think that any one so _lovely_
as you could ever be _allowed_ to be an old maid. I can't think why
you will persist in thinking me such a boy; lots of women much older
than you don't, and, you know, apart from my being a long way past of
age, I've seen a great deal of life, and knocking about as I've done
puts years on to a fellow. But I can't believe seriously that my
being young is really an objection in your eyes. You surely don't
want a fellow old enough to be your father; though I have heard of
girls taking odd fancies. I'll wait a year, darling, if you
like,--two years, if it would make you care for me any more. I could
live on _hope_. All I ask you is, just to let me hope. If you
don't, I don't know what will become of me; the very thought, as I
write this, drives me nearly _mad_. I've fancied myself in love
before, but I swear to you I never cared for anybody a fiftieth part
as I do for you, and if you've heard stories about me don't believe
them, because there are always lots of people to tell lies about a
fellow. Then you know how fond I am of Curly: I look upon him quite
like a _brother_ already, and there isn't anything I won't do for him
if you'll only give me the chance. Oh, Di, my darling, don't spurn
_my heart's devotion_ and send me to the devil, for to the devil I
shall go if you won't have me. Think it over: you may tell Mrs.
Warrington, if you like; I know she'll stand my friend, and I have no
pride now, for if you don't have me there is nothing more for me in
this life, and I don't care who knows it. Montagu has been dining
with me; he saw there was something up, and I felt so bad I could not
help telling somebody; and he has cheered me up a bit. Good-night,
my dearest love. I feel I could go on writing to you all night, only
if I wrote forever I couldn't say more than that I love you with all
my soul, and that I shall always be your most devoted _slave_ and
_worshiper_.
"SELDON."
I read on until I come nearly to the end, full of kind thoughts and
regret for the young fellow whose honest love shines through every
line, but when I reach the passage about Captain Montagu a flood of
anger rushes to my heart, the indignant tears to my eyes. Great
heavens! was it not enough before!--and now he can coolly listen to
Lord Seldon's confidences, and "cheer him up." Cheer him up!--that,
I suppose, bitterly, was by holding out hopes. I fling the letter
from me, and, springing up, race to and fro in my room, in such a
storm of passionate anger as I never yet felt, never till this moment
imagined I could feel. Presently my rage subsides into grief, and I
fling myself on my knees and sob my very heart out. No matter that
it is unreasonable, no matter that I have long ago renounced all hope
of being anything to him, no matter that I revile him to myself and
call him heartless, unfair, dishonorable: the sting of this new
cruelty is none the less sharp. An impotent desire for revenge takes
possession of me in this first burst of outraged love and pride. I
think--yes, I think if it would give him pain I could marry Lord
Seldon to-morrow. But it would not: that is the sting of it. He
would doubtless come to the wedding, and make the most charming,
graceful speech on the occasion, and I should have spoiled my life
for nothing. Spoiled my life! I, Diana Carew, who have no prospect
of anything but humility and poverty, spoil my life by marrying a man
able to give me every pleasure and luxury the world holds! Ay, the
world! But then I have never looked there for happiness. I am not
ambitious. The first grief that ever came into my simple Paradise
came with my first glimpse of the world, the first taste of the fruit
of the tree of the knowledge of (worldly) good and evil. The thought
of an atmosphere of fashion, of fine company, fine houses, fine
clothes, fine jewels, does not warm my heart: it only seems to make
more barren and void a future which I should pass in the perpetual
society of a man I could not love. I found him pleasant enough as a
friend, but when I force myself to regard him in the light of the one
being to whom I am to look in the future for love, sympathy, comfort,
my whole soul revolts. To marry a man, too, against the wish of his
family!--to be looked down upon by them!--in time, perhaps (what more
likely ending to a boyish fancy!) to be treated with coldness and
neglect by him! No: the prospect of being Lady Seldon might seem
fair enough to a girl who had been educated in the world's creeds,
who had been faithfully taught the worship of mammon, but not to a
simple country-girl, who values not pomp or grandeur one rush when
they are divorced from love and truth and faith. To marry a man
simply because he has a title or money seems in my eyes the basest
degradation. How is it different from standing up in an Eastern
market and being knocked down to the highest bidder? But then I am
not a well-trained, well-tutored young lady: I am only a little girl
who has grown up wild in the country and been allowed the run of a
library of old-fashioned romances.
CHAPTER XXX.
DIANA'S STORY.
Once more I am at home again, with papa and Gay, with my dogs and
cats, leading the quiet peaceful life of yore. I have told the
stories of my doings and seeings over and over again, especially the
history of the cricket-match in which Eton came off victorious,--of
our doubts and fears and ultimate triumph, of Curly's intense
excitement, of the words that he said, the looks that he looked. For
were they not all chronicled in my heart, to be the subjects of many
loving talks with papa and Gay at home?
I fondly hoped papa would not hear of the little episode about Lord
Seldon; indeed, I made Mrs. Warrington promise faithfully not to
betray me; but he did hear it, and from Curly, of all people in the
world. It appeared Lord Seldon met him on the river, and they had a
long talk, in which it came out, and Curly was in a state of hot
indignation about it.
"Such an _awful_ shame," he wrote, "and he is so _awfully_ cut up,
and swears he will never marry anybody else; and he always from the
first felt like a brother to me, and I'm sure so I do to him, and
he's promised, _if it ever does come off_, to do I don't know what
for me, though of course it isn't for that I want it; but he's such a
stunning good fellow, and so devotedly fond of Di. And I didn't
think Di could be so heartless; and he will be Duke of Landermere,
and his father is a great invalid, and can't last very long; though
of course he didn't tell me that. And, dad, I do hope you will
persuade her, and make her see reason. Only think of her being a
_duchess_, which she would in time, and he's an _earl_ now."
Thus writes Curly, in hot and incoherent haste; and papa, who usually
reads every line aloud to me, having come to a full stop, goes on to
himself.
"Well?" I say, looking up at the sudden pause; but papa is reading on
with a vexed expression of face. A sudden horror seizes me that our
boy has been getting into debt, or some kind of trouble, and I cry,
in an impatient, frightened voice, "What is the matter? Is anything
wrong?"
Then my father, with a sigh that has an impatient sound, hands me the
letter, and I peruse, with what feelings may be better imagined than
described, the portion I have just transcribed. I read it through to
the end, and lay it down by my plate without daring to look up.
"Is it true?" asks papa, presently.
"Yes," I say, paying particular attention to the toast I am buttering
with great elaboration, although I have not the remotest intention of
eating it; the letter has taken away my appetite, and left nothing
but a choking sensation in my throat.
Then silence falls upon us. It will not last very long, I know: papa
is fidgeting about and clearing his throat, with a little nervous
trick that he has when he is preparing to say something important or
not quite pleasant.
"Di," he breaks out, at last, "what makes you act in such an
extraordinary way? You have no earthly prospect but poverty before
you, and yet you throw away two such wonderful, such unlooked-for
chances of a brilliant future."
I try to laugh the matter off, but my laugh, even in my own ears,
sounds most unmirthful.
"You know, papa," I say, "if I had taken the first chance, as you
call it, I should never have had the second, which is much greater;
and who knows" (flippantly) "but the third may be greater still? I
may end by being a princess; and then what a pity it would have been
if I had taken the duke."
Papa does not laugh; he looks very grave, even to sternness.
"Upon my soul, I do not understand you, Diana," he says.
At his tone, at the sound of my own name full length, which I have
never before heard from his lips, my forced mirth is put to a most
sudden and disorderly rout, and I fall to weeping bitterly.
"Di," cries my father, distressed, "my dear child, do not cry! I do
not wish to be unkind, only your conduct puzzles me so utterly. You
seem to me to be acting like a capricious child. Well, well," as my
sobs increase, "perhaps you can make me see things in a different
light. Come, Di," drawing near, and putting his hand fondly on my
head, "tell me what makes you unhappy. Am I not your father? Have I
any care or interest in the world that does not centre in you and
Curly?"
It is easy for him to invite my confidence,--Heaven knows there is no
other subject in the world on which I would withhold it,--but to
confess to one's father one's miserable, foolish, ignominious,
hopeless love for a man who is indifferent to it, what woman that was
ever created could bring herself to so shameful an utterance?
When I have mastered my sobs, I walk to the window and look out.
Papa has resumed his seat, and is waiting patiently until the spirit
shall move me to speak. I stand for some time looking out at the
great clusters of roses, crimson and pink, red and amber, golden
yellow, creamy white, blush-tinted. There is a lovely bud within my
reach, and I turn to the table for a knife and proceed to sever it
from its native bush. By this time I have recovered myself.
"There is nothing much to be said, papa," I say, in a small voice,
leaning my head against the window-frame and contemplating the
ceiling, which I observe is becoming exceedingly dingy. "I don't see
that it follows one is bound to marry a man simply because he asks
one."
That, I comfort myself, is convincingly put. Probably papa thinks so
too, for he does not reply immediately.
"No," he answers, presently, "if a man asks a woman to marry him, she
is certainly not bound to accept him for that simple reason. But if
there is nothing objectionable about him, if indeed she has rather
seemed to take pleasure in his society, if he can offer her
everything that the world esteems worth having, I think she ought to
reflect long and gravely before she makes up her mind to reject him,
especially where, as in your ease, she has only the most prospectless
future to look forward to."
"I suppose," I say, slowly, looking from the ceiling to the shabby
chairs, from the shabby chairs to the shabbier carpet, and round
again to the shabbiest curtains, "that the object of fine clothes and
houses, diamonds and horses, is to make their possessor happy, is it
not?"
"If riches do not make happiness, they undoubtedly add a great deal
to one's pleasure in life," remarks my father, tritely.
"This room is very dingy and shabby," I continue, with apparent
irrelevancy; "and we have never had much luxury, have we?--at least I
have not," I resume.
"No, God knows!" murmurs papa, a pained look coming into his dear
kind face.
"Then," I proceed, resuming my contemplation of the ceiling, with my
head thrown well back, for I do not want to look him in the face, "I
have been brought up without any of these wonderful adjuncts, and I
do not believe--indeed, I am quite sure" (emphatically) "that there
was never in this world a happier girl than I was."
"Than you were," says papa, taking up my words quickly: "I think that
is true. But, Di, can you say truthfully that from the moment you
came in contact with the luxuries and pleasures of the world you have
been as happy? It is true you have never complained, because you are
unselfish, God bless you, and would not pain me; but do you think I
have not remarked the change in you since you went to Warrington, how
much quieter and less full of spirits you have been?"
"_That_ had nothing to do with it," I cry, with hot eagerness,
involuntarily betraying myself.
"Then what had?" asks my father, looking keenly at me.
I turn sharply away to hide my face. Then I resume in haste, looking
out at the clusters of blown roses and their fairer buds. "I have
never felt the least envious of riches or their possessors; none of
the people at Warrington seemed particularly happy to me, though they
laughed and talked a good deal. Lady Gwyneth was not happy, nor Mrs.
Huntingdon; and even Mrs. Warrington wants perpetual amusement to
keep her from feeling dull. And at Alford, neither Sir Hector nor
Lady Montagu were the least bit happy; and in London most people
seemed to think everything rather a bore,--at least they said so. We
are never bored, you and I, papa, are we?" I continue, able now to
confront him with a smile.
"This is begging the question," says papa, answering my smile with
another. "Come, Di, my dear child, I want you to think and act like
a sensible, reasoning woman; do not, I entreat you, throw away such a
brilliant prospect without the gravest consideration. I am ambitious
for you. I confess it. I think," (fondly)--"there can be no harm in
my saying it, since you have no doubt heard it often enough by this
time,--I think you are in every way fitted to adorn a high station in
life; and it would make me very happy to see you placed in a
different sphere from this. Think, too, how much you could do for
Curly if you married Lord Seldon."
My eyes fill with tears.
"Papa," I cry, passionately, "you know I love you both; you know I
would do anything in the world to make you both happy; it would not
seem hard to die to-morrow for either of your sakes; but would you
sacrifice all my life just for a few advantages that I do not value
in the least?"
"Say no more, Di," answers my father, sighing. "I suppose" (wearily)
"Providence orders everything for good." And he takes his paper and
goes, leaving me a prey to bitter regrets.
Why do fathers and brothers always think it a matter of course,
involving no sacrifice on the part of the girl, that she should give
up all her future to a man she neither loves nor respects, if only he
happens to be rich or titled? It is a mean, base thing for a man to
sell himself, but it is a crown of glory, it seems, to a woman. The
same thing has happened to most of my heroines: some of them have
weakly yielded, and, of course, been utterly wretched ever after.
Then, when it was too late, when they had been driven to madness or
an early death, the fathers and brothers had been smitten with a
tardy remorse; but what use was that? I am determined that mine
shall have no such cause for regret. I will _not_ marry against my
inclination. But, though I am resolute, my heart is heavy as I think
how, by sacrificing myself, I might make the future brighter for the
two beings whom I love most in the world.
I cannot settle to anything this morning: so I take a book from the
shelves, call the pug, let out the other dogs, and betake myself to
the garden. We have a piece of water in our grounds, though not half
the size of the one at Alford: it is situated in the midst of the
old-fashioned garden, half vegetable--half flower-garden, planted
with the real old-fashioned flowers,--hollyhocks, sweet-williams,
Canterbury bells, larkspurs, blueflags, and such like. The banks are
green and mossy, and there is shade from a few fine old trees
independently of the apple-, pear-, cherry-, and mulberry-trees which
combine the useful with the ornamental. The great lily-leaves are
spread over most of the lakelet's surface; their proud pure white
flowers ride the glossy water triumphantly, meeting and answering
back the sun's fervent glances with their golden eyes; there is a
hush fallen upon nature; the birds do not sing these blazing July
days.
I lie tranquilly on the bank, too indolent even to read, perhaps
without the heart; and I try not to think, but to let the drowsy heat
creep through my veins and lull me into stupor. No very easy task,
though, with that very vivacious young lady the pug bent upon a real
good game with her four-footed friends. She is in a restless
worrying humor this morning, and the spaniel very kindly enters into
her mood, and between them they play a rampant game under the bushes
and over my prostrate form, that is not encouraging to soft repose.
Even the solemn old retriever joins somewhat in the spirit of the
thing, and, lying lazily on his back, opening his shark-like mouth,
feigns with low growls to swallow the pug's head. That active and
remorseless little beast does not possess the excellent virtue of
knowing when her playmates have had enough: the spaniel, tired out at
last, lays himself down with lolling tongue and panting sides, and
tries to get a little quiet amusement out of gnawing the wing of a
dead bird. Not a bit of it! Miss Pug tears it from him tooth and
nail, and a general chivy ensues, until the spaniel's attention is
arrested by a big red-finned fish leaping out of the water. In he
springs with a mighty splash, whilst the pug, filled with envy and
admiration, contemplates him from the bank. But when he reaches the
centre of the widening circles his prey is gone. Round and round he
swims, lost in amazement, and unable to convince himself that it has
disappeared from the face of the waters. Again it leaps farther off,
and he hurries after it, only to meet the same disappointment.
"Here you are!" exclaims a kind, merry voice behind me, and, starting
up, I see Claire Fane, equipped in her neat blue habit, looking down
upon me.
"You good fairy!" I cry, joyfully, "to come just at the very moment
of all others that you are wanted! I was feeling so dull, and what
you fashionable people call _dés[oe]uvrée_."
"That is the penalty you pay for going into the fashionable world,"
she answers, gayly. "I have come to hear all about your grand
doings."
She links her arm in mine, and we go towards the old mulberry-tree
that overhangs the water, and under which there is a bench. Claire
takes her seat upon it, and I throw myself down at her feet with my
arms in her lap, so that I can command a good view of her kind,
pretty face. It beams and smiles so sweetly and sympathetically upon
me, and I feel so forlorn and miserable, that I yield to the great
impulse that besets me to pour out my heart to her.
"I wish," I say, earnestly, "that I had never been into the
fashionable world,--never been away from this dull quiet place, where
I was always so happy before."
"And you are not happy now,--not quite happy? I can read that in
your face," she says, in her sweet, grave voice. "Tell me, dear, how
is it?"
For all my answer I bury my face in her lap and cry as if my heart
would break. She does not interrupt me with importunate questions;
she only lets her hand wander softly over my hair, and waits until
the fit is over and I care to speak again.
"Claire," I say, when my sobs have at last died away, "you are so
good. Tell me, how is it that we are allowed to think the world such
a bright happy place, and when we come to see it nearer and live in
it we are to be so miserably disappointed?"
"Indeed, dear, I cannot tell," she answers, softly, still stroking my
hair. "But there is one thing I am quite sure of, and that is that
we do not really know what is good for us, and that often and often
if we had the things we long for so ardently we should come to look
on the gratifying of our wishes as our heaviest punishment. Perhaps,
indeed, I think" (looking at me earnestly), "that would be your case."
I turn my eyes away from her face and look up the long green vista
over which the apple-trees are stretching their crooked arms towards
each other.
"Do you know, then," I ask, in a low voice, "what it is that makes me
unhappy?"
"I think I do" (pressing my hand). "Will you be vexed if I guess?"
"No," I answer, feeling almost sure of my secret.
"I think, then, that you are unhappy about Charlie Montagu."
No need to speak: my face tells her at once that she has guessed
aright.
"How do you know?" I ask, quickly. "Who could have told you?" And
then I go on eagerly, wishing to defend him and myself too. "He can
never be anything to me. I always knew it from the first. Oh,
Claire, do not think for one instant that I have any thought of him.
Indeed--in deed, I always knew it was impossible; and"
(apologetically) "I had never seen anything of the world; I was not
prepared----"
"My dear," she interrupts me, softly, "I do not think that any amount
of preparation makes any difference in a case of this kind. But,
since you know that it is only wasting your heart to care for
Charlie, tell me, why cannot you bring yourself to think of some one
who I am sure could and would make you very happy, and who loves you
with all his heart?"
My eyes are fixed upon her face as she speaks. I see the faint
color, like the heart of a rare shell, grow in her face. I hear the
slight tremor in her voice. I feel the faint quiver in her fingers
that grasp mine. I know quite well of whom she speaks: she is
pleading with me the cause of the man she loves.
Looking at her, seeing how fair and feeling in the very depths of my
heart how good she is, a wonder creeps over me that he can be so
blind, so dull, as, having all that is sweet and pure and good, all
that I have heard him praise and value a thousand times, within so
easy reach, only to stretch out his hand and take, to reject it and
want something so far meaner, poorer, smaller. The wonder is so
great that, however silly and tactless it may seem, I cannot but
speak out my mind.
"How can he care for me," I say, with the strongest accent of
astonishment of which my voice is capable, "when he must see in you
everything that he most admires?"
It is she who turns her head away, she who is pained and embarrassed
now; it is my eyes which dwell searchingly upon her face.
"Hush!" she says; "I am getting an old woman. I am as old or older
than he. We look upon each other as brother and sister."
"If, now," I continue, pursuing my thoughts aloud, with unintentional
cruelty, "it had been he who cared for you and you who did not love
him, it would have been most natural."
"You are prejudiced," she answers, quietly. "I do not believe the
man exists who is more worthy of a woman's love than Hector. And,
dear Di, if you knew him as I do, if you could only see, through the
mask of reserve and shyness that he wears, how really unselfish and
noble he is, you would love him too, and be the happiest woman in the
world."
For a moment, for one moment only, a doubt creeps into my mind
whether she really cares for him. Is it possible for anything so
magnanimous to breathe as a woman who loves a man pleading for him to
another woman?
"How do you know," I ask, "that he cares for me? Has papa told you?"
"He told me himself," she answers, slowly.
I feel enraged at this wanton, selfish cruelty on his part: he must
know that she loves him.
"When?" I ask, briefly, knowing that to say anything against him
would be to give her double pain.
"Soon after his father died. Oh, Di" (very earnestly), "you must
take pity upon him. I never saw a man look so haggard and miserable
in my life."
"That was not on my account," I say, impatiently. "Hector Montagu is
not at all a man to be desperately in love with any woman."
"You do not know him," she answers, quickly. "You are like every one
else: you judge him by that cold manner which is only put on to hide
the intense strength and depth of his feelings. He owned to me
himself that he suffers so dreadfully from your refusal of him that
he feels at times as if his reason would give way. Oh, dear Di, I
entreat you, don't set yourself against him so determinedly; try to
care a little for him!"
"What! you too?" I cry, with hot indignation. "Is every one bent on
ruining my life? Oh, Claire! of all people in the world I should not
have expected you to give me such bad advice. Why, I should be
committing a positive crime to marry a man feeling towards him as I
do to Mr. Montagu!"
Somehow I cannot bring myself to call him by his new title. I should
like him even less with that name, which reminds me only of a harsh,
arbitrary, selfish man.
At this moment the dogs spring up simultaneously and bound off, and
in the distance we catch sight of papa coming towards us. I always
see more of him when Claire comes.
CHAPTER XXXI.
DIANA'S STORY.
Time passes by with lagging footsteps; I fancy his scythe has grown
rusty, so slowly and lingeringly it hacks and hews at the hours it
used to crop swiftly enough of old. I wake in the morning with a
dull sense of oppression, a feeling of misgiving that there is
something wrong, before even I am wide-awake enough to be conscious
of reality. The mornings that used to be so short, how long they are
now! How weary the hours from breakfast to lunch! What an eternity
from lunch to dinner! I have no heart to read: is not my own unhappy
romance sufficient for me? Less heart to sing; for how can I sing
without remembering _him_? If I try to work, my hands fall idle, and
my thoughts go back to the one golden day in May, which has made dark
all the days that follow. What is sunshine, what sweet scents, soft
breezes, fair scenes, to a soul out of tune! Take away happiness and
leave all that nature can give, and it is utterly barren and void;
but take sunshine, melody, zephyrs, and leave love and happiness, and
the world is yet full enough of joy: give both together, and you
have, not this world, but heaven. I am reluctant, almost, to visit
my poor: even they seem less to be pitied than formerly, when I came
out from their poor hovels into the sunshine thanking God who had
made me differ.
The long summer days creep on. When the great sun sets in his
glorious flood of golden waves behind the dark firs, I sigh, and say,
as though a weight were lifted from my soul, There is another day
gone. But the thought follows, Are there not a thousand more days in
store for you, each one as long, as dull, as prospectless? And yet
they say life is short. I begin to understand how it is with those
who say in the evening, "Would God it were morning!" and in the
morning, "Would God the day were done!"
But Curly is coming home: it will be different then: I shall brighten
up, and forget that I have been unhappy.
A few more long, weary days, in which I try to busy myself with
preparations for his home-coming, decorating his room, polishing his
gun, putting his fishing-tackle in order, and here he is at last.
He, at all events, is not changed: there has been nothing yet to
sadden or sober him; his voice is as ringing, his blue eyes as full
of mirth, his bright face--God bless it!--as handsome as ever. He is
just as affectionate, as glad to get back to us, as contented and
pleased with everything, as he always was. It is quite clear to me
that he has made up his mind I shall be Lady Seldon, or, as he will
always have it, Duchess of Landermere. He is a stanch friend, and
returns loyally to the charge again and again, undaunted by what he
is pleased to call my wicked perversity.
"I don't intend to marry at all, Curly," I reiterate. "I shall be an
old maid, and keep house for you."
"Many thanks," he says, coolly, "but that sort of thing never
answers. You and my wife would be sure to quarrel like blazes."
"Oh!" I return, opening my eyes, "you have a wife in view, then, have
you?"
"Of course I have," he says, magnificently. "I am convinced there is
nothing steadies a fellow like marrying young. Really, Di, I don't
see anything to laugh at," as I greet this announcement with a burst
of unrestrained merriment.
We are sitting at breakfast one morning towards the end of August,
when the post-bag is brought in. Papa gives me a letter with an
elaborately heavy monogram, addressed in a hand which puzzles me at
first sight to decide whether it is a man's or a woman's. A letter
is so rare an event with me that I like to make as much as possible
of it by minutely examining the exterior and guessing at its possible
contents before I proceed to make myself master of them. I am trying
to decipher the letters of the monogram, when a jubilant exclamation
from Curly causes me to look up.
"Hurrah! Here, dad, cast your eye over this."
"My dear Curly," papa reads, aloud, and, having read so much, turns
with some curiosity to the signature. "Gwyneth Desborough," he says,
raising his eyebrows.
I can see distinctly, as he holds the letter, that the large
masculine hand is the same as that in which my letter is addressed.
Papa reads on:
"You promised me a visit, and I want you to come over on the 31st and
have a shot at the partridges. We shall only be a small party, the
Warringtons and Colonel Montagu among them, but there will be good
sport, and you must come. I shall take no denial, but ride over and
fetch you myself if you send an excuse. I've just bought a lovely
chestnut mare. You shall ride her, for she wants very light
handling, and I have not allowed any one to get on her back but
myself yet. We'll have some jolly rides together. By the same post
I have written your sister.
"Most sincerely yours,
"GWYNETH DESBOROUGH."
A feeling of blighting disappointment comes across me. There is so
little time left for Curly to be with us, not much more than three
weeks, and this woman, whom I dislike more than any one I have ever
met, is to take our boy from us.
"Quick, Di, read your letter," cries Curly. "Oh, dad, how awfully
jolly it will be!"
"Then you have quite made up your mind to go?" says papa, a twinge of
pain contracting his face.
"Oh, dad!" answers our boy, his bright face falling, "it would be
_such_ a chance. But, of course" (ruefully), "if you object----" And
there he pauses, not having the heart to offer to give it up.
Meantime I have opened my letter, and read:
"DEAR MISS CAREW,
"I hope your brother will be able to come to us on the 31st, and it
will give us much pleasure if you will accompany him. If you care
for riding, and will bring your habit, I have one or two quiet horses
in the stable that might suit you."
"Lady Gwyneth is very kind," I say, with a curling lip, "but I shall
not tax her hospitality."
"Why is that, Di?" asks papa.
"In the first place, I hate her," I return, vindictively. "She is a
horrid woman!"
"Don't believe her, dad!" cries Curly, flushing up. "She's an
awfully nice woman, and I like her tremendously. Really, Di, I
wonder at you: you used not to be spiteful."
"I am not spiteful," I retort, vindicating myself with some warmth.
"_You_ would not like her, papa. She cuts her hair short, and tries
to be like a man, and talks loud, and smokes, and says rude things to
everybody."
"Not a very pleasing picture, certainly," papa remarks. "Well,
Curly, what have you to say for the defense?"
"I know she was awfully nice and kind to me," replies Curly; "but of
course women never have a good word for each other."
Papa and I exchange a smile.
"My dear fellow," says papa, "don't take opinions at second-hand,
particularly on the subject of women. If you don't find out, when
your turn for the experience comes, that there are plenty of women
who are neither jealous nor spiteful nor selfish, why, it will be a
very unlucky one, and very different from mine."
"All right, dad," remarks Curly, getting up, and indulging in a soft
whistle to himself as he goes out of the room.
"I suppose he must go," I say, in a dejected tone, as the door closes.
"If he does," papa answers, "I should like you to go with him."
"That I will not!" I cry, hastily. "There is nothing I should
dislike so much; and it is easy enough to see by her letter that she
only asks me out of bare civility."
"My dear," papa returns, with decision, "I most particularly wish you
to go if Curly does; and I suppose" (sighing) "we must not disappoint
him. I fancy it is rather a fast kind of house; and I should not
like him to be there alone. Your presence would be a restraint upon
him, and if you saw anything you did not approve you could write to
me, and I would make an excuse for summoning you both home. I know
there are many men and women who (more shame to them) like to draw a
boy out and make a fool of him, whilst all the time he is thinking
himself a very fine fellow. If," papa adds, sorrowfully, "I could
have pleasant parties for him at home, and invite his friends here, I
would not hear of his going to Lady Gwyneth's; but, under existing
circumstances, I have no heart to deny him a pleasure that he covets
so much."
"Oh, papa," I entreat, "don't ask me to go. I should hate it so."
"But Mrs. Warrington will be there. You will in all probability see
very little of your hostess. Well, well, I leave it to you and Curly
to settle between you."
Need I say what the result is? Of course I consent, and when the day
comes, however reluctant, however prescient of an unpleasant "time,"
of course I go.
"I wonder who Colonel Montagu is?" says Curly: "some relation of the
Alford people, I suppose."
"Sir Hector had a brother Colonel Montagu," I respond, briefly.
"That's who it is, then, of course."
This is the second time that Curly and I are starting on a visit
together. He is even more joyous and full of anticipation than when
we were going to Warrington; but as for me, my heart is like lead
within me; every step that takes us nearer to the Castle sends my
spirits an infinitesimal bit lower. It is a long drive, but we come
at last to the castellated lodge, and the gates are opened for us.
"'Leave all hope, ye who enter here,'" I think, dismally, to myself,
as they shut with a clang behind us. Why does this strange
foreboding hang like lead upon me?
The drive up to the house is magnificent, through an avenue of the
grandest, stateliest trees I have ever seen, and after half a mile of
them we emerge from their splendid gloom into a broad space all
ablaze with vivid glorious color, whence not one subtle shade of the
prism seems wanting.
As we descend from the carriage, some one comes towards me from the
broad doorway. No, not for the fairest gift in the world, not to
save my own head, can I keep back the traitorous blood from my face,
or the tremulous quiver from the hand that he takes in his. It is
Captain Montagu.
"What! _you_ here?" cries my brother, with enthusiasm. "How jolly!
Why, Lady Gwyneth wrote that Colonel Montagu was coming; and we
thought it must be your uncle."
"Myself. 'Not Launcelot nor another!'" he answers, laughing. "Did
you not hear that I had got my step?"
"No: you don't mean to say you are a colonel! Well, you're a jolly
young one, at all events," returns Curly. "Where's Lady Gwyneth?"
"She has gone out riding, and left me to do M.C. She told me to tell
you if you came in pretty good time that you were to be sure and go
to meet them; there is a horse ready, and a man to show you the way.
Off with you!" And Curly, needing no second bidding, darts away like
a shot. "Won't you come into the garden?" he adds to me: "it is much
pleasanter than the house. By the way, have some tea first: Lady
Gwyn commissioned me to look after you and do everything that was
right."
"No tea, thank you. Yes, I should like to see the gardens." And we
stroll away together.
If I had only guessed this, I tell myself, not all the brothers in
the world should have got me here; and yet my traitorous soul keeps
giving little throbs of pleasure at being near him once more, at
looking through my furtive eyes at his handsome, pleasant face.
"I did not know until to-day that you were coming," he says, as we
turn off the broad terrace on to the turf. "Have you been here
before?--I mean in the old time when poor B---- had it. It was one
of the most charming houses in the county. Now" (and he turns with
an accent of disgust and looks up at the great structure), "horrible,
isn't it?"
I take a long survey of the range of building. To the right is the
old part, gray with age, stained, moss-grown, weather-worn, but
stately and regal; and to the left, brand-new, garish, with
plate-glass windows, and a trumpery attempt at imitation of the
veteran building, is the gigantic wing built by its present owner.
"Look at all the brand-new coats of arms of the Desboroughs," says my
companion, laughing; "and see just that one of the late owner over
the doorway: the coronet is nearly worn away with age. Poor fellow!
he did a bad stroke of work for himself when he helped his father to
cut off the entail. By Jove! I never saw a family go to the devil
as they have done."
"I should have thought Lady Gwyneth, at all events, would have had
better taste," I say, replying to the first part of his sentence.
"Poor Lady Gwyneth! she declares this place is a perfect nightmare
to her: you know it was all done before her time, and, as she says,
these _nouveaux riches_ can't shake themselves free of their own
newness; they don't fancy anything unless it is fresh from the shop."
"It is very nice and wifely of her to say such things," I return,
dryly; and then, with energy, "It is mean and despicable enough of a
woman to marry for money under any circumstances, but I think it is
far meaner to ridicule and hold up to contempt the man to whom she is
indebted for everything."
"We are walking down the long green slopes to the lake lying in a
vast hollow. He turns to me with lazy amusement in his eyes.
"Poor little Lady Gwyn!" he utters. "But you never did like her, I
remember."
"Never" (with energy). "I dare say you think it strange my coming
here at all. I did not want to: it was only to please Curly. Papa
would not let him come without me."
We have reached the water: by its margin are clumps of shady trees,
with seats under their wide branches, and here we seat ourselves.
"Charming piece of water, is it not?" he says. "I wonder if there
are any carp in it? Do you remember our carp-fishing that gold----"
(hesitating) "that day at Alford?"
"I remember your catching some in a net," I answer, trying to speak
indifferently.
"In the net?--yes," he echoes, absently. "By the way, have you seen
Hector since he has been invested with his new dignity?"
"I have not seen him since I was at Alford."
There is a pause, during which I look away at the far blue cloudless
sky, at the shining water, at the rushes, at the sloping sward, at
everything but him, and he, I feet, has his eyes fixed upon me.
"And so," he says, presently, after sating his curiosity or whatever
other feeling may have impelled his long gaze,--"And so you refused
Seldon."
"I never said so," I replied, quickly.
"No; but he did. Poor lad! he was awfully cut up, and buttonholed
everybody about his hopeless suit. Lady Egidia nearly caught him at
the rebound, but not quite."
I make no answer. I am wishing with bitter energy that I had not
come.
"You do not approve of any but love-marriages," he goes on, cruelly.
"I wonder you still believe in love, after having gone through a
London season. Most of the people I know who get on worst married
for love. What is that French saying--you would not know it, of
course, though, and I never could remember a quotation in my life.
Let me see" (trying to think): "it is _àpropos_ of marriage,--so many
months of worship, so many years of hatred, and the rest
indifference. Under these circumstances it does not much matter whom
one marries; does it?"
"Under _those_ circumstances, no," I answer, coldly.
"I suppose," he continues, "if you think it mean and despicable in a
woman to marry for money you would think it still worse in a man;
should you not? Suppose, for instance, I were to tell you that I
think of contracting an alliance with the cousin of our host; you
would feel a great contempt for me,--perhaps never speak to me again?"
I answer him by never a word.
"Perhaps you may not know that Desborough has a cousin, the only
child of his uncle, who was partner with his father; only this one
was not filled with a lofty ambition like his brother, did not change
his name to Desborough, nor anything else, but was contented with the
homely appellation of Puggins. Miss Puggins is not lovely; she has
reddish hair, freckles, a soap-and-candle kind of complexion, and
hands--not hands, paws. But Miss Puggins will have a hundred
thousand pounds on her wedding-day, and another hundred thousand at
the demise of Puggins _père_; and Lady Gwyneth, who is very
good-natured, though you do not like her, is doing her best to make
up the match."
I look up at him
"With some surprise, and thrice as much disdain,"
but never a word do I answer.
"You have a very speaking countenance," he says, turning away from me.
"Have I?" I cry, my passionate anger and contempt breaking into words
at last. "I am glad to hear it. I should like to be sure that I
look what I feel, for there are no words that I know of which would
express it."
A strange look comes over his face as I speak. Suddenly he stretches
out his arms to me.
"Oh, darling, for God's sake!" he cries, and then turns sharply and
walks away from me along the lake's margin.
And I, maddened with bitter pain and anger, take my way swiftly back
to the house.
CHAPTER XXXII.
DIANA'S STORY.
My cup is not yet full. I hear that Mr. and Mrs. Warrington are not
coming; he has slightly sprained his ankle, and is unable to walk. I
learn something also that vexes me still more: Lord Rexborough is
here.
"Such a jolly party!" Curly tells me, with enthusiasm, "and only a
small one,--which makes it all the pleasanter; though I'm awfully
sorry about poor old Warrington. Lady Gwyneth's sister, Lady Audrey,
just as jolly as Lady Gwyn. Miss Puggins, Desborough's cousin,--such
a caution" (subsiding into laughter); "but I'm not to make fun of
her, because Lady Gwyn wants to get up a match between her and
Charlie Montagu. Fancy, Di, a good-looking chap like that taking up
with Miss Puggins! Puggins! by jingo! what a name! I don't wonder
at her wanting to change it. That makes four ladies, with you, and
we four men: so we're just complete. I wouldn't mind changing that
little snob Desborough for some one else,--say Seldon, for instance"
(with a sly glance at me). "And, Di" (frowning a little), "I say, do
make up your mind to be pleasant and civil to Lady Gwyn. I'm sure
you'd like her if you knew her as well as I do."
"Grant me patience!" I think; but I answer by a smile. If I am
unhappy and dissatisfied at being here, that is no reason I should
wish to infect him with my discontent.
I do not meet my hostess until we are assembled before dinner. She
greets me with much politeness, not to say cordiality, and I cannot
help thinking that, so far, she shines to more advantage in her own
house than she did at Warrington. Her sister is a second edition of
herself; if anything, rather noisier, and more free of speech. Lord
Rexborough greets me effusively; my host, who looks smaller and more
snobbish than ever, treats me with patronizing civility.
"So we are reduced to eight," says Lady Gwyneth, addressing Lord
Rexborough,--"a most odious number, particularly at dinner, where it
entails two men and two women sitting together."
"Can't be helped," he answers. "Only having a lady on one side of
you, you can't make the other jealous, you know."
"Ah, but you are one of the fortunate ones," laughs Lady Gwyneth.
"Knowing your proclivities, I have taken care that you sha'n't be
left out in the cold."
Here dinner is announced. Mr. Desborough takes me (I suppose he
could not very well take any one else). After all, it is just as
well. I would rather sit next to him than Lord Rexborough; and Curly
could not take his own sister. As for Captain Montagu (I cannot
bring myself to think of him as colonel), he of course has the
heiress assigned him; and heaven knows the less I speak to him the
less likely am I to feel bitter and miserable. Lady Audrey sits on
my left, but she does not waste the sweets of her conversation upon
me: she, her sister, Lord Rexborough, and Curly make a very lively,
not to say noisy, quartet. The other four members of the party are
as conspicuously dull and silent. I am not a big enough swell to
make my host put out his conversational powers. Miss Puggins, on his
other side, does not seem very talkative; and Captain Montagu devotes
himself to his dinner. I have remarked that whatever disturbing
causes may affect a man's mind, they very rarely interfere with his
enjoyment of dinner, especially if, as in this instance, it is an
exceptionally good one. Such is not the case with a woman, I
suppose, or, at all events, with a girl. I have naturally a most
healthy appetite, but under the influence of any excitement food is
abhorrent to me. So I say, "No, thank you," to almost everything, to
my host's evident disgust, and occupy myself by watching furtively my
opposite neighbors.
"Really, Miss Carew," says Mr. Desborough, out of all patience at
last, "I am afraid you are very hard to please, or your appetite is a
wonderfully small one. It would be hardly worth while to keep a
two-hundred-guinea _chef_ for so unappreciative a lady."
"I have a very good appetite, thank you," I answer. "Everything
looks delicious, but at home I am only accustomed to one or two
dishes, and those of the plainest kind."
He stares at me in undisguised astonishment. He evidently cannot
imagine any one revealing their own shame (poverty is shame to him),
much less glorying in it. For somehow I do take a delight in making
the worst and humblest of myself before him, by way of contrast to
his vulgar assumption.
"Oh!" he says, when he can find words; "there will be some mutton
presently, I dare say."
Meantime, I am taking an inventory of Miss Puggins's charms. She has
red hair, plain red,--not auburn, nor burnished gold, nor _mordoré_,
nor the subtle sun-kissed shade dear to painters, but red, plain red,
such as in common unvarnished speech is called carrotty. And her
complexion! one might call her tallow-face, if one did not remember
that Juliet's father once said,--
"Out on you, tallow-face!"
She has nothing to remind one of Juliet, except perhaps that her
Romeo is next her, and my eyes flit from her dull, vacant face and
rest lovingly on his. Yes, lovingly; I will not recall the word;
however low he may have fallen in my esteem, however I may have
banished him from his throne in my heart, nothing can detract from
the outward beauty of his face, that makes it a pleasure (a sad
enough one, heaven knows!) only to look at him. And Romeo's name was
Montagu, I think, and the conceit pleases me. I resume my
contemplation of her face, which looks uglier by contrast with the
beauty of his, as his looks handsomer from its proximity to the
plainness of hers. She has dull blue eyes, a short, thick nose, a
mouth rather wide and thin-lipped, but her teeth--oh, great redeeming
point!--are good. She has large red hands, and seems to know it, for
she tries to hide them. Now and then Colonel Montagu talks to her.
It is evidently uphill work, but her dull face brightens up with
pleasure, and she takes the opportunity to glance shyly up in the
face that she evidently finds as handsome as I do. Poor girl! I
feel no spite or grudge against her; indeed, I am rather sorry for
her than otherwise,--she is so utterly unattractive, the most jealous
woman on earth could not suffer one pang through her. If she marries
him ten times over, I shall feel no jealousy of her; of what value is
the beautiful case when the jewels are gone from it?
It is a dreary ordeal to me, this long, sumptuous, costly dinner; the
many wax lights, the heavy odorous flowers, the glittering gold and
silver plate, the shining glass, are no curious feast for my eyes,
now they have grown accustomed to such sights. The loud, merry
laughter of the hostess and her friends jars upon me. Once or twice
they try to draw Colonel Montagu into their gay talk, but he too
seems somewhat out of sorts to-night, and only half responds.
"What's the matter with you, Charlie?" roars Lord Rexborough across
the table. "You're as dull as ditch-water. Are you uncomfortable
about the Leger, or are you meditating upon the heavy responsibility
of being a lieutenant-colonel?"
"That's it," answers Colonel Montagu, looking up and laughing. "I am
trying to think how the deuce I shall spend all my leave."
"Oh, go and look on at them, and make yourself popular by doing other
fellows' 'guards,' like the 'bus-driver on a holiday."
"That might be a good plan," replies the other, and then he returns
to silence and his dinner.
Curly's voice is loud, his face is flushed, and a sudden fear steals
over me lest he should be drinking more than is good for him. I
begin to watch; the butler is going round constantly filling the
guests' glasses, and I see with intense anxiety that Curly never
refuses. What can I do? A feeling of positive agony comes over me
as I reflect how impossible it would be for me to interfere or even
to give him the slightest hint. I forget the very existence of the
people who have so utterly occupied me until now, and strain my ears
painfully to catch what he is saying. He is talking in a boasting,
swaggering way, oh, so different from his usual tone and manner! and
I see with indignant pain that Lady Gwyneth, her sister, and Lord
Rexborough are leading him on, and exchanging occasional glances of
amusement. My blood begins to boil: all my old instinctive dislike
to Lady Gwyneth surges up in my heart. I positively hate her. At
last,--at last she rises from the table, and I rise too, trembling in
every limb, for I have made up my mind what to do. I cross straight
over to him, and whisper, entreatingly, "Dear boy, do come with us,
or, if you stay, pray don't drink any more."
He looks at me with an angry glance and turns away without a word,
and I am obliged to follow the other women.
"Lady Gwyneth," I say, as the door closes upon us, "may I speak to
you a moment?" and she answers, "Certainly," with a glance of chill
surprise at my flushed, excited face. The trains of the other two
are disappearing round the corner, and my hostess and I are standing
in the vast hall, under one of the great swinging lamps, whose light
makes every expression of our faces plainly visible to each other.
"My brother is not used to drink very much at home," I whisper,
dashing eagerly into my subject: "he has had, I fear, more than is
good for him to-night, and papa would be so dreadfully vexed."
"Nonsense!" she answers, with a light laugh: "he is all right enough.
You can't keep him tied to your apron-string forever. It will do him
good to break out for a change."
I feel bitterly incensed with her for making light of what seems so
dreadfully serious to me.
"That is not our idea," I answer, hotly. "Papa would never forgive
me if I allowed him to--to disgrace himself."
"What do you propose doing, then?" she asks, looking at me coldly.
"Perhaps you would prefer to disgrace him forever in his own eyes by
sending the butler to fetch him out of the room."
"There is no need of that," I say, hastily. "If you would send some
message to him, he would come at once, and you could make an excuse
to prevent his going back."
"I will be no party to it," she replies, moving off. "You are at
liberty to do anything you like. And as to the boy's having had too
much, it is simply your own imagination."
And Lady Gwyneth walks away, and leaves me alone under the lamp with,
if my face is as great an index to my mind as people pretend, a very
charming and amiable expression upon it. I, Diana Carew, who, until
last winter, never knew the sensation of anger or hatred. Perhaps I
made too much of it. I have often thought so since; but papa and I
were so proud of our boy that to see him do anything calculated to
lower him in the estimation of others would be the cruellest pain to
us. When I join the other women, Lady Gwyneth and her sister are
talking to each other in a low voice. There is nothing left for me
but to address myself to the heiress, and to count with agony the
long minutes until the rest of the party shall join us. Half an
hour--half an eternity it seems to me--creeps away, and then I hear,
with no relief, alas! Lord Rexborough's loud laugh mingling with
Curly's. When they enter, Curly is leaning on the other's arm, not
only as a mark of familiar affection, but because I see, in an agony
of shame, that he is incapable of supporting himself alone. His fair
face is flushed, his utterance is thick, and he is unmistakably the
worse for drink. Lord Rexborough looks delighted. "So," I think,
with the exaggeration of excited feeling, "so might the arch-fiend
triumph at the destruction of a human soul." From the experience of
later years, I have no doubt that my emotions on the occasion were
excessive, and that I was very harsh in judging so angrily the rest
if the party, to whom the fact of an Eton boy taking two or three
more glasses of wine than was good for him was so venial, not to say
natural, an offense that they looked upon it only with amused
indulgence.
Lord Rexborough has piloted him to a sofa, where he lolls with an
abandon that he would never dream of at other moments, for there is
no better-mannered young fellow in the world than our boy.
"Who's for a round game?" cries Lady Gwyneth.
"I am," shouts Curly: "by jingo, yes, let's have a round game! Where
are the cards? Here, let me help you get them." And he tries to
stagger up.
"Better hold on to the sofa, my boy," roars Lord Rexborough; and Lady
Gwyneth--how I hate her!--joins in the laugh. Every one takes a
place at the round table except myself, and, although Lord Rexborough
holds out the inducement of being my partner and of instructing me in
the mysteries of the game, I resolutely decline. I have no heart to
play, even if it were not for the deterring thought that they will
play for money, which I cannot afford. This conjecture is correct.
I take a book and pretend to read; in reality I am listening and
watching with feverish anxiety. Curly is evidently not in a state to
attend to the game; he makes frequent mistakes, and is utterly
reckless in his play, and I can see that he is losing a good deal
more than he can afford. What is worse, he is losing his temper, and
has already said one or two sharp rude things. My cheeks blush for
him until the water comes into my eyes: never in my life have I
experienced such torture before. There can be no keener pang than
witnessing and seeing others witness the degradation of one you love
with all your heart. At last my long anguish culminates. Curly
screams out,--
"You're cheating, Desborough. I swear you're cheating! I saw you,
by George I did!"
Mr. Desborough gets up, flinging his cards on the table.
"Why do you notice him?" says Lady Gwyneth. "Sit down: don't spoil
the game."
"I'm not going to play with a drunken young fool who doesn't know how
to behave," her husband retorts.
"How dare you call me names," shrieks Curly, springing to his feet.
"You little----"
But before he can utter another word I have grasped him by the arm
like a vice and am dragging him towards the door.
"Come with me this instant!" I say, in a voice of such low,
concentrated anger that I can scarcely believe it is Diana Carew's;
then, as he stares stupidly at me and half resists, a hand is put
through his other arm, and we lead him away between us.
I do not look up until we are outside the door, and then I see that
it is Colonel Montagu. Curly stumbles up one or two stairs, then
leans staggering against the balustrade.
"Go on and show me the way," whispers Colonel Montagu: and, as I
obey, he takes him up in his arms like a child and carries him.
I did not think this languid Guardsman was so strong. My swift,
trembling feet precede him, and he lays his unresisting burden on the
bed.
"Now," he whispers, kindly, "go away for a little while and I will
put him to bed. Don't look distressed" (smiling) "I have had the
same office performed for me dozens of times when I was a lad." And
he begins to unfasten Curly's necktie and pull off his boots as
gently as a woman.
I go as he bids me, blessing him a thousand times in my heart, every
angry thought of him banished utterly, only so thankful to set my
idol half-way up on his pinnacle again. I wander in a desultory way
about the corridor until he comes out.
"He is asleep now," he says. "You can sit with him a little while,
if you like. You won't care to come down again to-night, I dare say.
Good-night" (with a kind pressure of the hand). "Don't think
anything of it: no one else will."
Not think anything of it! As I sit listening to Curly's uneasy
stertorous breathing, my heart is torn with pain; I feel as if some
dire calamity had come upon our house. A horrible vista stretches
out before me, wherein, with all the reckless exaggeration of
inexperience, I see Curly going irretrievably to perdition, and his
evil angels, in the shape of Lady Gwyneth and Lord Rexborough,
hounding him on.
I am roused from my horrid reverie by his voice calling me.
"Oh, my head! my head!" he moans. "Oh, Di, I feel so ill!"
It is hours before I leave him. At last he is sleeping quietly and
peacefully, and, heavy at heart, I go to my own room. The lights are
still burning; in the distance I hear voices and laughter; the party
has evidently not yet broken up. I look at my watch: it wants ten
minutes to two.
I go to bed, but not to sleep for a long time. One thing, I feel, is
inevitable,--that we leave on the morrow. I shrink from it, because
it involves humiliation to my darling brother, but none the less I
feel, for his own sake, for the duty I owe to him, for my sense of
responsibility to papa, it must be done. Then at last, when it is
broad daylight, I fall into a heavy, dreamless sleep, out of which I
am awakened by a knock at my door. It is rather loud and imperative,
as though it were not the first summons. I wake _en sursaut_, as the
French happily express it, and cry,--
"Come in."
The door opens, and Curly comes in. He is dressed, but he looks pale
and not himself. In a moment every detail of last night's scene
rushes vividly across me. He comes towards me, and then suddenly,
before I can utter a word, he has flung himself on his knees by my
bedside and is sobbing his heart out. No need for any reproach from
me. I might have known how it would be with my boy; so I lay loving
hands on his drooped head, loving lips on his golden curls, and my
tears rain down as swift as his, and my heart is choked with sobs.
"Forgive me, darling Di!" he says, at last, in a smothered voice. "I
don't feel as if I could ever forgive myself. How could I be such a
beast?"
How can I heap words upon my boy's bitter self-reproach?--and yet how
can I defend him? So I am silent.
"It is the first time," he says, tremulously, "and it shall be the
last, I swear, Di. Don't say a word,--I know what you must think;
but I will make up for it,--you shall see."
"It was all Lady Gwyneth's fault," I cry, hotly.
"No, it was not," he maintains, stoutly; "it was my own, and no one
else's. But I will beg Desborough's pardon, and if ever they catch
me getting drunk again, may I--may I feel as sorry and ashamed as I
do now!"
And so all thought of a hasty and abrupt departure takes wing, and I
do not even tell Curly what I had intended.
"I'd rather not go down without you," he says, presently. "You won't
mind, Di, will you?"
Mind! Would I not gladly bear upon my head all the brunt of the
shame, if I could? I put my arms round his neck and answer him by a
kiss.
I have slept late, and when we go down-stairs every one is already
there. Curly goes straight up to his host, his fair honest face
flushing, and says, in a quivering voice,--
"Mr. Desborough, I am heartily ashamed of my behavior last night, and
I beg your pardon and everybody else's a thousand times."
I don't know how any one else feels, but my eyes are blinded with
tears, and I am only too glad to drop unnoticed into the first chair.
When I look up again, every one is talking and laughing very gayly,
and, thank God! if I suffered shame for my brother last night, I can
feel proud of him again this morning.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
DIANA'S STORY.
Curly keeps steadfastly to his resolve,--resists all temptation, and
drinks only with the greatest moderation; so I have no more
uneasiness on that score. The greater part of the first day I spend
alone; the other ladies all go with the shooting-party, and I am left
to my own devices. They invite me, as a matter of course, to join
them, and I would gladly go for the sake of the walk, but I cannot
bear to see the birds shot.
"My boudoir is at your disposal," says Lady Gwyneth, as, booted and
gaitered, she is starting on the morning of the 1st. "You will like
it. It is one mass of velvet, looking-glass, and gimcracks. I never
use it myself; it is kept expressly for the lady-like young ladies
who come here. The room I live in I call my den; but it is not at
all in your style, I am sure. You'll find lots of books in the
boudoir. If you care for French novels,--but I suppose you
don't,--all the newest ones are in my den. Order the carriage at any
time you like. I hope you'll be amused."
When they have started, I betake myself, with some heaviness of
heart, to a peregrination round the house. I, who am naturally
bright and joyous and glad to join in any pleasure and laughter, feel
as though the unenviable _rôle_ of wet blanket had been thrust upon
me; I am the obnoxious goody young woman who is shocked at everybody
else, and whom the rest of the company studiously avoid. I knew I
should hate this visit, and I do,--bitterly, unspeakably. Six more
days, long, dragging, weary days, in the forced company of the man
whom I cannot look at without pain and grief, whom, however small it
makes me to confess it, I shall always care for more than any other
man. I have _carte blanche_ to wander where I choose, and I begin
with the old part of the house. The old tapestry, many of the family
portraits, the ancient furniture, is left as in the days of the
former owner. Nothing can be more stately, more dignified, in more
refined taste. All these rooms are uninhabited now, but Lady Gwyneth
has sufficiently good taste to leave them unaltered. The change to
the brand-new decorations, the garish colors, the acres of
plate-glass and looking-glass, the fantastic and staring monograms
wherever they can be crowded in, the rich, bright-colored carpets,
the cart-loads of ormolu. Presently I find myself in Lady Gwyneth's
"den." It is much more like a man's room than a woman's; there are
certainly none of the elegancies that you expect to see in the
living-room of a woman of birth and unbounded riches. A plain,
small-patterned paper, chintz curtains and coverings to three or four
easy-chairs, a fine array of whips, driving and riding, a trophy of
foxes' brushes, gloves, cigar-cases, periodicals, a dozen or so
French novels in paper covers littered on the table, an album of
photographs, which I close as soon as I have opened it. On the wall,
pictures of many Derby winners, and several hunting sketches; on the
chimney-piece, photographs in stands of a few men and many dogs.
Lord Rexborough appears twice among the former. There is no piano,
no work-basket, not a single vase for flowers,--indeed, not one
object that would reveal the sex of the usual occupier. There is
nothing to tempt me to linger, for the view from the window is, very
characteristically into the stable-yard.
I feel a slight curiosity to see the despised boudoir, and turn my
steps in that direction. I open the door and pause upon the
threshold. Certainly it is a triumph of upholstery, but it looks
cold and formal, as a room does that is never lived in. The walls
are of faint, creamy pink, the cornice picked out with silver; the
furniture is all ebony and silver, the curtains and couches of blue
velvet and satin, the oval mirrors framed in silver, and there is a
profusion of Sèvres and Dresden china, of brackets and lace,
statuettes, exquisitely-painted china plaques, and every kind of
"gimcrack," as Lady Gwyneth expresses it. I draw aside the filmy
lace curtains, fine as a spider's web, and look out over the blazing
parterres down the green slopes to the cool, still water and the dark
background of trees beyond. It would be a charming room if it were
only lived in, but now everything is stiff and formal, arranged in
the house-maid's taste, each chair equidistant from the other, so
that one cannot even sit down without feeling guilty of having
disturbed the methodical precision of the place.
Thence I wander into the gardens, which are most lovely, and somehow
manage to crawl through the dull morning. It is nearly lunch-time,
and I am thinking with unspeakable horror that I shall have to sit
down alone to lunch under the Argus eyes of the solemn butler and his
gorgeous satellites, when, to my intense relief, appears the heiress,
hot, tired, discontented. I greet her with a more hearty welcome
than I could have imagined possible.
"What! back already?" I say, with lively interest. "Are you tired?"
"Yes," she answers, in not the most amiable tone. "And so would you
be, if you had had three hours of trudging through stubble-fields and
turnips, to say nothing of having been dreadfully bitten."
"Bitten!" I echo, in horror, only thinking of the dogs.
"I can never go into a corn-field this time of year without being
worried to death," she returns, crossly; and then I realize the
nature of the casualties. "Those two," she proceeds, "are more like
men than women: nothing ever tires them. It is very unladylike, I
think, to be always running everywhere after the men."
Poor heiress! she forgets that her aspirations were the same, though
her powers inferior.
"They won't get me out again!" she continues, still a victim to
irritation. "I should not have gone this morning, only" (stammering
a little over the fiction) "Colonel Montagu over-persuaded me."
The over-persuasion was couched in these terms: "You don't mean to
say you have an adventurous spirit too? I'm afraid you'll very soon
knock up if you are not used to it."
Lunch revives her spirits, and she becomes quite garrulous.
"What shall we do all the afternoon?" she says. "We must drive, I
think. My cousin has lots of horses and carriages in the stable
doing nothing: we may as well have one out." And I concur.
"Let's go into the garden," she suggests next, and leads the way to a
seat sheltered from the sun's rays by the branches of an elm.
"Have you ever met Colonel Montagu before?" she inquires of me, when
we are seated.
"Yes," I answer, briefly.
"Is he not handsome?" she proceeds, with enthusiasm.
"Yes."
"But wonderfully, out of the way handsome!" she persists. "Have you
ever seen a handsomer man?"
"No."
"But you don't say it as if you meant it: indeed, I think you only
say it to please me,--I mean" (reddening consciously) "for the sake
of agreeing with me."
"Not at all," I answer, quietly. "I think Colonel Montagu quite the
handsomest man I ever saw. But why should I say so to please you?"
(looking at her coldly, and feeling my voice harden in involuntary
contempt). "Is he anything particular to you? Are you going to
marry him?"
"Well, no," she stammers, with bashful confusion; "not exactly that.
What a downright point-blank question! Why" (eagerly), "have you
heard anything about it? Has he mentioned me to you at all?"
"I think he told me that you were staying here," I answer.
"He was asked here to meet me," she says, looking pleased (I don't
quite knew at what). "I met him two or three times in town last
winter, and he said he hoped to meet me again, so my cousin asked him
here. He is so delightful, so amusing, has such a perfect way of
saying pretty things to one: has he not?"
"Very," I make answer, a grim sense of the humor of the thing
stealing over me.
"I may be wrong," remarks Miss Puggins, regarding me curiously, "but
I have a sort of idea that there is not a great deal of love lost
between you two."
"Yes?" I say, biting my lips. "What makes you think that?"
"Well, you know" (with charming frankness), "last night after you
left the room, we had a long talk on the sofa together. Lord
Rexborough and Gwyneth were playing _écarté_, and I tried to draw him
out about you, and he answered just in the same short sort of way
that you did about him just now.
"Ah!" I say, unable to be anything more than monosyllabic.
"You are neighbors, too, are you not?" she continues. "Is not Alford
a lovely place? I am dying to see it. And his old mother, too, is
so nice, I hear. What is Sir Hector like? Very cold and reserved,
is he not? So different from his brother, I am told."
I want to be good-natured, but her vulgarity and curiosity seem to
shut up my conversational powers completely. She does not appear to
observe how small a part I play in the dialogue, but rattles on.
"How do you like Lord Rexborough? He is handsome, is he not? But I
think the way Gwyneth goes on with him is too bad: don't you? If I
were Harold I should not like it at all. I believe they were in love
with each other before she married, but he was only Colonel Blount
then, and never expected to be Lord Rexborough; but his uncle and
cousin were drowned out yachting the very day of her wedding. Wasn't
it funny? I rather wonder Harold cares to have him here; but he
doesn't seem to mind,--he is so dreadfully fond of a lord. My papa
is always laughing at him. He hasn't any ridiculous ideas like poor
uncle; and they quite quarreled at one time because papa wouldn't
change his name to Desborough. I wish he had, you know" (frankly),
"because Puggins is such a horrid name: isn't it? Only that, being a
woman, of course" (looking conscious) "I can change it. The worst of
it is, I have such a horrid Christian name,--Sarah; and papa makes me
so wild,--he will call me Sally."
Here her confidences are postponed pro tem. by the announcement that
the carriage is at the door.
On our return we find the shooting-party have come in before us.
"Such a day we've had!" Curly tells me. "Bagged fifty brace.
Charlie Montagu shot twenty out of them. I always thought those
languid airs of his were put on: he walked and shot better than any
of us. Rexborough got fifteen brace. I got eight; but then I lent
my gun part of the time to Lady Audrey: she and Lady Gwyn shot seven
brace between them, and Desborough one. I never saw a fellow muff it
so. He missed forty birds if he did one. The heiress very soon
sloped, and jolly glad we all were when she did, she would keep
chattering so. Isn't she sweet on Charlie? He's only got to ask and
have there, it's very plain. Now we are going out riding, we four.
Charlie is going to stop at home to spoon the heiress; and you, poor
Di! I don't know what you're going to do. Why didn't you bring a
habit?"
"You know I haven't a decent one," I answer, regretfully.
"What a bore! Well, good-by! I wish you were coming."
"Do pray be careful!" I cry after him, and, not content with my
caution, I follow to see him mount.
The riding-party are out on the steps, and the non-riding party are
seeing them off. Certainly the saddle is the most advantageous
position for Lady Gwyneth and her sister: both have perfect figures,
perfectly habited, graceful seats, and unbounded confidence. Lady
Gwyneth is going to ride the chestnut, which objects violently to
being mounted, and indulges in a series of buck-jumps and capers
after she is on his back that send my heart into my mouth. She only
laughs and seems to enjoy it.
"Your turn to-morrow, Curly," she cries, laughing, and I vow to
myself that, if I can prevent it, he shall not ride the brute. All
the horses seem mettlesome, and it is with anything but a comfortable
sensation that I watch them prancing and clattering down the drive.
"Have you seen my hothouses?" Mr. Desborough asks me, as we are left
standing together in the doorway. "Perhaps you would like to look
round." And I assent, and walk away with him.
"Won't you come too, Colonel Montagu?" asks the heiress, and he
complies languidly.
Mr. Desborough hurries me on until we are well in advance of the
other couple.
"We mustn't spoil sport, you know," he says, in a meaning way that
does not tend to increase my love for him.
"Certainly not," I assent, wondering if the scorn I feel is curling
my lip.
"He'll be a lucky fellow if he gets her" (with a backward glance).
As I am unable to make a civil answer, I make none, but fall to
admiring the orchids. When we have gone the round of the houses,
whose contents I am able to praise and admire with great sincerity,
we come upon the other pair sitting together under a tree.
"I thought they would not follow us far," says my host, with a
knowing smile.
If anything, the time goes more slowly here than at home. People say
time is so short; and yet there are sixty seconds in a minute, sixty
minutes in an hour, twelve hours in a day,--or rather fifteen from
rising to going to bed. And, if one's heart is aching all the while,
heaven knows that tittle of time, a day, seems long enough.
The same party at dinner, arranged in the same manner; but to-night I
have no cause for anxiety on Curly's account. He is merry, but not
loud, and drinks most sparingly. I listen to my host's platitudes, I
contemplate the heiress's charms, or want of them, I steal furtive
glances at Colonel Montagu. They need not be furtive: he is not
likely to intercept one of them, for all dinner-time he never once
looks in my direction. He is more cheerful to-night, and talks to
every one except me. My heart throbs indignantly; my thoughts go
back to that night, barely four little months ago, when in the wood
at Alford he professed himself ready and willing to sacrifice the
future for love of me.
Dinner comes to an end; again I follow the other trains to the
drawing-room, again I have a request, almost a prayer, to make to my
hostess. This time it is that she will not let Curly ride the
chestnut.
"I know he rides very well," I say, eagerly; "he has great pluck and
a very good seat; but, after all, he has not had much practice, and
if anything were to happen to him I----" I stop short, unable to
dwell upon such a horrible possibility. Lady Gwyneth laughs me to
scorn. I might have guessed as much. "Poor fellow!" she utters,
contemptuously: "it is a wonder he has a bit of nerve at all, if he
is always being watched and warned and cautioned. Something will
happen to him, probably, one of these days; it always does to people
who are coddled up and taken such extra care of."
I choke down my anger as best I may, but my dislike of Lady Gwyneth
is growing deeply and rapidly. No power on earth shall ever induce
me to come under her roof again.
When the rest of the party join us, Lord Rexborough draws a low chair
and sits down deliberately beside me.
"All right to-night, you see," he whispers, with a jerk of his head
in the direction of Curly. "What a lucky fellow he is to have such a
good little sister to keep him straight!"
I dislike this man intensely, and I am in a bitter humor. I would
rather offend him than not: little care have I of displeasing my
hostess, as I had at Warrington.
"It is very kind and considerate of you to allude to what must
naturally be such a pleasant subject," I say, fiercely.
"Oh, hang it! I did not mean to annoy you: you need not take one up
so very short. No one thinks an iota worse of a boy for taking a
little too much once in a way."
"Some people think all the better of him, I dare say," I retort,
scornfully,--"would, perhaps, aid and abet him,--would be rather glad
to help him sink down to their own level."
My adversary only looks amused.
"By Jove!" he says, with a laugh, "that was a nasty one for me!--of
course you meant it for me."
I am silent.
"Charlie is making the running with the heiress, eh?" he goes on,
after a slight pause. "You know I used to think you were rather
sweet there last winter, and I'm very glad to see it hasn't cone to
anything. Serious intentions don't do for people who are both in the
same boat,--'face is their fortune.'--eh?"
If it did not happen that at this juncture Lady Gwyneth summons us to
a round game, I should certainly rush away and leave him master of
the field, so utterly am I repelled and disgusted by his coarseness.
Lady Gwyneth evidently does not share my feeling for him. I might
not have noticed any thing, perhaps, had Miss Puggins not suggested
it; but now, having the cue, it is not very difficult to see that her
manner to him is different from what it is to any one else.
"I don't want to play to-night," he answers her. "I am going to have
a chat with Miss Carew: we are old friends, you know" (laughing).
"Come," she says, persuasively, in a tone so far softer than her
usual one that I look involuntarily to see if Mr. Desborough is near;
"do come: we are all going to play to-night. Miss Carew, you must
join us, and it shall be all for love."
"I could not afford to lose any more of Miss Carew's love than I have
done already," he answers, with a laugh, and then he rises and gives
himself a shake like a great black bear and proceeds to the table.
We all play, and the game is harmonious enough, excepting for a
passage of arms between Lady Gwyneth and her lord. Although we are
not playing for money, she is betting what seems to me very heavily
on the game.
"Like my luck!" she says, crossly, at last, to Colonel Montagu:
"that's fifty I owe you with last night. I ought to have paid up
this morning, but I could not get the money out of my generous
proprietor."
"I have told you over and over again, Lady Gwyneth," responds Mr.
Desborough, with angry pompousness, "that I will not pay your
gambling-debts. No fortune could stand against it."
"Won't you?" she says, scornfully. "Then" (turning to Lord
Rexborough) "I shall have to come to you, Jack. You would have paid
them all without a murmur, would you not, if your uncle and cousin
had only gone to the bottom one little day sooner?"
I feel literally petrified by this daring speech. I look up, half
expecting some dreadful finale, but, beyond a scowl and a dark ugly
flush, the husband takes no notice. Lord Rexborough is deep in the
study of his cards. Colonel Montagu, with quick tact, makes a
diversion, and we all go on playing as if nothing had happened.
This, I reflect to myself, is one of the fruits of marriage without
love.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
DIANA'S STORY.
There is no shooting the next day. We all go for a picnic to a
ruined abbey ten miles distant. The day gives me nothing to
chronicle,--only more dull heart-weariness,--and I am glad, ay, very
glad, when it is gathered to all the days that have gone before it.
Colonel Montagu and the heiress are left together in a marked manner;
they are glanced at laughingly and spoken of aside as "a case."
Curly, poor boy, little dreaming all the stabs he is inflicting upon
me, takes especial delight in chronicling its progress and
speculating upon how soon it will come to a crisis. I am not jealous
of her,--that would be impossible; but no woman who loves a man can
see his attentions given to another, however grudgingly or with
however mercenary intent, and not suffer bitter pain. He rides the
chestnut to the picnic. Lady Gwyneth laughingly dares him to it, and
he accepts the challenge without hesitation.
"After all," she says to him, as we are picnicking among the ruins,
"you are no _roi fainéant_, as your devoted admirer, Mrs. Huntingdon,
pretended. You shot splendidly yesterday, and I could not have
managed the chestnut better myself than you did this morning."
A flush of pleasure creeps over me at her praise. I love to think he
is less indolent and languid than he tries to appear. At this moment
my eyes fall on the heiress, who is gazing at him with a proud
expression of proprietorship, and a feeling of sickening disgust
comes over me.
The next day they shoot again. Mr. Desborough does not go with the
rest of the party, but volunteers to drive me out, and I accept. I
may as well do that as anything else. That evening Lady Gwyneth asks
me, for the first time, to sing. I open the piano, and am half-way
through the second song, when the door opens, and Colonel Montagu
comes in, followed by the others. He does not seat himself beside
the heiress, although she moves her dress invitingly, but walks to
the embrasured window and stands in the shadow of the curtain. His
face is turned towards me, but I cannot tell if he is looking at me.
I know not what impulse seizes me, but I leave the song I am singing
unfinished, and break into one that must surely stab him to the
heart, if he has one. Ay, if he has! My whole soul goes out into
the last verse; there are tears in my voice, in my eyes, in my heart,
as I sing it:
"Ah, but the days brought changes after,
Clouds in the happy skies,
Care on the lips that curved with laughter,
Tears in the radiant eyes.
Parted asunder, worn with grieving,
Wearily each one prays,
Ah for the days beyond retrieving,
Ah for the golden days!"
And when I have sung the last note, lest I should betray myself, I
rise, and, before any one has time to speak, am out through the
conservatory, rushing with swift feet down the green slopes to the
water. It is a glorious night, just such a night as that one the
memory of which brought all my heart into my voice. The deep-colored
moon is coming up over the stately trees.
"A sudden splendor from behind
Flushed all the leaves with rich gold green,
And, flowing rapidly between
Their interspaces, counterchanged
The level lake with diamond plots
Of dark and bright."
I stand and look down into the shimmering water, bitter and miserable
at heart, half wishing I could fling myself down into its deeps and
let the smooth water flow together again over me. A footfall sounds
behind me, and the swift blood rushes to my brow and neck. He has
come after me: perhaps he still cares for me; perhaps----
I do not move or turn until a hand is laid upon my arm, and then I
look up, and with a sudden horrible revulsion of feeling meet the
eyes of Lord Rexborough.
"So," he says, looking at me intently, "it is not all over between
you and Charlie?"
For answer I turn to fly from him; but he catches me by the arm and
detains me.
"Stop," he says; "don't be in such a hurry."
"How dare you?" I cry, passionately, struggling in his grasp as a
mouse might struggle in a cat's mouth. "Let me go!"
"Don't hurt yourself," he says, looking amused; "I am awfully strong,
you know, and I don't intend to let you go until I have had a little
talk with you; unless you scream, of course, and make a scene,--which
you won't, unless I am very much mistaken in you."
"It is a fine use to make of your strength, is it not," I cry,
tauntingly, "to detain a woman against her will by brute force?"
"Come quietly, then," he says. "There!" pointing to a seat close by;
"I don't want you to go any further than that. I am not going to use
my brute force" (laughing) "to carry you off. I am only going to ask
you a question."
His hateful grasp is still upon my arm: it is undignified as well as
useless to struggle with him, and he is right in supposing that I am
not likely to cry out or make a scene.
"Leave go my arm, then," I say, with suppressed anger.
He obeys.
I walk to the seat under the trees and sit down.
"Now," I inquire, in the most aggressively uninviting tone I can
command, "what do you want?"
He kneels with one knee on the seat, not so close as is his
disgusting wont, but at a respectful distance.
"I want to know," he says, speaking in rather a less familiar and
offensive way than usual, "why you hate me so. I believe you look
upon me as only one remove from the devil."
"You _are_ rather like the picture of Apollyon in my old Pilgrim's
Progress at home," I answer, without hesitation. I detest him. I
would say anything to rid myself forever of his hateful
importunities, and, though I think him quite capable of strangling me
and throwing me into the lake, I am so sick and weary and disgusted
with everything I have no room for bodily fear.
"It's not because I'm like the devil that you hate me," he says,
thoughtfully: "that's never any great drawback to a man in a woman's
eye,--particularly a good woman. Besides, you don't know whether I
am good or bad: how should you? As far as that goes, Charlie's quite
as loose a fish as I am, and you don't hate him. Then, of course, I
haven't his soft, spoony ways: that takes all you women so
tremendously. I've led a roughish life: it's always been more in my
line to court hardship and danger than to loiter away my time in
women's boudoirs. But you haven't told me yet why you hate me."
"Why?" I reply, with vindictive coolness. "I hardly know. It does
not seem worth while thinking about, but all the same I do hate you,
and, as you seem to know it, I think it would be more gentlemanlike
of you to leave me, and not to annoy me with your company."
"By Jove! you're a cool hand!" he says, looking at me with quite an
admiring expression. "Are you not afraid of saying such things to
me? You don't seem to reflect that I could drop you into the water
and drown you in half a minute."
"Oh, yes," I return coolly, "I have thought of that, and it struck me
as very probable you might; but I do not mind: you are very welcome;
I have had about as much of life as I care for."
"Poor little girl!" he utters, in a pitying tone, that jars horribly
upon me. "And so," he continues, after a somewhat long pause, "you
really hate me? Well, things don't often conquer me, and I have made
up my mind that you shall like me before you have done."
"Have you?" I say, scornfully. "I dare say you are quite equal to
any of Hercules' tasks, but I think you will find that a little
beyond you."
"You are very truthful and outspoken, at all events," he answers.
"Yes, and you are very pretty and very plucky too, and, although you
do snub me so smartly, I like you all the same. If you were only
civil to me" (laughing), "I believe I should like you a devilish deal
too well for my own peace of mind. I don't believe very much in
women as a rule, but I do in you. Perhaps it's because you are the
first woman who has snubbed me--since I came into my title. I dare
say you think it's swagger, but I give you my word there are precious
few women who wouldn't run into my arms if I opened them,--and asked
them to be Lady Rexborough," he adds, with a grim smile. "I don't
suppose you would" (sitting down beside me, but still at a respectful
distance, and eying me curiously).
"That I would not!" I answer, heartily. "Not if you were ten times
Lord Rexborough and had a million a year."
"You are a strange little girl," he says. "I don't suppose you
would. Certainly, if you could refuse Seldon, who will be a duke,
and is a nice, good-looking young fellow into the bargain, I don't
suppose I should stand much chance."
The moon is mounting higher in the heavens.
"Dark blue the deep sphere overhead,
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid,
Grew darker from that underflame."
There is no great inducement to me to stay out with this man, whose
presence is odious to me, except that the night is so exceeding fair,
and that I shrink from returning to the drawing-room after my sudden
flight.
"Have you done with me now?" I say, making as if to rise.
"Do not go," he entreats. "Stop with me a few minutes longer, of
your own free will, won't you? I will not force you this time."
His tone is so much softer than usual that I comply.
"I don't wonder at your thinking me a rough brute," he says, in a low
voice. "I am quite conscious of it myself; but women never seem to
take offense: I should think a great deal better of them if they did.
I've not had much of a chance," he continues, looking away from me,
"though, heaven knows, I have often wished to be better. You see, if
a man is dragged up anyhow, without the influence even of any
passably good woman, he gets rather rough notions about the sex; and
if, as was my case, he has a mother who is ten times worse than none"
(his voice getting low and husky), "it's no very great wonder if he
goes rather to the bad."
For the first time in my life, a kinder feeling for my companion
comes over me.
"I never was fond of but one woman," he goes on, presently, with a
gesture of his hand towards the house. "I dare say you've heard the
story: they wouldn't let her have me because I was poor, and God
knows, poor little girl, hers isn't much of a life! If I had known a
girl like you, say ten years ago, it would have been the salvation of
me; but I don't suppose I shall ever do much good now. There's no
chance for a man in this world or the next, I believe, unless he's
fond of a good woman. What can he think of the sex when he sees them
selling themselves day after day to any wretch who has only money
enough to buy them? Just look at the contemptible hound who is
master of this place; and yet she was a high-spirited girl, and had a
heart, or I used to fancy she had."
"Is it only women who sell themselves?" I ask, bitterly, thinking of
another case in point.
"Upon my soul I don't understand it," he answers, turning to look at
me, and evidently reading my thoughts. "Charlie is a very sensitive,
soft-hearted fellow, really: he would be utterly miserable with that
creature. He never can marry her, though it seems as if he was
trying to screw himself up to it just now. A better fellow never
breathed than Charlie, and, though you hate me" (smiling), "there is
nothing I should like better than to see you two come together. With
money, mind; not without."
"I don't hate you quite as much as I did," I say, softly, stretching
out a hand to him.
He takes it and puts it to his lips, and, for the first time, I do
not shrink from his touch.
"Let us make a compact!" he exclaims, eagerly: "try to think more
kindly of me, and I will try to be less of a brute when I am with
you."
Strange and most unlooked-for result of this forced interview: as we
walk gently up the green moonlit slopes towards the house, I feel no
repugnance to being out alone with him in the quiet night. Before
joining the lest of the party, I go to my own room to smooth my hair:
it is in the same corridor as the morning-room, and as I pass the
latter to go down-stairs the door stands open and a flood of
moonlight streams across the floor. I cannot resist looking out of
window on a bright night, and I pause and go in. The window is
embrasured, and the curtains are half drawn some two feet from the
glass itself. Two chairs stand between, and having gazed out once, I
find the prospect so fair that I drop into one and continue my
star-gazing. I may have been there perhaps five minutes, and am
thinking reluctantly of leaving again, when a sound of footsteps
comes along the corridor,--a light woman's step and a man's heavy
one. The door is pushed open, and the pair, whoever they may be,
come in. I, being hidden behind the curtains, am about to come
forth, having no desire to play eavesdropper, when I am deterred by
the sound of a woman's sobs. I pause, irresolute: it is Lady
Gwyneth. Then comes Lord Rexborough's deep voice.
"For God's sake, don't cry! What can I do for you? My poor little
darling!"
His voice is hoarse, as if with some deep feeling.
"I cannot bear it!" she sobs; "my life is torture. I hate him worse
and worse. His meanness and vulgarity are more sickening every day;
and, after what I said last night, he taunted me about you, and asked
me why I didn't go off with you."
"D--n him!" muttered Lord Rexborough, hoarsely. "My poor little
girl, you'd better have taken me and poverty after all. Heaven
knows, if it were not for your own sake--my life's of precious little
value to me now--I'd take you away from him this moment. But you'd
repent it,--a woman is bound to, sooner or later; and I care too much
for you----"
No, I _will not_ hear more! I have been standing in an agony so far,
not knowing how on earth to get away; but now I make a sudden rush,
and am out of the room, down-stairs, and in the drawing-room, before
you could count ten.
"What on earth is the matter?" exclaims Colonel Montagu, who is
standing near the door. "How white you are! Have you seen a ghost?"
"Yes--no," I stammer, dropping into a chair.
"Tell me," he whispers, bending over me with bent brows. "I saw
Rexborough go after you: he has not dared----" (angrily).
"No, no!" I cry, recovering myself. "Lord Rexborough and I are quite
good friends now, and we--we have been admiring this lovely night
together."
"Oh!" (looking dubiously at me). "I don't know that Lord Rexborough
is the best companion in the world for moonlight walks," he adds, in
a tone that I might fancy jealous, if I did not know how utterly
indifferent he is to me.
Lady Gwyneth does not appear again. Her sister goes, after awhile,
to find her, and, coming back, reports that she is tired and has gone
to bed. Lord Rexborough comes in presently, looking perfectly
innocent and unconcerned.
"You did not show me that flower in the conservatory, after all," he
says, coming straight up to me, "and I want to see it."
I obey his summons: something in his eyes compels me whether I will
or no.
"It was you in the morning-room," he says, in a low, hurried voice,
as soon as we are out of sight of the others. "You need not say a
word" (as I am about to protest): "I know it was pure accident. Very
few women would have been as honest as to go when you did. I need
not ask you" (looking keenly at me) "if our secret is safe with you.
I know it is."
At this moment, as he is bending eagerly over me, Colonel Montagu
strolls in.
What is to be the next phase in my life? I think, horror-stricken,
as I brush out my hair that night. What would not I have given to
avoid being the unwilling sharer of this hateful secret! And yet,
feeling as I do in the innocence and integrity of my youth the
fearful shame and wickedness attached to unlawful love, in my heart
of hearts I cannot but be sorry for them both. And, though until now
I have never had any love for either of them, I pray for them on my
knees to-night as I might have done if she had been my sister or he
my brother.
CHAPTER XXXV.
DIANA'S STORY.
The next day passes without any incident. I am rather more friendly
with Lord Rexborough,--rather less so with Lady Gwyneth. It is
evident that she can scarcely control herself to be commonly civil to
me.
The day after that is Sunday. We are later than usual: it is a
quarter-past ten before we sit down to breakfast, and nobody looks as
if they meant going to church. I inquire diffidently of my hostess
if their church is near.
"Are you thinking of going?" she asks, rather superciliously.
"Perhaps you would like a carriage. It is half a mile off."
"No, thank you," I return. "You will come, won't you?" (to Curly).
"I don't know," he answers, undecidedly. "We get such a jolly lot of
it at Eton, that I don't suppose it would do me much harm to stop
away for once."
"Do come," I say, in a persuasive _sotto voce_.
"Go with sister, like a dear good little boy," interposes Lady
Gwyneth, mockingly. "She's afraid to leave you alone with me: I
might tempt you into some mischief. And it's much nicer hearing old
Clarke droning away, and the charity children singing out of tune
through their noses, than going round the stables, and perhaps
indulging in the sinful game of croquet."
Of course that decides him, as it is intended to do. As I wend my
way to church alone, I am afraid my thoughts are not as holy and
charitable as they should be. "Never mind," I say, consolingly, to
my wounded spirit; "get through to-day and to-morrow, and then your
misery will be over."
It is a dreary afternoon. Colonel Montagu is rowing the heiress on
the lake. Lady Gwyneth has gone driving in her phaeton, and has
taken Curly, principally, I believe, with the amiable intention of
annoying me. Lord Rexborough and Lady Audrey have disappeared
together, and I am left to my own devices. They are rather dull
ones, it must be confessed, consisting chiefly of ingeniously
tormenting exercises of mind and memory. When my host, in pity of my
evidently lonely and neglected condition, bids me to a long walk with
him, I acquiesce gratefully. His companionship may afford me very
little pleasure, but it is in any case better than my own, and I am
fond of walking for its own sake. I endure patiently his talk of the
great ones of the earth, of whom I know something more than when I
first met him at Warrington last winter. In the evening they play
cards, as usual. Curly declines at first, but Lady Gwyneth laughs
him out of his scruples.
"I can't think how your morals get on, Curly," she says, scoffingly,
"when you have not your sister to look after them."
"Ah," says Lord Rexborough, championing me, to my surprise, "if I had
had such a sister to look after my morals, I should have been a
precious deal better fellow than I am. Don't mind being laughed at,
my boy; and never be ashamed to be influenced for good."
Lady Gwyneth looks up at him, her eyes flashing with angry surprise.
"If you think so much of good influences," she utters, with a bitter
sneer, "why don't you look out for some good, young woman to convert
you? A wife would be even better than a sister."
He answers her by a look which even I can read. It says, "You know
why I do not;" and she drops her angry eyes, and the conversation too.
My boy playing cards on Sunday night! I do not know that it is
actually wicked,--far be it from me to condemn any one,--but, though
we have not had a religious education, we should as soon have thought
of staying away from church on a Sunday morning, or card-playing on
Sunday evening, as of flying.
Curly has not yet ridden the chestnut.
"After all your promises, Lady Gwyn," he says, reproachfully, at
breakfast, on Monday morning.
"You shall ride her to-night," she answers. "There is my hand on
it." And she extends it to him. Curly, blushing a little, kisses it.
"Bravo, young one!" shouts Lord Rexborough, with a hearty laugh.
"Isn't he charming?" says Lady Gwyneth, laying a caressing hand upon
his shoulder. "If I only had him for a month without any
counteracting influences, he would be quite perfect."
"Patience!" I think, grinding my teeth; "patience until to-morrow."
I make one more effort. I follow her to her den, thinking grimly how
my boy's bones (morally) would be lying whitening there if she had
him for that month she spoke of alone.
"I entreat you once more," I cry, earnestly, "not to let him ride
that chestnut. I know it is not safe."
As usual, she makes me a scornful answer.
"It may be nothing to you," I return, hotly, "but, if anything
happened to him, papa and I should never get over it."
"I have given my word," she answers, coldly, "and I can assure you I
have not the least intention of breaking it."
"Then," I cry, passionately, "if anything happens to him, it is on
your head! if he is killed, you will have _murdered_ him!"
"Miss Carew, you forget yourself," she says, imperiously.
"I shall never forget you, nor how you have tried to ruin Curly," I
answer, bitterly, and turn to go. All day long I am tormented by
fear. As four o'clock chimes, the hour appointed for the start, my
mind is at fever-heat: at first I think of shutting myself in my room
and not seeing them off, but something impels me to go down. The
horses are at the door. Curly, radiant with delight, is preparing to
mount.
"You get up first," Lady Gwyneth says to him, "and ride gently down
the avenue. She gets fidgety if she is kept waiting."
The chestnut violently resists being mounted. She plunges, and
almost breaks away from the groom who holds her. Colonel Montagu is
standing close to me: in an agony of nervousness I clutch hold of his
arm.
"Do not be afraid," he says, kindly. "She will be all right when he
is on her back."
Will she? He is in the saddle, and she is bucking, plunging, rearing
with all her might. I am sick with terror; my legs fail me. I
should fall if Colonel Montagu did not put a strong arm round me.
"Let her go!" cries Lady Gwyneth. "Don't pull at her."
As the words are in her mouth, the chestnut rears up on end: it seems
to my agonized eyes as though she will never come down again.
"Get him off! get him off! oh, I pray, I entreat you!" I cry, tearing
myself from Colonel Montagu. "Oh, have mercy upon me!"
In my agony, I hardly know what I am doing or saying. I push him
violently forward.
Curly is pale, but he is still in the saddle.
"Better get off, my boy," cries Colonel Montagu, going towards him.
But, whilst he speaks, the chestnut rears again, quivers in the air,
totters, and falls back with him under her. Oh, my God! She makes a
furious plunge, but he--he is lying dead, stone dead, on the ground
before my eyes! I am beside him! Lady Gwyneth is there too.
"Go away!" I shriek, dragging her off. "Do not dare to touch him!
It is you who have murdered him!"
She goes without a word.
"I will fetch the doctor myself," she mutters. "I shall go quicker
than any one."
I fling myself down beside my dead boy, I take his beautiful
golden-haired head in my arms, and cry, "Oh, how shall I tell papa?"
That is my first thought. They are all standing round me, except
Lady Gwyneth, and now Colonel Montagu bends down and whispers, "Let
us take him in;" and I move aside, and he and Lord Rexborough take up
my boy tenderly, and I follow them to the house.
"Best take him up-stairs at once," they whisper to each other, and
they carry him up and lay him on his own bed. And all this time I am
thinking with dull agony of papa. How will he bear it?--how shall I
comfort him?--who will break it to him? And in my pain I turn to the
man I have loved.
"Will you go to him?" I say, with trembling, faltering lips. "Will
you tell him? You will not mind the trouble, will you? And, oh!
break it to him gently; do not tell him all at once; it would kill
him!"
"Of course I will go, this very instant," he says. "Oh, my poor
child" (his blue eyes growing wet with pity), "try and bear up. If I
could only make you know how grieved I am for you!"
"Yes, I know, I know," I answer, hastily. "But do not wait; go at
once, pray go."
He goes, and Lord Rexborough and I are left alone.
"We cannot tell till the doctor comes," he whispers, kindly. "I've
often seen fellows look like death with concussion of the brain."
I shake my head. "He is dead," I say,--"dead." I have taken up my
post at the bed-head to watch the beautiful marble face that not ten
minutes ago was flushed with health and pleasure. A sort of stony
feeling creeps over me. I feel as though it were not I, but some
other woman, who is looking on at me, and to whose voice I am
listening. I have no tears, and in a moment of time my thoughts are
traveling back all the years that papa and I have watched over our
boy, of the sacrifices we have made, the hopes we have indulged, the
love with which we have loved him, the pride we have had in him. I
take my eyes off the white lovely face and turn them to Lord
Rexborough's dark one. It is furrowed with pain: even his eyes have
tears in them at this piteous sight.
"Poor lad! poor little girl!" he murmurs, in a broken voice.
"I told her so," I hear myself say, in a cold, quiet voice; "I told
her she would be his murderer. She would have liked to ruin him body
and soul, but she has only killed his body."
"Hush!" he answers me, in a pained whisper. "She meant no harm, and,
poor little woman, she will suffer most awfully at this."
"She suffer!" I echo, in cold scorn. "What is it to her? what will
it be to her in a week's time? And papa and I" (my voice breaking
into a wail), "what shall we do without him all the rest of our
lives?" And as I think of his bonny face and his ringing laugh I
break down and fall into an agony of weeping. I fling myself on my
knees by my dead boy and call on him to speak to me. I cry aloud to
God to take pity upon me, and all this time the rough, coarse man
whom I have loathed is standing over me, stroking my hair tenderly
and bringing his loud, harsh voice down to a soothing whisper as soft
as a woman's. But I heed him not; the flood-gates of my tears are
unloosed; I am sobbing out all my passionate love and pity of the
young life crushed out in its fair dawn. I am praying frantically
for a miracle to bring my dead boy back to life. There is a sound of
steps in the corridor, and I look up and see a stranger entering
hurriedly. He comes up to the bed, looks at my boy, takes up his
lifeless hand, and I see his face contract.
"He is dead!" I mutter, and, as I speak, Lady Gwyneth, with ashen
face, comes towards the bed.
I start to my feet.
"Go away!" I whisper, hoarsely: "do not dare to come and look at your
work! Remember, it was you who killed him! he would be alive now if
it were not for you!" And, so saying, I push her violently towards
the door.
But the strain on my nerves is too great, and I fall back senseless
into Lord Rexborough's arms. When I come to myself, I am lying
partially undressed on my own bed, a kind, comely-looking woman is
standing on one side of me, and on the other the doctor,--I suppose
it is the doctor.
"Thank God, she's come to, poor dear young lady!" says the woman's
voice.
I stare vaguely from one to other of them: I cannot make out what
they are doing, nor how I have come here. My eyes involuntarily
close again, and I hear them whispering over me, and feel a warm hand
on my wrist. Have I been ill? My brain begins to make an effort; I
have seen the man's face before; and then all at once consciousness
comes back, and I remember all. I start up, crying, wildly,--
"Is he dead? Has papa come?"
"No, no; he is not dead," the doctor answers, in a cheery voice.
"Try not to agitate yourself."
"Not dead!" I utter, looking at him as if to read him through and
through; "not dead! Will he live?"
The doctor looks away.
"We must hope for the best," he says, in a low voice.
I sink back on the pillow with a groan.
"Oh, poor papa! poor papa!" I mutter. "Who is with him?" I ask,
presently. "Not she!" (wildly) "I will not have her near him. I
must get up and go to him," and I try to stagger up.
"Wait a little," says the doctor, soothingly. "You shall go
presently: you can do no good now."
"Why are you not there, if you say he is alive?" I cry, with a
searching look at him.
"Because you wanted me more for the moment. They would have sent for
me if--if I could have been of any use."
"But you must be of use," I say, feverishly, "if he is alive. He is
not! You are trying to deceive me!"
"He was alive twenty minutes ago," he answers; "but you can do
without me now, and I will go. Remember, though, if you want to be
of any use, if you want to nurse him, you must not agitate yourself:
you must try and control your grief as much as possible. Try and
bear up." And he pats my hand kindly.
"Help me to dress," I say to the housekeeper, whom I recognize now;
and she obeys, with many kind homely words of sympathy, which almost
make me cry again, only that I have made up my mind for my boy's sake
to be strong. She helps me along the corridor, for I still feel weak
and giddy, to the room which is to witness the parting of my
darling's spirit or his resurrection back to life. As I enter, Lady
Gwyneth comes towards me. She is still in her habit; her eyes are
red, the tears are streaming down her cheeks.
"Do not send me away!" she cries, in low, passionate entreaty. "If
you knew how awfully I am suffering, you would not harden your heart
against me. Blame me, hate me, but let me stay!"
I shrink from her, but my anger has died away in my overwhelming
grief, so I let her stay. She kneels on the opposite side of the bed
from me, her hands buried in her face, looking up once and again at
the marble beauty that never stirs nor gives the faintest sign of
life. The doctor takes up his post at the foot of the bed. The
light wanes and dies; in the mirror opposite the window I can see his
glorious death. Death! oh, ghastly comparison, for the sun will rise
to-morrow, and my boy!--ah, he may be where there is no sunrise nor
sunset, where there are no more tears, in the radiant blessedness of
God's eternal presence. And if I were sure of his beatitude (the
thought steals over me) could I be content to do without my boy again
in this world? could I say, "It is well"? No, no! my earth-clogged
soul rebels.
"O Lord, only give him back to us!" I cry. "Only give him back; we
cannot spare him!" I am roused by the doctor asking in a whisper for
a light. Lady Gwyneth rises softly, and, going out, returns with
one. All our eyes turn to the bed, but there is no change. We
resume our watch. Presently there is a sound of wheels: my heart
throbs violently, I tremble in every limb. Lady Gwyneth goes out,
followed by the doctor, and we two wait alone for our father's
coming. It seems an eternity until I hear his footsteps. At last I
catch the sound: he opens the door, he is in the room. Is it his
face that looks at me so wan and blanched? He comes towards the bed
on which all his hopes are dying. There are moments of supreme agony
as well as supreme bliss in which speech plays no part. Silently we
put our arms round each other in one convulsive sympathy of pain;
then he throws himself down beside the bed and takes the dear white
lifeless hand in his. His whole frame is convulsed with sobs; the
scalding tears trickle through his fingers. Women's tears are of
little account; we weep for a petty mortification or for misplaced
sentiment; but a man's tears are like his heart's blood. Here is the
end of his hopes, of his sacrifices, of his untiring love; here lies
the last of his race, his darling, dying, and he is powerless to stay
the King of Terrors for one little hour, to win one last look of
recognition from the loving blue eyes. If I live to be a hundred,
shall I ever forget the impotent agony of that moment? All the pain
of losing my darling is merged in anguish at my father's grief.
"Help me, O God, to console him!" I pray, over and over again, in an
agony of intensity. Then I creep on my knees beside him, and lift
one of his hands from his face and put it round my neck, crying, from
no jealousy or self-seeking, God knows! "Oh, darling father, you
have me still!" He opens his arms, and I pillow my head on his
breast, and the tears of our bitter anguish for our boy flow together.
Presently the doctor comes in again softly. Papa conquers his
weakness, and speaks in a firm voice. "Is there any hope?"
"While there is life there is hope," he answers, tritely. But he
turns away and sighs. All night long, papa and I keep our vigil
beside our wrecked hopes; neither of us tries to persuade the other
to leave the bedside or to take rest: we understand each other too
well for that. Often during the night hushed footsteps come to the
door, and my quickened ear catches the voice of Lady Gwyneth or
Colonel Montagu or Lord Rexborough. Sometimes they come stealthily
in and look at the beautiful lifeless form and go out again sighing.
I hear Lady Gwyneth whisper to papa that she has telegraphed to
London for an eminent physician, and that he will be here by the
first train in the morning. The night crawls on, and we watch our
boy, papa and I, one each side of the bed; sometimes we start when
the flickering light or our overstrung nerves make us fancy he has
moved. The long night goes; the chill gray dawn succeeds it.
Colonel Montagu comes in softly and wraps a shawl round my cold
shoulders. The dawn grows strong; the red sunlight creeps up the
sky; it waxes broad and hot; and yet he has never stirred. We look
fearfully at each other--papa and I--as the strong light shows us the
waxen face. Is he gone from us? our eyes ask each other, with mute
terror. But the doctor says, "No, there is still hope."
CHAPTER XXXVI.
DIANA'S STORY.
Wit the morning the great physician is here. Before his coming we
had looked forward to it with an intense eagerness: we had fancied he
would make some speedy change; in our hearts we had thought
slightingly of the country doctor's skill. But when he arrived he
could do no more: he could bring no color to the white face, no
animation to the rigid form. Only one thing he could do to give us
comfort, and that he did. He told us of other cases he had known
where life had almost seemed extinct, where the patient had lain for
four-and-twenty hours without sign or movement and had yet recovered
and been none the worse for the accident.
"And sometimes," says papa, in a husky voice, looking searchingly in
the great autocrat's face, "more often still, I suppose it
terminates--fatally." He can hardly bring himself to the utterance
of that dire word.
"We must hope for the best," is the answer. Even when the great
oracle uncloses its lips at such a time, its utterance can but be
trite and commonplace.
And then he consults and agrees courteously with his country
colleague as to what is to be done under various contingencies, takes
us by the hand with grave and kindly sympathy, bids us be of good
heart, and goes; and with him goes all of hope and courage which that
fearful night's vigil had left us.
But, after all, our boy is spared to us. He comes back slowly from
those dark portals on whose dread threshold he had set foot, whose
gates had so wellnigh closed behind him. When I first look at myself
in the glass after that awful time. I expect to see my hair white.
I am astonished to find it still its own natural dark brown. When
our dear invalid is able to be moved, with what utter and intense joy
do I leave behind me the house where I have spent the most grievous
days of my life! Lady Gwyneth has redeemed herself very much in my
eyes by her untiring care of and solicitude for Curly: she has shared
our night-watches and been more tender and womanly than I could have
believed possible. As for Lord Rexborough, my dislike of him has
merged into warm friendship; and for Colonel Montagu,--ah, I cannot
speak of him!--only I think, proudly and gladly, though he may never
more be aught to me, that the idol I set up to worship was not
unworthy.
In what strange ironies fate delights. Whilst Curly lay between life
and death, a letter came to papa announcing that our mother's only
brother had died abroad, leaving to Curly and me each three hundred a
year, to be at our own absolute disposal from the time of his death,
not waiting for our coming of age. When our darling lay so near the
land of shadows, this news, that at any other time would have seemed
so unutterably good and joyful, struck on us like some cruel mockery;
but now that he is growing strong again, and we have the promise that
he will in all probability be none the worse for his accident, our
new riches are a delightful theme, Curly and I never weary of talking
about our great possessions and laying them out in imagination. The
presents we will buy for papa, the benefits that he shall derive from
the newly-acquired wealth that seems so enormous in our eyes,--these
are subjects of which we never weary, which serve to beguile most
delightfully the tedious period of convalescence.
September has gone, October is here, and there is talk of Curly going
back to Eton. Papa and he have gone for a drive in the old
pony-carriage, and I am dawdling away the last bright hours of the
short afternoon in our old-fashioned garden. The last few days have
been so bright and hot, they might almost cheat us into the belief
that summer was yet tarrying with us, but for the unmistakable signs
around of the year's decay. It is not very long after five o'clock,
but Ph[oe]bus is driving his golden chariot apace down the sky
towards the long belt of firs yonder. Here is, not actually but very
nearly, the last rose of summer left blooming alone before my eyes,
and the fair summer blossoms have given way to the great, scentless,
ugly autumn flowers,--coarse dahlias, flaming nasturtiums, gaudy
zinnias, gorgeous gladioli, and last, but not least, big staring
sunflowers. It is a conceit more pretty than truthful, I fancy, that
"The sunflower turns to her god when he sets,
The same look that she turned when he rose."
In the present instance, at all events, the sun god is hurrying fast
to his setting, and his great ugly satellites are turning their broad
backs upon him in the most unblushing manner. I am sitting on the
grass, book in hand, gazing meditatively up the long green vista that
divides the flower-rows and the two lines of crooked, prolific
apple-trees. They are weighed down with much store of fruit,
crimson, gold, green, and russet, and on them and through their
narrow leaves to their twisted trunks the red rays play warmly. My
book does not occupy a great deal of my attention: it is a very old
one, and I have read it many a time before. Its quaint old-fashioned
language amuses me. I cannot help thinking Sir Charles Grandison a
bit of a prig, for all he is a very fine and noble-hearted gentleman,
and Harriet Byron's _naïve_ vanity in the repetition of the
extravagant praises of her lovers makes me smile. After all, it must
be superhumanly difficult to write one's own story without appearing
either utterly uninteresting or disgustingly conceited. I open the
book at random, and read,--
"I twitched the string just in time; the coach stopt. 'Mr. Orme,'
said I. 'How do you? Well, I hope? How does Miss Orme?'
"I had my hand on the coach door. He snatched it. It was not an
unwilling hand. He pressed it with his lips. 'God be praised,' said
he (with a countenance--oh, how altered for the better!) 'for
permitting me once again to behold that face,--that _angelic_ face,'
he said.
"'God bless you, Mr. Orme,' said I; 'I am glad to see you. Adieu.'
"The coach drove on. 'Poor Mr. Orme,' said my aunt.
"'Mr. Orme, Lucy,' said I, 'don't look so ill as you wrote he was.'
"'His joy to see you,' returned she. 'But Mr. Orme is in a declining
way.'"
My reading is here interrupted by the vision of a white figure
flitting to and fro among the shrubs, evidently on its way to me. I
discern it to be Sally in her light cotton gown.
"What is it?" I say, as soon as she comes within hail.
"If you please, miss," she responds, at the top of her voice, "It's
Sir 'Ector Montagu."
For a moment my mind conjures up a vision of the dead old tyrant. I
could hardly be much more disconcerted by a visit from him than from
his successor.
"I will come," I say, picking myself up slowly from the grass with a
fluttering heart, and walking housewards with most reluctant and
unwilling steps. His back is turned towards me as I enter the room.
When he faces me, I can see that he is altered, and that he looks
darker, thinner, more haggard than he used. His greeting is a
strange one: he does not give me the usual commonplace salutation,
but takes me by the hand (unlike Miss Byron's, it is an unwilling
one), and says,--
"You once offered me your friendship, and I refused it.--rather
ungraciously, I fear. I have come to-day to ask you for it."
And then he goes on abruptly to speak of Curly's accident.
"I did not hear of it until some time after it happened," he says.
Then I ask him about his mother.
"It is on her account I am here to-day," he answers. "Without such
an excuse I should have been diffident of coming. My poor mother is
so low-spirited and dejected,--she cannot at all get over my father's
death. Is it not wonderful," he breaks out, "how these good women
will deceive themselves into thinking when a man is dead that he
possessed every virtue under heaven! Far be it from me," he adds,
hastily, "to breathe one unkind word of those that are gone: death
makes all sacred; but it does seem strange."
"Lady Montagu was always devoted to Sir Hector," I answer. "I felt
sure she would take his death dreadfully to heart."
"She is always reproaching herself with not having done enough for
him or made greater efforts to please him. She is quite morbid on
the subject. I think she remembers every time she was a minute late
for dinner, and is inconsolable because, since her illness, she did
not come down to make his breakfast. The doctors recommend change;
but no inducement will get her to leave the place. She fancies that
if you would only come over and spend a little while with her it
would cheer her up and make her a different person. Cannot you
come?" he adds, eagerly; then, as he sees how I shrink from the
thought, "You need have no fear about me" (in a pained voice): "you
will be sacred from any annoyance from me. Indeed, if it would make
you happier, I will go away altogether."
"There is no need for that," I say, reluctantly, "and I should be
glad, most glad, to go to Lady Montagu, if I could really be of any
use to her; but----"
"But what?"
"Curly is still here," I say. "I could not possibly leave home until
he is gone, and then I shall hardly like to leave papa, he will feel
his loss so dreadfully."
But when papa returns, a few minutes later, he warmly seconds
Hector's request, and utterly pooh-poohs all idea of not being able
to spare me. And so, most reluctantly on my part, it is settled that
Sir Hector (how strange his new title sounds!) shall send the
carriage for me the week but one following. Papa invites him to stay
and dine. He accepts, apparently nothing loath. His face seems to
grow less haggard, the unfrequent smile comes to his lips, and he
becomes quite cheerful. For one moment before he leaves we are alone
together.
"Do not be afraid to come," he whispers, hurriedly. "I swear not to
vex you by any allusion to the past. We will be friends, nothing
more" (with a sigh). And then papa returns, and he bids me good-by.
So it happens that once again I go to Alford,--to the house where, in
one little day, all my future was spoiled and marred. Lady Montagu
is sadly altered: the delicate color in her cheeks has faded to a
waxen hue, her eyes are dim with much weeping. She greets me with
all her old kindness, but the very sight of me affects her and brings
tears to her eyes.
"Do not mind me, my dear," she says, tremulously "Everything now
brings back my dreadful loss."
How many a devoted husband, I wonder, has been mourned far less than
the cruel, selfish old tyrant of Alford! She talks much of him:
indeed, it seems the only theme on which she cares to speak. I
listen, with scant patience, inwardly, to her self-reproaches,
knowing how utterly unmerited they are; but it is useless to try to
persuade her that she has not failed in wifely duty and consideration
to her lamented lord. There is a great alteration in the manners and
customs of the house,--far less state and a great deal more comfort.
We dine, not in the great cold banqueting-hall, but in a cosy little
dining-room, furnished simply, but in the most perfect taste, from
the many oaken treasures of the hall. There is no unnecessary parade
of gold and silver plate, and we are waited upon by Simkins and one
footman, who retire when they have served us, and are summoned by a
hand-bell. Hector's manner to his mother almost makes me love him:
it is a mixture of the most tender kindness and respect. She may
transgress as much as she chooses--and I am bound to say she
does--the rule of punctuality, without a look or a hint from him. If
his soup is cold through waiting for her, he makes no remark. What a
blessed change his rule must be for the servants! But, though he is
so considerate, he lacks no dignity, and they run with far more
alacrity for love of him than they did for fear of his father. His
considerate thoughtfulness for his mother can be illustrated by one
example. He has given the servants strict orders not to address him
as Sir Hector before his mother: in her presence he is always plain
sir, as of old. For my own part I am glad, for I can never hear the
name and title without an unpleasant reminiscence of its former owner.
The morning after my arrival, Hector takes me to the stables and
shows me a pretty pair of ponies.
"These are for you to drive," he says. "I am in hopes you will be
able to entice my mother out. It will seem different from taking a
formal drive in a large carriage."
He has them put to, and makes me drive him round the park, and I
enjoy it most thoroughly. I cannot help fancying (perhaps with the
vanity I deprecated in Miss Byron) that the ponies are here more on
my account than his mother's. How good and thoughtful he is! why
cannot I care for him? True to his word, he never makes the
slightest allusion to the past; but for an occasional look in his
dark eyes, I might think he had quite got over caring for me. We
have an unceasing subject of conversation in the improvements he
proposes making. Every evening we pore together over plans of
cottages and schools. We make delightful little pictures of clean,
comfortable houses, with trim gardens, and places where the cottager
may keep his pig without annoyance to himself or his neighbors; where
he may have his potatoes and cabbages and fruit-trees; where he may
keep bees, if he has a taste that way, and even fowls; a little
drying-ground, where the good wife can hang out her clothes, instead
of employing the surrounding bushes and hedges: in short, a
habitation so pleasant and inviting that it would be a real pleasure
to live in it, even though one had a higher social status than that
of a farm-laborer.
Meantime, Lady Montagu dozes away comfortably in her arm-chair by the
fire, secure from any interruption of her pleasant slumbers. The
days pass on neither very slowly nor very swiftly, as is usually the
case when one leads a comfortable, uneventful life. She is decidedly
far more cheerful than when I came: her eyes are brighter, her cheeks
less waxen, she smiles not unfrequently, and without that dreary
effort which was so painful to see at first. She has driven several
times with me in the pony-carriage, and enjoys it. The weather is
clear and bright, and she has no symptoms of her old enemy bronchitis.
Neither she nor Hector ever allude to Colonel Montagu: once or twice
when the post-bag comes in I recognize his handwriting, but she reads
her letter without a word of comment. I long to know if he is going
to marry the heiress, but dare not ask. It is evident enough, by
their own silence, that they do not wish me to refer to him.
After a fortnight at Alford, I begin to talk of going home, although
they both use every argument in their power to dissuade me. I am
happy enough: it is from no wish to leave either of them. I love
Lady Montagu dearly, and for her son I feel the very warmest regard:
every day makes me like him more, for every day brings fresh
instances of his real unobtrusive goodness. I cross-question myself
severely on the subject of my inability to love him, but my
rebellious heart flings to the wind any notion that he can ever be
more to me than a friend. No! _Loyal je serai durant ma vie_. I
have never loved, shall never love, but one man.
It is, however, on papa's account that I want to go home, for I know
quite well, in spite of ten thousand protestations to the contrary,
that he does miss his little girl sadly. I have elicited so much
from severe cross-questioning of Gay.
"Well, my dear," she says, after great pressure, "it's no use my
goin' against the truth, nor it wouldn't be right to do so, though
your pa would be very angry with me for letting of it out, but he
does seem quite moped and lost like when you're away. Even that
Sally, whose head is as thick as a deal board, she can't help
noticin' of it,--how he scarcely eats anything, and always reads a
book all meal-times. And the fuss he makes of that dog" (meaning the
pug), "you wouldn't believe it; and when you are coming back he
always brings the letter to me, and his eyes brighten up, and he
says, 'Well, Gay, your young lady's coming home to-morrow, or next
week,' as it may be, and then I promise you, my dear, we all go about
with twice as much life in us as before."
So I know that I am missed, and that makes me resolute in refusing to
be away for very long at a time. But, as Hector entreats me so
earnestly and genuinely for his mother's sake, I yield, and stay on
another week. But all the entreaties in the world are powerless to
keep me a day longer. I promise to come over frequently for a day or
two at a time.
So I take my leave, and go back to papa and Gay and the pug. I have
heard people assert that pugs are stupid. I should like to show them
mine. Of all the devoted, faithful, intelligent friends in the
canine world, commend me to a pug! I could write chapters upon
chapters about dogs, and, though I have not had experiences among my
own kind bitter enough to make me appreciate it thoroughly, I can
still recognize the fine satire in the speech of the man who said,
"_Plus je connait les hommes, plus j' admire les chiens_."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
Diana is sitting over the fire one dull November afternoon three days
after her return from Alford. She has brought home a goodly store of
books, and is deep in one of them. She has glanced through the
window and assured herself that there is nothing to attract her out
of doors; her conscience does not prick her on account of the dogs,
as they have had a famous run before lunch: so she arms herself with
a novel with the real delight of a passionate lover of reading, piles
up the blazing fire with more wood, and ensconces herself in a cosy
chair with her feet on the fender. The bright flames throw a ruddy
light upon her hair and a delicate pink shade on her face; her
slender ringless hands look scarce strong enough to support the heavy
tome over which she is poring so intently; her small slippered feet
are crossed on the fender, and she has evidently made up her mind to
an afternoon of uninterrupted enjoyment. But she has only read a
chapter and a half when the unwonted sound of the door-bell makes her
start.
"Oh, dear!" she says, half aloud, with an accent of unfeigned
disappointment, "who can it possibly be? Just as I was getting so
intensely interested, too!"
She is not left long in suspense. Gay herself ushers in, with the
ceremony due to so important a guest, "Sir Hector Montagu."
"You are not well," says Diana, in a tone of friendly interest, as
soon as the first greetings are over. "How pale you look!" He takes
a seat opposite to her, and for a moment makes no answer. She has
time to note the haggard, hunted expression of his face, changed
almost out of knowledge in the last three days.
"It is no use," he says, in a low, agitated voice: "I cannot be
silent any longer. I gave you my word not to open my lips about my
love at Alford, and I kept it, did I not?--kept it to the letter.
But it is too strong for me. Can you not give me hope? Oh, for
God's sake, if you can, do!"
And the hunted eyes look at her in terrible earnest. At his words,
all the kindly warm feeling of friendship for him that has grown up
in her heart during the last three weeks dies out and gives way to a
cold feeling of repulsion. Her face becomes pale, and she
shivers,--ever so little,--but yet he sees it.
"What is it," he cries, in a voice of indignant pain, "that repels
you so? Am I loathsome? Am I something to shrink from as you might
from a leper? Am I so repulsive that even you, who are so good and
charitable you would not willingly pain any one, cannot but shiver at
the sound of my voice when it speaks of love?"
Diana's kind heart is stung by remorse.
"Oh, no! no! do not say that!" she cries, hastily, and then looking
round as though to conjure help from some invisible presence. "Oh!"
she says, remorsefully, clasping her hands, "what can I do to make
him not care for me?"
He makes a great effort over himself, but his eyes are full of
unutterable pain. Presently he says, humbly,--
"Could you not try to tolerate me?--could you not get accustomed to
the thought of me by degrees? And then surely, in time, my love for
you could not fail to bring out some answering feeling in your heart."
Her eyes are fixed mournfully on the fire; she does not know how to
answer him, since it is impossible that she can give him hope. He
takes faint courage from her silence, and continues:
"After that night at Alford I did everything in my power to forget
you. I vowed that I would conquer my love, but" (sighing) "it was
too strong for me. Ever since my father's death I have occupied
myself perpetually about the place, trying to get oblivion by hard
work both bodily and mental. But all the time I hungered for the
sight of you; and when you came you made the place heaven for me, as
I knew you would. God knows what a bitter effort it cost me to keep
silent all the time; but I had given you my word. Now I must speak."
Diana, genuinely distressed, casts about her for something that will
make her refusal of him less harsh.
"I wish you would not persist in thinking so well of me," she says,
rather forlornly. "I can't think why you should care so much about
me: indeed, I am not so very nice, really; you would be very much
disappointed in me."
"Should I?" he answers, eagerly. "I am quite content to risk that."
"But," she says, raising troubled brown eyes to his, and trying back
since her last words were unsuccessful, "surely it could be no
happiness to you, to any man, to have a woman who could not make the
smallest, faintest pretense of loving him. And" (sorrowfully,
because she hates to give him pain) "I could not."
"It seems strange," he says, turning his eyes from hers and gazing
into the fire. "I used to be rather a proud fellow, but now I seem
to myself a very abject. I would rather have your indifference than
any other woman's love. I would rather" (looking at her with fierce,
miserable eyes) "have you if I knew you hated me than go without you."
Diana's resources have come to an end. What can one say to a madman?
She takes refuge in silence. Oh, if her father would only come in!
she thinks; if some diversion of any kind would occur to put an end
to this miserable _tête-à-tête_! But nothing does happen, and she
sits staring mutely at the fire and trying to get inspiration out of
the glowing logs. But none comes, and, after a long, unbroken
silence, she says, desperately,--
"What am I to say to you?"
"Say!" he cries, clutching at the very faintest ray of hope; "say you
will try. Think about it; try to get used to the thought; let me
come and see you often; tell me how to make you like me. What is
there in the world I would not do or compel myself to, if it made you
think more kindly of me? If you send me away" (feverishly) "you send
me to the devil! I shall throw up everything at home and go away
somewhere, to Africa or China,--it is all the same to me, as long as
I only put an impossible distance between myself and the sight of
you."
"What!" cries Diana, "and give up all the plans for doing good that
you have looked forward to for years, now when everything is in your
power, in your own hands?"
"Yes," he says, bitterly, "even so. I am a poor philanthropist, am I
not, to let all my good resolves be balked by a pet at Fate; but if I
stayed here without you I should go mad: there is madness somewhere
in the family, I believe" (looking rather wild).
Then, as he sees Diana's frightened look, he says, calmly,--
"No, no; do not be afraid. I am sane enough; only about going to the
farther ends of the earth I am quite serious. Oh, Diana," coming
closer to her and taking one white, reluctant hand, "think what we
might do together, how happy we would make our people, how, working
together, we should strive to lessen some of the gigantic burden of
sorrow and want that grinds the souls and bodies of the poor. Has
that no weight with you,--you who are so pitiful, so tender-hearted
and charitable? Your life could not but be a happy one, since it
would be so full of goodness and charity, and you would be loved"
(his deep voice quivering with strong passion) "as I believe before
God no woman was ever loved before. What is my fate to be? is it to
be a life of love, a life of usefulness and honor, or will you
condemn me to be a miserable outcast?"
He is pouring out his very soul in his words: it is no exaggerated
language, such as men think right to use on such occasions; every
syllable comes straight from his suffering heart.
Diana is overcome: the intensity of his passion masters her. Her
face is ashen pale: her lips will scarce unclose to pronounce her
heart's death-warrant. In a moment of time she has thought of her
barren future, of the hopelessness of her own love, and as he draws
the vivid picture of his own life to come, which, according to her
fiat, shall be good or evil, the thought of sacrificing herself dawns
in her heart.
"Let it be as you wish!" she almost gasps.
He seizes both her hands and looks into her eyes as though he would
pierce her very soul.
"Are you in earnest?" he says. "Oh, for God's sake don't deceive
me!--don't promise and take your word back again, unless you want me
to blow my brains out!"
She draws away from him and stands upright.
"If you are willing to let me sacrifice myself," she says, looking at
him with cold misery in her eyes,--"well" (with a gasping sigh), "so
be it!"
"It shall not be a sacrifice," he cries, passionately: "you will, you
shall be happy. Unless you are the most unreasonable woman God ever
made,--and I know you are not that,--you must be content with your
life: nay, you shall love me yet."
For one moment, in his wild joy of having her, willing or unwilling,
he loses his stern self-control and lays his burning lips on her
cold, most reluctant ones. And if the King of Terrors had claimed
her as his bride, and sealed her to himself with his icy kiss, she
could not have shrunk and shivered with a more ghastly horror. But
Hector, if even he is conscious of it, does not care: his blinded
eyes see only the radiant picture of the future wherein she shall
love him as he loves her.
She starts from him, crying, with unconscious cruelty,--
"Do not make me hate you! You know I have no love to give you. I am
sacrificing my future to yours. Do not make the sacrifice too
impossible!"
"Forgive me," he says, humbly, taking her cold hand quietly.
Before she knows what he is doing, he has slipped on her finger a
ring blazing with diamonds.
"Do you know," he whispers, triumphantly, "I have carried that about
with me ever since the day I went to London when you were first at
Alford, in the forlorn wild hope that some day this might come to
pass?"
Diana feels inclined to tear it off and fling it away. What cares
she though he could deck her from head to foot with diamonds, each
one as big as the Koh-i-noor? Would they make her heart less heavy,
her sacrifice less bitter?
"I know," he utters, an uneasy flush coming to his dark brow, "that
you cannot get reconciled to the idea all at once. Perhaps you hate
me for having taken an unfair advantage of you, but you will think
better of it in time. Only don't, I implore you, steel your heart
against me: try, when I am gone, to think more kindly of me. I won't
stop now" (looking wistfully at her, as though hoping she might bid
him stay).
She does not: she is longing to be rid of his hateful presence, to be
alone with her gigantic new misery,--the worst, she thinks now, that
has ever befallen her. So, with one lingering clasp of her unwilling
hand, he goes,--goes, astounding as the fact may seem, wildly,
feverishly happy.
Diana, left to herself, feels like one in a dream. She moves to the
window and looks out at the chill dull day, chill and dull as her own
hopes of the future,--looks with vague eyes at the bare trees with
their scanty remnant of yellow leaves, at the sodden gravel-walk, the
few straggling bits of color among the dying autumn flowers. She
shivers, and comes back to the warm fire and leans with one arm on
the mantel-shelf and her head resting on her hand. Glancing
unconsciously downwards, her eyes light upon the ring which is
flashing back a hundred lovely lights from the glowing flames. She
drags it off and flings it away from her, and then, as a sudden
remembrance darts across her, she tears out her handkerchief and
passes it sharply again and again over her lips until the blood
comes. The lips that she had meant should never more be touched by
mortal man! that until now had been sacred to the memory of that one
golden day! She begins to realize what she has done. A vista of
unspeakable horror opens before her. What! to live in the house that
is yet his home, where he needs must come and she needs must see him,
and, seeing, love him, though she is his brother's wife? And at this
ghastly thought she flings herself down on the ground and sobs and
moans with such terrible anguish that, could the man who was so
confident of winning her love see her, he must needs relinquish all
hope.
Sir Hector mounted his horse,--
"He gave his bridle-rein a shake,"
and rode off triumphantly, with flashing eyes. In his exultation he
tossed a sovereign to the old man who did duty as groom and gardener
at Carew Court. The latter, gazing at his retreating form, had half
a mind to run after him and ask if he had not mistaken the gold piece
for a shilling, but pleased himself by deciding that it was intended
as a gift, now Sir Hector had come into so much wealth and splendor.
"Anyhow," he remarked to himself, "it's nothin' to him, and it's a
fortin' to me." Saying which, after one more loving glance, he put
it away in his waistcoat-pocket, where it warmed the cockles of his
old heart.
Meantime, Sir Hector rode on his way. For the first mile he felt
nothing but a wild sense of triumph; at the second, an unpleasant
remembrance of Diana's stony look of misery thrust itself upon him;
at the third, a reaction came, and he pulled up his horse suddenly by
the roadside. Bruno, having had a tolerably long journey, was not
fretful or impatient at this sudden pause, but betook himself,
unchecked, to searching in the hedge for some stray bit of edible
green, wherewith to beguile himself whilst awaiting his master's
pleasure. If any one had come along the road just then they might
have been astonished on this chilly November afternoon to see a horse
and his rider stationed by the hedge-side, as though it were a
broiling afternoon and they were taking shelter from the too ardent
rays of a July sun. Sir Hector's brows were deeply knit. Here, in
the hushed gray stillness, between the two hedgerows of wintry red
berries and tangled brambles, he was fighting with himself the
hardest battle he had ever yet been called upon to fight during his
six lustres of life,--fighting with the hopes that were dearer to him
than life. One horrible thought had taken possession of him,--the
same one that had moved Diana to her outburst of anguish: it was the
thought of his brother. He knew well enough that she had loved him,
that it was that love which had stood between himself and her before,
that for aught he knew was standing between them now. Had he not
been in the same house with her for weeks only two months ago, and
though over his father's death-bed he had wrung from him, on certain
conditions, the oath that he would never speak to Diana again of
love, what faith was there to be put in him? Had he not at Alford,
the very same evening that he had volunteered to withdraw himself
from his (Hector's) light, made open and violent love to her? But
came the ghastly thought, suppose it turned out as he hoped, suppose
Diana came to care for him: could he hope to keep her forever out of
sight of Charlie? And suppose when she did meet him, after however
long a time, the old love came back? Even if he trusted implicitly
in her high principle, would that hinder his own jealous heart from
beating with furious suspicion, even hatred of his brother,--of them
both, perhaps? And yet to tear this new hope, that had seemed like
the unclosing of heaven's gates to him, out of his heart, to leave a
torn, gaping wound, that all time would fail to cicatrize!
It is over; with one throe of agony he has torn the dear hope out of
his life. He picks up the reins, turns his horse's head, and rides
swiftly back to Carew Court. The old groom, seeing him come back, is
smitten with a grievous suspicion that he has discovered his error
and returned for the sovereign, and is preparing to think meanly of
him in his disappointed heart. But Sir Hector only throws him the
reins, muttering that he has forgotten something, and turns hastily
to the house. The hall-door is ajar: he pushes it open and goes in.
No one meets him, and he makes his way to the room where he left
Diana. Without knocking, he opens the door, and sees her prone by
the fireside, wailing and weeping in her bitter abandonment. She
does not hear him, and he stands for a moment looking at her.
"It is well that I came," he thinks, with a bitter pang.
He closes the door, and she, hearing the sound, turns quickly.
"Dry your tears," he says, in a harsh, husky voice; "do not sob in
that agonized way;" for, try as she may, she cannot all at once still
the gasping throes that shake her slender frame. "I have come to
release you."
"Yes, yes," she cries, eagerly; "you are right; you see it could not
have been. Oh" (rising to her feet and giving a sigh of utter
relief), "I am glad that you see it too. There," she says,
stretching out a hand to him that is no longer unwilling, and smiling
through her tears, "I will make a fresh compact with you. I will
always be your friend,--your best friend."
"Never!" he answers, harshly, more pained than words could express at
her joyful acceptance of his bitter sacrifice. Surely she who was
his ideal of all that was tender and womanly might have some
intuitive sympathy for the great waste and havoc of his life, which
she herself, however unwittingly, has caused! "After to-day, if I
can help it, I will never see you again."
"You will think better of it," she says, and all the time she is
stealing furtive glances around to see what has become of the ring
she flung away in her disgust. Presently she espies it glittering
behind the leg of a chair. He has turned away, and is looking with
miserable eyes into the fire, and she takes the opportunity of
stooping to pick it up and slip it on her finger again. As if he had
not seen it lying the very first moment he entered the room!
Diana stands looking at him, rather embarrassed how to return it.
She does not want to give him pain, but she cannot keep this valuable
token that but so late was the badge and symbol of the loathed
enslavement of her future. As she is casting about uneasily in her
mind for some appropriate yet unwounding words with which to return
it, he turns and looks at her.
"Let me look at you for the last time!" he mutters, in a voice harsh
with strangled emotion; "let me be quite sure that the woman who
spoiled my life was as lovely as I thought her!"
Diana stands before him with the color shifting uneasily in her face:
not even the hitter fit of crying has made her unbeautiful. The
troubled brown eyes look up at him with unfeigned sorrow for his
pain. He gives one long fixed look at her. "Good-by," he says, with
a sigh, wrung from the depths of his heart, not attempting to touch
her, or to take other farewell than that one sorrowful word. With
that he turns to go.
"Stop!" she says, detaining him: "this ring" (drawing it quickly from
her finger),--"please take it."
He grasps it with mingled wrath and pain, and flings it furiously
into the fire's red heart. But his fury has more of pain than anger
in it.
He is gone, and Diana on her knees is carefully rescuing the costly
bauble from its fiery grave. When it is cool enough, she wipes it,
and lays it aside to be returned on some future occasion. She feels
very sorry for him, but in truth and reality she does not even dimly
guess at the bitter pain she has inflicted upon him. We know well
enough our own pangs, but which of us ever realizes those of his
brother man?
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
As Hector rode home, he felt that all pleasure in life, all love of
it, was gone from him. Until now he had always had hope, however dim
or vague, that Diana would be his one day; now he realized fully the
futility of his dreams. In one hour's time, life had grown black and
bitter: it held nothing for him in the future that he valued. Many a
boy in his passionate disappointment has felt the same, and in a
month's time has laughed again and gone about the world with a very
cheery comfortable interest in it; but this would not be the case
with Hector. He was not reckless or impulsive; he knew his own mind;
having lost the one woman whom he loved, no other could ever take her
place. There might be a thousand more made after the same external
pattern, women with bright eyes, sweet red lips, and gracious ways,
but there was only one Diana Carew for him. He had never loved or
much desired any other woman; this one possessed all his heart. And
she had tossed it lightly, nay, contemptuously, away.
For a few hours he kept up bravely. He dined with his mother, talked
to her cheerfully, as though to-day had been as commonplace as other
days, read or seemed to read the papers as usual while she dozed, and
kissed her with the wonted affectionate kiss when she retired for the
night. He too went to his room, and there he laid his arms on the
table, and, burying his face in them, sobbed--not like a child, as
the common phrase runs, but--as only a stern grown man can sob, and
he, if God is merciful to him, but once in a lifetime. It was his
farewell to love, to hope, to life, all but the mere mechanical
every-day part of it. What should he do? he asked himself; if he
stayed on here alone, with all the huge long hours in which to eat
his heart out in vain regrets, he should go mad. Then he formed a
bitter resolve. How many a time had he not heard of men going to the
devil when overtaken by grievous disappointment, and coming back
after a time the worse perhaps in health and pocket, but tolerably
cured of their heart-aches, anyhow with the wounds cauterized. He
had never been a saint; he had as much of earthly alloy as most men,
not bad men, have; but he had never loved vice for its own sake, had
always had a healthy disgust for its grossness and coarseness; but
now he meant to fly to its foul waters for the nepenthe without which
he needs must die or lose his reason. He was going to try
dissipation, like a man of sober, temperate habits might toss off
glass after glass of brandy as an antidote to the agonies of
neuralgia. So he went, and returned a fortnight later in the state a
man of his temperament would naturally do, his nerves unstrung, his
whole soul filled with unutterable loathing and horror of himself and
all connected with his moral experiment. He had a new remedy in view
now. He longed for death as men long "after hid treasures," but he
would not take his life with his own hand; that would be unmanly,
that would stain his ancient name with dishonor. But there were
other means. He took to hunting every day when there was a meet
within twenty miles. He had always been a fair rider, now he became
a desperate one,--rode as straight as a die; no place was too big or
too ugly for him. The best riders in the field looked askance at
him. "By Jove!" said one to another, "one would think a fellow who
has just come in to a title and such a property as Montagu would set
a little more value on his life. Hang me, if one wouldn't think the
fellow wanted to break his neck!"
And of course, as it always happens when a man burns to shake off
life, it clings all the stronger in him. Sir Hector came scathless
out of his rides for death, without a bruise or a scratch: he seemed
to bear a charmed life. And he would come home worn out and sleep
for hours from sheer exhaustion, and then, as regularly as the hour
of two came round, he would wake up, and be delivered over to his
tormentor,--memory. He tried to read, but Diana's eyes looked out at
him from the pages; try as he might, he could not escape her. And in
the morning he would come down white, wild, haggard-looking, and, if
it was a hunting-day, would mount his horse, or, if not, would go
over his farms, or take a gun and walk twenty miles after birds; but
his hand and eye were unsteady, and he did not often hit anything
now. When he did, he felt an unsportsmanlike feeling of regret, and
would take the dead bird in his hand, smooth the ruffled feathers
gently, and say, "I might have left the life in you, since you
enjoyed it. I wish to God you were alive again, and I was dead!"
His mind had quite lost the strong, firm balance which it had
possessed formerly in a greater degree than most men's.
Lady Montagu was away for a few weeks at Hastings, to get over the
worst of the winter, but she was coming home for Christmas, which
would soon be here now. Simkins remarked with genuine distress the
change in his master, and confided his doubts and fears to Mrs.
Bishop, the comely housekeeper, with whom, at no very far distant
date, he contemplated setting up the "Montagu Arms." With the
penetration of her sex, she made a very good guess at the cause of
the change in Sir Hector, and was not long in bringing Simkins round
to her own view of the case.
"Oh, woman! woman!" he said, apostrophizing the sex in general, and
Mrs. Bishop in particular, "what you has to answer for! Not but what
I must say, if there is to be a new Lady Montagu, there's no one I
would like to see occupying the place better than Miss Carew."
"Tut!" answered Mrs. Bishop, huffily; "we don't want no more
mistresses here than my lady."
Sir Hector had always made a point of going to church on Sunday
mornings; not that he took any particular pleasure in it, but because
he considered it right for the sake of example. He found it
wearisome work sometimes listening to the vicar's platitudes. In his
heart he was skeptically inclined, like many intellectual men, and
insisted on bringing revelation to the test of reason. At home,
however, and in his own parish, he eschewed all argument on
theological subjects, and, for aught any one at Alford knew to the
contrary, his religious convictions were as deep and sincere as those
of the vicar himself. In church he behaved with the decorum and
propriety of a gentleman: who was to know that one half the time he
was indignantly refuting to himself the axioms delivered from
reading-desk and pulpit, and the other half thinking of utterly
irrelevant subjects? He had great ideas of consistency, too: it
seemed a monstrous absurdity, not to say crime, to pray to God on a
Sunday to deliver you from sins that you had the fullest intention of
committing probably the very next week. He steadfastly refused to
"eat and drink his own damnation" by communicating whilst his life
was still impure. This was the only religious exercise of which he
seemed outwardly unobservant. But in the future's happy vistas he
had dreamed of a time when all this would be changed, when his life
would be pure without effort, when he would banish all doubts from
his heart, and, kneeling beside the woman he loved, would, with a
glad heart, also offer up ungrudgingly his prayer and praise.
There are very few men who do not look for and respect piety in a
woman: even a bad man is shocked by irreligion or flippant sneers at
virtue from a woman's lips. Hector had watched Diana in church with
stealthy and secret gladness,--had gazed at her sweet serious face,
listened to her devout utterances, longed for her dear sake to be
better, and looked forward to the time when she, by her example and
influence, should lead him too heavenwards. And now all these hopes
were shattered in the dust, and there was nothing left for him but to
"curse God and die." How could he pray to a God who had decreed the
utter ruin and blasting of his life? how love him as a Father who
would not willingly afflict, when he had laid this crushing misery
upon him? And between him and heaven now there was a great gulf
fixed,--the gulf of deliberate sin. But, though he had ceased even
formally to utter a prayer, he nevertheless went to church,--partly
from habit, partly from a sense of responsibility, and chiefly to get
rid of two hours of the weary Sabbath. The Sunday before
Christmas-day he went as usual. A stranger was doing duty, and
Hector prepared himself to listen with a shade more interest than
usual to the sermon. It was no marvel of oratory or elocution,--a
few plain words, plainly spoken; but they gave Hector the idea of a
new weapon wherewith to repel the enemy that beset him in the night
and in the noonday. The preacher was quite a young man, nothing much
to look at, but he had that most excellent gift in a preacher, the
art, whether it was art or not, of making his hearers feel that he
was thoroughly in earnest. Moreover, he knew when to stop: he did
not fatigue his already half-weary congregation with a lengthy
discourse. His sermon occupied just thirteen minutes by the clock in
the organ-gallery, and when he had made his point he concluded. Some
such words as these they were:
"Which among us has led a life so charmed that there has not entered
into it a bitter grief and disappointment? And here to-day, I doubt
not, there are hearts which are troubled, sorrowful, perhaps
despairing. And to those hearts I speak now. I say to them, have
you ever tried prayer? I do not mean the morning and even prayers
that you gabble through by rote, prayers many of them set and formal
ones for things which perhaps you do not want,--but prayer, the very
outpouring of your souls, the prayer you would pray on your knees
with all the intensity your voice and heart could command if you were
asking the life of one you loved better than yourself, of an earthly
sovereign or judge. If you have, I will answer for it that you never
pleaded to my Master in vain. I do not say that he saw fit to give
you the thing for which you asked: in your blindness you may have
asked something which, had it been granted, would have been your
curse instead of your blessing; but you have gained peace, strength,
courage; you have been able to say, afterwards, 'It is better if the
will of God be so.' If you have never tried it,--if you have said to
yourself, 'What does God care? he will not trouble himself to look
down upon my wants and sufferings,' or if you have thought, 'God must
hate me, because I have led a wicked life: I dare not approach him,'
here, now, in his name I bid you shake off all doubt and fear.
Prayer is the talisman against misery. Go to him; go in secret,
where no disturbing thoughts from the outside world can beset you,
and there pour out all your soul to him as you have never yet done to
God or man; strive as Jacob strove when he cried out in his anguish,
'I will not let thee go except thou bless me,' and I, the humblest of
his ministers, will answer for my great Lord and Master that he who
goes unto him humbly, sincerely, urgently, shall in no wise be cast
out."
There was no grandeur or even originality in the words; the speaker
was commonplace enough, but his eyes kindled as he uttered them, his
voice trembled with strong feeling, and, as he spoke, there was such
intense conviction in his utterance that no one could think he was
preaching a remedy whose efficacy he had not himself proved.
Hector, whose heart was hardened like the nether millstone, said to
himself, as he walked home, "I too will try if there is balm in his
Gilead." And he who had not knelt in sincere prayer to God since he
was a youth, shut himself in his room and prayed with wild intensity.
But he rose from his knees cold, unconscious of any response to his
agony of entreaty. He had but beaten the air with vain and empty
words.
But had he prayed aright? He had not besought resignation, or
submission, or the power to get good out of what seemed evil: he
prayed that the woman he longed for might be his, or that he might
forget her. He felt as though God were angry with him and would not
hear him. Who were those, he wondered bitterly, who had tried the
paths of sin and found them fair and flowery? Apples of the Dead
Sea, that filled the mouth with gall-bitter ashes, they had been to
him. Then, since vice was hateful and virtue impossible, what should
he do but die? The next two days he rode harder than ever: his
favorite hunter was killed, but he got off, as usual, without a
scratch.
On the third day Lady Montagu returned. She was positively
frightened at the change in her son as he helped her out of the
carriage. "My dear boy," she cried, anxiously, "what is the matter
with you? Why did you not send for me before?"
"Matter!" he answered, laughing a laugh that sounded painfully hollow
and unmirthful. "What should be the matter? I am as well as ever I
was in my life. Why, mother, you look as scared as if you had seen a
ghost."
She put her hand on his arm and went with him to her boudoir.
"Hector," she said, when they were alone, with a searching glance
into his eyes, "something must ail you, or you could not be so
changed in a month."
"I expect," he answered, with a bitter laugh, "that you have come
straight from the sight of your handsome son, and had forgotten how
ugly I was."
Lady Montagu looked at him in unfeigned painful amazement. He was
never wont to speak bitterly to her.
"The truth is," he said, changing his tone, "I have been hunting a
good deal lately. You see, there is not a great deal of excitement
in this lively place, and I expect it has taken it out of me a
little." Then he added, abruptly, "Perhaps I may as well make all my
confession at once, to save you the trouble of worming it out of me
by degrees. I asked Miss Carew again, and she refused me."
Lady Montagu looked at him with all her mother's love yearning out of
her wet gray eyes. If perhaps she had loved her bright handsome son
the best in fair days, in the dark ones her heart went out to the one
in trouble, as the mother's heart always does.
"My poor boy!" she said, softly, clasping his hands tenderly in hers.
And, but for the shame of it, the stern man would fain have laid his
grieved head upon that tender breast, and poured his bitter pain into
the loving, listening ear, as he had done long years ago in his
childhood.
But now he drew himself away, and said, huskily, "God bless you,
mother! I know you are sorry for me; but, if you love me, never
speak of it again! Men get over these things," he added, with a
smile so wan it almost broke her heart to see.
She said not another word, but as she watched him all that evening
her anxiety deepened: she felt there must be something physically as
well as mentally amiss, to make his face so drawn and sharp, his eyes
so hollow and sunken, his usually firm strong hands so shaking and
nervous. The next day she sent a note to the doctor, who, as is not
unseldom the case, was also the tried and trusted friend of the
family.
"Come and dine with us in a friendly way to-night," she wrote.
"There is something very wrong with Hector."
Mr. Benyon was shrewd, kindly, practical: under his auspices Hector
and his brother had gone through the infantine troubles that were
then considered _de rigueur_, had won their interested affections by
prescribing nice instead of nasty remedies when they were ill, and by
romping with them when they got well again; and the liking had not
slackened when they grew to men. He often dined at the Court, and
was always a welcome guest. On this occasion, though his dining was
no unusual event, Hector understood perfectly that he had been sent
for on his account. But he made no sign, and received the doctor
with his usual cordial courtesy. When Lady Montagu left them after
dinner, Mr. Benyon continued to sip his wine with his wonted
enjoyment, talked about sport, local matters, and so forth. All the
same he was watching his companion narrowly. He observed his
restlessness, saw how little he ate, how hurriedly and without any
pleasure he gulped down his wine, as a man might swallow a soothing
draught. He saw how sunken his eyes were, how livid the lines
underneath them, how his cheeks were sunken and his lips so parched
and dry he had frequently to moisten them. The doctor did not like
the look of him. He said to himself, shrewdly, "There's a woman at
the bottom of this, I suspect, or he's taken to gambling: most
probably the former." It was no good to lead up gently to the
subject, he concluded. Hector was not easy to tackle. So, suddenly,
without any preface, he said, looking hard at him, with his glass
midway back from his mouth to the table,--
"There's something wrong with you, my friend: you want a little of my
advice."
"What a penetrating fellow you are, Benyon!" returned Hector, with a
mirthless laugh. "Of course my mother didn't put you up to this?"
"It don't want much putting up to," answered the other, bluntly. "Do
you happen to have looked in the glass lately? I suppose I might ask
the usual question, 'Who is she?' though it's nothing to my purpose
to know; but, rather, what the deuce has she been doing to you?"
"Who can minister to a mind diseased?" said Hector, wearily.
"I can, to a certain extent. Keep your digestion right, eat more,
drink less, and get as much exercise and fresh air as you can."
"I've hunted five and six days for the last three weeks, and have
been in the saddle, on an average, eight hours out of every
twenty-four."
"The deuce you have! If you go on like that, you'll knock yourself
up completely. You're not used to so much of it; and in your present
state it is likely to do you a great deal more harm than good. Try
something else; get some one to lend you a yacht, and go off to the
Mediterranean."
Hector laughed a harsh grating laugh.
"Rare good thing, the deck of a yacht, when you want to get out of
yourself! Try again, Benyon."
The doctor rose, and came round to where Hector was sitting.
"My pulse, eh?" (anticipating him). "There you are; and my tongue is
quite at your service."
Mr. Benyon sat down in front of him, looking grave, and said,
quietly,--
"This won't do: you can't stand this sort of game much longer."
"No," replied Hector, coolly: "I shall be in the lake with the carp,
or in a lunatic-asylum."
"I should not wonder," said Benyon, calmly. "Your nerves are
unstrung, your brain is over-excited, and both are acting most
injuriously on your stomach."
"My dear fellow, I am as wise as that myself. There is only one
chance for me: give me of the waters of Lethe. I haven't tried that
yet. Your chloral and morphia will poison me quicker than brandy: so
much the better."
"There is something you want more than drugs or opiates."
"And that is?"
"A little common sense. Why, what the deuce!" cried the doctor,
warmly, "a cool-headed, sensible fellow like you to let anything
bring you to this state! I couldn't have believed it of you."
"Could you not? Suppose, now" (with suppressed fire), "that you
loved a woman to madness and felt you could not live without her: how
would you cure yourself of your passion?"
"How?" answered Benyon, promptly. "Why, marry her if she were
single, or run away with her if she were married."
"Ay, but suppose she was free, and yet no earthly means, neither
love, mercy, nor pity, would make her consent to be yours?"
"Then I would forget her," rejoined the doctor, stoutly.
"If she be not fair for me,
What care I how fair she he?"
"But if you can't!" cried Hector, passionately. "You say I am a
cool-headed, sensible fellow: do you suppose I haven't tried? Tried!
good God! what have I not tried? perpetual motion, excess,--in short"
(laughing harshly), "all the good old approved remedies for the
disease."
"And that is precisely the way you've brought yourself to your
present condition. Now, I don't want to frighten you, but it's my
duty to tell you the plain truth: if you go on like this you'll bring
on paralysis or softening of the brain. You must make an effort to
shake it off. Occupy your mind with something, no matter what; take
a fair amount of exercise, without overdoing it; and, above all,
beware of stimulants. I only wish," said Benyon, smiling and laying
a kind hand on his shoulder, "I could cure you right off by giving
you the young lady; only perhaps the remedy might be worse than the
disease."
"The girl I love is an angel," said Hector, fiercely, "and I would
give every acre of Alford to possess her."
"I talked in that way once," remarked the doctor, ruefully. Report
said his lady had been a beauty and a temper. It said, furthermore,
that when the former attribute departed it left the latter in greater
force than ever.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
After all, Mr. Benyon came, advised, prescribed in vain. At Sir
Hector's request, he sent him an opiate; but instead of soothing it
excited him furiously and made him ten times worse. So he threw
physic to the dogs, and led the same life as before, getting
gradually worse, both physically and mentally. He took to sitting up
at night, and reading until after the fatal hour of two; then he
would get perhaps three hours of feverish sleep, and wake again
oppressed with the nightmare of despair, which, if anything, is
almost more grievous in the morning- than in the night-watches.
One evening, in quest of something fresh, he stumbled upon a book of
curious old stories, or, as they were called, chronicles, printed in
old French. Glancing over it, he came to a page on which he read,--
"The story of the sad knight, who for a woman's sake did put an end
unto his life."
"That might suit me," he thought, grimly, as he carried the book to
his smoking-room. And there he read, detailed with much
circumlocution, how the sad knight was betrothed in his boyhood to
his cousin, who was the fairest among maidens. And they grew up
together, and ever as the days went by he loved her with a deeper and
greater devotion. And she, though she had affection unto him as unto
a brother, had no other love to give him, and this she most
frequently put before him, and did most urgently entreat him that he
would not press a marriage upon her which would be hateful unto her.
Then one day he came suddenly upon her and said, "I have come to
claim you, since if I do not presently have you for my own I needs
must die." Then the maiden answered him in grief and scorn, "Since,
then, one of us must die, for if you die _without_ me I shall die
_with_ you, draw now your sword and thrust it here into my
heart."--"If you love not me," he made sorrowful answer, "it is
because you love another."--"And if it be so!" she cried; "must he
needs die too? O valiant knight, you who can slay others, can you
not slay your own desire, and make glad two hearts that love each
other?"--"God's death!" he cried, in wrath, "prate not to me of your
loves!" and he turned and left her with a sore heart.
Then wist he not what to do, since his pain was so great and bitter
it went not from him either by day or night, and in those things
where before he had taken pleasure he found no joy. Then said he to
himself, "Why should I spare my life, that is no longer aught but
grief and pain? I will to the wars, and there for her sake will I
get myself slain."
Then he sought once more the damsel, and said unto her, "Fare you
well, cruel one, since you will have none of my love!"--"Nay," the
maiden answered, moved to pity at sight of his grieved countenance,
"go not away. Nay, where will you go?" And he answered, "Did I not
tell you that I needs must die without you? I go unto my
death!"--"Nay," she cried, again, weeping, "but let me rather die!
Of what avail is my life?" and therewith she wrung her hands. "Fare
you well, cruel one!" said the knight, with one grieved look at her.
"When my mother shall come to you and say, Where is my son?' you
shall make answer, 'He lies dead in a strange land, and all for a
woman's sake!'" Then while the maiden still wept sore, and wrung her
hands, the sad knight rode away.
Then, when a few months were sped, came his squire, bearing a lock of
his hair all steeped in his gore, and said, "Damsel, my master bid me
cut this hair from his head as he lay a-dying, and carry it to you,
and say, 'I lie dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's sake.
When you joy with the knight whom you love, look awhiles on this and
think of me.'"
Then was the maiden sore grieved, and wept many tears: but anon came
her own true love, and they were wed.
Thus briefly concluded the tale of the sad knight.
"Anon came her own true love, and they were wed," repeated Hector,
bitterly, closing the book and flinging it on the table. A new idea
came to him as he sat moodily contemplating the dying embers. If
life was so grievous to him, why should not others be glad?
Involuntarily crept in the thought of Diana mistress here,--Diana
happy,--Diana his brother's wife, whilst he lay dead and forgotten,
God knows where. "Never! never!" he cried, between his teeth, in a
paroxysm of furious jealousy. All night long the two sentences ring
in his ears, and all the day following, and the nights and days
afterwards. _He lies dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's
sake. But anon came her own true love, and they were wed_.
A furious battle begins to rage in his heart. Shall he throw away
the life he hates so bitterly, and in throwing it away secure Diana's
happiness? The thought of her becoming Charlie's is utter agony to
him; he feels somehow as though, were he even lying dead a thousand
miles away, he would know it, and be tortured with jealousy. But
"for her sake, for her sake!" he goes on saying to himself; "to make
her happy! I could not live and see her his," he tells himself; "or
it would be easy enough to give him half my income and let him marry
her." But from that thought his whole soul revolts. Not while he
lives; not while he lives. Then comes another thought. Suppose, for
her sake, he slipped out of that life which day by day was becoming
more and more unbearable, and after all his brother did not marry
her,--did not perhaps care for her? He must provide against that.
Day by day he became more worn, more ghastly-looking, and day by day
Lady Montagu's anxiety about him took greater proportions. Christmas
had gone, the new year was here,--the new year that to Hector was
worse, far worse than blank. Again Lady Montagu sent for Mr. Benyon.
In her alarm she confided to him a secret that had always been very
carefully kept by the family. Two generations back, one of the then
baronet's sons had taken his life with his own hand.
"I don't know why," she murmurs, looking with fearful eyes into the
doctor's face, "but that story has haunted me of late. Hector looks
so wild sometimes. Oh, Mr. Benyon!" (with terrible earnestness) "you
don't think----"
"No, no, no!" he interrupts her; "no need to worry yourself with such
thoughts as those. I am afraid I can't do very much for him, because
he won't mind what I say. I'll speak to him again, if you like, and
try to frighten him a little about himself. The best thing he could
do would be to go up to London and consult G----; and, if you could
persuade him to stay there a little while, change and cheerful
company would do more for him than all the physic that was ever
concocted."
"Do see him! pray, pray do your best to persuade him!" cries the
anxious mother. "He is in the house now; and, if you can manage it,
see me again before you leave."
Mr. Benyon, who knows his way as well about Alford as he does about
his own snug little house, goes to the smoking-room, and finds there
the person he is in search of.
"Well, Benyon," says Hector, with a hollow attempt at gayety, "have
you come to have another try at the 'mind diseased'? Confession's
good for the soul. I've thrown your 'physic' to the dogs, and if you
send me any more it will all go the same way,--figuratively, not
literally. Poor brutes! I've too much regard for them!"
"I have come, as I came before," answers Benyon, bethinking himself
of a new plan, "because your mother sent for me. I can tell you one
thing: anxiety on your account will soon make her ill, and then
you'll have to forget yourself and nurse her."
"Poor mother!" answers Hector; "what is she afraid of? Does she
think I'm going into a decline, or does she fancy---- I'll lay a
hundred to one," he cries, looking keenly at the doctor, "she's been
raking up a little old family story for your benefit; eh, Benyon?"
Thus attacked, the doctor feels a little confused.
"Women are always nervous," he answers, evasively; "but, upon my
life, you are enough to make any one nervous, with your long,
cadaverous face. Why, I thought you were more of a man."
"So my mother thinks of that, does she?" says Hector, musingly.
"What a ridiculous idea!" (laughing harshly). "Fancy doing oneself
out of twelve thousand a year, _and all for a woman's sake_. Come,
Benyon, you don't think me quite such a fool as that?"
"Indeed I don't," he returns, heartily; "if I did, I should send for
a strait-waistcoat at once. But at the same time" (gravely), "if the
sanest man in the world plays the devil with his nerves and
constitution as you're doing, there's no answering for the
consequences. Come" (clapping him on the shoulder), "I'm very much
in earnest just now, I promise you; it's no use mincing matters,
you're in a bad way, a very bad way. I want to frighten you,--I only
wish to heaven I could! Pack your traps and go off to London and see
G----; look up some of your friends, and don't be in any hurry to
come back. My advice is sincere, you may depend" (laughing), "for
it's very much against my own interest. If you stop here, you'll
have a fine long illness, and put I don't know how much into my
pocket."
"Very well," Hector answers, docilely, to the great surprise of his
friend. "I dare say you're right. I'll be off to-morrow; you may
tell my mother so. No doubt she is waiting, God bless her! to pounce
upon you as soon as you go out of here. And make her mind easy; be
sure you make her mind easy. Tell her I'm as sane as you are, and
add any little anecdote (you must know lots) of men who have gone
rather to the dogs at first for a woman's sake, but who invariably
came back. Good-by; it's very kind and good-natured of you to bother
yourself so much about me, and this time you see it has not been in
vain."
Benyon shakes him by the hand and wishes him a hearty God speed; but
he goes out more puzzled than satisfied. Nevertheless, he is able to
set Lady Montagu's mind at rest.
Hector, left to himself, sits for full an hour absorbed in deepest
thought. Then, with a long sigh, as of a man who has at last made a
difficult resolve, he rises and goes cut. In turn he visits the
gardens, hothouses, stables, kennels, and to every man he gives a
pleasant word, to every animal a caress. It is as though he were
going on a long journey, whence he might never return, and that
melancholy steals over him which always attends the thought that one
is doing something for the last time even though it be something that
we care little for. At dinner Lady Montagu finds him brighter and
more cheerful than he has been for a long time, and thinks with
inward congratulation that she has done well in sending for Benyon.
"I am so glad, my dear, that you have decided upon seeing G----," she
says; "he is certain to do you good. And be sure you do not hurry
home on my account, because you fancy I shall be dull. Henrietta and
her boy are coming to me on Saturday for a fortnight, and will not, I
dare say, be in any great haste to leave."
Hector glances wistfully at the sweet kind face that beams upon him
with such anxious love, and looks away again, lest the sight of it
should unman him. Who knows? after to-morrow its tenderness may
never shine upon him any more in this world. After he has wished her
good-night, he goes to his room and spends some hours in looking over
and arranging papers. Then he makes a draft of a will. He has some
money of his own, and that he leaves entirely for the benefit of the
poor of Alford. When this is finished, he fetches the old book of
chronicles and opens it at the story of the sad knight. With his pen
he draws a line down each margin of the whole story, and under the
two sentences, "He lies dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's
sake," "But anon came her own true love, and they were wed," he
scores two deep lines. Then he wraps the book in paper, and writes
upon it, "For my sister-in-law, if she be called Diana." This done,
he folds it in another sheet, upon which he writes, "For my
sister-in-law when my brother marries. It is my express desire that
it should not be opened before that time."
Next day he bids farewell to his mother. He has promised himself
that he will not betray any emotion at parting from her, but he has a
hard task to master his emotion. A strong impulse comes over him to
kneel down before her and ask her blessing; but that might save him
from himself! He controls himself with a stern effort, so stern that
it even makes his leave-taking seem cold. The poor mother, never
dreaming what is in his heart, wishes regretfully to herself that he
was more demonstrative,--more like Charlie.
The iron horse speeds him swiftly on his way to London: as it rushes
along he takes note of all the familiar landmarks, and bids them a
silent farewell, as he did to everything at Alford yesterday. His
plans are vague as yet: he intends going abroad, but how and where he
leaves chance to decide. The following day he goes to consult the
eminent physician. The eminent physician receives him with great
suavity, that deepens into seriousness as he asks certain questions
and receives the answers.
"Your nervous system," he tells Hector, "is considerably disordered,
very considerably disordered. The first thing that is necessary is
for the mind to be at rest. There must be no mental disturbance of
any kind: perfect freedom from all anxiety is what you want,--what
you must have."
It is very odd how doctors, who it is to be supposed are subject to
the cares and anxieties that beset other folk, will glibly prescribe
repose to the tortured mind as though it were a tonic mixture that
could be made up at the chemist's.
"A moderate amount of gayety," the eminent physician continues,
"plenty of cheerful society, horse-exercise, an occasional visit to
the theatre if the atmosphere is not too trying to your head,--in
short, my dear sir, I advise you for the next few months to devote
yourself to the study of how you can make life most agreeable. At
the same time, I think I can give you something that will soothe the
stomach and nerves, and in a week or ten days' time I hope to see you
a different man." And, having written out a short prescription, he
hands it to Hector and bids him a bland "Good-day."
Hector pockets the prescription, nor ever looks at it again. He has
sought the great man's advice to please his mother, calculating
pretty well what it would be. In his case it was as easy to carry
out as though he had recommended one of his own farm-laborers to eat
meat three times a day and wash it down with generous wines.
His next visit was to his lawyer, to get his will drawn up. Then he
went to his club. As chance would have it, the first man he met was
one whom he had not seen for years, but who, in days gone by, had
been his greatest friend. Hector laughed, and felt cheerful,--the
first time for many weeks.
"I'm off to Naples in my yacht the day after to-morrow," said Captain
Baring. "I can't stand this infernal climate in the winter. What on
earth's the good of living in a pea-soup atmosphere, and having your
nose frost-bitten, when you can bask in glorious sunshine among
orange-groves, have a rosebud for every withered violet here, and
look at blue skies and seas from sunrise to sunset? I wish to heaven
I could persuade you to come with me, old fellow; but I suppose, with
all your new cares and responsibilities, there's no chance of your
getting away, eh?"
"I don't know that," replied Hector, seeing the opportunity he wanted
unfolding before him.
"You look thundering bad, my dear fellow,--I can tell you that,"
proceeded the other, eagerly. "I never saw a fellow so changed! A
trip with me would be the thing of all others to set you up. Come,
say the word."
"Very well, I will go," Hector answered, coming to a rapid decision.
"Many thanks for the offer. I was thinking of going off abroad
somewhere."
"By Jove! how glad I am to have stumbled across you!" cried Captain
Baring, heartily. "We'll dine at Southampton to-morrow night, and go
on board the first thing in the morning."
So, after a little more talk, they part: the time is short, and each
has plenty to do before starting. There is one thing Hector dreads
and shrinks from utterly: it is the meeting with his brother. And
yet it must take place. There are some words that must be said
between them,--words which will perhaps decide the future of both.
He is on his way to Colonel Montagu's rooms, when he meets him coming
up the street.
"Hullo, Hector, you up in town!" he cries; and then, quickly, "By
Jove! how bad you look! What have you been doing to yourself?"
"I am going abroad on Saturday, with Baring," says Hector, not
answering the questions put to him. "I rather want to see you before
I go. Shall I find you to-night?"
"I was going to dine with Bagot, but I can put him off. Where will
you dine?--at the Garrick?--or shall we try the new restaurant?"
"Do you ever dine at your own place?"
"Oh, yes. Gunter will send me anything I want. Do you particularly
wish to dine there?"
"I should prefer it."
"All right. I suppose eight will do you?"
"Any time you like."
"I wonder what the deuce he wants with me!" thinks Colonel Montagu,
as he goes on his way up St. James's Street.
CHAPTER XL.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
The _tête-à-tête_ dinner was not the most cheerful one imaginable,
though Colonel Montagu did the honors pleasantly, as he always did
everything, and Hector would fain have shaken off the constraint that
oppressed him. He wanted to feel kindly towards his brother, since
it was perhaps the last time they would ever dine together. Both
were glad when it was over, and they adjourned to the other room.
"Isn't it rather a shame to smoke here?" asked Hector, doubtfully, as
Charlie handed him the box of cigars.
Looking round at the delicate satin furniture, it seemed more than
rather a shame; but Colonel Montagu answered, carelessly, "It won't
hurt, once in a way!" He buried himself in one of the inviting
chairs by the fire, and motioned Hector to take the other. It was a
comfort to both that their cigars obviated the necessity of making
conversation: so Charlie drifted into his usual pleasant sense of
_bien-être_ before the warm blaze of the fire, surrounded on all
sides by the charm of beautiful objects, and Hector gave the sad and
morbid fancies rein to which he had of late become a slave.
Presently his eyes wandered to his brother's handsome, indolent face,
and thence to the costly toys with which he had been pleased, in
careless luxury, to strew his rooms. Then he pictured him to himself
master at Alford, gay, happy, surrounded by love and friendship,
utterly forgetful of the brother who had yielded up his birthright to
him and gone away to die in a foreign land. Why not? It was not for
his sake he was relinquishing a life that only seemed fair and
enviable to the outside world because they knew nothing of the
supreme agony of the canker-worm's tooth in the heart.
"O God!" he groaned to himself, "what have I done that thou shouldst
make this difference between us?--that he should have all the love,
all the desirable things of life, and I not even the husks?"
So heavy a sigh escaped him that his brother looked up.
"My good fellow," he said, laughing, "don't do that again, or you
will blow all the lights out. What the deuce is the matter with you?
_You_ haven't got any debts or anxieties, _you_ are not
nightmare-ridden with the thought of having to marry an heiress: why
on earth should _you_ sigh?"
"_Apropos!_" uttered Hector; "have you proposed to her yet?"
"What a cold-blooded fellow you are! You ask if the awful and
momentous question that is to doom me to a life of wretchedness has
been put, as you might ask if I had ordered dinner. No, I have not
proposed, and, upon my soul, I don't think I shall! Old Adolphus
Fitz-Rex is dying for her money, and, by Jove, he may have it for me!"
Hector made no reply. Presently he said, nerving himself to a great
effort,--
"I am going to ask you something that will very likely surprise you.
Give me a candid answer, if you can: don't be afraid! I'm not laying
a pitfall for you. Do you, did you ever, care anything about Diana
Carew? If she had had money, or you had been an elder instead of a
younger son, would you ever have thought of marrying her?"
To conceal his agitation Hector spoke in a hard, rasping voice, that,
despite his assurance to the contrary, made Charlie suspect a snare.
"I have kept my word to you faithfully," he answered, in rather an
injured voice. "I avoided her studiously when she was in town, and
at the Desboroughs', where I had no idea of meeting her until the day
she came. I never, by look or word, infringed the promise that you
wrung from me over our father's death-bed. And" (sighing as he
knocked the ash off his cigar) "it might have been an easy enough
task for you, but I would not go through it again to have my debts
paid twice over. You may be sure of one thing" (with unwonted
bitterness): "when she is Lady Montagu, you won't be troubled with
much of my company at Alford."
"Then you do care for her?" uttered Hector, in a deep, low voice.
"Care for her!" cried Charlie, springing up and striding down the
room. "Care for her! If I hadn't been such an infernal fool as to
make you that promise, I'd have reformed my bad habits and married
her before this, poor as I am!"
Hector suppressed a sigh. The old sentence returned forcibly to his
mind: "But anon came her own true love, and they were wed."
It was a most unusual thing to see his indolent brother so excited;
there could be no doubt about his sincerity. Although it was the
chief part of Hector's plan that he should love and marry Diana, a
bitter pang crossed his heart.
"I wonder," remarked the Guardsman, resuming his seat and his
composure, and feeling a little bit ashamed of the ebullition,--"I
wonder why you amused yourself by trotting me out on the subject? it
was not particularly magnanimous, when you've got all the
playing-cards in your own hand."
"You said when you met me to-day that I was looking bad," replied
Hector, with apparent irrelevancy. "I have heard that remark _ad
nauseam_ lately. Well, it is true enough. Heaven knows I don't feel
much better than I look, and I have a sort of presentiment that I
shall not come back from the journey I am starting on to-morrow."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Colonel Montagu; "presentiments! If ever there
was a man above that sort of tomfoolery, I should have thought it was
you."
"I have a presentiment," repeated Hector, in a deep, low voice, and
with a haggard glance at his brother, "_that I shall never come back
from this journey_."
"Why, my dear old fellow," cried Charlie, kindly, "I shall begin to
think there is something very wrong with you, if you talk such stuff
as that. Why, what the deuce is there to kill you in a trumpery
little voyage to Naples and back? Baring's too good a judge to trust
himself in a yacht he does not know, or I'm much mistaken."
"It isn't that," Hector answered, with a troubled glance into the
fire.
"What is it, then? Do you translate _Vede Napoli e poi morir_ into
an obligation to die as soon as you have set eyes on it? What are
you afraid of? Roman fever, or brigands, or of being engulfed by a
new eruption of Vesuvius?"
"Never mind," answered Hector, wearily: "let me get to what I want to
say. _Suppose I do not return_: will you give me your word of honor
to marry Diana Carew?"
Charlie looked at his brother with serious anxiety. He began to
think his mind was unhinged, and said to himself it might be a good
plan to go to G---- next morning and hear what really was the matter
with him.
"Come," he said, rising, and giving Hector a friendly shake of the
shoulder, "pull yourself together, and don't give way to this sort of
humbug. You don't look very brilliant, certainly; but I don't see
anything to alarm yourself about. A couple of days at sea will set
you on your legs again. Come, cheer up!--this is unlike your usual
form."
Hector was silent for a moment; then he said, in a calm quiet voice
hat was habitual to him,---
"Talking of it won't kill me. I may come back, or I may not; and if
I do not, I want to be sure that Diana Carew will be Lady Montagu."
"What on earth am I to understand?" asked Colonel Montagu, looking
thoroughly mystified. "First by threats and promises you wring from
me an engagement neither by look nor word to endeavor to gain her
affection, and now you urge me under absurdly hypothetical conditions
to marry her. If you are in earnest, why not say at once, 'Go and
marry her, if she will have you'? You shall not have to speak twice,
I promise you."
"No, no!" cried Hector, harshly. "You are still bound by your
promise. My death alone can release you. Well, I may be mad,--think
so if you please, but humor me: tell me that if I do not return you
will marry her."
"All right; I promise," answered Colonel Montagu, thinking it better
to humor him.
"Give me your hand on it."
Charlie held out his hand. Hector grasped it with a feverish one
that convinced his brother still more forcibly there was something
wrong.
"One thing more. If I don't come back, look after the poor at home,
and do something for them. Hayter will show you the plans of all I
intended to do; and _she_ knows, she will see to it if you let her
have the money. Remember, I charge that upon you."
Colonel Montagu felt quite cut up about his brother. He did not
believe for an instant in the fulfillment of his presentiment, and he
most certainly did not desire it, for he was eminently kind-hearted
and not a bit envious. He was really shocked to see such unusual
weakness in his stern self-contained brother, and resolved not only
to see G----, but to write to Baring about him.
"It can't hurt you to promise me those two things," said Hector,
eagerly, "and I shall go away more satisfied."
"All right, then," answered Charlie, with an attempt at gayety; "I
promise both."
Hector rose to go.
"I'll walk with you as far as Limmer's," volunteered his brother,
feeling rather uncomfortable about him.
"Just as you like," answered Hector; then, forcing a smile, "you need
have no doubt as to my sanity. I am perfectly well able to take care
of myself."
"I shall see you to-morrow," said Charlie, as they were parting,
feeling an unwonted regret at bidding his brother good-by. "I'll run
down to Southampton with you, if you like."
"I have a hundred things to do: it's no use making any appointment;
and as for going down to Southampton, it's not to be thought of."
"Well, good-by if I don't see you again. A pleasant trip, and get
rid of your blue devils before you come back."
"Good-by." And the brothers clasped hands very kindly.
Colonel Montagu walked home thoughtfully. For a wonder, he neither
went to the club nor yet elsewhere, but betook himself straight to
his own rooms, lighted another cigar, and mused over the strange
events of the evening.
"Hector's in a deuced bad way,--poor fellow! I never saw a man so
altered. I suppose it's all about her: he has asked her again, and
she won't have him. And yet he is the very last man in the world I
should have expected to see so out up about a woman. I can
understand a boy like Seldon taking it badly, but not a cool-headed,
unimpulsive fellow like Hector. It can't be all that. I've heard of
men getting frightful fits of the blues after coming suddenly into a
lot of money. I don't think it would affect me that way. Of course
nothing _will_ happen: presentiments are the greatest rot in the
world; not one in ten thousand ever comes true. When I rode that
steeple-chase three years ago, I had a presentiment I should break my
neck; and nothing came of it. My nerves were shaky at the time; I
had been drinking rather hard just before. That reminds me. I never
saw Hector drink so much in my life at one sitting as he did
to-night,--gulped it down, too, as if he did not care for it; and
there is no better in the cellars at home. I'm awfully glad he is
going for that cruise: nothing like it for bracing the nerves: he'll
be back in a couple of months quite himself again."
Then his thoughts turned to Diana.
"I wonder," he said to himself, "if she does care for me, or whether
it's only my own stupid conceit that makes me fancy so? I know she
did at Alford that golden day" (sighing). "What an infernal
scoundrel I was! But I did not really care for her then as I did
here, as I did at the Desboroughs'. How utterly glad I was when she
refused Seldon!--though, poor lad! I could not help feeling sorry
for him. And how I hated poor old Jack when she became friendly with
him! I would not go through that cursed time again for anything in
the world. How I endured it I don't know. To see her grieved,
indignant face, and to have to avoid her, and seem to seek the
society of that plain, common girl! Marry _her_! Not to save going
through the bankruptcy court to-morrow. Pah!" (with a gesture of
intensest disgust). "If I only had the chance of winning Diana now!
How she must despise me! What should she feel but contempt for me?
Not more than I do for myself, I'll answer. No, I know how it will
be: Hector has only got a morbid fancy, which he does not really
believe in himself, else he would say, 'Go and win her now if you
can.' He will come back all right again, and in the end she will
have him. _I_ have a presentiment of that; I had all along. Oh,
what a fool I was not to take her when I could have had her! I've
not got so much pleasure out of life lately: the same old round palls
upon one after a time, when one has lost the power of caring for
fresh faces, as I have" (sighing) "since I knew her. I wonder what
witchery there is about her that makes men so desperately bad about
losing her! She does not set herself up as being better than other
women, and yet there is something pure and sweet about her one can't
help reverencing. Even that wicked profligate, old Jack, confessed
that she made him want to be better. I suppose I must leave it now
until Hector comes back; and _then_, if she won't have him----"
Here the entrance of a friend cut short his soliloquy. The second
morning after, Hector was standing on the yacht's deck, taking a
silent farewell of the country he never meant to see again. The
voyage did him good in one way, but his mind grew steadily worse: the
monotony, the confinement to a narrow space, became unbearable. His
one idea had been to put a great distance between himself and Diana;
and, now that every hour took him farther away from her, he was
filled with an insane longing to see her once again. Anything would
have been better than this! Why had he not been content with her
friendship?--only to see her sometimes, to hear her sweet voice
speaking kindly to him, to meet the friendly glance of her beautiful
eyes,--surely that would have been some comfort to his misery, even
though she would never consent to be his. Sometimes he had a wild
thought that the moment they reached Naples he would travel back
overland as fast as steam and horses could take him, and get back
only just to see her once again. But he gave up that idea before he
set foot on shore.
The day after they arrived at Naples, and the four following ones,
there was a bitter northeast wind,--colder, more piercing, than any
he had ever encountered in his own country.
"Are these your sunny climes?" he laughed grimly to his friend. "Of
the two, I certainly prefer an east wind in England; at all events,
we know how to keep it _out_side the house."
"Too infernal!" answered the other, disgustedly, with chattering
teeth. "Upon my life, I wouldn't have believed it if any one else
had told me it of Naples."
They drove to Pompeii in an open carriage in whirlwinds of dust.
Hector was glad to do anything rather than remain quiet, but he was
disappointed in the place; the houses could not have been much bigger
than dolls' houses, he thought, and there was nothing to inspire him
with any ideas of by-gone luxury or splendor. Perhaps he was not in
a humor to be pleased or surprised by anything. He would have liked
to see Vesuvius vomiting flames and stones; but it lay tranquil, with
one tiny smoke-wreath that looked nothing but a little fleecy cloud
on its breast. Life seemed more abhorrent to him here, in the cold,
among the squalor, dirt, and wretchedness of Naples, than even it had
done at Alford; he wished a thousand times he had not left home. Why
not go back now, he thought, sometimes, and, forcing himself to
forget Diana, lead a life of usefulness? He had come here to die;
and yet how should he die so as to leave no suspicion that he had
died by his own hand? There was only one person in the world he
wished to be aware that he went out of life willingly; that was the
one for whose sake he meant to take the journey whence there is no
return.
If any one had told him his own story a year ago, told it of some
other man, he would have given his verdict at once, "The man was
mad." But it never occurred to him now that there was any madness in
what he contemplated. What is madness? The upsetting of the mental
balance, perhaps on one subject alone; the loss of the power to look
at things (one thing, perhaps) as the rest of the world looks at
them. There was no cowardice in the act he intended, he argued to
himself; he was not going to shake off life simply because he could
not face the pain of it, but for her sake, that she might be happy in
the future. He did not tell himself that he had not courage to see
her happy with another man, that the only thing which could reconcile
him to her happiness with another was that when it came he would be
"Out of the multitude of things,
Under the dust, beneath the grass,
Deep in dim death, where no thought stings,
No record clings.
No memory more of love or hate,
No trouble, nothing that aspires,
No sleepless labor thwarting fate,
And thwarted; where no travail tires,
Where no faith fires."
The cold winds had passed away; one could understand now the meaning
of Italian skies and seas; the flower-children were streaming about
the Chiaia, and choice bouquets were offered right and left to the
passer-by at fabulously small sums according to English ideas, taking
into consideration the time of year and the beauty of the flowers.
They were going a trip along the coast this lovely morning; there was
a fresh breeze, although it was hot enough for the dirty ill-clad
_lazzaroni_ to be lying about basking in the sun. Hector felt a
shade less miserable this morning; he was not thinking of death;
there was something in the warmth, coming after the bitter cold, in
the blue dancing waters, the azure skies, the scent and sight of
lovely flowers, that made even bare life an almost pleasant fact.
His friend, who had been sorely puzzled and pained about him,
remarked the change with genuine pleasure.
"Come, old fellow!" he cried, heartily, "I _am_ glad to see you have
shaken off the blues at last. Thrown 'em to the sea and the sky,
eh?" And he laughed cheerily at his own little joke.
The schooner cut smartly through the waves, with the wind in her
favor. Captain Baring had gone below. Hector was on deck, looking
through a glass at the lessening town. Suddenly he heard a cry and a
splash. Rushing to the side, he saw the cabin-boy beating the water
with his hands and shrieking for help. In a second he had torn off
his outer clothes, and, shouting "Man overboard!" jumped into the
sea. He had always been a good swimmer, and fond of it, from his
Eton days, and he knew the lad could swim but little, not enough even
to keep up until the boat came to his rescue. The schooner was going
such a pace that even before the boat could be lowered she would be a
good way off. As usual in such cases, there was some hitch in
getting it down, and before the men were in it she was nearly half a
mile off, and the wind dead against them.
"Don't catch hold of me, and I'll save you!" shouted Hector to the
boy, as he swam up to him. "Keep going as long as you can, and when
you're tired I'll hold you up. Don't lose your head: there's no
danger."
At this moment that death was so near him, Hector never thought of
it: he was battling for life with the instinct of a strong man: he
meant to save the boy and himself too. It was hard work, swimming
with one arm and holding the terrified, exhausted lad with the other:
the minutes whilst the men in the boat were straining every nerve to
get to them seemed hours. They are coming at last, thank God! He
cannot hold out much longer. Now they are within four
boat's-lengths. A sudden deadly agony seizes him: he leaves go the
lad with a great cry of anguish. When the boat comes up, there is
only the lad struggling alone in the water. Hector is nowhere to be
seen. The men look all around, and then in each other's faces, with
a stony horror. At last one uncloses his lips.
"Cramp!" he says, in a low voice. "My youngest brother went like
that."
And so Hector, with the strange irony of Fate, went out of life
fighting his hardest to keep it, when all these days and weeks past
he had been longing for death and not knowing how or where to find
it. Yet surely Fate was kind; for, if he needs must die, was it not
better to pass out of life gallantly rescuing one who loved and clung
to it, and with no stain on his name or on his own soul? And though
he "died in a foreign land," and remotely it might be said "for a
woman's sake," since but for her he would not have come there, he
died actually for the sake of a little friendless lad, who without
his aid would have been sucked down by the blue cruel waters. And
surely there is no nobler epitaph can be writ over a man's grave, be
it rudely carved on perishable wood or graven in letters of gold upon
stately marble, than this: "He gave his life for another."
CHAPTER XLI.
DIANA'S STORY.
It is a bright day in February: if it were not for the skeleton-like
appearance of the trees, whose bare branches force themselves
unpleasantly upon the eye, one might fancy it May. The wooing of the
joyous birds before their St. Valentine is sweetly noisy: they are
intensely glad of Winter's death, and are holding a spirited wake
over him. Do not be too sure that he is gone, you merry little
souls: there's many a nipping night, and day too, in store for you
before your friend the Summer shines the frost away. It has been a
happy winter,--happy as life ever can be again, I think to myself.
Curly has quite recovered, and we have all, papa included, spent a
delightful week at Warrington, where, at our especial request, there
was no party,--only just the Fanes. And then they (the Fanes) came
to us for a week, for now we have come into our money we are able to
entertain a little,--in a very small way, of course. We have what I
believe people who are poor generally have, and what the rich as
often lack, the sincere, hearty desire to make our friends happy and
comfortable. We poor people know that it all depends upon us whether
our guests enjoy their visit, and the rich are too apt to trust to
their adventitious circumstances and to make no further effort. We
have an extra in-door servant, on the strength of our new wealth, and
a real groom, who does not help in the garden, nor do anything apart
from his own domain, except wait at dinner when we have visitors.
For we have two saddle-horses now, and Curly and papa, or Curly and
I, ride every day. Papa is a different being: he is quite bright and
cheerful, and when he is out with us Curly and I are tremendously
proud of him; we never see any one else so distinguished-looking or
who talks so well.
Money is a very pleasant thing. I know we find ours so. It is a
real delight to go into a poor cottage now, knowing that where help
is wanted one can give it, instead of coming out heart-sick and
heart-sore because one has so little to bestow but one's exceeding
sympathy. I wonder the rich do not oftener treat themselves to the
pleasure of giving. I don't mean by sending checks to charities, but
by going among the poor, giving the gifts with their own hands, and
seeing for themselves the immense happiness it causes. How it would
expand their hearts, and prevent them getting choked up with
selfishness! There is no pleasure in this world like giving, of that
I am quite sure; and it is a pleasure with which many people are very
chary of indulging themselves.
I have forbidden myself to think about my love since September, when
its utter hopelessness was so bitterly proved to me. I cannot help
remembering how dearly I have loved Colonel Montagu, and right well I
know that I shall never again love mortal man with the same love
wherewith I have loved him. Sometimes, too, a troubled thought about
Hector has crept over me. I have fancied that I might have been
kinder, showed more feeling for him; and yet I could never realize
that he was capable of suffering much for love's sake. Once Mr.
Warrington said at dinner,--
"I never saw a fellow so changed as Montagu. He looks so pale and
fine-drawn, and rides as if he had the devil behind him."
Looking up at the moment, I catch papa's eye fixed earnestly upon me,
and the color mounts to my cheek, and a guilty feeling creeps over me.
This February morning I am standing at the open window, and the pug,
with many seductive devices, is entreating me to go out. Anon she
pulls me by the dress, or, jumping up, catches a finger playfully in
her mouth, then whines and scratches, lays her head on one side, and
says with her eyes, as plainly as any human being could say it with
his tongue, "Dear little mistress, do, _do_ come out." So,
presently, being rather a slave to her, I pronounce the magic words,
"Come along, dogs!" with which she knows I never deceive her, and
with one bound she is out of the house and down the gravel walk.
Papa is coming up it, and she wriggles her body fascinatingly at him
by way of salutation. Contrary to his usual habit, he does not stop
to talk to her in friendly dog-language, but comes straight towards
me. In a moment I divine by his face that there is something wrong.
"What is it?" I cry, before he has time to unclose his lips.
"I have just heard some very bad news," he answers.
"Curly!" I gasp, turning white to the lips. Why do one's terrors
always run upon those one loves best?
"No, no, thank God; nothing that concerns him. Poor Sir Hector
Montagu has been drowned in the Bay of Naples. I did not even know
he was abroad."
A chill creeps over me,--a great sorrowful pity that as yet finds no
words.
"Poor fellow! he died saving the life of one of the yacht's crew, I
hear," continues papa.
Mechanically I turn and go towards the house, he following me. I
feel horribly shocked by this news, shocked and remorseful as though
in some measure I were guilty of his death. In a moment everything
comes back to me,--his tenderness towards his mother, his kindness to
me, his goodness to the poor: what will become of _them_? And then
involuntarily my thoughts turn to his successor.
"Poor fellow!" utters papa, softly.
Poor fellow! echoes my heart, and the tears rain down my face.
"What will the poor people do?" I say, speaking my thoughts aloud.
"I hear they take it terribly to heart," answers papa. "He was such
a good fellow, and they looked to his doing so much for them. His
brother, I fear, is a very different sort of man."
My father's unconscious words stab me to the quick, all the more
perhaps because of the truth underlying them.
My first impulse is to write to Lady Montagu; but when I take pen in
hand a strange diffidence comes over me. She must know about his
coming over here, for she has never written to me since. If I was
the cause, the unintentional cause, God knows, of his going abroad,
will she lay his death at my door? The very thought makes me shrink
with pain and self-reproach. Yet what could I do? Must a woman not
dare to refuse a man she cannot love, lest some evil chance should
befall him for which she must evermore afterwards reproach herself?
I sit down to my painful task, and, as best I may, pour out my
genuine grief and sympathy, with all my respect and admiration for
her dead son's goodness. Many a tear blots the paper as I write: so
grieved am I that, could it bring him back again, I think I would
give him hand and heart too ungrudgingly.
I do not expect an answer, nor does any come. Despite our anxiety,
we hear nothing from Alford until, one day a month later, Colonel
Fane comes over. Claire has been with Lady Montagu ever since. Her
grief for her son was terrible to witness, she wrote. As for Sir
Charles (Sir Charles! I cannot recognize him by that name), he is
most dreadfully cut up: she would never have given him credit for
such deep feeling. He started at once for Naples, to bring his
brother's body home, but the blue sea had never "given up her dead."
When he returned, he was in wretched spirits. The only thing he took
the least interest in was looking over Hector's plans of improvement
for the poor, and giving orders for their being carried into
execution. It was the saddest house she had ever been in. All this
Colonel Fane told us. Poor Claire! I thought of her pain too,--her
grief for the man she had loved all her life through,--grief the
harder to bear since it could not be openly avowed save as a sorrow
for a friend. There was one question I longed to put, yet dared not.
Was he engaged to the heiress?
Ever since September have I been haunted by the fear of hearing the
news which, far apart as we already are, would make the gulf quite
impassable. And so the days crawl on, and I try with all my might to
shut the thought of him out of my heart,---the thought that he is
within a few miles of me,--that he might so easily, just for old
friendship's sake, ride over and see me. Colonel Fane comes again:
this time he tells us that Lady Montagu and Sir Charles are both
going away from the Court for some months. My heart sinks within me.
Why should it, since I knew he could never be anything to me?
May has come round again,--May, with her lavish fullness of life, so
great a part of which must never come to fruition, but die before the
summer sun shines upon it. O Nature! why this waste of life and
death? why this heedless neglect of the children thou bringest forth?
I am on my way to the village, to sit an hour with a girl who is
dying of decline. Papa has gone to spend the day with the Fanes: the
blacksmith has lamed my horse in shoeing, or I was to have gone too.
I am walking along the lane which skirts our park, under the shade of
the trees, in which is every bright and tender shade of spring green.
In the distance a horseman is coming towards me. As I first catch
sight of him, I think it is papa returning, but as he comes nearer,
my heart gives a great throb, half of pleasure, half pain: right well
I know now to whom that gracious form belongs.
Captain--Colonel--nay, Sir Charles Montagu draws rein as he comes up
to me. He is handsomer than ever, though he looks so pale and
careworn; but perhaps he only seems so to me because my eyes have
ached so long for the sight of him. Dismounting, he extends his
hand, into which I put my tremulous one. I dare hardly look at him,
lest my tell-tale eyes should betray to him how unutterably glad I am
to see him again. Even he, so self-possessed from long habit and
contact with the world, seems a shade embarrassed when our first
commonplace greeting is over.
"How is Lady Montagu?" I ask, hurriedly.
"Poor mother!" he answers; "she is quite broken down. I am going to
get her away from Alford as soon as I can. She will never be any
better so long as she is there. And!" (with energy),--"I perfectly
loathe the place. I was on my way to Carew Court," he adds, after a
pause: "may I go on with you, or will it be taking you out of the
way?"
He leads his horse, and we walk along together under the green
branches. Their leaves are small and young yet, and the gold
sunshine floods them through and under and over. It is a rare May
morning, such a one as he and I pleased ourselves by calling golden
once,--a long time ago. Does he remember it? He gives no sign. Why
does the first line of the second verse haunt me all the way as we
walk side by side to the house,--
"Ah, but the years brought changes after"?
Has not this year been fruitful of changes? Has there not been "care
on the lips that curved with laughter," and tears--ay, bitter
ones--in the eyes, whether "radiant" or no? We do not say very much
on the way home, nor until the groom has taken his horse and we are
in the house. How many a time have I pictured him here,--pictured
myself inordinately happy at his presence! and yet to-day I feel
constrained, weighed upon; he does too, I think. The May sun shines
full into the room, exposing mercilessly the threadbare state of the
carpet, the faded hues of the curtains. As my thoughts travel back
to the costly perfection of his rooms, I feel for a moment ashamed of
the evidences of our poverty. Why should I? He knows--has always
known--we are poor.
He comes and sits down by me on the sofa.
"I have been coming here ever so many times," he utters, in a low
voice, turning his eyes full on my face, "only I could not pluck up
heart. It seems horrible to think of being happy when Hector, poor
fellow----"
He breaks off without finishing the sentence.
What does he mean? My heart flutters and trembles within me, the
color shifts uneasily in my face, my eyes are drooped away from him.
Oh, kind heaven! let me not mistake him!--let me not imagine more
meaning underlying his words than he would have me! I feel him take
my hand, his other arm is thrown round me, his lips are on mine, and
my eyes close for one intense moment.
"To feel the arms of my true love
Round me once again."
Ah! is not all my sorrow, all my pain, wiped out, paid, more than
paid, in that one short supreme moment of time?
"Darling," he whispers, "do you think all this time that I must have
seemed such a despicable brute in your eyes, I haven't loved and
longed for you?"
I have no answer for him but tears,--tears, foolish tears,--the
symbol of sorrow, but of great joy too. And mine are all for joy.
Where is my pride? what has become of my rage against his cruelties,
my indignation, my bitter resentment of his treatment? Here he but
opens his arms to me, and I fly to them, with no womanly subterfuge,
no temporizing, but only a great unfeigned joy that he comes to me at
last. But these thoughts do not trouble me at the moment,--only
afterwards, too late, when he is gone.
"Do you know," he says, still holding my hand, "what Hector's last
wish, his last injunction to me, was? He had a presentiment that he
should not come back. I laughed at it then, little thinking, poor
fellow, how soon it was to come true; and his last charge was that I
should ask you to be my wife, and that I would look after the people
at Alford and carry out his plans. And I will, so help me God!" he
adds, earnestly, whilst a dimness comes over his deep-blue eyes.
"And you will help me, darling, won't you?--he said you knew his
wishes better than any one else."
A chill creeps over me. I scarcely know why, a dark cold suspicion
that he is fulfilling a duty to his dead brother shadows painfully in
my heart, else why has he not come before?
"And Lady Montagu?" I ask, doubtfully.
"My mother does not know." he answers. "I have not dared to tell
her yet. Fond as she has always been of you, she thinks----"
"Yes," I say, quickly, "thinks----"
"That you were the cause of Hector going abroad. My poor darling"
(taking my hand and kissing it tenderly), "it is no fault of yours
that you should inspire such passionate love, and I don't think any
of us ever gave poor Hector credit for the deep feeling we now know
he had."
As he speaks, the memory of Hector's wan eager face comes to me, and
contrasts itself with the fair, handsome, unimpassioned one before
me. But Hector was pleading with the power of despair, and this
one,--this one has but to ask and have, nay, to have love showered
upon him.
"I have made a resolve," continues Sir Charles--no, I cannot call him
that--Charlie. "I've been an irresolute, self-indulgent fellow all
my life, and now I want--oh, little one" (earnestly), "you can't
think how I want to be better for his sake and yours, for I know how
likely I am to slip hack into my old ways again. I'm not gifted with
what they call moral courage. I've always found it so easy just to
do what was pleasant to me, and not bother my head about whether it
was right or wrong. I never had any responsibilities, you
know,--never expected to have any. But, looking over poor Hector's
papers, I came across a letter from him to me to be opened after his
death, and in it he said he knew I should be awfully cut up for a bit
after his death, but that the impression would soon die out, and that
I should probably only think of making the place gay and pleasant and
spending all the money on myself, and forget the poor, and perhaps
let a bailiff grind them down; and he begged and entreated me to look
into matters myself, and try to do some good, as he meant to do if he
had lived. It was all quite true, and I felt it," Charlie goes on,
with a shaky voice. "I have no faith in myself, but I do want to do
what's right, and I want some good little soul like you to show me
the way. And you will, won't you, dearest? But now," he hurries on,
"I am going away, going just because I want to try and exercise
self-control, because there is nothing in this world I should like so
much as stopping here and making love to you, only I feel that to be
happy and forget him, poor fellow, all the time that I am reaping the
benefits of his death, seems inhuman. And now, when you have
promised to be mine, and I have your promise to live on for the next
few dreary months, I am going away from Alford, going to travel with
my mother, going to do anything that will make the time pass quickest
until I can come back to you."
He takes both my hands, and looks into my eyes the look that has
looked my heart away long ago, and whispers,--
"Tell me, darling, may I hope?"
Across me there comes a bitter regret that I am so poor a creature I
cannot control my evident joy and gladness to be his. His question,
"May I hope?" is a farce; and by the involuntary consciousness in his
eyes I see he knows it. Yet, to save, it may be, some poor semblance
of dignity, I say, averting my face from him,--
"Are you asking me for my own sake, or is it only because your
brother wished it?"
My hands are still in the clasp of his. He presses them tighter, and
whispers,--
"Look into my eyes, and ask me that again."
I look into the blue depths, as I am told, with an eager, searching
gaze, and fancy I read in them the answer my soul would fain have.
"Are you satisfied, little unbelieving one?" he asks. And with that
he kisses me once again lingeringly, and rises to go.
"Are you going?" I ask, with a feeling of unspeakable
disappointment.--"going already?"
"Yes," he answers, sighing. "Don't you remember what I told you?--I
haven't the heart to let myself be happy yet, with the thought of
that poor fellow gone to his miserable death. Good-by, little
darling. I know you'll be faithful to me until I come back; but kiss
me once more and tell me so."
My eyes fill with tears. To have found him only to lose him
again,--it seems almost too cruel a pain to bear.
"You will write to me," I plead, "once now and then, that I may be
sure what has happened to-day is not all a dream?"
"Of course I will write. Why, child, I believe you are only half
convinced yet how I love you."
"And," I say, hesitating, hardly liking to say it, feeling as if it
looked like an attempt on my part to prevent his escaping from his
word, "may I--may I tell papa, or" (hastily) "would you rather I did
not?"
He pauses for a moment before answering.
"You do not wish it?" I say, only anxious to do that which shall be
pleasing to him.
"You shall do what you think best, darling," he answers. "I could
not speak to him myself so soon after poor Hector's death; and I
would not for the world my mother should hear of it yet, nor from any
lips but mine. Trust me until I come back." And the blue eyes look
lovingly at me, so that I forget everything but that his will is my
law. "Do you think," he adds, "it won't be hard enough for me to go
away from my happiness just when I have found it?"
CHAPTER XLII.
DIANA'S STORY.
He is gone,--gone! and I am sitting at the window, in the full hot
sunshine, trying to think. Is it real? I pinch myself, as I have
read in books of people doing to make sure they are awake. That is
hardly a good test, though, for in some happy dreams I have similarly
assured myself of the reality of my own wakefulness. Well, there is
no mistake this time. I, Diana Carew, am in full wide-awake
possession of all the senses that have been bestowed upon me. I feel
the warm sunshine on my face and throat, I hear the sweet jubilance
of the birds and the sonorous hum of the big handsome bees, I see the
chestnut-tree that looks like a gigantic chandelier with its
thousands of wax candles, and the green fields yonder all golden with
buttercups, and I smell the heavy-scented azaleas, the lilacs, and
the wallflowers. And, since I last looked out, that has come to pass
which, in my wildest dreams of possible bliss, has never taken the
shape in which it comes real to me to-day. The man whom I have loved
with all my love, loved unswervingly in good report and evil report,
has come to me, come, not poor, with the thought of sacrificing
himself in coming, but gifted with many gifts. He has asked me to be
his wife, a fate than which none in this world can seem to me more
altogether blissful or to be desired. And yet I am not happy. Truly
there is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous. As my mind
shapes the sentence that the great humorist has made immortally
ridiculous, I cannot help thinking how Curly, a couple of years ago,
used to weary our ears with its constant iteration, notably, "And
though the Christy Minstrels never perform out of London, yet I am
not happy." I smile in memory of my boy, and then my thoughts return
to graver considerations.
I have let him go without satisfying myself on a hundred points.
Whilst he was with me, the joyful fact of his presence made me
oblivious of all else; but now that he is gone, and I can think
seriously, cruel doubts rise up and array themselves against me.
With their winged shafts they pierce every joint in the armor of my
loving confidence. How is it possible that he can have come to care
for me so suddenly, when last autumn he could treat me with
systematic indifference, even making love to another woman before my
eyes,--when in the preceding summer he could coldly avoid me and take
an interest in another man's love for me? Why, too, had he delayed
so long to come to me, when he was so near me? How could he go away
from me now and wish his proposal to be kept secret? The more I
think over it, the stronger grows the ugly doubt in my heart of his
love for me. He has come to-day under the influence of his regret
for his brother, to fulfill his last wish. At last I see how Hector
loved me, and a bitter yearning regret for him fills my heart. As a
mountain to a mole-hill, his love stands in comparison with
Charlie's. What greater proof of love could I have had than his
conquering the feeling that was the bitterest of his life,--the
thought of my being his brother's wife! At last, too late, I see the
full nobility and generosity of his character: what can I do now but
weep blinding tears of unavailing regret? And yet, could I summon
him back in the flesh, I know I could never have loved him with the
love he craved: to marry him would have been not one whit less a
sacrifice, from which I should have shrunk as much now as then.
But to have gained happiness, such happiness as I had never dreamed
of, and for the taste of it to be like ashes in my mouth! After long
and painful thought, I decide upon keeping the event of to-day a
secret even from papa; a painful prescience comes to me that this
happiness will never be fulfilled. So I content myself with telling
him that Sir Charles Montagu has been over to call, and, after a few
indifferent questions about him, papa drops the subject. There is
one great hope to which I cling; he will write to me, and in his
letters perhaps he will say something to satisfy my hungry heart.
A few days after our interview, his first letter comes. It is only a
short one, principally about his mother, and their plans for the
summer. It ends thus:
"Dearest, if you think this letter cold and indifferent, I have tried
to make it so. I feel as if we both owe it to Hector not to let
ourselves be happy and forget him yet."
As I read, my miserable unbelief in him grows stronger. _He does not
love me_. His is not a nature to be acted upon by any such scruples
as he pretends; the first element of his sensuous, indolent nature is
to indulge himself in everything that pleases him: if (and I go back
to the sentence of his which has always galled me so bitterly)--if he
could never be ten minutes alone with a woman without wanting to make
love to her, could he be cool and indifferent towards the woman he
really loved and meant to make his wife? My heart indignantly
rejects the idea.
"No, no, no! he does not love me!" I say to myself, bitterly, "any
more than he did last summer, last autumn." I do not answer his
letter; I cannot; what should I say?--but I dig a grave for my
new-born hopes, and give them decent burial, and try to smile, as if
all the joy and hope of my life were not buried with them. Yet
somewhere, as in Pandora's box, lying under all the doubts and fears
and miseries, there is a little winged Hope lying, that his presence
may kindle into life some day, if Fate be not too cruel. I do not
even conjecture how strong it is until, one morning a fortnight
later, a letter comes to me that slays it outright. The envelope is
directed in a strange hand: inside there are a few words in the same
writing, and inclosed is a letter from him. I read first the words
in the unknown hand; "The sender thinks it only fair to Miss Carew
that she should be made acquainted with the real state of Sir Charles
Montagu's feelings."
Then, trembling and heart-sick, I go to my own room, and, locking
myself in, read his letter twice over. This is it:
"MY DARLING,--
"After what has happened lately, how can I ever hope to make you
think kindly of me again? To profess my love for you, and then to
tell you I am going to marry another woman! But I promised my
brother,--I gave him my sacred word; and how dare I go back from a
promise made more sacred still by death? My own darling, I know you
do love me, unworthy though I am of your sweet love. The thought
that I shall never be anything more to you half breaks my heart. I
love you. I do not love her,--need I tell _you_ that? If I had
never given that hateful promise to Hector, we might have been so
awfully happy now! Only, if I marry her,--and I hardly see how I can
get out of it,--never think that I did not love you with all my heart
and soul, and would have asked no greater happiness than to have you
for my wife, if Fate had not been against us. She complains of my
being unloverlike; if she could only know how utterly unloverlike I
feel towards her! So, my darling,--for the last time I dare call you
so,--good-by, and may your lot be a happier one than that to which I
am miserably looking forward! C.M."
When I have read the letter twice through, I lay it down and lean my
head upon my hands. I feel stunned, as though some one had struck me
a heavy blow. One thought iterates itself again and again: Hector is
revenged,--Hector is revenged! Ay, had I treated him with the
wantonest, most heartless cruelty, had I laid myself out to win his
love and then spurned it, he would yet be amply, fully revenged. How
can we gauge our sorrows? I thought the hours when I believed my boy
dying, the bitterest ever given mortal soul to know; but the anguish
I feel now seems not less keen. To be spoken of by him with
shuddering dislike,--to have inspired in him nor love nor liking,--to
have been asked tardily, reluctantly to be his wife because he had
given his word to his brother! Oh, it was an easy task to give him
up for his own sake, that I might not mar his fortunes, when I
thought he had some little love for me; but now, to give him up to
another woman,--a woman he loves passionately,--loves as ardently as
he is indifferent to me!
"What have I done to deserve this misery?" I cry, beating my hands
together in an agony of pain and shame. "Oh, what have I done?--what
have I done?"
I push my hair off my brow, and rub my hands hard against it, to try
and still its throbbing. Is it like this, I wonder, that people
begin to go mad? If I could only get away somewhere! I cannot stay
in this place,--cannot go on leading this monotonous life. I will go
to papa and beg him to take me away at once,--I care not where, if
only it be a long, long way off. I am in a fever of impatience. I
do not even step to look at myself in the glass nor to smooth my
disheveled hair. I thrust the letter into my pocket and run swiftly
downstairs to his study. He looks up from his writing as I enter,
then, dropping his pen, cries,--
"Di, my child, what ails you?"
With an unconscious instinct I run to him, fling myself down before
him, and bury my head in his knees. His kind arms are round me, and
he murmurs, brokenly,--
"Poor little girl!--poor child!"
At his tender voice, at the sound of its great pity, I break into
tears and sohs and bitter crying. In all my life I have never cried
like this before.
And papa strokes my head, and presses my hands in his, and says, "For
God's sake, child, do not cry like this! My poor little girl, what
is it? What can I say to comfort you?"
I had not dreamed of this outburst. I meant to have come quietly and
said to him, "Papa, I am not happy. I want you to take me away
somewhere. Please do not ask me any questions;" but, somehow, at
sight of him, at the sound of his kind voice, I break down.
What shall I tell him? What account shall I give of my bitter pain
and grief?
He waits patiently as any woman until my sobs die away; then he
says,--
"Tell me about it, dear. What makes you unhappy?"
But I am silent. How can I tell him?
He waits yet a little, and then, stroking my head fondly says,--
"Am I not your father? Who can feel for your pain as I do? If your
mother were living, you would take your trouble to her; but, since
she is dead" (sighing), "let me be father and mother both to you."
I would fain tell him, but the words will not come. How can one tell
one's father of one's foolish, unreturned love?
"Do you think I never noticed," he goes on, "how changed you were
after you first went to Warrington? Do you think a father can be so
dull and blind as not to notice when his children suffer? Do you
think, my poor little girl, I never guessed the cause of your
unhappiness because it was out of my power to help you?"
At last my lips unclose.
"I will tell you," I cry, hurriedly; and, nerving myself with a great
effort, my face turned away from him,--turned to the light where the
cruel sun streams in unmindful of my heart's pain,--stammer out
incoherently, sobbingly, painfully, my "plain, unvarnished tale."
"You know when I first went to Warrington, when I first met poor Sir
Hector, his brother, Captain Montagu, was there. He could not help
it" (with a sigh that nearly rives my chest asunder): "he was always
used to see beautiful, fashionable women. What should he think about
a little stupid country-girl? But I--I shall never care for any one
again."
"So," says papa, in a low voice, "that was why you refused Sir Hector
and Lord Seldon."
"Then," I proceed, becoming more and more embarrassed with my
recital, and looking away for help out through the sunshine and the
deep-colored roses to the far blue heaven, "then when I was at Alford
he came home unexpectedly, and we were together a good deal. I don't
know why" (my voice faltering), "perhaps--perhaps he could not help
seeing I--I cared for him, but he asked me very generously to marry
him."
"Well?" papa's voice is low and impatient.
"Well," I echo, reproachfully, "as if I would have let him burden
himself with me who had nothing, when he had been used to every
luxury all his life. No" (with a touch of pride): "he was willing to
take me, but I would not have him."
Papa makes an impatient movement. I hurry on. "When I met him in
town, he avoided me. I don't suppose" (sighing) "he ever had thought
much about me, and then, you know, at the Desboroughs' every one
thought he was going to marry the heiress. From that time until the
other day when he came here I have never seen him."
"And is it possible," papa asks, wonderingly, "that you have gone on
caring for him all this time, when he has never even kept up a
pretense of thinking of you?"
His words stab me to the heart. I put my hands before my face to
hide the fire of shame that burns my cheeks.
"He came the other day," I falter, "to ask me to marry him!"
"What!" cries papa, in a voice of utter astonishment.
"He came," I go on, coldly, not sparing myself, "because Hector's
last wish was that he should marry me."
"Oh, Di, Di!" exclaims papa, in a low, unsteady voice; "where are
your women's eyes and hearts, that you cannot appreciate such a noble
fellow as that, but fritter away your love on one who is not worthy
to be mentioned in the same year with him? Well" (impatiently), "and
what did you say to him? Did you refuse him again for his own sake?"
"No," I mutter; "no."
"Well, then, in heaven's name, why did he not come to me, like an
honorable man, and why are you in such grief to-day?"
"He did not speak to you," I return, hastening to defend the man I
love, "because--because, poor Hector having been dead so short a
time, he did not wish anything known yet. He thought it would look
unfeeling."
"Oh!" utters papa, doubtfully. "But, Di, we have not come to the
cause of your trouble yet."
"It is this," I cry, taking the letter and inclosed lines from my
pocket and thrusting them into his hand.
He takes it, and while he reads I look up for the first time and scan
his face. He makes no sign, utters no word; and yet his face is
eloquent enough to me. I have seen enough. I hide my eyes with my
hands.
"Poor little girl!" I hear him murmur, presently, in a broken voice.
CHAPTER XLIII.
DIANA'S STORY.
Papa does not for an instant hesitate to yield to my wish to go away.
I think, indeed, he would have proposed it if I had not done so. And
now the money difficulty does not stand between us and the
fulfillment of our wish, as it would have done this time last year.
The Fanes are going to Switzerland, and have already urged us to join
them. Now papa writes to ask Colonel Fane if it would be agreeable
to them to have our companionship, and receives a quick response in
the affirmative. Ere ten days have passed, I have turned my back
upon my own country, indifferent in my misery, save for Curly's sake,
whether I ever behold it again. On the day I leave England I inclose
the letter, with its anonymous companion, to Sir Charles. At first I
thought of sending them without any addition from me, and letting
them tell their own tale; but on this point I change my mind. I
would not have him think I blame him for being unable to love me. So
I add these lines:
"DEAR SIR CHARLES,--
"The letters I inclose will speak for themselves. Of course I know
you never intended the one in your writing to fall into my hands, and
I am quite sure you will be very sorry it has done so. You acted
very generously in asking me to be your wife, you have done your duty
to your brother, and can have nothing to reproach yourself with. It
is I who positively refuse to marry you: do not make any attempt to
shake my resolve,--it would be utterly useless, and only put us both
to unnecessary pain. When you get this, I shall be out of England.
Do not try to find out where I am. I have left most urgent
directions with the only two people who know, not to tell you. I
hope you may be very happy.
"Yours sincerely,
"DIANA CAREW."
So, in this lame, cold effusion, I take my leave of the man who has
had all the love of my young heart,--who has taken it and left me
bankrupt.
The Fanes are very kind: they affect not to notice my sad and altered
demeanor, but ere long in my desperate need of sympathy I fly for
comfort to Claire's loving pity. For, though she is outwardly as
bright and cheerful as ever, I know right well that it is from a
sense of duty, not from any spontaneous gayety. My tutored eyes
discern how surely the iron has entered her soul too. And, like the
angel that she is, she ministers her sweet pity and consolation to my
sorrow, and I am comforted by it. She says I have done right. What
else could I do when the knowledge came to me that he was only
sacrificing himself to a sense of duty and had no love to give me?
Surely fate was in a bitter mood when she thrust upon me the power of
making myself passionately beloved where I could give no return, and
withheld it when it would have made fair all my life. If I were only
good like Claire! I cannot kiss the rod as she would have me, as she
does herself. I cannot thank God for my ruined life. The most I can
do is to try hard, oh, how hard! not to rebel too violently.
"My dear," she whispers, with her soft kind arms about my neck, and
her tears falling in sympathy with mine, "you will see it yet. I
know how hard, how almost impossible it seems at first to see
anything but cruelty and injustice in these bitter trials; but if
only you do not harden your heart, you will see the love of God in it
some day, and be able to say, 'It is well.'"
Until now it has never been difficult for me to love God and pray to
him; reverence for all that is good and great is a part of my nature;
in a humble, childlike way, I have looked up to my Father in heaven
and asked of him, as I have been bidden, those gifts that I have
desired. I have brought to his footstool all my cares but this one;
how dared I bring my earthly love? I have been taught that I must
love God first before all others; and how then could I pray for his
sanction to my setting up an idol before him and worshiping it with
that rapt passionate love which our earth-cloyed souls give so easily
and naturally to mortals, and whose intensity is in measure and
degree so far beyond the devout and reverential but cold love we
offer to the Deity? My talks with Claire, however, do me good: it
must indeed be a hard nature on which her sweet goodness could leave
no impress. She is so bright, so kindly, so humble; there is none of
the austerity of conscious goodness about her; she is not afraid to
laugh and be merry lest she should detract from her character for
saintliness. I have heard men speak against women, accuse them of
envy, malice, littleness. I would like them to know Claire, to see
her appreciation of goodness, talent, or beauty in others, her quick,
glad recognition of excellence wherever shown. Her affection does
not hang upon the mediocrity of her friends, as I am told (by men)
that most women's does.
There is at all events one person who thoroughly appreciates
her,--her brother.
"Ah," he said, one day, when we were talking about her "if there were
more women like Claire going about the world what a much more
tolerable--indeed, what a much happier--place it would be! But,
unfortunately, most good women are dull, and many bright women
are--well, not exactly what you would call good; so that it does not
very often fall to a man's lot to see one like Claire who, is good,
charitable, unselfish, and the merriest, brightest companion all in
one."
If I were to add what Colonel Fane added to this,--not, I must
confess, with any truth or justice, but that I might not feel myself
left out in the cold,--I suppose I might draw down upon my foolish
head the condemnation wherewith I visited the egotism of Miss Harriet
Byron. We are in Paris, _en route_ for Switzerland. Colonel Fane
and his sister find it sadly altered since the war; but to me, who
have never seen the Queen of Cities before, and to papa, who only
remembers it, in the first days of the great unhappy Emperor who (let
no man forget) made her what she is, it seems the gayest, the most
beautiful city the mind of man could imagine. How marvelously
buoyant and volatile must be the French nature, to stand erect so
soon from the weight of such crushing misfortunes!
Our first destination after Paris is Geneva, which we have agreed to
make our headquarters. It strikes us as being dull after Paris, and
the glare is frightful. The evenings on the lake are pleasant, and I
like to stand on the bridge and look down at the blue rushing Rhone,
deep and blue as his eyes. Colonel Fane is kindness itself: he takes
such care of me, and never seems to forget anything that could add to
my comfort. For the last few days a suspicion has begun to dawn on
me that papa is falling in love with Claire. Dearly as I love her,
the very thought gives me a twinge of jealous pain; we have always
been first with him, Curly and I, and, now that I have no one left
but my father, it seems cruel to think of losing him. I try hard not
to be selfish. I remind myself of the sad lonely life he has led. I
can see plainly enough how bright Claire might make his future; and
yet--yet the thought of giving up the châtelaineship of home, however
poor an office it may seem in the eyes of others, is grievous and
bitter to me. I begin to watch her narrowly, in the endeavor to
discover what her feelings for him are, and I fancy that sometimes
her bright eyes are brighter still, and the delicate pink in her face
deepens when he appeals to her, as he often does.
Some one has strongly recommended to us the ascent of Les Voirons,
some mountains near Geneva, where we are told is a charming hotel,
and one of the loveliest views in Switzerland. Papa and Colonel Fane
decide upon our spending a day or two up there, and accordingly we
set forth on our journey. If the result repaid us, we agreed before
reaching our destination, we should be fortunate, for great were the
disagreeables, not to say perils, we encountered _en route_. We
drove from Geneva to Bergue, where we arrived in a deluge of rain,
and found nothing but a wretched and most uninviting auberge. Mine
host was about the most ill-looking and surly individual conceivable:
if we had been in Italy instead of honest Switzerland, our minds
might have undergone some apprehensions as to our safety, more
especially as there was a great open trap-door in the room into which
we were rudely ushered. After alternate threats and persuasions,
Colonel Fane wrung a promise of a steed apiece for Claire and myself:
they themselves would have to walk. Our surly host went to fetch the
horses from the plow, and in about an hour we were mounted and off.
The sensation was like what I should imagine riding on a dromedary
might be. There was scarcely any footing, at times; it was about as
easy as riding up a ladder cut in a rock. Suddenly, as we were
nearing our journey's end, Claire's horse stumbled and threw her.
There was no more doubt in my mind after that what papa felt for her:
the agonized expression of his face, as he bent over her, would have
told me plainly enough if I had never guessed it before. Most
fortunately, she is not hurt, but she refuses to mount again, and
performs the rest of the journey leaning on papa's arm; whilst my
eyes, half jealous, half kindly, follow them. I fancy Colonel Fane
is sad and out of sorts too; perhaps he also suspects something, and
is reluctant to lose Claire. He may well be that.
At last we reach the hotel, and, glad as we are to get there, with
the darkness coming on, we begin to think lugubriously that we have
been "let in." It is too dark to see the view; we are the first
visitors of the season; it is damp and chilly, and there are no fires
anywhere. But two hours later, when we have dined by no means badly,
and are sitting round the blazing wood fire, we are able to take a
more cheerful view of things; and the next day, which is gloriously
bright and sunny, we are fain to admit, after having explored the
neighborhood, that we were not victims to a heartless practical joke,
as we at first dismally conceived ourselves.
It is afternoon of the second day after our arrival. My heart is sad
and bitter within me, and I creep away from the rest of the party and
wend my way alone through the pines to a solitary spot, where I may
nurse my sorrow all, all alone. To say that the day and scene are
glorious, is to give but very poor and faint expression to my sense
of their beauty; but what other words can I find? Down in sultry,
glaring Geneva to-day the heat would be unbearable; walking along the
white, hot streets, unless provided with a dense blue veil, the sun
would scorch up one's eyes and face. But up here, so much nearer to
him, one can bear his fervent kiss unsheltered by veil or parasol:
his fierceness is tempered to delicious warmth by the soft cool winds
that come from heaven across the brow of the snow-king. I throw
myself upon the short green turf, all gay with myriad eyes of pink,
blue, and yellow, an "enameled sward" indeed, and let my eyes wander
down the valley to the white glistening town, the lovely lake, blue
as a deep-colored forget-me-not, with the serpent windings of the
Rhone flowing into it. The dark chain of the Jura stretches away in
front of me: on all sides are mountains, some velvety green and
pine-crowned, some bare and sterile, and away, far off, but clear
against the blue sky, garbed in his unchanging white garment, stands
Mont Blanc. Green and fair is the valley beneath; sweet odors rise
from the mountain's pine-clad sides, and the birds are singing up in
these heights joyously and tunefully as they sing in our woods at
home. Is not nature fair? and yet its fairness cannot make my soul
less sad,--nay, rather more so. There is only one thing that seems
happiness to me to-day,--oblivion, nothingness, to shut one's eyes
once forever on a scene some such as this, and never through all the
countless ages to unclose them again. I have lost the power of
realizing a happy future: all life, all existence, it seems to me,
must be marred with some pain. Then the thought comes to me with
grim irony that now my life is done, my father's is beginning. God
knows I do not begrudge him any happiness, only----
My swift thoughts fly back to the one love of my life,--the foolish,
unhappy, but, oh! I think, the faithfulest love a woman ever gave to
man. How can I live through all the long dull years without
him,--the great appalling number of years that I have yet to crawl
through before I reach the allotted number of threescore and ten?
And yet life is called brief,--fleeting. Why, to me a year seems an
eternity. A year! Where shall I be this time next year? and
_he_,--where will he be? Married to the woman he loves, whispers my
heart. Oh, heaven! what has _she_ done to deserve so glad, so blest
a fate, and what have I done to inherit mine? The thought is too
much for me. I fling myself prone on the short sweet turf. I tear
with ruthless hands the jeweled eyes from their green head, and cry
and sob to heaven to pity or to slay me, since I cannot longer endure
the aching agony of life without him.
My rage of pain has spent itself at last: my sobs come fitfully.
There is a sound of voices in the distance, and I rise and turn to
flee. For pride's sake, I would not be seen with the traces of my
late violent emotion upon me. I walk hurriedly along the mountain's
slope. Suddenly a voice utters my name,--a voice whose sound sends
the blood rushing to my brain and my heart leaping to my throat. I
turn. Where are my senses? am I dreaming? Oh, kind heaven, if it be
so, let me never wake again! He is here, my lost love who has so
cruelly torn my heart in twain. His arms are round me; his
gentian-colored eyes are looking into mine,--mine that I know are
spoiled and marred with tears,--and yet I care not; vanity, grief,
all are forgotten in this supreme moment in which I forecast
Paradise. Does what I say sound too strong? Ah! but if you ever
loved with all your heart and soul, loved and lost, and found your
love again! No single question comes to my lips. I care not to know
why or how he came. I have forgotten that other woman whom he loved.
With his arms about me, his lips pressed to mine, every doubt, every
fear, is gone; by the passionate emotion of his voice as he whispers
the sweetest words my hungered ears ever heard, by the quivering of
his strong arms that bind me, do I not know, let what will have gone
before, though he may have seemed indifferent in bygone days, that he
loves me now?--not, perhaps, as I love him,--nay, how can a heart
that has loved often feel the intense devotion of the one that has
but known a single passion?--but _he loves me_. That is enough for
me! I am content. It is well,--passing well. If I had not known
the wild misery of the last three weeks, could I have tasted the
utter exquisite joy of to-day, with the blue sky above me, and the
fair valley beneath, the sweet birds' song, the scented air, and
above all, without which sights and scents and sounds were barren so
short a while ago, "the arms of my true love round me once again."
CHAPTER XLIV.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
The shock to Colonel Montagu of his brother's death was
indescribable. If they had been the most devoted brothers in the
world, he could hardly have felt it more keenly, coming as it did so
swiftly upon Hector's presentiment, and with the memory of his wan,
altered face. His first impulse was to start for Naples to bring
back the body. The moment he got his foreign leave, he was off,
traveling day and night until he reached his destination. But the
sea never gave up her dead. Colonel Montagu came home haggard, with
a great grief gnawing at his heart. He reproached himself bitterly
for having let his brother go; not one exultant thought crept into
his heart at the advantage he was to reap from the death of the poor
fellow lying fathoms deep under the blue waters. If he was
self-indulgent and reckless, he had the kindest heart in the world.
Ambition had never troubled him; he had been content with his easy,
pleasant life, loved by men and women too. He might be extravagant,
but he thought it rather a joke to make his old curmudgeon of a
father pay for his gay follies. He never kept a poor man waiting for
his money, nor refused to help a friend in trouble. There was "no
straighter fellow going than Charlie Montagu," all his
brother-officers averred.
This was the first grief he had known in his life, and he felt it
acutely. Day nor night could he forget Hector's changed, sad face,
nor his parting words. It seemed almost a crime to him to laugh or
be happy when he thought of the pain his brother had suffered,--the
pain that had banished him to a strange land to die. His thoughts
would go back remorsefully to the night at Alford when he had yielded
to the temptation of his self-indulgent nature to make hot love to
Diana. He had not really loved her then,--not loved her as he had
grown to do since; it had been a sudden passion kindled in him by her
love, her beauty, and the witchery of the warm, lovely night.
Perhaps, he told himself, had Fate not put her in his way that night,
or had he used his honor to resist the temptation, Diana would have
come to care for Hector, and he, poor fellow, would be living now.
And yet at that thought a twinge came across him: he could not
honestly wish Diana any one's but his own now; and yet I believe
firmly if giving her up could have brought his dead brother back, he
would have tried to pluck her out of his heart. There was only one
atonement that he could make now: he would to the very letter carry
out every wish of Hector's that concerned the estate, and he would
ascetically deny himself any profit or joy yet awhile out of his
brother's death. He forgot that by this self-denial he was making
the woman he loved suffer; he had but one idea,--it would be wrong to
be happy yet. Her presence would make him happy; he longed eagerly,
ardently, to go to her, to take her in his arms, to be _quite_
persuaded of what he was so nearly certain,--that she still loved
him, and would forgive his seeming indifference and neglect of her.
Somehow he felt as if she must of her own knowledge guess the truth
that he had loved her all the while, but that he was bound by the
promise Hector had wrung from him over his father's death-bed. When
the vision of her sweet face and sorrowful eyes, sorrowful from his
making, came to him, he tore it out as treason to the dead man.
True, it was Hector's dying wish that he should marry her,--would it
not be the joy of his life in the time to come?--but not yet, not
yet,--while the memory of Hector's grief and death was still green
and fresh. How many a time, when he rose in the morning, had he said
to himself, with his old self-indulgent habit, "I will ride over and
see my darling to-day," and done violence to himself afterwards to
resist the temptation! and at last, when he did go, how he had
schooled himself to be cold and quiet, and keep back the love that
was rioting in his heart, and so had made her fancy him indifferent!
It never occurred to him that she would not understand the restraint
he was putting upon himself, and the reason of it.
When Diana's letter with the inclosures reached him, it was a
revelation. He saw at last the cruelty he had been practicing upon
her, a cruelty to which her anonymous correspondent, whether friend
or foe he could not divine, had put the culminating touch. Why, that
was the very letter he had written to her at the Desboroughs' the day
of Curly's accident, and afterwards had made up his mind not to send,
because it would be a breach of faith to Hector. He had missed it
afterwards from his blotting-book, but fancied he must have torn it
up with other papers. And this the poor sensitive darling had
somehow or other turned against herself, and had gone away abroad to
escape him. Well, there was but one thing to do now, at all events:
he was not going to lose the hope of his life for any scruples about
the right or wrong of being happy; he would take the goods the gods
sent, and his heart beat with exultation at the thought. He rang for
his servant, and ordered him to have everything packed by the
afternoon, and then he went to find his mother. They were in
Ireland. He would get to Dublin that night in time to cross, and go
straight to Curly, from whom he knew quite well he would have no
difficulty in discovering his sister's whereabouts, when he explained
to him why he wanted it.
He then went to his mother's room. She was not yet dressed.
"I have something important to say to you, mother," he said, as he
entered. "Parker" (to the maid), "don't look black at me for
invading these sacred precincts." He spoke in his usual pleasant,
smiling way, and Parker, far from looking black, smiled, as every
woman smiled at Charlie Montagu, and retired.
"What is it, my dear?" Lady Montagu asked, anxiously, unnerved by the
severe shocks she had undergone. "No bad news, I trust?"
"No. Don't be alarmed,--nothing the matter," he returned, and then
hesitated, finding some little difficulty in broaching the matter on
his mind. "Little mother," he said, sitting down by her, and taking
her hand in the caressing manner that was habitual to him, "I told
you one of poor Hector's last wishes: there was another I did not
tell you."
"Yes?" answered Lady Montagu, the ready tears starting to her eyes at
the mention of her poor dead son. "Tell me about it, dear."
"You know how fond he was of Diana Carew?"
Lady Montagu shivered a little, as if the remembrance pained her.
"The last wish he expressed to me was that" (speaking very slowly) "I
should marry her."
"Impossible!" cried Lady Montagu, with energy; "impossible! I used
to be fond of her. I do not wish to condemn her, but I can never
forget that poor Hector's death lies at her door."
"Don't be unjust, little mother," said Charlie, gently. "You cannot
accuse her of having tried to make him like her, or of giving him any
false encouragement. She never went to Alford without being greatly
pressed. It was a dreadful misfortune for Hector, poor dear fellow,
but no one could say it was her fault."
"But," argued his mother, "it is inconceivable that he should have
wished you to marry her: he was intensely jealous of you; he made me
promise never even to breathe your name in her presence."
"I know," sighed Charlie; "and before he paid my debts after nay poor
father died, he made me swear never to utter a word of love to her
again. It did not seem so hard then; but afterwards, when I saw her
in town, and at the Desboroughs', I felt I cared for her more than I
did for any other woman, and it was frightfully hard for me to seem
indifferent. And I don't know how it is, but" (averting his face, on
which the color is deepening visibly) "heaven knows I am not the
least worthy of it, but I don't think she ever had a thought of love
for any one but me."
Lady Montagu looked at her handsome son with all her mother's pride
and love shining in her eyes.
"I do not know how any woman could help loving you," she said, fondly.
Charlie, evading her flattery, went on quickly:
"I never spoke to you about it before, because it seemed heartless to
think about being happy so soon, and marrying the girl he loved, poor
fellow; but he was really in earnest about it; he seemed most
anxious, and said she knew all his wishes about the estate and the
poor. And I, being afraid of forgetting too soon, have, I am afraid,
behaved like a brute to the poor little thing, and she thinks I don't
care for her, and has gone off abroad somewhere."
"You are not thinking of going abroad, Charlie?" cried his mother.
"You will not, unless you want to break my heart."
Then he explained to her all that had happened, and, after much
coaxing, persuasion, and reassuring, wrung from her a most reluctant
consent to his following Diana. It was a hard task; but he was bent
upon going, and the poor mother yielded when she saw it was useless
to resist.
The next day Sir Charles was at Eton with Curly.
"But Di said I must not," answered the lad, ruefully, in answer to
his friend's appeal. "You know I'd do anything in the world for you,
but Di said _if I loved her_ I was not to let you know where she was."
Sir Charles proceeded to tell him as much as he thought necessary to
convince him that his sister would bear him no malice for the breach
of faith.
"But," persisted Curly, more embarrassed still by this aspect of
affairs, "I gave Seldon my word of honor to do all I could to
persuade Di to marry him; and if I help you I shall be breaking my
word to him."
"My dear fellow," answered Charlie, laughing, "Seldon has about as
much chance of marrying your sister as you have of marrying the
Princess Beatrice."
Curly, at last persuaded, revealed that his father had written him to
direct to them at the Poste-Restante, Geneva, on the 23d, and that
they were traveling with the Fanes. Then the two bade each other
farewell, and Curly went back to Eton, feeling rather Judas-like with
his future brother's magnificent tip. Sir Charles went back to town
and made arrangements for his journey. There was no foreign leave to
get now, thank heaven: he had sold out of the Guards, and was of the
opinion that most men are, or profess to be, before and after giving
up what has hitherto been the pride of their lives,--that "the
service" was "going to the dogs." He was not particularly pleased at
the thought of Rochester Fane being Diana's traveling-companion: he
remembered with anything but satisfaction how attentive he had been
to her at the Warringtons', and with what friendliness she had
received and accepted his attentions. Suppose that, bitterly hurt
and indignant at his own treatment of her, she had consoled herself
with Fane's love: for it did not seem possible to Charlie now,
infatuated as he was becoming about her, that a man could be long in
her sweet society without making love to her. Suppose he should
arrive too late. The thought put him into a fever. He had not
received Diana's letter for eight days after it was written, because
of the uncertainty of his own movements, and, owing to this unlucky
accident, all this valuable time had been lost.
Arrived at Geneva, he had no difficulty in tracing them: the polite
landlord informed him that they were expected back from the Voirons
the following day. But that was not good enough for Charlie in his
hot haste: he ordered a carriage and started at once in pursuit. And
so it happened that while Diana was breaking her poor little heart on
the mountain-top he was toiling up the steep ascent, guided by an
urchin from the village, being far too impatient to wait until a
horse was unyoked from the plow, and rather preferring to trust his
own legs to get him to the top. Mr. Adams, his "gentleman," who
accompanied him, was furious, and swore to himself with a bitter
oath, as he toiled and stumbled after his active master up the
mountain's side, that if Sir Charles had another such freak as this
he'd be blanked thrice over if he didn't give up the situation, good
as it was.
The ex-Guardsman was a curious mixture of energy and indolence: he
could endure any amount of hardship and fatigue, but he would have
considered it an insufferable exertion to pack his own clothes or
shave himself. It is just possible that this was a remnant of
swagger begun in early life and grown into habit. Anyhow, Mr. Adams
toiled and panted and blasphemed after him as well as he might, and
tried rather unsuccessfully to assume a cheerful smile when Sir
Charles now and then turned with laughing good nature to ask how he
was getting on.
The first person Sir Charles saw on reaching the summit was Mr.
Carew, who, as may be imagined, received him with scant cordiality.
But, after a few minutes' conversation in private, everything was
satisfactorily explained, and glad enough was Di's father to bid him
"God speed," as he directed him to the spot where he was most likely
to find her.
His heart beats as it has never beaten before as he sees the slight
graceful form he knows so well flying before him. There is no
languor in his step or face as he strides after her, feeling in his
excitement no more fatigue after his unwonted exertion than if he had
strolled up St. James's Street. In a moment he is calling her by
name, his arms are round her, he is raining impassioned kisses upon
her lips. She does not resist him, as perhaps a girl who had been
kissed by half a dozen men might have done, with a show of virtue a
little too conscious to be real: this is the one love of her fresh
pure heart, into which no thought of any other man has ever crept:
why, then, should she affect to shrink from him, when it is such
utter happiness to be near him?
"My own little darling," he whispers, presently, still feasting his
happy eyes on her dear face, "how could you think hardly of me if you
cared for me? Did you not _feel_ that I loved you all the time, even
though I was compelled to seem indifferent?"
"No," answers Diana, truthfully. "I did not think you cared for me.
Oh" (with a little, touching sigh), "do you think I could ever have
pretended not to love _you_?"
"My darling," says the young man, tenderly, "I wonder how on earth I
ever came to be so lucky as to be loved by such a little angel?"
Diana's face dimples with happy smiles.
"_You_ wonder," she says, with an air of sweet conviction. "Nay, it
is I who should wonder how you came to care for me."
As she lifts her loving radiant eyes to his face a strange remorse
comes over him.
"I have been a worthless, selfish fellow all my life," he says, "but"
(with passionate earnestness) "I swear to heaven to be something
worthier before I die."
When, a long time after, though it seems but a few moments to them,
they are sauntering reluctantly back to the hotel, Diana stops, and
glances lingeringly down the peaceful valley at the blue lake, lying
like a bright mirror mountain-framed, at the hamlets with little
church-spires looking heavenward out of each.
"And to-day," she says, half to him, half to herself, "only to-day I
envied any human soul down in that valley by contrast to my own
wretchedness; and now" (raising her rapt, lovely eyes to his face) "I
pity every one so who is not me!"
What sweeter flattery could the vainest man in Christendom desire?
CHAPTER XLV.
DIANA'S STORY.
How poor words are, how all inadequate to express the great joys and
sorrows of our lives! Is it not proof of this that when we are (how
rarely!) overtaken by great gladness, we say we are _unutterably_
happy?--if we want to describe anything, either of pleasure or pain,
transcending the common limits of every-day experience, we are
reduced to saying, "words fail to express," etc. Is there some
language among the dead ones in which bygone ages could pour out the
torrent of their joys and woes without being hampered by the paucity
of superlatives which afflicts me at this moment? I give it up. I
cannot tell you how happy I am,--so happy that a vein of fear runs
through my gladness that such utter bliss cannot last. It is no
dream: I am wide, wide awake, and Charlie is sitting opposite to me.
He wished to sit next me, but I begged him to sit opposite instead,
though I was too shy to tell him why. It is because I want to see
him, to feast my eyes on his face with my old insatiable love of good
looks. And now I need never again steal furtive glances at the
bright debonnair face. I may fix my eyes upon it without dropping
them guiltily when they meet his. Are the rest of the party cheerful
and merry, I wonder? I hardly know: our spirits are so exuberant,
after our long famine of mirth, that if none of the others unclosed
their lips, it must needs have seemed a cheery gathering. Papa looks
very bright, I remark: is it from the contagion of my happiness, or
from some secret gladness of his own? Ah, I can wish him joy now
without the shadow of a selfish regret creeping in to mar the
genuineness of my sympathy. One's father naturally seems older to me
than any other man of the same age, but, now I come to think of it,
there is hardly more difference between his age and Claire's than
between Charlie's and mine.
Claire comes running into my room just before dinner.
"My dear," she whispers, her pretty face beaming with kindness and
congratulation, "how glad I am at your happiness! Did I not tell you
to trust, and all would be well?"
"Ah, Claire," I cry, flinging my arms round her, "I can't tell you
how utterly happy I am. Was there ever any one in this world so
fortunate as I? I am quite sorry I abused the poor world, when it
is, after all, the happiest, delightfulest place one can imagine."
"Do not forget, dearest, where all your thanks are due," she says,
softly, and, kissing me once again heartily, goes out. _I do not
forget_! On my knees I am thanking God with all the intensity of
which my heart is capable for his exceeding goodness to me. There is
one person who does not seem quite to share the general gladness.
That is Colonel Fane. He is preoccupied at dinner, and goes off
alone afterwards with his cigar. It is a glorious moonlight night.
Charlie and I wander back to the place of our meeting. Ah, what a
night!--a night to live over again in memory all the nights of one's
life, if one lived to be as old as Methuselah, sure, quite sure, that
even in the longest, happiest life there could never come two such.
Dark pine-clad mountains standing out against the sapphire sky,
bright waters flashing back the moon's streaming silver, nightingales
answering each other from tree to tree, and my hands clasped upon the
arm of the one man the world has ever held, will ever hold, for me.
And this time last night--nay, only five short hours ago,--he seemed
as far removed from me, as unattainable, as that glorious evening
star yonder.
"Little darling," says the voice of my beloved, presently, "are you
quite sure you have nothing on your conscience to confess to me?"
"On my conscience!" I repeat, slowly turning my willing and most
guiltless eyes to his.
The mere sound of his voice is delightful to me, even if it were
propounding the Sphinx's riddle. That does not seem much more
impossible to guess than his present meaning.
"Are you quite sure," with a little jealous accent that delights
me,--"are you quite sure you have not been flirting just a very
little bit with Fane?"
"_I!_" I answer, in a tone wherein astonishment and reproach do
battle royal for victory.
"Little darling, of course I know you did not," he answers, hastily;
"only he is evidently most confoundedly put out by my appearance on
the scene. Did you not notice how glum and silent he was at dinner?
Such a cheery fellow as he is usually."
"Absurd!" I answer, with scorn. "Colonel Fane looks upon me as a
brother."
"Oh, does he?" answers my lover, with an amused smile. "You little
innocent child" (taking my face between his hands and looking
straight into my eyes), "I think a man would be puzzled to be with
you long and keep up that useful little fiction of fraternal feeling."
He is quite mistaken in his supposition; but it pleases me, since it
shows the value he sets upon me,--pleases me far better than if it
were true. I never want to know the pain again of being loved by a
man to whose affection I can make no return.
It is decided that we are still to continue our Swiss trip, but to be
at home again by the time Curly leaves Eton, instead of his joining
us abroad, as had been proposed when the thought of returning to
Carew Court had been so hateful to me. I shall always love
Switzerland better than any country save my own,--not for the sake of
her beauty only, but in memory of the happy days I spent on her
glorious heights, in her tranquil valleys, on her blue lakes, by her
silver streams, in her quaint old towns. I know not when or where I
was happiest:--if it was gliding along the lakes, with the red sunset
kindling the waters into flame and purpling the mountain-sides; in
the delicious Vevay gardens, listening to the entrancing strains of
the string hand; driving along the lovely valley of the Arve, where
the water leaps flashing against the sunshine; at Chamouni, in
glorious sight of the great snow-king, standing against the clear
blue sky; among the lovely scenery from Argentiers to Martigny, with
its wealth of wild flowers and ferns, crystal streams, luxuriant
trees, and distant view of the sharp aiguilles, with their
myosotis-colored background. Every scene is indelibly fixed on my
mind, every spot we visited,--the ice-caves, green and transparent as
our English seas at calm, the awe-striking Gorge de Trient, where I
fell into a panic lest we two, in the zenith of our happiness, should
be engulfed in the black seething waters, sweet Lucerne, peaceful
Inturlachen, pretty, picturesque Thun, quaint old Berne, Ouches,
Lausanne,--all the lovely haunts of fair Helvetia. We were early in
the season, and did not meet many of our own country-people,--a
chance bride and bridegroom, generally French or German, whom we
regarded, Charlie and I with furtive sympathy, a few Americans,
pretty, well _chaussées_ and well dressed, and a few Russians.
Everywhere we go, my generous lover insists upon heaping me with
presents, until at last I rebel.
"Don't think me ungracious," I plead, "but when you give me all these
beautiful things which I have not been used to, and don't want, it
makes me quite unhappy. If" (with a slight accent of reproach) "I
did not care for you, and you were trying to win me over by gifts,
there might be something in it; but when you know----" And my eyes,
to spare the modesty of my lips, finish the sentence.
"Little darling," he says, in answer, "don't you think it's rather
selfish of you to deprive me of the greatest pleasure I have in the
world?"
That journey, than which none was ever more sadly begun, more
triumphantly concluded, comes to an end at last. We are on English
shores and in London. Charlie and I separate with bitter reluctance,
though it is only for a week or two, whilst he joins his mother and
brings her hack to Alford. When Curly has gone back to Eton for his
last term, I am to go to Alford for a short visit, and in October we
are to be married.
"It seems an eternity to October," he grumbles; "but of course you
are right; we must not seem to have forgotten poor Hector." And a
shadow comes across his clear brow.
Curly is delighted, when he has shaken off one or two loyal regrets
for his friend Lord Seldon.
"I think he's getting over it," he whispers me, with a sagacious nod.
"I introduced him this Eton and Harrow match to one of Archdale's
sisters,--Viola, the dark one; and, considering that he swore he'd
never have anything to do with a woman again, he seemed to be getting
on pretty well. One thing, he had the right one to help him: he
won't ask Miss Viola to share his coronet in vain. Oh, Di! how could
you be such a little donkey? Not but what Charlie's a stunning good
fellow; only I should have liked to see you a duchess. And the Dad
too!--only fancy the Dad getting spoony at his time of life!" (for
Claire has consented to marry papa when I have left the old home).
"I'm rather glad as it has turned out. She's so awfully sweet and
good, Claire, she won't be trying to set the Dad against us, like
most step-mothers would. And then," adds Curly, practically, "that
five hundred a year of hers will be very useful to them: it isn't as
if she had nothing; and the old place would have been awfully dull
without a woman."
I am going to divide my three hundred a year between papa and Curly,
for Charlie refuses to have me as a dowered bride, in however small a
degree, and I,--I love to owe everything to him. So he has combated
my father's and brother's objections, and insists upon having his own
way in this matter, at all events.
My first meeting with Lady Montagu is a painful one,--we both cry
floods of tears; but, after we have been together a few days, she
steals behind me, and, taking my head between her small white
fingers, she kisses it, and in a tone tremulous with emotion,
whispers,--
"Do not think, my child, that I love you the less because my manner
has been a little constrained towards you lately. I could not quite
forget" (with a sob) "poor Hector. But there is no one in the world
I should love so much to have for a daughter."
My wedding-day has come: it dawns clear and bright, with an Italian
sky, and the glorious warmth of July. Gay is radiant at this
auspicious omen. "Happy is the bride that the sun shines on!" she
chirps, over and over again, as, with loving fingers whose alacrity
is a little delayed by joyful agitation, she apparels me in my bridal
gear. The new maid is not allowed to lay one finger upon me so long
as I am Diana Carew. I am Gay's own child, that she has brought up
from my very tenderest youth, and no one, she and I resolve, shall
supersede her so long as I am still the child of the house. Gay is
in raptures, then, because the sun shines; but I--! The sun can add
no joy to mine; a deluge could hardly take from it; but of course it
is far better that everything should go smoothly and auspiciously.
It is to be a very quiet wedding, no one but ourselves,--papa, Lady
Montagu, Curly, Claire (Colonel Fane is away), and Lord Rexborough,
who is to be best man. He and I are tremendous friends since Curly's
accident. I understand him so much better, and his manner is so far
gentler and less rough than it used to be. I confess frankly to
having misjudged him: he has a thoroughly kind heart under that rough
exterior, which was more affected than natural, I verily believe.
The sun shines with a hearty good will upon us, shines in a flood
through the stained window over the altar, and plays a thousand
pranks with my white attire, decking it with vivid, unbride-like blue
and red, green and gold. But I am so confident of my future
happiness that I would have gone to church clad in black from head to
foot with profound indifference. There are no other wedding guests,
save my poor, who have collected in force at the lower end of the
church, and in the church-yard. As I go out leaning on the arm of my
husband, of whom I feel so utterly, unspeakably proud, they press
forward with hearty blessings and good will. The unbidden tears rush
to my eyes: these sincere good wishes seem better worth having to me
than the congratulations of half a dozen of dukes and duchesses.
They are to have a dinner when we are gone, which will be as soon
after the wedding as I can put off my bride's dress and don my
traveling-garb; for we are going up to town by the two o'clock train,
and have to drive six miles to the station.
Dearly as I love my husband, fearlessly as I face the unknown future
with him, how can I yet leave the Dad and my boy without a twinge of
keenest pain? I have kept up bravely until now, have wished every
one good-by with ready smiles, but now that it comes to those two my
eyes are dim, my voice falters. Have I not lived all the years of my
life with my father? have not we shared our cares and loved each
other with the heartiest love wherewith a father and child can love?
Never has one of us harbored an unkind thought of the other, never
has a cross word passed his lips to me, nor a petulant one mine to
him. And our boy, whom we have loved with all our hearts, whom our
tears and prayers have brought back from the doors of death! How can
I leave these two without emotion? I can _not_. Tears blind my
eyes, sobs choke my throat, as I throw my arms first round one then
the other; and their eyes, too, though with manly shame they try hard
to smile, their eyes are dim, their dear voices that bid me such
hearty "God speed" quiver and tremble; and I, the happiest, proudest
woman in England, am helped into the carriage by the man I love with
all my heart, in floods of tears as though I were the saddest,
unwillingest bride in the world.
"Little darling," whispers my handsome husband, as we drive away,--he
always calls me thus; he does not like my name,--"you shall never
have any cause for tears that I can prevent, I swear. Look at me;
tell me you are not afraid to trust the future with me."
I look into his deep-blue eyes and smile through my tears. If but
half of the great love and confidence I have in him is written in
mine, he must needs be content with what he reads.
I think he is.
CHAPTER XLVI.
NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
Christmas week,--a genuine old-fashioned Christmas,--a white world
without, blazing fires and holly-wreaths within, a larder stocked to
defy the ravages of hunger among a good-sized garrison, signs of
prosperity and plenty everywhere. Christmas is evidently going to be
kept at Alford; the Yule logs are ready for burning, plum-puddings
have been made for the million, and the tokens of festival that are
wont to gladden the hearts of boys and girls home from school abound.
It is not that the house-party is intended to be a very large or gay
one, but this year the poor have been thought of with bounteous
memory, and the chief part of the gallant array of stores is destined
to find its way into multitudinous humble homes, where it will
boundlessly rejoice and warm the hearts of the recipients. Still,
there _is_ to be a party at the Court, and, if not a gay one, still a
very cheery one. Mr. Carew and his new wife are coming; Curly, of
course, and Colonel Fane; Lord Rexborough, and a Miss Montagu, cousin
to Sir Charles. Lady Montagu (not the pale delicate lady we have
hitherto known by that name,--the dowager now,--but a lovely,
graceful young woman, whose name is Diana), Lady Montagu has busied
herself all the morning with tripping into each room prepared for the
reception of visitors, placing flowers there which she has arranged
with her own fair hands, and casting thoughtful glances around to see
that nothing is wanting for the comfort and pleasure of the coming
guests. Curly's room is her special care and delight; she never
wearies of stealing in to look at that. There hang his favorite
pictures, the books he loves, with many new treasures that her loving
care has placed there. For in the future she means Alford to be as
much his home as Carew Court; as much,--not more, for her father's
sake.
Happiness is certainly vastly improving. Diana was always pretty and
gracious-mannered, but now, radiant with love and happiness, she may
well be called, as she often is, as her husband thinks her, lovely.
Perhaps the elegant and costly attire with which Sir Charles insists
upon her being adorned has something to do with the enhancement of
her beauty. I, for one, agree with Tennyson when he says,--
"Let never maiden think, however fair,
She is not fairer in new clothes than old."
To say that Sir Charles and his wife are still the most doting lovers
is not to say much for a two-months-old marriage. I may tell of the
past, but dare I predict what is in store for them?--and yet I have
immense faith in their happiness in the future. Diana is fair and
loving, and good as she is fair; and he is generous, good-hearted,
sweet-tempered, and he adores her. For once the oft-quoted French
proverb would be out of place, "De deux amants il y a toujours un qui
baise et un qui tend la joue," although it might have been true
enough once.
Diana is beloved by every one, from her mother-in-law, who thinks
there is no one like her, to the magnate of the servants' hall,
unambitious of a new mistress, Mrs. Bishop. But even her golden
opinions have been won by the fair young _châtelaine_, and she has
not a word for her but what is favorable and admiring. Outside, in
the parish, she has already begun the work of which she and Hector
had talked so often in the old days. She goes even further: she
makes it her business to know the wants and sorrows of her new
people; in her own immense happiness and prosperity she does not
forget those whom Providence has less endowed; and from her husband
she has _carte blanche_ for her charities. Diana is quite to be
trusted; she is prudent if she is generous; she does not think
charity consists in giving indiscriminately to all who ask, and she
knows, too, how a little sympathy, a few kind words, oftentimes make
a small gift of more value to the receiver than a large one, sent
coldly and without interest, through a servant.
The Dowager Lady Montagu proposed to leave the Court after her son's
marriage and take up her abode at the Dower House; but her children
ridiculed the idea utterly. They had vowed to each other to make the
rest of her life happy and serene; she was never to know another
care; she should be as much mother to Diana as to Charlie. She had
her own suite of rooms, and, delicate of intruding upon the happiness
of the _nouveaux mariés_, she would shut herself up too much alone:
so, when she would not be prevailed upon to come to them, they
simplified matters by going to her.
It is noon of the day before Christmas. Diana, having put the
finishing-touches to all the rooms, opines that she will make her
_toilette de reception_ before lunch. The guests are all to arrive
between two and three, and she has been especially desired to make
herself "lovely." Not one of the party have seen her since she was
borne from their sight in a flood of tears on her wedding-day. Sir
Charles often twits her laughingly with this episode.
"I never felt so small in my life," he is wont to declare, "as when I
carried you off bathed in tears from the arms of your agonized
relatives."
Diana does not like to be reminded of her weakness, and puts her
little white hand before his mouth.
"It is quite true, little darling," he insists, kissing it. "I
believe you were awfully sorry when it came to going off with me, and
leaving everybody behind but the pug."
The finishing-touch is being put to Lady Montagu's toilette when Sir
Charles comes in. The maid discreetly vanishes.
"Little darling," says the sovereign of Diana's heart, coming towards
her after having stood for a moment at the door to take in every
detail, for he is a perfect connoisseur of the art of dress, "you
look _positively lovely_! I am afraid" (coming a little nearer) "to
touch you."
"Do not be," she answers, with sparkling eyes and blushing cheeks
(she has not quite lost that embarrassing old habit); and as she
speaks she twines both her arms round his neck and puts up her sweet
red lips to be kissed.
"You will make quite a sensation next season," he predicts. "You
know, little darling, you really are a much prettier woman than when
I married you. I am longing for them all to see you. I know they
will say so, every one of them. No tears to-day, mind; no red eyes
and pink noses."
"Tears!" she retorts, with happy scorn: "why should there be tears
when we are all _meeting_?"
"Next September," says Sir Charles, "we will have the cheeriest
parties in the world,--a happy mixture of Guardsmen and pretty
women,--no dowagers except the mother."
"You won't want to have the Desboroughs, will you, darling?" asks
Diana, coaxingly.
"At all events, we will not ask the heiress," he answers, gayly.
"You shall have no cause for jealousy."
Diana laughs. Then, twining her hands round her husband's arm, and
looking up into his handsome face,--
"Do you know," she says, with an air of sweet conviction, "I can't
help being sorry for her? I am sorry for every woman who has not got
you."
"Little flatterer," he says, putting his arm round her, "what answer
do you expect me to make to your barefaced compliments? All the same
I must say" (laughing) "you are unnecessarily liberal of sympathy for
your sex. The heiress apart, I don't know of any other very anxious
aspirant to my charms. Come and show yourself to the mother."
Leaning on Sir Charles's arm, Lady Montagu traverses the oaken
gallery. Her maid and the upper housemaid are peeping after them
from a half-open door.
"Aren't they a lovely couple?" whispers the maid.
"Yes," sighs the upper housemaid. She has long been the victim of a
secret passion for her handsome young master. She is stout and
middle-aged, but she none the less shares Diana's passion for good
looks.
The Dowager Lady Montagu greets her children with a fond smile as
they enter her boudoir, still arm in arm.
"Is not this a ravishing toilette, little mother?" asks Sir Charles,
bringing his wife forward and regarding her with eyes of fondest
admiration.
"Indeed it is," replies the dowager, with unfeigned admiration. "I
must not tell you what I think, my love" (to Diana), "or I should
make you vain."
"Fine feathers," laughs Diana, gayly, who is not above feeling the
sweetness of genuine flattery. "I think I _am_ rather a fine bird
just now, mamma. Your rival is coming to-day" (stooping to kiss the
elder lady's delicate cheek). "Fancy my being so rich all at once: a
little while ago I had no mother, and now I have two."
"Claire is my mother too," says Sir Charles, laughing. "I shall make
a point of calling her by her new title."
"If you please, Sir Charles, Hawkins would be glad to speak to you,"
says Simkins, appearing in the doorway.
"All right: I will be with him directly." And presently the young
man goes out.
"By the way, my dear," observes the Dowager Lady Montagu to her
daughter, when the door closes upon Sir Charles, "I have just found
something that must, I think, be meant for you."
"For me, mamma?"
"It is a small parcel that was pushed back in the far corner of a
drawer in what used to be poor Hector's room. I came across it only
half an hour ago: it is directed in his handwriting, '_For my
sister-in-law_.'"
"It surely cannot be for me," says Diana, trembling a little.
"Open it, and see."
Diana unfastens the string that binds it: her deft fingers are
unwontedly awkward. At last she has undone the first wrapper. There
is still another, on which is written, "_For my sister-in-law, if she
be called Diana_."
The color fades from Diana's cheek. She knows not why she feels thus
strangely moved, but she does. Her knees knock together. She cannot
open it in Lady Montagu's presence.
"Mamma," she says, in a low, hurried voice, "I cannot open it here.
Let me take it to my room. I will tell you about it afterwards."
"As you wish, my dear," answers Lady Montagu, a shade disappointed.
Diana hurries away to her room. A strange terror possesses her. She
knows not why, but she has a presentiment of some painful disclosure.
She is so nervous she cannot wait to unfasten the string, but, taking
a knife, cuts it. When she has taken the paper from it, she utters a
sigh of relief; it is only a book, a little old French book. Hastily
she turns over the leaves. Stop! here are marks. She reads, "The
story of the sad knight who died for a woman's sake." Her breath
comes quick, she trembles in every limb, but she reads on
hurriedly,--reads the story,--sees the identity of cases that struck
Hector, and understands with swift intuition what is the meaning of
this legacy that he has left her. Presently she comes to the two
underlined passages, "He lies dead in a foreign land, and all for a
woman's sake. But anon came her own true love, and they were wed."
A little cry escapes her. She pushes the book away, and gazes
stupidly before her with sightless eyes. A great horror creeps over
her. Could it be that he had gone away from Alford, away from his
country, resolved in his own heart to die? Everything seemed to
confirm the awful thought: his last injunctions to his brother, this
underlined story addressed to his _sister-in-law_. She, however
unwittingly, had been the cause of his death. And he, as he had
foreseen, having died for her sake, had been forgotten, and she had
married his brother, and been happy. The horror of the thoughts
crowding one after another seems as if it would almost bereave her of
reason. Poor Hector! at last the woman you have loved so utterly
realizes all she was to you, all you sacrificed for her sake. She
who thought you cold and hard and passionless knows at last how you
could love. And as the thought comes to her, Diana, all unmindful of
her dress, of her coming guests, whom she is to greet with her
happiest smiles, flings herself prone by her bedside, and in her
sorrow and remorse cries such bitter tears as she has never thought
to shed again in the new life.
The gong sounds. Her ears are unmindful; she heeds nothing, cares
for nothing, has no thought but one intense, heart-breaking pity of
the dead man who had loved her so utterly. A swift step sounds upon
the stairs; she heeds it not. The door is pushed open, her husband
calls her by her name, once, twice: she heeds not, answers not.
All at once he catches sight of her prone form, hears her gasping
sobs.
"God in heaven!" he cries, with white lips, "my own little darling,
what is the matter? Speak to me--oh, child, for God's sake speak to
me!"
She answers him by never a word. He takes her up in his arms, lays
her on the sofa, and kneels down beside her.
"Do you want to break my heart?" he whispers, in a tone of such utter
misery that she at last comes back from her agonized trance and
remembers him. She points to the book.
"Read," she murmurs; "read."
And he, wondering more and more, takes the book that is lying open,
and reads for himself,--reads the bitter story from beginning to end.
Then he too comprehends.
They look from one to other with mute misery; he has no word to say
that may comfort her, nor she him.
"Poor little girl!--poor Hector!" he murmurs, at last, in a broken
voice, whilst the unwonted tears stand in his eyes.
"At least," says Sir Charles, after a long silence, "thank God,
whatever he may have had in his mind, poor fellow, he came to his
death by fair means. Poor little darling!" (with infinite
tenderness), "this must grieve you terribly; and so, heaven knows, it
does me. But you have no cause to blame yourself. What could you
have done? There is only one thing we can do now" (sighing); "that
is, to remember him, and do our utmost to carry out all his wishes.
And, darling, for heaven's sake keep it from my poor mother. It
would break her heart."
And so Diana rises and washes the tears from her face as he bids her.
But she goes heavily, as one that mourneth for a brother.
She feels now as if this will always stand between her and joy all
her life through.
"I was too happy," she says to herself, sighing. "I felt it could
not last. Now I can never be happy any more."
But you and I, reader, know that it will not be so. When we are
surrounded by those we love, when the world showers its fairest gifts
with lavish hands upon us, when we have the faithful heart of him
whom we love best in the world to lay our sorrowful head upon, how
can we but forget?
"And grief shall endure not forever, I know;
As things that are not shall these things be.
* * * * * *
Wrecked hope and passionate pain shall be
As tender things of a spring-tide sea."
And Diana, though she if moved with such sorrow to-day for the man
who loved her "not wisely, but too well"--Diana, because her sorrow
is grounded on pity, not on love,--because she has the constant
presence and passion of the man who is all in all to her,--Diana
needs must cease to grieve, needs must be her own joyous, radiant
self again; but in the midst of her happiness she will nevermore lose
the memory of the man who _died in a foreign land, and all for a
woman's sake_.
THE END.
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