TO
A fortnight after this memorable Ball the principal actors of both sexes
had crossed the Channel back to England, and old Ireland was left to
her rains from above and her undrained bogs below; her physical and her
mental vapours; her ailments and her bog-bred doctors; as to whom the
governing country trusted they would be silent or discourse humorously.
The residence of Sir Lukin Dunstane, in the county of Surrey, inherited
by him during his recent term of Indian services, was on the hills,
where a day of Italian sky, or better, a day of our breezy South-west,
washed from the showery night, gives distantly a tower to view, and a
murky web, not without colour: the ever-flying banner of the metropolis,
the smoke of the city's chimneys, if you prefer plain language. At a
first inspection of the house, Lady Dunstane did not like it, and it was
advertized to be let, and the auctioneer proclaimed it in his dialect.
Her taste was delicate; she had the sensitiveness of an invalid: twice
she read the stalking advertizement of the attractions of Copsley, and
hearing Diana call it 'the plush of speech,' she shuddered; she decided
that a place where her husband's family had lived ought not to stand
forth meretriciously spangled and daubed, like a show-booth at a fair,
for a bait; though the grandiloquent man of advertizing letters assured
Sir Lukin that a public agape for the big and gaudy mouthful is in no
milder way to be caught; as it is apparently the case. She withdrew the
trumpeting placard. Retract we likewise 'banner of the metropolis.' That
plush of speech haunts all efforts to swell and illuminate citizen prose
to a princely poetic.
Yet Lady Dunstane herself could name the bank of smoke, when looking
North-eastward from her summerhouse, the flag of London: and she was a
person of the critical mind, well able to distinguish between the simple
metaphor and the superobese. A year of habitation induced her to conceal
her dislike of the place in love: cat's love, she owned. Here, she
confessed to Diana, she would wish to live to her end. It seemed remote,
where an invigorating upper air gave new bloom to her cheeks; but she
kept one secret from her friend.
Copsley was an estate of nearly twelve hundred acres, extending across
the ridge of the hills to the slopes North and South. Seven counties
rolled their backs under this commanding height, and it would have
tasked a pigeon to fly within an hour the stretch of country visible at
the Copsley windows. Sunrise to right, sunset leftward, the borders of
the grounds held both flaming horizons. So much of the heavens and of
earth is rarely granted to a dwelling. The drawback was the structure,
which had no charm, scarce a face. 'It is written that I should live in
barracks,' Lady Dunstane said. The colour of it taught white to impose a
sense of gloom. Her cat's love of the familiar inside corners was never
able to embrace the outer walls. Her sensitiveness, too, was racked
by the presentation of so pitiably ugly a figure to the landscape.
She likened it to a coarse-featured country wench, whose cleaning and
decorating of her countenance makes complexion grin and ruggedness yawn.
Dirty, dilapidated, hung with weeds and parasites, it would have been
more tolerable. She tried the effect of various creepers, and they were
as a staring paint. What it was like then, she had no heart to say.
One may, however, fall on a pleasurable resignation in accepting great
indemnities, as Diana bade her believe, when the first disgust began
to ebb. 'A good hundred over there would think it a Paradise for an
asylum': she signified London. Her friend bore such reminders meekly.
They were readers of books of all sorts, political, philosophical,
economical, romantic; and they mixed the diverse readings in thought,
after the fashion of the ardently youthful. Romance affected politics,
transformed economy, irradiated philosophy. They discussed the knotty
question, Why things were not done, the things being confessedly to do;
and they cut the knot: Men, men calling themselves statesmen, declined
to perform that operation, because, forsooth, other men objected to
have it performed on them. And common humanity declared it to be for the
common weal! If so, then it is clearly indicated as a course of action:
we shut our eyes against logic and the vaunted laws of economy. They
are the knot we cut; or would cut, had we the sword. Diana did it to the
tune of Garryowen or Planxty Kelly. O for a despot! The cry was for
a beneficent despot, naturally: a large-minded benevolent despot. In
short, a despot to obey their bidding. Thoughtful young people who
think through the heart soon come to this conclusion. The heart is the
beneficent despot they would be. He cures those miseries; he creates the
novel harmony. He sees all difficulties through his own sanguine hues.
He is the musical poet of the problem, demanding merely to have it
solved that he may sing: clear proof of the necessity for solving it
immediately.
Thus far in their pursuit of methods for the government of a nation, to
make it happy, Diana was leader. Her fine ardour and resonance, and more
than the convincing ring of her voice, the girl's impassioned rapidity
in rushing through any perceptible avenue of the labyrinth, or beating
down obstacles to form one, and coming swiftly to some solution,
constituted her the chief of the pair of democratic rebels in questions
that clamoured for instant solution. By dint of reading solid writers,
using the brains they possessed, it was revealed to them gradually that
their particular impatience came perhaps of the most earnest desire to
get to a comfortable termination of the inquiry: the heart aching for
mankind sought a nest for itself. At this point Lady Dunstane took the
lead. Diana had to be tugged to follow. She could not accept a 'perhaps'
that cast dubiousness on her disinterested championship. She protested
a perfect certainty of the single aim of her heart outward. But she
reflected. She discovered that her friend had gone ahead of her.
The discovery was reached, and even acknowledged, before she could
persuade herself to swallow the repulsive truth. O self! self! self! are
we eternally masking in a domino that reveals your hideous old face when
we could be most positive we had escaped you? Eternally! the desolating
answer knelled. Nevertheless the poor, the starving, the overtaxed in
labour, they have a right to the cry of Now! now! They have; and if
a cry could conduct us to the secret of aiding, healing, feeding,
elevating them, we might swell the cry. As it is, we must lay it on our
wits patiently to track and find the secret; and meantime do what the
individual with his poor pittance can. A miserable contribution! sighed
the girl. Old Self was perceived in the sigh. She was haunted.
After all, one must live one's life. Placing her on a lower pedestal
in her self-esteem, the philosophy of youth revived her; and if the
abatement of her personal pride was dispiriting, she began to see an
advantage in getting inward eyes.
'It's infinitely better I should know it, Emmy--I'm a reptile! Pleasure
here, pleasure there, I'm always thinking of pleasure. I shall give
up thinking and take to drifting. Neither of us can do more than open
purses; and mine's lean. If the old Crossways had no tenant, it would be
a purse all mouth. And charity is haunted, like everything we do. Only
I say with my whole strength yes, I am sure, in spite of the men
professing that they are practical, the rich will not move without a
goad. I have and hold--you shall hunger and covet, until you are strong
enough to force my hand:--that 's the speech of the wealthy. And they
are Christians. In name. Well, I thank heaven I'm at war, with myself.'
'You always manage to strike out a sentence worth remembering, Tony,'
said Lady Dunstane. 'At war with ourselves, means the best happiness we
can have.'
It suited her, frail as her health was, and her wisdom striving to the
spiritual of happiness. War with herself was far from happiness in the
bosom of Diana. She wanted external life, action, fields for energies,
to vary the struggle. It fretted and rendered her ill at ease. In her
solitary rides with Sir Lukin through a long winter season, she appalled
that excellent but conventionally-minded gentleman by starting,
nay supporting, theories next to profane in the consideration of a
land-owner. She spoke of Reform: of the Repeal of the Corn Laws as the
simple beginning of the grants due to the people. She had her ideas, of
course, from that fellow Redworth, an occasional visitor at Copsley;
and a man might be a donkey and think what he pleased, since he had a
vocabulary to back his opinions. A woman, Sir Lukin held, was by nature
a mute in politics. Of the thing called a Radical woman, he could not
believe that she was less than monstrous: 'with a nose,' he said; and
doubtless, horse teeth, hatchet jaws, slatternly in the gown, slipshod,
awful. As for a girl, an unmarried, handsome girl, admittedly beautiful,
her interjections, echoing a man, were ridiculous, and not a little
annoying now and them, for she could be piercingly sarcastic. Her
vocabulary in irony was a quiverful. He admired her and liked her
immensely; complaining only of her turn for unfeminine topics. He
pardoned her on the score of the petty difference rankling between them
in reference to his abandonment of his Profession, for here she was
patriotically wrong-headed. Everybody knew that he had sold out in order
to look after his estates of Copsley and Dunena, secondly: and in the
first place, to nurse and be a companion to his wife. He had left her
but four times in five months; he had spent just three weeks of that
time away from her in London. No one could doubt of his having kept his
pledge, although his wife occupied herself with books and notions and
subjects foreign to his taste--his understanding, too, he owned. And
Redworth had approved of his retirement, had a contempt for soldiering.
'Quite as great as yours for civilians, I can tell you,' Sir Lukin
said, dashing out of politics to the vexatious personal subject. Her
unexpressed disdain was ruffling.
'Mr. Redworth recommends work: he respects the working soldier,' said
Diana.
Sir Lukin exclaimed that he had been a working soldier; he was ready to
serve if his country wanted him. He directed her to anathematize Peace,
instead of scorning a fellow for doing the duties next about him: and
the mention of Peace fetched him at a bound back to politics. He quoted
a distinguished Tory orator, to the effect, that any lengthened term of
peace bred maggots in the heads of the people.
'Mr. Redworth spoke of it: he translated something from Aristophanes for
a retort,' said Diana.
'Well, we're friends, eh?' Sir Lukin put forth a hand.
She looked at him surprised at the unnecessary call for a show,
of friendship; she touched his hand with two tips of her fingers,
remarking, 'I should think so, indeed.'
He deemed it prudent to hint to his wife that Diana Merion appeared to
be meditating upon Mr. Redworth.
'That is a serious misfortune, if true,' said Lady Dunstane. She thought
so for two reasons: Mr. Redworth generally disagreed in opinion with
Diana, and contradicted her so flatly as to produce the impression of
his not even sharing the popular admiration of her beauty; and, further,
she hoped for Diana to make a splendid marriage. The nibbles threatened
to be snaps and bites. There had been a proposal, in an epistle, a
quaint effusion, from a gentleman avowing that he had seen her, and had
not danced with her on the night of the Irish ball. He was rejected, but
Diana groaned over the task of replying to the unfortunate applicant,
so as not to wound him. 'Shall I have to do this often, I wonder?' she
said.
'Unless you capitulate,' said her friend.
Diana's exclamation: 'May I be heart-free for another ten years!'
encouraged Lady Dunstane to suppose her husband quite mistaken.
In the Spring Diana, went on a first pilgrimage to her old home,
The Crossways, and was kindly entertained by the uncle and aunt of a
treasured nephew, Mr. Augustus Warwick. She rode with him on the Downs.
A visit of a week humanized her view of the intruders. She wrote almost
tenderly of her host and hostess to Lady Dunstane; they had but 'the one
fault--of spoiling their nephew.' Him she described as a 'gentlemanly
official,' a picture of him. His age was thirty-four. He seemed 'fond
of her scenery.' Then her pen swept over the Downs like a flying horse.
Lady Dunstane thought no more of the gentlemanly official. He was a
barrister who did not practise: in nothing the man for Diana. Letters
came from the house of the Pettigrews in Kent; from London; from Halford
Manor in Hertfordshire; from Lockton Grange in Lincolnshire: after which
they ceased to be the thrice weekly; and reading the latest of them,
Lady Dunstane imagined a flustered quill. The letter succeeding the
omission contained no excuse, and it was brief. There was a strange
interjection, as to the wearifulness of constantly wandering, like
a leaf off the tree. Diana spoke of looking for a return of the dear
winter days at Copsley. That was her station. Either she must have had
some disturbing experience, or Copsley was dear for a Redworth reason,
thought the anxious peruser; musing, dreaming, putting together divers
shreds of correspondence and testing them with her intimate knowledge
of Diana's character, Lady Dunstane conceived that the unprotected
beautiful girl had suffered a persecution, it might be an insult. She
spelt over the names of the guests at the houses. Lord Wroxeter was of
evil report: Captain Rampan, a Turf captain, had the like notoriety. And
it is impossible in a great house for the hostess to spread her aegis
to cover every dame and damsel present. She has to depend on the women
being discreet, the men civilized.
'How brutal men can be!' was one of Diana's incidental remarks, in a
subsequent letter, relating simply to masculine habits. In those days
the famous ancestral plea of 'the passion for his charmer' had not been
altogether socially quashed down among the provinces, where the bottle
maintained a sort of sway, and the beauty which inflamed the sons of men
was held to be in coy expectation of violent effects upon their boiling
blood. There were, one hears that there still are, remnants of the
pristine male, who, if resisted in their suing, conclude that they
are scorned, and it infuriates them: some also whose 'passion for the
charmer' is an instinct to pull down the standard of the sex, by a bully
imposition of sheer physical ascendancy, whenever they see it flying
with an air of gallant independence: and some who dedicate their lives
to a study of the arts of the Lord Of Reptiles, until they have worked
the crisis for a display of him in person. Assault or siege, they have
achieved their triumphs; they have dominated a frailer system of nerves,
and a young woman without father, or brother, or husband, to defend her,
is cryingly a weak one, therefore inviting to such an order of heroes.
Lady Dunstane was quick-witted and had a talkative husband; she knew a
little of the upper social world of her time. She was heartily glad to
have Diana by her side again.
Not a word of any serious experience was uttered. Only on one occasion
while they conversed, something being mentioned of her tolerance, a
flush of swarthy crimson shot over Diana, and she frowned, with the
outcry 'Oh! I have discovered that I can be a tigress!'
Her friend pressed her hand, saying, 'The cause a good one!'
'Women have to fight.'
Diana said no more. There had been a bad experience of her isolated
position in the world.
Lady Dunstane now indulged a partial hope that Mr. Redworth might see
in this unprotected beautiful girl a person worthy of his esteem. He had
his opportunities, and evidently he liked her. She appeared to take more
cordially to him. She valued the sterling nature of the man. But they
were a hopeless couple, they were so friendly. Both ladies noticed in
him an abstractedness of look, often when conversing, as of a man in
calculation; they put it down to an ambitious mind. Yet Diana said then,
and said always, that it was he who had first taught her the art of
observing. On the whole, the brilliant marriage seemed a fairer prospect
for her; how reasonable to anticipate, Lady Dunstane often thought when
admiring the advance of Diana's beauty in queenliness, for never did
woman carry her head more grandly, more thrillingly make her presence
felt; and if only she had been an actress showing herself nightly on
a London stage, she would before now have met the superb appreciation,
melancholy to reflect upon!
Diana regained her happy composure at Copsley. She had, as she imagined,
no ambition. The dulness of the place conveyed a charm to a nature
recovering from disturbance to its clear smooth flow. Air, light, books,
and her friend, these good things she had; they were all she wanted. She
rode, she walked, with Sir Lukin or Mr. Redworth, for companion; or with
Saturday and Sunday guests, Lord Larrian, her declared admirer, among
them. 'Twenty years younger!' he said to her, shrugging, with a merry
smile drawn a little at the corners to sober sourness; and she vowed
to her friend that she would not have had the heart to refuse him.
'Though,' said she, 'speaking generally, I cannot tell you what a
foreign animal a husband would appear in my kingdom.' Her experience
had wakened a sexual aversion, of some slight kind, enough to make her
feminine pride stipulate for perfect independence, that she might have
the calm out of which imagination spreads wing. Imagination had become
her broader life, and on such an earth, under such skies, a husband
who is not the fountain of it, certainly is a foreign animal: he is a
discordant note. He contracts the ethereal world, deadens radiancy.
He is gross fact, a leash, a muzzle, harness, a hood; whatever is
detestable to the free limbs and senses. It amused Lady Dunstane to hear
Diana say, one evening when their conversation fell by hazard on her
future, that the idea of a convent was more welcome to her than the most
splendid marriage. 'For,' she added, 'as I am sure I shall never know
anything of this love they rattle about and rave about, I shall do well
to keep to my good single path; and I have a warning within me that a
step out of it will be a wrong one--for me, dearest!'
She wished her view of the yoke to be considered purely personal, drawn
from no examples and comparisons. The excellent Sir Lukin was passing a
great deal of his time in London. His wife had not a word of blame for
him; he was a respectful husband, and attentive when present; but so
uncertain, owing to the sudden pressure of engagements, that Diana,
bound on a second visit to The Crossways, doubted whether she would be
able to quit her friend, whose condition did not allow of her being left
solitary at Copsley. He came nevertheless a day before Diana's appointed
departure on her round of visits. She was pleased with him, and let
him see it, for the encouragement of a husband in the observance of his
duties. One of the horses had fallen lame, so they went out for a walk,
at Lady Dunstane's request. It was a delicious afternoon of Spring,
with the full red disk of sun dropping behind the brown beech-twigs. She
remembered long afterward the sweet simpleness of her feelings as she
took in the scent of wild flowers along the lanes and entered the woods
jaws of another monstrous and blackening experience. He fell into the
sentimental vein, and a man coming from that heated London life to these
glorified woods, might be excused for doing so, though it sounded to her
just a little ludicrous in him. She played tolerantly second to it; she
quoted a snatch of poetry, and his whole face was bent to her, with the
petition that she would repeat the verse. Much struck was this giant
ex-dragoon. Ah! how fine! grand! He would rather hear that than any
opera: it was diviner! 'Yes, the best poetry is,' she assented. 'On
your lips,' he said. She laughed. 'I am not a particularly melodious
reciter.' He vowed he could listen to her eternally, eternally.
His face, on a screw of the neck and shoulders, was now perpetually
three-quarters fronting. Ah! she was going to leave. 'Yes, and you will
find my return quite early enough,' said Diana, stepping a trifle
more briskly. His fist was raised on the length of the arm, as if in
invocation. 'Not in the whole of London is there a woman worthy to
fasten your shoe-buckles! My oath on it! I look; I can't spy one.' Such
was his flattering eloquence.
She told him not to think it necessary to pay her compliments. 'And
here, of all places!' They were in the heart of the woods. She found her
hand seized--her waist. Even then, so impossible is it to conceive the
unimaginable even when the apparition of it smites us, she expected some
protesting absurdity, or that he had seen something in her path.--What
did she hear? And from her friend's husband!
If stricken idiotic, he was a gentleman; the tigress she had detected in
her composition did not require to be called forth; half-a-dozen words,
direct, sharp as fangs and teeth, with the eyes burning over them,
sufficed for the work of defence. 'The man who swore loyalty to Emma!'
Her reproachful repulsion of eyes was unmistakeable, withering; as
masterful as a superior force on his muscles.--What thing had he been
taking her for?--She asked it within: and he of himself, in a reflective
gasp. Those eyes of hers appeared as in a cloud, with the wrath above:
she had: the look of a Goddess in anger. He stammered, pleaded across
her flying shoulder--Oh! horrible, loathsome, pitiable to hear!... 'A
momentary aberration... her beauty... he deserved to be shot!... could
not help admiring... quite lost his head.. on his honour! never again!'
Once in the roadway, and Copsley visible, she checked her arrowy
pace for breath, and almost commiserated the dejected wretch in her
thankfulness to him for silence. Nothing exonerated him, but at least
he had the grace not to beg secresy. That would have been an intolerable
whine of a poltroon, adding to her humiliation. He abstained; he stood
at her mercy without appealing.
She was not the woman to take poor vengeance. But, Oh! she was
profoundly humiliated, shamed through and through. The question, was
I guilty of any lightness--anything to bring this on me? would not be
laid. And how she pitied her friend! This house, her heart's home, was
now a wreck to her: nay, worse, a hostile citadel. The burden of the
task of meeting Emma with an open face, crushed her like very guilt. Yet
she succeeded. After an hour in her bedchamber she managed to lock up
her heart and summon the sprite of acting to her tongue and features:
which ready attendant on the suffering female host performed his
liveliest throughout the evening, to Emma's amusement, and to the
culprit ex-dragoon's astonishment; in whom, to tell the truth of him,
her sparkle and fun kindled the sense of his being less criminal than he
had supposed, with a dim vision of himself as the real proven donkey
for not having been a harmless dash more so. But, to be just as well
as penetrating, this was only the effect of her personal charm on his
nature. So it spurred him a moment, when it struck this doleful man
that to have secured one kiss of those fresh and witty sparkling lips he
would endure forfeits, pangs, anything save the hanging of his culprit's
head before his Emma. Reflection washed him clean. Secresy is not
a medical restorative, by no means a good thing for the baffled
amorously-adventurous cavalier, unless the lady's character shall have
been firmly established in or over his hazy wagging noddle. Reflection
informed him that the honourable, generous, proud girl spared him for
the sake of the house she loved. After a night of tossing, he rose right
heartily repentant. He showed it in the best manner, not dramatically.
On her accepting his offer to drive her down to the valley to meet the
coach, a genuine illumination of pure gratitude made a better man of
him, both to look at and in feeling. She did not hesitate to consent;
and he had half expected a refusal. She talked on the way quite as
usual, cheerfully, if not altogether so spiritedly. A flash of her
matchless wit now and then reduced him to that abject state of man
beside the fair person he has treated high cavalierly, which one craves
permission to describe as pulp. He was utterly beaten.
The sight of Redworth on the valley road was a relief to them both. He
had slept in one of the houses of the valley, and spoke of having had
the intention to mount to Copsley. Sir Lukin proposed to drive him back.
He glanced at Diana, still with that calculating abstract air of his;
and he was rallied. He confessed to being absorbed in railways, the new
lines of railways projected to thread the land and fast mapping it.
'You 've not embarked money in them?' said Sir Lukin.
The answer was: 'I have; all I possess.' And Redworth for a sharp
instant set his eyes on Diana, indifferent to Sir Lukin's bellow of
stupefaction at such gambling on the part of a prudent fellow.
He asked her where she was to be met, where written to, during the
Summer, in case of his wishing to send her news.
She replied: 'Copsley will be the surest. I am always in communication
with Lady Dunstane.' She coloured deeply. The recollection of the change
of her feeling for Copsley suffused her maiden mind.
The strange blush prompted an impulse in Redworth to speak to her at
once of his venture in railways. But what would she understand of them,
as connected with the mighty stake he was playing for? He delayed.
The coach came at a trot of the horses, admired by Sir Lukin, round a
corner. She entered it, her maid followed, the door banged, the horses
trotted. She was off.
Her destiny of the Crossways tied a knot, barred a gate, and pointed to
a new direction of the road on that fine spring morning, when beech-buds
were near the burst, cowslips yellowed the meadow-flats, and skylarks
quivered upward.
For many long years Redworth had in his memory, for a comment on
procrastination and excessive scrupulousness in his calculating faculty,
the blue back of a coach.
He declined the vacated place beside Sir Lukin, promising to come and
spend a couple of days at Copsley in a fortnight--Saturday week. He
wanted, he said, to have a talk with Lady Dunstane. Evidently he had
railways on the brain, and Sir Lukin warned his wife to be guarded
against the speculative mania, and advise the man, if she could.