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DIANA TEMPEST.
by
MARY CHOLMONDELEY,
Author of
"The Danvers Jewels,"
"Sir Charles Danvers," etc.
In Three Volumes.
VOL. I.
London:
Richard Bentley & Son,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1893.
(All rights reserved.)
TO
MY SISTER
HESTER.
"He put our lives so far apart
We cannot hear each other speak."
"The lawyer's deed
Ran sure,
In tail,
To them, and to their heirs
Who shall succeed,
Without fail,
For evermore.
"Here is the land,
Shaggy with wood,
With its old valley,
Mound and flood.
But the heritors?" ...
EMERSON, _Earth-song_.
DIANA TEMPEST.
CHAPTER I.
"La pire des mésalliances est celle du coeur."
Colonel Tempest and his miniature ten-year-old replica of himself had
made themselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit in opposite
corners of the smoking carriage. It was a chilly morning in April, and
the boy had wrapped himself in his travelling rug, and turned up his
little collar, and drawn his soft little travelling cap over his eyes in
exact, though unconscious, imitation of his father. Colonel Tempest
looked at him now and then with paternal complacency. It is certainly a
satisfaction to see ourselves repeated in our children. We feel that the
type will not be lost. Each new edition of ourselves lessens a natural
fear lest a work of value and importance should lapse out of print.
Colonel Tempest at forty was still very handsome; and must, as a young
man, have possessed great beauty before the character had had time to
assert itself in the face; before selfishness had learned to look out of
the clear grey eyes, and a weak self-indulgence and irresolution had
loosened the well-cut lips.
Colonel Tempest, as a rule, took life very easily. If he had fits of
uncontrolled passion now and then, they were quickly over. If his
feelings were touched, that was quickly over too. But to-day his face
was clouded. He had tried the usual antidotes for an impending attack
of what he would have called "the blues," by which he meant any species
of reflection calculated to give him that passing annoyance which was
the deepest form of emotion of which he was capable. But _Punch_ and the
_Sporting Times_, and even the comic French paper which Archie might not
look at, were powerless to distract him to-day. At last he tossed the
latter out of the window to corrupt the morals of trespassers on the
line, and, as it was, after all, less trouble to yield than to resist,
settled himself in his corner, and gave way to a series of gloomy and
anxious reflections.
He was bent on a mission of importance to his old home, to see his
brother who was dying. His mind always recoiled instinctively from the
thought of death, and turned quickly to something else. It was fourteen
years since he had been at Overleigh, fourteen years since that event
had taken place which had left a deadly enmity of silence and
estrangement between his brother and himself ever since. And it had all
been about a woman. It seemed extraordinary to Colonel Tempest, as he
looked back, that a quarrel which had led to such serious
consequences--which had, as he remembered, spoilt his own life--should
have come from so slight a cause. It was like losing the sight of an eye
because a fly had committed trespass in it. A man's mental rank may
generally be determined by his estimate of woman. If he stands low he
considers her--heaven help her--such an one as himself. If he climbs
high he takes his ideal of her along with him, and, to keep it safe,
places it above himself.
Colonel Tempest pursued the reflections suggested by an untaxed
intellect of average calibre which he believed to be profound. A mere
girl! How men threw up everything for women! What fools men were when
they were young! After all, when he came to think of it, there had been
some excuse for him. (There generally was.) How beautiful she had been
with her pale exquisite face, and her innocent eyes, and a certain shy
dignity and pride of bearing peculiar to herself. Yes, any other man
would have done the same in his place. The latter argument had had great
weight with Colonel Tempest through life. He could not help it if she
were engaged to his brother. It was as much her fault as his own if they
fell in love with each other. She was seventeen and he was seven and
twenty, but it is always the woman who "has the greater sin."
He remembered, with something like complacency, the violent love-making
of the fortnight that followed, her shy adoration of her beautiful eager
lover. Then came the scruples, the flight, the white cottage by the
Thames, the marriage at the local register office. What a fool he had
been, he reflected, and how he had worshipped her at first, before he
had been disappointed in her; disappointed in her as the boy is in the
butterfly when he has it safe--and crushed--in his hand. She might have
made anything of him, he reflected. But somehow there had been a hitch
in her character. She had not taken him the right way. She had been
unable to effect a radical change in him, to convert weakness and
irresolution into strength and decision; and he had been quite ready to
have anything of that sort done for him. During all those early weeks of
married life, until she caught a heavy cold on her chest, he had
believed existence had been easily and delightfully transformed for
him. He was susceptible. His feelings were always easily touched.
Everything influenced him, for a time; beautiful music, or a pathetic
story for half an hour; his young wife for--nearly six months.
A play usually ends with the wedding, but there is generally an
after-piece, ignored by lovers but expected by an experienced audience.
The after-piece in Colonel Tempest's domestic drama began with tears,
caused, I believe, in the first instance by a difference of opinion as
to who was responsible for the earwigs in his bath sponge. In the white
cottage there were many earwigs. But even after the earwig difficulty
was settled by a move to London, other occasions seemed to crop up for
the shedding of those tears which are known to be the common resource of
women for obtaining their own way when other means fail; and others,
many others, suggested by youth and inexperience and a devoted love had
failed. If they are silent tears, or worse still, if the eyelids betray
that they have been shed in secret, a man may with reason become much
annoyed at what looks like a tacit reproach. Colonel Tempest became
annoyed. It is the good fortune of shallow men so thoroughly to
understand women, that they can see through even the noblest of them;
though of course that deeper insight into the hypocrisy practised by the
whole sex about their fancied ailments, and inconveniently wounded
feelings for their own petty objects, is reserved for selfish men alone.
Matters have become very wrong indeed, when a caress is not enough to
set all right at once; but things came to that shocking pass between
Colonel and Mrs. Tempest, and went in the course of the next few years
several steps further still, till they reached, on her part, that dreary
dead level of emaciated semi-maternal tenderness, which is the only
feeling some husbands allow their wives to entertain permanently for
them; the only kind of love which some men believe a virtuous woman is
capable of.
How he had suffered, he reflected, he who needed love so much. Even the
advent of the child had only drawn them together for a time. He
remembered how deeply touched he had been when it was first laid in his
arms, how drawn towards its mother. But his smoking-room fire had been
neglected during the following week, and he could not find any large
envelopes, and the nurse made absurd restrictions about his seeing his
wife at his own hours, and Di herself was feeble and languid, and made
no attempt to enter into his feelings, or show him any sympathy, and--
Colonel Tempest sighed as he made this mournful retrospect of his
married life. He had never cared to be much at home, he reflected. His
home had not been made very pleasant to him; the poor meagre home in a
dingy street, the wrong side of Oxford Street, which was all that a
young man in the Guards, with expensive tastes, who had quarrelled with
his elder brother, could afford. The last evening he had spent in that
house came back to him with a feeling of bitter resentment at the
recollection of his wife's unreasonable distress when a tradesman called
after dinner for payment of a longstanding account which she had
understood was settled. It was not a large bill he remembered
wrathfully, and he had intended to keep his promise of paying it
directly his money came in, but when it came he had needed it, and more,
for his share of the spring fishing he had taken cheap with a friend.
Naturally he would not see the man whose loud voice, asking repeatedly
for him, could be heard in the hall, and who refused to go away. Colonel
Tempest had a dislike to rows with tradespeople. At last his wife,
prostrate, and in feeble health, rose languidly from her sofa, and went
down to meet the recriminations of the unfortunate tradesman, who, after
a long interval, retired, slamming the door. Colonel Tempest heard her
slow step come up the stair again, and then, instead of stopping at the
drawing-room door, it had gone toiling upwards to the room above. He was
incensed by so distinct an evidence of temper. Surely, he said to
himself with exasperation, she knew when she married him that she was
marrying a poor man.
She did not return: and at last he blew out the lamp, and lighting the
candle put ready for him, went upstairs, and opening the door of his
wife's room, peered in. She was sitting in the dark by the black
fireplace with her head in her hands. A great deal of darkness and cold
seemed to have been compressed into that little room. She raised her
head as he came in. Her wide eyes had a look in them of a dumb
unreasoning animal distress which took him aback. There was no pride nor
anger in her face. In his ignorance he supposed she would reproach him.
He had not yet realized that the day of reproaches and appeals, very
bitter while it lasted, was long past, years past. The silence of those
who have loved us is sometimes eloquent as a tombstone of that which has
been buried beneath it.
The room was very cold. A faint smell of warm india-rubber and a
molehill in the middle of the bed showed that a hot bottle was found
more economical than coal.
"Why on earth don't you have a fire?" he asked, still standing in the
doorway, personally aggrieved at her economies. Di's economies had often
been the subject of sore annoyance to him. An anxious housekeeper in her
teens sometimes retrenches in the wrong place, namely where it is
unpalatable to the husband. Di had cured herself of this fault of late
years, but it cropped up now and again, especially when he returned home
unexpectedly as to-day, and found only mutton chops for dinner.
"It was the coal bill that the man came about this evening," she said,
apathetically, and then the peculiar distressed look giving place to a
more human expression, as she suddenly became aware of the reproach her
words implied, she added quickly, "but I am not the least cold, thanks."
Still he lingered; a sense of ill-usage generally needs expression.
"Why did not you come back to the drawing-room again?"
There was no answer.
"I must say you have a knack of making a man's home uncommonly pleasant
for him."
Still no answer. Perhaps there were none left. One may come to an end of
answers sometimes, like other things--money, for instance.
"Is my breakfast ordered for half-past seven, sharp?"
"Yes."
"Poached eggs?"
"Yes, and stewed kidneys. I hope they will be right this time. And I've
told Martha to call you at seven punctually."
"All right. Good night."
"Good night."
That had been their parting in this world, Colonel Tempest remembered
bitterly, for he had been too much hurried next morning to run up to
say good-bye before starting for Scotland. Those had been the last words
his wife had spoken to him, the woman for whom he had given up his
liberty. So much for woman's love and tenderness.
And as the train went heavily on its way, he recalled, in spite of
himself, the last home-coming after that month's fishing, and the fog
that he shot into as he neared King's Cross on that dull April morning
six years ago. He remembered his arrival at the house, and letting
himself in and going upstairs. The house seemed strangely quiet. In the
drawing-room a woman was sitting motionless in the gaslight. She looked
up as he came in, and he recognized the drawn, haggard face of Mrs.
Courtenay, his wife's mother, whom he had never seen in his house
before, and who now spoke to him for the first time since her daughter's
marriage.
"Is that you?" she said, quietly, her face twitching. "I did not know
where you were. You have a daughter, Colonel Tempest, of a few hours
old."
He raised his eyebrows.
"And Di?" he asked. "Pretty comfortable?"
The question was a concession to custom on Colonel Tempest's part, for,
like others of his enlightened views, he was of course aware that the
pains of childbirth are as nothing compared to the twinge of gout in the
masculine toe.
"Diana," said the elder woman, with concentrated passion, as she passed
him to leave the room--"Diana, thank God, is dead!"
He had never forgiven Mrs. Courtenay for that speech. He remembered even
now with a shudder of acute self-pity all he had gone through during the
days that followed, and the silent reproach of the face that even in
death wore a look not of rest, but of a weariness stern and patient, and
a courage that has looked to the end and can wait.
And when Mrs. Courtenay had written to offer to take the little Diana
off his hands altogether provided he would lay no claim to her later on,
he had refused with indignation. He would not be parted from his
children. But the child was delicate and wailed perpetually, and he
wanted to get rid of the house, and of all that reminded him of a past
that it was distinctly uncomfortable to recall. He put the little
yellow-haired boy to school, and, when Mrs. Courtenay repeated her
offer, he accepted it; and Di, with her bassinette and the minute
feather-stitched wardrobe that her mother had made for her packed inside
her little tin bath, drove away one day in a four-wheeler straight out
of Colonel Tempest's existence and very soon out of his memory.
His marriage had been the ruin of him, he said to himself, reviewing the
last few years. It had done for him with his brother. He had been a fool
to sacrifice so much for a pretty face, and she had not had a shilling.
He had chucked away all his chances in marrying her. He might have
married anybody; but he had never seen a woman before or since with a
turn of the neck and shoulder to equal hers. Poor Di! She had spoilt his
life, no doubt, but she had had her good points after all.
* * * * *
Poor Di! Perhaps she too had had her dark hours. Perhaps she had given
love to a man capable only of a passing passion. Perhaps she had sold
her woman's birthright for red pottage, and had borne the penalty, not
with an exceeding bitter cry, but in an exceeding bitter silence.
Perhaps she had struggled against the disillusion and desecration of
life, the despair and the self-loathing that go to make up an unhappy
marriage. Perhaps in the deepening shadows of death she had heard her
new-born child cry to her through the darkness, and had yearned over it,
and yet--and yet had been glad to go.
However these things may have been, at any rate, she had a turn of the
neck and shoulder which lived in her husband's memory. Poor Di!
* * * * *
Colonel Tempest shook himself free from a train of reflections which had
led him to a death-bed, and suddenly remembered with a shudder of
repugnance that he was on his way to another at this moment.
His brother had not sent for him. Colonel Tempest was hazarding an
unsolicited visit. He had announced his intention of coming, but he had
received no permission to do so. Nevertheless he had actually screwed
up his weak and vacillating nature to the sticking point of putting
himself and his son into the train when the morning arrived that he had
fixed on for going to Overleigh.
"For the sake of the old name, and for the sake of the boy," he said to
himself, looking at the delicate regular profile silhouetted against the
window-pane. If Archie had had a pair of wings folded underneath his
little great-coat, he would have made a perfect model for an angel, with
his fair hair and face, and the sweet serious eyes that contemplated,
without any change of expression, his choir book at chapel, or the last
grappling contortions of a cockroach, ingeniously transfixed to the
book-ledge with a pin, to relieve the monotony of the sermon.
"Overleigh! Overleigh! Overleigh!" called out a porter, as the train
stopped. Colonel Tempest started. There already! How long it was since
he had got out at that station! There was a new station-master, and the
station itself had been altered. He looked at the little red tin shelter
erected on the off-side with an alien eye. It had not been there in
_his_ time. There was no carriage to meet him, although he had mentioned
the train by which he intended to arrive. His heart sank a little as he
took Archie by the hand and set out to walk. The distance was nothing,
for the station had been made specially for the convenience of the
Tempests, and lay within a few hundred yards of the castle gates. But
the omen was a bad one. Would his mission fail?
How unchanged everything was! He seemed to remember every stone upon the
road. There was the turn up to the village, and the low tower of the
church peering through the haze of the April trees. They passed through
the old Italian gates--there was a new woman at the lodge to open
them--and entered the park. Archie drew in his breath. He had never seen
deer at large before. He supposed his uncle must keep a private
zoological gardens on a large scale, and his awe of him increased.
"Are the lions and the tigers loose too?" he inquired, with grave
interest, but without anxiety, as his eyes followed a little band of
fallow deer skimming across the turf.
"There are no lions and tigers, Archie," said his father, tightening his
clasp on the little hand. If Colonel Tempest had ever loved anything, it
was his son.
They had come to a turn in the broad white road which he knew well. He
stopped and looked. High on a rocky crag, looking out over its hanging
woods and gardens, the old grey castle stood, its long walls and solemn
towers outlined against the sky. The flag was flying.
"He is still alive," said Colonel Tempest, remembering a certain
home-coming long ago, when, as he galloped up the steep winding drive,
even as he rode, the flag dropped half-mast high before his eyes, and he
knew his father was dead.
They had reached the ascent to the castle, and Colonel Tempest turned
from the broad road, and struck into a little path that clambered
upwards towards the gardens through the hanging woods. It was a short
cut to the house. It was here he had first seen Diana, and he pondered
over the fidelity of mind which, after fourteen years, could remember
the exact spot. There was the wooden bridge over the stream where she
had stood, her white gown reflected in the water below her, the heart of
the summer woods enfolding her like the setting of a jewel. The seringa
and the laburnum were out. The air was faint with perfume. She stood
looking at him with lovely surprised eyes, in her exceeding youth and
beauty. Involuntarily his mind turned from that first meeting to the
last parting seven years later. The cold, dark, London bedroom, the
bowed figure in the low chair, the fatigued smell of tepid india-rubber.
What a gulf between the radiant young girl and the woman with the white
exhausted face! Alas! for the many parts a woman may have to play in her
time to one and the same man. Colonel Tempest laughed harshly to
himself, and his powerful mind reverted to the old refrain, "What fools
men are to marry."
It had been summer when he had seen her first, but now it was early
spring. The woods were very silent. God was making a special revelation
in their heart, was turning over one more page of His New Testament. He
had walked once again in His garden, and at the touch of His feet, all
young sheaths and spears of growing things were stirring and pressing up
to do His will. The larch had hastened to hang out his pink tassels. The
primroses had been the first among the flowers to receive the Divine
message, and were repeating it already in their own language to those
that had ears to hear it. The folded buds of the anemones had heard the
whisper _Ephphatha_, and were opening one after another their pure shy
eyes. The arched neck of the young bracken was showing among the brown
ancestors of last year. The marsh marigolds thronged the water's edge.
Every battered dyke and rocky scar was transfigured. God was once again
making all things new.
Only a mole, high on its funeral twig, held out tiny human hands, worn
with honest toil, to its Maker, in mute protest against a steel death
"that nature never made" for little agriculturists. Death was still in
the world apparently, side by side with the resurrection of the flowers.
Archie paused to glance contemptuously and shy a stick at the corpse as
he passed. It looked as if it had not afforded much sport before it
died. Colonel Tempest puffed a little, for the ascent was steep, and he
was not so slim as he had once been. He sat down on a circular wooden
seat round a yew tree by the path. He began to dislike the idea of going
on. And, perhaps, after all, he would be told by the servants that his
brother would not see him. Jack was quite capable of making himself
disagreeable to the last. Really, on the whole, perhaps the best course
would be to go down the hill again. It is always so much easier to go
down than to go up; so much pleasanter at the moment to avoid what may
be distasteful to a sensitive mind.
"Archie," said Colonel Tempest.
The boy did not hear him. He was looking intently at a little patch of
ground near the garden seat, which had evidently been carefully laid out
by a landscape-gardener of about his own age. Every hair of grass or
weed had been scratched up within the irregular wall of fir cones that
bounded the enclosure. Grey sand imported from a distance, possibly from
the brook, marked winding paths therein, in course of completion. A sunk
bucket with a squirt in it, indicated an intention, as yet unmatured, to
add a fountain to the natural beauties of the site.
"You go in this way, father," said Archie, grasping the situation with
becoming gravity, and pointing out the two oyster shells that flanked
the main entrance, "then you walk round the lake. Look; he has got a
duck ready. Oh, dear! and see, father, here is his name. I would have
done it all in white stones if it had been me. J. O. H. N. John. Father,
who is John?"
Colonel Tempest's temper was like a curate's gun. You could never tell
when it might not go off, or in what direction. It went off now with an
explosion. It had been at full cock all the morning.
"Who is John?" he repeated, fiercely kicking the letters on the ground
to right and left. "You may well ask that. John is a confounded
interloper. He has no right here. Damn John!"
Archie was following the parental boot with anxious eyes. The tin duck
was dinted in on one side, and bulged out on the other in a manner
painful to behold. It would certainly never swim again. The turn of the
squirt might come any moment. But when his father began to say damn,
Archie had always found it better not to interfere.
"Come along, Archie," said Colonel Tempest, furiously, "don't stand
fooling there," and he began to mount the path with redoubled energy.
All thought of turning back was forgotten.
Archie looked back ruefully at the devastated pleasure-grounds. The fir
cone boundary was knocked over at one corner. All privacy was lost;
anything might get in now, and the duck, if she recovered, could get
out. It was much to be regretted.
"Poor damn John," said Archie, slipping his hand into that of the
grown-up child whom he had for a father.
"Poor John!" echoed Colonel Tempest, his temper evaporating a little, "I
only wish it _were_ poor John; and not poor Archie. That was _your_
garden, Archie, do you hear, my boy--yours, not his. And you shall have
it, too, if I can get it for you."
"I don't want it now," said Archie, gravely; "you've spoilt it."