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.