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!"