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.