DIANA'S STORY.
The next or, more correctly speaking, the same day, the gentlemen of
the party go out shooting, all with one exception. Captain Montagu
has not yet made his appearance: it is rumored indeed that, like a
woman of fashion, he generally takes tea and toast in his room, and
does not appear until the day has been thoroughly aired for him.
Hearing this, I ought naturally to be smitten with a supreme scorn of
my handsome ideal, but am not. I am a very staunch friend: for me
"the King can do no wrong," and whosoever may be king or friend of
mine is safe from my caviling.
Lady Gwyneth has gone with the shooting-party. She, like Mrs.
Huntingdon, "cannot stand doing needlework with a parcel of women in
a boudoir," and is so far more fortunate than the other in that she
can join in most manly sports. She copies men to the best of her
ability, since, to her infinite and constantly-expressed regret, she
has not been born one of them. This morning she wears a home-spun
Norfolk jacket over a short narrow velvet petticoat; her feet are
incased in laced boots of stoutest make, and gaiters; a wide-awake,
adorned with woodcock's feathers shot by herself, crowns her head;
and she shoulders resolutely her own light gun, disdaining to have it
carried either by keeper or friend.
She patronizes Curly more than ever this morning, to my infinite
disgust, calls him "dear boy," and pets him with what I consider
ostentatiously bad taste. I, who have heard and read that modesty,
delicacy, and womanliness are most highly commended and desired in
our sex by the other, am at some pains to reconcile the statement
with the evident popularity Lady Gwyneth enjoys with men. True, they
treat her with a _camaraderie_ which savors more of familiarity than
respect; but that they are amused in her company, and seek it, is a
fact too patent to be controverted.
At this period of my life I am not aware that a woman who is young,
rich, and well-born, who has a pleasant house and entertains
hospitably, can follow, with the world's toleration if not
admiration, her own sweet will, be it never so opposed to the rules
laid down for less fortunate mortals. But is she fortunate? I think
not. I am inexperienced in the world, and have never had any
opportunity of judging character, but I fancy I read in her constant
restlessness, in the troubled expression which now and again flits
over her face, that she is dissatisfied with and disapproves of
herself.
Luncheon is to be sent to the shooting-party at two o'clock, and it
is ordained that Miss Gore and I shall join it at a kind of
summer-house in the wood. Mrs. Warrington can make no arrangement
for herself until she has ascertained Mrs. Huntingdon's pleasure, and
that lady does not make her appearance until after the sportsmen have
started. My hostess takes me all round her conservatories and
hothouses,--a real treat, for I love flowers passionately; then she
leaves me to go and see Claire Fane, who is suffering from a severe
headache, and bids me go to her boudoir and amuse myself until she
joins me there. We part in the hall, and I bound up-stairs very much
as is my wont at home, throw open the boudoir door, and am in the
middle of the floor before the fact flashes upon me that I have
rudely broken up a _tète-à-tète_. Mrs. Huntingdon is reclining in a
low chair by the fire, and Captain Montagu, handsomer, more
fascinating than ever this morning, leans against the mantel-shelf
close beside her. She scowls; he smiles; I--need it be said?--I do
what I have hardly ceased to do since I entered the house,--blush
until the water stands in my eyes. I know not how to act; it would
surely look too pointed to go out again, as though they were
lovers,--she a married woman! So I stand where I am, and blurt out,--
"Oh, Mrs. Warrington is wanting to see you, to know whether you will
go up to the wood to lunch?"
"Thank you," she returns, icily. "Captain Montagu has promised to
drive me there in the pony-carriage. Would you kindly shut the door?"
"I--I will go and tell her," I stammer, feeling very much as though a
door had been shut in my face.
"Pray don't go away, Miss Carew," says Captain Montagu, coming
forward. "You look the very incarnation of spring. You bring in a
volume of fresh air and a scent of violets and primroses and a host
of sweet things!"
Bewildered, flattered by his pleasant words, I hesitate on the
threshold, my hand still on the handle of the door, unmindful of Mrs.
Huntingdon's imperious command. She gives a shiver, rises, pulls her
rich draperies about her, and, with a frown that reminds me of
"Great Here's angry eyes,"
sweeps past me out of the room. I feel and probably look
crestfallen, for Captain Montagu laughs lightly, and says,--
"Don't look so frightened! Looks don't kill, you know! Come in,
won't you?"
I shut the door, and go forward, as I am bidden.
"And how did you like the dance last night?" he asks, in a tone the
patronage of which I might resent from any one else.
"Very much," I say, taking off my hat and looking fixedly at it, to
prevent my eyes straying, as they long to do, to his face. "It was
the first I ever was at."
"Really!" (with languid curiosity). "Oh, then you must have enjoyed
it intensely!"
"Must I?" I say, still not looking at him. "Why?"
"Because I believe it is delightful to do anything for the first
time,--anything pleasant, at least. At all events, it can't bore
you; and being bored is the curse of most people's lives."
"Are you often bored?" I ask, looking at him with a great desire and
curiosity to know something of his real feelings.
"Very often" (smiling). "I was bored last night when you forsook me
for the cornet."
"Were you?" I say, eagerly. "So was I." And then, smitten with
shame at my youthful sincerity, I bury my face in a book of
photographs.
"It would have been so easy," says the seductive voice, which has
come a little nearer,--"so easy to say you were engaged to me."
"But it would not have been true," I answer, contemplating fixedly
the portrait of a grizzly warrior with
"An eye like Jove to threaten and command."
"But you don't mean to say" (persuasively) "that you think there
would be any harm in a little perversion of truth like that?"
"Yes, I do," I respond, stoutly. "And even if I had said it, my face
would have betrayed me. And--and he would have felt mortified. I
hate to be mortified myself. It wouldn't have been doing as you
would be done by."
Charlie Montagu languidly bestrides the chair in front of me. I feel
his laughing eyes (are they gray or blue?--I long to look, but dare
not) straying over my face as he says,--
"I was young once. They taught me all those nice moral little
sentiments; but I'm afraid I wasn't a good boy: I didn't act upon
them. Good heavens!" (with a wicked little laugh), "if people had
done to me what I've many a time done to them, I shouldn't have liked
it a bit!"
"Of course it's impossible for any of us always to do right," I say,
anxious to defend him even against himself.
"But I am always doing what is wrong," he answers (maliciously making
the worst of himself to vex me, I believe). "Somehow I seem to fall
into it naturally. Ask my brother. He would tell you I wasn't at
all fit company for such a good, well-brought-up little lady as you."
"I should not believe him," I say, with some warmth. "I do not
believe you; you only say it to tease me."
I stop, horribly ashamed of my _naïveté_. Oh, why was I suddenly let
loose from my rustic life upon society without any preparation?
"No?" he says, softly. "Would it really tease you to think I was a
miserable sinner?" And all this time he has never once taken his
eyes off me.
"I should be sorry to think anybody was a miserable sinner," I
answer, confusedly.
"Oh!" (in a disappointed tone,--probably feigned); "then you are only
a general missionary? you don't take any particular interest in me?
You would be as sorry for the footman or the gardener if they were in
a similarly unconverted state!"
"Don't laugh at me, please," I say, looking imploringly at him. "You
know I am only a little country-girl; and I do so hate to be made fun
of."
"I assure you----" he protests; but just then the door opens, and
Mrs. Huntingdon sweeps in again, equipped all in gray velvet and fur,
only wanting a pleasant expression to make her exceedingly handsome.
"Come, Charlie," she says (whereat my heart gives an indignant
throb), "get ready: the ponies will be round in five minutes."
"But it is only twelve yet" (looking at the clock), "and it is not
ten minutes' drive."
"We shall take a drive first," she returns, imperiously. "I want
some fresh air, and so must you, unless" (with an indefinable sneer)
"you have imbibed sufficient from Miss Carew."
I feel so angry, I would I had the wit to rejoin with some polished
sneer; but the world has not yet armed me with its subtle weapons, so
I look more earnestly still at the photographs.
"_Tu es ravissante, ma belle_," murmurs Captain Montagu, addressing
Mrs. Huntingdon, and I cannot but concur reluctantly in my own mind.
I have never seen so elegant-looking a woman. "But such a toilette
is worthy of something better than to-day's occupation," he resumes.
"Faugh! I know the whole horrid programme. A damp worm-eaten
summer-house, and lukewarm Irish stew out of a tin pan, and wedges of
plum-cake,--that's the invariable menu of old Warrington's
shooting-lunches. Much better take a drive and return to lunch here,
where we are sure of having something fit to eat."
I hold my breath with fear lest she should accept a proposal which
would not have cost me a moment's reflection. Mrs. Huntingdon, to my
infinite relief, shakes her head.
"I must go: I promised."
"_Raison de plus_," he laughs, going towards the door. "I did not
know a woman's promise was ever considered binding."
Mrs. Huntingdon sinks into her chair by the fire, holding to it
alternately either small and delicately-shod foot. Not one word or a
look does she condescend to fling to me, and I glance furtively at
her with a forlorn conviction of how little chance a poor untutored
rustic like myself has against her. But I recover myself when I
remember a fact that I have forgotten for the moment,--_she has a
husband_! Blessed thought! It restores peace to my mind.
Her fish has come out of the sea; she has hooked, devoured him; he
purveys her with rich garments, with much store of worldly wealth,
for which she requites him with frowns and sulks; but my fish is
still in his native ocean. I have not even baited my hook yet. I
may angle for a triton or a minnow, and catch--who knows?
They are starting; I watch them jealously from behind the curtain,
such a pair as limner might desire to paint or poet to immortalize in
love-songs. The frown has gone from her brow; nay, she smiles as she
looks up at him. Yes, she is very handsome, I tell myself
reluctantly.
The day seems dull and blank, now they are gone and the sound of
their laughing voices has died away. And this time yesterday I had
not seen him. I lean my arms on the table, resting my face between
my hands. Whence comes this blank feeling that spreads a chill over
all my being, that makes the day seem cheerless even in the noonday
sun, that makes my heart void because the sound of one voice has
ceased, that makes space vacant because one form is no longer within
my horizon? Is it love? Oh, unmaidenly, immodest thought! My very
ears tingle with the shame of it. Love for a man who has scarce
spoken half a dozen words to me, a man on whose mind I shall not cast
one faint reflection. No! no! no!--it is my ignorance of the world.
I have scarcely ever seen a man,--certainly not one like Captain
Montagu,--and my foolish eyes are dazzled. As I see more of society,
I shall not be so easily impressed. See more of society! I repeat
blankly to myself: small chance of that! And then somehow a sort of
pain comes across me, a pain I stifle quickly as ungrateful, to think
I shall go back to the old quiet life with its round of simple
pleasures and duties that have always been enough for me until now.
Miss Gore disturbs my unsatisfactory soliloquy, and we start together
for the wood. She is very bright and pleasant this morning, and
chatters away gayly. True, her conversation has mostly reference to
her soldier, but she has a sympathizing if slightly envious auditor
in me. To love, to have your love fully returned, to be able to
show, to speak of, to be proud of it! And yet, ignorant as I am in
love-lore, I think I would prefer to invest it with sacredness into
which the outer world should not intrude.
The shooting-party comes up just as we reach our destination. Lady
Gwyneth is "in great form," as Curly would say: she has slain five
pheasants to her own gun. I am sometimes called absurdly
tender-hearted; may I ever remain so! To see poor animals suffer has
always caused me intense pain. It seems to me if I were a man I
could not love or regard a woman who was callous to the suffering of
dumb creatures, far less one who would delight to cause it. But
men--at all events the men here--do not seem to be of my way of
thinking, for they flatter and congratulate Lady Gwyneth with every
appearance of sincerity. As for Curly, his admiration for her has
evidently increased fourfold. Even Colonel Fane makes her a
compliment. Why does he avoid me to-day? Have I offended him? He
does not offer to join me, nor did he take his accustomed seat next
me at breakfast this morning. I suppose he is already weary of me,
despite his protestations yesterday. No doubt it was not very
entertaining to hear my simple gossip about our humdrum life at home,
only, as a man of the world, politeness forbade him to show that he
was bored. Mr. Montagu has taken his place at my side. I am sure I
wish him anywhere else; he is repugnant to me, somehow,--I know not
why. I could give no better reason than the one assigned by the
person who immortalized the unfortunate Dr. Fell; but few reasons are
more cogent or un-get-over-able.
"You are not a sportsman, or rather sportswoman?" he says, as he
joins me.
"No, indeed," I answer.
"You say that very heartily," he rejoins, with a smile. "Your tone
almost implies a censure of sport altogether."
"Yes, I hate sport," I confess, frankly: "it always entails misery
and suffering upon something. But" (apologetically) "I suppose men
must be amused, and if they had not something to expend their
energies upon they would get very effeminate."
"But confess, now, you think us horrible barbarians for always
wanting something to torture," he says. "I don't suppose it is very
_manly_ to set dogs on a poor timid hare, or shoot pigeons out of a
trap, or even set on terriers to kill a barnful of rats; and yet do
you know several of your fair sex whom I have the honor to be
acquainted with take supreme delight in a rat-hunt, and enjoy nothing
more than to sit for a whole afternoon exquisitely dressed and watch
hundreds of poor birds cruelly maimed and torn?"
"I hate a cruel woman!" I say, vindictively. "I could not, no, I
_could not_ care for one if I were a man,--not if she were as
beautiful as----"
"As what?"
"As an angel," I return, feeling the extreme difficulty of finding a
comparison that people who make hasty and impusive remarks are wont
to do.
"An angel! I never saw one; but their style of beauty as depicted by
the limner's art has always struck me as peculiarly insipid. By the
way, I never remember to have seen a dark angel; and I do not admire
fair women. Then, according to your idea, I suppose, all women
should be tender-hearted, religious, modest, retiring,--in short,
everything that we are not?"
Is he sneering at me? and why does he look so intently at me? I wish
he would not: his eyes always embarrass me.
I laugh rather uneasily.
"It is not for me to say what women ought to be. Besides, if I set
up a standard I should be expected to act up to it: should I not?"
"And I have no doubt you would," he answers. Now of course I know he
is laughing at me: so I say, coldly,---
"I can at all events tell you what I think about sport. Sport ought
to mean equal risk on both sides: hunting lions or tigers, wild boars
or grizzly bears,--that," I say, emphatically, "must be something
like sport."
"I am afraid," he answers, laughing, "that according to your ideas
sport must remain unattainable for nine hundred and ninety-nine men
out of a thousand; but, talking about risk, I think we get a
tolerable chance of breaking our necks out hunting, and I really know
few things more perilous to life and limb than the present fashion of
_battue_-shooting."
Mr. Warrington's hearty voice here summons us to lunch, and at this
moment I see Captain Montagu and Mrs. Huntingdon coming slowly up the
glade. The sun gleams upon them through the branches of the leafless
trees, making the thick-strewn leaves of many years into a ruddy
carpet for their feet: they are in truth a goodly pair, I think,
looking at them wistfully.
"Do you know I am a thought-reader?" says the cold voice of the elder
brother beside me; and I start, feeling a positive terror of him. My
speaking countenance probably betrays me, for he turns his eyes away,
and says, lightly,--
"You were thinking what a charming toilette Mrs. Huntingdon wears.
She has perfect taste in dress."
But I know that was not what he was going to say. I feel afraid of
him. I almost dislike him.