DIANA'S STORY.
I find it a very unwelcome exchange when, an hour or so later, the
party being all assembled at five o'clock tea, I have to listen to
and answer his elder brother. He came up to me as soon as I entered
the room, looking half displeased and yet as though he were trying to
conquer the feeling.
"Well, did you have a very delightful walk?" he asks, in that cold,
rather sneering voice which always chills me.
"Yes," I reply, stoutly, "it was very pleasant. The sun was quite
warm. We sat on a stile for a long time."
"Indeed!" (knitting his brows with evident displeasure), "A
delightful occupation for a January afternoon!"
"It was quite warm," I answer, a little maliciously (what right has
he to question my actions?), "and we were talking."
"Conversations at second-hand are not generally amusing," he says, in
his most objectionable tone, "but might I be privileged to ask what
was the subject of a discourse so enchaining as to make you oblivious
of cold?"
"Your brother was talking to me about London and describing his life
there."
"Really?" (raising his eyebrows about half an inch): "that must have
been a very improving conversation for you!"
"It was very improving for me, I can tell you," breaks in the voice
of his brother, who has been standing a little way off with his back
to us, and now turns round. "Miss Carew thinks me a shocking bad
fellow, and has taken my conversion in hand. She began this
afternoon."
Oh that the earth would open and swallow me! I feel as if I should
like never to see or speak to him again.
"Miss Carew seems to think she has a general vocation for remodeling
society," sneers Lady Gwyneth.
"Oh, Lady Gwyn!" cries Curly, flushing a little, "you mustn't be down
on Di, please. You know she has never been out before."
Poor dear fellow! he meant to champion me, but of the two I think
Lady Gwyneth's speech was the less crushing. I bury my face in a
book, utterly, thoroughly discomfited. Mr. Montagu is evidently
sorry for me, and tries to say something encouraging; but I do not
even reply.
At this juncture Lord Rexborough is announced. I look up, prepared
to adore the man who has diverted attention from me. His big frame
looms in the doorway. Now he is the centre of a group over which he
towers by a head. No! I am grateful to him, but I shall not like
him! Mr. Montagu goes forward, so I am at leisure to contemplate the
new arrival. His hair and beard are coal-black (I have a rooted
dislike to very dark men); his face is bronzed, the features large
and coarse, particularly the mouth, which protrudes from under the
heavy moustache. I suppose he is at his best now, responding
cordially to cordial greetings, but his smile, to my mind, is
anything but pleasant,--it is bold and familiar.--and his voice is
loud, his manner boisterous.
"I see the new-comer has not displaced yesterday's arrival!" whispers
Colonel Fane, who has come up to me.
"I hope no one will ever ask me out again," I retort, pettishly;
"everything I say is wrong, and when I am silent, people seem to know
what I am thinking about. It is very evident I am not fit for
society, and it will be a good thing when I am back with my pigs and
chickens."
He looks at me in some surprise.
"Now I know what you are thinking," I say, laughing in spite of
myself. "You had no idea I had such a temper."
"It is quite right to have a spirit," he answers, "and you have been
bullied shamefully. Please forgive me my share."
"I forgive you," I say, and then, reddening a little, "I cannot help
thinking you have something to forgive me too."
"I?" he rejoins, looking surprised. "I?"
"I thought," I murmur, a good deal confused, "you were a little
offended at supper last night. I--I gave you so much trouble, and
you went away and did not speak to me again, and you have not spoken
to me all to-day."
He laughs.
"I have been doing penance in keeping away," he says. "I have a
great mind to tell you why."
"Oh, do!" I cry, eagerly.
"Do you promise not to betray me?" he whispers, looking round
cautiously.
"Yes, faithfully."
"Mrs. Warrington told me I had monopolized you too much, and that I
might be standing in your light."
"How?" I ask, and yet with an uneasy suspicion of what he means.
"As I told you, Hector Montagu is the heir to a fine property, and
Mrs. Warrington, who, like all good women, is a matchmaker, has
selected you for him, or, I should say him for you."
My breath comes quickly, and I answer, in an eager whisper,--
"I do not like him; I quite dislike him; and please don't believe I
am so conceited as to fancy he thinks anything of me, but promise me,
oh, do promise me, Colonel Fane, that if ever you see him talking to
me you will come up and join in the conversation."
"And the same with his brother?" asks Colonel Fane, with a slight
smile.
I hang my head, and he continues:
"Do you know Hector Montagu is really a good fellow at heart? it is
only his look and manner that are against him and that really belie
him. He is worth a dozen of Charlie."
My heart gives an indignant throb.
"I dare say," I answer, coldly. "I know so little of either."
There is a moment's pause, and then Colonel Fane says, a little
nervously,--
"I am going to say something to you that I know you won't thank me
for. Charlie Montagu is fascinating, and women are very apt to fall
in love with him. I think him a very nice fellow; he has a charming
manner, in spite of that affectation of languor and effeminacy; but"
(looking keenly at me) "he is almost the last man I should like to
see a sister of mine give her affections to, unless she had a
fortune."
Before I can make any answer, he has left me, and is talking to Mrs.
Warrington. He is right. I do not thank him for what he has
said,--all the more, perhaps, because dimly, remotely in my heart I
know he is right. But what then? Captain Montagu is not likely to
bestow a thought on me, and I (and I sigh), I, when I no longer see
him shall forget him. "I will forget him," I say, resolutely, as I
rise to go to my room. Captain Montagu, seeing my movement, moves to
the door to open it for me. I intend to pass through without even
looking at him, but he lingers a moment before turning the handle,
and says, in his most caressing tone,--
"Don't be angry with me." I look up, irresistibly fascinated, and
smile. Woe is me! that look scatters to the wind all the resolves
Colonel Fane's words have sown in my bosom. Light is my heart and
swift my feet as I ascend the stairs to my room, where I fling myself
into a low chair, smiling happy smiles at the bare recollection of
his look and words. Oh, women who have grown old! who have lived and
loved and suffered! do you, I wonder, lose all memory of that ardent
spring-time when a look, a voice, could translate you into a seventh
heaven? I am still dreaming when, after a vigorous rap, Curly puts
his head in.
"Oh, Di!" he says, enthusiastically, "isn't it awfully jolly being
here? I never enjoyed myself so much in my life before. I wish it
could last forever: don't you?"
"I don't think I should mind," I return, "if we had papa and Gay and
all the animals here. Poor papa! how dull he must be without us!"
"Yes, the Dad, of course. But I say, Di," (regretfully), "isn't it
an awful bore being poor? Only fancy if we could have swell parties
and ask everybody to our place and put 'em up and entertain them in
this sort of way, wouldn't it be fine?"
"Yes," I respond, heartily, "it would. But you know, dear boy," I
add, with a qualm of conscience, "it's no use repining about what
can't be helped; and we have a great deal to be thankful for. And
after all," I continue, thinking of Mrs. Warrington's guests in
general and one in particular, "these people who are accustomed to so
much society don't seem very contented, and things don't amuse them
like they do you and me."
"Bosh!" retorts Curly: "that's only because it's the fashion for
people to seem bored with everything. You should have seen Lady Gwyn
to-day--why, she was as keen and pleased as I was."
"Oh," I remark, dryly, "it has got to 'Lady Gwyn' and 'dear boy' now,
has it?" Whereat Curly blushes furiously.
"Well," he says, defiantly, "you seem to be amusing yourself too: you
walked off very coolly with Captain Montagu after lunch to-day."
It is my turn to blush now.
"If I had not gone with him, I should have had the pleasure of
walking home alone."
"He's an awfully nice fellow, but Lady Gwyneth says you are only
wasting your time with him; he's a detrimental, and, besides, he
wants a woman with money. She said I was to be sure and not let you
fall in love with him, which she could see you were beginning to."
I am too wroth for speech. I cross the room and adjust something on
the toilet-table, and Curly, unaware of my feelings, continues his
oration.
"By jingo, Di! I wish you could catch the other one! he isn't half a
bad fellow, though he don't look so nice as Charlie. He was awfully
civil to me to-day, and said something about his mother going over to
call on you when you get back. I say, only fancy you being My Lady
with twelve thousand a year!"
I am still contending with my indignation, and Curly rattles on:
"It's awful hard lines: if a fellow hasn't got money he has to work
for or wait for it, and here a girl has only to be pretty and liked,
and plump she drops into any quantity of thousands a year."
"Oh!" I say, with some bitterness; "then you only look upon your
sister as a marketable object, and don't think her inclinations are
to be consulted."
"Oh, that's all stuff. Lady Gwyneth says----"
"Now, Curly," I cry, within an ace of losing my temper, "please not
to tell me any more of Lady Gwyn's delightful theories. Her practice
is quite enough warning for me. And as for Hector Montagu" (raising
my voice), "I would not have him if he had twenty-four or forty-eight
thousand a year, or--or double that sum," I say, not being, as I have
before hinted, very good at arithmetic, and unable at a moment's
notice to calculate what double forty-eight amounts to. "Besides"
(calming down), "it is about as likely he will ask me as that" (I
pause, as usual, for a simile)----
"As that plum-puddings will grow on a gooseberry-bush," says Curly,
kindly coming to my rescue. "But a truce to marrying and giving in
marriage," he continues, declamatorily. "Know, O Diana, that the
festivities of the evening are to comprise a dance, and that----"
"A dance!" I cry, rapturously, as the thought of dancing with _him_
(he surely will ask me) flashes across my brain. "Oh, Curly!"
"Quite true, O goddess! Lady Gwyneth's doing: perhaps for once"
(with slight sarcasm) "she will have done what seemeth good in your
eyes."
"It seemeth very good," I answer, laughing, and shutting the door
upon him previous to commencing my toilette. Never before have I
been so anxious about my personal appearance, never so diffident.
How shall I look my best? A sudden inspiration comes to me: I will
wear white, spotless white, all white, unrelieved by the smallest
dash of color. When I am thus equipped, I present myself to the eyes
of my brother, who is in the agonies of parting his hair down the
middle. He sees my reflection in the glass, and turns sharply round.
"I say!" he exclaims, as he contemplates me with deliberation,
"you've done it this time! By jingo! you only want the parson and
the right man, and a what-you-may-call-it over your head, a veil, and
you might be married off the reel. I say, Di" (coming nearer, while
his face widens into a smile of satisfaction), "you'll take the shine
out of some of 'em to-night."
His words are homely, but a compliment turned by Lord Chesterfield
and delivered by Sir Charles Grandison would give me less pleasure.
One may always rely on the sincerity at least of a brother's
compliment.
Mr. Montagu takes me in to dinner. To-night two daughters of a
neighboring baronet are dining,--pretty, stylish-looking girls.
Captain Montagu takes one of them, Colonel Fane the other. My
neighbor does his best to be agreeable to me: he has dropped his
sarcastic tone, and tries to draw me out about my home life; but,
though I could gossip so volubly about it to Colonel Fane, the
confidences Mr. Montagu invites will not flow, but are strangled into
monosyllabic replies to his questions. He might listen with a
polite, even kind, show of interest, but somehow I do not feel that
he would care to hear the insignificant details of our humdrum life,
would not care to know about the accomplishments and abilities of my
four-footed friends, nor the vicissitudes of their lives, nor the
homely sayings and doings of Gay. Least of all do I feel inclined to
talk to him about papa. In his presence I seem weighed down by a
crushing sense of inferiority: nothing surprises me more than that he
should seek my society or care to talk to me: to save my life I don't
think I could originate a remark.
There has been a pause of a few minutes, when he turns rather
suddenly towards me, and says, in a low voice,--
"What is there in me that repels you so intensely?"
Taken thus at unawares, I am covered with confusion, and have not the
presence of mind to utter even a faint denegation. He hardly waits
for it, but goes on:
"I admire that exceeding honesty and truthfulness in you that at this
very moment forbids you to utter a civil falsehood, as ninety-nine
out of a hundred of your sex would do. I am afraid I am rather a
disagreeable sort of fellow, at least I seem so; but if I only knew
how to conquer that sort of--of repugnance (but I hope that is too
harsh a name) I inspire in you, believe me I would make a very great
effort."
I am quite touched by his tone. Is it possible that so insignificant
a person as myself can have given pain to this apparently hard,
callous man of the world?
"Indeed----" I begin, hastily.
"You need not attempt a disclaimer," he says, gently. "I watched you
all through dinner last night, when Fane sat next you: you were
bright and laughing the whole time; he did not do all the talking, as
I am doing to-night. If you could only see the difference in your
face,--yesterday so gay and animated, to-night" (with a forced smile)
"so dull and dejected."
I feel a little indignant at this open criticism.
"If you like the truth, then," I say, bridling up, "I am afraid of
you. I have never been in society, I have been shut up in the
country all my life: if I talked to you about my dogs and cats, my
pigs and chickens, how you would sneer at me! If I say nothing, you
can at the most think me stupid."
He laughs, quite a genial laugh.
"At all events, I have roused you into saying something," he says;
then, lowering his voice, "and if you think I do not take an interest
in homely country pursuits, that is because my face is always, unlike
yours, expressing what I do not think. Now, there is my brother," he
goes on, bitterly: "the moment he enters a room, every one says,
'What a charming fellow!' just because he had the luck to be born
with a pleasing expression, and I always get credit for exactly the
reverse. It's all humbug the face being an index to the mind. I
have the bad luck to take after my father,--only in feature, though,
I trust," he adds, devoutly, "and Charlie resembles my mother's
family."
Sir Hector cannot be a very nice old gentleman, I reflect if both his
sons speak so undutifully of him.
"I should like you to know my mother," continues Mr. Montagu, warmly.
"You would love her, and she you, I know,--she is so sweet and good
and gentle, and, poor soul! she leads such a life with my father. By
Heaven!" (with suppressed fire), "if I thought I should ever treat a
woman like that, I think I would hang myself before I got the chance."
"Or not marry at all," I suggest, slyly.
"Ah!" he replies, gloomily, "I see you think a woman wouldn't have
much of a time with me. But you are wrong," he goes on, bending
towards me, and speaking eagerly: "if a woman loved me you don't know
how good I would be to her,--you don't know----"
I am destined not to know, for at this moment the ladies rise to
retire. Part of the ball-room has been screened off for our
Terpsichorean rites to-night, and a priestess, in the shape of a lady
who plays the piano, has been convened from the neighboring town. I
am tremulous with excitement: will he ask me? No, Mrs. Huntingdon is
on his arm, and I am fain to accept Sir George (I don't yet know his
surname), who invites me. My envious eyes scan the splendid pair as
they glide down the room. My partner is evidently as ill pleased to
watch them as I am; we do not say very much to each other. I walk
through a quadrille with Colonel Fane. Then comes another waltz. My
heart beats faster than ever: will he ask me now? No! he is inviting
the girl he took in to dinner, and his brother is my partner. The
waltz is to be followed by a galop. Mrs. Warrington brings up Lord
Rexborough and introduces him to me, and I am obliged to accept his
invitation to dance. No sooner have I done so than Captain Montagu
approaches.
"Miss Carew, I have been impatiently awaiting this blissful
opportunity: this dance must be ours."
"Too late, my boy!" says my lord, laying a heavy hand on the other's
shoulder. "Gad, Charlie!" (with his coarse laugh), "it isn't often
one gets a pull over you."
"Don't have anything to do with him, Miss Carew!" laughs the other,
gayly linking his arm in Lord Rexborough's. In my prejudiced eyes
they look like the Archangel Michael and Apollyon, only that I never
saw the two depicted on such friendly terms. "He's a mighty hunter,
and all that sort of thing,--
"'A terror to the Umbrian, a terror to the Gaul,'
but he isn't a bit of good at dancing. He'll probably tear that
pretty gown of yours to ribbons, tread on your toes and lame you for
life, or bring you to unutterable grief of some kind or other."
"He only wants to make you appreciate me all the more when you see
what I can do," says my lord, with a look which, if intended to
fascinate me, has precisely the opposite effect. "You had better go
and do your duty by the lovely H., Master Charlie. I see her looking
daggers this way."
I cast an appealing glance at Captain Montagu: not only do I want to
dance with him, but I most emphatically do not want to dance with the
other.
He responds to my look, and, drawing Lord Rexborough a little aside,
whispers something to him which escapes my ear. Not so the answer.
"Exception proves the rule. I like the look of this filly,
clean-limbed and thorough-bred. You can have the next turn."
In my disgust, I feel inclined to turn and flee, but something
stronger chains me to my seat and makes me try to look as if I had
not heard.
"This fellow is quite impracticable," says Captain Montagu, turning
to me, "and perhaps" (bending down and smiling) "I ought to give him
a chance. You know what I told you this afternoon."
"Come, get out, Charlie!" observes my lord, with his charming,
polished manner: "you always were a most infernal poacher, and Miss
Carew is mine, for the next fifteen minutes at all events."
"Keep the next waltz for me," whispers Captain Montagu, going.
"Don't you waste your time on him!" says my partner, facetiously:
"he's no good to girls on their promotion. Wait till you've got a
husband with money, and then you can take a turn at Charlie, like all
the other pretty married women."
I am glad for once that my face is expressive. I do not attempt this
time to control the disgust and disapprobation his remark calls up on
it. Lord Rexborough evidently sees and enjoys it.
"Haw haw!" he laughs. "I suppose I've put my foot in it. Fact is, I
hardly ever talk to a girl, and hang me if I know what to say to
them!"
Mercifully, the music begins. I say mercifully; but whether of the
two is less disgusting--to be stared at by his bold eyes and talked
to in a style such as I should imagine a commercial traveler might
adopt to a bar-maid, or to be encircled by his odious arm with his
hot breath streaming on my neck, I am somewhat at a loss to
pronounce. He does not dance badly, and he is pleased to compliment
me, in his delicate, subtle manner, on my performance.
"By George! we must have another!" he says, when it is over. "I know
it's no use asking for Charlie's waltz, eh?" (looking down in my face
with his most satanic look) "I saw how you frowned when I insisted on
my rights, by George I did, but I like to see a pretty woman
frown--hanged if I don't! I like a horse and a woman with a spirit:
shows they've got go in 'em. Let's take a turn in the conservatory,
eh?"
"I had rather not, thank you," I reply, stiffly.
"Do you good, a little fresh air," he rejoins. "I'll bring you back
in time for Charlie." And he continues his march towards the door,
with my hand cramped like a vice between his arm and side, so that
without positively stopping and struggling I could not get away from
him. That would be ignominious: so I yield, solacing my indignant
heart with the thought that no human power shall make me dance with
him again.
"Rattling good place to spoon!" he says, when we have arrived there.
"Come and sit down!" (pointing to a lounge at the farther end).
"No, thank you," I answer, curtly.
"Nonsense! you can't catch cold: hot-water pipes all round. I'll
send for a shawl, if you like. I want to talk to you."
"I can talk quite as well standing," I say, coldly.
"No, you can't,--it's so unsociable; and I'm awfully tired,--been
traveling all day."
Without being downright rude and running the risk of offending Mrs.
Warrington through her guest, I cannot well refuse: so reluctantly I
seat myself, and he brings down his ponderous frame so close to me
that he sits half on my dress. He evidently enjoys my embarrassment,
and leans towards me so near that I feel his breath upon my face.
"Now," he says, gloating upon me with his hateful dark eyes, "I am
going to give you a little advice about Charlie Montagu."
"I think you are rather premature," I remark, flashing an indignant
look upon him.
"Hot a bit," he answers, composedly. "I'm uncommon quick at jumping
at conclusions. I saw the young gentleman open the door for you just
after I came, and how you looked up at him. I watched you when the
dancing began, and he asked Mrs. Huntingdon, and then the other,
and----"
But, before he can proceed any further, I have wrenched my skirts
from him and fled. In my hot haste I run into the arms of some one:
it is Captain Montagu.
"Why, Miss Carew!" he utters in his laughing voice; "where are you
rushing to like a small whirlwind? Do you know you all but knocked
me down?" Then, as he sees my agitation, he draws my hand gently
through his arm.
I hear a heavy footstep in the distance.
"Oh, come away," I whisper, excitedly; "please come away."
He complies with my request, and takes me across the hall into Mr.
Warrington's room, which is empty and lighted only by a single lamp.
Without a word he leads me gently to a sofa. I am ashamed to
chronicle such incredible foolishness, but I actually begin to cry.
"What is it?" says Captain Montagu, soothingly stroking my hand as
one might a child's in trouble. "What has that brute Rexborough been
doing or saying to you?"
"Nothing," I say, making a great effort to recover myself.
"But you would not be so distressed if it were nothing, you would not
have been flying away as I found you. Tell me" (caressingly), "and I
will go to him and----"
"Not for the world!" I cry, apprehensively. "Do not, please do not
mention my name to him!" I repeat, in an agony lest the wretch should
tell him what was the source of his offense; "but I dislike him, I
cannot bear him. I hope he will never speak to me again."
"He shall not," says Captain Montagu, very softly; and my mourning is
turned into joy as I look up with courage regained, and see his
handsome face stooped tenderly towards me. He still holds my hand,
and blushingly I re-take possession of it, saying,--
"The waltz will be nearly over."
"Then you will give me the next as well, will not you?" he says,
caressingly.
When, an hour later, the party breaks up, I chronicle this evening as
the happiest of my life. I have forgotten that such a person as Lord
Rexborough exists, until Curly, coming in, says,--
"What a splendid fellow Lord Rexborough is!"
"Splendid!" I echo, with wide-open eyes.
"He has been telling us all about his tiger-hunts; and he was so
awfully kind to me, and has asked me to go and breakfast with him at
Windsor some day."
I sigh, but say nothing. Curly with such friends as Lady Gwyneth and
Lord Rexborough!
"What do you look so glum for, Di?"
"Nothing, dear boy," I answer, not wanting to spoil his pleasure by
moralizing. "I am sleepy. Good-night."
We kiss and part, and I fall to wondering whether is better, our own
homely healthy life, or that world's life into which we are just
getting initiated.