DIANA'S STORY.
My last evening is a triumphant one. Every one is kind; every one
except Lady Gwyneth and Mrs. Huntingdon tell me they are sorry I am
going; but I hear Lady Gwyn, to whom Curly is paying devoted
attention, deploring his leaving Warrington, and making him promise
(which he does eagerly) to go and stay with her at the Castle. Our
kind host and hostess press us to remain, but I feel, and I think
Curly does, that papa will be expecting us and might be disappointed.
Half my pleasure is over. I have had one delicious waltz, and
forgotten all about the little speech that vexed me. I have danced
with kind Colonel Fane, who has been kinder than ever, and with Mr.
Montagu, who has struggled very hard to keep down his displeasure and
to be genial, and with nearly every one but Lord Rexborough. For one
moment I am alone, and he takes the opportunity to come and stretch
his huge bulk on the sofa beside me.
"Won't you make it up?" he says, putting his face close to mine with
his most satyrish look. "This is your last chance, you know."
"I do not know of anything to make up," I reply, stiffly.
"Oh, yes, you do," he retorts. "You were deuced angry because I
warned you about Master Charlie. You'd much better have spent your
pleasant looks and smiles on the other brother, or on me for the
matter of that" (with a laugh). "I've sworn not to marry; but I
don't at all know, if you were to look at me like you do at Charlie,
that I shouldn't be capable of breaking my vow. Here he
comes,--confound the fellow! always in my way. I say, Charlie, just
you leave us together for a minute, will you?--we're making our
peace."
But Captain Montagu reads the entreaty in my face too well to comply.
"My time is so short, I am not going to give up a minute of it," he
says, laughing. "Why haven't you done it before? It's too late now.
_L'occasion perdu ne revient jamais_."
"What a selfish dog you are! Why don't you stick to the marines and
leave the ingénues alone?"
"I hear music. Come, Miss Carew." And in another minute we are
floating down the ball-room. I shall never forget that waltz. It is
over, and he leads me away into the conservatory, and seats me on the
couch from which I once fled in such hot haste from Lord Rexborough.
"And you are really going to-morrow!" he says, regretfully, turning
his blue eyes upon me.
"Really," I say, regretfully too.
"So am I, for the matter of that," he continues, "and we are both
going home. Your father will be glad to see you. Wall, I can't
flatter myself that the sight of me will awaken much joy in the
paternal breast. I'm the prodigal who has returned once too often.
They've given up killing the fatted calf for me,--which, on the
whole," he adds, laughing, "I don't regret; for I hate veal."
"And shall you be long at home?" I ask, with a vague sense that it
will be pleasant to think he is still in the same county.
"Only for a day or two; and then I return to those arduous duties
about which I once told you. But I shall be down again before long.
How should you greet me if I walked suddenly in upon you one day?"
My heart beats faster, my eyes glisten, but I say nothing, for I
remember our homely manner of life, and think how uncongenial it
would seem to this fine gentleman.
"You do not wish me to come?" he says, softly.
"You would not care to," I answer. "And in a week--in less, I dare
say--you will have forgotten you ever met such a humble personage as
I."
"No, I shall not," he whispers, taking my hand and holding it so
gently that I am fain to leave it there. "I shall never forget you."
It seems like a dream. I half close my eyes with a dread of awaking
from so much happiness.
"Darling!" he whispers, and his lips touch mine. I start away, and
stand angrily against the trellis-work: the spell is broken.
"How could you?" I say, reproachfully, feeling dreadfully hurt and
ashamed.
"Don't be angry!" he entreats. "I could not help it: I am awfully
sorry,--no, that is not true," he says, with a little smile, "but I
will not offend again."
So we go back to the dancing-room, where every one is saying
good-night, and I go up-stairs with light feet but a heavy heart I am
going away to-morrow,--to-day, even: in fifteen hours I shall have
turned my back on all these new-found delights, and nine of those
must be given to dull sleep or duller waking. A tinge of bitterness
flavors the cup that would otherwise be so sweet. Does he think
lightly of me, and have I given him cause? Is it not some want of
maidenly modesty that even now sends a thrill of joy to my heart at
the remembrance of the touch of his lips? Red shame dyes my face, my
neck, glows even to my finger-tips. Oh, if that one sweet moment
should have lost me his esteem!
The next morning is wet. No one goes out, and I am asked to sing.
Captain Montagu has not had an opportunity of speaking to me this
morning even had he wished it. I do not know if he does. His
brother has scarcely left me for a moment, and _he_,--he has been
talking to Mrs. Huntingdon, who for once has come down to breakfast.
I feel the keenest pangs of jealousy. I try hard not to let my eyes
glance in their direction, but in spite of me they will. His smile,
which seems so unutterably sweet when it falls on me,--I hate it now
it is bent on another woman. What can he be saying to her?--her dark
brows are unbent and wide with smiles; she looks up in his face with
that expression which made me wonder once how her husband could bear
it. Involuntarily I look round for him. I wish he would see and
resent it, but he is there in full sight of her, discoursing most
cheerfully to Lady Gwyneth. I feel a contempt for him in my secret
heart. But I am going to sing now: it is my one weapon against all
hers,--against her handsome face, her exquisite apparel, her jewels,
and those other charms unknown to me which seem to harass the souls
of men. I am not nervous now: I throw all my heart--that foolish
heart which will have no more use after to-day--into my voice. She
talks on loudly. He makes a little sign of hush, but her eyes flash
angrily and she talks louder still. Then, oh, triumph! he moves
softly away and ensconces himself in a low arm-chair with closed eyes
and listens. And I sing on to him,--yes, to him, though it may be
his brother who thanks and praises me, or Colonel Fane, or Sir
George, or Mr. Warrington. And when I have sung my last and my best,
he uncloses those long-fringed lids that I have seen all the time,
though I seemed not to look, and comes towards me.
"Miss Carew," he says, in the pleasant languid tone which he
particularly affects, and which I believe provokes men (that is, the
men who are jealous of him) and pleases women, "what an inestimable
treasure you will be to some one! Only I hope you won't be like most
women and give up singing when you marry."
"I don't know what I may do," I answer, "when anything so improbable
occurs."
"Improbable!" echoes his brother, on the other side. "Pray, Miss
Carew, do you contemplate taking the veil?"
"I might as well," I answer, laughing: "when I am at home, my life is
something like a nun's."
"We'll come over and invade the sanctuary; won't we, Hector?" but the
latter only frowns. "I believe we are only about fifteen miles from
you," pursues Captain Montagu, "and tradition says that your family
and ours were bosom friends once."
"Ah," I reply, coloring, "but it was different then. We----" but
here I stop.
"As soon as I get to London," says Captain Montagu, adroitly changing
the conversation, "I am going to send you some lovely songs by Gounod
and Sullivan, and then if ever I do have the bliss of meeting you
again, and" (laughing) "you have not given up your music. I hope I
shall have the extreme gratification of hearing you sing them."
Our visit is over: we have gone through all the cordial
hand-shakings, and kind regrets, and hopes for future meetings. I
have wished all good-by but one. Where is he? My heart sinks with
bitter disappointment: we are on the eve of starting,--when a voice
cries, "Stop!" and Captain Montagu appears beside me at the window
with a lovely bouquet.
"I asked permission first, and then I robbed the greenhouses," he
says, putting it in my hand: "it is a little foreign custom which I
always took to, sending off your friends with a floral souvenir.
Good-by, Curly: I shall see lots of you this summer at Windsor.
Adieu, belle déesse--au revoir, I hope." And he presses my hand
softly, takes off his hat, and we are rolling down the avenue.
"Oh, Di!" says Curly, regretfully, "what an awfully jolly time we
have had! Aren't you dreadfully sorry it is all over?"
But just at the moment I am triumphantly happy; this little episode
of the flowers has turned my mourning into joy.
"It has been delightful," I answer; "but we are going to see papa;
how glad he will be to see us! and Gay,--I dare say what a state of
fuss and expectation she is in at this very moment. It will be very
nice telling them all about it."
"Yes," Curly assents, but he is looking out of the window rather
blankly. Presently he turns his face to me again: it has lost its
usual joyous expression, and wears a shade of mortification.
"Isn't it an awful bore to be poor, Di!" he says, despondingly.
"Perhaps it is, dear boy," I assent, consolingly. "But you know"
(with secret conviction) "it does not strike me that all these people
we have just left are so particularly happy, and yet I suppose they
have everything that money can command. I don't believe they enjoyed
themselves half so much as we did. Captain Montagu" (turning a
little aside) "told me he was dreadfully bored nearly always."
"Oh, that was his humbug! all those fellows talk in that way. But
what I feel is, you know, it's awfully nice getting asked out, and
every one being so kind and good-natured, but--but, Di" (coloring a
little), "one feels so shabby at not being able to return it."
"Yes, I know, dear," I respond; "but" (putting my arm round his neck)
"I don't think you need feel like that. Why, if we were ever so
rich, what could we give them more than they are used to have every
day of their lives? but you amuse them and make them laugh, and they
like to see your bright cheery face; so I consider you make them an
ample return, and I am sure they are quite satisfied with that, and
would be sorry perhaps if you could make them any other."
"I think our visit was a success. We both got on capitally; didn't
we?" he remarks, with returning complacency. "Really, Di, you looked
uncommon well; you did, now, indeed. All the fellows liked you. I
wish you hadn't snubbed Rexborough so; he's a thundering good fellow,
really."
"Is he?" I respond, dryly. "Well, his thunder is as terrible to me
as Jove's might have been to the ancients; but it does not follow,
dear boy, that we are always to like the same people: indeed, it
isn't natural we should. But you may be sure I shall not quarrel
with any one for liking you," I add, putting my hand on his crisp
gold curls in quite a maternal way. I do feel very motherly towards
him, though there is only two years' difference between us. We are
drawing near home.
"Curly," I say, with some diffidence,--"don't mind my saying it,--of
course I know you won't, but, dear, I should not like you to hint
anything before papa about our not being able to make people any
return."
"Why, of course not, Di. As if I should! You need not be afraid of
my saying anything to hurt the dear old Dad. There he is. Hurrah!"
(waving his hat frantically out of the window).
Yes, there he stands waiting for us on the doorstep, looking so glad,
and there behind him at a respectful distance are fluttering
cap-ribbons, which I know adorn the person of none other than Mrs.
Susannah Gay. A minute later, and I have flung myself round papa's
neck like a young whirlwind, with an odd swelling in my throat and
foolish but happy tears brimming in my eyes. What a goose I must be!
And then I turn to Gay, radiant and red from Curly's embrace. The
pug is nearly tearing me to pieces with excitement, cook in the
distance bobs respectful curtsies, the girl stands with wide grins of
welcome, holding Othello and Desdemona under each arm. It is a
homely home-coming, but I think it would have given us less pleasure
to walk through the old hall if it had been lined with obsequious
retainers. There is such a fire in the morning room, such a cake,
such hot buttered toast, and "the kettle came to the bile just as the
carriage turned into the avenue," says Gay. And while she busies
herself with the teapot, Curly and I breathlessly recite our tales of
splendor and delight, and papa beams with smiles, and looks happier,
I think, than I have ever seen him.
"And we shall be losing Di soon, Dad!" rattles Curly; "I can tell
you, she's taken all the fellows by storm, and there'll be duels and
rumors of duels, and somebody carrying her off one of these fine days
under our very noses."
"Curly, you goose, hold your tongue!" I cry. "Ah, papa, he is afraid
of my having the first word. You have no idea what a young Admirable
Crichton this boy is, and what a fuss all the lovely ladies make
about him!"
"At any rate," says our father, smiling, "you both seem to have
enjoyed your visit."
Gay, having poured out the tea, modestly makes a show of retiring,
but is not allowed. She is one of the family, and we have no secrets
from her. But she is always very shy and respectful in papa's
presence, and only looks the "Law's! Well, I never's! Dear bless my
heart's!" with which she notes and commentates our stories in
private. We spend a delightful evening in the recital of all our
fine doings, and somehow I forget to make any disparaging contrasts
between our own shabbiness and the luxury from which we have just
come. Ah! there is something about home, when it is a happy one,
with which the stateliest palace in the world cannot compete.
But next morning, when all our tales are told, when we have visited
our pets and all our usual haunts, when papa and Curly have gone off
with their guns, I am conscious of a certain sensation of blankness
and void that I have never known before: it is the reaction, I
suppose. A sort of despair creeps into my heart as I stand looking
at the flowers he gave me. This time yesterday I was singing to him,
and now perhaps I shall never see him again. I dare say he has
already forgotten me.
The flowers grow blurred and dim; their delicate hues are merged
mistily in each other for a moment, and then two great tears roll
down my cheeks. Alas! I have eaten of the fruit of the tree of
knowledge. When I knew of nothing different, I was blithe and happy
in my home. "Oh, why, why should I have had this glimpse of
Paradise," I cry, passionately, to myself, "if it is only to make me
discontented with what sufficed me well enough before?" For, looking
back, it all seems to me like Paradise.