NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
As Hector Montagu drove his handsome brown mare into Willington, his
thoughts ran very little on "that stupid business of Cartwright's."
He could not help wondering to himself at the emotion into which he
had been betrayed before his mother, and the remembrance of it vexed
him. But after the mare had trotted two or three miles along the
road to Willington that memory began to fade from his mind, and
another to take its place. The picture of Diana rose before him.
What a witchery she was beginning to exercise over him! Diana, with
great eyes, a soft voice, rippling brown hair, and red lips, was as
clear in his mental vision as though she stood there before him: he
could see her face flashing with laughter or petulance, and the
honest love shining in her eyes when they rested even for a moment on
her brother. She was the incarnation of his idea of what a girl
should be--pure, modest, bright, affectionate, full of sweet sympathy
and kindliness. He was not one of the men who "went in for married
women," whom "girls bored." Compare her with Lady Gwyneth or Mrs.
Huntingdon! as well put side by side an angel with the heroine of a
bad French novel! _They_ dare to sneer at her and call her forward
and mock-modest! Involuntarily Hector gave the reins such a grip
that the mare started off with an indignant bound.
"Soho! gently, old lady: what's the matter?" he said, soothingly;
and, as she settled down again, his thoughts flew back to Diana.
_She_ ever become a fashionable woman! _She_ marry for money! _She_
be false to her husband, her pure mind come down to find immoral
plays _piquant_ and impure romances stimulating! "Never! never!" he
muttered, half aloud, in his energetic defense of her, again
forgetting the brown mare's mettle. Decidedly there must be some
very potent influence at work to rouse Hector Montagu after this
fashion. "What I would give to make that girl love me!" he cried to
himself, passionately. "If I could but win her, I would _make_ her
love me!" he told himself, with that stupid reasoning, or rather
unreasoning, which men always use at such times. He saw her bright
face about the old Court,--saw her lovable tender ways with his
mother,--saw even his father relax and soften under her dear
influence,--saw a thousand sweet things such as men picture to
themselves; nay, he even felt her soft arms about his neck; and his
heart beat and his breath came quicker. Then the sound of the
horse's hoofs on the pavement brought him back with a rude shock to
earth, and he remembered that he was in Willington, and had to see to
"that business of Cartwright's."
Hector had certain notions about women, notions that are considered
curious and old-fashioned by most of the world nowadays. He was not
particularly virtuous or moral himself: if he had been, want of
knowledge might perhaps have made his idea of what a lady ought to be
less rigid: he insisted upon the widest line of demarkation between a
virtuous woman and her frailer sisters; "there must be both," he
said, "but let it not be in the power of any human being to mistake
one for the other." He did not scruple to make his views public: so,
although he was an undeniable _parti_, there were not found many
damsels enterprising enough to aspire to the châtelaineship of Alford
Court.
"_Figure-toi, ma chère_," cried little Lady Georgy Wild to her sister
the Countess of Newmarket. "I devoted all yesterday afternoon at
Holland House to that bear Montagu; I tried to draw him out; and what
do you think he said? He had the impertinence to tell me that this
was a most unfortunate age for girls to live in; that the atmosphere
of society was frightfully unwholesome,--the _haute société_ in
particular; that if we only knew what really pleased men, and wished
for their respect, we should adopt a very different course from our
present style and behavior; _und so weiter_. What a heavenly time
the future Lady Montagu will have! She is not to go to races, nor
drive ponies in London, nor see French plays, nor read French
novels,--oh, and fifty other things. Don't you pity her, Gwen?"
"He must marry the rector's daughter and keep her shut up in the
country. From all I've heard, though, he isn't such a saint himself."
"So I told him!" laughed Georgy. "Oh, my dear! if you could only
have seen his face! I was bent on shocking him, for the fun of the
thing: so I told him that the very first place I meant to go to after
I was married was Cremorne."
"Well, and what did he say?"
"He made me a polite bow, and remarked that, with my proclivities, it
must be very _contrariant_ for me to have been born in my present
sphere."
"I think, my dear, you had rather the worst of that encounter,"
observed Lady Newmarket, dryly.
"That business of Cartwright's" brought Mr. Montagu down from the
ideal to the real, and, as he drove homewards, his thoughts took a
more practical turn. Did Diana like him?--was there any ground for
hoping that she ever would? He could not answer this at the same
time satisfactorily and truthfully. But then circumstances had been
against him. She was out for the first time, was a little dazzled by
the silly, superficial attentions of men who meant nothing (he could
not bear to think of his brother individually in connection with
Diana). When he had her to himself (as he would have if she came to
the Court, for he did not mean his mother to ask her until Charlie
was gone back to town), when he could lavish all his kindness and
care upon her undeterred by the presence of others, uninfluenced by
the feelings of jealousy that had made his manner seem cold and
severe to her,--when she saw all the desirable things at
Alford,--yes, in spite of his refusing a little while since to
believe in her being influenced by sordid views, he was not above
appreciating the aid of these auxiliary circumstances in his own
case: things would be different. Why should he not win her? he was
not repulsive; if he was stiff and severe to others, he would be
tender and gentle with her. She had few opportunities of seeing
other men; why should he not win her! As he drove under the grand
old gateway on reaching home, he told himself between his clinched
teeth that _he would_.
It has been the fate of few people to be more misunderstood than
Hector Montagu. People said he was "so like his father." He knew
they said so, and it drove him wild: moreover, it was not true. Like
in feature he certainly was; some likeness there was too in manner;
but his cold proud demeanor was caused by the workings of a shy
sensitive nature thrown back upon itself, not the haughty domineering
spirit of Sir Hector. His cynicism was in reality but skin-deep,
though the world, with its usual want of discernment, believed it of
far deeper root.
"Nay, the world, the world,
All ear and eye, with such a stupid heart
To interpret ear and eye, and such a tongue
To blare its own interpretation."
Oh, what a difference in life does that outer shell make to us which
we are constantly reminded is so perishable! A winsome face, a
pleasant trick of speech and manner, and the world's favorable
verdict is ours at once, an accepted bill payable at sight; but
lacking these happy attributes how must we struggle up-hill into its
favor! Hector's greatest misfortune was his resemblance to his
father; because he had the same features, the same voice, and
something of the same manner, he was accredited with his father's
disposition. Even his own mother did not understand him. She never
guessed how the partiality she had unconsciously shown the younger
from childhood had rankled in the elder's breast. Charlie rushed to
her arms with his bright joyous face, trampling her gown, tearing her
lace, to ask for some toy or treat only too readily accorded; whilst
Hector stood aloof, shy, proud, hurt, craving nothing but to feel his
mother's arms round him and to be quite sure she loved him, even him
also. Charlie's glib tongue could ask for sweets and kisses.
Hector, shy and yearning, waited until they were offered him, and
often waited in vain.
So he grew up, always seeing his brother preferred before him, and
always uttering in his heart an indignant protest against the
injustice dealt him. Small wonder that, child, boy, man, perpetually
feeling his birthright wrested from him, he should become bitter and
disappointed. His features lent themselves more naturally to a grave
than a gay expression; he could not even assume at will the genial
smile his father wore in society when he chose to unbend. Perhaps he
would not: he hated that lying semblance of _bonhomie_ more than Sir
Hector's direst frown. He did not fear his father: if he yielded him
the outward respect which his own sense of propriety told him was due
from son to father, he despised him in his heart. His soul revolted
against petty tyrannies exercised on the weak, against the selfish
overbearing spirit that delighted to crush every independent thought
in the breasts of those over whom he ruled. He heard his father once
flattering described as a fine specimen of the old Tory school; upon
which he reflected to himself, "I always thought my principles were
Conservative; but, if he is a fine specimen of my party, I would
rather yell with the mob and help pull down the Park railings."
Mr. Montagu had a fine scorn for meanness and time-servingness, and
poured it unsparingly on those who to his mind deserved it. He was
true, honest, straightforward; but these qualities did not atone in
the eyes of the world for his want of tact and his cold manner.
And yet there was one woman who understood and felt for and had kind
thoughts of him,--a woman, too, who was all that his stern code
required of her sex. Nay, in her gentle heart Claire Fane loved and
esteemed him as she had never, would never do another man. And he
might have been so happy with her. But Hector did not see this;
perhaps he would not.
Once his mother said to him, "Why do you not marry Claire? I should
love to have her for a daughter, and she is all even you could desire
in a wife."
Hector raised his eyebrows.
"I marry Claire? What an idea, mother! Do men ever marry the woman
they have grown up from childhood with? We look upon each other as
brother and sister. I shall never marry."
He thought so then. But now it was different.