NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
Two days passed. Hector felt strangely irritable and
unsettled,--Hector, who was usually so cold and quiet, never in a
hurry about anything. He longed for his brother to go; he could do
nothing towards seeing Diana again until Charlie was out of the way:
though he would not acknowledge it to himself, he was bitterly
jealous of him.
On the evening of the second day Mr. Montagu had an inspiration. He
would drive over the next day and bring Curly back to Alford for a
day's hunting; he did not care much for boys as a rule, but this one
seemed a nice sort of lad, and he could talk to him about his sister,
and then of course he should see Diana when he drove over. He would
ask his father about it next morning at breakfast, and be off before
Charlie was down. Sir Hector always chose to be asked if any one
might be invited, or took good care to show the guest that he had not
come by his invitation.
The baronet was in anything but an amiable humor in the morning: the
post had brought him rather an impertinent letter from a tenant, with
whom, however, he did not care to quarrel.
Remarkable to relate, cool, collected Hector was a little nervous.
"I'm going over to call on the Carews this morning, sir," he said, as
he came in (having conned his words all the time he was dressing, and
trying to assume an off-hand manner which was not natural to him, and
therefore enough in itself to excite suspicion). "I suppose you have
no objection to my bringing the boy back with me?"
"Hey! what?" cried Sir Hector, snappishly, bending his brows; "what
do you want with boys here? Not much in your line, I should say."
"Do you mean that you object to my asking him?" said Hector, looking
rather dark.
"Ask the devil if you like, sir," retorted the baronet, angrily; "but
just tell him to leave his d----d tops and marbles at home. My lady"
(turning furiously upon his unhappy spouse), "this tea is no better
than hog's-wash, the toast is as hard as a brick-bat, and the kidneys
tough as leather. If you think I pay your fine lady of a cook sixty
guineas a year to send me up a breakfast that would be a disgrace to
the scullery-maid, I can tell you you're very much mistaken. And
I'll thank you to tell her so this very morning."
"Shall I have some more made?" says Lady Montagu, submissively.
"Two makings of tea for three persons!" growls her lord, furiously:
"there's no end to the extravagance in this house. You seem to
think, my lady, that I have the fortune of a retired iron-master or
linen-draper, and that the servants may be allowed to waste things
just as they like. If you looked after things a little, instead of
loitering about with a parcel of trashy worsted-work all day long, I
might have a little more comfort perhaps in my home. As it is, I
have had an infernal bad breakfast, and I'm very much indebted to you
for it."
Saying which, Sir Hector rises angrily, and goes out, slamming the
door after him. The tears stand in poor Lady Montagu's eyes.
"Dear me!" she says, nervously, "now your father is vexed again. I
don't really notice much the matter with the breakfast: do you,
Hector? And if the kidneys are tough, there are plenty of other
things on the table."
"Why, mother," answers Hector, "don't you Know the signs of the times
yet? The tea is capital; so are the kidneys; but he has had a letter
he does not like, and you are the scapegoat, as usual."
"So you are going over to the Carews? Had you not better take a
message from me?"
"Thanks," says her son, taking her hand,--an unusual demonstration
for him; "or, mother, would you mind writing a line to say you hope
to go over and call when the days are a little longer?"
Lady Montagu does as she is told obediently, and half an hour later
Hector is on the way to Carew Court. It is a crisp, frosty morning;
the roads are dry and hard, and the horse's hoofs make a sharp
ringing sound as they beat the ground with a quick regular tread.
The January sun shines with what force he can this wintry month, and
to Hector everything seems cheery and exhilarating. He has liked
women before to-day, has even fancied himself in love; but never,
never until now has he felt that keen longing for the sight of a face
that has possessed him these three days. It is not likely she will
be absent from home, but, if she should be, he feels the
disappointment will be almost greater than he can bear. Probably he
conveys his impatience through his finger-tips to the brown mare's
sensitive mouth, for, nothing loath, she flies over the crisp road,
and when Hector draws rein at Carew Court he finds it is only an hour
and thirty-five minutes since he started. His groom, who wears the
mask of stolid impenetrability which becomes a good servant, has
nevertheless been speculating as to the cause of this hot and unusual
haste of his master; but when he sees a pretty young lady with a
blushing face and smiling brown eyes come forward, measure in hand
from which she is feeding her poultry, and welcome Mr. Montagu, who
jumps down with a glad bright look such as is seldom seen on his
stern face, Jim thinks he sees his way to it.
"Oh, how d'ye do, Mr. Montagu? How good of you to come and see us!"
cries Diana, looking, as she really feels, very glad to see him.
"How hot your poor horse is! What a shame to drive him so fast! You
must put him up, and I'll get some hay and corn for him." And at
this juncture Curly, who has heard the sound of wheels, comes rushing
out and does the honors of the stables. Neither of them had cared
very much about their present visitor at Warrington, but they have
both, though they kept it bravely to themselves, felt a little bit
moped and dull since their return home, and Mr. Montagu seems a link
of that pleasant past which they look back to so fondly. There is
another reason, too, why blushing Miss Diana feels so glad to see
him; but, oh, if it could only have been his brother!
Hector--poor fellow!--cannot fathom the reason of her gladness, but
he can see that she is glad, and takes it all joyfully and eagerly to
himself. He is quite genial; he laughs, he shows the greatest
interest in all her pets, insists on being introduced to the dogs and
cats and ferrets, and seems charmed, as he is for her sake, with
everything that he sees.
"How could I think he was not nice?" Diana says to herself,
reproachfully. He has given her his mother's note, the kindest one
imaginable: it opens a vista of undreamed joys before her, and she
looks upon him as a benefactor. But he is not the fairy-prince: he
is only the beneficent genius come to conduct her to him. Poor
Hector!
Then he is taken into the house and introduced to Mr. Carew. He sees
a dark, handsome man, of erect and stately bearing, in the prime of
life, though with many gray hairs, and a worn look about the mouth
and eyes. His manner is polished and kindly, if a shade stiff at
first, but Hector goes forward in his most genial manner, and the two
men take to each other at once. Hector chronicled that morning
afterwards as the happiest he had ever spent. He had only intended
putting the mare up for an hour and taking Curly back with him to
lunch, but father and daughter both pressed him so hospitably to stay
that he retracted his faint excuse and consented, nothing loath,
though he stoutly averred that he never ate lunch. Miss Diana ran to
Gay, on hospitable thoughts intent.
"Gay," she cried, bursting into the housekeeper's room, "Mr. Montagu
is going to stay to lunch."
"Oh, my dear, what ever will you do?" cries Gay, dismayed.
"He won't expect much," returns Diana, "and, if he does, he must be
disappointed."
"But, my dear," remonstrates Gay, "I'm sure if things isn't nice your
pa will feel hurt."
"Well, then, he sha'n't feel hurt. We have a chicken in the
house,--isn't it lucky I had it killed!--and some neck of
mutton,--you make lovely cutlets, you know, Gay, and--and a milk
pudding; and there's a lunch fit for a king."
"Well that might do," says Gay, taking a more hopeful view of things;
"but there's that Sally: she'll go and spile all,--drop all the
things, I shouldn't wonder, and make a clatter with the plates which
is sure to vex your pa."
"She shall not come in at all," answers Diana, promptly. "Curly says
it is the proper thing to wait upon yourselves at lunch. And, Gay,
give me out that big Dresden vase: I will fill it with flowers and
put it in the middle of the table, and we shall be quite smart."
Hector, talking to Mr. Carew, looks out of the window and sees a
slight form flitting to and fro, basket in hand, snipping off
chrysanthemums with a ruthless hand.
"I think Miss Carew want's a little help," he says, dreadfully
disconcerted to find the color mounting to his face. Miss Carew's
father takes the hint.
"Perhaps you would like to go into the garden," he remarks, rising,
and opening the window. After Hector has gone out, he looks
thoughtfully at the pair in the distance.
"I suppose I cannot expect to keep her forever, poor little girl!" he
is thinking, "and Montagu seems a good sort of fellow."
"Do let me help you: may I?" says Hector, when he reaches Diana, as
if he was asking some great favor.
"You may hold the basket," she answers, beaming a friendly look upon
him out of her brown eyes as she hands him the basket. "I don't care
a bit for chrysanthemums: do you?" she proceeds, snipping off
another: "they are so dull and sober-looking. Oh!" (with enthusiasm)
"how happy I should be if I could have a hot-house full of roses and
geraniums and lovely rare flowers like Mrs. Warrington! I love
flowers in the summer, but I love them ten times more in the winter."
Hector thinks of the hot-houses at home, thinks how easily they may
be hers, with all other desirable things that he possesses or will
possess, if she only deigns to accept them: he longs to tell her so,
but feels it is too soon yet. So he only says, eagerly,--
"We have plenty at home. I will bring you over baskets full. May I,
sometimes?"
"May you?" asks Diana, archly; "indeed you may. But what would Lady
Montagu say?"
"She would be delighted, of course. I do so want you to know her. I
am sure you will like her. She is so kind and gentle. And I know
she will love you."
"It is very rash for a man to answer for women liking each other,"
laughs Diana; "at least I have heard so."
"How can they help it when they are both sweet and kind and good?"
answers Hector, warmly.
"How do you know I am kind and good?" asks Diana, with laughing eyes.
"I think you found me anything but that at Warrington: we used to
quarrel rather."
"But we never shall again," he says, with an eagerness that rather
abashes her. "I am not really such a disagreeable fellow as you
thought me, am I?"
"I think you are very nice," answers Diana, a little confused, but
wishing to be polite.
"You will come and stay with my mother, will you not?" he continues.
"And then I hope I shall make you think better of me than you did at
Warrington. I don't think I shine very much in
society,--particularly" (his face darkening) "when my brother is
there."
Diana stoops to gather a flower. She wants to hide her face for fear
it should betray her disappointment. Going to Alford does not seem
very tempting if Captain Montagu is not to be there.
Curly is radiant with delight at the thought of his visit: he is to
hunt one day, shoot the next, and Mr. Montagu is to bring him back on
the third. He was not quite sure at first if it was right to leave
his father and Diana now that he would so soon be going back to Eton;
but they will not hear of his refusing.
Diana and her father stand at the door, watching them off. The last
adieux have been waved, they are out of sight now, and the two turn
to go into the house.
"What a fine thing it is to be young and to have life before one!"
says Mr. Carew, with a smile that is yet very sad.
Diana puts her hand through her father's arm, and rubs her cheek
against his shoulder. She does not feel very blithe, somehow,
although whilst their visitor was with them she had been quite gay
and cheerful. Curly had asked the question she longed yet dared not
to put: Was Captain Montagu at Alford? And Hector had answered in
the affirmative and changed the subject at once. Poor Diana's heart
has gone after Curly, who is to have the unutterable bliss of seeing
him so soon: he is scarcely gone, and she is longing for him to be
back, that she may ask him a thousand questions about her love. She
cannot get him out of her poor little head, nor home nor father nor
pug nor kittens can fill that void which has lately crept into her
heart. What though she knows her love is hopeless?
"One cannot take back love at will."
She has gone with her father into his study, and is sitting looking
dreamily out of window, whilst her hands lie idle in her lap.
"Montagu seems a sterling good fellow," says her father, breaking in
upon her reverie.
"Yes," she assents, not warmly, nor coldly, but in the same sort of
tone that she would have used in answer to the proposition that it
was a fine day.
"I am glad he has taken to Curly," proceeds Mr. Carew. "I am glad
both you children seem to be making friends. If Lady Montagu invites
you to Alford, you must go, Di. I don't intend to keep you shut up
here forever."
"What, leave you again, papa?" says Diana, blushing a little, and
feeling rather guilty as in her secret heart she cannot help
acknowledging to herself that she longs to go there.
"I cannot expect you to stay with me always," says her father,
smiling, "and it will be good for me to get broken in to losing you
by degrees."
Mr. Carew had taken an idea into his head,--a wrong one, such as is
the wont of fathers with regard to their daughters. He has seen that
Mr. Montagu has a great regard for her, and he thinks he sees that it
is reciprocated. Was she not evidently glad to see him, and is she
not dull now he is gone? The Montagus are a good old family; it
would be an excellent match for Diana, and he thinks Hector a
gentleman and a very nice right-minded sort of fellow. Many an
anxious thought has he had about Di's future; he fancies he sees his
way to it now, and feels happier than he has done for many a long day.
The appointed days of Curly's visit dawdle away; on the third he
comes back, radiant, but alone. Just as Hector was stepping into the
dog-cart to drive him home, a telegram came which obliged him to go
to London by the two-o'clock train. "So I drove myself," cries
Curly, with enthusiasm; "and, by jingo! didn't we come along at a
spanking rate just! She is a clipper, and no mistake, that brown
mare of his. And I've brought no end of game, and a great bouquet
for you, Di, and Lady Montagu is coming over next week, and she wants
you and the Dad to go and stay as soon as I get back to Eton. And
I'm to go over just whenever I like, and they'll always send a trap
for me. And Charlie's battalion is going to Windsor this summer, and
I'm to go and breakfast with him, and we're going to have an awful
lark on the fourth of June."
So Curly pours forth his flood of news with a radiant face, and his
audience listen eagerly.
"And is it a nice place, Curly?" asks Diana.
"I should think it is, just," he responds, "and kept in such
apple-pie order. He's an awful old Tartar the old fellow, though he
was wonderfully civil to me; but she is the dearest, sweetest,
kindest, prettiest old lady I ever saw. Charlie's just like her."
"Is Captain Montagu still there?" says his sister, trying very hard
to speak unconcernedly.
"He goes up to London to-night; and precious glad he is to go; he
can't stand home for long at a time, he says; it's too grand for him.
The old fellow will have such a lot of state kept up, and all the
others hate it. By jingo! how he does bully 'em all round, except
Hector, and he won't stand it. He can't get a rise out of Charlie,
neither, for he does the languid dodge just to aggravate the old
fellow; and it just does, too. Then he turns round upon 'My lady,'
and abuses her for everything that goes wrong, in a nasty, sneering
tone, though pretending to be very polite all the time."
"Did you have good sport?" asks Mr. Carew; and Curly forthwith
launches into a long account of the day's hunt and his splendid
mount, followed by the fullest details of the next day's shooting.
Diana waits patiently until she can get him to herself, that she may
put certain questions on a subject of particular interest. As she is
dressing for dinner, a knock comes at the door.
"Di," says Curly, putting his head in, "here's a note from the
captain I forgot to give you."
Diana's hand trembles so she can scarcely take it from his
outstretched hand. Luckily for her, he is in a tremendous hurry and
does not wait. In her excitement and haste, she can scarcely open
it: she has a strange fluttering at her heart, and is obliged to sit
down before she can read it. It runs thus:
"MY DEAR MISS CAREW,--
"Why did you not come over with that nice brother of yours? I have
done nothing but wish you were here; rather selfish on my part, for
it is about the slowest house to stop in I know of. Having had a
great deal of leisure for reflection, I've been thinking over all the
good advice you gave me (by the way, you really ought to have given
Rexborough a chance, too), and the result is that I have made no end
of good resolutions. Among others, I intend to retrench in some of
my little extravagances, so I send you in advance some of my
contemplated savings for your poor _protégés_ you told me about who
have to dine off dry bread and all that sort of thing. It was too
bad of that solemn brother of mine to steal a march upon me and go
off in the gray of early dawn to call at Carew Court; but I shall be
even with him some day. If you ever should be induced to visit Fogy
Hall, pray send me a line to the Guards' Club, Pall Mall. Meanwhile,
give an occasional pitying thought to the hapless victim who is
sacrificing all to the love of his country.
"Yours ever,
"C. E. MONTAGU."