DIANA'S STORY.
I have been three days at Alford Court. I love Lady Montagu; and no
one could be kinder than her son. I can hardly realize that he is
the same man who used to frighten and bore me at Warrington. After
breakfast we always go out together, sometimes riding, sometimes
walking. He occupies himself a great deal about the property, and
always has some business on hand.
One thing I remark which surprises me not a little: it is his
pleasant manner with his inferiors. As we pass the cottages he
always has a kind word for the women and children: he seems quite
unostentatiously to know about, and take an interest in, their
personal affairs. I notice, too, that they all brighten up and look
very pleased and cheerful when he speaks to them. His manner to
servants and laborers is just my idea of what a gentleman's manner
should be,--oh, such a contrast from Sir Hector's! it is kind and
dignified, it commands respect, and, I can see, affection as well. I
have never once heard him speak harshly to or of any one, excepting
perhaps his father; and I really cannot wonder at that. One morning
he has to go to Willington on business, and I occupy my leisure in
visiting some of his mother's poor. My first visit is made to one of
her special _protégées_, a woman dying of consumption.
I find the poor patient by the fire, though it is a warm May morning,
in a room beautifully clean and neat, and with many comforts which I
am surprised to see, but which she explains to me presently by
pointing them out as gifts from my lady or Mr. Montagu. She is
propped on soft pillows in an easy-chair, but she looks terribly
haggard and worn: there is a bright spot on either cheek; her voice
is faint and low, and seems to come with an effort. She is immensely
interested in hearing about Lady Montagu, and, when I have told her
all I know, she goes on to tell me, in her feeble voice, of my lady's
goodness to her.
"We should all ha' been in the House, or starving, if it hadn't ha'
been for her. Sir Hector's a hard man, miss: he don't seem to think
us poor folks is made of the same flesh and blood as him. I don't
say as we are, miss, altogether like" (in an apologetic tone which
makes me smile): "still, we are flesh and blood, an' we hev our
feelings, an' when the gentry is good to us, like my lady and Mr.
Montagu, we're ready to fall down an' worship 'em. I've heard tell
as poor people's so ongrateful, but I never see it so, nor I don't
believe it. I know there's hardly one in this village as wouldn't
lay down their lives for my lady if so be as they was called upon to
do it. And I'm sure I wouldn't wish harm to no one, standing as you
may say with one foot in the grave myself, but it'll be a blessed day
for Alford when Mr. Montagu steps into Sir Hector's shoes. He's all
for doin' everything for the poor, an' buildin' new cottages, an'
raisin' wages, an' encouragin' poor folks to take a pride in
themselves; an' I have heard tell that he an' Sir Hector do quarrel
dreadful at times about it. I know he does a deal out of his own
pocket, for Sir Hector is one of those as 'ud skin a flint, as the
sayin' is, although he keeps up such a deal o' grandeur at the Court."
I have more talk with her, and then I go on to pay a few more visits
in the parish. All the cottages I go into are very clean. Most of
them boast some present from my lady or Mr. Montagu, which is shown
me with great pride.
I come away from my round of visits with a greatly heightened opinion
of Hector and a certain sense of shame at having so misjudged him.
Of his sweet kind mother I had been prepared to hear only praise.
"Where have you been?" cries the object of my thoughts, reining up
beside me, and looking, I think (feeling as I do excellently disposed
towards him), stalwart and handsome on his fine gray horse.
"I have been making calls," I reply, laughing.
"Calls?" he echoes, surprised. "Alone? Oh, at the rectory, I
suppose."
"No; guess again."
"But there is no one else to guess."
"I have been to see Mrs. Seward, and poor old Brown, and Mrs. Banks,
and Janet Hill,--quite a round of morning calls."
"Have you really?" he says, eagerly.
"Yes, and I heard a great deal of news," I continue, nodding my head
wisely,--"about you too."
"What did you hear?"
"Never mind: I am not going to make you conceited."
He laughs lightly.
"That's the worst of poor people," he says: "they do chatter so
dreadfully. Of course they would be sure to say everything that was
civil about us, as you come from the Court."
"Ah," I remark, mysteriously, "but they did not say everything that
was civil about _everybody_. And" (laughing) "they did not say, as I
did, that you were 'so like your father.'"
"Thank God for that!" he says, laughing too. "What are we going to
do this afternoon? Does my mother think of driving?"
"No, the wind is easterly, although it is so fine, and she is afraid."
"I wonder----" begins Hector, musingly, and then pauses.
"What do you wonder?"
"I wonder if I put the horses in the mail-phaeton if you would let me
drive you out?"
"Oh, I _should_ like it," I cry, eagerly. The proprieties have never
been impressed upon my young mind, probably because I have never had
the least chance of infringing them.
"I must not be selfish," he says. "I would not for the world let you
do anything that is not quite _en règle_. Tell me" (hesitating), "do
you think Mr. Carew would object in any way?"
"Object!" I exclaim, wonderingly: "why should he? You can drive,
can't you?"
He looks amused.
"My misgivings are not on that head. Let us go in and ask my mother."
We have reached the stables: the groom takes his horse, and we
saunter towards the house.
Lady Montagu, when appealed to, does not see any objection, thinks it
will be a nice change for me, will not find it dull alone, has a most
interesting book she is anxious to finish.
Very blithe and glad I feel that afternoon when Hector, having helped
me in, jumps up beside me. It is a heavenly afternoon: the sun is
hot and bright, the sweet spring scents come balmily across us from
the hedgerows, and the keen cool wind plays in our face as we cleave
it swiftly. Perched high up behind a dashing pair of horses with
proud tossed heads and foam-flecked bits, sitting beside a man who is
pleasant company and who cares to please me, I feel life such a good
thing: a delicious exhilaration floats through every sense. I feel
happy; I look happy; glad laughter bubbles from my lips. It is
contagious: he sees it, he laughs too. There is not one unkind or
sneering curve about his lips to-day. He looks at me ever so kindly.
"Are you pleased?" he asks me. "I think you are. As for me, I feel
like a school-boy out for a holiday after the long term. And to
think I was so near not going to Warrington! If I had not, you would
not be here now; I might never have known you."
"What a loss!" I laugh.
"It would have been a loss," he says, gravely; "perhaps, though"
(with a sigh), "it might have been better for me."
"It would not have better for me," I answer, feeling too happy and
_insouciante_ to weigh my words.
He turns towards me, as if to say something; then, checking himself
abruptly, he points with his whip to the hedge.
"Is not that hawthorn delicious?" he says.
"Yes," I answer; "but that is not what you were going to say."
I feel a delicious little sense of coquetry: something in the
sunshine, the keen air, the May odors, inspires me: I long to hear
soft and pleasant words; if I knew what the sensation was, I could
almost fancy I feel inclined to flirt with my companion. He looks at
me with a grave smile that seems to penetrate my sensuous enjoyment
of the moment.
"You are right," he says: "I was going to say something else; but I
will not say it now. You are full of impulse; you are a child; but I
am a man, and I ought to be superior to the temptations of sudden
emotion."
"Now," said I, pettishly, "you remind me of what you were at
Warrington. In another moment I shall be afraid of you again----"
"Do not," he says, quickly. "Why, child" (with a pleasant smile),
"how could you fear me? Have you not learned yet that you are
everything I most admire and reverence,--young, pure, sweet,
unselfish, modest, charitable?" He speaks in a whisper, but there is
a ring of subdued feeling in it. "When I was at Warrington you saw
me stern and cold, because one or other of those women (you know whom
I mean) chafed and angered me every moment: I could not even bear you
to come in contact with them. I felt half disposed to quarrel with
Mrs. Warrington, for the first time in my life, because she had asked
an innocent child like you to meet them. And then, too" (sinking his
voice still lower), "though I hate confessing it, I did feel a little
jealous when I saw you so gay and merry with others, and I seemed
only to have a sort of wet-blanket effect upon you."
"Well, you have not that effect now," I laugh. "I shall always like
you and feel at home with you in future."
"How can you tell?" he says, rather grimly. "I have no one to stand
in my way; there is no other man here except my father" (laughing),
"and I do not think he is dangerous. Suppose, now" (his face
darkening suddenly)----
"Do not let us suppose anything," I interrupt quickly, with an uneasy
intuition of his thought. "Let us enjoy this lovely afternoon and be
happy."
"Let us!" he echoes, brightening up. "You are quite right.
Sufficient for the day let the good thereof be, and don't let us
spoil it by anticipating evil for to-morrow. I think if the text had
been worded in that way it would have been even more applicable than
it is."
So we drive along the smooth white roads, up hills where we get
lovely little glimpses of green valleys and winding shimmering
waters, and down again into sweet-smelling, hedge-bound lanes, past
cottages, with thin blue streaks of smoke curling from their
chimneys, and trim gardens sown with red and white daisies, with
wallflowers, and hedges of sweet-brier, scenting the air around, past
farms with their neat rows of golden stacks, past green meadows
ablaze with buttercups, where the sleek cattle stand almost
knee-deep, past village churches with their quaint old towers, their
grass-grown mounds and moss-covered tombstones. It seems sad to
think of the dead this fair spring day, when only to live is so glad
a thing. A little shudder creeps through me at the bare thought that
I too some day shall be with those that sleep.
"Of lips full of love and laughter,
Fair brows and radiant eyes,
There is left but a grinning skull,
And perhaps a headstone that lies."
We have passed. The thought is gone again. We are looking in at the
village blacksmith's, where the great fire roars and blazes up, while
the smith stands in the ruddy light, beating a thousand sparks from
his anvil, and the big patient horses wait until their turn comes.
We pass some tumbledown-looking cottages, and our talk falls on our
poorer neighbors.
"Ah," I say, with some enthusiasm, "I know that when Alford is yours,
you will be a model landlord: you will try to make your people better
off; you will encourage them to respect themselves, and that they
cannot do until they are put in the way of it by having tidy, clean,
convenient homes."
"It does not do to count upon dead men's shoes, you know," he
answers, with a grave smile; "and property is, after all, a very
serious responsibility, if one looks upon it as one ought to do, not
as a vehicle for selfish indulgence, but as a means to benefit those
about one. Then it is so difficult to know how really to do good to
one's fellow-creatures: it isn't enough to have the will, or even the
means, but one must have a practical head and a certain familiarity
with the working of their minds. You have only to take up the
newspapers every day to see how the most benevolent intentions come
to grief, and how hundreds of thousands of pounds are subscribed
yearly that hardly do one iota of good. It won't do to insist upon
benefiting people in your own particular way: you have to find out
what their way is, and then set to work. And you want," he goes on,
his voice deepening and his eyes flashing, "help and sympathy more
than anything in this world; because there is nothing so
heart-wearing, so bitterly disappointing, as having a keen desire to
help your brother-man, and finding all your strivings, as they are
half the time, dead failures. Look at my mother, what a sweet, kind,
sympathetic, loving nature she has,--what a helpmate would she have
been for a man in my father's position if he had ever tried to do any
good, or thought of anything or any one but himself,--and see how he
has crushed everything out of her but her sweet goodness of heart and
pity, which nothing could destroy. Can you wonder" (with suppressed
passion) "that I hate and despise him, as, God forgive me, I do
sometimes? I dare say, though" (changing his voice), "if ever I do
come into Alford I shall not do a quarter that I think and believe I
should now: 'a liberal-minded heir often makes a stingy lord,' they
say. But I should love to think," he whispers, "that, if ever I am
master here, I shall have a loving, tender-hearted woman for my wife,
who would help and influence me to do what was right."
He fixes his dark eyes upon my face. His words seem to thrill
through me: the quick crimson dyes my face. What does he mean? At
this moment we drive under the splendid gateway of Alford, and a
minute later stop at the house door.