DIANA'S STORY
"Did you ever hear of Rosherville?" asks Captain Montagu.
"No," I answer, rather wondering at his irrelevancy.
"Rosherville," he proceeds, in an explanatory tone, "is 'the place to
spend a happy day.' If you had ever been to London you would have
seen that fact advertised conspicuously in a great number of
prominent situations. It is a place to which the lower orders resort
by steamboat in the dog-days, and where they enjoy a singular variety
of amusements and a singular want of variety of food. Now, although"
he proceeds (still as if he were reading from Murray's
handbook,)--"although in this, as in every other respect, Rosherville
and Alford are two places about as unlike each other as one could
possibly pitch upon, I intend the effect produced by both to be
identical: in short, I mean to spend a happy day. Will you help me?"
"That I will," I say, still smiling at his tirade; then, relapsing
into gravity, I add, rather wistfully, "It is so nice to be happy."
"A proposition too obvious to be contradicted," he laughs.
"What are you going to do?" I ask.
"What am _I_ going to do? Positively, literally, nothing: it is to
be one unclouded day of _far niente_ for me. It is to you I look for
the happy day."
"And what am I to do?" I ask, feeling very proud and glad.
"First you are to repair to the small drawing-room, where, when I
have finished this" (taking from his case a cigarette), "I shall join
you. You will then sing to me the songs that my soul loveth (I see
your store has greatly increased since the winter), until you are
quite tired."
"Or you are," I suggest, with a smile.
"Until you are quite tired," he repeats. "Then--then we will go and
bask in the sunshine, and watch the carp jump, and hear the birds
sing; and if we feel inclined we will talk, and if not, we will be
silent. We won't argue; we won't have a single word but what is
sweet and harmonious. If I choose to tell you pleasant truths, you
shall not contradict me; and as for Hector" (gayly), "Hector shall
not exist for you and me the whole livelong day until dinner-time."
I go as he has bidden me to the drawing-room and look out all my
prettiest songs, thinking a little remorsefully the while that it is
to his brother I am indebted for most of them. I lay them one by one
on the desk, "Golden Days" on the top.
"Now," he says, coming in and preparing himself the cosiest chair in
the room, as he did once on a previous occasion. "By the way, do I
at all remind you" (with smiling eyes) "of my father? It just struck
me that I had been laying down the law a little bit in his style.
Family likeness will crop up in odd ways. _Apropos_ of that, is not
Hector a most wonderful counterpart of the old gentleman?"
"No," I say, turning myself round on the music-stool, resolved to be
just towards him in his absence, all the more because I am guiltily
glad of it. "I do not think he is at all, really."
"All right" (languidly). "You remember the compact. No arguing
allowed. Upon my soul" (his lip curving with a suspicion of
merriment), "I never saw two people more dissimilar, now I come to
think of it. The only wonder is how they ever came to be father and
son."
I cannot help laughing.
"Hush!" I say. "I am going to begin."
"What is it to be?"
"'Golden Days.'"
"'Golden Days!' By Jove!" (jumping up) "the very song of all others
I love. And what a happy thought for to-day, too! 'Once in the days
of golden weather.' This" (stooping over me) "shall be a golden day,
shall it not?"
Our eyes meet, a tremulous thrill of pleasure creeps through me, then
he turns away abruptly and resumes his seat. I sing on and on, and
he listens with closed eyes, as he did that day at Warrington.
"I am tired," I say, at last, getting off my stool.
"Are you?" (jumping up). "What a selfish brute I am! How shall I
thank you!" (taking my hand and kissing it in his own gracious,
caressing manner). "The first hour of the golden day is gone"
(regretfully); "how it has flown!"
"Lady Montagu will be coming down very soon now," I suggest.
"Poor mother! I did not tell you before: I thought it would take the
heart out of your singing. She has one of her frightful headaches:
while they last she cannot raise her head from the pillow nor bear
the sound of a voice."
"Why did you not tell me before?" I cry, remorsefully. "Perhaps she
may have been disturbed by my singing."
"Quite impossible, I assure you. Why" (reproachfully), "you don't
think I'm such a brute as to run the risk of making her worse for my
own selfish gratification, do you?"
I utter a hasty dissent.
"Get your hat and let us go out." And I obey silently, as I did in
the matter of the music. "I have had two comfortable chairs taken
out," he tells me, as I join him in the hall. "I abhor the
abominations called garden-seats. They don't in the least give to
the gentle undulations of the figure in repose. I have selected a
charming spot near the water and we will be tranquilly oblivious of
everything but the moment, like the lotos-eaters."
We stroll gently along until we come to a big chestnut, under which
stand two inviting chairs.
I feel as blithe as a bird this morning. All doubt and
disappointment have vanished from my heart, like last night's dew
before the sun. Life is once again a God-given gift, to be made the
most of this fair day. For a little while we are both silent, whilst
we drink in lovingly the morning's beauty. The warm west wind
breathes tenderly through the branches, wafting towards us the heavy
scent of the sweet spring blossoms. Wayward zephyrs play
hide-and-seek among the cool green leaves, that, swaying to and fro,
fan our faces softly. A whole army of big bees, in their handsome
black and orange velvet coats, are dipping into the pink hearts of
the chestnut-blossoms, and booming their deep sonorous content in a
melodious ear-lulling chorus. On one side the view stretches over a
great expanse, half park, half meadow-land, all golden-yellow with
buttercups, save where here and there thick-strewn daisies make a
galaxy across their green heaven. Clumps of trees of
exquisitely-blended shades are dotted about, and afar off is the long
belt that skirts the park, rich with every subtle tint of spring, the
pale, soft, tender green of budding elm and oak, the chestnut's full
rich verdure, the sombre fir, and here and there, scattered between,
the bronze of the copper beech. In front of us is the mimic lake, on
which a flotilla of white ducks is sailing, looking a little bit like
small swans, but lacking the grace and dignity of those majestic
birds. I am feeling rather sentimental: the warm air, the heavy
odors wafted towards us from yon flaming sea of amber azalea, the
deep booming of the bees above our heads,--all these things have an
enervating, luxurious effect upon my senses. I glance furtively at
my companion, to see if he shares my feelings. He is reclining
luxuriously in the low long chair; his hat has fallen off backwards
on the grass, and the little sunbeams are glinting in through the
broad leaves, making golden streaks across his hair. Through
half-closed eyelids he is looking sleepily at the water; his face
wears a pensive look: yes, he, like me, feels the warm, sensuous
effect )f this May morning. He is about to speak: if he breaks (his
golden silence, it must surely be with some poetic thought.
"I would give a great deal at this moment for a pea-shooter and a bag
of peas, to aim at those ducks standing on their heads. How
surprised they would be!"
This is the sentimental remark for which his lips unclose. My
romance is swept away. I laugh. Now he mentions it, there is
certainly something very tempting about their position as they stand
literally upon their heads, in quest of hidden treasures. We amuse
ourselves by watching them, until they scramble awkwardly up on the
bank and spread themselves out for a nap in the sunshine.
"By Jove!" exclaims my companion, as a monstrous carp flings a
somersault out of the water and splashes back with as much noise as a
retriever plunging in off the bank, "the fish seem pretty lively this
morning. There goes another!"
There is a great swirling and plashing and bubbling among the lily
leaves. Now and then we see gleaming golden sides tossing above the
water as the big fish dart through the glassy water in hot pursuit of
each other.
Captain Montagu signals a passing gardener. "Bring me a landing-net,
will you?" he says.
The man hurries off, and presently returns with one.
"Now I am going to fish," remarks my companion, rising and walking
cautiously towards the bank. A moment later he plunges it in, and
brings it out again with three monstrous shining fish struggling in
it.
"Fishing made easy!" he says, laughing.
"Oh, put them back!" I cry, eagerly, as he lays them panting on the
bank; "do put them back: they are not good to eat. Don't let the
poor things die out here!"
"What a tender-hearted little soul it is!" he says, looking amused.
"Now" (contemplating them), "if our _cordon bleu_ here had only one
of the receipts for dressing them that those old monks possessed, I
could not possibly grant your prayer, being a tremendous _gourmet_;
but----"
"Let them be happy 'this golden day,'" I plead, looking up at him.
"Here goes!" he says, flinging them back with a great souse; and they
dart off, apparently fully aware what a narrow escape they have had.
"I can't help thinking," he remarks, reflectively, "that in those
days when carp were esteemed such a delicacy, they could not get
salmon or mullet."
"I never tasted one," I say.
"Take the advice Punch once gave to intending Benedicts: 'Don't.'"
We have resumed our comfortable chairs under the chestnut-boughs. I
suddenly bethink myself that I have omitted to thank him for his
munificent donation to my poor people last winter.
"I am afraid," I begin, rather uneasily, "you must have thought me
very ungrateful for not thanking you for the ten pounds you sent me.
You don't know what good it did, and how the people thanked and
blessed you."
I blurt my words out hurriedly and eagerly, whilst he regards me with
an expression of comic terror.
"You are positively becoming excited," he says. "Have you forgotten
there is to be no emotion this morning,--nothing but the most perfect
tranquillity?"
"You may try and turn it off," I say, warmly, "but I shall tell you
all the same. I think it is very selfish of people to do kind
actions and then refuse to be thanked for them."
"'People' means me, I suppose?" he utters, lazily. "Go on" (with an
air of resignation); "tell me all about it,--how many night-caps and
flannel petticoats you bought for the old women, and what you laid
out on snuff and tobacco for the old men."
"Do be serious," I say, reproachfully. "If you could only dream the
good it really did! I should like to tell you one case. Poor Atkins
had been out of work for weeks from hurting his hand; two of the
children had scarlet fever; and they had not a morsel of food in the
house, when----"
"Don't harrow up my feelings!" he interrupts, imploringly, taking out
his pocket-handkerchief.
"It is too bad of you to laugh at me!" I cry, feeling vexed.
"A change of air and scene will be good for us both," he says, rising
promptly, and stretching out a hand to me. "Come, and I will take
you into the wood."
I follow him as he bids me, and say no more about the money. We
stroll along past the fir-trees and out through a gate into the wood.
Suddenly we pause as we come to a great open space. There, spread
like a carpet from some cunning loom, grows a great sea of primroses,
of wood-violets and dark hyacinths mingled with rich emerald green.
"Groves that looked a Paradise
Of blossom, and sheets of hyacinth
That seemed the heavens, upbreaking through the earth."
He points to a felled tree, and we sit down and let our eyes range
feastingly around.
"After all," says my companion, thoughtfully, with an air of
conviction, "the country has its pleasures even out of the hunting
and shooting seasons. Do you know" (solemnly, looking at me
impressively, as though he is not sure I shall believe him without a
great deal of asseveration) "I do not think I ever spent a happier
morning than this in my life?"
"I am sure I never did;" I say, truthfully, but sighing a little as I
remember how short-lived our happiness is doomed to be. I fancy I
hear him sigh too. He takes out his watch.
"It is half-past twelve," he remarks, with an accent of disgust, "and
they lunch at one. How the time has flown!"
Silence reigns for a few minutes; then he stretches out his hand
towards me, and brings the full light of his dark-blue eyes to bear
on mine. I endure it for a moment, and then mine droop, but my hand
still lies in the clasp of his. I feel no strength or will to move
it.
"I told you," he says, presently, "that we were not to have any
explanations to-day, did I not? nothing but harmonious tranquillity.
I ought not to break my own rules, ought I? But tell me" (in a
pleading voice), "you are not angry with me now. If I vexed you last
night, you have forgiven me, have you not?"
"There is nothing to forgive," I answer, trying to withdraw my hand,
and vexed because I feel the tell-tale color mantling over cheek and
brow.
"If you forgive me, you will let me keep your hand," he says, softly;
and all this time I _feel_ that he has never once taken his eyes from
my face. It is dangerous to look at him; my heart is throbbing
wildly even now; but I cannot resist the charm: some unknown force
compels my reluctant eyelids upwards.
"'Tears in the radiant eyes,'" he whispers, quoting from our favorite
song. "Oh" (drawing me towards him), "what a perverse world this is!
Why do we always covet just those things we cannot have!"
There is a strange ring in his voice; he has risen, and is standing
with one arm round me. For one ecstatic moment I droop my head on
his shoulder, his warm breath hovers over my cheek and ear; then I
break away from him, and stand abashed, trembling, leaning with
downcast eyes against the trunk of a big tree. He follows me
swiftly, with flushed face and eager eyes.
"No, no," I say, putting out my hands with a gesture of repulsion,
whilst my heart beats with furious shame.
He stops.
"I beg your pardon," he utters, in a contrite voice. "Don't be
afraid! you do not think for one moment I would say or do anything to
displease you. I lost my head a little for a moment. Come, let us
go towards the house."
We walk on side by side until we come to the gate that separates the
wood from the park: there he stops.
"I don't know what possessed me," he says, in an apologetic tone; "I
suppose it is rather dangerous being long with a young and very
pretty woman. Do you know," looking at me with some vexation, "I am
half sorry I came? If I stay much longer I shall run the risk of
making a fool of myself; and that would be unsatisfactory to myself,
as well as unfair to Hector."
I stand staring stupidly before me, ignorant how to reply. Hector!
Hector! why will he always drag him into our talk? Hector is nothing
to me! I feel a blind unjust repugnance to him. And yet I cannot
tell his brother this! it might make him think I entertained
hopes----what folly! has he not shown me clearly enough that I can be
nothing to him mort than a passing fancy? Seeing that I make no
reply, he opens the gate for me, and we pass on silently to the
house. Half the golden day is gone: is it golden still? I hardly
know,--at this moment it seems so equally made up of sweet and
bitter. When I reach the house, there is only just time to smooth my
ruffled hair before the gong sounds for lunch. Sir Hector offers a
diversion,--not an agreeable one by any means: he is in one of his
most vindictive tempers: an "infernal fool of a groom" (luckless
wight! how I pity him!) has thrown down one of the horses. I have
remarked that when a horse comes to grief it is never his own fault,
unless his master is on his back: the grooms always throw them down.
What little consolation is to be derived from discharging him with
the threat of no character Sir Hector has, but it is all insufficient
to appease his wrath. Everybody, everything, is wrong. I ask after
my lady's headache. He does not know (snappishly): all he knows is
that if women will lie in bed half the day, and take no exercise, and
eat and drink just the same, it is no wonder they have headaches.
Poor Lady Montagu, who has the smallest, most delicate appetite
conceivable! I hazard that it is a lovely day, and he retorts, with
a growl, that it may be a lovely day for a parcel of idle people, who
have nothing better to do than to lie about in the sunshine like
lapdogs, but that to him, with the grass-crops shriveling up to
nothing, it is simply heart-breaking. Snubbed savagely for the first
time in my life, I retire, feeling much depressed, to the
contemplation of lunch. Captain Montagu's eyes are on his plate: he
does not come to my rescue, nor does he attempt any original remark
on his own account.
"What are _you_ going to do?" Sir Hector asks him presently, in a
snappish voice.
"I, sir?" looking up imperturbably. "Nothing."
"Nothing!" with a growl. "I might have guessed as much. Then you
had better drive over to Okewood with me."
"Much too hot, sir, thank you all the same for thinking of me" (with
a little twitch of his flexible upper lip). "I might get a
sunstroke."
"Sunstroke!" retorts Sir Hector, wrathfully. "Pretty fellows you
Guardsmen must be, to be afraid of a May sun!--very fit for a
campaign!"
Captain Montagu's lip twitches more than ever, and I am filled with
nervous dread lest he should actually break into a laugh.
"It is by taking care of ourselves in time of peace," he says, with a
wicked glance at me, "that we are able to come to the fore when the
country wants us."
Sir Hector pushes away his plate, and mutters something that sounds
like "A parcel of blanked puppies!" but his son does not seem to take
offense.
"Always dangling after a petticoat!" is the next growling amenity;
and with that he flings out of the room.
"Dear old man, bless him!" utters his son, sweetly, as the door
closes with a bang. "I think" (with a smile that has some malice in
it), "if I remember rightly, I rather shocked you once at Warrington
by not going into rhapsodies over the mere delightful fact of having
a father. Perhaps you look at the matter rather more from my point
of view now."
"I thought all fathers must be like mine," I say, _naïvely_.
"Certainly he is rather" (hesitating)--"rather _trying_; but I
suppose one ought to make allowances for one's father."
"I wish one's father would make one more allowance," ha says,
laughing. "Come, let us go up into the state drawing-room: it will
be the coolest place to-day. I wish to heaven Alford belonged to me,
or was ever likely to: what rattling good parties I would have here!"
And he sighs.
We mount the carven stair-case and traverse the long gallery lined
with pictures. There are niches in all the embrasured windows which
look out upon the green sea of turf without, and big silver-bound oak
and marqueterie cabinets stand within them, while quaint carvings and
curious pictures look down upon us from above. Eastern figures as
large as life, bearing lamps, stand on either side of the five steps
that lead to the state drawing-room.
"Those grim faces used to frighten me into fits when I was a child,"
says Captain Montagu, as he gives me an unneeded hand to help ire up
the low easy stairs. "Come and sit in my favorite seat" (opening the
door and leading me towards the window).
I am half afraid of another _tête-à-tête_ with him, and yet it is
exquisite happiness to be alone with him, to hear his thrilling
voice, and to meet the glances of his kind eyes. And it will be over
so soon now!
"We shall not have much longer together," he says, softly, as if
divining my thought from the half-reluctant manner in which I follow
him.
"No," I answer, with a long sigh, which I hope is only audible to
myself.
So we seat ourselves on the low couch that fills up the deep
mullioned window, and for a little while neither breaks the silence.
He is looking out upon the greensward, and I am contemplating the
room and it's furniture,--from the dark polished parquet floor to the
painted ceiling. The huge carved chimney-piece empanels the portrait
of the oldest known ancestor of the Montagus: it is a hideous stiff
painting by Holbein, and in the eyelashless eyes and shadowless face
I amuse myself by finding a likeness to Sir Hector.
"By Jove, so there is, now you mention it!" laughs Captain Montagu.
"Tell him so. If a man could be flattered and unflattered in a
breath, I should think such a remark would be calculated to inspire
that paradoxical sensation in him."
"_I_ tell him!" I echo, laughing too; "not for the world, I don't
think I shall ever venture another remark: my conversation shall be
Yea, yea, and Nay, nay. Not even the weather is a safe topic with
him to-day. I can see a likeness to you there" (pointing to a
full-length portrait, in cavalier dress, of a very handsome man).
"Thanks," he answers, making me a little bow. "That is Sir Rupert,
the scapegrace of the family."
"I wonder why scapegraces are always good-looking," I say,
reflectively.
Captain Montagu laughs merrily.
"Perhaps they would not have so many temptations if they were not
endowed with certain outward advantages."
"That is true," I think, taking him _au serieux_ and heaving a little
jealous sigh.
Then he relapses into silence, and I let my eyes wander round again
over the portraits, the carved, tapestry-covered couches, the quaint
seats of crimson velvet embroidered in gold, the heavily-framed
mirrors with beveled edges, the cabinets and stools and sconces.
After my eyes have traveled carefully round, they return to the
polished parquet.
"What a floor for dancing!" I utter, regretfully, breaking the long
silence at last.
"_Apropos_," he says, jumping up and holding out his arms, "let us
have a waltz."
"Without music?" I ask, doubtfully.
"We will sing the 'Blue Danube' until we are out of breath," he
answers, gayly.
Our voices mingle in that thrilling air, his arm is round me, and we
are floating deliciously over the polished floor. Suddenly we stop
as the door is thrown wide open. Hector, black and frowning, is
confronting us.