DIANA'S STORY.
I am back again at home,--glad, most glad, to be there. Everything
pleases me,--even our simplicity and poverty: the absence of that
heavy wearisome state which oppressed me at Alford is in itself
delightful; but pleasantest change of all is my father's kind, gentle
manner, which to my mind has far more of dignity in it than Sir
Hector's pompous bluster.
I can scarcely take my eyes off his dear face as we sit _tête-à-tête_
over our roast chicken; very often he looks over at me too, and when
our eyes meet we exchange a friendly smile.
"It is good to go away sometimes," I say meditatively, with my elbows
on the table, in happy freedom from all restraint (fancy putting
one's elbows on Sir Hector's dinner-table!) "It makes one so glad to
come back."
"Does it, Di?" remarks papa, looking pleased. "I am very glad to
hear you say so. I was afraid it would have quite a contrary effect."
"If you only knew," I say, with a little air of superior wisdom, "how
dreadful it is to have three or four immense men standing about,
watching every morsel you eat, and snatching up your plate almost
before you have put down your knife and fork! It is delightful music
to me now to hear Sally clatter the plates and shuffle about in her
slip-shod way. And then to hear that dreadful old man bullying and
worrying them all the time, it made me so nervous at first I could
hardly eat anything."
"The dreadful old man is Sir Hector, I presume?" smiles papa.
"Yes,--Sir Hector. What a capital name for him! It was very
thoughtful of his godfather and godmother in his baptism to give him
that name; though they could hardly have told at the time how
appropriate it would be, could they? He does nothing but hector from
morning till night."
"But," says papa, "his son has the same name: is it as appropriate in
his case?"
"No, no!" I cry, with energy, more anxious to defend him because I
have unwittingly done him wrong; "not in the very least. I never
heard any one more courteous to his inferiors."
"I should have thought so," papa answers, with a little air of
satisfaction. "I should be much mistaken in him if he were not a
gentleman; and a gentleman is always considerate and courteous to
those beneath him. And Lady Montagu,--you liked her?"
"_I loved her!_" I reply, with enthusiasm; "the dearest, sweetest,
kindest old lady I ever saw."
"She can hardly come under the denomination of an _old_ lady,"
remarks papa. "She cannot be more than fifty-one or two."
"Well, no," I assent, "perhaps hardly old; but her hair is silvery,
and she is rather an invalid, and altogether she gives one the idea
of being--well, not young."
"Sir Hector is a good many years older," says papa. "But I do not
think he ever seemed a young man,--never since I remember him; he was
always stiff and pompous, and rather bald. She was a very lovely
girl when he married her. I remember losing my heart to her when I
was a boy in jackets just before they were married. I believe"
(laughing) "I had serious thoughts of asking her to fly with me, and
of fighting a duel with him afterwards. I suppose he has quite
succeeded in crushing all spirit out of her by this time."
"Horrid old wretch!" I exclaim, with vindictive energy. "It would be
a very good thing for everybody if he were to break his neck! The
people about hate him; and Mr. Montagu, I am sure, would make an
excellent landlord."
"I am sure he would," says papa, with approving warmth.
"Papa," I say, looking at him inquisitively, "what makes you so fond
of Mr. Montagu?"
"Is it surprising that I should like him?" asks papa. "Do not you?"
"Oh, yes," I answer, indifferently.
There the subject drops, and we fall to talking about Curly.
The following day I observe that papa is preoccupied. He does not
talk much, and ever and anon I feel his eyes fixed on me, and I fancy
he sighs. It is a wet, cold day, and in the evening we have a fire.
I sit down on the hearth in my favorite attitude, with my arm resting
on papa's knees. He is silent, and I too am seeing pictures in the
live coals, and thinking unprofitable thoughts. Presently I feel his
hand upon my head, and hear his voice.
"Di," it says, "what made you refuse Mr. Montagu?"
My heart leaps into my mouth: for the first time it strikes me that I
am not the only person whom the matter concerns.
"How do you know that I did?" I ask, evasively, keeping my face,
which vies with them, turned towards the glowing coals.
"I had a letter from him this morning,--a most manly,
straightforward, and, I must say, touching letter."
"Where is it?" I ask, in a faltering voice, as the dreadful thought
crosses me that he will have laid the blame upon his brother. And
what account, I think with shame, can I give papa of what has taken
place between him and me?
"Here is the letter," says papa gravely, drawing it from his pocket;
and with trembling hands and downcast eyes I take it, and read thus:
"DEAR MR. CAREW,--
"When you gave permission for your daughter to visit my mother, you
also consented, if there appeared any chance of my suit being
successful, to my asking her to become my wife. I have ventured to
put my fortune to the test, not, I must frankly own, because Miss
Carew gave me any encouragement, but because, being constantly in her
presence and seeing how altogether sweet and lovable she is, I could
no longer control my impatience. I spoke my heart to her, I fear,
without due reflection, and I cannot but blame myself for my haste
and warmth, which may perhaps have repelled her. But after what
passed between us I no longer dare encourage the hope of being more
to her than a friend. It is my own fault, of course,--I am not, I
fear, a man calculated to inspire love in a young, high-spirited
girl,--and yet _not my fault_, for God knows if I could change
anything in myself to make me more pleasing to one whom I love so
devotedly, no effort would seem to me too great. My feeling for Miss
Carew will never undergo any change: that need be no matter for
speculation: it is a certainty on which I should like her to rely,
though not to vex herself with. If it were possible for her ever to
entertain a warmer feeling for me, I want her to _know_ that my love
for her will always be what it is now. I go abroad to-night: at some
future time, when I am better able than I should be now to endure the
sight of her, knowing that my love is hopeless, you will, I trust,
let me visit your house on the old friendly terms. Meanwhile,
believe me always most sincerely yours, HECTOR MONTAGU.
"P.S.--I have read over the few cold, formal lines that I have
written: they must remain what they are, lest I should be unmanned by
writing what is in my heart."
I read the letter carefully. It strikes me with a cold chill: to me
it does not seem a natural letter from a man who loved passionately,
despairingly. I do not even feel sorry for him; my chief sensation
is one of thankfulness that he has avoided all mention of his
brother, and a slightly aggrieved feeling against papa for having
consented to Mr. Montagu's proposal without the slightest hint to me.
I understand it all now,--why at Alford they looked upon me as
_Hector's property_. Papa had given consent, so they thought mine
was sure to follow: it must be a settled affair. I do not return the
letter after reading it, but sit staring at the fire. A mist gathers
before my eyes. At last I say, reproachfully,--
"Papa, how could you?"
"How could I do what, Di?"
"Let me go there knowing all the time--Why did you not ask me? I
should have told you the truth, that I never could care for him
except as a friend. If I had known, nothing would have induced me to
go to Alford."
"That is what I felt sure of," answers papa, gravely. "To tell a
girl that she is going on a visit with such an end in view is
naturally to make her utterly disinclined to it. And yet" (sighing)
"that was the end in view. I saw that he was devoted to you; I knew
that if you married him it would relieve me of the anxiety that has
always tormented me about your future; and I believed firmly that
seeing him at home and becoming aware of the good qualities which I
know he possesses, and which his natural shyness impels him to hide
in society, you would come to care for him. I think still that such
would have been the case had he not, as he admits, been in too great
a hurry."
"Never!" I cry, emphatically; "never!"
"I wonder," says papa, wearily, "what perverse fate makes girls
always go dead against their parents' wishes in these matters?"
"And I wonder," I answer, mournfully, "why parents never think their
daughters can have any feeling of their own about the men they are to
marry? Papa" (stealing one hand into his), "am I a burden to you?"
(tears springing in my eyes). "Do you want to get rid of me?"
"God forbid, child!" says papa, his eyes becoming misty too, as he
strokes my head fondly. "It is an unfortunate business, but we will
say no more about it."
So the subject drops.
Life wears a changed aspect for me since that visit to Warrington.
Before then I was as blithe as a bird,--not a care had I; and now my
heart is often heavy and full of strange passionate longings.
Sometimes I almost hate my life. I weary so bitterly for the sight
of one face, for the sound of one voice; and as yet only one week has
passed since I left Alford. My simple home pursuits have lost their
interest for me. I go through them as dull, dreary duties. My
books, too, no longer have the same charm: now that I have my own
romance, all others seem stale and flat.
One afternoon I have been for a long walk. I want to tire my body in
order to benumb my mind, and I come in wearied out and fling myself
into a chair.
"Why, my dear," exclaims Gay, reproachfully, "what ever's come to
you, to make you go tag-ragging about the country, wearing yourself
to a shadow? Why, it's my belief you've fell away pounds and pounds
since you came back from Alford, only a week since. I misdoubt me"
(with a shrewd glance) "as you've left a little bit of your heart
behind you there."
"You are an old goose!" I answer. "Get me some tea; I am dying for
something to eat. When people are in love, you know," I add, with a
somewhat lugubrious smile, "they don't want to eat."
"Don't tell me!" returns Gay, with scorn. "I've seen many a score of
folks in love in my time, and I never know'd it to interfere with
their appetites yet; that I didn't. But all through your being out
tiring yourself for no good, you've gone and missed a grand visitor
as wanted most particular to see you."
A pang of expectation goes through my heart; it takes my breath away.
Oh, if it should be----
"Who was it?" I ask, in a quivering voice, doing violence to myself
not to seem eager.
"Well, it was Mrs. Warrington," returns Gay; and my heart sinks to
its proper level.
"Mrs. Warrington," I repeat, musingly. "I am sorry I was out. Did
she see papa?"
"Ay, that she did; she was with him the best part of an hour, I
reckon."
"Where is he?" I inquire.
"In the study. Now, my dear, do wait until you've had your tea"
(seeing that I am hastily about to go).
"I shall be back directly," I answer, with my hand on the door.
"So you have had a visitor!" I cry, breaking in suddenly upon papa.
"Yes," he replies, rather gravely.
"What is the matter?" I ask, quickly, divining by his face that
something is wrong.
"She brought rather a shocking piece of news," says papa.
I feel myself turning ghostly white.
Why is it that my first thought is always of him now?
"What is it?" I ask, with a faltering voice.
"Sir Hector Montagu was thrown from his horse the day before
yesterday, and is not expected to live. He has not spoken since."
I am intensely shocked, and forget, as one always does on such
occasions, how little I had liked him. My only feeling is one of
sympathy and distress at his being overtaken by so awful a fate.
"His son," continues papa, not looking at me, "has gone off suddenly
abroad, and they do not quite know where to find him. That adds
greatly to poor Lady Montagu's distress."
I hang my head and feel guilty,--though indeed I scarcely know why I
should.
"The other son was telegraphed for, and has arrived."
To this I make no answer. Although he is so near me, I know there is
as little chance of my seeing him as if he were in Kamschatka.
"But," says papa, changing his tone and looking at me with a slight
smile, "Mrs. Warrington's errand to-day was of a cheerful nature;
though I have hardly prepared you very well to receive it. What do
you think she came for, Di?"
I shake my head, not feeling in the humor to guess or be expectant.
"I do not know, unless it was to invite us there," I reply; "and that
is not very probable, as Claire told me she was going to London for
six weeks almost immediately."
"What do you say to her wanting to take you with her?"
I feel my eyes opening very wide, but my voice fails me for sheer
surprise. Then, as one or two important facts occur to me, I return
from wonder-land, and remark, calmly,--
"Of course you told her it was impossible?"
"But suppose I thought it was not altogether impossible?" returns
papa, looking a little amused: "what then?"
"What then?" I echo, placing myself on his knee and drawing the dark
hair lovingly back from his white forehead, "I should think my
dearest Dad was qualifying for the County Asylum."
"I should have been inclined to think so myself a few hours ago," he
returns; "but Mrs. Warrington has reduced my objections to nothing,
and I have almost given consent."
"Mrs. Warrington must be a very wonderful woman," I remark, amazed.
"But, papa, you must know quite well when we come to think it over
calmly, that it is quite impossible on account of money, if nothing
else."
"Listen, and judge for yourself. Mrs. Warrington was going to bring
out one of her nieces this year; she had already presented her at
court, and was to have been in London now to chaperon her. Three
weeks ago the young lady eloped with the curate, much to the
indignation of the family, and the aunt's chagrin. 'Now,' said Mrs.
Warrington, very pleasantly, 'I am getting an old woman, but sad to
say, I am as fond of gayety as ever, though I have sufficient
discretion to see that it does not look well for me to be going about
to all sorts of gay parties without some apparent excuse. That is
why I always undertake every year to bring out some pretty girl of my
acquaintance. I won't have a plain one. So,' she finished, 'if you
will intrust your daughter to my care, you will be conferring a real
favor upon me, and it will be a good thing for her at the same time.'"
I shake my head, feeling mournfully how little pleasure gayety would
be capable of giving me now.
"I do not want to leave you, papa; and pray where is the money to
come from?"
"That will be all right," says papa, smiling; "and I wish you to
go,--more particularly" (looking grave again) "after what has
happened lately."
"Let us think about it," I petition. But in the end it is decided
that I am to go. I take it very calmly. Somehow things that would
have filled me with wonder and delight six months ago make very
little impression upon me now.