DIANA'S STORY.
I suppose it would be utterly impossible to a bred-and-born dweller
in cities faintly to conjecture the feelings of the country mouse who
for the first time enters a big city, never having seen any larger
agglomeration of houses and shops than her own little country town.
I was as utterly bewildered the first few days of my stay in London
as if I had been suddenly transplanted to another world. The noise,
the tumult, the splendor, the misery, the countless crowds of people,
the endless stream of carriages, vans, carts, cabs, omnibuses, filled
me with a wonder that words are utterly inadequate to express. For
the first week, I believe, my mouth never assumed any shape but one
round O of astonishment. Mr. Warrington was delighted, and insisted
upon taking me everywhere, and telling every one we met, rather to my
confusion, what a treat it was to go about with a young lady who had
never been in London before, and who was not _blasée_. The utter
change certainly did my spirits good. I had no time to think in the
day, and at night I was so tired out that the moment I put my head on
the pillow I was asleep.
Before I left home, we heard that Sir Hector Montagu was dead, and
that his eldest son had returned. I wrote to poor Lady Montagu. It
was a difficult task, as it needs must be when one can truthfully say
nothing good of the dead; but I did my best.
One day, when we were driving down St. James Street, we met Captain
Montagu coming up. He smiled, bowed, and would have passed on, but
Mrs. Warrington stopped the carriage. It was a moment of utter and
intense happiness to me, after the first confusion, to hear his voice
and meet his eyes once more.
Mrs. Warrington asked after his mother, and he looked grave as he
answered that she was really ill, and took his poor father's death
most grievously to heart. She had a cousin staying with her, and
Hector was at home now.
Mrs. Warrington begged him to call, and to come some evening to dine
in a friendly way. He replied that he was not going out at present,
but would come some night when they were quite alone. Then he wished
us good-by, and as we rolled on our way I felt radiant; everything
seemed to take a rosy hue. The days roll by, and he has not called.
Every afternoon I look eagerly over the array of cards. Sometimes a
black-bordered one raises hope in my breast, but only to dash it to
the ground on nearer inspection.
"Does he not care to see me?" I think, grieved in my very heart.
I meet many men, some of whom I like very much; most of them are kind
and pleasant to me, but not one in my eyes can be compared with him.
Colonel Fane is in town. I am always glad to see him: he seems, by
the side of my new acquaintances, quite an old friend.
Nearly a fortnight has elapsed, when one morning Mrs. Warrington,
amidst her numerous engagements, remembers that Captain Montagu has
not called.
"I will write a line and ask him to dine with us on Sunday," she
exclaims. "It is our only disengaged evening for a long time. By
the way, Diana" (drawing a sheet of paper before her), "did I not
hear that you had been staying at Alford?"
"I was there nearly a fortnight," I answer.
"Was Charlie at home?"
"Only for one day," I say, bending over my work.
"Hector of course was there?"
"Yes."
"And how did you get on with him?" (looking up at me).
"Oh, very well," I stammer.
"Do you like him?"
"Yes," I answer, indifferently.
"How came you to stay there?" Mrs. Warrington is evidently in a very
questioning mood.
"Lady Montagu asked me."
"And Hector--Sir Hector now--asked his mother to invite you, I
suppose. Ah, my dear, I have great hopes of seeing you Lady Montagu
yet!"
I feel a little impatient. "That you never will," I say, briskly.
"I do not mean to marry at all."
"Oh, indeed!" she rejoins, looking amused. "Well, time will show.
But I thought it was only girls who could not marry the object of
their affections who said that; and you have not had any opportunity
yet of contracting a hopeless attachment." And she laughs
good-humoredly.
Captain Montagu writes to say that he will dine on Sunday, and again
my spirits rise. It is seven o'clock on Thursday evening when I hear
the joyful intelligence: from that moment I count the hours until I
shall see him. As the time draws near, an overpowering anxiety
seizes me lest he should be prevented coming; if he is, I feel the
disappointment will be greater than I can bear.
I am not called on to bear it. Sunday comes. I attend morning
church with Mr. Warrington; we have visitors to lunch, visitors after
lunch; we take a stroll in the Park, sit under the trees, greet many
acquaintances, and the hours, however slowly they may drag themselves
along, do pass somehow to make way for the hours that will gallop
furiously as all hours do that are pleasant. And that they will be
pleasant it never enters my mind to doubt.
Eight o'clock comes at last, and with it the guest. It seems
happiness enough for the present to be in the same room with him, but
I have a vague expectation that at some time in the evening he will
find means to press my hand or whisper some kind word to me that will
give my hungry heart food to live upon until I see him again. During
dinner he laughs and talks much in his usual strain; perhaps he is a
shade more subdued; now and then he addresses some pleasant remark to
me, but there is nothing in his voice or glance that makes me feel as
if I were anything more to him than an ordinary acquaintance. After
dinner he asks me to sing, and we go together to the piano at the
farther end of the room, while Mr. and Mrs. Warrington subside into a
pleasant doze.
I feel my heart beating and my hands trembling as I turn over the
music. Has he nothing to say to me in memory of that moonlight night
in the woods with the silver primroses? Apparently nothing. I try
to sing, but something in my throat chokes me,--tears, perhaps. He
does not press me to continue, but talks about my visit to London,
the sights I have seen, the balls I have been to, the acquaintances I
have made.
"I am surprised," he says, laughing, "that you have not been to
Madame Tussaud's and the Tower."
"I should like to see the Tower," I answer, "but I do not think
Madame Tussaud's would amuse me."
"I will ask Mrs. Warrington to come and lunch with me at the Tower,
and we will show you all the wonders, if you like. Mrs. Warrington,
will you come? and afterwards you must have tea in my rooms: you have
promised me dozens of times, but it has never come off yet."
Mrs. Warrington assents, the day is fixed, and presently Captain
Montagu takes his leave. I rush away to my room; my heart feels
ready to break; not by one little look or sign has he given me to
understand that he even remembers that "golden day" at Alford. I try
to pluck up my pride, to bring it to the rescue of my foolish love,
but it will not be goaded or urged, however sharp the lash with which
I scourge it. "I know--I always knew--I never could be anything to
him, but he might have shown some little sign that he remembered," I
keep on saying miserably to myself. I lose all hope. I do not even
look forward to the luncheon-party at the Tower. "Perhaps," I say
indignantly to myself, "he is afraid of my taking in serious earnest
what passed that night in the wood, and wishes to convince me that it
was only said in haste and repented at leisure. He might have
trusted me," I think, bitterly.
"Remember," says Mrs. Warrington, playfully, "I am not going to have
you fall in love with Charlie Montagu, both for your sake and his."
She does not dream how much too late her caution comes; that is one
mercy to be thankful for. I have tried so hard to feel bitter and
angry with him, and yet when he comes out to receive us, looking so
handsome and so glad to see us, the little mountain of wrath I have
labored to raise crumbles away to dust.
"We are to be a _parti carré_," he says, gayly, to Mrs. Warrington.
"We cannot tax Miss Carew to do third to our flirtation, can we? And
she would not do it well. It wants a great deal of experience to
make a good third. So I have asked Seldon; you know him, I think."
"Slightly," Mrs. Warrington answers. Then she looks at me and
whispers something to Captain Montagu, and they both laugh.
"Here he is," says the latter, as a hansom rattles up. "How are you,
Seldon? You know Mrs. Warrington. Miss Carew. Lord Seldon."
The new-comer has a very bright, cheery face. He looks extremely
young,--younger, I should think, than he is, or his education would
hardly be completed; he is very fair, with light-blue eyes, a large
nose, and a good-tempered mouth, shaded by the silkiest down; not
handsome, certainly, but perhaps if he were not standing next to
Captain Montagu he might be rather good-looking. He reminds me ever
such a little bit of Curly. We get on famously together: he makes me
laugh as every now and then his natural boyishness peeps through his
assumption of manhood. He has brought the sweetest Collie dog with
him, which he puts through a variety of performances for my benefit.
We look out of window together, and are very much amused by an
officer in a blue coat, who is superintending with evident anxiety
the trying on of the men's new red coats.
"I wish I was a soldier!--by George I do!" cries my young lord,
regretfully. "Isn't it an awful shame they wouldn't let me be one?"
"Why would they not?" I ask.
"My governor's so frightfully nervous; he thinks I should get killed;
and I am, unfortunately, the only son. He can't even bear me to go
out hunting. It's only a wonder I haven't broken my neck fifty
times, for his worrying me makes me do things I shouldn't otherwise,
just because I won't be made a molly-coddle of. Talking of
hunting,--I suppose you hunt?"
"No," I answer.
"What do you do?" (curiously). "You don't" (looking at me
doubtfully)--"surely you don't go about reading to old women and
teaching the choir?"
"Why," I ask, laughing, "am I bound to do either one or the other?"
"Well, you know," he answers, explanatorily, "I have two sisters: one
is rather--well, not exactly fast--lively, and she is never happy out
of the saddle; and the other,--the other is religious, and is always
taken up with what she calls parish-work. Parish-work!" he repeats,
with an accent of disgust: "doesn't it sound the reverse of tempting?
It's dreadful for me being between two fires!--my youngest sister is
always making fun of the eldest, and the eldest tries to sit upon the
youngest, and you know its rather a bore for me, because I like 'em
both. By the way" (with a rapid change of subject), "have you ever
seen polo? Of course you've seen polo?"
"Not yet," I say; "we are going one day, but I am not sure I shall
like it. I have an idea that it must be cruel."
"Cruel!--not a bit of it!--the ponies love it as much as the men: on
my honor they do. I've got the loveliest pony,--bought her of one of
the 9th. I give you my word when I go into the stable and say, 'Polo
day, old girl!' she pricks up her ears and neighs with delight."
"When you've quite done yarning, Seldon," calls Captain Montagu,
"bring Miss Carew to lunch."
Everything goes off pleasantly: that is to say, every one laughs and
talks and eats. After lunch, we go over the Tower, Captain Montagu
remaining in strict attendance on Mrs. Warrington. It is quite
evident he has resolved to have nothing more to say to me than to an
ordinary acquaintance; and, however bitterly I may feel it, I am
forced outwardly to acquiesce with a smile. My escort is exceedingly
lively: he makes fun of everything, and I cannot help laughing at his
sallies. It is not that they are very witty or have much point, but
his gay spirits are infectious, and I am ready to laugh at anything,
for I feel so near crying.
"Remember," says Captain Montagu, when we have seen everything and
emerge again into the open air, "the tea-party is still before you.
I have ordered it for half-past four. I will send for your carriage,
and Seldon and I will follow in a hansom."
But Mrs. Warrington insists upon their accompanying us in the
carriage.
How often have I thought about those rooms of which he once told me,
and wondered what they were like, and tried to picture him at home in
them.
"I feel quite a 'frisky matron,'" laughs good-natured Mrs.
Warrington, as he lets us in with his latch-key and then precedes us
up-stairs. "Diana, my dear, it is you who have led me into this."
"I wish," whispers young Seldon in my ear from behind, "you would
persuade her to come and have tea or lunch in my rooms. They're
rattling nice ones; though I don't mean to say for a moment they're
furnished like these."
Captain Montagu throws the door open, and we pass in.
"This _is_ charming!" exclaims Mrs. Warrington. "I must really
congratulate you. I have heard of your rooms before, but this quite
surpasses my expectations."
"I am delighted with your approval," he answers, gayly. "Have I
yours too, Miss Carew?" And, without waiting for my answer, he calls
his servant and gives some orders in an under-tone. I look round me.
The room is not large, but it would take hours, rather than minutes,
to inventory all the treasures in it. They seem scattered about in
careless profusion, but the carelessness is evidently the result of
most artistic study. The furniture is of ebony, covered in richest
satin, on which bloom roses embroidered in the land of roses; the
luxurious carpet laid down in the centre of the room is of an
exquisite shade of blue; the chandelier, sconces, mirror-frames, are
of Venetian glass, with raised flowers of rose-color and blue. Every
couch, every chair, every stool, is studiously luxurious; the walls
are covered with charming pictures; there are bronzes, statuettes,
groups of china, cabinets of rare wood, inlaid with Sèvres, and yet
the thing that strikes me as the most strange is that the room looks
as if it were lived in; there is even, however slight, the faintest
_soupçon_ of cigar-smoke. Mrs. Warrington detects it at once.
"You do not mean to say," she says, in a horrified tone, "that you
smoke here?"
"Not often," he answers. "Only when I am quite alone; but my
smoking-room adjoins, and it will creep through, you know. Come and
see my bedroom. I have one or two things I want to show you. I must
not ask Miss Carew" (laughing). "Seldon, make yourself very
entertaining till we come back."
"Do you think she would come if I asked her?" whispers the latter,
indicating the retreating figure of Mrs. Warrington with a gesture of
his head.
"I do not know," I answer.
"Do persuade her, some day after the Park. I should be so awfully
proud and delighted if you would both lunch with me, and I'd ask
Montagu too" (as if catching at a happy thought); "they seem to be so
fond of each other. I didn't know" (irreverently) "that he had such
a taste for old women."
I half laugh, half sigh, as I think to myself what is the object of
all this attention towards my friend.
"Blankshire is your county, is it not?" inquires my _vis-à-vis_, in
an interested tone, and I respond affirmatively.
I think he has had the conversation chiefly to himself all the
afternoon, but he seems quite equal to it.
"I don't know many people there, but I shall try and get some
invitations this winter. By the way, I dare say Montagu would ask
me; he lives not very far from you, doesn't he?"
"About fifteen miles," I say.
"Do you see much of him?"
"Nothing at all,--at least" (correcting myself) "very little."
"By George!" (opening his blue eyes), "I know if I lived within
fifteen miles you'd see a good deal of me."
At this very barefaced compliment from my youthful companion I am so
inordinately diverted that I laugh outright. He colors up, and
begins to trace rather viciously with his stick a rose-blossom that
looks as though it had fallen by some happy accident on the couch
where it lies.
"That lovely rose," I cry, in terror of seeing the stick go through
it: "pray don't spoil it!"
"Why did you laugh?" he asks, desisting as I beg him, but still
looking slightly aggrieved.
"I hardly know," I say, trying to compose my features to gravity.
"Perhaps because you reminded me rather of Curly."
"Who is Curly?--some very mirth-inspiring fellow?"
"Curly is my brother. By the way, I wonder if he was at Eton with
you. I suppose you were at Eton?" (interrogatively).
"When did he go?"
"Three years last January."
Lord Seldon glances at me with rather a disgusted expression.
"Pray, how old do you take me for?" he says, lifting a dainty
shell-like cup, wreathed with raised strawberries, and putting it
down again with as little care as if it was a mug with "For a good
boy" inscribed in gold letters upon it.
"I am a very bad hand at guessing ages," I reply. "Twenty?"
(thinking I will give him the benefit of a year's doubt).
"Twenty!" (indignantly). "I came of age last September. I am very
nearly twenty-two."
Here we are joined by the other members of the party.
"It is a good thing you have come," I say, trying to assume a gay
manner. "Lord Seldon has been very nearly doing a mischief to some
of your lovely things."
"No wonder," retorts my lord, with a shade of pique. "Such very
young children are not to be trusted with pretty things."
"Come and have tea," interrupts Captain Montagu, "and see what nectar
a wretched lonely bachelor can brew."
We follow him as he lifts a heavy portière and opens a door behind it.
"By George, Charlie!" exclaims his friend, in a tone that betrays a
mixture of admiration and regret, "what a fellow you are to think of
everything!"
The table is strewn with choice flowers; a great bowl of roses stands
in the centre; big strawberries peep from exquisitely-shaped china
dishes; grapes and flowers hang from Dresden baskets; every kind of
fanciful and pretty sweetmeat is heaped in shells and horns, or in
tiny baskets on the heads of Watteau-like shepherdesses. There is
not a single ornament on the table that is not of some quaint elegant
device; the chased silver service is a marvel of elegance, and the
jeweled Sèvres, from which we drink our delicious tea, must represent
a small fortune.
"You wicked, extravagant boy!" exclaims Mrs. Warrington, after having
praised everything with enthusiasm; "how dare you have such a taste
for splendor and luxury, with nothing to keep it up on but your
younger son's allowance of good looks?"
"That's the worst of these fellows," joins in Lord Seldon, so
plaintively that we all laugh: "they are so deuced good-looking and
have such taste. They think of things that never enter our brains."
"I must certainly set to work at once to get you a rich wife," says
Mrs. Warrington, little guessing what a dagger her playful words are
planting in my breast.
"Do!" Captain Montagu says, smiling lazily, and looking as utterly
unconscious as if he had never taken me in his arms and asked me to
be his wife. "Lots of my friends are looking out. I am quite ready
to be knocked down to the highest bidder." The others laugh: how can
I join them, when I am suffering the acutest pain that has ever yet
fallen to my lot?
"Your face is your fortune, eh, Charlie?" laughs Lord Seldon; then,
with a gesture of disgust, "But what a horrid bore to marry a woman
you didn't care for! What a horrid bore _not_ to marry the woman you
love!"
"My dear fellow," returns Captain Montagu, subsiding from his mirth
to unmistakable gravity, "if you marry the woman you love, yours will
be a very happy fate, and a very _exceptional_ one."
Mrs. Warrington rises to go. As the young men bid us good-by at the
carriage-door, she invites Lord Seldon to call upon her.
"Thanks; I shall be most delighted," he answers, beaming with smiles,
and shaking us as cordially by the hand as if we were his oldest
friends.
"That is on your account, Diana," says Mrs. Warrington, with a smile,
as we drive off. "He is the Duke of Landermere's only son. The duke
is a great invalid, and fabulously rich."