DIANA'S STORY.
My heart is full of grief at the shattering of my idol; for shattered
he is, crumbled into dust, this fair fetish, golden with my faith,
jeweled with my love. The gold has turned to dross, the jewels are
bits of gaudy painted glass that have no worth. With all my wish to
shield him, with the humblest consciousness of my own unworthiness,
my sense of justice will creep in and whisper to me with relentless
iteration that he has not done by me the thing that is right. Did I
expect anything from him? Did I in my wildest dreams hope to be
anything to him? Would I have permitted him to sacrifice himself to
me, even if he had really willed it? No. I had only asked of him
that one small boon,--to be allowed to think that he cared a little
for me. And it would have been so easy. One meaning pressure of my
hand, one look of his eyes into mine, I should have been content, and
we would have held to the bargain which he made with me that May
night with the nightingales and the pale primroses for witnesses.
"And now," I think, bitterly, "I am numbered among those other women
in whose society he could not be ten minutes without making love to
them." Have any of them, I wonder, with pained curiosity, suffered
as I am doing? Who feels any pity for disappointment in love? Pity!
nay, rather it is a cause for mirth: it is like a cold in the
head,--however uncomfortable for the time, it is not dangerous, the
patient will get over it. There is one mighty consolation I can hug
to my breast: my secret is in my own keeping: if my life has grown
blank, if my cherished illusions are scattered to the four winds if
my heart within me is consumed by pain, it is unguessed at by those
around me. I talk, laugh, dance, do all that is expected of me, and
doubtless am considered very fortunate and enviable. And so I am, I
tell myself over and over again,--very fortunate, very enviable: not
to think myself so would be rank ingratitude to the friends who are
so kind to me. How altogether delightful the life I am leading would
be if--if there were no ifs!
Captain Montagu does not come again to the house during our stay in
town, although Mrs. Warrington invites him more than once; but his
friend is a frequent guest. He has become a great favorite with both
Mr. and Mrs. Warrington, he is so bright and cheery, so full of all a
boy's pranks and spirits, and he makes himself most perfectly at
home. He persuades Mrs. Warrington into the lunch at his rooms; he
insists upon a Greenwich dinner for the especial purpose of
initiating me into that hitherto unknown delight; he cajoles us into
driving down on hot afternoons to witness his prowess at polo; he
wins over Mrs. Warrington to let him drive me down to Richmond on his
drag, with Mr. Warrington in attendance as chaperon, after
considerable demur, I must say, on her part; he goes down to Eton
with us to see Curly, and the two become fast friends at once; we
meet him constantly at balls, and he is oftener my partner than any
one else (for he dances perfectly),--though, counseled by my
chaperon, I refuse his appeals when they become too frequent or too
importunate. He does me good. I feel ten times more cheerful in his
company: he reminds me of Curly grown older and less handsome. One
night at a ball, before I have the least idea of what he is going to
do, he takes me up to a very stately lady ablaze with diamonds.
"Miss Carew," he says, "I want to introduce you to my mother.
Mother, you have often heard me speak of Miss Carew."
In the embarrassment caused by the suddenness and unexpectedness of
his movement, I blush and look conscious,--the very last thing I
would have elected to do, could I have controlled myself. The
duchess receives me with perfect politeness, but in a manner that
convinces me the introduction is as unwelcome to her as to me. Her
son remarks it too, I think, for he colors uneasily, and very soon
leads me away,--to my infinite relief. As we are passing into
another room, a handsome woman taps him on the arm with her fan.
"Lord Seldon, how is it we never see you now? You are quite a
stranger."
He makes what I consider rather a brusque response, and hurries on.
"That," he whispers, with an accent of disgust, when we are out of
earshot,--"that is the woman my mother wants me to marry."
"Why, she must be years older than you!" I remark, betraying my
surprise very plainly in my voice; and then I fall to laughing.
"What a ridiculous idea!" I continue, uttering my thoughts aloud, for
we are very free of speech to each other.
"I don't know so much about its being ridiculous," he says, rather
huffily; "if you said unsuitable, now----"
"I don't mean that," I hasten to explain. "The ridiculousness was
the idea of a boy like you thinking of marrying at all." We have
sunk upon a couch, and I am still laughing. "I shall expect to hear
next that Curly is looking out for a wife."
Lord Seldon, for once, does not join in my mirth; the color mounts to
his face, and he looks at me with angry curiosity.
"Is your amusement genuine?" he asks, "or is it put on for the
occasion?"
"Do I look as if it were put on?" I say, not quite able, in spite of
his evident displeasure, to resume my gravity.
"If I am not a man now," he says, with an air of importance which
nearly sets me off again, "I'm afraid I haven't much chance of ever
becoming one. I am of age, I can marry to-morrow if I choose, and,
what's more, I can marry whom I choose," he adds, looking at me with
exultation.
"Very well," I say, smiling. "Ask me to the wedding."
"If you are not there," he says, fixing his eyes on me with an
expression I do not quite understand, "I don't know who will be."
At this moment my partner for the waltz claims me, and I go off,
leaving my lord sitting, with rather a sulky expression, on the couch.
"Seldon will be getting into disgrace," says the new-comer, as he
leads me away. "I see Mrs. Hastings looking daggers at him, and Lady
Egidia anything but pleased."
"Why?" I ask.
"Oh, you know he is generally in close attendance upon Mrs. Hastings;
and it is popularly supposed that he is to marry Lady Egidia."
"Oh!" I answer, being somewhat puzzled by these rival claims.
"Lady Egidia and Mrs. Hastings don't mind each other," he proceeds,
explanatorily, "but they won't stand anybody else in the field, if
they can help it."
"Oh!" I say, again, not feeling much enlightened, but not wishing to
betray my ignorance by asking further information.
The days pass quickly by. Now there is only a week left, for we are
to leave town on the Monday following the Eton and Harrow match.
It is a lovely day, and we are going to a garden-party. It is to be
a very grand affair; royalty is expected, and I look forward to it
with some pleasure. Lord Seldon, who is lunching with us, asks Mrs.
Warrington to drive him down, but, for some reason best known to
herself, she refuses his most urgent entreaties.
"Never mind," he says, laughing. "I won't be got rid of in that way.
I'll get there first, and hang about the gate until you come."
He is as good as his word. The very first person we see upon
entering is his noble self.
"Did I not tell you so?" he whispers, triumphantly, a few minutes
later, as he joins me and we all go together to salute our hosts.
To all intents and purposes he might have gone down in the carriage
with us. The Duchess of Landermere and Lady Egidia are standing
among the group around the hostess; both dart angry glances in Lord
Seldon's direction, which that self-willed young gentleman chooses to
ignore utterly.
"Ah, mother, got here first, I see! How do, Lady Egidia?" And then
the abominable boy turns his back upon them and laughs, and whispers
to me in the most pointed manner. I feel rather angry with him.
"Why do you not join the duchess?" I say, in a low voice. "She is
evidently displeased, and Lady Egidia is looking daggers."
"Let them: who cares?" he answers, defiantly. "I am going to enjoy
myself. Come along; I'll show you all over the grounds. They're
awfully pretty,--well worth seeing. Mrs. Warrington, I am going to
do _cicerone_ to Miss Carew. You know what a good hand I am at that
sort of thing."
"Do not be away long," says Mrs. Warrington, smiling graciously, for
by this time we have moved off from the duchess's group, and are
mixed up with the general throng of guests.
"I'm in tremendous spirits to-day," says the young fellow, gayly.
"Let's get out of the way of all these people, and then we can enjoy
ourselves. I've got a new hat on, and the brim will be off presently
if I have to take it off much more" (performing as he speaks repeated
salutations right and left, in answer to the gracious bows that are
being bestowed upon him from many members of my sex). "I only wish
to goodness they would invent some new mode of greeting; for
instance,--happy thought!--wave your hand to a man and kiss it to a
woman. By Jove! I'll get some one to start the idea."
We are getting out of the crowd now,--out of the sunshine, which is
rather oppressive, into a shady avenue of fine old trees. We have it
all to ourselves. Here and there comfortable garden-chairs are
placed in niches at long intervals. My companion flings himself into
one, takes off his hat, stretches his arms, and gives vent to a sigh
of intense relief.
"This _is_ bliss!" he ejaculates. "Now," turning to me with dancing
eyes and the most radiant expression of face, "guess why I have
brought you here!" And, before I can utter a word, he seizes both my
hands, and cries, "I love you, and I have brought you here, however
ridiculous it may be" (a look of triumph belying his words), "to ask
you to be my wife."
To say I am astonished would be to give very poor expression to the
bewilderment that overpowers my senses. Honestly and truthfully, I
had no more idea of such a climax to our merry friendship
than--than--oh, why does not some one invent a new set of similes?
"Well?" he says, joyously, looking eagerly in my face as though there
was but one answer possible to his appeal, and then again yet more
eagerly and with a dash of impatience. "Well?"
I feel as perplexed as I might do if my pug-dog were to become
suddenly unmanageable. Then I say, still leaving my hands in his,
and looking blankly at him,--
"My dear boy, have you taken leave of your senses?"
"What do you mean?" he cries, drawing back for a moment in angry
surprise. "Why do you look so astonished? You knew--you must have
known for days past--what was coming; at all events, every one else
did."
We are still staring at each other, both acted upon by the same
emotion of surprise; but his is marked by angry incredulity, and mine
is nothing but the pure, simple, unadulterated feeling.
"Di," he says, appealingly, evidently making an effort over himself,
"of course I know it's the correct thing, at least I've always heard
so, for girls to pretend to be surprised and get up a little bit of
acting, that they mayn't seem to jump at a fellow; but I should have
thought you were above that sort of thing; and, besides, you know me
so well" (reproachfully), "and that I mean all I say, so there isn't
any need for that sort of humbug between us."
If I were not so sorry, I should feel inclined to smile at the boy's
unconscious egotism; but I am sorry, and vexed with myself too. Is
it possible there can have been anything in his manner I ought to
have seen or guessed at if I had not been so blindly taken up with my
own unhappy, miserable love?
"Come," I say, coaxingly, laying my hand on his arm, and humoring
him, as one might a child one was persuading to something unpleasant;
"let us talk calmly and rationally."
"Calmly and rationally!" he says, the angry tears starting to his
blue eyes; "calmly and rationally!" (with indignant
iteration),--"when I've been thinking and dreaming of nothing but you
for days and nights, and last night I never closed my eyes for
thinking how happy I was going to be to-day. But" (with a sudden
change of manner, bringing his fair young face close to mine, and
speaking in a pleading voice) "you are not in earnest, really,
darling? You do care a little bit about me. If it's only because
you think I'm too young, T shall soon mend of that. After all, I am
two years older than you."
All the time that he is pouring out his impetuous words, I am looking
regretfully at his bright, young, impassioned face, and wondering
what I can say to make him sec reason.
"Lord Seldon," I begin.
"Don't call me that!" he exclaims, impatiently: "call me Hubert, or,
better still, Bertie."
"Very well, Bertie," I say. At which he seizes my hand and kisses
it. "No," I cry, drawing it away, "you must not do that. Sit
farther away, or I cannot talk to you."
He starts up in a rage.
"Oh, of course, if I disgust you," he begins, furiously, "there's an
end of everything."
I feel petrified by the airs of manhood he is giving himself. I
really do not know how to treat him. Suddenly it occurs to me to
meet him on his own ground. Rising, I say,--
"Perhaps you will be so good as to take me back to Mrs. Warrington."
"Certainly," he answers, with bitter politeness.
We walk silently side by side a few yards, then he turns off to the
left along a smaller avenue, and, turning once again, we find
ourselves in an open space, laid with velvety turf, in the centre of
which a fountain plays into a marble basin.
"This is not the way back," I say.
"No," he answers. "Sit down here with me a moment." And, as I sit
on the edge of the wide basin, he throws himself down on the sward.
"Now," he says, looking up at me, "it is your turn. You haven't
really said anything; it has only been your face that has spoken;
but, anyhow, that was plain enough."
And he tilts the brim of his hat over his eyes, that he may look up
into my face.
"Don't you know," I cry, regretfully, "how much I like you, and that
I would not willingly give you pain" (hesitating), "any more than I
would Curly?"
"Curly!" (impatiently)--"a boy of sixteen! Any one would imagine you
were an old woman. Why will you persist in thinking of me only as a
boy?"
"It's not that," I say, hastily. "I have thought of you in that way;
but, even if I were ten years older, I could not look upon you as
anything but a friend. Let me be your friend."
As I utter the word, my thoughts fly back to that night at Alford,
when Hector Montagu and I sat together under the bent boughs of the
old tree beside the glittering water. I can see the angry scorn
flashing from his eyes as I proffer him all I have to give,--my
friendship.
Such scorn, though differing in intensity as the man's dark face
differs from the boy's fair young one, comes into Lord Seldon's eyes.
"Friend!" he says. "Thanks; I have plenty of friends. I don't want
your friendship; I ask for your love. And if you won't give me that,
I have at all events a right to know" (passionately) "why, after
seeming to care for me, you throw me over."
"Won't you believe me," I cry, eagerly, "when I tell you that I no
more dreamed of your being--well, in love with me, than" (in my usual
strait for a simile)--"than the Prince of Wales?"
"How was it, then, that every one else saw it?" (incredulously).
"Mrs. Warrington saw it, Lady Egidia saw it plain enough, my mother
saw it. I have heard of nothing else this week past."
I see a loophole of escape in his last words.
"It is very evident," I say, "if the duchess saw it that she did not
approve of it. I could not help remarking even this afternoon how
vexed she looked to see you with me, and you can hardly say she
looked pleased when you introduced me to her that night. However
much I might like a man," I add, with dignity, "it is very unlikely I
should accept him if his family disapproved of me."
"Is _that_ all?" he cries, eagerly, jumping up and coming to sit
beside me on the edge of the fountain. "My darling, don't let a
thought of that enter your brain. My mother is a little bit crusty
just now because she has set her heart on my marrying Lady Egidia;
but she worships me; if she knew that I couldn't live without
you,--and I couldn't; I should blow my brains out,--she would come to
you on her knees and ask you to marry me. Besides, if it comes to
that, your family's an older one than ours."
"That may be," I answer, promptly, "but our position now is not equal
to yours, and, if you married me, people would think you had thrown
yourself away."
"Let them think, and be hanged to them. Who cares?" he cries,
impetuously.
I give vent to a sigh. After all, I am not a whit nearer a
satisfactory ending than when I began.
"What am I to say to you?" I cry, in despair. "I cannot marry you,
because I do not love you."
He throws himself on his knees before me, regardless of the havoc
that the green moss may make with his light trousers, and, whether I
will or no, puts both his arms round me and looks up into my face.
"But, darling," he cries, passionately, "you would in time. If you
like me as you say you do now, surely I'm not such a beast that you
couldn't get to love me. Don't break my heart; for God's sake do try
and care for me; there's nothing in this world I won't do if you will
only give me some hope!"
He buries his face in my lap, and a horrible suspicion comes across
me that he is crying. The fountain sends up its sparkling stream
into the sunshine, faintly from afar the notes of the "Blue Danube"
are wafted towards us, but nor sunshine nor music can lighten the
load that weighs upon my heart. I look down at the fair-haired head
and the broad young shoulders, and a sorrowful thought comes across
me that some day Curly may be pleading to some woman in vain. What
can I say to him? A sudden inspiration comes to me, and I act upon
it as suddenly, without a moment's reflection as to whether I may not
regret it later.