DIANA'S STORY.
Time passes by with lagging footsteps; I fancy his scythe has grown
rusty, so slowly and lingeringly it hacks and hews at the hours it
used to crop swiftly enough of old. I wake in the morning with a
dull sense of oppression, a feeling of misgiving that there is
something wrong, before even I am wide-awake enough to be conscious
of reality. The mornings that used to be so short, how long they are
now! How weary the hours from breakfast to lunch! What an eternity
from lunch to dinner! I have no heart to read: is not my own unhappy
romance sufficient for me? Less heart to sing; for how can I sing
without remembering _him_? If I try to work, my hands fall idle, and
my thoughts go back to the one golden day in May, which has made dark
all the days that follow. What is sunshine, what sweet scents, soft
breezes, fair scenes, to a soul out of tune! Take away happiness and
leave all that nature can give, and it is utterly barren and void;
but take sunshine, melody, zephyrs, and leave love and happiness, and
the world is yet full enough of joy: give both together, and you
have, not this world, but heaven. I am reluctant, almost, to visit
my poor: even they seem less to be pitied than formerly, when I came
out from their poor hovels into the sunshine thanking God who had
made me differ.
The long summer days creep on. When the great sun sets in his
glorious flood of golden waves behind the dark firs, I sigh, and say,
as though a weight were lifted from my soul, There is another day
gone. But the thought follows, Are there not a thousand more days in
store for you, each one as long, as dull, as prospectless? And yet
they say life is short. I begin to understand how it is with those
who say in the evening, "Would God it were morning!" and in the
morning, "Would God the day were done!"
But Curly is coming home: it will be different then: I shall brighten
up, and forget that I have been unhappy.
A few more long, weary days, in which I try to busy myself with
preparations for his home-coming, decorating his room, polishing his
gun, putting his fishing-tackle in order, and here he is at last.
He, at all events, is not changed: there has been nothing yet to
sadden or sober him; his voice is as ringing, his blue eyes as full
of mirth, his bright face--God bless it!--as handsome as ever. He is
just as affectionate, as glad to get back to us, as contented and
pleased with everything, as he always was. It is quite clear to me
that he has made up his mind I shall be Lady Seldon, or, as he will
always have it, Duchess of Landermere. He is a stanch friend, and
returns loyally to the charge again and again, undaunted by what he
is pleased to call my wicked perversity.
"I don't intend to marry at all, Curly," I reiterate. "I shall be an
old maid, and keep house for you."
"Many thanks," he says, coolly, "but that sort of thing never
answers. You and my wife would be sure to quarrel like blazes."
"Oh!" I return, opening my eyes, "you have a wife in view, then, have
you?"
"Of course I have," he says, magnificently. "I am convinced there is
nothing steadies a fellow like marrying young. Really, Di, I don't
see anything to laugh at," as I greet this announcement with a burst
of unrestrained merriment.
We are sitting at breakfast one morning towards the end of August,
when the post-bag is brought in. Papa gives me a letter with an
elaborately heavy monogram, addressed in a hand which puzzles me at
first sight to decide whether it is a man's or a woman's. A letter
is so rare an event with me that I like to make as much as possible
of it by minutely examining the exterior and guessing at its possible
contents before I proceed to make myself master of them. I am trying
to decipher the letters of the monogram, when a jubilant exclamation
from Curly causes me to look up.
"Hurrah! Here, dad, cast your eye over this."
"My dear Curly," papa reads, aloud, and, having read so much, turns
with some curiosity to the signature. "Gwyneth Desborough," he says,
raising his eyebrows.
I can see distinctly, as he holds the letter, that the large
masculine hand is the same as that in which my letter is addressed.
Papa reads on:
"You promised me a visit, and I want you to come over on the 31st and
have a shot at the partridges. We shall only be a small party, the
Warringtons and Colonel Montagu among them, but there will be good
sport, and you must come. I shall take no denial, but ride over and
fetch you myself if you send an excuse. I've just bought a lovely
chestnut mare. You shall ride her, for she wants very light
handling, and I have not allowed any one to get on her back but
myself yet. We'll have some jolly rides together. By the same post
I have written your sister.
"Most sincerely yours,
"GWYNETH DESBOROUGH."
A feeling of blighting disappointment comes across me. There is so
little time left for Curly to be with us, not much more than three
weeks, and this woman, whom I dislike more than any one I have ever
met, is to take our boy from us.
"Quick, Di, read your letter," cries Curly. "Oh, dad, how awfully
jolly it will be!"
"Then you have quite made up your mind to go?" says papa, a twinge of
pain contracting his face.
"Oh, dad!" answers our boy, his bright face falling, "it would be
_such_ a chance. But, of course" (ruefully), "if you object----" And
there he pauses, not having the heart to offer to give it up.
Meantime I have opened my letter, and read:
"DEAR MISS CAREW,
"I hope your brother will be able to come to us on the 31st, and it
will give us much pleasure if you will accompany him. If you care
for riding, and will bring your habit, I have one or two quiet horses
in the stable that might suit you."
"Lady Gwyneth is very kind," I say, with a curling lip, "but I shall
not tax her hospitality."
"Why is that, Di?" asks papa.
"In the first place, I hate her," I return, vindictively. "She is a
horrid woman!"
"Don't believe her, dad!" cries Curly, flushing up. "She's an
awfully nice woman, and I like her tremendously. Really, Di, I
wonder at you: you used not to be spiteful."
"I am not spiteful," I retort, vindicating myself with some warmth.
"_You_ would not like her, papa. She cuts her hair short, and tries
to be like a man, and talks loud, and smokes, and says rude things to
everybody."
"Not a very pleasing picture, certainly," papa remarks. "Well,
Curly, what have you to say for the defense?"
"I know she was awfully nice and kind to me," replies Curly; "but of
course women never have a good word for each other."
Papa and I exchange a smile.
"My dear fellow," says papa, "don't take opinions at second-hand,
particularly on the subject of women. If you don't find out, when
your turn for the experience comes, that there are plenty of women
who are neither jealous nor spiteful nor selfish, why, it will be a
very unlucky one, and very different from mine."
"All right, dad," remarks Curly, getting up, and indulging in a soft
whistle to himself as he goes out of the room.
"I suppose he must go," I say, in a dejected tone, as the door closes.
"If he does," papa answers, "I should like you to go with him."
"That I will not!" I cry, hastily. "There is nothing I should
dislike so much; and it is easy enough to see by her letter that she
only asks me out of bare civility."
"My dear," papa returns, with decision, "I most particularly wish you
to go if Curly does; and I suppose" (sighing) "we must not disappoint
him. I fancy it is rather a fast kind of house; and I should not
like him to be there alone. Your presence would be a restraint upon
him, and if you saw anything you did not approve you could write to
me, and I would make an excuse for summoning you both home. I know
there are many men and women who (more shame to them) like to draw a
boy out and make a fool of him, whilst all the time he is thinking
himself a very fine fellow. If," papa adds, sorrowfully, "I could
have pleasant parties for him at home, and invite his friends here, I
would not hear of his going to Lady Gwyneth's; but, under existing
circumstances, I have no heart to deny him a pleasure that he covets
so much."
"Oh, papa," I entreat, "don't ask me to go. I should hate it so."
"But Mrs. Warrington will be there. You will in all probability see
very little of your hostess. Well, well, I leave it to you and Curly
to settle between you."
Need I say what the result is? Of course I consent, and when the day
comes, however reluctant, however prescient of an unpleasant "time,"
of course I go.
"I wonder who Colonel Montagu is?" says Curly: "some relation of the
Alford people, I suppose."
"Sir Hector had a brother Colonel Montagu," I respond, briefly.
"That's who it is, then, of course."
This is the second time that Curly and I are starting on a visit
together. He is even more joyous and full of anticipation than when
we were going to Warrington; but as for me, my heart is like lead
within me; every step that takes us nearer to the Castle sends my
spirits an infinitesimal bit lower. It is a long drive, but we come
at last to the castellated lodge, and the gates are opened for us.
"'Leave all hope, ye who enter here,'" I think, dismally, to myself,
as they shut with a clang behind us. Why does this strange
foreboding hang like lead upon me?
The drive up to the house is magnificent, through an avenue of the
grandest, stateliest trees I have ever seen, and after half a mile of
them we emerge from their splendid gloom into a broad space all
ablaze with vivid glorious color, whence not one subtle shade of the
prism seems wanting.
As we descend from the carriage, some one comes towards me from the
broad doorway. No, not for the fairest gift in the world, not to
save my own head, can I keep back the traitorous blood from my face,
or the tremulous quiver from the hand that he takes in his. It is
Captain Montagu.
"What! _you_ here?" cries my brother, with enthusiasm. "How jolly!
Why, Lady Gwyneth wrote that Colonel Montagu was coming; and we
thought it must be your uncle."
"Myself. 'Not Launcelot nor another!'" he answers, laughing. "Did
you not hear that I had got my step?"
"No: you don't mean to say you are a colonel! Well, you're a jolly
young one, at all events," returns Curly. "Where's Lady Gwyneth?"
"She has gone out riding, and left me to do M.C. She told me to tell
you if you came in pretty good time that you were to be sure and go
to meet them; there is a horse ready, and a man to show you the way.
Off with you!" And Curly, needing no second bidding, darts away like
a shot. "Won't you come into the garden?" he adds to me: "it is much
pleasanter than the house. By the way, have some tea first: Lady
Gwyn commissioned me to look after you and do everything that was
right."
"No tea, thank you. Yes, I should like to see the gardens." And we
stroll away together.
If I had only guessed this, I tell myself, not all the brothers in
the world should have got me here; and yet my traitorous soul keeps
giving little throbs of pleasure at being near him once more, at
looking through my furtive eyes at his handsome, pleasant face.
"I did not know until to-day that you were coming," he says, as we
turn off the broad terrace on to the turf. "Have you been here
before?--I mean in the old time when poor B---- had it. It was one
of the most charming houses in the county. Now" (and he turns with
an accent of disgust and looks up at the great structure), "horrible,
isn't it?"
I take a long survey of the range of building. To the right is the
old part, gray with age, stained, moss-grown, weather-worn, but
stately and regal; and to the left, brand-new, garish, with
plate-glass windows, and a trumpery attempt at imitation of the
veteran building, is the gigantic wing built by its present owner.
"Look at all the brand-new coats of arms of the Desboroughs," says my
companion, laughing; "and see just that one of the late owner over
the doorway: the coronet is nearly worn away with age. Poor fellow!
he did a bad stroke of work for himself when he helped his father to
cut off the entail. By Jove! I never saw a family go to the devil
as they have done."
"I should have thought Lady Gwyneth, at all events, would have had
better taste," I say, replying to the first part of his sentence.
"Poor Lady Gwyneth! she declares this place is a perfect nightmare
to her: you know it was all done before her time, and, as she says,
these _nouveaux riches_ can't shake themselves free of their own
newness; they don't fancy anything unless it is fresh from the shop."
"It is very nice and wifely of her to say such things," I return,
dryly; and then, with energy, "It is mean and despicable enough of a
woman to marry for money under any circumstances, but I think it is
far meaner to ridicule and hold up to contempt the man to whom she is
indebted for everything."
"We are walking down the long green slopes to the lake lying in a
vast hollow. He turns to me with lazy amusement in his eyes.
"Poor little Lady Gwyn!" he utters. "But you never did like her, I
remember."
"Never" (with energy). "I dare say you think it strange my coming
here at all. I did not want to: it was only to please Curly. Papa
would not let him come without me."
We have reached the water: by its margin are clumps of shady trees,
with seats under their wide branches, and here we seat ourselves.
"Charming piece of water, is it not?" he says. "I wonder if there
are any carp in it? Do you remember our carp-fishing that gold----"
(hesitating) "that day at Alford?"
"I remember your catching some in a net," I answer, trying to speak
indifferently.
"In the net?--yes," he echoes, absently. "By the way, have you seen
Hector since he has been invested with his new dignity?"
"I have not seen him since I was at Alford."
There is a pause, during which I look away at the far blue cloudless
sky, at the shining water, at the rushes, at the sloping sward, at
everything but him, and he, I feet, has his eyes fixed upon me.
"And so," he says, presently, after sating his curiosity or whatever
other feeling may have impelled his long gaze,--"And so you refused
Seldon."
"I never said so," I replied, quickly.
"No; but he did. Poor lad! he was awfully cut up, and buttonholed
everybody about his hopeless suit. Lady Egidia nearly caught him at
the rebound, but not quite."
I make no answer. I am wishing with bitter energy that I had not
come.
"You do not approve of any but love-marriages," he goes on, cruelly.
"I wonder you still believe in love, after having gone through a
London season. Most of the people I know who get on worst married
for love. What is that French saying--you would not know it, of
course, though, and I never could remember a quotation in my life.
Let me see" (trying to think): "it is _àpropos_ of marriage,--so many
months of worship, so many years of hatred, and the rest
indifference. Under these circumstances it does not much matter whom
one marries; does it?"
"Under _those_ circumstances, no," I answer, coldly.
"I suppose," he continues, "if you think it mean and despicable in a
woman to marry for money you would think it still worse in a man;
should you not? Suppose, for instance, I were to tell you that I
think of contracting an alliance with the cousin of our host; you
would feel a great contempt for me,--perhaps never speak to me again?"
I answer him by never a word.
"Perhaps you may not know that Desborough has a cousin, the only
child of his uncle, who was partner with his father; only this one
was not filled with a lofty ambition like his brother, did not change
his name to Desborough, nor anything else, but was contented with the
homely appellation of Puggins. Miss Puggins is not lovely; she has
reddish hair, freckles, a soap-and-candle kind of complexion, and
hands--not hands, paws. But Miss Puggins will have a hundred
thousand pounds on her wedding-day, and another hundred thousand at
the demise of Puggins _père_; and Lady Gwyneth, who is very
good-natured, though you do not like her, is doing her best to make
up the match."
I look up at him
"With some surprise, and thrice as much disdain,"
but never a word do I answer.
"You have a very speaking countenance," he says, turning away from me.
"Have I?" I cry, my passionate anger and contempt breaking into words
at last. "I am glad to hear it. I should like to be sure that I
look what I feel, for there are no words that I know of which would
express it."
A strange look comes over his face as I speak. Suddenly he stretches
out his arms to me.
"Oh, darling, for God's sake!" he cries, and then turns sharply and
walks away from me along the lake's margin.
And I, maddened with bitter pain and anger, take my way swiftly back
to the house.