DIANA'S STORY.
The next day passes without any incident. I am rather more friendly
with Lord Rexborough,--rather less so with Lady Gwyneth. It is
evident that she can scarcely control herself to be commonly civil to
me.
The day after that is Sunday. We are later than usual: it is a
quarter-past ten before we sit down to breakfast, and nobody looks as
if they meant going to church. I inquire diffidently of my hostess
if their church is near.
"Are you thinking of going?" she asks, rather superciliously.
"Perhaps you would like a carriage. It is half a mile off."
"No, thank you," I return. "You will come, won't you?" (to Curly).
"I don't know," he answers, undecidedly. "We get such a jolly lot of
it at Eton, that I don't suppose it would do me much harm to stop
away for once."
"Do come," I say, in a persuasive _sotto voce_.
"Go with sister, like a dear good little boy," interposes Lady
Gwyneth, mockingly. "She's afraid to leave you alone with me: I
might tempt you into some mischief. And it's much nicer hearing old
Clarke droning away, and the charity children singing out of tune
through their noses, than going round the stables, and perhaps
indulging in the sinful game of croquet."
Of course that decides him, as it is intended to do. As I wend my
way to church alone, I am afraid my thoughts are not as holy and
charitable as they should be. "Never mind," I say, consolingly, to
my wounded spirit; "get through to-day and to-morrow, and then your
misery will be over."
It is a dreary afternoon. Colonel Montagu is rowing the heiress on
the lake. Lady Gwyneth has gone driving in her phaeton, and has
taken Curly, principally, I believe, with the amiable intention of
annoying me. Lord Rexborough and Lady Audrey have disappeared
together, and I am left to my own devices. They are rather dull
ones, it must be confessed, consisting chiefly of ingeniously
tormenting exercises of mind and memory. When my host, in pity of my
evidently lonely and neglected condition, bids me to a long walk with
him, I acquiesce gratefully. His companionship may afford me very
little pleasure, but it is in any case better than my own, and I am
fond of walking for its own sake. I endure patiently his talk of the
great ones of the earth, of whom I know something more than when I
first met him at Warrington last winter. In the evening they play
cards, as usual. Curly declines at first, but Lady Gwyneth laughs
him out of his scruples.
"I can't think how your morals get on, Curly," she says, scoffingly,
"when you have not your sister to look after them."
"Ah," says Lord Rexborough, championing me, to my surprise, "if I had
had such a sister to look after my morals, I should have been a
precious deal better fellow than I am. Don't mind being laughed at,
my boy; and never be ashamed to be influenced for good."
Lady Gwyneth looks up at him, her eyes flashing with angry surprise.
"If you think so much of good influences," she utters, with a bitter
sneer, "why don't you look out for some good, young woman to convert
you? A wife would be even better than a sister."
He answers her by a look which even I can read. It says, "You know
why I do not;" and she drops her angry eyes, and the conversation too.
My boy playing cards on Sunday night! I do not know that it is
actually wicked,--far be it from me to condemn any one,--but, though
we have not had a religious education, we should as soon have thought
of staying away from church on a Sunday morning, or card-playing on
Sunday evening, as of flying.
Curly has not yet ridden the chestnut.
"After all your promises, Lady Gwyn," he says, reproachfully, at
breakfast, on Monday morning.
"You shall ride her to-night," she answers. "There is my hand on
it." And she extends it to him. Curly, blushing a little, kisses it.
"Bravo, young one!" shouts Lord Rexborough, with a hearty laugh.
"Isn't he charming?" says Lady Gwyneth, laying a caressing hand upon
his shoulder. "If I only had him for a month without any
counteracting influences, he would be quite perfect."
"Patience!" I think, grinding my teeth; "patience until to-morrow."
I make one more effort. I follow her to her den, thinking grimly how
my boy's bones (morally) would be lying whitening there if she had
him for that month she spoke of alone.
"I entreat you once more," I cry, earnestly, "not to let him ride
that chestnut. I know it is not safe."
As usual, she makes me a scornful answer.
"It may be nothing to you," I return, hotly, "but, if anything
happened to him, papa and I should never get over it."
"I have given my word," she answers, coldly, "and I can assure you I
have not the least intention of breaking it."
"Then," I cry, passionately, "if anything happens to him, it is on
your head! if he is killed, you will have _murdered_ him!"
"Miss Carew, you forget yourself," she says, imperiously.
"I shall never forget you, nor how you have tried to ruin Curly," I
answer, bitterly, and turn to go. All day long I am tormented by
fear. As four o'clock chimes, the hour appointed for the start, my
mind is at fever-heat: at first I think of shutting myself in my room
and not seeing them off, but something impels me to go down. The
horses are at the door. Curly, radiant with delight, is preparing to
mount.
"You get up first," Lady Gwyneth says to him, "and ride gently down
the avenue. She gets fidgety if she is kept waiting."
The chestnut violently resists being mounted. She plunges, and
almost breaks away from the groom who holds her. Colonel Montagu is
standing close to me: in an agony of nervousness I clutch hold of his
arm.
"Do not be afraid," he says, kindly. "She will be all right when he
is on her back."
Will she? He is in the saddle, and she is bucking, plunging, rearing
with all her might. I am sick with terror; my legs fail me. I
should fall if Colonel Montagu did not put a strong arm round me.
"Let her go!" cries Lady Gwyneth. "Don't pull at her."
As the words are in her mouth, the chestnut rears up on end: it seems
to my agonized eyes as though she will never come down again.
"Get him off! get him off! oh, I pray, I entreat you!" I cry, tearing
myself from Colonel Montagu. "Oh, have mercy upon me!"
In my agony, I hardly know what I am doing or saying. I push him
violently forward.
Curly is pale, but he is still in the saddle.
"Better get off, my boy," cries Colonel Montagu, going towards him.
But, whilst he speaks, the chestnut rears again, quivers in the air,
totters, and falls back with him under her. Oh, my God! She makes a
furious plunge, but he--he is lying dead, stone dead, on the ground
before my eyes! I am beside him! Lady Gwyneth is there too.
"Go away!" I shriek, dragging her off. "Do not dare to touch him!
It is you who have murdered him!"
She goes without a word.
"I will fetch the doctor myself," she mutters. "I shall go quicker
than any one."
I fling myself down beside my dead boy, I take his beautiful
golden-haired head in my arms, and cry, "Oh, how shall I tell papa?"
That is my first thought. They are all standing round me, except
Lady Gwyneth, and now Colonel Montagu bends down and whispers, "Let
us take him in;" and I move aside, and he and Lord Rexborough take up
my boy tenderly, and I follow them to the house.
"Best take him up-stairs at once," they whisper to each other, and
they carry him up and lay him on his own bed. And all this time I am
thinking with dull agony of papa. How will he bear it?--how shall I
comfort him?--who will break it to him? And in my pain I turn to the
man I have loved.
"Will you go to him?" I say, with trembling, faltering lips. "Will
you tell him? You will not mind the trouble, will you? And, oh!
break it to him gently; do not tell him all at once; it would kill
him!"
"Of course I will go, this very instant," he says. "Oh, my poor
child" (his blue eyes growing wet with pity), "try and bear up. If I
could only make you know how grieved I am for you!"
"Yes, I know, I know," I answer, hastily. "But do not wait; go at
once, pray go."
He goes, and Lord Rexborough and I are left alone.
"We cannot tell till the doctor comes," he whispers, kindly. "I've
often seen fellows look like death with concussion of the brain."
I shake my head. "He is dead," I say,--"dead." I have taken up my
post at the bed-head to watch the beautiful marble face that not ten
minutes ago was flushed with health and pleasure. A sort of stony
feeling creeps over me. I feel as though it were not I, but some
other woman, who is looking on at me, and to whose voice I am
listening. I have no tears, and in a moment of time my thoughts are
traveling back all the years that papa and I have watched over our
boy, of the sacrifices we have made, the hopes we have indulged, the
love with which we have loved him, the pride we have had in him. I
take my eyes off the white lovely face and turn them to Lord
Rexborough's dark one. It is furrowed with pain: even his eyes have
tears in them at this piteous sight.
"Poor lad! poor little girl!" he murmurs, in a broken voice.
"I told her so," I hear myself say, in a cold, quiet voice; "I told
her she would be his murderer. She would have liked to ruin him body
and soul, but she has only killed his body."
"Hush!" he answers me, in a pained whisper. "She meant no harm, and,
poor little woman, she will suffer most awfully at this."
"She suffer!" I echo, in cold scorn. "What is it to her? what will
it be to her in a week's time? And papa and I" (my voice breaking
into a wail), "what shall we do without him all the rest of our
lives?" And as I think of his bonny face and his ringing laugh I
break down and fall into an agony of weeping. I fling myself on my
knees by my dead boy and call on him to speak to me. I cry aloud to
God to take pity upon me, and all this time the rough, coarse man
whom I have loathed is standing over me, stroking my hair tenderly
and bringing his loud, harsh voice down to a soothing whisper as soft
as a woman's. But I heed him not; the flood-gates of my tears are
unloosed; I am sobbing out all my passionate love and pity of the
young life crushed out in its fair dawn. I am praying frantically
for a miracle to bring my dead boy back to life. There is a sound of
steps in the corridor, and I look up and see a stranger entering
hurriedly. He comes up to the bed, looks at my boy, takes up his
lifeless hand, and I see his face contract.
"He is dead!" I mutter, and, as I speak, Lady Gwyneth, with ashen
face, comes towards the bed.
I start to my feet.
"Go away!" I whisper, hoarsely: "do not dare to come and look at your
work! Remember, it was you who killed him! he would be alive now if
it were not for you!" And, so saying, I push her violently towards
the door.
But the strain on my nerves is too great, and I fall back senseless
into Lord Rexborough's arms. When I come to myself, I am lying
partially undressed on my own bed, a kind, comely-looking woman is
standing on one side of me, and on the other the doctor,--I suppose
it is the doctor.
"Thank God, she's come to, poor dear young lady!" says the woman's
voice.
I stare vaguely from one to other of them: I cannot make out what
they are doing, nor how I have come here. My eyes involuntarily
close again, and I hear them whispering over me, and feel a warm hand
on my wrist. Have I been ill? My brain begins to make an effort; I
have seen the man's face before; and then all at once consciousness
comes back, and I remember all. I start up, crying, wildly,--
"Is he dead? Has papa come?"
"No, no; he is not dead," the doctor answers, in a cheery voice.
"Try not to agitate yourself."
"Not dead!" I utter, looking at him as if to read him through and
through; "not dead! Will he live?"
The doctor looks away.
"We must hope for the best," he says, in a low voice.
I sink back on the pillow with a groan.
"Oh, poor papa! poor papa!" I mutter. "Who is with him?" I ask,
presently. "Not she!" (wildly) "I will not have her near him. I
must get up and go to him," and I try to stagger up.
"Wait a little," says the doctor, soothingly. "You shall go
presently: you can do no good now."
"Why are you not there, if you say he is alive?" I cry, with a
searching look at him.
"Because you wanted me more for the moment. They would have sent for
me if--if I could have been of any use."
"But you must be of use," I say, feverishly, "if he is alive. He is
not! You are trying to deceive me!"
"He was alive twenty minutes ago," he answers; "but you can do
without me now, and I will go. Remember, though, if you want to be
of any use, if you want to nurse him, you must not agitate yourself:
you must try and control your grief as much as possible. Try and
bear up." And he pats my hand kindly.
"Help me to dress," I say to the housekeeper, whom I recognize now;
and she obeys, with many kind homely words of sympathy, which almost
make me cry again, only that I have made up my mind for my boy's sake
to be strong. She helps me along the corridor, for I still feel weak
and giddy, to the room which is to witness the parting of my
darling's spirit or his resurrection back to life. As I enter, Lady
Gwyneth comes towards me. She is still in her habit; her eyes are
red, the tears are streaming down her cheeks.
"Do not send me away!" she cries, in low, passionate entreaty. "If
you knew how awfully I am suffering, you would not harden your heart
against me. Blame me, hate me, but let me stay!"
I shrink from her, but my anger has died away in my overwhelming
grief, so I let her stay. She kneels on the opposite side of the bed
from me, her hands buried in her face, looking up once and again at
the marble beauty that never stirs nor gives the faintest sign of
life. The doctor takes up his post at the foot of the bed. The
light wanes and dies; in the mirror opposite the window I can see his
glorious death. Death! oh, ghastly comparison, for the sun will rise
to-morrow, and my boy!--ah, he may be where there is no sunrise nor
sunset, where there are no more tears, in the radiant blessedness of
God's eternal presence. And if I were sure of his beatitude (the
thought steals over me) could I be content to do without my boy again
in this world? could I say, "It is well"? No, no! my earth-clogged
soul rebels.
"O Lord, only give him back to us!" I cry. "Only give him back; we
cannot spare him!" I am roused by the doctor asking in a whisper for
a light. Lady Gwyneth rises softly, and, going out, returns with
one. All our eyes turn to the bed, but there is no change. We
resume our watch. Presently there is a sound of wheels: my heart
throbs violently, I tremble in every limb. Lady Gwyneth goes out,
followed by the doctor, and we two wait alone for our father's
coming. It seems an eternity until I hear his footsteps. At last I
catch the sound: he opens the door, he is in the room. Is it his
face that looks at me so wan and blanched? He comes towards the bed
on which all his hopes are dying. There are moments of supreme agony
as well as supreme bliss in which speech plays no part. Silently we
put our arms round each other in one convulsive sympathy of pain;
then he throws himself down beside the bed and takes the dear white
lifeless hand in his. His whole frame is convulsed with sobs; the
scalding tears trickle through his fingers. Women's tears are of
little account; we weep for a petty mortification or for misplaced
sentiment; but a man's tears are like his heart's blood. Here is the
end of his hopes, of his sacrifices, of his untiring love; here lies
the last of his race, his darling, dying, and he is powerless to stay
the King of Terrors for one little hour, to win one last look of
recognition from the loving blue eyes. If I live to be a hundred,
shall I ever forget the impotent agony of that moment? All the pain
of losing my darling is merged in anguish at my father's grief.
"Help me, O God, to console him!" I pray, over and over again, in an
agony of intensity. Then I creep on my knees beside him, and lift
one of his hands from his face and put it round my neck, crying, from
no jealousy or self-seeking, God knows! "Oh, darling father, you
have me still!" He opens his arms, and I pillow my head on his
breast, and the tears of our bitter anguish for our boy flow together.
Presently the doctor comes in again softly. Papa conquers his
weakness, and speaks in a firm voice. "Is there any hope?"
"While there is life there is hope," he answers, tritely. But he
turns away and sighs. All night long, papa and I keep our vigil
beside our wrecked hopes; neither of us tries to persuade the other
to leave the bedside or to take rest: we understand each other too
well for that. Often during the night hushed footsteps come to the
door, and my quickened ear catches the voice of Lady Gwyneth or
Colonel Montagu or Lord Rexborough. Sometimes they come stealthily
in and look at the beautiful lifeless form and go out again sighing.
I hear Lady Gwyneth whisper to papa that she has telegraphed to
London for an eminent physician, and that he will be here by the
first train in the morning. The night crawls on, and we watch our
boy, papa and I, one each side of the bed; sometimes we start when
the flickering light or our overstrung nerves make us fancy he has
moved. The long night goes; the chill gray dawn succeeds it.
Colonel Montagu comes in softly and wraps a shawl round my cold
shoulders. The dawn grows strong; the red sunlight creeps up the
sky; it waxes broad and hot; and yet he has never stirred. We look
fearfully at each other--papa and I--as the strong light shows us the
waxen face. Is he gone from us? our eyes ask each other, with mute
terror. But the doctor says, "No, there is still hope."