DIANA'S STORY.
Wit the morning the great physician is here. Before his coming we
had looked forward to it with an intense eagerness: we had fancied he
would make some speedy change; in our hearts we had thought
slightingly of the country doctor's skill. But when he arrived he
could do no more: he could bring no color to the white face, no
animation to the rigid form. Only one thing he could do to give us
comfort, and that he did. He told us of other cases he had known
where life had almost seemed extinct, where the patient had lain for
four-and-twenty hours without sign or movement and had yet recovered
and been none the worse for the accident.
"And sometimes," says papa, in a husky voice, looking searchingly in
the great autocrat's face, "more often still, I suppose it
terminates--fatally." He can hardly bring himself to the utterance
of that dire word.
"We must hope for the best," is the answer. Even when the great
oracle uncloses its lips at such a time, its utterance can but be
trite and commonplace.
And then he consults and agrees courteously with his country
colleague as to what is to be done under various contingencies, takes
us by the hand with grave and kindly sympathy, bids us be of good
heart, and goes; and with him goes all of hope and courage which that
fearful night's vigil had left us.
But, after all, our boy is spared to us. He comes back slowly from
those dark portals on whose dread threshold he had set foot, whose
gates had so wellnigh closed behind him. When I first look at myself
in the glass after that awful time. I expect to see my hair white.
I am astonished to find it still its own natural dark brown. When
our dear invalid is able to be moved, with what utter and intense joy
do I leave behind me the house where I have spent the most grievous
days of my life! Lady Gwyneth has redeemed herself very much in my
eyes by her untiring care of and solicitude for Curly: she has shared
our night-watches and been more tender and womanly than I could have
believed possible. As for Lord Rexborough, my dislike of him has
merged into warm friendship; and for Colonel Montagu,--ah, I cannot
speak of him!--only I think, proudly and gladly, though he may never
more be aught to me, that the idol I set up to worship was not
unworthy.
In what strange ironies fate delights. Whilst Curly lay between life
and death, a letter came to papa announcing that our mother's only
brother had died abroad, leaving to Curly and me each three hundred a
year, to be at our own absolute disposal from the time of his death,
not waiting for our coming of age. When our darling lay so near the
land of shadows, this news, that at any other time would have seemed
so unutterably good and joyful, struck on us like some cruel mockery;
but now that he is growing strong again, and we have the promise that
he will in all probability be none the worse for his accident, our
new riches are a delightful theme, Curly and I never weary of talking
about our great possessions and laying them out in imagination. The
presents we will buy for papa, the benefits that he shall derive from
the newly-acquired wealth that seems so enormous in our eyes,--these
are subjects of which we never weary, which serve to beguile most
delightfully the tedious period of convalescence.
September has gone, October is here, and there is talk of Curly going
back to Eton. Papa and he have gone for a drive in the old
pony-carriage, and I am dawdling away the last bright hours of the
short afternoon in our old-fashioned garden. The last few days have
been so bright and hot, they might almost cheat us into the belief
that summer was yet tarrying with us, but for the unmistakable signs
around of the year's decay. It is not very long after five o'clock,
but Ph[oe]bus is driving his golden chariot apace down the sky
towards the long belt of firs yonder. Here is, not actually but very
nearly, the last rose of summer left blooming alone before my eyes,
and the fair summer blossoms have given way to the great, scentless,
ugly autumn flowers,--coarse dahlias, flaming nasturtiums, gaudy
zinnias, gorgeous gladioli, and last, but not least, big staring
sunflowers. It is a conceit more pretty than truthful, I fancy, that
"The sunflower turns to her god when he sets,
The same look that she turned when he rose."
In the present instance, at all events, the sun god is hurrying fast
to his setting, and his great ugly satellites are turning their broad
backs upon him in the most unblushing manner. I am sitting on the
grass, book in hand, gazing meditatively up the long green vista that
divides the flower-rows and the two lines of crooked, prolific
apple-trees. They are weighed down with much store of fruit,
crimson, gold, green, and russet, and on them and through their
narrow leaves to their twisted trunks the red rays play warmly. My
book does not occupy a great deal of my attention: it is a very old
one, and I have read it many a time before. Its quaint old-fashioned
language amuses me. I cannot help thinking Sir Charles Grandison a
bit of a prig, for all he is a very fine and noble-hearted gentleman,
and Harriet Byron's _naïve_ vanity in the repetition of the
extravagant praises of her lovers makes me smile. After all, it must
be superhumanly difficult to write one's own story without appearing
either utterly uninteresting or disgustingly conceited. I open the
book at random, and read,--
"I twitched the string just in time; the coach stopt. 'Mr. Orme,'
said I. 'How do you? Well, I hope? How does Miss Orme?'
"I had my hand on the coach door. He snatched it. It was not an
unwilling hand. He pressed it with his lips. 'God be praised,' said
he (with a countenance--oh, how altered for the better!) 'for
permitting me once again to behold that face,--that _angelic_ face,'
he said.
"'God bless you, Mr. Orme,' said I; 'I am glad to see you. Adieu.'
"The coach drove on. 'Poor Mr. Orme,' said my aunt.
"'Mr. Orme, Lucy,' said I, 'don't look so ill as you wrote he was.'
"'His joy to see you,' returned she. 'But Mr. Orme is in a declining
way.'"
My reading is here interrupted by the vision of a white figure
flitting to and fro among the shrubs, evidently on its way to me. I
discern it to be Sally in her light cotton gown.
"What is it?" I say, as soon as she comes within hail.
"If you please, miss," she responds, at the top of her voice, "It's
Sir 'Ector Montagu."
For a moment my mind conjures up a vision of the dead old tyrant. I
could hardly be much more disconcerted by a visit from him than from
his successor.
"I will come," I say, picking myself up slowly from the grass with a
fluttering heart, and walking housewards with most reluctant and
unwilling steps. His back is turned towards me as I enter the room.
When he faces me, I can see that he is altered, and that he looks
darker, thinner, more haggard than he used. His greeting is a
strange one: he does not give me the usual commonplace salutation,
but takes me by the hand (unlike Miss Byron's, it is an unwilling
one), and says,--
"You once offered me your friendship, and I refused it.--rather
ungraciously, I fear. I have come to-day to ask you for it."
And then he goes on abruptly to speak of Curly's accident.
"I did not hear of it until some time after it happened," he says.
Then I ask him about his mother.
"It is on her account I am here to-day," he answers. "Without such
an excuse I should have been diffident of coming. My poor mother is
so low-spirited and dejected,--she cannot at all get over my father's
death. Is it not wonderful," he breaks out, "how these good women
will deceive themselves into thinking when a man is dead that he
possessed every virtue under heaven! Far be it from me," he adds,
hastily, "to breathe one unkind word of those that are gone: death
makes all sacred; but it does seem strange."
"Lady Montagu was always devoted to Sir Hector," I answer. "I felt
sure she would take his death dreadfully to heart."
"She is always reproaching herself with not having done enough for
him or made greater efforts to please him. She is quite morbid on
the subject. I think she remembers every time she was a minute late
for dinner, and is inconsolable because, since her illness, she did
not come down to make his breakfast. The doctors recommend change;
but no inducement will get her to leave the place. She fancies that
if you would only come over and spend a little while with her it
would cheer her up and make her a different person. Cannot you
come?" he adds, eagerly; then, as he sees how I shrink from the
thought, "You need have no fear about me" (in a pained voice): "you
will be sacred from any annoyance from me. Indeed, if it would make
you happier, I will go away altogether."
"There is no need for that," I say, reluctantly, "and I should be
glad, most glad, to go to Lady Montagu, if I could really be of any
use to her; but----"
"But what?"
"Curly is still here," I say. "I could not possibly leave home until
he is gone, and then I shall hardly like to leave papa, he will feel
his loss so dreadfully."
But when papa returns, a few minutes later, he warmly seconds
Hector's request, and utterly pooh-poohs all idea of not being able
to spare me. And so, most reluctantly on my part, it is settled that
Sir Hector (how strange his new title sounds!) shall send the
carriage for me the week but one following. Papa invites him to stay
and dine. He accepts, apparently nothing loath. His face seems to
grow less haggard, the unfrequent smile comes to his lips, and he
becomes quite cheerful. For one moment before he leaves we are alone
together.
"Do not be afraid to come," he whispers, hurriedly. "I swear not to
vex you by any allusion to the past. We will be friends, nothing
more" (with a sigh). And then papa returns, and he bids me good-by.
So it happens that once again I go to Alford,--to the house where, in
one little day, all my future was spoiled and marred. Lady Montagu
is sadly altered: the delicate color in her cheeks has faded to a
waxen hue, her eyes are dim with much weeping. She greets me with
all her old kindness, but the very sight of me affects her and brings
tears to her eyes.
"Do not mind me, my dear," she says, tremulously "Everything now
brings back my dreadful loss."
How many a devoted husband, I wonder, has been mourned far less than
the cruel, selfish old tyrant of Alford! She talks much of him:
indeed, it seems the only theme on which she cares to speak. I
listen, with scant patience, inwardly, to her self-reproaches,
knowing how utterly unmerited they are; but it is useless to try to
persuade her that she has not failed in wifely duty and consideration
to her lamented lord. There is a great alteration in the manners and
customs of the house,--far less state and a great deal more comfort.
We dine, not in the great cold banqueting-hall, but in a cosy little
dining-room, furnished simply, but in the most perfect taste, from
the many oaken treasures of the hall. There is no unnecessary parade
of gold and silver plate, and we are waited upon by Simkins and one
footman, who retire when they have served us, and are summoned by a
hand-bell. Hector's manner to his mother almost makes me love him:
it is a mixture of the most tender kindness and respect. She may
transgress as much as she chooses--and I am bound to say she
does--the rule of punctuality, without a look or a hint from him. If
his soup is cold through waiting for her, he makes no remark. What a
blessed change his rule must be for the servants! But, though he is
so considerate, he lacks no dignity, and they run with far more
alacrity for love of him than they did for fear of his father. His
considerate thoughtfulness for his mother can be illustrated by one
example. He has given the servants strict orders not to address him
as Sir Hector before his mother: in her presence he is always plain
sir, as of old. For my own part I am glad, for I can never hear the
name and title without an unpleasant reminiscence of its former owner.
The morning after my arrival, Hector takes me to the stables and
shows me a pretty pair of ponies.
"These are for you to drive," he says. "I am in hopes you will be
able to entice my mother out. It will seem different from taking a
formal drive in a large carriage."
He has them put to, and makes me drive him round the park, and I
enjoy it most thoroughly. I cannot help fancying (perhaps with the
vanity I deprecated in Miss Byron) that the ponies are here more on
my account than his mother's. How good and thoughtful he is! why
cannot I care for him? True to his word, he never makes the
slightest allusion to the past; but for an occasional look in his
dark eyes, I might think he had quite got over caring for me. We
have an unceasing subject of conversation in the improvements he
proposes making. Every evening we pore together over plans of
cottages and schools. We make delightful little pictures of clean,
comfortable houses, with trim gardens, and places where the cottager
may keep his pig without annoyance to himself or his neighbors; where
he may have his potatoes and cabbages and fruit-trees; where he may
keep bees, if he has a taste that way, and even fowls; a little
drying-ground, where the good wife can hang out her clothes, instead
of employing the surrounding bushes and hedges: in short, a
habitation so pleasant and inviting that it would be a real pleasure
to live in it, even though one had a higher social status than that
of a farm-laborer.
Meantime, Lady Montagu dozes away comfortably in her arm-chair by the
fire, secure from any interruption of her pleasant slumbers. The
days pass on neither very slowly nor very swiftly, as is usually the
case when one leads a comfortable, uneventful life. She is decidedly
far more cheerful than when I came: her eyes are brighter, her cheeks
less waxen, she smiles not unfrequently, and without that dreary
effort which was so painful to see at first. She has driven several
times with me in the pony-carriage, and enjoys it. The weather is
clear and bright, and she has no symptoms of her old enemy bronchitis.
Neither she nor Hector ever allude to Colonel Montagu: once or twice
when the post-bag comes in I recognize his handwriting, but she reads
her letter without a word of comment. I long to know if he is going
to marry the heiress, but dare not ask. It is evident enough, by
their own silence, that they do not wish me to refer to him.
After a fortnight at Alford, I begin to talk of going home, although
they both use every argument in their power to dissuade me. I am
happy enough: it is from no wish to leave either of them. I love
Lady Montagu dearly, and for her son I feel the very warmest regard:
every day makes me like him more, for every day brings fresh
instances of his real unobtrusive goodness. I cross-question myself
severely on the subject of my inability to love him, but my
rebellious heart flings to the wind any notion that he can ever be
more to me than a friend. No! _Loyal je serai durant ma vie_. I
have never loved, shall never love, but one man.
It is, however, on papa's account that I want to go home, for I know
quite well, in spite of ten thousand protestations to the contrary,
that he does miss his little girl sadly. I have elicited so much
from severe cross-questioning of Gay.
"Well, my dear," she says, after great pressure, "it's no use my
goin' against the truth, nor it wouldn't be right to do so, though
your pa would be very angry with me for letting of it out, but he
does seem quite moped and lost like when you're away. Even that
Sally, whose head is as thick as a deal board, she can't help
noticin' of it,--how he scarcely eats anything, and always reads a
book all meal-times. And the fuss he makes of that dog" (meaning the
pug), "you wouldn't believe it; and when you are coming back he
always brings the letter to me, and his eyes brighten up, and he
says, 'Well, Gay, your young lady's coming home to-morrow, or next
week,' as it may be, and then I promise you, my dear, we all go about
with twice as much life in us as before."
So I know that I am missed, and that makes me resolute in refusing to
be away for very long at a time. But, as Hector entreats me so
earnestly and genuinely for his mother's sake, I yield, and stay on
another week. But all the entreaties in the world are powerless to
keep me a day longer. I promise to come over frequently for a day or
two at a time.
So I take my leave, and go back to papa and Gay and the pug. I have
heard people assert that pugs are stupid. I should like to show them
mine. Of all the devoted, faithful, intelligent friends in the
canine world, commend me to a pug! I could write chapters upon
chapters about dogs, and, though I have not had experiences among my
own kind bitter enough to make me appreciate it thoroughly, I can
still recognize the fine satire in the speech of the man who said,
"_Plus je connait les hommes, plus j' admire les chiens_."