NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
After all, Mr. Benyon came, advised, prescribed in vain. At Sir
Hector's request, he sent him an opiate; but instead of soothing it
excited him furiously and made him ten times worse. So he threw
physic to the dogs, and led the same life as before, getting
gradually worse, both physically and mentally. He took to sitting up
at night, and reading until after the fatal hour of two; then he
would get perhaps three hours of feverish sleep, and wake again
oppressed with the nightmare of despair, which, if anything, is
almost more grievous in the morning- than in the night-watches.
One evening, in quest of something fresh, he stumbled upon a book of
curious old stories, or, as they were called, chronicles, printed in
old French. Glancing over it, he came to a page on which he read,--
"The story of the sad knight, who for a woman's sake did put an end
unto his life."
"That might suit me," he thought, grimly, as he carried the book to
his smoking-room. And there he read, detailed with much
circumlocution, how the sad knight was betrothed in his boyhood to
his cousin, who was the fairest among maidens. And they grew up
together, and ever as the days went by he loved her with a deeper and
greater devotion. And she, though she had affection unto him as unto
a brother, had no other love to give him, and this she most
frequently put before him, and did most urgently entreat him that he
would not press a marriage upon her which would be hateful unto her.
Then one day he came suddenly upon her and said, "I have come to
claim you, since if I do not presently have you for my own I needs
must die." Then the maiden answered him in grief and scorn, "Since,
then, one of us must die, for if you die _without_ me I shall die
_with_ you, draw now your sword and thrust it here into my
heart."--"If you love not me," he made sorrowful answer, "it is
because you love another."--"And if it be so!" she cried; "must he
needs die too? O valiant knight, you who can slay others, can you
not slay your own desire, and make glad two hearts that love each
other?"--"God's death!" he cried, in wrath, "prate not to me of your
loves!" and he turned and left her with a sore heart.
Then wist he not what to do, since his pain was so great and bitter
it went not from him either by day or night, and in those things
where before he had taken pleasure he found no joy. Then said he to
himself, "Why should I spare my life, that is no longer aught but
grief and pain? I will to the wars, and there for her sake will I
get myself slain."
Then he sought once more the damsel, and said unto her, "Fare you
well, cruel one, since you will have none of my love!"--"Nay," the
maiden answered, moved to pity at sight of his grieved countenance,
"go not away. Nay, where will you go?" And he answered, "Did I not
tell you that I needs must die without you? I go unto my
death!"--"Nay," she cried, again, weeping, "but let me rather die!
Of what avail is my life?" and therewith she wrung her hands. "Fare
you well, cruel one!" said the knight, with one grieved look at her.
"When my mother shall come to you and say, Where is my son?' you
shall make answer, 'He lies dead in a strange land, and all for a
woman's sake!'" Then while the maiden still wept sore, and wrung her
hands, the sad knight rode away.
Then, when a few months were sped, came his squire, bearing a lock of
his hair all steeped in his gore, and said, "Damsel, my master bid me
cut this hair from his head as he lay a-dying, and carry it to you,
and say, 'I lie dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's sake.
When you joy with the knight whom you love, look awhiles on this and
think of me.'"
Then was the maiden sore grieved, and wept many tears: but anon came
her own true love, and they were wed.
Thus briefly concluded the tale of the sad knight.
"Anon came her own true love, and they were wed," repeated Hector,
bitterly, closing the book and flinging it on the table. A new idea
came to him as he sat moodily contemplating the dying embers. If
life was so grievous to him, why should not others be glad?
Involuntarily crept in the thought of Diana mistress here,--Diana
happy,--Diana his brother's wife, whilst he lay dead and forgotten,
God knows where. "Never! never!" he cried, between his teeth, in a
paroxysm of furious jealousy. All night long the two sentences ring
in his ears, and all the day following, and the nights and days
afterwards. _He lies dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's
sake. But anon came her own true love, and they were wed_.
A furious battle begins to rage in his heart. Shall he throw away
the life he hates so bitterly, and in throwing it away secure Diana's
happiness? The thought of her becoming Charlie's is utter agony to
him; he feels somehow as though, were he even lying dead a thousand
miles away, he would know it, and be tortured with jealousy. But
"for her sake, for her sake!" he goes on saying to himself; "to make
her happy! I could not live and see her his," he tells himself; "or
it would be easy enough to give him half my income and let him marry
her." But from that thought his whole soul revolts. Not while he
lives; not while he lives. Then comes another thought. Suppose, for
her sake, he slipped out of that life which day by day was becoming
more and more unbearable, and after all his brother did not marry
her,--did not perhaps care for her? He must provide against that.
Day by day he became more worn, more ghastly-looking, and day by day
Lady Montagu's anxiety about him took greater proportions. Christmas
had gone, the new year was here,--the new year that to Hector was
worse, far worse than blank. Again Lady Montagu sent for Mr. Benyon.
In her alarm she confided to him a secret that had always been very
carefully kept by the family. Two generations back, one of the then
baronet's sons had taken his life with his own hand.
"I don't know why," she murmurs, looking with fearful eyes into the
doctor's face, "but that story has haunted me of late. Hector looks
so wild sometimes. Oh, Mr. Benyon!" (with terrible earnestness) "you
don't think----"
"No, no, no!" he interrupts her; "no need to worry yourself with such
thoughts as those. I am afraid I can't do very much for him, because
he won't mind what I say. I'll speak to him again, if you like, and
try to frighten him a little about himself. The best thing he could
do would be to go up to London and consult G----; and, if you could
persuade him to stay there a little while, change and cheerful
company would do more for him than all the physic that was ever
concocted."
"Do see him! pray, pray do your best to persuade him!" cries the
anxious mother. "He is in the house now; and, if you can manage it,
see me again before you leave."
Mr. Benyon, who knows his way as well about Alford as he does about
his own snug little house, goes to the smoking-room, and finds there
the person he is in search of.
"Well, Benyon," says Hector, with a hollow attempt at gayety, "have
you come to have another try at the 'mind diseased'? Confession's
good for the soul. I've thrown your 'physic' to the dogs, and if you
send me any more it will all go the same way,--figuratively, not
literally. Poor brutes! I've too much regard for them!"
"I have come, as I came before," answers Benyon, bethinking himself
of a new plan, "because your mother sent for me. I can tell you one
thing: anxiety on your account will soon make her ill, and then
you'll have to forget yourself and nurse her."
"Poor mother!" answers Hector; "what is she afraid of? Does she
think I'm going into a decline, or does she fancy---- I'll lay a
hundred to one," he cries, looking keenly at the doctor, "she's been
raking up a little old family story for your benefit; eh, Benyon?"
Thus attacked, the doctor feels a little confused.
"Women are always nervous," he answers, evasively; "but, upon my
life, you are enough to make any one nervous, with your long,
cadaverous face. Why, I thought you were more of a man."
"So my mother thinks of that, does she?" says Hector, musingly.
"What a ridiculous idea!" (laughing harshly). "Fancy doing oneself
out of twelve thousand a year, _and all for a woman's sake_. Come,
Benyon, you don't think me quite such a fool as that?"
"Indeed I don't," he returns, heartily; "if I did, I should send for
a strait-waistcoat at once. But at the same time" (gravely), "if the
sanest man in the world plays the devil with his nerves and
constitution as you're doing, there's no answering for the
consequences. Come" (clapping him on the shoulder), "I'm very much
in earnest just now, I promise you; it's no use mincing matters,
you're in a bad way, a very bad way. I want to frighten you,--I only
wish to heaven I could! Pack your traps and go off to London and see
G----; look up some of your friends, and don't be in any hurry to
come back. My advice is sincere, you may depend" (laughing), "for
it's very much against my own interest. If you stop here, you'll
have a fine long illness, and put I don't know how much into my
pocket."
"Very well," Hector answers, docilely, to the great surprise of his
friend. "I dare say you're right. I'll be off to-morrow; you may
tell my mother so. No doubt she is waiting, God bless her! to pounce
upon you as soon as you go out of here. And make her mind easy; be
sure you make her mind easy. Tell her I'm as sane as you are, and
add any little anecdote (you must know lots) of men who have gone
rather to the dogs at first for a woman's sake, but who invariably
came back. Good-by; it's very kind and good-natured of you to bother
yourself so much about me, and this time you see it has not been in
vain."
Benyon shakes him by the hand and wishes him a hearty God speed; but
he goes out more puzzled than satisfied. Nevertheless, he is able to
set Lady Montagu's mind at rest.
Hector, left to himself, sits for full an hour absorbed in deepest
thought. Then, with a long sigh, as of a man who has at last made a
difficult resolve, he rises and goes cut. In turn he visits the
gardens, hothouses, stables, kennels, and to every man he gives a
pleasant word, to every animal a caress. It is as though he were
going on a long journey, whence he might never return, and that
melancholy steals over him which always attends the thought that one
is doing something for the last time even though it be something that
we care little for. At dinner Lady Montagu finds him brighter and
more cheerful than he has been for a long time, and thinks with
inward congratulation that she has done well in sending for Benyon.
"I am so glad, my dear, that you have decided upon seeing G----," she
says; "he is certain to do you good. And be sure you do not hurry
home on my account, because you fancy I shall be dull. Henrietta and
her boy are coming to me on Saturday for a fortnight, and will not, I
dare say, be in any great haste to leave."
Hector glances wistfully at the sweet kind face that beams upon him
with such anxious love, and looks away again, lest the sight of it
should unman him. Who knows? after to-morrow its tenderness may
never shine upon him any more in this world. After he has wished her
good-night, he goes to his room and spends some hours in looking over
and arranging papers. Then he makes a draft of a will. He has some
money of his own, and that he leaves entirely for the benefit of the
poor of Alford. When this is finished, he fetches the old book of
chronicles and opens it at the story of the sad knight. With his pen
he draws a line down each margin of the whole story, and under the
two sentences, "He lies dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's
sake," "But anon came her own true love, and they were wed," he
scores two deep lines. Then he wraps the book in paper, and writes
upon it, "For my sister-in-law, if she be called Diana." This done,
he folds it in another sheet, upon which he writes, "For my
sister-in-law when my brother marries. It is my express desire that
it should not be opened before that time."
Next day he bids farewell to his mother. He has promised himself
that he will not betray any emotion at parting from her, but he has a
hard task to master his emotion. A strong impulse comes over him to
kneel down before her and ask her blessing; but that might save him
from himself! He controls himself with a stern effort, so stern that
it even makes his leave-taking seem cold. The poor mother, never
dreaming what is in his heart, wishes regretfully to herself that he
was more demonstrative,--more like Charlie.
The iron horse speeds him swiftly on his way to London: as it rushes
along he takes note of all the familiar landmarks, and bids them a
silent farewell, as he did to everything at Alford yesterday. His
plans are vague as yet: he intends going abroad, but how and where he
leaves chance to decide. The following day he goes to consult the
eminent physician. The eminent physician receives him with great
suavity, that deepens into seriousness as he asks certain questions
and receives the answers.
"Your nervous system," he tells Hector, "is considerably disordered,
very considerably disordered. The first thing that is necessary is
for the mind to be at rest. There must be no mental disturbance of
any kind: perfect freedom from all anxiety is what you want,--what
you must have."
It is very odd how doctors, who it is to be supposed are subject to
the cares and anxieties that beset other folk, will glibly prescribe
repose to the tortured mind as though it were a tonic mixture that
could be made up at the chemist's.
"A moderate amount of gayety," the eminent physician continues,
"plenty of cheerful society, horse-exercise, an occasional visit to
the theatre if the atmosphere is not too trying to your head,--in
short, my dear sir, I advise you for the next few months to devote
yourself to the study of how you can make life most agreeable. At
the same time, I think I can give you something that will soothe the
stomach and nerves, and in a week or ten days' time I hope to see you
a different man." And, having written out a short prescription, he
hands it to Hector and bids him a bland "Good-day."
Hector pockets the prescription, nor ever looks at it again. He has
sought the great man's advice to please his mother, calculating
pretty well what it would be. In his case it was as easy to carry
out as though he had recommended one of his own farm-laborers to eat
meat three times a day and wash it down with generous wines.
His next visit was to his lawyer, to get his will drawn up. Then he
went to his club. As chance would have it, the first man he met was
one whom he had not seen for years, but who, in days gone by, had
been his greatest friend. Hector laughed, and felt cheerful,--the
first time for many weeks.
"I'm off to Naples in my yacht the day after to-morrow," said Captain
Baring. "I can't stand this infernal climate in the winter. What on
earth's the good of living in a pea-soup atmosphere, and having your
nose frost-bitten, when you can bask in glorious sunshine among
orange-groves, have a rosebud for every withered violet here, and
look at blue skies and seas from sunrise to sunset? I wish to heaven
I could persuade you to come with me, old fellow; but I suppose, with
all your new cares and responsibilities, there's no chance of your
getting away, eh?"
"I don't know that," replied Hector, seeing the opportunity he wanted
unfolding before him.
"You look thundering bad, my dear fellow,--I can tell you that,"
proceeded the other, eagerly. "I never saw a fellow so changed! A
trip with me would be the thing of all others to set you up. Come,
say the word."
"Very well, I will go," Hector answered, coming to a rapid decision.
"Many thanks for the offer. I was thinking of going off abroad
somewhere."
"By Jove! how glad I am to have stumbled across you!" cried Captain
Baring, heartily. "We'll dine at Southampton to-morrow night, and go
on board the first thing in the morning."
So, after a little more talk, they part: the time is short, and each
has plenty to do before starting. There is one thing Hector dreads
and shrinks from utterly: it is the meeting with his brother. And
yet it must take place. There are some words that must be said
between them,--words which will perhaps decide the future of both.
He is on his way to Colonel Montagu's rooms, when he meets him coming
up the street.
"Hullo, Hector, you up in town!" he cries; and then, quickly, "By
Jove! how bad you look! What have you been doing to yourself?"
"I am going abroad on Saturday, with Baring," says Hector, not
answering the questions put to him. "I rather want to see you before
I go. Shall I find you to-night?"
"I was going to dine with Bagot, but I can put him off. Where will
you dine?--at the Garrick?--or shall we try the new restaurant?"
"Do you ever dine at your own place?"
"Oh, yes. Gunter will send me anything I want. Do you particularly
wish to dine there?"
"I should prefer it."
"All right. I suppose eight will do you?"
"Any time you like."
"I wonder what the deuce he wants with me!" thinks Colonel Montagu,
as he goes on his way up St. James's Street.