NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
The shock to Colonel Montagu of his brother's death was
indescribable. If they had been the most devoted brothers in the
world, he could hardly have felt it more keenly, coming as it did so
swiftly upon Hector's presentiment, and with the memory of his wan,
altered face. His first impulse was to start for Naples to bring
back the body. The moment he got his foreign leave, he was off,
traveling day and night until he reached his destination. But the
sea never gave up her dead. Colonel Montagu came home haggard, with
a great grief gnawing at his heart. He reproached himself bitterly
for having let his brother go; not one exultant thought crept into
his heart at the advantage he was to reap from the death of the poor
fellow lying fathoms deep under the blue waters. If he was
self-indulgent and reckless, he had the kindest heart in the world.
Ambition had never troubled him; he had been content with his easy,
pleasant life, loved by men and women too. He might be extravagant,
but he thought it rather a joke to make his old curmudgeon of a
father pay for his gay follies. He never kept a poor man waiting for
his money, nor refused to help a friend in trouble. There was "no
straighter fellow going than Charlie Montagu," all his
brother-officers averred.
This was the first grief he had known in his life, and he felt it
acutely. Day nor night could he forget Hector's changed, sad face,
nor his parting words. It seemed almost a crime to him to laugh or
be happy when he thought of the pain his brother had suffered,--the
pain that had banished him to a strange land to die. His thoughts
would go back remorsefully to the night at Alford when he had yielded
to the temptation of his self-indulgent nature to make hot love to
Diana. He had not really loved her then,--not loved her as he had
grown to do since; it had been a sudden passion kindled in him by her
love, her beauty, and the witchery of the warm, lovely night.
Perhaps, he told himself, had Fate not put her in his way that night,
or had he used his honor to resist the temptation, Diana would have
come to care for Hector, and he, poor fellow, would be living now.
And yet at that thought a twinge came across him: he could not
honestly wish Diana any one's but his own now; and yet I believe
firmly if giving her up could have brought his dead brother back, he
would have tried to pluck her out of his heart. There was only one
atonement that he could make now: he would to the very letter carry
out every wish of Hector's that concerned the estate, and he would
ascetically deny himself any profit or joy yet awhile out of his
brother's death. He forgot that by this self-denial he was making
the woman he loved suffer; he had but one idea,--it would be wrong to
be happy yet. Her presence would make him happy; he longed eagerly,
ardently, to go to her, to take her in his arms, to be _quite_
persuaded of what he was so nearly certain,--that she still loved
him, and would forgive his seeming indifference and neglect of her.
Somehow he felt as if she must of her own knowledge guess the truth
that he had loved her all the while, but that he was bound by the
promise Hector had wrung from him over his father's death-bed. When
the vision of her sweet face and sorrowful eyes, sorrowful from his
making, came to him, he tore it out as treason to the dead man.
True, it was Hector's dying wish that he should marry her,--would it
not be the joy of his life in the time to come?--but not yet, not
yet,--while the memory of Hector's grief and death was still green
and fresh. How many a time, when he rose in the morning, had he said
to himself, with his old self-indulgent habit, "I will ride over and
see my darling to-day," and done violence to himself afterwards to
resist the temptation! and at last, when he did go, how he had
schooled himself to be cold and quiet, and keep back the love that
was rioting in his heart, and so had made her fancy him indifferent!
It never occurred to him that she would not understand the restraint
he was putting upon himself, and the reason of it.
When Diana's letter with the inclosures reached him, it was a
revelation. He saw at last the cruelty he had been practicing upon
her, a cruelty to which her anonymous correspondent, whether friend
or foe he could not divine, had put the culminating touch. Why, that
was the very letter he had written to her at the Desboroughs' the day
of Curly's accident, and afterwards had made up his mind not to send,
because it would be a breach of faith to Hector. He had missed it
afterwards from his blotting-book, but fancied he must have torn it
up with other papers. And this the poor sensitive darling had
somehow or other turned against herself, and had gone away abroad to
escape him. Well, there was but one thing to do now, at all events:
he was not going to lose the hope of his life for any scruples about
the right or wrong of being happy; he would take the goods the gods
sent, and his heart beat with exultation at the thought. He rang for
his servant, and ordered him to have everything packed by the
afternoon, and then he went to find his mother. They were in
Ireland. He would get to Dublin that night in time to cross, and go
straight to Curly, from whom he knew quite well he would have no
difficulty in discovering his sister's whereabouts, when he explained
to him why he wanted it.
He then went to his mother's room. She was not yet dressed.
"I have something important to say to you, mother," he said, as he
entered. "Parker" (to the maid), "don't look black at me for
invading these sacred precincts." He spoke in his usual pleasant,
smiling way, and Parker, far from looking black, smiled, as every
woman smiled at Charlie Montagu, and retired.
"What is it, my dear?" Lady Montagu asked, anxiously, unnerved by the
severe shocks she had undergone. "No bad news, I trust?"
"No. Don't be alarmed,--nothing the matter," he returned, and then
hesitated, finding some little difficulty in broaching the matter on
his mind. "Little mother," he said, sitting down by her, and taking
her hand in the caressing manner that was habitual to him, "I told
you one of poor Hector's last wishes: there was another I did not
tell you."
"Yes?" answered Lady Montagu, the ready tears starting to her eyes at
the mention of her poor dead son. "Tell me about it, dear."
"You know how fond he was of Diana Carew?"
Lady Montagu shivered a little, as if the remembrance pained her.
"The last wish he expressed to me was that" (speaking very slowly) "I
should marry her."
"Impossible!" cried Lady Montagu, with energy; "impossible! I used
to be fond of her. I do not wish to condemn her, but I can never
forget that poor Hector's death lies at her door."
"Don't be unjust, little mother," said Charlie, gently. "You cannot
accuse her of having tried to make him like her, or of giving him any
false encouragement. She never went to Alford without being greatly
pressed. It was a dreadful misfortune for Hector, poor dear fellow,
but no one could say it was her fault."
"But," argued his mother, "it is inconceivable that he should have
wished you to marry her: he was intensely jealous of you; he made me
promise never even to breathe your name in her presence."
"I know," sighed Charlie; "and before he paid my debts after nay poor
father died, he made me swear never to utter a word of love to her
again. It did not seem so hard then; but afterwards, when I saw her
in town, and at the Desboroughs', I felt I cared for her more than I
did for any other woman, and it was frightfully hard for me to seem
indifferent. And I don't know how it is, but" (averting his face, on
which the color is deepening visibly) "heaven knows I am not the
least worthy of it, but I don't think she ever had a thought of love
for any one but me."
Lady Montagu looked at her handsome son with all her mother's pride
and love shining in her eyes.
"I do not know how any woman could help loving you," she said, fondly.
Charlie, evading her flattery, went on quickly:
"I never spoke to you about it before, because it seemed heartless to
think about being happy so soon, and marrying the girl he loved, poor
fellow; but he was really in earnest about it; he seemed most
anxious, and said she knew all his wishes about the estate and the
poor. And I, being afraid of forgetting too soon, have, I am afraid,
behaved like a brute to the poor little thing, and she thinks I don't
care for her, and has gone off abroad somewhere."
"You are not thinking of going abroad, Charlie?" cried his mother.
"You will not, unless you want to break my heart."
Then he explained to her all that had happened, and, after much
coaxing, persuasion, and reassuring, wrung from her a most reluctant
consent to his following Diana. It was a hard task; but he was bent
upon going, and the poor mother yielded when she saw it was useless
to resist.
The next day Sir Charles was at Eton with Curly.
"But Di said I must not," answered the lad, ruefully, in answer to
his friend's appeal. "You know I'd do anything in the world for you,
but Di said _if I loved her_ I was not to let you know where she was."
Sir Charles proceeded to tell him as much as he thought necessary to
convince him that his sister would bear him no malice for the breach
of faith.
"But," persisted Curly, more embarrassed still by this aspect of
affairs, "I gave Seldon my word of honor to do all I could to
persuade Di to marry him; and if I help you I shall be breaking my
word to him."
"My dear fellow," answered Charlie, laughing, "Seldon has about as
much chance of marrying your sister as you have of marrying the
Princess Beatrice."
Curly, at last persuaded, revealed that his father had written him to
direct to them at the Poste-Restante, Geneva, on the 23d, and that
they were traveling with the Fanes. Then the two bade each other
farewell, and Curly went back to Eton, feeling rather Judas-like with
his future brother's magnificent tip. Sir Charles went back to town
and made arrangements for his journey. There was no foreign leave to
get now, thank heaven: he had sold out of the Guards, and was of the
opinion that most men are, or profess to be, before and after giving
up what has hitherto been the pride of their lives,--that "the
service" was "going to the dogs." He was not particularly pleased at
the thought of Rochester Fane being Diana's traveling-companion: he
remembered with anything but satisfaction how attentive he had been
to her at the Warringtons', and with what friendliness she had
received and accepted his attentions. Suppose that, bitterly hurt
and indignant at his own treatment of her, she had consoled herself
with Fane's love: for it did not seem possible to Charlie now,
infatuated as he was becoming about her, that a man could be long in
her sweet society without making love to her. Suppose he should
arrive too late. The thought put him into a fever. He had not
received Diana's letter for eight days after it was written, because
of the uncertainty of his own movements, and, owing to this unlucky
accident, all this valuable time had been lost.
Arrived at Geneva, he had no difficulty in tracing them: the polite
landlord informed him that they were expected back from the Voirons
the following day. But that was not good enough for Charlie in his
hot haste: he ordered a carriage and started at once in pursuit. And
so it happened that while Diana was breaking her poor little heart on
the mountain-top he was toiling up the steep ascent, guided by an
urchin from the village, being far too impatient to wait until a
horse was unyoked from the plow, and rather preferring to trust his
own legs to get him to the top. Mr. Adams, his "gentleman," who
accompanied him, was furious, and swore to himself with a bitter
oath, as he toiled and stumbled after his active master up the
mountain's side, that if Sir Charles had another such freak as this
he'd be blanked thrice over if he didn't give up the situation, good
as it was.
The ex-Guardsman was a curious mixture of energy and indolence: he
could endure any amount of hardship and fatigue, but he would have
considered it an insufferable exertion to pack his own clothes or
shave himself. It is just possible that this was a remnant of
swagger begun in early life and grown into habit. Anyhow, Mr. Adams
toiled and panted and blasphemed after him as well as he might, and
tried rather unsuccessfully to assume a cheerful smile when Sir
Charles now and then turned with laughing good nature to ask how he
was getting on.
The first person Sir Charles saw on reaching the summit was Mr.
Carew, who, as may be imagined, received him with scant cordiality.
But, after a few minutes' conversation in private, everything was
satisfactorily explained, and glad enough was Di's father to bid him
"God speed," as he directed him to the spot where he was most likely
to find her.
His heart beats as it has never beaten before as he sees the slight
graceful form he knows so well flying before him. There is no
languor in his step or face as he strides after her, feeling in his
excitement no more fatigue after his unwonted exertion than if he had
strolled up St. James's Street. In a moment he is calling her by
name, his arms are round her, he is raining impassioned kisses upon
her lips. She does not resist him, as perhaps a girl who had been
kissed by half a dozen men might have done, with a show of virtue a
little too conscious to be real: this is the one love of her fresh
pure heart, into which no thought of any other man has ever crept:
why, then, should she affect to shrink from him, when it is such
utter happiness to be near him?
"My own little darling," he whispers, presently, still feasting his
happy eyes on her dear face, "how could you think hardly of me if you
cared for me? Did you not _feel_ that I loved you all the time, even
though I was compelled to seem indifferent?"
"No," answers Diana, truthfully. "I did not think you cared for me.
Oh" (with a little, touching sigh), "do you think I could ever have
pretended not to love _you_?"
"My darling," says the young man, tenderly, "I wonder how on earth I
ever came to be so lucky as to be loved by such a little angel?"
Diana's face dimples with happy smiles.
"_You_ wonder," she says, with an air of sweet conviction. "Nay, it
is I who should wonder how you came to care for me."
As she lifts her loving radiant eyes to his face a strange remorse
comes over him.
"I have been a worthless, selfish fellow all my life," he says, "but"
(with passionate earnestness) "I swear to heaven to be something
worthier before I die."
When, a long time after, though it seems but a few moments to them,
they are sauntering reluctantly back to the hotel, Diana stops, and
glances lingeringly down the peaceful valley at the blue lake, lying
like a bright mirror mountain-framed, at the hamlets with little
church-spires looking heavenward out of each.
"And to-day," she says, half to him, half to herself, "only to-day I
envied any human soul down in that valley by contrast to my own
wretchedness; and now" (raising her rapt, lovely eyes to his face) "I
pity every one so who is not me!"
What sweeter flattery could the vainest man in Christendom desire?