NOT TOLD BY DIANA.
Christmas week,--a genuine old-fashioned Christmas,--a white world
without, blazing fires and holly-wreaths within, a larder stocked to
defy the ravages of hunger among a good-sized garrison, signs of
prosperity and plenty everywhere. Christmas is evidently going to be
kept at Alford; the Yule logs are ready for burning, plum-puddings
have been made for the million, and the tokens of festival that are
wont to gladden the hearts of boys and girls home from school abound.
It is not that the house-party is intended to be a very large or gay
one, but this year the poor have been thought of with bounteous
memory, and the chief part of the gallant array of stores is destined
to find its way into multitudinous humble homes, where it will
boundlessly rejoice and warm the hearts of the recipients. Still,
there _is_ to be a party at the Court, and, if not a gay one, still a
very cheery one. Mr. Carew and his new wife are coming; Curly, of
course, and Colonel Fane; Lord Rexborough, and a Miss Montagu, cousin
to Sir Charles. Lady Montagu (not the pale delicate lady we have
hitherto known by that name,--the dowager now,--but a lovely,
graceful young woman, whose name is Diana), Lady Montagu has busied
herself all the morning with tripping into each room prepared for the
reception of visitors, placing flowers there which she has arranged
with her own fair hands, and casting thoughtful glances around to see
that nothing is wanting for the comfort and pleasure of the coming
guests. Curly's room is her special care and delight; she never
wearies of stealing in to look at that. There hang his favorite
pictures, the books he loves, with many new treasures that her loving
care has placed there. For in the future she means Alford to be as
much his home as Carew Court; as much,--not more, for her father's
sake.
Happiness is certainly vastly improving. Diana was always pretty and
gracious-mannered, but now, radiant with love and happiness, she may
well be called, as she often is, as her husband thinks her, lovely.
Perhaps the elegant and costly attire with which Sir Charles insists
upon her being adorned has something to do with the enhancement of
her beauty. I, for one, agree with Tennyson when he says,--
"Let never maiden think, however fair,
She is not fairer in new clothes than old."
To say that Sir Charles and his wife are still the most doting lovers
is not to say much for a two-months-old marriage. I may tell of the
past, but dare I predict what is in store for them?--and yet I have
immense faith in their happiness in the future. Diana is fair and
loving, and good as she is fair; and he is generous, good-hearted,
sweet-tempered, and he adores her. For once the oft-quoted French
proverb would be out of place, "De deux amants il y a toujours un qui
baise et un qui tend la joue," although it might have been true
enough once.
Diana is beloved by every one, from her mother-in-law, who thinks
there is no one like her, to the magnate of the servants' hall,
unambitious of a new mistress, Mrs. Bishop. But even her golden
opinions have been won by the fair young _châtelaine_, and she has
not a word for her but what is favorable and admiring. Outside, in
the parish, she has already begun the work of which she and Hector
had talked so often in the old days. She goes even further: she
makes it her business to know the wants and sorrows of her new
people; in her own immense happiness and prosperity she does not
forget those whom Providence has less endowed; and from her husband
she has _carte blanche_ for her charities. Diana is quite to be
trusted; she is prudent if she is generous; she does not think
charity consists in giving indiscriminately to all who ask, and she
knows, too, how a little sympathy, a few kind words, oftentimes make
a small gift of more value to the receiver than a large one, sent
coldly and without interest, through a servant.
The Dowager Lady Montagu proposed to leave the Court after her son's
marriage and take up her abode at the Dower House; but her children
ridiculed the idea utterly. They had vowed to each other to make the
rest of her life happy and serene; she was never to know another
care; she should be as much mother to Diana as to Charlie. She had
her own suite of rooms, and, delicate of intruding upon the happiness
of the _nouveaux mariés_, she would shut herself up too much alone:
so, when she would not be prevailed upon to come to them, they
simplified matters by going to her.
It is noon of the day before Christmas. Diana, having put the
finishing-touches to all the rooms, opines that she will make her
_toilette de reception_ before lunch. The guests are all to arrive
between two and three, and she has been especially desired to make
herself "lovely." Not one of the party have seen her since she was
borne from their sight in a flood of tears on her wedding-day. Sir
Charles often twits her laughingly with this episode.
"I never felt so small in my life," he is wont to declare, "as when I
carried you off bathed in tears from the arms of your agonized
relatives."
Diana does not like to be reminded of her weakness, and puts her
little white hand before his mouth.
"It is quite true, little darling," he insists, kissing it. "I
believe you were awfully sorry when it came to going off with me, and
leaving everybody behind but the pug."
The finishing-touch is being put to Lady Montagu's toilette when Sir
Charles comes in. The maid discreetly vanishes.
"Little darling," says the sovereign of Diana's heart, coming towards
her after having stood for a moment at the door to take in every
detail, for he is a perfect connoisseur of the art of dress, "you
look _positively lovely_! I am afraid" (coming a little nearer) "to
touch you."
"Do not be," she answers, with sparkling eyes and blushing cheeks
(she has not quite lost that embarrassing old habit); and as she
speaks she twines both her arms round his neck and puts up her sweet
red lips to be kissed.
"You will make quite a sensation next season," he predicts. "You
know, little darling, you really are a much prettier woman than when
I married you. I am longing for them all to see you. I know they
will say so, every one of them. No tears to-day, mind; no red eyes
and pink noses."
"Tears!" she retorts, with happy scorn: "why should there be tears
when we are all _meeting_?"
"Next September," says Sir Charles, "we will have the cheeriest
parties in the world,--a happy mixture of Guardsmen and pretty
women,--no dowagers except the mother."
"You won't want to have the Desboroughs, will you, darling?" asks
Diana, coaxingly.
"At all events, we will not ask the heiress," he answers, gayly.
"You shall have no cause for jealousy."
Diana laughs. Then, twining her hands round her husband's arm, and
looking up into his handsome face,--
"Do you know," she says, with an air of sweet conviction, "I can't
help being sorry for her? I am sorry for every woman who has not got
you."
"Little flatterer," he says, putting his arm round her, "what answer
do you expect me to make to your barefaced compliments? All the same
I must say" (laughing) "you are unnecessarily liberal of sympathy for
your sex. The heiress apart, I don't know of any other very anxious
aspirant to my charms. Come and show yourself to the mother."
Leaning on Sir Charles's arm, Lady Montagu traverses the oaken
gallery. Her maid and the upper housemaid are peeping after them
from a half-open door.
"Aren't they a lovely couple?" whispers the maid.
"Yes," sighs the upper housemaid. She has long been the victim of a
secret passion for her handsome young master. She is stout and
middle-aged, but she none the less shares Diana's passion for good
looks.
The Dowager Lady Montagu greets her children with a fond smile as
they enter her boudoir, still arm in arm.
"Is not this a ravishing toilette, little mother?" asks Sir Charles,
bringing his wife forward and regarding her with eyes of fondest
admiration.
"Indeed it is," replies the dowager, with unfeigned admiration. "I
must not tell you what I think, my love" (to Diana), "or I should
make you vain."
"Fine feathers," laughs Diana, gayly, who is not above feeling the
sweetness of genuine flattery. "I think I _am_ rather a fine bird
just now, mamma. Your rival is coming to-day" (stooping to kiss the
elder lady's delicate cheek). "Fancy my being so rich all at once: a
little while ago I had no mother, and now I have two."
"Claire is my mother too," says Sir Charles, laughing. "I shall make
a point of calling her by her new title."
"If you please, Sir Charles, Hawkins would be glad to speak to you,"
says Simkins, appearing in the doorway.
"All right: I will be with him directly." And presently the young
man goes out.
"By the way, my dear," observes the Dowager Lady Montagu to her
daughter, when the door closes upon Sir Charles, "I have just found
something that must, I think, be meant for you."
"For me, mamma?"
"It is a small parcel that was pushed back in the far corner of a
drawer in what used to be poor Hector's room. I came across it only
half an hour ago: it is directed in his handwriting, '_For my
sister-in-law_.'"
"It surely cannot be for me," says Diana, trembling a little.
"Open it, and see."
Diana unfastens the string that binds it: her deft fingers are
unwontedly awkward. At last she has undone the first wrapper. There
is still another, on which is written, "_For my sister-in-law, if she
be called Diana_."
The color fades from Diana's cheek. She knows not why she feels thus
strangely moved, but she does. Her knees knock together. She cannot
open it in Lady Montagu's presence.
"Mamma," she says, in a low, hurried voice, "I cannot open it here.
Let me take it to my room. I will tell you about it afterwards."
"As you wish, my dear," answers Lady Montagu, a shade disappointed.
Diana hurries away to her room. A strange terror possesses her. She
knows not why, but she has a presentiment of some painful disclosure.
She is so nervous she cannot wait to unfasten the string, but, taking
a knife, cuts it. When she has taken the paper from it, she utters a
sigh of relief; it is only a book, a little old French book. Hastily
she turns over the leaves. Stop! here are marks. She reads, "The
story of the sad knight who died for a woman's sake." Her breath
comes quick, she trembles in every limb, but she reads on
hurriedly,--reads the story,--sees the identity of cases that struck
Hector, and understands with swift intuition what is the meaning of
this legacy that he has left her. Presently she comes to the two
underlined passages, "He lies dead in a foreign land, and all for a
woman's sake. But anon came her own true love, and they were wed."
A little cry escapes her. She pushes the book away, and gazes
stupidly before her with sightless eyes. A great horror creeps over
her. Could it be that he had gone away from Alford, away from his
country, resolved in his own heart to die? Everything seemed to
confirm the awful thought: his last injunctions to his brother, this
underlined story addressed to his _sister-in-law_. She, however
unwittingly, had been the cause of his death. And he, as he had
foreseen, having died for her sake, had been forgotten, and she had
married his brother, and been happy. The horror of the thoughts
crowding one after another seems as if it would almost bereave her of
reason. Poor Hector! at last the woman you have loved so utterly
realizes all she was to you, all you sacrificed for her sake. She
who thought you cold and hard and passionless knows at last how you
could love. And as the thought comes to her, Diana, all unmindful of
her dress, of her coming guests, whom she is to greet with her
happiest smiles, flings herself prone by her bedside, and in her
sorrow and remorse cries such bitter tears as she has never thought
to shed again in the new life.
The gong sounds. Her ears are unmindful; she heeds nothing, cares
for nothing, has no thought but one intense, heart-breaking pity of
the dead man who had loved her so utterly. A swift step sounds upon
the stairs; she heeds it not. The door is pushed open, her husband
calls her by her name, once, twice: she heeds not, answers not.
All at once he catches sight of her prone form, hears her gasping
sobs.
"God in heaven!" he cries, with white lips, "my own little darling,
what is the matter? Speak to me--oh, child, for God's sake speak to
me!"
She answers him by never a word. He takes her up in his arms, lays
her on the sofa, and kneels down beside her.
"Do you want to break my heart?" he whispers, in a tone of such utter
misery that she at last comes back from her agonized trance and
remembers him. She points to the book.
"Read," she murmurs; "read."
And he, wondering more and more, takes the book that is lying open,
and reads for himself,--reads the bitter story from beginning to end.
Then he too comprehends.
They look from one to other with mute misery; he has no word to say
that may comfort her, nor she him.
"Poor little girl!--poor Hector!" he murmurs, at last, in a broken
voice, whilst the unwonted tears stand in his eyes.
"At least," says Sir Charles, after a long silence, "thank God,
whatever he may have had in his mind, poor fellow, he came to his
death by fair means. Poor little darling!" (with infinite
tenderness), "this must grieve you terribly; and so, heaven knows, it
does me. But you have no cause to blame yourself. What could you
have done? There is only one thing we can do now" (sighing); "that
is, to remember him, and do our utmost to carry out all his wishes.
And, darling, for heaven's sake keep it from my poor mother. It
would break her heart."
And so Diana rises and washes the tears from her face as he bids her.
But she goes heavily, as one that mourneth for a brother.
She feels now as if this will always stand between her and joy all
her life through.
"I was too happy," she says to herself, sighing. "I felt it could
not last. Now I can never be happy any more."
But you and I, reader, know that it will not be so. When we are
surrounded by those we love, when the world showers its fairest gifts
with lavish hands upon us, when we have the faithful heart of him
whom we love best in the world to lay our sorrowful head upon, how
can we but forget?
"And grief shall endure not forever, I know;
As things that are not shall these things be.
* * * * * *
Wrecked hope and passionate pain shall be
As tender things of a spring-tide sea."
And Diana, though she if moved with such sorrow to-day for the man
who loved her "not wisely, but too well"--Diana, because her sorrow
is grounded on pity, not on love,--because she has the constant
presence and passion of the man who is all in all to her,--Diana
needs must cease to grieve, needs must be her own joyous, radiant
self again; but in the midst of her happiness she will nevermore lose
the memory of the man who _died in a foreign land, and all for a
woman's sake_.
THE END.