HER NEIGHBOURS.
There were very great people in the county, whom I will not venture to
describe here,--a duke, with his duchess, and all the fine things that
naturally belong to dukes: and two barons, and Sir Johns without number:
for the county was large and important. Miss Trelawny, I believe, had
she acted with ordinary prudence, might have had the Marquis, and been
Duchess in her day. He was some years younger than she was; but, as
everybody said, if _his_ family did not object to that difference of age
on the wrong side, why should she? and the young man was fathoms deep in
love, and did not get over his disappointment for three months at least;
and nothing could have made a finer match than the Trelawny estate with
the Duke’s lands. However, I am not qualified to enter upon any
discussion of the motives of such sublime personages. The neighbours
who specially belonged to Diana, and who were most interested in the
episode of her life which it is my business to relate, were the
Hunstantons, who lived in the nearest “place” to Trelawny, and were
deeply attached to its mistress; and another small and insignificant
household, which, except in consequence of its connection with Diana,
would scarcely have been of sufficient importance to be mentioned at
all. This latter family was composed of two ladies, an aunt and a
niece--the one a clergyman’s widow, the other a clergyman’s
orphan-child; peevish, humble-minded, weakly little gentlewomen, with
nothing remarkable about them except the simple prettiness of the girl,
Sophy, who was a soft, smiling golden-haired creature, unobtrusive and
gentle as a little bird. Mrs. Norton was disposed to be mysterious about
the connection of herself and her niece with Diana, fearing, as she
said, to “compromise” a lady in her position; but this connection was of
the very simplest kind. Sophy had been at Mrs. Seymour’s school--a piece
of extravagance which had cost her kind aunt a great deal more than she
could afford--but the girl had been delicate, and sea-air had been
prescribed for her, and good little Mrs. Norton was willing to “live
anyhow” in order to secure advantages for the child to whom she had
performed all a mother’s duties. Diana was one of the women to whom a
dependent of some kind is an invariable appendage, gathered to her by
sheer attraction of nature: and Sophy Norton took the place of the
necessary burden to be carried about on the other’s strong shoulders.
The child was delicate, the governess was kind. She nursed her, she
petted her, she became to her a sort of amateur mother. Mrs. Norton
lived in cheap little lodgings at Brighton to be near her little girl,
and when she asked the governess to come to tea with Sophy, she too felt
that in her way she was exercising kindness and patronage, and that Miss
Trelawny’s care of Sophy was compensated by the notice which she, a lady
of private means, not requiring to work for her living, took of the
governess--so that on this foundation of mutual kindness they got on in
a very pleasant way.
I will not say that Diana herself felt Mrs. Norton’s notice to be of the
elevating character which the excellent little woman herself supposed:
but she was lonely, and very grateful for kindness of any description
simply offered. She liked the prattle of the two innocent creatures, the
aunt not much wiser than the niece; and she liked the spectacle of their
love, which brought sometimes a wistful look to her own face, and
sometimes lit her up with smiles, for it had its amusing as well as its
tender aspects. When Diana came to her kingdom, it is not to be
described what awe, and wonder, and pride, took possession of Mrs.
Norton’s soul. To think that the governess to whom she had condescended
should have risen to be such a great lady! but yet, at the same time, to
think that she had always appreciated Miss Trelawny,--always done her
best, though that was but little, to show her appreciation! When old
Lady Trelawny died, Mrs. Norton wrote, with much timidity, to offer, if
Diana would like it, a visit of sympathy for one day only--for she had
her pride, and meant nothing but kindness, if not perhaps a tremulous
expedient of love to recall little Sophy to the mind of one who now
might be as good a friend to the little girl “as I tried to be to her,
my dear, in her days of poverty.” Diana accepted this not entirely
unalloyed kindness. She understood the alloy and forgave it; nay,
perhaps liked the little bit of gold there was all the better for that
heavenly kind of dross mixed with it--the anxious love of Sophy which
prompted her aunt to seek her interest in any practicable way. They came
to the Chase for two days, and stayed two months, amusing and refreshing
their hostess in her loneliness with their pretty foolish ways. They
were like two kittens to Diana; their harmless gambols gave her
pleasure such as sensible persons did not always understand. When she
had kept them with her all that time, it seemed hard to send the two
little things away again into the seaside lodgings or small suburban
house which they contemplated. Diana offered them a cottage in her park
which had been built by some other kind Trelawny for a poor relation,--a
little red house, overgrown with climbing roses and honey-suckle, set in
a little clearing of green lawns in the heart of the trees. No words
could tell Sophy’s delight with this pretty nest; but Mrs. Norton did
all she could to maintain her dignity, and to seem to doubt and hesitate
a little--firstly, as to whether she ought to accept such a favour from
a friend who was not a relation, as she said; and secondly, as to
whether in the midst of the trees it might be damp. But in a very short
time both these fears were put to flight, and no children were ever more
happy over the fitting up of a doll’s house than those two little ladies
were over their furnishing. And, again, to the wonder of her sensible
friends, so was Diana too. Is not a grown-up sister, a young mother,
sometimes excited about the doll’s house as well as its lawful
possessor? Miss Trelawny bought little bits of furniture, sought out
scraps of china, had little brackets fitted in the little corners, and
stands of flowers set out in the tiny hall. It was a toy mansion for her
pets, upon which she expended more trouble than on her own stately
dwelling-place; though what she could see in those two silly little
women! as Mrs. Hunstanton constantly said.
The Hunstantons were of a totally different class. They were landed
gentry as good as the Trelawnys themselves, if not quite so rich. They
had a house in a great grove of trees which, except in the heat of
summer, was not very cheerful, and which was supposed not to be
wholesome for the delicate boy who was their eldest hope and the heir.
He was a pale melancholy individual, like neither father nor mother, and
it was on his account that they constantly spent their winters abroad.
Mr. Hunstanton was an unsteady man with nerves, who had attacks of
neuralgia and notions, and was fond of meddling, people said, with
things that did not concern him much. He was thin to the utmost possible
of thinness, running about in jerks and thinking in jumps, a hasty man,
not wise but yet lovable, and ready to undertake anything for anybody.
His wife was as unlike him in person as in character. She was sensible,
cool, and indisposed to “mix herself up” with other people’s
affairs--still handsome though nearly fifty, calm in disposition, and
somewhat disposed to criticism, for which she had ample ground in her
husband’s doings and sayings. They had married late, and had some
children still in the nursery, and the weakly boy of sixteen already
mentioned, whom it was the chief object of their lives to tide over the
difficult period of youth. For him they were always ready to move at a
moment’s notice, to fly from the east winds or from the damp, or from
the too great heats of summer. Climate was one of the few things which
both of them believed in, and their house was full of books on the
subject, and every new place was eagerly caught at and inquired about.
All along the Riviera they had wandered, over Italy with all its
islands, into Spain, to Gibraltar, to Algiers, up the Nile--almost as
many places as there had been winters in the delicate boy’s life.
Curiosities from all of these spots which possessed any curiosities
filled their rooms, and the acquaintances which an active-minded man
like Mr. Hunstanton made in these prolonged periods of leisure were
beyond counting. He had something to do with private histories all over
the world, and had thrust his nervous head into more tangled webs than
could be reckoned. His wife, who at first had tried to restrain him, had
long ago given up the attempt as impracticable, and only looked on and
wondered and criticised.
Such were Diana’s nearest neighbours. The Nortons were in the park, to
be got at at a moment’s notice--convenient people who could be sent for,
who were always ready to fill up a corner, to do anything that might be
agreeable. Sophy sung a little pleasantly and prettily, as she did
everything. Her aunt was ready to play quadrilles and waltzes, or the
simpler kind of accompaniments, till midnight at any time. They were
liked by all the much greater people into whose society they had been
transplanted bodily, and whom they delighted in, in return, with
enthusiasm. The Duchess, on the one occasion when she had spent three
days at the Chase, at the time when Diana had been thought possible for
her most noble son, paid special attention to Mrs. Norton, taking her
for the resident clergywoman of the place: and the distinction was one
which had never been forgotten. It must be added that, by some special
dispensation of Providence, the clergy of the parish were an uncle and
nephew--one rector, the other curate; two black-browed, silent men,
whose chief use in nature seemed to be (besides their duties in the
parish) to balance these two little ladies at Diana’s dinner-table. They
were both unmarried, and Nature seemed to intend that if not two
couplings at least one should result from this singularly appropriate
balance of forces. Everybody, however, saw this except the parties
concerned, as so often happens. They did not see it at all. The elder
Mr. Snodgrass unjustly stigmatised poor little Mrs. Norton as a gossip;
and the younger one had lost his head, not to speak of his heart, in a
vain adoration of Diana, who was about as far removed from him as her
namesake in the skies. And this taciturn young man was the favourite
butt for Sophy’s simple little wit, which was not of a brilliant
character indeed, but now and then could be sharp on a personal
peculiarity. Thus perverse human nature balked Providence, as seems not
unusual on the surface in mortal affairs.
Diana had been reigning for full two years when this story begins, and
for more than one the pair of little ladies had been settled in the Red
House. They had not complained of the damp during the first winter; but
now that another was about to begin, there was a little flutter of talk
about Sophy’s cough, which had not been lost upon Diana. Sophy, there
was no doubt, had a cough. She had not got rid of it last year until the
end of May, and though it did not seem to hurt her, it was enough to
disturb Mrs. Norton, and even to attract Diana’s attention whatever she
was doing, stopping her in the midst of the most interesting
conversation. Was it the humid atmosphere under the trees? was it the
green, too luxuriant growth about the Red House? Diana set out walking
one October morning, after many thoughts, to satisfy herself on this
point. She was fond of the girl in her own person, and she was moved by
a still deeper sympathetic sense of the love of the aunt to whom Sophy
was everything. What would the economy matter, the pretty house which
they had rent free, or even the fine company which Diana felt was still
more dear to Mrs. Norton--in comparison with her child’s health? Diana
went across the park, the short cut, not afraid of the moisture which
shone on the grass, in her strong boots and serge dress. She was tall
and fully developed, in the long lines and noble curves that became her
age: no longer a slim girl, but mature, in the pride and height of life:
her step firm and commanding, though light and swift; her fine head held
high, not a stoop nor a droop had she; light and strong and beautiful,
like a tall lily among the fragile undergrowth of blooms. Sophy was
sitting by the window, looking out upon the park, with a basket of
flowers before her, and all the flower-vases of the house ranged round
her; the air sweet with mignonette; the sunshine coming in over her
head, and catching the ruddy glimmer in her hair. “Here is Diana,
auntie,” she said, getting up to run to the door and welcome her friend.
Mrs. Norton was sitting with her needlework by the table. There was a
pucker in her gentle little brow, for Sophy had coughed three times
since breakfast. Something would have to be done. “I will take my
courage in both hands, and I will speak to Diana,” she said to herself,
then looked round the pretty room and sighed.
It was a very pretty room. Diana had almost furnished it, as well as
given the house. Opposite the window was an old-fashioned convex mirror,
making the prettiest sparkling picture of the park with its trees; a
little old cabinet underneath had Mrs. Norton’s pet china arranged upon
it, catching the sunshine: the sofa by the fireside was as softly
luxurious, though it was so small, as anything in the Chase. “What have
we done that she should have been so good to us? and she will think it
ungrateful,” Mrs. Norton said to herself, drying her eyes; but nothing
could be ungrateful which was done with such reluctant sorrow. She heard
the sound of the voices outside, and got up from her work tearfully,
thinking how rash Sophy was with her cough to run to the door. “I shall
never get her to take care--here,” she thought. “How nice of you to
come!” Sophy was saying. “Oh, I was just sitting at the window, wishing
and wishing for you--yes, isn’t the mignonette sweet?--it is almost the
last thing now--the flowers are going. Oh, but come in, come in--you
must not stand in the hall; and your boots are wet, Diana. You have come
across the grass.”
“Which is not a thing for little girls to do,” said Diana, letting the
long serge skirt drop which she had been carrying looped over her arm.
She was fond of long dresses, though they were inconvenient, and had to
be looped up. “I have come to speak to your aunt about business, and you
may run away for a little. Go and see if your ribbons are all right for
this evening: for you are coming up to dinner to meet the Hunstantons
and the clergy; and you know in that case you are always to look your
best.”
“As if I cared how I look, for _them_!” said Sophy. “But are we really,
really coming up to-night? My white is not quite fresh enough if Mrs.
Hunstanton is coming--she is so particular; and my blue is rather
shabby; and you don’t like my green. What am I to wear? There is the
grey Japanese silk you gave me; or shall I put on my pink spotted?”
“Here is the auntie,” said Diana. “Send her away, Mrs. Norton, for I
have something to consult you about.”
“Your grey, my love,” said Mrs. Norton, “with the blue ribbons. That is
pretty for this season, and not so thin. Oh, Diana! I ought to have gone
to you. I, too, want to tell you of something. If you should think me
ungrateful, or that I don’t feel all your kindness to the bottom of my
heart----”
“We mean the same thing, poor little auntie. That cough of Sophy’s----”
“Then you have noticed it,” cried Mrs. Norton, turning very pale. “You
think it very serious--as I do! like her mother’s! O Diana, my child!
Perhaps the doctor has said something to you. What shall I do? what
shall I do?”
“It is not the least serious,” said Diana. “_I_ spoke to the doctor, and
he laughed.”
“He laughed!” Mrs. Norton wavered between relief and offence. Then she
shook her head. “I have no confidence in country doctors. He would not
have laughed if--if he had any real experience--if--if he knew----”
“Do not cry,” said Diana. “Pray, pray do not cry. I have come to propose
something to you. I want you to go to Italy with the Hunstantons.”
Mrs. Norton gave a little shriek. “To Italy! Oh, Diana!” Then she
stopped in the first impulse of joy. “You are deceiving me,” she said,
trembling. “You think it a great deal more serious than you say.”
“I think you are the silliest little woman! and if you make me out to
have a hundred meanings I never thought of, I will not speak to you any
more. Ask the doctor. Ask a dozen doctors if you please. But look
here--if you are proud and hoity-toity, why, then, there must be a
general dissolution and breaking up of friendship; and you know, Mrs.
Norton, it is a dreadful thing to break off with and alienate a true
friend.”
“I do, I do! Oh, how could you ever think it of me, Diana? and why do
you speak to me so formally? If we were to go away to-morrow and never
to come back again, do you think that would make me less grateful to
you? And me hoity-toity! was I ever?--could I ever be?--does any one
think it possible?”
“Do you know what that is?” said Diana. “I found it in my desk to-day.”
Mrs. Norton looked at the paper through her tears. She knew very well
what it was. Though she was not rich, she prided herself on having
travelled abroad in her time, and knowing all about such matters. It was
a banker’s letter recommending herself to the correspondents of the
firm--one of those documents which make the traveller’s path easy, and
are of more use than any passport--as long as they hold out.
“Now,” said Diana, with a threatening aspect, “if you make any
objections or say anything disagreeable, I am your landlady, and I shall
evict you. If you refuse to go I shall take your roof off. I shall turn
out all your furniture; and anybody who pleases may take your china.
There! the power of threatening can no further go. And now I must hurry
home, for I have a great deal to do to-day. Give me some of Sophy’s
mignonette. Tell her she is a little goose, and that young Mr. Snodgrass
prefers pink to blue; and if you were not very inexorable and unkind,
his poor uncle--but of course if you will not listen to him, what does
it matter what I say? Sophy, good-bye--I have no time to stay.”
“But, Diana, Diana!” said Mrs. Norton, breathless, with the letter in
her hand, rushing to the door after the hasty visitor.
“I have not another moment--there are people waiting: good-bye till the
evening,” cried Diana, half-way across the lawn, with her blue gown over
her arm.
“She will wet her feet, she will catch cold, she will get rheumatism.
Oh, if she knew what it was to have neuralgia like me! But Italy!” said
Mrs. Norton to herself. She went back to her little drawing-room in a
flutter of excitement. Italy! It had been the pride of her life to have
been at Geneva once in her early days, and in this one expedition she
had found a parallel to all she had heard of wonderful and stupendous
since then. “I can understand it,” she had said, “because, when I was at
Geneva----” With this the greatest traveller, and even Mr. Hunstanton
himself, had been quelled. But now Italy! It took away the little lady’s
breath. She went in and looked at the banker’s letter. Surely it would
turn into a bit of rag again in her hands. It could not be real.
Italy--and a hundred pounds! Mrs. Norton was dumb. She gasped for
breath: she had not composure enough to call down Sophy, blissfully
occupied in looking up her ribbons, and unaware that there was anything
to hear.
Diana went back with a smile on her face. The power of doing such things
as this is most likely sweeter when it is newly acquired than when
people have possessed it all their life. She liked the indulgence. To be
very rich, is it not to be in some sort a god upon earth, putting right
the wrongs of fortune, and remedying its injustice? It was not so
always: had she herself been ill in the old days, she must have borne
it, and died in patience without hope of relief; and now to be able to
forestall the first possibility of danger to another seemed very sweet
to her. Yet she was not unaware, and the recollection made her smile
again, that there was something absurd in the choice of Sophy Norton as
the recipient of her bounty. There was many a consumptive girl in the
county to whom the help would have been invaluable--but Sophy was not
consumptive or unhealthy. She had a cough which was no more dangerous
than a toothache, and which had only attracted the notice of her friend
from the fact of the supposed dampness of the little Red House in the
park. What a curious commentary it was on the inequalities of fortune,
and the duty of the rich to bear the burdens of the poor! Mrs. Norton
was not exactly poor: she had enough to keep a house comfortably enough,
therefore it was to her that the rent-free cottage naturally fell; and
Sophy had no more need of transportation to a warm climate than one of
the elm-trees had, therefore of course it was Sophy who had the means
thrust into her hand. What a curious travesty of need and of duty! and
what could the great lady say for herself who was so glad to offer this
pleasure and favour to her semi-dependants? She did nothing but smile,
with an acute sense of those difficulties of life which no one can
explain and scarcely any one overcome. Had Diana known the people to
whom this favour would have been most a favour--to whom it might have
been life and death--probably they would have been proud persons who
would have rebelled at even the most delicate help. No man can save his
brother. Those who want help most are those who will not accept, who
cannot get it, whose wants are as far removed from the ken of the
helpful by natural independence or by ignorance as if there were no
help-givers in the world. Her own feelings even were to herself the
strangest commentary upon her sincere desire to be of use to her
fellow-creatures. This was a joke, a piece of self-indulgence, not noble
neighbourliness, such as it was in Diana to do if need were. She laughed
at herself and her banker’s letter, and the little show of violence with
which she had insisted on its acceptance. Who could tell how near at
hand and in what imminent need might be the other whom to save Diana
would have strained every nerve? And how blind and poor and miserable is
human nature, which cannot clear up even these initial difficulties! She
went on sighing before the smile had died off her face, feeling amid all
her power and capabilities how limited and how poor!