_It’s a good joke that keeps out the rain, stays
the wind, and makes the fire burn brightly._
Down on the shore of the loch Diana waited, buffeted by the wind,
drenched by the rain. Her hair loosened by the wind blew into her eyes.
She pushed it back impatiently: she was waiting for the storm to clear.
So soon as the clouds broke, and she saw light on the horizon, and
the waters were stilled, she would send the launch for Uncle Marcus.
That he must by this time be suffering from congestion of the lungs,
she was gloomily certain. There was now no question as to which of the
men she loved; she loved them all, in the sense, at least, that there
was not one of them she wouldn’t marry to save him from drowning, or
from pneumonia. Not one! She had only meant to be funny and she had
not been funny. A poor joke was a crime in itself—nothing excused it.
If it had been a good joke they would all have forgiven her, but what
with the rain and the wind and the island—horrible at all times—she
had sinned beyond forgiveness. Oh, to be with Aunt Elsie—the peace of
it—the perfect peace! The memory of the sun-steeped garden, with the
booming of bees—so different from the booming of waves—of the scent of
the roses, was more than she could bear—and the deliciousness of Shan’t
became an aching memory.
Pillar was watching, too, clad in oilskins and wearing a sou’wester.
He made the agony still more acute, by carrying a rope. As Napoleon is
pictured standing wrapt in melancholy, so stood Pillar—awaiting the
worst.
Suddenly he stiffened and came towards her, as though, she thought, he
were in London, about to announce a visitor. “Mr. St. Jermyn, miss,” he
said. She had been right, he was a butler again announcing a visitor,
and never was visitor so welcome as this one.
“You!” she cried, as St. Jermyn came towards her across the sandy bay
and took her hands in his.
“I am abjectly sorry,” she said, and withdrew them gently, explaining
they were wet. Then she asked him if he had forgiven her, which was a
dangerous question to ask.
“Yes ... now,” he said, with a still more dangerous emphasis.
“Why now?” she asked—a foolish question to ask. She might have guessed
why.
“Don’t spoil it,” he said gently.
“I only meant it as a joke—leaving you on the island, I mean. And then,
when I got back and was going to send the launch to fetch you, the
storm had got up and the men said the sea was too rough.”
“Why did you leave us?”
“As a joke! I told you.” It was awful to have to go on explaining that
the idiotic thing she had done was a joke.
“For no other reason?”
“I was tired of so many men, that was all!”
“You couldn’t put up with one, I suppose, who is very humble and
doesn’t ask much?”
“No—at the moment I want you all—tell me, how did you get off the
island?”
“The Scotts picked us up. They were out fishing or had been before
the storm got up. There was a little difficulty in sending out the
boat for us, but they managed it—they got under the lee of the island.
Your uncle is anxious about you—he is afraid you are wet—you are!” St.
Jermyn put his hand on her arm.
She moved away. “Not really wet,” she said; “a little damp, but what
does it matter how wet I am now you are all back.”
“We are not all back. Hastings is still on the island.”
The wind and rain had stung Diana’s cheeks to a vivid colour and she
wore a blue hood drawn over her hair and wore it as St. Jermyn had
thought only an Irishwoman could wear it. He found her distractingly
pretty.
“Still on the island? He must be frightfully wet,” she said.
“And very hungry,” he added.
“Oh—yes, perhaps—” Hunger she knew would not be the worst thing he had
to bear. “But some one must fetch him.”
“Yes, some one must fetch him. We forgot him, which is a thing I should
not have thought I could possibly have done, whatever the others might
do. The storm may clear off at any moment. They do in these parts as
suddenly as they come up.”
“But if it doesn’t clear up?”
St. Jermyn looked at her—then out to sea and back again to her.
“If you want him to be fetched I will fetch him—for _you_.”
“Why for me?”
“Because you want some one to go and I want to please you—is that
reason enough?”
“Do you mean that if I didn’t want him fetched you wouldn’t go?”
“I mean that. I would let some one else go.”
“Why not let some one else go now, then? A man on an island must be
fetched. Why should you make it a personal thing?”
“Because I want everything between you and me to be personal. I want
my chance, that’s all. You say a man on an island must be fetched. Do
you realize that for me to do it is an act of heroism? Supposing it
would suit me that Hastings should stay forever on the island, what
then? Suppose that in fetching him off the island I know I destroy my
one chance of happiness, and I still fetch him—for your sake—what does
that argue?”
“I can’t argue—I hate it. He is cold and wet—he is cold and wet because
I behaved like an idiot—he must be fetched.”
“Many a time during the last few days I have wished to drown him.”
Diana said she didn’t believe him, but he assured her it was true.
“Just as heartily as he has wished to drown me,” he added.
That Diana refused to believe.
“No? Well, then, his position is evidently more assured than I imagined
it, and he is a more fortunate man than I am—he can afford to be
magnanimous. Well, I am going to fetch him for your sake—you can’t rob
me of that nobility of character—I shall fetch him in order to make you
happy—just as I would do anything else in the world to make you happy.
It will make you happy—I should like to be certain of that—before—”
Diana said of course it would make her happy that any one cold and
miserable should be made warm and happy, “But I don’t want you to run
any danger—that I wouldn’t face myself. I will come with you.”
“Will you?” The thought of an hour—or as long as he liked to make
it—alone with Diana was a delirious thought—less delirious was the
thought of the return journey with Hastings in the boat. Hastings with
the glamour of martyrdom upon him would be invulnerable. St. Jermyn
said he wasn’t sure that Hastings would like that, and Diana asked why?
He would be glad to see her, she knew.
“Without me—yes, but with me? What do you think?”
“Why should he mind?” she asked; then added, “It will be safe for you
to go, though?”
If it were not would she mind? he asked her.
She answered, of course, why not? If she had proved herself devoid of
humour, it did not show she was heartless.
“I wish I understood you—perhaps if I did I should be even less happy
than I am. It’s clearing, I’ll go; any message for him?”
She shook her head—then said: “My humble duty, perhaps—”
“I am glad you did not ask me to take him your love because I should
have kept half for myself—but if you would trust it all to me—to give
what I like of it to Hastings—”
Diana, interrupting him, said she was tired of jokes. So was he, he
vowed: he was in deadly earnest. “By the way—if in earnest I asked
you—‘Will you marry me?’ What should you say?”
“I should say—‘Is this a serious proposal?’”
“And if I said ‘Yes’—what should you say then?”
“I should say, it was too windy to hear—too wet to answer—too cold to
marry.”
“Too cold—that’s it! Isn’t it? Why are you so cold?”
“The wind—I can’t hear—I told you!”
“I am very serious—it’s no joke—”
Diana looked at him. “Are you really serious?” she asked.
He said he was very serious.
“Then I, too, am very serious. I should say I was very sorry, but I
couldn’t.”
“Would you say why?”
“I should say it had nothing to do with the weather—the wind or the
rain—but just to do with my heart.”
“You would mean that seriously?”
“I should mean it very seriously.”
“Then I shall not propose.”
“It would be a careless thing to do.”
She went into the Lodge, very unhappy, very wet, and very much
perturbed. She had a bath, dressed for dinner, and went downstairs
to meet Uncle Marcus. Uncle Marcus was clean and dry and dressed for
dinner. And he was very serious. Not at all a nice Uncle Marcus: but
Diana was quick to see the justice of this. There was no reason he
should be nice.
“You were extremely foolish,” he said, “and Hastings is still on the
island.” He didn’t look up from the “Scotsman” he was reading. Diana
said Mr. St. Jermyn had gone to fetch him.
“Why St. Jermyn, when there are plenty of men about?”
“He went to please me,” said Diana, sitting down on the table—an
attitude of hers Uncle Marcus particularly disliked.
“Because he is in love with you he goes to fetch another man who is
also in love with you. You will find it difficult to choose between
them. You are under an obligation to one and you have—”
“Captain Hastings would never retaliate.”
“Don’t ask me to help you, that’s all.”
“Aunt Elsie will help me.”
Uncle Marcus put down the “Scotsman.” Diana had taken his middle stump
with a fast underhand ball—so he would have described it.
“My dear child,” he said, “don’t do anything rash—it’s all perfectly
simple. What has happened to you has happened to most women—girls—I
expect—attractive girls, I mean. You are, I am sure, in no way to
blame....”
“Let me get on to the sofa, darling,” said Diana; “there, that’s right,
now go on.”
“What was I saying?” resumed Uncle Marcus. “You are in no way to blame—”
“I am kissing my hand to you hard,” said Diana, from the depths of the
sofa.
“Well, don’t interrupt me. I was saying, you are in no way to blame.
Men must take their chances. It happens that two men are in love with
you—two at least—both are excellent young men. It is perhaps difficult
for you to choose between them, for in your inexperience you possibly
hardly realize what it is you want—what kind of life would most appeal
to you—let me help you! St. Jermyn is heir to large estates—he is going
into Parliament. I am told he will make a name. He speaks well—has
something to say—and says it clearly. Hastings, as A.D.C. to your
father, has seen life from a different point of view. He has walked
too much, perhaps, on red carpet—has seen the world too much, perhaps,
from the Government House point of view; but he has plenty of brains
and is no doubt older than he looks. His boyish manner makes him seem
younger than he is. He was telling me something of his prospects last
night when St. Jermyn interrupted us. It seems he will have a certain
amount if not very much—but as I have told you, I am perfectly willing
to help you to marry the man you really love. He undoubtedly has high
ideals and a great reverence for women—so, for the matter of that, has
St. Jermyn, very markedly so. Of course—”
Uncle Marcus, touched by the depth of his own understanding, turned to
look at Diana—she was fast asleep.
And while she slept Hastings on the island was thinking of her. He had
first heard of her, loved to hear of her: he had fallen in love with
her because of the look in her mother’s eyes when she spoke of her,
because of the way her father smiled when he thought of her.
Lady Carston had never exactly described her—had never said how
extraordinarily beautiful her eyes were—had never said anything about
the colour of her hair—had never said that she looked like a lovely boy
(which, of course, she did)—had never really said anything. It was the
way she had said “My Diana” that had been so wonderful—it was as if
she had taken a child up in her arms and kissed her—“My Diana!” “Mine,
too,” said Hastings. The little gull squawked at him—a belligerent
little devil he was—“Yes, mine,” said Hastings, “and in the days to
come—don’t you forget it!”
No, Lady Carston hadn’t said much, considering all the things she
might have said. Then the photograph. He had found it lying about. He
had thought it a pity it should get lost—Hastings here felt in his
pocket—it was all right. Then he had seen her only a short time ago
for the first time—it seemed in some ways years ago—and she was more
than he had ever thought she could be—more adorable, more beautiful.
He had much to think about. He didn’t care how much it rained—he would
have been happier, of course, if St. Jermyn had been on the island too:
he had never so earnestly desired his presence: but it was no good
worrying. Back to Diana! He had much to think about—how she looked
at breakfast—at shooting-lunches—walking—fishing! He could see her
in tweeds—in chiffons—with her hat on—without it. He could picture
her—dared to picture her—a solemn moment this (in the booming of the
waves breaking on the rocks he could hear church bells—in the wind
the swelling of an organ) in her wedding-dress! A rather wonderful
sight—dear old Marcus giving her away—no, Sir Eustace stepped forward
here—Lady Carston, too, looking splendid, of course—with the “Diana
look” in her eyes. Wait a bit, though—out of the mist came a small
woman, a little less beautiful than Lady Carston—perhaps because as yet
she lacked the “Diana look” in her eyes. She had another look in her
eyes, though—a more familiar look. She became clearer, clearer than
all the rest. Sir Eustace stepped back, then Lady Carston made way—his
mother remained—and Diana; and his mother took Diana in her arms—and
her eyes had the “Diana look” after all. His mother! “Be quiet, my
son,”—this to the little bird.
Back went his thoughts to the years when he had not known Diana. Yet
it must have been of Diana he and his mother had so often talked. He
remembered particularly one evening when they had sat over the fire at
home and she had spoken to him of things of which she said she would
not have spoken if he had had a father to do it; and he remembered
saying that no father could have said so wonderfully what she had said.
Yes, of course; if it was not actually of Diana his mother had spoken,
it was because of the Diana who should some day be his—he saw that
now! Wonderful people—mothers! Back to Diana herself—he had skipped
some years in his thoughts. Distance sets no limit to our thinking—he
and Diana had been married some time—there was a question of her
going or not going to a ball. (A Viceroy and A.D.C. here floated
across the misty picture.) She had gone to a ball. It was their first
difference—it could not be described as a quarrel. In the small hours
of the morning she had come back, and into his room. He was pretending
he had been asleep! The diamonds glittered on her arms, round her
neck, in her hair. He didn’t pause to consider where the diamonds had
come from. In novels, from which he had borrowed his experiences of
these things, the diamonds were always treated as a matter of course.
They were stage properties. Diana was lovely in her defiance. She
had enjoyed herself immensely!—Yes—she had danced with Captain M ...
slim—delicious thing that she was!
Then came the delicate scene. Hastings changed his position—disturbing
the gulls, who had grown accustomed to trust him: he didn’t see them,
did not know he had abused that trust! It required all the gentleness
there was in his strong nature to forgive Diana as beautifully as he
meant to forgive her—all the tenderness he was possessed of must go to
show her where in her innocence she had erred in judgment—
“Bored stiff, old chap?” asked St. Jermyn.
“How in the world did you get here? I thought you had gone,” said
Hastings, roused from his day-dream: robbed of his best scene.
“Diana asked me to fetch you.”
“Mind the little bird,” said Hastings sharply. “Look out where you’re
going!”
St. Jermyn had chosen a weapon at random with which to fight Hastings,
but he had not thought to deal him so deadly a blow. He had dealt it in
a moment of temper, resenting the way Hastings had spoken to him when
he had come at great personal discomfort across a choppy sea to rescue
him. He would put it right later: in the mean time Hastings deserved
it whatever discomfort he suffered from the wound. By dinner-time St.
Jermyn had forgotten he had called Diana anything but Miss Carston, and
looked upon her as something beautiful and desirable, but out of his
reach. If it became expedient for him to worship at some other shrine,
he would think of her forever with reverence and gratitude. What did it
matter what he called her? He knew she would never respond. To Miles
Hastings it mattered enormously what St. Jermyn called her.
But to Ralph St. Jermyn his career mattered more than the name of any
woman; it had become as a god to him. Whatever happened nothing must
interfere with that. He owed it to himself—so he said—to succeed.
His affection for Diana had been very sincere—politically so, at all
events. It was as a politician—a successful politician—he had imagined
himself married to her. On first seeing her sitting at the head of
her uncle’s dinner-table in London, he had thought how delightful
she would look in days to come, seated at the head of his. He went
further still and saw her in Downing Street—a graceful, beautiful,
and satisfying vision, standing at the top of the staircase, for
choice. She had a way of talking to every one and any one that was
particularly attractive, and to a Member of Parliament—although only
a prospective one—more than attractive. She would be, as his wife, a
valuable asset. There was no one who seemed too old to interest her:
no one too young. She could talk to a man of those things in which he
was particularly interested, yet was quick to see if they were just the
things he at that moment most earnestly wished to forget. Tired men
in talking to her forgot they were tired: old men that they were no
longer young. These undoubtedly were valuable social gifts. At times
she could talk of things of which she knew very little, but there were
many who would not be quick enough to discover it, and she would be
quick enough to discover those that were. Those people she could make
talk and she would listen. St. Jermyn saw all this, saw she was still
very young, and it was easy enough to imagine what she would be when
she was older. She would speak well, he was sure of that, she was
without self-consciousness, and had a quaint turn of mind that would
be useful at election times, and at all times delightful. If it was as
a hostess he had fallen in love with her, it was also as a girl and a
woman: but he knew she did not care for him, and the thought of his
career helped him to bear the blow. He had still something to live
for. So when he got back to the Scotts’—having quite forgotten he had
called Diana “Diana” to Hastings, and being perfectly innocent of the
havoc he had wrought—he was feeling sorry for himself: and saw himself
as an interesting young man recovering from a love-affair: wondered
how it would read when his life came to be written and wondered if
any one writing of it would do justice to his tenderness? He had an
undefined feeling that every one must be a little kinder to him than
usual, to make up, as it were. So when he found Sheila Scott sitting
in a window-seat in the great hall, reading “Hansard,” he felt very
much drawn to her, and caused her an agony of shyness by forcing her
to say why she was reading anything so dry. She found it difficult
to say, “Because you said the other day that some one should look
something up in ‘Hansard.’” He didn’t know that in the eyes of this
dear little red-haired, freckle-faced girl—born to be a beauty yet—he
was a hero. If he had seen Diana in Downing Street—Sheila had seen him
there dozens of times, in different guises: hardly ever as himself,
which would have distressed him. She had seen him—Lohengrin at Downing
Street: Sir Philip Sidney at Downing Street: Sidney Carton at Downing
Street: the Scarlet Pimpernel even, at Downing Street. He had been her
every hero in turn, and always Prime Minister in addition to everything
else. He couldn’t know this, but he had taken the book away from her:
holding her wrists until she had promised to give it to him. Finally
she had given it to him and he had read aloud to her from its pages.
Dull reading enough; but to her nothing like it had ever been written.
Her eyes grew larger and larger, and her lips parted as she listened to
the charming modulations of his voice. St. Jermyn was just discovering
how really pretty she was; had just won from her the promise to read
all his speeches, if ever they came to be published, and she had just
said, “I will”—and no “I will” was ever more solemnly said—not even in
St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge—when her mother came into the hall.
“Don’t worry Ralph, darling,” she said. “She’s so fond of fairy
stories—even at her age,”—this to Ralph as Sheila left them, and Ralph
smiled as his eyes followed her.
“You will remember she is only a child?” Mrs. Scott said gently as she
took Sheila’s seat.
St. Jermyn wondered if she were such a child, after all?
“Perhaps,” said her mother, “it is not so much that she’s a child as
that I want you to remember she is a woman. Am I very difficult to
understand?”
Ralph thought he understood her perfectly.
“You know, Ralph, I am being absolutely frank with you; the child is
very fond of you but we both know—both she and I—that you are fond of
some one else. You won’t think because she’s rather a nice thing, and
young, that she—”
St. Jermyn interrupted her. “My dear Janet,” he said, “I quite
understand. The truth is I was feeling the want of a little sympathy—it
is quite true, I did care enormously for some one—but she doesn’t care
for me, and I am going to devote myself to politics—it’s horrible to
have to admit it, but I am afraid they will always come first with me.
I shall some day, I am sure, make a very good and devoted husband, I
feel certain of that—and I believe I could make a woman happy, but her
interest in life must be—not my interests—but _Me_. I wonder if you
understand—I am showing myself in a very poor light.”
Mrs. Scott rose from the window-seat, and laying her hand on his
shoulder said, “My dear boy, in a very bad light—but I don’t believe
you are half so selfish as you make out. The day will come when you
will fall desperately in love—don’t, I most earnestly beg of you, wait
till Diana is married, and then fall in love with her—for your sake,
not hers! She would run no danger—but don’t do it! It really need not
be part of a political life—and don’t think too much of that life of
yours that may some day be written. Have you forgiven me?”
St. Jermyn was almost sure he had. If forgetting is forgiving he very
soon forgave her. What he did not forget was the sight of that absurd
child sitting in the window-seat reading “Hansard.” How he wished it
had been Diana who for his sake had read it!