Chapter XIII: Diana's Story

My last evening is a triumphant one. Every one is kind; every one except Lady Gwyneth and Mrs. Huntingdon tell me they are sorry I am going; but I hear Lady Gwyn, to whom Curly is paying devoted attention, deploring his leaving Warrington, and making him promise (which he does eagerly) to go and stay with her at the Castle. Our kind host and hostess press us to remain, but I feel, and I think Curly does, that papa will be expecting us and might be disappointed.

Half my pleasure is over. I have had one delicious waltz, and forgotten all about the little speech that vexed me. I have danced with kind Colonel Fane, who has been kinder than ever, and with Mr. Montagu, who has struggled very hard to keep down his displeasure and to be genial, and with nearly every one but Lord Rexborough. For one moment I am alone, and he takes the opportunity to come and stretch his huge bulk on the sofa beside me.

"Won't you make it up?" he says, putting his face close to mine with his most satyrish look. "This is your last chance, you know."

"I do not know of anything to make up," I reply, stiffly.

"Oh, yes, you do," he retorts. "You were deuced angry because I warned you about Master Charlie. You'd much better have spent your pleasant looks and smiles on the other brother, or on me for the matter of that" (with a laugh). "I've sworn not to marry; but I don't at all know, if you were to look at me like you do at Charlie, that I shouldn't be capable of breaking my vow. Here he comes,--confound the fellow! always in my way. I say, Charlie, just you leave us together for a minute, will you?--we're making our peace."

But Captain Montagu reads the entreaty in my face too well to comply.

"My time is so short, I am not going to give up a minute of it," he says, laughing. "Why haven't you done it before? It's too late now. _L'occasion perdu ne revient jamais_."

"What a selfish dog you are! Why don't you stick to the marines and leave the ingénues alone?"

"I hear music. Come, Miss Carew." And in another minute we are floating down the ball-room. I shall never forget that waltz. It is over, and he leads me away into the conservatory, and seats me on the couch from which I once fled in such hot haste from Lord Rexborough.

"And you are really going to-morrow!" he says, regretfully, turning his blue eyes upon me.

"Really," I say, regretfully too.

"So am I, for the matter of that," he continues, "and we are both going home. Your father will be glad to see you. Wall, I can't flatter myself that the sight of me will awaken much joy in the paternal breast. I'm the prodigal who has returned once too often. They've given up killing the fatted calf for me,--which, on the whole," he adds, laughing, "I don't regret; for I hate veal."

"And shall you be long at home?" I ask, with a vague sense that it will be pleasant to think he is still in the same county.

"Only for a day or two; and then I return to those arduous duties about which I once told you. But I shall be down again before long. How should you greet me if I walked suddenly in upon you one day?"

My heart beats faster, my eyes glisten, but I say nothing, for I remember our homely manner of life, and think how uncongenial it would seem to this fine gentleman.

"You do not wish me to come?" he says, softly.

"You would not care to," I answer. "And in a week--in less, I dare say--you will have forgotten you ever met such a humble personage as I."

"No, I shall not," he whispers, taking my hand and holding it so gently that I am fain to leave it there. "I shall never forget you."

It seems like a dream. I half close my eyes with a dread of awaking from so much happiness.

"Darling!" he whispers, and his lips touch mine. I start away, and stand angrily against the trellis-work: the spell is broken.

"How could you?" I say, reproachfully, feeling dreadfully hurt and ashamed.

"Don't be angry!" he entreats. "I could not help it: I am awfully sorry,--no, that is not true," he says, with a little smile, "but I will not offend again."

So we go back to the dancing-room, where every one is saying good-night, and I go up-stairs with light feet but a heavy heart I am going away to-morrow,--to-day, even: in fifteen hours I shall have turned my back on all these new-found delights, and nine of those must be given to dull sleep or duller waking. A tinge of bitterness flavors the cup that would otherwise be so sweet. Does he think lightly of me, and have I given him cause? Is it not some want of maidenly modesty that even now sends a thrill of joy to my heart at the remembrance of the touch of his lips? Red shame dyes my face, my neck, glows even to my finger-tips. Oh, if that one sweet moment should have lost me his esteem!

The next morning is wet. No one goes out, and I am asked to sing. Captain Montagu has not had an opportunity of speaking to me this morning even had he wished it. I do not know if he does. His brother has scarcely left me for a moment, and _he_,--he has been talking to Mrs. Huntingdon, who for once has come down to breakfast. I feel the keenest pangs of jealousy. I try hard not to let my eyes glance in their direction, but in spite of me they will. His smile, which seems so unutterably sweet when it falls on me,--I hate it now it is bent on another woman. What can he be saying to her?--her dark brows are unbent and wide with smiles; she looks up in his face with that expression which made me wonder once how her husband could bear it. Involuntarily I look round for him. I wish he would see and resent it, but he is there in full sight of her, discoursing most cheerfully to Lady Gwyneth. I feel a contempt for him in my secret heart. But I am going to sing now: it is my one weapon against all hers,--against her handsome face, her exquisite apparel, her jewels, and those other charms unknown to me which seem to harass the souls of men. I am not nervous now: I throw all my heart--that foolish heart which will have no more use after to-day--into my voice. She talks on loudly. He makes a little sign of hush, but her eyes flash angrily and she talks louder still. Then, oh, triumph! he moves softly away and ensconces himself in a low arm-chair with closed eyes and listens. And I sing on to him,--yes, to him, though it may be his brother who thanks and praises me, or Colonel Fane, or Sir George, or Mr. Warrington. And when I have sung my last and my best, he uncloses those long-fringed lids that I have seen all the time, though I seemed not to look, and comes towards me.

"Miss Carew," he says, in the pleasant languid tone which he particularly affects, and which I believe provokes men (that is, the men who are jealous of him) and pleases women, "what an inestimable treasure you will be to some one! Only I hope you won't be like most women and give up singing when you marry."

"I don't know what I may do," I answer, "when anything so improbable occurs."

"Improbable!" echoes his brother, on the other side. "Pray, Miss Carew, do you contemplate taking the veil?"

"I might as well," I answer, laughing: "when I am at home, my life is something like a nun's."

"We'll come over and invade the sanctuary; won't we, Hector?" but the latter only frowns. "I believe we are only about fifteen miles from you," pursues Captain Montagu, "and tradition says that your family and ours were bosom friends once."

"Ah," I reply, coloring, "but it was different then. We----" but here I stop.

"As soon as I get to London," says Captain Montagu, adroitly changing the conversation, "I am going to send you some lovely songs by Gounod and Sullivan, and then if ever I do have the bliss of meeting you again, and" (laughing) "you have not given up your music. I hope I shall have the extreme gratification of hearing you sing them."

Our visit is over: we have gone through all the cordial hand-shakings, and kind regrets, and hopes for future meetings. I have wished all good-by but one. Where is he? My heart sinks with bitter disappointment: we are on the eve of starting,--when a voice cries, "Stop!" and Captain Montagu appears beside me at the window with a lovely bouquet.

"I asked permission first, and then I robbed the greenhouses," he says, putting it in my hand: "it is a little foreign custom which I always took to, sending off your friends with a floral souvenir. Good-by, Curly: I shall see lots of you this summer at Windsor. Adieu, belle déesse--au revoir, I hope." And he presses my hand softly, takes off his hat, and we are rolling down the avenue.

"Oh, Di!" says Curly, regretfully, "what an awfully jolly time we have had! Aren't you dreadfully sorry it is all over?"

But just at the moment I am triumphantly happy; this little episode of the flowers has turned my mourning into joy.

"It has been delightful," I answer; "but we are going to see papa; how glad he will be to see us! and Gay,--I dare say what a state of fuss and expectation she is in at this very moment. It will be very nice telling them all about it."

"Yes," Curly assents, but he is looking out of the window rather blankly. Presently he turns his face to me again: it has lost its usual joyous expression, and wears a shade of mortification.

"Isn't it an awful bore to be poor, Di!" he says, despondingly.

"Perhaps it is, dear boy," I assent, consolingly. "But you know" (with secret conviction) "it does not strike me that all these people we have just left are so particularly happy, and yet I suppose they have everything that money can command. I don't believe they enjoyed themselves half so much as we did. Captain Montagu" (turning a little aside) "told me he was dreadfully bored nearly always."

"Oh, that was his humbug! all those fellows talk in that way. But what I feel is, you know, it's awfully nice getting asked out, and every one being so kind and good-natured, but--but, Di" (coloring a little), "one feels so shabby at not being able to return it."

"Yes, I know, dear," I respond; "but" (putting my arm round his neck) "I don't think you need feel like that. Why, if we were ever so rich, what could we give them more than they are used to have every day of their lives? but you amuse them and make them laugh, and they like to see your bright cheery face; so I consider you make them an ample return, and I am sure they are quite satisfied with that, and would be sorry perhaps if you could make them any other."

"I think our visit was a success. We both got on capitally; didn't we?" he remarks, with returning complacency. "Really, Di, you looked uncommon well; you did, now, indeed. All the fellows liked you. I wish you hadn't snubbed Rexborough so; he's a thundering good fellow, really."

"Is he?" I respond, dryly. "Well, his thunder is as terrible to me as Jove's might have been to the ancients; but it does not follow, dear boy, that we are always to like the same people: indeed, it isn't natural we should. But you may be sure I shall not quarrel with any one for liking you," I add, putting my hand on his crisp gold curls in quite a maternal way. I do feel very motherly towards him, though there is only two years' difference between us. We are drawing near home.

"Curly," I say, with some diffidence,--"don't mind my saying it,--of course I know you won't, but, dear, I should not like you to hint anything before papa about our not being able to make people any return."

"Why, of course not, Di. As if I should! You need not be afraid of my saying anything to hurt the dear old Dad. There he is. Hurrah!" (waving his hat frantically out of the window).

Yes, there he stands waiting for us on the doorstep, looking so glad, and there behind him at a respectful distance are fluttering cap-ribbons, which I know adorn the person of none other than Mrs. Susannah Gay. A minute later, and I have flung myself round papa's neck like a young whirlwind, with an odd swelling in my throat and foolish but happy tears brimming in my eyes. What a goose I must be! And then I turn to Gay, radiant and red from Curly's embrace. The pug is nearly tearing me to pieces with excitement, cook in the distance bobs respectful curtsies, the girl stands with wide grins of welcome, holding Othello and Desdemona under each arm. It is a homely home-coming, but I think it would have given us less pleasure to walk through the old hall if it had been lined with obsequious retainers. There is such a fire in the morning room, such a cake, such hot buttered toast, and "the kettle came to the bile just as the carriage turned into the avenue," says Gay. And while she busies herself with the teapot, Curly and I breathlessly recite our tales of splendor and delight, and papa beams with smiles, and looks happier, I think, than I have ever seen him.

"And we shall be losing Di soon, Dad!" rattles Curly; "I can tell you, she's taken all the fellows by storm, and there'll be duels and rumors of duels, and somebody carrying her off one of these fine days under our very noses."

"Curly, you goose, hold your tongue!" I cry. "Ah, papa, he is afraid of my having the first word. You have no idea what a young Admirable Crichton this boy is, and what a fuss all the lovely ladies make about him!"

"At any rate," says our father, smiling, "you both seem to have enjoyed your visit."

Gay, having poured out the tea, modestly makes a show of retiring, but is not allowed. She is one of the family, and we have no secrets from her. But she is always very shy and respectful in papa's presence, and only looks the "Law's! Well, I never's! Dear bless my heart's!" with which she notes and commentates our stories in private. We spend a delightful evening in the recital of all our fine doings, and somehow I forget to make any disparaging contrasts between our own shabbiness and the luxury from which we have just come. Ah! there is something about home, when it is a happy one, with which the stateliest palace in the world cannot compete.

But next morning, when all our tales are told, when we have visited our pets and all our usual haunts, when papa and Curly have gone off with their guns, I am conscious of a certain sensation of blankness and void that I have never known before: it is the reaction, I suppose. A sort of despair creeps into my heart as I stand looking at the flowers he gave me. This time yesterday I was singing to him, and now perhaps I shall never see him again. I dare say he has already forgotten me.

The flowers grow blurred and dim; their delicate hues are merged mistily in each other for a moment, and then two great tears roll down my cheeks. Alas! I have eaten of the fruit of the tree of knowledge. When I knew of nothing different, I was blithe and happy in my home. "Oh, why, why should I have had this glimpse of Paradise," I cry, passionately, to myself, "if it is only to make me discontented with what sufficed me well enough before?" For, looking back, it all seems to me like Paradise.