Chapter XIX: Diana's Story

"How provoking!" exclaims Mr. Montagu next morning at breakfast, looking really vexed as he puts down the letter he has been reading.

"What is provoking?" I ask.

"I suppose there is nothing for it but to go" (_sotto voce_ to himself). Then, aloud, in answer to me, "I am obliged to go to London, and I cannot by any possibility get back before to-morrow afternoon."

"What a pity!" I say, reflecting that it will be rather dull in his absence.

"If I had only had this yesterday" (crumpling it in his hands), "writing would have done as well; but now I am bound to go,--confound the fellow!"

He rings the bell with some impatience, and Simkins appears.

"Tell Gibbs to put the mare in the dog-cart and be round in half an hour, sharp."

"May I go with you to the station?" I whisper.

Sir Hector, with his head out of window, is withering up the head-gardener with one of his genial sarcasms.

"Will you?" he says, looking pleased. "Won't it be hurrying you too much over your breakfast?"

"Not a bit. I shall love a drive this heavenly morning. I only wish it was ten miles instead of three."

"So do I," he answers, laughing: "on this occasion only, though."

It is the heavenliest May morning the mind of man can conceive, or his heart desire. There has been a shower in the morning, and now every leaf is a shining, radiant green, every flower exhales its sweetest odors, every bird is shouting its triumphant song of joy and welcome to the new day.

"Hark! there is the nightingale!" I say to Hector, as we bowl swiftly along through the park. "Do you remember the lines in Enid?"

"No," he answers: "I am not good at poetry. Tell me them."

"When first the liquid note, beloved of man,
Comes flying over many a windy wave
To Britain, and in April suddenly
Breaks from a coppice gemmed with green and red,
And he suspends his converse with a friend
To think or say, 'There is the nightingale.'"

And Hector says, looking at me kindly,--

"I should soon get to like poetry if you said and read it to me."

"It strikes me," I remark, evading the compliment, "that reading would be dull work if there were no poetry."

"And life would be dull work if there were no love," he says, gently.

"There is the station already," I exclaim, in a tone of disappointment: "it cannot possibly be three miles."

"Three and a quarter exactly," he answers. "I am glad you found it so short. Good-by," giving me the reins, and holding my hand for a moment in a strong, kind clasp. "Think of me once or twice while I am away!" I smile assent.

"Drive home very carefully," he says to the groom. "Jump up."

As we drive gently back to Alford, I feel sorry that he is gone: the day will not be so pleasant or so short without him. I am obeying his request, and thinking of him all the way home. What shall I do? it is only half-past ten, and Lady Montagu will not be down for at least an hour. One cannot sit in-doors this heavenly morning. All at once I bethink me of the boat on the lake, and thither I betake myself. One of the gardeners unlocks the padlock, brings out the cushions, and asks if I will have some one to row me. I decline. I want freedom to enjoy all the sweets of this May morning; I will have it all to myself. So, when he has loosed the boat from its moorings, I lie luxuriously back on the cushions and let it drift lazily where it will. Sometimes a little current carries us into midwater, sometimes a puff of wind blows us back under the deep shade of the low-hanging branches. Shoals of big carp, unmindful of me, are lying atop of the water, their burnished brazen sides gleaming like cuirasses in the broad sunshine: they come so near the boat I can almost put out my hand and touch them. The big green lily-leaves are spreading over the water; now and then we catch in them until a little gust blows us off again. The warm rain that fell in the morning has brought out a thousand new buds and flowers. Yon hawthorn that was green last night is white with fairy-blossoms this morning; the laburnums are dropping their lavish golden showers; the lilacs fling up their heads proudly above the evergreens; a rich scent rises from the moist earth. Through the branches the cool, soft wind makes a tender soughing sound, swelling and falling in a plaintive cadence like waves plashing on a distant shore. The blackbird's joyous whistle pierces the clear air; just above me where I lie, a thrush's bright eye looks down suspiciously upon me from her nest; a wren flits into her neat-thatched hole in the bank; a tom-tit flies into his house in the pear-tree; a tiny robin sits on a yew-branch close to my head, and trills me a little song with his head on one side, whilst a thousand of his full-throated fellows are shouting their pæan to the sun. In the fir-trees yonder the wood-pigeons are cooing their tender little love-song, and in the distance the cuckoo chants the only two notes he knows.

An indolent sense of _bien-être_ fills me. "I am quite happy!" I murmur to myself.

"And, ev'n in saying this,
Her memory, from old habit of the mind,
Went slipping back upon the golden days
In which she saw him first."

"If he were here!" I think, and a slight pang thrills through me. I hear my name called by a gentle voice. It is Lady Montagu, who is standing on the bank.

"Is it you?" I cry, springing up, and punting myself shorewards. "Do come in and let me row you." She shakes her head.

"I am afraid of the water, and the sun is so hot," she answers, smiling. "Come and walk in the shade with me;" and I obey. "I have just had such delightful news," she continues, as I set foot on the bank; "Charlie is coming to-day."

My heart gives a great bound, the treacherous riotous blood springs into my face, and I stoop quickly and pretend to busy myself in arranging the cushions.

"The telegram came half an hour ago," she proceeds, unaware of my confusion; "he will be here in time for dinner to-night."

My heart beats tumultuously, exultantly; in vain I say to myself, "He is nothing to you,--he cares nothing for you;" it will not be repressed.

Lady Montagu places her hand upon my arm, I take charge of her camp-stool, and we pace up and down under the fragrant firs.

"You have met him, have you not?" she asks of me; and I try to say "yes" indifferently.

"He is a dear fellow," she goes on, all the mother's love shining in her beautiful gray eyes. "It is a great trial to me seeing so little of him; but" (sighing) "of course his profession takes him away a great deal, and then this is not a very lively place for a man who loves pleasant society and has as much of it as he does. I am glad you are here; it will make it less dull for him."

As she speaks, a little sudden flush comes into her face, and I know quite well what thought has brought it there.

"I want him to marry," she says, after a slight pause. "You know" (looking at me) "he is not like Hector; he is only a younger son, and must marry a woman with money. It seems almost a pity their positions cannot be reversed. Hector is not in the least extravagant, and poor dear Charlie,--well, it is very natural with his disposition that he should value luxury and elegance." That is how the fond mother puts it. "My sons were always so different," she continues. "Hector is so high-minded and good, he will make an excellent husband; people are sometimes a little afraid of him at first, but you, my dear" (with a little pressure of her arm on mine), "you seem quite to understand him."

"I was a little afraid of Mr. Montagu at first," I answer, "but I see now how really good he is, and I--I admire and respect him very much." In spite of myself, my voice sounds cold and constrained.

"He has a very great admiration for you," she says, kindly, "and you have a wonderful effect upon him. I never saw him so bright and lively before; he is of a very sedate disposition. Now, Charlie" (warming with her subject)--"Charlie is so very cheerful and amusing, in spite of that little indolent manner he affects. It is really not natural to him. I cannot think why he does it."

I long to burst forth into eager praise of him, but do not dare, lest I should betray myself. I have no fortune. I am not for him, even (I think, sighing) if he had a thought to bestow upon me. So I content myself with listening whilst the fond mother talks gladly on upon the theme which has of all others the most charm for me. And all that happy afternoon, as we drive along the scented lanes, or sit together over our needle-work, or I read aloud, a triumphant voice is shouting in my ear, "He is coming!"

And when he does come at last, and his cheery voice sounds in the hall, I am almost afraid at the wild rush of joy that flies to my heart. The door opens; his mother runs towards it; she is in his arms, and he is bending over her, looking handsomer than ever, and kissing her affectionately. Then, lifting his eyes, they meet mine, that are trying ever so hard not to look glad and eager.

"What! Miss Carew! By Jove!"

That is all he says; but he looks pleased, and, coming forward, takes my hand with the warmest, friendliest clasp, as if he had known me a lifetime.

"This is a surprise!" he ejaculates. "Why, mother, you did not tell me when you wrote that you were expecting such a charming guest. Where is Hector?"

"So unfortunate!" says Lady Montagu, looking as if she could not take her smiling eyes from her son's face. "He had a letter this morning that obliged him to go up to London immediately."

"So unfortunate!" echoes Charlie, looking at me with eyes brimful of laughter. "I wonder now whether I shall be able to take his place for the next four-and-twenty hours. By Jove! how glad I am to find you here! I shall write for extension of leave, and you and I between us will turn the house out of windows, and drive the old gentleman to the verge of madness."

"Diana will not aid and abet you," returns his mother. "I can answer for her."

"You don't know, my dear," he retorts, gayly, "what Miss Carew's capabilities are. I suppose she has felt so sat upon here, between the governor and Hector, that she hasn't dared call her soul her own."

"Indeed I have been very happy," I hasten to interpose.

"Not a doubt" (his eyes laughing more than ever); "and now that I have arrived you are going to be happier still."

I forget all about my promise to Hector to think of him, or, if I do, it is to be secretly glad, ungrateful as it seems, that he is away. I fancied I was happy and contented yesterday; to-night my heart is full of joy: it was the difference between negative and positive happiness. What care I bestow upon my toilette! how anxiously I consult my mirror! how I long to know what is his favorite color! Oh, if some fairy godmother would but step in for once and make me passing fair for my Prince Charming! Yet all the time an uneasy mocking voice within me keeps saying, Foolish one! what can you hope to be to him? You are at best but a _pis-aller_: when he goes back to the lovely high-bred women of his society, what chance have you of being remembered by him? Any more than you remember Hector? adds a reproachful Mentor within. But I heed no warning to-night: my only thought is for the present, and "let what will come after," I say, recklessly.

When I take my final glance in the cheval glass, I am satisfied and yet not satisfied. I look as well, I think, as I can look: but, oh, how much fairer I must be before I could be worthy to please him! It wants still ten minutes to dinner-time. Shall I go down? He will not be there, of course; he is always late; but---- But still I go. He is there, after all,--a little guilty blush steals into my cheeks,--there, and alone.

"Fancy my being ready in time!" he says, gayly, coming forward.

"Wonders will never cease,'" I answer, laughing rather constrainedly.

"I was determined everything should go off harmoniously this evening," he says. "Tell me" (eying me with some curiosity), "what sort of time have you had of it here? Has my father d----d the servants much, and visited everybody's short-comings upon my poor mother?"

"Much the same as usual," I reply, in a half-whisper, stealing a backward glance over my shoulder, to make sure Sir Hector is not within earshot.

"Awfully jolly house to stay in! Jolly is just the right word, isn't it?" he goes on, seating himself in front of me, and contemplating me with perfect deliberation. "I see that already a great deal of spirit has gone out of you: you have lost that mischievous sparkle in the eyes you had at Warrington. I shall devote myself to the agreeable task of bringing it back. I feel ready for any enormity, if you will only back me up. With your help and countenance, I believe I am capable of making the old gentleman an apple-pie bed, hiding his brushes, tying a string to the bedclothes, or practicing any other witty little joke of the kind."

The idea, in conjunction with the autocrat of Alford, is so irreverently comic, and he enunciates it with such perfect gravity, that I burst into a peal of laughter.

"That is right," he says, approvingly: "let us laugh and be merry for once. Hector" (with a wry face) "is coming back to-morrow. Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die. I suppose my father lapses into his usual musical slumber after dinner, unrestrained by your presence?"

"Until half-past nine," I answer. "As the clock chimes he wakes up, and then we play chess until bedtime."

"Chess! Angels and ministers of grace defend us! And has it come to this?" cries Captain Montagu, so tragically that I laugh again. "Never mind: he shall go without to-night. As soon as he is off to sleep, we will steal out into the garden: it will be a heavenly night. I will smoke, and you shall talk to me." And for the first time he puts on the languid caressing voice I remember so well.

"Not for worlds!" I cry. "I have played myself steadily into Sir Hector's good graces, and in one evening I should undo the work of a week."

A frown ruffles his smooth forehead.

"Too bad!" he says. "Why cannot he snore on as usual until bedtime, and let us enjoy ourselves? Never mind" (whispering): "I will bring him out early from dinner, and then we will slip out. I have set my heart" (smiling) "on seeing the moon to-night, and with you too."

A guilty throb of joy goes through me. At this moment the baronet comes in. He greets his younger son with some show of warmth: even he, I can see, is under the influence of that winning face and manner.

"Charlie in time for dinner!" he exclaims, blandly, addressing me. "We must be indebted to you for this, I think."

"I have been doing a great deal of duty lately," says Captain Montagu: "give that some of the credit, if possible, without detracting from Miss Carew's share of it."

My lady comes in at this moment. She, too, has bestowed unusual care on her toilette, and looks like some rare piece of delicate porcelain. The pale silvery satin of her dress shimmers through soft lace, her fingers glitter with diamonds, there is a faint tinge like the heart of a shell in her cheeks.

"Mother, you look positively lovely!" says her son, going up to her. "I must kiss you, to see that you are real and have not stepped out of a picture."

As they stand together, the delicate high-bred mother, her fond humid eyes turned upwards, and the handsome son, his face bent down to her, his golden moustache brushing her cheek, it seems to me a fairer picture than any I ever saw framed.

"Pshaw!" sneers Sir Hector: "I never saw such a fellow! he must make love to his own mother if there is no other woman by."

"That is a compliment to you," laughs Charlie, looking at me.

"Oh, Miss Carew is Hector's property," says his father.

His tone is half joking, half authoritative, I do not like it; the indignant protest rises in my cheek; but at this moment the clock chimes, the gong sounds, and Simkins appears in the doorway.