Chapter III: Diana's Story

The eventful day arrives. All obstacles have been surmounted, even the important one of my dress, though I must confess the ten pounds did not go nearly so far as I had expected. However, I am equipped so that no one can carp very much at my attire, and the reflection that gives me the greatest satisfaction is, that my clothes are undeniably well made, and fit to perfection. Elise herself could not have done more for my figure. It so happens that the daughter of an old servant, who lived with the family in its palmy days, is home for her holiday. She is lady's maid in what her mother is pleased to term a very grand family, and, as we have always kept up friendly relations, Hester has most good-naturedly offered, on hearing of my projected visit, to make my dresses. When she brings them home I am so dazzled with the magnitude of my possessions that Hester is obliged to give me a good-natured hint not to be too much elated until I have seen the splendor of the other guests.

Warrington Hall is ten miles distant, and we have post horses from the neighboring town put to our old brougham (another dreadful expense, I think, lugubriously).

Curly is in tremendous spirits, which I cannot say I altogether share. I feel rather frightened, and a little sad, for I have never left papa before. My eyes are so dim I can hardly see his dear, kind face, as he comes to see us off, and wishes us a cheery good-by and a pleasant visit.

"Oh, Curly, how dull papa will be without us!" I say, in a melancholy voice, as we turn away from the door.

"Not he; he is delighted we are going. It is just the very thing he wished for you: he told me so this morning. I say, Di, let's look at you. What a swell you are!"

"Am I not?" (proudly glancing down at myself with considerable satisfaction). "But I dare say," I add, mindful of Hester's warning,--"I dare say I shall not think much of myself when I see the others."

"Oh," replies Curly, patronizingly, "girls can't be expected to dress like married women, which I expect they'll mostly be; and you look like a lady, and that's the great thing."

"Curly," I hazard, presently, as, though he is nearly two years my junior, I look up to him in compliment to his having seen a great deal more of the world, "do you feel at all nervous?"

"Nervous!" (with considerable scorn). "What about?"

"Of course" (apologetically) "you've stayed in big houses before, but I haven't; and, Curly, dear" (blushing), "if you should see me do anything awkward, or not quite right, you'll be sure and tell me, won't you?"

"Of course I will; but you've only got to be natural," responds my young brother, oracularly, "and do just as you would at home."

I feel rather doubtful about the last part of the sentence, remembering how I am wont to scamper about the house, race upstairs two and three at a time, sing at the top of my voice, and give my opinion freely and unhesitatingly upon every subject.

"I wonder who will be there," I say.

"Oh, the Desboroughs, most likely, and perhaps some of the Montagus; or they may not have any county people at all. I don't know, I should think Lady Gwyneth will be there. She and old Warrington are great allies."

"I hope she will. I want to see her," I reply.

We have arrived. From the cold and darkness we are ushered into a blaze of warmth and light. My shyness prevents me from mastering any details at first. I only know that my dazzled senses are filled with new ideas of luxury, comfort, costliness. A soft, rose-colored light pervades the room, there is a delicate scent of hothouse flowers, and round the blazing fire is a large group of people, talking with considerable animation. Out from the group, from behind a shining silver tea-service, a tall, gracious-looking woman comes towards me,--not young, but still handsome, and with an unmistakable air of _grande dame_, that even unsophisticated I recognize at once. She greets us with kindly warmth, draws me forward to the circle round the fire, utters a few words of presentation to the rest of the company, which I am too nervous to gather, and seats herself beside me on a sofa.

"I am so disappointed you have not brought your father," she whispers, kindly. "You must entice him out a little by degrees: we cannot have Carew Court made into a hermitage, such a gay, pleasant house as it used to be." And then she asks me about the journey, and in a few minutes I begin to feel at home, and my first agony of shyness subsides. The rest of the party have relapsed into their cheery talk; the charmed circle has another addition in Curly, who is perfectly at his ease. "Hector," says Mrs. Warrington, presently, "will you pour Miss Carew out a cup of tea?"

A tall dark man separates himself from the rest and obeys Mrs. Warrington's behest. When he brings it I am introduced to him. "My dear, let me introduce Mr. Montagu to you. Hector, this is a neighbor of yours as well as ours. Miss Carew."

Mr. Montagu sits down on the other side of me. He has a distinguished face, though not exactly a handsome one; but there is something awe-inspiring about him. I feel afraid of him. He wears a cold, almost contemptuous expression, and yet now he smiles it is not an unpleasant face, rather the reverse; but I do not feel at ease with him. He utters a few cold, civil words to me, and, to my chagrin, Mrs. Warrington leaves us and goes out of the room. Is it possible that my face betrays my feelings? Mr. Montagu fixes his keen eyes upon me, and his mouth curves with a smile that is by no means a genial one.

"Do not be afraid," he says, in a low voice; "I dare say Mrs. Warrington will soon return."

To say that I am embarrassed is to give but poor and inadequate expression to the confusion that covers me. Seeing it, he adds, hastily,--

"I was only joking; but indeed you did look frightened. People are rather by way of being afraid of me at first, but really and truly" (laughing) "I am not so awful as I look."

"Mr. Montagu," says a dark, imperious-looking woman at this moment, "as Mrs. Warrington has delegated the duty of pouring out tea to you, perhaps you will come and attend to my wants."

There is another man at her elbow, doing nothing; but I am very glad to have Mr. Montagu's attention distracted from me. He rises, not very graciously, and I, being left to myself, take the opportunity of making a closer inspection of my entourage. The pleasant, becoming light issues from two rose-shaded lamps, the delicate odors from a profusion of choice flowers scattered liberally about the frequent tables, the hearth is piled with blazing logs, every object glows with rich warm tints. The thick carpet, that feels like a well-kept lawn to my unaccustomed feet, is crimson, the hangings and furniture are a lovely shade of blue, the doors and cornices are black and gold, of which there are also quaint-shaped tables and ornaments. You can scarcely see the creamy walls for the little gems of pictures in heavy gold frames, the mirrors, velvet brackets, china plates, vases, cups and saucers that cover them. An immense tiger-skin rug lies in front of the fire, and there are draped velvet curtains to the mantel-piece.

Incidentally I observe the rest of the party. The small fair woman in a riding-habit, talking volubly and laughing rather loudly, is of course Lady Gwyneth Desborough. She has fair hair, cut short like a boy's, a _retroussé_ nose, and scarcely that aristocratic air and tone I should have expected from an earl's daughter.

At this period of my life, utterly untaught by experience, my ideas savor somewhat of foregone conclusions. I imagine that all people of noble birth must have distinguished manners and perfect breeding; just as I am persuaded all clergymen must be pious, all women modest, all servants respectful, and so on. I do not particularly admire Lady Gwyneth, nor does she seem to me very lady-like, in spite of her birth. It may be difficult to manage a habit gracefully in the room, but she need not sit cross-legged, and lean back, with one arm thrown over the sofa: indeed, she looks more like a very small man than a woman. She is talking with the utmost animation to two or three men, and employing, to say the least of it, very technical terms: the subject is the day's run.

I feel rather glad papa is not here. I think I should feel a little ashamed if he were. The lady who has summoned Mr. Montagu from my side is dark and handsome, though very slight and thin. She is magnificently dressed in dark-green velvet and fur, which well becomes her imperial air. Her dark brows nearly meet over her large eyes, giving a dissatisfied, almost angry look to the face that wellnigh amounts to a scowl. Then there is a pretty, fair girl, who has been engaged in deepest conversation with a long-moustached man ever since I came in. They are sitting rather apart from the rest: it occurs to me that they must be engaged.

There are five men present; I do not know who they are, in spite of Mrs. Warrington's introduction. There is only one in whom I feel much interest. He is talking to Lady Gwyneth; and once or twice our eyes have met,--such kind, pleasant eyes, though I cannot see the color. The rest of the face is not exactly handsome, but it is the face of a thorough gentleman. Behind him is an insignificant little man, whom I take to be Mr. Desborough, from the contemptuous looks and words that Lady Gwyneth now and again throws at him when he presumes to join in her conversation. He is at this moment making some remark about his prowess in the hunting-field; she breaks in in a rasping, contemptuous voice:

"You as near as possible brought Lady-love to grief to-day; if you had quite, I should have discharged Stevens without a character, for putting you upon her with that bit."

Involuntarily my eyes open and my mouth falls. Is that the way women in society talk to their husbands? I expect him to make some furious reply,--her tone has made even my neutral blood boil,--but he only turns away with a cowed, uneasy laugh. Involuntarily I look at my friend with the kind eyes (I don't know why I should call him my friend, though, since we have not yet exchanged one word): they meet mine with a half-amused, half-disgusted smile,--the former, I suppose, called forth by the expression of amazement on my face, which I hastily endeavor to modify.

Mr. Montagu, having performed the duties required of him, returns to my side.

"A nice civil little speech that of Lady Gwyneth's to her lord, was it not?" he whispers. "Is that the way you will treat the victim of your bow and spear?"

I look up at him.

"You seem to have the gift of reading my face," I answer, with rather an injured air. "Do you think I shall? Do I look as if I should?"

He smiles; it is not a sneer this time.

"I don't think you would, though your eyes look quite capable of holding their own. Lady Gwyneth does not look like a vixen; we are all very much creatures of circumstance, and Desborough is irritating."

"Why did she marry him?--she could never have liked him," I say, and then am overtaken with a horror lest I have been indiscreet.

"At your age of course you think all marriages should be love-matches," he says, eying me with a certain curiosity.

"Yes--no--I do not know!" I stammer.

"Well, there is a couple of whom you will quite approve" (indicating with his eyes the pair whom I have already speculated upon): "they are very much in love, and will not have five hundred a year between them."

This sum does not seem so appallingly small to me as it evidently does to him. Realizing this by a glance at my face, he continues, hastily:

"What do you think of Mrs. Huntingdon?"

"The lady in green velvet?"

"Is it green? I thought it was black. She is handsome, is she not?"

"Yes," I answer, trying to keep my voice under control this time, "very."

"Rather a hard face?"

"She is very handsome," I say, resolved not to give an opinion adverse to any of the party.

"That is her husband, Major Huntingdon, just going to stir the fire. They are another attached couple."

"Who is that talking to Lady Gwyneth?" I ask, plucking up courage to ask the question I have been dying to put for the last ten minutes.

"The best fellow living,--a very old friend of mine,--Fane,--Colonel Rochester Fane. His sister is coming to-morrow,--the nicest woman in the world. I am very glad for your sake she is coming, for I hardly know whom you would have to fraternize with else. Nelly Gore is too wrapped up in her soldier; and I don't think you will take much to Lady Gwyneth or Mrs. Huntingdon."

"Nor they to me," I hazard.

"Nor they to you," he acquiesces. "I should be rather sorry" (looking at me kindly) "if they did."

"My dear, will you not like to see your room?" says Mrs. Warrington, coming up to me. And, I assenting, she carries me off to a charming little room, all white lace and pink ribbons, with pretty pictures hung upon the walls, and a hundred elegant nicknacks disposed about.

I cannot but give vent to my hearty admiration.

"Do you like it, my dear? I am very glad," she says, kindly. And then she draws me to her and kisses me, and a mist comes across my eyes. "Your brother's room is next door," she tells me; "I thought you would like to be together."

When she is gone, I sit down by the fire and begin to think. How strange, how refined, how luxurious this new life to which I am suddenly introduced seems! I look around me, and then summon up the vision of my own bare room at home, with its strips of faded carpet, its old though clean dimity hangings, and its ponderous furniture.

"Never mind, dear, darling old home," I say to myself, as if it were feeling a pang at my comparison, "I love you ten times better than any other place, though the walls were gold and it was paved with diamonds. You hold all I love."

But all the same I busy my brain to think whether I cannot take a few hints away from Warrington for the beautifying and improving of our house.

My reflections are disturbed by Curly coming into the adjoining room. I try the door of communication between us.

"Who's there?" he shouts.

"It's me,--Di," I answer.

"Hooray! Wait a minute; there's a key on this side."

And in a moment we are comparing notes on the magnificence of our respective apartments.

Curly's room is very much like mine, except that his walls are adorned with pictures of horses and dogs.

"This is fine!--isn't it?" he cries, delightedly, giving me a hug. "How do you feel, Di? Aren't you enjoying yourself _immensely_?"

"Well, not exactly" (doubtfully). "You see, I have hardly spoken to any one but Mrs. Warrington yet. I _love_ her, but I don't think I shall care much about the other women."

"Oh, Lady Gwyneth is awfully jolly."

"Is she?" I answer, dryly. "I shouldn't have thought she was an earl's daughter."

"What!" he says, laughing, "did you suppose earl's daughters talked blank verse in the bosoms of their families? My dear little Di, you'll find them very much like other people" (with an air of superiority).

"Rather more vulgar, perhaps?" I suggest.

"Vulgar!--not a bit of it. You don't know anything about society. People always talk in that sort of way."

"Do they? Well, I must dress, or I shall be late," I say, shutting the door. "Curly, _be sure_ you don't go down without me."

"All right. I say" (through the door) "shall I part my hair down the middle, or on one side?"

"Down the middle," I reply, promptly.

"You don't think I shall look too much like a girl?" (anxiously).

"I think you will look more like a girl than Lady Gwyneth," I say, maliciously. "She wears hers on one side, you know."

I do not catch Curly's rejoinder, but the tone sounds rather cross.

"Never mind, dear boy," I say, humbly, opening the door again. "I did not mean to vex you."

"Of course not," he rejoins, heartily. "Look alive, Di, or you'll be late."

I feel a very small individual when we are all assembled in the handsome amber drawing-room and I see the toilettes of the other women. Lady Gwyneth looks very different from what she did an hour ago, and I must confess there is a little something of the _grande dame_ about her. She is dressed entirely in white,--the softest, finest muslin and lace. I know very little about lace, except that this is Valenciennes, and from the quantity and quality must be very costly. It is quite the loveliest dress I have ever seen. Mrs. Huntingdon is simply gorgeous. She wears a pale greenish-blue satin trimmed with humming-birds' breasts and beetles' wings. Miss Gore, too, is elegant. But, though my dress is plain compared with the others, thanks to Hester, I do not feel dowdy I am introduced to my host. He is a loud-voiced, jolly-looking man,--quite in the English squire style, or, rather, what I imagine it to be. He greets us both very kindly and cordially, particularly Curly, whom he has seen before.

Dinner is announced, and I am taken in by Major Huntingdon. Here new surprises await me. It seems like a series of enchantments. I feel as Aladdin must have done in the magician's cave. So occupied am I with looking and wondering at all I see, that I scarcely hear my neighbor's civil little remarks, and reply no doubt in a very _mal à propos_ manner. But as soon as he is served with soup he gives me up, and I may make my observations at my leisure. The table gives me at least ten minutes' occupation,--the lovely flowers and exquisite glass ornaments, the glistening gold and silver plate. I think of papa sitting down alone to his meagre, unbeautiful meal in our dull, bare dining-room. _I_ will have flowers on the table, I say to myself. We have plenty of handsome china vases, and I might have our little homely dessert decorated with pretty leaves and berries. The warmth, the light, the laughter, all seem wonderfully pleasant to me; most of all I love to catch Curly's ringing voice. He is sitting by Lady Gwyneth. I heard her ask Mr. Warrington to put him next her, and, though I feel a sort of instinctive dislike to her, I am glad that she is kind to him, since it makes him happy.

The pictures on the wall, the rich draperies, the numerous servants in their handsome liveries, all come in for my observation and admiration; as for the butler, I firmly believe, from his distinguished manners, that he is a gentleman in reduced circumstances. I should not be surprised to hear he had been a clergyman: he pours out the wine very much as though he were performing some sacred rite. Major Huntingdon has quite given me up: he is absorbed in his dinner. Most of the men, I notice, take a kindly interest in the business on hand; some of the ladies, also, are not wholly indifferent to or disdainful of it.