Chapter XXX: Diana's Story

Once more I am at home again, with papa and Gay, with my dogs and cats, leading the quiet peaceful life of yore. I have told the stories of my doings and seeings over and over again, especially the history of the cricket-match in which Eton came off victorious,--of our doubts and fears and ultimate triumph, of Curly's intense excitement, of the words that he said, the looks that he looked. For were they not all chronicled in my heart, to be the subjects of many loving talks with papa and Gay at home?

I fondly hoped papa would not hear of the little episode about Lord Seldon; indeed, I made Mrs. Warrington promise faithfully not to betray me; but he did hear it, and from Curly, of all people in the world. It appeared Lord Seldon met him on the river, and they had a long talk, in which it came out, and Curly was in a state of hot indignation about it.

"Such an _awful_ shame," he wrote, "and he is so _awfully_ cut up, and swears he will never marry anybody else; and he always from the first felt like a brother to me, and I'm sure so I do to him, and he's promised, _if it ever does come off_, to do I don't know what for me, though of course it isn't for that I want it; but he's such a stunning good fellow, and so devotedly fond of Di. And I didn't think Di could be so heartless; and he will be Duke of Landermere, and his father is a great invalid, and can't last very long; though of course he didn't tell me that. And, dad, I do hope you will persuade her, and make her see reason. Only think of her being a _duchess_, which she would in time, and he's an _earl_ now."

Thus writes Curly, in hot and incoherent haste; and papa, who usually reads every line aloud to me, having come to a full stop, goes on to himself.

"Well?" I say, looking up at the sudden pause; but papa is reading on with a vexed expression of face. A sudden horror seizes me that our boy has been getting into debt, or some kind of trouble, and I cry, in an impatient, frightened voice, "What is the matter? Is anything wrong?"

Then my father, with a sigh that has an impatient sound, hands me the letter, and I peruse, with what feelings may be better imagined than described, the portion I have just transcribed. I read it through to the end, and lay it down by my plate without daring to look up.

"Is it true?" asks papa, presently.

"Yes," I say, paying particular attention to the toast I am buttering with great elaboration, although I have not the remotest intention of eating it; the letter has taken away my appetite, and left nothing but a choking sensation in my throat.

Then silence falls upon us. It will not last very long, I know: papa is fidgeting about and clearing his throat, with a little nervous trick that he has when he is preparing to say something important or not quite pleasant.

"Di," he breaks out, at last, "what makes you act in such an extraordinary way? You have no earthly prospect but poverty before you, and yet you throw away two such wonderful, such unlooked-for chances of a brilliant future."

I try to laugh the matter off, but my laugh, even in my own ears, sounds most unmirthful.

"You know, papa," I say, "if I had taken the first chance, as you call it, I should never have had the second, which is much greater; and who knows" (flippantly) "but the third may be greater still? I may end by being a princess; and then what a pity it would have been if I had taken the duke."

Papa does not laugh; he looks very grave, even to sternness.

"Upon my soul, I do not understand you, Diana," he says.

At his tone, at the sound of my own name full length, which I have never before heard from his lips, my forced mirth is put to a most sudden and disorderly rout, and I fall to weeping bitterly.

"Di," cries my father, distressed, "my dear child, do not cry! I do not wish to be unkind, only your conduct puzzles me so utterly. You seem to me to be acting like a capricious child. Well, well," as my sobs increase, "perhaps you can make me see things in a different light. Come, Di," drawing near, and putting his hand fondly on my head, "tell me what makes you unhappy. Am I not your father? Have I any care or interest in the world that does not centre in you and Curly?"

It is easy for him to invite my confidence,--Heaven knows there is no other subject in the world on which I would withhold it,--but to confess to one's father one's miserable, foolish, ignominious, hopeless love for a man who is indifferent to it, what woman that was ever created could bring herself to so shameful an utterance?

When I have mastered my sobs, I walk to the window and look out. Papa has resumed his seat, and is waiting patiently until the spirit shall move me to speak. I stand for some time looking out at the great clusters of roses, crimson and pink, red and amber, golden yellow, creamy white, blush-tinted. There is a lovely bud within my reach, and I turn to the table for a knife and proceed to sever it from its native bush. By this time I have recovered myself.

"There is nothing much to be said, papa," I say, in a small voice, leaning my head against the window-frame and contemplating the ceiling, which I observe is becoming exceedingly dingy. "I don't see that it follows one is bound to marry a man simply because he asks one."

That, I comfort myself, is convincingly put. Probably papa thinks so too, for he does not reply immediately.

"No," he answers, presently, "if a man asks a woman to marry him, she is certainly not bound to accept him for that simple reason. But if there is nothing objectionable about him, if indeed she has rather seemed to take pleasure in his society, if he can offer her everything that the world esteems worth having, I think she ought to reflect long and gravely before she makes up her mind to reject him, especially where, as in your ease, she has only the most prospectless future to look forward to."

"I suppose," I say, slowly, looking from the ceiling to the shabby chairs, from the shabby chairs to the shabbier carpet, and round again to the shabbiest curtains, "that the object of fine clothes and houses, diamonds and horses, is to make their possessor happy, is it not?"

"If riches do not make happiness, they undoubtedly add a great deal to one's pleasure in life," remarks my father, tritely.

"This room is very dingy and shabby," I continue, with apparent irrelevancy; "and we have never had much luxury, have we?--at least I have not," I resume.

"No, God knows!" murmurs papa, a pained look coming into his dear kind face.

"Then," I proceed, resuming my contemplation of the ceiling, with my head thrown well back, for I do not want to look him in the face, "I have been brought up without any of these wonderful adjuncts, and I do not believe--indeed, I am quite sure" (emphatically) "that there was never in this world a happier girl than I was."

"Than you were," says papa, taking up my words quickly: "I think that is true. But, Di, can you say truthfully that from the moment you came in contact with the luxuries and pleasures of the world you have been as happy? It is true you have never complained, because you are unselfish, God bless you, and would not pain me; but do you think I have not remarked the change in you since you went to Warrington, how much quieter and less full of spirits you have been?"

"_That_ had nothing to do with it," I cry, with hot eagerness, involuntarily betraying myself.

"Then what had?" asks my father, looking keenly at me.

I turn sharply away to hide my face. Then I resume in haste, looking out at the clusters of blown roses and their fairer buds. "I have never felt the least envious of riches or their possessors; none of the people at Warrington seemed particularly happy to me, though they laughed and talked a good deal. Lady Gwyneth was not happy, nor Mrs. Huntingdon; and even Mrs. Warrington wants perpetual amusement to keep her from feeling dull. And at Alford, neither Sir Hector nor Lady Montagu were the least bit happy; and in London most people seemed to think everything rather a bore,--at least they said so. We are never bored, you and I, papa, are we?" I continue, able now to confront him with a smile.

"This is begging the question," says papa, answering my smile with another. "Come, Di, my dear child, I want you to think and act like a sensible, reasoning woman; do not, I entreat you, throw away such a brilliant prospect without the gravest consideration. I am ambitious for you. I confess it. I think," (fondly)--"there can be no harm in my saying it, since you have no doubt heard it often enough by this time,--I think you are in every way fitted to adorn a high station in life; and it would make me very happy to see you placed in a different sphere from this. Think, too, how much you could do for Curly if you married Lord Seldon."

My eyes fill with tears.

"Papa," I cry, passionately, "you know I love you both; you know I would do anything in the world to make you both happy; it would not seem hard to die to-morrow for either of your sakes; but would you sacrifice all my life just for a few advantages that I do not value in the least?"

"Say no more, Di," answers my father, sighing. "I suppose" (wearily) "Providence orders everything for good." And he takes his paper and goes, leaving me a prey to bitter regrets.

Why do fathers and brothers always think it a matter of course, involving no sacrifice on the part of the girl, that she should give up all her future to a man she neither loves nor respects, if only he happens to be rich or titled? It is a mean, base thing for a man to sell himself, but it is a crown of glory, it seems, to a woman. The same thing has happened to most of my heroines: some of them have weakly yielded, and, of course, been utterly wretched ever after. Then, when it was too late, when they had been driven to madness or an early death, the fathers and brothers had been smitten with a tardy remorse; but what use was that? I am determined that mine shall have no such cause for regret. I will _not_ marry against my inclination. But, though I am resolute, my heart is heavy as I think how, by sacrificing myself, I might make the future brighter for the two beings whom I love most in the world.

I cannot settle to anything this morning: so I take a book from the shelves, call the pug, let out the other dogs, and betake myself to the garden. We have a piece of water in our grounds, though not half the size of the one at Alford: it is situated in the midst of the old-fashioned garden, half vegetable--half flower-garden, planted with the real old-fashioned flowers,--hollyhocks, sweet-williams, Canterbury bells, larkspurs, blueflags, and such like. The banks are green and mossy, and there is shade from a few fine old trees independently of the apple-, pear-, cherry-, and mulberry-trees which combine the useful with the ornamental. The great lily-leaves are spread over most of the lakelet's surface; their proud pure white flowers ride the glossy water triumphantly, meeting and answering back the sun's fervent glances with their golden eyes; there is a hush fallen upon nature; the birds do not sing these blazing July days.

I lie tranquilly on the bank, too indolent even to read, perhaps without the heart; and I try not to think, but to let the drowsy heat creep through my veins and lull me into stupor. No very easy task, though, with that very vivacious young lady the pug bent upon a real good game with her four-footed friends. She is in a restless worrying humor this morning, and the spaniel very kindly enters into her mood, and between them they play a rampant game under the bushes and over my prostrate form, that is not encouraging to soft repose. Even the solemn old retriever joins somewhat in the spirit of the thing, and, lying lazily on his back, opening his shark-like mouth, feigns with low growls to swallow the pug's head. That active and remorseless little beast does not possess the excellent virtue of knowing when her playmates have had enough: the spaniel, tired out at last, lays himself down with lolling tongue and panting sides, and tries to get a little quiet amusement out of gnawing the wing of a dead bird. Not a bit of it! Miss Pug tears it from him tooth and nail, and a general chivy ensues, until the spaniel's attention is arrested by a big red-finned fish leaping out of the water. In he springs with a mighty splash, whilst the pug, filled with envy and admiration, contemplates him from the bank. But when he reaches the centre of the widening circles his prey is gone. Round and round he swims, lost in amazement, and unable to convince himself that it has disappeared from the face of the waters. Again it leaps farther off, and he hurries after it, only to meet the same disappointment.

"Here you are!" exclaims a kind, merry voice behind me, and, starting up, I see Claire Fane, equipped in her neat blue habit, looking down upon me.

"You good fairy!" I cry, joyfully, "to come just at the very moment of all others that you are wanted! I was feeling so dull, and what you fashionable people call _dés[oe]uvrée_."

"That is the penalty you pay for going into the fashionable world," she answers, gayly. "I have come to hear all about your grand doings."

She links her arm in mine, and we go towards the old mulberry-tree that overhangs the water, and under which there is a bench. Claire takes her seat upon it, and I throw myself down at her feet with my arms in her lap, so that I can command a good view of her kind, pretty face. It beams and smiles so sweetly and sympathetically upon me, and I feel so forlorn and miserable, that I yield to the great impulse that besets me to pour out my heart to her.

"I wish," I say, earnestly, "that I had never been into the fashionable world,--never been away from this dull quiet place, where I was always so happy before."

"And you are not happy now,--not quite happy? I can read that in your face," she says, in her sweet, grave voice. "Tell me, dear, how is it?"

For all my answer I bury my face in her lap and cry as if my heart would break. She does not interrupt me with importunate questions; she only lets her hand wander softly over my hair, and waits until the fit is over and I care to speak again.

"Claire," I say, when my sobs have at last died away, "you are so good. Tell me, how is it that we are allowed to think the world such a bright happy place, and when we come to see it nearer and live in it we are to be so miserably disappointed?"

"Indeed, dear, I cannot tell," she answers, softly, still stroking my hair. "But there is one thing I am quite sure of, and that is that we do not really know what is good for us, and that often and often if we had the things we long for so ardently we should come to look on the gratifying of our wishes as our heaviest punishment. Perhaps, indeed, I think" (looking at me earnestly), "that would be your case."

I turn my eyes away from her face and look up the long green vista over which the apple-trees are stretching their crooked arms towards each other.

"Do you know, then," I ask, in a low voice, "what it is that makes me unhappy?"

"I think I do" (pressing my hand). "Will you be vexed if I guess?"

"No," I answer, feeling almost sure of my secret.

"I think, then, that you are unhappy about Charlie Montagu."

No need to speak: my face tells her at once that she has guessed aright.

"How do you know?" I ask, quickly. "Who could have told you?" And then I go on eagerly, wishing to defend him and myself too. "He can never be anything to me. I always knew it from the first. Oh, Claire, do not think for one instant that I have any thought of him. Indeed--in deed, I always knew it was impossible; and" (apologetically) "I had never seen anything of the world; I was not prepared----"

"My dear," she interrupts me, softly, "I do not think that any amount of preparation makes any difference in a case of this kind. But, since you know that it is only wasting your heart to care for Charlie, tell me, why cannot you bring yourself to think of some one who I am sure could and would make you very happy, and who loves you with all his heart?"

My eyes are fixed upon her face as she speaks. I see the faint color, like the heart of a rare shell, grow in her face. I hear the slight tremor in her voice. I feel the faint quiver in her fingers that grasp mine. I know quite well of whom she speaks: she is pleading with me the cause of the man she loves.

Looking at her, seeing how fair and feeling in the very depths of my heart how good she is, a wonder creeps over me that he can be so blind, so dull, as, having all that is sweet and pure and good, all that I have heard him praise and value a thousand times, within so easy reach, only to stretch out his hand and take, to reject it and want something so far meaner, poorer, smaller. The wonder is so great that, however silly and tactless it may seem, I cannot but speak out my mind.

"How can he care for me," I say, with the strongest accent of astonishment of which my voice is capable, "when he must see in you everything that he most admires?"

It is she who turns her head away, she who is pained and embarrassed now; it is my eyes which dwell searchingly upon her face.

"Hush!" she says; "I am getting an old woman. I am as old or older than he. We look upon each other as brother and sister."

"If, now," I continue, pursuing my thoughts aloud, with unintentional cruelty, "it had been he who cared for you and you who did not love him, it would have been most natural."

"You are prejudiced," she answers, quietly. "I do not believe the man exists who is more worthy of a woman's love than Hector. And, dear Di, if you knew him as I do, if you could only see, through the mask of reserve and shyness that he wears, how really unselfish and noble he is, you would love him too, and be the happiest woman in the world."

For a moment, for one moment only, a doubt creeps into my mind whether she really cares for him. Is it possible for anything so magnanimous to breathe as a woman who loves a man pleading for him to another woman?

"How do you know," I ask, "that he cares for me? Has papa told you?"

"He told me himself," she answers, slowly.

I feel enraged at this wanton, selfish cruelty on his part: he must know that she loves him.

"When?" I ask, briefly, knowing that to say anything against him would be to give her double pain.

"Soon after his father died. Oh, Di" (very earnestly), "you must take pity upon him. I never saw a man look so haggard and miserable in my life."

"That was not on my account," I say, impatiently. "Hector Montagu is not at all a man to be desperately in love with any woman."

"You do not know him," she answers, quickly. "You are like every one else: you judge him by that cold manner which is only put on to hide the intense strength and depth of his feelings. He owned to me himself that he suffers so dreadfully from your refusal of him that he feels at times as if his reason would give way. Oh, dear Di, I entreat you, don't set yourself against him so determinedly; try to care a little for him!"

"What! you too?" I cry, with hot indignation. "Is every one bent on ruining my life? Oh, Claire! of all people in the world I should not have expected you to give me such bad advice. Why, I should be committing a positive crime to marry a man feeling towards him as I do to Mr. Montagu!"

Somehow I cannot bring myself to call him by his new title. I should like him even less with that name, which reminds me only of a harsh, arbitrary, selfish man.

At this moment the dogs spring up simultaneously and bound off, and in the distance we catch sight of papa coming towards us. I always see more of him when Claire comes.