Chapter XXXI: Diana's Story

Time passes by with lagging footsteps; I fancy his scythe has grown rusty, so slowly and lingeringly it hacks and hews at the hours it used to crop swiftly enough of old. I wake in the morning with a dull sense of oppression, a feeling of misgiving that there is something wrong, before even I am wide-awake enough to be conscious of reality. The mornings that used to be so short, how long they are now! How weary the hours from breakfast to lunch! What an eternity from lunch to dinner! I have no heart to read: is not my own unhappy romance sufficient for me? Less heart to sing; for how can I sing without remembering _him_? If I try to work, my hands fall idle, and my thoughts go back to the one golden day in May, which has made dark all the days that follow. What is sunshine, what sweet scents, soft breezes, fair scenes, to a soul out of tune! Take away happiness and leave all that nature can give, and it is utterly barren and void; but take sunshine, melody, zephyrs, and leave love and happiness, and the world is yet full enough of joy: give both together, and you have, not this world, but heaven. I am reluctant, almost, to visit my poor: even they seem less to be pitied than formerly, when I came out from their poor hovels into the sunshine thanking God who had made me differ.

The long summer days creep on. When the great sun sets in his glorious flood of golden waves behind the dark firs, I sigh, and say, as though a weight were lifted from my soul, There is another day gone. But the thought follows, Are there not a thousand more days in store for you, each one as long, as dull, as prospectless? And yet they say life is short. I begin to understand how it is with those who say in the evening, "Would God it were morning!" and in the morning, "Would God the day were done!"

But Curly is coming home: it will be different then: I shall brighten up, and forget that I have been unhappy.

A few more long, weary days, in which I try to busy myself with preparations for his home-coming, decorating his room, polishing his gun, putting his fishing-tackle in order, and here he is at last. He, at all events, is not changed: there has been nothing yet to sadden or sober him; his voice is as ringing, his blue eyes as full of mirth, his bright face--God bless it!--as handsome as ever. He is just as affectionate, as glad to get back to us, as contented and pleased with everything, as he always was. It is quite clear to me that he has made up his mind I shall be Lady Seldon, or, as he will always have it, Duchess of Landermere. He is a stanch friend, and returns loyally to the charge again and again, undaunted by what he is pleased to call my wicked perversity.

"I don't intend to marry at all, Curly," I reiterate. "I shall be an old maid, and keep house for you."

"Many thanks," he says, coolly, "but that sort of thing never answers. You and my wife would be sure to quarrel like blazes."

"Oh!" I return, opening my eyes, "you have a wife in view, then, have you?"

"Of course I have," he says, magnificently. "I am convinced there is nothing steadies a fellow like marrying young. Really, Di, I don't see anything to laugh at," as I greet this announcement with a burst of unrestrained merriment.

We are sitting at breakfast one morning towards the end of August, when the post-bag is brought in. Papa gives me a letter with an elaborately heavy monogram, addressed in a hand which puzzles me at first sight to decide whether it is a man's or a woman's. A letter is so rare an event with me that I like to make as much as possible of it by minutely examining the exterior and guessing at its possible contents before I proceed to make myself master of them. I am trying to decipher the letters of the monogram, when a jubilant exclamation from Curly causes me to look up.

"Hurrah! Here, dad, cast your eye over this."

"My dear Curly," papa reads, aloud, and, having read so much, turns with some curiosity to the signature. "Gwyneth Desborough," he says, raising his eyebrows.

I can see distinctly, as he holds the letter, that the large masculine hand is the same as that in which my letter is addressed. Papa reads on:

"You promised me a visit, and I want you to come over on the 31st and have a shot at the partridges. We shall only be a small party, the Warringtons and Colonel Montagu among them, but there will be good sport, and you must come. I shall take no denial, but ride over and fetch you myself if you send an excuse. I've just bought a lovely chestnut mare. You shall ride her, for she wants very light handling, and I have not allowed any one to get on her back but myself yet. We'll have some jolly rides together. By the same post I have written your sister.

"Most sincerely yours,
"GWYNETH DESBOROUGH."

A feeling of blighting disappointment comes across me. There is so little time left for Curly to be with us, not much more than three weeks, and this woman, whom I dislike more than any one I have ever met, is to take our boy from us.

"Quick, Di, read your letter," cries Curly. "Oh, dad, how awfully jolly it will be!"

"Then you have quite made up your mind to go?" says papa, a twinge of pain contracting his face.

"Oh, dad!" answers our boy, his bright face falling, "it would be _such_ a chance. But, of course" (ruefully), "if you object----" And there he pauses, not having the heart to offer to give it up.

Meantime I have opened my letter, and read:

"DEAR MISS CAREW,

"I hope your brother will be able to come to us on the 31st, and it will give us much pleasure if you will accompany him. If you care for riding, and will bring your habit, I have one or two quiet horses in the stable that might suit you."

"Lady Gwyneth is very kind," I say, with a curling lip, "but I shall not tax her hospitality."

"Why is that, Di?" asks papa.

"In the first place, I hate her," I return, vindictively. "She is a horrid woman!"

"Don't believe her, dad!" cries Curly, flushing up. "She's an awfully nice woman, and I like her tremendously. Really, Di, I wonder at you: you used not to be spiteful."

"I am not spiteful," I retort, vindicating myself with some warmth. "_You_ would not like her, papa. She cuts her hair short, and tries to be like a man, and talks loud, and smokes, and says rude things to everybody."

"Not a very pleasing picture, certainly," papa remarks. "Well, Curly, what have you to say for the defense?"

"I know she was awfully nice and kind to me," replies Curly; "but of course women never have a good word for each other."

Papa and I exchange a smile.

"My dear fellow," says papa, "don't take opinions at second-hand, particularly on the subject of women. If you don't find out, when your turn for the experience comes, that there are plenty of women who are neither jealous nor spiteful nor selfish, why, it will be a very unlucky one, and very different from mine."

"All right, dad," remarks Curly, getting up, and indulging in a soft whistle to himself as he goes out of the room.

"I suppose he must go," I say, in a dejected tone, as the door closes.

"If he does," papa answers, "I should like you to go with him."

"That I will not!" I cry, hastily. "There is nothing I should dislike so much; and it is easy enough to see by her letter that she only asks me out of bare civility."

"My dear," papa returns, with decision, "I most particularly wish you to go if Curly does; and I suppose" (sighing) "we must not disappoint him. I fancy it is rather a fast kind of house; and I should not like him to be there alone. Your presence would be a restraint upon him, and if you saw anything you did not approve you could write to me, and I would make an excuse for summoning you both home. I know there are many men and women who (more shame to them) like to draw a boy out and make a fool of him, whilst all the time he is thinking himself a very fine fellow. If," papa adds, sorrowfully, "I could have pleasant parties for him at home, and invite his friends here, I would not hear of his going to Lady Gwyneth's; but, under existing circumstances, I have no heart to deny him a pleasure that he covets so much."

"Oh, papa," I entreat, "don't ask me to go. I should hate it so."

"But Mrs. Warrington will be there. You will in all probability see very little of your hostess. Well, well, I leave it to you and Curly to settle between you."

Need I say what the result is? Of course I consent, and when the day comes, however reluctant, however prescient of an unpleasant "time," of course I go.

"I wonder who Colonel Montagu is?" says Curly: "some relation of the Alford people, I suppose."

"Sir Hector had a brother Colonel Montagu," I respond, briefly.

"That's who it is, then, of course."

This is the second time that Curly and I are starting on a visit together. He is even more joyous and full of anticipation than when we were going to Warrington; but as for me, my heart is like lead within me; every step that takes us nearer to the Castle sends my spirits an infinitesimal bit lower. It is a long drive, but we come at last to the castellated lodge, and the gates are opened for us.

"'Leave all hope, ye who enter here,'" I think, dismally, to myself, as they shut with a clang behind us. Why does this strange foreboding hang like lead upon me?

The drive up to the house is magnificent, through an avenue of the grandest, stateliest trees I have ever seen, and after half a mile of them we emerge from their splendid gloom into a broad space all ablaze with vivid glorious color, whence not one subtle shade of the prism seems wanting.

As we descend from the carriage, some one comes towards me from the broad doorway. No, not for the fairest gift in the world, not to save my own head, can I keep back the traitorous blood from my face, or the tremulous quiver from the hand that he takes in his. It is Captain Montagu.

"What! _you_ here?" cries my brother, with enthusiasm. "How jolly! Why, Lady Gwyneth wrote that Colonel Montagu was coming; and we thought it must be your uncle."

"Myself. 'Not Launcelot nor another!'" he answers, laughing. "Did you not hear that I had got my step?"

"No: you don't mean to say you are a colonel! Well, you're a jolly young one, at all events," returns Curly. "Where's Lady Gwyneth?"

"She has gone out riding, and left me to do M.C. She told me to tell you if you came in pretty good time that you were to be sure and go to meet them; there is a horse ready, and a man to show you the way. Off with you!" And Curly, needing no second bidding, darts away like a shot. "Won't you come into the garden?" he adds to me: "it is much pleasanter than the house. By the way, have some tea first: Lady Gwyn commissioned me to look after you and do everything that was right."

"No tea, thank you. Yes, I should like to see the gardens." And we stroll away together.

If I had only guessed this, I tell myself, not all the brothers in the world should have got me here; and yet my traitorous soul keeps giving little throbs of pleasure at being near him once more, at looking through my furtive eyes at his handsome, pleasant face.

"I did not know until to-day that you were coming," he says, as we turn off the broad terrace on to the turf. "Have you been here before?--I mean in the old time when poor B---- had it. It was one of the most charming houses in the county. Now" (and he turns with an accent of disgust and looks up at the great structure), "horrible, isn't it?"

I take a long survey of the range of building. To the right is the old part, gray with age, stained, moss-grown, weather-worn, but stately and regal; and to the left, brand-new, garish, with plate-glass windows, and a trumpery attempt at imitation of the veteran building, is the gigantic wing built by its present owner.

"Look at all the brand-new coats of arms of the Desboroughs," says my companion, laughing; "and see just that one of the late owner over the doorway: the coronet is nearly worn away with age. Poor fellow! he did a bad stroke of work for himself when he helped his father to cut off the entail. By Jove! I never saw a family go to the devil as they have done."

"I should have thought Lady Gwyneth, at all events, would have had better taste," I say, replying to the first part of his sentence.

"Poor Lady Gwyneth! she declares this place is a perfect nightmare to her: you know it was all done before her time, and, as she says, these _nouveaux riches_ can't shake themselves free of their own newness; they don't fancy anything unless it is fresh from the shop."

"It is very nice and wifely of her to say such things," I return, dryly; and then, with energy, "It is mean and despicable enough of a woman to marry for money under any circumstances, but I think it is far meaner to ridicule and hold up to contempt the man to whom she is indebted for everything."

"We are walking down the long green slopes to the lake lying in a vast hollow. He turns to me with lazy amusement in his eyes.

"Poor little Lady Gwyn!" he utters. "But you never did like her, I remember."

"Never" (with energy). "I dare say you think it strange my coming here at all. I did not want to: it was only to please Curly. Papa would not let him come without me."

We have reached the water: by its margin are clumps of shady trees, with seats under their wide branches, and here we seat ourselves.

"Charming piece of water, is it not?" he says. "I wonder if there are any carp in it? Do you remember our carp-fishing that gold----" (hesitating) "that day at Alford?"

"I remember your catching some in a net," I answer, trying to speak indifferently.

"In the net?--yes," he echoes, absently. "By the way, have you seen Hector since he has been invested with his new dignity?"

"I have not seen him since I was at Alford."

There is a pause, during which I look away at the far blue cloudless sky, at the shining water, at the rushes, at the sloping sward, at everything but him, and he, I feet, has his eyes fixed upon me.

"And so," he says, presently, after sating his curiosity or whatever other feeling may have impelled his long gaze,--"And so you refused Seldon."

"I never said so," I replied, quickly.

"No; but he did. Poor lad! he was awfully cut up, and buttonholed everybody about his hopeless suit. Lady Egidia nearly caught him at the rebound, but not quite."

I make no answer. I am wishing with bitter energy that I had not come.

"You do not approve of any but love-marriages," he goes on, cruelly. "I wonder you still believe in love, after having gone through a London season. Most of the people I know who get on worst married for love. What is that French saying--you would not know it, of course, though, and I never could remember a quotation in my life. Let me see" (trying to think): "it is _àpropos_ of marriage,--so many months of worship, so many years of hatred, and the rest indifference. Under these circumstances it does not much matter whom one marries; does it?"

"Under _those_ circumstances, no," I answer, coldly.

"I suppose," he continues, "if you think it mean and despicable in a woman to marry for money you would think it still worse in a man; should you not? Suppose, for instance, I were to tell you that I think of contracting an alliance with the cousin of our host; you would feel a great contempt for me,--perhaps never speak to me again?"

I answer him by never a word.

"Perhaps you may not know that Desborough has a cousin, the only child of his uncle, who was partner with his father; only this one was not filled with a lofty ambition like his brother, did not change his name to Desborough, nor anything else, but was contented with the homely appellation of Puggins. Miss Puggins is not lovely; she has reddish hair, freckles, a soap-and-candle kind of complexion, and hands--not hands, paws. But Miss Puggins will have a hundred thousand pounds on her wedding-day, and another hundred thousand at the demise of Puggins _père_; and Lady Gwyneth, who is very good-natured, though you do not like her, is doing her best to make up the match."

I look up at him

"With some surprise, and thrice as much disdain,"

but never a word do I answer.

"You have a very speaking countenance," he says, turning away from me.

"Have I?" I cry, my passionate anger and contempt breaking into words at last. "I am glad to hear it. I should like to be sure that I look what I feel, for there are no words that I know of which would express it."

A strange look comes over his face as I speak. Suddenly he stretches out his arms to me.

"Oh, darling, for God's sake!" he cries, and then turns sharply and walks away from me along the lake's margin.

And I, maddened with bitter pain and anger, take my way swiftly back to the house.