Chapter XXXIX: Not Told by Diana

After all, Mr. Benyon came, advised, prescribed in vain. At Sir Hector's request, he sent him an opiate; but instead of soothing it excited him furiously and made him ten times worse. So he threw physic to the dogs, and led the same life as before, getting gradually worse, both physically and mentally. He took to sitting up at night, and reading until after the fatal hour of two; then he would get perhaps three hours of feverish sleep, and wake again oppressed with the nightmare of despair, which, if anything, is almost more grievous in the morning- than in the night-watches.

One evening, in quest of something fresh, he stumbled upon a book of curious old stories, or, as they were called, chronicles, printed in old French. Glancing over it, he came to a page on which he read,--

"The story of the sad knight, who for a woman's sake did put an end unto his life."

"That might suit me," he thought, grimly, as he carried the book to his smoking-room. And there he read, detailed with much circumlocution, how the sad knight was betrothed in his boyhood to his cousin, who was the fairest among maidens. And they grew up together, and ever as the days went by he loved her with a deeper and greater devotion. And she, though she had affection unto him as unto a brother, had no other love to give him, and this she most frequently put before him, and did most urgently entreat him that he would not press a marriage upon her which would be hateful unto her. Then one day he came suddenly upon her and said, "I have come to claim you, since if I do not presently have you for my own I needs must die." Then the maiden answered him in grief and scorn, "Since, then, one of us must die, for if you die _without_ me I shall die _with_ you, draw now your sword and thrust it here into my heart."--"If you love not me," he made sorrowful answer, "it is because you love another."--"And if it be so!" she cried; "must he needs die too? O valiant knight, you who can slay others, can you not slay your own desire, and make glad two hearts that love each other?"--"God's death!" he cried, in wrath, "prate not to me of your loves!" and he turned and left her with a sore heart.

Then wist he not what to do, since his pain was so great and bitter it went not from him either by day or night, and in those things where before he had taken pleasure he found no joy. Then said he to himself, "Why should I spare my life, that is no longer aught but grief and pain? I will to the wars, and there for her sake will I get myself slain."

Then he sought once more the damsel, and said unto her, "Fare you well, cruel one, since you will have none of my love!"--"Nay," the maiden answered, moved to pity at sight of his grieved countenance, "go not away. Nay, where will you go?" And he answered, "Did I not tell you that I needs must die without you? I go unto my death!"--"Nay," she cried, again, weeping, "but let me rather die! Of what avail is my life?" and therewith she wrung her hands. "Fare you well, cruel one!" said the knight, with one grieved look at her. "When my mother shall come to you and say, Where is my son?' you shall make answer, 'He lies dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's sake!'" Then while the maiden still wept sore, and wrung her hands, the sad knight rode away.

Then, when a few months were sped, came his squire, bearing a lock of his hair all steeped in his gore, and said, "Damsel, my master bid me cut this hair from his head as he lay a-dying, and carry it to you, and say, 'I lie dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's sake. When you joy with the knight whom you love, look awhiles on this and think of me.'"

Then was the maiden sore grieved, and wept many tears: but anon came her own true love, and they were wed.

Thus briefly concluded the tale of the sad knight.

"Anon came her own true love, and they were wed," repeated Hector, bitterly, closing the book and flinging it on the table. A new idea came to him as he sat moodily contemplating the dying embers. If life was so grievous to him, why should not others be glad? Involuntarily crept in the thought of Diana mistress here,--Diana happy,--Diana his brother's wife, whilst he lay dead and forgotten, God knows where. "Never! never!" he cried, between his teeth, in a paroxysm of furious jealousy. All night long the two sentences ring in his ears, and all the day following, and the nights and days afterwards. _He lies dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's sake. But anon came her own true love, and they were wed_.

A furious battle begins to rage in his heart. Shall he throw away the life he hates so bitterly, and in throwing it away secure Diana's happiness? The thought of her becoming Charlie's is utter agony to him; he feels somehow as though, were he even lying dead a thousand miles away, he would know it, and be tortured with jealousy. But "for her sake, for her sake!" he goes on saying to himself; "to make her happy! I could not live and see her his," he tells himself; "or it would be easy enough to give him half my income and let him marry her." But from that thought his whole soul revolts. Not while he lives; not while he lives. Then comes another thought. Suppose, for her sake, he slipped out of that life which day by day was becoming more and more unbearable, and after all his brother did not marry her,--did not perhaps care for her? He must provide against that.

Day by day he became more worn, more ghastly-looking, and day by day Lady Montagu's anxiety about him took greater proportions. Christmas had gone, the new year was here,--the new year that to Hector was worse, far worse than blank. Again Lady Montagu sent for Mr. Benyon. In her alarm she confided to him a secret that had always been very carefully kept by the family. Two generations back, one of the then baronet's sons had taken his life with his own hand.

"I don't know why," she murmurs, looking with fearful eyes into the doctor's face, "but that story has haunted me of late. Hector looks so wild sometimes. Oh, Mr. Benyon!" (with terrible earnestness) "you don't think----"

"No, no, no!" he interrupts her; "no need to worry yourself with such thoughts as those. I am afraid I can't do very much for him, because he won't mind what I say. I'll speak to him again, if you like, and try to frighten him a little about himself. The best thing he could do would be to go up to London and consult G----; and, if you could persuade him to stay there a little while, change and cheerful company would do more for him than all the physic that was ever concocted."

"Do see him! pray, pray do your best to persuade him!" cries the anxious mother. "He is in the house now; and, if you can manage it, see me again before you leave."

Mr. Benyon, who knows his way as well about Alford as he does about his own snug little house, goes to the smoking-room, and finds there the person he is in search of.

"Well, Benyon," says Hector, with a hollow attempt at gayety, "have you come to have another try at the 'mind diseased'? Confession's good for the soul. I've thrown your 'physic' to the dogs, and if you send me any more it will all go the same way,--figuratively, not literally. Poor brutes! I've too much regard for them!"

"I have come, as I came before," answers Benyon, bethinking himself of a new plan, "because your mother sent for me. I can tell you one thing: anxiety on your account will soon make her ill, and then you'll have to forget yourself and nurse her."

"Poor mother!" answers Hector; "what is she afraid of? Does she think I'm going into a decline, or does she fancy---- I'll lay a hundred to one," he cries, looking keenly at the doctor, "she's been raking up a little old family story for your benefit; eh, Benyon?"

Thus attacked, the doctor feels a little confused.

"Women are always nervous," he answers, evasively; "but, upon my life, you are enough to make any one nervous, with your long, cadaverous face. Why, I thought you were more of a man."

"So my mother thinks of that, does she?" says Hector, musingly. "What a ridiculous idea!" (laughing harshly). "Fancy doing oneself out of twelve thousand a year, _and all for a woman's sake_. Come, Benyon, you don't think me quite such a fool as that?"

"Indeed I don't," he returns, heartily; "if I did, I should send for a strait-waistcoat at once. But at the same time" (gravely), "if the sanest man in the world plays the devil with his nerves and constitution as you're doing, there's no answering for the consequences. Come" (clapping him on the shoulder), "I'm very much in earnest just now, I promise you; it's no use mincing matters, you're in a bad way, a very bad way. I want to frighten you,--I only wish to heaven I could! Pack your traps and go off to London and see G----; look up some of your friends, and don't be in any hurry to come back. My advice is sincere, you may depend" (laughing), "for it's very much against my own interest. If you stop here, you'll have a fine long illness, and put I don't know how much into my pocket."

"Very well," Hector answers, docilely, to the great surprise of his friend. "I dare say you're right. I'll be off to-morrow; you may tell my mother so. No doubt she is waiting, God bless her! to pounce upon you as soon as you go out of here. And make her mind easy; be sure you make her mind easy. Tell her I'm as sane as you are, and add any little anecdote (you must know lots) of men who have gone rather to the dogs at first for a woman's sake, but who invariably came back. Good-by; it's very kind and good-natured of you to bother yourself so much about me, and this time you see it has not been in vain."

Benyon shakes him by the hand and wishes him a hearty God speed; but he goes out more puzzled than satisfied. Nevertheless, he is able to set Lady Montagu's mind at rest.

Hector, left to himself, sits for full an hour absorbed in deepest thought. Then, with a long sigh, as of a man who has at last made a difficult resolve, he rises and goes cut. In turn he visits the gardens, hothouses, stables, kennels, and to every man he gives a pleasant word, to every animal a caress. It is as though he were going on a long journey, whence he might never return, and that melancholy steals over him which always attends the thought that one is doing something for the last time even though it be something that we care little for. At dinner Lady Montagu finds him brighter and more cheerful than he has been for a long time, and thinks with inward congratulation that she has done well in sending for Benyon.

"I am so glad, my dear, that you have decided upon seeing G----," she says; "he is certain to do you good. And be sure you do not hurry home on my account, because you fancy I shall be dull. Henrietta and her boy are coming to me on Saturday for a fortnight, and will not, I dare say, be in any great haste to leave."

Hector glances wistfully at the sweet kind face that beams upon him with such anxious love, and looks away again, lest the sight of it should unman him. Who knows? after to-morrow its tenderness may never shine upon him any more in this world. After he has wished her good-night, he goes to his room and spends some hours in looking over and arranging papers. Then he makes a draft of a will. He has some money of his own, and that he leaves entirely for the benefit of the poor of Alford. When this is finished, he fetches the old book of chronicles and opens it at the story of the sad knight. With his pen he draws a line down each margin of the whole story, and under the two sentences, "He lies dead in a strange land, and all for a woman's sake," "But anon came her own true love, and they were wed," he scores two deep lines. Then he wraps the book in paper, and writes upon it, "For my sister-in-law, if she be called Diana." This done, he folds it in another sheet, upon which he writes, "For my sister-in-law when my brother marries. It is my express desire that it should not be opened before that time."

Next day he bids farewell to his mother. He has promised himself that he will not betray any emotion at parting from her, but he has a hard task to master his emotion. A strong impulse comes over him to kneel down before her and ask her blessing; but that might save him from himself! He controls himself with a stern effort, so stern that it even makes his leave-taking seem cold. The poor mother, never dreaming what is in his heart, wishes regretfully to herself that he was more demonstrative,--more like Charlie.

The iron horse speeds him swiftly on his way to London: as it rushes along he takes note of all the familiar landmarks, and bids them a silent farewell, as he did to everything at Alford yesterday. His plans are vague as yet: he intends going abroad, but how and where he leaves chance to decide. The following day he goes to consult the eminent physician. The eminent physician receives him with great suavity, that deepens into seriousness as he asks certain questions and receives the answers.

"Your nervous system," he tells Hector, "is considerably disordered, very considerably disordered. The first thing that is necessary is for the mind to be at rest. There must be no mental disturbance of any kind: perfect freedom from all anxiety is what you want,--what you must have."

It is very odd how doctors, who it is to be supposed are subject to the cares and anxieties that beset other folk, will glibly prescribe repose to the tortured mind as though it were a tonic mixture that could be made up at the chemist's.

"A moderate amount of gayety," the eminent physician continues, "plenty of cheerful society, horse-exercise, an occasional visit to the theatre if the atmosphere is not too trying to your head,--in short, my dear sir, I advise you for the next few months to devote yourself to the study of how you can make life most agreeable. At the same time, I think I can give you something that will soothe the stomach and nerves, and in a week or ten days' time I hope to see you a different man." And, having written out a short prescription, he hands it to Hector and bids him a bland "Good-day."

Hector pockets the prescription, nor ever looks at it again. He has sought the great man's advice to please his mother, calculating pretty well what it would be. In his case it was as easy to carry out as though he had recommended one of his own farm-laborers to eat meat three times a day and wash it down with generous wines.

His next visit was to his lawyer, to get his will drawn up. Then he went to his club. As chance would have it, the first man he met was one whom he had not seen for years, but who, in days gone by, had been his greatest friend. Hector laughed, and felt cheerful,--the first time for many weeks.

"I'm off to Naples in my yacht the day after to-morrow," said Captain Baring. "I can't stand this infernal climate in the winter. What on earth's the good of living in a pea-soup atmosphere, and having your nose frost-bitten, when you can bask in glorious sunshine among orange-groves, have a rosebud for every withered violet here, and look at blue skies and seas from sunrise to sunset? I wish to heaven I could persuade you to come with me, old fellow; but I suppose, with all your new cares and responsibilities, there's no chance of your getting away, eh?"

"I don't know that," replied Hector, seeing the opportunity he wanted unfolding before him.

"You look thundering bad, my dear fellow,--I can tell you that," proceeded the other, eagerly. "I never saw a fellow so changed! A trip with me would be the thing of all others to set you up. Come, say the word."

"Very well, I will go," Hector answered, coming to a rapid decision. "Many thanks for the offer. I was thinking of going off abroad somewhere."

"By Jove! how glad I am to have stumbled across you!" cried Captain Baring, heartily. "We'll dine at Southampton to-morrow night, and go on board the first thing in the morning."

So, after a little more talk, they part: the time is short, and each has plenty to do before starting. There is one thing Hector dreads and shrinks from utterly: it is the meeting with his brother. And yet it must take place. There are some words that must be said between them,--words which will perhaps decide the future of both. He is on his way to Colonel Montagu's rooms, when he meets him coming up the street.

"Hullo, Hector, you up in town!" he cries; and then, quickly, "By Jove! how bad you look! What have you been doing to yourself?"

"I am going abroad on Saturday, with Baring," says Hector, not answering the questions put to him. "I rather want to see you before I go. Shall I find you to-night?"

"I was going to dine with Bagot, but I can put him off. Where will you dine?--at the Garrick?--or shall we try the new restaurant?"

"Do you ever dine at your own place?"

"Oh, yes. Gunter will send me anything I want. Do you particularly wish to dine there?"

"I should prefer it."

"All right. I suppose eight will do you?"

"Any time you like."

"I wonder what the deuce he wants with me!" thinks Colonel Montagu, as he goes on his way up St. James's Street.