Chapter XLVI: Not Told by Diana

Christmas week,--a genuine old-fashioned Christmas,--a white world without, blazing fires and holly-wreaths within, a larder stocked to defy the ravages of hunger among a good-sized garrison, signs of prosperity and plenty everywhere. Christmas is evidently going to be kept at Alford; the Yule logs are ready for burning, plum-puddings have been made for the million, and the tokens of festival that are wont to gladden the hearts of boys and girls home from school abound. It is not that the house-party is intended to be a very large or gay one, but this year the poor have been thought of with bounteous memory, and the chief part of the gallant array of stores is destined to find its way into multitudinous humble homes, where it will boundlessly rejoice and warm the hearts of the recipients. Still, there _is_ to be a party at the Court, and, if not a gay one, still a very cheery one. Mr. Carew and his new wife are coming; Curly, of course, and Colonel Fane; Lord Rexborough, and a Miss Montagu, cousin to Sir Charles. Lady Montagu (not the pale delicate lady we have hitherto known by that name,--the dowager now,--but a lovely, graceful young woman, whose name is Diana), Lady Montagu has busied herself all the morning with tripping into each room prepared for the reception of visitors, placing flowers there which she has arranged with her own fair hands, and casting thoughtful glances around to see that nothing is wanting for the comfort and pleasure of the coming guests. Curly's room is her special care and delight; she never wearies of stealing in to look at that. There hang his favorite pictures, the books he loves, with many new treasures that her loving care has placed there. For in the future she means Alford to be as much his home as Carew Court; as much,--not more, for her father's sake.

Happiness is certainly vastly improving. Diana was always pretty and gracious-mannered, but now, radiant with love and happiness, she may well be called, as she often is, as her husband thinks her, lovely. Perhaps the elegant and costly attire with which Sir Charles insists upon her being adorned has something to do with the enhancement of her beauty. I, for one, agree with Tennyson when he says,--

"Let never maiden think, however fair,
She is not fairer in new clothes than old."

To say that Sir Charles and his wife are still the most doting lovers is not to say much for a two-months-old marriage. I may tell of the past, but dare I predict what is in store for them?--and yet I have immense faith in their happiness in the future. Diana is fair and loving, and good as she is fair; and he is generous, good-hearted, sweet-tempered, and he adores her. For once the oft-quoted French proverb would be out of place, "De deux amants il y a toujours un qui baise et un qui tend la joue," although it might have been true enough once.

Diana is beloved by every one, from her mother-in-law, who thinks there is no one like her, to the magnate of the servants' hall, unambitious of a new mistress, Mrs. Bishop. But even her golden opinions have been won by the fair young _châtelaine_, and she has not a word for her but what is favorable and admiring. Outside, in the parish, she has already begun the work of which she and Hector had talked so often in the old days. She goes even further: she makes it her business to know the wants and sorrows of her new people; in her own immense happiness and prosperity she does not forget those whom Providence has less endowed; and from her husband she has _carte blanche_ for her charities. Diana is quite to be trusted; she is prudent if she is generous; she does not think charity consists in giving indiscriminately to all who ask, and she knows, too, how a little sympathy, a few kind words, oftentimes make a small gift of more value to the receiver than a large one, sent coldly and without interest, through a servant.

The Dowager Lady Montagu proposed to leave the Court after her son's marriage and take up her abode at the Dower House; but her children ridiculed the idea utterly. They had vowed to each other to make the rest of her life happy and serene; she was never to know another care; she should be as much mother to Diana as to Charlie. She had her own suite of rooms, and, delicate of intruding upon the happiness of the _nouveaux mariés_, she would shut herself up too much alone: so, when she would not be prevailed upon to come to them, they simplified matters by going to her.

It is noon of the day before Christmas. Diana, having put the finishing-touches to all the rooms, opines that she will make her _toilette de reception_ before lunch. The guests are all to arrive between two and three, and she has been especially desired to make herself "lovely." Not one of the party have seen her since she was borne from their sight in a flood of tears on her wedding-day. Sir Charles often twits her laughingly with this episode.

"I never felt so small in my life," he is wont to declare, "as when I carried you off bathed in tears from the arms of your agonized relatives."

Diana does not like to be reminded of her weakness, and puts her little white hand before his mouth.

"It is quite true, little darling," he insists, kissing it. "I believe you were awfully sorry when it came to going off with me, and leaving everybody behind but the pug."

The finishing-touch is being put to Lady Montagu's toilette when Sir Charles comes in. The maid discreetly vanishes.

"Little darling," says the sovereign of Diana's heart, coming towards her after having stood for a moment at the door to take in every detail, for he is a perfect connoisseur of the art of dress, "you look _positively lovely_! I am afraid" (coming a little nearer) "to touch you."

"Do not be," she answers, with sparkling eyes and blushing cheeks (she has not quite lost that embarrassing old habit); and as she speaks she twines both her arms round his neck and puts up her sweet red lips to be kissed.

"You will make quite a sensation next season," he predicts. "You know, little darling, you really are a much prettier woman than when I married you. I am longing for them all to see you. I know they will say so, every one of them. No tears to-day, mind; no red eyes and pink noses."

"Tears!" she retorts, with happy scorn: "why should there be tears when we are all _meeting_?"

"Next September," says Sir Charles, "we will have the cheeriest parties in the world,--a happy mixture of Guardsmen and pretty women,--no dowagers except the mother."

"You won't want to have the Desboroughs, will you, darling?" asks Diana, coaxingly.

"At all events, we will not ask the heiress," he answers, gayly. "You shall have no cause for jealousy."

Diana laughs. Then, twining her hands round her husband's arm, and looking up into his handsome face,--

"Do you know," she says, with an air of sweet conviction, "I can't help being sorry for her? I am sorry for every woman who has not got you."

"Little flatterer," he says, putting his arm round her, "what answer do you expect me to make to your barefaced compliments? All the same I must say" (laughing) "you are unnecessarily liberal of sympathy for your sex. The heiress apart, I don't know of any other very anxious aspirant to my charms. Come and show yourself to the mother."

Leaning on Sir Charles's arm, Lady Montagu traverses the oaken gallery. Her maid and the upper housemaid are peeping after them from a half-open door.

"Aren't they a lovely couple?" whispers the maid.

"Yes," sighs the upper housemaid. She has long been the victim of a secret passion for her handsome young master. She is stout and middle-aged, but she none the less shares Diana's passion for good looks.

The Dowager Lady Montagu greets her children with a fond smile as they enter her boudoir, still arm in arm.

"Is not this a ravishing toilette, little mother?" asks Sir Charles, bringing his wife forward and regarding her with eyes of fondest admiration.

"Indeed it is," replies the dowager, with unfeigned admiration. "I must not tell you what I think, my love" (to Diana), "or I should make you vain."

"Fine feathers," laughs Diana, gayly, who is not above feeling the sweetness of genuine flattery. "I think I _am_ rather a fine bird just now, mamma. Your rival is coming to-day" (stooping to kiss the elder lady's delicate cheek). "Fancy my being so rich all at once: a little while ago I had no mother, and now I have two."

"Claire is my mother too," says Sir Charles, laughing. "I shall make a point of calling her by her new title."

"If you please, Sir Charles, Hawkins would be glad to speak to you," says Simkins, appearing in the doorway.

"All right: I will be with him directly." And presently the young man goes out.

"By the way, my dear," observes the Dowager Lady Montagu to her daughter, when the door closes upon Sir Charles, "I have just found something that must, I think, be meant for you."

"For me, mamma?"

"It is a small parcel that was pushed back in the far corner of a drawer in what used to be poor Hector's room. I came across it only half an hour ago: it is directed in his handwriting, '_For my sister-in-law_.'"

"It surely cannot be for me," says Diana, trembling a little.

"Open it, and see."

Diana unfastens the string that binds it: her deft fingers are unwontedly awkward. At last she has undone the first wrapper. There is still another, on which is written, "_For my sister-in-law, if she be called Diana_."

The color fades from Diana's cheek. She knows not why she feels thus strangely moved, but she does. Her knees knock together. She cannot open it in Lady Montagu's presence.

"Mamma," she says, in a low, hurried voice, "I cannot open it here. Let me take it to my room. I will tell you about it afterwards."

"As you wish, my dear," answers Lady Montagu, a shade disappointed.

Diana hurries away to her room. A strange terror possesses her. She knows not why, but she has a presentiment of some painful disclosure. She is so nervous she cannot wait to unfasten the string, but, taking a knife, cuts it. When she has taken the paper from it, she utters a sigh of relief; it is only a book, a little old French book. Hastily she turns over the leaves. Stop! here are marks. She reads, "The story of the sad knight who died for a woman's sake." Her breath comes quick, she trembles in every limb, but she reads on hurriedly,--reads the story,--sees the identity of cases that struck Hector, and understands with swift intuition what is the meaning of this legacy that he has left her. Presently she comes to the two underlined passages, "He lies dead in a foreign land, and all for a woman's sake. But anon came her own true love, and they were wed."

A little cry escapes her. She pushes the book away, and gazes stupidly before her with sightless eyes. A great horror creeps over her. Could it be that he had gone away from Alford, away from his country, resolved in his own heart to die? Everything seemed to confirm the awful thought: his last injunctions to his brother, this underlined story addressed to his _sister-in-law_. She, however unwittingly, had been the cause of his death. And he, as he had foreseen, having died for her sake, had been forgotten, and she had married his brother, and been happy. The horror of the thoughts crowding one after another seems as if it would almost bereave her of reason. Poor Hector! at last the woman you have loved so utterly realizes all she was to you, all you sacrificed for her sake. She who thought you cold and hard and passionless knows at last how you could love. And as the thought comes to her, Diana, all unmindful of her dress, of her coming guests, whom she is to greet with her happiest smiles, flings herself prone by her bedside, and in her sorrow and remorse cries such bitter tears as she has never thought to shed again in the new life.

The gong sounds. Her ears are unmindful; she heeds nothing, cares for nothing, has no thought but one intense, heart-breaking pity of the dead man who had loved her so utterly. A swift step sounds upon the stairs; she heeds it not. The door is pushed open, her husband calls her by her name, once, twice: she heeds not, answers not.

All at once he catches sight of her prone form, hears her gasping sobs.

"God in heaven!" he cries, with white lips, "my own little darling, what is the matter? Speak to me--oh, child, for God's sake speak to me!"

She answers him by never a word. He takes her up in his arms, lays her on the sofa, and kneels down beside her.

"Do you want to break my heart?" he whispers, in a tone of such utter misery that she at last comes back from her agonized trance and remembers him. She points to the book.

"Read," she murmurs; "read."

And he, wondering more and more, takes the book that is lying open, and reads for himself,--reads the bitter story from beginning to end. Then he too comprehends.

They look from one to other with mute misery; he has no word to say that may comfort her, nor she him.

"Poor little girl!--poor Hector!" he murmurs, at last, in a broken voice, whilst the unwonted tears stand in his eyes.

"At least," says Sir Charles, after a long silence, "thank God, whatever he may have had in his mind, poor fellow, he came to his death by fair means. Poor little darling!" (with infinite tenderness), "this must grieve you terribly; and so, heaven knows, it does me. But you have no cause to blame yourself. What could you have done? There is only one thing we can do now" (sighing); "that is, to remember him, and do our utmost to carry out all his wishes. And, darling, for heaven's sake keep it from my poor mother. It would break her heart."

And so Diana rises and washes the tears from her face as he bids her. But she goes heavily, as one that mourneth for a brother.

She feels now as if this will always stand between her and joy all her life through.

"I was too happy," she says to herself, sighing. "I felt it could not last. Now I can never be happy any more."

But you and I, reader, know that it will not be so. When we are surrounded by those we love, when the world showers its fairest gifts with lavish hands upon us, when we have the faithful heart of him whom we love best in the world to lay our sorrowful head upon, how can we but forget?

"And grief shall endure not forever, I know;
As things that are not shall these things be.
* * * * * *
Wrecked hope and passionate pain shall be
As tender things of a spring-tide sea."

And Diana, though she if moved with such sorrow to-day for the man who loved her "not wisely, but too well"--Diana, because her sorrow is grounded on pity, not on love,--because she has the constant presence and passion of the man who is all in all to her,--Diana needs must cease to grieve, needs must be her own joyous, radiant self again; but in the midst of her happiness she will nevermore lose the memory of the man who _died in a foreign land, and all for a woman's sake_.

THE END.