Chapter VIII: Diana's Story

The next or, more correctly speaking, the same day, the gentlemen of the party go out shooting, all with one exception. Captain Montagu has not yet made his appearance: it is rumored indeed that, like a woman of fashion, he generally takes tea and toast in his room, and does not appear until the day has been thoroughly aired for him. Hearing this, I ought naturally to be smitten with a supreme scorn of my handsome ideal, but am not. I am a very staunch friend: for me "the King can do no wrong," and whosoever may be king or friend of mine is safe from my caviling.

Lady Gwyneth has gone with the shooting-party. She, like Mrs. Huntingdon, "cannot stand doing needlework with a parcel of women in a boudoir," and is so far more fortunate than the other in that she can join in most manly sports. She copies men to the best of her ability, since, to her infinite and constantly-expressed regret, she has not been born one of them. This morning she wears a home-spun Norfolk jacket over a short narrow velvet petticoat; her feet are incased in laced boots of stoutest make, and gaiters; a wide-awake, adorned with woodcock's feathers shot by herself, crowns her head; and she shoulders resolutely her own light gun, disdaining to have it carried either by keeper or friend.

She patronizes Curly more than ever this morning, to my infinite disgust, calls him "dear boy," and pets him with what I consider ostentatiously bad taste. I, who have heard and read that modesty, delicacy, and womanliness are most highly commended and desired in our sex by the other, am at some pains to reconcile the statement with the evident popularity Lady Gwyneth enjoys with men. True, they treat her with a _camaraderie_ which savors more of familiarity than respect; but that they are amused in her company, and seek it, is a fact too patent to be controverted.

At this period of my life I am not aware that a woman who is young, rich, and well-born, who has a pleasant house and entertains hospitably, can follow, with the world's toleration if not admiration, her own sweet will, be it never so opposed to the rules laid down for less fortunate mortals. But is she fortunate? I think not. I am inexperienced in the world, and have never had any opportunity of judging character, but I fancy I read in her constant restlessness, in the troubled expression which now and again flits over her face, that she is dissatisfied with and disapproves of herself.

Luncheon is to be sent to the shooting-party at two o'clock, and it is ordained that Miss Gore and I shall join it at a kind of summer-house in the wood. Mrs. Warrington can make no arrangement for herself until she has ascertained Mrs. Huntingdon's pleasure, and that lady does not make her appearance until after the sportsmen have started. My hostess takes me all round her conservatories and hothouses,--a real treat, for I love flowers passionately; then she leaves me to go and see Claire Fane, who is suffering from a severe headache, and bids me go to her boudoir and amuse myself until she joins me there. We part in the hall, and I bound up-stairs very much as is my wont at home, throw open the boudoir door, and am in the middle of the floor before the fact flashes upon me that I have rudely broken up a _tète-à-tète_. Mrs. Huntingdon is reclining in a low chair by the fire, and Captain Montagu, handsomer, more fascinating than ever this morning, leans against the mantel-shelf close beside her. She scowls; he smiles; I--need it be said?--I do what I have hardly ceased to do since I entered the house,--blush until the water stands in my eyes. I know not how to act; it would surely look too pointed to go out again, as though they were lovers,--she a married woman! So I stand where I am, and blurt out,--

"Oh, Mrs. Warrington is wanting to see you, to know whether you will go up to the wood to lunch?"

"Thank you," she returns, icily. "Captain Montagu has promised to drive me there in the pony-carriage. Would you kindly shut the door?"

"I--I will go and tell her," I stammer, feeling very much as though a door had been shut in my face.

"Pray don't go away, Miss Carew," says Captain Montagu, coming forward. "You look the very incarnation of spring. You bring in a volume of fresh air and a scent of violets and primroses and a host of sweet things!"

Bewildered, flattered by his pleasant words, I hesitate on the threshold, my hand still on the handle of the door, unmindful of Mrs. Huntingdon's imperious command. She gives a shiver, rises, pulls her rich draperies about her, and, with a frown that reminds me of

"Great Here's angry eyes,"

sweeps past me out of the room. I feel and probably look crestfallen, for Captain Montagu laughs lightly, and says,--

"Don't look so frightened! Looks don't kill, you know! Come in, won't you?"

I shut the door, and go forward, as I am bidden.

"And how did you like the dance last night?" he asks, in a tone the patronage of which I might resent from any one else.

"Very much," I say, taking off my hat and looking fixedly at it, to prevent my eyes straying, as they long to do, to his face. "It was the first I ever was at."

"Really!" (with languid curiosity). "Oh, then you must have enjoyed it intensely!"

"Must I?" I say, still not looking at him. "Why?"

"Because I believe it is delightful to do anything for the first time,--anything pleasant, at least. At all events, it can't bore you; and being bored is the curse of most people's lives."

"Are you often bored?" I ask, looking at him with a great desire and curiosity to know something of his real feelings.

"Very often" (smiling). "I was bored last night when you forsook me for the cornet."

"Were you?" I say, eagerly. "So was I." And then, smitten with shame at my youthful sincerity, I bury my face in a book of photographs.

"It would have been so easy," says the seductive voice, which has come a little nearer,--"so easy to say you were engaged to me."

"But it would not have been true," I answer, contemplating fixedly the portrait of a grizzly warrior with

"An eye like Jove to threaten and command."

"But you don't mean to say" (persuasively) "that you think there would be any harm in a little perversion of truth like that?"

"Yes, I do," I respond, stoutly. "And even if I had said it, my face would have betrayed me. And--and he would have felt mortified. I hate to be mortified myself. It wouldn't have been doing as you would be done by."

Charlie Montagu languidly bestrides the chair in front of me. I feel his laughing eyes (are they gray or blue?--I long to look, but dare not) straying over my face as he says,--

"I was young once. They taught me all those nice moral little sentiments; but I'm afraid I wasn't a good boy: I didn't act upon them. Good heavens!" (with a wicked little laugh), "if people had done to me what I've many a time done to them, I shouldn't have liked it a bit!"

"Of course it's impossible for any of us always to do right," I say, anxious to defend him even against himself.

"But I am always doing what is wrong," he answers (maliciously making the worst of himself to vex me, I believe). "Somehow I seem to fall into it naturally. Ask my brother. He would tell you I wasn't at all fit company for such a good, well-brought-up little lady as you."

"I should not believe him," I say, with some warmth. "I do not believe you; you only say it to tease me."

I stop, horribly ashamed of my _naïveté_. Oh, why was I suddenly let loose from my rustic life upon society without any preparation?

"No?" he says, softly. "Would it really tease you to think I was a miserable sinner?" And all this time he has never once taken his eyes off me.

"I should be sorry to think anybody was a miserable sinner," I answer, confusedly.

"Oh!" (in a disappointed tone,--probably feigned); "then you are only a general missionary? you don't take any particular interest in me? You would be as sorry for the footman or the gardener if they were in a similarly unconverted state!"

"Don't laugh at me, please," I say, looking imploringly at him. "You know I am only a little country-girl; and I do so hate to be made fun of."

"I assure you----" he protests; but just then the door opens, and Mrs. Huntingdon sweeps in again, equipped all in gray velvet and fur, only wanting a pleasant expression to make her exceedingly handsome.

"Come, Charlie," she says (whereat my heart gives an indignant throb), "get ready: the ponies will be round in five minutes."

"But it is only twelve yet" (looking at the clock), "and it is not ten minutes' drive."

"We shall take a drive first," she returns, imperiously. "I want some fresh air, and so must you, unless" (with an indefinable sneer) "you have imbibed sufficient from Miss Carew."

I feel so angry, I would I had the wit to rejoin with some polished sneer; but the world has not yet armed me with its subtle weapons, so I look more earnestly still at the photographs.

"_Tu es ravissante, ma belle_," murmurs Captain Montagu, addressing Mrs. Huntingdon, and I cannot but concur reluctantly in my own mind. I have never seen so elegant-looking a woman. "But such a toilette is worthy of something better than to-day's occupation," he resumes. "Faugh! I know the whole horrid programme. A damp worm-eaten summer-house, and lukewarm Irish stew out of a tin pan, and wedges of plum-cake,--that's the invariable menu of old Warrington's shooting-lunches. Much better take a drive and return to lunch here, where we are sure of having something fit to eat."

I hold my breath with fear lest she should accept a proposal which would not have cost me a moment's reflection. Mrs. Huntingdon, to my infinite relief, shakes her head.

"I must go: I promised."

"_Raison de plus_," he laughs, going towards the door. "I did not know a woman's promise was ever considered binding."

Mrs. Huntingdon sinks into her chair by the fire, holding to it alternately either small and delicately-shod foot. Not one word or a look does she condescend to fling to me, and I glance furtively at her with a forlorn conviction of how little chance a poor untutored rustic like myself has against her. But I recover myself when I remember a fact that I have forgotten for the moment,--_she has a husband_! Blessed thought! It restores peace to my mind.

Her fish has come out of the sea; she has hooked, devoured him; he purveys her with rich garments, with much store of worldly wealth, for which she requites him with frowns and sulks; but my fish is still in his native ocean. I have not even baited my hook yet. I may angle for a triton or a minnow, and catch--who knows?

They are starting; I watch them jealously from behind the curtain, such a pair as limner might desire to paint or poet to immortalize in love-songs. The frown has gone from her brow; nay, she smiles as she looks up at him. Yes, she is very handsome, I tell myself reluctantly.

The day seems dull and blank, now they are gone and the sound of their laughing voices has died away. And this time yesterday I had not seen him. I lean my arms on the table, resting my face between my hands. Whence comes this blank feeling that spreads a chill over all my being, that makes the day seem cheerless even in the noonday sun, that makes my heart void because the sound of one voice has ceased, that makes space vacant because one form is no longer within my horizon? Is it love? Oh, unmaidenly, immodest thought! My very ears tingle with the shame of it. Love for a man who has scarce spoken half a dozen words to me, a man on whose mind I shall not cast one faint reflection. No! no! no!--it is my ignorance of the world. I have scarcely ever seen a man,--certainly not one like Captain Montagu,--and my foolish eyes are dazzled. As I see more of society, I shall not be so easily impressed. See more of society! I repeat blankly to myself: small chance of that! And then somehow a sort of pain comes across me, a pain I stifle quickly as ungrateful, to think I shall go back to the old quiet life with its round of simple pleasures and duties that have always been enough for me until now.

Miss Gore disturbs my unsatisfactory soliloquy, and we start together for the wood. She is very bright and pleasant this morning, and chatters away gayly. True, her conversation has mostly reference to her soldier, but she has a sympathizing if slightly envious auditor in me. To love, to have your love fully returned, to be able to show, to speak of, to be proud of it! And yet, ignorant as I am in love-lore, I think I would prefer to invest it with sacredness into which the outer world should not intrude.

The shooting-party comes up just as we reach our destination. Lady Gwyneth is "in great form," as Curly would say: she has slain five pheasants to her own gun. I am sometimes called absurdly tender-hearted; may I ever remain so! To see poor animals suffer has always caused me intense pain. It seems to me if I were a man I could not love or regard a woman who was callous to the suffering of dumb creatures, far less one who would delight to cause it. But men--at all events the men here--do not seem to be of my way of thinking, for they flatter and congratulate Lady Gwyneth with every appearance of sincerity. As for Curly, his admiration for her has evidently increased fourfold. Even Colonel Fane makes her a compliment. Why does he avoid me to-day? Have I offended him? He does not offer to join me, nor did he take his accustomed seat next me at breakfast this morning. I suppose he is already weary of me, despite his protestations yesterday. No doubt it was not very entertaining to hear my simple gossip about our humdrum life at home, only, as a man of the world, politeness forbade him to show that he was bored. Mr. Montagu has taken his place at my side. I am sure I wish him anywhere else; he is repugnant to me, somehow,--I know not why. I could give no better reason than the one assigned by the person who immortalized the unfortunate Dr. Fell; but few reasons are more cogent or un-get-over-able.

"You are not a sportsman, or rather sportswoman?" he says, as he joins me.

"No, indeed," I answer.

"You say that very heartily," he rejoins, with a smile. "Your tone almost implies a censure of sport altogether."

"Yes, I hate sport," I confess, frankly: "it always entails misery and suffering upon something. But" (apologetically) "I suppose men must be amused, and if they had not something to expend their energies upon they would get very effeminate."

"But confess, now, you think us horrible barbarians for always wanting something to torture," he says. "I don't suppose it is very _manly_ to set dogs on a poor timid hare, or shoot pigeons out of a trap, or even set on terriers to kill a barnful of rats; and yet do you know several of your fair sex whom I have the honor to be acquainted with take supreme delight in a rat-hunt, and enjoy nothing more than to sit for a whole afternoon exquisitely dressed and watch hundreds of poor birds cruelly maimed and torn?"

"I hate a cruel woman!" I say, vindictively. "I could not, no, I _could not_ care for one if I were a man,--not if she were as beautiful as----"

"As what?"

"As an angel," I return, feeling the extreme difficulty of finding a comparison that people who make hasty and impusive remarks are wont to do.

"An angel! I never saw one; but their style of beauty as depicted by the limner's art has always struck me as peculiarly insipid. By the way, I never remember to have seen a dark angel; and I do not admire fair women. Then, according to your idea, I suppose, all women should be tender-hearted, religious, modest, retiring,--in short, everything that we are not?"

Is he sneering at me? and why does he look so intently at me? I wish he would not: his eyes always embarrass me.

I laugh rather uneasily.

"It is not for me to say what women ought to be. Besides, if I set up a standard I should be expected to act up to it: should I not?"

"And I have no doubt you would," he answers. Now of course I know he is laughing at me: so I say, coldly,---

"I can at all events tell you what I think about sport. Sport ought to mean equal risk on both sides: hunting lions or tigers, wild boars or grizzly bears,--that," I say, emphatically, "must be something like sport."

"I am afraid," he answers, laughing, "that according to your ideas sport must remain unattainable for nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand; but, talking about risk, I think we get a tolerable chance of breaking our necks out hunting, and I really know few things more perilous to life and limb than the present fashion of _battue_-shooting."

Mr. Warrington's hearty voice here summons us to lunch, and at this moment I see Captain Montagu and Mrs. Huntingdon coming slowly up the glade. The sun gleams upon them through the branches of the leafless trees, making the thick-strewn leaves of many years into a ruddy carpet for their feet: they are in truth a goodly pair, I think, looking at them wistfully.

"Do you know I am a thought-reader?" says the cold voice of the elder brother beside me; and I start, feeling a positive terror of him. My speaking countenance probably betrays me, for he turns his eyes away, and says, lightly,--

"You were thinking what a charming toilette Mrs. Huntingdon wears. She has perfect taste in dress."

But I know that was not what he was going to say. I feel afraid of him. I almost dislike him.