Oranges and lemons

by Mary C. E. Wemyss

Lady Carston had never exactly described her—had never said how extraordinarily beautiful her eyes were—had never said anything about the colour of her hair—had never said that she looked like a lovely boy (which, of course, she did)—had never really said anything. It was the way she had said “My Diana” that had been so wonderful—it was as if she had taken a child up in her arms and kissed her—“My Diana!” “Mine, too,” said Hastings. The little gull squawked at him—a belligerent little devil he was—“Yes, mine,” said Hastings, “and in the days to come—don’t you forget it!”

No, Lady Carston hadn’t said much, considering all the things she might have said. Then the photograph. He had found it lying about. He had thought it a pity it should get lost—Hastings here felt in his pocket—it was all right. Then he had seen her only a short time ago for the first time—it seemed in some ways years ago—and she was more than he had ever thought she could be—more adorable, more beautiful. He had much to think about. He didn’t care how much it rained—he would have been happier, of course, if St. Jermyn had been on the island too: he had never so earnestly desired his presence: but it was no good worrying. Back to Diana! He had much to think about—how she looked at breakfast—at shooting-lunches—walking—fishing! He could see her in tweeds—in chiffons—with her hat on—without it. He could picture her—dared to picture her—a solemn moment this (in the booming of the waves breaking on the rocks he could hear church bells—in the wind the swelling of an organ) in her wedding-dress! A rather wonderful sight—dear old Marcus giving her away—no, Sir Eustace stepped forward here—Lady Carston, too, looking splendid, of course—with the “Diana look” in her eyes. Wait a bit, though—out of the mist came a small woman, a little less beautiful than Lady Carston—perhaps because as yet she lacked the “Diana look” in her eyes. She had another look in her eyes, though—a more familiar look. She became clearer, clearer than all the rest. Sir Eustace stepped back, then Lady Carston made way—his mother remained—and Diana; and his mother took Diana in her arms—and her eyes had the “Diana look” after all. His mother! “Be quiet, my son,”—this to the little bird.

Back went his thoughts to the years when he had not known Diana. Yet it must have been of Diana he and his mother had so often talked. He remembered particularly one evening when they had sat over the fire at home and she had spoken to him of things of which she said she would not have spoken if he had had a father to do it; and he remembered saying that no father could have said so wonderfully what she had said. Yes, of course; if it was not actually of Diana his mother had spoken, it was because of the Diana who should some day be his—he saw that now! Wonderful people—mothers! Back to Diana herself—he had skipped some years in his thoughts. Distance sets no limit to our thinking—he and Diana had been married some time—there was a question of her going or not going to a ball. (A Viceroy and A.D.C. here floated across the misty picture.) She had gone to a ball. It was their first difference—it could not be described as a quarrel. In the small hours of the morning she had come back, and into his room. He was pretending he had been asleep! The diamonds glittered on her arms, round her neck, in her hair. He didn’t pause to consider where the diamonds had come from. In novels, from which he had borrowed his experiences of these things, the diamonds were always treated as a matter of course. They were stage properties. Diana was lovely in her defiance. She had enjoyed herself immensely!—Yes—she had danced with Captain M ... slim—delicious thing that she was!

Then came the delicate scene. Hastings changed his position—disturbing the gulls, who had grown accustomed to trust him: he didn’t see them, did not know he had abused that trust! It required all the gentleness there was in his strong nature to forgive Diana as beautifully as he meant to forgive her—all the tenderness he was possessed of must go to show her where in her innocence she had erred in judgment—

“Bored stiff, old chap?” asked St. Jermyn.

“How in the world did you get here? I thought you had gone,” said Hastings, roused from his day-dream: robbed of his best scene.

“Diana asked me to fetch you.”

“Mind the little bird,” said Hastings sharply. “Look out where you’re going!”

St. Jermyn had chosen a weapon at random with which to fight Hastings, but he had not thought to deal him so deadly a blow. He had dealt it in a moment of temper, resenting the way Hastings had spoken to him when he had come at great personal discomfort across a choppy sea to rescue him. He would put it right later: in the mean time Hastings deserved it whatever discomfort he suffered from the wound. By dinner-time St. Jermyn had forgotten he had called Diana anything but Miss Carston, and looked upon her as something beautiful and desirable, but out of his reach. If it became expedient for him to worship at some other shrine, he would think of her forever with reverence and gratitude. What did it matter what he called her? He knew she would never respond. To Miles Hastings it mattered enormously what St. Jermyn called her.

But to Ralph St. Jermyn his career mattered more than the name of any woman; it had become as a god to him. Whatever happened nothing must interfere with that. He owed it to himself—so he said—to succeed. His affection for Diana had been very sincere—politically so, at all events. It was as a politician—a successful politician—he had imagined himself married to her. On first seeing her sitting at the head of her uncle’s dinner-table in London, he had thought how delightful she would look in days to come, seated at the head of his. He went further still and saw her in Downing Street—a graceful, beautiful, and satisfying vision, standing at the top of the staircase, for choice. She had a way of talking to every one and any one that was particularly attractive, and to a Member of Parliament—although only a prospective one—more than attractive. She would be, as his wife, a valuable asset. There was no one who seemed too old to interest her: no one too young. She could talk to a man of those things in which he was particularly interested, yet was quick to see if they were just the things he at that moment most earnestly wished to forget. Tired men in talking to her forgot they were tired: old men that they were no longer young. These undoubtedly were valuable social gifts. At times she could talk of things of which she knew very little, but there were many who would not be quick enough to discover it, and she would be quick enough to discover those that were. Those people she could make talk and she would listen. St. Jermyn saw all this, saw she was still very young, and it was easy enough to imagine what she would be when she was older. She would speak well, he was sure of that, she was without self-consciousness, and had a quaint turn of mind that would be useful at election times, and at all times delightful. If it was as a hostess he had fallen in love with her, it was also as a girl and a woman: but he knew she did not care for him, and the thought of his career helped him to bear the blow. He had still something to live for. So when he got back to the Scotts’—having quite forgotten he had called Diana “Diana” to Hastings, and being perfectly innocent of the havoc he had wrought—he was feeling sorry for himself: and saw himself as an interesting young man recovering from a love-affair: wondered how it would read when his life came to be written and wondered if any one writing of it would do justice to his tenderness? He had an undefined feeling that every one must be a little kinder to him than usual, to make up, as it were. So when he found Sheila Scott sitting in a window-seat in the great hall, reading “Hansard,” he felt very much drawn to her, and caused her an agony of shyness by forcing her to say why she was reading anything so dry. She found it difficult to say, “Because you said the other day that some one should look something up in ‘Hansard.’” He didn’t know that in the eyes of this dear little red-haired, freckle-faced girl—born to be a beauty yet—he was a hero. If he had seen Diana in Downing Street—Sheila had seen him there dozens of times, in different guises: hardly ever as himself, which would have distressed him. She had seen him—Lohengrin at Downing Street: Sir Philip Sidney at Downing Street: Sidney Carton at Downing Street: the Scarlet Pimpernel even, at Downing Street. He had been her every hero in turn, and always Prime Minister in addition to everything else. He couldn’t know this, but he had taken the book away from her: holding her wrists until she had promised to give it to him. Finally she had given it to him and he had read aloud to her from its pages. Dull reading enough; but to her nothing like it had ever been written. Her eyes grew larger and larger, and her lips parted as she listened to the charming modulations of his voice. St. Jermyn was just discovering how really pretty she was; had just won from her the promise to read all his speeches, if ever they came to be published, and she had just said, “I will”—and no “I will” was ever more solemnly said—not even in St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge—when her mother came into the hall.