DIANA CAREW;

OR,

FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE.

BY

MRS. FORRESTER,

AUTHOR OF "DOLORES," "FAIR WOMEN," "MY HERO," ETC. ETC.

"Yet, when we look deeply into life, we shall perhaps find hardly any stretch of invention more singular than the scenes daily realizing around us: nevertheless, if one idea not familiar to the mind nor in the scope of our own immediate knowledge be presented to ne, we all cry 'Romance!' nor recollect that this word is the most comprehensive one in the whole dictionary, as it includes every idea unknown to the person who pronounces it."—Life of a Lover.

PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 1900.

NOTICE.—It was intended to call this Novel by its second title, "FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE," under the impression that it was an original one. The work had been thus printed when it was discovered that the title had been used before. The Author has therefore prefixed it by another.

Contents

I. Diana's Story II. Diana's Story III. Diana's Story IV. Diana's Story V. Diana's Story VI. Diana's Story VII. Diana's Story VIII. Diana's Story IX. Diana's Story X. Diana's Story XI. Diana's Story XII. Diana's Story XIII. Diana's Story XIV. Not Told by Diana XV. Not Told by Diana XVI. Not Told by Diana XVII. Diana's Story XVIII. Diana's Story XIX. Diana's Story XX. Diana's Story XXI. Diana's Story XXII. Not Told by Diana XXIII. Not Told by Diana XXIV. Not Told by Diana XXV. Not Told by Diana XXVI. Diana's Story XXVII. Diana's Story XXVIII. Diana's Story XXIX. Diana's Story XXX. Diana's Story XXXI. Diana's Story XXXII. Diana's Story XXXIII. Diana's Story XXXIV. Diana's Story XXXV. Diana's Story XXXVI. Diana's Story XXXVII. Not Told by Diana XXXVIII. Not Told by Diana XXXIX. Not Told by Diana XL. Not Told by Diana XLI. Diana's Story XLII. Diana's Story XLIII. Diana's Story XLIV. Not Told by Diana XLV. Diana's Story XLVI. Not Told by Diana

FOR A WOMAN'S SAKE.

CHAPTER I DIANA'S STORY.

"Here comes Diana of the Ephesians! Ask her what the thinks!"

I, Diana Carew, am the person thus apostrophized. The speaker is my only brother, Wyndham—commonly called Curly—Carew. The third person is my father,—God bless him! A dearer, kinder father never breathed.

He smiles, and lays his hand on my shoulder, as having deposited my burden—a jet-black kitten and a creamy-white one—one on each of Curly's shoulders, I seat myself on his knee.

"Read that, Di," he says, putting into my hand a heavily-crested and monogramed envelope, directed in a lady-like hand to Wyndham Carew, Esq.

With eager curiosity I take out the note it contains, and read as follows:

"DEAR MR. CAREW,—

"We really cannot allow you to condemn your pretty daughter"—(I feel flattered, and blush a little: it is not often I have that adjective applied to me.)

"Aha, Miss Vanity!" cries Curly, "I see the rose come to your damask cheek at the soft impeachment. Proceed, pretty daughter."

"Don't interrupt her, Curly."

—"To the hermit's life," I read on, "you persist in leading yourself,—much to the regret and disappointment of your neighbors."

"Who is this polite lady?" I inquire, referring to the end of the note. "Oh, Mrs. Warrington!"

"We have some friends coming to us on New Year's Day, and if you, with your son and daughter, will spend a few days here, we shall be delighted to see you all. We hope to prevail upon you to join us; but, if you are as resolute as usual in declining all invitations, do not deprive us of the pleasure of seeing your young people. Mr. Warrington has still some fair shooting left, if that will be any inducement to you personally; and he bids me say he will mount your son as often as he likes. Tell Miss Carew we shall have a little dancing, and, I hope, some other amusements for the young ladies. I warn you I do not intend to take any refusal as far as she is concerned; and if you do not yield at once to my request, I shall come over and press it personally.

"Mr. Warrington joins me in kindest regards, and believe me, dear Mr. Carew,

"Very sincerely yours, "GEORGIANA WARRINGTON."

My eyes glisten, the color deepens in my face as I read, and when I have finished I look up eagerly in my father's face.

"Well, my dear" (his kind eyes shining tenderly upon me), "what do you say?"

"Oh, papa, could we go?"

"I suppose you would like it very much?"

"Oh!" (with a great sigh, which, if it expresses what I feel, must speak volumes).

"If you do not, people will think I am a tyrannical old ogre, who keeps you shut up like the fathers in story-books."

"Oh, dad, do let us go!" cries Curly, with enthusiasm. "It will be such glorious fun!—and old Warrington has such splendid horses. I'll show them the way!" (his blue eyes flashing with delight at the bare thought of hunting on one of Mr. Warrington's mounts).

"My dear fellow, suppose you staked or broke the back or threw one of his two-hundred-guinea hunters! How would you feel?"

"Never fear, dad: I'll be as steady as old Time."

"Well," says papa, thoughtfully, "if you are both so anxious, I do not see any very important objection to your going."

"But you will go too?" we both cry, in a breath.

He shakes his head, and sighs a little.

"No, children, my visiting days are over, and you know I do not care to accept kindnesses I cannot return."

"Then I shall not go,—that is very certain," I say, decisively, but with a little swelling of disappointment in my throat.

"Nor I," adds Curly, in a dejected tone.

Our father looks at us both with a fond smile.

"What! do you think I am not to be trusted by myself for a few days?" he asks, putting a hand on each of our shoulders. "Mrs. Warrington is quite right. I must not keep Di shut up forever. It is time she came out; and I do not know any one under whose auspices I should better like her to do so than Mrs. Warrington's. Why, how old are you, Di? Seventeen?"

"Eighteen last month, papa, you know," I answer, reproachfully. "But I shall not go without you. I shouldn't care the least for it. And, besides," as a sudden and most important reflection occurs to me, "I have nothing to go in."

"Beauty unadorned's adorned the most," spouts Curly. "Thank Heaven!" (grandly), "those considerations don't affect me!"

"Ah!" says my father, ruefully, "I forgot that. To be sure, that is a very important point. And I suppose" (looking at me inquiringly) "ladies' dress is a tremendous business in the present day."

"Oh, yes," I reply, cheerfully, having quite made up my mind now to the impossibility of going. "Miss Pratt told me that when she was at Lady Gwyneth Desborough's for three days, the ladies changed their dresses four times a day, and had different ones every day."

"Indeed!" says papa, smiling. "But I do not suppose you would be expected to dress like Lady Gwyneth, though I hardly fancy she had many more dresses than you have, before she married poor little Desborough."

"Well," I reply, with more emphasis than elegance, "I would rather go about in a cotton gown all my life than have married him!"

"Oh, he isn't a bad little chap," remarks Curly, "if he wasn't so dreadfully ashamed of the shop, and so fond of talking about his father-in-law the earl."

"But, Di," puts in my father, "you must have one or two dresses, I suppose. You always seem to me" (doubtfully) "to look very nice."

I shake my head.

"Only this," pointing to my well-worn serge, "and an old black silk for Sundays, that has been turned twice, and a white muslin, so shrunk that the body wouldn't meet last time it came from the wash. No" (with mournful emphasis), "it is very certain I cannot go to Mrs. Warrington's."

"Oh, dear!" cries Curly, ruefully, "what a selfish beggar I have been, running the Dad up such tailors' bills at Eton, and all the time poor little Di has had to do without."

"Why, Curly," I respond, quickly, "what in the world do I want with clothes here? And if you were different from the other boys—I mean fellows—at Eton, it would never do."

"Come," says my father, "it's not too late now. Gay and you must lay your heads together and see what can be done. I think I have a ten-pound note somewhere, and I suppose if you had a dress for the day, and another for the evening, that would do just for a few days."

"Ten pounds!" I cry. The idea of spending such a sum all at once upon my dress seems preposterous. "But I am not going. Curly can go; you and I will stop at home together, papa, and be as happy as—as——"

"As what?" asks papa, smiling.

"As anything," I respond, lamely, not finding a suitable, comparison.

"Now, I have made up my mind that you shall both go," says my father, "so I shall proceed to my room and write to Mrs. Warrington that you and Curly will be there on New Year's Day. And you, Di, go and consult with Gay; you have a fortnight before you to prepare."

"Papa," I say, obstinately, "I will not go. I do not care about it; indeed I do not."

"You will be a good, obedient little daughter, and do as I tell you," he answers, going off to write the letter, and leaving me irresolute and uncomfortable in my mind.

"Curly," I say, appealing distressedly to my brother, "I can't—I won't go, and leave papa."

"Nonsense, Di! the Dad will be happy enough. You'll have to leave him some day, when you get married."

"Get married!" I retort, in exceeding scorn. "Yes, a great deal of chance of that! Why" (reflecting), "I don't suppose I've spoken to a man—a gentleman, at least—since I was grown up."

"What, not old Stiggins?"

"Don't speak disrespectfully of your spiritual pastors and masters, sir; but I don't call him a man."

"Ho, ho! I wonder which he would call the most disrespectful?—you or I?"

"Well" (sighing), "I will go and talk to Gay. Oh, Curly! don't pull Othello's tail."

Othello is the black kitten; the white one rejoices in the name of Desdemona.

"I'll come too." And he marches off to the housekeeper's room, by courtesy, where Gay, our faithful old nurse and general factotum, sits darning stockings for the million.

Curly throws open the door.

"Her Majesty the Queen and His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales," he commences, in a loud and important voice, "having for some time past remarked a dearth of beauty about the court, and hearing that, in the wilds of Blankshire, there blooms unseen an exquisite creature of the name of Diana Carew, hereby intimate that her presence is forthwith commanded at Buckingham Palace; which being interpreted, my dear old Susannah, means that Di is going to pay a swell visit, and that you have to set about providing her with a suitable wardrobe."

"What ever does the boy mean?" cries Gay, bewildered, looking up at us over her spectacles.

"What I say, O unbelieving Jewess," dragging her work from her surprised hands and shying it to the farther corner of the room. "Away with melancholy!—away with worsted stockings! From henceforth Diana will walk in silk attire,—will captivate the heart of some lord of high degree, and restore the shattered fortunes of the house of Carew." And Curly, in the blitheness of his young heart, hugs his old nurse, to the great detriment of her cap-strings.

She tries to look angry and to expostulate, but who can be angry with Curly? Of all the cheery faces, of all the beaming blue eyes brimful of laughter, of all the curly golden locks whence he gets his sobriquet, there are none to equal those of my young brother; and, more than that, he has the sweetest disposition and the kindest heart in the world. If he is a little aggravating sometimes, I should like to know what a boy is worth whose animal spirits do not run away with him now and then.

"Now, Miss Di, my dear, do you tell me what it's all to do with," says Gay, apostrophizing me in despair of getting any rational answer out of her pet,—for Curly is her pet without a shadow of doubt, and I don't know that I am very jealous of her preference. Don't we all pet and adore him?

"We are invited to Warrington Hall," I answer, "and papa wishes us to go; he won't go himself."

"Oh, my dear, what will you do for clothes?" cries practical Gay, at once closing with the obstacle that had only been an after-thought with me.

"Papa has offered to give me ten pounds; but what is the use of wasting all that money in clothes?" I say, lugubriously. "After all, I don't suppose I should enjoy going to Warrington very much. I think I'll run down and ask papa to decline for me."

"Rash girl, forbear!" cries Curly, catching me by the arm, and striking a tragic attitude. "I've made up my mind you shall go, and I prophesy you will meet my future brother-in-law, who will be rich, and who will mount me and give me shooting, pay my debts, and, in short, make himself a convenience to me generally. You know, Di" (holding me at arm's length and looking critically at me), "though I say it who shouldn't, you're not altogether what one would call an ugly girl; rather the other way.

Your hair is like the raven's wing, Your brown eyes flash like anything.

Hold on I till I get two more lines to rhyme.

Your pearly teeth and coral lip, And nose just turned up at the tip,

I end, laughing.

"By jingo, that makes a complete portrait: don't it, Susannah, my dear?"

"Well, Master Curly, I don't see that her nose turns up at the tip. I'm sure a straighter one——"

"Now, Gay," I cry, rudely breaking in upon her defense of my appearance, "never mind my nose, but let's think of what I am to wear, if I do go after all."

"I suppose ten pounds wouldn't buy a velvet gown, would it?" asks Curly, doubtfully.

"A velvet gown!" I laugh. "A nice matronly old person you would make of me!"

"Indeed," he retorts, "I can tell you Archdale's sisters both have velvet gowns, and they are younger than you,—at least, one of them is; but," dropping his voice, "he told me they cost five-and-twenty guineas each."

"Well," I return, with some contempt, "I am not Archdale's sister, and if I had twenty-five guineas I think I could employ them better."

"Di," says Curly, laying a hand on my shoulder, "I don't think you'll find ten pounds go quite so far as you think, and" (blushing a little) "if you should want any more I have a fiver that I've been saving up and haven't any very particular use for."

For answer I throw my arms round his neck and give him a fervent hug, whilst Gay contemplates us both with an expression of beatitude, murmuring,—

"Lord bless the dear children!"

CHAPTER II. DIANA'S STORY.

The house of Carew is not in a flourishing state at the present time; far from it. Gay has wild legends about the days of the old squire, when the Carews were great people in the county, of the grand doings, the entertainments, the carriages and horses, the powdered footmen, and all the apanages of wealth and distinction. She has told us a score of times, as we have sat round the nursery fire, of the ox roasted whole, the barrels of beer, the dancing and feasting that took place when our father came of age, and the gay doings five years later, when he brought our mother home, and the people took the horses out of the carriage and dragged the bride and bridegroom home.

That is only twenty years ago. Whence, then, this sudden and rapid decline in the fortunes of our house? Alas! I scarcely know. My father has never entered into any explanation of the causes of our poverty, though he occasionally recurs, with mingled sorrow and bitterness, to the fact. As for Gay, she cannot give us absolute information, but thinks that at our grandfather's death his affairs were found in an unsatisfactory state, and that papa, in the hope of setting matters straight, speculated, and thereby brought the ruin to a climax. Well, it cannot be helped. One thing I am quite satisfied of,—whatever papa did, he did for the best, and the very cleverest people may be misled sometimes. I know this, that his life has been one long self-abnegation for Curly's sake, that somewhere in the future he may be able to hold up his head and take his own place in the county. We have often talked the dear fellow's prospects over, papa and I, and we are both agreed that at any rate every sacrifice must be made for him. What does it matter about a girl? but a boy, the

heir to a good property, the head of an old house, how he is brought up is everything! He must go to Eton, if papa and I live on rabbits and pork all the year round, and have new clothes once in three years.

And how we sit in the twilight, the dear Dad and I, talking over our darling's future, and of his sayings and doings when he was last at home! Sometimes papa says, stroking my hair as I sit at his feet,—

"Di, my dear, I don't think it's quite fair on you: you ought to go to school, or have masters at home, or do something for your education."

"Oh, papa," I answer, deprecatingly, "I am sure I know as much as most girls of my age. I have kept up everything I used to learn with Miss Carter, except" (sighing) "geography and arithmetic. I always did hate those. I speak pretty good grammar, don't I, dear? I write a decent hand. I know enough French to get on abroad, if I ever went there,—which I don't suppose I shall. I can play pretty well on the piano, and I think" (a smile of conscious vanity parting my lips)—"I think I can sing a little."

"Ay," says papa, smiling, "you can that; and" (patting me on the shoulder) "I don't think all the Italian masters in the world could make my little nightingale's voice sweeter."

I blush with pleasure: no praise comes so sweet to me as my father's. My voice is my one little possession, my ewe-lamb, the great delight of my life. For hours I am wont to sit at our old-fashioned piano, that has been a good one once, and, like all good things, bears to the end the trace of its better days. I sit and sing the daylight into twilight, the twilight into evening,—sometimes jocund melodies, but oftener plaintive ones, until I am carried out of myself into sweet dreams and happy trances and shadowy griefs, that have as yet no form, but only guess at sorrow. For I have never been unhappy in my life.

My mother died when I was too young to remember her; and papa and Curly and I have always been so happy together, Of course I have had my troubles; for instance, when Curly first went to school, and once when Gay was ill; and when my pet cat was shot by the keeper, I thought my heart was broken. Our poverty has never made me unhappy. Sometimes I have longed very much for things,—most of all for a horse to ride; but I always consoled myself by thinking that it was no good wishing for what one could not have, so my desires melted back into contentment with my lot. I have papa and Curly and Gay,—the three very dearest creatures in the world; I have the handsomest and faithfulest pug ever known; and a tabby cat lined with apricot, as Curly describes its tawny bosom, that I would not change for any other living cat.

Que voulez-vous? One cannot have everything. I am poor. I have no fine clothes to wear, no horses to ride, no lovers to flatter me, but I am happy, and Lady Gwyneth, who has all that money can buy, is, by her own confession, I have heard, the most miserable woman alive.

Apropos of lovers, I am ashamed almost to say it, but I should, oh, I should like to have a lover; only I have done so long without that I am afraid I shall never get one to please me now. Literally and truthfully, I don't think I have spoken to a man except the clergyman and the doctor since I was grown up,—not even a boy, one of Curly's school-fellows, for naturally enough he does not care to ask them home; and I am sure it would put us all out very much to entertain them.