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Diana

<h3 id="id01443" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XV.</h3> <h3 id="id01444" style="margin-top: 3em">CATECHIZING.</h3> "The sun isn't hot, through all this cloud," said Gertrude, "so I don't mind it. We'll get into the shade under the elm yonder." "There is no cloud," said Diana. "No cloud? What is it then? Something has come over the sun." "No, it's haze." "What is haze?" "I don't know. We have it in Indian summer, and sometimes in October, like this." "Isn't it hot?" said Gertrude; "and last week we were having big fires. It's such queer weather. Now this shade is nice." Under one or two of the elm canopies along the verge of the little river some rustic seats had been fixed. Gertrude sat down. Diana stood, looking about her. The dreamy beauty through which she had ridden that afternoon was all round her still; and the meadow and the scattered elms, with the distant softly-rounded hills, were one of New England's combinations, in which the gentlest beauty and the most characteristic strength meet and mingle. But what was more yet to Diana, she was among Evan's haunts. Here he was at home. There seemed to her fancy to be a consciousness of him in the silent trees and river; as if they would say if they could,—as if they were saying mutely,—"We know him—we know him; and we are old friends of his. We could tell you a great deal about him." "Elmfield is a pretty place," said Gertrude. She had been eyeing her companion while Diana was receiving the confidences of the trees. "Lovely!" "If it didn't grow so cold in winter," said the young lady, shrugging her airy shoulders. "I like the cold." "I should like to have it always hot enough to wear muslin dresses. Come, sit down. Evan put these seats here." But Diana continued standing. "Did you hear that woman scolding because he don't stay here and give up his army life?" "She takes her own view of it," said Diana. "Do you think he ought to give up everything to take care of his grandfather?" "I daresay his grandfather likes to have him do as he is doing." "But it must be awfully hard, mustn't it, for them to have him so far away, and fighting the Indians?" "Is he fighting the Indians?" Diana asked quietly; though she made the words quiet, she knew, by sheer force of necessity. But quiet they were; slow, and showing no eagerness; while her pulse had made one mad jump, and then seemed to stand still. "O, the Indians are always making trouble, you know, on the frontier; that's what our men are there for, to watch them. I didn't mean that Evan was fighting just at this minute; but he might be, any minute. Shouldn't you feel bad if he was your brother?" "Mrs. Reverdy doesn't seem to be uneasy." "She? no," said Gertrude with a laugh; "nothing makes her uneasy. Except thinking that Evan has fallen in love with somebody." "She must expect that sooner or later," said Diana, with a calmness which told her companion nothing. "Ah, but she would rather have it later. She don't want to lose Evan. She is very proud of him." "Would she lose him in such a case?" Diana asked, smiling, though she wished the talk ended. "Why, you know brothers are good for nothing to sisters after they are married—worse! they are tantalizing. You are obliged to see what you used to have in somebody else's possession—and much more than ever you used to have; and it's tiresome. I'm glad I've no brothers. Basil is a good deal like a brother, and I am jealous of him." "It must be very uncomfortable to be jealous," said Diana, "Horrid! You saw a good deal of Evan, didn't you?" A question that might have embarrassed Diana if she had not had an instant perception of the intent of it. She answered thereupon with absolute self-possession, "I don't know what you would call a 'good deal.' I saw what I call a good deal of him that day in the blackberry field." "Don't you think he is charming?" Diana laughed, and was vexed to feel her cheeks grow warm. "That's a word that belongs to women." "Not to many of 'em!" said Gertrude, with a slight turning up of her pretty nose. Then, struck with the fine, pure face and very lovely figure before her, she suddenly added, "Didn't he think you charming?" "Are you laughing at me?" said Diana. "No, indeed I am not. Didn't he?" said Gertrude caressingly. Amusement almost carried off the temptation to be provoked. Diana laughed merrily as she answered, "Do you think a person of so good taste would?" "Yes, I do," said Gertrude, half sulkily, for she was baffled, and besides, her words spoke the truth. "I am sure he did. Isn't life very stupid up here in the mountains, when visitors are all gone away?" "I don't think so. We never depend upon visitors." "It has been awfully slow at Elmfield since Mr. Knowlton went away. We sha'n't stay much longer. I can't live where I can't dance." "What is that?" said a voice close at hand—a peculiarly clear, silvery voice. "Cousin Basil!" cried Gertrude, starting. "What did you come here for? I brought Miss Starling here to have a good talk with her." "Have you had it?" "I haven't had time. I was just beginning." "What! about dancing?" "I was not speaking for you to hear. I was relieving myself by the confession that I can't live—happily, I mean—without it." "Choice of partners immaterial?" "I couldn't bear a dull life!" "Nor I." He looked as if he certainly did not know what dulness was, Diana thought. She listened, much amused. "But you think it is wrong to dance, don't you?" Gertrude went on. "'Better not' is wrong to a Christian," he replied. "It must be dreadful to be a Christian!" "Because—?" he said, with a quiet and good-humoured glance and tone of inquiry. "O, because it is slavery. So many things you cannot do, and dresses you cannot wear." "By what rule?" Mr. Masters asked. "O, people think you are dreadful if you do those things; the Church, and all that. So I think it is a great deal better to keep out of it, and make no pretensions." "Better to keep out of what? let me understand," said the minister. "You are getting my ideas in a very involved state." "No, I am not! I say, it is better to make no profession." "Better than what? What is the alternative?" "O, you know. Now you are catechizing me. It is better to make no profession, than to make it and not live up to it." "I understand. That is to say, it is wicked to pay your debts with counterfeit notes, so it is better not to pay them at all." "Nonsense, Basil! I am not talking of paying debts." "But I am." "What have debts got to do with it?" "I beg your pardon. I understood you to declare your disapprobation of false money, and your preference for another sort of dishonesty." "Dishonest, Basil! there is no dishonesty." "By what name do you call it?" He was speaking gravely, though with a surface pleasantry; both gravity and pleasantry were of a very winning kind. Diana looked on and listened, much interested, as well as amused; Gertrude puzzled and impatient, though unable to resist the attraction. She hesitated, and surveyed him. "There can't be dishonesty unless where one owes something." "Precisely"—he said, glancing at her. His hands were busy at the time with a supple twig he had cut from one of the trees, which he was trimming of its leaves and buds. "What do I owe?" said the beauty, throwing her tresses of hair off from her shoulders. He waited a bit, the one lady looking defiant, the other curious; and then he said, with a sort of gentle simplicity that was at the same time uncompromising, "'The Lord hath made all things for himself.'" Gertrude's foot patted the turf; after a minute she answered, "Of course you say that because you are a clergyman." "No, I don't. I am stating a fact, which I thought it likely you had forgotten." Gertrude stood up, as if she had got enough of the conversation. Diana wished for another word. "It is a fact," she said; "but what have we to do with it?" "Only to let the Lord have his own," said the minister with a full look at her. "How do you mean, Mr. Masters? I don't understand." Gertrude was marching over the grass, leading to the house. The other two followed. "When you have contrived and made a thing, you reckon it is your own, don't you? and when you have bought something, you think it is at your disposal?" "Certainly; but"— "'You were bought with a price.'" "Of course, God has a right to dispose of us," Diana assented in an "of course" way. "Does he?" said the minister. Then, seeing her puzzled expression, he went on—"He cannot dispose of you as he wishes, without your consent." Diana stopped short, midway in the meadow. "I do not in the least understand, Mr. Masters," she said. "How does He wish to dispose of me?" "When you are his own, he will let you know," said the minister, beginning to stroll onward again; and no more words passed till they were nearing the house, when he said suddenly, "Whom do you think you belong to now?" Diana's thought made an instant leap at the words, a leap over hundreds of miles of intervening space, and alighted beside a fine officer-like figure in a dark blue military coat with straps on the shoulders. That was where she "belonged," she thought; and a soft rose colour mantled on her cheek, and deepened, half with happiness, halt with pride. The question that had provoked it was forgotten; and the neighbourhood of the house was now too near to allow of the inquiry being pressed or repeated. The minister, indeed, was aware that for some time he and his companion had been facing a battery; but Diana was in happy unconsciousness; it was the thought of nothing present or near which made her eyes droop and her cheeks take on such a bloom of loveliness. Among the eyes that beheld, Mrs. Starling's had not been the least keen, though she watched without seeming to watch. She saw how the minister and her daughter came slowly over the meadow, engaged with each other's conversation, while Miss Masters tripped on before them. She noticed the pause in their walk, Diana's slow, thoughtful step; and then, as they came near, her flush and her downcast eye. "The minister's talk's very interestin'," whispered Mrs. Carpenter in her ear. "Not to me," said Mrs. Starling, wilfully misunderstanding. "Some folks thinks so, I know. I can't somehow never get along with him." "And Diana sha'n't," was her inward resolve; "but she can't be thinkin' of the other feller." As if to try the question, at the moment, Mrs. Reverdy appeared at the top of the steps, just as the minister and Diana got to the foot of them. She was in high glee, for her party was going off nicely, and the tables were just preparing for supper. "We want nothing now but Evan," she said with her unfailing laugh. "Miss Starling, don't you think he might have come for this afternoon, just to see so many friends?" Diana never knew where she got the coolness to answer, "How long a journey is it, Mrs. Reverdy?" "O, I don't know! How far is it, Mr. Masters?—a thousand miles?—or two thousand? I declare I have no idea. But love laughs at distances, they say." "Is Cupid a contractor on this road?" inquired the minister gravely. "A contractor!" exclaimed Mrs. Reverdy, laughing, "oh, dear, what a funny idea! I never thought of putting it so. But I didn't know but Miss Starling could tell us." "Do you know anything about it, Miss Diana?" asked the minister. "About what?" "Why Lieutenant Knowlton is not here this afternoon?" Diana knew that several pairs of eyes were upon her. It was a dangerous minute. But she had failed to discern in Mrs. Reverdy or in Gertrude any symptom of more than curiosity; and curiosity she felt she could meet and baffle. It was impertinent, and it was unkind. So, though her mind was at a point which made it close steering, she managed to sheer off from embarrassment and look amused. She laughed in the eyes that were watching her, and answered carelessly enough to Mr. Masters' question that she "dared say Mr. Knowlton would have come if he could." Mrs. Starling put up her work with a sigh of relief; and the rest of the persons concerned felt free to dismiss the subject from their minds and pay attention to the supper. It was a great success, Mrs. Reverdy's sewing party. The excellent entertainment provided was heartily enjoyed, all the more for the little stimulus of curiosity which hung about every article and each detail of the tea-table. Old Mr. Bowdoin delighted himself in hospitable attentions to his old neighbours, and was full of genial and gratified talk with them. The stiffness of the afternoon departed before the tea and coffee; and when at last the assembly broke up, and a little file of country waggons drove away, one after another, from the door, it was with highly gratified loads of people. Diana may be quoted as a single exception. In the tremor of her spirits which followed the bit of social navigation noticed above, she had hardly known how anything tasted at the supper; and the talk she had heard without hearing. There was nothing but relief in getting away. The drive home was as silent between her and her mother as the drive out had been. Mrs. Starling was full of her own cogitations. Diana's thoughts were not like that,—hard-twisted and hard-knotted lines of argument, growing harder and more twisted towards their end; but wide flowing and soft changing visions, flowing sweet and free as the clouds borne on the air-currents of heaven; catching such colours, and drifting as insensibly from one form into another. The evening kept up the dreamy character of the afternoon, the haze growing duskier as the light waned; till the tender gleam of a full moon began to supply here and there the glory of the lost sunlight. It was a colder gleam, though; and so far, more practical than that flush of living promise which a little while ago had filled the sky and the world. Diana's thoughts centred on Evan's letter. Where was it? When should she get it? Josiah, she knew, had been to the post office that morning, and brought home nothing! She wished she could go to the post office herself; she sometimes had done so; but she would not like to take Evan's letter, either, from the knowing hands of the postmaster. She might not be able to command her looks perfectly. "They don't know how to make soda biscuit down yonder," Mrs. Starling broke out abruptly, just as their drive was near ended. "Don't they?" said Diana absently. "All yellow!" said Mrs. Starling disdainfully. "Nobody would ever know there was any salaratus in my biscuit—or in yours either." "Except from the lightness, mother." "The lightness wouldn't tell what made 'em light," said Mrs. Starling logically. "They had salaratus in their pickles too." "How could you tell?" "Tell? As if I couldn't tell! Tell by the colour." "Ours are green too." "Not green like that. I would despise to make my pickles green that way. I'd as soon paint 'em." "It was very handsome, mother, the supper altogether." "Hm! It was a little too handsome," said Mrs. Starling, "and that was what they liked about it. I'd like to know what is the use o' having great clumsy forks of make-believe silver"— "O, they were real, mother." "Well, the more fools if they were. I'd like to know what is the use of having great clumsy forks of silver, real or make-believe, when you can have nice, sharp, handy steel ones, and for half or a quarter the price?" Diana liked the silver forks, and was silent. "I could hardly eat my pickles with 'em. I couldn't, if they had been mine; but Genevieve's cucumbers were spongy." To Diana's relief, their own door was gained at this moment. She did not know what her mother's discourse might end in, and was glad to have it stopped. Yet the drive had been pretty! The men had had their supper, which had been left ready for them; and Josiah's care had kept up a blazing fire in the lean-to kitchen. Diana went up-stairs to change her dress, for she had the dishes now to wash up; and Mrs. Starling stood in front of the fire-place, pondering. She had been pondering all the time of the drive home, as well as much of the time spent at Elmfield; she believed she had come to a conclusion; and yet she delayed her purpose. It was clear, she said to herself, that Diana did not care for Lieut. Knowlton; at least not much; her fancy might have been stirred. But what is a girl's fancy? Nothing worth considering. Letters, if allowed, might nourish the fancy up into something else. She would destroy this first one. She had determined on that. Yet she lingered. Conscience spoke uneasily. What if she were misled by appearances, and Diana had more than a fancy for this young fellow? Then she would crush it! Nobody would be the wiser, and nobody would die of grief; those things were done in stories only. Mrs. Starling hesitated nevertheless, with her hand on the letter, till the sound of Diana's step in the house decided her action. She was afraid to wait; some accident might overthrow all her arrangements; and with a hasty movement she drew the packet from her bosom and tucked it under the fofestick, where a bed of glowing nutwood coals lay ready. Quick the fire caught the light tindery edges, made a little jet of excitement about the large wax seal, fought its way through the thick folds of paper, and in a moment had left only a mock sheet of cinder, with mock marks of writing still traceable vividly upon it. A letter still, manifestly, sharp-edged and square; it glowed at Mrs. Starling from its bed of coals, with the curious impassiveness of material things; as if the happiness of two lives had not shrivelled within it. Mrs. Starling stood looking. What had been written upon that fiery scroll? It was vain to ask now; and hearing Diana coming down-stairs, she took the tongs and punched the square cinder that kept its form too well. Little bits of paper, grey cinder with red edges, fluttered in the draught, and flew up in the smoke. "What are you burning there, mother?" said Diana. And Mrs. Starling answered a guilty "Nothing," and walked away. Diana looked at the little fluttering cinders, and an uneasy sensation came over her, that yet took no form of suspicion; and passed, for the thing was impossible. So near she came to it. Why had Mrs. Starling not at least read the letter before destroying it? The answer lies in some of the strange, hidden involutions of feeling and consciousness, which are hard to trace out even by the person who knows them best. After the thing was done, she wished she had read it. It may be she feared to find what would stay her hand, or make her action difficult. It may be that certain stirrings of conscience warned her that delay might defeat her whole purpose. She was an obstinate woman, by nature; obstinate to the point of wilful blindness when necessary; and to do her justice, she was perfectly incapable of estimating the gain or the loss of such an affection as Diana's, or of sympathizing with the suffering such a nature may know. It was not in her; she had no key to it; grant the utmost mischief that she supposed it even possible she might be doing, and it was as a summer gale to the cyclone of the Indian seas. So her conscience troubled her little, and that little was soon silenced. Perhaps not quite forgotten; for it had the effect, not to make her more than usual tender of her daughter and indulgent towards her, as one would expect, but stern, carping and exacting beyond all her wont. She drove household matters with a tighter rein than ever, and gave Diana as little time for private thought or musing as the constant and engrossing occupation of her hands could leave free. But, however, thoughts are not chained to fingers. Alas! what troubled calculations Diana worked into her butter, those weeks; and how many heavy possibilities she shook down from her fingers along with the drops of water she scattered upon the clothes for the ironing. Her very nights at last became filled with the anxious cogitations that never ceased all the day; and Diana awoke morning after morning unrefreshed and weary from her burdened sleep, and from dreams that reproduced in fantastic combinations the perplexities of her waking life. Her face began to grow shadowed and anxious, and her tongue was still. Mrs. Starling had generally done most of the talking; she did it all now. Days passed on, and weeks. Mrs. Starling did not find out that anything was the matter with Diana; partly because she was determined that nothing should be the matter; and partly because young Flandin came about the house a good deal, and Mrs. Starling thought Diana to be vexed, or perhaps in a state of vexed indecision about him. And in addition, she was a little anxious herself, lest another letter should come and somehow reach the hands it was meant for. Having gone so far already, Mrs. Starling did not mean to spoil or lose her work for want of a few finishing touches. She watched the post office as never in her life, for any cause, she had watched it before. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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