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Diana

<h3 id="id01831" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XIX.</h3> <h3 id="id01832" style="margin-top: 3em">OUT OF HUMDRUM.</h3> Warm, how good and warm! but empty. Perfectly empty. Perfectly still. Empty pews, and empty pulpit; nobody, not a head visible anywhere. Not a breath to be heard. The place was awful; it was like the ghost of a church; all the life out of it. But how, then, came it to be warm? Somebody must have made the fires; where was somebody gone? And had none of all the congregation come to church that day? was it too bad for everybody? Diana began to wake up to facts, as she heard the blast drive against the windows, and listened to the swirl of it round the house. And how was she going to get home, if it was so bad as that? At any rate, here was still solitude and quiet and freedom; she could get warm and enjoy it for awhile, and let Prince rest; she would not be in a hurry. She turned to go to one of the corners of the room, where the stoves were screened off by high screens in the interest of the neighbouring pews; and then, just at the corner of the screen, from where he had been watching her, she saw Mr. Masters. Diana did not know whether to be sorry or glad. On the whole, she rather thought she was glad; the church was eerie all alone. "Mr. Masters!—I thought nobody was here." "I thought nobody was going to be here. Good morning! Who else is coming?" "Who else? Nobody, I guess." "How am I to understand that?" "Just so,"—said Diana, coming up to the stove and putting her fingers out towards the warmth. "Where is the other half of your family?" "I left mother at home." "You came alone?" "Yes, I came alone." Diana began to wonder a little at the situation in which she found herself, and to revolve in her mind how she could make use of it. "Miss Diana, you have dared what no one else has dared." "It was not daring," said the girl. "I did not think much of the storm, till I was so far on the way that it was as easy to come on as to go back." A light rejoinder, which would have been given to anybody else, was checked on Mr. Masters' lips by the abstracted, apart air with which these words were spoken. He gave one or two inquisitive glances at the speaker, and was silent. Diana roused herself. "Has nobody at all come to church?" "Nobody but Mr. St. Clair"—(he was the old sexton.) "And he has such a bad cold that I took pity on him and sent him home. I promised him I would shut up the church for him—when it was necessary to leave it. He was in no condition to be preached to." He half expected Diana would propose the shutting up of the church at once, and the ensuing return home of the two people there; but instead of that, she drew up a stool and sat down. "You will not be able to preach to-day," she remarked. "Not to much of a congregation," said the minister. "I will do my best with what I have." "Are you going to preach to me?" said Diana, with a ghost of a smile. "If you demand it! You have an undoubted right." Diana sat silent. The warmth of the room was very pleasant. Also the security. Not from the storm, which howled and dashed upon the windows and raged round the building and the world generally; but from that other storm and whirl of life. Diana did not want just yet to be at home. Furthermore, she had a dim notion of using her opportunity. She thought how she could do it; and the minister, standing by, watched her, with some secret anxiety but an extremely calm exterior. "You must give me the text, Miss Diana," he ventured presently. Diana sat still, musing. "Mr. Masters," she said at last, very slowly, in order that the composure of it might be perfect,—"will you tell me what is the good of life?" "To yourself, you mean?" "Yes. For me—or for anybody." "I should say briefly, that God makes all His creatures to be happy." "Happy!" echoed Diana, with more sharpness of accent than she knew. "Yes." "But, Mr. Masters, suppose—suppose that is impossible?" "It never is impossible." "That sounds—like—mockery," said Diana. "Only you never do say mocking things." "I do not about this." "But, Mr. Masters!—surely there are a great many people in the world that are not happy?" "A sorrowful truth. How comes Diana Starling to be one of them?" And saying this, the minister himself drew up a chair and sat down. The question was daring, but the whole way and manner of the man were so quiet and gentle, so sympathizing and firm at once, that it would have lured a bird off its nest; much more the brooding reserve from a heart it is not nursing but killing. Diana looked at him, met the wise, kind, grave eye she had learned long ago to trust,—and broke down. All of a sudden; she had not dreamed she was in any danger; she was as much surprised as he was; but that helped nothing. Diana buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. He looked very much concerned. Wisely, however, he kept perfectly quiet and let the storm pass; the little inner storm which caused the outer violence of winds and clouds to be for the time forgotten. Diana sobbed bitterly. When after a few minutes she checked herself, the minister went off and brought her a glass of water. Diana lifted her flushed face and drank it, making no word of excuse or apology. As he took the glass back, Mr. Masters spoke in the tone of mixed sympathy and authority—it was a winning kind of authority—which was peculiar to him. "Now, Miss Diana, what is it?" But there was a long pause. Diana was regaining self-command and searching for words. The minister was patient, and waited. "There seems to be nothing left in life," she said at last. "Except duty, you mean?" "There is enough of that; common sort of duties. But duty is very cold and bare if it is all alone, Mr. Masters." "Undoubtedly true. But who has told you that your life must be filled with only common sorts of duties?" "It has nothing else," said Diana despondently. "And I look forward and see nothing else. And when I think of living on and on so—my brain almost turns, and I wonder why I was made." "Not to live so. Our Maker meant none of us to live a humdrum life; don't you know, we were intended for 'glory, honour, and immortality'?" "How can one get out of humdrum?" Diana asked disconsolately. "By living to God." "I don't understand you." "You understand how a woman can live to a beloved human creature, doing everything in the thought and the joy of her affection." Was he probing her secret? Diana's breath came short; she sat with eyes cast down and a feeling of oppression; growing pale with her pain. But she said, "Well?" "Let it be God, instead of a fellow-creature. Your life will have no humdrum then." "But—one can only love what one knows," said Diana, speaking carefully. "Precisely. And the Bible cry to men is, that they would 'know the Lord.' For want of that knowledge, all goes wild." "Do you mean that that will take the place of everything else?" said Diana, lifting her weary eyes to him. They were strong, beautiful eyes too, but the light of hope was gone, and all sparkle of pleasure, out of them. The look struck to the minister's heart. He answered, however, with no change of tone. "I mean, that it more than takes the place of everything else." "Not replace what is lost," said Diana sadly. "More than replace it, even when one has lost all." "That can't be!—that must be impossible, sometimes," said Diana. "I don't believe you know." "Yes, I do," said the minister gravely. "People would not be human." "Very human—tenderly human. Do you really think, Miss Diana, that he who made our hearts, made them larger than he himself can fill?" Diana sat silent a while, and the minister stood considering her; his heart strained with sympathy and longing to give her help, and at the same time doubting how far he might or dared venture. Diana on her part fearing to show too much, but remembering also that this chance might never repeat itself. The fear of losing it began to overtop all other fear. So she began again. "But, Mr Masters—this, that you speak of—I haven't got it; and I don't understand it. What shall I do?" "Get it." "How?" "Seek it in the appointed way." "What is that?" "Jesus said, 'He that hath my commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth me; and he that loveth me shall be loved of my Father; and I will love him, and will manifest myself to him.'" "But I do not love him." "Then pray as Moses prayed,—'I beseech thee, show me thy glory.'" Diana's head sank a little. "I have no heart to give to anything!" she confessed. "What has become of it?" asked the minister daringly. "Don't people sometimes lose heart without any particular reason?" "No; never." "I have reason, though," said Diana. "I see that." "You do not know—?" said Diana, facing him with a startled movement. "No. I know nothing, Miss Diana. I guess." She sat with her face turned from him for a while; then, perhaps reminded by the blast of wind and snow which at the moment came round the house furiously and beat on the windows, she went on hastily: "You wonder to see me here; but I ran away from home; and I can't bear to go back." "Why?" "Mr. Masters, mother wants me to"—Diana hesitated—"marry a rich man." The minister was silent. "He is there all the while—I mean, very often; he has not spoken out yet, but mother has; and she favours him all she can." "You do not?" "I wish I could never see him again!" sighed Diana. "You can send him away, I should think." "I can't, till he asks my leave to stay. And I am so tired. He came to take me to church this morning; and I ran away before it was time to go." "You cannot be disposed of against your will, Miss Diana." "I seem to have so little will now. Sometimes I am almost ready to be afraid mother and he together will tire me out. Nothing seems to matter any more." "That would be a great mistake." "Yes!"—said Diana, getting up from her chair and looking out towards the storm with a despairing face;—"people make mistakes sometimes. Mr. Masters, you must think me very strange—but I trust you—and I wanted help so much"— "And I have not given you any." "You would if you could." "And I will if I can. I have thought of more than I have spoken. When can I see you again, to consult further? It must be alone." "I don't know. This is my chance. Tell me now. What have you thought of?" "I never speak about business on Sunday," said the minister, meeting Diana's frank eyes with a slight smile which was very far from merriment. "Is this business?" "Partly of that character." "I don't know, then," said Diana. "We must take our chance. Thank you, Mr. Masters." "May I ask what for?" "For your kindness." "I should like to be kind to you," said he. "Now the present practical question, which cannot be put off, Miss Diana, is—how are you going to get home?" "And you?" "That is a secondary matter and easily disposed of. I live comparatively near by. It is out of the question that you should drive three miles in this storm." Both stood and listened to the blast for a few minutes. There was no denying the truth of his words. In fact, it would be a doubtful thing for a strong man to venture himself and his beast out in the fury of the whirling wind and snow; for a woman, it was not to be thought of. Mr. Masters considered. For him to take Diana, supposing the storm would let him, to the house of some near neighbour, would be awkward enough, and give rise to endless and boundless town talk. To carry her home, three miles, was, as he had said, out of the question. To wait, both of them, in the church, for the storm's abating, was again not a desirable measure, and would furnish even richer food for the tongues of the parish than the other alternatives would. To leave her, or for her to leave him, were alike impossible. Mr. Masters was not a man who usually hesitated long about any course of action, but he was puzzled to-day. He walked up and down in one of the aisles, thinking; while Diana resumed her seat by the stove. Her simplicity and independence of character did not allow her to greatly care about the matter; though she, too, knew very well what disagreeable things would be said, at home and elsewhere, and what a handle would be made of the affair, both against her and against the minister. For his sake, she was sorry; for herself, what did anything much matter? This storm was an exceptional one; such as comes once in a year perhaps, or perhaps not in several years. The wind had risen to a tempest; the snow drove thick before it, whirling in the eddies of the gust, so as to come in every possible direction, and seemingly caught up again before it could reach a resting-place. The fury of its assault upon the church windows made one thing at least certain; it would be a mad proceeding now to venture out into it, for a woman or a man either. And it was very cold; though happily the stoves had been so effectually fired up, that the little meeting-house was still quite comfortable. Yet the minister walked and walked. Diana almost forgot him; she sat lost in her own thoughts. The lull was soothing. The solitude was comforting. The storm which put a barrier between her and all the rest of the world, was a temporary friend. Diana could find it in her heart to wish it were more than temporary. To be out of the old grooves of pain is something, until the new ones are worn. To forsake scenes and surroundings which know all our secrets is sometimes to escape beneficially their persistent reminders of everything one would like to forget. Diana felt like a child that has run away from school, and so for the present got rid of its lessons; and sat in a quiet sort of dull content, listening now and then to the roar of the blast, and hugging herself that she had run away in time. Half an hour more, and it would have been too late, and Will and her mother would have been her companions for all day. How about to-morrow? Diana shuddered. And how about all the to-morrows that stretched along in dreary perspective before her? Would they also, all of them, hold nothing but those same two persons? Nothing but an endless vista of butter-making and pork-killing on one hand, and hair-oil scented with cloves on the other? It would be better far to die, if she could die; but Diana knew she could not. "Well!" said the voice of the minister suddenly beside her, "what do you think of the prospect?" Diana's eyes, as they were lifted to his face, were full of so blank a life-prospect, that his own face changed, and a cloud came over its brightness. "We can't get away," he said. "Not at present, unless we were gulls; and gulls never fly in these regions. Do you mind waiting?" "I do not mind it at all," said Diana; "except for you. I am sorry for you to have to stay here with me." "There isn't anybody I would rather stay with," said the minister, half humourously. "Now, can you return the compliment?" "Yes indeed!" said Diana earnestly. "There isn't anybody else I would half as lieve stay with." "Apparently you have some confidence in me," he said in the same tone. "I have confidence in nobody else," said Diana sadly. "I know you would help me if you could." They were silent a few minutes after that, and when Mr. Masters began to speak again, it was in a different tone; a gentle, grave tone of business. "I have been doing some hard thinking," he said, "while I have been walking yonder; and I have come to the conclusion that the present is an exceptional case and an exceptional time. Ordinarily I do not let business—private business—come into Sunday. But we are brought here together, and detained here, and I have come to the conclusion that this is the business I ought to do. I have only one parishioner on my hands to-day," he went on with a slight smile, "and I may as well attend to her. I am going to tell you my plan. I shall not startle you? Just now you allowed that you had confidence in me?" "Yes. I will try to do whatever you say I ought to do." "That I cannot tell," said he gravely, "but I will unfold to you my plan. You have trust in me. So have I in you, Diana; but I have more. So much more, that it would make me happy to go through my life with you. I know,"—he said as he met her startled look up to him,—"I know you do not love me, I know that; but you trust me; and I have love enough for two. That has been true a great while. Suppose you come to me and let me take care of you. Can you trust me to that extent?" Diana's lips had grown white with fear and astonishment. "You do not know!"—she gasped. But his answer was steady and sweet. "I think I do." "All?" "All I need to know." "It would be very, very wrong to you, Mr. Masters!" said Diana, hiding her face. "No," he answered in the same gentle way. "To give me what I long for?" "But—but—I have nothing to give in return," she said, answering not the form of his words, but the reality under them. "I will take my risk of that. I told you, I have enough for both. And I might add, to last out our lives. I only want to have the privilege of taking care of you." "My heart is dead!"—cried Diana piteously. "Mine isn't. And yours is not. It is only sick, but not unto death; and I want to shelter and nurse it to health again. May I?" "You cannot," said Diana. "I am not worth anybody's looking at any more. There is no life left in me. I am not good enough for you, Mr. Masters. You ought to have a whole heart—and a large one—in return for your own." "I do not want any return," said he. "Not at present, beyond that trust which you so kindly have given me. And if I never have any more, I will be content, Diana, to be allowed to do all the giving myself. You must spend your life somewhere. Can you spend it anywhere better than at my side?" "No,"—Diana breathed rather than spoke. "'Then it's a bargain?" said he, taking her hand. Diana did not withdraw it, and stooping down he touched his lips gently to hers. This was so unlike one of Evan's kisses, that it did not even remind Diana of them. She sat dazed and stunned, hardly knowing how she felt, only bewildered; yet dimly conscious that she was offered a shelter, and a lot which, if she had never known Evan, she would have esteemed the highest possible. An empty lot now, as any one must be; an unequal exchange for Mr. Masters; an unfair transaction; at the same time, for her, a hiding-place from the world's buffetings. She would escape so from her mother's exactions and rule; from young Flandin's following and pretensions; from the pointed finger of gossip. True, that finger had never been levelled at her, not yet; but every one who has a secret sore spot knows the dread of its being discovered and touched. And Diana had never been wont to mind her mother's exactions, or to rebel against her rule; but lately, for a year past, without knowing or guessing the wrong of which her mother had been guilty, Diana had been conscious of an underlying want of harmony somewhere. She did not know where it was; it was in the air; for nature's subtle sympathies find their way and know their ground far beyond the sphere of sense or reason. Something adverse and something sinister she had vaguely felt in her mother's manner, without having the least clue to any possible cause or motive. Suspicion was the last thing to occur to Diana's nature; so she suspected nothing; nevertheless felt the grating and now and then the jar of their two spirits one against the other. It was dimly connected with Evan, too, in her mind, without knowing why; she thought, blaming herself for the thought, that Mrs. Starling would not have been so determinately eager to get her married to Will Flandin if Evan Knowlton had never been thought to fancy her. This was a perfectly unreasoning conclusion in Diana's mind; she could give no account of it; but as little could she get rid of it; and it made her mother's ways lately hard to bear. The minister, she knew instinctively, would not let a rough wind blow on her face; at his side neither criticism nor any sort of human annoyance could reach her; she would have only her own deep heart-sorrow to bear on to the end. But what sort of justice was this towards him? Diana lifted her head, which had been sunk in musing, and looked round. She had heard nothing for a while; now the swirl and rush of the storm were the first thing that struck her senses; and the first thought, that no getting away was possible yet; then she glanced at Mr. Masters. He was there near her, just as usual, looking at her quietly. "Mr. Masters," she burst forth, "you are very good!" "That is right," he said, with a sort of dry comicality which belonged to him, "I hope you will never change your opinion." "But," said Diana, withdrawing her eyes in some confusion, "I think I am not. I think I am doing wrong." "In what?" "In letting you say what you said a little while ago. You have a heart, and a big one. I have not any heart at all. I can't give you what you would give me; I haven't got it to give. I never shall have anything to give." "The case being so as you put it," said the minister quite quietly, "what then? You cannot change the facts. I cannot take back what I have given; it was given long ago, Diana, and remains yours. The least you can do, is to let me have what is left of you and take care of it. While I live I will do that, and ask no reward." "You will get tired of it," said Diana, with her lip trembling. "Will I?" said he, taking her hand. And he added no more, but through the gentle, almost careless intonation, Diana felt and knew the very truth, that he never would. She left her hand in his clasp; that too was gentle and firm, like the man; he seemed a tower of strength to Diana. If only she could have loved him! Yet she thought she was glad that he loved her. He was something to lean upon; some one who would be able to give help. They sat so, hand in hand, for a while, the storm roaring against the windows and howling round the building. "Don't you think," the minister began again with a tender, light accent, "it will be part of my permanent duty to preach to you?" "I dare say; I am sure I want it enough," said Diana. "Is not this a good opportunity?" "I suppose it is. We cannot get away." "Never mind; the wind will go down by and by. It has been blowing on purpose to keep us here. Diana, do you think a good God made any of his creatures to be unhappy?" "I don't know, Mr. Masters. He lets them be unhappy." "It is not his will." "But he takes away what would make them happy?" "What do you think would do that?" "I suppose it is one thing with one person, and another with another." "True; but take an instance." "It is mother's happiness to have her farm and her dairy and her house go just right." "Is she happy if it does?" "She is very uncomfortable if it don't." "That is not my question," said the minister, smiling. "Happiness is not a thing that comes and goes with the weather, or the crops, or the state of the market;—nor even with the life and death and affection of those we love." "I thought it did"—said Diana rather faintly. "In that case it would be a changeable, insecure thing; and being that, it would cease to be happiness." "Yes. I thought human happiness was changeable and uncertain." "Do you not feel that such conditions would spoil it? No; God loves us better than that." "But, Mr. Masters," said Diana in some surprise, "nobody in this world can be sure of keeping what he likes?" "Except one thing." "What can that be?" "Did you never see anybody who was happy independent of circumstances?" Diana reflected. "I think Mother Bartlett is." "I think so too." "But she is the only person of whom that is true in all Pleasant Valley." "How comes she to be an exception?" Diana reflected again, but this time without finding an answer. "Isn't it, that she has set her heart on what cannot fail her nor be insufficient for her?" "Religion, you mean." "I do not mean religion." "What then?" Diana asked in new surprise. "I mean—Christ." "But—isn't that the same thing?" "Not exactly. Christ is a person." "Yes—but"— "And he it is that can make happy those who know him. Do you remember he said, 'He that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on me shall never thirst'?" Looking up at the speaker and following his words, they somehow struck Diana rather hard. Her lip suddenly trembled, and she looked down. "You do not understand it," said the minister, "but you must believe it. Poor hungry lamb, seeking pasture where there is none,—where it is withered,—come to Christ!" "Do you mean," said Diana, struggling for voice and self-command, but unable to look up, for the minister's hand was on her shoulder and his words had been very tenderly spoken,—"do you mean, that when everything is withered, he can make it green again?" The minister answered in the words of David, which were the words of the Lord: "'He shall be as the light of the morning, when the sun riseth, even a morning without clouds; as the tender grass springeth out of the earth by clear shining after rain.'" Diana bent her head lower. Could such refreshment and renewal of her own wasted nature ever come to pass? She did not believe it; yet perhaps there was life yet at the roots of the grass which scented the rain. The words swept over as the breath of the south wind. "'The light of a morning without clouds'"—she repeated when she could speak. "Christ is all that, to those who know him," the minister said. "Then I do not know him," said Diana. "Did you think you did?" "But how can one know him, Mr. Masters?" "There is only one way. It is said, 'God, who created the light out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of the glory of the knowledge of Christ.'" "How?" "I cannot tell. As the sun rises over the hills, and suddenly the gold of it is upon everything, and the warmth of it." "When?" "I don't know that either," said Mr. Masters, gently touching Diana's brow, as one touches a child's, with caressing fingers. "He says: 'Ye shall find me when ye shall search for me with all your heart.'—'If thou criest after knowledge, and liftest up thy voice for understanding; if thou seekest her as silver, and searchest for her as for hid treasures; then shalt thou understand the fear of the Lord, and find the knowledge of God.'" Diana sat still awhile and neither of them spoke; then she said, speaking more lightly: "I think you have preached a beautiful sermon, Mr. Masters." "It's a beautiful sermon," assented the minister; "but how much effect will it have?" "I don't know," said Diana. "I don't seem to have energy enough to take hold of anything." Then after a little she added—"But if anybody can help me I am sure it is you." "We will stand by one another, then," said he, "and do the best we can." Diana did not make any denial of this conclusion; and they sat still without more words, for some time, each busied with his own separate train of musings. Then Diana felt a little shiver of cold beginning to creep over her; and Mr. Masters roused himself. "This is getting serious!" said he, looking at his watch. "What o'clock do you think it is? One, and after. Am I to make up the fires again? We cannot stir at present." Neither, it was found, could he make up the fires. For the coal bin was in the cellar or underground vault, to which the entrance was from the outside; and looking from the window, Mr. Masters saw that the snow had drifted on that side to the height of a man, covering the low door entirely. Hours of labour would be required to clear away the snow enough to give access to the coal; and the minister had not even a shovel. At the same time, the fires were going down, and the room was beginning to get chilly under the power of the searching wind, which found its way in by many entrances. The only resource was to walk. Mr. Masters gave Diana his arm, and she accepted it, and together they paced up and down the aisle. It was a strange walk to Diana; her companion was rather silent, speaking only a few words now and then; and it occurred to her to wonder whether this, her first walk with him, was to be a likeness of the whole; a progress through chilly and empty space. Diana was not what may be called an imaginative person, but a thought of this kind came over her. It did not make her change her mind at all respecting the agreement she had entered into; if it were to be so, better she should find herself at his side, she thought, than anywhere else. She was even glad, in a dull sort of way, that Mr. Masters should be pleased; pleasure for her was gone out of the world. Honour him she could, and did, from the bottom of her heart; but that was all. It was well, perhaps, for her composure that whatever pleasure her companion might feel in their new relations, he did not make the feeling obtrusively prominent. He was just his usual self, with a slight confidence in his manner to her which had not appeared before. So they walked. "Diana," said Mr. Masters suddenly, "have you brought no lunch with you?" "I forgot it. At least,—I was in such a hurry to get out of the house without being seen, I didn't care about anything else. If I had gone to the pantry, they would have found out what I was doing." "And I brought nothing to-day, of all days. I am sorry, for your sake." "I don't mind it," said Diana. "I don't feel it." "Nor I,—but that proves nothing. This won't do. It is two o'clock. We must get away. It will be growing dark in a little while more. The days are just at the shortest." "I think the storm isn't quite so bad as it was," said Diana. They stood still and listened. It beat and blew, and the snow came thick; still the exceeding fury of the blast seemed to be lessened. "We'll give it a quarter of an hour more," said the minister. "Diana—we have had preaching, but we have had no praying." She assented submissively, to his look as well as his words, and they knelt down together in the chancel. Mr. Masters prayed, not very long, but a prayer full of the sweetness and the confidence and the strength, of a child of God who is at home in his Father's presence; full of tenderness and sympathy for her. Diana's mind went through a series of experiences in the course of that short prayer. The sweetness and the confidence of it touched her first with the sense of contrast, and wrung tears from her that were bitter; then the speaker got beyond her depth, into regions of feeling where she could not follow him nor quite understand, but that, she knew, was only because he was at home where she was so much a stranger; and her thoughts made a leap to the admiration of him, and then to the useless consideration, how happy she might have been with this man had not Evan come between. Why had he come, just to win her and prove himself unworthy of her? But it was done, and not to be undone. Evan had her heart, worthy or unworthy; she could not take it back; there was nothing left for her but to be a cold shadow walking beside this good man who was so full of all gentle and noble affections. Well, she was glad, since he wanted her, that she might lead her colourless existence by his side. That was the last feeling with which she rose from her knees. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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