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Diana

<h3 id="id02138" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXII.</h3> <h3 id="id02139" style="margin-top: 3em">NEW LIFE.</h3> The first week of Diana's marriage was always a blank in her memory. The one continual, intense strain of effort to hide from her husband what she was thinking and feeling swallowed up everything else. Mr. Masters had procured a comfortable little light rockaway, and avoiding all public thoroughfares and conveyances, had driven off with Diana among the leafy wildernesses of the White Mountains; going where they liked and stopping where they liked. It was more endurable to Diana than any other way of spending those days could have been; the constant change and activity, and the variety of new things always claiming attention and admiration, gave her all the help circumstances could give. They offered abundance of subjects for Mr. Masters to talk about; and Diana could listen, and with a word or two now and then get along quite passably. But of all the beauty they went through, of all the glory of those June days, of all the hours of conversation that went on, Diana kept in her memory but the one fact of continual striving to hinder Mr. Masters from seeing her heart. She supposed she succeeded; she never could tell. For one other thing forced itself upon her consciousness as the days went on—a growing appreciation of this man whom she did not love. His gentleness of manner, his tender care and consideration for her, the even sweetness of temper which nothing disturbed and which would let nothing disturb her, playing with inconveniences which he could not remove; and then, beneath all that, a strength of character and steady force of will which commanded her utmost respect and drew forth her fullest confidence. It hurt Diana's conscience terribly that she had given this man a wife who, as she said to herself, was utterly unworthy of him; to make this loss good, so far as any possible service or life-work could, she would have done anything or submitted to anything. It was the one wish left her. "What do you think of going home?" Mr. Masters asked suddenly one evening. They had come back from a glorious ramble over the nearest mountain, and were sitting after supper in front of the small farm-house where they had found lodging, looking out upon the view. Twilight was settling down upon the green hills. Diana started and repeated his word. "Home?" "Yes. I mean Pleasant Valley," said the minister, smiling. "Not the house where I first saw you. There are one or two sick people, from whom I do not feel that I can be long away." "You always think of other people first!" said Diana, almost with a sigh. "So do you." "No, I do not. I do not think I do. It seems to me I have always thought most of myself." "You can begin now, then, to do better." "In thinking of you first, you mean? O yes, I do. I will. But you think of people you do not care for." "No, I don't. Never. You cannot think of people you do not care for, in the way you mean. They will not come into your head." "How can one do then, Basil? How do you do?" "Obviously, the only way is to care for them." "Who is sick in Pleasant Valley?" "Nobody you know. One is an old man who lives back on the mountain; the other is a woman near Blackberry hill." "Blackberry hill? do you go there?" "Now and then." "But those are dreadful people there." "Well," said the minister, "they want help so much the more." "Help to live, do you mean? They do stealing enough for that." "Nobody lives by stealing," said the minister. "It is one of the ways of death; and help to live is just what they want. But 'how shall they believe on him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher'?" "And do you preach to them in that place?" "I try." "But there is no church there?" "When you have got anything to do," said the minister, with a dry sort of humourousness which belonged to him, "it is best not be stopped by trifles." "Where do you preach, then, Basil?" "Wherever I can find a man or a woman to listen to me." "In the houses?" exclaimed Diana. "Why not?" "Well, we never had a minister in Pleasant Valley like you before." "Didn't you?" "I don't believe anybody ever went to those people to preach to them, until you went." "They had a good deal of that appearance," Mr. Masters assented. "But," Diana began again after a short pause, "to go back; Basil, you do not care for those people?" "I think I do," said the minister very quietly. "I suppose you do!" said Diana, in a sort of admiration. "But how can you?" "Easy to tell," was the answer. "God made them, and God loves them; I love all that my Father loves. And Christ died for them; and I seek the lost whom my Master came to save. And there is not one of them but has in him the possibility of glory; and I see that possibility, and when I see it, Diana, it seems to me a small thing to give my life, if need be, that it may be realized." "I am not good enough to be your wife!" said Diana, sinking her head. And her secret self-abasement was very deep. "Does that mean, that you object to the cutting short of our holiday?" the minister asked, in his former tone of dry humourous suggestion. "I?" said Diana, looking up and meeting his eyes. "No, certainly. I am ready for whatever you wish, and whenever you wish." "I don't wish it at all," said the minister, giving a somewhat longing look at the green wilderness before them, of which the lovely hilly outlines were all that the gathering twilight left distinct. "But the thing is, Di, I cannot play when I ought to be working." It made little difference to Diana. Indeed, she had a hope that in her new home she would find, as she always had found in her old home, engrossing duties that would make her part easier to get through, and in some measure put a check to the rush of thought and feeling. So with her full consent the very next day they set out upon their journey home. It was not a great journey, indeed; a long day's drive would do it; their horse was fresh, and they had time for a comfortable rest and dinner at mid-day. The afternoon was very fair, and as they began to get among the hills overlooking Pleasant Valley, something in air or light reminded Diana of the time, two years ago, when she had gone up the brook with Evan. She began to talk to get rid of her thoughts. "What a nice, comfortable little carriage this is, Basil! Where did it come from?" "From Boston." "From Boston! I thought there was nothing like it in Pleasant Valley, that ever I saw. But how did you get it from Boston?" "Where's the difficulty?" said the minister, sitting at ease sideways on the front seat and looking in at her. He had put Diana on the back seat, that she might take a more resting position than there was room for beside him. "Why, it's so far." "Railway comes to Manchester. I received it there, and that is only ten miles. I rode Saladin over a few days ago, and drove him back. I had ordered the set of harness sent with the rockaway. Ecco!" "Echo?" said Diana. "Where?" "A very sweet echo," said the minister, smiling. "Didn't you hear it?" "No. But Basil, do you mean that this carriage is yours?" "No; it is yours." "Mine! then you have bought it! Didn't it cost a great deal?" "I thought not. If you like it, certainly not." "O, Basil, you are very good!" said Diana humbly. "But indeed I do not want you to go to any expense, ever, for me." "I am not a poor man, Diana." "Aren't you? I thought you were." "What right had you to think anything about it?" "I thought ministers were always poor." "I am an exception, then." "And—Basil—you never acted like a rich man." "I am not going to, Di. Do you want to act like a rich woman?" Spite of her desperate downheartedness, Diana could not help laughing a little at his manner. "I do not wish anything different from you," she answered. "It is best for every reason, if you would use money to advantage in a place like this, not to make a show of it. And in other places, if you would use it to advantage, you cannot make a show of it. So it comes to the same thing. But short of that, Di, we can do what we like." "I know what you like,"—she said. "I shall find out what you like. In the first place, where do you think you are going?" "Where? I never thought about it. I suppose to Mrs. Persimmon's." "I don't think you would like that. The place was not exactly pleasant; and the house accommodations did very well for me, but would not have been comfortable for you. So I have set up housekeeping in another locality. Do you know where a woman named Cophetua lives?" "I never heard of her." "Out of your beat. She lives a little off the road to the Blackberry Hill. I have taken her house, and put a woman in it to do whatever you want done." "I? But we never kept help, since I can remember, Basil; not house help." "Well? That proves nothing." "But I don't need anybody—I can do all that we want." "You will find enough to do." Mr. Masters quickened the pace of his horse, and Diana sat back in the carriage, half dismayed. She longed to lose herself in work, and she wished for nothing less than eyes to watch her. It was almost evening when they got home. The place was, as Mr. Masters had said, out of what had been Diana's way hitherto; in a part of Pleasant Valley which was at one side of the high road. The situation was very pretty, overlooking a wide sweep of the valley bottom, with its rich cultivation and its encircling border of green wooded hills. As to the house, it was not distinguished in any way beyond its compeers. It was rather low; it was as brown as Mrs. Starling's house; it had no giant elms to hang over it and veil its uncomelinesses. But just behind it rose a green hill; the house, indeed, stood on the lower slope of the hill, which fell off more gently towards the bottom; behind the house it lifted up a very steep, rocky wall, yet not so steep but that it was grown with beautiful forest trees. Set off against its background of wood and hill, the house looked rather cosy. It had been put in nice order, and even the little plot of ground in front had been cleared of thistles and hollyhocks, which had held a divided reign, and trimmed into neatness, though there had not been time yet for grass or flowers to grow. Within the house about this time, at one of the two lower front windows, a little woman stood looking out and speculating on the extreme solitariness of the situation. She had nobody to communicate her sentiments to, or she could have been eloquent on the subject. The golden glow and shimmer of the setting sun all over the wide landscape, it may be said with truth, she did not see; to her it was nothing but "sunshine," a natural and necessary accessory of the sun's presence, when clouds did not happen to come over the sky. I think she really saw nothing but the extreme emptiness of the picture before her; just that one fact, that there was nothing to see. Therefore it was on various accounts an event when the rockaway hove in sight, and the grey horse stopped before the gate. It did not occur to Miss Collins then to go out to the carriage to receive bundles or baskets or render help generally; she had got something to look at, and she looked. Only when the minister, having tied Saladin's head, came leading the way through the little courtyard to the front door, did it occur to his "help" to open the same. There she stood, smiling the blankest of smiles, which made Diana want to get rid of her on the instant. "Well, of all things!" was her salutation uttered in a high key. "If it ain't you! I never was so beat. Why, I didn't look for ye this long spell yet." "Won't you let us come in, Miss Collins, seeing we are here?" "La! I'm glad to see ye, fust-rate," was the answer as she stepped back; and stepping further back as Mr. Masters advanced, at last she pushed open the door of her kitchen, which was the front room on that side, and backed in, followed by the minister and, at a little interval, by his wife. Miss Collins went on talking. "How do, Mis' Masters? I speck I can't be under no mistake as to the personality, though I hain't had the pleasure o' a introduction. But I thought honeymoon folks allays make it last as long as they could?" she went on, turning her eyes from Diana to the minister again; "and you hain't been no time at all." "What have you got in the house, Miss Collins? anything for supper? I am hungry," said the latter. "Wall—happiness makes some folks hungry,—and some, they say, it feeds 'em," Miss Collins returned. "Folks is so unlike! But if you're hungry, Mr. Masters, you'll have to have sun'thin." Leaving her to prepare it, with a laughing twinkle in his eye the minister led Diana out of that room and along a short passage to another door. The passage was very narrow, the ceiling was low, the walls whitewashed, the wainscotting blue; and yet the room which they entered, though sharing in all the items of this description, was homely and comfortable. It was furnished in a way that made it seem elegant to Diana. A warm-coloured dark carpet on the floor, two or three easy-chairs, a wide lounge covered with chintz, and chintz curtains at the windows. On the walls here and there single shelves of dark wood put up for books, and filled with them; a pretty lamp on the little leaf table, and a wide fireplace with bright brass andirons. The windows looked out upon the wooded mountain-side. Diana uttered an exclamation of surprise and admiration. "This is your room, Di," said the minister. "The kitchen has the view: I did think of changing about and making the kitchen here: but the other room has so long been used in that way, I was afraid it would be a bad exchange. However, we will do it yet, if you like." "Change? why, this room is beautiful!" cried Diana. "Looks out into the hill." "O, I like that." "Don't make it a principle to like everything I do," said he, smiling. "But I do like it, Basil; I like it better than the other side," said Diana. "I just love the trees and the rocks. And you can hear the birds sing. And the room is most beautiful." Mr. Masters had opened the windows, and there came in a spicy breath from the woods, together with the wild warble of a wood-thrush. It was so wild and sweet, they both were still to listen. The notes almost broke Diana's heart, but she would not show that. "What do you think that bird is saying?" she asked. "I don't know what it may be to his mind; I know what it to mine. Pray, what does it say to yours?" "It is too plaintive for the bird to know what it means," said Diana. "Probably. I have no doubt the ancients were right when they felt certain animals to be types of good and others of evil. I think it is true, in detail and variety. I have the same feeling. And in like manner, carrying out the principle, I hear one bird say one thing and another another, in their countless varieties of song." "Did the ancients think that?" "Don't you remember the distinction between clean beasts and unclean?" "I thought that was ordered." "It was ordered to be observed. The distinction was felt before." They were again silent a moment, while the thrush's song filled the air with liquid rejoicing. "That bird," said Diana slowly, "sings as if he had got somewhere above all the sins and troubles and fights of life; I mean, as if he were a human being who had got there." "That will do," said the minister. "But that's impossible; so why should he sing it?" "Take it the other way," said the minister, smiling. "You mean"—said Diana, looking up, for she had sat down before the open window, and he stood by her side;—"you mean, he would not sing a false note?" "Nor God make a promise he would not fulfil. Come up-stairs." "But, Basil!—how could the bird's song be a promise from God?" "Think;—he gave the song, Diana. As has been said of visible things in nature, so it may be said of audible things,—every one of them is the expression of a thought of God." He did not wait for an answer, and Diana's mind was too full to give one. Up-stairs they went. The room over Diana's was arranged to be Mr. Masters' study; the other, above the kitchen, looked out upon a glorious view of the rich valley and its encompassing hills; both were exceedingly neat and pretty in their furniture and arrangements, in all of which Diana's comfort had been sedulously cared for. Her husband showed her the closet for her boxes, and opened the huge press prepared for her clothes; and taking off her bonnet, welcomed her tenderly home. But it seemed to Diana as if everything stifled her, and she would have liked to flee to the hills, like the wild creatures that had their home there. Her outward demeanour, for all that, was dignified and sweet. Whatever she felt, she would not give pain. "You are too good to me," she murmured. "I will be as good as I can, Basil, to you." "I know it," said he. "And I think I had better begin," she presently added more lightly, "by going down and seeing how Miss Collins and supper are getting on." "I daresay they will get on to some sort of consummation." "It will be a better consummation, if you let me go." Perhaps he divined something of her feeling, for he made no objection, and Diana escaped; with a sense that her only refuge was in action. To do something, no matter what, and stop thinking. Yet, when she went down-stairs, she went first to the back room and to the open window, to see if she could catch the note of the thrush once more. It came to her like a voice from the other world. He was still singing; somewhere up amid the cool shades of the hemlocks and oaks on the hill, from out the dusky twilight of their tops; sending his tremulous trills of triumph down the hillside, he was undoubtedly having a good time. Diana listened a minute, and then went to the kitchen. Miss Collins was standing in front of the fire contemplating it, or the kettle she had hung over it. "Where is Mr. Masters' supper?" Diana began. "Don't you take none?" was the rejoinder. "I mean, what can we have?" "You can have all there is. And there ain't nothin' in the house but what's no 'count. If I'd ha' knowed—honeymoon folks wants sun'thin' tip-top, been livin' on the fat o' the land, I expect; and now ye're come home to pork; and that's the hull on't." "Pork will do," said Diana, "if it is good. Have you no ham?" "Lots. That's pork, ain't it?" "Eggs?" "Yes, there's eggs." "Potatoes?" "La, I didn't expect ye'd want potatoes at this time o' day." Diana informed herself of the places of things, and set herself and Miss Collins vigorously to work. The handmaid looked on somewhat ungraciously at the quiet, competent energy of her superior, the smile on her broad mouth gradually fading. "Reckon you don't know me," she remarked presently. "Yes, I do," said Diana; "you are Jemima Collins, that used to live at the post office. How came you here?" "Wall, there's nothin' but changes in the world, I expect; that's my life. Mis' Reems, to the post office, had her mother come home to live with her; owin' to her father gettin' his arm took off in some 'chinery, which was the death o' him; so the mother come home to her daughter, and then they made it out as they two was equal to all there was to do; and I don't say they warn't; but that was reason enough why they didn't want me no longer. And then I stayed with Miss Gunn a spell, helpin' her get her house cleaned; and then the minister made out as he wanted a real 'sponsible person for to take care o' his house, and Miss Gunn she told him what she knowed about me; and so I moved in. La, it's a change from the post office! It was sort o' lively there; allays comin' and goin', and lots o' news." Diana made no answer. The very mention of the post office gave her a sort of pang; about that spot her hopes had hovered for so long, and with such bitter disillusionising. She sent Miss Collins to set the table in the other room, and presently, having finished her cookery, followed with it herself. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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