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Diana

<h3 id="id02811" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXIX.</h3> <h3 id="id02812" style="margin-top: 3em">HUSBAND AND WIFE.</h3> Had she no kind word for Evan? Diana felt as if her heart would snap some one of its cords, and give over its weary beating at once and for ever. No kind word for Evan? her beloved, her betrayed, her life-treasure once, towards whom still all the wealth of her heart longed to pour itself out; and she might not send him one kind word? And he did not know that she had been true to him; and yet he had remained true to her. Might he not know so much as that, and that her heart was breaking as well as his? Only it would not break. All the pain of death without its cessation of consciousness. Why not let him have one word to know that she loved him still, and would always love him? Truth—truth and duty—loyal faith to her husband, the man whom in her mistake she had married. O, why could not such mistakes be undone! But they never could, never. It was a living death that she was condemned to die. I cannot say that Diana really wavered at all in her truth; but this was an hour of storm never to be remembered without shuddering. She had her baby in her arms, but the mother's instincts were for the time swallowed up in the stormier passions of the woman. She cared for it and ministered to it, tenderly as ever, yet in a mechanical, automatic sort of way, taking no comfort and finding no relief in her sweet duty. It was the roar of the storm and the howling of temptation which overwhelmed every other voice in her heart. Then there were practical questions to be met. Mrs. Reverdy and her family at Elmfield, who could guarantee that Evan would not get a furlough and come there too? Mrs. Reverdy's words seemed to have some ultimate design, which they had not indeed declared; they had the air of somewhat different from mere aimless rattle or mischievous gossip. Suppose Evan were to come? What then? The baby went off to sleep, and was laid away in its crib, and the mother stood alone at the window wrestling with her pain. She felt helpless in the grasp of it as almost never before. Danger was looming up and threatening dark in the distance; there might be a whirlwind coming out of that storm quarter, and how was she going to stand in the whirlwind? Beyond the wordless cry which meant "Lord help me!"—Diana could hardly pray at all at this moment; and the feeling grew that she must have human help. "Tell Basil"—a whisper said in her heart. She had shunned that thought always; she had judged it no use; now she was driven to it. He must know the whole. Perhaps then he could tell her what to do. As soon as Diana's mind through all its tossings and turnings had fixed upon this point, she went immediately from thought to action. It was twilight now, or almost. Basil would not come home in time for a talk before supper; supper must be ready, so as to have no needless delay. She could wait, now she knew what she would do; though there was a fire burning at heart and brain. She went down-stairs and ordered something to be got ready for supper; finished the arrangement of the tea-table, which her husband liked to have very dainty; picked a rose for his plate, though it seemed dreadful mockery; and as soon as she heard his step at the door she made the tea. What an atmosphere of sweet, calm brightness he brought in with him, and always brought. It struck Diana now with the kind of a shiver which a person in a fever feels at the touch of fresh air. Yet she recognised the beauty of it, and it fortified her in her resolve. She would be true to this man, though she died for it! There was nothing but truth in him. She got through the meal-time as she could; swallowed tea, and even ate bread, without knowing how it tasted, and heard Basil talk without knowing what he said. As soon as she could she went up-stairs to the baby, and waited till her husband should come too. But when he came, he came to her, and did not go to his study. "Basil I want to speak to you—will you come into the other room?" she said huskily. "Won't this room do to talk in?" "No. It is over the kitchen." "Jemima knows I never quarrel"—said Basil lightly; however, he led the way into the study. He set a chair for Diana and took another himself, but she remained standing. "Basil—is God good?" she said. "Yes. Inexpressibly good." "Then why does he let such things happen?" "Sit down, Di. You are not strong enough to talk standing. Such things? What things?" "Why does he let people be tempted above what they can bear?" "He never does—his children—if that is what you mean. He always provides a way of escape." "Where?" "At Christ's feet." "Basil, how can I get there?" she said with a sob. "You are there, my darling," he said, putting her gently into the easy-chair she had disregarded. "Those who trust in him, his hand never lets go. They may seem to themselves to lose their standing—they may not feel the ground under their feet—but he knows; and he will not let them fall. If they hold fast to him, Diana." "Basil, you don't know the whole." "Do you want to tell me?" Her voice was abrupt and hoarse; his was calm and cool as the fall of the dew. "I want to tell you if I can. But I shall hurt you." "I am very willing, if it eases you. Go on." "It wont ease me. But you must know it. You ought to know. O, Basil, I made such a mistake when I married you!"— She did not mean to say anything so bitter as that; she was where she could not measure her words. Perhaps his face paled a little; in the faint light she could not see the change of colour. His voice did not change. "What new has brought that up?" "Nothing new. Something old. O Basil—his sister has been here to-day to see me." "Has she?" His voice did change a little then. "What did she come for?" "I don't know. And he will be here, perhaps, by and by. O Basil, do you know who it is? And what shall I do?" Diana had sprung up from her chair and dropped down on the floor by her husband's side, and hid her face in her hands on his knee. His hand passed tenderly, sorrowfully, over the beautiful hair, which lay in disordered, bright, soft masses over head and neck. For a moment he did not speak. "Basil—do you know who it is?" "I know." "What shall I do?" "What do you want to do, Diana?" "Right"—she said, gasping, without looking up. "I am sure of it!" he said tenderly. "Well, then—the only way is, to go on and do right, Diana." "But how can I? how shall I? Suppose he comes? O Basil, it was all a mistake; he wrote, and mother kept back the letters, and I never got them; he sent them, and I never got them; and I thought he was not true and it did not matter what I did, and I honoured you above everything, Basil—and so—and so—I did what I did"— "What cannot be undone." "No—" she said, shivering. He passed his hands again over her soft hair, and bent down and kissed it. "You honour yourself, too, Diana, as well as me." "Yes—" she said, under breath. "And you honour our God, who has let all this come upon us both?" "But, O Basil! how could he? how could he?" "I don't know." "And yet you say he is good?" "And so you say too. The only good; the utterly, perfectly good; who loves his people, and keeps his promises, and who has said that all things shall work together for the good of those that love him." "How can such a thing as this?" she said faintly. "Suppose you and I cannot see how? Then faith comes in and believes it without seeing. We shall see by and by." "But Basil—suppose—Evan—comes?" "Well?" "Suppose—he came—here?" "Well, Diana?" She was silent then, but she shook and trembled and writhed. Her head was still where she had laid it; her face hidden. "You are going through as great a trial, my poor wife, as almost ever falls to the lot of a mortal. But you will go through it, and come out from it; and then it will be found to have been 'unto praise and honour and glory'—by and by." "O how can you tell?" "I trust in God. And I trust you." "But I think he will come—here to Pleasant Valley, I mean. And if he comes—here, to this house, I mean"— "What then?" "What do you want me to do?" "About seeing him?" "Yes." "What you like best to do, Diana." "Basil—he does not know." "What does he not know?" "About the letters or anything. He has never heard—never a word from me." "There was an understanding between you before he went away?" "Oh yes!" Both were silent again for a time; silent and still. Then Diana spoke timidly: "Do you think it would be wrong for him to know?" Her husband delayed his answer a little; truly, if Diana had something to suffer, so had he; and I suppose there was somewhat of a struggle in his own mind to be won through; however, the answer when it came was a quiet negative. "May I write and tell him?" He bent down and kissed her fingers as he replied—"I will." "O Basil," said the woman at his feet, "I have wished I could die a thousand times!—and I am well and strong, and I cannot die." "No," he said gravely; "we must not run away from our work." "Work!" said Diana, sitting back now and looking up at him;—"what work?" "The work our Master has given us to do to glorify him. To fight with evil and overcome it; to endure temptation, and baffle it; to carry our banner of salvation through the thick of the smoke and the fire, and never let it fall." "I am so weak, I cannot fight." "The fight of faith you can. The only sort of fighting that can prevail. Faith lays hold of Christ's strength, and so comes off more than conqueror. All you can do, is to hold fast to him." "O Basil! why does he let such things happen? why does he let such things happen? Here is my life broken—and yours; both broken and ruined." "No," the minister answered quietly,—"not mine, nor yours. Broken, if you will, but not ruined. Neither yours nor mine, Diana. With the love of Christ in our hearts, that can never be. He will not let it be." "It is all ruined," said Diana; "it is all ruined. I am full of evil thoughts, and no good left. I have wished to die, and I have wanted to run away—I felt as if I must"— "But instead of dying or running away, you have stood nobly and bravely to your post of suffering. Wait and trust. The Lord means good to us yet." "What possible good?" "Perhaps, that being stripped of all else, we may come to know him." "Is it necessary that people should be stripped of all before they can do that?" "Sometimes." Diana stood still, and again there was silence in the room. The soft June air, heavy with the breath of roses, floated in at the open window, bringing one of those sharp contrasts which make the heart sick with memory and longing; albeit the balsam of promise be there too. People miss that. "Now men see not the bright light that is in the clouds;" and how should they? when the darkness of night seems to have fallen; how can they even remember that behind that screen of darkness there is a flood of glory? There came in sounds at the window too, from the garden and the wood on the hillside; chirruping sounds of insects, mingled with the slight rustle of leaves and the trickle of water from a little brook which made all the noise it could over the stones in its way down the hill. The voices were of tender peace; the roses and the small life of nature all really told of love and care which can as little fail for the Lord's children as for the furniture of their dwelling-place. Yet that very unchangeableness of nature hurts, which should comfort. Diana stood still, desolate, to her own sense seeming a ruin already; and her husband sat in his place, also still, but he was calm. They were quiet long enough to think of many things. "You are very good, Basil!" Diana said at last. It was one of those words which hurt unreasonably. Not because they are not true words and heartily meant, but because they are the poor substitute for those we would like to hear, and give us an ugly scale to measure distances and differences by. Basil made no sort of answer. Diana stood still. In her confusion of thoughts she did not miss the answer. Then she began again. "Evan—I mean, Basil!"—and she started;—"I wish we could get away." "From Pleasant Valley?" "Yes." "My work is here." Is mine here too? thought Diana, as she slowly went away into the other room. What is mine? To die by this fire that burns in me; or to freeze stiff in the cold that sometimes almost stops my heart's beating? She came up to the side of her baby's crib and stood there looking, dimly conscious of an inner voice that said her work was not death. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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