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Diana

<h3 id="id02909" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXX.</h3> <h3 id="id02910" style="margin-top: 3em">SUNSHINE.</h3> A few days later, the minister came home one evening with a message for his wife. "Good old Mother Bartlett is going home, Diana, and she wants to see you." "Home? Is she dying, do you mean?" "She does not mean it. To her, it is entering into life." "But what's the matter?" "You know she had that bad cold. I think the treatment was worse than the disease; and under the effects of both, her strength seems to have given way. She is sinking quietly." "I will go down there in the morning." So the next day, early, Basil drove his wife down and left her at the cottage. It was somehow to Diana's feeling just such another day as had been that other wonderful one when she had seen Evan first, and he harnessed Prince, and they came together over this very road. Perhaps soon Evan would be riding there again, without her, as she was going now without him. Never together again, never together again! and what was life to either of them apart? Diana went into the cottage walking as one in a dream. The cottage was in nice order, as usual, though no woman's hand had been about. Joe, rough as he was, could be what his friends called "real handy;" and he had put everything in trim and taken all care for his mother's comfort before he went out. The minister had told him Diana would be there; so after he had done this he went to his work. Mrs. Bartlett was lying on her bed in the inner room. Diana kissed her, with a heart too full at the moment to speak. "Did the minister bring you?" the old lady asked. "Yes. Are you all alone?" "The Lord never leaves his children alone, dear. They leave him sometimes. Won't you open the winders, Diana. Joe forgot that, and I want to see the sun." Diana rolled up the thick paper shades which hung over the windows, and put up the sashes. Summer air poured in, so full of warmth and brightness and sounds of nature's activity, that it seemed to roll up a tide of life to the very feet of the dying woman. She looked, and drew a deep breath or two. "That's good!" she said. "The Lord made the sunshine. Now sit down, dear; I want to see you. Sit down there, where I can see you." "Does Joe leave you here by yourself?" "He knew you was comin'. Joe's a good boy. But I don't want him nor nobody hangin' round all the time, Diana. There ain't nothin' to do; only he forgot the winders, and I want to look out and see all my riches." "Your riches, Mother Bartlett?"—And she was not going to live but a few days more. Diana wondered if her senses were wandering. But the old lady smiled; the wise, sweet smile that Diana knew of old. "Whose be they, then?" she asked. "You mean, all this pretty summer day?" "Ain't it pretty? And ain't the sunshine clear gold? And ain't the sky a kind of an elegant canopy? And it's all mine, and all it covers, and he that made it too; and seein' what he makes, puts me in mind of how rich he is and what more he kin do. How's the baby?" For some little time the baby was talked of, in both present and future relations. "And you're very happy, Diana?" the old woman asked. "I hain't seen you now for quite a spell—'most all winter." "I ought to be"—Diana answered, hesitating. "Some things folks does because they had ought to," remarked the old lady, "but bein' happy ain't one of 'em. The whole world had ought to be happy, if you put it so. The Lord wants 'em to be." "Not happy"—said Diana hastily. "Yes. 'Tain't his fault if they ain't." "How can he want everybody to be happy, when he makes them so unhappy?" "He?—the Lord? He don't make nobody unhappy, child. How did that git in your head?" "Well, it comes to the same thing, Mother Bartlett. He lets things happen." "He hain't chained up Satan yet, if that's what you mean. But Satan can't do no harm to the Lord's children. He's tried, often enough, but the Lord won't let him." "But, Mother Bartlett, that's only a way of talking. I don't know if it is Satan does it, but every sort of terrible thing comes to them. How can you say it's not evil?" "'Cause the good Lord turns it to blessing, dear. Or if he don't, it's 'cause they won't let him. O' course it is Satan does it—Satan and his ministers. 'Every good gift and every perfect gift cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.' How should he be kind to-day and unkind to-morrow?" Diana could not trust her voice and was silent. The old woman looked at her, and said in a changed tone presently, "What's come to you, Diana Masters? You had ought to be the happiest woman there is livin'." Diana could not answer. "Ain't you, dear?" Mrs. Bartlett added tenderly. "I didn't mean to speak of myself," Diana said, making a tremendous effort to bring out her words unconcernedly; "but I get utterly puzzled sometimes, Mother Bartlett, when I see such things happen—such things as do happen, and to good people too." "You ain't the fust one that's been puzzled that way," returned the old woman. "Job was all out in his reckoning once; and David was as stupid as a beast, he says. But when chillen gets into the dark, they're apt to run agin sun'thin' and hurt theirselves. Stay in the light, dear." "How can one, always?" "O, child, jes' believe the Lord's word. That'll keep you near him; and there is no darkness where he is." "What is his word, that I must believe?—about this, I mean." "That he loves us, dear; loves us tender and true; like you love your little baby, only a deal more; and truer, and tenderer. For a woman may forget her sucking child, but he never will forget. And all things he will make to 'work together for good to them that love him.'" Diana shook and trembled with the effort to command herself and not burst into a storm of weeping, which would have betrayed what she did not choose to betray. She sat by the bedpost, clasping it, and with the same clasp as it were holding herself. For a moment she had "forgotten her sucking child,"—the words came home; and it was only by that convulsive hold of herself that she could keep from crying out. With her face turned away from the sick woman, she waited till the convulsion had passed; and then said in measured, deliberate accents, "It is hard to see how some things can turn out for good—some things I have known." "Well, you ain't infinite, be you?" said Mrs. Bartlett. "You can't see into the futur'; and what's more, you can't see into the present. You don't know what's goin' on in your own heart—not as he knows it. No more you ain't almighty to change things. If I was you, I would jest trust him that is all-wise, and knows everything, and almighty and kin do what he likes." "Then why don't he make people good?" "I said, he kin do what he likes. He don't like to do people's own work for 'em. He doos make 'em good, as soon as they're willin' and ask him. But the man sick with the palsy had to rise and take up his bed and walk; and what's more, he had to believe fust he could do it. I know the Lord gave the power, but the man had his part, you see." "Mother Bartlett," said Diana, rousing herself, "you must not talk so much." "Don't do me no harm, Diana." "But you have talked enough. Now let me give you your broth." "Then you must talk. I hain't so many opportunities o' social converse that I kin afford to let one of 'em slip. You must talk while I'm eatin'." But Diana seemed to have nothing to say. She watched the spoonfuls of broth in attentive silence. "What's new, Diana? there allays is sun'thin'." "Nothing new. Only"—said Diana, correcting herself, "the Knowltons are coming back to Elmfield. Mrs. Reverdy is come." "Be the hull o' them comin'?" "I believe so." "What for?" "I don't know. To enjoy the summer, I suppose." "That's their sort," said the old woman slowly. "Jest to get pleasure. I used for to see 'em flyin' past here in all the colours o' the rainbow—last time they was in Pleasant Valley." "But God made the colours of the rainbow," said Diana. "So he did," the old lady answered, laughing a little. "So he did; and the colours of the flowers, which is the same colours, to be sure; but what then, Diana?" "I was thinking, Mother Bartlett—it cannot displease him that we should like them too." "No, child, it don't; nor it don't displease him to have us wear 'em, nother,—if we could only wear 'em as innercently as the flowers doos. If you kin, Diana, you may be as scarlet as a tulip or as bright as a marigold, for all I care." "But people are not any better for putting on dark colours," said Diana. "They're some modester, though." "Why?" "They ain't expectin' that folks'll be lookin' at 'em." "Mr. Masters likes me to wear bright dresses." "Then do it, child. It's considerable of a pleasure to have his eyes pleased. Do you know what a husband you've got, Diana?" "Yes." "He's 'most like one o' them flowers himself. He's so full o' the sweetness the Lord has put into him, and he's jest as unconscious that he's spreadin' it wherever he goes." Diana was silent. She would have liked again to burst into tears; she controlled herself as before. "That ain't the way with those Knowlton girls; nor it ain't the way they wear their fine colours, neither. Can't you get a little sense into their heads, Diana?" "I? They think nothing of me, Mother Bartlett." "Maybe not, two years ago, but they will now. You're the minister's wife, Diana. They allays sot a great deal by him." Diana was chewing the cud of this, when Mrs. Bartlett asked again, "Who's sick in the place?" "Quite a number. There's Mrs. Wilson at the tavern; she's sinking at last; my husband sees her every day. Then old Josh Lightfoot—he's down with I don't know what; very sick. Mrs. Saddler has a child that has been hurt; he was pitched off a load of hay and fell upon a fork; his mother is distracted about him, and it is all Mr. Masters can do to quiet her. And Lizzie Satterthwaite is going slowly, you know, in consumption, and she expects to see him every day. And that isn't all; for over in the village of Bromble there is sickness—I suppose there always is in that miserable place." "And the minister goes there too, I'll be bound?" "O yes. He goes everywhere, if people want him. It takes twenty miles of riding a day, he told me, just to visit all these people that he must see." "Ay, ay," said the old woman contentedly; "enjoyment ain't the end of life, but to do the will of God; and he's doin' it. And enjoyment comes that way, too; ay, ay! 'an hundred-fold now, in this world, and in the world to come eternal life.' I hain't ever been able to do much, Diana; but it has been sweet—his service—all along the way; and now I'm goin' where it'll be nothin' but sweetness for ever." A little tired, perhaps, with talking, for she had talked with a good deal of energy, the old lady dozed off into a nap; and Diana sat alone with the summer stillness, and thought over and over some of the words that had been said. It was the hush of the summer stillness, and also the full pulse of the summer life that she felt as she sat there; not soothing to inaction, but stirring up the loving doing. A warm breath of vital energy, an odorous witness-bearing of life fruitfulness, a hum and a murmur of harmonious forces in action, a depth of colour in the light and in the shadow, which told of the richness and fullness of the natural world. Nothing idle, nothing unfruitful, nothing out of harmony, nothing in vain. How about Diana Masters, and her work and her part in the great plan? Again the gentle summer air which stole in, laden with such scents and sweets, rich and bountiful out of the infinite treasury, spoke of love at the heart of creation. But there were cold winds, too, sometimes; icy storms; desolations of tempests; they had been here not long ago. True, but yet it was not those, but this which carried on the life of the world; this was the "Yes," and those others the "No," of creation; and an affirmative is stronger than a negative any day, by universal acknowledgment. Moreover, that "No" was in order to this "Yes;" gave way before it, yielded to it; and life reigned in spite of death. Vaguely Diana's mind felt and carried on the analogy, and the reasoning from analogy, and drew a chill, far-off hope from it. For it was the time of storm and desolation with her now, and the summer sun had not come yet. She sat musing while the old lady slumbered. "Hullo, Diany! here you be!" exclaimed the voice of Joe Bartlett, suddenly breaking in. "Here's your good man outside, waitin' for you, I guess; his horse is a leetle skittish. What ails your mother?" "My mother?" "Yes. Josh says—you see, I've bin down to mill to git some rye ground, and he was there; and what's more, he had the start of me, and I had to wait for him, or I wouldn't ha' stood there chatterin' while the sun was shinin' like it is to-day; that ain't my way. But Josh says she's goin' round groanin' at sun'thin'—and that ain't her way, nother. Mind you, it ain't when anybody's by; I warrant you, she don't give no sign then that anythin's botherin' her; Josh says it's when she's alone. I didn't ask him how he come to know so much, and so little; but I wisht I had," Joe finished his speech laughing. Diana took her hat, kissed the old woman, and went out to her husband, who was waiting for her. And some miles of the drive were made in silence. Then as the old brown house came in sight, with the weeping elms over the gate, Diana asked her husband to stop for a minute or two. He reined up under the elm trees and helped Diana out, letting her, however, go in alone. Diana was not often here, naturally; between her and her mother, who never in the best of times had stood near together or shared each other's deeper sympathies, a gulf had opened. Besides, the place was painful to Diana on other accounts. It was full of memories and associations; she always seemed to herself when there as a dead person might on revisiting the place where once he had lived; she felt dead to all but pain, and the impression came back with sharp torture that once she used to be alive. So as the shadow of the elm branches fell over her now, it hurt her inexpressibly. She was alive when she had dwelt under them; yes, she and Evan too. She hurried her steps and went in at the lean-to door. It was now long past mid-day. The noon meal was over, apparently, and every sign of it cleared away. The kitchen was in spotless order; but beside the table sat Mrs. Starling, doing nothing; an unheard-of state of affairs. Diana came farther in. "Mother"— "Well, Diana,"—said Mrs. Starling, looking up. "What's brought you now?" "I've been down to see Mrs. Bartlett—she sent for me—and I thought I would stop in as I went by. Mr. Masters is outside." "Well, I've no objection," said Mrs. Starling ambiguously. "How do you do?" "Middling." "Is all getting on well with the farm and the dairy?" "I don't let it be no other way." Diana saw that something was wrong, but knew also that if she were to find it out it would be by indirect ways. "May I go into the pantry and get some milk? I've been a good while from home, and I'm hungry." "Go along," said her mother ungraciously. "I should think likely, if you are hungry, your baby is too. That's a new way of doing things. 'Twarn't ever my way. A woman that's got a baby ought to attend to it. An' if she don't, her husband ought to make her." "I've not been gone so long as all that comes to," said Diana; and she went into the pantry, her old domain. The pans of milk looked friendly at her; the sweet clean smell of cream carried her back—it seemed ages—to a time when she was as sweet and clean. "Yet it is not my fault,"—she said to herself,—"it is her's—all her's." She snatched a piece of bread and a glass of milk, and swallowed it hastily. Then, as she came out, she saw that one of her mother's hands lay bandaged up in her lap under the table. "Mother, what's the matter with your hand?" "O, not much." "But what? It's all tied up. Have you burned it?" "No." "What then? Cut yourself?" "I should like to know how I should go to work to cut my right hand! Don't make a fuss about nothing, Diana. It's only scalded." "Scalded! How?" "I shall never be able to tell that, to the end of my days," said Mrs. Starling. "If pots and kettles and that could be possessed, I should know what to think. I was makin' strawberry preserve—and the kettle was a'most full, and it was first rate preserve, and boiling, and almost done, and I had just set it down on the hearth; and then, I don't know how to this day, I stumbled—I don't know over what—and my arm soused right in." "Boiling sweetmeat!" cried Diana. "Mother, let me see. It must be dreadfully burned." "It's all done up," said Mrs. Starling coldly. "I was real put out about my preserves." "Have you had dinner?" "I never found I could live 'thout eating." "Who got dinner for you, and cleared away?" "Nobody. I did it myself." "For the men and all!" "Well, they don't count to live without eatin', no mor'n I do," said Mrs. Starling with a short laugh. "And you did it with one hand!" "Did you ever know me to stop in anything I had to do, for want of a hand?" said Mrs. Starling scornfully. No, thought Diana to herself; nor for want of anything else, even though it were right or conscience. Aloud she only said, "I must go home to baby"— "You had better, I should think," her mother broke in. "Can I do anything for you first?" "You can see for yourself, there is nothing to do." "Shall I come back and stay with you to-night?" "You had better ask the Dominie." "Mother, he never wants me to do anything but just what is right," Diana said seriously. Mrs. Starling lifted up her head and gave a curious searching look into her daughter's face. What was she trying to find? "That's one turtle dove," she said. "And are you another, and always bob your head when he bobs his'n?" Diana wondered at this speech; it seemed to her, her mother was losing ground even in the matter of language. No thought of irritation crossed her; she was beyond trifles now. She made no answer; she merely bade her mother good-bye, and hurried out. And for a long while the drive was again in silence. Then, when the grey horse was walking up a hill, Diana spoke in a meditative sort of way. "Basil—you said enjoyment was not the end of life"— "Did I?" he answered gravely. "If you didn't, it was Mother Bartlett. You do say so, I suppose?" "Yes. It is not the end of life." "What is, then?" "To do the will of God. And by and by, if not sooner, enjoyment comes that way too, Diana. And when it comes that way, it stays, and lasts." "How long?" "For ever and ever!" Diana waited a few minutes and then spoke again. "Basil—I want to consult you." "Well, do it." "Ought I to leave my mother to live alone, as she is? She is not young now." "What would you do?" "If I knew, Basil, I would like it to do what I ought to do." "Would you take her to live with you?" "If you would?—and she would." Basil put his arm round his wife and bent down and kissed her. He would not have done it if he could have guessed how she shrank. "If you will take life on those terms," he said, "then it will be true for you, that 'sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.'" It will be the morning of the resurrection, then, thought Diana; but she only replied, "What 'terms,' Basil, do you mean?" "Doing the Lord's will. His will is always good, Diana, and brings sweet fruit; only you must wait till the fruit is ripe, my child." "Then what about mother?" "I do not believe she would come to us." "Nor I. Suppose she would let us come to her?" "Then I would go,—if you wished it." "I don't wish it, Basil. I was thinking, if I could bear it? But the thought will not out of my head, that she ought not to be alone." "Then do what is in thine heart," the minister said cheerfully. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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