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Diana

<h3 id="id03645" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XXXVI.</h3> <h3 id="id03646" style="margin-top: 3em">THE PARTY.</h3> The morning of the next day was spent in still further visits to still more mills. Mr. Brandt was much struck with the direction his guests' attention seemed to take. "You are very fond of machinery," he remarked to Diana. "Yes—I don't know much about it," she answered. "Surely that is not true after these two or three days' work?" "I knew nothing about it before. Yes, I do enjoy it, Mr. Brandt, with you and Mr. Masters to explain things to me; but it is the people that interest me most." "The people!"— "The mill hands?" Mrs. Brandt asked. "Yes; the mill hands." "What can you find interesting in them? I am half afraid of them, for my part." "They look as if they wanted friends so much." "Friends?" repeated Mrs. Brandt. "I suppose they have friends among themselves. Why should not they? Well, it is time you had a change of society, I think. My husband has taken you among the mill people for two days; now to-night I will introduce you to a different set; some of your church people. I want you to take rest this afternoon, my dear Mrs. Masters—now won't you!—so as to be able to enjoy the evening. I am sure Brandt has fatigued you to death. I never can stand going up and down those stairs in the mills, and standing about; it kills me." "I wonder how they bear standing at the looms or the other machines all day?" "They? O, they are accustomed to it, I suppose. An hour or two of it breaks me down. Now rest, will you? It's quite a great occasion to-night. One of our greatest men among the millowners, and one of the pillars of the church you and Mr. Masters are coming to take care of, gives an entertainment to his daughter to-night; a bride—married lately—just come home and just going away again. You'll see all our best people. Now please go and rest." Diana went to her room and rested, outwardly. In her mind thoughts were very busy. And when it was time to dress, they were hardly diverted from their subjects. It was with a sort of unconscious instinct that Diana threw her beautiful hair into the wavy masses and coils which were more graceful than she knew and crowned her so royally; and in the like manner that she put on a dress of soft white muslin. It had no adornment other than the lace which finished it at throat and wrists; she looked most like a bride herself. So Basil thought, when he came to fetch her; though he did not say his thought, fearing lest he might graze something in her mind which would pain her. He often withheld words for such a reason. "Will it do?" said Diana, seeing him look at her. "Too good for the occasion!" said Basil, shaking his head. "Too much dressed?" said Diana. "I thought I must dress as much as I could. Is it too much, Basil?" "Nobody else will think so," said the minister with a queer smile. "Do you think so?" "You are just as you ought to be. All the same, it is beyond the company. Never mind. Come!" Downstairs another sort of criticism. "My dear Mrs. Masters! Not a bit of colour! You will be taken for the bride yourself. All in white, except your beautiful hair! Wait, that won't do; let me try if I can't improve things a little—do you mind?—Just let me see how this will look." Diana submitted patiently, and Mrs. Brandt officiously fastened a knot of blue ribband in her bright hair. She was greatly pleased with the effect, which Diana could not see. However, when they had reached the house they were going to, and leaving the dressing-room Diana took her husband's arm to go down to the company, he detained her to let Mr. and Mrs. Brandt pass on before, and then with a quick and quiet touch of his fingers removed the blue bow and put it in his pocket. "Basil!" said Diana, smiling,—"she will miss it." "So shall I. It commonized the whole thing." There was nothing common left, as every one instantly recognised who saw Diana that evening. A presence of such dignified grace, a face of such lofty and yet innocent beauty, so sweet a movement and manner, nobody there knew anything like it in Mainbridge. On the other hand, it was Diana's first experience of a party beyond the style and degree of Pleasant Valley parties. She found immediately that she was by much the plainest dressed woman in the company; but she forgot to think of the dresses, the people struck her with so much surprise. Of course everybody was introduced to her; and everybody said the same things. They hoped she liked Mainbridge; they hoped she was coming to live among them; Mr. Masters was coming to the church, wasn't he? and how did he like the looks of the place? "You see the best part of the church here to-night," remarked one stout elderly lady in a black silk and with flowers in her cap; a very well-to-do, puffy old lady;—"you see just the best of them, and all the best!" "What do you call the best part of a church?" Diana asked, looking round the room. "Well, you see them before you. There is Mr. Waters standing by the piano—he's the wealthiest man in Mainbridge; a very wealthy man. The one with his head a little bald, speaking just now to Mrs. Brandt, is one of our elders; he's pretty comfortable too; a beautiful place he has—have you seen it? No? You ought to have gone there to see his flowers; the grounds are beautiful, laid out with so much taste. But if you are fond of flowers, you should go to see Mr. Tillery's greenhouses. That is Mr. Tillery in the corner, between the two young ladies in white. Mr. Tillery's greenhouses extend half a mile, or would, if they were set in a line, you know." "Are there any poor people in the church?" "Poor people?" The article called for seemed to be rare. "Poor people? There are a few, I believe. Not many; the poor people go to the mission chapel. O, we support a mission; that's down in the mill quarter, where the hands live, I mean"— "And O, Mrs. Masters," a young lady struck in here, "you are coming, aren't you? I have fallen in love with you, and I want you to come. And O, I want you to tell me one thing—is Mr. Masters very strict?" "About what?" said Diana, smiling. "About anything." "Yes; he is very strict about telling the truth." "O, of course; but I mean about other things; what one may do or mayn't do. Is he strict?" "Not any stricter than his Master." "His master? who's that? But I mean,—does he make a fuss about dancing?" "I never saw Mr. Masters make a fuss about anything." "O, delightful! then he don't mind? You know, Mrs. Masters, the Bible says David danced." "The Bible tells why he danced, too," said Diana, wholly unable to keep her gravity. "Does it? I don't recollect. And O, Mrs. Masters, I want to know another thing; does Mr. Masters use the Episcopal form in marrying people?" "You are concerned in the question?" "O yes. I might be, you know, one of these days; and I always think the Episcopal form is so dignified and graceful; the ring and all that; the Presbyterian form is so tucky and ugly. O, Mrs. Masters, don't you like a form for everything?" Before Diana could return an answer to this somewhat comprehensive question, a slight sound caused her to forget both question and speaker and the place where she was, as utterly as if they all had been swept from the sphere of the actual. It belonged to the sweet poise and calm of her heart and life that she was able to keep still as she was and make no movement and give no sign. The sound she had heard was a little running laugh; she thought it came from the next room; yet she did not turn her head to look that way, though it could have been uttered, she knew, from no throat but one. The young lady friend reiterated the question in which she was interested, and Diana answered; I do not know how, nor did she; while she was at the same time collecting her forces and reviewing them for the coming skirmish with circumstances. Evan Knowlton was here at Mainbridge. How could it possibly be? And even as the thought went through her, came that laugh again. Diana's mind began to be in a great state of confusion, which presently concentred itself upon the one point of keeping a calm and unmoved exterior. And to her surprise, this became easy. The confusion subsided, like the vibrations of harp-strings which have been brushed by a harsh hand; only her heart beat a little, waiting for the coming encounter. "Shall I take you in to see the bride?" Mr. Brandt here presented himself, offering his services. And Diana rose without hesitation and put her arm in his. She was glad, however, that their progress through the company was slow; she hoped Evan would see before he had to speak to her. She herself felt ready for anything. It was with a strange feeling, nevertheless, that she went through the introduction to the pale lady of fashion who was Evan's second choice. Beyond white silk and diamonds and a rather delicate appearance, Diana could in that moment discern nothing. Her senses did not seem to serve her well. The lady was very much in request besides, amid her old friends and acquaintances, and there was no chance to talk to her. Then followed the introduction to the bridegroom. He was going to content himself with a bow, but Diana stretched out her hand and gave his a warm grasp. "I have seen Captain Knowlton before,"—she said simply. She was perfectly quiet now, but she saw that he was not; and that he was willing to take refuge with other claimants upon his attention to escape any particular words with her. She stepped back, and gradually got behind people, where the sight of her could not distress him. It had distressed him, she had seen that. Was it on her account? or on his own? Gradually, watching her chances, she was able to work her way back into the other room, which was comparatively empty; and there she sat down at a table covered with photographs. She would go away, she thought, as soon as it could gracefully be done. And yet, she would have liked to speak a few words with Evan, this last time they might ever be together. What made him embarrassed in meeting her? With his bride just beside him, that ought not to be, she thought. The company had almost all crowded into the other room about the bride, and were fully occupied with her; and Diana was alone. She turned over the photographs and reviewed the kings and queens of Europe, with no sort of intelligence as to their families or nationalities, mechanically, just to cover her abstraction, and to seem to be doing something. Then suddenly she knew that Evan was beside her. He had come round and entered by the door from the hall; and now they both stood together for a moment, shielded by a corner of the partition wall between the rooms. Diana had risen. "This is a very painful meeting"—Captain Knowlton said, after a silence which would have been longer if he had dared to let it be so. "No"—said Diana, looking at him with as clear and fair a brow as if she had been the moon goddess whose name she bore; and her voice was very sweet. "Not painful, Evan; why should it be? I am glad to see you again." "I didn't know you were here"—he went on hurriedly, in evident great perturbation. "And we did not know you were here. I had no notion of it—till I heard your voice in the next room. I knew it instantly." "I would have spared you this, if I could have foreseen it." "Spared me what?" "All this,—this pain,—I know it must be pain to you.—I did not anticipate it." "Why should it be pain to me?" inquired Diana steadily. "I know your feeling—I would not have brought Clara into your presence"— "I am very glad to have seen her," said Diana in the same quiet way, looking at Evan fixedly. "I should have been glad to see more of her, and learn to know her. I could scarcely speak to her for the crowd around." "Yes, she is a great favourite, and everybody is eager to see her before she goes." "You are going away soon?" "O yes!—to my post." "I hope she will make you happy, Evan," Diana said gently and cordially. "You are very good, I am sure. I don't want you to think, Diana, that I—that I, in fact, have forgotten anything"— "You cannot forget too soon," she answered, smiling, "everything that Clara would not wish you to remember." "A fellow is so awfully lonely out there on the frontiers"—he said, mumbling his words through his moustache in a peculiar way. "You will not be lonely now, I hope." "You see, Di, you were lost to me. If I could only think of you as happy"— "You may." "Happy?" he repeated, looking at her. He had avoided her eyes until now. "Yes." "Then you have forgotten?" "One does not forget," said Diana, with again a grave smile. "But I have ceased to look back sorrowfully." "But—you are married"— Then light flushed into Diana's face. She understood Evan's allusion. "Yes," she said,—"to somebody who has my whole heart." "But—you are married to Mr. Masters?"—he went on incredulously. "Certainly. And I love my husband with all the strength there is in me to love. I hope your wife will love you as well," she added with another smile, a different one, which was exceedingly aggravating to the young man. No other lips could wreathe so with such a mingling of softness and strength, love, and—yes, happiness. Captain Knowlton had seen smiles like that upon those lips once, long ago; never a brighter or more confident one. He felt unaccountably injured. "You did not speak so when I saw you last," he remarked. "No. I was a fool," said Diana, with somewhat unreasonable perverseness. "Or, if I was not a fool, I was weak." "I see you are strong now," said the young officer bitterly. "I was never strong; and I am weak still. I have not forgotten, Diana." "You ought to forget, Evan," she said gently. "It's impossible!" said he, hastily turning over photographs on the table. Diana would have answered, but the opportunity was gone. Other people came near; the two fell apart from each other, and no more words were interchanged between them. It grieved but did not astonish Basil to perceive, when he joined Diana in their own room that night, that she had been weeping; and it only grieved him to know that the weeping was renewed in the night. He gave no sign that he knew it, and Diana thought he was asleep through it all. Tears were by no means a favourite indulgence with her; this night the spring of them seemed to be suddenly unsealed, and they flowed fast and free, and were not to be checked. Neither did Diana quite clearly know what moved them. She was very sorry for Evan; yes, but these tears she was shedding were not painful tears. It came home to her, all the sorrowful waiting months and years that Basil had endured on her account; but sympathy was not a spring large enough to supply such a flow. She was glad those months were ended; yet they were not ended, for Basil did not know the facts she had stated with so much clearness to his whilome rival; she had not told himself, and he did not guess them. "He might," said Diana to herself,—"he ought,"—at the same time she knew now there was something for her to do. How she should do it, she did not know. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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