THE YOUNG DIANA
MARIE CORELLI
THE YOUNG DIANA
AN EXPERIMENT OF THE FUTURE
BY
MARIE CORELLI
AUTHOR OF “THE LIFE EVERLASTING,” “INNOCENT,” “ROMANCE OF TWO WORLDS,”
“BARABBAS,” ETC.
TORONTO
WILLIAM BRIGGS
_Copyright, Canada, 1918_,
By Marie Corelli
THE YOUNG DIANA
THE YOUNG DIANA
CHAPTER I
Once upon a time, in earlier and less congested days of literary
effort, an Author was accustomed to address the Public as “Gentle
Reader.” It was a civil phrase, involving a pretty piece of flattery.
It implied three things: first, that if the Reader were not “gentle,”
the Author’s courtesy might persuade him or her to become so--secondly,
that criticism, whether favourable or the reverse, might perhaps be
generously postponed till the reading of the book was finished,--and
thirdly, that the Author had no wish to irritate the Reader’s feelings,
but rather sought to prepare and smooth the way to a friendly
understanding. Now I am at one with my predecessors in all these
delicate points of understanding, and as I am about to relate what
every person of merely average intelligence is likely to regard as an
incredible narrative, I think it as well to begin politely, in the
old-fashioned “grand” manner of appeal, which is half apologetic, and
half conciliatory. “Gentle Reader,” therefore, I pray you to be friends
with me! Do not lose either patience or temper while following the
strange adventures of a very strange woman,--though in case you should
be disappointed in seeking for what you will not find, let me say at
once that my story is not of the Sex Problem type. No! My heroine is
not perverted from the paths of decency and order, or drawn to a bad
end; in fact, I cannot bring her to an end at all, as she is still
very much alive and doing uncommonly well for herself. Any end for
Diana May would seem not only incongruous, but manifestly impossible.
Life, as we all know, is a curious business. It is like a stage mask
with two faces,--the one comic, the other tragic. The way we look at
it depends on the way it looks at us. Some of us have seen it on both
sides, and are neither edified nor impressed.
Then, again--life is a series of “sensations.” We who live now are
always describing life. They who lived long ago did the same. It seems
that none of us have ever found, or can ever find, anything better
to occupy ourselves withal. All through the ages the millions of
human creatures who once were born and who are now dead, passed their
time on this planet in experiencing “sensations,” and relating their
experiences to one another, each telling his or her little “tale of
woe” in a different way. So anxious were they, and so anxious are we,
to explain the special and individual manner in which our mental and
physical vibrations respond to the particular circumstances in which
we find ourselves, that all systems of religion, government, science,
art and philosophy have been, and are, evolved simply and solely out
of the pains and pleasures of a mass of atoms who are “feeling” things
and trying to express their feelings to each other. These feelings
they designate by various lofty names, such as “faith,” “logic,”
“reason,” “opinion,” “wisdom,” and so forth; and upon them they build
temporary fabrics of Law and Order, vastly solid in appearance, yet
collapsible as a house of cards, and crumbling at a touch, while every
now and again there comes a sudden, unlooked-for interruption to their
discussions and plans--a kind of dark pause and suggestion of chaos,
such as a great war, a plague or other unwelcome “visitation of God,”
wherein “feelings” almost cease, or else people are too frightened
to talk about them. They are chilled into nervous silence and wait,
afflicted by fear and discouragement, till the cloud passes and the air
clears. Then the perpetual buzz of “feeling” begins again in the mixed
bass and treble of complaint and rejoicing,--a kind of monotonous noise
without harmony. External Nature has no part in it, for Man is the only
creature that ever tries to explain the phenomena of existence. It is
not in the least comprehensible why he alone should thus trouble and
perplex himself,--or why his incessant consideration and analysis of
his own emotions should be allowed to go on,--for, whatsoever education
may do for us, we shall never be educated out of the sense of our own
importance. Which is an odd fact, moving many thoughtful minds to
never-ending wonder.
My heroine, Diana May, wondered. She was always wondering. She spent
weeks, and months, and years, in a chronic state of wonder. She
wondered about herself and several other people, because she thought
both herself and those several other people so absurd. She found no
use for herself in the general scheme of things, and tried, with much
patient humility, to account for herself. But though she read books on
science, books on psychology, books on natural and spiritual law, and
studied complex problems of evolution and selection of species till her
poor dim eyes grew dimmer, and the “lines from nose to chin” became
ever longer and deeper, she could discover no way through the thick bog
of her difficulties. She was an awkward numeral in a sum; she did not
know why she came in or how she was to be got out.
Her father and mother were what are called “very well-to-do-people,”
with a pleasantly suburban reputation for respectability and regular
church attendance. Mr. James Polydore May,--this was his name in full,
as engraved on his visiting card--was a small man in stature, but in
self-complacency the biggest one alive. He had made a considerable
fortune in a certain manufacturing business which need not here be
specified, and he had speculated with it in a shrewd and careful
manner which was not without a touch of genius, the happy result being
that he had always gained and never lost. Now at the age of sixty, he
was free from all financial care, and could rattle gold and silver
in his trousers-pockets with a sense of pleasure in their clinking
sound,--they had the sweetness of church-bells which proclaim the
sure nearness of a prosperous town. He was not a bad-looking little
veteran,--he had, as he was fond of saying of himself, “a good chest
measurement,” and though his legs were short, they were not bandy.
Inclined to corpulence, the two lower buttons of his waistcoat were
generally left undone, that he might the more easily stretch himself
after a full meal. His physiognomy was not so much intelligent as
pugnacious--his bushy eyebrows, hair and moustache gave him at certain
moments the look of an irascible old terrier. He had keen small eyes,
coming close to the bridge of a rather pronounced Israelitish nose,
and to these characteristics was added a generally assertive air,--an
air which went before him like an advancing atmosphere, heralding his
approach as a “somebody”--that sort of atmosphere which invariably
accompanies nobodies. His admiration of the fair sex was open and
not always discreet, and from his youth up he had believed himself
capable of subjugating any and every woman. He had an agreeable “first
manner” of his own on introduction,--a manner which was absolutely
deceptive, giving no clue to the uglier side of his nature. His wife
could have told whole stories about this “first manner” of his, had
she not long ago given up the attempt to retain any hold on her own
individuality. She had been a woman of average intelligence when she
married him,--commonplace, certainly, but good-natured and willing to
make the best of everything; needless to say that the illusions of
youth vanished with the first years of wedded life (as they are apt to
do), and she had gradually sunk into a flabby condition of resigned
nonentity, seeing there was nothing else left for her. The dull, tame
tenor of her days had once been interrupted by the birth of her only
child Diana, who as long as she was small and young, and while she
was being educated under the usual system of governesses and schools,
was an object of delight, affection, amusement and interest, and who,
when she grew up and “came out” at eighteen as a graceful, pretty girl
of the freshest type of English beauty, gave her mother something to
love and to live for,--but alas!--Diana had proved the bitterest of
all her disappointments. The “coming-out” business, the balls, the
race-meetings and other matrimonial traps had been set in vain;--the
training, the music, the dancing, the “toilettes”--had failed to
attract,--and Diana had not married. She had fallen in love, as most
girls do before they know much about men,--and she had engaged herself
to an officer with “expectations” for whom, with a romantic devotion
as out of date as the poems of Chaucer, she had waited for seven long
years in a resigned condition of alarming constancy,--and then, when
his “expectations” were realised, he had promptly thrown her over for
a fairer and younger partner. By that time Diana was what is called
“getting on.” All this had tried the temper of Mrs. James Polydore
May considerably--and she took refuge from her many vexations in the
pleasures of the table and the consolations of sleep. The result of
this mode of procedure was that she became corpulent and unwieldy,--her
original self was swallowed up in a sort of featherbed of adipose
tissue, from which she peered out on the world with protruding,
lustreless eyes, the tip of her small nose seeming to protest feebly
against the injustice of being well-nigh walled from sight between
the massive flabby cheeks on either side of its never classic and
distinctly parsimonious proportions. With oversleep and over-eating
she had matured into a stupid and somewhat obstinate woman, with a
habit of saying unmeaningly nice or nasty things:--she would “gush”
affectionately to all and sundry,--to the maid who fastened her shoes
as ardently as to a friend of many years standing,--yet she would
mock her own guests behind their backs, or unkindly criticise the
physical and mental defects of the very man or woman she had flattered
obsequiously five minutes before. So that she was not exactly a “safe”
acquaintance,--you never knew where to have her. But,--as is often the
case with these placidly smiling, obese ladies,--everyone seemed to be
in a conspiracy to call her “sweet,” and “dear” and “kind,” whereas in
very truth she was one of the most selfish souls extant. Her charities
were always carefully considered and bestowed in quarters where she was
likely to get most credit for them,--her profusely expressed sympathy
for other people’s troubles exhausted itself in a few moments, and
she would straightway forget what form of loss or misfortune she had
just been commiserating,--while, despite her proverbial “dear” and
“sweet” attributes, she had a sulky temper which would hold her in
its grip for days, during which time she would neither speak nor be
spoken to. Her chief interest and attention were centred on eatables,
and she always made a point of going to breakfast in advance of her
husband, so that she might select for herself the most succulent
morsels out of the regulation dish of fried bacon, before he had a
chance to look in. Husband and wife were always arguing with each
other, and both were always wrong in each other’s opinion. Mrs. James
Polydore May considered her worser half as something of a wayward and
peevish child, and he in turn looked upon her as a useful domestic
female--“perfectly simple and natural,” he was wont to say, a statement
which, if true, would have been vastly convenient to him as he could
then have deceived her more easily. But “deeper than ever plummet
sounded” was the “simplicity” wherewith Mrs. James Polydore May was
endowed, and the “natural” way in which she managed to secure her own
comfort, convenience and ease while assuming to be the most guileless
and unselfish of women; indeed there were times when she was fairly
astonished at herself for having “arranged things so cleverly,” as she
expressed it. Whenever a woman of her type admits to having “arranged
things cleverly” you may be sure that the most astute lawyer alive
could never surpass her in the height or the depth of duplicity.
Such, briefly outlined, were the characteristics of the couple who, in
an absent-minded moment, had taken upon themselves the responsibility
of bringing a woman into the world for whom apparently the world
had no use. Woman, considered in the rough abstract, is only the
pack-mule of man,--his goods, his chattels, created specially to be
the “vessel” of his passion and humour,--and without his favour and
support she is by universal consent set down as a lonely and wandering
mistake. Such is the Law and the Prophets. Under these circumstances,
which have recently shown signs of yielding to pressure, Diana, the
rapidly ageing spinster daughter of Mr. and Mrs. James Polydore May,
was in pitiable plight. No man wanted her, not even to serve him as a
pack-mule. No man sought to add her person to his goods and chattels,
and at the time this true story opens, she was not fair or fascinating
or young enough to serve him as a toy for his delight, a plaything
of his pleasure. Life had been very monotonous for her since she had
passed the turning-point of thirty years,--“nice” people, who always
say nasty things, remarked “how _passée_ she was getting,”--thereby
helping the ageing process considerably. She, meanwhile, bore her lot
with exemplary cheerfulness,--she neither grizzled nor complained, nor
showed herself envious of youth or youthful loveliness. A comforting
idea of “duty” took possession of her mind, and she devoted herself to
the tenderest care of her fat mother and irritable father, waiting upon
them like a slave, and saying her prayers for them night and morning as
simply as a child, without the faintest suspicion that they were past
praying for. The years went on, and she took pains to educate herself
in all that might be useful,--she read much and thought more,--she
mastered two or three languages, and spoke them with ease and fluency,
and she was an admirable musician. She had an abundance of pretty
light-brown hair, and all her movements were graceful, but alas!--the
unmistakable look of growing old was stamped upon her once mobile
features,--she had become angular and flat-chested, and the unbecoming
straight line from waist to knee, which gave her figure a kind of
pitiful masculinity, was developing with hard and bony relentlessness.
One charm she had, which she herself recognised and took care to
cultivate--“a low, sweet voice, an excellent thing in woman.” If one
chanced to hear her speaking in an adjoining room, the effect was
remarkable,--one felt that some exquisite creature of immortal youth
and tenderness was expressing a heavenly thought in music.
Mr. James Polydore May, as I have already ventured to suggest, was
nothing if not respectable. He was a J.P. This,--in English suburban
places at least,--is the hall-mark of an unimpeachable rectitude.
Another sign of his good standing and general uprightness was, that at
stated seasons he always went for a change of air. We all know that
the person who remains in one place the whole year round is beyond
the pale and cannot be received in the best society. Mr. May had a
handsome house and grounds in the close vicinity of Richmond, within
easy distance of town, but when the London “season” ended, he and Mrs.
May invariably discovered their home to be “stuffy,” and sighed for
more expansive breathing and purer oxygen than Richmond could supply.
They had frequently taken a shooting or fishing in Scotland, but that
was in the days when there were still matrimonial hopes for Diana, and
when marriageable men could be invited, not only to handle rod and gun,
but to inspect their “one ewe-lamb,” which they were over-anxious to
sell to the highest bidder. These happy dreams were at an end. It was
no longer worth while to lay in extensive supplies of whisky and cigars
by way of impetus to timid or hesitating Benedicts, when they came back
from a “day on the moors,” tired, sleepy and stupid enough to drift
into proposals of marriage almost unconsciously. Mr. May seldom invited
young men to stay with him now, for the very reason that he could not
get them; they found him a “bore,”--his wife dull, and his daughter an
“old maid,”--a term of depreciation still freely used by the golden
youth of the day, despite the modern and more civil term of “lady
bachelor.” So he drew in the horns of his past ambition, and consoled
himself with the society of two or three portly men of his own age and
habits,--men who played golf and billiards, and who, if they could
do nothing else, smoked continuously. And for the necessary “change
of air,” the seaside offered itself as a means of health without too
excessive an expenditure, and instead of “chasing the wild deer
and following the roe,” a simple hammock chair on the sandy beach,
and a golf course within easy walking distance provided sufficient
relaxation. Not that Mr. May was in any sense parsimonious; he did not
take a cottage by the sea, or cheap lodgings,--on the contrary, he was
always prepared to “do the thing handsomely,” and to select what the
house-agents call an “ideal” residence.
At the particular time I am writing of, he had just settled down for
the summer in a very special “ideal” on the coast of Devon. It was a
house which had formerly belonged to an artist, but the artist had
recently died, and his handsome and not inconsolable widow stated that
she found it dull. She was glad to let it for two or three months, in
order to “get away” with that restless alacrity which distinguishes so
many people who find anything better than their own homes, and Mr. and
Mrs. Polydore May, though, as they said, it certainly was “a little
quiet after London,” were glad to have it, at quite a moderate rental
for the charming place it really was. The gardens were exquisitely
laid out and carefully kept; the smooth velvety lawns ran down almost
to the sea, where a little white gate opened out from the green of the
grass to the gold of the sand,--the rooms were tastefully furnished,
and Diana, when she first saw the place, going some days in advance
of her father and mother, as was her wont, in order to make things
ready and comfortable for them, thought how happy she could be if only
such a house and garden were hers to enjoy, independently of others.
For a week before her respected and respectable parents came, in the
intervals of unpacking, and arranging matters so that the domestic
“staff” could assume their ordinary duties with smoothness and
regularity, she wandered about alone, exploring the beauties of her
surroundings, her thin, flat figure striking a curious note of sadness
and solitude, as she sometimes stood in the garden among a wealth of
flowers, looking out to the tender dove-grey line of the horizon across
the sea. The servants peeping at her from kitchen and pantry windows,
made their own comments.
“Poor dear!” said the cook, thoughtfully--“she do wear thin!”
“Ah, it’s a sad look-out for ’er!” sighed the upper housemaid, who was
engaged to a pork-butcher with an alarmingly red face, whom one would
have thought any self-respecting young woman would have died rather
than wedded. “To be all alone in the world like that, unpertected, as
she will be when her pa and ma have gone!”
“Well, they won’t go in a hurry!” put in the butler, who was an
observing man--“Leastways, Mr. May won’t; he’ll ’old on to life like
a cat to a mouse--_he_ will! He’s _that_ hearty!--why, he thinks
he’s about thirty instead of sixty. The missis, now,--if she goes on
eating as she do,--she’ll drop off sudden like a burstin’ bean,--but
_he_!--Ah! I shouldn’t wonder if he outlasted us all!”
“Lor, Mr. Jonson!” exclaimed the upper housemaid--“How you do
talk!--and you such a young man too!”
Jonson smiled, inwardly flattered. He was well over forty, but like his
master wished to be considered a kind of youth, fit for dancing, tennis
and other such gamesome occupations.
“Miss Diana,” he now continued, with a judicial air--“has lost her
chances. It’s a pity!--for no one won’t marry her now. There’s too many
young gels about,--no man wants the old ’uns. She’ll have to take up a
‘mission’ or something to get noticed at all.”
Here a quiet-looking woman named Grace Laurie interposed. She was the
ladies’ maid, and she was held in great respect, for she was engaged to
marry (at some uncertain and distant date) an Australian farmer with
considerable means.
“Miss Diana is very clever--” she said--“She could do almost anything
she cared to. She’s got a great deal more in her than people think.
And”--here Grace hesitated--“she’s prettily made, too, though she’s
over thin,--when she comes from her bath with all her hair hanging
down, she looks sweet!” A gurgle of half hesitating, half incredulous
laughter greeted this remark.
“Well, it’s few ladies as looks ‘sweet’ coming from the bath!” declared
the butler with emphasis. “I’ve had many a peep at the missis----”
Here the laughter broke out loudly, with little cries of: “Oh!
Oh!”--and the kitchen chatter ended.
It had come to the last day of Diana’s free and uncontrolled enjoyment
of the charming seaside Eden which her parents had selected as a summer
retreat,--and regretfully realising this, she strolled lingeringly
about the garden, inhaling the sweet odours of roses and mignonette
with the salty breath of the sea. The next morning Mr. and Mrs.
Polydore May would arrive in time for luncheon, and once more the old
domestic jog-trot would commence,--the same routine as that which
prevailed at Richmond, with no other change save such as was conveyed
in the differing scene and surroundings. Breakfast punctually at
nine,--luncheon at one,--tea at four-thirty,--dinner at a quarter to
eight. Dinner at a quarter to eight was one of Diana’s bugbears--why
not have it at eight o’clock, she thought? The “quarter to” was an
irritating juggling with time for which there was no necessity. But
she had protested in vain; dinner at quarter to eight was one of her
mother’s many domestic “fads.” Between the several meals enumerated
there would be nothing doing,--nothing, that is to say, of any
consequence or use to anybody. Diana knew the whole weary, stupid
round,--Mr. May would pass the morning reading the papers either in
the garden or on the sandy shore,--Mrs. May would give a few muddled
and contradictory orders to the servants, who never obeyed them
literally, but only as far as they could be conveniently carried out,
and then would retire to write letters to friends or acquaintances;
in the afternoon Mr. May would devote himself to golf, while his wife
slept till tea-time,--then she would take a stroll in the garden, and
perhaps--only perhaps--talk over a few household affairs with her
daughter. Then came the “quarter to eight” dinner with desultory and
somewhat wrangling conversation, after which Mrs. May slept again, and
Mr. May played billiards, if he could find anyone to play with him,--if
not, he practised “tricky” things alone with the cue. Neither of them
ever thought that this sort of life was not conducive to cheerfulness
so far as their daughter Diana was concerned,--indeed they never
considered her at all. When she was young--ah yes, of course!--it was
necessary to find such entertainment and society for her as might
“show her off,”--but now, when she was no longer marriageable in the
conventionally accepted sense of marriage, she was left to bear the
brunt of fate as best she might, and learn to be contented with the
plain feminine duty of keeping house for her parents. It must be
stated that she did this “keeping house” business to perfection,--she
controlled expenses without a taint of meanness, managed the servants,
and made the whole commonplace affair of ordinary living run smoothly.
But whatever she did, she never had a word of praise from either her
father or mother,--they took her careful service as their right, and
never seemed to realise that most of their comforts and conveniences
were the result of her forethought and good sense. Certainly they did
not trouble themselves as to whether she was happy or the reverse.
She thought of this,--just a little, but not morosely--on the last
evening she was to spend alone at “Rose Lea” as the “ideal” summer
residence was called,--probably on account of its facing west, and
gathering on its walls and windows all the brilliant flush of the
sunset. She was somewhat weary,--she had been occupied for hours
in arranging her mother’s bedroom and seeing that all the numerous
luxuries needed by that placid mass of superfluous flesh were in their
place and order, and now that she had finished everything she had
to do, she was glad to have the remainder of her time to herself in
the garden, thinking, and--as usual--wondering. Her wonder was just
simply this:--How long would she have to go on in the same clockwork
mechanism of life as that which now seemed to be her destiny? She had
made certain variations in the slow music of her days by study,--yes,
that was true!--but then no one made use of her studies,--no one
knew the extent of her attainments, and even in her music she had no
encouragement,--no one ever asked her to play. All her efforts seemed
so much wasted output of energy. She had certain private joys of her
own,--a great love of Nature, which like an open door in Heaven allowed
her to enter familiarly into some of the marvels and benedictions of
creative intelligence; she loved books, and could read them in French
and Italian, as well as in her native English; and she had taken to the
study of Russian with some success. Greek and Latin she had learned
sufficiently well to understand the great authors of the elder world in
their own script,--but all these intellectual diversions were organised
and followed on her own initiative, and as she sometimes said to
herself a trifle bitterly:
“Nobody knows I can do anything but check the tradesmen’s books and
order the dinner.”
This was a fact,--nobody knew. Ordinary people considered her
unattractive; what they saw was a scraggy woman of medium height with
a worn face visibly beginning to wrinkle under a profusion of brown
hair,--a woman who “had been” pretty when younger, but who now had
a rather restrained and nervous manner, and who was seldom inclined
to speak,--yet, who, when spoken to, answered always gently, in a
sweet voice with a wonderfully musical accentuation. No one thought
for a moment that she might possibly be something of a scholar,--and
certainly no one imagined that above all things she was a great student
of all matters pertaining to science. Every book she could hear of
on scientific subjects, whether treating of wireless telegraphy,
light-rays, radium, or other marvellous discoveries of the age, she
made it her special business to secure and to study patiently and
comprehendingly, the result being that her mind was richly stored with
material for thought on far higher planes than the majority of reading
folk ever attempt to reach. But she never spoke of the things in which
she was so deeply interested, and as she was reserved and almost
awkwardly shy in company, the occasional callers on her mother scarcely
noticed her, except casually and with a careless civility which meant
nothing. She was seen to knit and to do Jacobean tapestry rather well,
and people spoke to her of these accomplishments as being what they
thought she was most likely to understand,--but they looked askance
at her dress, which was always a little tasteless and unbecoming, and
opined that “poor dear Mrs. May must be dreadfully disappointed in her
daughter!”
It never occurred to these easy-tongued folk that Diana was dreadfully
disappointed in herself. This was the trouble of it. She asked the
question daily and could find no answer. And yet,--she was useful to
her parents surely? Yes,--but in her own heart she knew they would
have been just as satisfied with a paid “companion housekeeper.” They
did not really “love” her, now that she had turned out such a failure.
Alas, poor Diana! Her hunger for “love” was her misfortune; it was the
one thing in all the world she craved. It had been this desire of love
that had charmed her impulsive soul when in the heyday of her youth
and prettiness, she had engaged herself to the man for whom she had
waited seven years, only to be heartlessly thrown over at last. She
had returned all his letters in exchange for her own at the end of the
affair,--all, save two,--and these two she read every night before she
said her prayers to keep them well fixed in her memory. One of them
contained the following passage:
“How I love you, my own sweet little Diana! You are to me the most
adorable girl in the world,--and if ever I do an unkind thing to you
or wrong you in any way may God punish me for a treacherous brute! My
one desire in life is to make you happy.”
The other letter, written some years later, was rather differently
expressed.
“I am quite sure you will understand that time has naturally worked
changes, in you as well as in myself, and I am obliged to confess
that the feelings I once had for you no longer exist. But you are a
sensible woman, and you are old enough now to realise that we are
better apart.”
“You are old enough now,” was the phrase that jarred upon Diana’s
inward sense, like the ugly sound of a clanking chain in a convict’s
cell. “You are old enough now.” Well, it was true!--she was “old
enough,”--but she had taken this “oldness” upon her while faithfully
waiting for her lover. And he had been the first to punish her for
her constancy! It was very strange. Indeed, it was one of those many
things that had brought her to her chronic state of wonderment. The
great writers,--more notably great poets, themselves the most fickle of
men,--eulogised fidelity in love as a heavenly virtue. Why then, when
she had practised it, had she been so sorely rewarded? Yet, since the
rupture of her engagement, and the long and bitter pain she had endured
over this breaking up of all she had held most dear, her many studies
and her careful reading had gradually calmed and strengthened her
nature, and she was able to admit to herself that there were possibly
worse things than the loss of a heartless lover who might have proved
a still more heartless husband. She felt no resentment towards him,
and his memory now scarcely moved her to a thrill of sorrow or regret.
She only asked herself why it had all happened? Of course there was no
answer to such a query,--there never is. And she was “old enough”--yes,
quite “old enough” to put away all romance and sentimentality. Yet, as
she walked slowly in the garden among the roses, and watched the sea
sparkling in the warm after-glow of what had been an exceptionally fine
sun setting, the old foolish craving stirred in her heart again. The
scent of the flowers, the delicate breathings of the summer air, the
flash of the sea-gulls’ white wings skimming over the glittering sand
pools,--all these expressions of natural beauty saddened while they
entranced her soul. She longed to be one with them, sharing their life,
and imparting to others something of their joy.
“They never grow old!” she said, half aloud. “Or if they do, it is not
perceived. They seem always the same--always beautiful and vital.”
Here she paused. A standard rose tree weighted with splendid blossom
showed among its flowers one that had been cramped and spoiled by the
over-profusion and close pressure of its companions,--it was decaying
amid the eager crowd of bursting buds that looked almost humanly
anxious to be relieved of its presence. With soft, deft fingers Diana
broke it away from the stem and let it drop to earth.
“That is me!” she said. “And that’s what ought to become of me! Nothing
withered or ugly ought to live in such a lovely world. I am a blot on
beauty.”
She looked out to sea again. The after-glow had almost faded; only one
broad line of dull gold showed the parting trail of the sun.
“No--there’s no hope!” she murmured, with an expressive gesture of her
hands. “I must plod on day after day in the same old rut of things,
doing my duty, which is perhaps all I ought to ask to do,--trying to
make my mother comfortable and to keep my father in decent humour,--and
then--then--when they go, I shall be alone in the world. No one will
care what becomes of me,--even as it is now no one cares whether I live
or die!”
This is the discordant note in many a life’s music,--“no one cares.”
When “no one cares” for us, we do not care about ourselves or about
anybody else. And in “not caring” we stumble blindly and unconsciously
on our only chance of safety and happiness. A heartless truth!--but
a truth all the same. For when we have become utterly indifferent to
Destiny, Destiny like a spoiled child does all she can to attract our
notice, and manifests a sudden interest in us of which we had never
dreamed. And the less we care, the more she clings!