THE NEW RICHES OF THE OLD WORLD.
There was quite a collection of people on Bear Hill to-day, as could be
seen when they were all gathered together. The lunching place was high
on the mountain, where there was a good outlook over the surrounding
country; and here in the edge of the woods the blackberry pickers were
scattered about, lying and sitting on the ground in groups and pairs,
chatting and watching the preparations going on before their eyes.
Pretty and wild the preparations were. Under a big tree just at the
border of the clearing a fire was kindled; a stout spike driven into
the trunk of the tree held a tea-kettle just over the blaze. Wreaths of
blue and grey smoke curling up above the tea-kettle made their way
through the tree branches into the upper air, taking hues and colours
and irradiations from the sunlight in their way. The forest behind, the
wilderness of blackberry bushes in front; the wide view over the hills
and vales, without one spot of cultivation anywhere, or a trace of
man's habitation; the scene was wild enough. The soft curling smoke,
grey and embrowned, gave a curious touch of homeliness to it. From two
fires it went, curling up as comfortably as if it had been there
always. The second fire was lit for the purpose of boiling green corn,
which two or three people were busy getting ready, stripping the green
husks off. Other hands were unloading baskets and distributing bread
and butter and cups, and unpacking ham and chickens. Meanwhile, till
the fires should have done their work, most of the party were
comfortably awaiting the moment of enjoyment, and taking some other
moments, as it seemed, by the way. Mrs. Carpenter in one place was
surrounded by her large family of children; all come to pick
blackberries, all heated with work and fun, and eager for the dinner.
Miss Barry, quite tired out, was fanning herself with her sun-bonnet,
and having a nice bit of chat with Miss Babbage, the schoolmaster's
sister. Mrs. Mansfield and farmer Carpenter were happily discussing
systems of agriculture. Mrs. Boddington was making a circle merry with
her sharp speeches. Younger folks here and there were carrying on their
own particular lines of skirmishing operations; but there were not many
of these; the company had come for business quite as much as for play.
Indeed, Miss Gunn's array of baskets and tin pails suggested that she
was doing business on her brother's account as much as on her own; and
that preserves and blackberry wine would be for sale by and by on the
shelves of the store at the "Corner."
The little party that came up with Diana melted away as it met the
rest. Mrs. Reverdy glided into the group gathered about Mrs.
Boddington, and slid as easily into the desultory gossip that was going
on. Diana had instantly joined herself to the little band of workers at
the camp fire. Only one or two had cared to take the trouble and
responsibility of the feast; it was just what Diana craved. As if
cooking had been the great business of life, she went into it; making
coffee, watching the corn, boiling the potatoes; looking at nothing
else and trying to see nobody, and as far as possible contriving that
nobody should see her. She hid behind the column of smoke, or sheltered
herself at the further side of the great trunk of a tree; from the
fire, she said to herself. But her face took on a preternatural gravity
at those times, whenever she knew it was safe. She thought she did not
look at anybody; yet she knew that Miss Masters had joined none of the
groups under the trees, and seemed instead to prefer a solitary post in
front of them all, where her pretty figure and dainty appointments were
displayed in full view. Was she looking at the landscape? Diana did not
in the least believe it. But she tried to work without thinking; that
vainest of all cheateries, where the conclusions of thought,
independent of the processes, force themselves upon the mind and lay
their full weight upon it. Only one does not stop anywhere to think
about them, and the weight is distributed. It is like driving fast over
thin ice; stay a minute in any one place, and you would break through.
But that consciousness makes unpleasant driving.
The corn gave forth its sweet smell, and Diana dished it up. What was
the use of taking so much trouble, she thought, as ear after ear, white
and fair, came out of the pot? Yet Diana had enjoyed the notion of
making this variety in the lunch. The coffee steamed forth its
fragrance upon the air; and Diana poured it into prepared cups of cream
and sugar which others brought and carried away; she was glad to stand
by the fire if only she might. How the people drank coffee! Before the
cups were once filled the first time, they began to come back for the
second; and the second, Diana knew, would not satisfy some of the
farmers and farmers' wives there. So pot after pot of the rich beverage
had to be made. It wearied her; but she would rather do that than
anything else. And she had expected this picnic to be such a pleasant
time! And it had turned out such a failure. Standing by her camp fire,
where the ascending column of grey smoke veiled her from observation,
Diana could look off and see the wide landscape of hill and valley
spread out below and around. Not a house; not another wreath of smoke;
not a cornfield; hollows of beauty with nothing but their own green
growth and the sunshine in them; hill-tops fair and lovely, but without
a fence that told of human ownership or a road that spoke of human
sympathy. Was life like that, Diana wondered? Yet surely that landscape
had never looked dreary to her before.
"Mrs. Starling will have another cup of coffee, Miss Diana."
Diana started. What should bring Mr. Knowlton to wait upon her mother's
cups of coffee? She sugared and creamed, and poured out in silence.
"May I come presently and have some?"
"Haven't you had any?"
"Just enough to make me want more. I never saw such good coffee in my
life."
"You are accustomed to West Point fare."
"It's not that, though. I know a good thing when I see it."
"When you taste it, I suppose," said Diana; preparing his cup, however,
she knew, with extra care.
"I assure you," said Mr. Knowlton expressively, as he stirred it, "I
_have_ appreciation for better things than coffee. I always want the
best, in every kind; and I know the thing when I see it."
"I make no doubt you can have it," said Diana coolly, turning away.
"Hullo, Diany!" said Mr. Carpenter on the other side,--"you're coming
it strong to-day. Got no one to help ye? Sha'n't I fetch 'Lizy? she's
big enough to do som'thin'. I vow I want another cup. You see, it's
hard work, is picking blackberries. I ain't master here; and my wife,
she keeps me hard at it. Can't dewolve the duty on no one, neither; she
sees if I ain't got my pail filled by the time she's got her'n, and I
tell you! I catch it. It makes me sweat, this kind of work; and that
makes me kind o' dry. I'll be obleeged to you for another cup. You
needn't to put no milk into it!"
"It's strong, Mr. Carpenter."
"Want it, I tell you! working under orders this way makes a man feel
kind o' feeble."
"How do you think we women get along, Mr. Carpenter?" said Mrs
Boddington, coming up with her cup.
"How, Mis' Boddington?"
"Yes, I'm asking that. A little more, Diana; it's first-rate, and so's
the corn. It takes you and your mother!--How do you think we women
feel, under orders all the time?"
"Under orders!" said Mr. Carpenter.
"Yes, all the time. How d'you think we feel about it?"
"Must be uncommon powers of reaction," said the farmer. "My wife a'n't
anywheres near killed yet."
"Think any one'll ever get that piece of mantua-making under orders?"
said Mrs. Boddington, looking towards the place where the frills and
rufflings of Miss Masters' drapery stirred in the breeze, with the long
light tresses of her unbound hair. The breeze was partly of her own
making, as she stirred and turned and tossed her head in talking with
Mr. Knowlton; the only one of the company whom she would talk with,
indeed. The farmer took a good look at her.
"Wall," said he,--"_I_ should say it was best to do with that kind of
article what you would do with the steam from your tea kettle; let it
go. 'Tain't no use to try to utilize everything, Mis' Boddington."
"Evan Knowlton acts as if he thought differently."
"Looks is enough, with some folks," said the farmer; "and she's a
pretty enough creatur', take the outside of her. Had ought to be; for I
guess that sort o' riggin' costs somethin'--don't it, Mis' Boddington?"
"Cost?" said the lady. "Evan Knowlton is a fool if he lets himself be
caught by such butterfly's wings. But men _are_ fools when women are
pretty; there's no use reasoning against nature."
"Wall, Diany," exclaimed Joe Bartlett, now drawing near with _his_
coffee cup,--"how comes you have all the work and other folks all the
fun?"
"Want some coffee, Joe?"
"Fact, I do; that is, supposin' you have got any."
"Plenty, Joe. That's what I am here for. Hold your cup. Who are you
picking for to-day?"
"Wall, _I_ ain't here for fun," said Joe; "there's no mistake about
that. I b'lieve in fun too; I do sartain; but I _don't_ b'lieve in
scratchin' it into you with blackberry brambles, nor no other. Thank'e,
Diany; maybe this'll help me get along with the afternoon."
"I never thought you would mind blackberry thorns, Joe."
"No more I don't, come in the way o' business," said Joe, sipping his
coffee. "Guess I kin stand a few knocks, let alone scratches, when I
calculate to have 'em. But I don' know! my notion of pleasure's
sun'thin' soft and easy like; ain't your'n? I expect to take
scratches--bless you! but I don't call 'em fun. That's all I object to."
"Then how come you here, Joe?"
"Wall,--" said Joe slowly,--"I've got an old mother hum."
"And she wanted some berries?"
"She wanted a lot. What the women does with 'em all, beats me. Anyhow,
the old lady'll have enough this time for all her wants."
"How is she, Joe, to-day?"
"Days don't make no difference to my mother, Diany. You know that,
don't ye? There don't nothin' come wrong to her. I vow, I b'lieve she
kind o' likes it when things is contrairy. I never see her riled by no
sort o' thing; and it's not uncommon for _me_ to be as full's I kin
hold; but she's just like a May mornin', whatever the weather is. There
ain't no scarin' her, either; she'd jest as lieves die as live, I
b'lieve, any day."
"I daresay she would," said Diana, feeling at the moment that it was
not so very wonderful. Life in this world might be so dull as to be not
worth living for.
"It's a puzzle to me," Joe went on, "which is right, her or the rest on
us. Ef she is, we ain't. And her and the rest o' the world ain't agreed
on nothin'. But it is hard to say she ain't right, for she's the
happiest woman that ever I see."
Diana assented absently.
"Wall," said Joe, "I'm a little happier for that 'ere cup o' coffee.
I'll go at it agin now. Who's that 'ere little bundle o' muslin
ruffles, Diany? she's a kind o' pretty creatur', too. She hain't sot
down this hull noonspell. Who is it?"
"Miss Masters."
"She ain't none o' the family o' our parson?"
"A cousin, I believe."
"Cousin, eh," said Joe. "She hain't set down once. I guess she's afeard
o' gettin' the starch out somewhere. The captain's sweet on her, ain't
he? I see he tuk a deal o' care o' her eatin'."
"Mr. Knowlton is not a captain yet, Joe; he is only a lieutenant."
"Want to know," said Joe. "Wall, I kin tell ye, she likes him."
And Joe strolled off, evidently bent on doing his best with the
blackberry bushes. So must Diana; at least she must seem to do it.
There was a lull with the coffee cups; lunch was getting done; here and
there parties were handling their baskets and throwing their
sun-bonnets on. The column of smoke had thinned now to a filmy veil of
grey vapour, slowly ascending, through which Diana could look over to
the round hill-tops, with their green leaves glittering in the sun; and
farther still, to the blue, clear vault of ether, where there was
neither shine nor shadow, but the changeless rest of heaven. Earth with
its wildness of untrodden ways, its glitter and flutter; heaven,--how
did that seem? Far off and inscrutable, though with an infinite depth
of repose, an infinite power of purity. The human heart shrank before
both.
"And I had thought to-day would be a day of pleasure," Diana said to
herself. "If I could get into the waggon and go home--alone--and get
the fire started and the afternoon work done ready for supper before
mother comes!--They will not need me to pilot them home at any rate."
But things have to be faced, not run away from, in life; and trials
take their time and cannot be lopped into easier length. Diana did what
she could. She caught up her basket very quietly, carrying it and her
sun-bonnet in one hand, and slipped away down the hill under cover of
the trees till she was out of sight of everybody; then plunged into the
forest of high bushes and lost herself. She began to pick vigorously;
if she was found, anybody should see what she was there for. It was a
thicket of thorns and fruit; the berries, large, purple, dewy with
bloom, hung in quantities, almost in masses, around her. It was only
needful sometimes to hold her basket underneath and give a touch to the
fruit; and it dropped, fast and thick, into her hands. But she felt as
if the cool soft berries hurt her fingers. She wondered whereabouts was
pretty Miss Masters now, making believe pick, and with fingers at hand
to supplement her, and looks and words to make labour sweet, even if it
were labour. "But _she_ will never do any work," said Diana to herself;
"and he will be quite willing that she should not." And then she
noticed her own fingers; a little coarsened with honest usefulness they
were--a little; and a little embrowned with careless exposure. Not
white and pearly and delicate like those of that other hand. And Diana
remembered that Mr. Knowlton's own were delicate and white; and she
could understand, she thought, that a man would like in a woman he
loved, all daintinesses and delicacies, even although they pertained to
the ornamental rather than to the useful. It was the first time Diana
had ever wished for white hands; she did wish for them now, or rather
regret the want of them, with a sharp, sore point of regret. Even
though it would have made no difference.
Picking and thinking and fancying herself safe, Diana made a plunge to
get through an uncommonly tangled thicket of interlacing branches, and
found herself no longer alone. Miss Gunn was three feet off, squatting
on the ground to pick the more restfully; and on the other side of her
was Diana's cousin, Nick Boddington.
"Hullo, Di!" was his salutation, "where have you left my wife and the
rest of the folks?"
"I don't know, Nick; I haven't left them at all."
"What did you come here for, then?"
"What did you?"
"I declare! I came to have the better chance, me and Miss Gunn; I
thought where nobody was, I'd have it all to myself. I'll engage you
are disappointed to find us--now, ain't you?"
"The field is big enough, cousin Nick."
"Don't know about that. What is become of your fine people?"
"I haven't any fine people."
"What's become o' them you _had_, then? You brought 'em here; have you
deserted 'em?"
"I came to do work, Nick; and I'm doing it."
"What did they come for? have you any guess? 'Tain't likely they come
to pick blackberries."
"I told Mis' Reverdy," said Miss Gunn smotheredly from the depths of a
blackberry bush and her sun-bonnet, "that we'd have plenty for
ourselves and Elmfield too to-morrow. I will, I guess."
"They'll want 'em, Miss Gunn," said Mr. Boddington. "They'll not carry
home a pint, you may depend. Di, did they come after you, or you come
after them, this morning?"
Diana answered something, she hardly knew what, and made a plunge
through the bushes in another direction. Anything to get out of _this_
neighbourhood. She went on eagerly, through thicket after thicket, till
she supposed she was safe. And as she stopped, Mr. Knowlton came round
from the other side of the bush. The thrill of pain and pleasure that
went through the girl gave no outward sign.
"Met again," said the gentleman. "What has become of you? I have lost
sight of you since dinner."
"One can't see far through these bushes," said Diana.
"No. What a thicket it is! But at the same time, people can hear; and
you never know who may be a few feet off. Does anybody ever come here,
I wonder, when we are gone? or is this wild fruitful hill bearing its
harvest for us alone?"
"Other parties come, I daresay," said Diana.
She was picking diligently, and Mr. Knowlton set himself to help her.
The berries were very big and ripe here; for a few minutes the two
hands were silently busy gathering and dropping them into Diana's pail;
then Mr. Knowlton took the burden of that into his own hand. Diana was
not very willing, but he would have it.
"One would think blackberries were an important concern of life," he
said presently, "by the way you work."
"I am sure, you are working too," said Diana.
"Ah, but I supposed you knew what it is all for. Now I have not the
faintest idea. I know what _I_ am after, of course; but what you are
after is a puzzle to me."
"Things are very often a puzzle to me," said Diana vaguely; and having
for some reason or other a good deal of difficulty in commanding
herself.
"Aren't you tired?"
"No--I don't know," said Diana. "It does not signify."
"I don't believe you care, any more than a soldier, what you find in
your way. Do you know, you said something, up yonder at the camp fire,
which has been running in my head ever since? I wish you would explain
it."
"I?" said Diana. "I said something? What?"
"I told you what I wanted,--and you said you had no doubt I could get
it."
"I have no recollection of one thing or the other, Mr. Knowlton. I
think you must have been speaking to somebody else at the time--not me.
If you please, I will try the bushes that way; I think somebody has
been in this place."
"Don't you remember my telling you I always want the best of
everything?" he said as he followed her; and Diana went too fast for
him to hold the briary branches out of her way.
"There are so many other people who are of that mind, Mr. Knowlton!"--
"Not yourself?"
"I want the best berries," said Diana, stopping before a cluster of
bushes heavily laden.
"How about other things?"
Diana felt a pang at her heart, an odd desire to make some wild answer.
But nothing could be cooler than what she said.
"I take them as I find them, Mr. Knowlton."
He was helping her now again.
"What did you suppose I was thinking of, when I told you I wanted the
best I could have?"
"I had no right to suppose anything. No doubt it is true of all sorts
of things."
"But I was thinking of _one_--did you guess what?"
Diana hesitated. "I don't know, Mr. Knowlton,--I might guess wrong."
"Then what made you say, 'no doubt' I could have it?"
"I don't know, Mr. Knowlton," said Diana, feeling irritated and worried
almost past her power to bear. "Don't you always have what you want?"
"Do you think I can?" he said eagerly.
"I fancy you do."
"What _did_ you think I meant by the 'best' thing, then? Tell me--do
tell me?"
"I thought you meant Miss Gertrude Masters," Diana said, fairly brought
to bay.
"You did! And what did you think I thought of Miss Diana Starling?"
He had stopped picking blackberries now, and was putting his questions
short and keenly. Diana's power of answering had come to an end.
"Hey!" said he, drawing her hand from the bush and stopping her work;
"what did you think I thought of _her?_--I have walked with her, and
driven with her, and talked with her, in the house and out of the
house, now all summer long; I have seen what she is like at home and
abroad; what do you think I think of _her?_"
Baskets and berries had, figuratively, fallen to the ground; literally
too, in Mr. Knowlton's case, for certainly both his hands were free,
and had been employed while these words were spoken in gently and
slowly gathering Diana into close bondage. There she stood now, hardly
daring to look up; yet the tone of his questions had found its way to
her inmost heart. She could not refuse one look, which they asked for.
It gave her what she never forgot to her latest day.
"Does she know now?" he went on in a tone of mixed tenderness and
triumph, like the expression of his face. "My lily!--my Camellia
flower!--my sweet Magnolia!--whatever there is most rare, and good, and
perfect. My best of all things. Can I have the best, Di?"
Miss Gertrude Masters would have been equal to the situation, and
doubtless would have met it with great equanimity; Diana was unused to
most of the world's ways, and very new to this. She stood in quiet
dignity, indeed; but the stains of crimson on cheek and brow flushed
and paled like the lights of a sunset. All at the bottom of her deep
sun-bonnet; was Mr. Knowlton to blame if he gently pushed it back and
insinuated it off, till he had a full view?
"You know what is my 'best' now," he said. "Can I have it, Diana?"
She tried to break away from him, and on her lip there broke that
beautiful smile of hers; withal a little tremulous just then. It is
rare on a grown woman's lip, a smile so very guileless and free; mostly
it belongs to children. Yet not this smile, either.
"I should think you must know by this time," she whispered.
I suppose he did; for he put no more questions for a minute or two.
"There's one more thing," he said. "Now you know what I think of you;
what do you think of me, Diana?"
"I think you are very imprudent," she said, freeing herself resolutely,
and picking up her sun-bonnet. "Anybody might come, Mr. Knowlton."
"Anybody might! But if ever you call me 'Mr. Knowlton' again--I'll do
something extraordinary."
Diana thought he would have a great many things to teach her, beside
that. She went at her fruit-picking with bewildered haste. She did not
know what she was doing, but mechanically her fingers flew and the
berries fell. Mr. Knowlton picked rather more intelligently; but
between them, I must say, they worked very well. Ah, the blackberry
field had become a wonderful place; and while the mellow purple fruit
fell fast from the branches, it seemed also as if years had reached
their fruition and the perfected harvest of life had come. Could riper
or richer be, than had fallen into Diana's hands now? than filled them
now? So it was, she thought. And yet this was not life's harvest, only
the bloom of the flower; the fruit comes not to its maturity with one
sunny day, and it needs more than sunshine. But let the fruit grow; it
will come in time, even if it ripens in secret; and meanwhile smell the
flower. It was the fragrance of the grape blossom that filled the
blackberry field; most sweet, most evanishing, most significant. Oddly,
many people do not know it. But it must be that their life has never
brought them within reach of its charm.
Two people in the field never knew how the shadows grew long that day.
No, not even though their colloquy was soon interrupted, and by
Gertrude Masters herself. She thenceforth claimed, and received, Mr.
Knowlton's whole services; while Diana in her turn was assisted by Will
Flandin, a young farmer of Pleasant Valley, who gave his hands and his
arms to her help. It did not make much difference to Diana; it might
have been an ogre, and she would not have cared; so she hardly noticed
that Will, who had a glib enough tongue in ordinary, was now very
silent. Diana herself said nothing. She was listening to hidden music.
"There's a wonderful lot o' blackberries on Bear Hill," Will remarked
at last.
"Yes," said Diana.
"Well, I guess we've cleaned 'em out pretty well for this time,"
pursued he.
"Have we?" said Diana.
"Why, all these folks ha' been pickin' all day; I should _think_ they'd
ha' made a hole in 'em."
Silence fell again.
"How's the roads down your way?" began Mr. Flandin again.
"The roads? pretty well, I believe."
"They're awful, up this way, to Bear Hill. I say, Miss Starling, how do
you s'pose those people lives, in that village?"
"How do they? I don't know."
"Beats me! they don't raise nothin', and they don't kill
nothin',--'thout it's other folks's; and what they live on I would jest
like to know. Mother, she thinks a minister had ought to go and settle
down among 'em; but I tell her I'd like to see what a sheriff 'd do
fust. They don't live in no reg'lar good way, that's a fact."
"Poor people!" said Diana. "They don't even know enough to pick
blackberries."
"They hadn't no need to be so poor ef they would work," said the young
man. "But I s'pose you've got a kind word for every one, ha'n't you,
Miss Starling?"
"Diany," said the voice of Joe Bartlett, who was pushing his way
towards her through the bushes,--"Diany! Here you be! Here's your
mother lookin' for ye. Got all you want? It's gettin' time to make
tracks for hum. The sun's consid'able low."
"I'm ready, Joe."
"Give me one o' them pails, then, and we'll try ef we kin git through
these pesky bushes. I vow! I wouldn't like to take Bear Hill for a
farm, not on a long lease."
They pushed and fought their way in the thicket for a long distance,
till, as Joe remarked, they had surveyed the hill pretty well; Diana
conscious all the time that Mr. Knowlton and Gertrude were following in
their wake. That was near enough. She liked it so. She liked it even
that in the crowd and the bustle of packing and hitching horses, and
getting seated, there was no chance for more than a far-off nod and
wave of the hand from the Elmfield parly. They drove off first this
time. And Diana followed at a little distance, driving Prince; Mrs.
Starling declaring herself "tuckered out."
There was no sense of weariness on Diana. Never less in her life. She
was glad the drive was so long; not because she was weary and wanted to
rest, but because every nerve and sense seemed strung to a fine
tension, so that everything that touched them sent waves of melody over
her being. Truly the light was sweet that evening, for any eyes; to
Diana's vision the sunbeams were solid gold, though refined out of all
sordidness, and earth was heaped up and brimming over with riches. The
leaves of the trees on the hill-sides sparkled in the new wealth of
nature; the air scintillated with it; the water was full of it.
Prince's hoofs trod in measure, and the wheels of the waggon moved
rhythmically, and the evening breeze might have been the very spirit of
harmony. The way was long, and before home was reached the light had
faded and the sparkling was gone; but even that was welcome to Diana.
She was glad to have a veil fall, for a while, over the brightness, and
hide even from herself the new world into which she had entered. She
knew it was there, under the veil; the knowledge was enough for the
present.