MISS COLLINS' WORK.
It was well for Diana that she had got a talisman of better power than
the world can manufacture. It was well for her, too, that she followed
up earnestly the clue to life which had been given her. If you have a
treasure-house of supplies, and are going to have to get to it in the
dark by and by, it is good to learn the way very well while the light
is there. For weeks Diana gave herself before all other things to the
study of her Bible, and to better understanding of faith's duties and
privileges. In all this, Basil was a great help; and daily his wife
learned more and more to admire and revere the mind and temper of the
man she had married. Reverence would have led surely to love, in such a
nature as Diana's; but Diana's heart was preoccupied. What love could
not do, however, conscience and gratitude did as far as possible.
Nothing that concerned Basil's comfort or honour was uncared for by his
wife. So, among other things, she never intrusted the care of his meals
entirely to Miss Collins; and quite to that lady's discomfiture, would
often come into the kitchen and prepare some nice dish herself, or
superintend the preparation of it. Miss Collins resented this. She
shared the opinion of some of the ladies of the Sewing Society, that
Mrs. Masters was quite proud and needed to be "taken down" a bit; and
if she got a good chance, she had it in her mind to do a little of the
"taking down" herself.
It was one evening late in September. Frosts had hardly set in yet, and
every change in the light and colour carried Diana's mind back to Evan
and two years ago, and mornings and evenings of that time which were so
filled with nameless joys and hopes. Diana did not give herself to
these thoughts nor encourage them; they came with the suddenness and
the start of lightning. Merely the colour of a hill at sunset was
enough to flash back her thoughts to an hour when she was looking for
Evan; or a certain sort of starlight night would recall a particular
walk along the meadow fence; or a gust and whiff of the wind would
bring with it the thrill that belonged to one certain stormy September
night that never faded in her remembrance. Or the smell of coffee
sometimes, when it was just at a certain stage of preparation, would
turn her heart-sick. These associations and remembrances were countless
and incessant always under the reminders of the September light and
atmosphere; and Diana could not escape from them, though as soon as
they came she put them resolutely away.
This evening Mr. Masters was out. Diana knew he had gone a long ride
and would be tired,--that is, if he ever could be tired,--and would be
certainly ready for his supper when he came in. So she went out to make
ready a certain dish of eggs which she knew he liked. Such service as
this she could do, and she did. There was no thoughtful care, no
smallest observance, which could have been rendered by the most devoted
affection, which Diana did not give to her husband. Except,--she never
offered a kiss, or laid her hand in his or upon his shoulder. Happily
for her, Basil was not a particularly demonstrative man; for every
caress from him was "as vinegar upon nitre;" she did not show
repulsion, that was all.
"I guess I kin do that, Mis' Masters," said her handmaid, who always
preferred to keep the kitchen for her own domain. Diana made no answer.
She was slowly and delicately peeling her eggs, and probably did not
notice the remark. Miss Collins, however, resented the neglect.
"Mr. Masters is gone a great deal. It's sort o' lonesome up here on the
hill. Dreadfully quiet, don't you think it is?"
"I like quiet," Diana answered absently.
"Du, hey? Wall, I allays liked life. I never could git too much o'
that. I should like a soldier's life uncommon,--if I was a man."
Diana had finished peeling her eggs, and now began to wash a bunch of
green parsley which she had fetched from the garden, daintily dipping
it up and down in a bowl of spring-water.
"It was kind o' lively down to the post office," Miss Collins remarked
again, eyeing the beautiful half-bared arm and the whole figure, which
in its calm elegance was both imposing and irritating to her. Miss
Collins, indeed, had a very undefined sense of the beautiful; yet she
vaguely knew that nobody else in Pleasant Valley looked so or carried
herself so; no other woman's dress adorned her so, or was so set off by
the wearer; although Diana's present attire was a very simply-made
print gown, not even the stylish ladies of Elmfield produced an equal
effect with their French dresses. And was not Diana "Mis' Starling's
daughter?" And Diana seemed not to hear or care what she had to say!
"Everybody comes to the post office," she went on grimly; "you hev'
only to watch, and you see all the folks; and you know all that is
goin' on. An' that suits me 'xactly."
"But you had nothing to do with the post office," said Diana. "How
could you see everybody?"
"You keep your eyes open, and you'll see things, most places," said
Miss Collins. "La! I used to be in and out; why shouldn't I? And now
and then I'd say to Miss Gunn--'You're jest fagged out with standin'
upon your feet; you jes' go in there and sit down by the fire, and
don't let the pot bile over and put it out; and I'll see to the letters
and the folks.' And so she did, and so I did. It was as good as a play."
"How?" said Diana, feeling a vague pain at the thought of the post
office; that place where her hopes had died. Somehow there was a vague
dread in her heart also, without any reason.
"Wall--you git at folks' secrets--if they have any," Miss Collins
answered, suddenly checking her flow of words. Diana did not ask again;
the subject was disagreeable. She began to cut up her parsley deftly
with a sharp knife; and her handmaid stood and looked at her.
"Some folks thought, you know, at one time, that Mr. Masters was
courtin' Phemie Knowlton. I didn't let on, but la! I knowed it warn't
so. Why, there warn't never a letter come from her to him, nor went
from him to her."
"She was here herself," said Diana; "why should they write? You could
tell nothing by that."
"She warn't here after she had gone away," said Miss Collins; "and that
was jes' the time when I knowed all about it. I knowed about other
people too."
That was also the time after Evan had quitted Pleasant Valley. Yet
Diana did not know why she could not keep herself from trembling. If
Evan _had_ written, then, this Jemima Collins and her employer, Miss
Gunn, would have known it and drawn their conclusions. Well, they had
no data to go upon now.
"Bring me a little saucepan, Jemima, will you?"
Jemima brought it. Now her mistress (but she never called her so) would
be away and off in a minute or two more, and leave her to watch the
saucepan, she knew, and her opportunity would be over. Still she waited
to choose her words.
"You ain't so fond o' life as I be," she observed.
"Perhaps not," said Diana. "I do not think I should like a situation in
the post office."
"But I should ha' thought you'd ha' liked to go all over the world and
see everything. Now Pleasant Valley seems to me something like a
corner. Why didn't you?"
"Why didn't I what?" said Diana, standing up. She had been stooping
down over her saucepan, which now sat upon a little bed of coals.
"La! you needn't look at me like that," said Miss Collins, chuckling.
"It's no harm. You had your ch'ice, and you chose it; only _I_ would
have took the other."
"The other what? _What_ would you have taken?"
"Wall, I don' know," said Miss Collins; "to be sure, one never doos
know till one is tried, they say; but if I had, I think I should ha'
took 'tother one."
"I do not understand you," said Diana, walking off to the table, where
she began to gather up the wrecks of the parsley stems. She felt an odd
sensation of cold about the region of her heart, physically very
disagreeable.
"You are hard to make understand, then," said Miss Collins. "I suppose
you know you had two sweethearts, don't you? And sure enough you had
the pick of the lot. 'Tain't likely you've forgotten."
"How dare you speak so?" asked Diana, not passionately, but with a sort
of cold despair, eying her handmaiden.
"Dare?" said the latter. "Dare what? I ain't saying nothin'. 'Tain't no
harm to have two beaux; you chose your ch'ice, and _he_ hain't no cause
to be uncontented, anyhow. About the 'tother one I don't say nothin'. I
should think he _was_, but that's nat'ral. I s'pose he's got over it by
now. You needn't stand and look. He's fur enough off, too. Your husband
won't be jealous. You knowed you had two men after you."
"I cannot imagine why you say that," Diana repeated, standing as it
were at bay.
"How I come to know? That's easy. Didn't I tell you I was in the post
office? La, I know, I see the letters."
"Letters!" cried Diana, in a tone which forthwith made Miss Collins
open all the eyes she had. It was not a scream; it was not even very
loud; yet Miss Collins went into a swift calculation to find out what
was in it. Beyond her ken, happily; it was a heart's death-cry.
"Yes," she said stolidly; "I said letters. Ain't much else goin' at the
post office, 'cept letters and papers; and I ain't one o' them as sets
no count by the papers. La, what do I care for the news at Washington?
I don't know the folks; they may all die or get married for what I
care; but in Pleasant Valley I know where I be, and I know who the
folks be. And that's what made me allays like to get a chance to sort
the letters, or hand 'em out."
"You never saw many letters of mine," said Diana, turning away to hide
her lips, which she felt were growing strange. But she must speak; she
must know more.
"N--o," said Miss Collins; "not letters o' your writin,'--ef you mean
that."
"Letters of mine of any sort. I don't get many letters."
"Some of 'em's big ones, when they come, My! didn't I use to wonder
what was in 'em! Two stamps, and _three_ stamps. I s'pose feelin's
makes heavy weight." Miss Collins laughed a little.
"Two stamps and three stamps?" said Diana fiercely;--"how many were
there?"
"I guess I knowed of three. Two I handed out o' the box myself; and
Miss Gunn, she said there was another. There was no mistakin' them big
letters. They was on soft paper, and lots o' stamps, as I said."
"You gave them out? Who to?"
"To Mis' Starlin' herself. I mind partic'lerly. She come for 'em
herself, and she got 'em. You don't mean she lost 'em on her way hum?
They was postmarked some queer name, but they come from Californy; I
know that. You hain't never forgotten 'em? I've heerd it's good to be
off with the old love before you are on with the new; but I never heerd
o' folks forgettin' their love-letters. La, 'tain't no harm to have
love-letters. Nobody can cast that up to ye. You have chosen your
ch'ice, and it's all right. I reckon most folks would be proud to have
somebody else thrown over for them."
Diana heard nothing of this. She was standing, deaf and blind, seeming
to look out of the window; then slowly, moved by some instinct, not
reason, she went out of the kitchen and crept up-stairs to her own room
and laid herself upon her bed. Deaf and blind; she could neither think
nor feel; she only thought she knew that she was dead. The
consciousness of the truth pressed upon her to benumbing; but she was
utterly unable to separate points or look at the connection of them.
She had lived and suffered before; now she was crushed and dead; that
was all she knew. She could not even measure the full weight of her
misery; she lay too prostrate beneath it.
So things were, when very shortly after the minister came in. He had
put up his horse, and came in with his day's work behind him. Diana's
little parlour was bright, for a smart fire was blazing; the evenings
and mornings were cool now in Pleasant Valley; and the small table
stood ready for supper, as Diana had left it. She was up-stairs,
probably; and up-stairs he went, to wash his hands and get ready for
the evening; for the minister was the neatest man living. There he
found Diana laid upon her bed, where nobody ever saw her in the
day-time; and furthermore, lying with that nameless something in all
the lines of her figure which is the expression not of pain but of
despair; and those who have never seen it before, read it at first
sight. How it should be despair, of course, the minister had no clue to
guess; so, although it struck him with a sort of strange chill, he
supposed she must be suffering from some bodily ailment, in spite of
the fact that nobody had ever known Diana to have so much as a headache
in her life until now. Her face was hid. Basil went up softly and laid
his hand on her shoulder, and felt so the slight convulsive shiver that
ran over her. But his inquiries could get nothing but monosyllables in
return; hardly that; rather inarticulate utterances of assent or
dissent to his questions or proposals. Was she suffering?
Yes. What was the cause? No intelligible answer. Would she not come
down to tea? No. Would she have anything? No. Could he do anything for
her? No.
"Diana," said her husband tenderly, "is it bad news?"
There was a pause, and he waited.
"Just go down," she managed with great difficulty to say. "There is
nothing the matter with me. I'll come by and by. I'll just lie still a
little."
She had not shown her face, and the minister quietly withdrew, feeling
that here was more than appeared on the surface. There was enough
appearing on the surface to make him uneasy; and he paid no attention
to Miss Collins, who brought in the supper and bustled about rather
more than was necessary.
"Don't ring the bell, Jemima," Mr. Masters said. "Mrs. Masters is not
coming down."
Miss Collins went on to make the tea. That was always Diana's business.
"What ails her?" she asked abruptly.
"You ought to know," said the minister. "What did she complain of."
"Complain!" echoed the handmaiden. "She was as well as you be, not five
minutes afore you come in."
"How do you know?"
"Guess I had ought to! Why, she was in the kitchen talkin' and
fiddle-faddlin' with them eggs; she thinks I ain't up to 'em. There
warn't nothin' on earth the matter with her then. She had sot the table
in here and fixed up the fire, and then she come in to the kitchen and
went to work at the supper. There ain't never nothin' the matter with
her."
The minister made no sort of remark, nor put any further inquiry, nor
looked even curious, Miss Collins, however, _did_. Her brain got into a
sudden confusion of possibilities. Pouring out the tea, she stood by
the table reflecting what she should say next.
"I guess she's mad at me," she began slowly. "Or maybe she's afeard
you'll be mad with her. La! 'tain't nothin'. I told her, you'd never be
jealous. 'Tain't no harm for a girl to have two beaus, is it?"
The minister gave her a quick look from under his brows, and replied
calmly that he "supposed not."
"Wall, I told her so; and now she's put out 'cause I knowed o' them
letters. La, folks that has the post office can't help but know more o'
what concerns their fellow-creatures than other folks doos. I handled
them myself, you see, and handed them out; leastways two o' them; that
warn't no fault o' mine nor of anybody's. La, she needn't to mind!"
"How much tea did you put in, Jemima?"
"I don't know, Mr. Masters. I put in a pinch. Mrs. Masters had ought to
ha' been here to make it herself. She knows how you like it."
"I like more than such a pinch as this was. If you will empty the
tea-pot, I will make a cup for myself. That will do, thank you."
Left alone, Mr. Masters sat for a little while with his head on his
hand, neglecting the supper. Then he roused himself and went on to make
some fresh tea. And very carefully and nicely he made it, poured out a
cup and prepared it, put it on a little tray then, and carried it
steaming and fragrant up to his wife's room. Diana was lying just as he
had left her. Mr. Masters shut the door, and came to the bedside.
"Di," said he gently, "I have brought you a cup of tea."
There was neither answer nor movement. He repeated his words. She
murmured an unintelligible rejection of the proposal, keeping her face
carefully covered.
"No," said he, "I think you had better take it. Lift up your head, Di,
and try. It is good."
The tone was tender and quiet, nevertheless Diana had known Mr. Masters
long enough to be assured that when he had made up his mind to a thing,
there was no bringing him off it. She would have to take the tea; and
as he put his hand under her head to lift her up, she suffered him to
do it. Then he saw her face. Only by the light of a candle, it is true;
but that revealed more than enough. So wan, so deathly pale, so dark in
the lines round the eyes, and those indescribable shadows which mental
pain brings into a face, that her husband's heart sank down. No small
matter, easy to blow away, had brought his strong beautiful Diana to
look like that. But his face showed nothing, though indeed she never
looked at it; and his voice was clear and gentle just as usual in the
few words he said. He held the cup to her lips, and after she had drank
the tea and lay down again, he passed his hand once or twice with a
tender touch over her brow and the disordered hair. Then, with no more
questions or remarks, he took away the candle and the empty cup, and
Diana saw him no more that night.