THINGS UNDONE.
The mischief-maker slept peacefully till morning. Nobody else. Diana
did not keep awake, it is true; she was at that dull stage of misery
when something like stupor comes over the brain; she slumbered heavily
from time to time. Nature does claim such a privilege sometimes. It was
Basil who watched the night through; watched and prayed. There was no
stupor in his thoughts; he had a very full, though vague, realization
of great evil that had come upon them both. He was very near the truth,
too, after an hour or two of pondering. Putting Miss Collins' hints,
Diana's own former confessions, and her present condition together, he
saw, clearer than it was good to see, the probable state of affairs.
And yet he was glad to see it; if any help or bettering was ever to
come, it was desirable that his vision should be true, and his wisdom
have at least firm data to act upon. But what action could touch the
case?--the most difficult that a man can have to deal with. Through the
night Basil alternately walked the floor and knelt down, sometimes at
his study table, sometimes before the open window, where it seemed
almost as if he could read signs of that invisible sympathy he was
seeking. The air was a little frosty, but very still; he kept up a fire
in his chimney, and Basil was not one of those ministers who live in
perpetual terror about draughts; it was a comfort to him to-night to
look off and away from earth, even though he could not see into heaven.
The stars were witnesses to him and for him, in their eternal calmness.
"He calleth them all by their names; for that he is strong in power,
not one faileth. Why sayest thou, O Jacob, and speakest, O Israel, My
way is hid from the Lord, and my judgment is passed over from my
God?"--And in answer to the unspoken cry of appeal that burst forth as
he knelt there by the window--"O Lord, my strength, my fortress, and my
refuge in the day of affliction!"--came the unspoken promise: "The
mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed; but my kindness shall
not depart from thee, neither shall the covenant of my peace be
removed, saith the Lord that hath mercy on thee." The minister had
something such a night of it as Jacob had before his meeting with Esau;
with the difference that there was no lameness left the next morning.
Before the dawn came up, when the stars were fading, Basil threw
himself on the lounge in his study, and went into a sleep as deep and
peaceful as his sleeps were wont to be. And when he rose up, after some
hours, he was entirely himself again; refreshed and restored and ready
for duty. Neither could anybody, that day or afterwards, see the
slightest change in him from what he had been before.
He went out and attended to his horse; the minister always did that
himself. Then came in and changed his dress, and went through his
morning toilet with the usual dainty care. Then he went in to see Diana.
She had awaked at last out of her slumberous stupor, sorry to see the
light and know that it was day again. Another day! Why should there be
another day for her? what use? why could she not die and be out of her
trouble? Another day! and now would come, had come, the duties of it;
how was she to meet them? how could she do them? life energy was gone.
She was dead; how was she to play the part of the living, and among the
living? What mockery! And Basil, what would become of him? As for Evan,
Diana dared not so much in her thoughts as even to glance his way. She
had risen half up in bed--she had not undressed at all--and was sitting
with her arms slung round her knees, gazing at the daylight and
wondering vaguely about all these things, when the door between the
rooms swung lightly open. If she had dared, Diana would have crouched
down and hid her face again; she was afraid to do that; she sat
stolidly still, gazing out at the window. Look at Basil she could not.
His approach filled her with so great a feeling of repulsion that she
would have liked to spring from the bed and flee,--anywhere, away and
away, where she would see him no more. No such flight was possible. She
sat motionless and stared at the window, keeping down the internal
shiver which ran over her.
Basil came with his light quick step and stood beside her; took her
hand and felt her pulse.
"You are not feeling very well, Di," he said gravely.
"Well enough,"--said Diana. "I will get up and be down presently."
"Will you?" said he. "Now I think you had better not. The best thing
you can do will be to lie still here and keep quiet all day. May I
prescribe for you?"
"Yes. I will do what you please," said Diana. She never looked at him,
and he knew it.
"Then this is what I think you had better do. Get up and take a bath;
then put on your dressing-gown and lie down again. You shall have your
breakfast up here--and I will let nobody come up to disturb you."
"I'm not hungry. I don't want anything."
"You are a little feverish--but you will be better for taking
something. Now you get your bath--and I'll attend to the breakfast."
He kissed her brow gravely, guessing that she would rather he did not,
but knowing nevertheless that he might and must; for he was her
husband, and however gladly she, and unselfishly he, would have broken
the relation between them, it subsisted and could not be broken. And
then he went down-stairs.
"Where's Mis' Masters?" demanded Jemima when she brought in the
breakfast-tray, standing attention.
"Not coming down."
"Ain't anything ails her, is there?"
"Yes. But I don't know how serious. Give me the kettle, Jemima; I told
her to lie still, and that I would bring her a cup of tea."
"I'll take it up, Mr. Masters; and you can eat your breakfast."
"Thank you. I always like to keep my promises. Fetch in the kettle,
Jemima."
Jemima dared not but obey. So when Diana, between dead and alive, had
done as she was bid, taken her bath, and wrapped in her dressing-gown
was laid upon her bed again, her husband made his appearance with a
little tray and the tea. There had been a certain bodily refreshment
about the bath and the change of dress, but with that little touch of
the everyday work of life there had come such a rebellion against life
in general and all that it held, that Diana was nearly desperate. In
place of dull despair, had come a wild repulsion against everything
that was left her in the world; and yet the girl knew that she would
neither die nor go mad, but must just live and bear. She looked at
Basil and his tray with a sort of impatient horror.
"I don't want anything!" she said. "I don't want anything!"
"Try the tea. It is out of the green chest."
Diana had learned, as I said, to know her husband pretty well; and she
knew that though the tone in which he spoke was very quiet, and for all
a certain sweet insistence in it could scarcely be said to be urging,
nevertheless there was under it something to which she must yield. His
will never had clashed with hers once; nevertheless Diana had seen and
known that whatever Basil wanted to do with anybody, he did. Everybody
granted it to him, somehow. So did she now. She raised herself up and
tasted the tea.
"Eat a biscuit--."
"I don't want it. I don't want anything, Basil."
"You must eat something, though," said he. "It is bad enough for me to
have to carry along with me all day the thought of you lying here; I
cannot bear in addition the thought of you starving."
"O no, I am not starving," Diana answered; and unable to endure to look
at him or talk to him, she covered her face with her hands, leaning it
down upon her knees. Basil did not say anything, nor did he go away; he
stood beside her, with an outflow of compassion in his heart, but
waiting patiently. At last touched her smooth hair with his hand.
"Di," said he gently, "look up and take something."
She hastily removed her hands, raised her head, swallowed the tea, and
managed to swallow the biscuit with it. He leaned forward and kissed
her brow as he had done last night.
"Now lie down and rest," said he. "I must ride over to Blackberry Hill
again--and I do not know how long I may be kept there. I will tell
Jemima to let no visitors come up to bother you. Lie still and rest. I
will give you a pillow for your thoughts, Di.--'Under the shadow of thy
wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast.'"
He went away; and Diana covered her face again. She could not bear the
light. Her whole nature was in uproar. The bath and dressing, the tea,
her husband's presence and words, his last words especially, had roused
her from her stupor, and given her as it were a scale with which to
measure the full burden of her misery. There was no item wanting, Diana
thought, to make it utterly immeasurable and unbearable. If she had
married a less good man, it would have been less hard to spoil all his
hopes of happiness; if he had been a weaker man, she would not have
cared about him at all. If any hand but her own mother's had dashed her
cup of happiness out of her hand, she would have had there a refuge to
go to. Most girls have their mothers. If Evan had not been sent to so
distant a post--but when her thoughts dared turn to Evan, Diana writhed
upon her bed in tearless agony. Evan, writing in all the freshness and
strength of his love and his trust in her, those letters;--waiting and
looking for her answer;--writing again and again; disappointed all the
while; and at last obliged to conclude that there was no faith in her,
and that her love had been a sham or a fancy. What had he not suffered
on her account! even as she had suffered for him. But that he should
think so of her was not to be borne; she would write. Might she write?
From hiding her head on her pillow, Diana sat bolt upright now and
stared at the light as if it could tell her. Might she write to Evan,
just once, this once, to tell him how it had been? Would that be any
wrong against her husband? Would Basil have any right to forbid her?
The uneasy sense of doubt here was met by a furious rebellion against
any authority that would interfere with her doing herself--as she
said--so much justice, and giving herself and Evan so much miserable
comfort. Could there be a right to hinder her? Suppose she were to ask
Basil?--But what disclosures that would involve! Would he bear them, or
could she? Better write without his knowledge. Then, on the other hand,
Basil was so upright himself, so true and faithful, and trusted her so
completely. No, she never could deceive his trust, not if she died. O
that she could die! But Diana knew that she was not going to die.
Suppose she charged her mother with what she had done, and get _her_ to
write and confess it? A likely thing, that Mrs. Starling would be
wrought upon to make such a humiliation of herself! She was forced to
give up that thought. And indeed she was not clear about the essential
distinction between communicating directly herself with Evan, and
getting another to do it for her. And what had been Mrs. Starling's
motive in keeping back the letters? But Diana knew her mother, and that
problem did not detain her long.
For hours and hours Diana's mind was like a stormy sea, where the
thunder and the lightning were not wanting any more than the wind. Once
in a while, like the faint blink of a sun-ray through the clouds, came
an echo of the words Basil had quoted--"In the shadow of thy wings will
I make my refuge"--but they hurt her so that she fled from them. The
contrast of their peace with her turmoil, of their intense sweetness
with the bitter passion which was wasting her heart; the hint of that
harbour for the storm-tossed vessel, which could only be entered, she
knew, by striking sail; all that was unbearable. I suppose there was a
whisper of conscience, too, which said, "Strike sail, and go
in!"--while passion would not take down an inch of canvas. _Could_ not,
she said to herself. Could she submit to have things be as they were?
submit, and be quiet, and accept them, and go her way accepting them,
and put the thought of Evan away, and live the rest of her life as
though he had no existence? That was the counsel Basil would give, she
had an unrecognised consciousness; and for the present, pain was easier
to bear than that. And now memory flew back over the years, and took up
again the thread of her relations with Evan, and traced them to their
beginning; and went over all the ground, going back and forward,
recalling every meeting, and reviewing every one of those too scanty
hours. For a long while she had not been able to do this, because Evan,
she thought, had been faithless, and in that case she really never had
had what she thought she had in him. Now she knew he was not faithless,
and she had got the time and him back again, and she in a sort revelled
in the consciousness. And with that came then the thought, "Too
late!"--She had got him again only to see an impassable barrier set
between which must keep them apart for ever. And that barrier was her
husband. What the thought of Basil, or rather what his image was to
Diana that day, it is difficult to tell; she shunned it whenever it
appeared, with an intolerable mingling of contradictory feelings. Her
fate,--and yet more like a good angel to her than anybody that had ever
crossed the line of her path; the destroyer of her hope and joy for
ever,--and yet one to whom she was bound, and to whom she owed all
possible duty and affection; she wished it were possible never to see
him again in the world, and at the same time there was not another in
the world of whom she believed all the good she believed of him. His
image was dreadful to her. Basil was the very centre-point of her
agonized struggles that day. To be parted from Evan she could have
borne, if she might have devoted herself to the memory of him and lived
in quiet sorrow; but to put this man in his place!--to belong to him,
to be his wife--
In proportion to the strength and health of Diana's nature was the
power of her realization and the force of her will. But also the
possibility of endurance. The internal fight would have broken down a
less pure and sound bodily organization. It was characteristic of this
natural soundness and sweetness, which was mental as well as physical,
that her mother's part in the events which had destroyed her happiness
had very little of her attention that day. She thought of it with a
kind of sore wonder and astonishment, in which resentment had almost no
share. "O, mother, mother!"--she said in her heart; but she said no
more.
Miss Collins came up once or twice to see her, but Diana lay quiet, and
was able to baffle curiosity.
"Are ye goin' to git up and come down to supper?" the handmaid asked in
the second visit, which occurred late in the afternoon.
"I don't know. I shall do what Mr. Masters says."
"You don't look as ef there was much ailin' you;--and yet you look kind
o' queer, too. I shouldn't wonder a bit ef you was a gettin' a fever.
There's a red spot on one of your cheeks that's like fire. T'other
one's pale enough. You must be in a fever, I guess, or you couldn't lie
here with the window open."
"Leave it open--and just let me be quiet."
Miss Collins went down, marvelling to herself. But when Basil came home
he found the flush spread to both cheeks, and a look in Diana's eyes
that he did not like.
"How has the day been?" he asked, passing his hand over the flushed
cheek and the disordered hair. Diana shrank and shivered and did not
answer. He felt her pulse.
"Diana," said he, "what is the matter with you?"
She stared at him, in the utter difficulty of answering. "Basil"--she
began, and stopped, not finding another word to add. For prevarication
was an accomplishment Diana knew nothing of. She closed her eyes, that
they might not see the figure standing there.
"Would you like me to fetch your mother to you?"
"No," she said, starting. "O no! Don't bring her, Basil."
"I will not," said he kindly. "Why should she not come?"
"Mother? never. Never, never! Not mother. I can't bear her"--said Diana
strangely.
Mr. Masters went down-stairs looking very grave. He took his supper,
for he needed it; and then he carried up a cup of tea, fresh made, to
Diana. She drank it this time eagerly; but there was no lightening of
his grave brow when he carried the cup down again. Something was very
much the matter, he knew now, as he had feared it last night. He
debated with himself whether he had better try to find out just what it
was. Miss Collins, by a judicious system of suggestion and inquiry,
might be led perhaps to reveal something without knowing that she
revealed anything; but the minister disliked that way of getting
information when it could be dispensed with. He had enough knowledge to
act upon; for the rest he was patient, and could wait.
That night he knew Diana did not sleep. He himself passed the night
again in his study, though not in the struggles of the night before. He
was very calm, stedfast, diligent; that is, his usual self entirely.
And, watching her without her knowing he watched, he knew by her
breathing and her changes of position that it was a night of no rest on
her part. Once he saw she was sitting up in the bed; once he saw that
she had left it and was sitting by the window.
The next day the minister did not leave home. He had no more urgent
business anywhere, he thought, than there. And he found Diana did not
make up by day what she had lost by night; she was always staring wide
awake whenever he went into the room; and he went whenever there was a
cup of tea or a cup of broth to be taken to her, for he prepared it and
carried it to her himself.
It happened in the course of the afternoon that Prince and the old
little green waggon came jogging along and landed Mrs. Starling at the
minister's door. This was a very rare event; Mrs. Starling came at long
intervals to see her daughter, and made then a call which nobody
enjoyed. To-day Miss Collins hailed the sight of her. Indeed, if the
distance had not been too much, Miss Collins would have walked down to
carry the tidings of Diana's indisposition; for, like a true gossip,
she scented mischief where she could see none. The minister would let
her have nothing to do with his wife; and if he were out of the house
and she got a chance, she could make nothing of Diana. Nothing certain;
but nothing either that lulled her suspicions. Now, with Mrs. Starling,
there was no telling what she might get at. The lady dismounted and
came into the kitchen, looking about her, as always, with sharp eyes.
"How d'ye do," said she. "Where is Diana?"
"I'm glad to see ye, Mis' Starling, and that's a fact," said the
handmaid. "I was 'most a mind to walk down to your place to-day."
"What's the matter? Where's Diana?"
"Wall, she's up-stairs. She hain't been down now for two days."
"What's the reason?"
"Wall--sun'thin' ain't right; and I don't think the minister's clear
what it is; and _I_ ain't. She was took as sudden--you never see
nothin' suddener--she come in here to fix a dish o' eggs for supper
that she's mighty particler about, and don't think no one can cook eggs
but herself; and I was talkin' and tellin' her about my old experiences
in the post office--and she went up-stairs and took to her bed; and she
hain't left it sen. Now ain't that queer? 'Cause she didn't say nothin'
ailed her; not a word; only she went up and took to her bed; and she
doos look queer at you, that I will say. Mebbe it's fever a comin' on."
There was a minute or two's silence. Mrs. Starling did not immediately
find her tongue.
"What have the post office and your stories got to do with it?" she
asked harshly. "I should like to know."
"Yes,--" said Miss Collins, drawing out the word with affable
intonation,--"that's what beats me. What should they? But la! the post
office is queer; that's what I always said. Everybody gits into it; and
ef you're there, o' course you can't help knowin' things."
"You weren't in the post office!" said Mrs. Starling. "It was none of
_your_ business."
"Warn't I?" said Miss Collins. "Don't you mind better'n that, Mis'
Starling? I mind you comin', and I mind givin' you your letters too; I
mind some 'ticlar big ones, that had stamps enough on to set up a shop.
La, 'tain't no harm. Miss Gunn, she used to feel a sort o' sameness
about allays takin' in and givin' out, and then she'd come into the
kitchen and make cake mebbe, and send me to 'tend the letters and the
folks. And then it was as good as a play to me. Don't you never git
tired o' trottin' a mile in a bushel, Mis' Starlin'? So I was jest a
tellin' Diany"--
"Where's the minister?"
"Most likely he's where she is--up-stairs. He won't let nobody else do
a hand's turn for her. He takes up every cup of tea, and he spreads
every bit of bread and butter; and he tastes the broths; you'd think he
was anythin' in the world but a minister; he tastes the broth, and he
calls for the salt and pepper, and he stirs and he tastes; and
then--you never see a man make such a fuss, leastways _I_ never
did--he'll have a white napkin and spread over a tray, and the cup on
it, and saucer too, for he won't have the cup 'thout the saucer, and
then carry it off.--Was your husband like that, Mis' Starling? He was a
minister, I've heerd tell."
Mrs. Starling turned short about without answering and went up-stairs.
She found the minister there, as Miss Collins had opined she would; but
she paid little attention to him. He was just drawing the curtains over
a window where the sunlight came in too glaringly. As he had done this,
and turned, he was a spectator of the meeting between mother and child.
It was peculiar. Mrs. Starling advanced to the foot of the bed, came no
nearer, but stood there looking down at her daughter. And Diana's eyes
fastened on hers with a look of calm, cold intelligence. It was intense
enough, yet there was no passion in it; I suppose there was too much
despair; however, it was, as I said, keen and intent, and it held Mrs.
Starling's eye, like a vice. Those Mr. Masters could not see; the
lady's back was towards him; but he saw how Diana's eyes pinioned her,
and how strangely still Mrs. Starling stood.
"What's the matter with you?" she said harshly at last.
"You ought to know,"--said Diana, not moving her eyes.
"I ain't a conjuror," Mrs. Starling returned with a sort of snort.
"What makes you look at me like that?"
Diana gave a short, sharp laugh. "How can you look at me?" she said. "I
know all about it, mother."
Mrs. Starling with a sudden determination went round to the head of the
bed and put out her hand to feel Diana's pulse. Diana shrank away from
her.
"Keep off!" she cried. "Basil, Basil, don't let her touch me."
"She is out of her head," said Mrs. Starling, turning to her
son-in-law, and speaking half loud. "I had better stay and sit up with
her."
"No," cried Diana. "I don't want you. Basil, don't let her stay. Basil,
Basil!"--
The cry was urgent and pitiful. Her husband came near, arranged the
pillows, for she had started half up; and putting her gently back upon
them, said in his calm tones,--"Be quiet, Di; you command here. Mrs.
Starling, shall we go down-stairs?"
Mrs. Starling this time complied without making any objection; but as
she reached the bottom she gave vent to her opinion.
"You are spoiling her!"
"Really--I should like to have the chance."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Just the words. I should like to spoil Di. She has never had much of
that sort of bad influence."
"That sounds very weak, to me," said Mrs. Starling.
"To whom should a man show himself weak, if not toward his wife?" said
Basil carelessly.
"Your wife will not thank you for it."
"I will endeavour to retain her respect," said Basil in the same way;
which aggravated Mrs. Starling, beyond bounds. Something about him
always did try her temper, she said to herself.
"Diana is going to have a fever," she spoke abruptly.
"I am afraid of it."
"What's brought it on?"
"I came home two evenings ago and found her on the bed."
"You don't want me, you say. Who do you expect is going to sit up with
her and take care of her?"
"I will try what I can do, for the present."
"You can't manage that and your out-door work too."
"I will manage _that_"--said Basil significantly.
"And let your parish work go? Well, I always thought a minister was
bound to attend to his people."
"Yes. Isn't my wife more one of my people than anybody else? Will you
stay and take a cup of tea, Mrs. Starling?"
"No; if you don't want me, I am going. What will you do if Diana gets
delirious? I think she's out of her head now."
"I'll attend to her," said Basil composedly.
Half suspecting a double meaning in his words, Mrs. Starling took short
leave, and drove off. Not quite easy in her mind, if the truth be told,
and glad to be out of all patience with the minister. Yes, if she had
known how things would turn--if she had known--perhaps, she would not
have thrown that first letter into the fire; which had drawn her on to
throw the second in, and the third. Could any son-in-law, could Evan
Knowlton, at least, have been more untoward for her wishes than the one
she had got? More unmanageable he could not have been; nor more likely
to be spooney about Diana. And now what if Diana really should have a
fever? People talk out in delirium. Well--the minister would keep his
own counsel; she did not care, she said. But all the same, she did
care; and she would fain have been the only one to receive Diana's
revelations, if she could have managed it. And by what devil's
conjuration had the truth come to be revealed, when only the fire and
she knew anything about it. Mrs. Starling chewed the cud of no sweet
fancy on her road home.