HUSBAND AND WIFE.
Had she no kind word for Evan? Diana felt as if her heart would snap
some one of its cords, and give over its weary beating at once and for
ever. No kind word for Evan? her beloved, her betrayed, her
life-treasure once, towards whom still all the wealth of her heart
longed to pour itself out; and she might not send him one kind word?
And he did not know that she had been true to him; and yet he had
remained true to her. Might he not know so much as that, and that her
heart was breaking as well as his? Only it would not break. All the
pain of death without its cessation of consciousness. Why not let him
have one word to know that she loved him still, and would always love
him? Truth--truth and duty--loyal faith to her husband, the man whom in
her mistake she had married. O, why could not such mistakes be undone!
But they never could, never. It was a living death that she was
condemned to die.
I cannot say that Diana really wavered at all in her truth; but this
was an hour of storm never to be remembered without shuddering. She had
her baby in her arms, but the mother's instincts were for the time
swallowed up in the stormier passions of the woman. She cared for it
and ministered to it, tenderly as ever, yet in a mechanical, automatic
sort of way, taking no comfort and finding no relief in her sweet duty.
It was the roar of the storm and the howling of temptation which
overwhelmed every other voice in her heart. Then there were practical
questions to be met. Mrs. Reverdy and her family at Elmfield, who could
guarantee that Evan would not get a furlough and come there too? Mrs.
Reverdy's words seemed to have some ultimate design, which they had not
indeed declared; they had the air of somewhat different from mere
aimless rattle or mischievous gossip. Suppose Evan were to come? What
then?
The baby went off to sleep, and was laid away in its crib, and the
mother stood alone at the window wrestling with her pain. She felt
helpless in the grasp of it as almost never before. Danger was looming
up and threatening dark in the distance; there might be a whirlwind
coming out of that storm quarter, and how was she going to stand in the
whirlwind? Beyond the wordless cry which meant "Lord help me!"--Diana
could hardly pray at all at this moment; and the feeling grew that she
must have human help. "Tell Basil"--a whisper said in her heart. She
had shunned that thought always; she had judged it no use; now she was
driven to it. He must know the whole. Perhaps then he could tell her
what to do.
As soon as Diana's mind through all its tossings and turnings had fixed
upon this point, she went immediately from thought to action. It was
twilight now, or almost. Basil would not come home in time for a talk
before supper; supper must be ready, so as to have no needless delay.
She could wait, now she knew what she would do; though there was a fire
burning at heart and brain. She went down-stairs and ordered something
to be got ready for supper; finished the arrangement of the tea-table,
which her husband liked to have very dainty; picked a rose for his
plate, though it seemed dreadful mockery; and as soon as she heard his
step at the door she made the tea. What an atmosphere of sweet, calm
brightness he brought in with him, and always brought. It struck Diana
now with the kind of a shiver which a person in a fever feels at the
touch of fresh air. Yet she recognised the beauty of it, and it
fortified her in her resolve. She would be true to this man, though she
died for it! There was nothing but truth in him.
She got through the meal-time as she could; swallowed tea, and even ate
bread, without knowing how it tasted, and heard Basil talk without
knowing what he said. As soon as she could she went up-stairs to the
baby, and waited till her husband should come too. But when he came, he
came to her, and did not go to his study.
"Basil I want to speak to you--will you come into the other room?" she
said huskily.
"Won't this room do to talk in?"
"No. It is over the kitchen."
"Jemima knows I never quarrel"--said Basil lightly; however, he led the
way into the study. He set a chair for Diana and took another himself,
but she remained standing.
"Basil--is God good?" she said.
"Yes. Inexpressibly good."
"Then why does he let such things happen?"
"Sit down, Di. You are not strong enough to talk standing. Such things?
What things?"
"Why does he let people be tempted above what they can bear?"
"He never does--his children--if that is what you mean. He always
provides a way of escape."
"Where?"
"At Christ's feet."
"Basil, how can I get there?" she said with a sob.
"You _are_ there, my darling," he said, putting her gently into the
easy-chair she had disregarded. "Those who trust in him, his hand never
lets go. They may seem to themselves to lose their standing--they may
not feel the ground under their feet--but he knows; and he will not let
them fall. If they hold fast to him, Diana."
"Basil, you don't know the whole."
"Do you want to tell me?"
Her voice was abrupt and hoarse; his was calm and cool as the fall of
the dew.
"I want to tell you if I can. But I shall hurt you."
"I am very willing, if it eases you. Go on."
"It wont ease me. But you must know it. You ought to know. O, Basil, I
made such a mistake when I married you!"--
She did not mean to say anything so bitter as that; she was where she
could not measure her words. Perhaps his face paled a little; in the
faint light she could not see the change of colour. His voice did not
change.
"What new has brought that up?"
"Nothing new. Something old. O Basil--his sister has been here to-day
to see me."
"Has she?" His voice did change a little then. "What did she come for?"
"I don't know. And _he_ will be here, perhaps, by and by. O Basil, do
you know who it is? And what shall I do?"
Diana had sprung up from her chair and dropped down on the floor by her
husband's side, and hid her face in her hands on his knee. His hand
passed tenderly, sorrowfully, over the beautiful hair, which lay in
disordered, bright, soft masses over head and neck. For a moment he did
not speak.
"Basil--do you know who it is?"
"I know."
"What shall I do?"
"What do you want to do, Diana?"
"Right"--she said, gasping, without looking up.
"I am sure of it!" he said tenderly. "Well, then--the only way is, to
go on and do right, Diana."
"But how can I? how shall I? Suppose he comes? O Basil, it was all a
mistake; he wrote, and mother kept back the letters, and I never got
them; he sent them, and I never got them; and I thought he was not true
and it did not matter what I did, and I honoured you above everything,
Basil--and so--and so--I did what I did"--
"What cannot be undone."
"No--" she said, shivering.
He passed his hands again over her soft hair, and bent down and kissed
it.
"You honour yourself, too, Diana, as well as me."
"Yes--" she said, under breath.
"And you honour our God, who has let all this come upon us both?"
"But, O Basil! how could he? how could he?"
"I don't know."
"And yet you say he is good?"
"And so you say too. The only good; the utterly, perfectly good; who
loves his people, and keeps his promises, and who has said that all
things shall work together for the good of those that love him."
"How can such a thing as this?" she said faintly.
"Suppose you and I cannot see how? Then faith comes in and believes it
without seeing. We shall see by and by."
"But Basil--suppose--Evan--comes?"
"Well?"
"Suppose--he came--here?"
"Well, Diana?"
She was silent then, but she shook and trembled and writhed. Her head
was still where she had laid it; her face hidden.
"You are going through as great a trial, my poor wife, as almost ever
falls to the lot of a mortal. But you will go through it, and come out
from it; and then it will be found to have been 'unto praise and honour
and glory'--by and by."
"O how can you tell?"
"I trust in God. And I trust you."
"But I think he will come--here to Pleasant Valley, I mean. And if he
comes--here, to this house, I mean"--
"What then?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"About seeing him?"
"Yes."
"What you like best to do, Diana."
"Basil--he does not know."
"What does he not know?"
"About the letters or anything. He has never heard--never a word from
me."
"There was an understanding between you before he went away?"
"Oh yes!"
Both were silent again for a time; silent and still. Then Diana spoke
timidly:
"Do you think it would be wrong for him to know?"
Her husband delayed his answer a little; truly, if Diana had something
to suffer, so had he; and I suppose there was somewhat of a struggle in
his own mind to be won through; however, the answer when it came was a
quiet negative.
"May I write and tell him?"
He bent down and kissed her fingers as he replied--"I will."
"O Basil," said the woman at his feet, "I have wished I could die a
thousand times!--and I am well and strong, and I cannot die."
"No," he said gravely; "we must not run away from our work."
"Work!" said Diana, sitting back now and looking up at him;--"what
work?"
"The work our Master has given us to do to glorify him. To fight with
evil and overcome it; to endure temptation, and baffle it; to carry our
banner of salvation through the thick of the smoke and the fire, and
never let it fall."
"I am so weak, I cannot fight."
"The fight of faith you can. The only sort of fighting that can
prevail. Faith lays hold of Christ's strength, and so comes off more
than conqueror. All you can do, is to hold fast to him."
"O Basil! why does he let such things happen? why does he let such
things happen? Here is my life broken--and yours; both broken and
ruined."
"No," the minister answered quietly,--"not mine, nor yours. Broken, if
you will, but not ruined. Neither yours nor mine, Diana. With the love
of Christ in our hearts, that can never be. He will not let it be."
"It is all ruined," said Diana; "it is all ruined. I am full of evil
thoughts, and no good left. I have wished to die, and I have wanted to
run away--I felt as if I must"--
"But instead of dying or running away, you have stood nobly and bravely
to your post of suffering. Wait and trust. The Lord means good to us
yet."
"What possible good?"
"Perhaps, that being stripped of all else, we may come to know him."
"Is it necessary that people should be stripped of all before they can
do that?"
"Sometimes."
Diana stood still, and again there was silence in the room. The soft
June air, heavy with the breath of roses, floated in at the open
window, bringing one of those sharp contrasts which make the heart sick
with memory and longing; albeit the balsam of promise be there too.
People miss that. "Now men see not the bright light that is in the
clouds;" and how should they? when the darkness of night seems to have
fallen; how can they even remember that behind that screen of darkness
there is a flood of glory? There came in sounds at the window too, from
the garden and the wood on the hillside; chirruping sounds of insects,
mingled with the slight rustle of leaves and the trickle of water from
a little brook which made all the noise it could over the stones in its
way down the hill. The voices were of tender peace; the roses and the
small life of nature all really told of love and care which can as
little fail for the Lord's children as for the furniture of their
dwelling-place. Yet that very unchangeableness of nature hurts, which
should comfort. Diana stood still, desolate, to her own sense seeming a
ruin already; and her husband sat in his place, also still, but he was
calm. They were quiet long enough to think of many things.
"You are very good, Basil!" Diana said at last.
It was one of those words which hurt unreasonably. Not because they are
not true words and heartily meant, but because they are the poor
substitute for those we would like to hear, and give us an ugly scale
to measure distances and differences by. Basil made no sort of answer.
Diana stood still. In her confusion of thoughts she did not miss the
answer. Then she began again.
"Evan--I mean, Basil!"--and she started;--"I wish we could get away."
"From Pleasant Valley?"
"Yes."
"My work is here."
Is mine here too? thought Diana, as she slowly went away into the other
room. What is mine? To die by this fire that burns in me; or to freeze
stiff in the cold that sometimes almost stops my heart's beating? She
came up to the side of her baby's crib and stood there looking, dimly
conscious of an inner voice that said her work was not death.