SUNSHINE.
A few days later, the minister came home one evening with a message for
his wife.
"Good old Mother Bartlett is going home, Diana, and she wants to see
you."
"Home? Is she dying, do you mean?"
"_She_ does not mean it. To her, it is entering into life."
"But what's the matter?"
"You know she had that bad cold. I think the treatment was worse than
the disease; and under the effects of both, her strength seems to have
given way. She is sinking quietly."
"I will go down there in the morning."
So the next day, early, Basil drove his wife down and left her at the
cottage. It was somehow to Diana's feeling just such another day as had
been that other wonderful one when she had seen Evan first, and he
harnessed Prince, and they came together over this very road. Perhaps
soon Evan would be riding there again, without her, as she was going
now without him. Never together again, never together again! and what
was life to either of them apart? Diana went into the cottage walking
as one in a dream.
The cottage was in nice order, as usual, though no woman's hand had
been about. Joe, rough as he was, could be what his friends called
"real handy;" and he had put everything in trim and taken all care for
his mother's comfort before he went out. The minister had told him
Diana would be there; so after he had done this he went to his work.
Mrs. Bartlett was lying on her bed in the inner room. Diana kissed her,
with a heart too full at the moment to speak.
"Did the minister bring you?" the old lady asked.
"Yes. Are you all alone?"
"The Lord never leaves his children alone, dear. They leave him
sometimes. Won't you open the winders, Diana. Joe forgot that, and I
want to see the sun."
Diana rolled up the thick paper shades which hung over the windows, and
put up the sashes. Summer air poured in, so full of warmth and
brightness and sounds of nature's activity, that it seemed to roll up a
tide of life to the very feet of the dying woman. She looked, and drew
a deep breath or two.
"That's good!" she said. "The Lord made the sunshine. Now sit down,
dear; I want to see you. Sit down there, where I _can_ see you."
"Does Joe leave you here by yourself?"
"He knew you was comin'. Joe's a good boy. But I don't want him nor
nobody hangin' round all the time, Diana. There ain't nothin' to do;
only he forgot the winders, and I want to look out and see all my
riches."
"Your riches, Mother Bartlett?"--And she was not going to live but a
few days more. Diana wondered if her senses were wandering. But the old
lady smiled; the wise, sweet smile that Diana knew of old.
"Whose be they, then?" she asked.
"You mean, all this pretty summer day?"
"Ain't it pretty? And ain't the sunshine clear gold? And ain't the sky
a kind of an elegant canopy? And it's all mine, and all it covers, and
he that made it too; and seein' what he makes, puts me in mind of how
rich he is and what more he kin do. How's the baby?"
For some little time the baby was talked of, in both present and future
relations.
"And you're very happy, Diana?" the old woman asked. "I hain't seen you
now for quite a spell--'most all winter."
"I ought to be"--Diana answered, hesitating.
"Some things folks does because they had ought to," remarked the old
lady, "but bein' happy ain't one of 'em. The whole world had ought to
be happy, if you put it so. The Lord wants 'em to be."
"Not happy"--said Diana hastily.
"Yes. 'Tain't his fault if they ain't."
"How can he want everybody to be happy, when he makes them so unhappy?"
"He?--the Lord? He don't make nobody unhappy, child. How did that git
in your head?"
"Well, it comes to the same thing, Mother Bartlett. He lets things
happen."
"He hain't chained up Satan yet, if that's what you mean. But Satan
can't do no harm to the Lord's children. He's tried, often enough, but
the Lord won't let him."
"But, Mother Bartlett, that's only a way of talking. I don't know if it
is Satan does it, but every sort of terrible thing comes to them. How
can you say it's not evil?"
"'Cause the good Lord turns it to blessing, dear. Or if he don't, it's
'cause they won't let him. O' course it is Satan does it--Satan and his
ministers. 'Every good gift and every perfect gift cometh down from the
Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of
turning.' How should he be kind to-day and unkind to-morrow?"
Diana could not trust her voice and was silent. The old woman looked at
her, and said in a changed tone presently,
"What's come to you, Diana Masters? You had ought to be the happiest
woman there is livin'."
Diana could not answer.
"_Ain't_ you, dear?" Mrs. Bartlett added tenderly.
"I didn't mean to speak of myself," Diana said, making a tremendous
effort to bring out her words unconcernedly; "but I get utterly puzzled
sometimes, Mother Bartlett, when I see such things happen--such things
as do happen, and to good people too."
"You ain't the fust one that's been puzzled that way," returned the old
woman. "Job was all out in his reckoning once; and David was as stupid
as a beast, he says. But when chillen gets into the dark, they're apt
to run agin sun'thin' and hurt theirselves. Stay in the light, dear."
"How can one, always?"
"O, child, jes' believe the Lord's word. That'll keep you near him; and
there is no darkness where he is."
"What _is_ his word, that I must believe?--about this, I mean."
"That he loves us, dear; loves us tender and true; like you love your
little baby, only a deal more; and truer, and tenderer. For a woman
_may_ forget her sucking child, but he never will forget. And all
things he will make to 'work together for good to them that love him.'"
Diana shook and trembled with the effort to command herself and not
burst into a storm of weeping, which would have betrayed what she did
not choose to betray. She sat by the bedpost, clasping it, and with the
same clasp as it were holding herself. For a moment _she_ had
"forgotten her sucking child,"--the words came home; and it was only by
that convulsive hold of herself that she could keep from crying out.
With her face turned away from the sick woman, she waited till the
convulsion had passed; and then said in measured, deliberate accents,
"It is hard to see how some things can turn out for good--some things I
have known."
"Well, you ain't infinite, be you?" said Mrs. Bartlett. "You can't see
into the futur'; and what's more, you can't see into the present. You
don't know what's goin' on in your own heart--not as _he_ knows it. No
more you ain't almighty to change things. If I was you, I would jest
trust him that is all-wise, and knows everything, and almighty and kin
do what he likes."
"Then why don't he make people good?"
"I said, he kin do what he likes. He don't like to do people's own work
for 'em. He _doos_ make 'em good, as soon as they're willin' and ask
him. But the man sick with the palsy had to rise and take up his bed
and walk; and what's more, he had to believe fust he could do it. I
know the Lord gave the power, but the man had his part, you see."
"Mother Bartlett," said Diana, rousing herself, "you must not talk so
much."
"Don't do me no harm, Diana."
"But you have talked enough. Now let me give you your broth."
"Then you must talk. I hain't so many opportunities o' social converse
that I kin afford to let one of 'em slip. You must talk while I'm
eatin'."
But Diana seemed to have nothing to say. She watched the spoonfuls of
broth in attentive silence.
"What's new, Diana? there allays is sun'thin'."
"Nothing new. Only"--said Diana, correcting herself, "the Knowltons are
coming back to Elmfield. Mrs. Reverdy _is_ come."
"Be the hull o' them comin'?"
"I believe so."
"What for?"
"I don't know. To enjoy the summer, I suppose."
"That's their sort," said the old woman slowly. "Jest to get pleasure.
I used for to see 'em flyin' past here in all the colours o' the
rainbow--last time they was in Pleasant Valley."
"But God made the colours of the rainbow," said Diana.
"So he did," the old lady answered, laughing a little. "So he did; and
the colours of the flowers, which is the same colours, to be sure; but
what then, Diana?"
"I was thinking, Mother Bartlett--it cannot displease him that we
should like them too."
"No, child, it don't; nor it don't displease him to have us wear 'em,
nother,--if we could only wear 'em as innercently as the flowers doos.
If you kin, Diana, you may be as scarlet as a tulip or as bright as a
marigold, for all I care."
"But people are not any better for putting on dark colours," said Diana.
"They're some modester, though."
"Why?"
"They ain't expectin' that folks'll be lookin' at 'em."
"Mr. Masters likes me to wear bright dresses."
"Then do it, child. It's considerable of a pleasure to have his eyes
pleased. Do you know what a husband you've got, Diana?"
"Yes."
"He's 'most like one o' them flowers himself. He's so full o' the
sweetness the Lord has put into him, and he's jest as unconscious that
he's spreadin' it wherever he goes."
Diana was silent. She would have liked again to burst into tears; she
controlled herself as before.
"That ain't the way with those Knowlton girls; nor it ain't the way
they wear their fine colours, neither. Can't you get a little sense
into their heads, Diana?"
"I? They think nothing of me, Mother Bartlett."
"Maybe not, two years ago, but they will now. You're the minister's
wife, Diana. They allays sot a great deal by him."
Diana was chewing the cud of this, when Mrs. Bartlett asked again,
"Who's sick in the place?"
"Quite a number. There's Mrs. Wilson at the tavern; she's sinking at
last; my husband sees her every day. Then old Josh Lightfoot--he's down
with I don't know what; very sick. Mrs. Saddler has a child that has
been hurt; he was pitched off a load of hay and fell upon a fork; his
mother is distracted about him, and it is all Mr. Masters can do to
quiet her. And Lizzie Satterthwaite is going slowly, you know, in
consumption, and _she_ expects to see him every day. And that isn't
all; for over in the village of Bromble there is sickness--I suppose
there always is in that miserable place."
"And the minister goes there too, I'll be bound?"
"O yes. He goes everywhere, if people want him. It takes twenty miles
of riding a day, he told me, just to visit all these people that he
must see."
"Ay, ay," said the old woman contentedly; "enjoyment ain't the end of
life, but to do the will of God; and he's doin' it. And enjoyment comes
that way, too; ay, ay! 'an hundred-fold now, in this world, and in the
world to come eternal life.' I hain't ever been able to do much, Diana;
but it has been sweet--his service--all along the way; and now I'm
goin' where it'll be nothin' but sweetness for ever."
A little tired, perhaps, with talking, for she had talked with a good
deal of energy, the old lady dozed off into a nap; and Diana sat alone
with the summer stillness, and thought over and over some of the words
that had been said. It was the hush of the summer stillness, and also
the full pulse of the summer life that she felt as she sat there; not
soothing to inaction, but stirring up the loving doing. A warm breath
of vital energy, an odorous witness-bearing of life fruitfulness, a hum
and a murmur of harmonious forces in action, a depth of colour in the
light and in the shadow, which told of the richness and fullness of the
natural world. Nothing idle, nothing unfruitful, nothing out of
harmony, nothing in vain. How about Diana Masters, and her work and her
part in the great plan? Again the gentle summer air which stole in,
laden with such scents and sweets, rich and bountiful out of the
infinite treasury, spoke of love at the heart of creation. But there
were cold winds, too, sometimes; icy storms; desolations of tempests;
they had been here not long ago. True, but yet it was not those, but
_this_ which carried on the life of the world; this was the "Yes," and
those others the "No," of creation; and an affirmative is stronger than
a negative any day, by universal acknowledgment. Moreover, that "No"
was in order to this "Yes;" gave way before it, yielded to it; and life
reigned in spite of death. Vaguely Diana's mind felt and carried on the
analogy, and the reasoning from analogy, and drew a chill, far-off hope
from it. For it was the time of storm and desolation with her now, and
the summer sun had not come yet. She sat musing while the old lady
slumbered.
"Hullo, Diany! here you be!" exclaimed the voice of Joe Bartlett,
suddenly breaking in. "Here's your good man outside, waitin' for you, I
guess; his horse is a leetle skittish. What ails your mother?"
"My mother?"
"Yes. Josh says--you see, I've bin down to mill to git some rye ground,
and he was there; and what's more, he had the start of me, and I had to
wait for him, or I wouldn't ha' stood there chatterin' while the sun
was shinin' like it is to-day; that ain't my way. But Josh says she's
goin' round groanin' at sun'thin'--and that ain't _her_ way, nother.
Mind you, it ain't when anybody's by; I warrant you, she don't give no
sign _then_ that anythin's botherin' her; Josh says it's when she's
alone. I didn't ask him how he come to know so much, and so little; but
I wisht I had," Joe finished his speech laughing.
Diana took her hat, kissed the old woman, and went out to her husband,
who was waiting for her. And some miles of the drive were made in
silence. Then as the old brown house came in sight, with the weeping
elms over the gate, Diana asked her husband to stop for a minute or
two. He reined up under the elm trees and helped Diana out, letting
her, however, go in alone.
Diana was not often here, naturally; between her and her mother, who
never in the best of times had stood near together or shared each
other's deeper sympathies, a gulf had opened. Besides, the place was
painful to Diana on other accounts. It was full of memories and
associations; she always seemed to herself when there as a dead person
might on revisiting the place where once he had lived; she felt dead to
all but pain, and the impression came back with sharp torture that once
she used to be alive. So as the shadow of the elm branches fell over
her now, it hurt her inexpressibly. She was alive when she had dwelt
under them; yes, she and Evan too. She hurried her steps and went in at
the lean-to door.
It was now long past mid-day. The noon meal was over, apparently, and
every sign of it cleared away. The kitchen was in spotless order; but
beside the table sat Mrs. Starling, doing nothing; an unheard-of state
of affairs. Diana came farther in.
"Mother"--
"Well, Diana,"--said Mrs. Starling, looking up. "What's brought you
now?"
"I've been down to see Mrs. Bartlett--she sent for me--and I thought I
would stop in as I went by. Mr. Masters is outside."
"Well, I've no objection," said Mrs. Starling ambiguously.
"How do you do?"
"Middling."
"Is all getting on well with the farm and the dairy?"
"I don't let it be no other way."
Diana saw that something was wrong, but knew also that if she were to
find it out it would be by indirect ways.
"May I go into the pantry and get some milk? I've been a good while
from home, and I'm hungry."
"Go along," said her mother ungraciously. "I should think likely, if
_you_ are hungry, your baby is too. That's a new way of doing things.
'Twarn't ever my way. A woman that's got a baby ought to attend to it.
An' if she don't, her husband ought to make her."
"I've not been gone so long as all that comes to," said Diana; and she
went into the pantry, her old domain. The pans of milk looked friendly
at her; the sweet clean smell of cream carried her back--it seemed
ages--to a time when she was as sweet and clean. "Yet it is not my
fault,"--she said to herself,--"it is _her's_--all her's." She snatched
a piece of bread and a glass of milk, and swallowed it hastily. Then,
as she came out, she saw that one of her mother's hands lay bandaged up
in her lap under the table.
"Mother, what's the matter with your hand?"
"O, not much."
"But what? It's all tied up. Have you burned it?"
"No."
"What then? Cut yourself?"
"I should like to know how I should go to work to cut my right hand!
Don't make a fuss about nothing, Diana. It's only scalded."
"Scalded! How?"
"I shall never be able to tell that, to the end of my days," said Mrs.
Starling. "If pots and kettles and that could be possessed, I should
know what to think. I was makin' strawberry preserve--and the kettle
was a'most full, and it was first rate preserve, and boiling, and
almost done, and I had just set it down on the hearth; and then, I
don't know how to this day, I stumbled--I don't know over what--and my
arm soused right in."
"Boiling sweetmeat!" cried Diana. "Mother, let me see. It must be
dreadfully burned."
"It's all done up," said Mrs. Starling coldly. "I was real put out
about my preserves."
"Have you had dinner?"
"I never found I could live 'thout eating."
"Who got dinner for you, and cleared away?"
"Nobody. I did it myself."
"For the men and all!"
"Well, _they_ don't count to live without eatin', no mor'n I do," said
Mrs. Starling with a short laugh.
"And you did it with one hand!"
"Did you ever know me to stop in anything I had to do, for want of a
hand?" said Mrs. Starling scornfully.
No, thought Diana to herself; nor for want of anything else, even
though it were right or conscience. Aloud she only said,
"I must go home to baby"--
"You had better, I should think," her mother broke in.
"Can I do anything for you first?"
"You can see for yourself, there is nothing to do."
"Shall I come back and stay with you to-night?"
"You had better ask the Dominie."
"Mother, he _never_ wants me to do anything but just what is right,"
Diana said seriously. Mrs. Starling lifted up her head and gave a
curious searching look into her daughter's face. What was she trying to
find?
"That's one turtle dove," she said. "And are you another, and always
bob your head when he bobs his'n?"
Diana wondered at this speech; it seemed to her, her mother was losing
ground even in the matter of language. No thought of irritation crossed
her; she was beyond trifles now. She made no answer; she merely bade
her mother good-bye, and hurried out. And for a long while the drive
was again in silence. Then, when the grey horse was walking up a hill,
Diana spoke in a meditative sort of way.
"Basil--you said enjoyment was not the end of life"--
"Did I?" he answered gravely.
"If you didn't, it was Mother Bartlett. You _do_ say so, I suppose?"
"Yes. It is not the end of life."
"What is, then?"
"To do the will of God. And by and by, if not sooner, enjoyment comes
that way too, Diana. And when it comes that way, it stays, and lasts."
"How long?"
"For ever and ever!"
Diana waited a few minutes and then spoke again.
"Basil--I want to consult you."
"Well, do it."
"Ought I to leave my mother to live alone, as she is? She is not young
now."
"What would you do?"
"If I knew, Basil, I would like it to do what I _ought_ to do."
"Would you take her to live with you?"
"If you would?--and she would."
Basil put his arm round his wife and bent down and kissed her. He would
not have done it if he could have guessed how she shrank.
"If you will take life on those terms," he said, "then it will be true
for you, that 'sorrow may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the
morning.'"
It will be the morning of the resurrection, then, thought Diana; but
she only replied,
"What 'terms,' Basil, do you mean?"
"Doing the Lord's will. His will is always good, Diana, and brings
sweet fruit; only you must wait till the fruit is ripe, my child."
"Then what about mother?"
"I do not believe she would come to us."
"Nor I. Suppose she would let us come to her?"
"Then I would go,--if you wished it."
"I don't wish it, Basil. I was thinking, if I could bear it? But the
thought will not out of my head, that she ought not to be alone."
"Then do what is in thine heart," the minister said cheerfully.