BUDS AND BLOSSOMS.
It was the end of September. Nearing a time of storms again in the air
and on the sea; but an absolute calm had settled down upon Diana. Not
at all the calm of death; for after death, in this warfare, comes not
only victory, but new life. It was very strange, even to herself. She
had ceased to think of Captain Knowlton; if she thought of him, it was
with the recognition that his power over her was gone. She felt like a
person delivered from helpless bondage. There was some lameness, there
were some bruises yet from the fight gone by; but Diana was every day
recovering from these, and elasticity and warmth were coming back to
the members that had been but lately rigid and cold. The sun shone
again for her, and the sky was blue, and the arch of it grew every day
loftier and brighter to her sense. At first coming to Clifton, Diana
had perceived the beauties and novelties of her new surroundings; now
she began to enjoy them. The salt air was delicious; the light morning
mist over the bay, as she saw it when she went to take her morning
bath, held a whole day of sunlit promise within its mysterious folds;
the soft low hum of the distant city, which she could hear when the
waves were still, made the solitude and the freshness and the purity of
the island seem doubly rare and sweet. And her baby began to be now to
Diana the most wonderful of delights; more than ever it had been at any
previous time.
All this while she had had letters from Basil; not very long letters,
such as a man can write to a woman whose whole sympathy he knows he
has; but good letters, such as a man can write to a woman to whom his
own heart and soul have given all they have. Not that he ever spoke of
that fact, or alluded to it. Basil was no maudlin, and no fool to ask
for a gift which cannot be yielded by an effort of will; and besides,
he had never entirely lost hope; so that, though things were dark
enough for him certainly, he could write manly, strong, sensible
letters, which, in their very lack of all allusion to his own feelings,
spoke whole volumes to the woman who knew him and could interpret them.
The thought of him grieved her; it was getting to be now the only grief
she had. Her own letters to him were brief and rare. Diana had a
nervous fear of letting the Clifton postmark be seen on a letter of
hers at home, knowing what sort of play sometimes went on in the
Pleasant Valley post office; so she never sent a letter except when she
had a chance to despatch it from New York. These epistles were very
abstract; they spoke of the baby, told of Mrs. Sutphen, gave details of
things seen and experienced; but of Diana's inner life, the fight and
the victory, not a whit. She could not write about them to Basil; for,
glad as he would be of what she could tell him, she could not say
enough. In getting deliverance from a love it was wrong to indulge, in
becoming able to forget Evan, she had not thereby come nearer to her
husband, or in the least fonder of thinking of him; and so Diana shrank
from the whole subject when she found herself with pen in hand and
paper before her.
When September was gone and October had begun its course, a letter came
from Basil in which he desired to know about Diana's plans. There were
no hindrances any longer in the way of her coming home, he told her.
Diana had known that such a notification would come, must come, and yet
it gave her an unwelcome start. Mrs. Sutphen had handed it to her as
they came in from their morning dip in the salt water; the coachman had
brought it late last evening from the post office, she said. Diana had
dressed before reading it; and when she had read it, she sat down upon
the threshold of her glass door to think and examine herself.
It was October, yet still and mild as June. Haze lay lingering about
the horizon, softened the shore of Long Island, hid with a thick
curtain the place of the busy city, the roar of which Diana could
plainly enough hear in the stillness, a strange, indistinct,
mysterious, significant murmur of distant unrest. All before and around
her was rest; the flowing waters were too quiet to-day to suggest
anything disquieting; only life, without which rest is nought. The air
was inexpressibly sweet and fresh; the young light of the day dancing
as it were upon every cloud edge and sail edge, in jocund triumph
beginning the work which the day would see done. Diana sat down and
looked out into it all, and tried to hold communion with herself. She
was sorry to leave this place. Yes, why not? She was sorry to exchange
her present life for the old one. Quiet and solitary it had been, this
life at Clifton, for Mrs. Sutphen scarcely made her feel less alone
with her than without her; and she had held herself back from society.
Quiet and solitary, and lately healing; and Pleasant Valley was full of
painful memories and associations, her mother, and--her husband. Diana
felt as if she could have welcomed everything else, if only Basil had
not been there. The sight of the lovely bay with its misty shores and
its springing light hurt her at last, because she must leave it; she
sank her face in her hands and began to call herself to account. Duty
was waiting before her; was she not willing to take it up? She had
surrendered her will utterly to God in the matter of her love to Evan,
and she had been delivered from the torture and the bondage of it;
quite delivered; she could bear to live without Evan now, she could
bear to live without thinking of him; he would always be in a certain
sense dear, but the spell of passion was broken for ever. That did not
make her love her husband. No; but would not the same strength that had
freed her from temptation on the one hand, help her to go forward and
do her duty on the other? And in love and gratitude for the deliverance
vouchsafed her, should she not do it? "I will do it, if I die!" was her
inward conclusion. "And I shall not die, but by the Lord's help I shall
do it."
So she wrote to her husband that she was ready, and he came to fetch
her.
The Pleasant Valley maples were flaunting in orange and crimson when
the home journey was made. The fairest month of the year was in the
prime of its beauty; the air had that wonderful clearness and calm
which bids the spirit of the beholder be still and be glad, saying that
there is peace and victory somewhere, and rest, when the harvest of
life is gathered. Diana felt the speech, but thought nevertheless that
for _her_, peace and victory were a good way off. She believed they
would come, when life was done; the present thing was to live, and
carry the burden and do the work. The great elms hung still green and
sheltering over the lean-to door. The house was enlarged and improved;
and greatly beautified with a coat of paint. Diana saw it all; and she
saw the marvellous beauty of the meadows and their bordering hills; she
felt as if she were coming to her prison and place of hard labour.
"How do you like the looks of things?" her husband asked.
"Nice as can be."
"You like it?"
"Very much. I am glad you did not make the house white."
"I remembered you said it ought to be brown."
"But would you have liked it white?"
"I would have liked it no way but your way," he said with a slight
smile and look at her, which Diana could not answer, and which cut her
sharply. She had noticed, she thought, that Basil was more sober than
he used to be. She thought she knew why; and she wanted to tell him
part of what had gone on in her mind of late, and how free she was of
the feelings he supposed were troubling her; but a great shyness of the
subject had seized Diana. She was afraid to broach it at all, lest
going on from one thing to another, Basil might ask a question she
could not answer. She was very sorry for him, so much that she almost
forgot to be sorry for herself, as she went into the house.
Mrs. Flandin was sitting with Mrs. Starling in the lean-to kitchen.
"So you made up your mind to come home," was her mother's greeting. "I
almost wonder you did."
"If you knew how good the salt water was to me, you might wonder,"
Diana answered cheerfully.
"Well, I never could see what there was in salt water!" said Mrs.
Flandin, "that folks should be so crazy to go into it! If I was
drownin', 'seems to me I'd rather have my mouth full o' sun'thin'
sweet."
"But I was not drowning," said Diana.
"Well, I want to know what you've got by stayin' away from your place
all summer"--her mother went on.
"Her place was there," said the minister, who followed Diana in.
"Now, dominie," said Mrs. Flandin, "you say that jes' 'cause she's your
wife. Hain't her place been empty all these months? Where is a wife's
place? I should like to hear you say."
"Don't you think it is where her husband wants her to be?"
"And you wanted her to be away from you down there? Do you mean that?"
"If he had not, I should not have gone, Mrs. Flandin," Diana said, and
with a smile.
"Well now, du tell! what good did salt water do ye? The minister said
you was gone to salt water somewheres."
"It did me more good than I could ever make you understand."
"I don't believe it!" said Mrs. Starling harshly. "You mean, it was a
clever thing to play lady and sit with your hands before you all
summer. It was good there was somebody at home to do the work."
"Not your work, Di," said her husband good humouredly; "nor my work.
_I_ did that. Come along and see what I have done."
He drew her off, into the little front hall or entry; from there,
through a side door into the new part of the building. There was a
roomy, cool, bright room, lined with the minister's books; curtained
and furnished, not expensively, indeed, yet with a thorough air of
comfort. Taking the baby from her arms, Basil led the way from this
room, up a short stairway, to chambers above which were charmingly
neat, light, and cheerful, all in order; everything was done,
everything was there that ought to be there. He laid the sleeping child
down in its crib, and turned to his wife with a serious face.
"How will you stand it, Diana?"
"Basil, I was just thinking, how will you?"
"We can do what ought to be done," said he, looking into her face.
"I know you can. I think I can too--in this. And I think it is right to
take care of mother. I am sure it is."
"Diana, by the Lord's help we can do right in everything."
"Yes, Basil; I know it!" she said, meeting his eyes with a steady look.
He turned away, very grave, but with a deep ejaculation of
thankfulness. Diana's eyes filled; but she, too, turned away. She could
add no more. It was not words, but living, that must speak for her now.
And it did--even that same evening. Mrs. Flandin would not go away; it
was too good an opportunity of gathering information about various
points on which the "town" had been curious and divided. She kept her
place till after supper. But all she could see was a fair, quiet
demeanour; an unruffled, beautiful face; and an unconscious dignity of
carriage which was somewhat provokingly imposing. She saw that Diana
was at home, and likely to be mistress in her own sphere; held in too
much honour by her husband, and holding him in too much honour, for
that a pin's point of malicious curiosity might find an entering place
between them. She reported afterwards that the minister was a fool and
his wife another, and so they fitted. Mrs. Starling was inclined to be
of the same opinion.
The two most nearly concerned knew better. _Fit_ they did not, though
they were the only ones of all the world that knew it. While Diana had
been away at Clifton, the minister had managed to make one of the
company at Elmfield rather often, moved by various reasons. One effect,
however, of this plan of action had been unfavourable to his own peace
of mind. He saw Evan and came to know him; he _would_ know him, though
the young man would much rather have kept aloof from contact with
Diana's husband. Basil's simplicity of manner and straightforwardness
were too much for him. And while an unwilling and enormous respect for
the minister grew up in Captain Knowlton's mind, the minister on his
part saw and felt, and perhaps exaggerated, the attractiveness of the
young army officer. Basil was not at all given to self-depreciation; in
fact, he did not think of himself enough for such a mischievous mental
transaction; however, he perceived the grace of figure and bearing, the
air of command and the beauty of feature, which he thought might well
take a woman's eye. "My poor Diana!" he said to himself; "her fancy has
caught the stamp of all this--and will hold it. Naturally. She is not a
woman to like and unlike. What chance for me!"
Which meditations, unwholesome as they were, did not prevent Basil's
attaching himself to Captain Knowlton's society, and making a friend of
him, in spite of both their selves, as it were. The captain's mental
nature, he suspected and found, was by no means in order to correspond
with his physical; and if a friend could help him, he would be that
friend. And Basil did not see that the young officer's evident respect
for himself, and succumbing to his friendly advances, were a very
significant tribute to his own personal and other qualities. It was a
little matter to him, indeed, such tribute, if he could not have it
from his wife.
He had everything else in her that a man's heart could desire! He saw
that, soon after her return from Clifton. Diana's demeanour had been
gracious and sweet before, always, although with a shadow upon it. Now
the shadow was gone, or changed; he could not tell which. She was not
gay-spirited, as he had once known her; but she went about her house
with a gentle grace which never failed. Mrs. Starling was at times
exceedingly trying and irritating. Diana met and received it all as
blandly as she would give her face to the west wind; at the same time,
no rough wind could move her from the way of her duty. Mrs. Starling
was able neither to provoke her nor prevail with her. She was the
sweetest of ruling spirits within her house; without it, she was the
most indefatigable and tender of fellow-workers to her husband. Tender,
not to him, that is, but to all those for whom he and she ministered. A
nurse to the sick, a provider to the very poor, a counsellor to the
vexed,--for such would come to her, especially among the younger
women,--a comforter to those in trouble. Such a comforter! "Lips of
healing," her husband said of her once; "wise, rare; sweet as honey,
but with the savour of the wind blowing over wild thyme." If a little
of that sweetness could have come to him! But while her life was full
of observance for him, gentle and submissive as a child to every
expressed wish of his, and watchful to meet his unexpressed wish, it
was the grief of Diana's life that she did not love this man. In the
reserve of her New England nature, I think what she felt for him was
hidden even from herself.
That is, I mean, as days and months went on. At Diana's first coming
home from Clifton, no doubt her opinion of her own feelings, and
Basil's opinion of them, was correct. If a change came, it came so
imperceptibly that nobody knew it.
Diana's beauty at this time had taken a new phasis. It had lost the
marble rigidity and calm impassiveness which had characterized it
during all the time of her married life hitherto; and it had not
regained the careless lightness of the days before she knew Evan. It
was something lovelier than either; so lovely that Basil wondered, and
Mrs. Starling sometimes stared, and every lip "in town" came to have
nothing but utterances of respect, more often utterances of devotion,
for the minister's wife,--I am afraid I cannot give you a just
impression of it. For Diana's face had come curiously near the
expression on the face of her own little child. Innocent, tender,
pure,--something like that. Grave, but with no clouds at all; strong
and purposeful, yet with an utter absence of self-will or
self-consciousness. It had always been, to a certain degree, innocent
and pure, but that was negative; and this was positive,--the refined
gold that had been through the fire. And no baby's face is sweeter than
Diana's was now, all blossoming as it were with love and humility. If
her husband had loved her before, the feeling of longing and despair
that came over him when he looked at this rarefied beauty would be hard
to tell. He had ruined her life, he reproached himself; and she was
lost to him for ever. Yet, as I said, though Diana's face was grave, it
was a gravity wholly without clouds; the gravity of the summer dawn,
when the stars are shining and the light in the East tells of the
coming day.
But mental changes work slowly and insensibly ofttimes; and day after
day and week after week went by, each with its fulness of business and
cares; and no one in the little family knew exactly what forces were
silently busy. So a year rolled round, and another year began its
course, and ran it; and June came for the second time since Diana had
returned from the seaside. Elmfield in all this time had not been
revisited by its owners.
June had come again. Windows were open, and the breath of roses filled
the minister's study; for Diana had developed lately a passion for
flowers and for gardening, and her husband had given her with full
hands all she wanted, and much more. Mrs. Starling had grumbled and
been very sarcastic about it. However, Basil had ordered in plants and
seeds and tools and books of instruction; he had become instructor
himself; and the result was, the parsonage, as people began to call it,
was encompassed with a little wilderness of floral beauty which was
growing to be the wonder of Pleasant Valley. "It will do them good!"
the minister said, when Diana called his attention to the fact that the
country farmers passing by were falling into the habit of reining in
their horses and stopping for a good long look. For instead of the
patch of marigolds and hollyhocks in front of the house, all the wing
inhabited by the minister and his family was surrounded with flowers.
Roses bloomed in the beds and out of the grass, and climbed up on the
walls of the house; white Annunciation lilies shone like stars here and
there; whole beds of heliotrope were preparing their perfume; geraniums
held up their elegant heads of every colour; verbenas and mignonette
and honeysuckle and red lilies and yellow lilies and hardy gladiolus
were either just beginning or in full beauty; with many more, too many
to tell; and the old-fashioned guelder rose had shaken out its white
balls of snow, and one or two laburnums were hung thick with their
clusters of "dropping gold." The garden was growing large, and, as I
said, become a wilderness of beauty. Nevertheless the roses kept their
own, and this afternoon the breath of them, rising above all the other
sweet breaths that were abroad, came in and filled the minister's
study. Diana was there alone sitting by one of the open windows, busy
with some work; not so busy but that she smelt the roses, and felt the
glory of light and colour that was outside, and heard the hum of bees
and the twitter of birds and the soft indistinguishable chirrup of
insects, which filled the air. Diana sewed on, till another slight
sound mingled with those--the tread of a foot on the gravel walk down
below; then she lifted her head suddenly, and with that her hands and
her work fell into her lap. It was long past mid-afternoon, and the
lovely slant light striking over the roses and coming through the crown
of a young elm, fell upon Basil, who was slowly sauntering along the
garden walk with his little girl in his arms. Very slowly, and often
standing still to exchange love passages and indulge mutual admiration
with her. They were partly talking of the flowers, Diana could see; but
her own eyes had no vision but for those two, the baby and the baby's
father. One little fair fat arm was round Basil's neck, the other tiny
hand was sometimes stretched out towards the lilies or the laburnums in
critical or delighted notice-taking, the word accompaniment to which
Diana could not hear but could well guess; at other times it was
brought round ecstatically to join its companion round her father's
neck, or lifted to his face with fingers of caressing, or thrust in
among the locks of his hair, which last seemed to be a favourite
pleasure. Basil would stand still at such times and talk to her, or
wait, Diana knew with just what a smile in his eyes, to take the soft
touches and return them. Diana's work was forgotten, and her eyes were
riveted; why did the scene in the garden give her such pain? She would
have said, if she had been asked, that it was self-reproach and sorrow
for the inevitable. How came it that she held not as near a place to
Basil as her child did? She ought, but it was not so. She thought, she
wished she loved him! She ought to be as free to put her hand on the
soft curls of Basil's hair as her baby was, but they stood too far
apart from each other, and she would as soon have dared anything. And
Basil never looked at _her_ so now-a-days; he had found out how she
felt, and knew she did not care for his looks; and kind, and gentle,
and unselfish as he was, yes, and strong in self-command and self
renunciation, he had resigned his life-hope and left her to her
life-sorrow. Yet Diana knew, with every smile and kiss to the little
one, what a cry of Basil's heart went out towards the child's mother.
Only, he would never give that cry utterance again. "What can I do?"
thought Diana. "I cannot bear it. And he thinks I am a great deal more
unhappy than I am. Unhappy?--I am not unhappy--if only _he_ were not
unhappy."
She could not explain her feelings to herself, she had no notion that
she was jealous of her own child; but the pain bit her, and she could
not endure to sit up there at the window and look on. Rising hastily,
she dropped her work out of her hand, and was about to go down into the
garden to join them, when another glance showed her that Basil had
turned and was coming back into the house. Diana listened to them as
they mounted the stairs, Basil's feet and the baby's voice sounding
together, with a curious unrest at her heart, and her eyes met the pair
eagerly as they entered the room. From what impulse she could not have
told, she advanced to meet them, and stretched out her hands to take
the child, which, however, with a little confident cry of delight,
turned from her and clasped both little arms again round her father's
neck. Basil smiled; Diana tried to follow suit.
"She would rather be with you than with me," she remarked, however.
"I wonder at her bad taste!" said Basil. But he turned his face to the
baby, and laid it gently against her soft cheek.
"It is because you are stronger," Diana went in.
"Is it?"
"That is one thing. You may notice children always like strong arms."
"Her mother's arms are not weak."
"No--but I am not so strong as you, Basil, bodily or mentally. And I
think that is more yet--mental strength, I mean. Children recognise
that, and love to rest on it."
"You do not think such discrimination is confined to children?" said
Basil, with a dry, quiet humourousness at which Diana could not help
smiling, though she felt quite as much like a very different
demonstration. She watched the two, as Basil walked on to his
study-table and sat down, with the child on his knee; she saw the
upturned eye of love with which the little one regarded him as he did
this, and then how, with a long breath of satisfaction, she settled
herself in her place, smoothed down her frock, and laid the little
hands contentedly together in her lap. Basil drew his portfolio towards
him and began to write a letter. Diana went to her work again in the
window, feeling restless. She felt she must say something more, and in
a different key, and as she worked she watched the two at the table.
This was not the way things ought to be. Her husband must be told at
least something of the change that had taken place in her; he ought to
know that she was no longer miserable; he would be glad to know that.
Diana thought he might have seen it without her telling; but if he did
not, then she must speak. He had a right to so much comfort as she
could give him, and he ought to be told that she was not now wishing to
be in another presence and society than his. If she could tell him
without his thinking too much--she watched till the letter was written
and he was folding it up. And then Diana's tongue hesitated
unaccountably.
"Basil," she began, obliging herself to speak,--"I can smell the roses
again."
He looked up instantly with keen eyes.
"You know--there was a long while--a long while--in which I could not
feel that anything was sweet."
"And now?"--
"Now I can. I knew you ought to know. You would be glad. I am like a
person who has been in a brain fever--or dead--and awaked to life and
soundness again. You cannot think what it is to me to see the sky."
Diana's eyes filled.
"What did you use to see?"
"The vault of my prison. What signified whether it were blue or brazen?
But now"--
"Well?--Now, Diana?"
"I can see through."
Perhaps this was not very intelligible, for manifestly it was not easy
for Diana to explain herself; but Basil this time did not speak, and
she presently began again.
"I mean,--there is no prison vault, nor any prison any more; the walls
that seemed to shut me in are dissolved, and I am free again."
"And you can see through?"--Basil repeated.
"Yes. Where my eyes were met by something harder than fate,--it is all
broken up, and light, and clear, and I can see through."
"I never used to think you were a fanciful woman," said the minister,
eyeing her intently, "but this time I do not quite follow you, Di. I am
afraid to take your words for all they may mean."
"But you may."
"What may I?"
"They mean all I say."
"I am sure of that," said he, smiling, though he looked anxious; "but,
you see, there is the very point of my difficulty."
"I mean, Basil, that I am out of my bondage,--which I thought never
could be broken in this world."
"Out of what bondage, my love?"
Diana paused.
"When I went down to Clifton, to Mrs. Sutphen's, do you know, I could
think of nothing but--Evan Knowlton?"
Diana's colour stirred, but she looked her husband steadily in the face.
"I suspected it."
"For a long time I could not, Basil. Night and day I could think of
nothing else. Wasn't that bondage?"
"Depends on how you take it," said the minister.
"But it was _wrong_, Basil."
"I found excuses for you, Diana."
"Did you?" she said humbly. "I daresay you did. It is like you. But it
was wrong, and I knew it was wrong, and I could not help it. Is not
that bondage of the worst sort? O, you don't know, Basil! _you_ never
knew such a fight between wrong and right; between your wish and your
will. But for a long time I did not see that it was wrong; I thought it
was of necessity."
"How came your view to change?"
"I don't know. All of a sudden. Something Mrs. Sutphen said one morning
started my thoughts, and I saw at once that I was doing very wrong.
Still it seemed as if I could not help it."
"How did you help it?"
"_I_ didn't, Basil. I fought and fought--O, what a fight! It seemed
like death, and worse, to give up Evan; and to stop thinking of him
meant, to give him up. I could not gain the victory. But don't you
remember telling me often that Christ would do everything for me if I
would trust him?"
"Yes."
"Basil, he did. It wasn't I. At last I got utterly desperate, and I
threw myself at his feet and claimed the promise. I was as helpless as
I could be. And then Basil, presently,--I cannot tell how,--the work
was done. The battle was fought and the victory was won, and I was
free. And ever since I have been singing songs in my heart."
Basil did not flush with pleasure. Diana thought he grew pale, rather;
but he bowed his head upon the head of the little one on his lap with a
deep low utterance of thanksgiving. She thought he would have shown his
pleasure differently. She did not know how to go on.
"It was not I, Basil"--she said after a pause.
"It never is I or you," answered the minister without looking up. "It
is always Christ if anything is done."
"Since then, you see, I have felt like a freedwoman."
"Which you are."
"And then you cannot think what it was to me, and what it is, to smell
the roses again. There were not many roses about Clifton at that time
in September; but it was the bay, and the shores, and the vessels, and
the sky. I seemed to have got new eyes, and everything was so
beautiful."
Basil repeated his ejaculation of thanksgiving, but he said nothing
more, and Diana felt somehow disappointed. Did he not understand that
she was free? He bowed his head close down upon the head of his little
daughter, and was silent.
"I knew you ought to know"--Diana repeated.
"Thank you," he said.
"And yet I couldn't tell you--though I knew you would be so glad for me
and with me."
"I am unutterably glad for you."
And not with me? she said to herself. Why not? Isn't it enough, if I
don't love anybody else? if I give him all I have to give? even though
that be not what he gives to me. I wish Basil would be reasonable.
It was certainly the first time it had ever occurred to her to make him
the subject of such a wish. But Diana did not speak out her thought,
and of course her husband did not answer it.