_EXPLANATION._
MARIAN had promised Mr. Crosbie to return on the following day, and
her visit was consequently a hurried one. She saw little of Diana, and
sought in vain for a few minutes' conversation alone with Beryl. That
the latter held a new position in the house, that Diana had begun to
depend on her, and that something was wrong with Diana, were facts
easily perceived. Beyond this, Marian made no advance. Diana seemed to
guess her wish, and carefully checkmated each effort in turn.
"I wish people would leave me in peace," Diana said fractiously on
Saturday evening. "I thought I should have a little quiet, now Marian
is disposed of."
Beryl simply asked, "What is it?"
"Miss Carmichael wants you to spend to-morrow with her. So
unreasonable—just when I need you at home particularly."
"I suppose you didn't tell Miss Carmichael you were not well, Aunt Di,"
Beryl ventured to say.
"That is no concern of hers. Besides, I am quite well. I have said so
before."
Beryl was silent.
"I told her you could please yourself; there was nothing to hinder
you that I knew of. She said she should expect you to breakfast at
half-past eight."
"Can you spare me?" asked Beryl, with trembling hope.
"Of course."
Beryl was, as usual, at a loss to understand Diana's changes of mood.
Pearl looked dismayed when she heard of the plan, and used some
persuasions to make Beryl give it up; but Beryl's longing to go was
very great.
"You know I shall be quite close at hand," she said. "You can send me
word at any moment, if I am wanted."
"You are not going to stay late, I hope. I can't undertake Aunt Di,"
was Pearl's pettish answer.
Beryl went; but Diana's manner and Pearl's remonstrances cast a grey
shadow over her day. She was haunted all breakfast-time by an uneasy
wonder, "Ought she to have refused to come?"
At Church, sitting in Miss Carmichael's pew, she could see Mrs.
Fenwick's pew to be empty, and her uneasiness deepened. All through
the sweet and solemn Communion Service, her attention was painfully
distracted.
And when it was over, she walked home between her friends without a
word, gloomy and dissatisfied.
"Well, Beryl?" Miss Carmichael said, as they reached the garden-gate.
"I ought to go home now," said Beryl.
"I saw that was in your mind. No; you must dine with us first. We are
late, remember, and your aunt's dinner will be over."
Beryl followed her into the house, saying, "I don't think I ought to
stay afterwards."
Miss Carmichael offered no objections. Dinner passed almost in silence.
Beryl was apt to become engrossed with one idea, and when so engrossed
she could not bend her attention to other matters.
But when dinner was over, Miss Carmichael left the room, and came back
to say, "I sent to ask how Mrs. Fenwick is, and whether you are wanted.
The answer at the door was that she is well, and you may stay with us
as long as you feel inclined."
Beryl looked extremely doubtful.
"Do as you like," said Miss Carmichael kindly. "I will not keep you, if
you think you ought to go."
Beryl sat considering, and her friends waited patiently.
"No," she said; "not directly. Aunt Di might not be pleased. I think I
had better go back in an hour."
"So be it," Miss Carmichael answered.
Somewhat later, when Hester was absent for a few minutes, she said
quietly, "The morning has not been all joy."
"No," said Beryl sadly. "I could not feel sure that I was right to
come, and it seemed to make everything dull. I didn't enjoy it at all
as I expected."
"One's own arrangements are not always the best," said Miss Carmichael.
"I wanted you here, and you wanted to come, for this first time. But,
under the circumstances, perhaps if you had gone straight out of your
home duties, you would have found more happiness in it."
"I was so afraid Aunt Di would say or do something beforehand to upset
me."
"Something to bring a shadow. And the very means we took to prevent
that, brought the shadow."
"Yes; it does seem odd," said Beryl.
"But now that is over. We will not waste our hour in vain regrets,
Beryl. Here comes Hester, and we are going to read something nice, all
together. I should like to send you back feeling cheery again."
The hour grew into an hour and a half; unnoticed by Beryl. She rose
then, and they would not press her to stay longer.
Pearl rushed out to meet her sister at the front door. "I am glad you
have come—oh, I am glad," she said breathlessly. "Aunt Di 'would' send
that message. And she went into hysterics directly after, and she has
cried so dreadfully. I have been up in my room ever so long. It is
horrid to have her like this. I do wish you would make her tell you
what is the matter. I was so afraid you would not come back till night.
She won't have Pearson with her, and I daren't stay, and she walks up
and down the drawing-room and sobs. O dear!"
Pearl really looked white and frightened.
"I would have come back earlier if I had known," Beryl said. "Shall I
go to her at once, Pearl?"
"I suppose you must; but I wish you could stay with me. I am so tired
of being alone."
Diana had thrown herself on the sofa, exhausted with weeping.
When Beryl spoke, she turned from her coldly, and would not answer.
Beryl waited a minute, and then said, "If you don't want me, Aunt Di, I
had better go to Pearl."
"No,—I can't be alone any longer,—it drives me wild," said Diana
sullenly. "Sit down, pray."
Beryl obeyed silently. But silence was as bad as solitude in Diana's
estimation. She broke anew into passionate sobs. Beryl after some
hesitation moved nearer, and took one of her hands.
"I am sorry I went away," she said. "I don't think I ought to have done
so, when you are so poorly. But now I have come back, I think you ought
to leave off crying, or you will be quite ill. If you don't, I shall
have to send for Miss Carmichael. I really mean it, Aunt Di. You and
Pearl will both be ill, if you go on so."
Diana moaned something about "hard and unkind," but the steady manner
took effect. She buried her face in the cushion, gradually becoming
still.
"And I think you ought to tell me what is the matter," continued Beryl,
in the same tone, after a few minutes—a tone of quiet firmness which
surprised herself. "I don't want to pry, but I am sure you ought to
speak to some one—either to me, or Miss Crosbie, or Miss Carmichael."
Diana sat up, flushed and agitated. "Very well," she said. "Mind, you
have promised not to repeat it."
"Not without your leave, Aunt Di."
"I am going blind!"
Dead silence followed. Beryl was absolutely struck dumb. She was some
seconds realising the full meaning of the words.
Diana watched her, at first with a sort of combative self-assertion,
but this gradually grew into pitifulness.
Beryl sat motionless. The thought was entirely new to her, and she was
turning it over in her mind.
"Going blind!"
Beryl broke out thus, at length, in deepening grief and horror. She had
not very quick sympathies, and usually her expression of feeling was
much restrained. But restraint broke down here. The threatened calamity
seemed to her so fearful,—so especially fearful for one of Mrs.
Fenwick's character and habits. Diana Fenwick blind! Why, she would
have nothing left to her. All interest in existence would be dashed
away at one fell swoop. Beryl remembered too her own long-cherished
resentment against Diana in the past. It added keenness to her pity.
"Going blind!" she said. And then, "O poor Aunt Di!" and she burst into
tears.
Diana's face changed and softened strangely. "Do you really care?" she
asked. "I thought no one would mind."
Beryl could not speak at the moment. She squeezed Diana's hand in a
passionate way, and then pressed it to her lips.
"But you don't really care,—not really!" said Diana. "It is nothing to
you, Beryl."
Beryl did not attempt to convince her of the contrary, or to analyse
the component parts of her own strong emotion. When she spoke, it was
in her gruffest voice—a voice often supposed in childhood to mean
ill-temper.
"Are you quite sure?"
"Quite. I went to an oculist in London. Beryl, come and sit close
to me. I like to know that somebody is really sorry. I have felt so
frightfully alone lately."
Beryl obeyed, and Diana held her fast.
"Yes,—so. Put your arm round me, Beryl. Mother used to do that, and
nobody has since mother died. I have longed so for mother lately.
Nobody else ever understood me, Millie and Marian least of all. But you
mustn't say anything of this to anybody."
"No," said Beryl huskily.
"Don't let go. I want you to hold me tightly," said Diana. "It seems to
do me good. Beryl, will you take care of me by and by? There is nobody
else. Pearl is of no use. She just thinks of herself. You will stay
with me?"
Beryl's "Yes" was a sob rather than a word.
"I have felt so differently about you lately,—as if I could depend
upon you. I suppose it is because you are more religious." Then she
shuddered. "O Beryl, it is very dreadful. To be blind for life!"
"What made you go to the oculist?" asked Beryl, in a low voice.
"I knew something was wrong with one eye; have known it a long while.
It has made me miserable for months. I couldn't bear to speak of it
to anybody, but it has got worse and worse. I have hardly read at all
since you came home; and that is why I have made you do so many things
for me. I thought it was just weakness, and I fancied a trip abroad
might set me right. But when Pearl and I were in London, I thought one
day I would just go and see an oculist, and ask his opinion. I didn't
take Pearl, for I did not want her to know."
Diana evidently found it a relief to speak, now she had begun.
Beryl said, "Yes. And you went?"
"Yes; I thought I might as well. Sometimes I felt quite sure it was
nothing of consequence, but sometimes I was frightened about myself.
I never shall forget that visit. He made me sit in the chair and lean
back. And I was quite alone—nobody there to help me. He just looked at
the bad eye, and I heard him say softly, 'Cataract!' And then he looked
at the other, and said 'Cataract!' again."
"Poor Aunt Di," murmured Beryl.
"I couldn't speak. I can't tell you what I felt. It was just as if all
my blood had turned to ice. I nearly fainted away, and he was very
kind, and did all he could to bring me round. But he had done the
business. I always shall think it was cruel to tell me so suddenly.
I have never felt well for a moment since, and I don't think I ever
shall."
"Did he say any more?" asked Beryl presently.
"He said I must come and see him again. And by and by, he expects
there will have to be—to be—an operation. And I have such a horror of
anything of the sort. I don't know how to bear the thought even. I
sometimes feel as if I should go mad with the very idea. He said it
might be some time first, he could not tell yet. The cataract is much
more advanced in one eye than the other. But you can't wonder now,
Beryl, that I have been so miserable. To have all this before me—and
perhaps to end with being blind for life. Oh, it is far far worse than
death. But you mustn't say a word to anybody. You have promised, and I
can't have it talked about yet. I mean to keep it secret as long as I
possibly can."