"What name doth Joy most borrow
When life is fair?
'To-morrow.'"
GEORGE ELIOT.
On her hurried return to London the morning after the ice carnival, Di
found Mrs. Courtenay in that condition of illness, not necessarily
dangerous, in which the linseed poultice and the steam-kettle and the
complexion of the beef-tea are the objects of an all-absorbing interest,
to the exclusion of every other subject.
Di was glad not to be questioned upon the one subject that was never
absent from her thoughts. As Mrs. Courtenay became convalescent she was
able to leave her for an hour or two, and pace in the quieter parts of
Kensington Gardens. Happiness, like sorrow, is easier to bear
out-of-doors, and Di had a lurking feeling that would hardly bear being
put into words, but was none the worse company for that, that the
crocuses and the first bird-note in the trees and the pale sky knew her
secret and rejoiced with her.
John would come to her. He was getting well, and the first day he could
he would come to her, and tell her once more that he loved her. And she?
Impossible, incredible as it seemed, she should tell him that she loved
him too. Imagination stopped short there. Everything after that was a
complete blank. They would be engaged? They would be married? Other
people who loved did so. Words, mere words, applicable to "other
people," but not to her and John. Could such impossible happiness ever
come about? Never, never. She must be mad to think of such a thing. It
could not be. Yet it was so; it was coming, it was sure, this new,
incomprehensible, dreaded happiness, of which, now that it was almost
within her trembling hand, she hardly dared to think.
"Di," said Mrs. Courtenay one afternoon, as she came in from her walk,
"there is a paragraph in the paper about John. He is going to contest
---- at the general election, in opposition to the present Radical
member. Did he say anything about it while you were at Overleigh? It
must have been arranged some time ago."
"No, granny, he did not mention it."
"I am glad he is taking part in politics at last. It is time. I may not
live to see it, but he will make his mark."
"I am sure he will," said Di.
Mrs. Courtenay looked in some perplexity at her granddaughter. It seemed
to her, from Di's account, that she had taken John's accident very
placidly. She had not forgotten the girl's apparent callousness when his
life had been endangered in the mine. It was very provoking to Mrs.
Courtenay that this beautiful creature, whom she had taken out for
nearly four years, seemed to have too much heart to be willing to marry
without love, and too little to fall genuinely in love.
Mrs. Courtenay had gone to considerable expense in providing her with a
new and becoming morning-gown for that visit, and Di had managed to lose
one of the lace handkerchiefs she had lent her, and had come back
unengaged after all. Mrs. Courtenay, who had taken care to accept the
invitation for her without consulting her, and had ordered the gown in
spite of Di's remonstrances, felt keenly that if Di had refused John,
she had gone to that social gathering under false pretences.
"Di," she said, "I seldom ask questions, but I have been wondering
during the last few days whether you have anything to tell me or not."
Considering that this was not a question, it was certainly couched in a
form conducive to eliciting information.
"I have, and I have not," said Di. "Of course I know what you expected,
but it did not happen."
"You mean John did not propose to you?"
"No, granny."
Mrs. Courtenay was silent. She was prepared to be seriously annoyed with
Di, and it seemed John was in fault after all. There is no relaxation
for a natural irritability in being angry with a person a hundred miles
off.
"I think he meant to," said Di, turning pink.
Mrs. Courtenay saw the change of colour with surprise.
"My dear," she said, "do you care for him?"
"Yes," said Di, looking straight at her grandmother.
"I am very thankful," said Mrs. Courtenay. "I have nothing left to wish
for."
"I believe I have sometimes done you an injustice," she said
tremulously, after wiping her spectacles. "I thought you valued your own
freedom and independence too much to marry. It is difficult to advise
the young to give their love if they don't want to. Yet, as one grows
old, one sees that the very best things we women have lose all their
virtue if we keep them to ourselves. Our love if we withhold it, our
freedom if we retain it,--what are they later on in life but dead seed
in our hands? Our best is ours only to give. Our part is to give it to
some one who is worthy of it. I think John is worthy. I wish he had
managed to speak, and that it were all settled."
"It is really settled," said Di. "Now and then I feel frightened, and
think I may have made a mistake, but I know all the time that is
foolish. I am certain he cares for me, and I am quite sure he knows I
care for him. Granny"--blushing furiously--"I often wish now that I had
not said quite so many idiotic things about love and marriage before I
knew anything about them. Do you remember how I used to favour you with
my views about them?"
"I don't think they were exactly idiotic. Only the elect hesitate to
pronounce opinions on subjects of which they are ignorant. I have heard
extremely intelligent men say things quite as silly about housekeeping,
and the rearing of infants. You, like them, spoke according to your
lights, which were small. I don't know about charming men. There are not
any nowadays. But it is always
'... a pity when charming women
Talk of things that they don't understand.'"
"We should not have many subjects of conversation if we did not," said
Di.
And the old woman and the young one embraced each other with tears in
their eyes.