Diana Part 36

"'Twas kind o' sudden," said the news-bringer, who was Joe Bartlett; "he was took all to once and jes' dropped--like a ripe chestnut."

"Why, like a ripe chestnut?" said Mrs. Starling sharply.

"Wall, I had to say suthin', and that come first. The Scripter doos speak of a shock o' corn in his season, don't it, Mis' Starling?"

"What's the likeness between a shock o' corn and a chestnut, Joe? I can't abide to hear folks talk nonsense. Who's at Elmfield?"

"Ain't nary one there that had ought to be there; nary one but the help."

"But they're comin'?" said Mrs. Starling, lifting up her head for the answer.

"Wall, I can't say. Evan, he's too fur; and I guess men in his place hain't their ch'ice. And his folks is flourishy kind o' bodies; I don't set no count on 'em, for my part."

"Well, everybody else'll be there, and shame 'em if they ain't," said Mrs. Starling. "How's your mother, Joe?"

"Wall, I guess _she's_ ripe," said Joe with a slow intonation, loving and reverent; "but she's goin' to hold on to this state o' things yet awhile. Good day t'ye!"

Diana went to the old man's funeral with her mother; in a sort of tremble of spirits, looking forward to what she might possibly see or hear. But no one was there; no one in whom she had any interest; none of Mr. Bowdoin's grandchildren could make it convenient to come to his funeral. The large gathering of friends and neighbours and distant relations were but an unmeaning crowd to Diana's perceptions.

What difference would this change at Elmfield make in her own prospects? Would Mrs. Reverdy and her set come to Elmfield as usual, and so draw Evan as a matter of course? They might not, perhaps. But what difference could it be to Diana? Evan would come, at all events, and under any circ.u.mstances; even if his coming let the secret out; he would come, and nothing would keep him from it; the necessity of seeing her would be above all other except military necessities. Diana thought she wished the old gentlemen had not died. But it could make no difference. As soon as he could, Evan would be there.

She returned to her quiet waiting. But now nature began to be noisy about her. It seemed that everything had a voice. Spring winds said, "He is coming;" the perfume of opening buds was sweet with his far-off presence; the very gales that chased the clouds, to her fancy chased the minutes as well; the waking up of the household and farm activities, said that now Diana's inner life would come back to its wonted course and arrangements.

The spring winds blew themselves out; spring buds opened into full leaf.a.ge; spring activities gradually merged into the steady routine of summer; and still Diana saw nothing, and still she heard nothing of Evan.

She was patient now by force of will; doggedly trusting. She _would_ not doubt. None of the family came to Elmfield; so there was no news by the way that could reach her. Mrs. Starling watched the success of her experiment, and was satisfied. Will began to come about the house more and more.

It was near the end of summer, more than a year since her first introduction to Evan, that Diana found herself again one day at Mother Bartlett's cottage. She always made visits there from time to time; to-day she had come for no special reason, but a restlessness which possessed her at home. The old lady was in her usual chimney corner, knitting, as a year ago; and Diana, having prepared the mid-day repast and cleared away after it, was sitting on the doorstep at the open door; whence her eye went out to the hillside pasture and followed the two cows which were slowly moving about there. It was as quiet a bit of nature as could be found anywhere; and Diana was very quiet looking at it. But Mrs. Bartlett's eye was upon her much more than upon her work; which, indeed, could go on quite well without such supervision. She broke silence at last, speaking with an imperceptible little sigh.

"And so, dear, the minister preached his sermon about the fas.h.i.+ons last Sabbath?"

"About fas.h.i.+on," said Diana. "He had promised it long ago."

"And what did he say, dear?"

"He said, 'The fas.h.i.+on of this world pa.s.seth away.'"

"But he said something more, I suppose? _I_ could have said that."

"He said a great deal more," replied Diana. "It was a very curious sermon."

"As I hain't heard it, and you hev', perhaps you'll oblige me with some more of it."

"It was a very curious sermon," Diana repeated. "Not in the least like what you would have expected. There wasn't much about fas.h.i.+on in it; and yet, somehow it seemed to be _all_ that."

"What was his text?"

"I can't tell; something about 'the grace of the fas.h.i.+on of it.' I don't remember how the words went."

"I know, I guess," said the old lady. "'Twas in James, warn't it?

Something like this--'The sun is no sooner risen with a burning heat.'"

"Yes, yes, that was it."

"'--but it withereth the gra.s.s, and the flower thereof falleth, and the grace of the fas.h.i.+on of it perisheth.'"

"That was it," a.s.sented Diana.

"So he preached about the shortness of life?"

"No, not at all. He began with those words, and just a sentence or two--and it was beautiful, too, mother--explaining them; and then he said the Bible hadn't much in it directly speaking of our fas.h.i.+ons; he would give us what there was, and let us make what we could of it; so he did."

"You can make a good deal of it if you try," said Mrs. Bartlett. "And then, dear?"

"Then he went off, you'd never think where--to the last chapter of Proverbs; and he described the woman described there; and he made her out so beautiful and good and clever and wise, that somehow, without saying a word about fas.h.i.+on, he made us feel how _she_ would never have had any concern about it; how she was above it, and five times more beautiful without, than she would have been with, the foolish ways of people now-a-days. But he didn't say that; you only felt it. I don't much believe there are any such women, mother."

"I hope and believe you'll make just such a one, Diana."

"I?" said the girl, with a curious intonation; then subsiding again immediately, she sat as she had sat at her own door a year ago, with arms folded, gazing out upon the summery hill pasture where the cows were leisurely feeding. But now her eyes had a steady, hard look, not busy with the suns.h.i.+ny turf or the deep blue sky against which the line of the hill cut so soft and clear. _Then_ the vision had been all outward.

"And that was his sermon?" said the old lady with a dash of disappointment.

"No! O no," said Diana, rousing herself. "He went on then--how shall I tell you? Do you remember a verse in the Revelation about the Church coming down as a bride adorned for her husband?"

"Ay!" said the old lady with a gratified change of voice. "Well?"

"He went on to describe that adornment. I can't tell you how he did it; I can't repeat what he said; but it was inner adornment, you know; 'all glorious within,' I remember he said; and without a word more about what he started with, he made one feel that there is no real adornment but that kind, nor any other worth a thought. I heard Kate Boddington telling mother, as we came out of church, that she felt as cheap as dirt, with all her silk dress and new bonnet; and Mrs. Carpenter, who was close by, said she felt there wasn't a bit of her that would bear looking at."

"What did your mother say?"

"Nothing. She didn't understand it, she said."

"And, Di, how did you feel?"

"I don't think I felt anything, mother."

"How come that about?"

"I don't know. I believe it seems to me as if the fas.h.i.+on of this world never pa.s.sed away; it's the same thing, year in and year out."

"What ails you, Diana?" her old friend asked after a pause.

"Nothing. I'm sort o' tired. I don't see how folks stand it, to live a long life."

"But life has not been very hard to you, honey."

"It needn't be _hard_ for that," Diana answered, with a kind of choke in her voice. "Perhaps the hardest of all would be to go on an unvarying jog-trot, and to know it would always be so all one's life."