Diana Part 71

"Into the water! You mean the salt water?"

"Of course I mean the salt water. There isn't any fresh water to go into, and no good if there was."

"I never tried salt water. I never saw salt water before."

"Do you good," said the old lady. "Well, go and sleep, my dear. Basil says you want rest."

But that way of taking it was not Diana's need, or purpose. She withdrew into her cool green-shaded room, and as the baby still slept, set open the blind doors which made that pleasant green shade, and sat down on the threshold to be quiet, and enjoy the view. The water was within a few rods of her window; nothing but a narrow strip of gra.s.s and a little picket fence intervening between the house and the sandy bit of beach. The waves were rolling in from the Narrows, which here were but a short distance to the eastward; and across the broad belt of waters she could see the low sh.o.r.e of Long Island on the other side.

Diana put her head out of the door, and there, seven miles away to the west and north, she could see where a low, hovering, light smoke cloud told of the big city to which it owed its origin. Over the bay sails were flitting, not swiftly, for the air was only very gently stirring; but they were many, near and far, of different sizes and forms; and the mighty tide was rus.h.i.+ng in with wonderful life and energy in its green waves. Diana's senses were like those of a person enchanted. She drew in the salt, lively air; she looked at the cool lights and shadows of the rus.h.i.+ng water, over which here and there still hung bands of morning mist; she heard the lap of the waves upon the sh.o.r.e as they went by; and it was to her as if she had escaped from danger and perplexity into another world, where sorrow might be, indeed, but from which confusion and fear were banished.

The baby slept on, as if she had been broken off her rest by the novelties and inconveniences of travelling, and were making up for lost time; and Diana sat on the threshold of her door and thought. The lull was inexpressibly sweet, after the storm that had tossed her hither. It gave her repose just to remember that Evan could not find her out--and that Basil would leave her alone. Yes, both thoughts came in for a share in the deep-drawn breaths of relief which from time to time wrung themselves from Diana's breast. She knew it; she could not help it; and she soon forgot her husband in thinking of her lover. It seemed to her she might allow herself that indulgence now; now when she had put a gulf between them which he could not bridge over, and she would not; now when she had brought a separation between them which must forever be final. For she would never see him again. Surely now she might think of him, and let fancy taste the sweet bitter drops that memory would distil for her. Diana went back to the old time and lived in it for hours, till the baby awoke and claimed her; and even then she went on with her dream. She dreamed all day.

Next morning early, before she was awake, there came a little imperative tap at her door. Diana sprang up and opened it.

"I am going to take my bath," said her hostess. "Here's a bathing dress--put it on and come along."

"Now?" said Diana doubtfully.

"Why, of course now! Now's the time. n.o.body'll see you, child; and if they do, it won't matter. Hundreds would see you if you were at Long Branch or Newport. Come along; you want bracing."

I wonder if I do, thought Diana, as she clothed herself in the loose gown of brown mohair; then slipped out after her hostess. If she did, she immediately confessed to herself, this was the thing to give it.

The sun was not yet up; the morning air crisp and fresh and delicious; the water rolling gently in from the Narrows again, in a mighty tide, but with no wind, so sending up only little waves to the beach; however, they looked somewhat formidable to Diana.

"How far do you go in?" she asked.

"As far as I can. I can't swim, child, so I keep to sh.o.r.e. Come after me, here!"--

And she seized Diana's hand and marched in ahead of her, and marched on, till Diana would have stopped, but the old lady's hand pulled her along.

It was never to be forgotten, that first taste of salt water. When they were in the flood up to their necks, her companion made her duck her head under; it filled Diana's mouth and eyes at the first gasp with salt water, but what a new freshness of life seemed at the same time to come into her! How her brain cleared, and her very heart seemed to grow strong, and her eyesight true in that lavatory! She came out of the water for the moment almost gay, and made her toilette with a vigour and energy she had not brought to it in many a day. Breakfast was better to her, and the old lady was contented with what she said about it.

Yet Diana sat and dreamed again all day after that, watching the rolling tide of waters, and letting her thoughts run on in as uninterrupted a flow. She dreamed only about Evan; she went over old times and new, old impressions and new; she recalled words and looks and tones and gestures, of long ago and lately; at Pleasant Valley she had not dared; here she thought it was safe, and she might take the indulgence. She recalled all Evan's looks. How he had improved! More stately, more manly, more confident (could that be?), more graceful; with the air of command replacing a comparative repression of manner (only comparative), even as the full, thick, curly moustache replaced a velvety dark line which Diana well remembered. As he had been then, she had fancied him perfect; as he was now, he was to the eye far finer yet. Basil could not compare with him. Ah, why did fancy torture her by ever bringing forward the comparison! Basil never pretended to wear a moustache, and the features of his face were not so regular, and his eye was not so brilliant, and the indescribable air of authority was not there, nor the regulated grace of movement. True, Basil could sit a horse, and ride him, she knew, as well as anybody; and true, Basil's face had a high grave sweetness which was utterly unknown to the countenance of that other; and it was also true, that if Mr. Masters wore no air of command, he knew what the thing meant, especially command over himself. And there the comparison failed for Evan. In the contrast, Diana, down deep in the bottom of her heart, was not satisfied with him, not pleased, not contented. He might know how to give orders to his company, he had not left off himself being under orders; he might be strong to enforce discipline among his men, but alas! alas! he had left the reins loose upon the neck of his pa.s.sions.

Basil never did that, never. Basil never would in the like circ.u.mstances have sought a weak gratification at her expense. That was the word; _weak_. Evan had been selfishly weak. Basil was always, so far as she had known him, unselfishly strong. And yet, and yet!--she loved the weak one; although it pained her that he should have been weak.

Days went by. Diana lived in dreams.

"What is the matter with you?" her old friend asked her abruptly one evening.

"Nothing, I think," said Diana, looking up from her sewing and answering in some surprise.

"Nothing the matter! Then what did you come here for?"

"I thought"--Diana hesitated in confusion for the moment--"my husband agreed with me in thinking, that it would be good for me to be away from home for awhile."

"Wanted change, eh?" Mrs. Sutphen said dryly.

Diana did not know what to add to her words.

"Change and salt air"--the old lady went on.

"Not salt air particularly," Diana answered, feeling that she must answer. "I did not think of salt air. Though no change could have been so good for me."

"_Has_ it been good for you?"

"I have enjoyed it more than I can tell," Diana said, looking up again.

"Yes, yes; but that isn't the thing. I know you enjoy it. But do you think it is making you fat?"

"I don't need that," said Diana, smiling. "I am fat enough."

"You won't be, if you go on losing as you have done since you came. Now I agree with you that I don't think that is Clifton air. What is it?"

Diana could not reply. She was startled and troubled. She knew the fact was true.

"Basil won't like it if I let this go on; and I don't mean it shall. Is anything the matter between you and him?"

"What do you mean?" Diana asked, to gain time.

"You know what I mean. I spoke plain. Have you and he had any sort of a quarrel or disagreement?"

"Certainly not!"

"Certainly _not?_--then why aren't you happy?"

"Why do you ask me?" said Diana. "Why should you question my being happy?"

"I've got eyes, child; inconvenient things, for they see. You look and act like a marble woman; only that you are not cold, and that you move about. Now, that isn't your nature. What spell has come over you?"

"You know, Mrs. Sutphen," Diana answered with calmness, "there are many things that come up in the world to try one and trouble one; things one cannot help, and that one must bear."

"I know that, as well as you do. But a woman with the husband you have got, ought never to be petrified by anything that comes to her. In the first place, she has no cause; and in the second place, she has no right."

There was such an instant a.s.sent of Diana's inner nature to at least the latter of these a.s.sertions, that after a minute or two's pause she said very simply--

"Thank you, That is true."

"He's rather fond of you, isn't he?" the old lady asked with a well-pleased look at her beautiful neighbour.

"Yes. Too much," said Diana, sighing.

"Can't be too much, as I see, if only you are equally fond of him; it is bad to have inequality in that matter. But, my dear, whatever you do, don't turn into marble. There's fire at the heart of the earth, folks say, but it don't do us much good in winter."

With this oracular statement Mrs. Sutphen closed her lecture. She had said enough. Diana spent half that night and all the next day in a quite new set of meditations.

And more days than one. She waked up to see what she had been doing.

What business had she to be thinking of Evan, when she was Basil's wife?--what right to, be even only in imagination, spending her life with him? She knew, now that she was called to look at it, that Mrs.

Sutphen had spoken true, and that a process had been going on in herself which might well be likened to the process of petrifying.

Everything had been losing taste and colour lately; even her baby was not the delight she had been formerly. Her mind had been warped from its healthy condition, and was growing morbid. Conscience roused up now fully, and bade Diana stop short where she was and take another course.

But there she was met by a difficulty; one that many a woman has had to meet, and that few have ever overcome. To take another course, meant that she should cease thinking of Evan,--cease thinking of him even at all; for it was one of those things which you cannot do _a little_. She tried it; and she found it to be impossible. Everything and anything would set her upon the track of thinking of him; everything led to him; everything was bound up with him, either by sympathy or contrast. She found that she must think of Evan, because she loved him. She said that to herself, and pleaded it. Then do not love him! was the instant sharp answer of conscience. And Diana saw a battle set in array.