Chapter XXXV: Diana's Return

THREE years slipped by, showing the average amount of development in people and in people's lives.

They were happy years to Beryl. She found ceaseless delight in devoting herself to Miss Carmichael, and a full return of love and care was bestowed upon her. Beryl had not the unhappy temperament which must needs make worries where none exist, and she enjoyed to the full her placid life, which yet was thoroughly busy, laid out for others. Miss Carmichael never could rest long without working for those who needed; and though her strength did not permit so much exertion as her will prompted, she found the healthy and vigor Beryl a valuable adjunct. The two were soon in a round of occupations, which yet Miss Carmichael never permitted, either for herself or for Beryl, to become a disorderly rush after more than could be duly accomplished. And Beryl never forgot that her first duty was to Miss Carmichael.

They heard from Hester often. She too was happy in her distant home, with a husband who seemed to satisfy her utmost desires. They had one little child, and Miss Carmichael sometimes said, with glistening eyes, that she felt quite "grandmotherly" towards the tiny stranger.

Pearl had two children. They were twins, just two years old, and an unspeakable delight to herself and Escott, not to speak of Millicent and old Mr. Crosbie. The latter was never weary of petting them, crowing at them, and winning peals of infant laughter. Pearl had wished to name them "Millicent and Marian," or "Beryl and Pearl;" but somebody suggested "Jacinth and Amethyst," and Pearl seized on the idea.

"I want them to be His jewels," she had whispered to Beryl. "O yes, let it be Jacinth and Amethyst."

Amethyst was a dainty little fairy, her mother in miniature; while Jacinth was a square stolid child, with a sturdy and resolute will. If Pearl clung more to one than to the other, that one was Jacinth.

"Everybody will take to Amethyst," she said; "but this little darling isn't pretty, and she will want a double portion of mother's love."

So strong was this feeling that Beryl sometimes feared little Amethyst would be a loser in consequence.

Diana Fenwick had never yet returned to Hurst. The letting of her house for three years seemed to have decided the matter. After a few months of uncertain wandering from place to place, she had settled into some Brighton lodgings, "to be within easy distance of London," she said. She wrote less and less often as time went on, shorter and shorter letters, in more and more illegible handwriting. Marian went at length to see her, uninvited, and brought back a melancholy report of failing health and eyesight. But Diana had refused to allow her sister to share her temporary home, and Marian lived still at Mr. Crosbie's.

That went on for a while. At length, somewhat more than a year after Diana's departure from Hurst, there came a telegram—no letter having been received during many previous weeks—begging Marian to go "at once."

Marian obeyed without hesitation, self-forgetting as usual, and a day or two later, she sent home a sad tale. Pearson, unable any longer to put up with her mistress's irritable temper, had given warning and left suddenly, forfeiting nearly a month's wages. Diana had found no confidential servant to take Pearson's place. She was alone in lodgings, with only an untidy young lodging-house girl to attend to her, suffering from much nervous excitement, and with eyesight rapidly failing.

"Diana did not know me when I came into the room," Marian wrote, "and she is unable to feed herself properly. I am afraid, from what the doctor says, that it is an affection of the optic nerve, more hopeless than cataract would have been. She is fearfully depressed, and has violent fits of crying; but now that I am here, I am sure she finds my presence a relief. She said to me this morning, 'You won't leave me, Marian!'

"And when I said, 'Not till you drive me away,'—she said pitifully,
'Oh, I am past all that now—a poor helpless creature, fit for nothing.'

"I wish I could get her back to Hurst, but she seems to turn from the idea with positive horror. I suppose it is a dread of being seen and pitied by old friends. She does not yet mention Pearl or Beryl, and my one wish is to keep her calm. Poor Di! You and I must pray for her, Millie. It is a sorrowful story. Sometimes I think this may be the way in which God is leading her to Himself. But I dare not yet say a word to her on religious topics. She goes into hysterics immediately, if I attempt it. Well, my work is cut out for the present. Better so, for you really have not room for me under your roof."

For nearly two years thereafter Marian never came to Hurst. Diana refused to return, and Marian could not leave her.

Then the three years were at an end, and Marian electrified the home circle by quietly writing,—

"Di's house will be free in a week, and we are coming to live there again. I thought she would never be willing, but she seems suddenly to have taken to the idea. Poor dear! She has been so much more patient and easy-tempered lately. I hope it will last."

The tenants went out, and painters and paperers came in. And a month later, the day being fixed, Marian and Diana arrived.

No one was permitted to meet them at the station, or allowed to welcome them home. The very hour of their arrival remained unknown, by Diana's wish. Miss Carmichael and Beryl happened, however, to be writing letters at that hour, in the pleasant bow-window opposite. They saw the fly drive up, and Marian Crosbie descend, and then they saw her help a slight stooping figure to descend likewise, and to pass slowly up the pathway into the house. The faltering uncertain movements of one sister, and the carefully-guiding hand of the other, told their own tale.

Beryl uttered a startled "Oh!"

"Poor thing!" said Miss Carmichael.

"She can't see to go alone," gasped Beryl. "Oh, poor Aunt Di!"

"I did not imagine it was quite so bad."

"O no—Pearl doesn't know it, or she would have told me. O how dreadful!"

Beryl could write no more. She tore sheet after sheet across, then gave up the attempt in despair, went upstairs to her own room, and stood looking across at the other house, with strangely mingled feelings. It had been her home, and, after all, she owed Mrs. Fenwick much. Beryl had never loved Mrs. Fenwick greatly, never one twentieth part as much as she loved Miss Carmichael. And life in her present abode was sunshine indeed, compared with her past life over the way. Yet her heart ached keenly for the poor little widow.

"Beryl, would you like to ask after Mrs. Fenwick this evening?" asked Miss Carmichael, when she reappeared.

Beryl looked uncertain. "Do you think I might? Would Aunt Di mind?"

"I cannot be sure; but I should advise you not to let any attention on your part be lacking. You need not even propose to go in. Stay,—you shall take a few flowers from the greenhouse, and send them in, with your love and my kind regards."

Beryl looked her gratitude. Miss Carmichael walked into the greenhouse, and culled a bouquet of sweet-scented blossoms, putting them gracefully together. Beryl waited a while longer, till the first stir of arrival should subside. And then she went, almost trembling with a species of nervousness to which she was not commonly subject.

Not the servant but Marian opened the door. "I saw you from the window," she said. "How do you do, Beryl? Come in and see Diana."

"Will she like it?" asked Beryl.

"Yes; I told her it was you, and she asked me to bring you. This way."

Beryl followed Marian into the drawing-room, where, at the further end, a silent figure sat dejectedly in an arm-chair. Diana scarcely stirred. There was a slight turn of her head in the direction of the door, but she neither lifted her downcast eyes nor spoke a word.

"Go to her," Marian said softly.

And Beryl went forward.

"Aunt Di, won't you give me a kiss?"

Diana shook from head to foot. She put both arms round Beryl, and held her in a passionate clasp.

Beryl tried to say something, and found herself sobbing instead.

"Don't cry, Beryl. There must be no tears," said Marian quietly. "I dare say you can stay for a few minutes' chat, while I go upstairs to unpack."

She passed away, leaving the two alone, still clinging tightly the one to the other.

"Poor Aunt Di! Poor, poor Aunt Di!" Beryl whispered once or twice.

"Oh, if only I had not done it! I have wanted you so terribly!"

The words were broken, but Beryl understood. Diana presently loosened her clasp, and leant back.

"I can't see you, Beryl. I am almost blind," she said mournfully. "There is only the faintest glimmer of light sometimes, and that is going."

Beryl pressed her hands silently, not venturing to speak.

"I shall never see you again. And I shall never see Pearl again—my Pearl's sweet little face!" said Diana, with a tearless wail in her voice. "I wouldn't while I could, and now I can't—never, never more."

"Perhaps by and by it will get better, Aunt Di."

"No, never; there is no hope at all. I shall never be able to see again. And I drove you both away. I might have had you still, and been so happy."

"But Pearl is so happy now," said Beryl, "and so fond of Escott; and she has such darling children. And Pearl is sweeter as a mother than she ever was before. I suppose it is because she forgets herself in the twins and in Escott. When you see—I mean, when you are with them all, you will not wish any of that to be different."

"Will Pearl come to me? Isn't she vexed still?"

"O no, indeed. Why, she has written to you, Aunt Di."

"There never is anything in Pearl's letters. Will she really care to see me?"

"Indeed she will—very very often, and so shall I. We shall take care, between us all, never to let you feel lonely. Miss Carmichael and I are so close, that we can run in at any time."

"I shall like that," Diana said. "Marian is very good, and does everything for me, but still we never did suit, and we never shall. She tries me, and I try her. But she is very patient, and I am struggling to be patient too. I think I am beginning to see things differently, and I don't want to go on as I have done. If only all were not so terribly dark, inside and out too."

"The light will come to you by and by, I am quite sure," said Beryl thoughtfully. "The better kind of light, I mean."

Diana shook her head hopelessly. "And you are living with Miss Carmichael," she said, as if to turn the subject. "You have a nice home there—too nice for you to wish ever to leave it?"

"O yes, indeed. Miss Carmichael is just like a mother to me," said Beryl hurriedly. "And I promised Hester faithfully, before she went away, that I would never leave Miss Carmichael of my own free will. But indeed I don't forget all that I owe you. I want to see a great deal of you now, if you will let me."

"You will all grow tired of it soon," Diana answered wearily.

The depressed mood continued on the morrow, and Marian told Beryl that she rarely rose above it even for an hour. She was evidently eager for an interview with Pearl, and Beryl went to beg Pearl to call quickly.

"I shall go at once, and take the twins with me," Pearl said.

She soon presented herself in Diana's drawing-room—a lovely picture of young motherhood, slight and girlish still, with her pearl-white skin and brilliant colour, but thinking nothing about her own appearance in the delight of showing off her tiny pets.

Diana could not see the picture in its prettiness. She stood up, shaken and tremulous, gazing into the darkness with her poor eyes, vainly seeking to catch a glimpse of what she knew to lie before her.

Pearl did not intend to have any agitating scene. She came quickly forward, kissed Diana with much affection, and then placed the little hands of Amethyst and Jacinth between Diana's.

"Kiss Aunt Di, darlings," she said brightly. "Auntie Di is a very dear kind auntie of mamma's, and Amethyst and Jacinth have to love her a great deal. Why, Aunt Di, they ought almost to call you 'grannie,' only it would be rather too absurd. This is Amethyst, and this is Jacinth. Amethyst is like me, and Jacinth is thought rather like Beryl."

"I can't see them," Diana's trembling lips said. "I can't see 'you,' Pearl."

Pearl put her arms round Diana, and placed her sitting in the chair.

"There,—that is better than standing," she said. "You won't feel it all so much another day, Aunt Di. Just at first of course it seems so very trying. But Beryl and I mean to be always in and out, auntie. And these little pets are to be yours too. When I want to get them out of my way, I shall just send them to you for an hour. They have plenty to say for themselves, I assure you, only they are shy just at first. Let me put Amethyst on your lap for a moment,—there—is she too heavy?"

Diana hugged the little one, and really seemed comforted.

Pearl stayed long, chatting, kissing Diana from time to time, and showing off her children's pretty ways. No explanations or apologies took place.

When at length they parted, Pearl's eyes were full, and she went home to break down into a hearty fit of crying over "Poor Aunt Di! So dreadfully changed!"

But the interview had a precisely opposite effect upon Diana, leaving her in brighter spirits than during many past months.

"They are sweet little children," she said to her next visitor, Miss Carmichael. "And Pearl seems so happy. I don't think one can regret things being as they are. Except 'some' things—if they had but been different!"

"I suppose there are many steps in life which we would all retrace if we could," said Miss Carmichael; "but a step once taken can never be untaken. It is better to leave past mistakes alone, and to press on, clinging more closely to the Master's Hand."

"Beryl must be such a comfort to you," said Diana sadly. "I threw that comfort away."

"Yes,—and I wondered at you," said Miss Carmichael gently. "But the child is happy now. She sings over her work like a bird, morning, noon, and night."