Diana

Elmfield was a rare place. Not by the work of art or the craft of the gardener at all; for a cunning workman had never touched its turf or its plantations. Indeed it had no plantations, other than such as were intended for pure use and profit; great fields of Indian corn, and acres of wheat and rye, and a plot of garden cabbages. Mrs. Reverdy's power of reform had reached only the household affairs. But the corn and the rye and the cabbages were out of sight from the immediate home field; and there the grace of nature had been so great that one almost forgot to wish that anything had been added to it. A little river swept, curving in sweet leisure, through a large level tract of greenest meadows. In front of one of these large curves the house stood, but well back, so that the meadow served instead of a lawn. It had no foreign beauties of tree growth to adorn it, nor needed them; for along the bank of the river, from space to space, irregularly, rose a huge New England elm, giving the shelter of its canopy of branches to a wide spot of turf. The house added nothing to the scene, beyond the human interest; it was just a large old farmhouse, nothing more; draped, however, and half covered up by other elms and a few fir trees. But in front of it lay this wide, sunny, level meadow, with the wilful little stream meandering through, with the stately old trees spotting it and breaking its monotony; and in the distance a soft outline of hills, not too far away, and varied enough to be picturesque, rounded in the whole picture. A picture one would stand long to look at; thoroughly New England and characteristic; gentle, homelike, lovely, with just a touch of wildness, intimating that you were beyond the rules of conventionality. Being New England folk themselves, Mrs. Starling and Diana of course would not read some of these features. They only thought it was a "fine place."

Long before they got there this afternoon, before anybody got there, the ladies of the family gathered upon the wide old piazza.

"It's as a good as a play," said Gertrude Masters. "I never saw such society in my life, and I am curious to know what they will be like."

"You have seen them in church," said Euphemia.

"Yes, but they all feel poky there. I can't tell anything by that.

Besides, I don't hear them talk. There's somebody now!"

"Too fast for any of our good sewing friends," said Mrs. Reverdy; "and there is no waggon. It's Mr. Masters, Gerty! How he does ride; and yet he sits as if he was upon a rocking-horse."

"I don't think he'd sit very quiet upon a rocking-horse," said Gerty. And then she lifted up her voice and shouted musically a salutation to the approaching rider.

He alighted presently at the foot of the steps, and throwing the bridle over his horse's head, joined the party.

"So delighted!" said Mrs. Reverdy graciously. "You are come just in time to help us take care of the people."

"Are you going to entertain the nation?" asked Mr Masters.

"Only Pleasant Valley," Mrs. Reverdy answered with her little laugh; which might mean amusement at herself or condescension to Pleasant Valley. "Do you think they will be hard to entertain?"

"I can answer for one," said the minister. "And looking at what there is to see from here, I could almost answer for them all." He was considering the wide sunlit meadow, where the green and the gold, yea, and the very elm shadows, as well as the distant hills, were spiritualized by the slight soft haze.

"Why, what is there to see, Basil?" inquired his cousin Gertrude.

"The sky."

"You don't think that is entertaining, I hope? If you were a polite man, you would have said something else."

She was something to see herself, in one sense, and the something was pretty, too; but very self-conscious. From her flow of curly tresses down to the rosettes on her slippers, every inch of her showed it. Now the best dressing surely avoids this effect; while there is some, and not bad dressing either, which proclaims it in every detail. The crinkles of Gertrude's hair were crisp with it; her French print dress, beautiful in itself, was made with French daintiness and worn with at least equal coquettishness; her wrists bore two or three bracelets both valuable and delicate; and Gertrude's eyes, pretty eyes too, were audacious with the knowledge of all this. Audacious in a sweet, secret way, understand; they were not bold eyes, openly. Her cousin looked her over, with a glance quite recognisant of all I have described, yet destitute of a shade of compliment or even of admiration; very clear and very cool.

"Basil, you don't say all you think!" exclaimed the young lady.

"Not always," said her cousin. "We have it on Solomon's authority, that a 'fool uttereth all his mind. A wise man keepeth it till afterwards.'"

"What are you keeping?"

But the answer was interrupted by Mrs. Reverdy.

"Where shall we put them, do you think, Mr. Masters? I'm quite anxious. Here, on the verandah, do you think? – or on the green, where we mean to have supper? or would it be better to go into the house?"

"As a general principle, Mrs. Reverdy, I object to houses. When you can, keep out of them. So I say. And there comes one of your guests. I will take my horse out of the road."

Mrs. Reverdy objected and protested and ran to summon a servant, but the minister had his way and led his horse off to the stable. While he was gone, the little old green waggon which brought Miss Barry came at a soft jog up the drive and stopped before the door. Mrs. Reverdy came flying out and then down the steps to help her alight.

"It's a long ways to your place, Mis' Reverdy; I declare, I'm kind o' stiff," said the old lady as she mounted to the piazza. There she stood still and surveyed the prospect. And her conclusion burst forth in an unequivocal, "Ain't it elegant!"

"I am delighted you like it," said Mrs. Reverdy with her running laugh.

"Won't you sit down?"

"I hain't got straightened out yet, after drivin' the horse so long. It does put me in a kind o' cramp, somehow, to drive, – 'most allays."

"Is the horse so hard-mouthed?"

"La! bless you, I never felt of his mouth. He don't do nothin'; I don't expect he would do nothin'; but I allays think he's a horse, and there's no tellin'."

"That's very true," said Mrs. Reverdy, the laugh of condescending acquiescence mingled with a little sense of fun now. "But do sit down; you'll be tired standing."

"There's Mrs. Flandin's waggin, I guess, comin'; she was 'most ready when I come by. Is this your sister?" – looking at Gertrude.

"No, the other is my sister. This is Miss Masters; a cousin of your minister."

"I thought she was, maybe, – your sister, I mean, – because she had her hair the same way. Ain't it very uncomfortable?" This to Gertrude.

"It is very comfortable," said the young lady; "except in hot weather."

"Don't say it is!" quoth Miss Barry, looking at the astonishing hair while she got out her needles. "Seems to me I should feel as if my hair never was combed."

"Not if it was combed, would you?" said Gertrude gravely.

"Well, yes; seems to me I should. I allays liked to have my hair sleeked up as tight as I could get it; and then I knowed there warn't none of it flyin'. But la! it's a long time since I was young, and there's new fashions. Is the minister your cousin?"

"Yes. How do you like him?"

"I hain't got accustomed to him yet," said the little old lady, clicking her needles with a considerate air. "He ain't like Mr. Hardenburgh, you see; and Mr. Hardenburgh was the minister afore him."

"What was the difference?"

"Well – Mr. Hardenburgh, you could tell he was a minister as fur as you could see him; he had that look. Now Mr. Masters hain't; he's just like other folks; only he's more pleasant than most."

"Oh, he is more pleasant, is he?"

"Well, seems to me he is," said the little old lady. "It allays makes me feel kind o' good when he comes alongside. He's cheerful. Mr. Hardenburgh was a good man, but he made me afeard of him; he was sort o' fierce, in the pulpit and out o' the pulpit. Mr. Masters ain't nary one."

"Do you think he's a good preacher, then?" said Gertrude demurely, bending over to look at Miss Barry's knitting.

"Well, I do!" said the old lady. "There! I ain't no judge; but I love to sit and hear him. 'Tain't a bit like a minister, nother, though it's in church; he just speaks like as I am speakin' to you; but he makes the Bible kind o' interestin'."

It was very well for Gertrude that Mrs. Carpenter now came to take her seat on the piazza, and the conversation changed. She had got about as much as she could bear. And after Mrs. Carpenter came a crowd; Mrs. Flandin, and Mrs. Mansfield, and Miss Gunn, and all the rest, with short interval, driving up and unloading and joining the circle on the piazza; which grew a very wide circle indeed, and at last broke up into divisions. Gertrude was obliged to suspend operations for a while, and use her eyes instead of her tongue. Most of the rest were inclined to do the same; and curious glances went about in every direction, not missing Miss Masters herself. Some people were absolutely tongue-tied; others used their opportunity.

"Don't the wind come drefful cold over them flats in winter?" asked one good lady who had never been at Elmfield before. Mrs. Reverdy's running little laugh was ready with her answer.

"I believe it does; but we are never here in winter. It's too cold."

"Your gran'ther's here, ain't he?" queried Mrs. Salter.

"Yes, O yes; grandpa is here, of course. I don't suppose anything would draw him away from the old place."

"How big is the farm?" went on the first speaker.

Mrs. Reverdy did not know; three or four hundred acres, she believed.

Or it might be five. She did not know the difference!

"I guess your father misses you when you all go away," remarked Mrs.

Flandin, who had hardly spoken, at least aloud.

The reply was prevented, for Mrs. Starling's waggon drew up at the foot of the steps, and Mrs. Reverdy hastened down to give her assistance to the ladies in alighting. Gertrude also suspended what she was saying, and gave her undivided attention to the view of Diana.

She was only a country girl, Miss Masters said to herself. Yet what a lovely figure, as she stood there before the waggon; perfectly proportioned, light and firm in action or attitude, with the grace of absolute health and strength and faultless make. More; there always is more to it; and Gertrude felt that without in the least having power to reason about it; felt in the quiet pose and soft motion those spirit indications of calm and strength and gracious dignity, which belonged to the fair proportions and wholesome soundness of the inward character. The face said the same thing when it was turned, and Diana came up the steps; though it was seen under a white sun-bonnet only; the straight brows, the large quiet eyes, the soft creamy colour of the skin, all testified to the fine physical and mental conditions of this creature. And Gertrude felt as she looked that it would not have been very surprising if Evan Knowlton or any other young officer had lost his heart to her. But she isn't dressed, thought Gertrude; and the next moment a shadow crossed her heart as Diana's sun-bonnet came off, and a wealth of dark hair was revealed, knotted into a crown of nature's devising, which art could never outdo. "I'll find out about Evan," said Miss Masters to herself.

She had to wait. The company was large now, and the buzz of tongues considerable; though nothing like what had been in Mrs. Starling's parlour. So soon as the two new-comers were fairly seated and at work, Mrs. Flandin took up the broken thread of her discourse.

"Ain't your father kind o' lonesome here in the winters, all by himself?"

"My grandfather, you mean?" said Mrs. Reverdy,

"I mean your grandfather. I forget you ain't his own; but it makes no difference. Don't he want you to hum all the year round?"

"I daresay he would like it."

"He's gettin' on in years now. How old is Squire Bowdoin?"

"I don't know," said Mrs. Reverdy. "He's between seventy and eighty, somewhere."

"You won't have him long with you."

"O, I hope so!" said Mrs. Reverdy lightly, and with the unfailing laugh which went with everything; "I think grandpa is stronger than I am. I shouldn't wonder if he'd outlive me."

"Still, don't you think it is your duty to stay with him?"

Mrs. Reverdy laughed again. "I suppose we don't always do our duty," she said. "It's too cold here in the winter – after October or September – for me."

"Then it is not your duty to be here," said her sister Euphemia, somewhat distinctly. But Mrs. Flandin was bound to "free her mind" of what was upon it.

"I should think the Squire'd want Evan to hum," she went on.

"It would be very nice if Evan could be in two places at once," Mrs.

Reverdy owned conciliatingly.

"Where is Captain Knowlton now?" asked Mrs. Boddington.

"O, he is not a captain yet," said Mrs. Reverdy. "He is only a lieutenant. I don't know when he'll get any higher than that. He's a great way off – on the frontier – watching the Indians."

"I should think it was pleasanter work to watch sheep," said Mrs.

Flandin "Don't it make you feel bad to have him away so fur?"

"O, we're accustomed to having him away, you know; Evan has never been at home; we really don't know him as well as strangers do. We have just got a letter from him at his new post."

They had got a letter from him! Two bounds Diana's heart made: the first with a pang of pain that they should have the earliest word; the next with a pang of joy, at the certainty that hers must be lying in the post office for her. The blood flowed and ebbed in her veins with the violent action of extreme excitement. Yet nature did for this girl what only the practice and training of society do for others; she gave no outward sign. Her head was not lifted from her work; the colour of her cheek did not change; and when a moment after she found Miss Masters at her side, and heard her speaking, Diana looked and answered with the utmost seeming composure.

"I've been trying ever since you came to get round to you," Gertrude whispered. "I'm so glad to see you again."

But here Mrs. Flandin broke in. She was seated near.

"Ain't your hair a great trouble to you?"

Gertrude gave it a little toss and looked up.

"How do you get it all flying like that?"

"Everybody's hair is a trouble," said Gertrude. "This is as little as any."

"Do you sleep with it all round your shoulders? I should think you'd be in a net by morning."

"I suppose you would," said Gertrude.

"Is that the fashion now?"

"It is one fashion," Miss Masters responded.

"If it warn't, I reckon you'd do it up pretty quick. Dear me! what a thing it is to be in the fashion, I do suppose."

"Don't you like it yourself, ma'am?" queried Gertrude.

"Never try. I've something else to do in life."

"Well, but there's no harm in being in the fashion, Mis' Flandin," said Miss Gunn. "The minister said he thought there warn't."

"The minister had better take care of himself," Mrs. Flandin retorted.

Whereupon they all opened upon her. And it could be seen that for the few months during which he had been among them, the minister had made swift progress in the regards of the people. Scarce a tongue now but spoke in his praise or his justification, or called Mrs. Flandin to account for her hasty remark.

"When you're all done, I'll speak," said that lady coolly. "I'm not a man-worshipper – never was; and nobody's fit to be worshipped. I should like to see the dominie put down that grey horse of his."

"Are grey horses fashionable?" inquired Mrs. Reverdy, with her little laugh.

"What would he do without his horse?" said Mrs. Boddington. "How could he fly round Pleasant Valley as he does?"

"He ain't bound to fly," said Mrs. Flandin.

"How's he to get round to folks, then?" said Mrs. Salter. "The houses are pretty scattering in these parts; he'd be a spry man if he could walk it."

"Seems to me, that 'ere grey hoss is real handy," said quiet Miss Barry, who never contradicted anybody. "When Meliny was sick, Mr. Masters'd be there, to our house, early in the mornin' and late at night; and he allays had comfort with him. There! I got to set as much by the sight o' that grey hoss, you wouldn't think; just to hear him come gallopin' down the road did me good."

"Yes; and so it was to our house, when Liz was overturned," said Mary Delamater. "He'd be there every day, just as punctual as could be; and he could never have walked over. It's a cruel piece of road between our house and his'n."

"I don't want him to walk," said Mrs. Flandin; "there's more ways than one o' doin' most things; but I do say, all the ministers ever I see druv a team; and it looks more religious. To see the minister flyin' over the hills like a racer is altogether too gay for my likin's."

"But he ain't gay," said Miss Gunn, looking appalled.

"He's mighty spry, for anybody that gets up into a pulpit on the

Sabbath and tells his fellow-creaturs what they ought to be doin'."

"But he does do that, Mrs. Flandin," said Diana. "He speaks plain enough, too."

"I do love to hear him!" said Miss Barry. "There, his words seem to go all through me, and clear up my want of understandin'; for I never was smart, you know; but seems to me I see things as well agin when he's been talkin' to me. I say, it was a good day when he come to Pleasant Valley."

"He ain't what you call an eloquent man," said Miss Babbage, the schoolmaster's sister.

"What is an 'eloquent man,' Lottie Babbage?" Mrs. Boddington asked. "It's a word, I know; but what is the thing the word means? Come, you ought to be good at definitions."

"Mr. Masters don't pretend to be an eloquent man!" cried Mrs. Carpenter.

"Well, tell; come! what do you mean by it? I'd like to know," said Mrs. Boddington. "I admire to get my idees straight. What is it he don't pretend to be?"

"I don't think he pretends to be anything," said Diana.

"Only to have his own way wherever he goes," added Diana's mother.

"I'd be content to let him have his own way," said Mrs. Carpenter. "It's pretty sure to be a good way; that's what I think. I wisht he had it, for my part."

"And yet he isn't eloquent?" said Mrs. Boddington.

"Well," said Miss Babbage with some difficulty, "he just says what he has got to say, and takes the handiest words he can find; but I've heard men that eloquent that they'd keep you wonderin' at 'em from the beginning of their sermon to the end; and you'd got to be smart to know what they were sayin'. A child can tell what Mr. Masters means."

"So kin I," said Miss Barry. "I'm thankful I kin. And I don't want a man more eloquent than he is, for my preachin'."

"It ain't movin' preachin'," said Mrs. Flandin.

"It moves the folks," said Mrs. Carpenter. "I don't know what you'd hev', Mis' Flandin; there's Liz Delamater, and Florry Mason, jined the church lately; and old Lupton; and my Jim," she added with softened voice; "and there's several more serious."

No more could be said, for the minister himself came upon the scene at this instant. There was not an eye that did not brighten at the sight of him, with the exception of Mrs. Starling and Diana; there was not a lady there who was not manifestly glad to have him come near and speak to her; even Mrs. Flandin herself, beside whom the minister presently sat down and entered into conversation respecting some new movement in parish matters, for which he wished to enlist her help. General conversation returned to its usual channels.

"I can't stand this," whispered Gertrude to Diana; "I am tired to death. Do come down and walk over to the river with me. Do! you can work another day."

Diana hesitated; glanced around her. It was manifest that this was an exceptional meeting of the society, and not for the purposes of work chiefly. Here and there needles were suspended in lingering fingers, while their owners made subdued comments to each other or used their eyes for purposes of information getting. One or two had even left work, and were going to the back of the house, through the hall, to see the garden. Diana not very unwillingly dropped her sewing, and followed her conductor down the steps and over the meadow.

CHAPTER XV.

CATECHIZING

"The sun isn't hot, through all this cloud," said Gertrude, "so I don't mind it. We'll get into the shade under the elm yonder."

"There is no cloud," said Diana.

"No cloud? What is it then? Something has come over the sun."

"No, it's haze."

"What is haze?"

"I don't know. We have it in Indian summer, and sometimes in October, like this."

"Isn't it hot?" said Gertrude; "and last week we were having big fires.

It's such queer weather. Now this shade is nice."

Under one or two of the elm canopies along the verge of the little river some rustic seats had been fixed. Gertrude sat down. Diana stood, looking about her. The dreamy beauty through which she had ridden that afternoon was all round her still; and the meadow and the scattered elms, with the distant softly-rounded hills, were one of New England's combinations, in which the gentlest beauty and the most characteristic strength meet and mingle. But what was more yet to Diana, she was among Evan's haunts. Here he was at home. There seemed to her fancy to be a consciousness of him in the silent trees and river; as if they would say if they could, – as if they were saying mutely, – "We know him – we know him; and we are old friends of his. We could tell you a great deal about him."

"Elmfield is a pretty place," said Gertrude. She had been eyeing her companion while Diana was receiving the confidences of the trees.

"Lovely!"

"If it didn't grow so cold in winter," said the young lady, shrugging her airy shoulders.

"I like the cold."

"I should like to have it always hot enough to wear muslin dresses.

Come, sit down. Evan put these seats here."

But Diana continued standing.

"Did you hear that woman scolding because he don't stay here and give up his army life?"

"She takes her own view of it," said Diana.

"Do you think he ought to give up everything to take care of his grandfather?"

"I daresay his grandfather likes to have him do as he is doing."

"But it must be awfully hard, mustn't it, for them to have him so far away, and fighting the Indians?"

"Is he fighting the Indians?" Diana asked quietly; though she made the words quiet, she knew, by sheer force of necessity. But quiet they were; slow, and showing no eagerness; while her pulse had made one mad jump, and then seemed to stand still.

"O, the Indians are always making trouble, you know, on the frontier;

that's what our men are there for, to watch them. I didn't mean that

Evan was fighting just at this minute; but he might be, any minute.

Shouldn't you feel bad if he was your brother?"

"Mrs. Reverdy doesn't seem to be uneasy."

"She? no," said Gertrude with a laugh; "nothing makes her uneasy.

Except thinking that Evan has fallen in love with somebody."

"She must expect that sooner or later," said Diana, with a calmness which told her companion nothing.

"Ah, but she would rather have it later. She don't want to lose Evan.

She is very proud of him."

"Would she lose him in such a case?" Diana asked, smiling, though she wished the talk ended.

"Why, you know brothers are good for nothing to sisters after they are married – worse! they are tantalizing. You are obliged to see what you used to have in somebody else's possession – and much more than ever you used to have; and it's tiresome. I'm glad I've no brothers. Basil is a good deal like a brother, and I am jealous of him."

"It must be very uncomfortable to be jealous," said Diana,

"Horrid! You saw a good deal of Evan, didn't you?"

A question that might have embarrassed Diana if she had not had an instant perception of the intent of it. She answered thereupon with absolute self-possession,

"I don't know what you would call a 'good deal.' I saw what I call a good deal of him that day in the blackberry field."