CHAPTER XXI
"ALL ASHORE!"
It had not taken long to see over the liner. Diana had flown about, from dining-saloon to hurricane-deck, in feverish haste to be back in number 74, in order to have a few quiet moments alone with David.
They were back there, now; and ten minutes remained before the sounding of the gong, warning friends to leave the ship.
"Sit in your easy chair, David," commanded Diana; "I shall like to be able to picture you there."
She moved about the room, examining everything; giving little touches here and there.
She paused at the berth. "What a queer little place to sleep in!" she said; and laid her hand, for a moment, on the pillow.
Then she poured water into one of the tumblers, placed it on the writing table, took the Parma violets from her breast and from her muff, and arranged them in the tumbler.
"Put a little pinch of salt into the water, David, when you come up from dinner, and they will soon revive; and serve, for a few days, to remind you of me! I am never without violets; as you may have noticed."
She hung up his coat and hat. "I wish I could unpack for you," she said. "This cosy little room makes me feel quite domesticated. I never felt domesticated, before; and I am doubtful whether the feeling would last many minutes. But how jolly it all is! I believe I should love a voyage on a liner. Don't be surprised if I turn up one day, and call on you in Ugonduma."
"You must not do that," said David.
"What fun it would be to arrive in the little garden, where the hippopotamuses dance their morning cake walk; pass up the path, between the oleanders; ring the bell – I suppose there is a bell? – and send in my card: Mrs. David Rivers! Tableau! Poor David! It would be so impossible to say: 'Not at home' in Ugonduma, especially to Mrs. David Rivers! The butler – are there butlers? – would be bound to show me in. It would be more astonishing than the hippopotamus! though less destructive to the oleanders! Oh, why am I so flippant! – David, I must see Martin's mate. I want to talk to him about taking proper care of you. Will he come if I ring this bell?.. Oh, all right. But I am perfectly certain that while you are finding out how many children he has, and whether they have all had measles, he will fail to notice your most obvious wants."
Diana took off her hat, and laid it on the writing table. Then she came and knelt beside the arm of David's chair.
"David," she said, "before I go, will you give me your blessing, as you did on the night when you led me to the feet of the King?"
David stood up; but he did not lay his hands on that bowed head.
"Let us kneel together," he said, "and together let us ask, that our mistakes – if any – may be overruled; that our sins may be forgiven; that we may remain true to our highest ideals; and that – whether in life or by death – we may glorify our King, and be faithful followers of the Star."
The gong, following closely on the final words of David's prayer, crashed and clanged through the ship; booming out, to all concerned, the knell of inevitable parting.
Diana rose in silence, put on her hat, took a final look round the room; then, together, they passed out, and moved toward the gangway, down which the friends of passengers were already hurrying, calling back, as they went, final words of farewell.
Near the gangway Diana paused, and turned to David.
"You are sure all the dates and addresses you have given me are right?" she said.
David smiled. "Quite sure. I would not risk losing one of your letters."
"You do care that I should write?"
"I count on it," replied David.
"And you will write to me?"
"Undoubtedly I will."
"Quite soon?"
"I will begin a letter to-morrow, and tell you whether Martin's mate has any children; and, if so, whether they have had the measles."
"It would be more to the point to tell me whether he takes proper care of you. David – I wish you were not going!"
A look leapt into David's eyes as of a drowning man sinking for the third and last time, who suddenly sees a rope dangling almost within his reach.
"Why?"
"I don't know. It seems so far. Are you sure you are quite well? Why are you so ghastly white?"
"Quite well," smiled David. "We cannot all have Mrs. Vane's fine colour. Bid her good-bye for me."
All who were going, seemed to have gone. The gangway was empty. Passengers crowded to the side of the ship, waving in tearful silence, or gaily shouting last words, to friends lined up on the dock.
"All ashore!" shouted the sailor in charge of the gangway, looking at Diana.
She moved toward it, slowly; David at her side.
"Look here," said David, speaking hurriedly; "I should hate to watch you standing alone in that crowd, while we slowly pull out into mid-stream. Don't do it. Don't wait to see us go. I would so much rather you went straight to your car. It is just within sight. I shall see William arrange the rug, and shut you in. I shall be able to watch you actually safely on your way to Riverscourt; which will be much better than gradually losing sight of you in the midst of a crowd of strange faces. You don't know how long-drawn-out these dock partings are. Will you – will you do as I ask?"
"Why of course, I will, David," she said. "It is the only thing you have bidden me do since I promised to obey." Her lips trembled. "I hate saying good-bye, David. And you really look ill. I wish I had insisted on seeing Martin's mate."
"I'm all right," said David, with dry lips. "Don't you worry."
"All ashore!" remarked the sailor, confidentially, in their direction.
Diana placed one foot on the gangway; then turned, and put her hand into David's.
"Good-bye, David," said Diana.
His deep eyes looked hungrily into her face – one last long earnest look.
Then he loosed her hand, and bent over her, as she began to descend the gangway.
"Good-bye —my wife" – said David Rivers.
CHAPTER XXII
DIANA WINS
The steady hum, and rapid onward rush, of the motor were a physical relief to Diana, after the continuous strain of the happenings of that eventful day.
She lay back, watching the flying houses, hedges, trees, and meadows, – and allowed every nerve to relax.
She felt so thankful it was all over, and that she was going home – alone.
She felt very much as she had felt on her return to Riverscourt after Uncle Falcon's funeral. It had been such a relief then to be returning to a perfectly normal house, where every-day life could be resumed as usual. She had realised with thankfulness that the blinds would be up once more. There would be no hushed and silent room, which must be passed with reverent step, and bated breath, because of the awesome unnaturalness of the Thing which lay within. She had lost Uncle Falcon on the night of his death. The day of the funeral involved no further loss. It simply brought relief from a time of unnatural strain and tension.
This shrinking of Life from Death, is the strongest verification of the statement of Holy Scripture, that death came by sin. The redeemed soul in its pure radiance has gone on to fuller life. "The body is dead, because of sin." All that is left behind is "sinful flesh." Death lays a relentless hand on this, claiming it as his due. Change and decay set in; and even the tenderest mourning heart has to welcome the coffin lid, grateful to kind Mother Earth for receiving and hiding that which – once so precious – has now become a burden. Happy they who, standing at the open grave, can appropriate and realise the great resurrection message: "He is not here! He is risen!"
Diana shifted her seat in the bounding car, drawing the rugs more closely around her.
Why was her mind dwelling thus on death and funerals, on the afternoon of her wedding-day?
How wonderful it was that this should actually be her wedding-day; and yet that she should still be Diana Rivers of Riverscourt, returning alone to her own domain, free and unfettered.
How well her plan had succeeded; and what an unexpected touch of pure romance had been added thereto, by the fact that, after all, she had, at the last, done for David's sake, that which he thought he was doing for hers. There was a selflessness about the motives of both, in this marriage, which made it fragrant with the sublimest essence of frankincense. Surely only good and blessing could ensue.
Diana contemplated with satisfaction the additional prestige and assurance given to her position in the neighbourhood, by the fact that she could now take her place in society as a married woman.
How much hateful gossip would be silenced forever; how many insolent expectations would be disappointed; how many prudish criticisms and censorious remarks would have to whisper themselves into shame-faced silence.
Diana looked forward with gleeful amusement to answering the astonished questions of her many friends. How perfectly she had vindicated the line she had always taken up. Here she was, safely established, with all a married woman's privileges, and none of her odious obligations.
The old frumps, whom it was amusing to shock, would be more shocked than ever; while the younger spirits, who acclaimed her already, would hail her more loudly than ever: "Diana! Victress! Queen!"
And all this she undoubtedly owed to David, who had made her his —
Then suddenly she found herself confronted by that which, ever since the motor started, she had been fighting resolutely into her mental background; a quiet retrospection of the moment of her parting with David.
Brought face to face with it, by the chance mention of one word, Diana at once – giving up fencing with side issues, past and future – turned and faced this problem of the present. Brave at all times, she was not a coward when alone.
She took off her hat, rested her head against the soft springiness of the padded back of her motor; closed her eyes, and pressed both hands tightly against her breast.
David had said: "Good-bye, my wife." It was the name he meant to use in all his letters. "Good-bye, my wife."
It now seemed to Diana that the happenings of that whole day had been moving toward that culminating moment, when David's deep tender voice should call her his wife; yet he had not done so, until only a narrow shifting plank, on which her feet already stood, lay between them, and a last earthly farewell.
Diana had sped down the gangway; and when her feet touched the wharf she had fled to her car, without looking back; knowing that if she looked back, and saw David's earnest eyes watching her from the top, his boyish figure standing, slim and erect – she would have turned and rushed back up the gangway, caught his hand to her breast, and asked him to say those words again. And, if David had called her his wife again – in that tone which made all things sway and reel around her, and fortune, home, friends, position seem as nothing to the fact that she was that to him – she could never have let go his hand again. They must have remained forever on the same side of the gangway; either she sailing with David to Central Africa, or David returning with her to Riverscourt.
Yet she did not want to go to Africa; and she certainly did not want David at Riverscourt! Her whole plan of life was to reign supreme in her own possessions, mistress of her home, mistress of her time, and, most important of all, mistress of herself.
Then what was the meaning of this strange disturbance in the hitherto unruffled calm of her inner being? What angel had come down, on lightning wing, to trouble the still waters of her deepest self?
Diana was confronted by that most illusive of psychological problems, the solving of the mystery of a woman's heart – and she possessed no key thereto. Her knowledge of the world, her advanced ideas, her indiscriminate reading, had not supplied her with the golden key, which lies in the fact of the utter surrender of a noble woman, to the mighty love, and the infinite need, of a strong, good, man.
She had chosen to go home alone. She had preferred this parting of the ways. Then why was it so desperately sweet to recall David's voice saying: "Good-bye, my wife"? Why did nothing still this strange aching at her breast, save the remembrance of the touch of his hand, as she had pressed it against her?
She would have stopped the motor and bidden her man race back to the wharf, on the chance of having a last sight of David, standing on the deck of the liner, had he not bidden her go at once, without delay; so that, in thus going, she was rendering him the one act of obedience possible, in their brief wedded life.
The wintry sun soon set behind the Hampshire hills.
The primrose of the sky faded into purple twilight; twilight was quickly merged in chilly darkness.
The car paused a moment for the kindling of its huge acetylene lamps; then rushed onward, more rapidly than before.
Diana sat on in shadow. One touch of a button would have flooded the interior of her motor with light; but she preferred the quiet darkness. In it she could better hear her husband's voice, and see the gleam of his deep earnest eyes.
"Good-bye, my wife – my wife – my wife – . Good-bye, my wife!"
Diana must have fallen asleep. The opening of the door of the motor roused her.
William had turned on the lights, lifted out the rug, and stood with it flung over his arm, waiting for her to step out.
Half dazed, she took up her hat and smoothed her tumbled hair.
She glanced at the seat beside her, almost expecting to see David.
Then she remembered, and quickly stepped out of the motor.
The great doors of Riverscourt stood wide. A ruddy light from the blazing log fire in the hall, streamed out over the newly fallen snow.
Old Rodgers, deferential, yet very consciously paternal, his hands shaking with suppressed excitement, stood just within.
The housekeeper, expectant and alert, a bow of white satin ribbon in a prominent position in her cap, waited at the foot of the wide oak staircase.
The poodle, his tufts tied up with white ribbon, moved forward to greet his mistress; then advanced gravely into the portico, and inspected the empty motor. The poodle's heart was in the grave of Uncle Falcon. Weddings did not interest him. But the non-arrival of the bridegroom – who had once, with a lack of discrimination quite remarkable, even in a human being, mistaken him for Mrs. Marmaduke Vane – seemed a fact which required verification and investigation. The poodle returned, smiling, from his inspection of the empty interior of the motor. He had not paid much attention to the lengthy discussions in the servants' hall. But this much he knew. Old Rodgers had won his bet. The housekeeper would have to pay. This pleased the poodle, who resented the fact that the housekeeper had first trimmed her own cap, and then tied him up with the remnants; – adding to this obvious slight, a callous disregard of his known preference for green or crimson, where the colour of his bows was concerned.
As Diana entered the house, the old clock in the hall began to strike six; distant Westminster chimes sounded from an upper landing; an unseen cuckoo jerked out its note six times, then slammed its door; while the old clock, measured and sonorous, refusing to be either hurried or interrupted, slowly finished its six strokes.
Diana flung her cloak to Rodgers, and ordered tea in the library. Then, with a greeting to her housekeeper, she passed upstairs to her own room.
Mrs. David Rivers had come home.
CHAPTER XXIII
UNCLE FALCON WINS
Diana dined alone at the little round table in the big dining-room. She wore the white satin gown she had worn on the evening of Christmas-day, when David dined with her. The table decoration was lilies of the valley and Parma violets.
After dinner she went to the library, restless and lonely, yet glad to be alone; thankful she had postponed to the morrow, the return of Mrs. Marmaduke Vane.
On her writing-table, in a silver frame, stood the photograph of a special chum of hers, a man with whom she frequently played tennis in summer, and rode in winter; a good-looking fellow, with the appearance of an all round sportsman. His gay friendly eyes looked out at her with an air of easy comradeship, as she paused for a moment beside the table.
Diana was fond of this portrait of Ronald Ingram. It always stood on her writing-table. But, this evening, she suddenly took it up, and put it, face downwards, into a drawer. It had served to remind her that she possessed no photograph of David.
She moved over to the fireplace, tall and lovely, perfectly gowned, surrounded by all the luxury she loved – yet indescribably desolate.
She stood, wrapped in thought, warming her hands at the fire; then sank into Uncle Falcon's armchair, in which she had sat while she and David discussed their intended marriage.
Did she need a portrait of David?
Hardly. He was so vividly pictured in her mental vision.
She could see him in the pulpit of the little church at Brambledene – keen, eager, inspired; full of his subject; the dark eyes shining in his thin worn face.
She could see him in the vestry, seated on the high stool; boyish, shy; very much taken aback by her unexpected entry.
She could see him at the piano in the drawing-room, completely unconscious of his surroundings; enveloped in the music he himself was making.
She could see him seated opposite to her in the chair now empty, a look of strange detachment upon his tired face, as with infinite tact and gentleness he explained to her why he felt able, after all, to accede to her request; never departing from his own standpoint in the matter; yet making the thing as easy for her as possible.
She could see him in the church of St. Botolph, as he had stood that morning – was it really only that morning? – awaiting her. How strange had been the summons in his eyes, which drew her to his side. Ah, if there had but been love between them, how wonderful a memory would have been that look in David's eyes!
She could see him in the railway train – in boyishly high spirits, because nothing now stood between him and his departure for his belovèd sphere of work – seated opposite to her at the little table in the dining-car, rubbing the mist off the windows with his table napkin, and exclaiming over the beauties of the Hampshire hills and villages.
"Lord now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace." Poor David! She had certainly interfered with his peace of mind during the fortnight which had preceded their strange wedding. Well, he had departed in peace, and was undoubtedly gone "to be a light to lighten the Gentiles." And what a difference her money would make to the success of his work.
And then – she could see him as he bent down to her from the top of the gangway, his dark eyes gazing into hers, and said: "Good-bye, my wife." Surely, for the moment, it had meant something to David to call her his wife? She had never before seen quite such a look in any man's eyes. Was it fancy, or was there a hunger in them, which seemed to match the ache at her own breast? Sentimental fancy on her own part, no doubt; for had not David said of their wedding service: "It meant no more than we intended it should mean"?
How odious and impossible a state of things, if she – Diana Rivers – who had proposed this marriage, as a mere business transaction – should now be imagining into it sentiment which she had expressly stipulated should never enter therein. If David knew of it, would she not be forced to bow her head in shame, before his clear honest eyes?
No; certainly she needed no photograph of David!
She glanced at the portrait of Uncle Falcon hanging over the mantel-piece; then looked away at once. She was rather afraid of Uncle Falcon to-night. David had said she was to flaunt her victory in Uncle Falcon's face. She had replied that she might have done so, if he had been going to be with her. David had made no reply; but she had felt him shrink into himself. He had been too honest to express regret to his bride, that his engagements took him elsewhere on his wedding evening; and too kind, to show relief. When she had said: "David, I shall be quite alone at Riverscourt to-night," David had remarked: "Oh, look at the undulating line of those distant hills!"
A little gleam of amusement illumined the sad face, resting against the dark leather of Uncle Falcon's big chair; and, as the firelight played upon it, dimples peeped out. Had she looked up, she would have seen a corresponding twinkle in Uncle Falcon's amber eyes.
It really was rather funny. David and his table napkin! She knew she had not behaved quite well towards David, who was such a very faithful and very proper person. She felt she should always hate the distant line of undulating hills! If only he had tried to kiss her, and she could have boxed his ears, she would have enjoyed that journey better.
But, the next moment, a rush of tears drowned the gleam of fun in those sweet eyes. She had remembered David's face, as he said: "Good-bye, my wife." It seemed sacrilege even to think of boxing his ears! How ill he had looked, during those final minutes on the boat. It made it so terribly easy to picture David's face as it would look when he lay dying – dead.
Diana's tears fell silently. She, who scarcely ever wept, now found herself weeping without restraint, in a vague, helpless sort of way; and about nothing – that was the foolish part of it – she was crying about absolutely nothing!
"This will never do!" said Diana. "I am being as silly as an ordinary married woman. I must find something sensible to think about."
She rose from her chair, stretched her beautiful arms over her head; then walked across to a table to look for a book. Her eye fell upon a concordance, lying where she had left it on that evening of indecision and perplexity.
Suddenly she remembered words of David's in his sermon on Christmas-eve. They came back to her as clearly as if they had that moment been spoken.
"Myrrh, in the Bible," David had said, "stands for other things besides death. We must not pause to do so now; but, sometime, at your leisure, look out each mention of myrrh. You will find it stands for love – love, of the sweetest, tenderest kind; love so complete, that it must bring with it self-abnegation, and a mingling of pain with its bliss."
Yes, David had said this. How suitable that to-night – of all nights – she should do as he had wished.
But, first, she went to the window, drew aside the curtains, and looked out.
Snow had ceased to fall. The sky was clear and cloudless. There was no moon; but, low on the horizon, shone one brilliant star.
It seemed to Diana, that at that very moment, from somewhere out on the ocean, David's eyes were also on that star. It brought him very near. It made his last prayer very real.
She leaned her head against the window frame, and watched it silently.
"Whether in life or in death," said David's quiet voice, "may we glorify our King, and be faithful followers of the star."
Then she drew the curtain close once more, found a Bible, took up the concordance, and went back to Uncle Falcon's chair to do as David had suggested.
The first reference to which she turned, chanced to be the thirteenth verse of the first chapter of the Book of Canticles – divinest love-poem ever written.
Bending over it, in the firelight, Diana read the opening words.
"A bundle of myrrh is my well-belovèd unto me– "
Then, suddenly, her eyes dilated. She pressed her hands against her breast.
Then she bent over, and finished the verse; reading each word slowly, to the very last.
"David! David! David!"
A bundle of myrrh is my well-belovèd unto me! Oh, David, speeding each moment farther and farther away, on life's relentless ocean; hastening to that distant land "that is very far off," from which there is no return!
She lay back in the chair; opened her arms wide; then closed them – on nothingness.
"David! David!"
She understood, now.
This pain at her breast, this ache of her heart, would never be stilled, until David's dear head rested here where his hand had been pressed. And David had gone from her – forever.
"Good-bye, my wife… It meant no more than we intended it should mean… Good-bye, my wife."
She held her hands clasped to her bosom. She looked, wide-eyed, at the empty chair, opposite.
"David," she whispered, "David, come back to me!"
It seemed, to her, that David must hear, and must return. This agony of awful loneliness could not endure… David!.. David!.. David!..
At last she rose, leaned her arms upon the marble mantel-piece, and looked up into the searching eyes of the portrait.
"Uncle Falcon," she whispered bravely; "Uncle Falcon —you have won."
The eyes of the old man who had loved her, seemed to look down sadly, sorrowfully, into hers. She had won; and he had won; but there was no triumph in either victory.
The only undisputed victor, in that hour, was Love who is lord of all; and even Love fled, with drooping wings, from a desolation which had been brought about by sacrilege at the altar.
Diana laid her golden head upon her arms. Its coronet of pride fell from it. She was shaken from head to foot by desperate weeping.
David had said: "A love so complete that it must bring with it self-abnegation, and a mingling of pain with its bliss." She had had one glimpse of what the bliss might have been. She was tasting the pain to the full.
Self stepped forever off the throne of her woman's heart; and Love, undisputed, held full sway.
She turned from the fireplace, sank upon the floor beside the chair in which David had sat; then laid her head upon it, clasping her arms around its unresponsive emptiness.
"David!.. David!.. David!"
But the distant liner was ploughing steadily through the dark waters. Each moment took him farther from her; nearer to the land from which there is no return.
"Good-bye, my wife."
After a while, Diana ceased to call him.
She lay very still. No sound broke the silence of the room, save the low shuddering sobs of a breaking heart.
But the star in the sky still shone, though heavy curtains veiled it.
And David, pacing the hurricane deck, where were no curtains, lifted his eyes to its clear shining; and, in the midst of his own desperate pain, saw in it an emblem of hope, a promise of guidance, a beacon light in this vast desert of utter desolation.
And midnight brought merciful sleep to both.