“You are old enough now,” was the phrase that jarred upon Diana’s inward sense, like the ugly sound of a clanking chain in a convict’s cell. “You are old enough now.” Well, it was true!—she was “old enough,”—but she had taken this “oldness” upon her while faithfully waiting for her lover. And he had been the first to punish her for her constancy! It was very strange. Indeed, it was one of those many things that had brought her to her chronic state of wonderment. The great writers,—more notably great poets, themselves the most fickle of men,—eulogised fidelity in love as a heavenly virtue. Why then, when she had practised it, had she been so sorely rewarded? Yet, since the rupture of her engagement, and the long and bitter pain she had endured over this breaking up of all she had held most dear, her many studies and her careful reading had gradually calmed and strengthened her nature, and she was able to admit to herself that there were possibly worse things than the loss of a heartless lover who might have proved a still more heartless husband. She felt no resentment towards him, and his memory now scarcely moved her to a thrill of sorrow or regret. She only asked herself why it had all happened? Of course there was no answer to such a query,—there never is. And she was “old enough”—yes, quite “old enough” to put away all romance and sentimentality. Yet, as she walked slowly in the garden among the roses, and watched the sea sparkling in the warm after-glow of what had been an exceptionally fine sun setting, the old foolish craving stirred in her heart again. The scent of the flowers, the delicate breathings of the summer air, the flash of the sea-gulls’ white wings skimming over the glittering sand pools,—all these expressions of natural beauty saddened while they entranced her soul. She longed to be one with them, sharing their life, and imparting to others something of their joy.
“They never grow old!” she said, half aloud. “Or if they do, it is not perceived. They seem always the same—always beautiful and vital.”
Here she paused. A standard rose tree weighted with splendid blossom showed among its flowers one that had been cramped and spoiled by the over-profusion and close pressure of its companions,—it was decaying amid the eager crowd of bursting buds that looked almost humanly anxious to be relieved of its presence. With soft, deft fingers Diana broke it away from the stem and let it drop to earth.
“That is me!” she said. “And that’s what ought to become of me! Nothing withered or ugly ought to live in such a lovely world. I am a blot on beauty.”
She looked out to sea again. The after-glow had almost faded; only one broad line of dull gold showed the parting trail of the sun.
“No—there’s no hope!” she murmured, with an expressive gesture of her hands. “I must plod on day after day in the same old rut of things, doing my duty, which is perhaps all I ought to ask to do,—trying to make my mother comfortable and to keep my father in decent humour,—and then—then—when they go, I shall be alone in the world. No one will care what becomes of me,—even as it is now no one cares whether I live or die!”
This is the discordant note in many a life’s music,—“no one cares.” When “no one cares” for us, we do not care about ourselves or about anybody else. And in “not caring” we stumble blindly and unconsciously on our only chance of safety and happiness. A heartless truth!—but a truth all the same. For when we have become utterly indifferent to Destiny, Destiny like a spoiled child does all she can to attract our notice, and manifests a sudden interest in us of which we had never dreamed. And the less we care, the more she clings!
CHAPTER II
Diana was “old enough,” as her recalcitrant lover had informed her, to value the blessing of a good night’s rest. She had a clear conscience,—she was, indeed, that rara avis, in these days, a perfectly innocent-minded woman, and she slept as calmly and peacefully as a child. When she woke to the light of a radiant morning, with the sunshine making diamonds of the sea, she felt almost young again as she tripped to and fro, putting the final touches of taste to the pretty drawing-room, and giving to every nook and corner that indefinable air of pleasant occupation which can only be bestowed by the hand of a dainty, beauty-loving woman. At the appointed hour, the automobile was sent to the station to meet Mr. and Mrs. James Polydore May, and punctual to time the worthy couple arrived, both husband and wife slightly out of humour with the heat of the fine summer’s day and the fatigue of the journey from London.
“Well, Diana!” sighed her mother, turning a fat, buff-coloured cheek to be kissed, “is the house really decent and comfortable?”