# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 3/Volume 7/On Silver Wings, Chapter 5

ON SILVER WINGS.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “ BAFFLED.”
CHAPTER V.
PROGRESSIVE.
ONE must ascend into poetry from prose, and also descend into prose from poetry. There are few who have not felt this; and, perhaps, to ascend and descend gracefully is the art of living—in an aesthetic sense.
Life is an alternation of the two conditions, though the proportions in each individual life differ greatly according to circumstances. In some lives, the prose greatly predominates; indeed, in some, but a passing gleam of the poetic is experienced. In others, the prose and poetry are tolerably balanced; and some favoured few get even more than a due share of the latter, though in none does the poetic entirely prevail.
Diana's first interview with John Carteret had been under the poetic condition. Her second partook of the prose side of life. And it happened in this wise.
The luncheon bell had just sounded; and Diana, in passing through the hall, caught, through the half-opened door, a glimpse of two figures advancing up the avenue—the rector and John Carteret. She had never been glad to see the rector before.
Mrs. Seaton was already in the dining, room.
“ Dr. Crawford is coming,” observed Diana, carelessly and diplomatically, as she entered.
“I am glad to hear it. Smith, put another plate, and ask Dr. Crawford to come in.”
“ There is some one with him,” proceeded Diana, looking out of the window, and seeming to have made a discovery—meanwhile despising herself.
“ Dear me! Who can it be? His brother, perhaps.”
“ No, not his brother,” returned Diana, feeling uncomfortably shy and undecided.
Then she made a bold plunge.
“ It is a Mr. Carteret. He has come to read with Dr. Crawford. I met him accidentally at the church yesterday, and he introduced himself.”
“ Carteret! Carteret! I surely know something of the name. A very good name. Why didn’t you mention him?”
But before Diana could answer, Dr. Crawford and John Carteret were ushered in.
“ Charmed to see you, doctor,” said Mrs. Seaton. “And how is Mrs. Crawford?—better, I trust. Di and I were intending to, walk down to the rectory to see her, as soon as luncheon was over.”
Whereat Diana turned scarlet, and her lip curled contemptuously.
“ No, we were not,” she muttered, in a low, suppressed tone, that only reached John Carteret.
“ You will stay luncheon, of course?” continued Mrs. Seaton; “ and your friend—Mr. Carteret, I believe?” and she extended her hand. “ Di tells me that she met you at the church yesterday.”
Dr. Crawford glanced at his companion. He had been even more reticent than Diana.
“ Yes. Miss Ellis and I were attracted to the organ at the same time,” replied John Carteret.
“ You are fond of music, then?” said Mrs. Seaton.
“ Very.”
“ Mr. Carteret is a cousin of a friend of yours, Mrs. Seaton,” interposed Dr. Crawford. “ Lady Pechford.”
“ Ah! I thought I knew something of the name. A very old friend of mine. I hope, your cousin was well when you saw her, Mr. Carteret? It is ages since we met.”
“ Quite well, thank you.”
“ And you are fond of music,” resumed Mrs. Seaton, when they were seated at the, table. “ We must have some musical evenings whilst you are at the rectory. You have not heard Di play for a long time, Dr. Crawford.”
“ No—Di has not favoured me,” replied Dr. Crawford. “ Any Worcestershire sauce, Smith?”
“ Di plays beautifully now, doctor. Signor Neri has quite done his duty. And you can’t imagine the immense relief it is to me that Di can sing and play so well; it quite does away with my being obliged to invite poor little Neri to do the musical part for me at my dinner parties. To be sure, he only came to coffee: for one could not invite him to sit at table with one’s guests.”
“ Why not?” interposed Diana, suddenly. “ If one can accept a favour from a person, one puts oneself on an equality.”
“ By no means. It was a favour on the other side—an introduction for him. And the coffee was always excellent. Foreigners always like coffee; and it made a pleasant change for him. But you know, Dr. Crawford,” said Mrs. Seaton, appealingly, “ Di was always infatuated about that little foreigner and his sister.”
“ Yes, yes,” answered the rector, smiling benignly. “ Want of experience; little more knowledge of the world, Di. Capital sherry this, Mrs. Seaton. Where does Jasper get it? I must order some.”
“ I really don’t know. Is it good? A little more of the fricandeau de veau. Smith, you are not attending. But, Dr. Crawford, you fully see what I mean with reference to Signor Neri?”
“ Quite—quite. Impossible to upset the forms of society. Friendly to all—in a Christian sense—all brothers, and so on; theoretically, the wide view, my dear Mrs. Seaton —the wide view; but, when it comes to every-day practice, one has to draw the line a little more tightly. It becomes necessarily more defined: less vagueness about it. There is, naturally, an unavoidable vagueness in great classifications. The pulpit is one thing, the table is another. Besides, one always feels doubtful about refugees. There is an air of—of—something that is not quite respectable about the very word itself—suggestive of spies, contrabandists, agitators, subverters of order, innovators—and there is nothing so much to be guarded against as innovation of any kind.”
“ I quite agree with you. Your views are always so sound—so practical.”
Dr. Crawford bowed, and helped himself to another glass of sherry.
“ You are most fortunate, Mr. Carteret, in finding your way to Broadmead,” contined Mrs. Seaton, turning to John Carteret.
“ I am,” he replied.
Diana looked up quickly. Could he be guilty of a compliment to Dr. Crawford? Was it possible that she had been deceived in her new acquaintance? She fell into a reverie, and when she awoke from it, John Carteret was quietly and indifferently descanting upon the best method of forcing peaches. How he had passed on to the topic, Diana did not understand: she had been so immersed in her own speculations, that she had missed the connecting link.
Nevertheless, so it was; and Signor Neri’s shortcomings and Dr. Crawford’s perfections were lost sight of, also her own rising indignation.
But not for long. The rector, having made an excellent luncheon, and consequently, feeling complacent, was moved to develop his views on various subjects; and Mrs. Seaton, who had been watching the colour rising in Diana’s face, and expected an outburst, proposed that Mr. Carteret’s opinion of the new piano should be asked.
“ Will you look at it?” asked Diana, endeavouring to crush down her anger, as she saw John Carteret’s quiet glance fixed upon her.
“ With pleasure.”
But as they passed through the hall, Diana said—
“ It is too hot to stay in the house. It is very cool among the pines, and the view is worth seeing.”
“ The pines, then, by all means,” replied her companion.
Diana took down her hat.
They walked along—without speaking— through the garden, bright with auriculas, polyanthuses, and glowing beds of anemones. The laburnum was showing yellow tips that would soon burst into flower; and the lilac was opening its clusters, and beginning to send forth clouds of fragrance.
They entered the wood close by the spot where the wild hyacinths were massed in glorious profusion. John Carteret paused to admire the lovely sweep of colour.
“ How beautiful!”
Diana nodded.
And they went on in silence, until they gained a slight eminence which commanded a wide prospect of the country around.
Below them lay the valley, bright with the fresh young green of spring; and, far away—bounding the horizon—stretched the blue sea-line, visible only from that point.
“ And there the sun goes down—over the marsh wood beeches. I often come up here to see it set.”
She spoke softly, for, in the beauty of nature, she had forgotten her indignation.
Presently it recurred to her.
“ Do you wonder that I hate Dr. Crawford?” she asked, flinging down her hat with an impetuous jerk.
“ Because he is of the earth earthy?” asked her companion, without directly replying to the question. “Nonsense—what are you going to do in the world?”
Diana looked up in wonderment, and then she answered, in so mournful a voice that John Carteret could not help smiling—
“ I don’t know.”
“ Every one has two sides,” began John Carteret.
“ That is just what I dislike,” interrupted Diana. “ People ought only to have one.”
“ Entirely good or entirely bad? The world would then be peopled with either monsters or angels; and that, you see, is at variance with the natural order of things.”
Diana was a little perplexed. The view did not chime in with her ideas.
“ What did you come here for?” she asked, suddenly. “What do you expect to learn from Dr. Crawford?”
“ Dr. Crawford is a good Hebrew scholar.”
“ Oh!” And then she said, meditatively, “I’m sorry you are going to be a clergyman. And yet, perhaps, I should like to hear you preach; for I feel certain that you would say nothing that you did not with your whole heart believe in.”
“ Then you give me credit for honesty?”
“ Yes. I have an intuitive feeling when I can trust a person.”
“ I feel flattered,” he answered. “ May I consider, then, that you will add me to your list of friends?”
Diana’s eyes gleamed with a deeper light.
“ Yes,” she said; “I shall be glad to have you for a friend. I have only three: Signor Neri, and his sister, and Madame de Mouline.”
“All foreigners!”
“ No; Madame de Mouline is Jasper’s sister. She is much older than Jasper, and married a Frenchman. But she will not be my friend long, I am afraid—I think she will die, though Mrs. Seaton will not hear of such a thing. Jasper has gone to stay with her.”
An odd sensation flitted through John Carteret’s mind at this mention of Jasper for which he could not account, and a strange curiosity to know something about him.
Presently he was satisfied, for Diana went on—
“ Jasper is my guardian. You would not like him, though he can be agreeable enough if he chooses—but no one can depend upon him. He thinks one thing one minute, and something quite different the next—just according to the humour he is in. Besides, he is very passionate; so, on the whole, you see, I could not have him for a friend.”
John Carteret made no answer. Perhaps Diana expected none, for she was looking far away into the distance, and her thoughts were evidently wandering. One ray of sunshine, stealing through the many-leaved ceiling above them, played around the tawny yellow hair, and lighted it unto the semblance of a glory, and then lost itself among her amber beads, that flashed like fire as it touched them. The face, looking out from the circling halo, was pale through contrast; and the eyes were full of some inner thought that made the lips twitch restlessly.
John Carteret did not disturb the thinker. At length she spoke—
“ Which do you like best, sunrise or sunset?”
“ Is that the result of your meditations?” asked her companion.
“ Yes, but I do not know how or why it came—it was like a flash at the end of them. But you have not answered.”
“ I scarcely know which to say.”
“ Do you not?” she asked, in a more earnest tone than the question appeared to demand. “ That is like myself. I used to be quite sure that I liked the sunset best— it was like something finished, something that had won a victory, and was sinking in all its glory to rest in a world of gold and amethyst and precious things. But now, it seems to me that the rising is just as beautiful-rising in all the crimson glow to light the earth, to rule over it, to bring the day. I cannot make it out—I do not understand; but since that sermon on Sunday—I don’t believe Dr. Crawford made it himself he couldn’t: he is not the man to think the things he said—since then, everything has seemed different: even myself. It is as though I had wings, and were pluming them for flight—only I do not know whither.”
She was scarcely speaking to John Carteret now. Far away over the blue sea-line her eyes were looking into the west, as though they could pierce beyond, even unto the unknown.
“ There are strange meanings in everything, I believe,” she said, “and voices everywhere. Do you hear them also? The stories that I heard when I was a child, long, long ago, in India, come crowding into my mind. I have not thought of them since, until these last few days. And now it seems as if nature were no longer inanimate, but that each stream may be some spirit having power for good and evil—that the birds that sing around us may be human souls crying to us for sympathy.”
She turned suddenly to John Carteret as she spoke the last words, and the mournful look died away, and a scornful flash came into her eyes and a scornful smile upon her lips.
“ Supposing I said all this to Dr. Crawford, what do you think he would say? He would laugh, and tell me that I was talking nonsense, that I was wild and romantic, and that my head was turned with wandering in the woods and playing on the organ.
“ And yet I know that there is some great truth in what I feel—that something is being taught me; and that he—he who stands up Sunday after Sunday to teach the people, cannot tell me about it, because it is some thing greater than he can understand. If you are going to be a preacher, you will have to know more than he does. You must learn what these things mean. Do you know? Can you tell me?”
And the scornful tone changed into pleading, as she finished her speech.
“ Can you tell me?”
Did he know? So he asked himself, and he answered within himself—
“ Not until now.”
And now the revelation came—came to him through his own soul; and his own soul told him that, in the crimson morning light of awakening, the Soul beside him was struggling into existence—was beginning to feel, to hear, to speak.
“ Not now,” he said, in a low voice.
And she, looking up at the spiritual face that had illumined the sermon for her, felt that she was answered already.
At any rate, she was content to wait.
CHAPTER VI.
IL PARADISO.
HOW it came to pass, John Carteret could scarcely tell. Yet it might have been expected—it was but natural, as he, upon sober consideration, afterwards admitted.
But he was not in a mood to consider soberly now. It was almost the last of the May days that had been slipping away so pleasantly, that had come in white-crowned, and were stealing into June with coronals of rosebuds, green and crimson-streaked.
The blue sweep of hyacinths had faded away. The sun had gathered all their brightness unto himself, and perhaps flung it over the skies, which were deepening into denser azure. The trees were in fuller leaf, and lacked little of their Midsummer glory. The wild dove cooed among their branches, and the swallow was no stranger now.
Was it wonderful that the heart should beat at the sight and sounds of Summer? Was it wonderful that, in the midst of the garden, the man should find that something was wanting—that Paradise was not complete without an Eve?
And underneath the pines, the leaping waters clattered a silvery sparkling symphony to the lovers'voices.
So soon! How had it come to pass that the wayward, uncurbed girl, so scantily educated, had won the heart of the calm, well-disciplined, accomplished scholar? Who can understand these things? Do they not shape themselves through some mysterious psychological law, that binds together on earth what shall be bound hereafter in heaven?—not all marriages, but all soul unions, of which Klopstock’s friend declares that there are not many formed on earth that shall be continued in the after-world.
Was Diana the Eve that should tread with him another Paradise? How could he tell yet—for the end was not nigh? Nay, it had not even entered into his thoughts. All was so fresh and wonderful at present, that there was no need for speculation. The present was but a dream—a vision of beauty.
Diana had found the answer to her question, though she knew it not. She had found that her soul had struggled into birth, that the hidden sense of immortality had sprung to light, and that a new world had opened out suddenly before her.
And how?
Through one form of the subtle influence that moves the universe; that through all nature breathes aloud to man; that is the voice calling from the mighty depths of Divinity, bringing the souls that hearken nearer to itself; that is, in its various phases, the one upheaver for good—the greatest revolutionary power—the most despotic, because the most perfect law-giver;—the one force that, from life to death, is the only mover for good of the human heart;—the fulfilling of the law that brings men nearer to God, for it is the manifestation of God Himself.
Yea, to the Infinite Love alone can man aspire, through knowledge of the finite. For love, in the abstract, ennobles and refines: whether it be the love of man to man, of parent to child, of brother to brother, or that mystic soul love ordained in Eden between man and woman—since none can love aright without a purifying of the earthly nature.
And so Diana was learning. She had awakened through love, to perceive—though as yet but dimly—the higher life.
But she was only at the beginning. She had opened her eyes in the midst of the garden planted eastward, nigh to the rising of the sun; and the crimson light was falling all around her, and she was dazzled by its glory.
Ah! was not the present paradise—and paradise the golden future?
Suddenly, John Carteret awoke with a start. What had he done? Had he done wisely? Had he not been too hasty—even imprudent? And yet he did not repent.
“ I am very poor, Diana. I have my own way to make in the world.”
“ Ah! never mind. You will soon be a clergyman now, and then you can have a rectory and a church, like Broadmead.”
John Carteret shook his head.
“ It will be long enough before I get a living, Di. I shall have to be a curate first, on eighty or a hundred pounds a year.”
“ It is very easy to be poor,” said Diana, naively. “I should not mind it in the least. I don’t really care for any of these things,” and she pulled off her bracelets and tugged at her amber beads. “ I only think they look pretty. Do you care about them?” and she looked anxiously at him.
He laughed.
“ I don’t think the bracelets had anything to do with it,” he answered.
And yet Di would scarcely have been the same Di without them. They were characteristic, and so had done their duty.
“ I have never thought of riches or poverty, or things of that sort,” said Diana; “besides, gentlepeople are never really poor—like poor people.”
A half-reproachful feeling shot across John Carteret.
Had he not been to blame? She was so young, so ignorant of the world; and he looked down at the upraised eyes that were full of faith in him, that depended hungrily on him for strength and knowledge.
No, he did not repent, though the world lay spread out only as a blank before him. Was there not room enough in it for him to find a place to stand in? Was there not work enough to be found—for him, and every true man who has a steady purpose in his soul?
The world is not half full yet; the world is not over-crowded; the world is not drained of its resources. The fault is in the man, and not in the world. Look to it, ye who study mankind, and know the successful and the unsuccessful ones.
So John Carteret fell to musing; and his musing brought to him a new spirit of strength. It was early morning, with the fresh, invigorating hope-breezes playing upon his brow. The noontide had not come: there had been no time for scorching and withering.
Diana also fell to musing; and her musing brought forth the decision to begin to play at poverty, that so through the shadow she might become acclimated, in anticipation, to the substance. And to this end, she requested permission to move into the two rooms in the north wing.
She wanted no repairs done—simply for them to be cleaned out, and her own especial property moved up to them. Not any of the luxuries of her present room would she have touched; and it was luxuriously furnished, for Diana had a gorgeous Eastern taste, and rejoiced in comfort and glowing colours; and Jasper, who had looked upon her much in the light of a pet tigress, and had been amused with her wilfulness and extravagant fancies, had indulged her whims to the utmost. He had alternately fretted and spoiled her; but had been too unstable and passionate himself ever to gain any great depth of her affection.
Mrs. Seaton had done very much the same, partly to humour her son, whom she idolized; and therefore, when Diana preferred her request for the two attics, she had been very much surprised, and endeavoured to persuade her to give up her scheme.
But Diana persevered, and, as usual, gained her point. Moreover, she was even grateful also.
“ I don’t deserve all the kindness you have shown me,” she said. “I have never thought enough about it, I am afraid.”
At which unprecedented speech, Mrs. Seaton was more astonished than ever. But the climax came in the announcement of Diana’s engagement: then Mrs. Seaton’s amazement was indescribable.
“ How came you to think of such things? Who put such an idea into your head?” she exclaimed, as soon as she could speak.
“ No one,” replied Diana, naively. “ It came to me.”
And Diana began to play at poverty in her scantily furnished rooms, and found it very easy work. People did not want half the things they thought they required. She was just as well off without curtains, and, soft carpets, and gilded furniture; and what could be more beautiful than the yellow sunshine, and the flowers, and the thoughts that were in her heart? She had told Mrs. Seaton that the rooms seemed nearer to heaven; and truly, since she had established herself there, she had been living in paradise.
The storms had been fewer of late, for Diana had taken less notice of the manifold small vexations of life that had heretofore called forth her indignation. In fact, she had scarcely perceived them; for it is wonderful how blind happiness makes one to annoyances that would at other times sorely try the temper! Ah! it is very easy to be pleasant and amiable when one is very happy. All the world has felt it; and has been, at some time or other, tempted to subvert the copy written in childish days, in all the glory of fine up and firm downstrokes, and small text hand: “To be good is to be happy.” Yet that, doubtless, is true; nevertheless, one has found, even as a child, how naughty one was apt to be when everything was going wrong. And yet—for there are constant paradoxes to be found in life—the soul is often purer, calmer, and more contented in trial-time, than in prosperity. But that does not enter into the question here.
“ Is it not a paradise?” said Diana to Jasper Seaton, as he sat gazing upon her, as she flitted about the flowers, on her unprotected balcony.
“ There must be a railing put up,” he said, as he approached so near the edge that even he gave a slight shudder.
“ Ah! yes—in the high winds my flower pots might be swept off,” returned Diana.
“ I was not thinking of them, but of you,” he answered.
She laughed merrily.
“ Oh, I have no fear! I almost feel like a winged being up here; and even if I chanced to overbalance, I believe that I should spread out my arms, and descend gently upon the soft turf below. I have sometimes thought of it.”
“ Have you finished with your flowers?” asked Jasper, a little impatiently.
“ Almost. Why?”
“ I want to speak to you—to say something seriously.”
Diana sat down. She pushed back her hair, and looked earnestly at him.
“ What is it?” she asked.
“ What makes you so happy, Diana?”
The colour flushed into her face, mounting higher and higher, and her lip began to curl angrily.
“ Is that all you have to say?”
“ No,”
Then came a little pause, during which Diana’s foot tapped restlessly on the floor.
“ You are very young, Di.”
“ Eighteen next August,” she returned, drawing herself up, and endeavouring to look dignified.
“ Too young to know your own mind, Di.”
“ What do you mean?” she asked, starting up with flashing eyes.
“ I am your guardian, Di; and I consider this engagement a very foolish affair. You must give it up, like a sensible girl.”
Diana looked at him as though she were tempted to doubt his sanity.
“ You are talking nonsense,” she said, with very white lips, and a strong effort to control her passion.
“ Sense, Di.”
“ I beg to differ,” she replied. “ I must judge for myself in this matter.”
Her quietness surprised Jasper. Certainly, as his mother had said, a change had come over her.
“ You had better think it over,” he answered. “I am your guardian, and shall not give my consent.”
“ I shall not ask it,” she said, scornfully; losing, in her indignation, the dignity that she had tried to assume.
“ Mr. Carteret will, I suppose. I presume he is an honourable man, though his makinglove in this clandestine manner does not seem altogether in his favour.”
“ Clandestine! Honourable!” exclaimed Diana, fairly roused. “John Carteret is an angel. How dare you to speak of him so?—you, who are not to compare to him in goodness and in—”
“ Don’t go into a passion, Di,” interrupted Jasper, calmly. “ If Mr. Carteret is honourable, as you seem to believe, he may take my view of things when I have spoken to him, and laid the subject clearly before him. He has not a penny, I hear; and you”— here he hesitated slightly—“are penniless. It is ridiculous. At any rate, I have to act for your good. And if you persist in your folly, you will have to wait until you are of age; for, until then, you cannot marry without my consent.”
And Jasper Seaton rose, and stalked out of the apartment. He had put the wedge in more abruptly, perhaps, than he had intended; however, it might be as well. And Diana, left to consider the conversation, began to pace up and down her paradise. Was it true? Would he really be able to influence John Carteret? Could he really prevent the marriage? He could not—he should not. She should be of age some time, and then—
But, somehow, a dark cloud seemed to gather round her, and the pent-up storm found relief in a fit of crying. It was half passion, and somehow she knew it—but it did her good. She was vexed and worried. She felt herself tied and bound, and that she had no power to struggle free—for she did not know what power a guardian might possess.
At last she left off sobbing. She closed her eyes, and tried to reason with herself, and to be calm.
Yes, she was quite sure John Carteret would not listen to Jasper. Why had she for a moment doubted him?
And the cloud cleared away, and a happy smile played upon her face. She wondered how she could have been so foolish as to go into a passion. And she began to feel sorry that she had spoken so sharply to Jasper; for, in spite of his shortcomings, he had been very kind to her. Then, as she sat thus dreaming, her eyelids closed closer and closer, until sleep came down and kissed them into rest; and through her dreams she dreamed of Eden, and when she awoke she was still in Paradise.