# On Silver Wings, Chapter III

Note: original spelling has been maintained.
ON SILVER WINGS.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “JOYCE DORMER'S STORY.”
CHAPTER III.
A HALF-REVELATION.
“ NOT even a piano, Di!” said Jasper Seaton. “How can you manage without one?”
“ I can practise on the one in the nursery.”
“Why didn't you move it up here?”
“ It wasn't mine.”
“And are all these precious belongings yours?” asked Jasper, looking round the room.
“ Every one. Mrs. Seaton gave me every one of them. It’s the rocking-chair that Dolly used to have, and the nursery table. I couldn't do without a chair and table.”
“ But why didn't you ask for the piano as well?”
“ Oh, that would have been too much to ask for—the piano is worth so much more. Besides,” added Diana, drawing up her head, I with a little dignified movement, “a piano is a luxury, and one can well do without luxuries.”
Jasper regarded Diana in amazement. Could she be in earnest?
She was rocking backwards and forwards, with her eyes half closed, as though she were contemplating something afar off. Her black dress made her look slighter even than usual, and there was a more thoughtful expression on her face. She had certainly grown older-looking in the two months that he had been absent. She was beginning to appear quite womanly.
“ I will order the old piano to be brought up,” said Jasper. “You may as well have it, as the rest of the rubbish you have collected.”
“ Oh, thank you, thank you! That will be charming. A piano of my own! How very good of you, Jasper.” And she clapped her hands in childish delight; then, suddenly checking herself, she said, in a half repentant tone, “ But I know it is a luxury. I could really have done without it. I did not ask for it, you know, because it was a superfluity—”
“ No, you did not ask for it. I give it to you as a free gift that is worth nothing—”
“Nothing!” ejaculated Diana; and the host of sound that she had elicited from the ancient keys seemed filling the space around, and overpowering her in a burst of harmony —a great burst of many-voiced music of a thousand modulations, that yet blended into one glorious strain. A sudden light came into her eyes—“Nothing! Oh, Jasper! Music is heaven.”
“ What do you know about heaven, Di?” asked Jasper, in a scornful tone.
“ Not much,” said Diana, with a little sigh. “ I am afraid I am a heathen.”
The words brought back curiously to Jasper's mind the day of Diana's arrival at Broadmead. Could she be thinking of it also? Could she have understood and treasured up his mother’s speech. No—Diana was not thinking of it; though that day had ever stood out prominently in her memory. Her first impression of Mrs. Seaton had never been eradicated; and Jasper shared in the unfavourable judgment, though in a slighter degree. The judgment also became modified as time stole on; for Jasper, despite his uncertain,-wayward temper, endeavoured to minister to the pleasures of his ward, and occasionally had taken her rides on an old brown pony; until one day she fell off, and sprained her wrist and ankle, and then Mrs. Seaton put a stop to the expeditions.
After that, Jasper went away, so that their budding friendship was nipped before it was ripe; and when Madame de Mouline came to stay with her mother, and won Diana's youthful heart by her gentleness and beauty, Mrs. Seaton and her son went down in the child’s estimation in proportion as Anne de Mouline rose.
There seemed a great gulf between them, which Di could not bridge over. Madame de Mouline was so good, so charming—a benevolent fairy—a queen, with all the virtues under the sun—an angel, by whose side Mrs. Seaton and Jasper became ogres and powers of darkness.
Madame de Mouline was recovering from a dangerous illness; and Diana was content to sit for hours watching her, without speaking. If she could only look at the white, spiritual face, with the soft, dove-like eyes, with their loving expression, it was enough for her. It seemed to bring to the child that which its hungry heart longed for unconsciously, the love of a being superior to itself.
The great longing implanted in every human heart, but too often crushed out of it by adverse circumstances, by injudicious training, injustice, mismanagement, and misconception—Adoration, is an inborn impulse of humanity; but the teachers of the world have not found it out—or, at any rate, have not turned it to account.
Madame de Mouline, on her part, felt a strong yearning towards the orphan child of her rejected lover. She had no children of her own, and her husband was a man absorbed in scientific pursuits, in which she could take no share. It had been a love match, and they were much attached to each other; but M. de Mouline had two mistresses—his wife and science, and each held a distinct place in his affections. There was no amalgamation—the one never trenched upon the portion held by the other; consequently, there was a part of her husband’s being that the wife could not share; and she felt it, without being able to account for the blank that, in the midst of her wedded happiness, she occasionally experienced.
When Madame de Mouline left Broadmead, it seemed to Diana as though a revelation had been withdrawn, and dark clouds had gathered over the horizon. Dolly could not fill up the void made by the departure of the beautiful, gentle lady; for Diana had found that she wanted something beyond Dolly now—a want had been created, or rather called forth, of whose existence she had hitherto been unaware.
Her love for Madame de Mouline differed from that she felt for Dolly: to the one she looked up as to an infallible being, who could draw her higher and higher, or, as she expressed it, “make her good;” upon the other she looked down with all the affection of a warm nature, but gained nothing more than she gave. When Dolly left, even this outlet was withdrawn; and she wore through the years, growing more and more defiant, and caring for no one. Every now and then she would carry her griefs down to Dolly, and cry over the baby that was named after her, but to which she declined being godmother, as she could not undertake to perform all that she should have to promise.
“What do I know about such things, Dolly?” she would say. “I am but a heathen; and if Mrs. Seaton and the rector are Christians, I don’t see much difference between Christians and heathens.”
And Dolly would answer—
“ Oh dear! Miss Diana, don’t talk in that way—it’s enough to frighten one. If you had only learned your Catechism, it would all have been so different.”
To which Diana replied—
“ I am afraid not, Dolly.”
And so matters went on; and, but for the music, Diana would have found life at Broadmead insupportable. Wild, wayward, and uncontrolled as she had been as a child, so she grew up to girlhood.
Until-
Was it an omen for good that something good should have come to her in church—something that had produced a far greater effect than Dr. Crawford’s sermons? During Dr. Crawford’s sermons, Diana generally closed her eyes and fell into a reverie, from, which she did not rouse herself until the droning tone of the rector ceased for a moment, before he concluded with the Doxology. She seldom looked about her in church, and when she did so it was in a sort of dream—seeing things that other people did not see. She seldom listened to anything save to the organ: that seemed to her like rare, unearthly melody, in sweet dissonance from the rector’s drawl and the shrill voices of some of the village choristers, rising above the rich deep bass and clear tenor of the organist’s only hopeful pupils. Her heart grew softer as the sounds floated upwards, and circled through the open rafters of the pointed roof, and then seemed to descend like a benediction upon her, more powerful than any Dr. Crawford could pronounce.
If her eyes were open during the sermon, they generally gazed upward at the great east window, with its ancient stained glass, representing, somewhat grotesquely, the martyrdom of St. Stephen. There were a few panes broken, and into their places plain glass had been put, which gave here and there a glimpse of the dark branches of a gigantic yew, and, higher up, glints of the blue sky; and now and then a bird would fly across, and make Diana long that she might have “ the wings of a dove, and flee away and be at rest.”
She liked those words: they fell upon her soul with a sense of peace and freedom. And as she heard them to-day, she gazed upward at the sun rays pouring in through the unpainted panes, like a golden mist-path leading up to heaven. If she could but glide along the mote-built bridge, and lose herself—far, far away among the stars! “O! had I wings like a dove; for then would I flee away and be at rest” The words made the rector’s voice sound almost melodious as he gave out the text;—the wail of a struggling heart longing to surmount its difficulties and trials.
“And be at rest!”
Was every one in the constant turmoil in which she found herself?—in continual warfare, in continual defeat; continually blaming herself and intending to do better, and yet for ever failing? If it were over, and she could be at rest! And she thought, despite her dislike to Dr. Crawford and his monotonous voice, that she would try to listen to the sermon. She glanced up at the pulpit. Perchance he might look less pompous to-day. No—there he stood; his head thrown back, one arm ostentatiously extended, and the other dangling his eyeglass.
Diana’s lip curled. What could he have to say that she should care for? Down dropped her eyes; but the lids did not close over them. She half started—had she seen a vision?
There was a stranger in the rectory pew. A pale, earnest face was looking upward—a calm face, with a streak of sunlight falling across the hair and brow; but from the eyes shone forth a light that the sun could not give.
The face attracted Diana as a beautiful picture. Again and again she looked upon it, and seemed to derive peace and strength from the contemplation of something she, read in it—something that, as a child, she had experienced in her short acquaintance with Anne de Mouline, but that was now revealed to her in greater intensity. She acknowledged in it, half unconsciously, a nature higher than her own; and the revelation appeared rather to raise than to depress her.
The stranger was listening to the sermon; and if the stranger could find anything good therein, why might not she?
From the pale, spiritual face that seemed to her to be an illustration to the “at rest” of the text, she glanced up at Dr. Crawford droning out his laboured essay, and waving his arms ostentatiously. She was forcibly struck by the contrast of the real and the unreal. And yet she must listen, to know what the stranger heard that kept his attention fixed. Surely his own thoughts must be clothing the bare platitudes he was hearing; or it might be that he was feeling, with George Herbert—
“ The worst speak something good. If all want sense, God takes the text and preacheth patience.”
He might be learning patience. And yet he was listening.
And Diana alternately listened and gazed; and the scraps of the sermon patched themselves in with the speculations that were going on in her mind, which the light in the stranger’s eyes somehow illumined. It was a motley web that she was weaving, in which no especial line or colour predominated, and in which there was no regular pattern. And yet it was a reality that seemed more unreal than all her dreaming; and she wondered if she should wake up, and find it an illusion.
At last, the “ In conclusion, my beloved brethren,” told that the end was nigh at hand; and then a pause, and then the rustling of the people rising. Mechanically, Diana stood up; and, when she knelt down again, remained longer with head bowed down than usual.
When at last she rose, the congregation were already moving away.
She looked towards the rectory pew, but it was empty. Had she, then, seen a vision? She did not know, and she did not dare to ask Mrs. Seaton. But whether it had been or not, she was conscious of an accession of vitality. The words, “ Awake thou that sleepest,” had sounded. And from within, a yearning, longing, struggling, panting throe, that she had never felt before, answered to the call: “O, that I had wings like a dove, for then I would flee away and be at rest!”
CHAPTER IV.
UNDINE.
INTO her visions of the night stole the vision of the day; and in her waking dream on the morrow it found a place.
“Had it been real?”
She started up and half opened her eyes, then closed them again, hoping the dream was not quite over. But it would not come again.
It was early—too early to rise; and yet she could sleep no more. She threw a thick shawl around her, and, drawing up the blind, looked out on the landscape before her.
The long line of hills stretching northward looked gray and cold in the dawning; for the sun was yet behind them, and had not tossed over his golden rays to gild the dappled orchards bursting into blossom. The dew was thick upon the grass, almost like a white frost, and the sky was clear and cloudless. All was still, very still; beautiful, but cold; asleep—nay, even dead—“at rest.”
The words came to her like a living voice —“At rest!”
But as her eye wandered over the sleeping earth, she felt that it was not a “dead rest” that she wanted, that she had panted for. It was a living rest—fresh and eternal, firm and immovable.
She shook back the yellow hair that floated over her shoulders like a veil of unspun silk, all floss and tangle. She leaned her elbows on the window-sill; and her dark eyes grew darker still as she gazed steadily northward. She shivered slightly, for the morning was chill, despite its May promise; and the hawthorn bloom was like snow upon the hedges, that helped to carry out the illusion of hoar frost with the pearly dew.
She went on musing—
“The dove would not be on the wing until the sun rose.”
The thought contained a half-suggestion, though she could not carry it out. Still, it seemed as if it were light, not darkness; warmth, not cold; life, not death—that she needed.
Where should she find the “living rest?”
Undine, by her native river, longed not more earnestly for a soul than Diana did to know and comprehend hers, and the workings in it that had newly sprung to life. Had it been dormant so long, or had it but just sprung into being? Why had she not felt before this strange, new power that was filling her being—half pain, half joy, half fear?
Suddenly, a streak of sunshine glittered across the valley to her left. The sun was travelling over the hills, though she could not see it; and bit by bit the stream was lit with gold, and the cottage windows were all at once a-blaze, and the gilded weathercock upon the church spire had turned to ruddy flame. The rooks cawed among the elms surrounding the rectory, the blackbird tuned its note, and the lark rose higher and higher into the blue sky, to sing its song at the gate of heaven.
A sudden sob was the echo that her heart gave; and Diana, sinking upon the ground beside a luxurious sofa that stood in her gaily furnished sleeping-room, began to cry. She could not tell wherefore the tears had come, for she felt very happy: she even felt as if a new leaf were turning over in her life, and that she was at last “going to be good,” as she had so often intended to be before.
The feeling did not leave her through the day, and she wandered out into the woods that lay above the house, up to the pine grove, which was her favourite retreat; where, through the tall, straight stems, the sun quivered in amber streaks, and changed the moss from palest azure green to deepest emerald, or from flaming yellow to glowing crimson-brown. And there she sat, with all the lights and shadows falling round, and all the woods alive with insect hum and wild bird’s song. And not far off, a rocky, treeless spot was fragrant with wild thyme, over which hung a cloud of bees, whose low, monotonous music was soft and sweet.
A little torrent danced down through the pines, and joined the stream below. It leaped with blithesome plash over projecting stones, and sparkled as it caught the sunshine on its spray, or darkened as it tumbled its shallow, green waters, coloured by the overhanging foliage, in the deeper shade of the fairy shadow-land. Presently it grew broader, in a bit of woodland, where the wild hyacinths swung their bells, one glorious mass of waving blue.
Why was she following the course of the stream, that grew broader now in verdant pasture lands, flowing betwixt luxuriant banks, lined with lithe rushes, and rich in promise of yellow water-flags? The sun was hot over these meadows, but Diana heeded it not; warmth, life, and light— these were what she wanted, and they were grateful to her feelings. Where the tiny tributary joined the broader stream, a narrow foot-bridge crossed to the main street, whence a long avenue of elms led to one entrance to the churchyard, up to the lich-gate. Did Diana think of it as she passed through? Was the slight shudder caused by the sudden breeze that sprang up, or was it an involuntary emotion of the soul?
The tones of the organ sounded from the church. She did not recognize the fugue, which was evidently new to the player, since he played it as though he were reading it for the first time. Nevertheless, it was very beautiful.
Diana pursued her way up the organ loft stairs. The passage was dark; and when she emerged from it, the light dazzled her.
“Ah, maestro!” she said, gliding up to the organ, “ what lovely thing is that? I have not heard it before.”
The player, thus apostrophized, turned round; and her eyes recovering their power of sight, she started—for the face that she had seen in the rectory pew the day before, was looking upon her.
“ I beg your pardon,” she said. “ I—” And then she paused, half meditating a retreat; but curiosity prevailed, and she did not move.
The stranger was equally surprised by the apparition that presented itself. A young, very slight girl, somewhat fantastically attired, with tawny yellow hair—part twisted up, and part falling in one thick tangled curl below her waist. Heavy gold rings were in her ears, and rows of amber beads, fastened with a gorgeous clasp, were coiled around her throat; and on her wrists glittered curious flat bracelets of Indian workmanship. There was a flash of blue and scarlet in her dress, with which the golden ornaments seemed in keeping, giving an Oriental character and costliness of effect to her dress that the peacock's feather in her hat brilliantly carried out.
“ Perhaps you were coming to play yourself?” said the stranger.
“ No—only to listen.”
“ But not to my playing,” he said; and his clear voice had an inexpressible charm in it. “You spoke of your maestro,” he continued. “ Is there any one in the village who deserves that title?”
“Oh, yes!” replied Diana, enthusiastically. “ My maestro is an Italian, who has lived at Broadmead-for years and years—I don't know for how long. He is growing old now; but he knows all the music in the world, and plays divinely, and never makes mistakes. I might have known he was not playing to-day, if I had thought about it.”
The stranger smiled, and Diana was a little confused.
“ I did not mean to say,” she added, “ that you played badly.”
“ No—the truth came out accidentally. I don’t play easily at sight.”
“ And he does. It is wonderful. And then his voluntaries—his toccatas, he calls them—they are superb.”
“Yes, I heard one in church yesterday.”
“ Yes,” nodded Diana; “ I saw you there, in the rectory pew.”
And her thoughts of retreating having quite vanished, she seated herself on a low bench, as she was accustomed to do when she went up to watch the signor playing.
There was something in the stranger's manner that inspired her with confidence; and, besides, she was filled with curiosity, and had always been accustomed to do just as she pleased, and to be attended to, according to the whim of the moment, by those with whom she came in contact. Even Jasper had given way to this imperiousness, especially during his last visit at home.
“ I did not see you,” answered her companion.
“ No—you were listening to the sermon. I was wondering what you were thinking of it, and who you were.”
“ My name is John Carteret, and I am staying at the rectory. I have come for a few months to read with Dr. Crawford.”
“ How very dreadful,” said Diana. “I am very sorry for you.”
“ Why?” asked Mr. Carteret, half amused.
“Because I hate Dr. Crawford.”
The words were spoken energetically, and her eyes flashed scornfully, and her lip curled scornfully.
“ Hate is a strong word,” answered John Carteret, quietly. “People do not hate without a strong reason, and perhaps no reason is strong enough.”
Diana caught the tone of reproof, and it annoyed her; therefore she became defiant.
“ Christians, you intended to say, I suppose,” she said, with some bitterness; “but I'm not a Christian, and you won't find many about here. Perhaps the signor is as near one as there is, and he wouldn't come to church if he didn't play on the organ. His sister never comes, and she's none the worse for it. I go every Sunday, and I want to be away all the time; and I never feel so wicked as I do in church. But you will not see the signor and his sister, if you're staying at the rectory: the rector looks down upon them, and so do the people round. They are never asked to the Manor House, or anywhere else, unless the signor is wanted to play. I wouldn’t accept the invitations— but he does; and I can see him shrinking, shrinking into the farthest corner. And then the rector preaches on humility, and I close my ears, and won’t listen; and the church seems spinning round; and the stone heads over the pillars grin and grin more than ever, and I don’t wonder at it. It’s enough to make one wicked; and I want to get far, far away somewhere, only I don’t know where.”
And Diana, who had waxed wrathful in her passionate declamation, ended her speech in a sort of lull of despair.
Half compassionately, half wonderingly did John Carteret look down upon the slight, childish figure, with the hands clasped, and the deep violet eyes gazing up from under their black fringes.
“ Poor child!” he involuntarily ejaculated.
“ I’m not a child,” said Diana, drawing herself up to her full height. “ I shall be eighteen in August.”
She was half indignant; and yet the compassionate tone had something in it that was not unpleasing—something restful and peace-inspiring.
“ I ought to apologize for my words,” replied her companion. “ I am afraid they sounded impertinent.”
“ No—oh, no—I don’t mind; only one does not like being thought quite a baby. Of course, you would not know me. I am Diana Ellis. I live at the Manor House, with Mrs. Seaton and Jasper. Mrs. Seaton is the grand lady of the place, and thinks a great deal of the rector. They do religion together; but I don’t see that much good comes of it. Jasper is not a bit religious, and doesn’t pretend to be. And I—I was born in India, and I half believe that I am a heathen. Sometimes I wonder if I have even a soul. Is there any one who could possibly be without a soul?” she asked, looking up eagerly. “Undine wanted one, you know, and it brought her trouble. Now, I think that it would be the greatest happiness to me if I could be sure that I had not got one. Would it not be a good thing if people had no souls?”
And she sighed wearily. Then, without waiting for an answer, she opened a music book containing one of Pergolesi’s Masses.
“ Do you know this?” she asked. “The signor loves Pergolesi. He plays this ‘Miserere' sometimes, when the people are coming into church. I will play it for you.”
John Carteret moved away from the organ, and Diana sat down; but the notes were mute.
“ Ah!” she said, “you’ve had Phil Amos to blow, and he’s gone to sleep: he always does if one leaves off for a minute. Phil! Phil!” she cried—“wake up, wake up!”
And mechanically obeying the well-known voice, Phil Amos opened his eyes, and began to blow as though he had never left off.
And through the rafters rolled the sweet, solemn tones; and Diana forgot everything in the music before her. She played through the “Miserere;” and then, pausing and springing up, she said—
“ I can’t play any more now. Is it not wonderful music?”
John Carteret did not answer. He had been altogether taken by surprise at the power and pathos of the girl’s playing.
“ Ah! you don’t like it. I did not play it well.”
“ You played it wonderfully—”
“ Did I? I am glad of that.” And she glanced scrutinizingly at John Carteret. “I think you are truthful,” she added, meditatively.
“ I hope so.”
“ Why do you say hope? You know whether you are or not.”
“ Do I? Do you suppose that people never flatter themselves?”
“ Not in the matter of truth. That is an impossibility. It is the only thing I am sure about,” answered Diana, as if in argument with herself.
“ It is the first principle,” said John Carteret; but he also appeared to be answering himself.
Diana had moved to go away. Then, as if a thought struck her, she turned and held out her hand to John Carteret.
“ Thank you,” she said.
And then she glided down the stairs, and through the church, out into the sunshine. And John Carteret was left alone, wondering wherefore she had thanked him. He was a little bewildered, a little perplexed, a little pitying, and more than a little interested. Should he see her again?
And Diana moved homeward through the green pastures, nor noted the flowers at her feet, nor the song of the birds. Nay, she heeded not the rain-drops beginning to fall from the great gray cloud that had hidden the face of the sun. Patter, patter, patter— they were dripping on the young leaves of the sycamores. She heard them now, but the shower would soon be over; and she waited under the deeper shade that overhung the green waters of the leaping torrent.
She seated herself upon a mossy trunk, and looked up at the foam-path that came rushing down the hillside like a living creature. And then she laughed aloud.
Perhaps the babbling thing of spray might be some water-sprite relative mocking her new aspirations, even as her soulless kindred had raged at Undine.
Undine—what made her think of Undine?
The rain was over. The sun was shining when Diana entered the iron gates, and strolled pensively up the chestnut avenue.