The Project Gutenberg EBook of Diana, by Susan Warner

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Title: Diana

Author: Susan Warner

Release Date: August 28, 2009 [EBook #29824]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIANA ***

Produced by Daniel Fromont

DIANA

BY

SUSAN WARNER,

AUTHOR OF

"THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD," "QUEECHY," ETC. ETC.

LONDON

JAMES NISBET & CO., 21 BERNERS STREET.

MDCCCLXXVII.

   "Know well, my soul, God's hand controls
   Whate'er thou fearest;
   Round Him in calmest music rolls
   Whate'er thou hearest.

   "What to thee is shadow, to Him is day,
   And the end He knoweth;
   And not on a blinded, aimless way
   The spirit goeth."

WHITTIER.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. THE SEWING SOCIETY

CHAPTER II. THE NEW MINISTER

CHAPTER III. HARNESSING PRINCE

CHAPTER IV. MOTHER BARTLETT

CHAPTER V. MAKING HAY

CHAPTER VI. MR. KNOWLTON'S FISH

CHAPTER VII. BELLES AND BLACKBERRIES

CHAPTER VIII. THE NEW RICHES OF THE OLD WORLD

CHAPTER IX. MRS STARLING'S OPINIONS

CHAPTER X. IN SUGAR

CHAPTER XI. A STORM IN SEPTEMBER

CHAPTER XII. THE ASHES OF THE FIRE

CHAPTER XIII. FROM THE POST OFFICE

CHAPTER XIV. MEETING AT ELMFIELD

CHAPTER XV. CATECHIZING

CHAPTER XVI. IS IT WELL WITH THEE?

CHAPTER XVII. THE USE OF LIVING

CHAPTER XVIII. A SNOWSTORM

CHAPTER XIX. OUT OF HUMDRUM

CHAPTER XX. SETTLED

CHAPTER XXI. UNSETTLED

CHAPTER XXII. NEW LIFE

CHAPTER XXIII. SUPPER AT HOME

CHAPTER XXIV. THE MINISTER'S WIFE

CHAPTER XXV. MISS COLLINS' WORK

CHAPTER XXVI. THINGS UNDONE

CHAPTER XXVII. BONDS

CHAPTER XXVIII. EVAN'S SISTER

CHAPTER XXIX. HUSBAND AND WIFE

CHAPTER XXX. SUNSHINE

CHAPTER XXXI. A JUNE DAY

CHAPTER XXXII. WIND AND TIDE

CHAPTER XXXIII. BUDS AND BLOSSOMS

CHAPTER XXXIV. DAIRY AND PARISH WORK

CHAPTER XXXV. BABYLON

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE PARTY

CHAPTER XXXVII. AT ONE

DIANA.

CHAPTER I.

THE SEWING SOCIETY.

I am thinking of a little brown house, somewhere in the wilds of New England. I wish I could make my readers see it as it was, one June afternoon some years ago. Not for anything very remarkable about it; there are thousands of such houses scattered among our hills and valleys; nevertheless one understands any life story the better for knowing amid what sort of scenes it was unfolded. Moreover, such a place is one of the pleasant things in the world to look at, as I judge. This was a small house, with its gable end to the road, and a lean-to at the back, over which the long roof sloped down picturesquely. It was weather-painted; that was all; of a soft dark grey now, that harmonized well enough with the gayer colours of meadows and trees. And two superb elms, of New England's own, stood beside it and hung over it, enfolding and sheltering the little old house, as it were, with their arms of strength and beauty. Those trees would have dignified anything. One of them, of the more rare weeping variety, drooped over the door of the lean-to, shading it protectingly, and hiding with its long pendant branches the hard and stiff lines of the building. So the green draped the grey; until, in the soft mingling of hues, the light play of sunshine and shadow, it seemed as if the smartness of paint upon the old weather-boarding would have been an intrusion, and not an advantage. In front of the house was a little space given to flowers; at least there were some irregular patches and borders, where balsams and hollyhocks and pinks and marigolds made a spot of light colouring; with one or two luxuriantly-growing blush roses, untrained and wandering, bearing a wealth of sweetness on their long, swaying branches. There was that spot of colour; all around and beyond lay meadows, orchards and cultivated fields; till at no great distance the ground became broken, and rose into a wilderness of hills, mounting higher and higher. In spots these also showed cultivation; for the most part they were covered with green woods in the depth of June foliage. The soft, varied hilly outline filled the whole circuit of the horizon; within the nearer circuit of the hills the little grey house sat alone, with only one single exception. At the edge of the meadow land, half hid behind the spur of a hill, stood another grey farm-house; it might have been half a mile off. People accustomed to a more densely populated country would call the situation lonesome; solitary it was. But Nature had shaken down her hand full of treasures over the place. Art had never so much as looked that way. However, we can do without art on a June afternoon.

The door of the lean-to looked towards the road, and so made a kind of front door to the kitchen which was within. The door-sill was raised a single step above the rough old grey stone which did duty before it; and sitting on the doorstep, in the shadow and sunlight which came through the elm branches and fell over her, this June afternoon, was the person whose life story I am going to try to tell. She sat there as one at home, and in the leisure of one who had done her work; with arms crossed upon her bosom, and an air of almost languid quiet upon her face. The afternoon was quiet-inspiring. Genial warm sunshine filled the fields and grew hazy in the depth of the hills; the long hanging elm branches were still; sunlight and shadow beneath slept in each other's arms; soft breaths of air, too faint to move the elms, came nevertheless with reminders and suggestions of all sorts of sweetness; from the leaf-buds of the woods, from the fresh turf of the meadows, from a thousand hidden flowers and ferns at work in their secret laboratories, distilling a thousand perfumes, mingled and untraceable. Now and then the breath of the roses was quite distinguishable; and from fields further off the delicious scent of new hay. It was just the time of day when the birds do not sing; and the watcher at the door seemed to be in their condition.

She was a young woman, full grown, but young. Her dress was the common print working dress of a farmer's daughter, with a spot or two of wet upon her apron showing that she had been busy, as her dress suggested. Her sleeves were still rolled up above her elbows, leaving the crossed arms full in view. And if there is