The Following of the Star Part 25

Thus excluded from his refuge in the leafless orchards, David launched into a graphic description of the difficulties and adventure of African travel.

"You see," he was saying, "the jungle gra.s.ses grow to such a height that it becomes almost impossible to force one's way through them; and they make equally good cover for wild beasts, or mosquitoes"--when Diana laid her hand upon his coat sleeve.

Either the sleeve was thick, or David was dense--or both. The account of African swamps continued, with increased animation.

"As soon as the wet season is over, the natives fire the gra.s.s all around their villages; and then wild beasts get no cover for close approach; shooting becomes possible, and the women can get down to the river to fetch water, or into the forests to cut firewood. The burning kills millions of mosquitoes, makes it possible to go out in safety, and to shoot game. When the gra.s.s is high, mosquitoes are rampant, and game impossible to view. Before the burning was done round my place, last year, I found a hippopotamus in my flower garden, when I came down to breakfast one morning. He had danced a cake-walk among my oleanders, which was a trial, because oleanders bloom gloriously all the year round when once they get a hold."

Suddenly Diana turned upon him, took his right hand between both hers, and caught it to her, impulsively.

"David," she said, "do you consider it right in our last hour together, completely to ignore the person you have just married?"

David's startled face showed very white against the green window-blind.

"I--I was not ignoring you," he stammered, "I was telling you about----"

"Oh, I know!" cried Diana, uncontrollable pain in her voice, and the look of a wounded leopard in her eyes, "Bother your tall gra.s.ses, and your oleanders, and your hippopotamus!" Then more gently, but still holding his hand pressed against her velvet coat: "Oh, don't let's quarrel, David! I don't want to be horrid! But we can't ignore the fact that we were married this morning; and you are wasting the only time left to us, in which to discuss our future."

David gently drew away his hand, folded his arms across his breast, leaned back in his corner, and looked at Diana, with that expression of patient tenderness which always had the effect of making her feel absurdly young, and far removed from him.

"Have we not said all there is to say about it?" he asked, gently.

"No, silly, we have not!" cried Diana, furiously. "Oh, how glad I am that you are going to Central Africa!"

David's face whitened to a terrible pallor.

"There is nothing new in that," he said, speaking very low. "It has been understood all along."

"Oh, David, forgive me," cried Diana. "I did not mean to say anything unkind. But I am so miserable and unhappy; and if you say another word about Hampshire scenery or African travel, I shall either swear and break the windows, or fall upon your shoulder and weep. Either course would involve you in an unpleasant predicament. So, for your own sake, help me, David."

David's earnest eyes searched her face.

"How can I help you?" he asked, his deep voice vibrating with an intensity which a.s.sured Diana of having gained at last his full attention. "What has made you miserable?"

"Our wedding-service," replied Diana, with tears in her voice. "It meant so much more than I had ever dreamed it possibly could mean."

Then a look leapt into David's eyes such as Diana had never seen in mortal eyes, before.

"How?" he said; the one word holding so much of question, of amazement, of hope, of suspense, that its utterance seemed to arrest the train; to stop the beating of both their hearts; to stay the universe a breathing s.p.a.ce; while he looked, with a world of agonised hope and yearning, into those sweet grey eyes, br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with tears.

Perhaps the tears blinded them to the meaning of the look in David's.

Anyway, his sudden "How?" bursting as a bomb-sh.e.l.l into the silent railway-carriage, only brought an expression of startled surprise, to add to the trouble in Diana's sweet face.

David pulled himself together.

"How?" he asked again, more gently; while the train, the hearts, and the universe went on once more.

"Oh, I don't know," said Diana, with a little break in her voice. "I think I realised suddenly, how much it might mean between two people who really cared for one another--I mean really _loved_--for we do 'care'; don't we, Cousin David?"

"Yes, we do care," said David, gently.

"I want you to talk to me about it; because the service was so much more solemn than I had expected; I have never been at any but flippant weddings--what?... Oh, yes, weddings are often 'flippant,' Cousin David.

But ours was not. And I am so afraid, after you are gone, it will come back and haunt me. I want you to tell me, quite plainly, how little it _really_ meant; although it seemed to mean so appallingly much."

David laid his hand gently on hers, as it lay upon her m.u.f.f, and the restless working of her fingers ceased.

"It meant no more," he said, quietly, "than we intended it should mean.

It meant nothing which could cause you distress or trouble. All was quite clear between us, beforehand; was it not? That service meant for you--your home, your fortune, your position in the county, your influence for good; deliverance from undesired suitors; and--I hope--a friend you can trust--though far away--until death takes him--farther."

He kept his hand lightly on hers, and Diana's mind grew restful. She laid her other hand over his. She was so afraid he would take it away.

"Oh, go on David," she said. "I feel better."

"You must not let it haunt you when I am gone," continued David. "You urged me to do this thing, for a given reason; and, when once I felt convinced we were not wrong in doing it, I went through with it, as I had promised you I would. There was nothing in that to frighten or to distress you. We could not help it that the service was so wonderful.

That was partly your fault," added David, with a gentle smile, "for providing organ music, and for choosing to impersonate my Lady of Mystery."

Diana considered this. Then: "Oh, I am so comforted, Cousin David," she said. "I was so horribly afraid it had--somehow--meant more than I wanted it to mean."

"How could it have meant more than you wanted it to mean?"

"I don't know. I begin to think Uncle Falcon was right, when he called me ignorant and inexperienced."

David laughed. "Oh, you mustn't begin to give in to Uncle Falcon," he said. "And to-day, of all days, when our campaign has succeeded, and we have defeated him. You can go into the library this evening, look Uncle Falcon full in the eyes, and say: 'Uncle Falcon, _I_ have won!'"

"Can I?" said Diana, doubtfully. "I am a little bit afraid of Uncle Falcon. I could, if you were there, Cousin David."

David tried to withdraw his hand; but the hand lying lightly upon it immediately tightened.

"Are you _sure_ I shan't be haunted after you are gone?" asked Diana, with eyes that searched his face.

"Not by me," smiled David.

"Of course not. But by the service?"

"Are any special words troubling you?" he asked, gently.

"Goodness, no!" cried Diana. "I realised nothing clearly excepting 'I will,' when you said it. I haven't a ghost of a notion what I promised."

"Then if you haven't a ghost--" began David.

"Oh, don't joke about it," implored Diana. "I am really in earnest. I was horribly afraid; and I did not know of what. I began to think I should be obliged to ask you to put off, and to go by a later boat."

"Why?"

"So as to have you here, to tell me it had not meant more than we intended it should mean."

Diana took off her large hat, and threw it on to the seat opposite. Then she rested her head against the cushion, close to David's.

"Oh, this is so restful," she sighed; "and I am so comforted and happy!