[Sidenote: Good-bye]

"Good-night, Boy," she said, "for the last time."

"Good-night," he answered, gathering her into his arms.

"And good-bye, Boy, forever!"

"Forever," he echoed, "good-bye!"

He kissed her again, not with passion, but with the love that has risen above it. Then she released herself, and, holding the little red book against her heart, ran quickly up-stairs.

He waited until the echo of her footsteps had died away, and her door had closed softly. Then he put out the lights, and sat there for a long time in the darkness, thinking, before he went to his room.



XX

"The Lady Traveller"

[Sidenote: Grandmother's Loss]

"They ain't on the bureau and they ain't on the washstand, and I disremember takin' 'em out last night when I went to bed, so I must have swallered 'em." Grandmother's speech was somewhat blurred but her meaning was distinct.

"Well," returned Matilda, with aggravating calmness, "if you have swallowed 'em, you have, so what of it?"

"Matilda Starr! I should think you'd have some human feelin's about you somewheres. Here your mother's gone and swallered her false teeth and you set there, not tryin' to do anything for her."

"What can I do? I can't stand on a chair and swing you by your feet, same as Mis' Bates did when her little Henry choked on a marble, can I? Besides, you couldn't have swallowed 'em. You'll find 'em somewheres."

"Maybe I couldn't have swallered 'em, but I have," Grandmother mumbled. "What's more, I feel 'em workin' now inside me. They're chewing on the linin' of my stomach, and it hurts."

[Sidenote: What's the Matter?]

"I didn't know there was any linin' in your stomach."

"There is. It said so in the paper."

"Did it say anything about hooks and eyes and whalebones? What kind of a linin' is it—cambric, or drillin'?"

"I don't see how you can set there, Matilda, and make fun of your poor old mother, when she's bein' eaten alive by her own teeth. I wouldn't treat a dog like that, much less my own flesh and blood."

"I've never heard of dogs bein' et by their own teeth," commented Matilda, missing the point.

Ostentatiously lame, Grandmother limped to the decrepit sofa and lay down with a groan. Rosemary came in from the kitchen with the oatmeal, and was about to go back for the coffee when another groan arrested her attention.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"I'm dyin', Rosemary," Grandmother mumbled, hoarsely. "I've swallered my teeth, and I am dyin' in agony."

"Nonsense! You couldn't have swallowed your teeth!"

"That's what I told her," said Miss Matilda, triumphantly.

"But I have," Grandmother retorted, feebly. "I can feel 'em—here." She placed her hand upon her ill-defined waist line, and groaned again.

[Sidenote: Rosemary to the Rescue]

Rosemary ran up-stairs, inspired to unusual speed by the heartrending sounds that came from below. When she returned, Grandmother seemed to be in a final spasm, and even Matilda was frightened, though she would not have admitted it.

"Here," said Rosemary. "Now come to breakfast."

Grandmother rolled her eyes helplessly toward Rosemary, then suddenly sat up. "Where'd you get 'em?" she demanded, in a different tone.

"They were on the floor under the washstand. Please come before everything gets cold."

"I told you you hadn't swallowed 'em," remarked Matilda, caustically.

"Maybe I didn't, but I might have," rejoined Grandmother. "Anyhow, I've seen how you'd all act in case I had swallered 'em, and I know who to leave my money to when I die." She beamed kindly upon Rosemary, in whom the mention of money had produced mingled emotions of anger and resentment.

"If you had swallowed 'em, Rosemary couldn't have got 'em," Matilda objected.

"She'd have tried," said the old lady, sharply, "and that's more than can be said of some folks. Not mentionin' any names."

[Sidenote: A Bit of Gossip]

Breakfast bade fair to be a lively sparring match when Rosemary interposed, pacifically: "Never mind what might have been. Let's be glad she didn't swallow them." As the others accepted this compromise, the remainder of the meal proceeded in comparative peace.

"I heard from the milkman this morning," said Matilda, "that Marshs' company has gone."

"Gone!" repeated Grandmother. "What for? I thought she had come to stay a spell."

"Gone!" echoed Rosemary, in astonishment.

"Did she go sudden?" queried Grandmother.

"Well, in a way it was sudden, and in a way 'twasn't. She was more'n a whole day puttin' her clothes into her trunks—the respectable trunk, and the big trunk, and the dog-house, and the one what had bulges on all sides but one."

"What train did she go on?"

"The eight o'clock accommodation, yesterday morning. Young Marsh went down to see her off, and the station agent told the milkman that he stood lookin' after the train until you couldn't even see the smoke from the engine. The agent was restin' after havin' helped hist the trunks on the train, and young Marsh up and handed him out a dollar, without even sayin' what it was for. He reckoned it was pay for stoppin' the train and helpin' to put on the trunks, but the railroad pays him for doin' that, so the milkman thinks it was kind of a thank-offerin', on account of her havin' stayed so long that they was glad to get rid of her."

[Sidenote: A Tip]

"'Twasn't no thank-offerin'," replied Grandmother, shaking her head sagely. "That's what they call a tip."

"The agent was some upset by it," Matilda agreed. "He's been keepin' station here for more'n ten years now and nobody ever did the likes of that before."

"I didn't say it was an upsetment—I said it was a tip."

"What's the difference?"

"A tip is money that you give somebody who thinks he's done something for you, whether you think he has or not."

"I don't understand," Matilda muttered.

"I didn't either, at first," Grandmother admitted, "but I was readin' a piece in the paper about women travellin' alone and it said that 'in order to insure comfort, a tip should be given for every slight service.' Them's the very words."

"It means bowin', then," returned Matilda. "Bowin' and sayin', 'Thank you.'"

"It's no such thing. Wait till I get the paper."

After a prolonged search through the hoarded treasures of the past three or four months, Grandmother came back to her chair by the window, adjusted her spectacles, and began to read "The Lady Traveller by Land."

[Sidenote: A Lady's Baggage]

"'When it becomes necessary, for the sake of either business or pleasure, for a lady to start out upon a trip alone, no matter how short, she should make all her preparations well in advance, so that she need not be hurried just before starting, and may embark upon her journey with that peaceful and contented mind which is so essential to the true enjoyment of travelling.

"'She will, of course, travel with the smallest amount of baggage compatible with comfort, but a few small articles that should not be overlooked will more than repay the slight trouble caused by their transportation. Among these may be mentioned the medicine chest, in which are a few standard household remedies for illness or accident, a bottle of smelling-salts, another of cologne, and a roll of old linen for bandages. While accident is not at all likely, it is just as well to be prepared for all emergencies.

"'The lady traveller will naturally carry her own soap and towels, and also a silk or cotton bag for her hat. She——'"

"A what for her hat?" asked Matilda, with unmistakable interest.

"'A silk or cotton bag for her hat,'" Grandmother repeated. "'To keep the dust out.'"

[Sidenote: The Hat-Bag]

"What's the good of wearin' a hat if she's got to set with a bag over it?"

"It doesn't say she's to wear the bag."

"Well, she's wearin' the hat, ain't she? How's she to put the bag over the hat while she's wearin' the hat without wearin' the bag too? That's what I'd like to know."

"Maybe it's to put her hat into when she takes it off for the night," Grandmother suggested, hopefully, though she was not at all sure. "A person ain't likely to get much sleep in a hat."

"No, nor in a bag neither."

"'She should also carry her luncheon, as the meals supplied to travellers are either poor or expensive, or both. With a small spirit lamp she can very easily make coffee or tea for herself, or heat a cupful of milk should she be restless in the night. Care should be taken, however, not to set fire to the curtains surrounding the berth in this latter emergency.'

"'The curtains surrounding the berth,'" Grandmother repeated, in a wavering voice. "It's printed wrong. They've got it b-e-r-t-h."

"Seems to me," murmured Matilda, "that a woman who——"

"Matilda!" interrupted Grandmother, imperiously. For a moment the silence was awkward. "Unmarried women ain't got any call to be thinkin' about such things, let alone speakin' of 'em. This piece is written to cover all possible emergencies of the lady traveller, but it ain't for such as you to be askin' questions about what don't concern you."

[Sidenote: In the Morning]

"Go ahead," said Matilda, submissively.

"Where was I? Oh, yes. 'The ladies' dressing-room will always be found at one of the two ends of the car. Care should be taken early in the journey to ascertain which end. If there are many ladies in the car, one should rise early, to take advantage of the unoccupied room for a cooling and refreshing sponge bath. It will be necessary to carry a sponge for this, and a small bag of rubber or oiled silk should be made for it to prevent moistening the contents of the suit-case after using.'"

"Supposin' they all subscribed for this paper," Matilda objected, "and all should rise early for the cooling and refreshing sponge bath?"

"'Tain't likely," Grandmother answered. "'After the bath one should take plenty of time to dress, as nothing is less conducive to comfort in travelling than the feeling that one has been too hastily attired. By this time, the porter will have the berth in order, if he has been tipped the night before.'"

Matilda murmured inarticulately, but was too wise to speak.

[Sidenote: The Porter]

"'The usual tip,'" Grandmother continued, hastily, with her cheeks burning, "'is twenty-five cents for each person every twenty-four hours. In order to insure comfort, a tip should be given for every slight service, but nothing smaller than five cents should ever be given at any one time.

"'It has been said that a porter is a dark gentleman who has been employed to keep air out of the car, but the lady traveller will find it easy to induce him to open a ventilator or two if he has been properly tipped. Fresh air is very essential for the true enjoyment of travelling.

"'He can throw many little comforts in one's way—a pillow during the daytime or an extra blanket at night, or——'"

"I don't know," Matilda interrupted, "as I'd care to have comforts or pillows or blankets thrown at me, night or day, especially by a man, no matter what colour he is."

"'Mindful always of the possibility of accident,'" Grandmother resumed, "'it is well to keep one's self as presentable as possible, especially during the night, when according to statistics the majority of wrecks occur. Consequently the experienced lady traveller will not undress entirely, but merely removing a few of her outer garments, and keeping her shoes within easy reach, she will don a comfortable dressing-gown, and compose herself for sleep. Some people prefer to have the berth made up feet first, but it is always better to have the head toward the engine, as experience has proved that the slight motion of the train assists the circulation, which should run toward the feet if sleep is to be enjoyed during the night.

[Sidenote: Where to Eat]

"'If, owing to circumstances, it is impossible to carry a luncheon and one must either leave the train for one's meals or go into the dining-car, there are a few very simple rules to remember. In case the meal is to be taken at a wayside station, and, as often happens, there is more than one eating-house which offers refreshment, the lady traveller should wait quietly by her own car until she sees into which place the train officials go. Remember that they have been over the road before and know where the most comfortable and reasonable meal is to be had.

"'Upon the other hand, if one goes into the dining-car, the same rules apply as at any well-regulated hotel. From the list of dishes which will be offered her upon a printed card, the lady traveller may select such as seem attractive, and, in case of doubt, she may with perfect propriety ask the waiter to make a selection for her, as he has been placed there by the company for that purpose.

"'Having eaten to her satisfaction, she will carefully compare the check which is brought her with the list of prices given upon the printed card, add them up mentally without seeming to do so, and if all is right, pay the bill, giving to the waiter ten per cent of the total amount for a tip. That is, if the check calls for one dollar, the waiter will receive a dollar and ten cents.'"

[Sidenote: Ten Per Cent]

"What for?" queried Matilda.

"That's his tip," explained the old lady. "That's what I've been tellin' you all along."

"Does it cost ten dollars to go to the city?"

"Not as I know of. The fare used to be four dollars and somethin'. Why?"

"Then why did young Marsh give the station agent a dollar? That's what I want to know."

"You can't find out from me," Grandmother answered, with all evidence of having told the literal truth. "Shall I go on with this piece I'm tryin' to read, or don't you want your mind improved none?"

"I'm willing to have my mind improved, but I'd like the privilege of askin' a question occasionally while it's being done."

"Last week's paper said there was no way of improvin' the mind that was to be compared with readin'. Shall I go on?"

"Yes—go on."

"'If the check calls for a dollar and a half, the waiter will receive an extra fifteen cents for his tip, and so on. In case of any disagreement, always refer to the train officials, who are usually courteous and well-mannered. Should they not be so, however, a threat to write to the President of the railroad will usually be found all sufficient to produce a change of demeanour.

[Sidenote: Avoid Making Acquaintances]

"'The lady traveller should bear in mind the fact that it is impossible to confine the pleasures and privileges of travel to entirely reputable persons, and should hence keep upon the safe side by making no chance acquaintances, whatever the provocation may be.

"'By wearing dark clothes, preferably her old ones, an unassuming hat, and no jewelry, the lady traveller may render herself inconspicuous and not likely to attract masculine attention. In case of accident it is allowable to accept assistance from anyone, though the train officials are at all times to be preferred. If one desires to know what time it is, how late the train is, how long the train will stop at the next meal station, or when one is due at one's destination, the train officials are the ones to ask.

"'Upon a long and tedious journey, however, or in case of many prolonged delays, it is quite permissible to exchange a few words upon the weather or some other topic of mutual interest with a fellow-passenger of the same sex, whether she be travelling alone, or accompanied by her husband.

"'Pleasant acquaintances are sometimes formed in this way, and it may be entirely safe and proper, under certain circumstances, to accept small courtesies from a gentleman who is travelling with his wife, such as the brief loan of a newspaper or magazine, or information regarding the scenery through which the train is passing when none of the train officials are at hand.

[Sidenote: At the End of the Journey]

"'It is best, however, to be very careful, for it is much easier not to begin friendly relations with one's fellow passengers than it is to discontinue such relations after they have been once begun.

"'It is seldom necessary, or even advisable, to give one's name to anyone except the officials of the train, but there can be no objection to showing a fellow-passenger of the same sex one's name upon one's ticket if polite relations have been established. This is better than speaking the name aloud, which might cause embarrassment if it were overheard, and carries with it no such social obligation as the exchange of cards would do.

"'Arriving at her destination, the lady traveller should proceed at once to her hotel or lodging-house, if no friend is to meet her, regardless of the plans of her fellow passengers. If one should chance to meet any of them afterward, a courteous inclination of the head, accompanied by a bright smile, is sufficient recognition, or, if for any reason one prefers not to recognise those with whom one has travelled, all that is necessary is to appear not to see them.

[Sidenote: Appeal to the Conductor]

"'In case a gentleman should attempt to converse with the lady traveller while the train is in motion or at rest, this same conduct meets the exigencies of the situation admirably: simply do not appear to see him. If, however, he continues to converse, turn to him, and say in a low, well-controlled voice: "Sir, if you persist further in forcing your unwelcome attentions upon me, I shall summon the conductor at once."

"'In most cases, the objectionable party will at once leave and the interference of the conductor will not be required.

"'The next article in this series will deal with "The Lady Traveller by Water," where conditions are entirely different and require a different line of conduct.'"

"There," said Grandmother, clearing her throat and folding up the paper. "I hope you understand now what a tip is."

"It seems to be one tenth of all you've got," observed Matilda, staring out of the window, "like those religious sects that believes in givin' a tenth of everything to the church."

"Travellin' must be terribly exciting," remarked Grandmother, pensively.

"So 'tis," Matilda agreed after a pause. "I reckon it's better to stay at home."



XXI

The Weaving of the Tapestry

[Sidenote: A Bunch of Grapes]

Alden threw himself into his work with feverish energy, instinctively relieving his mind by wearying his body. All day he toiled in the vineyard, returning at night white-faced and exhausted, but content.

One morning when Madame came down to breakfast, she found at her plate a single bunch of grapes, wet with dew and still cool with the chill of the night. She took it up with an exclamation of pleasure, for never, within her memory, had such grapes as these come even from the Marsh vineyards.

She held the heavy cluster to the sunlight, noting the perfect shape of the fruit, the purple goblets filled with sweetness, and the fairy-like bloom, more delicate even than the dust on the butterfly's wing. Pride and thankfulness filled her heart, for, to her, it was not only their one source of income but a trust imposed upon them by those who had laid out the vineyard, and, more than all else, the standard by which her son was to succeed or fail.

[Sidenote: Night after Night]

The tribal sense was strong in Madame, last though she was of a long and noble line. Uninterruptedly the blood of the Marshs had coursed through generation after generation, carrying with it the high dower of courage, of strength to do the allotted task hopefully and well. And now—Madame's face saddened, remembering Edith.

Since her one attempt to cross the silence that lay like a two-edged sword between them, Madame had said nothing to Alden. Nor had he even mentioned Edith's name since she went away, though his face, to the loving eyes of his mother, bore its own message.

Night after night, when they sat in the living-room after dinner, no word would be spoken by either until bedtime, when Madame would say "Good-night," and, in pity, slip away, leaving him to follow when he chose. Sometimes he would answer, but, more frequently, he did not even hear his mother leave the room. Yearning over him as only a mother may, Madame would lie awake with her door ajar, listening for his step upon the stairs.

While the night waxed and waned, Alden sat alone, his eyes fixed unalterably upon Edith's empty chair, in which, by common consent, neither of them sat. The soft outlines of her figure seemed yet to lie upon the faded tapestry; the high, carved back seemed still to bear the remembered splendour of her beautiful head.

[Sidenote: Balm for Alden]

After Madame had gone, Alden would sometimes light the candle that stood upon the piano, mute now save for the fingers of Memory. Moving the bench out a little and turning it slightly toward the end of the room, he would go back to his own far corner, where he used to sit while Edith played.

Conjuring her gracious image out of the dreamy shadows, he found balm for his sore heart in the white gown that fell softly around her, the small white foot that now and then pressed the pedal, the long, graceful line that swept from her shoulder to her finger-tips, the faint hollow where her gown, with the softness of a caress, melted into the ivory whiteness of her neck, the thick, creamy skin, in some way suggesting white rose-leaves, the scarlet, wistful mouth, the deep brown eyes reflecting golden lights, and the crown of wonderful hair that shimmered and shone and gleamed like burnished gold.

The subtle sweetness of her filled the room. She had left behind her not only a memory but the enduring impress of personality. The house was full of Ediths. There was one at the table, another at the piano, one leaning against the mantel with hands clasped behind her, another in a high-backed rocker, leaning back against a dull green cushion, and one upon the stairway, ascending with light steps that died away with the closing of a door, or descending with a quick rustle of silken skirts that presently merged into perfume, then into her.

[Sidenote: Release from Pain]

Every gown she had worn, every word she had said, every laugh that had wakened slumbering echoes with its low, vibrant contralto, came remorselessly back. Full tides of longing beat pitilessly upon his senses, never, it seemed, to ebb again. And yet, at times, when his whole soul so cried out for her that he stretched his arms, in yearning, toward the myriad phantom Ediths that peopled the room, mystical assurance would come from somewhere that she, too, was keeping the night watch.

Through the tense and throbbing darkness, love sped from one to the other as though upon ghostly wings. Neither sight nor sound nor touch betrayed its coming, yet the call and the answer were always divinely sure. As though they two stood dumbly on either side of some mysterious portal, denied all things save longing, heart-beat answered unto heart-beat in the stillness of the night.

The experience invariably brought comfort and a certain release from pain. Denial seemed to be but another phase of fulfilment, since it opened the way for this exquisite belonging of one to the other. Beyond and above all lure of woman, wholly aside from the ecstasy of sight and touch, she was his as inseparably as perfume belongs to the rose that breathes it forth.

[Sidenote: Toiling in the Vineyard]

While he worked in the vineyard it was consciously for her. For her sake he aspired to make the best of himself; to make this hillside yield its purple banners from the secret storehouses within. So he had struggled with soil and season, with suns that scorched and winds that chilled, with parching days that opened the earth in great crevices, and with torrents that made the paths between the vines impassable for days.

From the wide windows that overlooked the valley, Madame watched the vineyard with an anxious heart. She, too, had toiled as far as a woman might, in the years that elapsed between the death of her husband and the maturity of her son. Sometimes all the powers and purposes of Nature had apparently been arrayed against her, and, again, as at the touch of a magic wand, the earth had yielded up its fruit.

Yet she had never lost her courage. Knowing that the logical strength of position lies nearly always with the pursuer, she would never own herself beaten, though there was a time of terror when the crop failed for three successive years.

Now the tapestry lay before her, well on its way to completion. She had watched the great web spread upon the hillside, year by year, from snow to snow again. Surrounding it on three sides, like the frame upon which it was stretched, were the stalwart pines that protected it from the icy winds. Below, like a silver ribbon, the river irregularly bounded it, a shining line of demarcation between the valley and the opposite hills.

[Sidenote: The Coming of Spring]

When the snows were deep, there were only gentle undulations to mark the covered vines. Even the pines bent low with it, as though hoary with their weight of years. When the snows melted, tiny crystal rivulets ran down the tapestry, into the silver ribbon that was stretched across the foot, and upon a neutral background of earth the black, tangled threads showed dimly.

In a night, almost, there would come a change. Where the threads had lain hopelessly matted, appeared some semblance of order, as though the Weaver had come. Then, as they became separate groups, a faint glow of green dawned above them, not so much colour as the promise of colour, not so much design as the planning of it.

Through and through the web, like the Weaver's shuttle, figures moved from one tangle of threads to another, setting all straight as they went. Swiftly then the colour came, green upon the black, with the neutral earth filling the background, gradually to be covered save for the long regular lines that stretched from East to West, from North to South.

[Sidenote: The New Growth]

All the beauty of Spring and Summer went to the making of the tapestry: the first robin's cheery call, the shimmer of blue wings speeding across it, the golden glow from an oriole's breast, and the silver rain of melody dripping from the throat of a meadow-lark as he swept through the infinite spaces above.

Up into the threads came the thousand stored sweetnesses of the earth, aspiring surely upward through devious, winding ways. The softness of leaves that had gone back to dust, the wine from fallen grapes that had dripped through the sand into the dark storehouse beneath, were only to be taken up again, for sap or fibre or bloom.

Blown perfumes came from distant orchards, mysteriously to become a part of the tapestry. Purple dawns and prismatic sunsets, crystalline noons and starry midnights slowly but surely were woven in. The new leaves shone afar, surrounding the vineyard with a faint, iridescent sheen through which tiny wings moved ceaselessly with a far-off, sleepy sound.

Weary winds came to the vineyard, and, for the moment, lay at peace upon the web, drinking the exquisite fragrance of leaf and blossom. Then, rising slowly, as though still intoxicated with that more than mortal sweetness, they bore it afar to the four corners of the earth. Some of it sank into the valley, and the river turned in its sleep to dimple with smiles, ripple with silvery laughter, and drop to sleep again. The scent of it rose to the hills, like heavenly incense from earthly altars, and the Little People in feathers and fur breathed deeply of it and were glad.

[Sidenote: The Ripening of the Grapes]

Wild bees hummed through the web, and left it, heavy laden with the sweet essence distilled from the dust by the subtle chemistry of sun and rain. And the Weaver only smiled at the golden-winged army of plunderers, for secretly they ministered unto the vineyard in ways of love.

Then the Weaver paused to rest, for the pattern was made and there was only the colour to be put in. The fragrance died, the blossoms fell, and the miracle of the tapestry began. Where there had been scent, came substance; where there had been promise, came fulfilment.

With a single mighty impulse the vines took deep hold of the treasure in the storehouse beneath, spending it prodigally for sap to be poured into these waiting goblets of emerald and pearl. All the hoarded strength of leaf and tendril was caught up by the current, and swept blindly onward to its fruitful destiny.

And so the first faint hints of purple came into the tapestry, to spread and deepen and divide and spread again until, in certain lights, the vineyard lay transfigured in an amethystine glow.

[Sidenote: The Gathering of the Fruit]

Shaded by the leaves that had begun to wither, held by tendrils that were strained until they could hold no more, the purple chalices swung lazily in the golden light, slowly filling with the garnered sweetness that every moment brought. Night and day the alchemy went on—dust and sun and dreaming, dust and moon and dreaming, while the Weaver waited, dreaming too, until the web should be complete.

When the signal was given for the tapestry to be taken from the loom, the Weaver crept away, for he could do no more. Figures thronged upon the hillside, gaily coloured garments appeared here and there in the web, and a medley of soft foreign voices rose where for long there had been no sound.

From side to side of the web the workers moved, always bearing armfuls of purple, to the frame of pines and beyond it. And so the tapestry faded, day by day, and the vines died, and great bare spaces were left upon the background where the neutral earth showed through.

Steadily among them moved one stately figure—a tall young man with big brown eyes and a boyish mouth. From early morning until dusk his voice could be heard, issuing directions, hurrying the laggards, and bidding others to go back and work more slowly.

[Sidenote: After the Day's Work]

Creaking through the valley, on the tawny road that lay below the tapestry, went, each night, waggons heavily laden with baskets packed into crates. Far beyond the frame of pines was a small group of houses, whither the workers went with their armfuls of purple, returning presently to despoil the hillside further.

At dusk, when the day's work was over, the smoke of camp-fires rose against the afterglow, and brooded over the vineyard in a faint haze like its lost bloom. The scent of grapes mingled with the pungent odour of burning pine, and broken chalices upon the ground were trod into purple stains, as of blood. Tales of love and war went from camp-fire to camp-fire, and fabulous stories were told of the yield of other vineyards in the same valley.

Finally the last grapes were gathered, the last baskets packed and crated, and along the road the laden waggons creaked for the last time. Then the young man gave a great feast for the workers, lasting from noon until midnight, with pitchers of cider, great loaves of freshly baked bread and cake, roasted fowls, hot baked potatoes, and pink hams, crusted with crumbs and cloves and sugar, that fell into flakes at the touch of the knife.

[Sidenote: The Veil of Beauty]

The same waggons that had carried the grapes now took the workers to the train. The young man who had paid them their wages accompanied them, and, at the station, there was a great medley of farewells spoken in five or six different tongues. When the last shriek of the engine had died away and the roar of the train was lost in the distance, the young man drew a long breath of relief and went home.

A deadly silence reigned upon the hillside where the torn web lay, its bloom and beauty all gone. Ragged bits of green, mingled with dull brown tracery of vine and tendril, lay back upon the background of earth, but of purple there was no trace. In the hush of the night, the Weaver came back, to muse sadly over what had been and, perhaps, to dream of what yet might be.

There was chance of no more weaving, for the threads were broken and the time was short, but the rack and ruin were pitiful to see. So, from hidden places no man may guess, the Weaver summoned the Secret Spinners, bidding them lay a veil upon the vineyard.

Swiftly there came forth a miracle of beauty. Fairy lace and impalpable mysteries of chiffon were laid upon the hillside, spreading from vine to vine. Sometimes a single slender thread, impearled with dewdrops, bridged the distance from one tendril to another, again a bit of cobweb was spread over a dead leaf, to catch a hint of iridescence from the sun or moon; and now and then a shimmering length of ghostly fabric was set in place at dusk, to hold the starry lights that came to shine upon the broken tapestry with the peace of benediction.

[Sidenote: Content at Last]

Along the well-trodden ways Alden went, tired, but content, having come at last to the knowledge of himself. Already he was planning to enlarge the vineyard next year, and to try another variety of grapes upon the new ground. He considered one plan to hurry the packing, another to hasten the crop, and studied the problem of housing the workers from their standpoint, not from his.

For the first time he was thinking of his work as something other than a necessary evil. It had become, in a sense, a means of grace, for he had discovered that the spirit in which one earns his daily bread means as much to his soul as the bread itself may mean to his body.

* * * * *

The light from the low reading-lamp lay softly upon Madame's silvered hair, as she bent over her bit of fancy work, silent, as usual, since the spell of Edith's presence had come into the house. Alden was not even pretending to read the paper—he sat staring into the shadows before him at Edith's empty chair, but, as he looked, he smiled.

[Sidenote: The Goal Reached]

With a little lump in her throat Madame bent over her work again, having looked up to thread her needle, and having seen his face. For a moment she waited, hoping for a confidence, but there was none.

Alden took a letter from his pocket and tossed it into her lap. It announced the sale of the crop at a larger price than ever before, and requested the first chance upon the yield of the following year.

Madame folded it up and gave it back to him, then their eyes met.

Young and strong and hopeful, radiating the consciousness of good work well done, her son smiled back at her. Her face illumined with joy.

"Master of the vineyard at last, my son?" she said.

He rose from his chair, bent over, and kissed her fondly. "Yes, Mother, thanks to you—and Edith." Then he added, after a pause: "Master of myself, too."



XXII

Each to his Own Work

[Sidenote: Alden Writes to Edith]

"HEART'S DEAREST:

It was two months ago to-day that you went away, and to me it has been eternity. Every day and every hour I think of you, sometimes with such intense longing that it seems as though the air before me must take shape and yield you to my arms.

"I have been working hard, and—no, I will not say 'trying to forget,' since memory, upon the dull background of my commonplace existence has set one great blazing star. I would not, if I could choose, go back to one hour that did not hold you, but rather would I pray for Time to stand still for us at any one of his jewelled moments upon the dial, when you and I were heart to heart.

"Mysteriously you have made everything right for me, denied all things though we are. After ten years of struggle with the vineyard, with several conspicuous failures and now and then a half-hearted success, I have at last rejoiced Mother's heart—and my own as well—with the largest crop within my memory or hers. The fruit, too, has been finer than ever before.

[Sidenote: Drudgery]

"The school, also, which I have hated ever since I had it, begins to appear before me in a new light. It is not only those dull and stupid children who are to learn lessons in that one-roomed schoolhouse—it is I. While they struggle with the alphabet and multiplication-table and the spelling of words in four syllables, their teacher has before him invaluable opportunities to acquire patience, self-control, and a sense of justice, if not to inspire affection.

"Before, I went my way in sullen discontent. Because I could not do the things I wanted to do, I disdained the humble tasks assigned me, forgetting that in the great scheme of things each one of us has his work. Some of us must scrub floors, others carry bricks or mortar, and others must grow grapes and teach school.

"I had thought, in my blindness, that the great things were the easiest to do, but now I see that drudgery is an inseparable part of everything worth while, and the more worth while it is, the more drudgery is involved.

"In years gone by I have given time to the vineyard, but nothing at all of myself. I held myself aloof and apart while Duty, like a stern taskmaster, urged me to the things I hated, merely to please Mother, who had done so much for me that she had the right to demand this.

[Sidenote: No Longer Apart]

"This year I have put my heart into my work. When failure seemed imminent, I have laboured with fresh courage. I have remembered, too, that the tools with which I worked were human beings like myself, and not so many mere machines.

"My love for you has been the magic key that has unlocked the doors dividing me from my fellow-men. No longer isolated, no longer apart, I am one of a brotherhood that claims fellowship with all humanity. One blood flows uninterruptedly through us all, one heart beats in us all, and, truly seen, we are not separate individuals, but only component parts of the Greater Self.

"Once I was absorbed in myself. Now I yearn unspeakably toward all with whom I come in contact. I see a thousand ways in which I may be kind. It is not for me to preach the gospel of love and understanding, but to live it, and, in living it, either to lead or to follow, as may be right and best.

"Hitherto I have kept away from the workers in the vineyard as much as I possibly could. Some of them have come for five years in succession, and I neither remembered their faces nor knew their names. Now, not because I felt that it was my duty, but because I really wanted to, I have tried to come a little closer, to see into their lives as best I might.

[Sidenote: The Humble Toilers]

"I have seen before me such dramas of suffering and love as have made me ashamed, more than once, of my own worthless life and my own vain repinings. These humble toilers in my vineyard had come nearer the truth of things than I had, and were happier. Night after night I have been glad of the shelter of the darkness and have moved back out of the circle of light made by the camp-fire, that none of them might see my face.

"One woman, too weak and ill to work, would lie down among the vines to rest, while her husband filled her basket from his own. They needed money for a crippled child who could be made right by an expensive operation. One night I saw a lantern moving back and forth among the vines, and when I went out to investigate, the man was hard at work, filling basket after basket, because he knew that it was not right to draw two people's pay without doing two people's work.

"He had done this every night, and sometimes, too, the woman had spent her limited strength labouring beside him. Both were nearly heartbroken, having figured up that, at the rate the work was being done, they would still be twenty dollars short of the desired sum. So I gave them this, and they are to return it when they can. If it is not possible to return it earlier, they are to come next year and work it out. I have no fear that they will not come, but, even should they fail me, I would rather lose the money and have my trust betrayed, than to miss a chance of helping where I might.

[Sidenote: A Feast for the Workers]

"One man had been saving for years that he might send to Italy for his wife and children. His earnings would give him a little more than the amount he needed, and he was counting the days until he could put his plan into execution. He could neither read nor write, so, one night, by the camp-fire, I wrote his letter for him, in my best schoolmaster's hand, for the first time finding my scanty knowledge of Italian of some real use.

"We have always given them a feast when the work was over, and sent some trifling presents to the wives and children who had remained behind. This was for our own sake, however, and not in any sense for theirs. It has been hard to get people to come, and we wanted to offer inducements.

"This time I sat at the head of the table myself. We had songs and stories and much good cheer. Afterward, when I said good-night, they all came to shake hands with me and say 'Thank you.' It was the first time.

"One man who lives in a crowded district in the city, has a wife who has tuberculosis. The remainder of the family consists of a daughter of fourteen and a boy of nine. He is to come back and bring them with him. They are to have the best of the workers' houses, on the pine hill above the vineyard. On a cot, in the clean cold air, the mother will get well again if it is possible for her to get well. I have work enough around the place for the man, the boy can go to school, and the Lady Mother will train the daughter in the ways of housewifery. In the evenings I shall teach her to read and write.

[Sidenote: Passing On]

"We have swept our attic clean of things we had stored away. We have given not only what we do not need, but what we can do without. This winter, when the North wind howls down the chimney, while I am sheltered and warm, it will afford me satisfaction to know that my useless garments are, at last, doing good service somewhere.

"Mother, too, has caught the spirit of it. I cannot tell you of the countless things she has sent away—bedding, clothes, shoes, furniture, food—everything. I do not know why the workers' shacks around the vineyard should remain idle practically all the time—there must be others in damp cellars in that crowded city who have become diseased, and who could be healed by the pure cold air up among my ancestral pines. I will see what can be done.

"These people who come to my vineyard are, as it were, the connecting link between me and the outer world. I had thought there was nothing for me to do here, and behold, there is so much to be done that I scarcely know where to begin. And this work has been at my very door, as it were, for ten years, and I have not seen it. Next year, I think I shall have a night school for two hours each evening after work. Many of them are pathetically eager to learn and have no opportunity to do so.

[Sidenote: A Strange Dream]

"The night the workers all went back to the city, I had a strange dream which now seems significant. I thought I was in a great factory, somewhere, that was given over to the weaving of cloth. It was well equipped, there were innumerable orders waiting to be filled, and there were plenty of people to work, but nothing was being done.

"The floor was covered with rubbish, the windows were thick with dust and cobwebs; where there were artificial lights they were flickering disagreeably because they were choked with dirt; the machinery creaked abominably, and the air of the place was foul beyond description. Meanwhile orders accumulated, but the people stood around and complained. Some of them were gathered in groups, arguing; others sat on dusty benches, singly or by twos, with discontented, unhappy faces. Some were angry, and others only hopeless, staring straight ahead, with eyes that did not see.

[Sidenote: No One Satisfied]

"It seemed that no one was satisfied with his lot, and each was eager to change with someone else, who also wanted to change, but not with him. The women whose duty it was to scrub floors wanted to work at the looms, but those at the looms aspired to the big airy room where the bolts of cloth were measured and rolled up.

"The men who had been told to wash windows wanted to make patterns, the man in charge of the ventilating apparatus wanted to work in the office, and the man who was in charge of the office, weary and jaded beyond all power of words to portray, wanted a place at the loom and a pay-envelope every Saturday night instead of a commission upon his sales.

"Those who were supposed to weave blue cloth with white dots upon it wanted to make white cloth with blue dots upon it, but, it seemed, there was no market for the white cloth with the blue dots and they could not be made to understand it.

"The boy who attended to the door of the factory wanted to keep books in the office; the men who were supposed to work in the shipping room wanted to cut out the samples that were sent to different firms to order from. The girls who wrote letters and filed the correspondence wanted to draw designs for new patterns—oh, a great many wanted to draw designs!

[Sidenote: The Spirit of Love]

"The man who did the designing was complaining of a headache, and wanted to be doorkeeper, that he might have plenty of fresh air. The man who was supposed to oil the machinery wanted to wash the windows—he said it was a cleaner job; and the messengers were tired of going back and forth all day—they wanted to sit quietly and write letters.

"Suddenly an imperious voice called out: 'Each to his own work!' They hesitated for a moment, then obeyed, and presently everything was changed. From confusion and disorder it resolved itself into perfect harmony, for each one was doing his own work and doing it well.

"And, as they worked, the Spirit of Love came among them and the workers began to sing at their tasks. Each one did not only his own work but helped his neighbour with his. They became eager to do all they could instead of as little as they might and still escape censure, and the face of each one was shining with joy.

"When I awoke I was saying aloud: 'Each to his own work!' For some time I did not know it was only a dream, but gradually the meaning of it became clear. Edith, did you ever stop to think that the millennium could be brought about in less than one hour, if each did his own work well and in a spirit of love? It is we ourselves who are out of harmony, not things as they are, and, having once attained harmony, everything will become right.

[Sidenote: Joy through Service]

"And so, beloved, my love for you has been as a great light in my soul. I need no more than to give it without ceasing, and to renew, through human service, not only my love for you, but the love for all which leads to brotherhood.

"I have come to see that joy comes through what we give, not through what we take; happiness through serving, not through being served; and peace through labour, not rest.

"I thought, at first, that I loved you, but it seems to have grown a hundred-fold. No barriers may divide us from one another, nor earth with all its seas sunder us apart, for through love has come union, not only with you but the whole world.

"And so, good-night—heart of my heart, life of my life, and soul of my soul.

"A. M."

* * * * *

"DEAR AND EVER DEARER:

"Your letter lies against my heart where I feel it with every rising breath. I, too, have longed for you, a thousand times, and in a thousand ways.

"Always as the tide of the night turns, I wake and think of you. When through the darkness comes no response, I smile to myself, knowing you are asleep, then I sleep also. But sometimes, in an instant, the darkness becomes alive and throbs with eager messages, as love surges from my heart to yours and from yours to mine.

[Sidenote: The Open Door]

"I, too, have come into the way of service, of brotherhood. It may seem a strange thing to write, or even to say, but you, who have never failed to understand me, will understand this. I never cared so much for my husband as I do now; I was never less conscious of myself, never more eager to ask nothing and give all. And, through this change in me has come about a change in him. Instead of each of us selfishly demanding what we conceive to be our 'rights,' each strives unselfishly to please the other—to see who can give the most.

"You have taken nothing away that belongs to anyone else, dear—the love I bear you is yours alone, but, through it, I have some way more to give; he is the richer, because of you.

"Like you, I have seen before me a multitude of openings, all leading, through ways of self-sacrifice, to the sure finding of one's self. The more love you give, the more you have; it is, in a way, like the old legend of the man who found he could take to Heaven with him only those things which he had given away.

"All around me I see the pitiful mistakes that masquerade as marriage—women who have no virtues save one tied like millstones to some of earth's noblemen; great-hearted and great-souled women mated with clods. I see people insanely jealous of one another, suspicious, fault-finding, malicious; covertly sending barbed shafts to one another through the medium of general conversation. As if love were ever to be held captive, or be won by cords and chains! As if the freest thing on earth would for a moment enter into bondage, or minister unto selfishness when it is, of itself, unselfishness! Passion-slaved and self-bound, they never see beyond their own horizon, nor guess that the great truths of life and love lie just beyond their reach.

[Sidenote: A Plea for Rosemary]

"Looking back, I can see one thing that you may have missed. This love of ours has brought joy to you and to me, and, indirectly, happiness to my husband. It has not affected your mother, one way or another, but it has hurt Rosemary—taken away from her the one thing that made her sordid life worth while.

"Dear, can't you see your way clear to make it right with her—to give back at least as much as she had before I came into your life? You will take nothing from me by doing so, for my place with you is secure and beyond the reach of change, as you know yours is with me.

"But, just because the full moon has risen upon midnight, shall we refuse to look at the stars? Believe me, all the lesser loves have their rightful place, which should be more definitely assured because of the greater light.

[Sidenote: Rosemary's Need]

"I am pleading not only for her, but for you. Tell her everything, if you choose, or if you feel that you must in order to be honest. I am sure you can make her understand.

"The door of the House of Life is open for you and for me, but it is closed against her. It is in your power at least to set it ajar for her; to admit her, too, into full fellowship through striving and through love.

"She will help you with your vineyard people, and, perhaps, come to peace that way. Her unhappy face as I saw it last haunts me—I cannot help feeling that I am in some way responsible. She needs you and what you can give her, more, perhaps, than I, who shall never have it again.

"Never! The word, as I write it, tolls through my consciousness like a funeral knell. Never to see your face again, or to touch your hand, or to hear you say you love me. Never to feel your arms holding me close, your heart beating against mine, never to thrill with ecstasy in every fibre of me in answer to your kiss.

"Only the silence, broken, perhaps, by an occasional letter, and the call in the night, bridging the darkness and distance between us, to be answered for one little hour by love, surging from one to the other and back again.

[Sidenote: Caught in a Web]

"And yet these thoughts of ours are as a weaver's shuttle, plying endlessly through the web of night and space and time. One thought may make a slender thread, indeed, but what of the countless thoughts that fly back and forth, weaving and interweaving as they go? Shall they not make first a thread, and then a cord, then a web, and then a fabric, until, at last, there is no separation, but that of the body, which counts for naught?

"Dear Heart, you mean so much to me, are so much. From you and from your love for me I take fresh courage every day. From your strength I make sure of my own strength, from your tenderness I gather compassion, and from your steadfastness I gain the hope that leads me onward, the belief that enables me to face each day bravely and with a smile.

"Deep in my heart, I hold fast to one great joy. Sometimes I close the door quickly upon it and bar up the passage, lest anyone should guess that there, within a bare white chamber, is erected the high altar of my soul, where the lights shine far into the shadows, in spite of rock-hewn portals, closed and barred.

"The knowledge of your love I have with me always, to steady me, to guide me, to uplift me, to make even a grave warm and sweet. And to you, with my own hands, I have brought the divine fire that shall not fail, so what more need we ask of God, save that somewhere, sometime, in His infinite compassion, we may be together, even though it may be in the House not Made with Hands?

[Sidenote: Edith to Alden]

"Remember that I long for you, dream of you, hope for you, believe in you, pray for you, and, above all else, love you, love you—love you. And in all the ways of Heaven and for always, I am thine.

"E."



XXIII

Betrothal

[Sidenote: On the Hills by the Vineyard]

Desolation lay upon the vineyard. The fairy lace had been rudely torn aside by invading storms and the Secret Spinners had entered upon their long sleep. The dead leaves rustled back and forth, shivering with the cold, when the winds came down upon the river from the hill. Caught, now and then, upon some whirling gust, the leaves were blown to the surface of the river itself, and, like scuttled craft, swept hastily to ports unknown.

Rosemary escaped from the house early in the afternoon. Unable to go to the Hill of the Muses, or up the river-road, she had taken a long, roundabout path around the outskirts of the village and so reached the hills back of the vineyard. The air of the valley seemed to suffocate her; she longed to climb to the silent places, where the four winds of heaven kept tryst.

She was alone, as always. She sighed as she remembered how lonely she had been all her life. Except Alden, there had never been anyone to whom she could talk freely. Even at school, the other children had, by common consent, avoided the solitary, silent child who sat apart, always, in brown gingham or brown alpaca, and taking refuge in the fierce pride that often shields an abnormal sensitiveness.

[Sidenote: In Real Life]

She sat down upon the cold, damp earth and leaned against a tree, wondering if it would not be possible for her to take cold and die. In the books, people died when they wanted to, or, what was more to the point, when other people wanted them to. It was wonderful, when you came to think of it, how Death invariably aided Art.

But, in real life, things were pitifully different. People who ought not to die did so, and those who could well be spared clung to mortal existence as though they had drunk deeply of the fabled fountain of immortal youth.

Descending to personalities, Rosemary reflected upon the ironical Fate that had taken her father and mother away from her, and spared Grandmother and Aunt Matilda. Or, if she could have gone with her father and mother, it would have been all right—Rosemary had no deep longing for life considered simply as existence. Bitterness and the passion of revolt swayed her for the moment, though she knew that the mood would pass, as it always did, when she took her soul into the sanctuary of the hills.

[Sidenote: A Mystery]

Dispassionately she observed her feet, stretched out in front of her, and compared them with Mrs. Lee's. Rosemary's shoes were heavy and coarse, they had low, broad heels and had been patched and mended until the village cobbler had proclaimed himself at the end of his resources. Once or twice she had said, half-fearfully, that she needed new shoes, but Grandmother had not seemed to hear.

Father had meant for her to have everything she wanted—he had said so, in the letter which at that moment lay against Rosemary's bitter young heart. He would have given her a pair of slippers like those Mrs. Lee had worn the day she went there to tea—black satin, with high heels and thin soles, cunningly embroidered with tiny steel beads. How small and soft the foot had seemed above the slipper; how subtly the flesh had gleamed through the fine black silk stocking!

She wondered whether father knew. No, probably not, for if he did, he would find some way to come and have it out with Grandmother—she was sure of that. God knew, of course—God knew everything, but why had He allowed Grandmother to do it? It was an inscrutable mystery to her that a Being with infinite power should allow things to go wrong.

For the moment Rosemary's faith wavered, then re-asserted itself. It was she who did not understand: the ways of the Everlasting were not her ways, and, moreover, they were beyond her finite comprehension. If she waited, and trusted, and meanwhile did the best she could, everything would be right somewhere, sometime. That must be what Heaven was, a place where things were always right for everybody.

[Sidenote: Startled]

Gradually her resentment passed away. The impassioned yearning for life, in all its fulness, that once had shaken her to the depths of her soul, had ceased to trouble or to beckon. It had become merely a question of getting through with this as creditably and easily as she might, and passing on to the next, whatever that might prove to be.

The ground upon which she sat was cold and damp. Rosemary shivered a little and was glad. Release might come in that way, though she doubted it. She was too hopelessly healthy ever to take cold, and in all her five and twenty years had never had a day's illness.

A step beside her startled her and a kindly voice said: "Why, Rosemary! You'll take cold!"

Crimson with embarrassment she sprang to her feet, shaking the soil from her skirts. "I—I didn't hear you coming," she stammered. "I must go."

[Sidenote: New Plans]

"Please don't," Alden responded. "Remember how long it is since I've seen you. How did you happen to come up here?"

"Because—oh, I don't know! I've come sometimes to see the vineyard. I've—I've liked to watch the people at work," she concluded, lamely. "I see so few people, you know."

Alden's face softened with vague tenderness. "Was it just this last Summer you've been coming, or has it been all along?"

"I've always come—ever since I was big enough to climb the hill. I—I used to steal grapes sometimes," she confessed, "before I knew it was wrong."

"You can have all the grapes you want," he laughed. "I'll send you a basket every day, if you want them, as long as the season lasts. Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I—I never thought," she answered. She might have added that she was not accustomed to the idea of any sort of gift, but she did not put the thought into words.

"Come over here, Rosemary. I want to show you something—tell you about some new plans of mine."

He led her to the group of workers' houses back of the pines. A great deal of repairing had been done and every house was habitable, if not actually comfortable. They had all been furnished with quiet good taste, and had been freshly whitewashed, both inside and out. There was a great pile of cots and a stack of new blankets.

[Sidenote: The Hospital]

"What is it?" asked Rosemary, much interested.

"The Marsh Tuberculosis Hospital," he answered. His face was beaming.

"I—I don't understand."

"Don't you? Well, it's simple enough. If I hadn't been all kinds of an idiot and blindly selfish I'd have thought of it before. One of the men who came to pick grapes this year has a wife at home with tuberculosis. All she needs is to lie on a cot outdoors and have plenty of fresh eggs and milk. He's coming to-morrow, with her, and his two children. The girl will learn housekeeping from mother daytimes and the boy will go to school. I have room for several others if I can find them, and I have people in town hunting them up for me. See?"

"Oh!" said Rosemary. "How beautiful! How good you are!"

"Not good," said Alden, shamefacedly, digging at the soil with his heel. "Merely decent—that's all." He took a spring cot out of the pile, spread a blanket upon it, and invited Rosemary to sit down.

"It is beautiful," she insisted, "no matter what you say. How lovely it must be to be able to do things for people—to give them what they need! Oh," she breathed, "if I could only help!"

[Sidenote: The Gift and the Giver]

Alden looked at her keenly. "You can, Rosemary."

"How?"

"I don't know, but there's always a way, if one wants to help."

"I have nothing to give," she murmured. "I haven't anything of my own but my mother's watch, and that won't go, so it wouldn't be of any use to anybody."

"Someone said once," he continued, "that 'the gift without the giver is bare.' That means that what you give doesn't count unless you also give yourself."

"To give yourself,'" she repeated; then, all at once, her face illumined. "I see now!" she cried. "I can give myself! They'll need someone to take care of them, and I can do that. I can cook and scrub floors and keep everything clean, and—but Grandmother won't let me," she concluded, sadly.

A paragraph from Edith's letter flashed vividly into his memory: "The door of the House of Life is open for you and for me, but it is closed against her. It is in your power at least to set it ajar for her; to admit her, too, into full fellowship, through striving and through love."

His heart yearned toward her unspeakably. They belonged to one another in ways that Edith had no part in and never could have. Suddenly, without looking at her, he said: "Rosemary, will you marry me?"

[Sidenote: What For?]

She turned to him, startled, then averted her face. Every vestige of colour was gone, even from her lips. "Don't!" she said, brokenly. "Don't make fun of me. I must go."

She rose to her feet, trembling, but he caught her hand and held her back. "Look at me, dear. I'm not making fun of you. I mean it—every word."

She sat down beside him, then, well out of reach of his outstretched hand. "What for?" she asked, curiously.

"Because I want you."

"I—I don't understand."

"Don't you love me?"

"You have no right to ask me that." Her tone was harsh and tremulous with suppressed emotion.

"No," he agreed, after a pause, "I suppose I haven't." She did not answer, so, after a little, he rose and stood before her, forcing her eyes to meet his.

"Do you—know?" he asked.

Rosemary hesitated for a moment. "Yes, I—know," she said, in a different tone.

"And that was why you——"

"Yes." Her voice was scarcely audible now.

"It wasn't true, then, that you didn't love me?"

[Sidenote: Alden Confesses]

She turned upon him fiercely. "What right have you to ask me all these questions?" she cried, passionately. "What have you to offer me? How can you take all I have to give and give me nothing in return? What is your love worth? What do you think I am? The plaything of an idle hour, something to be taken up or cast aside whenever you may choose, to be treated kindly or brutally as your fancy may dictate, to be insulted by your pity—by what you call your love? No, a thousand times no!"

His face was very white and his mouth twitched, but in a moment he had gained, in a measure, his self-control. "I don't blame you in the least, Rosemary. I deserve it all, I know. But, before you condemn me utterly, will you listen to me for a few moments?"

She assented, by the merest inclination of her head.

"I want to be honest with you," he went on, clearing his throat, "and I want to be honest with myself. No doubt you think I'm all kinds of a cad, and rightly so, but, at least, I've been honest—that is, I've tried to be.

"When I asked you to marry me, early in the Spring, I meant it, just as I mean it now, and I was glad when you said you would. Then—she came.

"I had nothing whatever to do with her coming, in fact, I protested against it, as mother will tell you if you ask her. I didn't know her, and I didn't want her, but after I knew her——"

[Sidenote: Alden Was Glad]

"You did want her," said Rosemary, coldly.

"Yes, I wanted her, and she was married to another man. She had sufficient grounds for a divorce, though she never told me what they were, and I pleaded with her to take advantage of the opportunity. I tried by every means in my power to persuade her, and when you—released me——"

"You were glad," she said, finishing the sentence for him.

"Yes," he replied, in a low tone, "I was glad. She decided, finally, to leave it to him. If he wanted her back, she would go; if he preferred his freedom, she would give it to him. And, of course, he wanted her, and he had the right."

"So she went."

"So she went, and it was all over, and we shall never see each other again."

"It's too bad," said Rosemary, icily. "I'm sorry for you both."

"Listen dear," he pleaded. His face was working piteously now. "I wish I could make you understand. I loved her, and I love her still. I shall love her as long as I live, and perhaps even after I'm dead. And she loves me. But, because of it, in some strange way that I don't comprehend myself, I seem to have more love to give others.

[Sidenote: He States His Case]

"I care more for my mother because I love—Edith, and, queer as you may think it, I care more for you. She has taken nothing away from you that I ever gave you—you are dearer to me to-day than when I first asked you to marry me, so long ago. I don't suppose you'll believe it, but it's the truth."

"I believe what you tell me," Rosemary said, in a different tone, "but I don't understand it."

"It's like this, Rosemary. My loving her has been like opening the door into the House of Life. It's made everything different for me. It's made me want to make the best of myself, to do things for people, to be kind to everybody. It isn't selfishness—it's unselfishness.

"I told you once that I wanted to take you away from all that misery, and to make you happy. It was true then, and it's true now, but, at that time, I was bound in shallows and didn't know it. She came into my life like an overwhelming flood, and swept me out to sea. Now I'm back in the current again, but I shall know the shallows no more—thank God!

"If you'll believe me, I have more to give than I had then—and I want you more. I'm very lonely, Rosemary, and shall be always, unless—but, no, I don't want your pity; I want your love."

[Sidenote: A Philanthropic Scheme]

There was a long pause, then Rosemary spoke. "Service," she said, half to herself, "and sacrifice. Giving, not receiving. Asking, not answer."

"Yes," returned Alden, with a sigh, "it's all of that.

"Leaving love aside," he went on, after a little, "I believe you'd be happier here, with mother and me, than you are where you are now. You'd be set free from all that drudgery, you could help me in my work, and, though I'm not rich, I could give you a few of the pretty things you've always wanted. We could go to town occasionally and see things. Moreover, I could take care of you, and you've never been taken care of. I don't think you'd ever be sorry, Rosemary, even though you don't love me."

"I never said I didn't love you," the girl faltered. Her eyes were downcast and the colour was burning upon her pale face.

"Yes, you did—up on the hill. Don't you remember?"

"I—I wasn't telling the truth," she confessed. "I've—I've always——"

"Rosemary!"

She looked at him with brimming eyes. "What you've done, or what you may do, doesn't make any difference. It never could. If—if it depends at all on—on the other person, I don't think—it's love."

[Sidenote: Her Very Own]

In an instant his arms were around her, and she was crying happily upon his shoulder. "Dear, my dear! And you cared all the time?"

"All the time," she sobbed.

"What a brute I was! How I must have hurt you!"

"You couldn't help it. You didn't mean to hurt me."

"No, of course not, but, none the less I did it. I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it, dear, if you'll let me."

It flashed upon Rosemary that this was not at all like the impassioned love-making to which she had been an unwilling witness, but, none the less, it was sweet, and it was her very own. He wanted her, and merely to be wanted, anywhere, gives a certain amount of satisfaction.

"Kiss me, dear," Rosemary put up her trembling lips, answering to him with every fibre of body and soul.

"Don't cry, dear girl, please don't! I want to make you happy."

Rosemary released herself, wiped her eyes upon a coarse handkerchief, then asked the inevitable question:

"Will she care?"

"No, she'll be glad. Mother will too."

[Sidenote: A Promise]

"Grandmother won't," she laughed, hysterically, "nor Aunt Matilda."

"Never mind them. You've considered them all your life, now it's your turn."

"It doesn't seem that I deserve it," whispered Rosemary, with touching humility. "I've never been happy, except for a little while this Spring, and now——."

"And now," he said, taking her into his arms again, "you're going to be happy all the rest of your life, if I can make you so. If I don't you'll tell me, won't you?"

"I can't promise," she murmured, shyly, to his coat sleeve. "I must go now, it's getting late."

"Not until you've told me when you'll marry me. To-morrow?"

"Oh, no!" cried Rosemary. "Not to-morrow."

"Why not?"

"It's—it's too soon."

"In a week, then?"

"I—I don't know. I'll see."

"Make it very soon, my dear, will you?"

"Yes—just as soon as I can."

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes—a promise."

"Then kiss me."

[Sidenote: Half Afraid]

The white fire burned in Rosemary's blood; her heart beat hard with rapturous pain. Upon the desert wastes that stretched endlessly before her, Spring had come with the old, immortal beauty, and more than mortal joy. Half afraid of her own ecstasy, she broke away from him and ran home.



XXIV

The Minister's Call

[Sidenote: Just Wait]

"Rosemary!"

Grandmother called imperiously, but there was no answer. "Rosemary!" she cried, shrilly.

"She ain't here, Ma," said Matilda. "I reckon she's gone out somewheres."

"Did you ever see the beat of it? She's getting high and mighty all of a sudden. This makes twice lately that she's gone out without even tellin' us, let alone askin' whether she could go or not. Just wait till she comes back."

Matilda laughed in her most aggravating manner. "I reckon we'll have to wait," she retorted, "as long as we don't know where she's gone or when she's comin' back."

"Just wait," repeated Grandmother, ominously. "I'll tell her a thing or two. You just see if I don't!"

The fires of her wrath smouldered dully, ready to blaze forth at any moment. Matilda waited with the same sort of pleasurable excitement which impels a child to wait under the open window of a house in which there is good reason to believe that an erring playmate is about to receive punishment.

[Sidenote: Tense Silence]

"What's she been doin' all day?" Grandmother demanded.

"Nothin' more than usual, I guess," Matilda replied. "She did up the work this morning and got dinner, and washed the dishes and went to the store, and when she come back, she was up in the attic for a spell, and then she went out without sayin' where she was goin'."

"In the attic? What was she doin' in the attic?"

"I don't know, I'm sure."

"She's got no call to go to the attic. If I want her to go up there, I'll tell her so. This is my house."

"Yes," returned Matilda, with a sigh. "I've heard tell that it was."

"Humph!" grunted Grandmother.

For an hour or more there was silence, not peaceful, but tense, for Grandmother was thinking of things she might say to the wayward Rosemary. Then the culprit came in, cheerfully singing to herself, and unmindful of impending judgment.

"Rosemary!"

"Yes, Grandmother. What is it?"

"Come here!"

[Sidenote: Grandmother chides Rosemary]

Rosemary obeyed readily enough, though she detected warlike possibilities in the tone.

"Set down! I've got something to say to you!"

"I have something to say to you, too, Grandmother," Rosemary replied, taking the chair indicated by the shaking forefinger. For the first time in her life she was not afraid of the old lady.

"I've noticed," Grandmother began, tremulously, "that you're getting high and mighty all of a sudden. You've gone out twice lately without askin' if you might go, and I won't have it. Do you understand?"

"I hear you," the girl answered. "Is that all?"

"No, 'tain't all. You don't seem to have any sense of your position. Here you are a poor orphan, beholden to your grandmother for every mouthful you eat and all the clothes you wear, and if you can't behave yourself better 'n you've been doin', you shan't stay."

A faint smile appeared around the corners of Rosemary's mouth, then vanished. "Very well, Grandmother," she answered, demurely, rising from her chair. "I'll go whenever you want me to. Shall I go now?"

"Set down," commanded the old lady. "I'd like to know where you'd go!"

"I'd go to Mrs. Marsh's; I think she'd take me in."

[Sidenote: Rosemary's Rejoinder]

"You've got another think comin' then," Grandmother sneered. "Didn't I tell you to set down?"

"Yes," returned Rosemary, coolly, "but I'm not going to. I said I had something to say to you. I'm going to be married next week to Alden Marsh. I've taken enough of the money my father left me to buy a white dress and a new hat, and the storekeeper has sent to the City for me for some white shoes and stockings. I'm going to have some pretty underwear, too, and a grey travelling dress. I've just come from the dressmakers, now."

"Money!" screamed the old lady. "So that's what you've been doin' in the attic. You're a thief, that's what you are! Your mother was——"

"Stop!" said Rosemary. Her voice was low and controlled, but her face was very white. "Not another word against my mother. You've slandered her for the last time. I am not a poor orphan, beholden to my grandmother for the food I eat and the clothes I wear. On the contrary, you and Aunt Matilda are dependent upon me, and have been for a good many years. I have father's letter here. Do you care to read it?"

Shaken from head to foot, the old lady sank into her chair. She was speechless, but her eyes blazed. Matilda sat by the window, dumb with astonishment. This was not at all what she had expected. Rosemary had drawn a yellow old letter from the recesses of her brown gingham gown and was offering it to Grandmother. The sight of it had affected the old lady powerfully.

[Sidenote: The Money]

"Very well," Rosemary was saying, as she returned the letter to its hiding-place. "In case you've forgotten, I'll tell you what's in it. The day father sailed up the coast, he sent you a draft for more than eleven thousand dollars. He said it was for me—for my clothes and my education, in case anything happened to him. He said that you were to give me whatever I might want or need, as long as the money lasted. I'll leave it to you whether you've carried out his instructions or not.

"Now that I'm going to be married, I've taken the liberty of helping myself to a small part of what is my own. There's almost two thousand dollars left, and you're quite welcome to it, but I won't be married in brown gingham nor go to my husband in ragged shoes, and if I think of anything else I want, I'm going to have it."

"Ma," said Matilda, tremulously, "if this is so, we ain't done right by Rosemary."

"It's so," Rosemary continued, turning toward the figure at the window. "You can read the letter if you want to." She put her hand to her breast again, but Matilda shook her head.

[Sidenote: Grandmother's Decision]

"If you want me to," the girl went on, "I'll go now. Mrs. Marsh will take me in, but I'll have to explain why I ask it. I haven't told Alden, or his mother, and I don't want to. I won't bring shame upon those of my own blood if I can help it. But what I've had, I've earned, and I don't feel indebted to you for anything, not even a single slice of bread. That's all."

Grandmother staggered to her feet, breathing heavily. Her face was colourless, her lips ashen grey. "Rosemary Starr," she said, with long pauses between the words, "I'll never—speak to—you—again as—long as—I—live." Then she fell back into her chair, with her hand upon her heart.

"Very well, Grandmother," Rosemary returned, shrugging her shoulders. "You'll have to do as you like about that."

By supper-time the household was calm again—upon the surface. True to her word, Grandmother refused to communicate directly with Rosemary. She treated the girl as she might a piece of furniture—unworthy of attention except in times of actual use.

She conveyed her wishes through Matilda, as a sort of human telephone. "Matilda," she would say, "will you ask Rosemary to fill the tea-pot with hot water?" And, again: "Matilda, will you tell Rosemary to put out the milk pitcher and to lock the back door?" It was not necessary; however, for Matilda to tell Rosemary. The girl accepted the requests as though they had been given directly—with her head held high and the faintest shadow of an ironical smile upon her face.

[Sidenote: Left in the Dark]

After supper, while Rosemary was washing the dishes, Grandmother took the lamp. She was half-way to the door when Matilda inquired: "Where are you goin', Ma?"

"I'm goin' up to my room, to set and read a spell."

"But—but the lamp?"

"I need it to read by," Grandmother announced, with considerable asperity, "and you don't need to hunt around for no more lamps, neither. I've got 'em all put away."

"But," Matilda objected; "me and Rosemary——."

"You and Rosemary! Humph! You can set in the dark or anywhere else you please." With that she slammed the door and was gone. Rosemary came in, after a little, humming to herself with an assumed cheerfulness she was far from feeling. Then she went out into the kitchen and came back with a match. The feeble flicker of it revealed only Aunt Matilda—and no lamp.

"Where's Grandmother?" asked Rosemary, in astonishment. "And what has become of the lamp?"

"She's gone up to her room and she's took the lamp with her," Matilda laughed, hysterically.

[Sidenote: Aunt Matilda's Troubles]

Rosemary brought in the candle from the kitchen. As it happened, it was the last candle and was nearly gone, but it would burn for an hour or two.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Matilda," said Rosemary, kindly, "if you want to read, or anything——."

"I don't," she interrupted. "I'd like to sit and talk a spell. I don't know as we need the candle. If she should happen to come back, she'd be mad. She said she'd put away the lamps, and I reckon she'd have took the candle, too, if she'd thought."

"Very well," answered Rosemary, blowing out the candle. "I'm not afraid of the dark." Moreover, it was not the general policy of the household to ruffle Grandmother's temper unnecessarily.

"Rosemary," said Aunt Matilda, a little later; "Ma's a hard woman—she always has been."

"Yes," the girl agreed, listlessly.

"I ain't never said much, but I've had my own troubles. I've tried to bear 'em patiently, but sometimes I ain't been patient—she's always made me feel so ugly."

Rosemary said nothing, but she felt a strange softening of her heart toward Aunt Matilda. "I don't know as you'll believe me," the older woman went on after a pause, "but I never knew nothin' about that money."

[Sidenote: Pity for Aunt Matilda]

"I know you didn't, Aunt Matilda. It's behind a loose brick in the chimney, in the attic, on the right-hand side. You have to stand on a chair to reach it. If you want any of it, go and help yourself. It's mine, and you're welcome to it, as far as I'm concerned."

"I don't know what I'd want," returned Matilda, gloomily. "I ain't never had nothin', and I've sort of got out of the habit. I did used to think that if it ever come my way, I'd like a white straw hat with red roses on it, but I'm too old for it now."

Tears of pity filled Rosemary's eyes and a lump rose in her throat. Aunt Matilda's deprivations had been as many as her own, and had extended over a much longer period. The way of escape was open for Rosemary, but the older woman must go on, hopelessly, until the end.

"It was sixteen years ago to-night," said Aunt Matilda, dreamily, "that the minister come to call."

"Was it?" asked Rosemary. She did not know what else to say.

"I thought maybe you'd remember it, but I guess you was too little. You was only nine, and you used to go to bed at half-past seven. It was five minutes of eight when he come."

[Sidenote: The Minister Asks to Call]

"Was it?" asked Rosemary, again.

"Yes. Don't you remember hearin' the door bell ring?"

"No—I must have been asleep."

"Children go to sleep awful quick. It was five minutes of eight when he come."

"Were you expecting him?"

"No, I wasn't. He'd said to me once, on the way out of church after Sunday-school: 'Miss Matilda, I must be comin' over to see you some one of these pleasant evenings, with your kind permission,' Just like that, he says, 'with your kind permission,' I was so flustered I couldn't say much, but I did manage to tell him that Ma and me would be pleased to see him any time, and what do you suppose he said?"

"I don't know," answered Rosemary.

"He said: 'It's you I'm comin' to see—not your Ma,' Just like that—'It's you!'" Her voice had a new note in it—a strange thrill of tenderness.

"And so," she went on, after a pause, "he come. I was wearin' my brown alpaca that I'd just finished. I'd tried it on after supper to see if it was all right, and it was, so I kept on wearin' it, though Ma was tellin' me all the time to take it off. Her and me had just cleaned the parlour that day. It couldn't have happened better. And when the bell rang, I went to the door myself."

[Sidenote: The Greetings]

"Were you surprised?"

"My land, yes! I'd thought maybe he'd come, but not without tellin' me when, or askin' for permission, as he'd said. He come in and took off his hat just like he was expected, and he shook hands with Ma and me. He only said 'How do you do Mis' Starr?' to her, but to me, he says: 'I'm glad to see you, Miss Matilda. How well you're looking!' Yes—just like that.

"We went and set down in the parlour. I'd cleaned the lamp that day, too—it was the same lamp Ma's took up-stairs with her now. It was on the centre-table, by the basket of wax-flowers under the glass shade. They was almost new then and none of 'em was broken. They looked awful pretty.

"Ma came in the parlour, too, and she set down between him and me, and she says: 'I've been wantin' to ask you something ever since I heard your last sermon, three weeks ago come Sunday. I ain't been to church since and I can't feel like I ought to go.'

"'I'm sorry,' he says, just as gentle. 'If you have any doubts that I can clear up,' he says, 'about the Scripture——'

"''Tain't the Scripture I'm doubtin',' says Ma, 'it's you.'

"'That isn't as bad,' he says, smilin', but I could see he was scared. You know how Ma is—especially when you ain't used to her.

[Sidenote: Discussing Baptism]

"'I'd like to ask,' says Ma, 'whether you believe that unbaptised infants is goin' to be saved.'

"'Why, yes,' he says. 'I do,'

"'I suspicioned it,' Ma says. Oh, her voice was awful! 'May I ask you just what grounds you have for believin' such a thing?'

"'I don't know as I could tell you just what grounds I have,' he says, 'but I certainly feel that the God I humbly try to serve is not only just but merciful. And if there's anything on earth purer or more like a flower than a little baby,' he says, 'I don't know what it is, whether it's been baptised or not. I don't think God cares so much about forms and ceremonies as he does about people's hearts,' Them's the very words he said.

"Well," resumed Matilda, after a pause, "Ma was bent on arguin' with him, about that, and baptisin' by sprinklin' or by immersion, and about the lost tribes of Israel, and goodness knows what else. He didn't want to argue, and was all the time tryin' to change the subject, but it was no use. I never got a chance to say a dozen words to him, and finally, when he got up to go, he says: 'I've had a very pleasant evenin', and I'd like to come again sometime soon, if I may,' he says. Just like that.

[Sidenote: A Souvenir]

"And before I could say a word, Ma had said: 'I dunno as we feel ourselves in need of your particular brand of theology,' she says. 'It's my opinion that you ought to be up before the trustees instead of around callin' on faithful members of the church, sowin' the seeds of doubt in their minds.'"

"His face turned bright red, but he shook hands with Ma, very polite, and with me. I've always thought he squeezed my hand a little. And he says to me, very pleasant: 'Good-night, Miss Matilda,' but that was all, for Ma went to the door with him and banged it shut before he'd got down the steps.

"The day before he went away, I met him in the post-office, accidental, and he says: 'Miss Matilda, I've got somethin' for you if you'll accept it,' and he took me over to one side where there couldn't nobody see us, and he give me his tintype. And he says: 'I hope you'll always remember me, Miss Matilda. You'll promise not to forget me, won't you?'

"And I promised," she resumed, "and I ain't. I've always remembered."

There was a long silence, then Miss Matilda cleared her throat. "Light the candle, Rosemary, will you?"

When the tiny flame appeared, Rosemary saw that the older woman's face was wet with unaccustomed tears. She reached down into the bosom of her dress and drew out a small packet, which she removed carefully from its many wrappings. "See," she said.

[Sidenote: It Might Have Been]

Rosemary leaned over to look at the pictured face. The heavy beard did not wholly conceal the sensitive, boyish mouth, and even the crude art had faithfully portrayed the dreamy, boyish eyes.

"I want to ask you something," Aunt Matilda said, as she wrapped it up again. "You're going to be married yourself, now, and you'll know about such things. Do you think, if it hadn't been for Ma, it might have been—anything?"

Rosemary put out the light. "I'm sure it would," she said, kindly.

"Oh, Rosemary!" breathed the other, with a quick indrawing of the breath. "Are you truly sure?"

"Truly," said Rosemary, very softly. Then she added, convincingly: "You know Alden's never been to see me but once, and I haven't even a tintype of him, and yet we're going to be married."