"The face of all the world is changed, I think,Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul."
"The face of all the world is changed, I think,Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul."
he quoted softly.
When They Knew
"When did you—know?" she asked.
"The night I read Rossetti to you and kissed your arm, do you remember? It rushed upon me like an overwhelming flood. When did you know?"
"I think I've always known—not the fact, exactly, but the possibility of it. The first night I came, I knew that you and I could care a great deal for each other—not that we ever would, but merely that we might, under different circumstances. In a way, it was as though a set of familiar conditions might be seen in a different aspect, or in a different light."
"From the first," he said, "you've meant a great deal to me, in every way. I was discontented, moody, restless, and unhappy when you came. That was mainly responsible for——"
He hesitated, glanced at her, accepted her nod of understanding, and went on.
"I've hated the vineyard and the rest of my work. God only knows how I've hated it! It's seemed sometimes that I'd die if I didn't get away from it. Mother and I had it out one day, and finally I decided to stay, merely to please her. Because I had nothing more to do than to make her happy, I determined to make the best of things. You've made me feel that, in a way, it's myself that's at stake. I want to take it and make itwidely known among vineyards, as it has been—for my own sake, and for yours."
A Corner Turned
Edith leaned toward him, full into the light. Her face, still pale, was rapt—almost holy. To him, as to Madame earlier in the day, she somehow suggested the light before a shrine. "Thank you," she said. The low, full contralto tones were vibrant with emotion.
There was a pause. As though a light had been suddenly thrown upon one groping in darkness, Alden saw many things. His longing for Edith, while no less intense, became subtly different. He seemed to have turned a corner and found everything changed.
"Dear," he went on, "there's something wonderful about this. I've—" he stopped and cleared his throat. "I mean it's so exquisitely pure, so transcendently above passion. Last night, when I had you in my arms, it wasn't man and woman—it was soul and soul. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I know. Passion isn't love—any more than hunger is, but an earth-bound world seldom sees above the fog of sense."
"I could love you always," he returned, "and never so much as touch your hand or kiss you again."
She nodded, smiling full comprehension. Then she asked, briefly: "Why write?"
"Merely because we belong to one another in a divine sense, and marriage is the earthlysanction of it—or ought to be. If you and I were both free, and I thought marriage would in any way change this, I—I wouldn't ask you to marry me."
The Shadow Rose
Rising from her chair, she bent over, kissed him on the forehead, went to the lattice, picked another rose, and came back. "See," she said, standing in the light; "life and beauty and joy—all in a rose."
"And love," he added.
"And love." She held it at arm's length. Sharply defined, the shadow fell upon the white floor of the veranda, perfect in line.
"And there," she continued, "is the same thing in another form. It is still a rose—anyone can see that. Only the colour and fragrance are gone, but one can remember both. To-morrow I'll write, and find out which we're to have—the rose, or the shadow of the rose."
"It's chance," he said, "like the tossing of a coin."
"Most things are," she reminded him. "Did you ever stop to think what destinies attend the opening or closing of a door?"
He made no answer. "Good-night," she said, with a smile.
"Good-night, my beloved." His face was illumined with "the light that never was on sea or land," but he did not even attempt to touch her hand.
Beauty
"'Beauty,'" read Grandmother Starr, with due emphasis upon every word, "'is the birthright of every woman,'" She looked up from the pages ofThe Household Guardianas she made this impressive announcement. Rosemary was busy in the kitchen, and Miss Matilda sat at the other window mending a three-cornered tear in last year's brown alpaca.
"'The first necessity of beauty is an erect carriage,'" she continued.
"That lets us out," commented Matilda, "not havin' any carriage at all."
"Frank used to say," said Grandmother, irrelevantly, "that he always had his own carriage until his Pa and me got tired of pushin' it."
"What kind of a carriage is an erect carriage?" queried Matilda, biting off her thread.
"I ain't never heard tell of 'em," replied Grandmother, cautiously, "but I should think, from the sound of it, that it was some kind that was to be driv' standin' up."
The Power of Ages
"Then I've seen 'em."
"Where?" Grandmother lowered her spectacles to the point where they rested upon the wart and peered disconcertingly at Matilda. The upper part of the steel frames crossed her eyeballs horizontally, giving her an uncanny appearance.
"At the circus, when Pa took us. After the whole show was over they had what they called a chariot race, and women driv' around the tent in little two-wheeled carts, standin' up."
"Matilda Starr! 'Tain't no such thing!"
Matilda shrugged her shoulders with an air of finality. "All right," she returned, with cold sarcasm, "as long as you see it and I didn't."
"'Beauty has been the power of the ages,'" Grandmother continued, taking refuge once more inThe Household Guardian. "'Cleopatra and Helen of Troy changed the map of the world by their imperial loveliness.'"
"I didn't know imps was lovely," Matilda remarked, frowning at the result of her labours. "I reckon I'll have to set a piece in at the corner, where it's puckerin'."
"Ain't I always told you that the only way to mend a three-cornered tear was to set a piece in? Some folks never get old enough to learn anything. Even Frank's wife would have known better'n that."
Cleopatra
"Never mind Frank's wife," returned Matilda, somewhat hurriedly. "Let her rest in her grave and go on readin' about the lovely imps."
"It doesn't say imps is lovely. It says 'imperial loveliness.'"
"Well, ain't that the same thing?"
"No, it ain't. Imperial means empire."
"Then why ain't it spelled so? Imperial begins with aniand so does imp, and, accordin' to what I learned when I went to school, empire begins with ane."
There seemed to be no adequate reply to this, so Grandmother went on: "If Cleopatra's nose had been an inch longer, where would Egypt have been now?"
"Where 'tis, I reckon," Matilda returned, seeing that an answer was expected.
"No, it wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"I don't know why not, but if it wouldn't have made no difference, the man that wrote the piece wouldn't have asked about it."
"Well, then, let him answer it himself, as long as he knows."
"'Wars have been fought over beautiful women,'" Grandmother resumed, "'and will continue to be till the end of time.'"
"What about Egypt?" interrupted Matilda.
"I ain't come to that yet. Let me alone, can't you? 'Every mother should begin withher child almost from the moment of birth. Projecting ears can be corrected by the wearing of a simple cap, and a little daily attention to the nose in the way of gentle pinching with the fingers, will insure the proper shape. This of course, must be done while the cartilage is easily pushed into the proper position.'"
The Paper's Circulation
"While the what?" Matilda demanded.
"Cart-i-lage. It means before the child has outgrown its buggy. 'Teeth and complexion are to be considered later, but must be looked after carefully. Every woman should bear in mind the fact that a good complexion comes from the inside.'"
"The man what wrote that piece ain't got the slightest idea of what he's talkin' about."
Grandmother transfixed Matilda with an icy stare. Then, turning to the last page of the paper, she read, with due attention to emphasis: "'The Household Guardianis read every week in more than one million homes. Averaging five people to each family, this means that five million people, every Thursday, are eagerly watching for the regular issue ofThe Household Guardian.' If he don't know what he's talkin' about, why are five million people waitin' for the paper? Answer me that, Matilda Starr, if you can!"
"There ain't five in every family," Matilda objected. "That means the Pa and Ma and three children."
Well Groomed
"Maybe not. Maybe it's the Ma and Pa and two children and an Aunt or an Uncle or some other of the family connection."
"Well, even if there's only two children, if their Ma is makin' 'em caps to hold back their ears and pinchin' their noses regular, she ain't got no time to have her own nose flattened out against the glass lookin' forThe Household Guardian."
"'If, however, through ignorance or the press of other occupations,'" Grandmother resumed, clearing her throat, "'this early care has not been given, every woman, no matter what her circumstances are, may at least be well-groomed.'"
Matilda giggled hysterically.
"What's the matter now?" queried Grandmother, with interest.
"I was just thinkin' about the erect carriage and the groomin'. The man what wrote that piece seems to think a woman is a horse. Reckon I'll get myself a curry-comb."
"It might improve the looks of your hair some if you did," the old lady observed, caustically. "'No woman is so poor that she cannot take the time to attend to her personal appearance, nor so rich that she can afford to neglect it. The hair should be shampooed at—Continued on page sixty-seven.'"
"The hair should be what?"
"'Shampooed at least once a month.'"
Face Massage
"What's that?"
"Don't interrupt," commanded the old lady, with the dull red burning on her withered cheeks. "Here I am readin' to you and tryin' to improve your mind and all the time you're interruptin' me."
"Only to ask questions," Matilda returned, with affected submission. "If I'm to have my mind improved I want it well done."
"'In the intervals it should be frequently brushed, and the regular weekly face massage'—that's printed wrong—'the regular weekly face message should not be neglected.'"
"What's a face message?" asked Matilda, curiosity overcoming prudence.
"Anything that's said to anybody, I suppose. Now don't speak to me again. 'The nails must also be taken care of and one or two visits to a good manicure will show any woman how it is to be done. The implements are not expensive and will last——'"
"What's a manicure?"
"Some kind of a doctor, I reckon,—'and will last a long time. A few simple exercises should be taken every night and morning to preserve the fig—Continued on page seventy.'"
"Preservin' figs ain't any particular exercise," Matilda observed, shaking out the mended skirt. "You can do most of it settin' down."
"'Preserve the figure,'" Grandmother continued with emphasis. "'Soap and hot water may be used on the face if a good cold cream is well rubbed into the pores immediately afterward.'"
Cucumber Milk
"Vanilla or lemon?" Matilda asked.
"It doesn't say ice-cream, it just says cold cream. 'Cucumber milk is excellent for freckles or tan, and——'"
"I reckon I won't hear no more," said Matilda. Her lips were compressed into a thin tight line. "I can stand the carriages that are to be driv' standin' up, and the lovely imps and the nose pinchin' and the caps for the ears, but when it comes to goin' out every mornin' to milk the cucumbers, I don't feel called on to set and listen to it. The man what wrote that piece was as crazy as a loon, and if five million people read his paper every week, four million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand and nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em know it. I ain't sayin' who's the one that don't."
She sailed majestically out of the room with her head held high, and her frowsy grey hair bristling with indignation. Grandmother's lower jaw dropped in amazement for a moment, then she returned to the paper. "Milkin' the cucumbers don't seem quite right," she said to herself, "but there it is in print, as plain as day."
For the first time her faith in the printedword wavered. "Maybe there's some special kind of cucumber," she mused, "that gives milk. We used to hear 'em called cowcumbers. Why'd they be called that if they didn't give milk? There's only the two kinds as far as I know—the tame and wild, and the wild ones—" The light of pure intellectual joy dawned upon the puzzled old face. "Of course. Don't I remember the white sticky juice inside the wild ones? That's it! Wait till I tell Matilda!"
Grandmother Sees the Stranger
Triumphantly she returned toThe Household Guardian, and, in her new allegiance, read every line of every advertisement before folding it carefully and putting it away with the others. "Good for freckles and tan," she said to herself, meditatively, "but it didn't say nothin' about warts. Maybe that'll be in next week's paper."
While she sat looking out of the window a woman passed, walking so slowly that Grandmother had plenty of time to observe her. As the stranger turned her head neither to the right nor the left, the old lady's intense scrutiny was attended by no embarrassment.
From the fragmentary description that had come her way, she at once recognised Mrs. Lee—the tall, straight figure in a gown of pale green linen, the dainty, regular features, and the crown of wonderful hair, radiating sunlit splendour, as she wore no hat.
Ready Money
A letter in her hand betrayed the object of her passing. "She's goin' to the post-office," Grandmother mused, "and if she comes back this way, I'll see her again. Matilda ain't seen her but twice and then she had a hat on."
Mrs. Lee did, indeed, come back that way, but gave no sign that she saw, or even felt, the presence of the keen observer in the window of the little brown house. Grandmother hoped that Matilda was not peering from an upper window. Perhaps she would tell her immediately, and perhaps she wouldn't. While she was considering this point, Rosemary came in, wiping her hands upon her apron, and announced that she was ready to go to the store.
Rapidly giving a list of the articles desired, Grandmother rose from her chair, lifted her skirts, and from some safe inner pocket, drew out a black bag, which was evidently fastened around her waist with a string. This bag contained another, closely wrapped. Inside was a much worn leather "wallet," from which Grandmother extracted a two-dollar bill and some pennies.
"Run along, Rosemary. I reckon that'll be enough."
Rosemary obeyed, privately wondering for the thousandth time whence came Grandmother's money. Neither she nor Matilda had ever dared to ask, but when the supply gaveout, the old lady always produced a twenty-dollar gold piece from the magic bag.
It Seemed Odd
When she returned from her errand, Aunt Matilda was nowhere to be seen, and Grandmother, nodding in her chair by the window, had not been awakened by the opening and closing of the door. Rosemary went up-stairs, and, from sounds that penetrated the hall through the closed door of Aunt Matilda's room, inferred that she also was taking an afternoon nap.
If she could only write to Alden, and tell him he was free! Night after night she had pondered over ways and means. It seemed odd that in a house where there was always plenty to eat and to wear, of a certain sort, stationery and stamps should be practically unknown. Grandmother had used the last sheet of paper and the last envelope when she ordered the bolt of brown alpaca, and with stern suspicion held Rosemary to account for every penny with which she was entrusted.
If she had paper and an envelope, perhaps she might ask the storekeeper to send the note up with the Marshs' groceries, or, better yet, she might go up to the house herself very early some morning or very late some night and slip it under the front door. In that way, she would be sure he received it. Rosemary brightened as she saw that a stamp would not really be necessary after all.
Rosemary Takes Possession of the Box
If only, among her mother's things in the attic, there might be an envelope! She could use brown wrapping paper to write upon, if worst came to worst—the storekeeper might even give her a small, fresh piece of the pale yellow sort. Rosemary knew every separate article in the trunk, however, even the inlaid box to which the key was missing. She had never dared to ask for the key, much less to break open the box, but to-day, the courage of desperation sustained her and she ran quickly up-stairs.
Long afternoon sunbeams, sweet with June, came into the attic, and made fairy gold of the dust as they entered the room. It had none of the charm which belongs to every well-regulated attic; it was merely a storehouse, full of cobwebs and dust. A few old trunks were stored there, all empty save the small hair-cloth trunk which held Rosemary's mother's few possessions that had outlived her.
She opened it, found the box, and discovered that she had forgotten the scissors with which she intended to break the lock. She wondered whether she might safely risk the trip down-stairs after the scissors, or whether it would be better to take the box with her and hide it in her room. Before she had made up her mind, she heard a slow, heavy tread upon the stair.
She could not go down and she did not wishto be found with the box—indeed, she dared not. She cowered back under the eaves and lay flat on the floor behind the trunk, just as Grandmother came into the attic.
Hidden Gold
For a moment the old lady paused, her keen eyes searching the room as though she felt a presence which she did not see. Rosemary lay very quietly upon the floor, though fearing that the loud beating of her heart might be heard in the stillness.
Reassured, and not in the least lame, Grandmother went to the brick chimney that came up through the attic, and mounted a decrepit chair. She scratched and pried at a certain brick with her scissors, then removed it quietly. Reaching in, she drew out a black bag, whence came a sound of tinkling metal. Rosemary, peering around the corner of the trunk, could scarcely believe the evidence of her own senses.
Grandmother took out a twenty-dollar gold piece, restored the bag to its place, put the brick back, and went down-stairs with the quiet, stealthy movement of a cat.
Presently Rosemary went down-stairs also, with the box, stopping to leave it in her own room. Cold with excitement, she trembled when she went into the kitchen and began to make preparations for supper. She heard warring voices in the sitting-room, then Grandmother came to the kitchen door.
The Old Photograph
"Oh," she said. "So you came in the back way. I didn't hear you come in. Reckon I must have been asleep."
Rosemary did not answer. She longed to be alone in her own room with the inlaid box, which now assumed a mystery and portent it had never had before, but it was almost midnight before, by the flickering light of a candle-end, she broke it open, smothering the slight sound with the patchwork quilt.
She hoped for stationery, but there was none. It contained an old photograph and a letter addressed to Grandmother Starr. Rosemary leaned to the light with the photograph, studying it eagerly. It was old and faded, but the two were still distinct—a young woman in an elaborate wedding gown, standing beside a man who was sitting upon an obviously uncomfortable chair.
The man, in a way, resembled Grandmother Starr; the lady looked like Rosemary, except that she was beautiful. "Father!" cried Rosemary, in an agonising whisper. "Mother!" Face to face at last with those of her own blood, dead though they were!
The little mother was not more than two or three and twenty: the big strong father was about twenty-five. She had never been shown the picture, nor had even guessed its existence. Since she was old enough to think about it all,she had wondered what her father and mother looked like.
Her Father's Letter
Thrilled with a new, mysterious sense of kinship, she dwelt lovingly upon every line of the pictured faces, holding the photograph safely beyond the reach of the swift-falling tears. She was no longer fatherless, motherless; alone. Out of the dust of the past, like some strangely beautiful resurrection, these two had come to her, richly dowered with personality.
It was late when she put down the picture and took up the letter, which was addressed to Grandmother Starr. She took it out of the envelope, unfolded the crackling, yellowed pages, and read:
"Dear Mother;"Since writing to you yesterday that I was going up north on theClytie, I have been thinking about the baby, and that it might be wise to provide for her as best I can in case anything should happen to me. So I enclose a draft for eleven thousand five hundred dollars made payable to you. I have realised on my property here, but this is all I have aside from my passage-money and a little more, and, if I land safely, I shall probably ask you to return at least a large part of it."But, if the ship should go down, as I sincerely hope it won't, she will be sure of this,for her clothing and education. In case anything should happen to her, of course I would want you and Matilda to have the money, but if it doesn't, give Rosemary everything she needs or wants while the money lasts, and oh, mother, be good to my little girl!
"Dear Mother;
"Since writing to you yesterday that I was going up north on theClytie, I have been thinking about the baby, and that it might be wise to provide for her as best I can in case anything should happen to me. So I enclose a draft for eleven thousand five hundred dollars made payable to you. I have realised on my property here, but this is all I have aside from my passage-money and a little more, and, if I land safely, I shall probably ask you to return at least a large part of it.
"But, if the ship should go down, as I sincerely hope it won't, she will be sure of this,for her clothing and education. In case anything should happen to her, of course I would want you and Matilda to have the money, but if it doesn't, give Rosemary everything she needs or wants while the money lasts, and oh, mother, be good to my little girl!
"Your loving son,
"Frank."
The Truth of the Matter
In a flash of insight Rosemary divined the truth. The gold hidden behind the loose brick in the chimney was hers, given to her by her dead father. And she had not even a postage stamp!
But swiftly her anger died away in joy—a joy that surged and thrilled through her as some white, heavenly fire that warmed her inmost soul. Not alone, but cared for—sheltered, protected, loved. "Oh," breathed Rosemary, with her eyes shining; "Father, dear father—my father, taking care of me!" Then, in her thought, she added, without dreaming of irreverence, "I think God must be like that!"
The Two Faces
When she awoke in the morning it was with a bewildering sense of change. Something had happened, and, in the first moment, she was not quite sure whether a dream had not boldly overstepped the line into daylight. The faded photograph, propped up on the table at the head of her bed, at once reassured her, and Rosemary smiled, with a joy so great that it was almost pain tugging at the fibres of her heart.
To an outsider, perhaps, the two faces would have been common enough, but one of love's divinest gifts is the power to bestow beauty wherever it goes. The old man, bent with years, with the snows of his fourscore winters lying heavily upon his head, may seem an object of kindly pity as he hobbles along with crutch or cane, going oh, so slowly, where once his feet were fain to run from very joy of living. The light may be gone from his faded eyes, his dull ears may not respond to question or call, but one face, waiting at a window, shallillumine at the sight of him, and one voice, thrilling with tenderness, shall stir him to eager answer.
Beauty the Twin of Love
Or a woman, worn and broken, her rough hands made shapeless by toil, may seem to have no claim to beauty as the word is commonly understood. Sleepless nights, perchance, have dimmed her eyes, suffering and sacrifice have seamed and marked her face, but those to whom she has given herself see only the great nobleness of her nature, the royalty of her soul. For the beauty of the spirit may transfigure its earth-bound temple, as some vast and grey cathedral with light streaming from its stained glass windows, and eloquent with chimes and singing, may breathe incense and benediction upon every passer-by.
And so, for those to whom love has come, beauty has come also, but merely as the reflection in the mirror, since only love may see and understand the thing itself. Purifying, uplifting, and exalting, making sense the humble servant and not the tyrannical master, renewing itself for ever at divine fountains that do not fail, inspiring to fresh sacrifice, urging onward with new courage, redeeming all mistakes with its infinite pardon; this, indeed is Love, which neither dies nor grows old. And, since God himself is Love, what further assurance do we require of immortality?
Upon the two in the faded picture the mostexquisite mystery of life had wrought its transfiguration. Vaguely conscious of the unfamiliar and uncomfortable chair in which he sat, the young man looked out upon Rosemary, bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh, with an all-embracing, all-understanding love. It came to her with a sense of surprise that father was only a little older than she was; he had paused, and she, receiving the gift of life from him, had gone on. And the little mother, brave in her white satin, with her long veil trailing down from her wreath of orange blossoms; she too, loved Rosemary; indeed, with a holy deepening of her soul, she loved the whole world.
Effects of the Picture
The picture must have been taken very soon after the ceremony. Rosemary fancied that they had gone to the photographer's with one or more of the wedding guests, while the revelry and feasting still went on. And yet, so soon, into the woman's eyes had come the look of wistfulness, almost of prayer, as though she had suddenly come face to face with the knowledge that love, like a child, is man's to give and woman's to keep, to guard, to nourish, to suffer for, and, perhaps, last of all, to lose.
The mother-hunger woke in Rosemary a strange longing. What joy to serve this little mother, to whom her child was as unknown then as now! What ecstasy to uncoil the smooth strands of brown hair, take the whiteshoes from the tiny feet, destined to tread the unfamiliar ways of pain; to breathe the soft sweetness of her neck and arms! The big, strong father, lovably boyish now, appealed to her with a sense of shelter, for valiantly he stood, or had tried to stand, between his child and the world, but, from the other came something more.
Above Everyday Cares
"I think," said Rosemary, to herself, "that she must have kissed me before she died."
That day she went about her tasks as might a dweller from another planet, who had set his body to carry on his appointed duties, while his spirit roamed the blue infinite spaces between the day-stars and the sun. Early in the afternoon she left the house, without asking whether she might go, or saying when she would be back. She even had the audacity to leave the luncheon dishes piled in the sink, and unwashed.
At the foot of the Hill of the Muses, she paused, then shook her head. She could never go there again, though the thought of Alden now brought no anguish—only a great sadness. A mocking smile curled her lips at the memory of her futile struggles toward stationery and a stamp, that she might set him free. How could he be more free than he was, untroubled, doubtless, by even the thought of her?
She began to perceive, though dimly, the divinity that shapes our humblest affairs. Inthe search for an envelope, she had found her father and mother, as was doubtless meant from the beginning. Surely she had never needed them more than she did now! If it had been meant for her to have stationery, and to set Alden free in that way, it would have been mysteriously provided—she was certain of that.
A Clear Path
She saw, too, that the way upon which we are meant to go is always clear, or at least indicated, at the time we are meant to take it; that guidance is definitely felt through the soul's own overpowering conviction. The struggle and the terror fell away from her like a garment she had cast aside, and for the moment she emerged into freedom as before she had come into love.
Deep in her heart she still loved Alden, but unselfishly. This new Rosemary asked nothing for herself, she only longed to give, though freedom might be her best gift to him. Harm could come to her only through herself; the burning heart and the racked soul had been under the dominion of Fear.
She took the path up along the river, that lay half asleep and crooning drowsily to the little clouds that were mirrored upon its tranquil breast. Tiny blue pools among the rushes at the bend in the stream gave back glints of sapphire and turquoise, with now and then a glimmer of gold. Sometimes, upon ahidden rock, the river swirled and rippled, breaking murmurously into silver and pearl, but steadily beneath, in spite of all outward seeming, the current moved endlessly toward its sea-born destiny, as Man himself unto the Everlasting.
Pleasures of the Valley
Singing among the far hills, and rushing downward in a torrent of ecstatic life, the river had paused in the valley to rest, dreaming, perchance, of the long cool shadows in the uplands, the far altar-fires of daybreak. There were pleasant things to do in the valley, to lie at full length, basking in the sun, to hum a bit of the old music, to touch gently the harp-strings of the marsh grass and rushes, dimpling with pleasure at the faint answer, to reflect every passing mood of cloud and sky, even to hold the little clouds as a mother might, upon its deep and tender bosom. There were lily-pads to look after, too, bird-shadows and iridescent dragon flies, sunset lights to deepen and spread afar, and, at night, all the starry hosts of heaven to receive and give back, in luminous mist, to the waiting dusk.
Dawn came to the river while the earth still slept; it was day upon the waters while night lingered upon the shore. And, too, long after the abundant life of field and meadow was stilled in dreamless peace, past the power of the fairy lamp-bearers to stir or to annoy, the river lay awake and watchful, as somedivinely appointed guardian of the Soul of Things.
Murmur of Voices
The peace of it came to Rosemary, as she walked, with the sense of healing, of balm. She saw plainly how Grandmother had wronged her, every day of her life, but set resentment aside, simply, as something that did not belong to her. The appointed thing came at the appointed time in the appointed way—there was no terror save her own fear. Outside herself was a mass of circumstance beyond her control, but, within herself, was the power of adjustment, as, when two dominant notes are given, the choice of the third makes either dissonance or harmony.
Tired, at last, for she had walked far upstream into the hills, Rosemary sat down upon a convenient rock to rest. The shores were steep, now, but just beyond her was a little cleft between two hills—a pleasant, sunny space, with two or three trees and a great rock, narrowing back into a thicket. She went on, after a few moments, down the slope to the level place, lay at full length upon the thick turf, and drank thirstily from the river.
In a moment, she heard the slow splash of oars, and the murmur of voices, both low and deep, though one evidently belonged to a man and one to a woman. Boats were infrequent upon the river, and, not caring to be seen, shestepped back into the thicket until it should pass.
Mute and Frightened
The voices came nearer and nearer, the man's full-toned and vaguely familiar, the woman's musical, vibrant, and, in a way, familiar too.
A single powerful stroke brought the boat into view, as it rounded the curve. It was Alden and Edith. The girl stepped back still farther into the sheltering thicket, repressing the cry of astonishment that rose to her lips. Acutely self-conscious, it seemed that the leaves were no protection; that she stood before them helpless, unconcealed.
Trembling, she sat down on a low, flat stone, for she had suddenly become too weak to stand. Much to her dismay, Alden swung the head of the boat toward the shore. They were going to land!
Mute and frightened, she watched him as he assisted her to the shore, saw him return to the boat for a basket covered with a white cloth, and draw the oars up to the bank.
Rosemary instantly comprehended the emotions of an animal in a trap. She scarcely dared to breathe, much less move. Unwilling to listen, she put her fingers in her ears and turned her head away, but presently the position became so strained and uncomfortable that she had to give it up. Their voices were plainly audible.
A Picnic
"I thought I heard a rustle behind that thicket," said Edith. She was lovely in her gown of pale green linen, and carried a white linen parasol instead of wearing a hat.
"It's a bird, or a squirrel," he assured her. "Nobody ever comes here."
"Are we nobody?"
"Indeed not—we're everybody. The world was made just for us two."
"I wish I could believe you," Edith returned, sadly. Then she added, with swift irrelevance: "Why do people always take hard-boiled eggs to picnics?"
"To mitigate the pickles," he responded. "There always are pickles—see? I knew Mother would put some in."
"Wine, too," commented Edith, peering into the basket. "Why, it's almost a party!"
Alden's face took on a grave, sweet boyishness. "I did that myself," he said. "Mother didn't know. Wait until I tell you. The day I was born, my father set aside all the wine that was that day ready for bottling. There wasn't much of it. All these years, it's been untouched on one particular shelf in the storeroom, waiting, in dust and cobwebs. At sunset he went to Mother, and told her what he had done. 'It's for the boy,' he said. 'It's to be opened the day he finds the woman he loves as I love you.'"
"And—" Edith's voice was almost a whisper.
The Time Has Come
"The time has come. I may have found her only to lose her again, but she's mine—for to-day."
He filled two small glasses, and, solemnly, they drank. The light mood vanished as surely as though they had been in a church, at some unwonted communion. Behind the leafy screen, Rosemary trembled and shook. She felt herself sharply divided into a dual personality. One of her was serene and calm, able to survey the situation unemotionally, as though it were something that did not concern her at all. The other was a deeply passionate, loving woman, who had just seen her life's joy taken from her for ever.
Alden, leaning back against the rock near which they sat, was looking at Edith as a man looks at but one woman in all his life. To Rosemary, trembling and cold, it someway brought a memory of her father's face, in the faded picture. At the thought, she clenched her hands tightly and compressed her lips. So much she had, made hers eternally by a grave. No one could take from her the thrilling sense of kinship with those who had given her life.
Edith looked out upon the river. Her face was wistful and as appealing as a child's. "Found," she repeated, "though only to lose again."
"Perhaps not," he answered, hopefully. "Wait and see."
Never Again
"Life is made of waiting," she returned, sadly—"woman's life always is." Then with a characteristically quick change of mood, she added, laughingly: "I know a woman who says that all her life, before she was married, she was waiting for her husband, and that since her marriage, she has noticed no difference."
Alden smiled at the swift anti-climax, then his face grew grave again. He packed the few dishes in the basket, rinsed the wine glasses in the river, brought them back, and gave one to Edith.
"We'll break the bottle," he said, "and the glasses, too. They shall never be used again."
The shattered crystal fell, tinkling as it went. The wine made a deep, purple stain upon the stone. He opened his arms.
"No," whispered Edith. "It only makes it harder, when——"
"Beloved, have you found so much sweetness in the world that you can afford to pass it by?" She did not answer, so he said, pleadingly: "Don't you want to come?"
She turned toward him, her face suddenly illumined. "I do, with all my soul I do."
"Then come. For one little hour—for one dear hour—ah, dearest, come!"
Rosemary averted her face, unable to bear it. When she turned her miserable eyes toward them again, allured by some strange fascination she was powerless to analyse,Edith was in his arms, her mouth crushed to his.
Yours Alone
"Dear, dearest, sweetheart, beloved!" the man murmured. "I love you so!"
There was a pause, then he spoke again. "Do you love me?"
"Yes," she breathed. "A thousand times, yes!"
"Say it," he pleaded. "Just those three words."
"I love you," she answered, "for everything you have been and everything you are and everything you are going to be, for always. I love you with a love that is yours alone. It never belonged to anybody else for the merest fraction of a second, and never can. It was born for you, lives for you, and will die when you need it no more."
"Ah," he said, "but I need it always. I've wanted you all my life."
"And will," she sighed, trying to release herself.
"Edith! Don't! I can't bear it! Take the golden hour as the glittering sands of eternity sweep past us. So much is yours and mine, out of all that is past and to come."
"As you wish," she responded. Then, after another pause, she said: "Don't you want to read to me?"
Rosemary, dumb and hopeless, saw them sit down, close together, and lean against therock, where the sunlight made an aureole of Edith's hair. He slipped his arm around her, and she laid her head upon his shoulder, with a look of heavenly peace upon her pale face. Never had the contrast between them been more painful than now, for Edith, with love in her eyes, was exquisite beyond all words.
The Red Book Again
Alden took a small red book out of his pocket. With a pang, Rosemary recognised it. Was nothing to be left sacred to her? She longed to break from her hiding-place, face them both with stern accusing eyes, snatch the book which meant so much to her—ask for this much, at least, to keep. Yet she kept still, and listened helplessly, with the blood beating in her ears.
In his deep, musical voice, Alden read once more:Her Gifts. "That," he said, softly, "was the night I knew."
"Yes," Edith answered. "The night I found the book and brought it home."
Rosemary well remembered when Edith had found the book. Her strange sense of a dual self persisted, yet, none the less, her heart beat hard with pain.
He went on, choosing a line here and there as he turned the marked pages, but avoiding entirely some of the most beautiful sonnets because of their hopelessness. At last, holding her closer, he began: