stairs, and drew a deep breath of pleasure. She had been a pretty girl,
but now she was even lovelier, and while the contrast between her soft
dress and lace hat and her mother’s severely plain attire was striking,
I felt thankful that, in war-weary England, Beauty was encouraged.
“Daphne--and grown up!” I greeted her.
She smiled. “Were you at my wedding?” she asked.
“Why, no! I didn’t even know that you had been married,” I commented.
Her mother interposed: “We hadn’t time to look up addresses or have
invitations engraved. George’s leave was so short.”
Daphne was not listening; now, she interrupted, “Tea--so soon? In
the garden?” And without waiting for an answer glanced at the shabby
volume still clasped in my hand. “Book? Any pictures?” she asked. I
smiled. “You haven’t grown up at all!” I told her, and added, “Ruskin’s
essays--without illustrations!”
* * * * *
The parlor maid appeared in the doorway. “Tea is served,” she
announced. We followed her to the garden entrance. “Everything here is
so _quiet_!” I said as we went through the gate. “Oh!” I cried, “this
is as perfect as the house!” and gazed entranced at the long vistas of
box-lined paths, the grouped battalions of clipped yews, and the massed
planting of cosmos, chrysanthemums, and flaming dahlias.
My friend smiled. “You should see it in August when the white lilies
make a mist of blossoms along the walls, and forget-me-nots are
reflected in the pool,” she said.
“And the poppies!” cried Daphne.
Almost sharply her mother denied: “Not poppies. Daphne. Never again
poppies! I’ve given orders for the poppies to be weeded out as fast as
they come up.”
She gave careful attention to the making of the tea. “Not such good tea
as we had in the Orient,” she apologized.
We spoke of our winter in Hong-Kong and the visiting dignitaries.
“Wonder what has become of the Austrian duchess who wore the silver
dress and huge diamonds at the dinner at Government House?” or, “Did
you ever hear again of Mrs. Carson, who ran away with that young
German? I was told that they are living in Tasmania,” or, “How did the
Llewellyn marriage turn out? You remember we didn’t think it would be
a success?” And recalled the terrible typhoon which had come up so
suddenly that hundreds of unprepared, helpless sampans and junks were
swept into the port of lost ships. “I’ll never forget the abject terror
of some of those Chinese sailors who, as the junks swept by, were
chanting their appeal to the sea-god,” I said.
She agreed soberly, remembering the tragic day. “I like to think of
that incongruous Scotch regiment with the bagpipes, marching gayly
along the walks bordered with tall blossoming poinsettias that flamed
against the brown banks,” she supplemented. We relived a summer in the
mountains of Japan, and laughed over the memories of various mishaps
when we had tried, unavailingly, to “hustle the East.” “I’ve never been
able to look a hard-boiled egg in the eye since we patronized those
Chuzenji tea houses,” I said; “if all the embryo chickens I devoured
were suddenly to appear--”
“Heaven forbid!” agreed my friend. We laughed together.
* * * * *
Daphne had wandered off. I could see her white figure, misty against
the rosy mauve of the cosmos; I wondered if she had lost interested
memory of the Japanese holidays she had so much enjoyed. She had not
spoken of them or recalled our former friendship and now, oblivious
of me, I could hear her happily humming an old song. I felt chilled,
grieved, and mystified; Daphne had been very much attached to me during
the old days; I had looked eagerly forward to seeing her again, and
now she treated me as though I were the most casual acquaintance, I
thought; then took myself sharply in hand. “You’re stupid!” I accused
mentally. Aloud, I said, “How happy Daphne seems! I suppose that you
expect her husband back any time, now?”
My friend set the teapot down; for a second, as she did not answer
but sat gazing across the sunshiny garden. I thought that she had not
heard. Then she turned and faced me. “No--” she commenced.
Daphne had come up behind me. “Tea?” she asked, and took the cup that
her mother had prepared for me, then, sitting down, she asked, “Were
you at my wedding?”
“No,” I answered; “tell me about it.”
“Flowers! We had flowers, and there were flags. I had a white dress--”
she began, then stopped blankly.
Her mother took up the account. “We made it as pretty as we could,”
she said. “Of course, last year, no one had much heart for celebrating
except at a wedding! Daphne’s two cousins were the bridesmaids; they
carried big loose bunches of moss-roses from this garden--somehow
garden flowers seemed more suitable for weddings during those days
when home, and all that homes stand for, were the real issue of the
war.”
She paused, then went on: “My husband came down from his training camp
and gave Daphne away. I’d been working two days a week, for over three
years, among the widows and mothers of sailors, at Deptford. Poor
bereaved souls! Daphne’s wedding was the first thing that had awakened
interest in some of them. They’d grown used to me; then fond of me;
then part of my family; and they wanted to see my daughter’s wedding.
They filled nearly half of the church--silent women, in their decent
black, rightful heirs to the glory of the old flags draped against the
pillars and the bronze commemorative tablets set in the walls.”
* * * * *
She seemed for a moment to have forgotten me, then, remembering, went
on, “It hadn’t occurred to me until, as I sat in the old church waiting
for Daphne’s wedding, that never, since England has had a navy, has
there been a time when a son of our family has not served in it.”
“A fine tradition,” I praised, “a glorious promise for the future
years!”
There was silence. Across it the bell in the cathedral tower called the
hour; the chimes spoke.
My friend waited until the last echo died away, then faced me. “You
never saw Hugh, my second son? He had already entered the navy when we
went to Hong-Kong.” Her voice was carefully emotionless and clear. “Our
place on the navy lists is vacant. Hugh went down in the ‘Invincible’
during the Jutland battle,” she said, then added, “Our boys commence
their naval training very early. Hugh was such a wee lad when he said
good-by ... and now--” Her voice lowered to a whisper--“Sometimes, in
my dreams, I see the horror and confusion of that sinking ship ... the
greedy rush of the gray waters--” She regained her composure. “Curious
things, dreams?” she inquired conversationally.
I gasped. “My dear! Why didn’t you tell me--instead of letting me
blunder on? Are Jeffrey and Wallace too old to begin a naval career?
But of course they are,” I floundered on.
Daphne had wandered back to us. “I’ll have some more tea,” she said.
“Three cups, Daphne!” I chided, glad of the interruption.
“You really shouldn’t drink so much strong tea, Daphne,” her mother
admonished absently.
To my amazement Daphne struck the table violently with her clenched
fist. “Tea!” she demanded. Her mother, without comment, poured it out.
“How Daphne has changed--and her mother, too! She used to be so severe
with her children about any lack of courtesy,” I thought.
My friend broke the silence. “Do you remember Mrs. Gordon, whose
husband was on the ‘Tamar’ at Hong-Kong?”
I nodded.
“Commander Gordon was with the ships that went down off your South
American coast,” she said. “For some time we thought that he was
lost; but later the news came. He had been rescued. Mrs. Gordon was
so splendid through it all! Her happiness has been the one warming
thing.... Do you know, I don’t believe that some of our women will
really realize the bitterness of their loss until they see other
women’s husbands and sons coming home.”
“I’m so glad for Mrs. Gordon,” I said, remembering the tall commander
and his gentle, pretty wife.
* * * * *
My friend made no comment. A little silence fell. Across the peaceful
old garden some rooks, homeward bound, called from the oaks; the bitter
tonic scent of chrysanthemums and box lingered in the still air. It
was so quiet that we could hear the organ and choir commencing vespers
at the cathedral. War, its agonies, tortures, and despair were mere
unmeaning words--transparent nightmares of speech, illusive as dreams
against the background of this noble, serene, and tangible English
landscape, which breathed of centuries of peace.
I sighed with thankfulness for my friend; in spite of her sailor
son’s death, her world seemed full of the promise of happiness in the
advancing years. Then I glanced at my watch and saw that my visit was
nearly over. “Do you think that your war-working pony will consent to
another trip to the depot--or shall I walk?” I asked.
She smiled. “You won’t have to walk,” she promised. I gathered up my
gloves and purse, while she stood idly turning the pages of the volume
of Ruskin’s essays. A paragraph caught her interest. She glanced at it,
then, with attention, read aloud:
“I shall therefore divide the war of which I would speak to you under
three heads. War for exercise or play; war for dominion; and, war for
defense.”
“H’m’m,” I commented grimly, “Ruskin’s dead; if he were alive I doubt
if he would have found anything very playful about _this_ war.”
She made no comment, but read on:
“Now, remember, whatever virtue or goodliness there may be in this
game of war, rightly played, there is none when you thus play it with
a multitude of human pawns.... If you, the gentlemen of this or any
other kingdom, choose to make your pastime of contest, do so, and
welcome; but set not up these unhappy peasant-pieces upon the checker
of forest and field. If the wager is to be of death, lay it on your
own heads, not theirs. A goodly struggle in the Olympic dust, though
it be the dust of the grave, the gods will look upon and be with you
in; but they will not be with you if you sit on the sides of the
amphitheatre, whose steps are the mountains of earth, whose arena its
valleys, to urge your peasant millions into gladiatorial war.”
“I suppose he means compulsory military training,” I said.
She did not answer. “Human beings are very pitiful, I think,” she said,
“striving, hurrying, grasping--and for such paltry rewards.” She turned
to me. “How many times, during your life, have you been completely,
unquestioningly happy?” she demanded.
“Well--” I parried uneasily.
“You can’t remember once,” accused my friend, “no one can! If, for a
few minutes, out of doors in the sunshine you are happy, how soon the
old worries, the old fears, the old griefs, come flooding back. What’s
it all about?”
* * * * *
I answered soberly, “Surely there is a cure--a way out of such a
condition,” I said.
“How American--how practical!” she commented dryly, and added: “Don’t
forget to let me know when you discover it.”
I felt queerly uneasy, worried and unhappy. “You won’t get anywhere by
slumping,” I scolded.
“I wasn’t getting anywhere, before,” she retorted; then questioned:
“Wonder if those women feel that the second-hand furniture, pictures,
and half-worn underclothes their husbands looted, at their behest, are
worth what they have cost?”
I was startled. “What women?” I asked.
She flipped open my dog-eared book. “Do you just _buy_ Ruskin? Why
don’t you _read_ him?” she asked, and hunted for a place. “Now listen!”
she said, going on in her quiet, clear voice.
“I, for one, would fain join in the cadence of hammer strokes that
should beat swords into plowshares; and that this cannot be, is not
the fault of us men. It is _your_ fault. Wholly yours. Only by your
command, or by your permission, can any contest take place among us.
And the real, final reason for all the poverty, misery, and rage
of battle, throughout Europe, is simply that you women ... are too
selfish and too thoughtless to take pains for any creature out of
your own immediate circles.... Now I tell you this, that if the usual
course of war, instead of unroofing peasants’ houses, and ravaging
peasants’ fields, merely broke the china upon your own drawing-room
tables, no war in civilized countries would last a week....”
“I don’t consider Germany a civilized country,” I volunteered. “Did
Ruskin really write that?” I asked, and reached for the book. “I hope
it’s translated into their language,” I supplemented.
“They wouldn’t read it; they don’t need any advice about guarding the
looted bric-à-brac on their tables,” she said.
“Be thankful that our returning men can hold their heads proudly
erect,” I exulted.
“‘Our returning men’,” she repeated.
We were walking toward the house. “When do you expect Jeffrey and
Wallace home? Is Daphne’s husband back?” I asked.
She held the little volume in both hands and looked evenly at me:
“Jeffrey was killed at Mons during the first month of the war. Wallace
was refused several times on account of his eyes. ‘What would you do if
your glasses were broken?’ they asked him the last time he applied. He
went out and bought six pairs, and they accepted him. He never needed a
second pair,” said my friend in her quiet, emotionless voice.
I laid my hand on her arm. “My dear--” I cried, and could go no
further. She turned her head away.
* * * * *
From behind us came Daphne’s voice singing an old song of laughter and
love and a garden of roses. She joined us and looked puzzledly at her
mother. “What is it?” she questioned.
“We’ve been speaking of your brothers,” I whispered.
She started at me. “Brothers?” she asked.
I glanced at her with astonishment. “Jeffrey and Wallace, who were with
you at Hong-Kong,” I said.
“Jeffrey--Wallace--Hong-Kong,” she repeated parrot-like after me, in
vague and troubled bewilderment, then brightened: “Were you at my
wedding? We had flowers and flags!”
I could only stare at her.
Her mother motioned me into the wide hall. “Daphne and her husband were
spending his leave, and their honeymoon, in London; they were just
coming out of a theatre when a German air raid started. George was
killed ... and Daphne struck on the head ... by some falling masonry.
For days we thought we couldn’t pull her through--then the up-turn
came.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “_Oh!_”
“She doesn’t remember. ‘Never will remember,’ the doctors say,”
repeated my friend, and laid a comforting hand on my arm. “Of course
you couldn’t know,” she said; very earnestly she added: “You see how
completely life has finished with me? Well, let me tell you something:
If the Huns, and their ideas, had been allowed to dominate the world,
it wouldn’t have been a tolerable place for any right-thinking,
self-respecting, _decent_ man to live in. And since the only way to
remove that menace was through the sacrifice of thousands of boys like
our sons ... I, who stand bereft, to-day, tell you that I am glad that
things are as they are.”
I could not speak.
At the doorway she bade me an affectionate good-by. “My husband will
be very sorry to have missed you. Don’t forget that you’ll always find
us here, with a welcome for you,” she said. With a wave of her hand
she indicated the wide landscape sloping away into far blue hills. “At
least we have saved this, _untouched_,” she added bleakly.
“I’ll be back,” I promised, and turned away to hide the blurring tears.
* * * * *
Saved, untouched; clean hands; a clear conscience; the right to look
any man, or woman, in the eyes. A green country with violet-shadowed
valleys dreaming in the sunshine; the fairylike chime of cuckoo’s notes
calling--calling--calling; woods, and tree tops outlined against the
wide sky; lazy cows knee deep in the reeds bordering a silvery brook;
homeward-faring pigeons on gleaming wings; the drowsy note of distant
church bells; the hum of bees; pearly mists of rain; the ripple of wind
over wheat; the blackbirds’ flutelike call; wide-eyed daisies; darting
swallows, and the scent of meadow-sweet: England.
And yet--and yet (oh, broken hopes and dreams) the lonely days that
stretch ahead! _The quiet years._
_Young’s Magazine_
THE CRYSTAL FLASK
BY
PAUL ROSENWEY
THE CRYSTAL FLASK[13]
By PAUL ROSENWEY
Young Gwilliam, fresh and brown from his two years in the wilds, and
with two inches added to his chest measure, hurried to the club and
searched for Drysdale. He found his Petronius sitting just as he had
left him, in the accustomed well-cushioned chair, in the accustomed
corner, on his face the accustomed quiet, faintly amused smile. Gwillam
drew up a chair opposite; the necessary ceremonies were performed, and
then they plunged into one of those long garrulous gossips, which they
both liked so well.
“I saw Craig, to-day,” said young Gwillam, after a time. He paused.
“Yes,” said Drysdale, non-committally.
“He looked badly,” added Gwillam suggestively. Drysdale made no answer.
Gwillam leaned forward. “Tell me what has happened,” he urged. “I liked
Craig; he was always a good sort of fellow. And he is young too--not
much older than myself; but to-day he looked like an old man--thin,
gray, stooped--a wreck.”
“He has discovered the virtues of his uncle’s wedding gift,” said
Drysdale.
“His uncle’s wedding gift?” echoed Gwillam wonderingly.
“Did you never hear of it?” asked Drysdale. “It was quite a subject of
conversation at one time. Everyone knew of it and laughed. It was a
very strange gift and it was given by a very strange old gentleman. He
is dead now, but I can imagine him, if he has any knowledge of what has
taken place, grinning with the keenest delight. It is just the sort of
thing he would have enjoyed.
“It really began,” said Drysdale, “at Craig’s wedding breakfast. You
see, old Forsythe--Craig’s uncle--was delighted at Craig’s marriage.
He--Forsythe--was old even then; he had a great deal more money than
anyone needs; and he used to worry dreadfully about what would become
of it when he was gone. To be sure he could leave it all to Craig,
as he intended to do; but life is short, Craig would die, and then
who would get the money? He often wished that Craig had a family of
youngsters, upon whom he might settle it, so that for fifty or sixty
years at least it would be safe. And when Craig became engaged to marry
the old gentleman immediately made a new will and from that time on
displayed a joy so open and unrestrained that it was scarcely decent.
At the wedding breakfast his glee was almost childish; he became quite
garrulous, and it needed constant effort to restrain him from telling
stories, which, however humorous they might prove to be, were, even in
their beginnings, quite evidently improper. Still, though with some
difficulty, he was kept within bounds until he insisted on making a
speech. As he rose from his seat, a glass of wine held unsteadily in
his trembling old hand, a wicked smile on his thin old lips, a feeling
of uneasiness pervaded the company, and it was very generally felt that
whatever he might say, it could be very well dispensed with. But no
one remonstrated. When one has a relative who is at once very wealthy
and very old, it is astonishing how lenient one becomes to his little
failings.
“‘My dear Robert--my dear Amy,’ began old Forsythe, glancing first at
Craig and then at his wife; ‘I have already given you your wedding gift
as you know.’ This was quite true; the old reprobate had given them an
extremely substantial check, to which he found it impossible not to
make allusion. ‘But that was more or less formal--the gift dictated by
convention. And I wanted to give you something intimate--something,
trifling perhaps, but personal--something so appropriate that it should
become part of your lives. For a long time I racked my poor old brains
in vain; and then, only yesterday, I had an inspiration--quite an
inspiration!’ he added fondly.
“Craig and his wife exchanged glances of relief. The speech would
probably pass off without disaster after all.
“‘You may remember,’ resumed the old gentleman, ‘that when I was
younger I traveled extensively, but it has probably escaped your minds
that I spent much time in Arabia. Nevertheless that is so. I traveled,
not with any thought of exploring or attaining scientific results, but
for my own pleasure only. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, I
avoided the main routes of travel, and always, so far as was possible,
sought remote and primitive regions. It was in such a place that late
one afternoon I came upon a romantic little glade, hidden between two
ridges of the mountains I was traversing. All around, the country
was bleak and barren, but here the grass was of the greenest and the
foliage of the freshest; and it needed only a slight investigation to
discover that this desirable state of affairs was due to the waters of
a little spring which rose from the ground at one end of the glade.
The water was remarkably clear and transparent, and over the spring
itself was a small structure of stone, which, though half ruined by the
passage of time, still bore a very evident resemblance to a miniature
temple. My interest was strongly aroused; I scented a story, and I had
my guide make inquiry of the villagers. I was right; there was a story
and one which interested me greatly. For at that time I was still young
and, though it is I who say it, not without attraction for the ladies;
and I still entertained hopes that some day I would know those joys
and delights that have come to my lucky young nephew. So I got from
my baggage an old crystal flask, which I had picked up in Bassorah,
and filled it from the spring; my guide produced an aromatic gum which
he was in the habit of burning for the enjoyment of its odor, and we
hermetically sealed the flask, which from that day to this I have
always preserved most carefully. The day is long past, however, when
it can be of use to me, whereas the time has only just begun, my dear
Robert and my dear Amy, when it can be of use to you. So it is this
flask, my dears, which I have chosen as my real gift to you.’
“He fumbled beneath the flowers and ferns which covered the table
before him, and from its hiding-place produced something which he held
high in his hand that all might see. It was a flask of crystal, long,
slender and delicately fashioned, and filled to the very stopper with a
liquid which, though colorless and transparent, seemed in the blazing
light to sparkle and give forth faint iridescent gleams. It was a
beautiful thing, and Craig’s wife gave a little exclamation of delight
as the old gentleman bowed courteously and handed it to her.
“‘But Uncle Robert,’ she reminded him, as she took it, ‘the story? You
said there was a story.’
“‘Oh, yes, my dear,’ replied Uncle Robert, ‘you shall have the story,
which is most important. For you must know that the spring is a magic
spring, and the water in the flask is magic too, with most magical
properties. The spring had its origin in the tears of an unfortunate
young maiden named Zubaydah, who, on the very spot where it now
flows, found the body of her lover Ghanim, cruelly slain. She fell on
his breast, lamenting wildly, and when they tore him away from her
embracing arms, she would not stir, but remained there, refusing drink
and food alike, and weeping, weeping constantly, until in the end she
too died. Their story is most pathetic and some day you shall hear
it; but now it is of no further importance, save for the fact that
when they bore her tenderly away, a spring was flowing from the ground
she had so plentifully watered with her tears. And the water of that
spring had this remarkable quality: that when a flask of it is jointly
possessed by true lovers, so long as neither commits a crime against
their mutual love, the water remains as you saw it, clear, sparkling,
translucent; but should either of the lovers prove false to the other,
the water becomes dark, thick, muddy--an ugly symbol of the wrong that
has been done.