the unspoken appeal that vibrated through her voice. "No," he said, with
quiet mastery, "I won't let you go. I want to take care of you,
Rosemary. Leave all that misery and come to me, won't you?"
Her eyes met his for an instant, then turned away. "I don't
quite--understand," she said, with difficulty.
"I'm asking you to marry me--to come to mother and me. We'll make the
best of it together."
Her eyes met his clearly now, but her face was pale and cold. She was
openly incredulous and frightened.
[Sidenote: Her Birthright]
"I mean it, dear. Don't be afraid. Oh, Rosemary, can't you trust me?"
"Trust you? Yes, a thousand times, yes!"
He drew her closer. "And love me--a little?"
"Love you?" The last light shone upon her face and the colour surged
back in waves. She seemed exalted, transfigured, as by a radiance that
shone from within.
He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face to his. "Kiss me,
won't you, dear?"
And so, Rosemary came to her woman's birthright, in the shelter of a
man's arms.
V
The House of the Broken Heart
[Sidenote: Climbing in the Dark]
The road was steep and very dark, but some unseen Power compelled her to
climb. Dimly, through the shadow, she saw shafts of broken marbles and
heard the sound of slow-falling waters. The desolation oppressed her,
and, as she climbed, she pressed her hands tightly to her heart.
She was alone in an empty world. All traces of human occupation had long
since vanished. Brambles and thorns grew thickly about her, and her
brown gingham dress was torn to shreds. Rosemary shuddered in her dream,
for Grandmother and Aunt Matilda would be displeased.
And yet, where were they? She had not seen them since she entered the
darkness below. At first she had been unable to see anything, for the
darkness was not merely absence of light but had a positive, palpable
quality, it enshrouded her as by heavy folds of black velvet that
suffocated her, but, as she climbed, the air became lighter and the
darkness less.
[Sidenote: The Path in the Garden]
She longed to stop for a few moments and rest, but the pitiless Power
continually urged her on. Bats fluttered past her and ghostly wings
brushed her face, but, strangely, she had no fear. As her eyes became
accustomed to the all-encompassing night, she saw into it for a little
distance on either side, but never ahead.
On the left was a vast, empty garden, neglected and dead. The hedge that
surrounded it was only a tangled mass of undergrowth, and the paths were
buried and choked by weeds. The desolate house beyond it loomed up
whitely in the shadow. It was damp and cold in the garden, but she went
in, mutely obeying the blind force that impelled her to go.
She struggled up the path that led to the house, falling once into a
mass of thistles that pricked and stung. The broken marbles, as she saw
now, were statues that had been placed about the garden and had fallen
into decay. The slow-falling water was a fountain that still murmured,
choked though it was by the dense undergrowth.
One of the steps that led to the house had fallen inward, so she put her
knee on the one above that and climbed up. She tested each step of the
long flight carefully before she trusted herself to it. When she reached
the broad porch, her footsteps echoed strangely upon the floor. Each
slight sound was caught up and repeated until it sounded like the tread
of a marching army, vanishing into the distance.
[Sidenote: The Desolate House]
The heavy door creaked on its hinges when she opened it. That sound,
too, echoed and re-echoed in rhythmic pulsations that beat painfully
upon her ears, but, after she was once inside, all the clamour ceased.
She could see clearly now, though it was still dark. A long, wide
stairway wound up from the hall, and there were two great rooms upon
either side. She turned into the wide doorway at the right.
Windows, grey with cobwebs, stretched from floor to ceiling, but very
little light came through them. The wall paper, of indistinguishable
pattern, was partially torn from the walls and the hanging portions
swayed in the same current of air that waved the cobwebs. There was no
furniture of any description in the room, except the heavy, gilt-framed
mirror over the mantel. It was cracked and much of the gilt frame had
fallen away. She went into the next room, then into the one beyond that,
which seemed to stretch across the back of the house, and so through the
door at the left of the room into the two on the other side of the
house, at the left of the hall.
In the centre of the largest room was a small table, upon which rested
a small object covered with a dome-shaped glass shade, precisely like
that which covered the basket of wax flowers in Grandmother's parlour.
Rosemary went to it with keen interest and leaned over the table to peer
in.
[Sidenote: The Broken Heart]
At first she could see nothing, for the glass was cloudy. She noted,
with a pang of disgust, that the table-cover was made of brown alpaca,
fringed all around by the fabric itself, cut unskilfully into shreds
with the scissors. As she looked, the glass slowly cleared.
The small object was heart-shaped and made of wax in some dull colour
half-way between red and brown. At length she saw that it was broken and
the pieces had been laid together, carefully. Unless she had looked very
closely she would not have seen that it was broken.
Suddenly she felt a Presence in the room, and looked up quickly, with
terror clutching at her inmost soul. A tall, grey figure, mysteriously
shrouded, stood motionless beside her. Only the eyes were unveiled and
visible amid the misty folds of the fabric.
The eyes held her strangely. They were deep and dark and burning with
secret fires. Hunger and longing were in their depths, and yet there was
a certain exaltation, as of hope persisting against the knowledge of
defeat.
Rosemary's terror gradually vanished. She felt an all-pervading
calmness, a sense of acceptance, of fulfilment.
[Sidenote: Not of One's Own Choice]
For a long time she stood there, transfixed by the eyes that never for
an instant wavered from hers. They searched her inmost soul; they saw
all things past and to come. They questioned her, challenged her, urged
something upon her, and yet she was not afraid.
At last, with dry lips, she spoke. "Who are you?" She did not recognise
the sound of her own voice.
"The Lord of Life," the figure answered, in low, deep tones that
vibrated through the empty rooms like the swept strings of a harp.
"And this is--?"
"The House of the Broken Heart. I live here."
"Why?" she asked.
"Not of my own choice. Why have you come?"
"Not of my own choice," she repeated, dully. "I came because I had to."
"They all do. That is why I myself am here."
"Do--do many come?"
"Yes."
Rosemary looked back over her shoulder, then lifted her eyes to those of
the grey figure. "Then it is strange," she said, "that I am here alone."
"You are not alone. These rooms are full, but no one sees another in
the House of the Broken Heart. Each one is absorbed in his own grief to
the exclusion of all else. Only I may see them, with bowed heads, pacing
to and fro.
[Sidenote: Selfish Grief]
"On the stairway," he went on, "is a young mother who has lost her
child. She goes up and down endlessly, thinking first she hears it
crying for her in the room above, and then in the room below. Her
husband sits at the foot of the stairs with his face hidden in his
hands, but she has no thought for him. He has lost wife and child too."
"Poor man!" said Rosemary, softly. "Poor woman!"
"Yonder is a grey-haired woman, reaping the bitterness that she has
sown. There are a husband and wife who have always been jealous of one
another, and will be, until the end of time. There is a girl who has
trusted and been betrayed, but she will go out again when her courage
comes back. Just behind you is a woman who has estranged her husband
from his family and has found his heart closed to her in the hour of her
greatest need. Coming toward you is a man who was cruel to his wife, and
never knew it until after she was dead."
"But," Rosemary asked, "is there no punishment?"
"None whatever, except this. The consciousness of a sin is its own
punishment."
[Sidenote: Some One Gift]
She stood there perplexed, leaning against the table. "Have all who are
here, then, sinned?"
"No, some have been sinned against, and a few, like yourself, have come
in by mistake."
"Then I may go?"
The Lord of Life bent his head graciously. "Whenever you choose. You
have only to take your gift and depart."
"Is there a gift here for me? Nobody ever gave me anything."
"Some one gift is yours for the asking, and, because you have not
sinned, you have the right to choose. What shall it be?"
"Love," returned Rosemary, very wistfully. "Oh, give me love!"
The Lord of Life sighed. "So many ask for that," he said. "They all
confuse the end with the means. What they really want is joy, but they
ask for love."
"Is there a greater joy than love?"
"No, but love in itself is not joy. It is always service and it may be
sacrifice. It means giving, not receiving; asking, not answer."
"None the less," said Rosemary, stubbornly, "I will take love."
"They all do," he returned. "Wait."
He vanished so quickly that she could not tell which way he had gone. As
she leaned against the table, the brown alpaca cover slipped back on the
marble table and the glass case tottered. She caught it hurriedly and
saved it from falling, but the waxen pieces of the heart quivered
underneath.
[Sidenote: The Symbol of Hope]
The grey figure was coming back, muffled to the eyes as before, but his
footsteps made no sound. He moved slowly, yet with a certain authority.
He laid a letter on the table and Rosemary snatched it up eagerly. It
was addressed to Mrs. Virginia Marsh.
"That is not for me," she said, much disappointed. "My name is Rosemary
Starr."
"It must have something to do with you," he returned, unmoved. "However,
I will keep it until the owner comes."
"She doesn't belong here," Rosemary answered, somewhat resentfully.
"She's the dearest, sweetest woman in the world. She's Alden's mother."
"The one who wrote it may be here, or coming," he explained, patiently.
"Sometimes it happens that way. There are many letters in this place."
As he spoke, he placed a green wreath upon Rosemary's head and gave her
a white lily, on a long stem. "Go," he said, kindly.
"But my gift?"
"Go and find it. Carry your symbol of Hope and wear your wreath of rue.
You will come to it."
"But where? How shall I go from here? I'm afraid I shall lose my way."
[Sidenote: On the Upward Trail]
The stern eyes fixed themselves upon her steadily. "Do not question Life
too much," he warned her. "Accept it. Have I not told you to go?"
Her fear suddenly returned. She went backward, slowly, toward the door,
away from the table and the tall grey figure that stood by it, holding
the letter addressed to Mrs. Virginia Marsh. When she was outside, she
drew a long breath of relief. It was daybreak, and grey lights on the
far horizon foreshadowed the sunrise.
She ran down the steps, stumbling as she passed the broken one, and went
hurriedly down the weed-choked path. The broken marble statues were
green with mould and the falling waters seemed to move with difficulty,
like the breath of one about to die. The stillness of the place was vast
and far-reaching; it encompassed her as the night had previously done.
She soon found the trail that led upward, though she did not recognise
the point at which she had turned into the garden. She had no doubt,
now, about the path she must take. It led up, up, through thorns and
brambles, past the crags upon which the first light shone, and around
the crest of the peak to--what? Drawing a long breath, Rosemary started,
carrying her lily and wearing her wreath of rue.
[Sidenote: The Coming Dawn]
The brown gingham hung in tatters and her worn shoes threatened to drop
from her feet, but the divine fragrance of the lily she bore sustained
her as she climbed. She was glad she had chosen as she had, though his
words still puzzled her. "It is always service," she repeated, "and it
may be sacrifice. It means giving, not receiving; asking, not answer."
"And yet," she mused, "he said they all asked for it. I should have
taken the letter," she continued, to herself. "Alden could have given it
to his mother."
It seemed strange to be thinking of him as "Alden" instead of "Mr.
Marsh," and yet it was supremely sweet. She felt the colour burning in
her cheeks, for she knew, now, that he awaited her, somewhere on the
height. Had he not chosen Love too? Were they not to find it together?
Dull, prismatic fires glowed upon the distant clouds--dawn-jewels laid
upon the breast of Night. Violet and blue mellowed into opal and
turquoise, then, as the spectrum may merge into white light, a shaft of
sunrise broke from the mysterious East, sending a javelin of glory
half-way across the world.
The first light lay upon the crags, then deepened and spread,
penetrating the darkness below, which was no longer black, but dusky
purple. Rosemary's heart sang as she climbed, and the fragrance of the
lily thrilled her soul with pure delight. The path was smooth, now, and
thorns no longer hurt her feet. The hand that held the lily, however,
was bleeding, from some sharp thorn or projection of rock.
[Sidenote: The Blood-Stained Lily]
She wiped her hand upon her torn dress, and, as she did so, a drop of
blood stained the lily. She tried to get it off, but all her efforts
were fruitless. The crimson spread and darkened until half of the white
petals were dyed. She noted, with a queer lump in her throat, that the
lily was the same colour as the waxen heart that lay under the glass
case in the house she had so recently left.
But she still held it tightly, though it was stained and no longer
fragrant. Up somewhere in the sunrise Alden was waiting for her, and she
climbed breathlessly. She was exhausted when she reached the summit, and
the wreath of rue pressed heavily upon her temples.
She paused for a moment, realising that she had reached the end of her
journey. Rainbow mists surrounded the height, but, as she looked, they
lifted. She was not surprised to see Alden standing there. He had been
hidden by the mists.
With a little laugh of joy, Rosemary tried to run toward him, but her
feet refused to move. Then she called: "Alden!" and again, in a troubled
tone: "Mr. Marsh!"
[Sidenote: Calling in Vain]
But only the echo of her own voice came back to her, for Alden did not
move. Strong and finely-moulded, his youth surrounded him like some
radiant garment of immortality. Every line of his figure was eloquent of
his lusty manhood, and his face glowed not only from the sunrise, but
from some inner light.
"Service, sacrifice. Giving, not receiving; asking, not answer." The
words reverberated through her consciousness like a funeral knell. She
dropped the stained lily and called again, weakly: "Alden!"
But, as before, he did not answer. His eyes were fixed upon a distant
point where the coloured mists were slowly lifting. Rosemary, cold and
still, could only stand there and watch, for her feet refused to stir.
Hungrily, she gazed upon him, but he did not see, for he was watching
the drifting rainbow beyond. Then a cry of rapture broke from him and he
started eagerly toward the insurmountable crags that divided him from
the Vision.
Rosemary saw it, too, at the same instant--a woman whose white gown
shimmered and shone, and whose face was hidden by the blinding glory of
her sunlit hair.
* * * * *
She woke, murmuring his name, then rubbed her eyes. It took her several
minutes to realise that it was all a dream. She was in her own little
room in the brown house, and the sun was peeping through the shutters.
The holes in the rag carpet, the cheap, cracked mirror, the braided mat
in front of her washstand, and the broken pitcher all contrived to
reassure her.
[Sidenote: The Fair Future]
She sat up in bed, knowing that it was time to get up, but desperately
needing a few moments in which to adjust herself to her realities. What
had happened? Nothing, indeed, since yesterday--ah, that dear yesterday,
when life had begun! What could ever happen now, when all the future lay
fair before her and the miseries of her twenty-five years were
overwhelmed by one deep intoxicating joy?
"Dreams," thought Rosemary, laughing to herself. "Ah, what are dreams!"
She opened the shutters wide and the daylight streamed in. It was not
fraught with colour, like the mists of her dream, but was the clear,
sane light of every day. A robin outside her window chirped cheerily,
and a bluebird flashed across the distant meadow, then paused on the
rushes at the bend of the river and swayed there for a moment, like some
unfamiliar flower.
"Rosemary!" The shrill voice sounded just outside her door.
"Yes, Aunt Matilda," she answered, happily; "I'm coming!"
She sang to herself as she moved about her room, loving the dear,
common things of every day--the splash of cool water on her face and
throat, the patchwork quilt, and even the despised brown gingham, which
was, at least, fresh and clean.
[Sidenote: Service and Sacrifice]
"Service," she said to herself, "and sacrifice. Giving, not receiving;
asking, and not answer. I wonder if it's true!" For an instant she was
afraid, then her soul rallied as to a bugle call. "Even so," she
thought, "I'll take it, and gladly. I'll serve and sacrifice and give,
and never mind the answer."
She hurried down-stairs, where the others were waiting. "You're late,
Rosemary," said Grandmother, sourly.
"Yes, I know," laughed the girl, stooping to kiss the withered cheek.
"I'm sorry! I won't let it happen again!"
Out in the kitchen, she sang as she worked, and the clatter of pots and
pans kept up a merry accompaniment. She had set the table the night
before, as usual, so it was not long before she had breakfast ready. Her
cheeks were flushed and her eyes were shining when she came in with the
oatmeal.
"This is for you, Aunt Matilda--it isn't cooked quite so much. This is
for you, Grandmother. It's nice and soft, for I soaked it over night.
I'll have the eggs ready in just a minute."
When she went out, the other two exchanged glances. "What," asked
Grandmother, "do you reckon has got into Rosemary?"
[Sidenote: What Has Happened?]
"I don't know," returned Aunt Matilda, gloomily. "Do you suppose it's
religion?"
"I ain't never seen religion affect anybody like that, have you?'
"No, I ain't," Aunt Matilda admitted, after a moment's pondering.
"She reminds me of her ma," said Grandmother, reminiscently, "the day
Frank brought her home."
VI
More Stately Mansions
[Sidenote: A New Point of View]
The new joy surged in every heart-beat as Rosemary went up the Hill of
the Muses, late in the afternoon. Instinctively, she sought the place of
fulfilment, yearning to be alone with the memory of yesterday.
Nothing was wrong in all the world; nothing ever could be wrong any
more. She accepted the brown alpaca and the brown gingham as she did the
sordid tasks of every day. That morning, for the first time, it had been
a pleasure to wash dishes and happiness to build a fire.
Grandmother and Aunt Matilda had been annoyances to her ever since she
could remember. Their continual nagging had fretted her, their constant
restraint had chafed her, their narrowness had cramped her. To-day she
saw them from a new point of view.
Grandmother was no longer a malicious spirit of evil who took delight in
thwarting her, but a poor, fretful old lady whose soul was bound in
shallows. And Aunt Matilda? Rosemary's eyes filled at the thought of
Aunt Matilda, unloved and unsought. Nobody wanted her, she belonged to
nobody, in all her lonely life she had had nothing. She sat and listened
to Grandmother, she did the annual sewing, and day by day resented more
keenly the emptiness of her life. It was the conscious lack that made
them both cross. Rosemary saw it now, with the clear vision that had
come to her during the past twenty-four hours.
[Sidenote: The Joy of Living]
She wanted to be very kind to Grandmother and Aunt Matilda. It was not a
philanthropic resolution, but a spontaneous desire to share her own
gladness, and to lead the others, if she might, from the chill darkness
in which they dwelt to the clear air of the heights.
Oh, but it was good to be alive! The little birds that hopped from bough
to bough chirped ecstatically, the nine silver-clad birches swayed and
nodded in the cool wind, and the peaceful river in the valley below
sparkled and dimpled at the caress of the sun. The thousand sounds and
fragrances of Spring thrilled her to eager answer; she, too, aspired and
yearned upward as the wakened grass-blades pierced the sod and the
violets of last year dreamed once more of bloom.
Yesterday she had emerged from darkness into light. She had been born
again as surely as the tiny dweller of the sea casts off his shell. The
outworn habitation of the past was forever left behind her, to be swept
back, by the tides of the new life, into some forgotten cave.
"Build thee more stately mansions, oh my soul,
As the swift seasons roll."
[Sidenote: The Same, Yet Different]
The words said themselves aloud. She had learned the whole poem long
ago, but, to-day, the beautiful lines assumed a fresh significance, for
had she not, by a single step, passed from the cell of self into
comradeship with the whole world? Was she not a part of everything and
had not everything become a part of her? What could go wrong when the
finite was once merged with the infinite, the individual with the
universal soul?
She sat down on the log that Alden had rolled back against the two
trees, three years ago, when they had first begun to come to the Hill of
the Muses for an occasional hour of friendly talk. Everything was the
same, and yet subtly different, as though seen from another aspect or in
another light. Over yonder, on the hillside farthest from the valley, he
had put his arm around her and refused to let her go.
She remembered vividly every word and every look and that first shy
kiss. Of course they belonged together! How foolish they had been not to
see it before! Was she not the only woman he knew, and was he not the
only man to whom she could say more than "How do you do?" God had meant
it so from the beginning, ever since He said: "Let there be light, and
there was light."
[Sidenote: An Unwonted Shyness]
Dreaming happily, Rosemary sat on the fallen tree, leaning against the
great oak that towered above her. The first pink leaves had come out
upon the brown branches, and through them she could see the blue sky,
deep as turquoise, without a single cloud. It seemed that she had always
been happy, but had never known it until this new light shone upon her,
flooding with divine radiance every darkened recess of her soul.
She went to the hollow tree, took out the wooden box, and unwound the
scarlet ribbon. Yesterday, little dreaming of the portent that for once
accompanied the signal, she had tied it in its accustomed place, and
gone back, calmly to wait. The school bell echoed through the valley as
she stood there, her eyes laughing, but her mouth very grave. She had
taken two or three steps toward the birches when an unwonted shyness
possessed her, and she hurried back.
"I can't," she said to herself. "Oh, I can't--to-day!"
So she restored it to its place, wondering, as she did so, why love
should make such mysterious changes in the common things of every day.
Won and awakened though she was, her womanhood imperatively demanded
now that she must be sought and never seek, that she must not even
beckon him to her, and that she must wait, according to her destiny, as
women have waited since the world began.
[Sidenote: Waiting]
Yet it was part of the beautiful magic of the day that presently he
should come to her, unsummoned save by her longing and his own desire.
"Where is the ribbon?" he inquired, reproachfully, when he came within
speaking distance.
"Where it belongs," she answered, with a flush.
"Didn't you want me to come?"
"Of course."
"Then why didn't you hang it up?"
"Just because I wanted you to come."
Alden laughed at her feminine inconsistency, as he took her face between
his hands and kissed her, half-shyly still. "Did you sleep last night?"
he asked.