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.
[Sidenote: 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 gave out, the old lady always produced a twenty-dollar
gold piece from the magic bag.
[Sidenote: 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.
[Sidenote: 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 wish to 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.
[Sidenote: 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.
[Sidenote: 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.
[Sidenote: 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 the
_Clytie_, 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."
[Sidenote: 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!"
XVI
One Little Hour
[Sidenote: 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, shall illumine at the sight of him,
and one voice, thrilling with tenderness, shall stir him to eager
answer.
[Sidenote: 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 most exquisite 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.
[Sidenote: 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 white
shoes 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.
[Sidenote: 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. In the 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.
[Sidenote: 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 a hidden 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.
[Sidenote: 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 some divinely appointed guardian of the Soul of
Things.
[Sidenote: 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, she stepped back into the thicket until it should pass.
[Sidenote: 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.
[Sidenote: 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.
[Sidenote: 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."
[Sidenote: 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.
[Sidenote: 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.