"Did I?"
"Yes, but you didn't say it and I was glad, for so many other men had
said it before."
"Perhaps it was because, past all your splendour, I saw you--the one
perfect and peerless woman God made for me and sent to me too late."
[Sidenote: Kisses]
"Not too late for the best of it, dear."
"What else do you remember?"
"Everything. I haven't forgotten a word nor a look nor a single kiss.
The strange sweet fires in your eyes, the clasp of your arms around me,
your lips on mine, the nights we've lain awake with love surging from
heart to heart and back again--it's all strung for me into a rosary of
memories that nothing can ever take away."
"That first kiss, beloved. Do you remember?"
"Yes. It was here." She stretched out her arm and with a rosy finger-tip
indicated the bare, sweet hollow of her elbow, just below the sleeve.
Lover-like, he kissed it again. "Do you love me?"
"Yes, Boy--for always."
"How much?"
"Better than everything else in the world. Do you love me?"
"Yes, with all my heart and soul and strength and will. There isn't a
fibre of me that doesn't love you."
"For always?"
"Yes, for always."
And so they chanted the lover's litany until even the afterglow had died
out of the sky. Edith released herself from his clinging arms. "We must
go," she sighed. "It's getting late."
[Sidenote: If]
He assisted her to her feet, and led her to the boat, moored in shallows
that made a murmurous singing all around it and upon the shore. He took
her hand to help her in, then paused.
"If love were all," he asked, "what would you do?"
"If love were all," she answered, "I'd put my arms around you, like
this, never to be unclasped again. I'd go with you to-night, to the end
of the world, and ask for nothing but that we might be together. I'd
face the heat of the desert uncomplainingly, the cold of perpetual
snows. I'd bear anything, suffer anything, do anything. I'd so merge my
life with yours that one heart-beat would serve us both, and when we
died, we'd go together--if love were all."
"God bless you, dear!" he murmured, with his lips against hers.
"And you. Come."
The boat swung out over the shallows into the middle of the stream,
where the current took them slowly and steadily toward home. For the
most part they drifted, though Alden took care to keep the boat well out
from shore, and now and then, with the stroke of an oar dipped up a
myriad of mirrored stars.
[Sidenote: Seeking for a Message]
Edith laughed. "Give me one, won't you, please?"
"You shall have them all."
"But I asked only for one."
"Then choose."
She leaned forward, in the scented shadow, serious now, with a quick and
characteristic change of mood. "The love star," she breathed. "Keep it
burning for me, will you, in spite of clouds and darkness--for always?"
"Yes, my queen--for always."
When they reached the house, Madame was nowhere in sight. Divining their
wish to be alone on this last evening together, she had long since gone
to her own room. The candles on the mantel had been lighted and the
reading lamp burned low. Near it was the little red book that Edith had
found at the top of the Hill of the Muses.
Sighing, she took it up. "How long ago it seems," she said, "and yet it
wasn't. Life began for me that night."
"And for me. I read to you, do you remember, just before I kissed you
for the first time?"
"Yes. Read to me again just before you kiss me for the last time, then
give me the book to keep."
"Which one? The same?"
"No," cried Edith. "Anything but that!"
"Then choose. Close your eyes, and choose."
"It's like seeking for a message, or a sign," she said, as she swiftly
turned the pages. Then, with her eyes still closed, she offered him the
book. "Here--read this. Is it a blank page?"
[Sidenote: Severed Selves]
There was a pause, then Edith opened her eyes. "It isn't the first one
you read to me, is it? Don't tell me that it is!"
"No," said Alden, "it isn't, but it's a message. Listen."
She sat down, in her old place, but he stood at the table, bending
toward the light. His boyish mouth trembled a little, his hands were
unsteady, and there was a world of love and pain in his eyes. With his
voice breaking upon the words, he read:
"Two separate divided silences,
Which, brought together, would find loving voice;
Two glances which together would rejoice
In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees;
Two hands apart, whose touch alone gives ease;
Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame,
Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same;
Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:--
Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecast
Indeed one hour again, when on this stream
Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam?--
An hour how slow to come, how quickly past,--
Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last,
Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream."
For a moment the silence was tense. Then the hall clock struck the hour
of midnight. It beat upon their senses like a funeral knell. Then
Edith, white-faced, and struggling valiantly for self-control, reached
out her hand for the book.
[Sidenote: Good-bye]
"Good-night, Boy," she said, "for the last time."
"Good-night," he answered, gathering her into his arms.
"And good-bye, Boy, forever!"
"Forever," he echoed, "good-bye!"
He kissed her again, not with passion, but with the love that has risen
above it. Then she released herself, and, holding the little red book
against her heart, ran quickly up-stairs.
He waited until the echo of her footsteps had died away, and her door
had closed softly. Then he put out the lights, and sat there for a long
time in the darkness, thinking, before he went to his room.
XX
"The Lady Traveller"
[Sidenote: Grandmother's Loss]
"They ain't on the bureau and they ain't on the washstand, and I
disremember takin' 'em out last night when I went to bed, so I must have
swallered 'em." Grandmother's speech was somewhat blurred but her
meaning was distinct.
"Well," returned Matilda, with aggravating calmness, "if you have
swallowed 'em, you have, so what of it?"
"Matilda Starr! I should think you'd have some human feelin's about you
somewheres. Here your mother's gone and swallered her false teeth and
you set there, not tryin' to do anything for her."
"What can I do? I can't stand on a chair and swing you by your feet,
same as Mis' Bates did when her little Henry choked on a marble, can I?
Besides, you couldn't have swallowed 'em. You'll find 'em somewheres."
"Maybe I couldn't have swallered 'em, but I have," Grandmother mumbled.
"What's more, I feel 'em workin' now inside me. They're chewing on the
linin' of my stomach, and it hurts."
[Sidenote: What's the Matter?]
"I didn't know there was any linin' in your stomach."
"There is. It said so in the paper."
"Did it say anything about hooks and eyes and whalebones? What kind of a
linin' is it--cambric, or drillin'?"
"I don't see how you can set there, Matilda, and make fun of your poor
old mother, when she's bein' eaten alive by her own teeth. I wouldn't
treat a dog like that, much less my own flesh and blood."
"I've never heard of dogs bein' et by their own teeth," commented
Matilda, missing the point.
Ostentatiously lame, Grandmother limped to the decrepit sofa and lay
down with a groan. Rosemary came in from the kitchen with the oatmeal,
and was about to go back for the coffee when another groan arrested her
attention.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"I'm dyin', Rosemary," Grandmother mumbled, hoarsely. "I've swallered my
teeth, and I am dyin' in agony."
"Nonsense! You couldn't have swallowed your teeth!"
"That's what I told her," said Miss Matilda, triumphantly.
"But I have," Grandmother retorted, feebly. "I can feel 'em--here." She
placed her hand upon her ill-defined waist line, and groaned again.
[Sidenote: Rosemary to the Rescue]
Rosemary ran up-stairs, inspired to unusual speed by the heartrending
sounds that came from below. When she returned, Grandmother seemed to be
in a final spasm, and even Matilda was frightened, though she would not
have admitted it.
"Here," said Rosemary. "Now come to breakfast."
Grandmother rolled her eyes helplessly toward Rosemary, then suddenly
sat up. "Where'd you get 'em?" she demanded, in a different tone.
"They were on the floor under the washstand. Please come before
everything gets cold."
"I told you you hadn't swallowed 'em," remarked Matilda, caustically.
"Maybe I didn't, but I might have," rejoined Grandmother. "Anyhow, I've
seen how you'd all act in case I had swallered 'em, and I know who to
leave my money to when I die." She beamed kindly upon Rosemary, in whom
the mention of money had produced mingled emotions of anger and
resentment.
"If you had swallowed 'em, Rosemary couldn't have got 'em," Matilda
objected.
"She'd have tried," said the old lady, sharply, "and that's more than
can be said of some folks. Not mentionin' any names."
[Sidenote: A Bit of Gossip]
Breakfast bade fair to be a lively sparring match when Rosemary
interposed, pacifically: "Never mind what might have been. Let's be glad
she didn't swallow them." As the others accepted this compromise, the
remainder of the meal proceeded in comparative peace.
"I heard from the milkman this morning," said Matilda, "that Marshs'
company has gone."
"Gone!" repeated Grandmother. "What for? I thought she had come to stay
a spell."
"Gone!" echoed Rosemary, in astonishment.
"Did she go sudden?" queried Grandmother.
"Well, in a way it was sudden, and in a way 'twasn't. She was more'n a
whole day puttin' her clothes into her trunks--the respectable trunk,
and the big trunk, and the dog-house, and the one what had bulges on all
sides but one."
"What train did she go on?"
"The eight o'clock accommodation, yesterday morning. Young Marsh went
down to see her off, and the station agent told the milkman that he
stood lookin' after the train until you couldn't even see the smoke from
the engine. The agent was restin' after havin' helped hist the trunks on
the train, and young Marsh up and handed him out a dollar, without even
sayin' what it was for. He reckoned it was pay for stoppin' the train
and helpin' to put on the trunks, but the railroad pays him for doin'
that, so the milkman thinks it was kind of a thank-offerin', on account
of her havin' stayed so long that they was glad to get rid of her."
[Sidenote: A Tip]
"'Twasn't no thank-offerin'," replied Grandmother, shaking her head
sagely. "That's what they call a tip."
"The agent was some upset by it," Matilda agreed. "He's been keepin'
station here for more'n ten years now and nobody ever did the likes of
that before."
"I didn't say it was an upsetment--I said it was a tip."
"What's the difference?"
"A tip is money that you give somebody who thinks he's done something
for you, whether you think he has or not."
"I don't understand," Matilda muttered.
"I didn't either, at first," Grandmother admitted, "but I was readin' a
piece in the paper about women travellin' alone and it said that 'in
order to insure comfort, a tip should be given for every slight
service.' Them's the very words."
"It means bowin', then," returned Matilda. "Bowin' and sayin', 'Thank
you.'"
"It's no such thing. Wait till I get the paper."
After a prolonged search through the hoarded treasures of the past
three or four months, Grandmother came back to her chair by the window,
adjusted her spectacles, and began to read "The Lady Traveller by Land."
[Sidenote: A Lady's Baggage]
"'When it becomes necessary, for the sake of either business or
pleasure, for a lady to start out upon a trip alone, no matter how
short, she should make all her preparations well in advance, so that she
need not be hurried just before starting, and may embark upon her
journey with that peaceful and contented mind which is so essential to
the true enjoyment of travelling.
"'She will, of course, travel with the smallest amount of baggage
compatible with comfort, but a few small articles that should not be
overlooked will more than repay the slight trouble caused by their
transportation. Among these may be mentioned the medicine chest, in
which are a few standard household remedies for illness or accident, a
bottle of smelling-salts, another of cologne, and a roll of old linen
for bandages. While accident is not at all likely, it is just as well to
be prepared for all emergencies.
"'The lady traveller will naturally carry her own soap and towels, and
also a silk or cotton bag for her hat. She----'"
"A what for her hat?" asked Matilda, with unmistakable interest.
"'A silk or cotton bag for her hat,'" Grandmother repeated. "'To keep
the dust out.'"
[Sidenote: The Hat-Bag]
"What's the good of wearin' a hat if she's got to set with a bag over
it?"
"It doesn't say she's to wear the bag."
"Well, she's wearin' the hat, ain't she? How's she to put the bag over
the hat while she's wearin' the hat without wearin' the bag too? That's
what I'd like to know."
"Maybe it's to put her hat into when she takes it off for the night,"
Grandmother suggested, hopefully, though she was not at all sure. "A
person ain't likely to get much sleep in a hat."
"No, nor in a bag neither."
"'She should also carry her luncheon, as the meals supplied to
travellers are either poor or expensive, or both. With a small spirit
lamp she can very easily make coffee or tea for herself, or heat a
cupful of milk should she be restless in the night. Care should be
taken, however, not to set fire to the curtains surrounding the berth in
this latter emergency.'
"'The curtains surrounding the berth,'" Grandmother repeated, in a
wavering voice. "It's printed wrong. They've got it b-e-r-t-h."
"Seems to me," murmured Matilda, "that a woman who----"
"Matilda!" interrupted Grandmother, imperiously. For a moment the
silence was awkward. "Unmarried women ain't got any call to be thinkin'
about such things, let alone speakin' of 'em. This piece is written to
cover all possible emergencies of the lady traveller, but it ain't for
such as you to be askin' questions about what don't concern you."
[Sidenote: In the Morning]
"Go ahead," said Matilda, submissively.
"Where was I? Oh, yes. 'The ladies' dressing-room will always be found
at one of the two ends of the car. Care should be taken early in the
journey to ascertain which end. If there are many ladies in the car, one
should rise early, to take advantage of the unoccupied room for a
cooling and refreshing sponge bath. It will be necessary to carry a
sponge for this, and a small bag of rubber or oiled silk should be made
for it to prevent moistening the contents of the suit-case after
using.'"
"Supposin' they all subscribed for this paper," Matilda objected, "and
all should rise early for the cooling and refreshing sponge bath?"
"'Tain't likely," Grandmother answered. "'After the bath one should take
plenty of time to dress, as nothing is less conducive to comfort in
travelling than the feeling that one has been too hastily attired. By
this time, the porter will have the berth in order, if he has been
tipped the night before.'"
Matilda murmured inarticulately, but was too wise to speak.
[Sidenote: The Porter]
"'The usual tip,'" Grandmother continued, hastily, with her cheeks
burning, "'is twenty-five cents for each person every twenty-four hours.
In order to insure comfort, a tip should be given for every slight
service, but nothing smaller than five cents should ever be given at any
one time.
"'It has been said that a porter is a dark gentleman who has been
employed to keep air out of the car, but the lady traveller will find it
easy to induce him to open a ventilator or two if he has been properly
tipped. Fresh air is very essential for the true enjoyment of
travelling.
"'He can throw many little comforts in one's way--a pillow during the
daytime or an extra blanket at night, or----'"
"I don't know," Matilda interrupted, "as I'd care to have comforts or
pillows or blankets thrown at me, night or day, especially by a man, no
matter what colour he is."
"'Mindful always of the possibility of accident,'" Grandmother resumed,
"'it is well to keep one's self as presentable as possible, especially
during the night, when according to statistics the majority of wrecks
occur. Consequently the experienced lady traveller will not undress
entirely, but merely removing a few of her outer garments, and keeping
her shoes within easy reach, she will don a comfortable dressing-gown,
and compose herself for sleep. Some people prefer to have the berth
made up feet first, but it is always better to have the head toward the
engine, as experience has proved that the slight motion of the train
assists the circulation, which should run toward the feet if sleep is to
be enjoyed during the night.
[Sidenote: Where to Eat]
"'If, owing to circumstances, it is impossible to carry a luncheon and
one must either leave the train for one's meals or go into the
dining-car, there are a few very simple rules to remember. In case the
meal is to be taken at a wayside station, and, as often happens, there
is more than one eating-house which offers refreshment, the lady
traveller should wait quietly by her own car until she sees into which
place the train officials go. Remember that they have been over the road
before and know where the most comfortable and reasonable meal is to be
had.
"'Upon the other hand, if one goes into the dining-car, the same rules
apply as at any well-regulated hotel. From the list of dishes which will
be offered her upon a printed card, the lady traveller may select such
as seem attractive, and, in case of doubt, she may with perfect
propriety ask the waiter to make a selection for her, as he has been
placed there by the company for that purpose.
"'Having eaten to her satisfaction, she will carefully compare the check
which is brought her with the list of prices given upon the printed
card, add them up mentally without seeming to do so, and if all is
right, pay the bill, giving to the waiter ten per cent of the total
amount for a tip. That is, if the check calls for one dollar, the waiter
will receive a dollar and ten cents.'"
[Sidenote: Ten Per Cent]
"What for?" queried Matilda.
"That's his tip," explained the old lady. "That's what I've been tellin'
you all along."
"Does it cost ten dollars to go to the city?"
"Not as I know of. The fare used to be four dollars and somethin'. Why?"
"Then why did young Marsh give the station agent a dollar? That's what I
want to know."
"You can't find out from me," Grandmother answered, with all evidence of
having told the literal truth. "Shall I go on with this piece I'm tryin'
to read, or don't you want your mind improved none?"
"I'm willing to have my mind improved, but I'd like the privilege of
askin' a question occasionally while it's being done."
"Last week's paper said there was no way of improvin' the mind that was
to be compared with readin'. Shall I go on?"
"Yes--go on."
"'If the check calls for a dollar and a half, the waiter will receive an
extra fifteen cents for his tip, and so on. In case of any disagreement,
always refer to the train officials, who are usually courteous and
well-mannered. Should they not be so, however, a threat to write to the
President of the railroad will usually be found all sufficient to
produce a change of demeanour.
[Sidenote: Avoid Making Acquaintances]
"'The lady traveller should bear in mind the fact that it is impossible
to confine the pleasures and privileges of travel to entirely reputable
persons, and should hence keep upon the safe side by making no chance
acquaintances, whatever the provocation may be.
"'By wearing dark clothes, preferably her old ones, an unassuming hat,
and no jewelry, the lady traveller may render herself inconspicuous and
not likely to attract masculine attention. In case of accident it is
allowable to accept assistance from anyone, though the train officials
are at all times to be preferred. If one desires to know what time it
is, how late the train is, how long the train will stop at the next meal
station, or when one is due at one's destination, the train officials
are the ones to ask.
"'Upon a long and tedious journey, however, or in case of many prolonged
delays, it is quite permissible to exchange a few words upon the weather
or some other topic of mutual interest with a fellow-passenger of the
same sex, whether she be travelling alone, or accompanied by her
husband.
"'Pleasant acquaintances are sometimes formed in this way, and it may
be entirely safe and proper, under certain circumstances, to accept
small courtesies from a gentleman who is travelling with his wife, such
as the brief loan of a newspaper or magazine, or information regarding
the scenery through which the train is passing when none of the train
officials are at hand.
[Sidenote: At the End of the Journey]
"'It is best, however, to be very careful, for it is much easier not to
begin friendly relations with one's fellow passengers than it is to
discontinue such relations after they have been once begun.
"'It is seldom necessary, or even advisable, to give one's name to
anyone except the officials of the train, but there can be no objection
to showing a fellow-passenger of the same sex one's name upon one's
ticket if polite relations have been established. This is better than
speaking the name aloud, which might cause embarrassment if it were
overheard, and carries with it no such social obligation as the exchange
of cards would do.
"'Arriving at her destination, the lady traveller should proceed at once
to her hotel or lodging-house, if no friend is to meet her, regardless
of the plans of her fellow passengers. If one should chance to meet any
of them afterward, a courteous inclination of the head, accompanied by a
bright smile, is sufficient recognition, or, if for any reason one
prefers not to recognise those with whom one has travelled, all that is
necessary is to appear not to see them.
[Sidenote: Appeal to the Conductor]
"'In case a gentleman should attempt to converse with the lady traveller
while the train is in motion or at rest, this same conduct meets the
exigencies of the situation admirably: simply do not appear to see him.
If, however, he continues to converse, turn to him, and say in a low,
well-controlled voice: "Sir, if you persist further in forcing your
unwelcome attentions upon me, I shall summon the conductor at once."
"'In most cases, the objectionable party will at once leave and the
interference of the conductor will not be required.
"'The next article in this series will deal with "The Lady Traveller by
Water," where conditions are entirely different and require a different
line of conduct.'"
"There," said Grandmother, clearing her throat and folding up the paper.
"I hope you understand now what a tip is."
"It seems to be one tenth of all you've got," observed Matilda, staring
out of the window, "like those religious sects that believes in givin' a
tenth of everything to the church."
"Travellin' must be terribly exciting," remarked Grandmother, pensively.
"So 'tis," Matilda agreed after a pause. "I reckon it's better to stay
at home."
XXI
The Weaving of the Tapestry
[Sidenote: A Bunch of Grapes]
Alden threw himself into his work with feverish energy, instinctively
relieving his mind by wearying his body. All day he toiled in the
vineyard, returning at night white-faced and exhausted, but content.
One morning when Madame came down to breakfast, she found at her plate a
single bunch of grapes, wet with dew and still cool with the chill of
the night. She took it up with an exclamation of pleasure, for never,
within her memory, had such grapes as these come even from the Marsh
vineyards.
She held the heavy cluster to the sunlight, noting the perfect shape of
the fruit, the purple goblets filled with sweetness, and the fairy-like
bloom, more delicate even than the dust on the butterfly's wing. Pride
and thankfulness filled her heart, for, to her, it was not only their
one source of income but a trust imposed upon them by those who had laid
out the vineyard, and, more than all else, the standard by which her son
was to succeed or fail.
[Sidenote: Night after Night]