noble line. Uninterruptedly the blood of the Marshs had coursed through
generation after generation, carrying with it the high dower of courage,
of strength to do the allotted task hopefully and well. And
now--Madame's face saddened, remembering Edith.
Since her one attempt to cross the silence that lay like a two-edged
sword between them, Madame had said nothing to Alden. Nor had he even
mentioned Edith's name since she went away, though his face, to the
loving eyes of his mother, bore its own message.
Night after night, when they sat in the living-room after dinner, no
word would be spoken by either until bedtime, when Madame would say
"Good-night," and, in pity, slip away, leaving him to follow when he
chose. Sometimes he would answer, but, more frequently, he did not even
hear his mother leave the room. Yearning over him as only a mother may,
Madame would lie awake with her door ajar, listening for his step upon
the stairs.
While the night waxed and waned, Alden sat alone, his eyes fixed
unalterably upon Edith's empty chair, in which, by common consent,
neither of them sat. The soft outlines of her figure seemed yet to lie
upon the faded tapestry; the high, carved back seemed still to bear the
remembered splendour of her beautiful head.
[Sidenote: Balm for Alden]
After Madame had gone, Alden would sometimes light the candle that stood
upon the piano, mute now save for the fingers of Memory. Moving the
bench out a little and turning it slightly toward the end of the room,
he would go back to his own far corner, where he used to sit while Edith
played.
Conjuring her gracious image out of the dreamy shadows, he found balm
for his sore heart in the white gown that fell softly around her, the
small white foot that now and then pressed the pedal, the long, graceful
line that swept from her shoulder to her finger-tips, the faint hollow
where her gown, with the softness of a caress, melted into the ivory
whiteness of her neck, the thick, creamy skin, in some way suggesting
white rose-leaves, the scarlet, wistful mouth, the deep brown eyes
reflecting golden lights, and the crown of wonderful hair that shimmered
and shone and gleamed like burnished gold.
The subtle sweetness of her filled the room. She had left behind her not
only a memory but the enduring impress of personality. The house was
full of Ediths. There was one at the table, another at the piano, one
leaning against the mantel with hands clasped behind her, another in a
high-backed rocker, leaning back against a dull green cushion, and one
upon the stairway, ascending with light steps that died away with the
closing of a door, or descending with a quick rustle of silken skirts
that presently merged into perfume, then into her.
[Sidenote: Release from Pain]
Every gown she had worn, every word she had said, every laugh that had
wakened slumbering echoes with its low, vibrant contralto, came
remorselessly back. Full tides of longing beat pitilessly upon his
senses, never, it seemed, to ebb again. And yet, at times, when his
whole soul so cried out for her that he stretched his arms, in yearning,
toward the myriad phantom Ediths that peopled the room, mystical
assurance would come from somewhere that she, too, was keeping the night
watch.
Through the tense and throbbing darkness, love sped from one to the
other as though upon ghostly wings. Neither sight nor sound nor touch
betrayed its coming, yet the call and the answer were always divinely
sure. As though they two stood dumbly on either side of some mysterious
portal, denied all things save longing, heart-beat answered unto
heart-beat in the stillness of the night.
The experience invariably brought comfort and a certain release from
pain. Denial seemed to be but another phase of fulfilment, since it
opened the way for this exquisite belonging of one to the other. Beyond
and above all lure of woman, wholly aside from the ecstasy of sight and
touch, she was his as inseparably as perfume belongs to the rose that
breathes it forth.
[Sidenote: Toiling in the Vineyard]
While he worked in the vineyard it was consciously for her. For her sake
he aspired to make the best of himself; to make this hillside yield its
purple banners from the secret storehouses within. So he had struggled
with soil and season, with suns that scorched and winds that chilled,
with parching days that opened the earth in great crevices, and with
torrents that made the paths between the vines impassable for days.
From the wide windows that overlooked the valley, Madame watched the
vineyard with an anxious heart. She, too, had toiled as far as a woman
might, in the years that elapsed between the death of her husband and
the maturity of her son. Sometimes all the powers and purposes of Nature
had apparently been arrayed against her, and, again, as at the touch of
a magic wand, the earth had yielded up its fruit.
Yet she had never lost her courage. Knowing that the logical strength of
position lies nearly always with the pursuer, she would never own
herself beaten, though there was a time of terror when the crop failed
for three successive years.
Now the tapestry lay before her, well on its way to completion. She had
watched the great web spread upon the hillside, year by year, from snow
to snow again. Surrounding it on three sides, like the frame upon which
it was stretched, were the stalwart pines that protected it from the icy
winds. Below, like a silver ribbon, the river irregularly bounded it, a
shining line of demarcation between the valley and the opposite hills.
[Sidenote: The Coming of Spring]
When the snows were deep, there were only gentle undulations to mark the
covered vines. Even the pines bent low with it, as though hoary with
their weight of years. When the snows melted, tiny crystal rivulets ran
down the tapestry, into the silver ribbon that was stretched across the
foot, and upon a neutral background of earth the black, tangled threads
showed dimly.
In a night, almost, there would come a change. Where the threads had
lain hopelessly matted, appeared some semblance of order, as though the
Weaver had come. Then, as they became separate groups, a faint glow of
green dawned above them, not so much colour as the promise of colour,
not so much design as the planning of it.
Through and through the web, like the Weaver's shuttle, figures moved
from one tangle of threads to another, setting all straight as they
went. Swiftly then the colour came, green upon the black, with the
neutral earth filling the background, gradually to be covered save for
the long regular lines that stretched from East to West, from North to
South.
[Sidenote: The New Growth]
All the beauty of Spring and Summer went to the making of the tapestry:
the first robin's cheery call, the shimmer of blue wings speeding across
it, the golden glow from an oriole's breast, and the silver rain of
melody dripping from the throat of a meadow-lark as he swept through the
infinite spaces above.
Up into the threads came the thousand stored sweetnesses of the earth,
aspiring surely upward through devious, winding ways. The softness of
leaves that had gone back to dust, the wine from fallen grapes that had
dripped through the sand into the dark storehouse beneath, were only to
be taken up again, for sap or fibre or bloom.
Blown perfumes came from distant orchards, mysteriously to become a part
of the tapestry. Purple dawns and prismatic sunsets, crystalline noons
and starry midnights slowly but surely were woven in. The new leaves
shone afar, surrounding the vineyard with a faint, iridescent sheen
through which tiny wings moved ceaselessly with a far-off, sleepy sound.
Weary winds came to the vineyard, and, for the moment, lay at peace upon
the web, drinking the exquisite fragrance of leaf and blossom. Then,
rising slowly, as though still intoxicated with that more than mortal
sweetness, they bore it afar to the four corners of the earth. Some of
it sank into the valley, and the river turned in its sleep to dimple
with smiles, ripple with silvery laughter, and drop to sleep again. The
scent of it rose to the hills, like heavenly incense from earthly
altars, and the Little People in feathers and fur breathed deeply of it
and were glad.
[Sidenote: The Ripening of the Grapes]
Wild bees hummed through the web, and left it, heavy laden with the
sweet essence distilled from the dust by the subtle chemistry of sun and
rain. And the Weaver only smiled at the golden-winged army of
plunderers, for secretly they ministered unto the vineyard in ways of
love.
Then the Weaver paused to rest, for the pattern was made and there was
only the colour to be put in. The fragrance died, the blossoms fell, and
the miracle of the tapestry began. Where there had been scent, came
substance; where there had been promise, came fulfilment.
With a single mighty impulse the vines took deep hold of the treasure in
the storehouse beneath, spending it prodigally for sap to be poured into
these waiting goblets of emerald and pearl. All the hoarded strength of
leaf and tendril was caught up by the current, and swept blindly onward
to its fruitful destiny.
And so the first faint hints of purple came into the tapestry, to spread
and deepen and divide and spread again until, in certain lights, the
vineyard lay transfigured in an amethystine glow.
[Sidenote: The Gathering of the Fruit]
Shaded by the leaves that had begun to wither, held by tendrils that
were strained until they could hold no more, the purple chalices swung
lazily in the golden light, slowly filling with the garnered sweetness
that every moment brought. Night and day the alchemy went on--dust and
sun and dreaming, dust and moon and dreaming, while the Weaver waited,
dreaming too, until the web should be complete.
When the signal was given for the tapestry to be taken from the loom,
the Weaver crept away, for he could do no more. Figures thronged upon
the hillside, gaily coloured garments appeared here and there in the
web, and a medley of soft foreign voices rose where for long there had
been no sound.
From side to side of the web the workers moved, always bearing armfuls
of purple, to the frame of pines and beyond it. And so the tapestry
faded, day by day, and the vines died, and great bare spaces were left
upon the background where the neutral earth showed through.
Steadily among them moved one stately figure--a tall young man with big
brown eyes and a boyish mouth. From early morning until dusk his voice
could be heard, issuing directions, hurrying the laggards, and bidding
others to go back and work more slowly.
[Sidenote: After the Day's Work]
Creaking through the valley, on the tawny road that lay below the
tapestry, went, each night, waggons heavily laden with baskets packed
into crates. Far beyond the frame of pines was a small group of houses,
whither the workers went with their armfuls of purple, returning
presently to despoil the hillside further.
At dusk, when the day's work was over, the smoke of camp-fires rose
against the afterglow, and brooded over the vineyard in a faint haze
like its lost bloom. The scent of grapes mingled with the pungent odour
of burning pine, and broken chalices upon the ground were trod into
purple stains, as of blood. Tales of love and war went from camp-fire to
camp-fire, and fabulous stories were told of the yield of other
vineyards in the same valley.
Finally the last grapes were gathered, the last baskets packed and
crated, and along the road the laden waggons creaked for the last time.
Then the young man gave a great feast for the workers, lasting from noon
until midnight, with pitchers of cider, great loaves of freshly baked
bread and cake, roasted fowls, hot baked potatoes, and pink hams,
crusted with crumbs and cloves and sugar, that fell into flakes at the
touch of the knife.
[Sidenote: The Veil of Beauty]
The same waggons that had carried the grapes now took the workers to the
train. The young man who had paid them their wages accompanied them,
and, at the station, there was a great medley of farewells spoken in
five or six different tongues. When the last shriek of the engine had
died away and the roar of the train was lost in the distance, the young
man drew a long breath of relief and went home.
A deadly silence reigned upon the hillside where the torn web lay, its
bloom and beauty all gone. Ragged bits of green, mingled with dull brown
tracery of vine and tendril, lay back upon the background of earth, but
of purple there was no trace. In the hush of the night, the Weaver came
back, to muse sadly over what had been and, perhaps, to dream of what
yet might be.
There was chance of no more weaving, for the threads were broken and the
time was short, but the rack and ruin were pitiful to see. So, from
hidden places no man may guess, the Weaver summoned the Secret Spinners,
bidding them lay a veil upon the vineyard.
Swiftly there came forth a miracle of beauty. Fairy lace and impalpable
mysteries of chiffon were laid upon the hillside, spreading from vine to
vine. Sometimes a single slender thread, impearled with dewdrops,
bridged the distance from one tendril to another, again a bit of cobweb
was spread over a dead leaf, to catch a hint of iridescence from the
sun or moon; and now and then a shimmering length of ghostly fabric was
set in place at dusk, to hold the starry lights that came to shine upon
the broken tapestry with the peace of benediction.
[Sidenote: Content at Last]
Along the well-trodden ways Alden went, tired, but content, having come
at last to the knowledge of himself. Already he was planning to enlarge
the vineyard next year, and to try another variety of grapes upon the
new ground. He considered one plan to hurry the packing, another to
hasten the crop, and studied the problem of housing the workers from
their standpoint, not from his.
For the first time he was thinking of his work as something other than a
necessary evil. It had become, in a sense, a means of grace, for he had
discovered that the spirit in which one earns his daily bread means as
much to his soul as the bread itself may mean to his body.
* * * * *
The light from the low reading-lamp lay softly upon Madame's silvered
hair, as she bent over her bit of fancy work, silent, as usual, since
the spell of Edith's presence had come into the house. Alden was not
even pretending to read the paper--he sat staring into the shadows
before him at Edith's empty chair, but, as he looked, he smiled.
[Sidenote: The Goal Reached]
With a little lump in her throat Madame bent over her work again, having
looked up to thread her needle, and having seen his face. For a moment
she waited, hoping for a confidence, but there was none.
Alden took a letter from his pocket and tossed it into her lap. It
announced the sale of the crop at a larger price than ever before, and
requested the first chance upon the yield of the following year.
Madame folded it up and gave it back to him, then their eyes met.
Young and strong and hopeful, radiating the consciousness of good work
well done, her son smiled back at her. Her face illumined with joy.
"Master of the vineyard at last, my son?" she said.
He rose from his chair, bent over, and kissed her fondly. "Yes, Mother,
thanks to you--and Edith." Then he added, after a pause: "Master of
myself, too."
XXII
Each to his Own Work
[Sidenote: Alden Writes to Edith]
"HEART'S DEAREST:
It was two months ago to-day that you went away, and to me it has been
eternity. Every day and every hour I think of you, sometimes with such
intense longing that it seems as though the air before me must take
shape and yield you to my arms.
"I have been working hard, and--no, I will not say 'trying to forget,'
since memory, upon the dull background of my commonplace existence has
set one great blazing star. I would not, if I could choose, go back to
one hour that did not hold you, but rather would I pray for Time to
stand still for us at any one of his jewelled moments upon the dial,
when you and I were heart to heart.
"Mysteriously you have made everything right for me, denied all things
though we are. After ten years of struggle with the vineyard, with
several conspicuous failures and now and then a half-hearted success, I
have at last rejoiced Mother's heart--and my own as well--with the
largest crop within my memory or hers. The fruit, too, has been finer
than ever before.
[Sidenote: Drudgery]
"The school, also, which I have hated ever since I had it, begins to
appear before me in a new light. It is not only those dull and stupid
children who are to learn lessons in that one-roomed schoolhouse--it is
I. While they struggle with the alphabet and multiplication-table and
the spelling of words in four syllables, their teacher has before him
invaluable opportunities to acquire patience, self-control, and a sense
of justice, if not to inspire affection.
"Before, I went my way in sullen discontent. Because I could not do the
things I wanted to do, I disdained the humble tasks assigned me,
forgetting that in the great scheme of things each one of us has his
work. Some of us must scrub floors, others carry bricks or mortar, and
others must grow grapes and teach school.
"I had thought, in my blindness, that the great things were the easiest
to do, but now I see that drudgery is an inseparable part of everything
worth while, and the more worth while it is, the more drudgery is
involved.
"In years gone by I have given time to the vineyard, but nothing at all
of myself. I held myself aloof and apart while Duty, like a stern
taskmaster, urged me to the things I hated, merely to please Mother, who
had done so much for me that she had the right to demand this.
[Sidenote: No Longer Apart]
"This year I have put my heart into my work. When failure seemed
imminent, I have laboured with fresh courage. I have remembered, too,
that the tools with which I worked were human beings like myself, and
not so many mere machines.
"My love for you has been the magic key that has unlocked the doors
dividing me from my fellow-men. No longer isolated, no longer apart, I
am one of a brotherhood that claims fellowship with all humanity. One
blood flows uninterruptedly through us all, one heart beats in us all,
and, truly seen, we are not separate individuals, but only component
parts of the Greater Self.
"Once I was absorbed in myself. Now I yearn unspeakably toward all with
whom I come in contact. I see a thousand ways in which I may be kind. It
is not for me to preach the gospel of love and understanding, but to
live it, and, in living it, either to lead or to follow, as may be right
and best.
"Hitherto I have kept away from the workers in the vineyard as much as I
possibly could. Some of them have come for five years in succession, and
I neither remembered their faces nor knew their names. Now, not because
I felt that it was my duty, but because I really wanted to, I have tried
to come a little closer, to see into their lives as best I might.
[Sidenote: The Humble Toilers]
"I have seen before me such dramas of suffering and love as have made me
ashamed, more than once, of my own worthless life and my own vain
repinings. These humble toilers in my vineyard had come nearer the truth
of things than I had, and were happier. Night after night I have been
glad of the shelter of the darkness and have moved back out of the
circle of light made by the camp-fire, that none of them might see my
face.
"One woman, too weak and ill to work, would lie down among the vines to
rest, while her husband filled her basket from his own. They needed
money for a crippled child who could be made right by an expensive
operation. One night I saw a lantern moving back and forth among the
vines, and when I went out to investigate, the man was hard at work,
filling basket after basket, because he knew that it was not right to
draw two people's pay without doing two people's work.
"He had done this every night, and sometimes, too, the woman had spent
her limited strength labouring beside him. Both were nearly heartbroken,
having figured up that, at the rate the work was being done, they would
still be twenty dollars short of the desired sum. So I gave them this,
and they are to return it when they can. If it is not possible to
return it earlier, they are to come next year and work it out. I have
no fear that they will not come, but, even should they fail me, I would
rather lose the money and have my trust betrayed, than to miss a chance
of helping where I might.
[Sidenote: A Feast for the Workers]
"One man had been saving for years that he might send to Italy for his
wife and children. His earnings would give him a little more than the
amount he needed, and he was counting the days until he could put his
plan into execution. He could neither read nor write, so, one night, by
the camp-fire, I wrote his letter for him, in my best schoolmaster's
hand, for the first time finding my scanty knowledge of Italian of some
real use.
"We have always given them a feast when the work was over, and sent some
trifling presents to the wives and children who had remained behind.
This was for our own sake, however, and not in any sense for theirs. It
has been hard to get people to come, and we wanted to offer inducements.
"This time I sat at the head of the table myself. We had songs and
stories and much good cheer. Afterward, when I said good-night, they all
came to shake hands with me and say 'Thank you.' It was the first time.
"One man who lives in a crowded district in the city, has a wife who has
tuberculosis. The remainder of the family consists of a daughter of
fourteen and a boy of nine. He is to come back and bring them with him.
They are to have the best of the workers' houses, on the pine hill above
the vineyard. On a cot, in the clean cold air, the mother will get well
again if it is possible for her to get well. I have work enough around
the place for the man, the boy can go to school, and the Lady Mother
will train the daughter in the ways of housewifery. In the evenings I
shall teach her to read and write.
[Sidenote: Passing On]
"We have swept our attic clean of things we had stored away. We have
given not only what we do not need, but what we can do without. This
winter, when the North wind howls down the chimney, while I am sheltered
and warm, it will afford me satisfaction to know that my useless
garments are, at last, doing good service somewhere.
"Mother, too, has caught the spirit of it. I cannot tell you of the
countless things she has sent away--bedding, clothes, shoes, furniture,
food--everything. I do not know why the workers' shacks around the
vineyard should remain idle practically all the time--there must be
others in damp cellars in that crowded city who have become diseased,
and who could be healed by the pure cold air up among my ancestral
pines. I will see what can be done.
"These people who come to my vineyard are, as it were, the connecting
link between me and the outer world. I had thought there was nothing
for me to do here, and behold, there is so much to be done that I
scarcely know where to begin. And this work has been at my very door, as
it were, for ten years, and I have not seen it. Next year, I think I
shall have a night school for two hours each evening after work. Many of
them are pathetically eager to learn and have no opportunity to do so.
[Sidenote: A Strange Dream]
"The night the workers all went back to the city, I had a strange dream
which now seems significant. I thought I was in a great factory,
somewhere, that was given over to the weaving of cloth. It was well
equipped, there were innumerable orders waiting to be filled, and there
were plenty of people to work, but nothing was being done.
"The floor was covered with rubbish, the windows were thick with dust
and cobwebs; where there were artificial lights they were flickering
disagreeably because they were choked with dirt; the machinery creaked
abominably, and the air of the place was foul beyond description.
Meanwhile orders accumulated, but the people stood around and
complained. Some of them were gathered in groups, arguing; others sat on
dusty benches, singly or by twos, with discontented, unhappy faces. Some
were angry, and others only hopeless, staring straight ahead, with eyes
that did not see.
[Sidenote: No One Satisfied]