II

"I might stay a week." Anna Darcy spoke to herself, standing at the

window of the room where Marget had left her. She looked down upon

flowers and out to the southern wall that closed in the valley. The

mountains had the tints of desert sands at sunset. They had long wave

forms; they were not peaked, nor very high. They were so old, she

knew--Appalachians--older than Apennine or Himalaya. They were wearing

down here, disintegrating. The weather would be lowering them year by

year. They were removing and building elsewhere. They had granaries full

of memories, and they must have somewhere, springing like the winter

wheat, as many as the blades of wheat, anticipations. Down in the garden

she saw marigolds and zinnias, late blooming pansies, mignonette,

snapdragon and aster and heliotrope, larkspur, mourning bride, and

citronalis. A rosy light bathed garden and fields. This was the back of

the house. She saw two or three cabins and a barn, stacked hay, and a

rail fence worn and lichened, fostering a growth of trumpet vine and

traveler's joy. She heard cow bells. A boy with a good-natured ebony

face crossed the path below, carrying two milk pails. Chickens, turkeys,

and guineas walked about in the barnyard. From the kitchen, fifty feet

from the house, floated a smell of coffee and of bread in the oven. All

the place was clean, friendly.

She turned to the large, four-windowed room. The walls had a paper of

lavender-gray, on which hung three prints. The bed was a four-poster,

with a linen, ball-fringed valance. Books stood ranged above an ancient

desk; a blue jug held asters. There was a large closet and--modern

blessing--a bathroom, white tubbed, pleasant and light. It had been, she

saw, an old dressing room between the two chambers upon this side of the

hall, with a door for each. Both doors being ajar, she saw Marget's

room, large like this one, furnished not unlike this one. But that,

something told her, was really the spare room, and this that she was to

dwell in was Marget's room. It had the feel of Marget. "It is the

pleasantest, and so she has given it to me."

She bathed and changed her dress. All the time old, happy rhythms ran in

her head. Dressed, she sat down by one of the western windows, in the

yet warm light. She rested her head against the back of the chair, her

eyes closed. She was no longer a young woman, and she had had a tiring

year, and it was grateful to her to rest thus. Rest! It was the word,

it was the feeling, that was dwelling in this place. Rest, rest, deep

rest without idleness.

The air was so rare and fine--mountain air. She remembered that they

said that the valley itself lay high. Mountain air. But even while she

thought that she had a sudden sense of sea air, fine and strong and

drenched with sun.

There would be five or six rooms on this floor. All were large, and the

hall between was large. The stairway was very good, the woodwork

everywhere good. The ceilings were high. They used lamps and candles.

The day had been warm. Fire was not needed. But wood was laid in the

fireplace and the wood box beside it held chestnut and pine.

This window gave upon the west. Here were grass and the red and gold

trees, and the pebbly beach and the sickle of the water, and the

lion-colored fields and the wood through which they had driven, and the

amethyst mountains. The sun had set, but the sky stayed aglow. The

fatigue went out of the old teacher's face. "'Cast thy bread upon the

waters, and after many days it shall return to thee!'" She did not

consciously repeat this, but the saying overhung her.

She had slightly opened the door giving upon the hall, so that Marget,

returning, might know that she was ready. Stair and hall floor were bare

wood. A step sounded upon the one and then upon the other. She was

sensitive to the way folk trod. "That is Mr. Linden."

He passed her door and she heard him enter his room across the hall.

Marget presently came for her. "Let us go into the garden until the bell

rings." The garden lay spread in breadths of violet brocade. They walked

on brick paths and smelled box and mignonette. Then Zinia rang the

supper bell.

The two entered the lower hall yet drenched with the afterglow. A man,

tall and big framed, turned at their step. "Miss Darcy, this is Mr.

Linden." He put out his hand; the visitor laid hers in it. It was a

strong hand, likable. His voice, when he spoke, was the voice for the

hand. "I am glad to see you, Miss Darcy! Marget and I are glad."

There was light enough to show a strong-featured, clean-shaven face. The

eyes were blue-gray. They were not disfigured. She also came to think

his face a beautiful one.

They went into the dining room, where two lamps were lighted. The

mahogany table had a blue bowl of larkspur. Zinia, in a blue cotton

dress and white apron, waited. There were coffee, delicate rolls, a

perfection of butter and of cream, a salad, coddled apples, and sugar

cakes. Marget sat behind the coffee urn and cups and saucers. Richard

Linden did not take the foot of the table, but sat beside her, at the

right. She aided him quietly, perfectly, nor did he need as much aid as

might be thought. He was so skillful; eyes must be in fingers. Zinia,

too, marked his needs, forestalled things. She called him Mr. Dick. She

had for him a low, rich, confidential whisper. "The salt, Mr. Dick."

"Cottage cheese, Mr. Dick." Marget called him Richard.

The three talked of the ring of this valley and of the ring without and

around it, of Miss Darcy's doings and of Sweet Rocket's, and of

everybody's. It seemed that papers, magazines, the news, must come here.

Earth was the earth of the beginning of the third decade of the

twentieth century. There was news enough.

Supper over, they went into the parlor that was opposite the dining

room, and was no more parlor than library. It stretched around, a big

room with old pictures, old furniture, with books. A fire flamed and

sang. They sat in the firelight, Richard Linden on one side of the

hearth and Marget on the other, and Miss Darcy beside the latter. Still

there was talk. The visitor would have gathered where they stood on

questions of the day, then suddenly saw that they stood all round and

through, and that the day to them was so old and young that it included

yesterday and to-morrow. That being so, their solutions were not always

those currently offered.

She also found that though they talked they were not talkative. With

them conversation became a rhythmic thing--tranquil pause, deep

retirement, then again the word. And it startled her almost, how

completely they were one.

When they had sat by the fire an hour Marget, rising, put violin music

upon a victrola. Hafitz played to them a Hebrew melody; Kreisler played,

and Maud Powell. The flames danced, the world heightened. Then, one

after the other, came three songs, and between each, as between the

violin pieces, they watched the fire, and the forest and the night wind

were felt around.

"Oh, that we two were maying!"

The song ended, the fire burned, they heard the river, the forest was

all around. A man's voice was lifted.

"Oh, that I knew where I might find Him, that I might come into

His Presence!"

Again the wide and deep pause, and then the third song.

"And the world shall go up with a shout unto God."

Marget shut the victrola. Again they sat in that quiet. It was systole

and diastole, it was in and out, and inexpressibly it rested! And that

was what she wanted, rest.

Marget lighted a lamp that stood upon the table. Linden said, "Hadn't

you rather not read, to-night?"

"No. We won't read long."