The grey of twilight was paling the gold of the after-glow. A quiet
hush had fallen upon the earth—rather intensified than disturbed by the
lowing of far-away cattle. It was the quiet of raptured anticipation, as
if great hands held the earth up to the baptismal font of the heavens
to receive the chrism of night; and the earth, like a wise and reverent
child, waited with hushed heart-beats for the benediction.
Sidney Martin waited in the porch for Vashti to keep her tryst, and
presently he heard her footsteps. The echo of each step gathered in his
heart, dilating it with happiness as an already full glass is brimmed
above the brink by drop after drop. From his position, where he stood
spellbound, he commanded an angled vista of the stairs, and slowly
she descended within his range of vision; first the beautiful foot,
proportioned so perfectly to the body it bore, then the long exquisite
lines from heel to hip, and the yet more exquisite curve from hip to
shoulder, and the melting graduation of breast to throat, and then
the perfect face of her. She paused for a moment upon the last step,
as if loath to step out of her pure rarefied atmosphere of maidenhood
into the air vibrant with the sobs and sighs, the hopes and despairs,
the gains and losses of human life; and standing thus, for one fleeting
second there rose before Vashti a vision of renunciation. She saw
herself, lonely but clad in righteousness, going on her way; but the
next instant the austere dream vanished, brushed aside by a hateful,
sneering cynicism. With a heart full of self-mockery, more evil than her
evil intent, Vashti took the step to Sidney’s side, and stood there the
typification, as he thought, of gentle dignity and dignified womanhood.
“How good you are,” he said gently.
They took the way almost in silence. She wondered vaguely where he would
take her, to the far-away pastures, the little knolls nestling upon
the hills which he loved, or to the oak trees where they had talked in
the morning. When they reached the road she submitted her steps to his
guidance with outward meekness and inward indifference. He turned away
from Dole. It was to be the far-away pastures then—as well there as
anywhere. But he had passed the gate! And then it dawned upon her. He was
taking her to Mullein meadow!
Her indifference fell from her like a rent garment, bitter remembrance
tore at her heart. How dare he bring her here and bid her masquerade
amid these grey boulders where she had known such agony! She imagined
those implacable rocks rejoicing in her humiliation. Were not her own
curses yet hissing across the eerie barrenness of this wide waste field?
Ah, even so, Vashti—if our curses do not seek us out we ourselves return
to their realm; there is great affinity between a curse and the lips
which utter it. The flame of her resentment fluttered to her cheeks,
giving them an unwonted touch of rose. As they reached the entrance
to Mullein meadow, she half stumbled; she recovered herself quickly,
Sidney’s swift touch being hardly needed to restore her poise.
To Sidney, her silence, the strange, sweet colour in her cheeks, her
uncertain step, pointed but to one thing—the natural agitation of a girl
about to have a man’s love laid at her feet.
Surely never man was so exquisitely befooled as this one?
He took the path straight for the little spot where that happy betrothal
had taken place. Vashti hesitated—this was too much.
“I—,” she opened her lips to speak, but the words died away, unmerciful
resolution freezing them at their source.
“Come,” urged Sidney with tender insistence, and with an appearance
of sweet submission she yielded, and at length they stood where those
others had stood. The same grey sky bent above them, the same quiet hush
brooded over the desolate reaches, the same clear star hung scintillant
in the sky, and Sidney, taking her hands, which trembled by reason of the
terrible restraint she was putting upon her anger, began to speak—very
gently, but with an intensity which made his words instinct with life and
love.
“You know,” he said, “why I have asked you to come out to-night, but
you cannot know why I have brought you here to this spot? It is because
it is a place of happy auguries. Here, not knowing whither I strayed, I
came upon the betrothal of Lanty and Mabella. Here, heartsick with envy
of their happiness I turned away to face the desolate greyness of the
twilight. Here I saw a star, one lone star in the grey, which seemed
to promise hope, and in my heart I named it Vashti. See—there it is,
but more golden now, more full of beneficent promise, burdened, as it
seems to me, with gracious benediction. Oh, Vashti, when I left those
two in the solitude of their happiness you cannot dream how my heart
cried for you. All the way home nature’s voices whispered in my ear
‘Vashti—Vashti,’ and my heart responded ‘Vashti,’ and it seemed to me
that there was no other word in all the universe, for in it were bound
all meanings. It seemed to me there was no other idea worth comprehending
but the identity behind that word. Vashti, say that you love me—that you
will marry me. Here, where my heart knew its bitterest longing, satisfy
it with one syllable of your voice. Let me also build tabernacles here
as the holy place where happiness descended upon me”; he let fall her
hands. “Vashti, you know that I love you; give me your hands in symbol of
yourself as a free gift.”
He held out his hands. Slowly, gently, trustingly, as a woman who knows
well what she does, and will abide by it, Vashti Lansing laid her hands
in his. His vibrant, slender fingers closed upon them. There was an
instant’s pause——
“You love me!” he cried, as one, after a long novitiate, might hail
the goddess unveiled at last. Then drawing her to him he kissed her on
the mouth, and from that moment was hers—body—and yet more terrible
bondage—mind; and she, with an astute and evil wisdom, forbore to make
any conditions, any demands, till he had tasted the sweets of her
acquiescence.
Would any man give her up, having held her in his arms, having touched
her lips? With shameless candour she told herself, No. So she rested
her head upon his shoulder, whilst he whispered in her ear the divine
incoherences of love, and intoxicated with the charm of the woman in his
arms, touched the white throat by the ear, where a curl of dark hair
coiled like a soft, sweet shadow. A long, contented, yet questioning sigh
came to him—
“Tell me?” he said.
“You will let me live always in Dole?” she said.
“Always—always, dear one! In Dole or anywhere else you like.”
“Ah!” she said in a tone of dreamy happiness—“you will take old Mr.
Didymus’s place; we will live in the parsonage; what a happy life we will
have!”
“Vashti!” said Sidney, almost reeling before the shock of her words. As
a beautiful white mist rolls back to show some scene of sordid misery,
so the glamour of the last few weeks lifted, and displayed vividly to
Sidney all the awkwardness of the position which he had created for
himself. Ever since that day, when stung by Sally’s impertinent words he
had agonized alone upon the hillside, nothing whatever had transpired
to awaken its memory. A deference rather more pronounced than necessary
upon the part of the village-folk, a certain constraint upon the part of
the young men, had been the only visible signs that Dole remembered. But
upon the other hand nothing had occurred which gave him the opportunity
of explaining to Vashti, nor, indeed, had he ever been able to decide
how he could explain to her, even if given the opening. He had gone to
church with the Lansings Sunday after Sunday. Under the circumstances
any other course would have been an insult to the _régime_ of the house
in which he was staying. He had found nothing in the little church
which jarred upon his tastes or revolted his principles. The simple,
pious sermons of grey-haired Mr. Didymus were entirely inoffensive to
anyone not of _malice prepense_ irritable. The sad experiences of his
long life had mitigated his judgments. The man who in his fiery youth
scoffed at death-bed repentances now spoke feelingly of the thief on the
cross; the elect murmured among themselves that Mr. Didymus was “growing
old and slack.” Certainly his sermons were not learned, but neither
were they devoid of a certain eloquence, for the old man knew his Bible
by heart, and above all, they were free from the anecdotal inanity;
it would never have occurred to the old, plain-spoken man to stand in
his pulpit telling his people tales suitable for the comprehension
of three-year-old children. There was, perhaps, the merest trace of
asceticism in Sidney Martin’s nature, and the simple doctrine of these
people, their fatalistic creed, their bare little church, appealed to him
as no gorgeous ritual or ornate sanctuary could have done. The hoarse,
untuneful singing of these country folk, taking no shame of their poor
performance, so that it was in praise of God, stirred his spiritual
sympathies more profoundly than any cathedral organ—yet—he was a creature
of reason, and he had always considered the Catholic Church more logical
than any other, and above all, he had no belief whatever in the Christian
doctrine. Ruled by a pure and lofty ideal of Truth, his life had been
ideally good. His lofty aspirations did not lift him beyond sympathy
with his fellows, only above their vileness. He adored nature with an
almost heathenish idolatry, and had such reverence for her slightest
manifestation, that he never willingly broke a leaf or crushed an insect.
Literally, he worshipped the works, but not the Creator. And lo!—here was
the woman round whom his very soul twined, taking it for granted that he
believed all she did, and that his life could compass no higher happiness
than to preach this belief to others; and what excellent grounds he had
given her for thinking thus! All these things mirrored themselves in his
mind in an instant, then he said:
“But, Vashti, I have no need to do anything. There are many worthier men
than I to fill Mr. Didymus’s place. I am not a preacher, you know.”
“Oh, but you will be for my sake,” she said, and laid her head down again
upon his shoulder like a child who has found rest.
Truly there are more tempting devils than the urbane gentleman of the
cloven hoofs.
“What had you meant to do?” she asked.
“Indeed, I had mapped out no definite course,” he answered. “My mother’s
money makes life easy for me, you know, but I had meant to do something,
certainly. Only I was taking my time looking about. I didn’t want to do
anything which would cut some fellow who needed it out of a living.”
“Let me decide for you,” she murmured; the breath of the words was warm
on his ear. “Think how happy you could make us all. They all think so
much of you in Dole on account of your prayer. Mary Shinar says you are a
saint.” Then, her arms stealing about his neck, she added, “Sidney, for
my sake you said you would sacrifice anything. I didn’t think this would
be a sacrifice. I thought it would be a delight; but if it is a sacrifice
make it for my sake.”
Alas, he had fallen among the toils! He took swift illogical thought with
himself. He would preach to them a pure and exalted morality. He would
be the apostle of nature’s pure creed. He would make Dole a proverb in
all New England. He would teach, he would have a library, he would marry
Vashti.
Glamoured by his love and his sophistry, his judgment, his sense of right
and wrong, failed him. Sidney caught his Delilah to his heart.
“It shall be as you wish, my sweet,” he said; “and now tell me you love
me.”
“I love you,” she said, repressing the triumph in her voice. “I love you
and I am proud of you,” she said again, holding her head high. If she had
lost much in Mullein meadow she had also gained a triumph there.
The short American twilight was darkening to night. The weird old
boulders sentinelled round them might have been a druidical circle, and
she the priestess fulfilling the rites. Nor was the victim wanting; only
instead of slaying the body with a golden knife she had killed the soul
with silvery speech.
“Ah,” said Sidney as they turned to thread their way out of Mullein
meadow, “surely this place is holy.”
She paused, looking at him—“Do you not think that suffering sanctifies
more than joy?” she asked.
“No, not such joy as ours, as Lanty’s and Mabella’s.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“But I’m sure of it!” he answered; then with a lover’s fantastical
fondness he went on, “I would not be surprised if when we visited this
spot again we found it hedged in by lilies, tall white eucharist lilies,
set to keep others from straying into consecrated ground.”
“Sidney,” she said, “promise that you will never, never ask me to come
here again—it is too sacred.”
He was deeply touched by her delicate, sensitive thought.
“Dear heart,” he said, “never; yet do not the most reverent lips approach
the sacramental cup more than once?”
“You will make a capital preacher,” she said, “but you must not persuade
people to do things against their conscience.”
“You shall do as you like always.”
They were on the highway by this time; a waggon overtook them, and then
went on at a foot pace just in advance.
Vashti seemed to walk with intentional swiftness.
“Vashti,” he whispered, “don’t walk so fast. Let those people get out of
sight.”
“We must go on,” she said.
Sidney thought this touch of shyness adorable in her who was so
self-poised, yet he protested with zeal. Do men always try to destroy
what they admire?
Suddenly Vashti bethought herself that an extra rivet was never amiss
when one wanted bonds to hold, so with a sigh as of timorous yielding,
she gave him her lips again in the shadow of the porch, and left him with
a glory of happiness bedimming his mental vision.
The house was dim-lit and silent. After the labours of threshing-day
everyone was worn out. Lights glimmered in the bedrooms, but the living
rooms were dark.
Sidney paced up and down the little garden path for long, feeling “caught
up to heaven, yet strangely knit to earth.”
Vashti sought her room, and pulling up the blind looked out where Mullein
meadow lay.
“A holy place!” she said to herself. “I wish I could pile the fire to
burn all three of them. ‘A tabernacle,’ he said; I wish I might build me
an altar there and slay them on it! I don’t think even an angel would
stay my hand. ‘A sacrament’; I wish I had the filling of their cups,
wormwood should they drink and the waters of Marah down to the very
dregs—all three!”
Her nostrils dilated like a brute’s upon traces of the prey. In the
breast of such a woman love denied turns to gall. She paced up and down,
up and down—her rage lent expression in grotesque gestures and evil
words, words which with Vashti Lansing’s teaching and training she was
superbly brave to use. It grew very late; her eyes were almost wild.
She took the guttering candle in one hand and crept along the passage
to Mabella’s room. She opened the door and went in. Mabella lay asleep,
her candid face budding from the prim little frill like a flower from
its calyx. Vashti bent above her a haggard and violent face distorted by
passion. Her eyes blazed; her lips drawn tensely back showed the strong
white teeth. She leaned over the sleeper, her strong fingers closing and
unclosing; a long tress of her hair fell across her shoulder suddenly and
touched the dreamer’s cheek—Mabella stirred, raised her hand half way
to her cheek, murmured with a little happy smile—“Lanty—Lan—” her voice
died away; her soft regular breathing continued unbroken. At the sound
of that name uttered thus a dreadful purpose lighted Vashti’s eyes. The
fingers of her strong hand opened wide and advanced themselves toward the
white throat which pulsed upon the pillow; at that moment the guttering
candle fell over. Its burning wick and melted grease struck the hand
which held it. Vashti instinctively uttered a smothered cry and jerked
her hand; the light went out. Mabella stirred; Vashti sped to her room
and got the door closed just as Temperance came to her door and said:
“Did anyone call?”
There was no response.
“Are you all right, Mabella?” she said, going across the hall to
Mabella’s door.
“Yes,” said Mabella sleepily. “I think I knocked something over with my
elbow and the noise woke me up.”
“Are you all right, Vashti?”
“Yes, what is it?” answered Vashti.
“Nothin’—thought I heard a noise.”
For hours Vashti Lansing lay and trembled with the only fear she knew;
the fear of herself. How near she had been to terrible crime, only she
and Omnipotence could know. She reflected upon consequences and told
herself that never again would she give herself such an opportunity. At
last she sank to rest, to be tormented till dawn by a strange vision.
It seemed to her she stood again in Mullein meadow, within the circle
of boulders, and that slowly, slowly they closed in upon her; closer
and closer they came, narrowing about her with gradual but horrible
certainty, and at last they touched her and held her tight, shackling
her hand and foot so that she could not move a muscle, but they did not
kill her; and whilst she was thus held all Dole defiled before her; the
villagers pointed at her with scornful fingers and passed whispering on;
her mother, who had long been dead, passed with her father, but they did
not look at her, nor seem to know she was there, nor did old Mr. and Mrs.
Didymus who presently joined her father and mother. Then the scene grew
brighter and she saw Temperance and Nathan together; they shook their
heads, looking at her sadly but coldly; then a sweeter radiance flooded
the view upon which she looked, and Mabella and Lanty with their little
children about them drew nigh her, and they spoke kindly words to her,
and put a shade over her head to keep off the sun’s heat, and raised a
cup to her lips, and one of their children came and held up a child’s
haphazard bouquet to her nostrils that she might smell the flowers. She
tried to repulse these kindnesses; she tried to drive Mabella and Lanty
away with evil words, but the stones pressed too tightly upon her to
admit of speech, and while she writhed thus impotently, she looked far
away where one wandered alone; there were butterflies and birds about
him, and flowers springing about his feet, and he wore a look of calm
ineffable happiness, and, yet, it was not the same happiness as shone
upon the faces of Lanty and Mabella which lighted the eyes of this
visioned Sidney. But in her dream Vashti did not dwell long upon this,
her thoughts reverting to the paralyzing prison which encompassed her;
and she fought, and struggled, and strove, yet she could not move those
terrible stones, and casting her eyes down upon herself, it gradually
dawned upon her that she could not even struggle. The terrible wrenches
and efforts she had made were but imaginary, so tightly was she held that
she could not so much as twitch a finger. Thus the hours passed with her.
Mabella slept sweetly and healthfully, so rapt in love that even the
baleful influence bending over her so terribly in the night had had no
power to disturb her rest, although the gaze of even a friendly pair of
eyes so often murders sleep. Sidney slept also, and high above the pale
wastes of Mullein meadow, the star of promise still shone, unrecking
of the presumptuous human heart which had dared to dream its silvery
splendour a pennon of hope.