_EDEN IN THE ATTIC_
I sometimes wonder what the other guests thought of our behaviour at
breakfast the next morning. Uncle was simply ridiculously happy, even
boisterously so. And he wouldn't hear to any dissent from the project
that possessed his mind. We must all go South with him, and that was
the end of it. He and Aunt Agnes had never had a difference in all
their married life, he said, but the trouble would begin right there if
he went back without us! And he settled the whole thing an hour later
by suddenly appearing, after a very mysterious absence, and flaunting
in our faces the tickets for the entire party. They were taken via the
Old Dominion Line; and the little sea voyage would be the very thing
for all of us,--and Harold had assured him that a release from his
company could be easily arranged. So Gordon left it to me again--and I
left it to Harold, and Harold elected to see his mother's old Virginia
home. Dorothy lent loud approval.
Thirty-six hours later we were in the dear old Southern town, driving
from the old familiar station along the old familiar street. My heart
was full; its burden was partly sadness, altogether song.
"Stop here," Gordon suddenly said to the driver as we turned on to a
street neither of us was likely to forget. "Come, Helen," as he held
out his hand to help me from my seat.
I knew. It was under that very elm, just opposite the church, I had
first come face to face with love--even if I did have a pitcher in my
hand, _going for the cream_.
"Drive on," said Gordon; "we'll join you later," and the carriage
rolled away.
We followed, slowly; sometimes looking up into the deep shade of the
bending elms, sometimes into each other's faces; with much of speech we
walked--of silence, sweeter silence, more.
Soon a turn in the road brought us in full view of uncle's house.
There it stood, ivy-clad, the same stately, frowning structure, looking
forth at us as calmly as though we had gone away but yesterday. There
was the magnolia tree beside the steps of stone, not now in bloom but
still spreading forth in umbrageous beauty. And there, just beyond,
flowing still, its copious stream unfailing, rolled the shining river;
rolling on, as time rolls on, unhasting, unresting, bearing all its
burdens in silence to the sea. The years had passed and fled, yet the
selfsame wavelets could be seen--oh, parable of Time! And the bridge
was there; repaired and strengthened some, yet the same bridge it was
on which I had seen the love-lorn pair seek the shelter of the dark.
And I felt a shudder thrill my frame as I descried the very pier that
had been the scene of the tragedy but for which Gordon had never made
his noble protest; but for which, our long years of exile had never
been. I looked away.
Aunt Agnes was at the door as we climbed the steps of stone. She led
me in and closed it tight before she told me, with love's speech of
silentness, all the joy of welcome that was in her heart. She was
thinking, and I was thinking, of the absent one--oh! why these
ever-absent ones?--whose face was now withdrawn forever. I roamed the
hall; I wandered about the broad porch; I drank my fill of the library,
dearest of them all--my mother's face met me at every turn. And I
wondered, with passionate hope that it might be so, if she knew that
her child had returned to the scene of girlhood days once more; if she
knew how laden with the spoils of time I came, rich in the harvest that
love and sorrow give, anointed by the holy hand of suffering, by life's
fleeting vanities beguiled no more.
"Show Harold through the house, Helen," uncle said to me when supper
was over and the first tumult had subsided; "let him see the old place
from cellar to attic. It will be his some day, I reckon," and his tone
and glance left no doubt as to what he meant.
I did as he directed, partly. All but the attic. Not yet must any
enter there but me. I soon restored Harold to the merry circle--and
then my steps turned, almost reverently, towards that upper room. It
did not take me long, what I had to do, for love's task is soon
accomplished. And I knew it would not be in vain--I knew that Gordon
would not fail me. Yet my heart beat fast as I turned at the attic
door and looked back once more before I went down-stairs. Everything
was perfect--and the gentle breeze was ruffling the curtain of the tiny
window.
They were all in bed when Gordon and I betook ourselves to the room set
apart for us. It was just above the parlour, the largest and most
imposing apartment in all that roomy house. A large mahogany bed was
planted, immovable, in the centre; hand-carving, richly wrought, made
the ceiling and mantel things of beauty; oil-paintings hung upon the
lofty wall; soft draperies bedecked the windows.
We closed the door and Gordon looked about the splendid room. I began
unpacking a valise that lay upon the floor.
Suddenly he came over and stood beside me. One hand touched my
shoulder and I looked up.
"We're not going to sleep here," he said quietly.
"Why?" I asked. "Where?" although I knew, and my bounding heart
bespoke my joy.
"You know--come," with which he took up the valise and led the way
aloft.
The roof was low and I think Gordon really bowed his head a little as
we passed within that attic door. The same discarded articles, finding
their limbo here, stood about the walls. But the fire was crackling on
the hearth; the coverings on the bed were snowy white; the silver
toilet-set on the old bureau was the same I had laid there so
stealthily years before. And on the little table in the corner was a
bowl of the choicest roses, their fragrance floating through the room.
I looked at Gordon. Perhaps I was just a little disappointed that he
did not speak. His eyes rested on the fire, turned to the roses,
lingering long.
"That's the same fire," he said slowly.
"Oh, Gordon," and I laughed; "how can you say that?"
"The very same," he persisted; "it never has gone out. And the roses
too; they're the very same--they've never faded."
"I thought you'd want to come here," I said, stupidly enough; but I
knew not what else to say. "You know, you said--long ago, when you
first came here--you said you always loved an attic."
"Yes," he said simply, his eyes fixed on me; "yes, I do."
"Why?" I asked, though I knew it was such a foolish question.
He stood a long time silent in the firelight, his eyes never moving
from my face. "Because it's nearest heaven," he answered low; "come,
Helen"--and his arms were open wide.