LIGHT.
I love the morning light,--the freshness, the pearls and diamonds, the
fairy linen spread on the grass to bleach (there be those who call it
spider-web, but to such I speak not), the silver fog curling up from
river and valley. I love it so much that I am loath to confess that
sometimes the evening light is even more beautiful. Yet is there a
softness that comes with the close of day, a glorification of common
things, a drawing of purple shadows over all that is rough or
unsightly, which makes the early evening perhaps the most perfect time
of all the perfect hours.
It was such an hour that now brooded over the little village, when the
people came out from their houses to watch for Melody's coming. It is
a pretty little village at all times, very small and straggling, but
lovely with flowers and vines and dear, homely old houses, which have
not found out that they are again in the fashion out of which they
were driven many years ago, but still hold themselves humbly, with a
respect for the brick and stucco of which they have heard from time to
time. It is always pretty, I say, but this evening it had received
some fresh baptism of beauty, as if the Day knew what was coming, and
had pranked herself in her very best for the festival. The sunbeams
slanted down the straggling, grass-grown road, and straightway it
became an avenue of wonder, with gold-dust under foot, flecked here
and there with emerald. The elms met over head in triumphal arches;
the creepers on the low houses hung out wonderful scarfs and banners
of welcome, which swung gold and purple in the joyous light. And as
the people came out of their houses, now that the time was drawing
near, lo! the light was on their faces too; and the plain New England
men and women, in their prints and jeans, shone like the figures in a
Venetian picture, and were all a-glitter with gold and precious stones
for once in their lives, though they knew it not.
But not all of this light came from the setting sun; on every face was
the glow of a great joy, and every voice was soft with happiness, and
the laughter was all a-tremble with the tears that were so near it.
They were talking about the child who was coming back to them, whom
they had mourned as lost. They were telling of her gracious words and
ways, so different from anything else they had known,--her smiles, and
the way she held her head when she sang; and the way she found things
out, without ever any one telling her. Wonderful, was it not? Why, one
dared not have ugly thoughts in her presence; or if they came, one
tried to hide them away, deep down, so that Melody should not see them
with her blind eyes. Do you remember how Joel Pottle took too much one
day (nobody knows to this day where he got it, and his folks all
temperance people), and how he stood out in the road and swore at the
folks coming out of meeting, and how Melody came along and took him by
the hand, and led him away down by the brook, and never left him till
he was a sober man again? And every one knew Joel had never touched a
drop of liquor from that day on.
Again, could they ever forget how she saved the baby,--Jane Pegrum's
baby,--that had been forgotten by its frantic mother in the burning
house? They shuddered as they recalled the scene: the writhing,
hissing flames, the charred rafters threatening every moment to fall;
and the blind child walking calmly along the one safe beam, unmoved
above the pit of fire which none of them could bear to look on,
catching the baby from its cradle ("and it all of a smoulder, just
ready to burst out in another minute") and bringing it safe to the
woman who lay fainting on the grass below! Vesta had never forgiven
them for that, for letting the child go: she was away at the time, and
when she came back and found Melody's eyebrows all singed off, it did
seem as though the village wouldn't hold her, didn't it? And Doctor
was just as bad. But, there! they couldn't have held her back, once
she knew the child was there; and Rejoice was purely thankful. Melody
seemed to favor Rejoice, almost as if she might be her own child.
Vesta had more of this world in her, sure enough.
Isn't it about time for them to be coming? Doctor won't waste time on
the road, you may be sure. Dreadful crusty he was this morning, if any
one tried to speak to him. Miss Meechin came along just as he was
harnessing up, and asked if he couldn't give her something to ease up
her sciatica a little mite, and what do you think he said? "Take it to
the Guinea Coast and drown it!" Not another word could she get out of
him. Now, that's no way to talk to a patient. But Doctor hasn't been
himself since Melody was stole; anybody could see that with his mouth.
Look at how he's treated that man with the operation, that kept him
from going to find the child himself! He never said a word to him,
they say, and tended him as careful as a woman, every day since he got
hurt; but just as soon as he got through with him, he'd go out in the
yard, they say, and swear at the pump, till it would turn your blood
cold to hear him. It's gospel truth, for I had it from the nurse, and
she said it chilled her marrow. Yes, a violent man, Doctor always was;
and, too, he was dreadful put out at the way the man got hurt,--reaching
out of his buggy to slat his neighbor's cow, just because he
had a spite against him. Seemed trifling, some thought, but he's like
to pay for it. Did you hear the sound of wheels?
Look at Alice and Alfred, over there with the baby; bound to have the
first sight of them, aren't they, standing on the wall like that? They
are as happy as two birds, ever since they made up that time. Yes,
Melody's doing too, that was. She didn't know it; but she doesn't know
the tenth of what she does. Just the sight of her coming along the
road--hark! surely I heard the click of the doctor's mare. Does seem
hard to wait, doesn't it? But Rejoice,--what do you suppose it is for
Rejoice? only she's used to it, as you may say.
Yes, Rejoice is used to waiting, surely; what else is her life? In the
little white cottage now, Mandy Loomis, in a fever of excitement, is
running from door to window, flapping out flies with her apron,
opening the oven door, fidgeting here and there like a distracted
creature; but in the quiet room, where Rejoice lies with folded hands,
all is peace, brooding peace and calm and blessedness. The sick woman
does not even turn her head on the pillow; you would think she slept,
if she did not now and again raise the soft brown eyes,--the most
patient eyes in the world,--and turn them toward the window. Yes,
Rejoice is used to waiting; yet it is she who first catches the
far-off sound of wheels, the faint click of the brown mare's hoofs.
With her bodily ears she hears it, though so still is she one might
think the poor withered body deserted, and the joyous soul away on the
road, hovering round the returning travellers as they make their
triumphal entry.
For all can see them now. First the brown mare's head, with sharp ears
pricked, coming round the bend; then a gleam of white, a vision of
waving hair, a light form bending forward. Melody! Melody has come
back to us! They shout and laugh and cry, these quiet people. Alfred
and Alice his wife have run forward, and are caressing the brown mare
with tears of joy, holding the baby up for Melody to feel and kiss,
because it has grown so wonderfully in this week of her absence. Mrs.
Penny is weeping down behind the hedge; Mandy Loomis is hurling
herself out of the window as if bent on suicide; Dr. Brown pishes and
pshaws, and blows his nose, and says they are a pack of ridiculous
noodles, and he must give them a dose of salts all round to-morrow, as
sure as his name is John Brown. On the seat behind him sits Melody,
with Miss Vesta and the old fiddler on either side, holding a hand of
each. She has hardly dared yet to loose her hold on these faithful
hands; all the way from the city she has held them, with almost
convulsive pressure. Very high De Arthenay holds his head, be sure! No
marquis of all the line ever was prouder than he is this day. He
kisses the child's little hand when he hears the people shout, and
then shakes his snowy curl, and looks about him like a king. Vesta
Dale has lost something of her stately carriage. Her face is softer
than people remember it, and one sees for the first time a resemblance
to her sister. And Dr. Brown--oh, he fumes and storms at the people,
and calls them a pack of noodles; but for all that, he cannot drive
ten paces without turning round to make sure that it is all
true,--that here is Melody on the back seat, come home again, home,
never to leave them again.
But, hush, hush, dear children, running beside the wagon with cries of
joy and happy laughter! Quiet, all voices of welcome, ringing out from
every throat, making the little street echo from end to end! Quiet
all, for Melody is singing! Standing up, held fast by those faithful
hands on either side, the child lifts her face to heaven, lifts her
heart to God, lifts up her voice in the evening hymn,--
"Jubilate, jubilate!
Jubilate, amen!"
The people stand with bowed heads, with hands folded as if in prayer.
What is prayer, if this be not it? The evening light streams down,
warm, airy gold; the clouds press near in pomp of crimson and purple.
The sick woman holds her peace, and sees the angels of God ascending
and descending, ministering to her. Put off thy shoes from thy feet,
for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.
"Jubilate, jubilate!
Jubilate, amen!"
THE END.