Kitabı oku: «Master of the Vineyard», sayfa 14

"'By wearing dark clothes, preferably her old ones, an unassuming hat, and no jewelry, the lady traveller may render herself inconspicuous and not likely to attract masculine attention. In case of accident it is allowable to accept assistance from anyone, though the train officials are at all times to be preferred. If one desires to know what time it is, how late the train is, how long the train will stop at the next meal station, or when one is due at one's destination, the train officials are the ones to ask.

"'Upon a long and tedious journey, however, or in case of many prolonged delays, it is quite permissible to exchange a few words upon the weather or some other topic of mutual interest with a fellow-passenger of the same sex, whether she be travelling alone, or accompanied by her husband.

"'Pleasant acquaintances are sometimes formed in this way, and it may be entirely safe and proper, under certain circumstances, to accept small courtesies from a gentleman who is travelling with his wife, such as the brief loan of a newspaper or magazine, or information regarding the scenery through which the train is passing when none of the train officials are at hand.

At the End of the Journey

"'It is best, however, to be very careful, for it is much easier not to begin friendly relations with one's fellow passengers than it is to discontinue such relations after they have been once begun.

"'It is seldom necessary, or even advisable, to give one's name to anyone except the officials of the train, but there can be no objection to showing a fellow-passenger of the same sex one's name upon one's ticket if polite relations have been established. This is better than speaking the name aloud, which might cause embarrassment if it were overheard, and carries with it no such social obligation as the exchange of cards would do.

"'Arriving at her destination, the lady traveller should proceed at once to her hotel or lodging-house, if no friend is to meet her, regardless of the plans of her fellow passengers. If one should chance to meet any of them afterward, a courteous inclination of the head, accompanied by a bright smile, is sufficient recognition, or, if for any reason one prefers not to recognise those with whom one has travelled, all that is necessary is to appear not to see them.

Appeal to the Conductor

"'In case a gentleman should attempt to converse with the lady traveller while the train is in motion or at rest, this same conduct meets the exigencies of the situation admirably: simply do not appear to see him. If, however, he continues to converse, turn to him, and say in a low, well-controlled voice: "Sir, if you persist further in forcing your unwelcome attentions upon me, I shall summon the conductor at once."

"'In most cases, the objectionable party will at once leave and the interference of the conductor will not be required.

"'The next article in this series will deal with "The Lady Traveller by Water," where conditions are entirely different and require a different line of conduct.'"

"There," said Grandmother, clearing her throat and folding up the paper. "I hope you understand now what a tip is."

"It seems to be one tenth of all you've got," observed Matilda, staring out of the window, "like those religious sects that believes in givin' a tenth of everything to the church."

"Travellin' must be terribly exciting," remarked Grandmother, pensively.

"So 'tis," Matilda agreed after a pause. "I reckon it's better to stay at home."

XXI
The Weaving of the Tapestry

A Bunch of Grapes

Alden threw himself into his work with feverish energy, instinctively relieving his mind by wearying his body. All day he toiled in the vineyard, returning at night white-faced and exhausted, but content.

One morning when Madame came down to breakfast, she found at her plate a single bunch of grapes, wet with dew and still cool with the chill of the night. She took it up with an exclamation of pleasure, for never, within her memory, had such grapes as these come even from the Marsh vineyards.

She held the heavy cluster to the sunlight, noting the perfect shape of the fruit, the purple goblets filled with sweetness, and the fairy-like bloom, more delicate even than the dust on the butterfly's wing. Pride and thankfulness filled her heart, for, to her, it was not only their one source of income but a trust imposed upon them by those who had laid out the vineyard, and, more than all else, the standard by which her son was to succeed or fail.

Night after Night

The tribal sense was strong in Madame, last though she was of a long and 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

No One Satisfied

"It seemed that no one was satisfied with his lot, and each was eager to change with someone else, who also wanted to change, but not with him. The women whose duty it was to scrub floors wanted to work at the looms, but those at the looms aspired to the big airy room where the bolts of cloth were measured and rolled up.

"The men who had been told to wash windows wanted to make patterns, the man in charge of the ventilating apparatus wanted to work in the office, and the man who was in charge of the office, weary and jaded beyond all power of words to portray, wanted a place at the loom and a pay-envelope every Saturday night instead of a commission upon his sales.

"Those who were supposed to weave blue cloth with white dots upon it wanted to make white cloth with blue dots upon it, but, it seemed, there was no market for the white cloth with the blue dots and they could not be made to understand it.

"The boy who attended to the door of the factory wanted to keep books in the office; the men who were supposed to work in the shipping room wanted to cut out the samples that were sent to different firms to order from. The girls who wrote letters and filed the correspondence wanted to draw designs for new patterns – oh, a great many wanted to draw designs!

The Spirit of Love

"The man who did the designing was complaining of a headache, and wanted to be doorkeeper, that he might have plenty of fresh air. The man who was supposed to oil the machinery wanted to wash the windows – he said it was a cleaner job; and the messengers were tired of going back and forth all day – they wanted to sit quietly and write letters.