Master of the Vineyard Part 41

[Sidenote: The Clouds Break]

Stirred to the depths by the pity of it, Edith brushed away a tear or two. She was not at all sleepy, but drew the blanket closer around her, for the night grew chill as the earth swept farther and farther away from the sun. The clouds had begun to drift away, and faintly, through the shadow, glimmered one pale star. Gradually, others came out, then a white and ghostly moon, with a veil of cloud about it, grey, yet iridescent, like mother-of-pearl.

Blown far across the seas of s.p.a.ce by a swiftly rising wind, the clouds vanished, and all the starry hosts of heaven marched forth, challenging the earth with javelins of light.

"Starbreak," murmured Edith, "up there and in my soul."

The blue rays of the love-star burned low upon the grey horizon, that star towards which the eyes of women yearn and which women's feet are fain to follow, though, like a will-o'-the-wisp, it leads them through strange and difficult places, and into the quicksands.

[Sidenote: Fellowship with the World]

The body grows slowly, but the soul progresses by leaps and bounds.

Through a single hurt or a single joy, the soul of a child may reach man's estate, never to go backward, but always on. And so, through a great love and her own complete comprehension of its meaning, Edith had grown in a night out of herself, into a beautiful fellowship with the whole world.

Strangely uplifted and forever at peace, she rose from her chair. The blanket slipped away from her, and her loosened hair flowed back over her shoulders, catching gleams of starlight as it fell. She stretched out her arms in yearning toward Alden, her husband, Madame--indeed, all the world, having come out of self into service; through the love of one to the love of all.

Then, through the living darkness, came the one clear call: "Mine?"

Unmistakably the answer surged back: "In all the ways of Heaven and for always, I am thine."

XIX

If Love Were All

[Sidenote: When the Shadows Lengthen]

The last of the packing was done, and four trunks stood in the lower hall, waiting for the expressman. Alden had not seen Edith that day, though he had haunted the house since breakfast, waiting and hoping for even a single word.

She had been too busy to come down to luncheon, and had eaten only a little from the tray Madame sent to her room. She was to take the early train in the morning.

The afternoon shadows had begun to lengthen when she came down, almost as white as her fresh linen gown, but diffusing about her some radiance from within that seemed not wholly of earth. He met her at the foot of the stairs, and took her hand in his.

"Edith! I've been longing for you all day!"

"And I for you," she returned, avoiding his eyes.

"Listen, dear. Give me the rest of it, won't you?"

[Sidenote: For the Last Time]

"The rest of what?"

"The little time you have left with us--this afternoon and to-night."

For a moment she hesitated, then looked him full in the face, her eyes mutely questioning his.

"I won't," he said. "I promise you that."

"Then I'll come."

"Out on the river?"

"Yes."

"It's for the last time, Edith," he said, sadly; "the very last time."

"I know," she returned. Her lips quivered a little, but her eyes did not falter. Clear and steadfast they looked far beyond him into the future where he had no part. The golden lights in them seemed signal fires now, summoning him mysteriously onward to some high service, not alien, even though apart from her.

They said no more until they were in the boat, swinging out upon the sunlit river. Then Edith glanced at him, half shyly.

"Wasn't last night wonderful?"

"Wasn't it!" he echoed. "I never understood before."

"Nor I."

She trailed a white hand in the water as they sped up stream. The light touched her hair lovingly, bringing gleams of gold and amber from the depths.

[Sidenote: Alden's Silence]

"Dear," he said, "did you think that, after last night, I could urge you to violate your solemn oath or even to break your word?"

"I hoped not, but I didn't know."

"I see it all clearly now. If more was meant for us to have, more would be right for us to take. Back in the beginning this was meant for you and me--just this, and nothing more."

"How could there be more? Isn't love enough?"

"Surely, but the separation hurts. Never even to see your face or touch your hand again!"

"I know," she said, softly. "I'll want you, too."

A thousand things struggled for utterance, but, true to his word, he remained silent. His whole nature was merged into an imperious demand for her, the cry of the man's soul for the woman who belonged to him by divine right.

"If love were all," she breathed, as though in answer to it, "I'd come."

"If love were all," he repeated. "I wonder why it isn't? What is there on earth aside from this? What more can heaven be than love--without the fear of parting?"

"No more," she replied. "We've lost each other in this life, but there's another life to come."

[Sidenote: Whirling Atoms]

"'Helen's lips are drifting dust,'" he quoted.