Master of the Vineyard Part 47

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.

[Sidenote: 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 a.s.surance 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.

[Sidenote: 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 impa.s.sable 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.

[Sidenote: 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 h.o.a.ry 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.

[Sidenote: 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 s.p.a.ces 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.

[Sidenote: 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 h.o.a.rded 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.

[Sidenote: 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 s.p.a.ces 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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."