Master of the Vineyard

"I thought," Edith murmured, as she sank into the chair he offered her, "that everything was said last night."

"Everything? Perhaps, but not for the last time."

She leaned forward, into the light, put her elbows upon the table, and rested her head upon her clasped hands, as though to shade her eyes. "Well?" she said, wearily.

"Look at me!"

Vows and the Law

Her hands trembled, but she did not move. He leaned across the table, unclasped her hands gently, and forced her to look at him. Her eyes were swimming with unshed tears.

"Darling! My darling! Have I made you unhappy?"

"No," she faltered. "How could you?"

He came to her, sat down on the arm of her chair, slipped his arm around her, and held her close against his shoulder. "Listen," he said. "You belong to me, don't you?"

"Absolutely."

"Could you – could you – make yourself free?"

"Yes, as you mean it, I could."

"Then – when?"

"Never!" The word rang clear, tensely vibrant with denial.

"Edith! What do you mean?"

Releasing herself she stood and faced him. "This," she said. "At the altar I pledged myself in these words: 'Until death do us part,' and 'Forsaking all others, keep thee only unto me so long as we both shall live.' Isn't that plain?"

"The law," he began.

"Law!" repeated Edith. "Why don't you say perjury, and be done with it?"

"Dearest, you don't understand. You – "

"I know what I said," she reminded him, grimly. "I said 'For better or worse,' not 'for better' only."

What of Miss Starr?

"You promised to love and to honour also, didn't you?"

Edith bowed her head. "I did," she answered, in a low tone, "and I have, and, God helping me, I shall do so again."

"Have I no rights?" he asked, with a sigh.

He could scarcely hear the murmured answer: "None."

"Nor you?"

She shook her head sadly, avoiding his eyes, then suddenly turned and faced him. "What of your own honour?" she demanded. "What of Miss Starr?"

"I have thought of that," he replied, miserably. "I have thought of nothing else all day."

Edith leaned back against the table. "What," she asked, curiously, "were you planning to do?"

The dull colour rose to his temples. "Go to her," he said, with his face averted, "tell her the truth like a man, and ask for freedom."

She laughed – the sort of laugh one hears from a woman tossing in delirium. Madame heard it, up-stairs, and shuddered.

"Like a man!" Edith repeated, scornfully.

"Say it," he said, roughly. "Like a cad, if that's what you mean."

She laughed again, but with a different cadence. "Ask yourself first," she continued, "and then be honest with me. How would you feel?"

Suppose There Is Another Woman

He shrugged his shoulders uneasily. "I admit it, but I'm willing to pay the price. I'll feel like a cad all the rest of my life, if I must, in order to have you."

"If a man has no self-respect," she retorted, "what can he expect from his – "

"Wife," breathed Alden, in a rapturous whisper. "Oh, Edith, say you will!"

She turned away, for she could not force herself to meet his eyes. Her little white hands clasped the edge of the table tightly.

"Have you thought of this?" he continued. "Suppose, for him, there is another woman – "

"There isn't," she denied. "I know that."

"Perhaps not in the sense you mean, but if he were free – ?"

Edith drew a long breath. "I never thought of that."

Steadily the man pursued his advantage. "There must be some reason for his treating you as he does – for making you miserable. If, for any cause whatever, he wanted his freedom, would it make – any difference to you?"

She tapped her foot restlessly upon the floor. The atmosphere was surcharged with expectancy, then grew tense with waiting. Alden's eyes never swerved from her face.

What Right?

"Have you any right, through principles of your own, which I thoroughly understand and respect, to keep a man bound who desires to be free?"

She swayed back and forth unsteadily. Alden assisted her to her chair and stood before her as she sat with her elbows upon her knees, her face hidden in her hands. With the precise observation one accords to trifles in moments of unendurable stress, he noted that two of the hooks which fastened her gown at the back of her neck had become unfastened and that the white flesh showed through the opening.

"If," said Alden, mercilessly, "he longs for his freedom, and the law permits him to take it, have you the right to force your principles upon him – and thus keep him miserable when he might otherwise be happy?"

The clock in the hall struck ten. The sound died into silence and the remorseless tick-tick went on. Outside a belated cricket fiddled bravely as he fared upon his way. The late moon flooded the room with light.

"Have you?" demanded Alden. He endeavoured to speak calmly, but his voice shook. "Answer me!"

Edith leaned back in her chair, white and troubled. "I don't know," she murmured, with lips that scarcely moved. "Before God, I don't know!"

Advantages of a Letter

The man went on pitilessly. "Don't you think you might find out? Before you condemn yourself and me to everlasting separation, don't you think you might at least ask him?"

"Yes," said Edith, slowly. "I might ask him. I'll go – "

"No, you needn't go. Can't you write?"

"Yes," she returned. "I can write."

All the emotion had gone from her voice. She said the words as meaninglessly as a parrot might.

"A letter has distinct advantages," remarked Alden, trying to speak lightly. "You can say all you want to say before the other person has a chance to put in a word."

"Yes," she agreed, in the same meaningless tone. "That is true."

"When," queried Alden, after a pause, "will you write?"

"To-morrow."

He nodded his satisfaction. "Tell him," he suggested, "that you love another man, and – "

"No," she interrupted, "I won't tell him that. I'll say that I've tried my best to be a good wife, that I've tried as best I knew to make him happy. I'll say I've – " she choked on the word – "I'll say I've failed. I'll tell him I can do no more, that I do not believe I can ever do any better than I have done, and ask him to tell me frankly whether or not he prefers to be free. That's all."

How Different?

"That isn't enough. You have rights – "

"We're not speaking of my rights," she said, coldly. "We're speaking of his."

A silence fell between them, tense and awkward. The open gate between them had turned gently upon its hinges, then closed, with a suggestion of finality. The clock struck the half hour. Outside, the cricket still chirped cheerily, regardless of the great issues of life and love.

"Come outside," Alden pleaded, taking her hand in his.

"No," she said, but she did not withdraw her hand.

"Come, dear – come!"

He led her out upon the veranda where the moon made far-reaching shadows with the lattice and the climbing rose, then returned for chairs, the same two in which they had sat the night before. She was the first to break the pause.

"How different it all is!" she sighed. "Last night we sat here in the moonlight, just where we are now. In twenty-four hours, everything has changed."

"The face of all the world is changed, I think,Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul."

he quoted softly.

When They Knew

"When did you – know?" she asked.

"The night I read Rossetti to you and kissed your arm, do you remember? It rushed upon me like an overwhelming flood. When did you know?"

"I think I've always known – not the fact, exactly, but the possibility of it. The first night I came, I knew that you and I could care a great deal for each other – not that we ever would, but merely that we might, under different circumstances. In a way, it was as though a set of familiar conditions might be seen in a different aspect, or in a different light."

"From the first," he said, "you've meant a great deal to me, in every way. I was discontented, moody, restless, and unhappy when you came. That was mainly responsible for – "

He hesitated, glanced at her, accepted her nod of understanding, and went on.

"I've hated the vineyard and the rest of my work. God only knows how I've hated it! It's seemed sometimes that I'd die if I didn't get away from it. Mother and I had it out one day, and finally I decided to stay, merely to please her. Because I had nothing more to do than to make her happy, I determined to make the best of things. You've made me feel that, in a way, it's myself that's at stake. I want to take it and make it widely known among vineyards, as it has been – for my own sake, and for yours."

A Corner Turned

Edith leaned toward him, full into the light. Her face, still pale, was rapt – almost holy. To him, as to Madame earlier in the day, she somehow suggested the light before a shrine. "Thank you," she said. The low, full contralto tones were vibrant with emotion.

There was a pause. As though a light had been suddenly thrown upon one groping in darkness, Alden saw many things. His longing for Edith, while no less intense, became subtly different. He seemed to have turned a corner and found everything changed.

"Dear," he went on, "there's something wonderful about this. I've – " he stopped and cleared his throat. "I mean it's so exquisitely pure, so transcendently above passion. Last night, when I had you in my arms, it wasn't man and woman – it was soul and soul. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I know. Passion isn't love – any more than hunger is, but an earth-bound world seldom sees above the fog of sense."

"I could love you always," he returned, "and never so much as touch your hand or kiss you again."

She nodded, smiling full comprehension. Then she asked, briefly: "Why write?"

"Merely because we belong to one another in a divine sense, and marriage is the earthly sanction of it – or ought to be. If you and I were both free, and I thought marriage would in any way change this, I – I wouldn't ask you to marry me."

The Shadow Rose

Rising from her chair, she bent over, kissed him on the forehead, went to the lattice, picked another rose, and came back. "See," she said, standing in the light; "life and beauty and joy – all in a rose."

"And love," he added.

"And love." She held it at arm's length. Sharply defined, the shadow fell upon the white floor of the veranda, perfect in line.

"And there," she continued, "is the same thing in another form. It is still a rose – anyone can see that. Only the colour and fragrance are gone, but one can remember both. To-morrow I'll write, and find out which we're to have – the rose, or the shadow of the rose."

"It's chance," he said, "like the tossing of a coin."

"Most things are," she reminded him. "Did you ever stop to think what destinies attend the opening or closing of a door?"

He made no answer. "Good-night," she said, with a smile.

"Good-night, my beloved." His face was illumined with "the light that never was on sea or land," but he did not even attempt to touch her hand.

XV

The Inlaid Box

Beauty

"'Beauty,'" read Grandmother Starr, with due emphasis upon every word, "'is the birthright of every woman,'" She looked up from the pages of The Household Guardian as she made this impressive announcement. Rosemary was busy in the kitchen, and Miss Matilda sat at the other window mending a three-cornered tear in last year's brown alpaca.

"'The first necessity of beauty is an erect carriage,'" she continued.

"That lets us out," commented Matilda, "not havin' any carriage at all."

"Frank used to say," said Grandmother, irrelevantly, "that he always had his own carriage until his Pa and me got tired of pushin' it."

"What kind of a carriage is an erect carriage?" queried Matilda, biting off her thread.

"I ain't never heard tell of 'em," replied Grandmother, cautiously, "but I should think, from the sound of it, that it was some kind that was to be driv' standin' up."

The Power of Ages

"Then I've seen 'em."

"Where?" Grandmother lowered her spectacles to the point where they rested upon the wart and peered disconcertingly at Matilda. The upper part of the steel frames crossed her eyeballs horizontally, giving her an uncanny appearance.

"At the circus, when Pa took us. After the whole show was over they had what they called a chariot race, and women driv' around the tent in little two-wheeled carts, standin' up."

"Matilda Starr! 'Tain't no such thing!"

Matilda shrugged her shoulders with an air of finality. "All right," she returned, with cold sarcasm, "as long as you see it and I didn't."

"'Beauty has been the power of the ages,'" Grandmother continued, taking refuge once more in The Household Guardian. "'Cleopatra and Helen of Troy changed the map of the world by their imperial loveliness.'"

"I didn't know imps was lovely," Matilda remarked, frowning at the result of her labours. "I reckon I'll have to set a piece in at the corner, where it's puckerin'."

"Ain't I always told you that the only way to mend a three-cornered tear was to set a piece in? Some folks never get old enough to learn anything. Even Frank's wife would have known better'n that."

Cleopatra

"Never mind Frank's wife," returned Matilda, somewhat hurriedly. "Let her rest in her grave and go on readin' about the lovely imps."

"It doesn't say imps is lovely. It says 'imperial loveliness.'"

"Well, ain't that the same thing?"

"No, it ain't. Imperial means empire."

"Then why ain't it spelled so? Imperial begins with an i and so does imp, and, accordin' to what I learned when I went to school, empire begins with an e."

There seemed to be no adequate reply to this, so Grandmother went on: "If Cleopatra's nose had been an inch longer, where would Egypt have been now?"

"Where 'tis, I reckon," Matilda returned, seeing that an answer was expected.

"No, it wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"I don't know why not, but if it wouldn't have made no difference, the man that wrote the piece wouldn't have asked about it."

"Well, then, let him answer it himself, as long as he knows."

"'Wars have been fought over beautiful women,'" Grandmother resumed, "'and will continue to be till the end of time.'"

"What about Egypt?" interrupted Matilda.

"I ain't come to that yet. Let me alone, can't you? 'Every mother should begin with her child almost from the moment of birth. Projecting ears can be corrected by the wearing of a simple cap, and a little daily attention to the nose in the way of gentle pinching with the fingers, will insure the proper shape. This of course, must be done while the cartilage is easily pushed into the proper position.'"

The Paper's Circulation

"While the what?" Matilda demanded.

"Cart-i-lage. It means before the child has outgrown its buggy. 'Teeth and complexion are to be considered later, but must be looked after carefully. Every woman should bear in mind the fact that a good complexion comes from the inside.'"

"The man what wrote that piece ain't got the slightest idea of what he's talkin' about."

Grandmother transfixed Matilda with an icy stare. Then, turning to the last page of the paper, she read, with due attention to emphasis: "'The Household Guardian is read every week in more than one million homes. Averaging five people to each family, this means that five million people, every Thursday, are eagerly watching for the regular issue of The Household Guardian.' If he don't know what he's talkin' about, why are five million people waitin' for the paper? Answer me that, Matilda Starr, if you can!"

"There ain't five in every family," Matilda objected. "That means the Pa and Ma and three children."

Well Groomed

"Maybe not. Maybe it's the Ma and Pa and two children and an Aunt or an Uncle or some other of the family connection."

"Well, even if there's only two children, if their Ma is makin' 'em caps to hold back their ears and pinchin' their noses regular, she ain't got no time to have her own nose flattened out against the glass lookin' for The Household Guardian."

"'If, however, through ignorance or the press of other occupations,'" Grandmother resumed, clearing her throat, "'this early care has not been given, every woman, no matter what her circumstances are, may at least be well-groomed.'"

Matilda giggled hysterically.

"What's the matter now?" queried Grandmother, with interest.

"I was just thinkin' about the erect carriage and the groomin'. The man what wrote that piece seems to think a woman is a horse. Reckon I'll get myself a curry-comb."

"It might improve the looks of your hair some if you did," the old lady observed, caustically. "'No woman is so poor that she cannot take the time to attend to her personal appearance, nor so rich that she can afford to neglect it. The hair should be shampooed at – Continued on page sixty-seven.'"

"The hair should be what?"

"'Shampooed at least once a month.'"

Face Massage

"What's that?"

"Don't interrupt," commanded the old lady, with the dull red burning on her withered cheeks. "Here I am readin' to you and tryin' to improve your mind and all the time you're interruptin' me."

"Only to ask questions," Matilda returned, with affected submission. "If I'm to have my mind improved I want it well done."

"'In the intervals it should be frequently brushed, and the regular weekly face massage' – that's printed wrong – 'the regular weekly face message should not be neglected.'"

"What's a face message?" asked Matilda, curiosity overcoming prudence.

"Anything that's said to anybody, I suppose. Now don't speak to me again. 'The nails must also be taken care of and one or two visits to a good manicure will show any woman how it is to be done. The implements are not expensive and will last – '"

"What's a manicure?"

"Some kind of a doctor, I reckon, – 'and will last a long time. A few simple exercises should be taken every night and morning to preserve the fig – Continued on page seventy.'"

"Preservin' figs ain't any particular exercise," Matilda observed, shaking out the mended skirt. "You can do most of it settin' down."

"'Preserve the figure,'" Grandmother continued with emphasis. "'Soap and hot water may be used on the face if a good cold cream is well rubbed into the pores immediately afterward.'"

Cucumber Milk

"Vanilla or lemon?" Matilda asked.

"It doesn't say ice-cream, it just says cold cream. 'Cucumber milk is excellent for freckles or tan, and – '"

"I reckon I won't hear no more," said Matilda. Her lips were compressed into a thin tight line. "I can stand the carriages that are to be driv' standin' up, and the lovely imps and the nose pinchin' and the caps for the ears, but when it comes to goin' out every mornin' to milk the cucumbers, I don't feel called on to set and listen to it. The man what wrote that piece was as crazy as a loon, and if five million people read his paper every week, four million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand and nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em know it. I ain't sayin' who's the one that don't."

She sailed majestically out of the room with her head held high, and her frowsy grey hair bristling with indignation. Grandmother's lower jaw dropped in amazement for a moment, then she returned to the paper. "Milkin' the cucumbers don't seem quite right," she said to herself, "but there it is in print, as plain as day."

For the first time her faith in the printed word wavered. "Maybe there's some special kind of cucumber," she mused, "that gives milk. We used to hear 'em called cowcumbers. Why'd they be called that if they didn't give milk? There's only the two kinds as far as I know – the tame and wild, and the wild ones – " The light of pure intellectual joy dawned upon the puzzled old face. "Of course. Don't I remember the white sticky juice inside the wild ones? That's it! Wait till I tell Matilda!"

Grandmother Sees the Stranger

Triumphantly she returned to The Household Guardian, and, in her new allegiance, read every line of every advertisement before folding it carefully and putting it away with the others. "Good for freckles and tan," she said to herself, meditatively, "but it didn't say nothin' about warts. Maybe that'll be in next week's paper."

While she sat looking out of the window a woman passed, walking so slowly that Grandmother had plenty of time to observe her. As the stranger turned her head neither to the right nor the left, the old lady's intense scrutiny was attended by no embarrassment.

From the fragmentary description that had come her way, she at once recognised Mrs. Lee – the tall, straight figure in a gown of pale green linen, the dainty, regular features, and the crown of wonderful hair, radiating sunlit splendour, as she wore no hat.

Ready Money

A letter in her hand betrayed the object of her passing. "She's goin' to the post-office," Grandmother mused, "and if she comes back this way, I'll see her again. Matilda ain't seen her but twice and then she had a hat on."

Mrs. Lee did, indeed, come back that way, but gave no sign that she saw, or even felt, the presence of the keen observer in the window of the little brown house. Grandmother hoped that Matilda was not peering from an upper window. Perhaps she would tell her immediately, and perhaps she wouldn't. While she was considering this point, Rosemary came in, wiping her hands upon her apron, and announced that she was ready to go to the store.

Rapidly giving a list of the articles desired, Grandmother rose from her chair, lifted her skirts, and from some safe inner pocket, drew out a black bag, which was evidently fastened around her waist with a string. This bag contained another, closely wrapped. Inside was a much worn leather "wallet," from which Grandmother extracted a two-dollar bill and some pennies.

"Run along, Rosemary. I reckon that'll be enough."

Rosemary obeyed, privately wondering for the thousandth time whence came Grandmother's money. Neither she nor Matilda had ever dared to ask, but when the supply gave out, the old lady always produced a twenty-dollar gold piece from the magic bag.

It Seemed Odd

When she returned from her errand, Aunt Matilda was nowhere to be seen, and Grandmother, nodding in her chair by the window, had not been awakened by the opening and closing of the door. Rosemary went up-stairs, and, from sounds that penetrated the hall through the closed door of Aunt Matilda's room, inferred that she also was taking an afternoon nap.

If she could only write to Alden, and tell him he was free! Night after night she had pondered over ways and means. It seemed odd that in a house where there was always plenty to eat and to wear, of a certain sort, stationery and stamps should be practically unknown. Grandmother had used the last sheet of paper and the last envelope when she ordered the bolt of brown alpaca, and with stern suspicion held Rosemary to account for every penny with which she was entrusted.

If she had paper and an envelope, perhaps she might ask the storekeeper to send the note up with the Marshs' groceries, or, better yet, she might go up to the house herself very early some morning or very late some night and slip it under the front door. In that way, she would be sure he received it. Rosemary brightened as she saw that a stamp would not really be necessary after all.

Rosemary Takes Possession of the Box

If only, among her mother's things in the attic, there might be an envelope! She could use brown wrapping paper to write upon, if worst came to worst – the storekeeper might even give her a small, fresh piece of the pale yellow sort. Rosemary knew every separate article in the trunk, however, even the inlaid box to which the key was missing. She had never dared to ask for the key, much less to break open the box, but to-day, the courage of desperation sustained her and she ran quickly up-stairs.

Long afternoon sunbeams, sweet with June, came into the attic, and made fairy gold of the dust as they entered the room. It had none of the charm which belongs to every well-regulated attic; it was merely a storehouse, full of cobwebs and dust. A few old trunks were stored there, all empty save the small hair-cloth trunk which held Rosemary's mother's few possessions that had outlived her.

She opened it, found the box, and discovered that she had forgotten the scissors with which she intended to break the lock. She wondered whether she might safely risk the trip down-stairs after the scissors, or whether it would be better to take the box with her and hide it in her room. Before she had made up her mind, she heard a slow, heavy tread upon the stair.