<h2 class="gap3 chaphead"><SPAN name="XXI" id="XXI"></SPAN>XXI</h2>
<h2 class="chaphead">The Weaving of the Tapestry</h2>
<div class="sidenote">A Bunch
of Grapes</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">Night
after
Night</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</SPAN></span>
to bear the remembered splendour of her
beautiful head.</p>
<div class="sidenote">Balm for
Alden</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="sidenote">Release
from Pain</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="sidenote">Toiling in
the
Vineyard</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Now the tapestry lay before her, well on<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="sidenote">The
Coming of
Spring</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</SPAN></span>
filling the background, gradually to be covered
save for the long regular lines that stretched
from East to West, from North to South.</p>
<div class="sidenote">The New
Growth</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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 sweet<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</SPAN></span>ness,
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.</p>
<div class="sidenote">The
Ripening
of the
Grapes</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>And so the first faint hints of purple came
into the tapestry, to spread and deepen and<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</SPAN></span>
divide and spread again until, in certain lights,
the vineyard lay transfigured in an amethystine
glow.</p>
<div class="sidenote">The
Gathering
of the
Fruit</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</SPAN></span>
directions, hurrying the laggards, and bidding
others to go back and work more slowly.</p>
<div class="sidenote">After
the Day's
Work</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">The Veil
of
Beauty</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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,<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</SPAN></span>
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.</p>
<div class="sidenote">Content at
Last</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<hr style="width: 45%;" />
<p>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.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="sidenote">The Goal
Reached</div>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Madame folded it up and gave it back to
him, then their eyes met.</p>
<p>Young and strong and hopeful, radiating
the consciousness of good work well done, her
son smiled back at her. Her face illumined
with joy.</p>
<p>"Master of the vineyard at last, my son?"
she said.</p>
<p>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."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</SPAN></span></p>
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