Part 71

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 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.

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.

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

"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.

"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.

"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.