Book: A Spinner in the Sun

M >> Myrtle Reed >> A Spinner in the Sun




Miss Evelina came to the door when he rapped, and at the sight of her
veiled face, a flood of pity overwhelmed him. He introduced himself
and asked whether he might see Araminta.

When he was ushered into the invalid's room, he found her propped up by
pillows, and her hair was rioting in waves about her flushed face. A
small maltese kitten, curled into a fluffy ball, slept on the snowy
counterpane beside her. Araminta had been reading the "story book"
which Doctor Ralph had brought her.

"Little maid," asked the minister, "how is the ankle?"

"It's well, and to-morrow I'm to walk on it for the first time. Doctor
Ralph has been so good to me--everybody's been good."

Thorpe picked up the book, which lay face downward, and held it close
to his near-sighted eyes. Araminta trembled; she was afraid he would
take it away from her.

All that day, she had lived in a new land, where men were brave and
women were fair. Castle towers loomed darkly purple in the sunset, or
shone whitely at noon. Kings and queens, knights and ladies, moved
sedately across the tapestry, mounted on white chargers with trappings
of scarlet and gold. Long lances shimmered in the sun and the armour
of the knights gave back the light an hundred fold. Strange music
sounded in Araminta's ears--love songs and serenades, hymns of battle
and bugle calls. She felt the rush of conflict, knew the anguish of
the wounded, and heard the exultant strains of victory.

And all of it--Araminta had greatly marvelled at this--was done for
love, the love of man and woman.

A knight in the book had asked the lady of his heart to marry him, and
she had not seen that she was insulted, nor guessed that he was
offering her disgrace. Araminta wondered that the beautiful lady could
be so stupid, but, of course, she had no Aunt Hitty to set her right.
Far from feeling shame, the lady's heart had sung for joy, but
secretly, since she was proud. Further on, the same beautiful lady had
humbled her pride for the sake of her love and had asked the gallant
knight to marry her, since she had once refused to marry him.

"Why, Araminta!" exclaimed Mr. Thorpe, greatly surprised. "I thought
Miss Mehitable did not allow you to read novels."

"A novel! Why, no, Mr. Thorpe, it isn't a novel! It's just a story
book. Doctor Ralph told me so."

Austin Thorpe laughed indulgently. "A rose by any other name," he
said, "is--none the less a rose. Doctor Ralph was right--it is a story
book, and I am right, too, for it is also a novel."

Araminta turned very pale and her eyes filled with tears.

"Mr. Thorpe," she said, in an anguished whisper, "will I be burned?"

"Why, child, what do you mean?"

"I didn't know it was a novel," sobbed Araminta. "I thought it was a
story book. Aunt Hitty says people who read novels get burned--they
writhe in hell forever in the lake of fire."

The Reverend Austin Thorpe went to the door and looked out into the
hall. No one was in sight. He closed the door very gently and came
back to Araminta's bed. He drew his chair nearer and leaned over her,
speaking in a low voice, that he might not be heard.

"Araminta, my poor child," he said, "perhaps I am a heretic. I don't
know. But I do not believe that a being divine enough to be a God
could be human enough to cherish so fiendish a passion as revenge.
Look up, dear child, look up!"

Araminta turned toward him obediently, but she was still sobbing.

"It is a world of mystery," he went on. "We do not know why we come
nor where we go--we only know that we come and that eventually, we go.
Yet I do not think that any one of us nor any number of us have the
right to say what the rest of us shall believe.

"I cannot think of Heaven as a place sparsely populated by my own sect,
with a world of sinners languishing in flames below. I think of Heaven
as a sunny field, where clover blooms and birds sing all day. There
are trees, with long, cool shadows where the weary may rest; there is a
crystal stream where they may forget their thirst. I do not think of
Heaven as a place of judgment, but rather of pardon and love.

"Punishment there is, undoubtedly, but it has seemed to me that we are
sufficiently punished here for all we do that is wrong. We don't
intend to do wrong, Araminta--we get tired, and things and people worry
us, and we are unjust. We are like children afraid in the dark; we
live in a world of doubting, we are made the slaves of our own fears,
and so we shirk."

"But the burning," said Araminta, wiping her eyes. "Is nobody ever to
be burned?"

"The God I worship," answered Thorpe, passionately, "never could be
cruel, but there are many gods, it seems, and many strange beliefs.
Listen, Araminta. Whom do you love most?"

"Aunt Hitty?" she questioned.

"No, you don't have to say that if it isn't so. You can be honest with
me. Who, of all the world, is nearest to you? Whom would you choose to
be with you always, if you could have only one?"

"Doctor Ralph!" cried Araminta, her eyes shining.

"I thought so," replied Thorpe. "I don't know that I blame you. Now
suppose Doctor Ralph did things that hurt you; that there was continual
misunderstanding and distrust. Suppose he wronged you, cruelly, and
apparently did everything he could to distress you and make you
miserable. Could you condemn him to a lake of fire?"

"Why, no!" she cried. "I'd know he never meant to do it!"

"Suppose you knew he meant it?" persisted Thorpe, looking at her keenly.

"Then," said Araminta, tenderly, "I'd feel very, very sorry."

"Exactly, and why? Because, as you say, you love him. And God is
love, Araminta. Do you understand?"

Upon the cramped and imprisoned soul of the child, the light slowly
dawned. "God is love," she repeated, "and nobody would burn people
they loved."

There was an illuminating silence, then Thorpe spoke again. He told
Araminta of a love so vast and deep that it could not be measured by
finite standards; of infinite pity and infinite pardon. This love was
everywhere; it was impossible to conceive of a place where it was
not--it enveloped not only the whole world, but all the shining worlds
beyond. And this love, in itself and of itself, was God.

"This," said Araminta, touching the book timidly; "is it bad?"

"Nothing is bad," explained Thorpe, carefully, "which does not harm you
or some one else. Of the two, it is better to harm yourself than
another. How does the book make you feel?"

"It makes me feel as if the world was a beautiful place, and as if I
ought to be better, so I could make it still more beautiful by living
in it."

"Then, Araminta, it is a good book."

Thorpe went down-stairs strangely uplifted. To him, Truth was not a
creed, but a light which illumined all creeds. His soul was aflame
with eagerness to help and comfort the whole world. Miss Evelina was
waiting in the hall, veiled and silent, as always.

She opened the door, but Thorpe lingered, striving vainly for the right
word. He could not find it, but he had to speak.

"Miss Evelina," he stammered, the high colour mounting to his temples,
"if there should ever be anything I can do for you, will you let me
know?"

She seemed to shrink back into her veil. "Yes," she said, at length,
"I will." Then, fearing she had been ungracious, she added: "Thank
you."

His mood of exaltation was still upon him, and he wandered long in the
woods before going home. His spirit dwelt in the high places, and from
the height he gained the broad view.

When he entered the house. Miss Mehitable was waiting for him with a
torrent of questions. When he had an opportunity to reply he reported
that he had seen Doctor Ralph and Araminta could come home almost any
time, now. Yes, he had talked with Araminta about her soul, and she
had cried. He thought he had done her good by going, and was greatly
indebted to Miss Mehitable for the suggestion.




XVI

The March of the Days

Out in the garden, the Piper was attending to his belated planting. He
had cleared the entire place, repaired the wall, and made flower-beds
in fantastic shapes that pleased his own fancy. To-day, he was putting
in the seeds, while Laddie played about his feet, and Miss Evelina
stood by, timidly watchful.

"I do not see," she said, "why you take so much trouble to make me a
garden. Nobody was ever so good to me before."

The Piper laughed and paused a moment to wipe his ruddy face. "Did
nobody ever care before whether or not you had a garden?"

"Never," returned Evelina, sadly.

"Then 't is time some one did, so Laddie and I have come to make it for
you, but I'm thinking 't is largely for ourselves, too, since the doing
is the best part of anything."

Miss Evelina made no answer. Speech did not come easily to her after
twenty-five years of habitual repression.

"'T will be a brave garden," continued the Piper, cheerily. "Marigolds
and larkspur and mignonette; phlox and lad's love, rosemary, lavender,
and verbena, and many another that you'll not guess till the time comes
for blossoming."

"Lad's love grew in my garden once," sighed Evelina, after a little.
"It was sweet while it lasted--oh, but it was sweet!"

She spoke so passionately that the Piper gathered the underlying
significance of her words.

"You're speaking of another garden, I think," he ventured; "the garden
in your heart. "'T is meet that lad's love should grow there. Are you
sure 't was not a weed?"

"Yes, it was a weed," she replied, bitterly. "The mistake was mine."

The Piper leaned on his rake thoughtfully. "'T is hard, I think," he
said, "for us to see that the mistakes are all ours. The Gardener
plants rightly, but we are never satisfied. When sweet herbs are meant
for us, we ask for roses, and 't is not every garden in which a rose
will bloom. If we could keep it clean of weeds, and make it free of
all anger and distrust, there'd be heartsease there instead of thorns."

"Heartsease?" asked Evelina, piteously. "I thought there was no more!"

"Lady," said the Piper, "there is heartsease for the asking. I'm
thinking 't is you who have spoiled your garden."

"No!" cried Evelina. "Believe me, it was not I!"

"Who else?" queried the Piper, with a look which made her shrink
farther back into the shelter of her chiffon. "Ah, I was not asking a
question that needed an answer; I do not concern myself with names and
things. But ask this of yourself--is there sin on your soul?"

"No," she whispered, "unless it be a sin to suffer for twenty-five
years."

"Another's sin, then? You're grieving because another has done wrong?"

"Because another has done wrong to me." The Piper came to her and laid
his hand very gently upon hers. There was reassurance in the friendly,
human touch. "'T is there," he said, "that the trouble lies. 'T is
not for you to suffer because you are wronged, but for the one who has
wronged you. He must have been very dear to you, I'm thinking; else
you would not hide the beauty of your face."

"Beauty?" repeated Evelina, scornfully. "You do not understand. I was
burned--horribly burned."

"Yes," said the Piper, softly, "and what of that? Beauty is of the
soul."

He went out to the gate and brought in a small, flat box. "'T is for
you," he said. "I got it for you when I went to the city--there was
none here."

She opened the box, her fingers trembling, and held up length after
length of misty white chiffon. "I ask no questions," said the Piper,
proudly, "but I know that because you are so beautiful, you hide your
face. Laddie and I, we got more of the white stuff to help you hide
it, because you would not let us see how beautiful you are."

The chiffon fluttered in her hand, though there was no wind. "Why?"
she asked, in a strange voice; "why did you do this?"

"You gave me a garden," laughed the Piper, "when I had no garden of my
own, so why should I not get the white stuff for you? 'T was queer,
the day I got it," he went on, chuckling at the recollection, "for I
did not know its name. Every place I went, I asked for white stuff,
and they showed me many kinds, but nothing like this. At last I said
to a young girl: 'What is it that is like a cloud, all white and soft,
which one can see through, but through which no one can be seen--the
stuff that ladies wear when they are so beautiful that they do not want
their faces seen?' She smiled, and told me it was 'chiffon.' And
so--" A wave of the hand finished his explanation.

After an interval of silence, the Piper spoke again. "There are chains
that bind you," he began, "but they are chains of your own forging. No
one else can shackle you--you must always do it yourself. Whatever is
past is over, and I'm thinking you have no more to do with it than a
butterfly has with the empty chrysalis from which he came. The law of
life is growth, and we cannot linger--we must always be going on.

"You stand alone upon a height," he said, dreamily, "like one in a
dreary land. Behind you all is darkness, before you all is darkness;
there is but one small space of light. In that one space is a day.
They come, one at a time, from the night of To-morrow, and vanish into
the night of Yesterday.

"I have thought of the days as men and women, for a woman's day is not
at all like a man's. For you, I think, they first were children, with
laughing eyes and little, dimpled hands. One at a time, they came out
of the darkness, and disappeared into the darkness on the other side.
Some brought you flowers or new toys and some brought you childish
griefs, but none came empty-handed. Each day laid its gift at your
feet and went on.

"Some brought their gifts wrapped up, that you might have the surprise
of opening them. Many a gift in a bright-hued covering turned out to
be far from what you expected when you were opening it. Some of the
happiest gifts were hidden in dull coverings you took off slowly,
dreading to see the contents. Some days brought many gifts, others
only one.

"As the days grew older, some brought you laughter; some gave you light
and love. Others came with music and pleasure--and some of them
brought pain."

"Yes," sighed Evelina, "some brought pain."

"It is of that," went on the Piper, "that I wished to be speaking. It
was one day, was it not, that brought you a long sorrow?"

"Yes."

"Not more than one? Was it only one day?"

"Yes, only one day,"

"See," said The Piper, gently, "the day came with her gift. You would
not let her lay it at your feet and pass on into the darkness of
Yesterday. You held her by her grey garments and would not let her go.
You kept searching her sad eyes to see whether she did not have further
pain for you. Why keep her back from her appointed way? Why not let
your days go by?"

"The other days," murmured Evelina, "have all been sad."

"Yes, and why? You were holding fast to one day--the one that brought
you pain. So, with downcast eyes they passed you, and carried their
appointed gifts on into Yesterday, where you can never find them again.
Even now, the one day you have been holding is struggling to free
herself from the chains you have put upon her. You have no right to
keep a day."

"Should I not keep the gifts?" she asked. His fancy pleased her.

"The gifts, yes--even the gifts of tears, but never a day. You cannot
hold a happy day, for it goes too quickly. This one sad day that
marched so slowly by you is the one you chose to hold. Lady," he
pleaded, "let her go!"

"The other days," she whispered, brokenly. "What of them?"

"No man can say. While you have been holding this one, the others have
passed you, taking your gifts into Yesterday. Memory guards Yesterday,
but there is a veil on the face of To-morrow. Sometimes I think
To-morrow is so beautiful that she hides her face."

"God veils her face," cried Evelina, "or else we could not live!"

"Lady," said the Piper, "have you lived so long and never learned this
simple thing? Whatever a day may bring you, whatever terrible gifts of
woe, if you search her closely, you will always find the strength to
meet her face to face. Overshadowed by her burden of bitterness, one
fails to find the balm. Concealed within her garments or held loosely
in her hand, she always has her bit of consolation; rosemary in the
midst of her rue, belief with the doubt, life with the death."

"I found no balm," murmured Evelina, "in the day you say I held."

"Had there been no secret balm, you could never have held her--the
thorns would have pierced your hands. Have you not seen that you can
never have sorrow until you have first had joy? Happiness is the light
and sadness the shade. God sets you right, and you stray from the
path, into the shadow of the cypress."

"The cypress casts a long shadow," said Evelina, pointing to the tree
at the gate.

The Piper smiled. "The shadow of a sorrow is longer than the sorrow,"
he answered. "The shadow of one day, with you, has stretched over
twenty-five years. 'T is approaching night that makes long shadows;
when life is at noon, they are short. When life is at its highest,
there are no shadows at all."

Miss Evelina sighed and leaned uneasily against the wall.

"This, I'm thinking," mused the Piper, "is the inmost truth of
living--there is always a balance which swings true. A sorrow is
precisely equal to a joy, and the shadow can loom no larger unless the
light slants. And if you sit always in the sun, the shadow that lies
behind a joy can be scarcely seen at all."

A faint breath of Spring stirred Miss Evelina's veil. She caught at it
and tied the long floating ends about her neck.

"I would not look," said the Piper, softly. "If your veil should blow
away, I would close my eyes and feel my way to the gate. Unless you
chose to have me see your beauty, I would never ask, nor take advantage
of an accidental opportunity. I'm thinking you are very beautiful, but
you need never be afraid of me."

Miss Evelina did not reply; she only leaned more heavily against the
wall.

"Lady," he continued, "perhaps you think I do not know. You may think
I'm talking blindly, but there are few sorrows in the world that I have
not seen face to face. Those I have not had myself, my friends have
had, and I have been privileged to share with them. The sorrows of the
world are not so many--they are few, and, in essence, the same.

"It's very strange, I'm thinking. The little laughing, creeping days
go by us, then the awkward ones that bring us the first footsteps, then
childhood comes, and youth, and then maturity. But the days have begun
to grow feeble before one learns how to meet them; how to take the
gifts humbly, scorning none, and how to make each day give up its
secret balm. Memory, the angel who stands at the portal of Yesterday,
has always an inscrutable smile. She keeps for us so many things that
we would be glad to spare, and pushes headlong into Yesterday so much
that we fain would keep. I do not yet know all the ways of Memory--I
only know that she means to be kind."

"Kind!" repeated Evelina. Her tone was indescribably bitter.

"Yes," returned the Piper, "Memory means to be kind--she is kind. I
have said that I do not know her ways, but of that I am sure. Lady, I
would that you could let go of the day you are holding back. Cast her
from you, and let her go into the Yesterday from which you have kept
her so long. Perhaps Memory will be kinder to you then, for, remember,
she stands at the gate."

"I cannot," breathed Evelina. "I have tried and I cannot let her go!"

"Yes," said the Piper, very gently, "you can. 'T is that, I'm
thinking, that has set your life all wrong. Unclasp your hands from
her rough garments, cease to question her closed eyes. Take her gift
and the balm that infallibly comes with it; meet To-day with kindness
and To-morrow with a brave heart. Oh, Spinner in the Shadow," he
cried, his voice breaking, "I fain would see you a Spinner in the Sun!"

"No," she sighed, "I have been in the dark too long. There is no light
for me."

"There is light," he insisted. "When you admit the shadow, you have at
the same time acknowledged the light."

Evelina shook her head. "Too late," she said, despairingly; "it is too
late."

"Ah," cried the Piper, "if you could only trust me! I have helped many
a soul into the sun again."

"I trusted," said Evelina, "and my trust was betrayed."

"Yes," he answered, "I know. I have trusted, too, and I have been
betrayed, also, but I know that the one who wronged me must suffer more
than I."

She laughed; a wild, fantastic laugh. "The one who wronged me," she
said, "has not suffered at all. He married in a year."

"There are different ways of suffering," he explained. "With a woman,
it is most often spread out over a long period. The quick, clean-cut
stroke is seldom given to a woman--she suffers less and longer than a
man. With him, I'm thinking, it has come, or will come, all at once."

"If it does," she cried, her frail body quivering, "what a day for him,
oh, what a day!"

Her voice was trembling with the hideous passion for revenge, and the
Piper read her, unerringly. "Lady," he said, sadly, "'t is a long way
to the light, but I'm here to help | you find it. We'll be going now.
Laddie and I, but we'll come back soon."

He whistled to the dog and the two went off downhill together. She
watched him from the gate until the bobbing red feather turned a corner
at the foot of the hill, and the cheery whistle had ceased.

The stillness was acute, profound. It was so deep that it seemed
positive, rather than negative. She went back into the house, her
steps dragging painfully.

As in a vision she saw the days passing her while she stood upon a
height. All around her were bare rocks and fearful precipices; there
was nothing but a narrow path in front. Day by day, they came,
peacefully, contentedly; till at last dawned that terrible one which
had blasted her life. Was it true that she still held that day by the
garment, and could not unclasp her hands?

One by one they had passed her, leaving no gifts, because she still
clung to one. If she could let go, what gifts would the others bring?
Joy? Never--there was no joy in the world for her.

Sometime that mystical procession must come to an end. When the last
day passed on, she would follow, too, and go into the night of
Yesterday, where, perhaps, there was peace. As never before, she
craved the last gift, praying to see the uplifted head and stately
figure of the last Day--grave, silent, unfathomable, tender; the Day
with the veiled face, bearing white poppies in her hands.




XVII

Loved by a Dog

Anthony Dexter sat on the porch in front of his house, alone. Ralph
had been out since early morning, attending to his calls. It was the
last of April and the trees were brave in their panoply of new leaves.
Birds were singing and the very air was eloquent with new life.

Between Anthony Dexter and the lilac bush at the gate, there moved
perpetually the black, veiled figure of Evelina Grey. He knew she was
not there and he was fully certain of the fact that it was an
hallucination, but his assurance had not done away with the phantom.

How mercilessly she followed him! Since the night he had flung himself
out of her house, tortured in every nerve, she had not for a moment
left him. When he walked through the house, she followed him, her
stealthy footfall sounding just the merest fraction of a second after
his. He avoided the bare polished floors and walked on the rugs
whenever possible, that he might not hear that soft, slow step so
plainly. Ralph had laughed at him, once, for taking a long, awkward
jump from rug to rug.

Within the line of his vision she moved horizontally, but never back
and forth. Sometimes her veiled face was averted, and sometimes,
through the eternal barrier of chiffon, he could feel her burning eyes
fixed pitilessly upon his.

He never slept, now, without drugs. Gradually he had increased the
dose, but to no purpose. Evelina haunted his sleep endlessly and he
had no respite. Through the dull stupor of the night, she was never
for a moment absent, and in every horrible dream, she stood in the
foreground, mute, solitary, accusing.

He was fully aware of the fact that he was in the clutches of a drug
addiction, but that was nothing to be feared in comparison with his
veiled phantom. He had exhausted the harmless soporifics long ago, and
turned, perforce, to the swift and deadly ministers of forgetfulness.

The veiled figure moved slowly back and forth across the yard, lifting
its skirts daintily to avoid a tiny pool of water where a thirsty robin
was drinking. The robin, evidently, did not fear Evelina. He could
hear the soft, slow footfalls on the turf, and the echo of three or
four steps upon the brick walk, when she crossed. She kept carefully
within the line of his vision; he did not have to turn his head to see
her. When he did turn his head, she moved with equal swiftness. Not
for a single pitying instant was she out of his sight.

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