Book: A Spinner in the Sun

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




Underneath was more paper, and more string. It took her half an hour
to bring to light the inmost contents of the package, bound in layer
after layer of fine muslin, but not tied. She unrolled the yellowed
cloth carefully, for it was very frail. At last she took out a
photograph--Anthony Dexter at three-and-twenty--and gazed at it long.

On one page of her autograph album was written an old rhyme. The ink
had faded so that it was scarcely legible, but Miss Hitty knew it by
heart:

"'If you love me as I love you
No knife can cut our love in two.'
Your sincere friend,
ANTHONY DEXTER."

Like a tiny sprig of lavender taken from a bush which has never
bloomed, this bit of romance lay far back in the secret places of her
life. She had a knot of blue ribbon which Anthony Dexter had once
given her, a lead pencil which he had gallantly sharpened, and which
she had never used.

Her life had been barren--Miss Mehitable knew that, and in her hours of
self-analysis, admitted it. She would gladly have taken Evelina's full
measure of suffering in exchange for one tithe of Araminta's joy.
After Anthony Dexter had turned from her to Evelina, Miss Mehitable had
openly scorned him. She had spent the rest of her life, since, in
showing him and the rest that men were nothing to her and that he was
least of all.

She had hovered near his patients simply for the sake of seeing
him--she did not care for them at all. She sat in the front window
that she might see him drive by, and counted that day lost which
brought her no sight of him. This was her one tenderness, her one
vulnerable point.

The afternoon shadows grew long and the maple branches ceased to sway.
Outside a bird crooned a lullaby to his nesting mate. An oriole
perched on the topmost twig of an evergreen in a corner of the yard,
and opened his golden throat in a rapture of song.

Love was abroad in the world that day. Bees hummed it, birds sang it,
roses breathed it. The black and gold messengers of the fields bore
velvety pollen from flower to flower, moving lazily on shimmering,
gossamer wings. A meadow-lark rose from a distant clover field,
dropping exquisite, silvery notes as he flew. The scent of green
fields and honeysuckles came in at the open window, mingled
inextricably with the croon of the bees, but Miss Mehitable knew only
that it was Summer, that the world was young, but she was old and alone
and would be alone for the rest of her life.

She leaned forward to look at the picture, and Anthony Dexter smiled
back at her, boyish, frank, eager, lovable. A tear dropped on the
pictured face--not the first one, for the photograph was blistered
oddly here and there.

"I've done all I could," said Miss Mehitable to herself, as she wrapped
it up again in its many yellowed folds of muslin. "I thought Minty
would be happier so, but maybe, after all, God knows best."




XXV

Redeemed

Miss Evelina sat alone, in her house, at peace with Anthony Dexter and
with all the world. The surging flood of forgiveness and compassion
which had swept over her as she gazed at his dead face, had broken down
all barriers, abrogated all reserves. She saw that Piper Tom was
right; had she forgiven him, she would have been free long ago.

She shrank no longer from her kind, but yearned, instead, for friendly
companionship. Once she had taken off her veil and started down the
road to Miss Mehitable's, but the habit of the years was strong upon
her, and she turned back, affrighted, when she came within sight of the
house.

Since she left the hospital, no human being had seen her face, save
Anthony Dexter and his son. She had crept, nun-like, into the shelter
of her chiffon, dimly taking note of a world which could not, in turn,
look upon her. She clung to it still, yet perceived that it was a lie.

She studied herself in the mirror, no longer hating the sight of her
own face. She was not now blind to her own beauty, nor did she fail to
see that transfiguring touch of sorrow and peace. These two are
sculptors, one working both from within and without, and the other only
from within.

Why should she not put her veil forever away from her now? Why should
she not meet the world face to face, as frankly as the world met her?
Why should she delay?

She had questioned herself continually, but found no answer. Since she
came back to her old home, she had been mysteriously led. Perhaps she
was to be led further through the deep mazes of life--it was not only
possible, but probable.

"I'll wait," she said to herself, "for a sign."

She had not seen the Piper since the day they met so strangely, with
Anthony Dexter lying dead between them. Quite often, however, she had
heard the flute, usually at sunrise or sunset, afar off in the hills.
Once, at the hour of the turning night, the melody had come to her on
the first grey winds of dawn.

A robin had waked to answer it, for the Piper's fluting was wondrously
like his own voice.

Contrasting her present peace with her days of torment. Miss Evelina
thrilled with gratitude to Piper Tom, who had taken the weeds out of
her garden in more senses than one. His hand had guided her, slowly,
yet surely, to the heights of calm. She saw her life now as a desolate
valley lying between two peaks. One was sunlit, yet opaline with the
mists of morning; the other was scarcely a peak, but merely a high and
grassy plain upon which the afternoon shadows lay long.

Ah, but there were terrors in the dark valley which lay between! Sharp
crags and treeless wastes, tortuous paths and abysmal depths, with
never a rest for the wayfarer who struggled blindly on. She was not
yet so secure upon the height that she could contemplate the valley
unmoved.

Her house was immaculate, now, and was kept so by her own hands. At
first, she had not cared, and the dust and the cobwebs had not mattered
at all. Miss Mehitable, in the beginning, had inspired her to
housewifely effort, and Doctor Ralph's personal neatness had made her
ashamed. She worked in the garden, too, keeping the brick-bordered
paths free from weeds, and faithfully attending to every plant.

Yet life seemed strangely empty, lifted above its all-embracing pain.
The house and garden did not occupy her fully, and she had few books.
These were all old ones, and she knew them by heart, though she had
found some pleasure in reading again the well-thumbed fairy books of
her childhood.

She had read the book which Ralph had brought Araminta, and thought of
asking him to lend her more--if she ever saw him again. She knew that
he was very busy, but she felt that, surely, he would come again before
long.

Araminta danced up the path, singing, and rapped at Miss Evelina's
door. When she came in, it was like a ray of sunlight in a gloomy
place.

"Miss Evelina!" she cried; "Oh, Miss Evelina! I'm going to be married!"

"I'm glad," said Evelina, tenderly, yet with a certain wistfulness.
Once the joy of it had been in her feet, too, and the dread valley of
desolation had opened before her.

"See!" cried Araminta, extending a dimpled hand. "See my ring! It's
my engagement ring," she added, proudly.

Miss Evelina winced a little behind her veil, for the ring was the one
Anthony Dexter had given her soon after their betrothal. Fearing
gossip, she had refused to wear it until after they were married. So
he had taken it, to have it engraved, but, evidently, the engraving had
never been done. Otherwise Ralph would not have given it to
Araminta--she was sure of that.

"It was his mother's ring, Miss Evelina, and now it's mine. His father
loved his mother just as Ralph loves me. It's so funny not to have to
say 'Doctor Ralph.' Oh, I'm so glad I broke my ankle! He's coming,
but I wanted to come first by myself. I made him wait for five minutes
down under the elm because I wanted to tell you first. I told Aunt
Hitty, all alone, and I wasn't a bit afraid. Oh, Miss Evelina, I wish
you had somebody to love you as he loves me!"

"So do I," murmured Evelina, grateful for the chiffon that hid her
tears.

"Wasn't there ever anybody?"

"Yes."

"I knew it--you're so sweet nobody could help loving you. Did he die?"

"Yes."

"It was that way with Mr. Thorpe," mused Araminta, reminiscently.
"They loved each other and were going to be married, but she died. He
said, though, that death didn't make any difference with loving.
There's Ralph, now."

"Little witch," said the boy, fondly, as she met him at the door; "did
you think I could wait a whole five minutes?"

They sat in the parlour for half an hour or more, and during this time
it was not necessary for their hostess to say a single word. They were
quite unaware that they were not properly conducting a three-sided
conversation, and Miss Evelina made no effort to enlighten them. Youth
and laughter and love had not been in her house before for a quarter of
a century.

"Come again," she begged, when they started home. Joy incarnate was a
welcome guest--it did not mock her now.

Half-way down the path, Ralph turned back to the veiled woman who stood
wistfully in the doorway. Araminta was swinging, in childish fashion,
upon the gate. Ralph took Miss Evelina's hand in his.

"I wish I could say all I feel," he began, awkwardly, "but I can't.
With all my heart, I wish I could give some of my happiness to you!"

"I am content--since I have forgiven."

"If you had not, I could never have been happy again, and even now, I
still feel the shame of it. Are you going to wear that--veil--always?"

"No," she whispered, shrinking back into the shelter of it, "but I am
waiting for a sign."

"May it soon come," said Ralph, earnestly.

"I am used to waiting. My life has been made up of waiting. God bless
you," she concluded, impulsively.

"And you," he answered, touching his lips to her hand. He started
away, but she held him back. "Ralph," she said, passionately, "be true
to her, be good to her, and never let her doubt you. Teach her to
trust you, and make yourself worthy of her trust. Never break a
promise made to her, though it cost you everything else you have in the
world. I am old, and I know that, at the end, nothing counts for an
instant beside the love of two. Remember that keeping faith with her
is keeping faith with God!"

"I will," returned Ralph, his voice low and uneven. "It is what my own
mother would have said to me had she been alive to-day. I thank you."


The house was very lonely after they had gone, though the echoes of
love and laughter seemed to have come back to a place where they once
held full sway. The afternoon wore to its longest shadows and the
dense shade of the cypress was thrown upon the garden. Evelina smiled
to herself, for it was only a shadow.

The mignonette breathed fragrance into the dusk. Scent of lavender and
rosemary filled the stillness with balm. Drowsy birds chirped sleepily
in their swaying nests, and the fairy folk of field and meadow set up a
whirr of melodious wings. White, ghostly moths fluttered, cloud-like,
over the quiet garden, and here and there a tiny lamp-bearer starred
the night. A flaming meteor sped across the uncharted dark of the
heavens, where only the love-star shone. The moon had not yet risen.

From within, Evelina recognised the sturdy figure of Piper Tom, and
went out to meet him as he approached. She had drawn down her veil,
but her heart was strangely glad.

"Shall we sit in the garden?" she asked.

"Aye, in the garden," answered the Piper, "since 't is for the last
time."

His voice was sad, and Evelina yearned to help him, even as he had
helped her. "What is it?" she asked. "Is it anything you can tell me?"

"Only that I'll be trudging on to-morrow. My work here is done. I can
do no more."

"Then let me tell you how grateful I am for all you have done for me.
You made me see things in their true relation and taught me how to
forgive. I was in bondage, and you made me free."

The Piper sprang to his feet. "Spinner in the Sun," he cried, "is it
true? Just as I thought your night was endless, has the light come?
Tell me again," he pleaded, "ah, tell me 't is true!"

"It is true," said Evelina, with solemn joy. "In all my heart there is
nothing but forgiveness. The anger and resentment are gone--all gone."

"Spinner in the Sun!" breathed the Piper, scarcely conscious that he
spoke the words aloud. "My Spinner in the Sun!"

Slowly the moon climbed toward the zenith, and still, because there was
no need, they spoke no word. Dew rose whitely from the clover fields
beyond, veiling them as with white chiffon. It was the Piper, at last,
who broke the silence.

"When I trudge on to-morrow," he said, "'t will be with a glad heart,
even though the little chap is no longer with me. 'T is a fair, brave
world, I'm thinking, since I've set your threads to going right again.
I called you," he added, softly, "and you came."

"Yes," said Evelina, happily, "you called me, and I came."

"Spinner in the Sun," said the Piper, tenderly, "have you guessed my
work?"

"Why, keeping the shop, isn't it?" asked Evelina, wonderingly; "the
needles and thread and pins and buttons and all the little trifles that
women need? A pedler's pack, set up in a house?"

The Piper laughed. "No," he replied, "I'm thinking that is not my
work, nor yet the music that has no tune, which I'm for ever playing on
my flute. Lady, I have travelled far, and seen much, and always there
has been one thing that is strangest of all. In every place that I
have been in yet, there has been a church and a minister, whose
business was to watch over human souls.

"He's told them what was right according to his own thinking, which I'm
far from saying isn't true for him, and never minded anything more. In
spite of blood and tears and agony, he's always held up the one
standard, and, I'm thinking, has always pointed to the hardest way to
reach it. The way has been so hard that many have never reached it at
all, and those who have--I've not seen that they are the happiest or
the kindest, nor that they are loved the most.

"In the same place, too, there is always a doctor, whose business it is
to watch over the body. If you have a broken leg or a broken arm, or a
fever, he can set you right again. Blind eyes can be made to see, and
deaf ears made to hear, but, Lady, who is there to care about a broken
heart?

"I have taken in my pedler's pack the things that women need, because
't is women, mostly, who bear the heartaches of the world, and I come
closer to them so. What you say I have done for you, I have done for
many more. I'm trying to make the world a bit easier for all women
because a woman gave me life. And because I love another woman in
another way," he added, his voice breaking, "I'll be trudging on
to-morrow alone, though 't would be easier, I'm thinking, to linger
here."

Evelina's heart leaped with a throb of the old pain. "Tell me about
her," she said, because it seemed the only thing to say.

"The woman I love," answered the Piper, "is not for me. She'd never be
thinking of stooping to such as I, and I'd not be insulting her by
asking. She's very proud, but she could be tender if she chose, and
she's the bravest soul I ever knew--so brave that she fears neither
death nor life, though life itself has not been kind.

"Her little feet have been set upon the rough pathways, almost since
the beginning, and her hands catch at my heart-strings, they are so
frail. They're fluttering always like frightened birds, and the
fluttering is in her voice, too."

"And her face?"

"Ah, but I've dreamed of her face! I've thought it was noble beyond
all words, with eyes like the first deep violets of Spring, but filled
with compassion for all the world. So brave, so true, so tender it
might be that I'm thinking if I could see it once, with love on it for
me, that I'd never be asking more."

"Why haven't you seen her face?" asked Evelina, idly, to relieve an
awkward pause. "Is she only a dream-woman?"

"Nay, she's not a dream-woman. She lives and breathes as dreams never
do, but she hides her face because she is so beautiful. She veils her
face from me as once she veiled her soul."

Then, at last, Evelina understood. She felt the hot blood mantling her
face, and was thankful, once more, for the shelter of her chiffon.

"Spinner in the Sun," said the Piper, with suppressed tenderness, "were
you thinking I could see you more than once or twice and not be caring?
Were you thinking I could have the inmost soul of me torn because you'd
been hurt, and never be knowing what lay beyond it, for me? Were you
thinking I could be talking to you day after day, without having the
longing to talk with you always? And now that I've done my best for
you, and given you all that rests with me for giving, do you see why
I'll be trudging on to-morrow, alone?

"'T is not for me to be asking it, for God knows I could never be
worthy, but I've thought of Heaven as a place where you and I might
fare together always, with me to heal your wounds, help you over the
rough places, and guide you through the dark. That part of it, I'm to
have, I'm thinking, for God has been very good to me. I'm to know that
wherever you are, you re happy at last, because it's been given me to
lead you into the light. I called you, and you came."

"Yes," said Evelina, her voice lingering upon the words, "you called me
and I came, and was redeemed. Tell me, in your thought of Heaven, have
you ever asked to see my face?"

"Nay," cried the Piper, "do you think I'd be asking for what you hide
from me? I know that 't is because you are so beautiful, and such
beauty is not for my eyes to see."

"Piper Tom," she answered; "dear Piper Tom! I told you once that I had
been terribly burned. I was hurt so badly that when the man I was
pledged to marry, and whose life I had saved, was told that every
feature of mine was destroyed except my sight, he went away, and never
came back any more."

"The brute who hurt Laddie," he said, in a low tone. "I told him then
that a man who would torture a dog would torture a woman, too. I'd not
be minding the scars," he added, "since they're brave scars, and not
the marks of sin or shame. I'm thinking that 't is the brave scars
that have made you so beautiful--so beautiful," he repeated, "that you
hide your face."

Into Evelina's heart came something new and sweet--that perfect,
absolute, unwavering trust which a woman has but once in her life and
of which Anthony Dexter had never given her the faintest hint. All at
once, she knew that she could not let him go; that he must either stay,
or take her, too.

She leaned forward. "Piper Tom," she said, unashamed, "when you go,
will you take me with you? I think we belong together--you and I."

"Belong together?" he repeated, incredulously. "Ah, 't is your
pleasure to mock me. Oh, my Spinner in the Sun, why would you wish to
hurt me so?"

Tears blinded Evelina so that, through her veil, and in the night, she
could not see at all. When the mists cleared, he was gone.




XXVI

The Lifting of the Veil

From afar, at the turn of night, came the pipes o' Pan--the wild,
mysterious strain which had first summoned Evelina from pain to peace.
At the sound, she sat up in bed, her heavy, lustreless white hair
falling about her shoulders. She guessed that Piper Tom was out upon
the highway, with his pedler's pack strapped to his sturdy back. As in
a vision, she saw him marching onward from place to place, to make the
world easier for all women because a woman had given him life, and
because he loved another woman in another way.

Was it always to be so, she wondered; should she for ever thirst while
others drank? While others loved, must she eternally stand aside
heart-hungry? Unyielding Fate confronted her, veiled inscrutably, but
she guessed that the veil concealed a mocking smile.

Out of her Nessus-robe of agony, Evelina had emerged with one truth.
Whatever is may not be right, but it is the outcome of deep and
far-reaching forces with which our finite hands may not meddle. The
problem has but one solution--adjustment. Hedged in by the iron bars
of circumstance as surely as a bird within his cage, it remains for the
individual to choose whether he will beat his wings against the bars
until he dies, or take his place serenely on the perch ordained for
him--and sing.

Within his cage, the bird may do as he likes. He may sleep or eat or
bathe, or whet his beak uselessly against the cuttlebone thrust between
the bars. He may hop about endlessly and chirp salutations to other
birds, likewise caged, or he may try his eager wings in a flight which
is little better than no flight at all. His cage may be a large one,
yet, if he explores far enough, he will most surely bruise his body
against the bars of circumstance. With beak and claws and constant
toil he may, perhaps, force an opening in the bars wide enough to get
through, slowly, and with great discomfort. He has gained, however,
only a larger cage.

If he is a wise bird, he settles down and tries to become satisfied
with his surroundings; even to gather pleasure from the gilt wires and
the cuttlebone thrust picturesquely between them. When the sea gull
wings his majestic way past his habitation, free as the wind itself,
the wise bird will close his eyes, and affect not to see. So, also,
will the gull, for there is no loneliness comparable with unlimited
freedom.

Upon the heights, the great ones stand--alone. To the dweller in the
valley, those distant peaks are clad in more than mortal splendour.
Time and distance veil the jagged cliffs and hide the precipices. Day
comes first to the peaks and lingers there longest; while it is night
in the valley, there is still afterglow upon the hills.

Perhaps, some dweller in the valley longs for the height, and sets
forth, heeding not the eager hands that, selfishly, as it seems, would
keep him within their loving reach. Having once turned his face
upward, he does not falter, even for the space of a backward look. He
finds that the way is steep, that there is no place to rest, and that
the comfort and shelter of the valley are unknown. The sun burns him,
and the cold freezes his very blood, for there are only extremes on the
way to the peak. Glittering wastes of ice dazzle him and snow blinds
him, with terror and not with beauty as from below. The opaline mists
are gone, and he sees with dreadful clearness the path which lies
immediately ahead.

Beyond, there is emptiness, vast as the desert. At the timber line, he
pauses, and, for the first time, looks back. Ah, how fair the valley
lies below him! The silvery ribbon of the river winds through a
pageantry of green and gold. Upon the banks are woodland nooks,
fragrant with growing things and filled with a tender quiet broken only
by the murmer of the stream. The turf is soft and cool to the
wayfarer's tired feet, and there is crystal water in abundance to
quench his thirst.

But, from the peak, no traveller returns, for the way is hopelessly cut
off. Above the timber line there is only a waste of rock, worn by vast
centuries in which every day is an ordinary lifetime, into small,
jagged stones that cut the feet. The crags are thunder-swept and blown
by cataclysmic storms of which the dwellers in the valley have never
dreamed. In the unspeakable loneliness, the pilgrim abides for ever
with his mocking wreath of laurel, cheered only by a rumbling,
reverberant "All Hail!" which comes, at age-long intervals, from some
peak before whose infinite distance his finite sight fails.

At intervals throughout the day, Miss Evelina heard the Piper's flute,
always from the hills. Each time it brought her comfort, for she knew
that, as yet, he had not gone. Once she fancied that he had gone long
ago, and some woodland deity, magically transported from ancient
Greece, had taken his place. Late in the afternoon, she heard it once,
but so far and faintly that she guessed it was for the last time.

In her garden there were flowers, blooming luxuriantly. From their
swaying censers, fragrant incense filled the air. The weeds had been
taken out and no trace was left. From the garden of her heart the
weeds were gone, too, but there were no flowers. Rue and asphodel had
been replaced by lavender and rosemary; the deadly black poppy had been
uprooted, and where it had grown there were spikenard and balm. Yet,
as the Piper had said, she asked for roses, and it is not every garden
in which roses will bloom.

At dusk she went out into her transformed garden. Where once the
thorns had held her back, the paths were straight and smooth. Dense
undergrowth and clinging vines no longer made her steps difficult.
Piper Tom had made her garden right, and opened before her, clearly,
the way of her soul.

In spite of the beauty there was desolation, because the cheery
presence had gone to return no more. Her loneliness was so acute that
it was almost pain, and yet the pain was bearable, because he had
taught her how to endure and to look beyond.

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