"One must believe that there is a purpose in it," she responded, raising a handful of fine dust and sifting it through her fingers, "or one would go mad over the mystery of things.""Well, I dare say the purpose was to make me a tobacco-grower,"he replied grimly, "and if so, it has fulfilled itself in a precious way.Why, there's never been a time since I was ten years old when I wouldn't have changed places, and said 'thank you,' too, with any one of those old fellows over there.They were jolly chaps, I tell you, and led jolly lives.It used to be said of them that they never won a penny nor missed a kiss.""Nor learned a lesson, evidently.Well, may they rest in peace;but I'm not sure that their wisdom would carry far.There are better things than gaming and kissing, when all is said.""Better things? Perhaps."
"Have you not found them?"
"Not yet; but then, I can't judge anything except tobacco, you know."For a long pause she looked down into his upturned face.
"After all, it isn't the way we live nor the work we do that matters," she said slowly, "but the ideal we put into it.Is there any work too sordid, too prosaic, to yield a return of beauty?""Do you think so?" he asked, and glanced down the hill to his ploughshare lying in the ripped-up field."But it is not beauty that some of us want, you see--it's success, action, happiness, call it what you will.""Surely they are not the same.I have known many successful people, and the only three perfectly happy ones I ever met were what the world calls failures.""Failures?" he echoed, and remembered Tucker.
Her face softened, and she looked beyond him to the blue sky, shining through the interlacing branches of bared trees.
"Two were women," she pursued, clasping and unclasping the quiet hands in her lap, "and one was a Catholic priest who had been reared in a foundling asylum and educated by charity.When I knew him he was on his way to a leper island in the South Seas, where he would be buried alive for the remainder of his life.All he had was an ideal, but it flooded his soul with light.Another was a Russian Nihilist, a girl in years and yet an atheist and a revolutionist in thought, and her unbelief was in its way as beautiful as the religion of my priest.To return to Russia meant death; she knew, and yet she went back, devoted and exalted, to lay down her life for an illusion.So it seems, when one looks about the world, that faith and doubt are dry and inanimate forms until we pour forth our heart's blood, which vivifies them."She fell silent, and he started and touched softly the hem of her black skirt.
"And the other?" he asked.
"The other had a stranger and a longer story, but if you will listen I'll tell it to you.She was an Italian, of a very old and proud family, and as she possessed rare loveliness and charm, a marriage was arranged for her with a wealthy nobleman, who had fallen in love with her before she left her convent.She was a rebellious soul, it seems, for the day before her wedding, just after she had patiently tried on her veil and orange blossoms, she slipped into the dress of her waiting-maid and ran off with a music-teacher--a beggarly fanatic, they told me--a man of red republican views, who put dangerous ideas into the heads of the peasantry.From that moment, they said, her life was over; her family shut their doors upon her, and she fell finally so low as to be seen one evening singing in the public streets.Her story touched me when I heard it: it seemed a pitiable thing that a woman should be wrecked so hopelessly by a single moment of mistaken courage; and after months of searching I at last found the place she lived in, and went one May evening up the long winding staircase to her apartment--two clean, plain rooms which looked on a little balcony where there were pots of sweet basil and many pigeons.At my knock the door opened, and I knew her at once in the beautiful white face and hands of the woman who stood a little back in the shadow.Her forty years had not coarsened her as they do most Italian women, and her eyes still held the unshaken confidence of extreme youth.Her husband was sleeping in the next room, she said; he had but a few days more to live, and he had been steadily dying for a year.Then, at my gesture of sympathy, she shook her head and smiled.
"I have had twenty years," she said, "and I have been perfectly happy.Think of that when so many women die without having even a single day of life.Why, but for the one instant of courage that saved me, I myself might have known the world only as a vegetable knows the garden in which it fattens.My soul has lived, and though I have been hungry and cold and poorly clad, I have never sunk to the level of what they would have made me.He is a dreamer," she finished gently, "and though his dreams were nourished upon air, and never came true except in our thoughts, still they have touched even the most common things with beauty."While she talked, he awoke and called her, and we went in to see him.He complained a little fretfully that his feet were cold, and she knelt down and warmed them in the shawl upon her bosom.
The mark of death was on him, and I doubt if even in the fulness of his strength he were worthy of the passion he inspired--but that, after all, makes little difference.It was a great love, which is the next best thing to a great faith."As she ended, he raised his eyes slowly, catching the fervour of her glance.
"It was more than that--it was a great deliverance," he said.
Then, as she rose, he followed her from the graveyard, and they descended the low brown hill together.
CHAPTER VI.The Growing Light By the end of the week a long rain had set in, and while it lasted Christopher took down the tobacco hanging in the roof of the log barn and laid it in smooth piles, pressed down by boards on the ground.The tobacco was still soft from the moist season when Jim Weatherby, who had sold his earlier in the year, came over to help pack the large casks for market, bringing at the same time a piece of news concerning Bill Fletcher.
