Chapter XXX: Eden in the Attic

I sometimes wonder what the other guests thought of our behaviour at breakfast the next morning. Uncle was simply ridiculously happy, even boisterously so. And he wouldn't hear to any dissent from the project that possessed his mind. We must all go South with him, and that was the end of it. He and Aunt Agnes had never had a difference in all their married life, he said, but the trouble would begin right there if he went back without us! And he settled the whole thing an hour later by suddenly appearing, after a very mysterious absence, and flaunting in our faces the tickets for the entire party. They were taken via the Old Dominion Line; and the little sea voyage would be the very thing for all of us,--and Harold had assured him that a release from his company could be easily arranged. So Gordon left it to me again--and I left it to Harold, and Harold elected to see his mother's old Virginia home. Dorothy lent loud approval.

Thirty-six hours later we were in the dear old Southern town, driving from the old familiar station along the old familiar street. My heart was full; its burden was partly sadness, altogether song.

"Stop here," Gordon suddenly said to the driver as we turned on to a street neither of us was likely to forget. "Come, Helen," as he held out his hand to help me from my seat.

I knew. It was under that very elm, just opposite the church, I had first come face to face with love--even if I did have a pitcher in my hand, _going for the cream_.

"Drive on," said Gordon; "we'll join you later," and the carriage rolled away.

We followed, slowly; sometimes looking up into the deep shade of the bending elms, sometimes into each other's faces; with much of speech we walked--of silence, sweeter silence, more.

Soon a turn in the road brought us in full view of uncle's house. There it stood, ivy-clad, the same stately, frowning structure, looking forth at us as calmly as though we had gone away but yesterday. There was the magnolia tree beside the steps of stone, not now in bloom but still spreading forth in umbrageous beauty. And there, just beyond, flowing still, its copious stream unfailing, rolled the shining river; rolling on, as time rolls on, unhasting, unresting, bearing all its burdens in silence to the sea. The years had passed and fled, yet the selfsame wavelets could be seen--oh, parable of Time! And the bridge was there; repaired and strengthened some, yet the same bridge it was on which I had seen the love-lorn pair seek the shelter of the dark. And I felt a shudder thrill my frame as I descried the very pier that had been the scene of the tragedy but for which Gordon had never made his noble protest; but for which, our long years of exile had never been. I looked away.

Aunt Agnes was at the door as we climbed the steps of stone. She led me in and closed it tight before she told me, with love's speech of silentness, all the joy of welcome that was in her heart. She was thinking, and I was thinking, of the absent one--oh! why these ever-absent ones?--whose face was now withdrawn forever. I roamed the hall; I wandered about the broad porch; I drank my fill of the library, dearest of them all--my mother's face met me at every turn. And I wondered, with passionate hope that it might be so, if she knew that her child had returned to the scene of girlhood days once more; if she knew how laden with the spoils of time I came, rich in the harvest that love and sorrow give, anointed by the holy hand of suffering, by life's fleeting vanities beguiled no more.

"Show Harold through the house, Helen," uncle said to me when supper was over and the first tumult had subsided; "let him see the old place from cellar to attic. It will be his some day, I reckon," and his tone and glance left no doubt as to what he meant.

I did as he directed, partly. All but the attic. Not yet must any enter there but me. I soon restored Harold to the merry circle--and then my steps turned, almost reverently, towards that upper room. It did not take me long, what I had to do, for love's task is soon accomplished. And I knew it would not be in vain--I knew that Gordon would not fail me. Yet my heart beat fast as I turned at the attic door and looked back once more before I went down-stairs. Everything was perfect--and the gentle breeze was ruffling the curtain of the tiny window.

They were all in bed when Gordon and I betook ourselves to the room set apart for us. It was just above the parlour, the largest and most imposing apartment in all that roomy house. A large mahogany bed was planted, immovable, in the centre; hand-carving, richly wrought, made the ceiling and mantel things of beauty; oil-paintings hung upon the lofty wall; soft draperies bedecked the windows.

We closed the door and Gordon looked about the splendid room. I began unpacking a valise that lay upon the floor.

Suddenly he came over and stood beside me. One hand touched my shoulder and I looked up.

"We're not going to sleep here," he said quietly.

"Why?" I asked. "Where?" although I knew, and my bounding heart bespoke my joy.

"You know--come," with which he took up the valise and led the way aloft.

The roof was low and I think Gordon really bowed his head a little as we passed within that attic door. The same discarded articles, finding their limbo here, stood about the walls. But the fire was crackling on the hearth; the coverings on the bed were snowy white; the silver toilet-set on the old bureau was the same I had laid there so stealthily years before. And on the little table in the corner was a bowl of the choicest roses, their fragrance floating through the room.

I looked at Gordon. Perhaps I was just a little disappointed that he did not speak. His eyes rested on the fire, turned to the roses, lingering long.

"That's the same fire," he said slowly.

"Oh, Gordon," and I laughed; "how can you say that?"

"The very same," he persisted; "it never has gone out. And the roses too; they're the very same--they've never faded."

"I thought you'd want to come here," I said, stupidly enough; but I knew not what else to say. "You know, you said--long ago, when you first came here--you said you always loved an attic."

"Yes," he said simply, his eyes fixed on me; "yes, I do."

"Why?" I asked, though I knew it was such a foolish question.

He stood a long time silent in the firelight, his eyes never moving from my face. "Because it's nearest heaven," he answered low; "come, Helen"--and his arms were open wide.

THE END

* * * * *

By Robert E. Knowles

_The Attic Guest_

_The Web of Time_

_The Dawn at Shanty Bay_
Decorated and Illustrated by Griselda M. McClure.

_The Undertow_
A Tale of Both Sides of the Sea

_St. Cuthbert's_
A Parish Romance