A Lady of Yesterday
"A LIGHT wind blew from the gatesof the sun," the morning she firstwalked down the street of the little Iowatown. Not a cloud flecked the blue; therewas a humming of happy insects; a smell ofrich and moist loam perfumed the air, andin the dusk of beeches and of oaks stood thequiet homes. She paused now and then,looking in the gardens, or at a group ofchildren, then passed on, smiling in content.Her accent was so strange, that the agentfor real estate, whom she visited, asked her,twice and once again, what it was she said."I want," she had repeated smilingly,"an upland meadow, where clover willgrow, and mignonette."At the tea-tables that night, there was amighty chattering. The brisk village madea mystery of this lady with the slow step,the foreign trick of speech, the long blackgown, and the gentle voice. The men,concealing their curiosity in presence of thewomen, gratified it secretly, by saunteringto the tavern in the evening. There thekeeper and his wife stood ready to conveyany neighborly intelligence."Elizabeth Astrado" was written in theregister, -- a name conveying little, unaccompanied by title or by place of residence."She eats alone," the tavern-keeper'swife confided to their eager ears, "and asksfor no service. Oh, she's a curiosity!She's got her story, -- you'll see!"In a town where every man knew everyother man, and whether or not he paid histaxes on time, and what his standing was inchurch, and all the skeletons of his home, astranger alien to their ways disturbed theirpeace of mind."An upland meadow where clover andmignonette will grow," she had said, andsuch an one she found, and planted thickwith fine white clover and with mignonette.Then, while the carpenters raised her cabinat the border of the meadow, near the street,she passed among the villagers, minglingwith them gently, winning their good-will,in spite of themselves.The cabin was of unbarked maple logs,with four rooms and a rustic portico. Thenall the villagers stared in very truth. They,living in their trim and ugly little homes,accounted houses of logs as the misfortuneof their pioneer parents. A shed for wood,a barn for the Jersey cow, a rustic fence,tall, with a high swinging gate, completedthe domain. In the front room of the cabinwas a fireplace of rude brick. In the bedrooms, cots as bare and hard as a nun's, andin the kitchen the domestic necessaries;that was all. The poorest house-holder inthe town would not have confessed to suchscant furnishing. Yet the richest manmight well have hesitated before he sent toFrance for hives and hives of bees, as shedid, setting them up along the southernborder of her meadow.Later there came strong boxes, markedwith many marks of foreign transportationlines, and the neighbor-gossips, seeingthem, imagined wealth of curious furniture;but the man who carted them told his wife,who told her friend, who told her friend,that every box to the last one was placed inthe dry cemented cellar, and left there inthe dark."An' a mighty ridic'lous expense a cellarlike that is, t' put under a house of thatchar'cter," said the man to his wife -- whorepeated it to her friend."But that ain't all," the carpenter's wifehad said when she heard about it all,"Hank says there is one little room, not fitfor buttery nor yet fur closit, with a windowhigh up -- well, you ken see yourself --an' a strong door. Jus' in passin' th' otherday, when he was there, hangin' someshelves, he tried it, an' it was locked!""Well!" said the women who listened.However, they were not unfriendly, thesebrisk gossips. Two of them, plucking uptardy courage, did call one afternoon. Theirhostess was out among her bees, crooning tothem, as it seemed, while they lighted allabout her, lit on the flower in her dark hair,buzzed vivaciously about her snow-whitelinen gown, lighted on her long, dark hands.She came in brightly when she saw herguests, and placed chairs for them, courteously, steeped them a cup of pale and fragrant tea, and served them with little cakes.Though her manner was so quiet and sokind, the women were shy before her. She,turning to one and then the other, askedquestions in her quaint way."You have children, have you not?"Both of them had."Ah," she cried, clasping those slenderhands, "but you are very fortunate! Yourlittle ones, -- what are their ages?"They told her, she listening smilingly."And you nurse your little babes -- younurse them at the breast?"The modest women blushed. They werenot used to speaking with such freedom.But they confessed they did, not liking artificial means."No," said the lady, looking at themwith a soft light in her eyes, "as you say,there is nothing like the good motherNature. The little ones God sends shouldlie at the breast. 'Tis not the milk alonethat they imbibe; it is the breath of life, --it is the human magnetism, the power, --how shall I say? Happy the mother whohas a little babe to hold!"They wanted to ask a question, but theydared not -- wanted to ask a hundred questions. But back of the gentleness was ahauteur, and they were still."Tell me," she said, breaking herreverie, "of what your husbands do. Arethey carpenters? Do they build houses formen, like the blessed Jesus? Or are theytillers of the soil? Do they bring fruits outof this bountiful valley?"They answered, with a reservation of approval. "The blessed Jesus!" It soundedlike popery.She had gone from these brief personalmatters to other things."How very strong you people seem," shehad remarked. "Both your men and yourwomen are large and strong. You shouldbe, being appointed to subdue a continent.Men think they choose their destinies, butindeed, good neighbors, I think not so.Men are driven by the winds of God's will.They are as much bidden to build up thisvalley, this storehouse for the nations, ascoral insects are bidden to make the reefswith their own little bodies, dying as theybuild. Is it not so?""We are the creatures of God's will, Isuppose," said one of her visitors, piously.She had given them little confidences inreturn."I make my bread," she said, with childish pride, "pray see if you do not think itexcellent!" And she cut a flaky loaf to display its whiteness. One guest summonedthe bravado to inquire, --"Then you are not used to doing housework?""I?" she said, with a slow smile, "I havenever got used to anything, -- not even living." And so she baffled them all, yet wonthem.The weeks went by. Elizabeth Astradoattended to her bees, milked her cow, fedher fowls, baked, washed, and cleaned, likethe simple women about her, saving that asshe did it a look of ineffable content lightedup her face, and she sang for happiness.Sometimes, amid the ballads that shehummed, a strain slipped in of some greatmelody, which she, singing unaware, as itwere, corrected, shaking her finger in self-reproval, and returning again to the balladsand the hymns. Nor was she remiss inneighborly offices; but if any were ailing,or had a festivity, she was at hand to assist,condole, or congratulate, carrying alwayssome simple gift in her hand, appropriate tothe occasion.She had her wider charities too, for allshe kept close to her home. When, oneday, a story came to her of a laborer struckdown with heat in putting in a culvert onthe railroad, and gossip said he could notspeak English, she hastened to him, caughtdying words from his lips, whispered areply, and then what seemed to be a prayer,while he held fast her hand, and sank tocoma with wistful eyes upon her face.Moreover 'twas she who buried him, raising a cross above his grave, and she whoplanted rose-bushes about the mound."He spoke like an Italian," said the physician to her warily."And so he was," she had replied."A fellow-countryman of yours, nodoubt?""Are not all men our countrymen, myfriend?" she said, gently. "What are littlelines drawn in the imagination of men,dividing territory, that they should divideour sympathies? The world is my country-- and yours, I hope. Is it not so?"Then there had also been a hapless pair oflovers, shamed before their community, who,desperate, impoverished, and bewildered atthe war between nature and society, hadbeen helped by her into a new part of theworld. There had been a widow with manychildren, who had found baskets of cookedfood and bundles of well-made clothing onher step. And as the days passed, withthese pleasant offices, the face of the strangewoman glowed with an ever-increasing content, and her dark, delicate beauty grew.John Hartington spent his vacation atDes Moines, having a laudable desire tosee something of the world before returningto his native town, with his college honorsfresh upon him. Swiftest of the collegerunners was John Hartington, famed for hisleaping too, and measuring widest at thechest and waist of all the hearty fellows atthe university. His blond curls clusteredabove a brow almost as innocent as achild's; his frank and brave blue eyes, hisfree step, his mellow laugh, bespoke theperfect animal, unharmed by civilization,unperplexed by the closing century's fallacies and passions. The wholesome oakthat spreads its roots deep in the generoussoil, could not be more a part of naturethan he. Conscientious, unimaginative,direct, sincere, industrious, he was theideal man of his kind, and his return totown caused a flutter among the maidenswhich they did not even attempt to conceal.They told him all the chat, of course, and,among other things, mentioned the greatsensation of the year, -- the coming of thewoman with her mystery, the purchase ofthe sunny upland, the planting it withclover and with mignonette, the buildingof the house of logs, the keeping of thebees, the barren rooms, the busy, silentlife, the charities, the never-ending wonderof it all. And then the woman -- kind, yetdifferent from the rest, with the foreigntrick of tongue, the slow, proud walk, thedelicate, slight hands, the beautiful, beautiful smile, the air as of a creature fromanother world.Hartington, strolling beyond the villagestreets, up where the sunset died in daffodilabove the upland, saw the little cot of logs,and out before it, among blood-red poppies,the woman of whom he had heard. Hergown of white gleamed in that eerie radiance, glorified, her sad great eyes bent onhim in magnetic scrutiny. A peace andplenitude of power came radiating fromher, and reached him where he stood, suddenly, and for the first time in his carelesslife, struck dumb and awed. She, too,seemed suddenly abashed at this great bulkof youthful manhood, innocent and strong.She gazed on him, and he on her, bothchained with some mysterious enchantment. Yet neither spoke, and he, turningin bewilderment at last, went back to town,while she placed one hand on her lips tokeep from calling him. And neither sleptthat night, and in the morning when shewent with milking pail and stool out to thegrassy field, there he stood at the bars,waiting. Again they gazed, like creaturesheld in thrall by some magician, till sheheld out her hand and said, --"We must be friends, although we havenot met. Perhaps we ARE old friends.They say there have been worlds before thisone. I have not seen you in these habiliments of flesh and blood, and yet -- wemay be friends?"John Hartington, used to the thin jestsof the village girls, and all their simpletalk, rose, nevertheless, enlightened ashe was with some strange sympathy withher, to understand and answer what shesaid."I think perhaps it may be so. May Icome in beside you in the field? Give methe pail. I'll milk the cow for you."She threw her head back and laughedlike a girl from school, and he laughed too,and they shook hands. Then she sat nearhim while he milked, both keeping silence,save for the p-rring noise he made with hislips to the patient beast. Being through,she served him with a cupful of the fragrant milk; but he bade her drink first,then drank himself, and then they laughedagain, as if they both had found somethingnew and good in life.Then she, --"Come see how well my bees are doing."And they went. She served him with thelucent syrup of the bees, perfumed with themignonette, -- such honey as there neverwas before. He sat on the broad doorstep,near the scarlet poppies, she on the grass,and then they talked -- was it one goldenhour -- or two? Ah, well, 'twas longenough for her to learn all of his simplelife, long enough for her to know that hewas victor at the races at the school, thathe could play the pipe, like any shepherdof the ancient days, and when he went heasked her if he might return."Well," laughed she, "sometimes I amlonely. Come see me -- in a week."Yet he was there that day at twilight,and he brought his silver pipe, and pipedto her under the stars, and she sung balladsto him, -- songs of Strephon and timeswhen the hills were young, and flocks werefairer than they ever be these days."To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow," and still the intercourse, still herdark loveliness waxing, still the weavingof the mystic spell, still happiness as primitive and as sweet as ever Eden knew.Then came a twilight when the sweetrain fell, and on the heavy air the perfumesof the fields floated. The woman stood bythe window of the cot, looking out. Tall,graceful, full of that subtle power whichdrew his soul; clothed in white linen, fragrant from her fields, with breath freightedwith fresh milk, with eyes of flame, shewas there to be adored. And he, beingman of manliest type, forgot all that mighthave checked the words, and poured hissoul out at her feet. She drew herself uplike a queen, but only that she mightlook queenlier for his sake, and, bending,kissed his brow, and whispered back hisvows.And they were married.The villagers pitied Hartington."She's more than a match for him inyears -- an' in some other ways, as like asnot," they said. "Besides, she ain't muchinclined to mention anything about herpast. 'Twon't bear the tellin' probably."As for the lovers, they laughed as theywent about their honest tasks, or sattogether arms encircling each at evening,now under the stars, and now before theirfire of wood. They talked together of theirfarm, added a field for winter wheat,bought other cattle, and some horses, whichthey rode out over the rolling prairies sideby side. He never stopped to chat aboutthe town; she never ventured on the streetwithout him by her side. Truth to tell,their neighbors envied them, marvellinghow one could extract a heaven out ofearth, and what such perfect joy couldmean.Yet, for all their prosperity, not one addition did they make to that most simplehome. It stood there, with its bare necessities, made beautiful only with their love.But when the winter was most gone, hemade a little cradle of hard wood, in whichshe placed pillows of down, and over whichshe hung linen curtains embroidered by herhand.In the long evenings, by the flicker ofthe fire, they sat together, cheek to cheek,and looked at this little bed, singing lowsongs together."This happiness is terrible, my John,"she said to him one night, -- a wondrousnight, when the eastern wind had flung thetassels out on all the budding trees ofspring, and the air was throbbing withawakening life, and balmy puffs of breeze,and odors of the earth. "And we are growing young. Do you not think that we arevery young and strong?"He kissed her on the lips. "I know thatyou are beautiful," he said."Oh, we have lived at Nature's heart,you see, my love. The cattle and thefowls, the honey and the wheat, the cot --the cradle, John, and you and me! Thesethings make happiness. They are nature.But then, you cannot understand. Youhave never known the artificial --""And you, Elizabeth?""John, if you wish, you shall hear all Ihave to tell. 'Tis a long, long, weary tale.Will you hear it now? Believe me, it willmake us sad."She grasped his arm till he shrank withpain."Tell what you will and when you will,Elizabeth. Perhaps, some day -- when --"he pointed to the little crib."As you say." And so it dropped.There came a day when Hartington, sitting upon the portico, where perfumes ofthe budding clover came to him, hated thehumming of the happy bees, hated the rustling of the trees, hated the sight of earth."The child is dead," the nurse had said,"as for your wife, perhaps --" but that wasall. Finally he heard the nurse's stepupon the floor."Come, "she said, motioning him. Andhe had gone, laid cheek against that dyingcheek, whispered his love once more, sawit returned even then, in those deep eyes,and laid her back upon her pillow, dead.He buried her among the mignonette,levelled the earth, sowed thick the seedagain."'Tis as she wished," he said.With his strong hands he wrenched thelittle crib, laid it piece by piece upon theirhearth, and scattered then the sacred asheson the wind. Then, with hard-comingbreath, broke open the locked door of thatroom which he had never entered, thinkingto find there, perhaps, some sign of thatunguessable life of hers, but found thereonly an altar, with votive lamps before theBlessed Virgin, and lilies faded and fallenfrom their stems.Then down into the cellar went he, tothose boxes, with the foreign marks. Andthen, indeed, he found a hint of that deadlife. Gowns of velvet and of silk, such asprincesses might wear, wonders of lace,yellowed with time, great cloaks of snowyfur, lustrous robes, jewels of worth, -- a vastarray of brilliant trumpery. Then therewere books in many tongues, with rich oldbindings and illuminated page, and inthem written the dead woman's name, -- aname of many parts, with titles of impress,and in the midst of all the name, "Elizabeth Astrado," as she said.And that was all, or if there were morehe might have learned, following trailsthat fell within his way, he never learnedit, being content, and thankful that hehad held her for a time within his arms,and looked in her great soul, which, wearying of life's sad complexities, had simplified itself, and made his love its bestadornment.
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