Mrs. Wilson Woodrow

“ THERE are seasons when life is like a dried gourd of a past summer filled with the arid rattle of seeds; and all the myriad voices of the universe which once held for us the most poignant meanings are silent, or, if they speak at all, it is a babble of strange tongues, a meaningless clamor falling on wearied and unheeding ears.
For days this had been the experience of Christine Wickham, and she expressed in manner and appearance this mood as she walked up Fifth Avenue one afternoon in late December. ”

“ A wood fire burned on the hearth, and the scarlet berries and the upward leaping flames were the only points of brilliant color. Christine, as she stood smiling at him, seemed the living expression of her surroundings. If one understood all that that room said, one understood Christine, but Flessing knew now that he never had understood her. Undemonstrative, restrained in manner and expression, she haunted the imagination with puzzling suggestions of warmth and ardor which one could never define. ”

“ The world meant nothing to me; I left it. I had denied love, and life denied me.
“But when I saw your picture yesterday it seemed to set me free a little. Why—when I awoke this morning, I saw beauty again; beauty in that white world out there.” She waved her hand toward the window. “I heard again the bells chiming very faintly and far, far away, but still the bells.”
The candle had burned to its socket and now it flamed bravely, giving out its bayberry fragrance.
“Why, Christine!” Flessing cried loudly, leaning forward. “The shadow has gone from your face!” ”

“ Must not so much sunlight have its corresponding dark? You have said, 'such natures inherit the earth.' But those who have all, by a paradox—life's paradox—have nothing. One who has pierced the veil so far as that man of the picture, must see the illusoriness of all things, and in that dark and terrible moment of reaction, the vision goes—is lost to him. ”

“ The world had always been full of intimations of joy and beauty, perhaps not felt, but always divined. Why, the sight of a flower would cause my heart to lift with joy; in my ears was always an unheard music, as if sweet, echoing bells had always just rung, or were just about to ring. But that quite left me; the world became toneless, drained of color. ”

“ It lacks so entirely the ethical quality.”
Christine started. Color flashed all over her face. She felt as if she had been overheard arranging a rendezvous, It was indeed time she went home. Absurdly embarrassed, she left the gallery with down-bent head and hasty steps; but the shame was superficial, while the exultation of being recalled to life increased. She felt as she walked homeward as if she had entered another phase of existence; she who had been dead was alive again. No, had received an intimation of what life might be, and had stirred and thrilled and tingled in her cerements. ”

“ She rose in the strength of her denial. “I see him forever in his eternal youth, haunting the forest, listening to the whispers of oak, and ash, and pine, scooping up bubbles of laughter from remote forest pools, and then passing singing into fields of ripe wheat and scarlet poppies.”
“No.” Flessing shook his head sadly. “Great was my gift, and I perfected it. Great is my technique, but what shall it profit me without the vision? I have nothing, if I have not love. Travestied, ignored, debased, love is the beauty, the light of the world, and how may I see without it, Christine ”

“ Then Flessing mentioned her name, and Christine lifted her head to greet him.
“Mrs. Wickham,” he said, and there was a flattering breathlessness in his voice, “Mrs. Wickham, it is Christmas Eve, and I am the loneliest man in New York. May I walk home with you?”
“The loneliest man in New York!” she repeated. “And I am the loneliest woman. What,” with one of her sweet yet constrained smiles, “is more fitting than that we walk home together?” ”

“ The man of that picture must have heard tones of music which never penetrate our dull ears; he must have seen shades of color and a blending of shades infinitely subtle which make the hues discerned by the ordinary person seem intolerably crude. ”

“ On her moon-pale face, uplifted to his, a lambent glow came and went.
“Such natures inherit the earth,” she murmured, “and what an earth! Kingdoms of light to which our plodding thought may never rise!” ”

“ She nodded, glancing toward the window. “It is not quite dark enough now. So sit here a little while in this easy-chair and I will play to you.”
“It is too good to be true,” he said positively. “Ah, Christine, what rest, what peace! You have brought me to some far country, some land of dreams.”
She smiled and moved toward the piano, but made no reply. Christine had the gift of silence, a most gracious gift with her, more eloquent than speech.
For a time, as he lay back in his chair and listened with closed eyes, Flessing could not have told just what she was playing ”

“ It must be lighted, you know, just at dusk on Christmas night, and then, if it burns down to the socket without going out, it will bring luck, and health, and happiness to all within the house for the coming year. Give me a splinter from the fire. We must do things in the old primitive way to-night.”
She took the flaming bit of wood from him, and carefully lighted the candle.
“Now,” she said, turning to Flessing again, “while the candle burns, we are going to talk about your picture.” ”