War; or, What happens when one loves one's enemy/Chapter 39
XXXIX
AFTER THE STORY
THIS is the story which beautiful old Stephen Vonner told me in his apple-orchard one night in June. We sat under a low-boughed tree whose blossoms filtered lovingly down upon us all the long night. For the story began while the setting sun still glowed in our faces and went on through the nesting of the birds, the sleep-song of the cicadas, the amazing night-stillness; while the constellations reeled above and the serried Milky Way marched past; until the full moon rose, saying:
"Lo, I have looked upon wo for a million years! And it passes—always it passes. Have peace!" Until the risen sun peered, again, upon us through the dewy boughs, repeating its promise of a new day.
And, all these things of nature were appanages of the human story—the sympathetic accompaniment, if you like.
Then, when the sun was fully risen, Homeric Stephen Vonner lay his one arm upon the rude table where we sat, and his mighty tired head upon it, and slept—as, I think, he had not slept for long. For, his heart was shriven.
And I, who had come long miles, from a city, to hear his simple tale, rose softly and went my way, leaving him in the peace of God and his own dear land.
For, the pity of it all was strong upon me.
I walked beside a barely practicable road, upon wonderful moss, under thick-girthed, aromatic oaks whose branches met my bared and moody head.
It was haying time and the air was full of the fragrance of the new hay and all was green—save where the fields of yellowing grain stood out, laughing and happy, proclaiming their sovereignty of the land.
The hum of a mower reached me, and the happy laughter of the makers of hay—a song!
And, as I passed into the day, there came to sight a pasture with kindly-eyed, ruminating kine deep in a stream, under that shadow of mighty trees.
Indeed, one of the intense beauties of this land was these islands of great trees standing out from the grain and clover and timothy, webbed in gray "snake" fencing.
Then I saw, coming toward me, a woman.
She might have been younger than fifty. Tall she was, with wonderful dark hair and an imperial figure. She carried in her arms a great burden of roses—some red, some white. Her head was bare.
Here everything was attuned to the great harmony, Peace. And, into this peace, nothing fitted more perfectly than this woman.
She had seen me before I saw her; yet there was no change in gait or expression. I might be a passer-by upon whom she would look this once and never more. Peace indeed!
Said I to the woman:
"Are you the Evelyn of the story?"
"Yes," she smiled.
For the youthful name must have sounded odd on my alien lips.
"You will print it?" she asked.
"Every word," said I.
"Then—maybe?"
But was there an interrogation in the soft dark eyes? Was it possible that before me she laid down her cross and would take it up again only when she reached Vonner? Was it certainty to him and uncertainty to me? For the sin of loving too well was this her endless penance? I would not be a party to the interrogation. I took the soft old hand; I gazed into the velvety eyes; I said:
"There must be no 'maybe'."
"No," she nodded humbly, with bowed head, "that was wrong."
Yet, within me that conscience which doth make cowards of all—but the women who wait, was crying:
"It is fifty years! Dave, if alive, is an old, old man! Evelyn is an old woman! Age can not love! If Dave were alive and had a mind to return he must have done so long ago! If one loves does one stay away?"
"Why," she was smiling while I was compounding treason, "we have done everything else to get word to him, but, strangely enough, have never thought of printing his story and sending it into every corner of the earth. I think God himself sent you here to-day to put even greater peace, and more hope into our hearts."
"I trust so," said I cravenly.
"Perhaps God thinks we have expiated our sins," the woman went on joyously now, "and is ready with our reward. For we have waited fifty years! Fifty long, long years!"
Her voice broke and there was silence between us for a space.
Vonner's voice had been soft with the German of his ancestors. But Evelyn's caressed with the elisions of the South—which alien tongues could never quell. I fell to the wonderful voice. But, presently, my conscience would not and rose in revolt. Almost without my willing, it uttered a grim warning:
"Do not forget the years," said I. "Dave would be seventy if he should come back."
But, instantly, when I had choked down conscience, I was glad that my saying had not hurt her. It meant nothing to love like hers.
"And, do men cease to love and forgive at seventy?" asked the gentle voice. "Women don't. I do not, and I am nearly seventy."
She said it with a wonderful smile, while her nostrils quivered and her face was lighted with the eternal passion.
What man can know a woman's waiting! What man can know a woman's loving!
And, so, that conscience, which, veined with reason, had uttered its stern warning, now weakly hastened to reverse itself and lend hope and comfort to the amazing love and waiting.
For the moment I was ashamed of my conscience. I felt like bidding it stand fast. I.
"Be not afraid, he will come for this forgiveness you are sending to him through all the world!"
But, inside of me, to use one of Vonner's thoughts, conscience was again saying:
"If not here in another—and, God knows!—perhaps a better world—for such as you and Jon and Dave!"
"Yes!" she said now.
And I, too, now said yes!
I over-argued.
"Love is immortal," I urged. "There are no years for you and him."
A sudden flush, as of youth, overspread the cheek and throat of Evelyn. She nodded quickly, as a young girl might. Then, indeed, I believed my own saying! She did. The interrogation was gone from her eyes. I was glad.
"I know he will yet come," she said now, very quietly, while the years rolled from her. "Please come back. You must say good-by among the blossoms. It is better luck."
I did.
Evelyn lifted the beautiful head of the old man to her arms, and putting back the abundant hair, kissed the closed eyes. They did not open.
"He is very sleepy," she smiled."I reckon we will let him rest here. Sleep is good—no matter where we get it or how. Let him sleep."
She replaced the old head on its arm upon the table, and set me forth, once more, upon my way—a happier way, now.
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And now, Dave, if you still live, and this reaches you, come home!
If you are dead and those live who know it, send no message!
It is better so. Far, far better so.
THE END