Patchwork Part 40

The last role resulted in his financial embarra.s.sment. There is an ominous silence in the story of his life, then comes the information that the man who had done so much for others was left at last to languish in a debtors' jail, die unbefriended and be buried in an unknown grave.

In the days of his prosperity he gave to the congregation of the Lutheran Church in his town a choice plot of ground, the consideration being the sum of five s.h.i.+llings and an annual rental of one red rose in June.

Years pa.s.sed, the man died, and either through forgetfulness or negligence the annual rental of one red rose was unpaid for many years.

Then, one day a layman of the church found the old deed and the people prepared to pay the long-neglected debt once more. Since that renewal there is set apart each June a Sabbath day upon which the rose is paid to the nearest descendant of the founder of the town. They give but one red rose, but all around are roses, roses, and it seems most fitting to call the unique occurrence the Feast of Roses.

If ever the little town puts on royal garb it is on the Feast of Roses Sabbath. For days before the ceremony the homes of Greenwald are beehives of industry. That day each train and trolley, every country road, is crowded with strangers or old acquaintances coming into the town. A heterogeneous crowd swarms through the street. The curious visitor who comes to see, the dreamer who is attracted by the romance of the rose, the careless youth who rubs his sleeve against some portly judge or senator; the tawdry, the refined, the rich, the poor--all meet in the crowd that moves to the red brick church in which the Feast of Roses is held.

The old church of that early day has been removed and in its place a modern one has been erected, but by some happy inspiration of the builders the new church is devoid of the garish ornamentation that is too often found in churches. Harmonious coloring, artistic beauty, make it a fitting place for a Feast of Roses.

When Phbe Metz entered the church to keep her promise to sing at the service she found an eager crowd waiting for the opening. Every available s.p.a.ce was occupied; people stood in the rear aisles, others waited in the churchyard by the open windows and hoped to catch there some stray parts of the service.

Phbe pushed her way gently through the crowd at the door and stood in the aisle until an usher saw her and directed her to a seat near the organ. The pink in her cheeks grew deeper. "I'll sing my best for Greenwald and the Feast of Roses," she thought. "And for David! He's in the crowd. He said he's coming to hear me sing."

At the appointed hour the pipe-organ pealed out. The June sunlight streamed through the open windows, fell upon the banks of roses, and gleamed upon the fountain that played in the midst of the crimson flowers. Peace brooded over the place as the last strains of music died.

There was silence for a moment, then a prayer, a hymn of adoration, and then the chosen speaker stood before the crowd and delivered his message.

Phbe listened to him until he uttered the words, "True life must be service, true love must be giving. No man has reached true greatness save he serves, and he who serves most faithfully is greatest in the kingdom."

After those words she fell to thinking. Many things that had been dark to her suddenly became light. She seemed to see Royal Lee fiddling while the world was in travail, but beside him rose a vision of David in sailor's blue, ready to do his whole duty for his country.

"Oh," she thought, "I've been blind, but now I see! It's David I want.

He's a man!"

She heard as in a dream the words of the one who presented the red rose to the heir. "Once more the time has come to pay our debt of one red rose. It is with cheerfulness and reverence we pay our rental. Amid these bright surroundings, in the presence of the many who have come to witness this unique ceremony, do we give to you in partial payment of the debt we owe--ONE RED ROSE."

The heir received the flower and expressed her appreciation. Then silence settled upon the place and Phbe rose to sing.

As the organ sent forth the opening strains of music the people in the church looked at each other, surprised, disappointed. Why, that was the old tune, "Jesus, Lover of my soul." The tune they had heard sung hundreds of times--was Phbe going to sing that? With so many impressive selections to choose from no soloist need sing that old hymn! Some of the town people thought disdainfully, "Was that all she could sing after a whole winter's study in Philadelphia!"

But Phbe sang the old words to the old tune. She sang them with a new power and sweetness. It touched the listeners in that rose-scented church and revealed to them the meaning of the old hymn. The dependence upon a divine guide, the utter impotence of mortal strength, breathed so persuasively in the second verse that many who heard Phbe sing it mentally repeated the words with her.

"Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee: Leave, ah! leave me not alone, Still support and comfort me; All my trust on Thee is stayed; All my help from Thee I bring; Cover my defenceless head With the shadow of Thy wing."

Then the hymn changed--hope displaced hopelessness, faith surmounted fear.

"Plenteous grace with Thee is found, Grace to cleanse from every sin; Let the healing streams abound, Make and keep me pure within; Thou of life the fountain art, Freely let me take of Thee: Spring Thou up within my heart, Rise to all eternity."

The people in that rose-scented church heard the old hymn sung as they had never heard it sung before. A subdued hum of approval swept over the church as the girl sat down. She felt that she had sung well; her heart was in a tumult of happiness. She was glad when one man rose and lifted his hands in benediction.

Again the organ throbbed with glad melodies. The eager crowd fell into line and walked slowly to the altar to lay their roses there. Children with half withered blossoms, maidens with bunches of crimson flowers, here and there a stranger with gorgeous hot-house roses, older men and women with the products of the gardens of the little town--all moved to the spot where lay a bank of fragrant roses and placed their tributes there.

Phbe added her roses to the others on the altar and left the church.

Friends and acquaintances stopped to tell her how well she sang. But the words that one short year ago would have filled her with overwhelming pride in her own talent were soon crowded from her thoughts and there reigned there the words of the speaker, "No man has reached true greatness save he serves." She had learned great things at that Feast of Roses service. She had looked deep into her own heart and on its throne she had found David.

He was waiting for her outside the church.

"You sang fine, Phbe," he told her as they went down the street together.

"Yes? I'm glad you liked it."

Then they spoke of other things, of many things, but not one word of the thoughts lying deepest in the heart of each.

Aunt Maria and Jacob were eating supper in the big kitchen when Phbe reached home.

"Well," greeted the aunt, "did you come once! We thought that Feast of Roses would been out long ago. But when you didn't come for so long and supper was made we sat down a while. Did you sing?"

"Yes," the girl said as she removed her hat and gloves and drew a chair to the table.

"Now," cautioned the aunt, "put your ap.r.o.n on! That light goods in your dress is nothin' for wear; everything shows on it so. And if you spill red-beet juice or something on it it'll be spoiled."

"I forgot." Phbe took a blue gingham ap.r.o.n from a hook behind the kitchen door. "There, if I spoil it now you may have it for a rug."

"Well, I guess that would be housekeepin'! And everything so high since the war!"

"Tell me about the Feast of Roses," said the father. "Was the church full?"

"Packed! It was a beautiful service."

"Well," spoke up Aunt Maria, "I'm glad it's over and so are many people.

Of course that Feast of Roses don't do no harm, but I think it's so dumb to have all this fuss just to give somebody a rose. If that man wanted to give the church some land why didn't he give it and done with it?

It's no use to have this pokin' around every year to find the best red rose to give to some man or lady that's related to him. The rose withers right away, anyhow. And this Feast of Roses makes some people a lot of bother. I heard one woman say in the store that she has to get ready for a lot of company still for every person she knows, most, comes to visit her that Sunday and she's got to cook and wash dishes all day. I guess she's glad it's over for another year."

CHAPTER x.x.xI

BLINDNESS

DAVID EBY had spent the day at Lancaster and returned to Greenwald at seven-thirty. He started with springing step out the country road in the soft June twilight. It was a twilight pervaded by blended perfumes and the sleepy chirp of birds. David drew in deep breaths of the fresh country air.

"Lancaster County," he said aloud to himself, "and it's good enough for me!"

Scarcely slackening his pace he started up the long road by the hill. He paused a moment on the summit and looked back at the town of Greenwald, then almost ran down the road to his home.

He whistled his old greeting whistle.

"Here, David, I'm on the porch," came his mother's voice.

"Mommie," he cried gaily as he took her into his arms, "I knew you'd be looking for me."

Then for the first time since his father's death he heard his mother sob. "Oh, mother," he asked, "is my going away as hard as all that? Or are you only glad to see me?"

"Glad," she replied, restraining her emotion. "Sit down on the bench, Davie."

"Why--I didn't notice it first--you're wearing dark gla.s.ses again! Are your eyes worse?"