The Schoolmaster’s Letters

At sunset the schoolmaster went up to his room to write a letter to
her. He always wrote to her at the same time–when the red wave of the
sunset, flaming over the sea, surged in at the little curtainless
window and flowed over the pages he wrote on. The light was rose-red
and imperial and spiritual, like his love for her, and seemed almost
to dye the words of the letters in its own splendid hues–the letters
to her which she never was to see, whose words her eyes never were to
read, and whose love and golden fancy and rainbow dreams never were to
be so much as known by her. And it was because she never was to see
them that he dared to write them, straight out of his full heart,
taking the exquisite pleasure of telling her what he never could
permit himself to tell her face to face. Every evening he wrote thus
to her, and the hour so spent glorified the entire day. The rest of
the hours–all the other hours of the commonplace day–he was merely a
poor schoolmaster with a long struggle before him, one who might not
lift his eyes to gaze on a star. But at this hour he was her equal,
meeting her soul to soul, telling out as a man might all his great
love for her, and wearing the jewel of it on his brow. What wonder
indeed that the precious hour which made him a king, crowned with a
mighty and unselfish passion, was above all things sacred to him? And
doubly sacred when, as tonight, it followed upon an hour spent with
her? Its mingled delight and pain were almost more than he could bear.

He went through the kitchen and the hall and up the narrow staircase
with a glory in his eyes that thus were held from seeing his sordid
surroundings. Link Houseman, sprawled out on the platform before the
kitchen door, saw him pass with that rapt face, and chuckled. Link was
ill enough to look at any time, with his sharp, freckled features and
foxy eyes. When he chuckled his face was that of an unholy imp.

But the schoolmaster took no heed of him. Neither did he heed the girl
whom he met in the hall. Her handsome, sullen face flushed crimson
under the sting of his utter disregard, and her black eyes followed
him up the stairs with a look that was not good to see.

“Sis,” whispered Link piercingly, “come out here! I’ve got a joke to
tell you, something about the master and his girl. You ain’t to let on
to him you know, though. I found it out last night when he was off to
the shore. That old key of Uncle Jim’s was just the thing. He’s a
softy, and no mistake.”

* * * * *

Upstairs in his little room, the schoolmaster was writing his letter.
The room was as bare and graceless as all the other rooms of the
farmhouse where he had boarded during his term of teaching; but it
looked out on the sea, and was hung with such priceless tapestry of
his iris dreams and visions that it was to him an apartment in a royal
palace. From it he gazed afar on bays that were like great cups of
sapphire brimming over with ruby wine for gods to drain, on headlands
that were like amethyst, on wide sweeps of sea that were blue and far
and mysterious; and ever the moan and call of the ocean’s heart came
up to his heart as of one great, hopeless love and longing crying out
to another love and longing, as great and hopeless. And here, in the
rose-radiance of the sunset, with the sea-music in the dim air, he
wrote his letter to her.

My Lady: How beautiful it is to think that there is nothing to
prevent my loving you! There is much–everything–to prevent
me from telling you that I love you. But nothing has any right
to come between my heart and its own; it is permitted to love
you forever and ever and serve and reverence you in secret and
silence. For so much, dear, I thank life, even though the
price of the permission must always be the secret and the
silence.

I have just come from you, my lady. Your voice is still in my
ears; your eyes are still looking into mine, gravely yet half
smilingly, sweetly yet half provokingly. Oh, how dear and
human and girlish and queenly you are–half saint and half
very womanly woman! And how I love you with all there is of me
to love–heart and soul and brain, every fibre of body and
spirit thrilling to the wonder and marvel and miracle of it!
You do not know it, my sweet, and you must never know it. You
would not even wish to know it, for I am nothing to you but
one of many friends, coming into your life briefly and passing
out of it, of no more account to you than a sunshiny hour, a
bird’s song, a bursting bud in your garden. But the hour and
the bird and the flower gave you a little delight in their
turn, and when you remembered them once before forgetting,
that was their reward and blessing. That is all I ask, dear
lady, and I ask that only in my own heart. I am content to
love you and be forgotten. It is sweeter to love you and be
forgotten than it would be to love any other woman and live in
her lifelong remembrance: so humble has love made me, sweet,
so great is my sense of my own unworthiness.

Yet love must find expression in some fashion, dear, else it
is only pain, and hence these letters to you which you will
never read. I put all my heart into them; they are the best
and highest of me, the buds of a love that can never bloom
openly in the sunshine of your life. I weave a chaplet of
them, dear, and crown you with it. They will never fade, for
such love is eternal.

It is a whole summer since I first met you. I had been waiting
for you all my life before and did not know it. But I knew it
when you came and brought with you a sense of completion and
fulfilment. This has been the precious year of my life, the
turning-point to which all things past tended and all things
future must look back. Oh, my dear, I thank you for this year!
It has been your royal gift to me, and I shall be rich and
great forever because of it. Nothing can ever take it from me,
nothing can mar it. It were well to have lived a lifetime of
loneliness for such a boon–the price would not be too high. I
would not give my one perfect summer for a generation of other
men’s happiness.

There are those in the world who would laugh at me, who would
pity me, Una. They would say that the love I have poured out
in secret at your feet has been wasted, that I am a poor weak
fool to squander all my treasure of affection on a woman who
does not care for me and who is as far above me as that great
white star that is shining over the sea. Oh, my dear, they do
not know, they cannot understand. The love I have given you
has not left me poorer. It has enriched my life unspeakably;
it has opened my eyes and given me the gift of clear vision
for those things that matter; it has been a lamp held before
my stumbling feet whereby I have avoided snares and pitfalls
of baser passions and unworthy dreams. For all this I thank
you, dear, and for all this surely the utmost that I can give
of love and reverence and service is not too much.

I could not have helped loving you. But if I could have helped
it, knowing with just what measure of pain and joy it would
brim my cup, I would have chosen to love you, Una. There are
those who strive to forget a hopeless love. To me, the
greatest misfortune that life could bring would be that I
should forget you. I want to remember you always and love you
and long for you. That would be unspeakably better than any
happiness that could come to me through forgetting.

Dear lady, good night. The sun has set; there is now but one
fiery dimple on the horizon, as if a golden finger had dented
it–now it is gone; the mists are coming up over the sea.

A kiss on each of your white hands, dear. Tonight I am too
humble to lift my thoughts to your lips.

The schoolmaster folded up his letter and held it against his cheek
for a little space while he gazed out on the silver-shining sea with
his dark eyes full of dreams. Then he took from his shabby trunk a
little inlaid box and unlocked it with a twisted silver key. It was
full of letters–his letters to Una. The first had been written months
ago, in the early promise of a northern spring. They linked together
the golden weeks of the summer. Now, in the purple autumn, the box was
full, and the schoolmaster’s term was nearly ended.

He took out the letters reverently and looked over them, now and then
murmuring below his breath some passages scattered through the written
pages. He had laid bare his heart in those letters, writing out what
he never could have told her, even if his love had been known and
returned, for dead and gone generations of stern and repressed
forefathers laid their unyielding fingers of reserve on his lips, and
the shyness of dreamy, book-bred youth stemmed the language of eye and
tone.

I will love you forever and ever. And even though you know it
not, surely such love will hover around you all your life.
Like an invisible benediction, not understood but dimly felt,
guarding you from ill and keeping far from you all things and
thoughts of harm and evil!

* * * * *

Sometimes I let myself dream. And in those dreams you love me,
and we go out to meet life together. I have dreamed that you
kissed me–dreamed it so reverently that the dream did your
womanhood no wrong. I have dreamed that you put your hands in
mine and said, “I love you.” Oh, the rapture of it!

* * * * *

We may give all we will if we do not ask for a return. There
should be no barter in love. If, by reason of the greatness of
my love for you, I were to ask your love in return, I should
be a base creature. It is only because I am content to love
and serve for the sake of loving and serving that I have the
right to love you.

* * * * *

I have a memory of a blush of yours–a rose of the years that
will bloom forever in my garden of remembrance. Tonight you
blushed when I came upon you suddenly among the flowers. You
were startled–perhaps I had broken too rudely on some girlish
musing; and straightway your round, pale curve of cheek and
your white arch of brow were made rosy as with the dawn of
beautiful sunrise. I shall see you forever as you looked at
that time. In my mad moments I shall dream, knowing all the
while that it is only a dream, that you blushed with delight
at my coming. I shall be able to picture forevermore how you
would look at one you loved.

* * * * *

Tonight the moon was low in the west. It hung over the sea
like a shallop of ruddy gold moored to a star in the harbour
of the night. I lingered long and watched it, for I knew that
you, too, were watching it from your window that looks on the
sea. You told me once that you always watched the moon set. It
has been a bond between us ever since.

* * * * *

This morning I rose at dawn and walked on the shore to think
of you, because it seemed the most fitting time. It was before
sunrise, and the world was virgin. All the east was a shimmer
of silver and the morning star floated in it like a dissolving
pearl. The sea was a great miracle. I walked up and down by it
and said your name over and over again. The hour was sacred to
you. It was as pure and unspoiled as your own soul. Una, who
will bring into your life the sunrise splendour and colour of
love?

* * * * *

Do you know how beautiful you are, Una? Let me tell you, dear.
You are tall, yet you have to lift your eyes a little to meet
mine. Such dear eyes, Una! They are dark blue, and when you
smile they are like wet violets in sunshine. But when you are
pensive they are more lovely still–the spirit and enchantment
of the sea at twilight passes into them then. Your hair has
the gloss and brownness of ripe nuts, and your face is always
pale. Your lips have a trick of falling apart in a half-smile
when you listen. They told me before I knew you that you were
pretty. Pretty! The word is cheap and tawdry. You are
beautiful, with the beauty of a pearl or a star or a white
flower.

* * * * *

Do you remember our first meeting? It was one evening last
spring. You were in your garden. The snow had not all gone,
but your hands were full of pale, early flowers. You wore a
white shawl over your shoulders and head. Your face was turned
upward a little, listening to a robin’s call in the leafless
trees above you. I thought God had never made anything so
lovely and love-deserving. I loved you from that moment, Una.

* * * * *

This is your birthday. The world has been glad of you for
twenty years. It is fitting that there have been bird songs
and sunshine and blossom today, a great light and fragrance
over land and sea. This morning I went far afield to a long,
lonely valley lying to the west, girt round about with dim old
pines, where feet of men seldom tread, and there I searched
until I found some rare flowers meet to offer you. I sent them
to you with a little book, an old book. A new book, savouring
of the shop and marketplace, however beautiful it might be,
would not do for you. So I sent the book that was my mother’s.
She read it and loved it–the faded rose-leaves she placed in
it are there still. At first, dear, I almost feared to send
it. Would you miss its meaning? Would you laugh a little at
the shabby volume with its pencil marks and its rose-leaves?
But I knew you would not; I knew you would understand.

* * * * *

Today I saw you with the child of your sister in your arms. I
felt as the old painters must have felt when they painted
their Madonnas. You bent over his shining golden head, and on
your face was the mother passion and tenderness that is God’s
finishing touch to the beauty of womanhood. The next moment
you were laughing with him–two children playing together. But
I had looked upon you in that brief space. Oh, the pain and
joy of it!

* * * * *

It is so sweet, dear, to serve you a little, though it be only
in opening a door for you to pass through, or handing you a
book or a sheet of music! Love wishes to do so much for the
beloved! I can do so little for you, but that little is
sweet.

* * * * *

This evening I read to you the poem which you had asked me to
read. You sat before me with your brown head leaning on your
hands and your eyes cast down. I stole dear glances at you
between the lines. When I finished I put a red, red rose from
your garden between the pages and crushed the book close on
it. That poem will always be dear to me, stained with the
life-blood of a rose-like hour.

* * * * *

I do not know which is the sweeter, your laughter or your
sadness. When you laugh you make me glad, but when you are sad
I want to share in your sadness and soothe it. I think I am
nearer to you in your sorrowful moods.

* * * * *

Today I met you by accident at the turn of the lane. Nothing
told me that you were coming–not even the wind, that should
have known. I was sad, and then all at once I saw you, and
wondered how I could have been sad. You walked past me with a
smile, as if you had tossed me a rose. I stood and watched you
out of sight. That meeting was the purple gift the day gave
me.




* * * * *

Today I tried to write a poem to you, Una, but I could not
find words fine enough, as a lover could find no raiment
dainty enough for his bride. The old words other men have used
in singing to their loves seemed too worn and common for you.
I wanted only new words, crystal clear or coloured only by the
iris of the light, not words that have been steeped and
stained with all the hues of other men’s thoughts. So I burned
the verses that were so unworthy of you.

* * * * *

Una, some day you will love. You will watch for him; you will
blush at his coming, be sad at his going. Oh, I cannot think
of it!

* * * * *

Today I saw you when you did not see me. I was walking on the
shore, and as I came around a rock you were sitting on the
other side. I drew back a little and looked at you. Your hands
were clasped over your knees; your hat had fallen back, and
the sea wind was ruffling your hair. Your face was lifted to
the sky, your lips were parted, your eyes were full of light.
You seemed to be listening to something that made you happy. I
crept gently away, that I might not mar your dream. Of what
were you thinking, Una?

* * * * *

I must leave you soon. Sometimes I think I cannot bear it. Oh,
Una, how selfish it is of me to wish that you might love me!
Yet I do wish it, although I have nothing to offer you but a
great love and all my willing work of hand and brain. If you
loved me, I fear I should be weak enough to do you the wrong
of wooing you. I want you so much, dear!

The schoolmaster added the last letter to the others and locked the
box. When he unlocked it again, two days later, the letters were gone.

He gazed at the empty box with dilated eyes. At first he could not
realize what had happened. The letters could not be gone! He must have
made a mistake, have put them in some other place! With trembling
fingers he ransacked his trunk. There was no trace of the letters.
With a groan he dropped his face in his hands and tried to think.

His letters were gone–those precious letters, held almost too sacred
for his own eyes to read after they were written–had been stolen from
him! The inmost secrets of his soul had been betrayed. Who had done
this hideous thing?

He rose and went downstairs. In the farmyard he found Link tormenting
his dog. Link was happy only when he was tormenting something. He
never had been afraid of anything in his life before, but now
absolute terror took possession of him at sight of the schoolmaster’s
face. Physical strength and force had no power to frighten the sullen
lad, but all the irresistible might of a fine soul roused to frenzy
looked out in the young man’s blazing eyes, dilated nostrils, and
tense white mouth. It cowed the boy, because it was something he could
not understand. He only realized that he was in the presence of a
force that was not to be trifled with.

“Link, where are my letters?” said the schoolmaster.

“I didn’t take ’em, Master!” cried Link, crumpling up visibly in his
sheer terror. “I didn’t. I never teched ’em! It was Sis. I told her
not to–I told her you’d be awful mad, but she wouldn’t tend to me. It
was Sis took ’em. Ask her, if you don’t believe me.”

The schoolmaster believed him. Nothing was too horrible to believe
just then. “What has she done with them?” he said hoarsely.

“She–she sent ’em to Una Clifford,” whimpered Link. “I told her not
to. She’s mad at you, cause you went to see Una and wouldn’t go with
her. She thought Una would be mad at you for writing ’em, cause the
Cliffords are so proud and think themselves above everybody else. So
she sent ’em. I–I told her not to.”

The schoolmaster said not another word. He turned his back on the
whining boy and went to his room. He felt sick with shame. The
indecency of the whole thing revolted him. It was as if his naked
heart had been torn from his breast and held up to the jeers of a
vulgar world by the merciless hand of a scorned and jealous woman. He
felt stunned as if by a physical blow.

After a time his fierce anger and shame died into a calm desperation.
The deed was done beyond recall. It only remained for him to go to
Una, tell her the truth, and implore her pardon. Then he must go from
her sight and presence forever.

* * * * *

It was dusk when he went to her home. They told him that she was in
the garden, and he found her there, standing at the curve of the box
walk, among the last late-blooming flowers of the summer.

Have you thought from his letters that she was a wonderful woman of
marvellous beauty? Not so. She was a sweet and slender slip of
girlhood, with girlhood’s own charm and freshness. There were
thousands like her in the world–thank God for it!–but only one like
her in one man’s eyes.

He stood before her mute with shame, his boyish face white and
haggard. She had blushed crimson all over her dainty paleness at sight
of him, and laid her hand quickly on the breast of her white gown. Her
eyes were downcast and her breath came shortly.

He thought her silence the silence of anger and scorn. He wished that
he might fling himself in the dust at her feet.

“Una–Miss Clifford–forgive me!” he stammered miserably. “I–I did
not send them. I never meant that you should see them. A shameful
trick has been played upon me. Forgive me!”

“For what am I to forgive you?” she asked gravely. She did not look
up, but her lips parted in the little half-smile he loved. The blush
was still on her face.

“For my presumption,” he whispered. “I–I could not help loving you,
Una. If you have read the letters you know all the rest.”

“I have read the letters, every word,” she answered, pressing her hand
a little more closely to her breast. “Perhaps I should not have done
so, for I soon discovered that they were not meant for me to read. I
thought at first you had sent them, although the writing of the
address on the packet did not look like yours; but even when I knew
you did not I could not help reading them all. I do not know who sent
them, but I am very grateful to the sender.”

“Grateful?” he said wonderingly.

“Yes. I have something to forgive you, but not–not your presumption.
It is your blindness, I think–and–and your cruel resolution to go
away and never tell me of your–your love for me. If it had not been
for the sending of these letters I might never have known. How can I
forgive you for that?”

“Una!” he said. He had been very blind, but he was beginning to see.
He took a step nearer and took her hands. She threw up her head and
gazed, blushingly, steadfastly, into his eyes. From the folds of her
gown she drew forth the little packet of letters and kissed it.

“Your dear letters!” she said bravely. “They have given me the right
to speak out. I will speak out! I love you, dear! I will be content to
wait through long years until you can claim me. I–I have been so
happy since your letters came!”

He put his arms around her and drew her head close to his. Their lips
met.