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Page 67
So Aldebaran went out determined to be glad in heart as well as speech,
if so be it he could find enough of cheer. "I will be glad," he said,
"because the morning sun shines warm across my face." He slipped a
golden beam upon his memory string.
"I will be glad because that there are diamond sparkles on the grass and
larks are singing in the sky." A dew-drop and a bird's trill for his
rosary.
"I will be glad for bread, for water from the spring, for eyesight and
the power to smell the budding lilacs by the door; for friendly
greetings from the villagers."
A goodly rosary, symbol of all the things for which he should be glad,
was in his hand at close of day. He swung it gaily by the hearth that
night, recounting all his blessings till the Jester thought, "At last
he's found the cure."
But suddenly Aldebaran flung the rosary from him and hid his face within
his hands. "'Twill drive me mad!" he cried. "To go on stringing baubles
that do but set my mind the firmer on the priceless jewel I have lost.
May heaven forgive me! I am not really glad. 'Tis all a hollow mockery
and pretence!"
Then was the Jester at his wit's end for reply. It was a welcome sound
when presently a knocking at the door broke on the painful silence. The
visitor who entered was an aged friar beseeching alms at every door, as
was the custom of his brotherhood, with which to help the sick and poor.
And while the Jester searched within a chest for some old garments he
was pleased to give, he bade the friar draw up to the hearth and tarry
for their evening meal, which then was well-nigh ready. The friar, glad
to accept the hospitality, spread out his lean hands to the blaze, and
later, when the three sat down together, warmed into such a
cheerfulness of speech that Aldebaran was amazed.
"Surely thy lot is hard, good brother," he said, looking curiously into
the wrinkled face. "Humbling thy pride to beg at every door, forswearing
thine own good in every way that others may be fed, and yet thy face
speaks of an inward joy. I pray thee tell me how thou hast found
happiness."
"_By never going in its quest_," the friar answered. "Long years ago I
learned a lesson from the stars. Our holy Abbot took me out one night
into the quiet cloister, and pointing to the glittering heavens showed
me my duty in a way I never have forgot. I had grown restive in my lot
and chafed against its narrow round of cell and cloister. But in a word
he made me see that if I stepped aside from that appointed path, merely
for mine own pleasure, 'twould mar the order of God's universe as surely
as if a planet swerved from its eternal course.
"'No shining lot is thine,' he said. 'Yet neither have the stars
themselves a light. They but reflect the Central Sun. And so mayst thou,
while swinging onward, faithful to thy orbit, reflect the light of
heaven upon thy fellow men.'
"Since then I've had no need to go a-seeking happiness, for bearing
cheer to others keeps my own heart a-shine. I pass the lesson on to
thee, good friend. Remember, men need laughter sometimes more than food,
and if thou hast no cheer thyself to spare, why, thou mayst go
a-gathering it from door to door as I do crusts, and carry it to those
who need."
Long after the good friar had supped and gone, Aldebaran sat in silence.
Then crossing to the tiny casement that gave upon the street, he stood
and gazed up at the stars. Long, long he mused, fitting the friar's
lesson to his own soul's need, and when he turned away, the old
astrologer's prophecy had taken on new meaning.
"As Aldebaran the star shines in the heavens" _(no light within itself,
but borrowing from the Central Sun),_ "so Aldebaran the man might shine
among his fellows." _(Beggared of joy himself, yet flashing its
reflection athwart the lives of others._)
When next he went into the town he no longer shunned the sights that
formerly he'd passed with face averted, for well he knew that if he
would shed joy and hope on others he must go to places where they most
abound. What matter that the thought of Vesta stabbed him nigh to
madness when he looked on hearth-fires that could never blaze for him?
With courage almost more than human he put that fond ambition out of
mind as if it were another sword he'd learned to sheathe. At first it
would not stay in hiding, but flew the scabbard of his will to thrust
him sore as often as he put it from him. But after awhile he found a way
to bind it fast, and when he'd found that way it gave him victory over
all.
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