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Page 30
Once in a lifetime, possibly, under the influence of some sweeping
passion, all the doors are flung wide and the one beloved woman may
enter in. Yet she is wise, with the wisdom of the Sphinx, if she refuses
to go. Let her say to him: "Close all these doors, except that which
bears my name. In that chamber and in that alone, we shall dwell
together." For, with these words, the memories housed in the other
chambers crumble to dust and ashes, blown only by vagrant winds of Fate.
In the heart of a woman there are few chambers and still fewer doors.
Instead of business-like compartments, neatly labelled, there are long,
labyrinthine passages, all opening into one another and inextricably
bound together. To shut out one, or even part of one, requires the
building of a wall, but it takes a long time and the barrier is never
firm.
At a single strain of music, the scent of a flower, or even one glimpse
of a path of moonlight lying fair upon a Summer sea, the barriers
crumble and fall. Through the long corridors the ghosts of the past walk
unforbidden, hindered only by broken promises, dead hopes, and dream-
dust.
Even while the petals of long-dead roses rustle through the winding
passages, where the windows are hung with cobwebs, greyed at last from
iridescence to despairing shadows, a barrier may fall at the sound of a
talismanic name, for the hands of women are small and slow to build and
the hearts of women are tender beyond all words.
Hidden in the centre of the labyrinth is one small secret chamber, and
the door may open only at the touch of one other hand. The woman herself
may go into it for peace and sanctuary, when the world goes wrong, but
always alone, until the great day comes when two may enter it together.
As Theseus carried the thread of Ariadne through the labyrinth of Crete,
there are many who attempt to find the secret chamber, but vainly, for
the thread will always break in the wrong heart.
When the door is opened, at last, by the one who has made his way
through the devious passages, there is so little to be seen that
sometimes even the man himself laughs the woman to scorn and despoils
her of her few treasures.
The secret chamber is only a bare, white room, where is erected the high
altar of her soul, served through life, by her own faith. Upon the altar
burns steadfastly the one light, waiting for him who at last has come
and consecrated in his name. The door of the sanctuary is rock-ribbed
and heavy, and he who has not the key may beat and call in vain, while
within, unheeding, the woman guards her light.
Pitifully often the man does not care. Sometimes he does not even
suspect that he has been admitted into the inmost sanctuary of her
heart, for there are men who may never know what sanctuary means, nor
what the opening of the door has cost. But the man who is worthy will
kneel at the altar for a moment, with the woman beside him, and
thereafter, when the outside world has been cruel to him, he may go in
sometimes, with her, to warm his hands at those divine fires and kindle
his failing courage anew.
When the sanctuary is not profaned by him who has come hither, its
blessedness is increased ten-fold; it takes on a certain divinity by
being shared, and thereafter, they serve the light together.
And yet, through woman's eager trustfulness, the man who opens the door
is not always the one divinely appointed to open it. Sometimes the light
fails and the woman, weeping in the darkness, is left alone in her
profaned temple, never to open its door again, or, after many years, to
set another light high upon the altar, and, in the deepening shadows,
pray.
So, because the door had never been opened, and because she knew the man
had come at last who might enter the sanctuary with her, Rose lifted her
ever-burning light that night to the high altar of her soul, and set
herself to wait until he should find his way there.
VII
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