Working Faithfully
"It's a lie, just the same," Matilda protested, though weakly, as one in the last ditch.
"Matilda Starr!" The clarion note of Grandmother's voice would have made the dead stir. "Ain't I showed it to you, in the paper?" To question print was as impious as to doubt Holy Writ.
Rosemary was greatly relieved when Mrs. Lee gave way to mermaids in the eternal flow of talk. She wondered, sometimes, that their voices did not fail them, though occasionally a sulky silence or a nap produced a brief interval of peace. She worked faithfully until her household tasks were accomplished, discovering that, no matter how one's heart aches, one can do the necessary things and do them well.
Early in the afternoon, she found herself free. Instinct and remorseless pain led her unerringly to the one place, where the great joy had come to her. She searched her suffering dumbly, and without mercy. If she knew the reason why!
"She's married, and her husband isn'tdead, and they're not divorced." Parrot-like, Rosemary repeated the words to herself, emphasising each fact with a tap of her foot on the ground in front of her. Then a new fear presented itself, clutching coldly at her heart. Perhaps they were going to be divorced and then——
Something Snapped
Something seemed to snap, like the breaking of a strained tension. Rosemary had come to the point where she could endure no more, and mercifully the pain was eased. Later on, no doubt, she could suffer again, but for the moment she felt only a dull weariness. In the background the ache slumbered, like an ember that is covered with ashes, but now she was at rest.
She looked about her curiously, as though she were a stranger. Yet, at the very spot where she stood, Mrs. Lee had stood yesterday, her brown eyes cold with controlled anger when she made her sarcastic farewell. When she first saw her, she had been sitting on the log, where Alden usually sat. Down in the hollow tree was the wooden box that held the red ribbon. Shyly, the nine silver birches, with bowed heads, had turned down the hillside and stopped. Across, on the other side of the hill, where God hung His flaming tapestries of sunset from the high walls of Heaven, Rosemary had stood that day, weeping, and Love had come to comfort her.
Another Standard
None of it mattered now—nothing mattered any more. She had reached the end, whatever the end might be. Seemingly it was a great pause of soul and body, the consciousness of arrival at the ultimate goal.
When she saw Alden, she would ask to be released. She could tell him, with some semblance of truth, that she could not leave Grandmother and Aunt Matilda, because they needed her, and after they had done so much for her, she could not bring herself to seem ungrateful, even for him. The books were full of such things—the eternal sacrifice of youth to age, which age unblushingly accepts, perhaps in remembrance of some sacrifice of its own.
He had told her, long ago, that she was the only woman he knew. Now he had another standard to judge her by and, at the best, she must fall far short of it. Some day Alden would marry—he must marry, and have a home of his own when his mother was no longer there to make it for him, and she—she was not good enough for him, any more than Cinderella was good enough for the Prince.
The fact that the Prince had considered Cinderella fully his equal happily escaped Rosemary now. Clearly before her lay the one thing to be done: to tell him it was all a mistake, and ask for freedom before he forced it upon her. He had been very kind the otherday, when she had gone there to tea but, naturally, he had seen the difference—must have seen it.
Rosemary's Few Days of Joy
Of course it would not be Mrs. Lee—Rosemary could laugh at that now. Her jealousy of an individual had been merely the recognition of a type, and her emotion the unfailing tribute inferiority accords superiority. Married, and her husband not dead, nor divorced—manifestly it could not be Mrs. Lee.
She longed to set him free, to bid him mate with a woman worthy of him. Some glorious woman, Rosemary thought, with abundant beauty and radiant hair, with a low, deep voice that vibrated through the room like some stringed instrument and lingered, in melodious echoes, like music that has ceased. She saw her few days of joy as the one perfect thing she had ever had, the one gift she had prayed for and received. This much could never be taken away from her. She had had it and been blessed by it, and now the time had come to surrender it. What was she, that she might hope to keep it?
"Lo, what am I to Love, the Lord of allOne little shell upon the murmuring sand,One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand—"
"Lo, what am I to Love, the Lord of allOne little shell upon the murmuring sand,One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand—"
The moment of shelter became divinely dear. Already, in her remembrance, she had placed a shrine to which she might go, insilence, when things became too hard. She would have written to Alden, if she had had a sheet of paper, and an envelope, and a stamp, but she had not, and dared not face the torrent of questions she would arouse by asking for it.
No One Came
Her face transfigured by a passion of renunciation, Rosemary reached into the hollow tree for the wooden box, and, for the last time unwound the scarlet ribbon. She tied it to the lowest bough of the birch when the school bell rang, and went back to wait. Without emotion, she framed the few words she would say. "Just tell him it's all a mistake, that they need me and I mustn't leave them, and so good-bye. And if he tries to kiss me for good-bye—oh, he mustn't, for I couldn't bear that!"
So Rosemary sat and waited—until almost dark, but no one came. Alden had, indeed, hurried home to have afternoon tea with his mother and Edith. He had almost forgotten the oriflamme that sometimes signalled to him from the top of the hill, and seldom even glanced that way.
In the gathering dusk, Rosemary took it down, unemotionally. It seemed only part of the great denial. She put it back into the box, and hid it in the tree.
"Service," she said to herself, as she went home, "and sacrifice. Giving, not receiving; asking, not answer. And this is love!"
Put Aside
Alden had put Rosemary aside as though in a mental pigeon-hole. If vague thoughts of her came now and then to trouble him, he showed no sign of it. As weeks and months had sometimes passed without a meeting, why should it be different now? Moreover, he was busy, as she must know, with the vineyard and school, and a guest.
He had ordered several books on the subject of vine-culture, and was reading a great deal, though a close observer might have noted long intervals in which he took no heed of the book, but stared dreamily into space. He saw Edith at the table, and in the evenings, and occasionally at afternoon tea—a pleasant custom which she and Madame never failed to observe,—but she seemed to make it a point not to trespass upon his daylight hours.
The apple blossoms had gone, blown in fragrant drifts afar upon field and meadow. The vineyard lay lazily upon its southern slope, basking in the sun. Sometimes a wandering wind brought a fresh scent of lusty leaves or a divine hint of bloom.
Alden's Feast
The old-fashioned square piano, long silent, was open now, and had been put in order. In the evenings, after dinner, Edith would play, dreamily, in the dusk or by the light of one candle. The unshaded light, shining full upon her face, brought out the delicacy of her profile and allured stray gleams from the burnished masses of her hair. In the soft shadows that fell around her, she sat like St. Cecilia, unconscious of self, and of the man who sat far back in a corner of the room, never taking his eyes from her face.
Wistfulness was in every line of her face and figure, from the small white-shod foot that rested upon the pedal to the glorious hair that shimmered and shone but still held its tangled lights safely in its silken strands. The long line from shoulder to wrist, the smooth, satiny texture of the rounded arm, bare below the elbow, the delicate hands, so beautifully cared-for, all seemed eloquent with yearning.
Alden, from his safe point of observation, feasted his soul to the full. The ivory whiteness of her neck shaded imperceptibly into the creamy lace of her gown. Underneath her firm, well rounded chin, on the left side, was a place that was almost a dimple, but not quite. There was a real dimple in herchin and another at each corner of her mouth, where the full scarlet lips drooped a little from sadness. Star-like, her brown eyes searched the far shadows and sometimes the flicker of the candle brought a dancing glint of gold into their depths. And as always, like a halo, stray gleams hovered about her head, bent slightly forward now and full into the light, throwing into faint relief the short straight nose, and the full, short upper lip.
Edith at the Piano
Smiling, and wholly unconscious, it was as though she pleaded with the instrument to give her back some half-forgotten melody. Presently the strings answered, shyly at first, then in full soft chords that sang and crooned through the dusk. Alden, in his remote corner, drew a long breath of rapture. The ineffable sweetness of her pervaded his house, not alone with the scent of violets, but with the finer, more subtle fragrance of her personality.
She wore no jewels, except her wedding ring—not even the big, blazing diamond with which her husband had sealed their betrothal. She had a string of pearls and a quaint, oriental necklace set with jade, and sometimes she wore one or two turquoises, or a great, pale sapphire set in silver, but that was all. Out of the world of glitter and sparkle, she had chosen these few things that suited her, and was content.
Madame in the Moonlight
From another corner came the sound of slow, deep breathing. Outside the circle of candlelight, Madame had fallen asleep in her chair. The full June moon had shadowed the net curtain upon the polished floor and laid upon it, in silhouette, an arabesque of oak leaves. It touched Madame's silvered hair to almost unearthly beauty as she leaned back with her eyes closed, and brought a memory of violets and sun from the gold-tasselled amethyst that hung on her breast. The small slender hands lay quietly, one on either arm of her chair. A white crêpe shawl, heavy with Chinese embroidery, lay over her shoulders,—a gift from Edith. A Summer wind, like a playful child, stole into the room, lifted the deep silk fringe of the shawl, made merry with it for a moment, then tinkled the prisms on the chandelier and ran away again.
The fairy-like sound of it, as though it were a far, sweet bell, chimed in with Edith's dreamy chords and brought her to herself with a start. She turned quickly, saw that Madame was asleep, and stopped playing.
"Go on," said Alden, in a low tone. "Please do."
"I mustn't," she whispered, with her finger on her lips. "Your mother is asleep and I don't want to disturb her."
"Evidently you haven't," he laughed.
"Hush!" Edith's full, deep contralto tookon an affected sternness. "You mustn't talk."
Edith's Room
"But I've got to," he returned. "Shall we go outdoors?"
"Yes, if you like."
"Don't you want a wrap of some sort?"
"Yes. Wait a moment, and I'll get it."
"No—tell me where it is, and I'll go."
"It's only a white chiffon scarf," she said. "I think you'll find it hanging from the back of that low rocker, near the dressing-table."
He went up-stairs, silently and swiftly, and paused, for a moment, at Edith's door. It seemed strange to have her permission to turn the knob and go in. He hesitated upon the threshold, then entered the sweet darkness which, to him, would have meant Edith, had it been blown to him across the wastes of Sahara.
How still it was! Only the cheery piping of a cricket broke the exquisite peace of the room; only a patch of moonlight, upon the polished floor, illumined the scented dusk. He struck a match, and lighted one of the candles upon the dressing-table.
The place was eloquent of her, as though she had just gone out. The carved ivory toilet articles—he could have guessed that she would not have silver ones,—the crystal puff box, with a gold top ornamented only by a monogram; no, it was not a monogram either,but interlaced initials trailing diagonally across it; the mirror, a carelessly crumpled handkerchief, and a gold thimble—he picked up each article with a delightful sense of intimacy.
A Man's Face
Face down upon the dressing-table was a photograph, framed in dull green leather. That, too, he took up without stopping to question the propriety of it. A man's face smiled back at him, a young, happy face, full of comradeship and the joy of life for its own sake.
This, then, was her husband! Alden's heart grew hot with resentment at the man who had made Edith miserable. He had put those sad lines under her eyes, that showed so plainly sometimes when she was tired, made her sweet mouth droop at the corners, and filled her whole personality with the wistfulness that struck at his heart, like the wistfulness of a little child.
This man, with the jovial countenance, and doubtless genial ways, had the right to stand at her dressing-table, if he chose, and speculate upon the various uses of all the daintiness that was spread before him. He had the right and cared nothing for it, while the man who did care, stood there shamefaced, all at once feeling himself an intruder in a sacred place.
He put the photograph back, face down, as it had been, took the scarf, put out the light,and went back down-stairs. He stopped for a moment in the hall to wonder what this was that assailed him so strangely, this passionate bitterness against the other man, this longing to shelter Edith from whatever might make her unhappy.
On the Veranda
The living-room was dark. In her moonlit corner, Madame still slept. From where he stood, he could see the dainty little lavender-clad figure enwrapped in its white shawl. There was no sign of Edith in the room, so he went out upon the veranda, guessing that he should find her there.
She had taken out two chairs—a favourite rocker of her own, and the straight-backed, deep chair in which Alden usually sat when he was reading. The chairs faced each other, with a little distance between them. Edith sat in hers, rocking, with her hands crossed behind her head, and her little white feet stretched out in front of her.
Without speaking, Alden went back for a footstool. Then he turned Edith, chair and all, toward the moonlight, slipped the footstool under her feet, laid the fluttering length of chiffon over her shoulders, and brought his own chair farther forward.
"Why," she laughed, as he sat down, "do you presume to change my arrangements?"
"Because I want to see your face."
Effect of Moonlight
"Didn't it occur to you that I might want to see yours?"
"Not especially."
"My son," she said, in her most matronly manner, "kindly remember that a woman past her first youth always prefers to sit with her back toward the light."
"I'm older than you are," he reminded her, "so don't be patronising."
"In years only," she returned. "In worldly wisdom and experience and all the things that count, I'm almost as old as your mother is. Sometimes," she added, bitterly, "I feel as though I were a thousand."
A shadow crossed his face, but, as his figure loomed darkly against the moon, Edith did not see it. The caressing glamour of the light revealed the sad sweetness of her mouth, but presently her lips curved upward in a forced smile.
"Why is it?" she asked, "that moonlight makes one think?"
"I didn't know it did," he replied. "I thought it was supposed to have quite the opposite effect."
"It doesn't with me. In the sun, I'm sane, and have control of myself, but nights like this drive me almost mad sometimes."
"Why?" he asked gently, leaning toward her.
"Oh, I don't know," she sighed. "There'sso much I might have that I haven't." Then she added, suddenly: "What did you think of my husband's picture?"
Edith's Husband
The end of the chiffon scarf rose to meet a passing breeze, then fell back against the softness of her arm. A great grey-winged night moth fluttered past them. From the high bough of a distant maple came the frightened twitter of little birds, wakeful in the night, and the soft, murmurous voice of the brooding mother, soothing them.
"How did you know?" asked Alden, slowly.
"Oh, I just knew. You were looking at my dressing-table first, and you picked up the picture without thinking. Then, as soon as you knew who it was, you put it down, found the scarf, and came out."
"Do you love him?"
"No. That is, I don't think I do. But—oh," she added, with a sharp indrawing of her breath, "how I did love him!"
"And he—" Alden went on. "Does he love you?"
"I suppose so, in his way. As much as he is capable of caring for anything except himself, he cares for me."
She rose and walked restlessly along the veranda, the man following her with his eyes, until she reached the latticed end, where a climbing crimson rose, in full bloom, breathed the fragrance of some far Persian garden.Reaching up, she picked one, on a long, slender stem.
The Crimson Rose
Alden appeared beside her, with his knife in his hand. "Shall I take off the thorns for you?"
"No, I'm used to thorns. Besides, the wise ones are those who accept things as they are." She thrust the stem into her belt, found a pin from somewhere, and pinned the flower itself upon the creamy lace of her gown.
"It's just over your heart," he said. "Is your heart a rose too?"
"As far as thorns go, yes."
She leaned back against one of the white columns of the porch. She was facing the moonlight, but the lattice and the rose shaded her with fragrant dusk.
"Father and Mother planted this rose," Alden said, "the day they were married."
"How lovely," she answered, without emotion. "But to think that the rose has outlived one and probably will outlive the other!"
"Mother says she hopes it will. She wants to leave it here for me and my problematical children. The tribal sense runs rampant in Mother."
"When are you and Miss Starr going to be married?" asked Edith, idly.
Alden started. "How did you know?" he demanded, roughly, possessing himself of herhands. "Who told you—Mother, or—Miss Starr?"
Mutual Understanding
"Neither," replied Edith, coldly, releasing herself. "I—just knew. I beg your pardon," she added, hastily. "Of course it's none of my affair."
"But it is," he said, under his breath. Then, coming closer, he took her hands again. "Look here, Edith, there's something between you and me—do you know it?"
"How do you mean?" She tried to speak lightly, but her face was pale.
"You know very well what I mean. How do you know what I think, what I do, what I am? And the nights—no, don't try to get away from me—from that first night when I woke at four and knew you were crying, to that other night when you knew it was I who was awake with you, and all the nights since when the tide of time has turned between three and four! I've known your thoughts, your hopes, your dreams, as you've known mine!
"And the next day," he went on, "when you avoid me even with your eyes; when you try to hide with laughter and light words your consciousness of the fact that the night before you and I have met somewhere, in some mysterious way, and known each other as though we were face to face! Can you be miserable, and I not know it? Can I be tormented bya thousand doubts, and you not know it? Could you be ill, or troubled, or even perplexed, and I not know, though the whole world lay between us? Answer me!"
Oblivious of Time and Space
Edith's face was very white and her lips almost refused to move. "Oh, Boy," she whispered, brokenly. "What does it mean?"
"This," he answered, imperiously. "It means this—and now!"
He took her into his arms, crushing her to him so tightly that she almost cried out with the delicious pain of it. In the rose-scented shadow, his mouth found hers.
Time and space were no more. At the portal of the lips, soul met soul. The shaded veranda, and even the house itself faded away. Only this new-born ecstasy lived, like a flaming star suddenly come to earth.
Madame stirred in her sleep. Then she called, drowsily: "Alden! Edith!" No one answered, because no one heard. She got up, smothering a yawn behind her hand, wondered that there were no lights, waited a moment, heard nothing, and came to the window.
The moon flooded the earth with enchantment—a silvery ocean of light breaking upon earth-bound shores. A path of it lay along the veranda—opal and tourmaline and pearl, sharply turned aside by the shadow of the rose.
Madame drew her breath quickly. Therethey stood, partly in the dusk and partly in the light, close in each other's arms, with the misty silver lying lovingly upon Edith's hair.
Pledges of Love
She sank back into a chair, remembering, with vague terror, the vision she had seen in the crystal ball. So, then, it was true, as she might have known. Sorely troubled, and with her heart aching for them both, she crept up-stairs.
"Boy," whispered Edith, shrinking from him. "Oh, Boy! The whole world lies between you and me!"
His only answer was to hold her closer still, to turn her mouth again to his. "Not to-night," he breathed, with his lips on hers. "God has given us to-night!"
White and shaken, but with her eyes shining like stars, at last she broke away from him. She turned toward the house, but he caught her and held her back.
"Say it,"he pleaded. "Say you love me!"
"I do," she whispered. "Oh, have pity, and let me go!"
"And I," he answered, with his face illumined, "love you with all my heart and soul and strength and will—with every fibre of my being, for now and for ever. I am yours absolutely, while earth holds me, and even beyond that."
What Matters
Edith looked up quickly, half afraid. His eyes were glowing with strange, sweet fires.
"Say it!" he commanded. "Tell me you are mine!"
"I am," she breathed. "God knows I am, but no—I had forgotten for the moment!"
She broke into wild sobbing, and he put his arm around her with infinite tenderness. "Hush," he said, as one might speak to a child. "What has been does not matter—nothing matters now but this. In all the ways of Heaven, you are mine—mine for always, by divine right!"
"Yes," she said, simply, and lifted her tear-stained face to his.
He kissed her again, not with passion, but with that same indescribable tenderness. Neither said a word. They went into the house together, he found her candle, lighted it, and gave it to her.
She took it from him, smiling, though her hands trembled. Back in the shadow he watched her as she ascended, with a look of exaltation upon her face. Crimson petals were falling all around her, and he saw the stain of the rose upon her white gown, where he had crushed it against her heart.
Neither slept, until the tide of the night began to turn. Swiftly, to her, through the throbbing, living darkness, came a question and a call.
Peace
"Mine?"
Back surged the unmistakable answer: "Thine." Then, to both, came dreamless peace.
Madame Reproaches Herself
Edith did not appear at breakfast. Alden seemed preoccupied, ate but little, and Madame, pale after a sleepless night, ate nothing at all. Furtively she watched her son, longing to share his thoughts and warn him against the trouble that inevitably lay ahead.
Woman-like, she blamed the woman, even including herself. She knew that what she had seen last night was not the evidence of a mere flirtation or passing fancy, and reproached herself bitterly because she had asked Edith to stay.
And yet, what mother could hope to shield her son against temptation in its most intoxicating form? For his thirty years he had lived in the valley, practically without feminine society. Only his mother, and, of late, Rosemary. Then, star-like upon his desert, Edith had arisen, young, beautiful, unhappy, with all the arts and graces a highly specialised civilisation bestows upon its women.
Looking Back
Madame's heart softened a little toward Edith. Perhaps she was not wholly to blame. She remembered the night Edith had endeavoured to escape a tête-à-tête with Alden and she herself had practically forced her to stay. Regardless of the warning given by the crystal ball, in which Madame now had more faith than ever, she had not only given opportunity, but had even forced it upon them.
Looking back, she could not remember, upon Edith's part, a word or even a look that had been out of place. She could recall no instance in which she had shown the slightest desire for Alden's society. Where another woman might have put herself in his way, times without number, Edith had kept to her own room, or had gone out alone.
On the contrary, Madame herself had urged drives and walks. Frequently she had asked Alden to do certain things and had reminded him of the courtesy due from host to guest. Once, when she had requested him to take Edith out for a drive, he had replied, somewhat sharply, that he had already invited her and she had refused to go.
Murmuring an excuse, Alden left the table and went out. Madame was rather glad to be left alone, for she wanted time to think, not as one thinks in darkness, when one painful subject, thrown out of perspective, assumesexaggerated proportions of importance, but in clear, sane sunlight, surrounded by the reassuring evidences of every-day living.
Madame's View of the Case
Obviously she could not speak to either. She could not say to Alden: "I saw you last night with Edith in your arms and that sort of thing will not do." Nor could she say to Edith: "My dear, you must remember that you are a married woman." She must not only wait for confidences, but must keep from them both, for ever, the fact that she had accidentally stumbled upon their divine moment.
After long thought, and eager to be just, she held Edith practically blameless, yet, none the less, earnestly wished that she would go home. She smiled whimsically, wishing that there were a social formula in which, without offence, one might request an invited guest to depart. She wondered that one's home must be continually open, when other places are permitted to close. The graceful social lie, "Not at home," had never appealed to Madame. Why might not one say, truthfully: "I am sorry you want to see me, for I haven't the slightest desire in the world to see you. Please go away." Or, to an invited guest: "When I asked you to come I wanted to see you, but I have seen quite enough of you for the present, and would be glad to have you go home."
A Wearisome Day
Her reflections were cut short by the appearance of Edith herself, wan and weary, very pale, but none the less transfigured by secret joy. Her eyes, alight with mysterious fires, held in their starry depths a world of love and pain. In some occult way she suggested to Madame a light burning before a shrine.
Edith did not care for breakfast but forced herself to eat a little. She responded to Madame's polite inquiries in monosyllables, and her voice was faint and far away. Yes, she was well. No, she had not slept until almost morning. No, nothing was making her unhappy—that was, nothing new. After all, perhaps she did have a headache. Yes, she believed she would lie down. It was very kind of Madame but she did not believe she wanted any luncheon and certainly would not trouble anyone to bring it up.
Yet at noon, when Madame herself appeared with a tempting tray, Edith gratefully accepted a cup of coffee. She was not lying down, but was sitting in her low rocker, with her hands clasped behind her head and the photograph of her husband on the dressing-table before her.
"Yes," she said, in answer to Madame's inquiring glance, "that's my husband. It was taken just about the time we were married."
On the Stroke of Seven
Madame took the picture, studied it for a moment, then returned it to its place. She made no comment, having been asked for none.
"Won't you lie down, dear?"
"Yes, I believe I will."
"Truly?"
"Yes—I promise."
With a sad little smile she kissed Madame, closed the door, and turned the key in the lock. The old lady sighed as she went down with the tray, reflecting how impossible it is really to aid another, unless the barrier of silence be removed.
At four, she had her tea alone. No sound came from up-stairs, and Alden neither returned to luncheon nor sent word. When he came in, a little past six, he was tired and muddy, his face was strained and white, and, vouchsafing only the briefest answers to his mother's solicitude, went straight to his room.
Exactly upon the stroke of seven, both appeared, Alden in evening clothes as usual, and Edith in her black gown, above which her face was deathly white by contrast, in spite of the spangles. She wore no ornaments, not even the string of pearls about her bare throat.
"You look as though you were in mourning, my dear," said Madame. "Let me get you a red rose."
Things to Be Said
She started toward the veranda, but, with a little cry, Edith caught her and held her back. "No," she said, in a strange tone, "roses are—not for me!"
The dinner-gong chimed in with the answer, and the three went out together. Neither Alden nor Edith made more than a pretence of eating. Edith held her head high and avoided even his eyes, though more than once Madame saw the intensity of his appeal.
Afterward he took his paper, Madame her fancy work, and Edith, attempting to play solitaire, hopelessly fumbled her cards. Madame made a valiant effort to carry on a conversation alone, but at length the monologue wearied her, and she slipped quietly out of the room.
Edith turned, with a start, and hurriedly rose to follow her. Alden intercepted her. "No," he said, quietly. "There are things to be said between you and me."
"I thought," Edith murmured, as she sank into the chair he offered her, "that everything was said last night."
"Everything? Perhaps, but not for the last time."
She leaned forward, into the light, put her elbows upon the table, and rested her head upon her clasped hands, as though to shade her eyes. "Well?" she said, wearily.
"Look at me!"
Vows and the Law
Her hands trembled, but she did not move. He leaned across the table, unclasped her hands gently, and forced her to look at him. Her eyes were swimming with unshed tears.
"Darling! My darling! Have I made you unhappy?"
"No," she faltered. "How could you?"
He came to her, sat down on the arm of her chair, slipped his arm around her, and held her close against his shoulder. "Listen," he said. "You belong to me, don't you?"
"Absolutely."
"Could you—could you—make yourself free?"
"Yes, as you mean it, I could."
"Then—when?"
"Never!" The word rang clear, tensely vibrant with denial.
"Edith! What do you mean?"
Releasing herself she stood and faced him. "This," she said. "At the altar I pledged myself in these words: 'Until death do us part,' and 'Forsaking all others, keep thee only unto me so long as we both shall live.' Isn't that plain?"
"The law," he began.
"Law!" repeated Edith. "Why don't you say perjury, and be done with it?"
"Dearest, you don't understand. You——"
"I know what I said," she reminded him,grimly. "I said 'For better or worse,' not 'for better' only."
What of Miss Starr?
"You promised to love and to honour also, didn't you?"
Edith bowed her head. "I did," she answered, in a low tone, "and I have, and, God helping me, I shall do so again."
"Have I no rights?" he asked, with a sigh.
He could scarcely hear the murmured answer: "None."
"Nor you?"
She shook her head sadly, avoiding his eyes, then suddenly turned and faced him. "What of your own honour?" she demanded. "What of Miss Starr?"
"I have thought of that," he replied, miserably. "I have thought of nothing else all day."
Edith leaned back against the table. "What," she asked, curiously, "were you planning to do?"
The dull colour rose to his temples. "Go to her," he said, with his face averted, "tell her the truth like a man, and ask for freedom."
She laughed—the sort of laugh one hears from a woman tossing in delirium. Madame heard it, up-stairs, and shuddered.
"Like a man!" Edith repeated, scornfully.
"Say it," he said, roughly. "Like a cad, if that's what you mean."
She laughed again, but with a differentcadence. "Ask yourself first," she continued, "and then be honest with me. How would you feel?"
Suppose There Is Another Woman
He shrugged his shoulders uneasily. "I admit it, but I'm willing to pay the price. I'll feel like a cad all the rest of my life, if I must, in order to have you."
"If a man has no self-respect," she retorted, "what can he expect from his——"
"Wife," breathed Alden, in a rapturous whisper. "Oh, Edith, say you will!"
She turned away, for she could not force herself to meet his eyes. Her little white hands clasped the edge of the table tightly.
"Have you thought of this?" he continued. "Suppose, for him, there is another woman——"
"There isn't," she denied. "I know that."
"Perhaps not in the sense you mean, but if he were free——?"
Edith drew a long breath. "I never thought of that."
Steadily the man pursued his advantage. "There must be some reason for his treating you as he does—for making you miserable. If, for any cause whatever, he wanted his freedom, would it make—any difference to you?"
She tapped her foot restlessly upon the floor. The atmosphere was surcharged with expectancy, then grew tense with waiting. Alden's eyes never swerved from her face.
What Right?
"Have you any right, through principles of your own, which I thoroughly understand and respect, to keep a man bound who desires to be free?"
She swayed back and forth unsteadily. Alden assisted her to her chair and stood before her as she sat with her elbows upon her knees, her face hidden in her hands. With the precise observation one accords to trifles in moments of unendurable stress, he noted that two of the hooks which fastened her gown at the back of her neck had become unfastened and that the white flesh showed through the opening.
"If," said Alden, mercilessly, "he longs for his freedom, and the law permits him to take it, have you the right to force your principles upon him—and thus keep him miserable when he might otherwise be happy?"
The clock in the hall struck ten. The sound died into silence and the remorseless tick-tick went on. Outside a belated cricket fiddled bravely as he fared upon his way. The late moon flooded the room with light.
"Have you?" demanded Alden. He endeavoured to speak calmly, but his voice shook. "Answer me!"
Edith leaned back in her chair, white and troubled. "I don't know," she murmured, with lips that scarcely moved. "Before God, I don't know!"
Advantages of a Letter
The man went on pitilessly. "Don't you think you might find out? Before you condemn yourself and me to everlasting separation, don't you think you might at least ask him?"
"Yes," said Edith, slowly. "I might ask him. I'll go——"
"No, you needn't go. Can't you write?"
"Yes," she returned. "I can write."
All the emotion had gone from her voice. She said the words as meaninglessly as a parrot might.
"A letter has distinct advantages," remarked Alden, trying to speak lightly. "You can say all you want to say before the other person has a chance to put in a word."
"Yes," she agreed, in the same meaningless tone. "That is true."
"When," queried Alden, after a pause, "will you write?"
"To-morrow."
He nodded his satisfaction. "Tell him," he suggested, "that you love another man, and——"
"No," she interrupted, "I won't tell him that. I'll say that I've tried my best to be a good wife, that I've tried as best I knew to make him happy. I'll say I've—" she choked on the word—"I'll say I've failed. I'll tell him I can do no more, that I do not believe I can ever do any better than I havedone, and ask him to tell me frankly whether or not he prefers to be free. That's all."
How Different?
"That isn't enough. You have rights——"
"We're not speaking of my rights," she said, coldly. "We're speaking of his."
A silence fell between them, tense and awkward. The open gate between them had turned gently upon its hinges, then closed, with a suggestion of finality. The clock struck the half hour. Outside, the cricket still chirped cheerily, regardless of the great issues of life and love.
"Come outside," Alden pleaded, taking her hand in his.
"No," she said, but she did not withdraw her hand.
"Come, dear—come!"
He led her out upon the veranda where the moon made far-reaching shadows with the lattice and the climbing rose, then returned for chairs, the same two in which they had sat the night before. She was the first to break the pause.
"How different it all is!" she sighed. "Last night we sat here in the moonlight, just where we are now. In twenty-four hours, everything has changed."