Chapter 10

Grandmother's head burned pink through her scanty white locks and her eyes flashed dangerously. Somewhat frightened, Matilda hastened to change the subject.

"She wears her hair like mine."

"She?" repeated Grandmother, pricking up her ears, "Who's she?"

"You know--the company up to Marshs'."

"Who was tellin' you? The milkman, or his wife?"

"None of 'em," answered Matilda, mysteriously. Then, lowering her voice to a whisper, she added: "I seen her myself!"

"When?" Grandmother demanded. "You been up there, payin' back your own call?"

"She went by here yesterday," said Matilda, hurriedly.

"What was I doin'?" the old lady inquired, resentfully.

"One time you was asleep and one time you was readin'."

"What? Do you mean to tell me she went by here twice and you ain't never told me till now?"

"When you've been readin'," Matilda rejoined, with secret delight, "you've always told me and Rosemary too that you wan't to be disturbed unless the house took afire. Ain't she, Rosemary?"

[Sidenote: If Anything's Important]

"What?" asked the girl, placing a saucer of stewed prunes at each place and drawing up the three chairs.

"Ain't she always said she didn't want to be disturbed when she was readin'?" She indicated Grandmother by an inclination of her frowsy head.

"I don't believe any of us like to be interrupted when we're reading," Rosemary replied, tactfully. She disliked to "take sides," and always avoided it whenever possible.

"There," exclaimed Matilda, triumphantly.

"And the other time?" pursued Grandmother. Her eyes glittered and her cheeks burned with dull, smouldering fires.

"You was asleep."

"I could have been woke up, couldn't I?"

"You could have been," Matilda replied, after a moment's thought, "but when you've been woke up I ain't never liked to be the one what did it."

"If it's anything important," Grandmother observed, as she began to eat, "I'm willin' to be interrupted when I'm readin', or to be woke up when I'm asleep, and if that woman ever goes by the house again, I want to be told of it, and I want you both to understand it, right here and now."

[Sidenote: Have You Seen Her?]

"What woman?" queried Rosemary. She had been busy in the kitchen and had not grasped the subject of the conversation, though the rumbling of it had reached her from afar.

"Marshs' company," said both voices at once.

"Oh!" Rosemary steadied herself for a moment against the back of her chair and then sat down.

"Have you seen her?" asked Grandmother.

"Yes." Rosemary's answer was scarcely more than a whisper. In her wretchedness, she told the truth, being unable to think sufficiently to lie.

"When?" asked Aunt Matilda.

"Where?" demanded Grandmother.

"Yesterday, when I was out for a walk." It was not necessary to go back of yesterday.

"Where was she?" insisted Grandmother.

"Up on the hill. I didn't know she was there when I went up. She was at the top, resting."

"Did she speak to you?" asked Aunt Matilda.

"Yes." Rosemary's voice was very low and had in it all the weariness of the world.

"What did she say?" inquired Grandmother, with the air of the attorney for the defence. The spectacles were resting upon the wart now, and she peered over them disconcertingly.

[Sidenote: What Does She Look Like?]

"I asked you what she said," Grandmother repeated distinctly, after a pause.

"She said: 'How do you do, Miss Starr?'"

"How'd she know who you were?"

"There, there, Mother," put in Aunt Matilda. "I reckon everybody in these parts knows the Starr family."

"Of course," returned the old lady, somewhat mollified. "What else did she say?"

"Nothing much," stammered Rosemary. "That is, I can't remember. She said it was a nice day, or something of that sort, and then she went back home. She didn't stay but a minute." So much was true, even though that minute had agonised Rosemary beyond words.

"What does she look like?" Grandmother continued, with deep interest.

"Not--like anybody we know. Aunt Matilda can tell you better than I can. She saw her too."

Accepting modestly this tribute to her powers of observation, Aunt Matilda took the conversation out of Rosemary's hands, greatly to her relief. The remainder of breakfast was a spirited dialogue. Grandmother's doubt on any one point was quickly silenced by the sarcastic comment from Matilda: "Well, bein' as you've seen her and I haven't, of course you know."

[Sidenote: Under the Ban]

Meanwhile Rosemary ate, not knowing what she ate, choking down her food with glass after glass of water which by no means assuaged the inner fires. While she was washing the breakfast dishes the other two were discussing Mrs. Lee's hair. Grandmother insisted that it was a wig, as play-actresses always wore them and Mrs. Lee was undoubtedly a play-actress.

"How do you know?" Matilda inquired, with sarcastic inflection.

"If she ain't," Grandmother parried, "what's she gallivantin' around the country for without her husband?"

"Maybe he's dead."

"If he's dead, why ain't she wearin' mourning, as any decent woman would? She's either a play-actress, or else she's a divorced woman, or maybe both." Either condition, in Grandmother's mind, was the seal of social damnation.

"If we was on callin' terms with the Marshs," said Matilda, meditatively, "Mis' Marsh might be bringin' her here."

"Not twice," returned Grandmother, with determination. "This is my house, and I've got something to say about who comes in it. I wouldn't even have Mis' Marsh now, after she's been hobnobbin' with the likes of her."

After reverting for a moment to the copper-coloured hair, which might or might not be a wig, the conversation drifted back to mermaids and the seafaring folk who went astray on the rocks. Aunt Matilda insisted that there were no such things as mermaids, and Grandmother triumphantly dug up the article in question from a copy of _The Household Guardian_ more than three months old.

[Sidenote: 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't dead, 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----

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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 other day, when she had gone there to tea but, naturally, he had seen the difference--must have seen it.

[Sidenote: 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 all One 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, in silence, 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.

[Sidenote: 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!"

XIII

The Stain of the Rose

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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 her chin 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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 crepe 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 took on an affected sternness. "You mustn't talk."

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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."

[Sidenote: 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's so much I might have that I haven't." Then she added, suddenly: "What did you think of my husband's picture?"

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.