Chapter 13

Deep in her heart she still loved Alden, but unselfishly. This new Rosemary asked nothing for herself, she only longed to give, though freedom might be her best gift to him. Harm could come to her only through herself; the burning heart and the racked soul had been under the dominion of Fear.

She took the path up along the river, that lay half asleep and crooning drowsily to the little clouds that were mirrored upon its tranquil breast. Tiny blue pools among the rushes at the bend in the stream gave back glints of sapphire and turquoise, with now and then a glimmer of gold. Sometimes, upon a hidden rock, the river swirled and rippled, breaking murmurously into silver and pearl, but steadily beneath, in spite of all outward seeming, the current moved endlessly toward its sea-born destiny, as Man himself unto the Everlasting.

[Sidenote: Pleasures of the Valley]

Singing among the far hills, and rushing downward in a torrent of ecstatic life, the river had paused in the valley to rest, dreaming, perchance, of the long cool shadows in the uplands, the far altar-fires of daybreak. There were pleasant things to do in the valley, to lie at full length, basking in the sun, to hum a bit of the old music, to touch gently the harp-strings of the marsh grass and rushes, dimpling with pleasure at the faint answer, to reflect every passing mood of cloud and sky, even to hold the little clouds as a mother might, upon its deep and tender bosom. There were lily-pads to look after, too, bird-shadows and iridescent dragon flies, sunset lights to deepen and spread afar, and, at night, all the starry hosts of heaven to receive and give back, in luminous mist, to the waiting dusk.

Dawn came to the river while the earth still slept; it was day upon the waters while night lingered upon the shore. And, too, long after the abundant life of field and meadow was stilled in dreamless peace, past the power of the fairy lamp-bearers to stir or to annoy, the river lay awake and watchful, as some divinely appointed guardian of the Soul of Things.

[Sidenote: Murmur of Voices]

The peace of it came to Rosemary, as she walked, with the sense of healing, of balm. She saw plainly how Grandmother had wronged her, every day of her life, but set resentment aside, simply, as something that did not belong to her. The appointed thing came at the appointed time in the appointed way--there was no terror save her own fear. Outside herself was a mass of circumstance beyond her control, but, within herself, was the power of adjustment, as, when two dominant notes are given, the choice of the third makes either dissonance or harmony.

Tired, at last, for she had walked far upstream into the hills, Rosemary sat down upon a convenient rock to rest. The shores were steep, now, but just beyond her was a little cleft between two hills--a pleasant, sunny space, with two or three trees and a great rock, narrowing back into a thicket. She went on, after a few moments, down the slope to the level place, lay at full length upon the thick turf, and drank thirstily from the river.

In a moment, she heard the slow splash of oars, and the murmur of voices, both low and deep, though one evidently belonged to a man and one to a woman. Boats were infrequent upon the river, and, not caring to be seen, she stepped back into the thicket until it should pass.

[Sidenote: Mute and Frightened]

The voices came nearer and nearer, the man's full-toned and vaguely familiar, the woman's musical, vibrant, and, in a way, familiar too.

A single powerful stroke brought the boat into view, as it rounded the curve. It was Alden and Edith. The girl stepped back still farther into the sheltering thicket, repressing the cry of astonishment that rose to her lips. Acutely self-conscious, it seemed that the leaves were no protection; that she stood before them helpless, unconcealed.

Trembling, she sat down on a low, flat stone, for she had suddenly become too weak to stand. Much to her dismay, Alden swung the head of the boat toward the shore. They were going to land!

Mute and frightened, she watched him as he assisted her to the shore, saw him return to the boat for a basket covered with a white cloth, and draw the oars up to the bank.

Rosemary instantly comprehended the emotions of an animal in a trap. She scarcely dared to breathe, much less move. Unwilling to listen, she put her fingers in her ears and turned her head away, but presently the position became so strained and uncomfortable that she had to give it up. Their voices were plainly audible.

[Sidenote: A Picnic]

"I thought I heard a rustle behind that thicket," said Edith. She was lovely in her gown of pale green linen, and carried a white linen parasol instead of wearing a hat.

"It's a bird, or a squirrel," he assured her. "Nobody ever comes here."

"Are we nobody?"

"Indeed not--we're everybody. The world was made just for us two."

"I wish I could believe you," Edith returned, sadly. Then she added, with swift irrelevance: "Why do people always take hard-boiled eggs to picnics?"

"To mitigate the pickles," he responded. "There always are pickles--see? I knew Mother would put some in."

"Wine, too," commented Edith, peering into the basket. "Why, it's almost a party!"

Alden's face took on a grave, sweet boyishness. "I did that myself," he said. "Mother didn't know. Wait until I tell you. The day I was born, my father set aside all the wine that was that day ready for bottling. There wasn't much of it. All these years, it's been untouched on one particular shelf in the storeroom, waiting, in dust and cobwebs. At sunset he went to Mother, and told her what he had done. 'It's for the boy,' he said. 'It's to be opened the day he finds the woman he loves as I love you.'"

"And--" Edith's voice was almost a whisper.

[Sidenote: The Time Has Come]

"The time has come. I may have found her only to lose her again, but she's mine--for to-day."

He filled two small glasses, and, solemnly, they drank. The light mood vanished as surely as though they had been in a church, at some unwonted communion. Behind the leafy screen, Rosemary trembled and shook. She felt herself sharply divided into a dual personality. One of her was serene and calm, able to survey the situation unemotionally, as though it were something that did not concern her at all. The other was a deeply passionate, loving woman, who had just seen her life's joy taken from her for ever.

Alden, leaning back against the rock near which they sat, was looking at Edith as a man looks at but one woman in all his life. To Rosemary, trembling and cold, it someway brought a memory of her father's face, in the faded picture. At the thought, she clenched her hands tightly and compressed her lips. So much she had, made hers eternally by a grave. No one could take from her the thrilling sense of kinship with those who had given her life.

Edith looked out upon the river. Her face was wistful and as appealing as a child's. "Found," she repeated, "though only to lose again."

"Perhaps not," he answered, hopefully. "Wait and see."

[Sidenote: Never Again]

"Life is made of waiting," she returned, sadly--"woman's life always is." Then with a characteristically quick change of mood, she added, laughingly: "I know a woman who says that all her life, before she was married, she was waiting for her husband, and that since her marriage, she has noticed no difference."

Alden smiled at the swift anti-climax, then his face grew grave again. He packed the few dishes in the basket, rinsed the wine glasses in the river, brought them back, and gave one to Edith.

"We'll break the bottle," he said, "and the glasses, too. They shall never be used again."

The shattered crystal fell, tinkling as it went. The wine made a deep, purple stain upon the stone. He opened his arms.

"No," whispered Edith. "It only makes it harder, when----"

"Beloved, have you found so much sweetness in the world that you can afford to pass it by?" She did not answer, so he said, pleadingly: "Don't you want to come?"

She turned toward him, her face suddenly illumined. "I do, with all my soul I do."

"Then come. For one little hour--for one dear hour--ah, dearest, come!"

Rosemary averted her face, unable to bear it. When she turned her miserable eyes toward them again, allured by some strange fascination she was powerless to analyse, Edith was in his arms, her mouth crushed to his.

[Sidenote: Yours Alone]

"Dear, dearest, sweetheart, beloved!" the man murmured. "I love you so!"

There was a pause, then he spoke again. "Do you love me?"

"Yes," she breathed. "A thousand times, yes!"

"Say it," he pleaded. "Just those three words."

"I love you," she answered, "for everything you have been and everything you are and everything you are going to be, for always. I love you with a love that is yours alone. It never belonged to anybody else for the merest fraction of a second, and never can. It was born for you, lives for you, and will die when you need it no more."

"Ah," he said, "but I need it always. I've wanted you all my life."

"And will," she sighed, trying to release herself.

"Edith! Don't! I can't bear it! Take the golden hour as the glittering sands of eternity sweep past us. So much is yours and mine, out of all that is past and to come."

"As you wish," she responded. Then, after another pause, she said: "Don't you want to read to me?"

Rosemary, dumb and hopeless, saw them sit down, close together, and lean against the rock, where the sunlight made an aureole of Edith's hair. He slipped his arm around her, and she laid her head upon his shoulder, with a look of heavenly peace upon her pale face. Never had the contrast between them been more painful than now, for Edith, with love in her eyes, was exquisite beyond all words.

[Sidenote: The Red Book Again]

Alden took a small red book out of his pocket. With a pang, Rosemary recognised it. Was nothing to be left sacred to her? She longed to break from her hiding-place, face them both with stern accusing eyes, snatch the book which meant so much to her--ask for this much, at least, to keep. Yet she kept still, and listened helplessly, with the blood beating in her ears.

In his deep, musical voice, Alden read once more: _Her Gifts_. "That," he said, softly, "was the night I knew."

"Yes," Edith answered. "The night I found the book and brought it home."

Rosemary well remembered when Edith had found the book. Her strange sense of a dual self persisted, yet, none the less, her heart beat hard with pain.

He went on, choosing a line here and there as he turned the marked pages, but avoiding entirely some of the most beautiful sonnets because of their hopelessness. At last, holding her closer, he began:

[Sidenote: Suiting the Action to the Word]

"On this sweet bank your head thrice sweet and dear I lay, and spread your hair on either side, And see the new-born woodflowers bashful-eyed Look through the golden tresses here and there. On these debatable borders of the year Spring's foot half falters; scarce she yet may know The leafless blackthorn-blossom from the snow; And through her bowers the wind's way still is clear."

"Oh!" breathed Rosemary, with her hands tightly clenched. "Dear God, have pity!"

Heedlessly, Alden went on:

"But April's sun strikes down the glades to-day; So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray, Up your warm throat to your warm lips; for this----"

He dropped the book, lifted Edith's chin and kissed her throat, then her mouth. She laid her hand upon his face. "Dear and lonely and hungry-hearted," she said; "how long you wanted me!"

"Yes," he murmured, "but I've found you now!"

How long they sat there, Rosemary never knew, for her senses were dulled. She did not hear their preparations for departure, but saw the boat swinging out into the current, with the sunset making golden glory of the river and of Edith's hair. When the sound of the oars ceased, she rose, numb and cold, and came out into the open space. She steadied herself for a moment upon the rock against which they had leaned.

[Sidenote: Another Thought]

"Service," she said to herself, "and sacrifice. Giving, and not receiving. Asking--not answer." Yet she saw that, even now, this could be neither sacrifice nor denial, because it was something she had never had.

She laughed, a trifle bitterly, and went on home, another thought keeping time with her footsteps. "The appointed thing comes at the appointed time in the appointed way. There is no terror save my own fear."

XVII

The Last Tryst

[Sidenote: A Double Self]

The shrill voices in the sitting-room rose higher and higher. Since the day Grandmother had read the article upon "Woman's Birthright" to Matilda, the subject of Mrs. Lee's hair had, as it were, been drowned in cucumber milk. When Rosemary came in from the kitchen, they appealed to her by common consent.

"Rosemary, have you ever heard of anybody taking a stool and a pail and goin' out to milk the cucumbers before breakfast?" This from Aunt Matilda.

"Rosemary, ain't you seen the juice of wild cucumbers when they spit their seeds out and ain't it just like milk, only some thicker?" This from Grandmother.

"I don't know," Rosemary answered, mechanically. The queer sense of a double self persisted. One of her was calm and content, the other was rebellious--and hurt.

"Humph!" snorted Grandmother.

"Humph!" echoed Aunt Matilda

[Sidenote: Going for the Paper]

"It's Thursday," Grandmother reminded her, "and I heard the mail train come in some time ago. You'd better leave the sweepin' an' go and get my paper."

"Yes, do," Aunt Matilda chimed in, with a sneer. "I can't hardly wait for this week's paper, more'n the other sufferin' five million can. Maybe there'll be a pattern for a cucumber milkin' stool in this week's paper; somethin' made out of a soap-box, with cucumber leaves and blossoms painted on it with some green and yellow house paint that happens to be left over. And," she continued, "they'd ought to be a pail too, but I reckon a tin can'll do, for the cucumbers I've seen so far don't look as if they'd be likely to give much milk. We can paint the can green and paste a picture of a cucumber on the outside from the seed catalogue. Of course I ain't got any freckles, but there's nothin' like havin' plenty of cucumber milk in the house, with hot weather comin' on."

Grandmother surveyed Matilda with a penetrating, icy stare. "You've got freckles on your mind," she said. "Rosemary, will you go to the post-office and not keep me waiting?"

The girl glanced at her brown gingham dress, and hesitated.

"You're clean enough," Grandmother observed, tartly. "Anybody'd think you had a beau waitin' for you somewheres."

[Sidenote: Young People's Calls]

She flushed to her temples, but did not speak. Her face was still red when she went out, wearing a brown straw hat three Summers old.

"The paper says," Grandmother continued, "that a blush is becomin' to some women, but Rosemary ain't one that looks well with a red face. Do you suppose she has got a beau?"

"Can't prove it by me," Matilda sighed, looking pensively out of the window. "That Marsh boy come to see her once, though."

"He didn't come again, I notice, no more'n the minister did."

"No," Matilda rejoined, pointedly, with a searching glance at Grandmother, "and I reckon it was for the same reason. When young folks comes to see young folks, they don't want old folks settin' in the room with 'em all the time, talkin' about things they ain't interested in."

"Young folks!" snorted Grandmother. "You was thirty!"

"That ought to be old enough to set alone with a man for a spell, especially if he's a minister."

"I suppose you think," the old lady returned, swiftly gathering her ammunition for a final shot, "that the minister was minded to marry you. I've told you more 'n once that you're better off the way you are. Marriage ain't much. I've been through it and I know."

[Sidenote: Face to Face]

With that, she sailed triumphantly out of the room, closing the door with a bang which had in it the sound of finality. Poor Miss Matilda gazed dreamily out of the window, treasuring the faint, fragrant memory of her lost romance. "If Rosemary has got a beau," she said to herself, "I hope she won't let Ma scare him away from her."

At the post-office, Rosemary met Alden, face to face. She blushed and stammered when he spoke to her, answered his kindly questions in monosyllables, and, snatching _The Household Guardian_ from the outstretched hand of the postmaster, hurried away.

Presently he overtook her. "Please, Rosemary," he said, "give me just a minute. I want to talk to you. I haven't seen you for a long time."

"Yes?" She stopped, but could not raise her eyes to his face.

"I can't talk to you here. Come on up the hill."

"When?" The girl's lips scarcely moved as she asked the question.

"Now. Please come."

"I'll--I'll have to go home first, with this," she replied, indicating the paper. "Then I'll come."

"All right. I'll go on ahead and wait for you. Shall I tie the red ribbon to the tree?" He spoke thoughtlessly, meaning only to be pleasant, but the girl's eyes filled. She shook her head decisively and neither of them spoke until they reached the corner where she must turn.

[Sidenote: Waiting for Rosemary]

"Good-bye," she said.

"Auf wiedersehen," he replied, lifting his hat. "Don't be long."

Always, before, it had been Rosemary who waited for him. Now he sat upon the log, leaning back against the tree, listening to the chatter of the squirrels and the twitter of little birds in the boughs above him. It was not yet noon, and the sunlight made little dancing gleams of silver-gilt on the ground between the faint shadows of the leaves. He waited for her in a fever of impatience, for in his pocket he had a letter for Edith, addressed in a dashing masculine hand.

Not so long ago, in this same place, he had asked Rosemary to marry him. Now he must ask her to release him, to set him free from the bondage he had persisted in making for himself. He made a wry face at the thought, unspeakably dreading the coming interview and, in his heart, despising himself.

Rosemary did not keep him waiting long. When she came, she was flushed and breathless from the long climb--and something more. She sank down upon the seat he indicated--her old place.

[Sidenote: The Hour of Reckoning]

"It's been a long time since we were here last," Alden observed, awkwardly.

"Has it?" The grey eyes glanced at him keenly for a moment, then swiftly turned away.

"I've--I've wanted to see you," Alden lied.

"I've wanted to see you," she flashed back, telling the literal truth.

Alden sighed, for there was tremulous passion in her tone--almost resentment. He had treated her badly, considering that she was his promised wife. She had been shamefully neglected, and she knew it, and the hour of reckoning had come.

For the moment he caught at the straw the situation seemed to offer him. If they should quarrel--if he could make her say harsh things, it might be easier. Instantly his better self revolted. "Coward!" he thought. "Cad!"

"I've wanted to see you," Rosemary was saying, with forced calmness, "to tell you something. I can't marry you, ever!"

"Why, Rosemary!" he returned, surprised beyond measure. "What do you mean?"

The girl rose and faced him. He rose, too, awkwardly stretching out his hand for hers. She swerved aside, and clasped her hands behind her back.

[Sidenote: It's All a Mistake]

"I mean what I said; it's plain enough, isn't it?"

"Yes," he answered, putting his hands in his pockets, "it's perfectly plain. If I've done anything to hurt or offend you in any way, I--I'm sorry." So much was true. He was sorry for Rosemary and had never been more so than at that very moment. "You'll give me a reason, won't you?" he continued.

"Reason?" she repeated, with a bitter laugh. "Oh, I have plenty of reasons!" His heart sank for a moment, then went on, evenly. "It's all a mistake--it's never been anything but a mistake. I couldn't leave Grandmother and Aunt Matilda, you know. They need me, and I shouldn't have allowed myself to forget it."

"Yes," Alden agreed, quickly, "I suppose they do need you. I was selfish, perhaps."

Hot words came to her lips but she choked them back. For an instant she was tempted to tell him all she had seen and heard a few days before, to accuse him of disloyalty, and then prove it. Her face betrayed her agitation, but Alden was looking out across the valley, and did not see. In his pocket the letter for Edith lay consciously, as though it were alive.

"It isn't that you don't love me, is it?" he asked, curiously. His masculine vanity had been subtly aroused.

[Sidenote: They Part]

Rosemary looked him straight in the face. She was white, now, to the lips. "Yes," she lied. "It is that more than anything else."

"Why, my dear girl! I thought----"

"So did I. We were both mistaken, that is all."

"And you really don't love me?"

"Not in the least."

Alden laughed--a little mirthless, mocking laugh. It is astonishing, sometimes, how deeply a man may be hurt through his vanity. Rosemary had turned away, and he called her back.

"Won't you kiss me good-bye?" he asked, with a new humility.

Then Rosemary laughed, too, but her laugh was also mirthless. "No," she answered, in a tone from which there was no appeal. "Why should I?" Before he realised it, she was gone.

He went back to the log and sat down to think. This last tryst with Rosemary had been a surprise in more ways than one. He had been afraid that she would be angry, or hurt, and she had been neither. He had come to ask for freedom and she had given it to him without asking, because she could not leave Grandmother and Aunt Matilda, and because she did not love him. He could understand the first reason, but the latter seemed very strange. Yet Rosemary had looked him straight in the face and he had never known her to lie. He had a new emotion toward her; not exactly respect, but something more than that.

[Sidenote: A Letter for Edith]

Then, with a laugh, he straightened his shoulders. He had what he wanted, though it had not come in the way he thought it would. If he had been obliged to ask her to release him, he would have felt worse than he did now. The letter in his pocket, heavy with portent, asserted itself imperiously. He hurried home, feeling very chivalrous.

Edith, cool and fresh in white linen, with one of the last of the red roses thrust into her belt, was rocking on the veranda, with a book in her lap which she had made no pretence of reading. Two or three empty chairs were near her, but Madame was nowhere to be seen. Alden handed her the letter. "I'm free!" he said, exultantly.

Edith smiled, then, with shaking hands, tore open the letter. Alden eagerly watched her as she turned the closely written pages, but her face was inscrutable. She read every word carefully, until she reached the signature. Then she looked up.

"I'm not," she said, briefly. She tossed the letter to him, and went into the house. He heard her light feet upon the stairs and the rustle of her skirts as she ascended. Perfume persisted in the place she had just left--the rose at her belt, the mysterious blending of many sweet odours, and, above all, the fragrance of Edith herself.

[Sidenote: Alden Reads the Letter]

"It's nonsense," he murmured, looking after her. All her quixotic notions of honour would eventually yield to argument--of course they would. Yet his heart strangely misgave him as he read the letter.

"My dear Edith," it began.