modern times are too confused for me. The old way would have been to
wait, to do the best one could, and trust God to make it right in His
own good time."
[Sidenote: Invited to Stay]
Edith shook her head. "I've waited and I've done the best I could, and
I've tried to trust."
"No one can solve a problem for another, but, I think, when it's time to
act, one knows what to do and the way is clearly opened for one to do
it. Don't you feel better for having come here and talked to me?"
"Yes, indeed," said the young woman, gratefully. "So much was right--I'm
sure of that. The train had scarcely started before I felt more at peace
than I had for years."
"Then, dear, won't you stay with me until you know just what to do?"
Edith looked long and earnestly into the sweet old face. "Do you mean
it? It may be a long time."
"I mean it--no matter how long it is."
Quick tears sprang to the brown eyes, and Edith brushed them aside, half
ashamed. "It means more trunks," she said, "and your son----"
"Will be delighted to have you with us," Madame concluded.
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely." Madame was not at all sure, but she told her lie prettily.
"Then," said Edith, with a smile, "I'll stay."
IX
A Spring Day
[Sidenote: Alden's Idea of a Trunk]
With the tact that seems the birthright of the gifted few, Mrs. Lee
adjusted herself to the ways of the Marsh household. Some commotion had
been caused by the arrival of four more trunks, of different shapes and
sizes, but after they had been unpacked and stored, things went on
smoothly.
Alden's idea of a trunk had hitherto been very simple. To him, it was
only a substantial box, variation in size and in exterior finish being
the only possible diversions from the original type. When it fell to his
lot, on a Saturday morning, to superintend the removal of Mrs. Lee's
empty trunks to the attic, he discovered the existence of hat trunks,
dresser trunks, and wardrobe trunks, cannily constructed with huge warts
on all sides but the one the trunk was meant to stand upon.
"Why so scornful?" a sweet voice asked, at his elbow.
"I'm not scornful," he returned. "I'm merely interested."
[Sidenote: In the Hall]
"You're fortunate," she smiled, "to be so easily interested."
"We're out of the world here, you know, and unfamiliar varieties of the
trunk species make me feel much as Crusoe did when he came upon a human
footprint in the sand."
"I wonder," mused Mrs. Lee, "how he really did feel. It must have been
dramatic beyond all words."
She sat down on the window-seat in the hall and leaned back against the
casement of the open window. The warm Spring wind, laden with the sweet
scent of growing things, played caressingly about her neck and carried
to Alden a subtle fragrance of another sort. Her turquoise-blue silk
kimono, delicately embroidered in gold, was open at the throat and
fastened at the waist with a heavy golden cord. Below, it opened over a
white petticoat that was a mass of filmy lace ruffles. Her tiny feet
peeped out beneath the lace, clad in pale blue silk stockings and
fascinating Chinese slippers that turned up at the toes.
From above came discordant rumblings and eloquent, but smothered remarks
on the general subject of trunks. Mrs. Lee laughed. "They're trying to
make the wardrobe-trunk stand up on the wrong end, and it won't."
"How do you know that's it?"
"Because I've heard the same noises and the same general trend of
conversation all the way from the Atlantic to the Pacific and back
again. The farther west you go, the more accomplished the men are in the
art of profanity."
[Sidenote: Sounds from the Attic]
"Is it an art? I thought it came naturally."
"It does, to some, but you have no idea what study and constant practice
can do in developing a natural gift."
The sunlight illumined her hair into a mass of spun gold that sparkled
and gleamed and shone. It made golden lights in her brown eyes, caressed
the ivory softness of her skin, and deepened the scarlet of her lips.
"Listen," she said. "Isn't it awful?"
"No," returned Alden, "it isn't. In fact, I don't know of any sound I'd
rather hear than your trunks being put into our attic."
A faint suggestion of a dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth, then
vanished. "Well done," she said. "You have atoned nobly for your dismay
the night I came, when you found I'd brought a trunk."
"I wish you wouldn't," he replied, awkwardly. "It wasn't that."
"Such a small trunk," she went on, mercilessly. "Just a plain little
steamer trunk that you can put under a bed. The kind you can ask a
cabman to take down to the cab for you. A little trunk that a woman can
almost carry herself! Only room for one gown, one hat, and a few toilet
articles!"
[Sidenote: Always Too Late]
The golden lights in her eyes were dancing and her hair shimmered in the
sun. Alden sat down at the farthest end of the window-seat and looked
out upon the vineyard, faintly green, now, with the new leaves. The two
men descended from the attic and went down the back stairs.
"How did Robinson Crusoe feel when he saw the footprint?" he asked,
determined to get away from the unlucky subject of trunks.
"I don't know," Edith answered, "for I wasn't there. He must have been
surprised and frightened and pleased all at once. How interesting it
must be to have something happen to you that never happened to anybody
before!"
"But it's all happened before," he objected. "Is there anything new
under the sun?"
"It's been new, at one time or another. We're always too late, that's
all. Somebody ate the first oyster and somebody went to sleep first and
somebody wore the first false hair.
"No," she continued, with a rose-pink flush mantling her face, "I don't.
If I did, I wouldn't mind saying so, but Nature gave me quantities of
it, so why should I borrow more? Besides, I don't believe there is any
more like it, so I couldn't, anyway."
"No," he returned, thoughtfully, "I don't believe there is any more like
it, either. Your wish to be first in something is surely gratified, for
there never was such hair as yours and never will be again."
[Sidenote: Red Hair and Auburn]
"Mother's was like it."
He shook his head. "No, it wasn't. I never saw your mother, but I know
better than that."
"Ask your mother. There she is now."
Madame appeared at the head of the stairs, on the way to her room, to
dress for luncheon. She paused to smile at the two who sat on the
window-seat, then would have gone straight on had not Edith called to
her.
"Mrs. Marsh! Isn't my hair exactly like my mother's?"
Madame came to her, turned the shining head a little more toward the
sun, and patted the fluffiness caressingly. "No," she said, "though your
mother had glorious hair, it was nothing like this. Hers was auburn and
smooth, yours is reddish-gold--almost copper-coloured--and fluffy.
Besides, you must have nearly twice as much of it."
"There," said Alden, "I told you so."
"But," persisted Edith, "if it's really copper-coloured, it's common.
Look at the lady on the copper cent, for instance."
"The lady on the copper cent," returned Alden, "is a gentleman who wears
feathers."
"But under his feathers he has hair the colour of this."
"He may not have any hair at all."
[Sidenote: What's the Matter with Her?]
They both laughed, and Madame smiled, though she did not quite
understand what they were talking about. She was still smiling when she
reached her own room, for she found it very pleasant to have Edith
there, and was delighted to have Alden come to a realising sense of his
duties as host.
He had, indeed, conducted himself admirably ever since Mrs. Lee's
arrival, though he had been very quiet and reserved at first. With some
trepidation, she had told him that she had invited the guest to remain
indefinitely, tactfully choosing a moment after an unusually good
dinner, when they chanced to be alone.
Alden had taken it calmly, betraying no outward sign of any sort of
emotion. "What's the matter with her?" he had asked, curiously. "What's
she in trouble about?"
"If she wants you to know, my son, she will tell you herself," Madame
had replied, in a tone of gentle rebuke. "I have no right to violate her
confidence."
He shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. "You don't need to squelch me
like that, Mother. I don't know that I care, particularly. I was merely
making conversation."
"Refined conversation is not made of impertinences," Madame suggested.
The words were harsh, but the tone was kind.
"Don't stab me with epigrams, please, for I don't believe I deserve
it."
[Sidenote: Dream-Children]
Madame recalled every word they had said as she took down her afternoon
gown of black silk, and began to sew frills of real lace in the neck and
sleeves. She was glad he had been pleasant about it, for it seemed much
more like living, someway, to have another woman in the house.
If Virginia had lived--she, too, had brown eyes, but her hair was brown
also. She would have been four years older than Edith was now, and,
undoubtedly, married. All Madame's feminine ancestors for generations
back had been married. The only spinster in the family, so far as Madame
knew, had remained true to the memory of a dead lover.
"Some women are born to be married, some achieve marriage, and others
have marriage thrust upon them," Madame said to herself, unconsciously
paraphrasing an old saying. Virginia would have been meant for it, too,
and, by now, there would have been children in the old house, pattering
back and forth upon the stairs, lisping words that meant no more than
the bubbling of a fountain, and stretching up tiny hands that looked
like crumpled rose-petals, pleading to be taken up and loved.
These dream-children tugged strangely at the old lady's heart-strings in
her moments of reverie. Even yet, after Rosemary came--but they would
not be like her own flesh and blood, as a daughter's children always
are. Poor Rosemary! How miserable she was at home, and how little she
would need to make her happy! To think that she dared not tell her
Grandmother and Aunt that she was engaged to Alden! Madame's cheeks grew
warm with resentment in the girl's behalf. Motherless, friendless,
alone, with Life's great cup of wonder in her rough, red hands!
[Sidenote: "Fussed Over"]
A tap at the door made her start. "Come in!" she called.
It was Edith, trig and tailor-made, in dark green, with a crisp white
linen shirtwaist, an immaculate collar, and a dashing green tie.
"Mr. Marsh has invited me to go for a drive after luncheon," she said,
"and he asked me to come and see if you weren't almost ready. May I do
your hair for you?"
Madame submitted, not because she cared to have her hair done, but
because she liked to be "fussed over," as she put it. There was
something very pleasant in the touch of Edith's cool, soft hands.
"You're--you're not going to change the way I do it, are you?" she
asked, a little anxiously.
"No, indeed! I wouldn't change it for anything. It suits you just as it
is."
"I'm glad you think so, for I've always worn it like this. Alden
wouldn't know me if I became fashionable."
[Sidenote: It Isn't Right]
"He doesn't look a bit like you," said Edith, irrelevantly.
"No, but he's the living image of his father, and I'm very glad. It
keeps me from--from missing him too much," Madame's voice broke a little
on the last words.
"It must be lovely to be missed," said Edith, quickly. "Now I----"
"Dear, haven't you told him yet?"
"He's probably discovered it by this time. Still, I don't know--I've
only been away a week."
"It isn't right," said Madame, decidedly. "You must let him know where
you are."
"Why? I never know where he is."
"That doesn't make any difference. Two wrongs never make one perfect
right. If you do your part, things will be only half wrong, instead of
entirely so."
"I'll do whatever you think best," said Edith, humbly. "I came to you
because I could think for myself no longer. I'll write him a note before
luncheon, if you say so, and post it this afternoon."
"I do say so."
Therefore luncheon waited for a few moments, to Alden's secret
impatience, until Edith came down with her note. She offered it to
Madame, doubtfully. "Want to see it?"
"No, dear. I'll trust you."
She sealed it with shamefaced gladness that Madame had not availed
herself of the opportunity. She was quite sure that her counsellor would
not approve of the few formal lines which were all she had been able to
make herself write.
[Sidenote: On the Way to the Post-Office]
After luncheon, when Alden assisted her into Madame's decrepit phaeton,
and urged the superannuated horse into a wildly exciting pace of three
miles an hour, she asked to be driven to the post-office.
"Thank you," said Alden, "for alluding to it as a drive. It's more like
a walk."
"It isn't exactly like going out in a touring car," she admitted, "but
it's very pleasant, nevertheless. It gives you time to look at the
scenery."
"Also to photograph it if you should so desire. You don't even need to
limit yourself to snap-shots. A time-exposure is altogether possible."
When they reached the post-office, Alden took her note, and went through
the formality of tying the horse. He glanced at the superscription, not
because he was interested in her unknown correspondent, but because the
handwriting claimed his attention. Through the delicate angular tracery
he made out the address: "Mr. William G. Lee." The street and number
were beyond his skill in the brief time he had at his command.
"So," he said, when he came back, "you're Mrs. William G. I trust you
don't call him 'William'?"
[Sidenote: Mrs. William G.]
"No--he's the sort of William who is always known as 'Billy.'"
"Good! That speaks well for him."
Alden began to wonder, as he alternately coaxed and threatened the horse
toward the river-road, what manner of man she had married. Someone,
undoubtedly, with the face and figure of Apollo, the courtesy of
Chesterfield, and the character of a saint. "It was good of him," he
said, gratefully, "to let you come to us."
Edith bit her lips and turned her face away. "I was glad to come," she
answered, after a pause. For a moment she trembled upon the verge of a
confidence, then summoned all her conversational powers to the rescue.
She began with the natural beauty of the country through which they were
driving, observed that the roads were better adapted to a horse than to
an automobile, noted the pleasant situation of the Marsh house on the
river shore, veered for a moment to the subject of good roads in France,
came back to the blue reflection of the sky upon the smooth surface of
the river, admired the situation of the vineyard, said that Madame's
phaeton was extremely comfortable, and concluded by asking if it wasn't
almost time for apple-blossoms.
[Sidenote: "I Just Knew!"]
"All of which means," said Alden, quietly, "that you're unhappily
married."
"How do you know?" demanded Edith, crimson with surprise and
mortification. "Did--did your mother tell you?"
"No, she didn't--most decidedly she didn't. I just know, that's all."
"How? Do I betray myself so completely as that?"
He answered her question by another. "How did you know, the night you
came, that I was surprised and not altogether pleased by the fact that
you had brought a trunk? Were my manners as bad as all that?"
"Why, no--I just knew."
"And how did you know, this morning, when we were sitting on the
window-seat, that I was wondering whether or not you wore false hair?"
"Why--I just knew."
"That's it, exactly."
"How long have you--known?"
"Ask me something easier than that," he laughed, endeavouring to relieve
a situation that threatened to become awkward. Following his lead, she
began to ask questions about the vineyard, and, when he told her he
feared he knew very little about his work, suggested that he should read
up on vine-culture and make it the best-paying vineyard in the State.
[Sidenote: An Afternoon Drive]
"Has mother been talking to you?" he demanded, turning to her quickly.
"About the vineyard? No. But, if it's your work, why not do it better
than anybody else does it?"
Alden looked at her long and earnestly. The golden lights of her eyes
were thrown into shadow now, for it was afternoon and they were driving
east. Her answering smile gave him confidence, courage. Moreover, it
challenged him in some subtle way he could not analyse. It dared him, as
it were, to make the best of the vineyard--and himself.
"Thank you," he said, at length. "I believe--I will."
The divine moment passed, and, for the remainder of the drive, they
talked commonplaces. But the fresh air from the hills, the freedom of
the wind-swept spaces, the steady aspiration of everything that lived,
brought the colour to Edith's cheeks, the sparkle to her eyes, and
ministered secretly to her soul. When she went in, she looked happier
than she had since she came. Madame saw it and was glad, but wisely said
nothing.
She came down at dinner-time in a black lace gown trimmed with spangles
that glittered when she moved. It was cut away slightly from the
rounded, ivory throat, and the white arms were bare to the elbow. The
upper parts of the sleeves were made of black velvet ribbon, latticed
into small diamond-shaped openings through which the satin texture of
the skin showed in the candlelight. She wore no rings, except the
slender circlet of gold that had been put on her finger at the altar,
six years ago.
[Sidenote: A Sense of Foreboding]
Conversation at dinner proceeded slowly, but on pleasant lines. Edith
seemed preoccupied, and, at times, Alden relapsed into long silences.
Madame noted that they scarcely spoke to each other, and was vaguely
troubled, for she liked Edith, and wanted Alden to like her too.
After dinner, Edith played cribbage with Madame and Alden read the
paper. When Madame had won three games, in rapid succession, Edith said
good-night. Alden, from the depths of his paper, murmured the
conventional response.
* * * * *
That night he started from his sleep with a sense of foreboding. He sat
up and listened, but there was no sound. Not even the wind moving a
shutter, nor a swaying branch tapping at his window--not a footfall, nor
an echo, nor a breath.
The tall clock on the landing struck four. The silvery strokes died away
into a silence that was positive, rather than negative. The sense of
foreboding still persisted; moreover, he was conscious that someone else
was awake also.
[Sidenote: A Mysterious Perception]
Was it his mother? Was she ill? No--he was sure of that. Was it Edith?
Yes, that was it. She was awake, and had been awake all night. Moreover,
she was crying.
His heart throbbed with tender pity. He yearned to comfort her, to
assure her that whatever was wrong must eventually be made right. Why,
from the crown of her beautiful head to the turned-up toe of her blue
Chinese slipper, Edith had been made for joy--and for love.
Out of the darkness came a sudden mysterious perception. She knew she
had awakened him, and had smiled at the knowledge. A sense of weariness
quickly followed, then a restful silence which carried no thought with
it.
He lay back on his pillow and waited, with his eyes closed, until he
felt that she was asleep. Then he slept also.
X
A Little Brown Mouse
[Sidenote: A Letter for Rosemary]
Rosemary peered into the letter box and saw that _The Household
Guardian_ was there. On one Thursday it had failed to appear and she had
been unable to convince Grandmother of her entire innocence in the
matter. Even on the following day, when she brought it home, in the
original wrapping, she felt herself regarded with secret suspicion. As
it never had failed to come on Thursday, why should it, unless Rosemary,
for some reason best known to herself, had tampered with the United
States Mail?
There was also a letter, and Rosemary waited eagerly for the postmaster
to finish weighing out two pounds of brown sugar and five cents' worth
of tea for old Mrs. Simms. She pressed her nose to the glass, and
squinted, but the address eluded her. Still, she was sure it was for
her, and, very probably, from Alden, whom she had not seen for ten days.
[Sidenote: Ways and Means]
She felt a crushing sense of disappointment when she saw that it was not
from Alden, but was addressed in an unfamiliar hand. Regardless of the
deference she was accustomed to accord a letter, she tore it open
hastily and read:
"MY DEAR ROSEMARY:
"Can you come to tea on Saturday afternoon about four? We have a
guest whom I am sure you would like to meet.
"Affectionately, your
"MOTHER."
The words were formal enough, and the quaint stateliness of the
handwriting conveyed its own message of reserve and distance but the
signature thrilled her through and through. "Mother!" she repeated, in a
whisper. She went out of the post-office blindly, with the precious
missive tightly clasped in her trembling hand.
Would she go? Of course she would, even though it meant facing
Grandmother, Aunt Matilda, and all the dogs of war.
As the first impulse faded, she became more cautious, and began to
consider ways and means. It was obviously impossible to wear brown
gingham or brown alpaca to a tea-party. That meant that she must somehow
get her old white muslin down from the attic, iron it, mend it, and
freshen it up as best she could. She had no doubt of her ability to do
it, for both old ladies were sound sleepers, and Rosemary had learned to
step lightly, in bare feet, upon secret errands around the house at
night.
[Sidenote: Secret Longings]
But how could she hope to escape, unobserved, on Saturday afternoon?
And, even if she managed to get away, what of the inevitable return? Why
not, for once, make a bold declaration of independence, and say, calmly:
"Grandmother, I am going to Mrs. Marsh's Saturday afternoon at four, and
I am going to wear my white dress." Not "May I go?" or "May I wear it?"
but "I am going," and "I am going to wear it."
At the thought Rosemary shuddered and her soul quailed within her. She
knew that she would never dare to do it. At the critical moment her
courage would fail her, and she would stay at home. Perhaps she could
wear the brown gingham if it were fresh and clean, and she pinned at her
throat a bow of the faded pink ribbon she had found in her mother's
trunk in the attic. And, if it should happen to rain Saturday, or even
look like rain, so much the better. Anyhow, she would go, even in the
brown gingham. So much she decided upon.
Yet, with all her heart, she longed for the white dress, the only thing
she had which even approached daintiness. An old saying came back to her
in which she had found consolation many times before. "When an
insurmountable obstacle presents itself, sometimes there is a way around
it." And, again, "Take one step forward whenever there is a foothold and
trust to God for the next."
[Sidenote: A Bit of News]
That night, at supper, Aunt Matilda electrified Grandmother with a bit
of news which she had jealously kept to herself all day.
"The milkman was telling me," she remarked, with an assumed carelessness
which deceived no one, "that there's company up to Marshs'."
Grandmother dropped her knife and fork with a sharp clatter. "You don't
tell me!" she cried. "Who in creation is it?"
"I was minded to tell you before," Aunt Matilda resumed, with
tantalising deliberation, "but you've had your nose in that fool paper
all day, and whenever I spoke to you you told me not to interrupt.
Literary folks is terrible afraid of bein' interrupted, I've heard, so I
let you alone."
"I didn't know it was anything important," murmured Grandmother,
apologetically.
"How could you know," questioned Matilda, logically, "before I'd told
you what it was?"
There being no ready answer to this, Grandmother responded with a snort,
which meant much or little, as one might choose. A dull red burned on
her withered cheeks and she had lost interest in her supper. Only
Rosemary was calm.
[Sidenote: A Play-Actin' Person]
"As I was sayin'," Matilda went on, after an aggravating silence,
"there's company up to Marshs'."
"Seems to me," Grandmother grunted, "that she'd better be payin' up the
calls she owes in the neighbourhood than entertainin' strangers." This
shaft pierced a vulnerable spot in Matilda's armour of self-esteem, for
she still smarted under Madame Marsh's neglect.