sublime unconsciousness of the city-bred, too absorbed in her own
thoughts to know that she was stared at and freely commented upon by
those to whom a stranger was a source of excitement. Her tailored gown,
of dark green broadcloth, the severe linen shirtwaist, and her simple
hat, were subjects of conversation that night in more than one humble
home, fading into insignificance only before her radiant hair. The
general opinion was that it must be a wig, or the untoward results of
some experiment with hair-dye, probably the latter, for, as the
postmaster's wife said, "nobody would buy a wig of that colour."
The school bell rang for dismissal, and filled her with sudden panic.
After walking through the village all the morning to escape luncheon
with Alden, it would be disagreeable to meet him face to face almost at
the schoolhouse door. Turning in the opposite direction, she walked
swiftly until she came to a hill, upon which an irregular path straggled
half-heartedly upward.
[Sidenote: The Finding of the Red Book]
So Edith climbed the Hill of the Muses, pausing several times to rest.
When she reached the top, she was agreeably surprised to find a
comfortable seat waiting her, even though it was only a log rolled back
against two trees. She sank back into the hollow, leaned against the
supporting oak, and wiped her flushed face.
Others had been there before her, evidently, for the turf was worn
around the log, and there were even hints of footprints here and there.
"Some rural trysting place, probably," she thought, then a gleam of
scarlet caught her attention. A small red book had fallen into the
crevice between the log and the other tree. "_The House of Life_," she
murmured, under her breath. "Now, who in this little village
would--unless----"
The book bore neither name nor initials, but almost every page was
marked. As it happened, most of them were favourite passages of her own.
"How idyllic!" she mused; "a pair of young lovers reading Rossetti on a
hill-top in Spring! Could anything be more pastoral? I'll take it back
to the house and tell about it at dinner."
[Sidenote: Mutually Surprised]
She welcomed it as a sure relief from a possible awkward moment. "I knew
I was right," she said to herself, as she turned the pages. "To-day was
set aside, long ago, for me to go a-gypsying."
The clear air of the heights and the sunlit valley beneath her gave her
a sense of proportion and of value which she realised she had sadly
needed. Free from the annoyances of her daily life, she could look back
upon it with due perspective, and see that her unhappiness had been
largely caused by herself.
"I can't be miserable," she thought, "unless I'm willing to be."
She sat there for a long time, heedless of the passing hours. She was
roused from her reverie by a muffled footstep and an involuntary
exclamation of astonishment.
"Why, how do you do, Miss Starr?" said Edith, kindly, offering a
well-gloved hand. "Are you out gypsying too?"
"Yes," Rosemary stammered. Her eyes were fixed upon the small red book
that Mrs. Lee held in her other hand.
"See what I found," Edith went on, heedlessly. "Rossetti's _House of
Life_, up here. Boy Blue must have brought it up to read to Bo-Peep in
the intervals of shepherding. There may not be any such word as
'shepherding,' but there ought to be, I love to make words, don't you?"
[Sidenote: Shrines Laid Bare]
"Yes," said Rosemary, helplessly. She had thought Alden had the book,
but had forgotten to make sure, and now the most precious hours of her
life had been invaded and her shrines laid bare. Was it not enough for
this woman to live in the same house with Alden? Need she take
possession of the Hill of the Muses and the little book which had first
awakened her, then brought them together? Resentful anger burned in her
cheeks, all the more pitiful because of Mrs. Lee's utter
unconsciousness, and the impossibility of reparation, even had she
known.
"Sit down," Edith suggested. "You must be tired. It's a long climb."
"Did--did you come up here to--to meet anyone?" The suspicion broke
hotly from Rosemary's pale lips.
Edith might have replied that she came up to avoid meeting anyone, but
she only said, with cool astonishment: "Why, no. Why should I?"
There was no answer to that. Indeed, thought Rosemary, floundering
helplessly in a sea of pain, there was no reason. Was she not in the
same house with him, day in and day out?
"She's married," Rosemary said to herself with stern insistence, trying
to find comfort in the thought, but comfort strangely failed now.
Another suspicion assailed her and was instantly put into headlong
speech. "Is your husband dead, or are you divorced?"
[Sidenote: Too Late]
Mrs. Lee turned quickly. She surveyed the girl calmly for an instant,
entirely unable to translate her evident confusion; then she rose.
"Neither," she returned, icily, "and if there are no other personal
questions you desire to ask me, I'll go back."
Rosemary kept back the tears until Mrs. Lee was out of sight. "She's
married," she sobbed, "and he isn't dead, and they're not divorced, so
why--oh, why?" The pain unreasonably persisted, taking to itself a fresh
hold. She had offended Mrs. Lee and she would tell Alden, and Alden
would be displeased and would never forgive her.
If she were to run after her, and apologise, assuring her that she had
not meant the slightest offence, perhaps--. She stumbled to her feet,
but, even as she did so, she knew that it was too late. She longed with
all the passion of her desolate soul for Alden's arms around her, for
only the touch of his hand or the sound of his voice, saying: "Rosemary!
Rosemary dear!" But it was too late for that also--everything came too
late!
* * * * *
By the time she reached the foot of the hill Edith had understood and
pardoned Rosemary. "Poor child," she thought. "Think of her loving him,
and actually being jealous of me! And, man-like, of course, he's never
noticed it. For her sake, I hope he won't."
[Sidenote: Like a Nymph]
She waited to gather a spray or two of wild crab-apple blossoms, then
went home. She did not see Alden, but stopped to exchange a few words
with Madame, then went on up-stairs. The long walk had wearied her, but
it had also made her more lovely. After an hour of rest and a cool
shower, she was ready to dress for dinner.
She chose a dinner-gown of white embroidered chiffon that she had not
yet worn. It was cut away a little at the throat and the sleeves came to
the elbow. She was not in the mood for jewels, but she clasped a string
of pearls around her perfect throat, and put the crab-apple blossoms in
her hair. The experiment was rather daring, but wholly successful, as
she took care to have green leaves between her hair and the blossoms.
When she went down, Madame and Alden were waiting for her, Alden in
evening clothes as usual and Madame in her lavender gown.
"You look like a nymph of Botticelli's," commented Alden, with a smile.
There was no trace of confusion, or even of consciousness in his manner,
and, once again, Edith reproached herself for her foolishness.
[Sidenote: "Don't Leave Me Alone"]
Dinner was cheerful, though not lively. Once or twice, Edith caught
Alden looking at her with a strange expression on his face. Madame
chattered on happily, of the vineyard and the garden and the small
household affairs that occupied her attention.
Afterward, Alden read the paper and the other two played cribbage. It
was only a little after nine when Madame, concealing a yawn, announced
that she was tired and would go to bed, if she might be excused.
Edith rose with alacrity. "I'll come, too," she said. "It's astonishing
how sleepy it makes one to be outdoors."
"Don't," Madame protested. "We mustn't leave him entirely alone. You can
sleep late to-morrow morning if you choose."
"Please don't leave me alone, Mrs. Lee," pleaded Alden, rather wickedly.
"All right," Edith answered, accepting the inevitable as gracefully as
she might. "Shall I play solitaire while you read the paper?"
"If you like," he replied.
Madame took her candle and bade them good-night. As she went up-stairs,
Edith said, with a pout: "I wish I were going to bed too."
"You can't sleep all the time," he reminded her. The paper had slipped
to the floor. "Mother tells me that you slept this morning until
half-past nine."
[Sidenote: The Souvenir of Rural Lovers]
"Yes--but--." She bit her lips and the colour rose to her temples. She
hastily shuffled the cards and began to play solitaire so rapidly that
he wondered whether she knew what cards she was playing.
"But," he said, "you didn't sleep well last night. Was that what you
were going to say?"
Edith dropped her cards, and looked him straight in the face. "I slept
perfectly," she lied. "Didn't you?"
"I slept just as well as you did," he answered. She thought she detected
a shade of double meaning in his tone.
"I had a long walk to-day," she went on, "and it made me sleepy. Look,"
she continued, going to the mantel where she had left the book. "See
what I found on top of a hill, in a crevice between an oak and a log
that lay against it. Do you think some pair of rural lovers left it
there?"
"Possibly," he replied. If the sight of the book he had loaned Rosemary
awoke any emotion, or even a memory, he did not show it. "Sit down," he
suggested, imperturbably, "and let me see if I can't find a sonnet that
fits you. Yes, surely--here it is. Listen."
She rested her head upon her hand and turned her face away from him. In
his smooth, well-modulated voice, he read:
[Sidenote: Alden Reads a Sonnet]
HER GIFTS
High grace, the dower of queens; and therewithal
Some wood-born wonder's sweet simplicity;
A glance like water brimming with the sky
Or hyacinth-light where forest shadows fall;
Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthral
The heart; a mouth whose passionate forms imply
All music and all silence held thereby;
Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal;
A round reared neck, meet column of Love's shrine
To cling to when the heart takes sanctuary;
Hands which forever at Love's bidding be,
And soft-stirred feet still answering to his sign:--
These are her gifts, as tongue may tell them o'er.
Breathe low her name, my soul, for that means more.
Her heart beat wildly and her colour came and went, but, with
difficulty, she controlled herself until he reached the end. When she
rose, he rose also, dropping the book.
"Mrs. Lee--Edith!"
"Yes," she said, with a supreme effort at self-command, "it is a pretty
name, isn't it?" She was very pale, but she offered him her hand. "I
really must go now," she continued, "for I am tired. Thank you--and
good-night."
Alden did not answer--in words. He took the hand she offered him, held
it firmly in his own, stooped, and kissed the hollow of her elbow, just
below the sleeve.
XII
Asking--Not Answer
[Sidenote: No Guarantee]
"She's married, and he isn't dead, and they're not divorced. She's
married and he isn't dead, and they're not divorced." Rosemary kept
saying it to herself mechanically, but no comfort came. Through the long
night, wakeful and wretched, she brooded over the painful difference
between the woman to whom Alden had plighted his troth and the beautiful
stranger whom he saw every day.
"She's married," Rosemary whispered, to the coarse unbleached muslin of
her pillow. "And when we're married--" ah, it would all be different
then. But would it? In a flash she perceived that marriage itself
guarantees nothing in the way of love.
Hurt to her heart's core, Rosemary sat up in bed and pondered, while the
tears streamed over her cheeks. She had not seen Alden since Mrs. Lee
came, except the day she had gone there to tea, wearing her white muslin
under her brown alpaca. There was no way to see him, unless she went
there again--the very thought of that made her shudder--or signalled
from her hill-top with the scarlet ribbon.
[Sidenote: Hugging her Grief]
And, to her, the Hill of the Muses was like some holy place that had
been profaned. The dainty feet of the stranger had set themselves upon
her path in more ways than one. What must life be out in the world, when
the world was full of women like Mrs. Lee, perhaps even more beautiful?
Was everyone, married or not, continually stabbed by some heart-breaking
difference between herself and another?
Having the gift of detachment immeasurably beyond woman, man may
separate himself from his grief, contemplate it calmly in its various
phases, and, with a mighty effort, throw it aside. Woman, on the
contrary, hugs hers close to her aching breast and remorselessly turns
the knife in her wound. It is she who keeps anniversaries, walks in
cemeteries, wears mourning, and preserves trifles that sorrowfully have
outlasted the love that gave them.
If she could only see him once! And yet, what was there to say or what
was there to do, beyond sobbing out her desolate heart in the shelter of
his arms? Could she tell him that she was miserable because she had come
face to face with a woman more beautiful than she; that she doubted his
loyalty, his devotion? From some far off ancestor, her woman's dower of
pride and silence suddenly asserted itself in Rosemary. When he wanted
her, he would find her. If he missed her signal, fluttering from the
birch tree in the Spring wind, he could write and say so. Meanwhile she
would not seek him, though her heart should break from loneliness and
despair.
[Sidenote: Worn and Weary]
Craving the dear touch of him, the sound of his voice, or even the sight
of his tall well-knit figure moving along swiftly in the dusk, she
compelled herself to accept the situation, bitterness and all. Across
her open window struck the single long deepening shadow that precedes
daybreak, then grey lights dawned on the far horizon, paling the stars
to points of pearl upon dim purple mists. Worn and weary, Rosemary slept
until she was called to begin the day's dreary round of toil, as
mechanical as the ticking of a clock.
Cold water removed the traces of tears from her cheeks, but her eyes
were red and swollen. The cheap mirror exaggerated her plainness, while
memory pitilessly emphasised the beauty of the other woman. As she
dressed, the thought came to her that, no matter what happened, she
could still go on loving him, that she might always give, whether or not
she received anything at all in return.
"Service," she said to herself, remembering her dream, "and sacrifice.
Giving, not receiving; asking, not answer." If this indeed was love, she
had it in fullest measure, so why should she ask for more?
[Sidenote: Waiting for Breakfast]
"Rosemary!"
"Yes," she called back, trying hard to make her voice even, "I'm
coming!"
"It beats all," Grandmother said, fretfully, when she rushed
breathlessly into the dining-room. "For the life of me I can't
understand how you can sleep so much."
Rosemary smiled grimly, but said nothing.
"Here I've been settin', waitin' for my breakfast, since before six, and
it's almost seven now."
"Never mind," the girl returned, kindly; "I'll get it ready just as
quickly as I can."
"I was just sayin'," Grandmother continued when Aunt Matilda came into
the room, "that it beats all how Rosemary can sleep. I've been up since
half-past five and she's just beginnin' to get breakfast, and here you
come, trailin' along in with your hair not combed, at ten minutes to
breakfast time. I should think you'd be ashamed."
"My hair is combed," Matilda retorted, quickly on the defensive.
"I don't know when it was," Grandmother fretted. "I ain't seen it combed
since I can remember."
"Then it's because you ain't looked. Any time you want to see me
combin' my hair you can come in. I do it every morning."
[Sidenote: Fluffy Hair]
Grandmother laughed, sarcastically. "'Pears like you thought you was one
of them mermaids I was readin' about in the paper once. They're half
fish and half woman and they set on rocks, combin' their hair and
singin' and the ships go to pieces on the rocks 'cause the sailors are
so anxious to see 'em they forget where they're goin'."
"There ain't no rocks outside my door as I know of," Matilda returned,
"and only one rocker inside."
"No, nor your hair ain't like theirs neither. The paper said their hair
was golden."
"Must be nice and stiff," Matilda commented. "I'd hate to have my hair
all wire."
Grandmother lifted her spectacles from the wart and peered through them
critically. "I dunno," she said, "as it'd look any different, except for
the colour. The way you're settin' now, against the light, I can see
bristles stickin' out all over it, same as if 'twas wire."
"Fluffy hair is all the style now," said Matilda, complacently.
"Fluffy!" Grandmother grunted. "If that's what you call it, I reckon
it'll soon go out. It might have been out for fifteen or twenty years
and you not know it. I don't believe any self-respectin' woman would let
her hair go like that. Why 'n the name of common sense can't you take a
hair brush and wet it in cold water and slick it up, so's folks can see
that it's combed? Mine's always slick, and nobody can't say that it
isn't."
[Sidenote: Grandmother's Disappointment]
"Yes," Matilda agreed with a scornful glance, "it is slick, what there
is of it."
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]