Obviously she could not speak to either. She could not say to Alden: "I
saw you last night with Edith in your arms and that sort of thing will
not do." Nor could she say to Edith: "My dear, you must remember that
you are a married woman." She must not only wait for confidences, but
must keep from them both, for ever, the fact that she had accidentally
stumbled upon their divine moment.
After long thought, and eager to be just, she held Edith practically
blameless, yet, none the less, earnestly wished that she would go home.
She smiled whimsically, wishing that there were a social formula in
which, without offence, one might request an invited guest to depart.
She wondered that one's home must be continually open, when other places
are permitted to close. The graceful social lie, "Not at home," had
never appealed to Madame. Why might not one say, truthfully: "I am sorry
you want to see me, for I haven't the slightest desire in the world to
see you. Please go away." Or, to an invited guest: "When I asked you to
come I wanted to see you, but I have seen quite enough of you for the
present, and would be glad to have you go home."
[Sidenote: A Wearisome Day]
Her reflections were cut short by the appearance of Edith herself, wan
and weary, very pale, but none the less transfigured by secret joy. Her
eyes, alight with mysterious fires, held in their starry depths a world
of love and pain. In some occult way she suggested to Madame a light
burning before a shrine.
Edith did not care for breakfast but forced herself to eat a little. She
responded to Madame's polite inquiries in monosyllables, and her voice
was faint and far away. Yes, she was well. No, she had not slept until
almost morning. No, nothing was making her unhappy--that was, nothing
new. After all, perhaps she did have a headache. Yes, she believed she
would lie down. It was very kind of Madame but she did not believe she
wanted any luncheon and certainly would not trouble anyone to bring it
up.
Yet at noon, when Madame herself appeared with a tempting tray, Edith
gratefully accepted a cup of coffee. She was not lying down, but was
sitting in her low rocker, with her hands clasped behind her head and
the photograph of her husband on the dressing-table before her.
"Yes," she said, in answer to Madame's inquiring glance, "that's my
husband. It was taken just about the time we were married."
[Sidenote: On the Stroke of Seven]
Madame took the picture, studied it for a moment, then returned it to
its place. She made no comment, having been asked for none.
"Won't you lie down, dear?"
"Yes, I believe I will."
"Truly?"
"Yes--I promise."
With a sad little smile she kissed Madame, closed the door, and turned
the key in the lock. The old lady sighed as she went down with the tray,
reflecting how impossible it is really to aid another, unless the
barrier of silence be removed.
At four, she had her tea alone. No sound came from up-stairs, and Alden
neither returned to luncheon nor sent word. When he came in, a little
past six, he was tired and muddy, his face was strained and white, and,
vouchsafing only the briefest answers to his mother's solicitude, went
straight to his room.
Exactly upon the stroke of seven, both appeared, Alden in evening
clothes as usual, and Edith in her black gown, above which her face was
deathly white by contrast, in spite of the spangles. She wore no
ornaments, not even the string of pearls about her bare throat.
"You look as though you were in mourning, my dear," said Madame. "Let me
get you a red rose."
[Sidenote: Things to Be Said]
She started toward the veranda, but, with a little cry, Edith caught her
and held her back. "No," she said, in a strange tone, "roses are--not
for me!"
The dinner-gong chimed in with the answer, and the three went out
together. Neither Alden nor Edith made more than a pretence of eating.
Edith held her head high and avoided even his eyes, though more than
once Madame saw the intensity of his appeal.
Afterward he took his paper, Madame her fancy work, and Edith,
attempting to play solitaire, hopelessly fumbled her cards. Madame made
a valiant effort to carry on a conversation alone, but at length the
monologue wearied her, and she slipped quietly out of the room.
Edith turned, with a start, and hurriedly rose to follow her. Alden
intercepted her. "No," he said, quietly. "There are things to be said
between you and me."
"I thought," Edith murmured, as she sank into the chair he offered her,
"that everything was said last night."
"Everything? Perhaps, but not for the last time."
She leaned forward, into the light, put her elbows upon the table, and
rested her head upon her clasped hands, as though to shade her eyes.
"Well?" she said, wearily.
"Look at me!"
[Sidenote: Vows and the Law]
Her hands trembled, but she did not move. He leaned across the table,
unclasped her hands gently, and forced her to look at him. Her eyes were
swimming with unshed tears.
"Darling! My darling! Have I made you unhappy?"
"No," she faltered. "How could you?"
He came to her, sat down on the arm of her chair, slipped his arm around
her, and held her close against his shoulder. "Listen," he said. "You
belong to me, don't you?"
"Absolutely."
"Could you--could you--make yourself free?"
"Yes, as you mean it, I could."
"Then--when?"
"Never!" The word rang clear, tensely vibrant with denial.
"Edith! What do you mean?"
Releasing herself she stood and faced him. "This," she said. "At the
altar I pledged myself in these words: 'Until death do us part,' and
'Forsaking all others, keep thee only unto me so long as we both shall
live.' Isn't that plain?"
"The law," he began.
"Law!" repeated Edith. "Why don't you say perjury, and be done with it?"
"Dearest, you don't understand. You----"
"I know what I said," she reminded him, grimly. "I said 'For better or
worse,' not 'for better' only."
[Sidenote: What of Miss Starr?]
"You promised to love and to honour also, didn't you?"
Edith bowed her head. "I did," she answered, in a low tone, "and I have,
and, God helping me, I shall do so again."
"Have I no rights?" he asked, with a sigh.
He could scarcely hear the murmured answer: "None."
"Nor you?"
She shook her head sadly, avoiding his eyes, then suddenly turned and
faced him. "What of your own honour?" she demanded. "What of Miss
Starr?"
"I have thought of that," he replied, miserably. "I have thought of
nothing else all day."
Edith leaned back against the table. "What," she asked, curiously, "were
you planning to do?"
The dull colour rose to his temples. "Go to her," he said, with his face
averted, "tell her the truth like a man, and ask for freedom."
She laughed--the sort of laugh one hears from a woman tossing in
delirium. Madame heard it, up-stairs, and shuddered.
"Like a man!" Edith repeated, scornfully.
"Say it," he said, roughly. "Like a cad, if that's what you mean."
She laughed again, but with a different cadence. "Ask yourself first,"
she continued, "and then be honest with me. How would you feel?"
[Sidenote: Suppose There Is Another Woman]
He shrugged his shoulders uneasily. "I admit it, but I'm willing to pay
the price. I'll feel like a cad all the rest of my life, if I must, in
order to have you."
"If a man has no self-respect," she retorted, "what can he expect from
his----"
"Wife," breathed Alden, in a rapturous whisper. "Oh, Edith, say you
will!"
She turned away, for she could not force herself to meet his eyes. Her
little white hands clasped the edge of the table tightly.
"Have you thought of this?" he continued. "Suppose, for him, there is
another woman----"
"There isn't," she denied. "I know that."
"Perhaps not in the sense you mean, but if he were free----?"
Edith drew a long breath. "I never thought of that."
Steadily the man pursued his advantage. "There must be some reason for
his treating you as he does--for making you miserable. If, for any cause
whatever, he wanted his freedom, would it make--any difference to you?"
She tapped her foot restlessly upon the floor. The atmosphere was
surcharged with expectancy, then grew tense with waiting. Alden's eyes
never swerved from her face.
[Sidenote: What Right?]
"Have you any right, through principles of your own, which I thoroughly
understand and respect, to keep a man bound who desires to be free?"
She swayed back and forth unsteadily. Alden assisted her to her chair
and stood before her as she sat with her elbows upon her knees, her face
hidden in her hands. With the precise observation one accords to trifles
in moments of unendurable stress, he noted that two of the hooks which
fastened her gown at the back of her neck had become unfastened and that
the white flesh showed through the opening.
"If," said Alden, mercilessly, "he longs for his freedom, and the law
permits him to take it, have you the right to force your principles upon
him--and thus keep him miserable when he might otherwise be happy?"
The clock in the hall struck ten. The sound died into silence and the
remorseless tick-tick went on. Outside a belated cricket fiddled bravely
as he fared upon his way. The late moon flooded the room with light.
"Have you?" demanded Alden. He endeavoured to speak calmly, but his
voice shook. "Answer me!"
Edith leaned back in her chair, white and troubled. "I don't know," she
murmured, with lips that scarcely moved. "Before God, I don't know!"
[Sidenote: Advantages of a Letter]
The man went on pitilessly. "Don't you think you might find out? Before
you condemn yourself and me to everlasting separation, don't you think
you might at least ask him?"
"Yes," said Edith, slowly. "I might ask him. I'll go----"
"No, you needn't go. Can't you write?"
"Yes," she returned. "I can write."
All the emotion had gone from her voice. She said the words as
meaninglessly as a parrot might.
"A letter has distinct advantages," remarked Alden, trying to speak
lightly. "You can say all you want to say before the other person has a
chance to put in a word."
"Yes," she agreed, in the same meaningless tone. "That is true."
"When," queried Alden, after a pause, "will you write?"
"To-morrow."
He nodded his satisfaction. "Tell him," he suggested, "that you love
another man, and----"
"No," she interrupted, "I won't tell him that. I'll say that I've tried
my best to be a good wife, that I've tried as best I knew to make him
happy. I'll say I've--" she choked on the word--"I'll say I've failed.
I'll tell him I can do no more, that I do not believe I can ever do any
better than I have done, and ask him to tell me frankly whether or not
he prefers to be free. That's all."
[Sidenote: How Different?]
"That isn't enough. You have rights----"
"We're not speaking of my rights," she said, coldly. "We're speaking of
his."
A silence fell between them, tense and awkward. The open gate between
them had turned gently upon its hinges, then closed, with a suggestion
of finality. The clock struck the half hour. Outside, the cricket still
chirped cheerily, regardless of the great issues of life and love.
"Come outside," Alden pleaded, taking her hand in his.
"No," she said, but she did not withdraw her hand.
"Come, dear--come!"
He led her out upon the veranda where the moon made far-reaching shadows
with the lattice and the climbing rose, then returned for chairs, the
same two in which they had sat the night before. She was the first to
break the pause.
"How different it all is!" she sighed. "Last night we sat here in the
moonlight, just where we are now. In twenty-four hours, everything has
changed."
"The face of all the world is changed, I think,
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul."
he quoted softly.
[Sidenote: When They Knew]
"When did you--know?" she asked.
"The night I read Rossetti to you and kissed your arm, do you remember?
It rushed upon me like an overwhelming flood. When did you know?"
"I think I've always known--not the fact, exactly, but the possibility
of it. The first night I came, I knew that you and I could care a great
deal for each other--not that we ever would, but merely that we might,
under different circumstances. In a way, it was as though a set of
familiar conditions might be seen in a different aspect, or in a
different light."
"From the first," he said, "you've meant a great deal to me, in every
way. I was discontented, moody, restless, and unhappy when you came.
That was mainly responsible for----"
He hesitated, glanced at her, accepted her nod of understanding, and
went on.
"I've hated the vineyard and the rest of my work. God only knows how
I've hated it! It's seemed sometimes that I'd die if I didn't get away
from it. Mother and I had it out one day, and finally I decided to stay,
merely to please her. Because I had nothing more to do than to make her
happy, I determined to make the best of things. You've made me feel
that, in a way, it's myself that's at stake. I want to take it and make
it widely known among vineyards, as it has been--for my own sake, and
for yours."
[Sidenote: A Corner Turned]
Edith leaned toward him, full into the light. Her face, still pale, was
rapt--almost holy. To him, as to Madame earlier in the day, she somehow
suggested the light before a shrine. "Thank you," she said. The low,
full contralto tones were vibrant with emotion.
There was a pause. As though a light had been suddenly thrown upon one
groping in darkness, Alden saw many things. His longing for Edith, while
no less intense, became subtly different. He seemed to have turned a
corner and found everything changed.
"Dear," he went on, "there's something wonderful about this. I've--" he
stopped and cleared his throat. "I mean it's so exquisitely pure, so
transcendently above passion. Last night, when I had you in my arms, it
wasn't man and woman--it was soul and soul. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I know. Passion isn't love--any more than hunger is, but an
earth-bound world seldom sees above the fog of sense."
"I could love you always," he returned, "and never so much as touch your
hand or kiss you again."
She nodded, smiling full comprehension. Then she asked, briefly: "Why
write?"
"Merely because we belong to one another in a divine sense, and marriage
is the earthly sanction of it--or ought to be. If you and I were both
free, and I thought marriage would in any way change this, I--I wouldn't
ask you to marry me."
[Sidenote: The Shadow Rose]
Rising from her chair, she bent over, kissed him on the forehead, went
to the lattice, picked another rose, and came back. "See," she said,
standing in the light; "life and beauty and joy--all in a rose."
"And love," he added.
"And love." She held it at arm's length. Sharply defined, the shadow
fell upon the white floor of the veranda, perfect in line.
"And there," she continued, "is the same thing in another form. It is
still a rose--anyone can see that. Only the colour and fragrance are
gone, but one can remember both. To-morrow I'll write, and find out
which we're to have--the rose, or the shadow of the rose."
"It's chance," he said, "like the tossing of a coin."
"Most things are," she reminded him. "Did you ever stop to think what
destinies attend the opening or closing of a door?"
He made no answer. "Good-night," she said, with a smile.
"Good-night, my beloved." His face was illumined with "the light that
never was on sea or land," but he did not even attempt to touch her
hand.
XV
The Inlaid Box
[Sidenote: Beauty]
"'Beauty,'" read Grandmother Starr, with due emphasis upon every word,
"'is the birthright of every woman,'" She looked up from the pages of
_The Household Guardian_ as she made this impressive announcement.
Rosemary was busy in the kitchen, and Miss Matilda sat at the other
window mending a three-cornered tear in last year's brown alpaca.
"'The first necessity of beauty is an erect carriage,'" she continued.
"That lets us out," commented Matilda, "not havin' any carriage at all."
"Frank used to say," said Grandmother, irrelevantly, "that he always had
his own carriage until his Pa and me got tired of pushin' it."
"What kind of a carriage is an erect carriage?" queried Matilda, biting
off her thread.
"I ain't never heard tell of 'em," replied Grandmother, cautiously, "but
I should think, from the sound of it, that it was some kind that was to
be driv' standin' up."
[Sidenote: The Power of Ages]
"Then I've seen 'em."
"Where?" Grandmother lowered her spectacles to the point where they
rested upon the wart and peered disconcertingly at Matilda. The upper
part of the steel frames crossed her eyeballs horizontally, giving her
an uncanny appearance.
"At the circus, when Pa took us. After the whole show was over they had
what they called a chariot race, and women driv' around the tent in
little two-wheeled carts, standin' up."
"Matilda Starr! 'Tain't no such thing!"
Matilda shrugged her shoulders with an air of finality. "All right," she
returned, with cold sarcasm, "as long as you see it and I didn't."
"'Beauty has been the power of the ages,'" Grandmother continued, taking
refuge once more in _The Household Guardian_. "'Cleopatra and Helen of
Troy changed the map of the world by their imperial loveliness.'"
"I didn't know imps was lovely," Matilda remarked, frowning at the
result of her labours. "I reckon I'll have to set a piece in at the
corner, where it's puckerin'."
"Ain't I always told you that the only way to mend a three-cornered tear
was to set a piece in? Some folks never get old enough to learn
anything. Even Frank's wife would have known better'n that."
[Sidenote: Cleopatra]
"Never mind Frank's wife," returned Matilda, somewhat hurriedly. "Let
her rest in her grave and go on readin' about the lovely imps."
"It doesn't say imps is lovely. It says 'imperial loveliness.'"
"Well, ain't that the same thing?"
"No, it ain't. Imperial means empire."
"Then why ain't it spelled so? Imperial begins with an _i_ and so does
imp, and, accordin' to what I learned when I went to school, empire
begins with an _e_."
There seemed to be no adequate reply to this, so Grandmother went on:
"If Cleopatra's nose had been an inch longer, where would Egypt have
been now?"
"Where 'tis, I reckon," Matilda returned, seeing that an answer was
expected.
"No, it wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"I don't know why not, but if it wouldn't have made no difference, the
man that wrote the piece wouldn't have asked about it."
"Well, then, let him answer it himself, as long as he knows."
"'Wars have been fought over beautiful women,'" Grandmother resumed,
"'and will continue to be till the end of time.'"
"What about Egypt?" interrupted Matilda.
"I ain't come to that yet. Let me alone, can't you? 'Every mother should
begin with her child almost from the moment of birth. Projecting ears
can be corrected by the wearing of a simple cap, and a little daily
attention to the nose in the way of gentle pinching with the fingers,
will insure the proper shape. This of course, must be done while the
cartilage is easily pushed into the proper position.'"
[Sidenote: The Paper's Circulation]
"While the what?" Matilda demanded.
"Cart-i-lage. It means before the child has outgrown its buggy. 'Teeth
and complexion are to be considered later, but must be looked after
carefully. Every woman should bear in mind the fact that a good
complexion comes from the inside.'"
"The man what wrote that piece ain't got the slightest idea of what he's
talkin' about."
Grandmother transfixed Matilda with an icy stare. Then, turning to the
last page of the paper, she read, with due attention to emphasis: "'_The
Household Guardian_ is read every week in more than one million homes.
Averaging five people to each family, this means that five million
people, every Thursday, are eagerly watching for the regular issue of
_The Household Guardian_.' If he don't know what he's talkin' about, why
are five million people waitin' for the paper? Answer me that, Matilda
Starr, if you can!"
"There ain't five in every family," Matilda objected. "That means the Pa
and Ma and three children."
[Sidenote: Well Groomed]
"Maybe not. Maybe it's the Ma and Pa and two children and an Aunt or an
Uncle or some other of the family connection."
"Well, even if there's only two children, if their Ma is makin' 'em caps
to hold back their ears and pinchin' their noses regular, she ain't got
no time to have her own nose flattened out against the glass lookin' for
_The Household Guardian_."
"'If, however, through ignorance or the press of other occupations,'"
Grandmother resumed, clearing her throat, "'this early care has not been
given, every woman, no matter what her circumstances are, may at least
be well-groomed.'"
Matilda giggled hysterically.
"What's the matter now?" queried Grandmother, with interest.
"I was just thinkin' about the erect carriage and the groomin'. The man
what wrote that piece seems to think a woman is a horse. Reckon I'll get
myself a curry-comb."
"It might improve the looks of your hair some if you did," the old lady
observed, caustically. "'No woman is so poor that she cannot take the
time to attend to her personal appearance, nor so rich that she can
afford to neglect it. The hair should be shampooed at--Continued on page
sixty-seven.'"
"The hair should be what?"
"'Shampooed at least once a month.'"
[Sidenote: Face Massage]
"What's that?"
"Don't interrupt," commanded the old lady, with the dull red burning on
her withered cheeks. "Here I am readin' to you and tryin' to improve
your mind and all the time you're interruptin' me."
"Only to ask questions," Matilda returned, with affected submission. "If
I'm to have my mind improved I want it well done."
"'In the intervals it should be frequently brushed, and the regular
weekly face massage'--that's printed wrong--'the regular weekly face
message should not be neglected.'"
"What's a face message?" asked Matilda, curiosity overcoming prudence.
"Anything that's said to anybody, I suppose. Now don't speak to me
again. 'The nails must also be taken care of and one or two visits to a
good manicure will show any woman how it is to be done. The implements
are not expensive and will last----'"
"What's a manicure?"
"Some kind of a doctor, I reckon,--'and will last a long time. A few
simple exercises should be taken every night and morning to preserve the
fig--Continued on page seventy.'"
"Preservin' figs ain't any particular exercise," Matilda observed,
shaking out the mended skirt. "You can do most of it settin' down."
"'Preserve the figure,'" Grandmother continued with emphasis. "'Soap
and hot water may be used on the face if a good cold cream is well
rubbed into the pores immediately afterward.'"
[Sidenote: Cucumber Milk]
"Vanilla or lemon?" Matilda asked.
"It doesn't say ice-cream, it just says cold cream. 'Cucumber milk is
excellent for freckles or tan, and----'"
"I reckon I won't hear no more," said Matilda. Her lips were compressed
into a thin tight line. "I can stand the carriages that are to be driv'
standin' up, and the lovely imps and the nose pinchin' and the caps for
the ears, but when it comes to goin' out every mornin' to milk the
cucumbers, I don't feel called on to set and listen to it. The man what
wrote that piece was as crazy as a loon, and if five million people read
his paper every week, four million, nine hundred and ninety-nine
thousand and nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em know it. I ain't sayin'
who's the one that don't."
She sailed majestically out of the room with her head held high, and her
frowsy grey hair bristling with indignation. Grandmother's lower jaw
dropped in amazement for a moment, then she returned to the paper.
"Milkin' the cucumbers don't seem quite right," she said to herself,
"but there it is in print, as plain as day."
For the first time her faith in the printed word wavered. "Maybe
there's some special kind of cucumber," she mused, "that gives milk. We
used to hear 'em called cowcumbers. Why'd they be called that if they
didn't give milk? There's only the two kinds as far as I know--the tame
and wild, and the wild ones--" The light of pure intellectual joy dawned
upon the puzzled old face. "Of course. Don't I remember the white sticky
juice inside the wild ones? That's it! Wait till I tell Matilda!"
[Sidenote: Grandmother Sees the Stranger]