[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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g with the sky Or hyacinth-light where forest shadows fall; Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthral The heart; a mouth whose pa.s.sionate 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 coa.r.s.e 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 a.s.serted 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]