Master of the Vineyard Part 15

The rest had faded into a mist of sadness that, for a long time, had not even begun to lift. When he found his mother in tears, as he often did after that, he went away quietly, knowing that she longed for "Father,"

who had gone away and never returned. Later, he used to sit on the top step of the big Colonial porch--a fragile little figure--waiting, through the long Summer afternoons, for the father who did not come.

Once, when his mother was so absorbed in her grief that she did not hear him come into the room, he had laid a timid, trembling hand upon her knee, saying: "Mother, if you will tell me where Father is, I will go and bring him back." But, instead of accepting the offer, she had caught him to her breast, sobbing, with a sudden rush of impa.s.sioned prayer: "Dear G.o.d, no--not that!"

Time, as always, had done his merciful healing, which, though slow, is divinely sure. Madame was smiling, now, at some old memory that had come mysteriously out of the shadow, leaving all bitterness behind. She had finished mending the lace and had laid it aside. Alden took it up, awkwardly, and looked at it.

[Sidenote: Tired and Unhappy]

"This for the strange woman," he said, teasingly, "and plain black or grey silk for me, though I am fain to believe that you love me best. Why is it?"

"Because," she responded, playfully, "you know me and love me, even without fuss and frills. For those who do not know us, we must put our best foot forward, in order to make sure of the attention our real merit deserves."

"But doesn't immediately command--is that it?"

"I suppose so."

"What must I wear to the train--my dress suit?"

"Don't be foolish, son. You'll have plenty of time to dress after you get home."

"Shall I drive, or walk?"

"Take the carriage. She'll be tired. Unhappy women are always tired."

"Are they tired because they're unhappy, or unhappy because they're tired? And do they get unhappier when they get more tired, or do they get more tired when they get unhappier?"

[Sidenote: The Arrival]

"Don't ask me any more conundrums to-night. I'm going to bed, to get my beauty sleep."

"You must have had a great many, judging by the results."

Madame smiled as she bent to kiss his rough cheek. "Good-night, my dear.

Think of some other pleasant things and say them to-morrow night to Mrs.

Lee."

"I'll be blest if I will," Alden muttered to himself, as his mother lighted a candle and waved her hand prettily in farewell. "If all the distressed daughters of all mother's old schoolmates are coming here, to cry on her shoulder and flood the whole place with salt water, it's time for me to put up a little tent somewhere and move into it."

By the next day, however, he had forgotten his ill-humour and was at the station fully ten minutes before six o'clock. As it happened, only one woman was among the pa.s.sengers who left the train at that point.

"Mrs. Lee?" he asked, taking her suit-case from her.

"Yes. Mr. Marsh?"

"Yes. This way, please."

"How did you know me?" she inquired, as she took her place in the worn coupe that had been in the Marsh stables for almost twenty years.

"By your handwriting," he laughed, closing the door.

[Sidenote: With Bag and Baggage]

A smile hovered for a moment around the corners of her mouth, then disappeared.

"Then, too," he went on, "as you were the only woman who got off the train, and we were expecting you, I took the liberty of speaking to you."

"Did you ask the man to have my trunk sent up?"

"Trunk!" echoed Alden, helplessly. "Why, no! Was there a trunk?"

She laughed--a little, low rippling laugh that had in it an undertone of sadness. There was a peculiar, throaty quality in her voice, like a muted violin or 'cello. "Don't be so frightened, please, for I'm not going to stay long, really. I'm merely the sort of woman who can't stay over night anywhere without a lot of baggage."

"It--it wasn't that," he murmured.

"Yes, it was. You don't need to tell me polite fibs, you know. How far are we from the house?"

"Not as far," returned Alden, rallying all his forces for one supreme effort of gallantry, "as I wish we were."

She laughed again, began to speak, then relapsed into silence.

Furtively, in the gathering shadow, he studied her face. She was pale and cold, the delicate lines of her profile conveyed a certain aloofness of spirit, and her mouth drooped at the corners. Her hat and veil covered her hair, but she had brown eyes with long lashes. Very long lashes, Alden noted, having looked at them a second time to make sure.

[Sidenote: A Child of the City]

The silence became awkward, but he could think of nothing to say. She had turned her face away from him and was looking out of the window.

"How lovely the country is," she said, pensively. "I wish sometimes I never had to step on a pavement again."

"Do you have to?" he asked.

"Yes, for I'm over-civilised. Like the G.o.d in Greek mythology, I need the touch of earth occasionally to renew my strength, but a very brief contact is all-sufficient. I'm a child of the city, brought up on smoke and noise."

"You don't look it," he said, chiefly because he could think of nothing else to say.

Madame herself opened the door for them, with the old-fashioned hospitality which has an indefinable charm of its own. "How do you do, my dear," she said, taking the hand the younger woman offered her. In the instant of feminine apprais.e.m.e.nt, she had noted the perfectly tailored black gown, the immaculate shirtwaist and linen collar, and the discerning taste that forbade plumes. The fresh, cool odour of violets persisted all the way up-stairs, as Madame chattered along sociably, eager to put the guest at her ease.

Below, they heard Alden giving orders about the trunk, and Mrs. Lee smiled--a little, wan ghost of a smile that Madame misunderstood.

[Sidenote: Resting]

"You don't need to dress, if you're tired," she suggested, kindly, "though we always do. Come down just as you are."

Mrs. Lee turned to the dainty little woman who stood before her, arrayed in shining lavender silk. The real-lace fichu was fastened at the waist with an amethyst pin and at her throat she wore a string of silver beads. Her white hair was beautifully dressed, and somewhere, among the smooth coils and fluffy softness, one caught the gleam of a filigree silver comb.

"Not dress?" she said. "Indeed I shall, as soon as my trunk comes. That is," she added, hastily, "if there's anyone to hook me up."

"There is," Madame a.s.sured her. "I'll leave you now to rest. We dine at half-past seven."

The sweetness of the lavender-scented room brought balm to Edith Lee's tired soul. "How lovely she is," she said to herself, as she noted the many thoughtful provisions for her comfort, "and how good it is to be here."