Master of the Vineyard Part 28

Her face transfigured by a pa.s.sion of renunciation, Rosemary reached into the hollow tree for the wooden box, and, for the last time unwound the scarlet ribbon. She tied it to the lowest bough of the birch when the school bell rang, and went back to wait. Without emotion, she framed the few words she would say. "Just tell him it's all a mistake, that they need me and I mustn't leave them, and so good-bye. And if he tries to kiss me for good-bye--oh, he mustn't, for I couldn't bear that!"

So Rosemary sat and waited--until almost dark, but no one came. Alden had, indeed, hurried home to have afternoon tea with his mother and Edith. He had almost forgotten the oriflamme that sometimes signalled to him from the top of the hill, and seldom even glanced that way.

In the gathering dusk, Rosemary took it down, unemotionally. It seemed only part of the great denial. She put it back into the box, and hid it in the tree.

"Service," she said to herself, as she went home, "and sacrifice.

Giving, not receiving; asking, not answer. And this is love!"

XIII

The Stain of the Rose

[Sidenote: Put Aside]

Alden had put Rosemary aside as though in a mental pigeon-hole. If vague thoughts of her came now and then to trouble him, he showed no sign of it. As weeks and months had sometimes pa.s.sed without a meeting, why should it be different now? Moreover, he was busy, as she must know, with the vineyard and school, and a guest.

He had ordered several books on the subject of vine-culture, and was reading a great deal, though a close observer might have noted long intervals in which he took no heed of the book, but stared dreamily into s.p.a.ce. He saw Edith at the table, and in the evenings, and occasionally at afternoon tea--a pleasant custom which she and Madame never failed to observe,--but she seemed to make it a point not to trespa.s.s upon his daylight hours.

The apple blossoms had gone, blown in fragrant drifts afar upon field and meadow. The vineyard lay lazily upon its southern slope, basking in the sun. Sometimes a wandering wind brought a fresh scent of l.u.s.ty leaves or a divine hint of bloom.

[Sidenote: Alden's Feast]

The old-fashioned square piano, long silent, was open now, and had been put in order. In the evenings, after dinner, Edith would play, dreamily, in the dusk or by the light of one candle. The unshaded light, shining full upon her face, brought out the delicacy of her profile and allured stray gleams from the burnished ma.s.ses of her hair. In the soft shadows that fell around her, she sat like St. Cecilia, unconscious of self, and of the man who sat far back in a corner of the room, never taking his eyes from her face.

Wistfulness was in every line of her face and figure, from the small white-shod foot that rested upon the pedal to the glorious hair that shimmered and shone but still held its tangled lights safely in its silken strands. The long line from shoulder to wrist, the smooth, satiny texture of the rounded arm, bare below the elbow, the delicate hands, so beautifully cared-for, all seemed eloquent with yearning.

Alden, from his safe point of observation, feasted his soul to the full.

The ivory whiteness of her neck shaded imperceptibly into the creamy lace of her gown. Underneath her firm, well rounded chin, on the left side, was a place that was almost a dimple, but not quite. There was a real dimple in her chin and another at each corner of her mouth, where the full scarlet lips drooped a little from sadness. Star-like, her brown eyes searched the far shadows and sometimes the flicker of the candle brought a dancing glint of gold into their depths. And as always, like a halo, stray gleams hovered about her head, bent slightly forward now and full into the light, throwing into faint relief the short straight nose, and the full, short upper lip.

[Sidenote: Edith at the Piano]

Smiling, and wholly unconscious, it was as though she pleaded with the instrument to give her back some half-forgotten melody. Presently the strings answered, shyly at first, then in full soft chords that sang and crooned through the dusk. Alden, in his remote corner, drew a long breath of rapture. The ineffable sweetness of her pervaded his house, not alone with the scent of violets, but with the finer, more subtle fragrance of her personality.

She wore no jewels, except her wedding ring--not even the big, blazing diamond with which her husband had sealed their betrothal. She had a string of pearls and a quaint, oriental necklace set with jade, and sometimes she wore one or two turquoises, or a great, pale sapphire set in silver, but that was all. Out of the world of glitter and sparkle, she had chosen these few things that suited her, and was content.

[Sidenote: Madame in the Moonlight]

From another corner came the sound of slow, deep breathing. Outside the circle of candlelight, Madame had fallen asleep in her chair. The full June moon had shadowed the net curtain upon the polished floor and laid upon it, in silhouette, an arabesque of oak leaves. It touched Madame's silvered hair to almost unearthly beauty as she leaned back with her eyes closed, and brought a memory of violets and sun from the gold-ta.s.selled amethyst that hung on her breast. The small slender hands lay quietly, one on either arm of her chair. A white crepe shawl, heavy with Chinese embroidery, lay over her shoulders,--a gift from Edith. A Summer wind, like a playful child, stole into the room, lifted the deep silk fringe of the shawl, made merry with it for a moment, then tinkled the prisms on the chandelier and ran away again.

The fairy-like sound of it, as though it were a far, sweet bell, chimed in with Edith's dreamy chords and brought her to herself with a start.

She turned quickly, saw that Madame was asleep, and stopped playing.

"Go on," said Alden, in a low tone. "Please do."

"I mustn't," she whispered, with her finger on her lips. "Your mother is asleep and I don't want to disturb her."

"Evidently you haven't," he laughed.

"Hush!" Edith's full, deep contralto took on an affected sternness.

"You mustn't talk."

[Sidenote: Edith's Room]

"But I've got to," he returned. "Shall we go outdoors?"

"Yes, if you like."

"Don't you want a wrap of some sort?"

"Yes. Wait a moment, and I'll get it."

"No--tell me where it is, and I'll go."

"It's only a white chiffon scarf," she said. "I think you'll find it hanging from the back of that low rocker, near the dressing-table."

He went up-stairs, silently and swiftly, and paused, for a moment, at Edith's door. It seemed strange to have her permission to turn the k.n.o.b and go in. He hesitated upon the threshold, then entered the sweet darkness which, to him, would have meant Edith, had it been blown to him across the wastes of Sahara.

How still it was! Only the cheery piping of a cricket broke the exquisite peace of the room; only a patch of moonlight, upon the polished floor, illumined the scented dusk. He struck a match, and lighted one of the candles upon the dressing-table.

The place was eloquent of her, as though she had just gone out. The carved ivory toilet articles--he could have guessed that she would not have silver ones,--the crystal puff box, with a gold top ornamented only by a monogram; no, it was not a monogram either, but interlaced initials trailing diagonally across it; the mirror, a carelessly crumpled handkerchief, and a gold thimble--he picked up each article with a delightful sense of intimacy.

[Sidenote: A Man's Face]

Face down upon the dressing-table was a photograph, framed in dull green leather. That, too, he took up without stopping to question the propriety of it. A man's face smiled back at him, a young, happy face, full of comradeship and the joy of life for its own sake.

This, then, was her husband! Alden's heart grew hot with resentment at the man who had made Edith miserable. He had put those sad lines under her eyes, that showed so plainly sometimes when she was tired, made her sweet mouth droop at the corners, and filled her whole personality with the wistfulness that struck at his heart, like the wistfulness of a little child.

This man, with the jovial countenance, and doubtless genial ways, had the right to stand at her dressing-table, if he chose, and speculate upon the various uses of all the daintiness that was spread before him.

He had the right and cared nothing for it, while the man who did care, stood there shamefaced, all at once feeling himself an intruder in a sacred place.

He put the photograph back, face down, as it had been, took the scarf, put out the light, and went back down-stairs. He stopped for a moment in the hall to wonder what this was that a.s.sailed him so strangely, this pa.s.sionate bitterness against the other man, this longing to shelter Edith from whatever might make her unhappy.

[Sidenote: On the Veranda]

The living-room was dark. In her moonlit corner, Madame still slept.

From where he stood, he could see the dainty little lavender-clad figure enwrapped in its white shawl. There was no sign of Edith in the room, so he went out upon the veranda, guessing that he should find her there.

She had taken out two chairs--a favourite rocker of her own, and the straight-backed, deep chair in which Alden usually sat when he was reading. The chairs faced each other, with a little distance between them. Edith sat in hers, rocking, with her hands crossed behind her head, and her little white feet stretched out in front of her.

Without speaking, Alden went back for a footstool. Then he turned Edith, chair and all, toward the moonlight, slipped the footstool under her feet, laid the fluttering length of chiffon over her shoulders, and brought his own chair farther forward.

"Why," she laughed, as he sat down, "do you presume to change my arrangements?"

"Because I want to see your face."