Part 25

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 god 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 appraisement, 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.

"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 assured 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."

A silver-framed photograph stood on her dressing-table, and she picked it up, wondering who it might be. The hair and gown were old-fashioned, and the face seemed old-fashioned also, but, in a moment, she had recognised her mother.

Tenderness for the dead and the living filled her heart. How dear it was of Madame to have placed it there--this little young mother, just budding into womanhood! It had been taken long before she had known of Edith, or had more than dreamed of love.

The arrival of the trunk compelled her to brush away a few foolish tears. She did not stop to unpack, but only took out the dinner gown that lay on top.

Promptly at half-past seven, she went down into the living-room, where Alden and his mother were waiting to receive her. Madame smiled with pure delight at the vision that greeted her, but the young man forgot his manners and stared--stared like the veriest schoolboy at the tall, stately figure, clad in shimmering pale green satin that rippled about her feet as she walked, brought out a bit of colour in her cheeks and lips, deepened the brown of her eyes, and, like the stalk and leaves of a tiger-lily, faded into utter insignificance before the burnished masses of her red-gold hair.

VIII

"Whom God Hath Joined"

Breakfast had been cleared away and Alden, with evident regret, had gone to school. Madame gave her orders for the day, attended to a bit of dusting which she would trust no one else to do, gathered up the weekly mending and came into the living-room, where the guest sat, idly, robed in a gorgeous negligée of sea-green crêpe which was fully as becoming as her dinner-gown had been the night before.

Madame had observed that Mrs. Lee was one of the rarely fortunate women who look as well in the morning as in the evening. Last night, in the glow of the pink-shaded candles, she had been beautiful, and this morning she was no less lovely, though she sat in direct sunlight that made a halo of her hair.

The thick, creamy skin, a direct legacy from Louise Lane, needed neither powder nor rouge, and the scarlet lips asked for no touch of carmine. But the big brown eyes were wistful beyond words, the dark hollows beneath spoke of sleepless nights, and the corners of the sweet mouth drooped continually, in spite of valiant efforts to smile.

"I think I should have known you anywhere," Madame began. "You look so much like your mother."

"Thank you. It was dear of you to put her picture on my dressing-table. It seemed like a welcome from her."

Madame asked a few questions about her old schoolmate, receiving monosyllabic answers, then waited. The silence was not awkward, but of that intimate sort which, with women, precedes confidences.

"I suppose you wonder why I came," the younger woman said, after a long pause.

"No," Madame replied, gently, "for you told me in your note that you were troubled and thought I could help you."

"I don't know why I should have thought of you especially, though I have never forgotten what mother told me about coming to you, if I were in trouble, but two or three days ago, it came to me all at once that I was wandering in a maze of darkness and that you could show me the way out."

"I hope I may," the old lady murmured. "I shall be very glad to, if I can. What has gone wrong?"

"Everything," she returned, her brown eyes filling with mist. "Of course it's my husband. It always is, isn't it?"