Part 32

"That's it, exactly."

"How long have you--known?"

"Ask me something easier than that," he laughed, endeavouring to relieve a situation that threatened to become awkward. Following his lead, she began to ask questions about the vineyard, and, when he told her he feared he knew very little about his work, suggested that he should read up on vine-culture and make it the best-paying vineyard in the State.

"Has mother been talking to you?" he demanded, turning to her quickly.

"About the vineyard? No. But, if it's your work, why not do it better than anybody else does it?"

Alden looked at her long and earnestly. The golden lights of her eyes were thrown into shadow now, for it was afternoon and they were driving east. Her answering smile gave him confidence, courage. Moreover, it challenged him in some subtle way he could not analyse. It dared him, as it were, to make the best of the vineyard--and himself.

"Thank you," he said, at length. "I believe--I will."

The divine moment passed, and, for the remainder of the drive, they talked commonplaces. But the fresh air from the hills, the freedom of the wind-swept spaces, the steady aspiration of everything that lived, brought the colour to Edith's cheeks, the sparkle to her eyes, and ministered secretly to her soul. When she went in, she looked happier than she had since she came. Madame saw it and was glad, but wisely said nothing.

She came down at dinner-time in a black lace gown trimmed with spangles that glittered when she moved. It was cut away slightly from the rounded, ivory throat, and the white arms were bare to the elbow. The upper parts of the sleeves were made of black velvet ribbon, latticed into small diamond-shaped openings through which the satin texture of the skin showed in the candlelight. She wore no rings, except the slender circlet of gold that had been put on her finger at the altar, six years ago.

Conversation at dinner proceeded slowly, but on pleasant lines. Edith seemed preoccupied, and, at times, Alden relapsed into long silences. Madame noted that they scarcely spoke to each other, and was vaguely troubled, for she liked Edith, and wanted Alden to like her too.

After dinner, Edith played cribbage with Madame and Alden read the paper. When Madame had won three games, in rapid succession, Edith said good-night. Alden, from the depths of his paper, murmured the conventional response.

* * * * *

That night he started from his sleep with a sense of foreboding. He sat up and listened, but there was no sound. Not even the wind moving a shutter, nor a swaying branch tapping at his window--not a footfall, nor an echo, nor a breath.

The tall clock on the landing struck four. The silvery strokes died away into a silence that was positive, rather than negative. The sense of foreboding still persisted; moreover, he was conscious that someone else was awake also.

Was it his mother? Was she ill? No--he was sure of that. Was it Edith? Yes, that was it. She was awake, and had been awake all night. Moreover, she was crying.

His heart throbbed with tender pity. He yearned to comfort her, to assure her that whatever was wrong must eventually be made right. Why, from the crown of her beautiful head to the turned-up toe of her blue Chinese slipper, Edith had been made for joy--and for love.

Out of the darkness came a sudden mysterious perception. She knew she had awakened him, and had smiled at the knowledge. A sense of weariness quickly followed, then a restful silence which carried no thought with it.

He lay back on his pillow and waited, with his eyes closed, until he felt that she was asleep. Then he slept also.

A Little Brown Mouse

Rosemary peered into the letter box and saw that The Household Guardian was there. On one Thursday it had failed to appear and she had been unable to convince Grandmother of her entire innocence in the matter. Even on the following day, when she brought it home, in the original wrapping, she felt herself regarded with secret suspicion. As it never had failed to come on Thursday, why should it, unless Rosemary, for some reason best known to herself, had tampered with the United States Mail?

There was also a letter, and Rosemary waited eagerly for the postmaster to finish weighing out two pounds of brown sugar and five cents' worth of tea for old Mrs. Simms. She pressed her nose to the glass, and squinted, but the address eluded her. Still, she was sure it was for her, and, very probably, from Alden, whom she had not seen for ten days.

She felt a crushing sense of disappointment when she saw that it was not from Alden, but was addressed in an unfamiliar hand. Regardless of the deference she was accustomed to accord a letter, she tore it open hastily and read:

"MY DEAR ROSEMARY:

"Can you come to tea on Saturday afternoon about four? We have a guest whom I am sure you would like to meet.

"Affectionately, your

"MOTHER."

The words were formal enough, and the quaint stateliness of the handwriting conveyed its own message of reserve and distance but the signature thrilled her through and through. "Mother!" she repeated, in a whisper. She went out of the post-office blindly, with the precious missive tightly clasped in her trembling hand.

Would she go? Of course she would, even though it meant facing Grandmother, Aunt Matilda, and all the dogs of war.