Part 55

The shattered crystal fell, tinkling as it went. The wine made a deep, purple stain upon the stone. He opened his arms.

"No," whispered Edith. "It only makes it harder, when----"

"Beloved, have you found so much sweetness in the world that you can afford to pass it by?" She did not answer, so he said, pleadingly: "Don't you want to come?"

She turned toward him, her face suddenly illumined. "I do, with all my soul I do."

"Then come. For one little hour--for one dear hour--ah, dearest, come!"

Rosemary averted her face, unable to bear it. When she turned her miserable eyes toward them again, allured by some strange fascination she was powerless to analyse, Edith was in his arms, her mouth crushed to his.

"Dear, dearest, sweetheart, beloved!" the man murmured. "I love you so!"

There was a pause, then he spoke again. "Do you love me?"

"Yes," she breathed. "A thousand times, yes!"

"Say it," he pleaded. "Just those three words."

"I love you," she answered, "for everything you have been and everything you are and everything you are going to be, for always. I love you with a love that is yours alone. It never belonged to anybody else for the merest fraction of a second, and never can. It was born for you, lives for you, and will die when you need it no more."

"Ah," he said, "but I need it always. I've wanted you all my life."

"And will," she sighed, trying to release herself.

"Edith! Don't! I can't bear it! Take the golden hour as the glittering sands of eternity sweep past us. So much is yours and mine, out of all that is past and to come."

"As you wish," she responded. Then, after another pause, she said: "Don't you want to read to me?"

Rosemary, dumb and hopeless, saw them sit down, close together, and lean against the rock, where the sunlight made an aureole of Edith's hair. He slipped his arm around her, and she laid her head upon his shoulder, with a look of heavenly peace upon her pale face. Never had the contrast between them been more painful than now, for Edith, with love in her eyes, was exquisite beyond all words.

Alden took a small red book out of his pocket. With a pang, Rosemary recognised it. Was nothing to be left sacred to her? She longed to break from her hiding-place, face them both with stern accusing eyes, snatch the book which meant so much to her--ask for this much, at least, to keep. Yet she kept still, and listened helplessly, with the blood beating in her ears.

In his deep, musical voice, Alden read once more: Her Gifts. "That," he said, softly, "was the night I knew."

"Yes," Edith answered. "The night I found the book and brought it home."

Rosemary well remembered when Edith had found the book. Her strange sense of a dual self persisted, yet, none the less, her heart beat hard with pain.

He went on, choosing a line here and there as he turned the marked pages, but avoiding entirely some of the most beautiful sonnets because of their hopelessness. At last, holding her closer, he began:

"On this sweet bank your head thrice sweet and dear I lay, and spread your hair on either side, And see the new-born woodflowers bashful-eyed Look through the golden tresses here and there. On these debatable borders of the year Spring's foot half falters; scarce she yet may know The leafless blackthorn-blossom from the snow; And through her bowers the wind's way still is clear."

"Oh!" breathed Rosemary, with her hands tightly clenched. "Dear God, have pity!"

Heedlessly, Alden went on:

"But April's sun strikes down the glades to-day; So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my kiss Creep, as the Spring now thrills through every spray, Up your warm throat to your warm lips; for this----"

He dropped the book, lifted Edith's chin and kissed her throat, then her mouth. She laid her hand upon his face. "Dear and lonely and hungry-hearted," she said; "how long you wanted me!"

"Yes," he murmured, "but I've found you now!"

How long they sat there, Rosemary never knew, for her senses were dulled. She did not hear their preparations for departure, but saw the boat swinging out into the current, with the sunset making golden glory of the river and of Edith's hair. When the sound of the oars ceased, she rose, numb and cold, and came out into the open space. She steadied herself for a moment upon the rock against which they had leaned.