Master of the Vineyard Part 32

Edith drew a long breath. "I never thought of that."

Steadily the man pursued his advantage. "There must be some reason for his treating you as he does--for making you miserable. If, for any cause whatever, he wanted his freedom, would it make--any difference to you?"

She tapped her foot restlessly upon the floor. The atmosphere was surcharged with expectancy, then grew tense with waiting. Alden's eyes never swerved from her face.

[Sidenote: What Right?]

"Have you any right, through principles of your own, which I thoroughly understand and respect, to keep a man bound who desires to be free?"

She swayed back and forth unsteadily. Alden a.s.sisted her to her chair and stood before her as she sat with her elbows upon her knees, her face hidden in her hands. With the precise observation one accords to trifles in moments of unendurable stress, he noted that two of the hooks which fastened her gown at the back of her neck had become unfastened and that the white flesh showed through the opening.

"If," said Alden, mercilessly, "he longs for his freedom, and the law permits him to take it, have you the right to force your principles upon him--and thus keep him miserable when he might otherwise be happy?"

The clock in the hall struck ten. The sound died into silence and the remorseless tick-tick went on. Outside a belated cricket fiddled bravely as he fared upon his way. The late moon flooded the room with light.

"Have you?" demanded Alden. He endeavoured to speak calmly, but his voice shook. "Answer me!"

Edith leaned back in her chair, white and troubled. "I don't know," she murmured, with lips that scarcely moved. "Before G.o.d, I don't know!"

[Sidenote: Advantages of a Letter]

The man went on pitilessly. "Don't you think you might find out? Before you condemn yourself and me to everlasting separation, don't you think you might at least ask him?"

"Yes," said Edith, slowly. "I might ask him. I'll go----"

"No, you needn't go. Can't you write?"

"Yes," she returned. "I can write."

All the emotion had gone from her voice. She said the words as meaninglessly as a parrot might.

"A letter has distinct advantages," remarked Alden, trying to speak lightly. "You can say all you want to say before the other person has a chance to put in a word."

"Yes," she agreed, in the same meaningless tone. "That is true."

"When," queried Alden, after a pause, "will you write?"

"To-morrow."

He nodded his satisfaction. "Tell him," he suggested, "that you love another man, and----"

"No," she interrupted, "I won't tell him that. I'll say that I've tried my best to be a good wife, that I've tried as best I knew to make him happy. I'll say I've--" she choked on the word--"I'll say I've failed.

I'll tell him I can do no more, that I do not believe I can ever do any better than I have done, and ask him to tell me frankly whether or not he prefers to be free. That's all."

[Sidenote: How Different?]

"That isn't enough. You have rights----"

"We're not speaking of my rights," she said, coldly. "We're speaking of his."

A silence fell between them, tense and awkward. The open gate between them had turned gently upon its hinges, then closed, with a suggestion of finality. The clock struck the half hour. Outside, the cricket still chirped cheerily, regardless of the great issues of life and love.

"Come outside," Alden pleaded, taking her hand in his.

"No," she said, but she did not withdraw her hand.

"Come, dear--come!"

He led her out upon the veranda where the moon made far-reaching shadows with the lattice and the climbing rose, then returned for chairs, the same two in which they had sat the night before. She was the first to break the pause.

"How different it all is!" she sighed. "Last night we sat here in the moonlight, just where we are now. In twenty-four hours, everything has changed."

"The face of all the world is changed, I think, Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul."

he quoted softly.

[Sidenote: When They Knew]

"When did you--know?" she asked.

"The night I read Rossetti to you and kissed your arm, do you remember?

It rushed upon me like an overwhelming flood. When did you know?"

"I think I've always known--not the fact, exactly, but the possibility of it. The first night I came, I knew that you and I could care a great deal for each other--not that we ever would, but merely that we might, under different circ.u.mstances. In a way, it was as though a set of familiar conditions might be seen in a different aspect, or in a different light."

"From the first," he said, "you've meant a great deal to me, in every way. I was discontented, moody, restless, and unhappy when you came.

That was mainly responsible for----"

He hesitated, glanced at her, accepted her nod of understanding, and went on.

"I've hated the vineyard and the rest of my work. G.o.d only knows how I've hated it! It's seemed sometimes that I'd die if I didn't get away from it. Mother and I had it out one day, and finally I decided to stay, merely to please her. Because I had nothing more to do than to make her happy, I determined to make the best of things. You've made me feel that, in a way, it's myself that's at stake. I want to take it and make it widely known among vineyards, as it has been--for my own sake, and for yours."

[Sidenote: A Corner Turned]

Edith leaned toward him, full into the light. Her face, still pale, was rapt--almost holy. To him, as to Madame earlier in the day, she somehow suggested the light before a shrine. "Thank you," she said. The low, full contralto tones were vibrant with emotion.

There was a pause. As though a light had been suddenly thrown upon one groping in darkness, Alden saw many things. His longing for Edith, while no less intense, became subtly different. He seemed to have turned a corner and found everything changed.

"Dear," he went on, "there's something wonderful about this. I've--" he stopped and cleared his throat. "I mean it's so exquisitely pure, so transcendently above pa.s.sion. Last night, when I had you in my arms, it wasn't man and woman--it was soul and soul. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I know. Pa.s.sion isn't love--any more than hunger is, but an earth-bound world seldom sees above the fog of sense."

"I could love you always," he returned, "and never so much as touch your hand or kiss you again."

She nodded, smiling full comprehension. Then she asked, briefly: "Why write?"

"Merely because we belong to one another in a divine sense, and marriage is the earthly sanction of it--or ought to be. If you and I were both free, and I thought marriage would in any way change this, I--I wouldn't ask you to marry me."

[Sidenote: The Shadow Rose]