Edith did not appear at breakfast. Alden seemed preoccupied, ate but little, and Madame, pale after a sleepless night, ate nothing at all. Furtively she watched her son, longing to share his thoughts and warn him against the trouble that inevitably lay ahead.

Woman-like, she blamed the woman, even including herself. She knew that what she had seen last night was not the evidence of a mere flirtation or passing fancy, and reproached herself bitterly because she had asked Edith to stay.

And yet, what mother could hope to shield her son against temptation in its most intoxicating form? For his thirty years he had lived in the valley, practically without feminine society. Only his mother, and, of late, Rosemary. Then, star-like upon his desert, Edith had arisen, young, beautiful, unhappy, with all the arts and graces a highly specialised civilisation bestows upon its women.

Madame's heart softened a little toward Edith. Perhaps she was not wholly to blame. She remembered the night Edith had endeavoured to escape a tÊte-À-tÊte with Alden and she herself had practically forced her to stay. Regardless of the warning given by the crystal ball, in which Madame now had more faith than ever, she had not only given opportunity, but had even forced it upon them.

Looking back, she could not remember, upon Edith's part, a word or even a look that had been out of place. She could recall no instance in which she had shown the slightest desire for Alden's society. Where another woman might have put herself in his way, times without number, Edith had kept to her own room, or had gone out alone.

On the contrary, Madame herself had urged drives and walks. Frequently she had asked Alden to do certain things and had reminded him of the courtesy due from host to guest. Once, when she had requested him to take Edith out for a drive, he had replied, somewhat sharply, that he had already invited her and she had refused to go.

Murmuring an excuse, Alden left the table and went out. Madame was rather glad to be left alone, for she wanted time to think, not as one thinks in darkness, when one painful subject, thrown out of perspective, assumes exaggerated proportions of importance, but in clear, sane sunlight, surrounded by the reassuring evidences of every-day living.

Obviously she could not speak to either. She could not say to Alden: "I saw you last night with Edith in your arms and that sort of thing will not do." Nor could she say to Edith: "My dear, you must remember that you are a married woman." She must not only wait for confidences, but must keep from them both, for ever, the fact that she had accidentally stumbled upon their divine moment.

After long thought, and eager to be just, she held Edith practically blameless, yet, none the less, earnestly wished that she would go home. She smiled whimsically, wishing that there were a social formula in which, without offence, one might request an invited guest to depart. She wondered that one's home must be continually open, when other places are permitted to close. The graceful social lie, "Not at home," had never appealed to Madame. Why might not one say, truthfully: "I am sorry you want to see me, for I haven't the slightest desire in the world to see you. Please go away." Or, to an invited guest: "When I asked you to come I wanted to see you, but I have seen quite enough of you for the present, and would be glad to have you go home."

Her reflections were cut short by the appearance of Edith herself, wan and weary, very pale, but none the less transfigured by secret joy. Her eyes, alight with mysterious fires, held in their starry depths a world of love and pain. In some occult way she suggested to Madame a light burning before a shrine.

Edith did not care for breakfast but forced herself to eat a little. She responded to Madame's polite inquiries in monosyllables, and her voice was faint and far away. Yes, she was well. No, she had not slept until almost morning. No, nothing was making her unhappy—that was, nothing new. After all, perhaps she did have a headache. Yes, she believed she would lie down. It was very kind of Madame but she did not believe she wanted any luncheon and certainly would not trouble anyone to bring it up.

Yet at noon, when Madame herself appeared with a tempting tray, Edith gratefully accepted a cup of coffee. She was not lying down, but was sitting in her low rocker, with her hands clasped behind her head and the photograph of her husband on the dressing-table before her.

"Yes," she said, in answer to Madame's inquiring glance, "that's my husband. It was taken just about the time we were married."

Madame took the picture, studied it for a moment, then returned it to its place. She made no comment, having been asked for none.

"Won't you lie down, dear?"

"Yes, I believe I will."

"Truly?"

"Yes—I promise."

With a sad little smile she kissed Madame, closed the door, and turned the key in the lock. The old lady sighed as she went down with the tray, reflecting how impossible it is really to aid another, unless the barrier of silence be removed.

At four, she had her tea alone. No sound came from up-stairs, and Alden neither returned to luncheon nor sent word. When he came in, a little past six, he was tired and muddy, his face was strained and white, and, vouchsafing only the briefest answers to his mother's solicitude, went straight to his room.

Exactly upon the stroke of seven, both appeared, Alden in evening clothes as usual, and Edith in her black gown, above which her face was deathly white by contrast, in spite of the spangles. She wore no ornaments, not even the string of pearls about her bare throat.

"You look as though you were in mourning, my dear," said Madame. "Let me get you a red rose."

She started toward the veranda, but, with a little cry, Edith caught her and held her back. "No," she said, in a strange tone, "roses are—not for me!"

The dinner-gong chimed in with the answer, and the three went out together. Neither Alden nor Edith made more than a pretence of eating. Edith held her head high and avoided even his eyes, though more than once Madame saw the intensity of his appeal.

Afterward he took his paper, Madame her fancy work, and Edith, attempting to play solitaire, hopelessly fumbled her cards. Madame made a valiant effort to carry on a conversation alone, but at length the monologue wearied her, and she slipped quietly out of the room.

Edith turned, with a start, and hurriedly rose to follow her. Alden intercepted her. "No," he said, quietly. "There are things to be said between you and me."

"I thought," Edith murmured, as she sank into the chair he offered her, "that everything was said last night."

"Everything? Perhaps, but not for the last time."

She leaned forward, into the light, put her elbows upon the table, and rested her head upon her clasped hands, as though to shade her eyes. "Well?" she said, wearily.

"Look at me!"

Her hands trembled, but she did not move. He leaned across the table, unclasped her hands gently, and forced her to look at him. Her eyes were swimming with unshed tears.

"Darling! My darling! Have I made you unhappy?"

"No," she faltered. "How could you?"

He came to her, sat down on the arm of her chair, slipped his arm around her, and held her close against his shoulder. "Listen," he said. "You belong to me, don't you?"

"Absolutely."

"Could you—could you—make yourself free?"

"Yes, as you mean it, I could."

"Then—when?"

"Never!" The word rang clear, tensely vibrant with denial.

"Edith! What do you mean?"

Releasing herself she stood and faced him. "This," she said. "At the altar I pledged myself in these words: 'Until death do us part,' and 'Forsaking all others, keep thee only unto me so long as we both shall live.' Isn't that plain?"

"The law," he began.

"Law!" repeated Edith. "Why don't you say perjury, and be done with it?"

"Dearest, you don't understand. You——"

"I know what I said," she reminded him, grimly. "I said 'For better or worse,' not 'for better' only."

"You promised to love and to honour also, didn't you?"

Edith bowed her head. "I did," she answered, in a low tone, "and I have, and, God helping me, I shall do so again."

"Have I no rights?" he asked, with a sigh.

He could scarcely hear the murmured answer: "None."

"Nor you?"

She shook her head sadly, avoiding his eyes, then suddenly turned and faced him. "What of your own honour?" she demanded. "What of Miss Starr?"

"I have thought of that," he replied, miserably. "I have thought of nothing else all day."

Edith leaned back against the table. "What," she asked, curiously, "were you planning to do?"

The dull colour rose to his temples. "Go to her," he said, with his face averted, "tell her the truth like a man, and ask for freedom."

She laughed—the sort of laugh one hears from a woman tossing in delirium. Madame heard it, up-stairs, and shuddered.

"Like a man!" Edith repeated, scornfully.

"Say it," he said, roughly. "Like a cad, if that's what you mean."

She laughed again, but with a different cadence. "Ask yourself first," she continued, "and then be honest with me. How would you feel?"

He shrugged his shoulders uneasily. "I admit it, but I'm willing to pay the price. I'll feel like a cad all the rest of my life, if I must, in order to have you."

"If a man has no self-respect," she retorted, "what can he expect from his——"

"Wife," breathed Alden, in a rapturous whisper. "Oh, Edith, say you will!"

She turned away, for she could not force herself to meet his eyes. Her little white hands clasped the edge of the table tightly.

"Have you thought of this?" he continued. "Suppose, for him, there is another woman——"

"There isn't," she denied. "I know that."

"Perhaps not in the sense you mean, but if he were free——?"

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.

"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 assisted 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 God, I don't know!"

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."

"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."

he quoted softly.

"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 circumstances. 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. God 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."

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 passion. 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. Passion 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."

Rising from her chair, she bent over, kissed him on the forehead, went to the lattice, picked another rose, and came back. "See," she said, standing in the light; "life and beauty and joy—all in a rose."

"And love," he added.

"And love." She held it at arm's length. Sharply defined, the shadow fell upon the white floor of the veranda, perfect in line.

"And there," she continued, "is the same thing in another form. It is still a rose—anyone can see that. Only the colour and fragrance are gone, but one can remember both. To-morrow I'll write, and find out which we're to have—the rose, or the shadow of the rose."

"It's chance," he said, "like the tossing of a coin."

"Most things are," she reminded him. "Did you ever stop to think what destinies attend the opening or closing of a door?"

He made no answer. "Good-night," she said, with a smile.

"Good-night, my beloved." His face was illumined with "the light that never was on sea or land," but he did not even attempt to touch her hand.