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.
Looking Back
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.
Madame's View of the Case
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."
A Wearisome Day