The Light before a Shrine

Madame Reproaches Herself

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.

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.