The Weaving of the Tapestry

Night after night, when they sat in the living-room after dinner, no word would be spoken by either until bedtime, when Madame would say "Good-night," and, in pity, slip away, leaving him to follow when he chose. Sometimes he would answer, but, more frequently, he did not even hear his mother leave the room. Yearning over him as only a mother may, Madame would lie awake with her door ajar, listening for his step upon the stairs.

While the night waxed and waned, Alden sat alone, his eyes fixed unalterably upon Edith's empty chair, in which, by common consent, neither of them sat. The soft outlines of her figure seemed yet to lie upon the faded tapestry; the high, carved back seemed still to bear the remembered splendour of her beautiful head.

Balm for Alden

After Madame had gone, Alden would sometimes light the candle that stood upon the piano, mute now save for the fingers of Memory. Moving the bench out a little and turning it slightly toward the end of the room, he would go back to his own far corner, where he used to sit while Edith played.

Conjuring her gracious image out of the dreamy shadows, he found balm for his sore heart in the white gown that fell softly around her, the small white foot that now and then pressed the pedal, the long, graceful line that swept from her shoulder to her finger-tips, the faint hollow where her gown, with the softness of a caress, melted into the ivory whiteness of her neck, the thick, creamy skin, in some way suggesting white rose-leaves, the scarlet, wistful mouth, the deep brown eyes reflecting golden lights, and the crown of wonderful hair that shimmered and shone and gleamed like burnished gold.