Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
A ROSE OF YESTERDAY
BY
F. MARION CRAWFORD
Author of "Saracenesca," "Dr. Claudius," "Katharine
Lauderdale," "The Ralstons," etc., etc.
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1897
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1897,
BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.
Set up and electrotyped May, 1897. Reprinted August,
October, 1897.
_Eleventh Thousand_
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co. -- Berwick & Smith
Norwood, Mass. U.S.A.
A ROSE OF YESTERDAY
CHAPTER I
"I wonder what he meant by it," said Sylvia, turning again in her chair,
so that the summer light, softened and tinted by the drawn blinds, might
fall upon the etching she held.
"My dear," answered Colonel Wimpole, stretching out his still graceful
legs, leaning back in his chair, and slowly joining his nervous but
handsome hands, "nobody knows."
He did not move again for some time, and his ward continued to
scrutinize Duerer's Knight. It was the one known as 'The Knight, Death,
and the Devil,' and she had just received it from her guardian as a
birthday present.
"But people must have thought a great deal about it," said Sylvia, at
last. "There must be stories about what it means. Do tell me. I'm
sure you know."
She laid the unframed print upon her knees, still holding it by the
edges, lest the fitful breeze that came in through the blinds should
blow it to the floor. At the same time she raised her eyes till they
met the colonel's.
Her earnest young face expressed something like veneration as she gazed
at him, and perhaps he thought that it was undeserved, for he soon
looked away, with a faint sigh. She sighed, too, but more audibly, as
though she were not ashamed of it. Possibly she knew that he could not
guess what the sigh meant, and the knowledge added a little pain to what
she felt just then, and had felt daily of late. She began to study the
etching again.
"To me," she said softly, "the Knight is a hero. He is making Death
show him the way, and he has made the Devil his squire and servant. He
will reach the city on the hill in time, for there is still sand enough
in the hour-glass. Do you see?" She held out the print to the colonel.
"There is still sand enough," she repeated. "Don't you think so?"
Again, as she asked the question, she looked at him; but he was bending
over the etching, and she could only see his clear profile against the
shadows of the room.
"He may be just in time," he answered quietly.
"I wonder which house they lived in, of those one can see," said Sylvia.
"Who are 'they'? Death, the Devil, and the Knight?"
"No. The Knight and the lady, of course,--the lady who is waiting to
see whether he will come in time."
The colonel laughed a little at her fancy, and looked at her as the
breeze stirred her brown hair. He did not understand her, and she knew
that he did not. His glance took in her brown hair, her violet eyes,
her delicately shaded cheek, and the fresh young mouth with its strange
little half-weary smile that should not have been there, and that left
the weariness behind whenever it faded for a time. He wondered what was
the matter with the girl.
She was not ill. That was clear enough, for they had travelled far, and
Sylvia had never once seemed tired. The colonel and Miss Wimpole, his
elderly maiden sister, had taken Sylvia out to Japan to meet her father,
Admiral Strahan, who had been stationed some time with a small squadron
in the waters of the far East. He had been ordered home rather suddenly,
and the Wimpoles were bringing the girl back by way of Europe. Sylvia's
mother had been dead three years, and had left her a little fortune.
Mrs. Strahan had been a step-sister, and no blood relation, of the
Wimpoles; but they had been as a real brother and a real sister to her,
and she had left her only child to their care during such times as her
husband's service should keep him away from home. The girl was now just
eighteen.
Colonel Wimpole wondered whether she could be destined for suffering, as
some women are, and the thought linked itself to the chain of another
life, and drew it out of his heart that he might see it and be hurt, for
he had known pain in himself and through one he loved. He could not
believe that Sylvia was forefated to sorrow, and the silent weariness
that of late was always in her face meant something which he feared to
learn, but for which he felt himself vaguely responsible, as though he
were not doing his duty by her.
He was a man of heart, of honour, and of conscience. Long ago, in his
early youth, he had fought bravely in a long and cruel war, and had
remained a soldier for many years afterwards, with an old-fashioned
attachment for arms that was dashed with chivalry, till at last he had
hung up his sword, accepting peace as a profession. Indeed he had never
loved anything of war, except its danger and its honour; and he had
loved one woman more than either, but not against honour nor in danger,
though without any hope.
He had lived simply, as some men can and as a few do live, in the midst
of the modern world, parting with an illusion now and then, and
fostering some new taste in its place, in a sort of innocent and simple
consciousness that it was artificial, but in the certainty that it was
harmless. He was gentle in his ways, with the quiet and unaffected
feeling for other people which not seldom softens those who have fought
with their hands in the conviction of right, and have dealt and received
real wounds. War either brutalizes or refines a man; it never leaves
him unchanged. Colonel Wimpole had travelled from time to time, more
for the sake of going to some one place which he wished to see, than of
passing through many places for the sake of travelling. There is a
great difference between the two methods. Wherever he went, he took
with him his own character and his slightly formal courtesy of manner,
not leaving himself at home, as some people do, nor assuming a separate
personality for Europe, like a disguise; for, such as he was, he was
incapable of affectation, and he was sure that the manners which had
been good enough for his mother were good enough for any woman in the
world, as indeed they were, because he was a gentleman, that is, a man,
and gentle at all points, excepting for his honour. But no one had ever
touched that.
He looked what he was, too, from head to foot. He was a tall, slender
man, of nervous strength, with steady grey eyes, high features, smooth,
short and grizzled hair; simple and yet very scrupulous in his dress;
easy in his movements; not old before his time, but having already
something of the refinement of age upon the nobility of his advanced
manhood; one of whom a woman would expect great things in an extremity,
but to whom she would no longer turn for the little service, the little
fetching and carrying, which most women expect of men still in prime.
But he did such things unasked, and for any woman, when it seemed
natural to do them. After all, he was only fifty-three years old, and
it seems to be established that sixty is the age of man's manumission
from servitude, unless the period of slavery be voluntarily extended by
the individual. That leaves ten years of freedom if one live to the
traditional age of mankind.
But Sylvia saw no sign of age in Colonel Wimpole. In connexion with him
the mere word irritated her when he used it, which he sometimes did
quite naturally, and he would have been very much surprised could he
have guessed how she thought of him, and what she was thinking as she
sat looking from him to Duerer's Knight and from the etched rider to the
living man again. For she saw a resemblance which by no means existed,
except, perhaps, between two ideals.
The Knight in the picture is stern and strong and grim, and sits his
horse like the incarnation of an unchanging will, riding a bridled
destiny against Death and Evil to a good end. And Death's tired jade
droops its white head and sniffs at the skull in the way, but the
Knight's charger turns up his lip and shows his teeth at the carrion
thing and arches his strong neck, while the Knight looks straight before
him, and cares not, and his steel-clad legs press the great horse into
the way, and his steel-gloved hand holds curb and snaffle in a vise. As
for the Devil, he slinks behind, an evil beast, but subdued, and
following meanly with a sort of mute, animal astonishment in his wide
eyes.
And beside Sylvia sat the colonel, quiet, gentle, restful, suggesting
just then nothing of desperate determination, and not at all like the
grim Knight in feature. Yet the girl felt a kinship between the two,
and saw one and the same heroism in the man and in the pictured rider.
In her inmost heart she wished that she could have seen the colonel long
ago, when he had fought, riding at death without fear. But the thought
that it had been so very long ago kept the wish down, below the
word-line in her heart's well. Youth clothes its ideals with the spirit
of truth and hides the letter out of sight.
But in the picture, Sylvia looked for herself, since it was for a lady
that the Knight was riding, and all she could find was the big old house
up in the town, on the left of the tallest tower. She was waiting
somewhere under the high-gabled roof, with her spinning-wheel or her
fine needlework, among her women. Would he ever come? Was there time
before the sand in Death's hour-glass should run out?
"I wish the horse would put his fore foot down, and go on!" she said
suddenly.
Then she laughed, though a little wearily. How could she tell the
colonel that he was the Knight, and that she was waiting in the tall
house with the many windows? Perhaps he was never to know, and forever
the charger's fore foot would be lifted, ready for the step that was
never to fall upon the path.
But Colonel Wimpole did not understand. It was unlike her to wish that
an old print should turn into a page from a child's movable
picture-book.
"Why do you wish that the horse would go on?" he asked half idly.
"Because the sand will not last, if he waits," said Sylvia, quietly; and
as she spoke a third time of the sand in the hour-glass, she felt a
little chill at her heart.
"There will always be time," answered the colonel, enigmatically.
"As there will always be air, I suppose; and that will not matter to us,
when we are not here to breathe it any more."
"That is true. Nothing will matter very much a hundred years hence."
"But a few years matter much more than a hundred." Her voice was sad.
"What are you thinking of?" asked Colonel Wimpole, changing his position
so as to see her face better.
He resented her sadness a little, for he and his sister were doing their
best to make her happy. But Sylvia did not answer him. She bent her
white forehead to the faint breeze that came through the closed green
blinds, and she looked at the etching. The colonel believed that she
was thinking of her dead mother, whom she had loved. He hesitated,
choosing his words, for he hated preaching, and yet it seemed to him
that Sylvia mourned too long.
"I was very fond of your mother, too, my dear," he said gently, after a
time. "She was like a real sister to us. I wish I could have gone
instead, and left her to you."
"You?" Sylvia's voice startled him; she was suddenly pale, and the old
print shook in her hands. "Oh, no!" she cried half passionately. "Not
you--not you!"
The colonel was surprised for a moment. Then he was grateful, for he
felt that she was very fond of him. He thought of the woman he loved,
and that he might have had such a daughter as Sylvia, but with other
eyes.
"I am glad you are fond of me," he said. "You are very good to me, and I
know I am a tiresome old man."
At that word, one beat of the girl's heart sent resentful blood to her
face.
"You are not old at all!" she cried. "And you could not be tiresome if
you tried! And I am not good to you, as you call it!"
The girl's young anger made him think of summer lightning, and of the
sudden flashing of new steel drawn silently and swiftly from the sheath
into the sunshine.
"Goodness may be a matter of opinion, my dear," said he. "But age is a
matter of fact. I was fifty-three years old on my last birthday."
"Oh, what do years matter?" Sylvia rose quickly and turned from him,
going towards the window.
The colonel watched her perfectly graceful movements. She wore grey,
with a small black band at her throat, and the soft light clung to the
lovely outline of her figure and to her brown hair. He thought again of
the daughter that might have been born to him, and even of a daughter's
daughter. It seemed to him that his own years might be a greater matter
than Sylvia would admit. Yet, as their descending mists veiled hope's
height, he was often glad that there should not be as many more as there
had been. He said nothing, and there was a dream in his eyes.
"You are always saying that you are old. Why?" Sylvia's voice came from
the window, but she did not turn. "It is not kind," she said, still
more softly.
"Not kind?" He did not understand.
"It is not kind to me. It is as though I did not care. Besides, it is
not true!"
Just then the conviction had come back to her voice, stronger than ever,
strengthening the tone just when it was breaking. She had never spoken
to him in this way. He called her.
"Sylvia! Will you come here, my dear?" She came, and he took her fresh
young hands. "What is it? Has anything happened? Are you unhappy?
Tell me."
At his question the violet eyes slowly filled, and she just bent her
head once or twice, as though assenting.
"You are unhappy?" He repeated his question, and again she nodded
sadly.
"But happy, too,--often."
There was not room for happiness and sorrow together in her full eyes.
The tear fell, and gladness took its place at his touch. But he looked,
and remembered other hands, and began to know the truth. Love's
unforgotten spirit came, wafting a breath of older days.
He looked, and wondered whom the girl had chosen, and was glad for her
happiness while he grew anxious for its life. She was so young that she
must have chosen lately and quickly. In a rush of inward questioning his
mind ran back through the long journey they had made together, and
answers came in many faces of men that glided before him. One of them
stopped him and held his thought, as a fleeting memory will. A young
officer of her father's flagship, lean, brown, bright-eyed, with a
strong mouth and a rare smile. Sylvia had often talked with him, and
the boy's bright eyes used to watch her from the distance when he was
not beside her. Quiet of speech he was, and resolute, bred in the keen
air of a northern sea, of the few from among whom fate may choose the
one. That was the man.
The colonel spoke, then, as though he had said much, glad and willing to
take the girl's conclusion.
"I know who it is," he said, as if all had been explained. "I am glad,
very glad."
His hands pressed hers more tightly, for he was a man of heart, and
because his own life had failed strangely, he knew how happy she must
be, having all he had not. But the violet eyes grew wide and dark and
surprised, and the faint colour came and went.
"Do you really, really know at last?" she asked, very low.
"Yes, dear, I know," he said, for he had the sure conviction out of his
sympathy for the child.
"And you are glad? Even as I am?"
"Indeed I am! I love you with all my heart, my dear."
She looked at him a moment longer, and then her sight grew faint, and
her face hid itself against his coat.
"Say it! Say it again!" she repeated, and her white fingers closed
tightly upon his sleeve. "I have waited so long to hear you say it!"
An uneasy and half-distressed look came to his face instantly, as he
looked down at the brown hair.
"What?" he asked. "What have you waited to hear me say?"
"That--the words you said just now." Her face still hidden, she
hesitated.
"What did I say? That I loved you, my dear?"
She nodded silently, against his coat.
"That I have always loved you, Sylvia dear," he said, while a wondering
fear stole through him.
"You never told me. And I did not dare tell you--how could I? But now
you understand. You know that the years mean nothing, after all, and
that there is still sand in the hourglass, and you and I shall reach the
end of the road together--"
"Sylvia!" His voice rang sharply and painfully as he interrupted her.
He was a little pale, and his grey eyes were less steady than usual, for
he could not be mistaken any longer. He had faced many dangers bravely,
but the girl frightened him, clinging to his sleeve, and talking of her
half-childish love for him. Then came the shock to his honour, for it
seemed as though it must somehow have been his fault.
She looked up and saw his face, but could not understand it, though she
had a prevision of evil, and the stealing sickness of disappointment
made her faint.
"I did not know what you meant, my child," he said, growing more pale,
and very gently pushing her back a little. "I was thinking of young
Knox. I thought you loved him. I was so sure that he was the man."
She drew back, now, of her own will, staring.
"Knox? Mr. Knox?" She repeated the name, hardly hearing her own words,
half stunned by her mistake. "But you said--you said you loved me--"
"As your father does," said Colonel Wimpole, very gravely. "Your father
and I are just of the same age. We were boys together. You know it, my
dear."
She was a mere child, and he made her feel that she was. Her hands
covered her face in an instant as she fled, and before the door had
closed behind her, the colonel heard the first quick sob.
He had risen to his feet, and stood still, looking at the door. When he
was alone, he might have smiled, as some men might have done, not at
Sylvia, indeed, though at the absurdity of the situation. But his face
was sad, and he quietly sat down again by the table, and began to think
of what had happened.
Sylvia was very foolish, he said to himself, as he tried to impose upon
his mind what he thought should have been his conviction. Yet he was
deeply and truly touched by her half-childish love, and its innocence
seemed pathetic to him, while he was hurt for her pain, and most of all
for her overwhelming confusion.
At the same time came memories and visions, and his head sank forward a
little as he sat in his chair by the table. The vision of hope was
growing daily more dim, but the remembrance of the past was as undying
as what has been is beyond recall.
Sylvia would wake from her girlish dream, and, in the fulness of young
womanhood, would love a man of her own years. The colonel knew that.
She would see that he was going in under the gateway of old age, while
she was on the threshold of youth's morning. A few days, or a few
months, or, at most, a few years more, and she must see that he was an
old man. That was certain.
He sighed, not for Sylvia, but because age is that deadly sickness of
which hope must perish at last. Time is a prince of narrow possessions,
absolute where he reigns at all, cruel upon his people, and relentless;
for, beyond his scanty principality, he is nothing, and his name is not
known in the empire of eternity. Therefore while he rules he raises the
dark standard of death, taking tribute of life, and giving back a slow
poison in return.
Colonel Wimpole was growing old, and, though the woman he still loved
was not young, she was far younger than he, and he must soon seem an old
man even in her eyes. And then there would not be much hope left.
Sadly he wondered what Sylvia saw in him which that other woman, who had
known him long, seemed to have never quite seen. But such questioning
could find no satisfaction.
He might have remained absorbed in his reflexions for a long time had he
been left alone, but the door opened behind him, and he knew by the
steady and precise way in which it was opened and shut that his sister
had entered the room.
"Richard," she said, "I am surprised." Then she stood still and waited.
Miss Wimpole was older than her brother, and was an exaggeration of him
in petticoats. Her genuine admiration for him was curiously tempered by
the fact that, when they had been children, she, as the elder, had kept
him out of mischief, occasionally by force, often by authority, but
never by persuasion. When in pinafores the colonel had been fond of
sweets. Miss Wimpole considered that he owed his excellent health to
her heroic determination to save him from destruction by jam. Since
those days she had been obliged to yield to him on other points, but the
memory of victory in the matter of preserves still made her manner
authoritative.
She was very like him, being tall, thin, and not ungraceful, though as
oddly precise in her movements and gestures as she was rigid in her
beliefs, faithful in her affections, and just in her judgments. She had
loved a man who had been killed in the civil war, and, being what she
was, she had never so much as considered the possibility of marrying any
one else. She was much occupied in good works and did much good, but
she was so terribly accurate about it as to make Sylvia say that she was
like a public charity that had been brought up in good society.
The colonel rose as she spoke.
"What is the matter?" he asked. "Why are you surprised?"
"What have you been saying to Sylvia, Richard?" enquired Miss Wimpole,
not moving.
It would have been hard to hit upon a question more certain to embarrass
the colonel. He felt the difficulty of his position so keenly that, old
as he was, a faint colour rose in his cheeks. No answer occurred to him,
and he hesitated.
"She has locked herself up in her room," continued Miss Wimpole, with
searching severity, "and she is crying as though her heart would break.
I heard her sobbing as I passed the door, and she would not let me in."
"I am very sorry," said the colonel, gravely.
"You do not seem much concerned," retorted his sister. "I insist upon
knowing what is the matter."
"Girls often cry," observed Colonel Wimpole, who felt obliged to say
something, though he did not at all know what to say.
"Sylvia does not often cry, Richard, and you know it. You must have
said something very unkind to her."
"I hope not," answered the colonel, evasively.
"Then why is she sobbing there, all by herself? I should like you to
answer that question."
"I am very sorry that I cannot. When she is herself again you had
better ask her."
Colonel Wimpole thought this good diplomacy. Since he meant not to tell
his sister the truth, and was incapable of inventing a falsehood, he saw
no means of escape except by referring Miss Wimpole directly to Sylvia.
"Richard," said the maiden lady, impressively, "I am surprised at you."
And she turned away rather stiffly. "I thought you had more confidence
in me," she added, as she reached the door.
But Colonel Wimpole made no further answer, for he saw that she had
accepted his silence, which was all he wanted. When he was quite sure
that she was in her own room, he went and got his hat and stick and
slipped quietly out of the hotel.