ROSE slept but little that night; she tossed instead, trying to still
her heart. She had seen Fox but a moment in the throng, but that
moment had been enough for her to feel the subtle change in their
relations. Her perceptions were delicate, far reaching, exquisitely
sensitive. He was not himself, his troubled eye met hers with a
confession of sorrow which she could not interpret. Standing outside of
his consciousness, unaware of the struggle in his soul, she only saw
estrangement, awkwardness, a mute appeal, which seemed to her incapable
of explanation unless he loved Margaret and had been trifling with her.
The thought made Rose sit up in bed with flaming cheeks.
It is useless to inculcate the spirit of meekness and Christian
submission in a child when you cannot pluck the old Adam out of
the heart. Rose was her father’s daughter; she meant to be a good
Christian, she had little stiff limitations in her life, but she never
thought of breaking her pride; it came to her with her blood, with
her long and respectable descent from a race of God-fearing English
yeomen, transplanted to the soil of a new world and endowed with a new
and fuller stream of blood and physical beauty, but with the same hardy
pluck, the same psalm-singing, fighting spirit which led the van at
Naseby.
If Fox loved Margaret, if he meant to marry White’s wife when she was
free--Rose shuddered, she had learned her father’s views on divorce and
re-marriage by heart. At least, he should not pity her!
After awhile she lay down again and hid her burning face on her
pillows, for it was wet with tears. She would not cry out, she would
not flinch, but it hurt.
In the morning she bathed her eyes again and again in cold water,
dressed and went down to breakfast. The judge was reading his morning
paper and they were both rather taciturn. The old man had troubles
of his own just then which Rose knew nothing about. He had invested
some money unwisely and had heavily endorsed the notes of a friend,
a man he had trusted, but lately a doubt began to thrust itself into
his abstracted mind. Besides his salary as judge he had but a slender
fortune, and if that were really involved and he should die--he looked
up over his paper at Rose with anxious, affectionate eyes. She was
looking down at her cup of coffee and did not perceive his glance,
but he saw again the trouble in her face and thought her eyes looked
as if she had been weeping; there was a droop, too, to her lips which
was unnatural. It set him thinking, and a cloud settled on his usually
serene brow.
After awhile he got up and went into his library to finish his paper
before he went out, and he was still there when Rose came in and
began to tend her plants. He noticed that she was very quiet and that
she took less pains than usual. He laid down his paper. “Rose, has
Allestree finished your picture yet?” he asked.
“Yes, I think so,” she replied, blushing suddenly; “but he keeps on
fussing over it. Perhaps we should send for it.”
“I want to pay for it; I’ll send him a check to-day,” the judge said,
opening a drawer and looking absently for his checkbook; “it may not be
convenient later.”
Rose set down her pitcher and stood twisting a broken leaf in her
fingers. “He’ll never take anything for it, father.”
The judge looked over his spectacles. “We can’t take such a present,”
he remarked dryly; “I’m afraid you’ve let Robert fall in love with
you, Rose.”
She gave him a quick, pained glance. “I--I hope not!” she said softly.
The old man smiled. “He’s a good boy, Rose; I shouldn’t disapprove
except that I can’t spare you--I’m such a selfish old brute.”
“And I can’t leave you!” she retorted with a queer little laugh, tears
in her voice; “but I know Robert won’t take any money for it; I--I
shouldn’t dare offer it.”
“You needn’t, but I shall,” replied her father calmly; “if he tells me
he’s in love with you I shall not be surprised; no one will be any the
worse for it, Rose.”
“I should be very sorry,” she said simply.
The old man gave her a keen glance and pursed his lips as he wrote the
check.
“He’ll never take it,” she repeated, taking up her pitcher again.
“Well, I’m not anxious to give him you instead!” said the judge.
Rose laughed a little in spite of herself. “You need not!” she replied.
Her father signed the check. “Rose,” he said, in an absent voice, “what
did Gerty English say about Margaret’s divorce?”
Rose bent assiduously to her task. “Not much,” she answered quietly;
“just that it was settled, she meant to get one; she’s very unhappy.”
“Of course she means to marry again, that’s what they do these days,”
the judge said, in a tone of fine irony; “one husband isn’t enough or
one wife. Solomon ought to get here! Of course she’ll marry Fox.”
Rose was silent; through the open window she could see the buds on the
Persian lilac, but she shivered.
“What I should like to know,” said the judge shrewdly, “is this--_does
Fox want to marry her_?”
Rose put her hand to her throat with a helplessly futile gesture. “They
say he was in love with her long ago, father.”
The old man smiled. “My dear child,” he remarked, “women always
remember that Jacob served seven years! But Fox is a genius, an unusual
man and probably as fickle as the wind. However, he’ll have to reap
as he has sown; doubtless he has dangled at Margaret’s elbow; it’s
been the fashion. Well, well, it will very likely thwart his career
and, if so, he’ll deserve it, but I hoped great things of him though
I’ve feared him a little too; genius is like fire--it burns where it
touches.”
He rose and put aside his papers. “I’ve written to Robert and enclosed
the check,” he said; “he’ll get it to-morrow.”
“Then I’ll go there to-day,” said Rose; “I shouldn’t dare to-morrow;
he’ll be furious.”
“Not a bit of it, he has too much sense,” retorted the judge; “besides,
he can’t have my girl yet!”
“Nor ever!” said Rose smiling as her father bent suddenly and kissed
her.
“Ever is a long word,” he replied and laughed gently; in his heart he
believed that Allestree would make her happy.
* * * * *
An hour later Rose joined Mrs. Allestree on the way to the studio. The
old lady was out walking in the spring sunshine, her fine aged face
mapped close with delicate wrinkles and little puckers and her keen old
eyes bright and alert in spite of the weight of years.
She took Rose’s proffered arm with a smile. “I forgot my cane,” she
said; “I always forget that I’m more than twenty-four until I try to
go up stairs. I tell Robert that I can’t climb up to his studio much
longer, he’ll have to have an elevator. I’m going now to see your
picture, he means to send it to your father to-morrow; it’s been hard
to part with it!”
Rose colored deeply, much to her own chagrin. “Father is anxious to
have it,” she said, “he spoke about it this morning.”
“Wants to pay for it, I presume,” the old woman retorted shrewdly;
“I’ve always said that Stephen Temple would offer to pay for his halo!
Tell him not to try to pay Robert, Rose, it would hurt.”
Rose looked at her helplessly. “He’s written about it,” she said
reluctantly; “I told him, but he would do it.”
Mrs. Allestree’s sensitive face colored almost as vividly as the girl’s
and she stopped, her hand on Rose’s arm, and looked down thoughtfully.
“It’s in your father’s writing, of course?” she said at last.
“Yes, he wrote this morning and posted it himself.”
The old woman drew a long breath. “I’m going to commit a felony, Rose,”
she said, “I’m going to get that letter; Robert’s mail comes to the
house, I see it first. I shall send the check back to your father
myself.”
“I’m afraid he’ll be angry,” said Rose thoughtfully; “I didn’t know
what to do; I was sure Robert didn’t want to--to be paid for it.”
“Paid for it!” Mrs. Allestree shook her head sadly; “my dear child, it
has been a labor of love. You couldn’t ask Robert to take money for it.”
Rose was silent, she felt herself a mere puppet in Mrs. Allestree’s
hands; the old woman was as shrewd and as skilful as the most worldly
matchmaker in her gentle and affectionate way; besides she adored her
son and, like most mothers, she was willing to offer up any sacrifice
which seemed to her sufficiently worthy for immolation. There was a
moment of embarrassment on Rose’s part, and she was glad to see the
Wicklow White motor-car coming swiftly toward them. At the sight of the
liveries Mrs. Allestree turned quickly and caught an indistinct view of
a woman’s figure, a white chiffon hat and a feather boa.
“Why, it’s Margaret!” she exclaimed, half stopping to look back.
“No, it’s Mrs. Osborne,” Rose said quietly; “she’s taken off her half
mourning.”
Mrs. Allestree’s face changed sharply. “In White’s motor-car?” the
old woman glanced after the vanishing juggernaut with an eloquent
expression. “Society is curious now-a-days! White has behaved
outrageously; I suppose you’ve heard of the divorce project?”
Rose nodded. “Gerty told me.”
“So she did me,” said Mrs. Allestree grimly, “in strict confidence, of
course!”
They looked at each other and laughed helplessly.
“Poor Gerty, she tells everything!” said Rose; “but she’s so good
hearted.”
“My dear child,” remarked Mrs. Allestree, “the longer you live the
more convinced you’ll be that good-hearted people and fools are blood
relations. Of course White has behaved dreadfully, we all know it--but
the Lord knows Margaret has provoked him beyond endurance many a time!
I shall speak to her about the children. Robert says I sha’n’t; he’ll
have me locked up first, that it’s none of my business. A pretty way to
speak to his old mother! I can’t help it, I shall ask her to remember
her poor little children.”
“I’m afraid they’re an awful burden to her, anyway,” rejoined Rose
soberly.
“Oh, I’ll admit that it’s an affliction, a downright scourging of the
Almighty’s, to have them look so much like old Mrs. White! But she’s
got to consider them; she brought them into the world, poor, little,
homely souls! Estelle always reminds me of a little pink-eyed rabbit!
As for the divorce, it will be a hideous scandal!” and the old lady’s
bright eyes glanced quickly at Rose. She was wondering if she had heard
that Mrs. Wingfield said that Fox was the cause of it. It was cruel, it
couldn’t possibly be true, but it was sure to gain credence and Mrs.
Wingfield knew it!
William Fox was her own nephew, she was proud of him and she loved him,
but she was torn between her desire to see her son happy and to shield
her nephew. Her thin old lips opened once to speak and closed again
quickly; no, she dared not! What was in the child’s heart? Rose was
such a child and her father had brought her up so unlike other girls,
she was sure to take the man’s view, the hard, flat, ethical view of
Stephen Temple, and Mrs. Allestree felt, with some secret amusement,
that she would as soon try to argue with the devil as with the judge
when once his feet were planted in the straight and narrow path, the
old, blue Presbyterian path, as the old woman called it, with her
whimsical smile.
Ah, if Rose had only loved Robert as any well regulated young woman
would! But Robert’s mother had few self deceptions on that point; she
had eyes and she had used them.
Meanwhile they walked up the hill to the studio. On the right, the
terraced wall of the corner garden was half hidden by the fresh green
sprays on the ivy which mantled it, and a great purple lilac in full
bloom nodded above it, its fragrance filling the air. The row of old
brick houses opposite had assumed a more genial aspect, here and there
a striped awning broke the dull red of their monotonous fronts, and the
white pillars of a rejuvenated portico shone in the sunshine. A little
girl was buckling her roller-skates on the curb just in front of Daddy
Lerwick’s curiosity-shop.
Mrs. Allestree stopped and halted Rose before the glass show-windows,
peering in at the odds and ends with a smiling face. “Rose,” she
said amusedly, “what shall I give you? A camel’s-hair shawl or a six
shooter?”
“I couldn’t buy anything here,” the girl replied quickly; “I suppose
I’m foolish, but the thought--oh, poor things, how it must have hurt to
sell them, one after another, for a trifle, too!”
The old woman laughed softly. “You’re your father’s daughter, Rose,”
she said; “I’m ashamed, but I’m going to buy that old mirror. Go up
stairs and send Robert down with his purse; I don’t want you about, you
make me uncomfortable!”
“I suppose I am very silly,” Rose admitted reluctantly, “but I can’t
help it.”
“My dear, you’re perfectly right, I haven’t a doubt about it,”
laughed Mrs. Allestree gently; “you haven’t a sense of humor, that’s
all, child, and if I were a man I’d just as soon marry an animated
conscience; you’ll either reform your husband or you’ll be the death
of him! Now, go and send Robert, for I’m an old sinner and I want that
mirror!”
Rose went up stairs, laughing in spite of herself. But as she
approached the studio she caught her breath, she heard voices, could
Fox be there? She hesitated and stood still, agitated by the thought,
then, unwilling to listen even to assure herself, she parted the
portières and called to Allestree. As she did so she came face to face
with Mrs. Osborne. This then was her destination when she had passed
in the motor-car, Rose thought swiftly, but it was too late now to
retreat; she gave Robert his mother’s message.
“I’ll go,” he said, “if you’ll excuse me a moment, and bring mother up;
if I don’t, she’ll get the whole shop on credit.”
“Oh, go at once!” exclaimed Mrs. Osborne laughing; “that would be worse
and more expensive than a bridge tournament.”
Rose bit her lip; the reference was pointed and she caught Robert’s
eye full of doubt. “Go,” she said hastily, “and bring your mother up
stairs; she didn’t want me there to see her bargain.”
“I shan’t be a moment,” he exclaimed, and they heard him running down
stairs.
Left alone with Mrs. Osborne, Rose moved to the window and looked out.
The atmosphere was radiant; even the commonplace narrow street below
was touched with the alchemy of spring; sunshine slanted across it, a
flock of pigeons gathered where some grain had fallen, to rise with
the whir of wings at the first alarm. The garden opposite, above the
terrace wall, was coming into bloom, a tall magnolia in a fluttering
mantle of white and pink and the lilacs full out on the southern slope,
while behind it, a long row of young elm trees were still delicate with
new greens, and beyond rose the gray tower of the church across the
square. How sweet it was, how calm, how reassuring!
Rose heard the rustle of the other woman’s silken linings as she moved
restlessly about the studio, and after a moment she came over to the
window, though Rose’s very attitude was repellent.
“How full the lilacs are,” she observed, and the girl noticed the rich
softness of her tone, “I like them; we had lilacs about the old house
at home.”
“They grow wonderfully in New England, I know. I’ve often seen them
like trees,” Rose rejoined a little stiffly.
“But I’m not from New England,” laughed Lily Osborne, “I’ve often
wondered what mother thought of it.”
“She wasn’t a New Englander then?” Rose turned and looked at her, more
interested than usual.
Mrs. Osborne shrugged her shoulders with much expression. “She was from
New Orleans, a French Creole. She married a Frenchman, I was born in
Paris; it was my husband who took me to New Hampshire first; my mother
had lived there five years with some relatives, but she never spoke of
it!” she added laughing.
“You are only half an American then,” Rose remarked, surprised.
Mrs. Osborne looked at her critically through her long eyelashes. “I’m
a woman,” she said; “that’s all we ever are, my dear, and it’s enough.”
“More than enough sometimes,” Rose replied quietly.
Lily Osborne laughed again, stooping a little to lean both hands on the
window-sill as she looked out. At the touch of her flowing draperies
Rose drew back with instinctive repugnance. They were naturally
antagonistic, and the touch of her dress, the sound of her voice, were
distasteful.
The older woman noticed the movement instantly, her perceptions were
of the keenest. She looked upon the girl as rather dull, if beautiful,
and as an unworthy adversary, yet she resented her manner. Her cheek
reddened and she bit her lip as she stared down into the street with
unseeing eyes. The offense lay deeper; she had never forgotten or
forgiven the bridge whist incident, nor the day when Judge Temple, an
important figure in the social world, failed to see her. She turned
and saw Rose looking at a rough sketch of Fox. Allestree had done it
in a few moments when Fox was talking and unconscious that he was a
model. The result was remarkable; the artist had caught his happiest
expression and the fine upward sweep of the brow, the noble pose of
the head. Rose saw it for the first time and she had forgotten Lily
Osborne. She was looking at it with an absorbed eye, her cheek pale.
The other woman read her as easily as an open page; she moved over
to her side and raised her lorgnon. “Excellent,” she commented;
“a splendid head, I always said so! You have heard of the great
divorce--Mrs. White from the secretary?”
Rose did not reply, she glanced anxiously toward the door. They both
heard steps on the stairs and Mrs. Allestree’s voice panting at every
step. “Robert, I don’t care! Of course the man cheats, they all do, but
it’s a beauty and only seventy-five dollars!”
Lily Osborne continued. “Of course Fox will have to marry her, that’s
the code, I believe! Thank heaven, when I got my divorce I didn’t have
to marry to save myself! It’s such a pity on his account, with his
career, but the secretary would be a fool not to divorce her, she--”
Rose turned coldly. “Pardon me,” she said, with white lips, “I don’t
care to listen to scandal,” and she walked away to meet Mrs. Allestree,
her head up but her heart sinking within her. The sheer misery that
swept in upon her being, chilling its natural happy calm, transforming
all the cheerful amenities of life, appalled her.