Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
OLD ROSE AND SILVER
BY MYRTLE REED
Author's Note
The music which appears in the following pages is from an unpublished
piano arrangement, by Grant Weber, of Wilson G. Smith's
"Entreaty," published by G. Schirmer, New York.
CONTENTS
I A FALLING STAR
II WELCOME HOME
III THE VOICE OF THE VIOLIN
IV THE CROSBY TWINS
V AN AFTERNOON CALL
VI THE LIGHT ON THE ALTAR
VII FATHER AND SON
VIII "THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING"
IX A KNIGHT-ERRANT
X "SWEET-AND-TWENTY"
XI KEEPING THE FAITH
XII AN ENCHANTED HOUR
XIII WHITE GLOVES
XIV THE THIRTIETH OF JUNE
XV "HOW SHE WILL COME TO ME"
XVI HOW ISABEL CAME
XVII PENANCE
XVIII "LESS THAN THE DUST"
XIX OVER THE BAR
XX RISEN FROM THE DEAD
XXI SAVED--AND LOST
XXII A BIRTHDAY PARTY
XXIII "TEARS, IDLE TEARS"
XXIV THE HOUSE WHERE LOVE LIVED
I
A FALLING STAR
[Illustration: Musical Notation]
The last hushed chord died into silence, but the woman lingered,
dreaming over the keys. Firelight from the end of the room brought red-
gold gleams into the dusky softness of her hair and shadowed her profile
upon the opposite wall. No answering flash of jewels met the questioning
light--there was only a mellow glow from the necklace of tourmalines,
quaintly set, that lay upon the white lace of her gown.
She turned her face toward the fire as a flower seeks the sun, but her
deep eyes looked beyond it, into the fires of Life itself. A haunting
sense of unfulfilment stirred her to vague resentment, and she sighed as
she rose and moved restlessly about the room. She lighted the tall
candles that stood upon the mantel-shelf, straightened a rug, moved a
chair, and gathered up a handful of fallen rose-petals on her way to the
window. She was about to draw down the shade, but, instead, her hand
dropped slowly to her side, her fingers unclasped, and the crushed
crimson petals fluttered to the floor.
Outside, the purple dusk of Winter twilight lay soft upon the snow.
Through an opening in the evergreens the far horizon, grey as mother-of-
pearl, bent down to touch the plain in a misty line that was definite
yet not clear. At the left were the mountains, cold and calm, veiled by
distances dim with frost.
There was a step upon the stair, but the strong, straight figure in
white lace did not turn away from the window, even when the door opened.
The stillness was broken only by the cheerful crackle of the fire until
a sweet voice asked:
"Are you dreaming, Rose?"
Rose turned away from the window then, with a laugh. "Why, I must have
been. Will you have this chair, Aunt Francesca?"
She turned a high-backed rocker toward the fire and Madame Bernard
leaned back luxuriously, stretching her tiny feet to the blaze. She wore
grey satin slippers with high French heels and silver buckles. A bit of
grey silk stocking was visible between the buckle and the hem of her
grey gown.
Rose smiled at her in affectionate appreciation. The little old lady
seemed like a bit of Dresden china; she was so dainty and so frail. Her
hair was lustreless, snowy white, and beautifully, though simply,
dressed in a bygone fashion. Her blue eyes were so deep in colour as to
seem almost purple in certain lights, and the years had been kind to
her, leaving few lines. Her hands, resting on the arms of her chair, had
not lost their youthful contour, but around her eyes and the corners of
her mouth were the faint prints of many smiles.
"Rose," said Madame Bernard, suddenly, "you are very lovely to-night."
"I was thinking the same of you," responded the younger woman, flushing.
"Shall we organise ourselves into a mutual admiration society?"
"We might as well, I think. There seems to be nobody else."
A shadow crossed Rose's face and her beauty took on an appealing
wistfulness. She had been sheltered always and she hungered for Life as
the sheltered often do. Madame Bernard, for the thousandth time, looked
at her curiously. From the shapely foot that tapped restlessly on the
rug beneath her white lace gown, to the crown of dusky hair with red-
gold lights in it, Rose was made for love--and Madame wondered how she
had happened to miss it.
"Aunt Francesca," said Rose, with a whimsical sadness, "do you realise
that I'm forty to-day?"
"That's nothing," returned the other, serenely. "Everybody has been
forty, or will be, if they live."
"I haven't lived yet," Rose objected. "I've only been alive."
"'While there's life there's hope,'" quoted Madame lightly. "What do you
want, dear child? Battle, murder, and sudden death?"
"I don't know what I want."
"Let's take an inventory and see if we can find out. You have one
priceless blessing--good health. You have considerably more than your
share of good looks. Likewise a suitable wardrobe; not many clothes, but
few, and those few, good. Clothes are supposed to please and satisfy
women. You have musical talent, a love of books and flowers, a fine
appreciation of beauty, a host of friends, and that one supreme gift of
the gods--a sense of humour. In addition to all this, you have a
comfortable home and an income of your own that enables you to do
practically as you please. Could you ask for more?"
"Not while I have you, Aunt Francesca. I suppose I'm horrid."
"You couldn't be, my dear. I've left marriage out of the question,
since, if you'd had any deep longing for it, you'd have chosen some one
from the horde that has infested my house for fifteen years and more.
You've surely been loved."
Rose smiled and bit her lip. "I think that's it," she murmured. "I've
never cared for anybody--like that. At least, I don't think I have."
"'When in doubt, don't,'" resumed the other, taking refuge in a
platitude. "Is there any one of that faithful procession whom you
particularly regret?"
"No," answered Rose, truthfully.
"Love is like a vaccination," continued the little lady in grey, with
seeming irrelevance. "When it takes, you don't have to be told."
Her tone was light, almost flippant, and Rose, in her turn, wondered at
the woman and her marvellous self-control. At twenty-five, Madame
Bernard married a young French soldier, who had chosen to serve his
adopted country in the War of the Rebellion. In less than three months,
her gallant Captain was brought home to her--dead.
For a long time, she hovered uncertainly between life and death. Then,
one day, she sat up and asked for a mirror. The ghost of her former self
looked back at her, for her colour was gone, her hair was quickly
turning grey, and the light had vanished from her eyes. Yet the valiant
spirit was not broken, and that day, with high resolve, she sent her
soul forward upon the new way.
"He was a soldier," she said, "and I, his wife, will be a soldier too.
He faced Death bravely and I shall meet Life with as much courage as God
will give me. But do not, oh, do not even speak his name to me, or I
shall forget I am a soldier and become a woman again."
So, gradually, it became understood that the young soldier's name was
not to be mentioned to his widow. She took up her burden and went on,
devoting herself to the army service until the war was over. Then she
ceased to labour with lint and bandages and betook herself to new
surroundings. Her husband's brother offered her a home, but she was
unable to accept, for the two men looked so much alike that she could
not have borne it. Sometimes, even now, she turned away in pain from
Rose, who resembled her father.
"'Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,'" Madame Bernard was saying. "I
seem to run to conversational antiques tonight. 'Doctor, lawyer,
merchant, chief--' which will you have, Rose? If I remember rightly,
you've had all but the thief already. Shall I get you a nice embezzler,
or will a plain burglar do?"
"Neither," laughed Rose. "I'm safe from embezzlers, I think, but I live
in nightly fear of being burgled, as you well know."
"None the less, we've got to take the risk. Isabel will not be contented
with you and me. She'll want other hats on the rack besides the
prehistoric relic we keep there as a warning to burglars."
"I'd forgotten Isabel," answered Rose, with a start. "What is she
doing?"
"Dressing for dinner. My dear, that child brought three trunks with her
and I understand another is coming. She has enough clothes to set up a
modest shop, should she desire to 'go into trade' as the English say."
"I'd forgotten Isabel," said Rose, again. "We must find some callow
youths to amuse her. A girl of twenty can't appreciate a real man."
"Sometimes a girl of forty can't, either," laughed Madame, with a sly
glance at Rose. "Cheer up, my dear--I'm nearing seventy, and I assure
you that forty is really very young."
"It's scarcely infantile, but I'll admit that I'm young--comparatively."
"All things are comparative in this world, and perhaps you and Isabel,
with your attendant swains, may enable me to forget that I'm no longer
young, even comparatively."
The guest came in, somewhat shyly. She was a cousin of Rose's, on the
mother's side, and had arrived only that afternoon on a visit.
"Bless us," said Madame Bernard; "how pretty we are! Isabel, you're a
credit to the establishment."
Isabel smiled--a little, cool smile. She was almost as tall as Rose and
towered far above the little lady in grey who offered her a welcoming
hand and invited her to sit by the fire. Isabel's gown was turquoise
blue and very becoming, as her hair and eyes were dark and her skin was
fair. Her eyes were almost black and very brilliant; they literally
sparkled when she allowed herself to become interested in anything.
"I'm not late, am I?" she asked.
"No," answered Rose, glancing at the clock. "It's ten minutes to seven."
"I couldn't find my things. It was like dressing in a dream, when, as
soon as you find something you want, you immediately lose everything
else."
"I know," laughed Rose. "I had occasion to pack a suit-case myself last
night, during my troubled slumbers."
A large yellow cat appeared mysteriously out of the shadows and came,
yawning, toward the fire. He sat down on the edge of Madame's grey gown,
and blinked.
Isabel drew her skirts away. "I don't like cats," she said.
"There are cats and cats," remarked Madame Bernard in a tone of gentle
rebuke. "Mr. Boffin is not an ordinary cat. He is a gentleman and a
scholar and he never forgets his manners."
"I've wondered, sometimes," said Rose, "whether he really knows
everything, or only pretends that he does. He looks very wise."
"Silence and reserve will give anyone a reputation for wisdom," Madame
responded. She bent down to stroke the yellow head, but, though Mr.
Boffin gratefully accepted the caress, he did not condescend to purr.
Presently he stalked away into the shadows, waving his yellow tail.
"What a lovely room this is," observed Isabel, after a pause.
"It's comfortable," replied Madame. "I couldn't live in an ugly place."
Everything in the room spoke eloquently of good taste, from the deep-
toned Eastern rug at the hearth to the pictures upon the grey-green
walls. There was not a false note anywhere in the subtle harmony of
line, colour, and fabric. It was the sort of room that one comes back
to, after long absence, with renewed appreciation.
"I love old mahogany," continued Isabel. "I suppose you've had this a
long, long time."
"No, it's new. To me--I mean. I have some beautiful old French mahogany,
but I don't use it."
Her voice was very low at the end of the sentence. She compressed her
lips tightly and, leaning forward, vigorously poked the fire. A stream
of sparks went up the chimney and quick flames leaped to follow.
"Don't set the house on fire, Aunt Francesca," cautioned Rose. "There's
the dinner gong."
The three went out, Madame Bernard a little ahead and the two younger
women together. Rose sat opposite the head of the table and Isabel was
placed at Madame's right. In a single glance, the guest noted that the
table was perfectly appointed. "Are you making company of me?" she
asked.
"Not at all," smiled Madame. "None the less, there is a clear
distinction between eating and dining and we endeavour to dine."
"If Aunt Francesca were on a desert island," said Rose, "I believe she
would make a grand affair of her solitary dinner, and have her coffee in
the morning before she rolled out of the sand."
The little old lady dimpled with pleasure. "I'd try to," she laughed. "I
think I'd--"
She was interrupted by a little exclamation of pleasure from Rose, who
had just discovered a small white parcel at her plate. She was untying
it with eager fingers, while her colour came and went. A card fluttered
out, face upward. "To my dear Rose, with love from Aunt Francesca," was
written in a small, quaint hand.
It was a single magnificent ruby set in a ring which exactly fitted.
Rose seldom wore rings and wondered, vaguely, how Aunt Francesca knew.
"I filled a finger of one of your gloves," said Madame, as though she
had read the thought, "and had it fitted. Simple, wasn't it?"
"Oh," breathed Rose, "it's beautiful beyond words! How shall I ever
thank you!"
"Wear it, dear. I'm so glad you're pleased!"
"It's lovely," said Isabel, but the tone was cold and she seemed to
speak with an effort. With a swift little stab at the heart, Rose saw
that the girl envied her the gift.
"It reconciles me to my years," Rose went on, quickly. "I'm willing to
be forty, if I can have a ring like this."
"Why, Cousin Rose!" cried Isabel, in astonishment. "Are you forty?"
"Yes, dear. Don't be conventional and tell me I don't look it, for I
feel it--every year."
"I should never have thought it," Isabel murmured.
Rose turned the ring slowly upon her finger and the ruby yielded the
deep crimson glow of its heart to the candlelight that softly filled the
room. "I've never had a ruby," she said, "and yet I feel, someway, as
though I'd always had this. It seems as if it belonged to me."
"That's because it suits you," nodded Madame Bernard. "I hope that
sometime our civilisation may reach such a point of advancement that
every woman will wear the clothes and jewels that suit her personality,
and make her home a proper setting for herself. See how women break
their hearts for diamonds--and not one woman in a hundred can wear
them."
"Could I wear diamonds?" asked Isabel. She was interested now and her
eyes sparkled.
Madame Bernard studied her for a moment before replying. "Yes," she
admitted, "you could wear them beautifully, but they do not belong to
Rose, or to me."
"What else could I wear?"
"Turquoises, if they were set in silver."
"I have one," Isabel announced with satisfaction. "A lovely big
turquoise matrix set in dull silver. But I have no diamonds."
"They'll come," Rose assured her, "if you want them. I think people
usually get things if they want them badly enough."
Isabel turned to Madame Bernard. "What stones do you wear?" she
inquired, politely.
"Only amethysts," she laughed. "I have a pearl necklace, but it doesn't
quite 'belong,' so I don't wear it. I won't wear anything that doesn't
'belong.'"
"How can you tell?"
"By instinct." "I can walk into a shop, look around for a moment, and
say: 'please bring me my hat.' The one I ask for is always the right
one. It is invariably becoming and suitable, and it's the same with
everything else."
"It's a wonderful experience to go shopping with Aunt Francesca," put in
Rose. "She knows what she wants and goes straight to it, without loss of
time. Utterly regardless of fashion, for its own sake, she always
contrives to be in the mode, though I believe that if hoop skirts were
suited to her, she'd have the courage of her crinoline, and wear one."
"Let us be thankful they're not," remarked Madame. "It's almost
impossible to believe it, but they must have looked well upon some
women. Every personality makes its own demand for harmony and it is
fascinating to me to observe strange people and plan for them their
houses and clothes and belongings. You can pick out, from a crowd, the
woman who would have a crayon portrait of herself upon an easel in her
parlour, and quite properly, too, since her nature demands it. After you
are experienced, you can identify the man who eats sugar and vinegar on
lettuce, and group those who keep parrots--or are capable of it."
The seventy years sat lightly upon Madame Francesca now. Her deep eyes
shone with inward amusement, and little smiles hovered unexpectedly
about the corners of her mouth. A faint pink tint, like a faded rose,
bloomed upon her cheeks. Rose watched her with adoring eyes, and
wondered whether any man in the world, after fifteen years of close
association, could be half so delightful.
Coffee was brought into the living-room, when they went back, preceded
by Mr. Boffin, emanating the dignified satisfaction of a cat who has
supped daintily upon chicken and cream. He sat down before the fire and
methodically washed his face.
"I believe I envy Mr. Boffin his perfect digestion," remarked Madame, as
she sipped her coffee from a Royal Canton cup. She and Rose stood for
half an hour after dinner, always.
Isabel finished her coffee and set the cup upon the table. She slipped
the Sheffield tray from under the embroidered doily and took it to the
light, where she leaned over it, studying the design. Rose thought that
the light from the tray was reflected upon the girl's face, she became
at once so brilliant, so sparkling.
"Speaking of harmony--" said Madame Bernard, in a low tone, glancing at
Rose and inclining her head toward Isabel.
"Yes," replied Isabel, returning the tray to its place; "it is a lovely
one, isn't it?"
Madame turned toward the window to hide a smile. Rose followed, and drew
the little grey lady into the circle of her strong arm.
"Dear Aunt Francesca!" she said softly. "I thank you so much!"
The older woman patted the hand that wore the ruby, then turned to
Isabel. "Come," she said, "and be glad you're indoors."
The three women stood at the wide window, looking out across the snow,
lighted only by the stars and a ghostly crescent of moon. The evergreens
were huddled closely together as though they kept each other warm.
Beyond, the mountains brooded in their eternal sleep, which riving
lightnings and vast, reverberating thunders were powerless to change.
Suddenly, across the purple darkness between the pale stars, flamed a
meteor--an uncharted voyager through infinite seas of space. It left a
trail of fire across the heavens, fading at last into luminous mist, the
colour of the stars. When the light had quite died out, Madame Bernard
spoke.
"A passing soul," she sighed.
"A kiss," breathed Rose, dreamily.
"Star-dust!" laughed Isabel.
II
WELCOME HOME
"Great news, my dears, great news!" cried Madame Bernard, gaily waving an
open letter as she came into the room where Rose was sewing and Isabel
experimenting with a new coiffure. "I'll give you three guesses!"
"Somebody coming for a visit?" asked Isabel.
"Wrong!"
"Somebody coming, but not for a visit?" queried Rose.
"You're getting warmer."
"How can anybody come, if not for a visit?" inquired Isabel, mildly
perplexed. "That is, unless it's a messenger?"
"The old Kent house is to be opened," said Madame, "and we're to open
it. At last we shall have neighbours!"
"How exciting," Rose answered. She did not wholly share the old lady's
pleasure, and wondered with a guilty consciousness of the long hours she
spent at her music, whether Aunt Francesca had been lonely.
"Listen, girls!" Madame's cheeks were pink with excitement as she sat
down with the letter, which had been written in Paris.
"MY DEAR MADAME FRANCESCA:
"'At last we are coming home--Allison and I. The boy has a fancy to see
Spring come again on his native heath, so we shall sail earlier than we
had otherwise planned.
"'I wonder, my dear friend, if I dare ask you to open the house for us?
I am so tired of hotels that I want to go straight back. You have the
keys and if you will engage the proper number of servants and see that
the place is made habitable, I shall be more than ever your debtor. I
will cable you when we start.
"'Trusting that all is well with you and yours and with many thanks,
believe me, my dear Madame,
"'Most faithfully yours,
"'RICHARD KENT.'"
"How like a man," smiled Rose. "That house has been closed for over ten
years, and he thinks there is nothing to be done but to unlock the front
door and engage two or three servants who may or may not be
trustworthy."
"What an imposition!" Isabel said. "Aunt Francesca, didn't I meet
Allison Kent when I was here before?"
"I've forgotten."
"Don't you remember? Mother brought me here once when I was a little
tot. We stayed about a week and the roses were all in bloom. I can see
the garden now. Allison used to come over sometimes and tell me fairy
stories. He told me that the long, slender gold-trimmed bottles filled
with attar of roses came from the roots of the rose bushes--don't you
remember? And I pulled up rose bushes all over the garden to find out."
"Dear me, yes," smiled Aunt Francesca. "How time does fly!"
"You were very cross with Allison--that is, as cross as you ever could
be. It seemed so queer for you to be angry at him and not at me, for I
pulled up the bushes."
"You were sufficiently punished, Isabel. I believe the thorns hurt your
little hands, didn't they?"
"They certainly did," responded the girl, with a little shudder at the
recollection. "I have a scar still. That was--let me see--why, it was
fifteen years ago!"
"Just before I came to live with Aunt Francesca," said Rose. "You and
your mother went away the same day."
"Yes, we went in the morning," Isabel continued, "and you were to come
in the afternoon. I remember pleading with my mother to let me stay long
enough to see 'Cousin Wose.'"
"Fifteen years!" Madame repeated. "Allison went abroad, then, to study
the violin, and the house has been open only once since. Richard came
back for a Summer, to attend to some business, then returned to Europe.
How the time goes by!"
The letter fell to the floor and Francesca sat dreaming over the
interlude of years. Colonel Kent had been her husband's best friend, and
after the pitiless sword had cleaved her life asunder, had become hers.
At forty the Colonel had married a young and beautiful girl. A year
later Francesca had gone to him with streaming eyes, carrying his new-
born son in her arms, to tell him that his wife was dead.
Drawn together by sorrow, the two had been as dear to each other as
friends may be but seldom are. Though childless herself, Francesca had
some of the gifts of motherhood, and, at every step, she had aided and
counselled the Colonel in regard to his son, who had his mother's eyes
and bore his mother's name. Discerning the boy's talent, long before his
father suspected it, she had chosen the violin for him rather than the
piano, and had herself urged the Colonel to take him abroad for study
though the thought of separation caused her many a pang.
When the two sailed away, Francesca had found her heart strangely empty;
her busy hands strangely idle. But Life had taught her one great lesson,
and when one door of her heart was closed, she opened another, as
quickly as possible. So she sent for Rose, who was alone in the world,
and, for fifteen years, the two women had lived happily together.
As she sat there, thinking, some of her gay courage failed her. For the
moment her mask was off, and in the merciless sunlight, she looked old
and worn. Rose, looking at her with tender pity, marvelled at the
ignorance of man, in asking a frail little old lady to open and make
habitable, in less than a fortnight, a house of fifteen large rooms.
"Aunt Francesca," she said, "let me open the house. Tell me what you
want done, and Isabel and I will see to it."
"Certainly," agreed Isabel without enthusiasm. "We'll do it."
"No," Madame replied stubbornly. "He asked me to do it."
"He only meant for you to direct," said Rose. "You surely don't think he
meant you to do the scrubbing?"
Madame smiled at that, and yielded gracefully. "There must be infinite
scrubbing, after all these years. I believe I'll superintend operations
from here. Then, when it's all done, I'll go over and welcome them
home."
"That is as it should be. Isabel and I will go over this afternoon, and
when we come back, we can tell you all about it."
"You'd better drive--I'm sure the paths aren't broken."
So, after luncheon, the two started out with the keys, Madame waving
them a cheery good-bye from the window.
"Everything about this place seems queer to me," said Isabel. "It's the
same, and yet not the same."
"I know," Rose answered. "Things are much smaller, aren't they?"
"Yes. The rooms used to be vast and the ceilings very far away. Now,
they're merely large rooms with the ceilings comfortably high. The
garden used to seem like a huge park, but now it's only a large garden.
There used to be a great many steps in the stairway, and high ones at
that. Now it's nothing compared with other flights. Only Aunt Francesca
remains the same. She hasn't changed at all."
"She's a saint," said Rose with deep conviction, as the carriage turned
into the driveway.
The house, set far back from the street, was of the true Colonial type,
with stately white pillars at the dignified entrance. The garden was a
tangled mass of undergrowth--in spite of the snow one could see that--
but the house, being substantially built, had changed scarcely at all.
"A new coat of paint will freshen it up amazingly," said Rose, as they
went up the steps. She was thrilled with a mysterious sense of adventure
which the younger woman did not share. "I feel like a burglar," she
continued, putting the key into the rusty lock.
"I feel cold," remarked Isabel, shivering in her furs.
At last the wide door swung on its creaking hinges and they went into
the loneliness and misery of an empty house. The dust of ages had
settled upon everything and penetrated every nook and cranny. The floors
groaned dismally, and the scurrying feet of mice echoed through the
walls. Cobwebs draped the windows, where the secret spinners had held
high carnival, undisturbed. An indescribable musty odour almost stifled
them and the chill dampness carried with it a sense of gloom and
foreboding.
"My goodness!" Isabel exclaimed. "Nobody can ever live here again."
"Don't be discouraged," laughed Rose. "Soap, water, sunshine, and fire
can accomplish miracles."
At the end of the hall a black, empty fireplace yawned cavernously.
There was another in the living-room and still another in the library
back of it. Isabel opened the door on the left. "Why, there's another
fireplace in the dining-room," she said. "Do you suppose they have one
in the kitchen, too?"
"Go in and see, if you like."
"I'm afraid to go alone. You come, too."
There was no fireplace in the kitchen, but the rusty range was sadly in
need of repair.
"I'm going down cellar," Rose said. "Are you coming?"
"I should say not. Hurry back, won't you?"
Rose went cautiously down the dark, narrow stairway. The light was dim
in the basement but she could see that there was no coal. She went back
and forth several times from bin to window, making notes in a small
memorandum book. She was quite determined that Aunt Francesca should be
able to find no fault with her housekeeping.
When she went back, there were no signs of Isabel. She went from room to
room, calling, then concluded that she had gone back to the carriage,
which was waiting outside.
Rose took measurements for new curtains in all the rooms on the lower
floor, then climbed the creaking stairway. She came upon Isabel in the
sitting-room, upstairs, standing absorbed before an open desk. In her
hand she held something which gleamed brightly, even in the gathering
shadow.
"Isabel!" she cried, in astonishment.
The girl turned and came forward. Her eyes were sparkling. "Look!
There's a secret drawer in the desk and I found this in it. I love
secret drawers, don't you?"
"I never have looked for them in other people's houses," Rose answered,
coldly.
"I never have either," retorted Isabel, "except when I've been invited
to clean other people's houses."
There was something so incongruous in the idea of Isabel cleaning a
house that Rose laughed and the awkward moment quickly passed.
"Look," said Isabel, again.
Rose took it from her hand--a lovely miniature framed in brilliants. A
sweet, old-fashioned face was pictured upon the ivory in delicate
colours--that of a girl in her early twenties, with her smooth, dark
hair drawn back over her ears. A scarf of real lace was exquisitely
painted upon the dark background of her gown. The longing eyes held Rose
transfixed for an instant before she noted the wistful, childish droop
of the mouth. The girl who had posed for the miniature, if she had been
truthfully portrayed, had not had all that she asked from life.
"Look at this," Isabel continued.
She offered Rose a bit of knitting work, from which the dust of years
fell lightly. It had once been white, and the needles were still there,
grey and spotted with rust. Rose guessed that the bit had been intended
for a baby's shoe, but never finished. The little shoe had waited, all
those years, for hands that never came back from the agony in which they
wrung themselves to death in the room beyond.
The infinite pity of it stirred Rose to quick tears, but Isabel was
unmoved. "Here's something else," she said.
She shook the dust from an old-fashioned daguerreotype case, then opened
it. On the left side was a young soldier in uniform, full length--a
dashing, handsome figure with one hand upon a drawn sword. Printed in
faded gilt upon the dusty red satin that made up the other half of the
case, the words were still distinct: "To Colonel Richard Kent, from his
friend, Jean Bernard."
"Jean Bernard!" Isabel repeated, curiously. "Who was he?"
"Aunt Francesca's husband," answered Rose, with a little catch in her
voice, "and my uncle. He died in the War."
"Oh," said Isabel, unmoved. "He was nice looking, wasn't he? Shall we
take this to Aunt Francesca?"
"You forget that it isn't ours to take," Rose reminded her. "And, by the
way, Isabel, you must never speak to Aunt Francesca of her husband. She
cannot bear it."
"All right," assented the girl. "What is this?"
From the back of the drawer she took out a bronze medal, with a faded
ribbon of red, white, and blue attached to it. She took it to the light,
rubbed it with her handkerchief, and slowly made out the words: "Awarded
to Colonel Richard Kent, for conspicuous bravery in action at
Gettysburg."
"Put the things back," Rose suggested, gently. This tiny, secret drawer,
Colonel Kent's holy of holies, symbolised and epitomised the best of a
man's life. The medal for military service, the miniature of his wife,
the picture of his friend, and the bit of knitting work that
comprehended a world of love and anguish and bereavement--these were the
hidden chambers of his heart.
Isabel took up the miniature again before she closed the drawer. "Do you
suppose those are diamonds?"
"No; only brilliants."
"I thought so. If they'd been diamonds, he would never have left them
here."
"On the contrary," answered Rose, "I'm very sure he would." She had met
Colonel Kent only a few times, years ago, during the Summer he had spent
at home while Allison was still abroad, but she knew him now,
nevertheless.
They went on through the house, making notes of what was needed, while
their footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the empty rooms. "I'm glad
there are no carpets, except on the stairs," said Rose, "for rugs are
much easier to clean. It resolves itself simply into three C's--coal,
curtains, and cleaning. It won't take long, if we can get enough people
to work at it."
It was almost dusk when they went downstairs, but the cold slanting
sunbeams of a Winter afternoon came through the grimy windows and
illumined the gloomy depths of the open fireplace in the hall. Motes
danced in the beam, and the house somehow seemed less despairing, less
alone. A portrait of Colonel Kent, in uniform, hung above the great
mantel. Rose smiled at it with comprehension, but the painted lips did
not answer, nor the unseeing eyes swerve from their steady searching of
Beyond.
"How was it?" asked Madame, when they reached home. "Dirty and bad?"
"Rather soiled," admitted Rose.
"And colder than Greenland," Isabel continued, warming her hands at the
open fire.
"We'll soon change all that," Madame said. "I've ordered coal and
engaged people to do the cleaning since you've been gone, and I have my
eye upon two permanent retainers, provided their references are
satisfactory."
"I've measured for all the curtains," Rose went on. "Shall we make them
or buy them?"
"We'll make them. If we have help enough we can get them done in time."
The following day a small army, with Rose at the head of it, took
possession of the house. Every night she came home exhausted, not from
actual toil, but from the effort to instill the pride of good service
into unwilling workers who seemed to rejoice in ignorance.
"I'm tired," Rose remarked, one night. "I've cerebrated all day for
seven bodies besides my own and I find it wearing."
"I don't wonder," answered Madame. "I'll go over to-morrow and let you
rest."
"Indeed you won't," declared Rose, with emphasis. "I've begun it and I'm
going to finish it unless the Seven Weary Workers fail me absolutely."
At last the task was completed, and even Rose could find no speck of
dust in the entire establishment. The house was fresh with the smell of
soap-suds and floor wax and so warm that several windows had to be kept
open. The cablegram had come while the curtains were being made, but
everything was ready two days before the wayfarers could possibly reach
home.
On the appointed day, Rose and Isabel were almost as excited as Madame
Bernard herself. She had chosen to go over alone to greet the Colonel
and his son. They were expected to arrive about four in the afternoon.
At three, Madame set forth in her carriage. She wore her best gown, of
lavender crepe, trimmed with real lace, and a bunch of heliotrope at her
belt. Rose had twined a few sprays of heliotrope into her snowy hair and
a large amethyst cross hung from her neck by a slender silver chain. She
wore no other jewels except her wedding ring.
Fires blazed cheerily in every fireplace on the lower floor, and there
was another in the sitting-room upstairs. She had filled the house with
the flowers of Spring--violets, daffodils, and lilies of the valley. A
silver tea-kettle with a lamp under it waited on the library table.
When she heard the wheels creaking in the snowy road, Madame lighted the
lamp under the kettle with her own hands, then opened the door wide.
Followed by their baggage, the two men came up the walk--father and son.
The Colonel was a little older, possibly, but still straight and tall--
almost as tall as the son who walked beside him, carrying a violin case
under his arm. He wore the familiar slouch hat, the same loose overcoat,
and the same silvery goatee, trimmed most carefully. His blue eyes
lighted up warmly at the sight of the figure in the doorway.
"Welcome home!" cried Madame Francesca, stretching a hand toward each.
"Welcome home!"
Allison only smiled, taking the little hand in his strong young clasp,
but his father bent, hat in hand, to kiss the one she offered him.
"Oh," cried Madame, "I'm so glad to see you both. Come in!"
They entered their own hospitable house, where fires blazed and the
kettle sang. "Say," said Allison, "isn't this great! Why did we ever
leave it? Isn't it fine, Father?"
But "father" still had his eyes upon the dainty little lady who had
brought forth the miracle of home from a wilderness of dust and ashes.
He bent again over the small, white hand.
"A woman, a fire, and a singing kettle," he said. "All the dear,
familiar spirits of the house to welcome us home."
III
THE VOICE OF THE VIOLIN
Madame Bernard and Isabel had not yet come down when Rose entered the
living-room, half an hour before dinner. The candles were lighted, and
in the soft glow of the reading lamp was a vase of pink roses, sent by
Colonel Kent to his old friend. The delicate sweetness filled the room
and mingled with the faint scent of attar of roses and dried rose petals
which, as always, hung about the woman who stood by the table, idly
rearranging the flowers.
The ruby ring caught the light and sent tiny crimson gleams dancing into
the far shadows. Her crepe gown was almost the colour of the ruby; warm
and blood-red. It was cut low at the throat, and an old Oriental
necklace of wonderfully wrought gold was the only ornament she wore,
aside from the ring. The low light gave the colour of the gown back to
her face, beautiful as always, and in her dusky hair she had a single
crimson rose.
Aunt Francesca had said that the Colonel was very much pleased with the
house and glad to be at home again. She had sent over her own cook to
prepare their first dinner, which, however, she had declined to share,
contenting herself with ordering a feast suited to the Colonel's taste.
To-night, they were to dine with her and meet the other members of her
household.
Madame came in gowned in lustreless white, with heliotrope at her belt
and in her hair. She wore a quaintly wrought necklace of amethysts set
in silver, and silver buckles, set with amethysts, on her white shoes.
More than once Rose had laughingly accused her of being vain of her
feet.
"Why shouldn't I be vain?" she had retorted, in self-defence. "Aren't
they pretty?"
"Of course they are," smiled Rose, bending down to kiss her. "They're
the prettiest little feet in all the world."
Madame's fancy ran seriously to shoes and stockings, of which she had a
marvellous collection. Silk stockings in grey and white, and in all
shades of lavender and purple, embroidered and plain, with shoes to
match in satin and suede, occupied a goodly space in her wardrobe. At
Christmas-time and on her birthday, Rose always gave her more, for it
was the one gift which could never fail to please.
"How lovely the house is," said Madame, looking around appreciatively.
"I hope the dinner will be good."
"I've never known it to be otherwise," Rose assured her.
"Am I all right? Is my skirt even?"
"You are absolutely perfect, Aunt Francesca."
"Then play to me, my dear. If my outward semblance is in keeping, please
put my mind into a holiday mood."
Rose ran her fingers lightly over the keys. "What shall I play?"
"Anything with a tune to it, and not too loud."
Smiling, Rose began one of the simple melodies that Aunt Francesca
loved:
[Illustration: musical notation]
Suddenly, she turned away from the piano. Her elbow, falling upon the
keys, made a harsh dissonance. "Isabel, my dear!" she cried. "Aren't you
almost too gorgeous?"
The girl stood in the open door, framed like a portrait, against the
dull red background of the hall. Her gown was white net, shot and
spangled with silver, over lustrous white silk. A comb, of filagree
silver, strikingly lovely in her dark hair, was her only ornament except
a large turquoise, set in dull silver, at her throat.
"I'm not overdressed, am I?" she asked, with an eager look at Madame.
"Not if it suits you. Come here, dear."
Isabel obeyed, turning around slowly for inspection. Almost instantly it
was evident that Madame approved. So did Rose, after she saw how the
gown made Isabel's eyes sparkle and brought out the delicate fairness of
her skin.
"You do suit yourself; there's no question about that, but you're
gorgeous, nevertheless." Thus Rose made atonement for her first
impulsive speech.
Mr. Boffin came in, with a blue ribbon around his neck, and helped
himself to Aunt Francesca's chair. Isabel rocked him and he got down,
without undue haste. He marched over to a straight-backed chair with a
cushion in it; glared at Isabel for a moment with his inscrutable topaz
eyes, then began to purr.
The clock chimed seven silvery notes. Madame Bernard waved her white
lace fan impatiently. "It's the psychological moment," Rose observed.
"Why don't they come?"
"It's Allison's fault, if they're late," Madame assured her. "I could
always set my watch by the Colonel. He--there, what did I tell you?" she
concluded triumphantly, as footsteps sounded outside.
When the guests were ushered in, Madame advanced to meet them. The
firelight had brought a rosy glow to her lovely face, and her deep eyes
smiled. Allison put his violin case in a corner before he spoke to her.
"Did you really?" asked Madame. "How kind you are!"
"I brought it," laughed the young man, "just because you didn't ask me
to."
"Do you always," queried Rose, after he had been duly presented to her,
"do the things you're not asked to do?"
"Invariably," he replied.
"Allison," said Madame, "I want you to meet my niece once removed--Miss
Ross." The Colonel had already bowed to Isabel and was renewing his old
acquaintance with Rose.
"Not Isabel," said Allison, in astonishment.
"Yes," answered the girl, her eyes sparkling with excitement, "it's
Isabel."
"Why, little playmate, how did you ever dare to grow up?"
"I had nothing else to do." "But I didn't want you to grow up," he
objected.
"You've grown up some yourself," she retorted.
"I suppose I have," he sighed. "What a pity that the clock won't stand
still!"
Yet, to Madame, he did not seem to have changed much. He was taller, and
more mature in every way, of course. She noted with satisfaction that he
had gained control of his hands and feet, but he had the same boyish
face, the same square, well-moulded chin, and the same nice brown eyes.
Only his slender, nervous hands betrayed the violinist.
"Well, are you pleased with me?" he asked of Madame, his eyes twinkling.
"Yes," she answered with a faint flush. "If you had worn long hair and a
velvet collar, I should never have forgiven you."
Colonel Kent laughed outright. "I should never have dared to bring him
back to you, Francesca, if he had fallen so low. We're Americans, and
please God, we'll stay Americans, won't we, lad?"
"You bet," answered Allison, boyishly, going over to salute Mr. Boffin.
"'But in spite of all temptations to belong to other nations, I'm an Am-
er-i-can,'" he sang, under his breath. Through the mysterious workings
of some sixth sense, Mr. Boffin perceived approaching trouble and made a
hurried escape.
"Will you look at that?" asked Allison, with a hearty laugh. "I hadn't
even touched him and he became suspicious of me."
"As I remember," Madame said, "my cats never got on very well with you."
"I don't like them either," put in Isabel.
"I like 'em," Allison said. "I like 'em a whole lot, but it isn't
mutual, and I never could understand why."
At dinner, it seemed as though they all talked at once. Madame and the
Colonel had a separate conversation of their own, while Allison
"reminisced" with Isabel, as he said, and asked numerous questions of
Rose in regard to the neighbours.
"Please tell me," he said, "what has become of the Crosby twins?"
"They're flourishing," Rose answered.
"You don't mean it! What little devils they were!"
"Are," corrected Rose.
"Who are the Crosby twins?" inquired Isabel.
"They'll probably call on you," Rose replied, "so I won't spoil it by
endeavouring to describe them. The language fails to do them justice."
"What were their names?" mused Allison. "Let me see. Oh, yes, Romeo and
Juliet."
"'Romie' and 'Jule' by affectionate abbreviation, to each other," Rose
added. Did you know that an uncle died in Australia and left them a
small fortune ?"
"No, I didn't. What are they doing with it?"
"Do you remember, when you were a child, how you used to plan what you'd
do with unlimited wealth?"
Allison nodded.
"Well," Rose resumed, "that's just what they're doing with it. They have
only the income now, but this Fall, when they're twenty-one, they'll
come into possession of the principal. I prophesy bankruptcy in five
years."
"Even so," he smiled, "they'll doubtless have pleasant memories."
"What satisfaction do you think there will be in that?" queried Isabel.
"I can't answer just now," Allison replied, "but the minute I'm
bankrupt, I'll come and tell you. It's likely to happen to me at any
time."
Meanwhile Colonel Kent was expressing the pleasure he had found in his
well-appointed household. "Was it very much trouble, Francesca?"
"None at all--to me."
"You always were wonderful."
"You see," she smiled, "I didn't do it. Rose did everything. I merely
went over at the last to arrange the flowers, make the tea, and receive
the credit."
"And to welcome us home," he added. "They say a fireplace is the heart
of a house, but I think a woman is the soul of it."
"Then the soul of it was there, waiting, wasn't it?"
"But only for a little while," he sighed. "I am very lonely sometimes,
in spite of the boy."
Francesca's blue eyes became misty. "When a door in your heart is
closed," she said, "turn the key and go away. Opening it only brings
pain."
"I know," he answered, clearing his throat. "You've told me that before
and I've often thought of it. Yet sometimes it seems as though all of
life was behind that door."
"Ah, but it isn't. Your son and at least one true friend are outside.
Listen!"
"No," Allison was saying, "I got well acquainted with surprisingly few
people over there. You see, I always chummed with Dad."
"Bless him," said Francesca, impulsively.
"Have I done well?" asked the Colonel, anxiously. "It was hard work,
alone."
"Indeed you have done well. I hear that he is a great artist."
"He's more than that--he's a man. He's clean and a good shot, and he
isn't afraid of anything. Someway, to me, a man who played the fiddle
always seemed, well--lady-like, you know. But Allison isn't."
"No," answered Francesca, demurely, "he isn't. Do I infer that it is a
disgrace to be ladylike?"
"Not for a woman," laughed the Colonel. "Why do you pretend to
misunderstand me? You always know what I mean."
After dinner, when the coffee had been served, Allison took out his
violin, of his own accord. "You haven't asked me to play, but I'm going
to. Who is going to play my accompaniment? Don't all speak at once."
Rose went to the piano and looked over his music. "I'll try. Fortunately
I'm familiar with some of this."
His first notes came with a clearness and authority for which she was
wholly unprepared. She followed the accompaniment almost perfectly, but
mechanically, lost as she was in the wonder and delight of his playing.
The exquisite harmony seemed to be the inmost soul of the violin,
speaking at last, through forgotten ages, of things made with the world
--Love and Death and Parting. Above it and through it hovered a spirit of
longing, infinite and untranslatable, yet clear as some high call.
Subtly, Rose answered to it. In some mysterious way, she seemed set free
from bondage. Unsuspected fetters loosened; she had a sense of
largeness, of freedom which she had never known before. She was
quivering in an ecstasy of emotion when the last chord came.
For an instant there was silence, then Isabel spoke. "How well you
play!" she said politely.
"I ought to," Allison replied, modestly. "I've worked hard enough."
"How long have you been studying?"
"Thirty years," he answered. "That is, I feel as if I had been at work
all my life."
"How funny!" exclaimed Isabel. "Are you thirty?"
"Just," he said.
"Then Cousin Rose and I are like steps, with you half way between us.
I'm twenty and she's forty," smiled Isabel, with childlike frankness.
Rose bit her lips, then the colour flamed into her face. "Yes," she
said, to break an awkward pause, "I'm forty. Old Rose," she added, with
a forced smile.
"Nonsense," said Allison quickly. "How can a rose be old?"
"Or," continued the Colonel, with an air of old-world gallantry, "how
can earth itself be any older, having borne so fair a rose upon its
breast for forty years?"
"Thank you both," responded Rose, her high colour receding. "Shall we
play again?"
While they were turning over the music Madame grappled with a temptation
to rebuke Isabel then and there. "Not fit for a parlour yet," she
thought. "Ought to be in the nursery on a bread and milk diet and put to
bed at six."
For her part, Isabel dimly discerned that she had said something
awkward, and felt vaguely uncomfortable. She was sorry if she had made a
social mistake and determined to apologise afterward, though she
disliked apologies.