her face for an instant behind her fan and Isabel laughed openly. "I'm
sure he was," said Rose, quickly. "Can you remember him at all?"
"No," Romeo responded, "we've never seen him, but he was a brick all the
same."
"Are you going to run the car yourself?" queried Rose.
"Of course. Some day I'll take you out," he suggested, kindly, then
turned to Isabel and played his highest trump. "Juliet said something
about asking you to go with us the second time we went out. Of course
it's her place to do it."
"I'd love to go," murmured Isabel.
"She'll ask you when you come out to return her call," Romeo continued.
"I've been meaning to come, but I've been waiting for good roads."
"When you come," he answered, "don't say anything about my having been
here. It might make her feel bad to think I went out calling and left
her asleep."
"All right--I won't."
As soon as it was possible, without obvious effort, Romeo made his
escape, after shaking hands with everyone and promising to come again
very soon. "I'll bring Jule next time. Good-night!"
Once outside, he ran toward home like a hunted wild animal, hoping with
all his heart that Juliet was still asleep. It was probable, for more
than once she had slept on the sofa all night.
But the kindly fate that had hitherto guided him suddenly failed him
now. When he reached home, panting and breathless, having discovered
that it was almost midnight, a drooping little figure in a torn kimona
opened the door and fell, weeping into his arms.
"Oh, Romie! Romie!" cried Juliet, hysterically. "Where have you been?"
"There," he said, patting her shoulder awkwardly. "Don't take on so,
Jule. You were asleep, so I went out for a walk. I met Colonel Kent and
Allison and I've been with them all the evening. I'm sorry I stayed so
long."
"I haven't lied," he continued, to himself, exultantly. "Every word is
the literal truth."
"Oh, Romie," sobbed Juliet, with a fresh burst of tears, "I don't care
where you've been as long as I've got you back! We're twins and we've
got to stand by each other!"
Romeo gently extricated himself from her clinging arms, then stooped to
kiss her wet cheek. "You bet!" he whispered.
X
SWEET-AND-TWENTY
Contrary to the usual custom of woman, Isabel was ready fully an hour
before the appointed time. She stood before the fire, buttoning a new
glove with the sense of abundant leisure that new gloves demand. The
dancing flames picked out flashes of light from the silver spangles of
her gown and sent them into the farthest corners of the room. A long
white plume nestled against her dark hair and shaded her face from the
light, but, even in the shadow, she was brilliant, for her eyes sparkled
and the high colour bloomed upon her cheeks.
Madame Bernard and Rose sat near by, openly admiring her. She was almost
childish in her delight at the immediate prospect and could scarcely
wait for Allison to call for her. She went to the window and peered
eagerly into the darkness, waiting.
"Isabel, my dear," said Madame, kindly, "never wait at the window for an
unmarried man. Nor," she added as an afterthought, "for a married man,
unless he happens to be your own husband."
Isabel turned back into the room, smiling, her colour a little brighter
than before. "Why not?"
"Men keep best," returned Madame, somewhat enigmatically, "in a cool,
dry atmosphere. If you'll remember that fact, it may save you trouble in
the years to come."
"Such worldly wisdom," laughed Rose, "from such an unworldly woman!"
"I do love the theatre," Isabel sighed, "and I haven't seen a play for a
long time."
"I'm afraid we haven't done as much as we might to make it pleasant for
you," Madame continued, regretfully, "but we'll try to do better and
doubtless can, now that the weather is improving."
"It's been lots nicer than staying alone in a hotel," the girl answered.
"I used to go to the matinee a good deal, but I didn't know very many
people and it's no fun to go alone. Don't you and Rose ever go, Aunt
Francesca?"
"I go sometimes," said Rose, "but I can't even get her started."
The little grey lady laughed and tapped the arm of her chair with her
folded fan. "I fully agree with the clever man who said that 'life would
be very endurable were it not for its pleasures.' Far back, somewhere,
there must be a strain of Scotch ancestry in me, for I 'take my pleasure
sadly.'"
"Which means," commented Rose, "that the things other people find
amusing do not necessarily amuse you."
"Possibly," Madame assented, with a shrug of her delicate shoulders,
"but unless I'm obliged to, I won't sit in an uncomfortable chair, in a
crowd, surrounded by many perfumes unhappily mixed, be played to by a
bad orchestra, walked on at will by rude men, and, in the meantime,
watch the exaggerated antics of people who cannot make themselves heard,
even in a room with only three sides to it."
"I took her to a 'musical comedy' once, in a frivolous moment,"
explained Rose, "and she's never forgiven me."
"Why remind me of it?" questioned Madame. "I've been endeavouring for
years to forget it."
Isabel's eyes wandered anxiously to the clock. She had a strong impulse
to go to the window again, but remembered that Madame would not approve.
Presently there was the sound of wheels outside, and Allison, very
handsome in his evening clothes, came in with an apology for his
tardiness. After greeting Madame Bernard and Rose, he bowed to Isabel,
with a mock deference which, none the less, contained subtle flattery.
"Silver Girl," he said, "you do me too much honour. I'm not at all sure
that one escort is sufficient for so much loveliness."
Isabel smiled, then dimpled irresistibly. She had a secret sense of
triumph which she did not stop to analyse.
"Come," he said. "In the words of the poet, 'the carriage waits.'"
They said good-night to the others, and went out. There was silence in
the room until the sound of wheels had quite died away, then Rose
sighed. With a swift pang, she envied Isabel's glorious youth, then the
blood retreated from her heart in shame.
Madame sighed too, but for a different reason. "I suppose I shouldn't
say it," she remarked, "but it's a relief to have that dear child out of
the house for a little while."
"It's kind of Allison to take her," Rose answered, trying not to wish
that she might change places with Isabel.
"Very kind. The Kents are singularly decent about everything. I suppose
it was Allison who managed to have Romeo Crosby call upon her the other
evening."
"I hardly think so. You remember that Allison hadn't seen him since he
grew up."
"Shot up, you mean. How rapidly weeds grow!"
"Are the twins weeds?"
"I think so. Still, they're a wholesome and stimulating sort, even
though they have done just as they pleased."
The fire died down into embers. The stillness would have been unbearable
had it not been for the steady ticking of the clock. Madame leaned back
in her chair and closed her eyes. Rose tried to read, but could not
concentrate her mind upon the page.
Her thoughts were far away, with the two who had so recently left the
house. In fancy she saw the brilliantly lighted streets, the throng of
pleasure seekers and pretty women in gay attire. She heard the sound of
wheels, the persistent "honk-honk" of motor cars, and, in the playhouse,
the crash of cymbals and drums. Somewhere in the happy crowd were
Allison and Isabel, while she sat in silence at home.
Madame Francesca stirred in her chair. "I've been asleep, I think."
"You're not going to wait until they come home, are you?"
"Why should I? Isabel has a key."
Rose remembered how Aunt Francesca had invariably waited for her, when
some gallant cavalier had escorted her to opera or play, and was
foolishly glad, for no discoverable reason.
"I was dreaming," Madame went on, drowsily, "of the little house where
Love lived."
"Where was it?" asked Rose gently.
"You know. I've told you of the little house in the woods where I went
as a bride, when I was no older than Isabel. When we turned the key and
went away, we must have left some of our love there. I've never been
back, but I like to think that some of the old-time sweetness is still
in the house, shut away like a jewel of great price, safe from meddling
hands."
Only once before, in the fifteen years they had lived together, had
Madame Bernard spoken of her brief marriage, yet Rose knew, by a
thousand little betrayals, that the past was not dead, but vitally
alive.
"I can bear it," said Madame, half to herself, "because I have been his
wife. If he had been taken away before we were married, I should have
gone, too. But now I have only to wait until God brings us together
again."
Outwardly, Rose was calm and unperturbed; inwardly, tense and unstrung.
She wondered if, at last, the sorrow had been healed enough for speech.
Upstairs there was a room that was always locked. No one but Aunt
Francesca ever entered it, and she but rarely. Once or twice, Rose had
chanced to see her coming through the open door, transfigured by some
spiritual exaltation too great for words. For days afterward there was
about her a certain uplift of soul, fading gradually into her usual
serenity.
Mr. Boffin stalked in, jumped into Madame's lap, and began to purr
industriously. She laughed as she stroked his tawny head and the purr
increased rapidly in speed and volume.
"Don't let him burst himself," cautioned Rose, welcoming the change of
mood. "I never knew a cat to purr so--well, so thoroughly, did you?"
"He's lost his hold of the brake," Madame answered. "Are you going to
wait until Isabel comes home?"
"Of course not."
"Then let's go up and read for a little while."
Rose waited until Madame was half way up the long flight before she
turned down the lights and followed her. It made a pretty picture--the
little white-haired lady in grey on the long stairway, with the yellow
cat upon her shoulder, looking back with the inscrutable calmness of the
Sphinx.
Rose felt that, for herself, sleep would be impossible until Isabel
returned. She hoped that Aunt Francesca would not want her to read
aloud, but, as it chanced, she did. However, the chosen book was of the
sort which banishes insomnia, and, in less than an hour, Madame was
sound asleep, with Mr. Boffin purring in his luxurious silk-lined basket
at the foot of her bed.
Alone in her own room, Rose waited, frankly jealous of her young cousin
and fiercely despising herself for it. She recalled the happy hours she
and Allison had spent with their music and berated herself bitterly for
her selfishness, but to no avail. As the hours dragged by, every moment
seemed an eternity. Worn by her unaccustomed struggle with self, she
finally slept.
Meanwhile, Isabel was the gayest of the gay. The glittering lights of
the playhouse formed a fitting background for her, and Allison watched
her beautiful, changing face with an ever-increasing sense of delight.
The play itself was an old story to him, but the girl was a new
sensation, and while she watched the mimic world beyond the footlights,
he watched her.
The curtain of the first act descended upon a woman, waiting at the
window for a man who did not come, and, most happily, Isabel remembered
the conversation at home in the earlier part of the evening.
"Foolish woman," she said, "to wait at the window."
"Why?" asked Allison, secretly amused.
"I wouldn't wait at the window for an unmarried man, nor for a married
man, either, unless he was my own husband."
"Why?" he asked, again.
"Because men keep best in a cool dry atmosphere. Didn't you know that?"
"How did you happen to discover it, Sweet-and-Twenty?"
Isabel answered with a smile, which meant much or little, as one chose.
Presently she remembered something else that happened to be useful.
"Look," she said, indicating a man in the front seat who had fallen
asleep. "He's taking his pleasure sadly."
"Perhaps he's happier to be asleep. He may not care for the play."
"Somebody once said," she went on hastily, seeing that she was making a
good impression, "that life would be very endurable were it not for its
pleasures."
Allison laughed. He had the sense of discovering a bright star that had
been temporarily overshadowed by surrounding planets.
"I didn't know you could talk so well," he observed, with evident
admiration.
Isabel flushed with pleasure--not guilt. She had no thought of sailing
under false colours, but reflected the life about her as innocently as a
mirror might, if conveniently placed.
Repeated curtain calls for the leading woman, at the end of the third
act, delayed the final curtain by the few minutes that would have
enabled them to catch the earlier of the two theatre trains. Allison was
not wholly displeased, though he feared that Aunt Francesca and Rose
might be unduly anxious about Isabel. As they had more than an hour and
a half to wait, before the last train, he suggested going to a popular
restaurant.
Thrilled with pleasure and excitement, she eagerly consented.
Fortunately, she did not have to talk much, for the chatter of the gay
crowd, and the hard-working orchestra made conversation difficult, if
not impossible.
"I've never been in a place like this before," she ventured. "So late, I
mean."
"But you enjoy it, don't you?"
"Oh, yes! So much!" The dark eyes that turned to his were full of happy
eagerness, like a child's.
Allison's pulses quickened, with man's insatiable love of Youth. "We'll
do it again," he said, "if you'll come with me."
"I will, if Aunt Francesca will let me."
"She's willing to trust you with me, I think. She's known me ever since
I was born and she helped father bring me up. Aunt Francesca has been
like a mother to me."
"She says she doesn't care for the theatre," resumed Isabel, who did not
care to talk about Aunt Francesca, "but I love it. I believe I could go
every night."
"Don't make the mistake of going too often to see what pleases you, for
you might tire of it. Perhaps plays 'keep best in a cool, dry
atmosphere,' as you say men do."
"You're laughing at me," she said, reproachfully.
"Indeed I'm not. I knew a man once who fell desperately in love with a
woman, and, as soon as he found that she cared for him, he started for
the uttermost ends of the earth."
"What for?"
"That they might not risk losing their love for each other, through
satiety. You know it's said to die more often of indigestion than
starvation."
"I don't know anything about it," she murmured with downcast eyes.
"You will, though, before long. Some awkward, half-baked young man about
twenty will come to you, bearing the divine fire."
"I don't know any," she answered.
"How about the pleasing child who called upon you the other night, with
the imported bonbons?" Allison's tone was not wholly kind, for he had
just discovered that he did not like Romeo Crosby.
Isabel became fairly radiant with smiles.
"Wasn't he too funny?"
"He's all right," returned Allison, generously, "I'm afraid, however,
that he'll be taking you out so much that I won't have a chance."
"Oh, no!" said Isabel, softly. Then she added with frankness utterly
free from coquetry, "I like you much better."
"Really? Why, please?"
"Oh, I don't know. You're so much more, well, grown-up, you know, and
more refined."
"Thank you, I'm glad the slight foreign polish distinguishes me
somewhat"
"Cousin Rose said you were very distinguished." She watched him narrowly
as she spoke.
"So is Cousin Rose. In fact, no one could be more so," he answered, with
evident approval.
"Is she going to play your accompaniments for you, when you begin the
season?"
A shadow crossed his face. "I'm afraid not. I wish she could."
"Why can't she?"
"On account of Madame Grundy. It wouldn't be proper."
"I don't see why," objected Isabel, daringly. "She's ten years older
than you are."
Allison bit his lips and the expression of his face subtly changed.
"You're ten years younger," he replied, coldly, "and I couldn't take
you. That doesn't make any difference."
Seeing that she had made a mistake, Isabel sat quietly in her chair and
watched the people around her until it was time to go. Greatly to her
delight, they went to the station in an automobile.
"Isn't this glorious!" she cried. "I'm so glad the Crosbys are going to
have one. I hope they'll take me often."
With the sure instinct of Primitive Woman, she had said the one thing
calculated to make Allison forget his momentary change of mood.
"I'm sorry I have none," he said. "'Romeo Romeo, wherefore art thou
Romeo?' How times have changed! The modern Lochinvar has a touring-car,
and some day you'll be eloping in the most up-to-date fashion."
"What makes you talk to me about him?" queried Isabel, with uplifted
eyes. "You know I don't like him."
"All right," he answered, good-naturedly. "I won't. I hope Aunt
Francesca won't be worried about you because we're so late in getting
back."
"I don't see why she should mind. Mamma never cares what I do. She's
often been away for weeks, lecturing, and I've been in the hotel alone."
He repressed the uncharitable comment that was upon his lips and
reverted to the subject of the play. "I'm glad you've enjoyed it. I
wanted you to have a good time."
"I've had the best time I ever had in my life," she responded, with
evident sincerity. "Isn't it wonderful what they can do with a room that
has only three sides?"
"It surely is. I've had a good time, too, Silver Girl. Thank you for
coming."
"You're welcome," she returned sweetly.
The carriage was waiting at the station, and Isabel was very quiet all
the way home. Thinking that she must be tired, Allison said little until
they reached Madame Bernard's, and he had seen her safely into the
house. He insisted upon taking off her gloves and coat and would have
extended his friendly services to her hat, had she not laughingly
forbade him to touch it.
"Good-night," he said. "We'll go again soon."
"All right. Good-night, and thank you ever so much."
The sound of the key in the lock had wakened Rose from her uneasy sleep.
She heard their laughter, though she could not distinguish what they
said, and recognised a new tone in Allison's voice. She heard the door
close, the carriage roll away, and, after a little, Isabel's hushed
footsteps on the stairs. Then another door closed softly and a light
glimmered afar into the garden until the shade was drawn.
Wide-eyed and fearful, she slept no more, for the brimming Cup of Joy,
that had seemed within her reach, was surely beyond it now. Oppressed
with loss and pain, her heart beat slowly, as though it were weary of
living. Until daybreak she wondered if he, too, was keeping the night
watch, from a wholly different point of view.
But, man-like, Allison had long ago gone to sleep, in the big Colonial
house beyond the turn in the road, idly humming to himself:
Come and kiss me, Sweet-and-Twenty;
Youth's a stuff will not endure!
XI
KEEPING THE FAITH
Colonel Kent and Allison critically surveyed the table, where covers
were laid for seven. "Someway it lacks the 'grand air' of Madame
Bernard's," commented the Colonel, "yet I can't see anything wrong, can
you?"
"Not a thing," Allison returned. "The 'grand air' you allude to comes, I
think, from Aunt Francesca herself. When she takes her place opposite
you, I'm sure we shall compare very favourably with our neighbours."
The Crosby twins arrived first, having chartered the station hack for
the evening. As the minds of both were above such minor details as
clothes, their attire was of the nondescript variety, but their
exuberant youth and high spirits gallantly concealed all defects and the
tact of their hosts quickly set them both at their ease.
Romeo somewhat ostentatiously left their card upon the mantel, so placed
that all who came near might read in fashionable script: "The Crosby
Twins." Having made this concession to the conventionalities, he lapsed
at once into an agreeable informality that amused the Colonel very much.
Soon the Colonel was describing some of the great battles in which he
had taken part, and Romeo listened with an eager interest which was all
the more flattering because it was so evidently sincere. In the library,
meanwhile, Allison was renewing his old acquaintance with Juliet.
"You used to be a perfect little devil," he smiled.
"I am yet," Juliet admitted, with a frank laugh. "At least people say
so. Romie and I aren't popular with our neighbours."
"That doesn't speak well for the neighbours. Were they never young
themselves?"
"I don't believe so. I've thought, sometimes, that lots of people were
born grown-up."
"They say abroad, that there are no children in America--that they are
merely little people treated like grown-ups."
"The modern American child is a horror," said Juliet, unconsciously
quoting from an article in a recent magazine. "They're ill bred and they
don't mind, and there's nobody who wants to make 'em mind except people
who have no authority to do it."
"Why is it?" inquired Allison, secretly amused.
"Because spanking has gone out of fashion," she answered, in all
seriousness. "It takes so much longer for moral suasion to work. Romie
and I never had any 'moral suasion,'--we were brought up right."
Juliet's tone indicated a deep filial respect for her departed parents
and there was a faraway look in her blue eyes which filled Allison with
tender pity.
"You must be lonely sometimes," he said, kindly.
"Lonely?" repeated Juliet in astonishment; "why, how could I ever be
lonely with Romie?"
"Of course you couldn't be lonely when he was there, but you must miss
him when he's away from you."
"He's never away," she answered, with a toss of her curly head. "We're
most always together, unless he goes to town--or up to your house," she
added, as an afterthought.
Allison was about to say that Romeo had never been there before, but
wisely kept silent.
"Twins are the most related of anybody," Juliet went on. "An older
brother or sister may get ahead of you and be so different that you
never catch up, but twins have to trot right along together. It's just
the difference between tandem and double harness."
"Suppose Romeo should marry?" queried Allison, carelessly.
"I'd die," replied Juliet, firmly, her cheeks burning as with flame.
"Or suppose you married?"
"Then Romie would die," she answered, with conviction. "We've both
promised not to get married and we always keep our promises to each
other."
"And to other people, too?"
"Not always. Sometimes it's necessary to break a promise, or to lie, but
never to each other. If Romie asks me anything I don't want to tell him,
I just say 'King's X,' and if I ask him anything, he says 'it's none of
your business,' and it's all right. Twins have to be square with each
other."
"Don't you ever quarrel?"
"We may differ, and of course we have fought sometimes, but it doesn't
last long. We can always arbitrate. Say, do you know Isabel Ross?"
"I have that pleasure. She's coming to dinner to-night, with Aunt
Francesca and Miss Rose."
"Oh," said Juliet, in astonishment. "If I'd known that, I'd have dressed
up more. I thought it was just us."
"It is 'just us,'" he assured her, kindly; "a very small and select
party composed of our most charming neighbours, and believe me, my dear
Miss Juliet, that nobody could possibly be 'dressed up more.'"
Juliet bloomed with pleasure and her eyes sparkled. "Isabel came out to
see us," she continued, "and I don't think she had a good time. We
showed her all our fishing rods, and let her help us make fudges, and we
did stunts for her on the trapeze in the attic, and Romie told her she
could have any one of our dogs, but she said she didn't want it, and she
wouldn't stay to supper. I guess she thought I couldn't cook just
because she can't. Romie said if I'd make another chocolate cake like
the one I made the day after she was there, he'd take it up to her and
show her whether I could cook or not."
"I believe he would," returned Allison, with a trace of sarcasm which
Juliet entirely missed. Then he laughed at the vision of Romeo bearing
the proof of his twin's culinary skill into Madame Bernard's living
room.
"You come out and see us," urged Juliet, hospitably.
"I will, indeed. May I have a dog?"
"They're Romie's and I can't give 'em away, but I guess he could spare
you one. Would you rather have a puppy or a full-grown dog?"