golden hearts to every wandering bee. The house was full of roses. Aunt
Francesca wore them even on her morning gowns and Isabel made wreaths of
red roses to twine in her dark hair. Every breeze brought fragrance to
the open windows and scattered it through the house.
Madame's heart ached for Rose, but still she said no word, though it
seemed to her that the blindness of the others could not last much
longer. She could not take Rose away unless she took Isabel also, and,
should she do that, things would soon be just as they were now.
As Rose faded, Isabel blossomed into the full flower of her youth. Her
high, bird-like laugh echoed constantly through the house and garden,
whether anyone was with her or not. With sinking heart, Rose envied her
even a tithe of her abundant joy.
As the moon approached its full, the roses had begun to drop their
petals. Under every bush was a scattered bit of fragrance that meant
both death and resurrection. Far down in the garden, where the sunken
lily-pool mirrored the stars, the petals of golden roses drifted idly
across the shining surface.
Rose had worn white at dinner, as she always did, now, the night the
June moon came to its full. Isabel, too, was in white, but with a
difference, for as surely as the older woman's white was mourning, her
silver spangles were donned for joy. At the table, Madame had done most
of the talking, for Isabel's conversational gifts were limited, at best,
and Rose was weary beyond all words.
After dinner she went to the piano and struck a few aimless chords.
Isabel, with a murmured excuse, went up to her own room. "Nothing that
is not true," said Rose to herself, steadily; "nothing that is not
true."
Presently a definite thought took shape in her mind. To-morrow she would
tell Aunt Francesca, and see if it could not be arranged for her to go
away somewhere, anywhere, alone. Or, if not to-morrow, at least the day
after, as soon as she had seen him again. She wanted one last look to
take with her into the prison-house, where she must wrestle with her
soul alone.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
Her stiff fingers shaped the melody that Aunt Francesca loved, and into
it went all her own longing, her love, and her pain. The notes thrilled
with an ecstasy of renunciation, and the vibrant chords trembled far out
into the night.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
A man entered the gate very quietly, paused, then turned into the
garden, to soothe his wildly beating heart for a few moments with the
balm of scent and sound. Upstairs, behind the shelter of the swaying
curtain, a shining figure drew back into the shadow. Smiling, and with
an agreeable sense of adventure, Isabel tiptoed down the back stairs,
and entered the garden, unheard, by a side door.
With assumed carelessness, yet furtively watching, she made the circuit
of the lily-pool, humming to herself. A quick leap and a light foot on
the grass startled her for an instant, then she laughed, for it was only
Mr. Boffin, playing with his own dancing shadow.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
The sound of the piano had become very faint, though the windows were
open and the wind was in the right direction. Isabel stopped at another
bush, picked a few full-blown white roses, and sat down on a garden
bench to remove the thorns.
"I wonder where he can be," she said to herself. "Surely he can't have
gone home again." She listened, but there was no sound save the distant
piano, and the abrupt, playful purr of Mr. Boffin, as he pounced upon a
fallen white rose.
Isabel put the flowers in her hair, consciously missing the mirror in
which she was wont to observe the effect. "He must have gone in while I
was coming down," she thought, "but I don't see why he shouldn't have
gone straight in when he first came."
She decided to wait until he came to look for her, then as swiftly
changed her mind. Rose was still playing.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
Isabel hummed the melody to herself, not noting that she was off the
key, and started slowly toward the house, by another path.
Allison was standing in the shadow of a maple, listening to the music
and drawing in deep breaths of the rose-scented air. The moon flooded
the garden with enchantment, and a shaft of silver light, striking the
sundial, made a shadow that was hours wrong. He smiled as he saw it,
amiably crediting the moon with an accidental error, rather than a
purposeful lie.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
Deeper and more vibrant, the woman within sent the cry of her heart into
the night, where the only one who could answer it stood watching the
shadow of the moon on the sun-dial and the spangled cobwebs on the
grass. He picked a rose, put it into his button-hole, and turned toward
the house.
A hushed sound, as of rustling silk, made him pause, then, at the head
of the path, where another joined it, Isabel appeared, with white roses
in her hair and the moon shining full upon her face. The spangles on her
gown caught the light and broke it into a thousand tiny rainbows,
surrounding her with faint iridescence.
The old, immortal hunger surged into his veins, the world-old joy made
his senses reel. He steadied himself for a moment, then went to her,
with his arms outstretched in pleading.
"Oh, Silver Girl," he whispered, huskily. "My Silver Girl! Tell me
you'll shine for me always!"
[Illustration: musical notation.]
The last chord ceased, full of yearning that was almost prayer. Then
Isabel, cold as marble and passionless as snow, lifted her face for his
betrothal kiss.
XIII
WHITE GLOVES
With shyness that did not wholly conceal her youthful pride, Isabel told
Madame, a few days later. The little old lady managed to smile and to
kiss Isabel's soft cheek, murmuring the conventional hope for her
happiness. Inwardly, she was far from calm, though deeply thankful that
Rose did not happen to be in the room.
"You must make him very happy, dear," she said.
"I guess we'll have a good time," returned Isabel, smothering a yawn.
"It will be lots of fun to go all over the country and see all the big
cities."
"I hope he will be successful," Madame continued. "He must be," she
added, fervently.
"I suppose we shall be entertained a great deal," remarked Isabel. "He
has written to Mamma, but she hasn't had time to answer yet."
"I can vouch for my foster son," Madame replied.
"It isn't necessary," the girl went on, "and I told him so. Mamma never
cares what I do, and she'll be glad to get me off her hands. Would you
mind if I were married here?"
Madame's heart throbbed with tender pity. "Indeed," she answered,
warmly, "you shall have the prettiest wedding I can give you. Your
mother will come, won't she?"
"Not if it would interfere with her lecture engagements. She's going to
lecture all next season on 'The Slavery of Marriage.' She says the
wedding ring is a sign of bondage, dating back to the old days when a
woman was her husband's property."
Madame Francesca's blue eyes filled with a sudden mist. Slowly she
turned on her finger the worn band of gold that her gallant Captain had
placed there ere he went to war. It carried still a deep remembrance too
holy for speech. "Property," repeated the old lady, in a whisper. "Ah,
but how dear it is to be owned!"
"I don't mind wearing it," said Isabel, with a patronising air, "but I
want it as narrow as possible, so it won't interfere with my other
rings, and, of course, I can take it off when I like."
"Of course, but I would be glad to have you so happily married, my dear,
that you wouldn't want to take it off--ever."
"I'll have to ask Mamma to send me some money for clothes," the girl
went on, half to herself.
"Don't bother her with it," suggested the other, kindly. "Let me do it.
Rose and I will enjoy making pretty things for a bride."
"I'm afraid Cousin Rose wouldn't enjoy it," Isabel replied, with an
unpleasant laugh. "Do you know," she added, confidentially, "I've always
thought Cousin Rose liked Allison--well, a good deal."
"She does," returned Madame, meeting the girl's eyes clearly, "and so do
I. When you're older, Isabel, you'll learn to distinguish between a mere
friendly interest and the grand passion."
"She's too old, I know," Isabel continued, with the brutality of
confident youth, "but sometimes older women do fall in love with young
men."
"Why shouldn't they?" queried Madame, lightly, "as long as older men
choose to fall in love with young women? As far as that goes, it would
be no worse for Allison to marry Rose than it is for him to marry you."
"But," objected Isabel, "when he is sixty, she will be seventy, and he
wouldn't care for her."
"And," returned Madame, rather sharply, "when he is forty, you will be
only thirty and you may not care for him. There are always two sides to
everything," she added, after a pause, "and when we get so civilised
that all women may be self-supporting if they choose, we may see a
little advice to husbands on the way of keeping a wife's love, instead
of the flood of nonsense that disfigures the periodicals now."
"They all say that woman makes the home," Isabel suggested, idly.
"But not alone. No woman can make a home alone. It takes two pairs of
hands to make a home--one strong and the other tender, and two true
hearts."
"I hope it won't take too long to make my clothes," answered Isabel,
irrelevantly. "He says I must be ready by September."
"Then we must begin immediately. Write out everything you think of, and
afterward we'll go over the list together. Come into the library and
begin now. There's no time like the present."
"Do you think," Isabel inquired as she seated herself at the library
table, "that I will have many presents?"
"Probably," answered Madame, briefly. "I'll come back when you've
finished your list."
She went up-stairs and knocked gently at the door of Rose's room,
feeling very much as she did the day she went to Colonel Kent to tell
him that the little mother of his new-born son was dead. Rose herself
opened the door, somewhat surprised.
Madame went in, closed the door, then stood there for a moment, at a
loss for words.
"Has it come?" asked Rose, in a low voice.
"Yes. Oh, Rose, my dear Rose!"
She put her arm around the younger woman and led her to the couch. Every
hint of colour faded from Rose's face; her eyes were wide and staring,
her lips scarcely pink. "I must go away," she murmured.
"Where, dearest?"
"Anywhere--oh, anywhere!"
"I know, dear, believe me, I know, but it never does any good to run away
from things that must be faced sooner or later. We women have our
battles to fight as well as the men who go to war, and the same truth
applies to both--that only a coward will retreat under fire."
Rose sighed and clenched her hands together tightly.
"Once there was a ship," said Madame, softly, "sinking in mid-ocean,
surrounded by fog. It had drifted far out of its course, and collided
with a derelict. The captain ordered the band to play, the officers put
on their dress uniforms and their white gloves. Another ship, that was
drifting, too, signalled in answer to the music, and all were saved."
"That was possible--but there can be no signal for me."
"Perhaps not, but let's put on our white gloves and order out the band."
The unconscious plural struck Rose with deep significance. "Did you--
know, Aunt Francesca?"
"Yes, dear."
"For how long?"
"Always, I think."
"Did it seem--absurd, in any way?"
"Not at all. I was hoping for it, until the wind changed. And," she
added, with her face turned away, "Colonel Kent was, too."
Some of the colour ebbed slowly back into the white, stricken face.
"That makes me feel," Rose breathed, "as if I hadn't been quite so
foolish as I've been thinking I was."
"Then keep the high heart, dear, for they mustn't suspect."
"No," cried Rose sharply, "oh, no! Anything but that!"
"It's hard to wear gloves when you don't want to," replied Madame, with
seeming irrelevance, "but it's easier when there are others. The Colonel
will need them, too--this is going to be hard on him."
"Does-he--know?" whispered Rose, fearfully.
"No," answered Madame, laughing outright, "indeed he doesn't. Did you
ever know of a man discovering anything that wasn't right under his
nose?"
"And I am safe with-with--"
"With everybody but Isabel. She may be foolish, but she's a woman, and
even a woman can see around a corner."
"Thank you for telling me," said Rose, after a little; "for giving me
time. It was like you."
"I'm glad I could, but remember, I haven't told you, officially. Let her
tell you herself."
Rose nodded. "Then I'll come down just as soon as I can."
"With white gloves on, dear, and flags flying. Make your old aunt proud
of you now, won't you?"
"I'll try," she answered, humbly, then quickly closed the door.
Meanwhile Colonel Kent, most correctly attired, was making a formal call
upon his prospective daughter-in-law, and the list had scarcely been
begun. Isabel sat in the living room, trying not to show that she was
bored. The Colonel had come in, ready to receive her into his house and
his heart, but Isabel had shaken hands with him coolly, and accepted
shrinkingly the fatherly kiss he stooped to bestow upon her forehead.
He had tried several preliminary topics of conversation, which had been
met with chilling monosyllables, so he plunged into the heart of the
subject, with inward trepidation.
"I told Allison this morning that I owed him my thanks for bringing me a
daughter."
"Yes," said Isabel, placidly.
"The old house needs young voices and the sound of young feet," the
Colonel went on.
Isabel began to speak, then hesitated and relapsed into silence. Mr.
Boffin came in, purring loudly, and rubbed familiarly against the
Colonel, leaving a thin coating of yellow hair.
"It seems to be the moulting season for cats," laughed the Colonel,
observing the damage ruefully.
Isabel moved restlessly in her chair, but said nothing. The pause had
become awkward when the Colonel rose to take his leave.
"I hope you may be happy," he said, gravely, "and make our old house
happier for your coming."
"Oh," returned Isabel, quickly, "I hadn't thought of that. I hadn't
thought of--of living there."
"The house is large," he ventured, puzzled.
"Mamma has always said," remarked Isabel, primly, "that no house was
large enough for two families."
Colonel Kent managed to force a laugh. "You may be right," he answered.
"At least, everything shall be arranged to your liking."
He had said good-bye and was on his way out, when Francesca came down
from Rose's room. Seeing her, he waited for a moment. Isabel had gone
into the library and closed the door.
"Whence this haste?" queried Madame, with a lightness which was just
then difficult to assume. "Were you going without seeing me?"
"I had feared I would be obliged to," he returned, gallantly. "I was
calling upon my future daughter-in-law," he added, in a low tone, as
they went out on the veranda.
Madame sighed and sank gratefully into the chair he offered her. In the
broad light of day, she looked old and worn.
"Well," continued the Colonel, with an effort to speak cheerfully, "the
blow has fallen."
"So I hear," she rejoined, almost in a whisper. "What tremendous
readjustments the heedless young may cause!"
"Yes, but we mustn't deny them the right. The eternal sacrifice of youth
to age is one of the most pitiful things in nature--human nature, that
is. The animals know better."
"Would you remove all opportunity for the development of character?" she
inquired, with a tinge of sarcasm.
"No, but I wouldn't deliberately furnish it. The world supplies it
generously enough, I think. Allison didn't ask to be born," he went on,
with a change of tone, "and those who brought him into the world are
infinitely more responsible to him than he is to them."
"One-sided," returned Madame, abruptly. "And, if so, it's the only thing
that is. What of the gift of life?"
"Nothing to speak of," he responded with a cynicism wholly new to her.
"I wouldn't go back and live it over, would you?"
"No," she sighed, "I wouldn't. I don't believe anyone would, even the
happiest."
"Too much character development?"
"Yes," she admitted, with a shamefaced flush. "You'll have a chance to
see, now. It will be right under your nose."
"No," he said, with a certain sad emphasis which did not escape her; "it
won't. I shall be at a respectful distance."
"Why, Richard!" she cried, half rising from her chair; "what do you
mean? Aren't you going to live with them in the old home?"
The Colonel shook his head.
"Why?" she demanded.
The Colonel raised his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. "Orders,"
he said, briefly. "From headquarters."
"Has Allison--" she began, in astonishment, but he interrupted her.
"No." He inclined his head suggestively toward the house, and she
understood.
"The little brute," murmured Francesca. "Richard, believe me, I am
ashamed."
"Don't bother," he answered, kindly. "The boy mustn't know. You always
plan everything for me--where shall I live now?"
She leaned forward, her blue eyes shining. "Oh, Richard," she breathed,
"if you only would--if you could--come to Rose and me! We'd be so glad!"
There was no mistaking her sincerity, and the Colonel's fine old face
illumined with pleasure. Merely to be wanted, anywhere, brings a certain
satisfaction.
"I'll come," he returned, promptly. "How good you are! How good you've
always been! I often wonder what I should ever have done without you."
He turned away and, lightly as a passing cloud, a shadow crossed his
face. Madame saw how hard it would be to part from his son, and, only in
lesser degree, his old home.
"Richard," she said, "a ship was sinking once in a fog, miles out of its
course. The captain ordered the band to play and all the officers put on
their dress uniforms. Another ship, also drifting, signalled in answer
to the music and all were saved."
The Colonel rose and offered his hand in farewell. "Thank you,
Francesca," he answered, deeply moved. "I put on my white gloves the day
you came to tell me. I thank you now for the signal--and for saving me."
She watched him as he went down the road, tall, erect, and soldierly, in
spite of his three-score and ten. "Three of us," she said to herself,
"all in white gloves." The metaphor appealed to her strongly.
She did not go in until Isabel appeared in the doorway, list in hand,
and prettily perplexed over the problem of clothes. Madame slipped it
into the chatelaine bag that hung from her belt. "We'll go over it with
Rose," she said. "She knows more about clothes than I do."
"Have you told Cousin Rose?"
"No," answered Madame, avoiding the girl's eyes. "It's your place to
tell her--not mine."
When Rose came down to dinner that night, she was gorgeously attired in
her gown of old-gold satin, adorned with gold lace. The last yellow
roses of the garden were twined in her dark hair, and the rouge-stick,
that faithful friend of unhappy woman, had given a little needed colour
to her cheeks and lips, for the first time in her life.
"Cousin Rose," began Isabel, a little abashed by the older woman's
magnificence, "I'm engaged--to Allison."
"Really?" cried Rose, with well-assumed astonishment. "Come here and let
me kiss the bride-to-be. You must make him very happy," she said, then
added, softly: "I pray that you may."
"Everybody seems to think of him and not of me," Isabel returned, a
little fretfully.
"That's what Aunt Francesca said, and Allison's father seemed to think
more about my making Allison happy than he did about my being happy
myself."
"That's because the only way to win happiness is to give it," put in
Madame. "The more we give, the more we have."
Conversation lagged at dinner, and became, as often, a monologue by
Madame. While they were finishing their coffee, they heard Allison's
well-known step outside.
"I wonder why he had to come so early," complained Isabel. "I wanted to
change my dress. I didn't have time before dinner."
"He'll never know it," Madame assured her. "We'll excuse you dear, if
you're through. Don't keep him waiting."
When the dining-room door closed, Rose turned to Madame. "Did I--"
"Most wonderfully."
"But the hardest part is still to come," she breathed, sadly.
"'I was ever a fighter, so one fight more.
The best and the last';"
Madame quoted, encouragingly.
Rose smiled--a little wan smile--as she pushed back her chair.
"Perhaps," she said, "the 'peace out of pain' may follow me."
She went, with faltering step, toward the other room, inwardly afraid.
Another hand met hers, with a reassuring clasp. "One step more, Rose.
Now then, forward, march, all flags unfurled."
When she went in, Allison came to meet her with outstretched hands. He
had changed subtly, since she saw him last. Had light been poured over
him, it would have changed him in much the same way.
"Golden Rose," he said, taking both her hands in his, "tell me you are
glad--say that you wish me joy."
Her eyes met his clearly. "I do," she smiled. "There is no one in the
world for whom I wish joy more than I do for you."
"And I say the same," chimed in Madame, who had closely followed Rose.
"Dear little foster mother," said Allison, tenderly, putting a strong
arm around her. He had not yet released Rose's hand, nor did he note
that it was growing cold. "I owe you everything," he went on; "even
Isabel."
He kissed her, then, laughing, turned to Rose. "May I?" he asked.
Without waiting for an answer, he turned her face to his, and kissed her
on the lips.
Cold as ice and shaken to the depths of her soul, Rose stumbled out of
the room, murmuring brokenly of a forgotten letter which must be
immediately written. Madame lingered for the space of half an hour,
talking brightly of everything under the sun, then followed Rose,
turning in the doorway as she went out, to say: "Can't you even thank me
for leaving you alone?"
"Bless her," said Allison, fondly. "What sweet women they are!"
"Yes," answered Isabel, spitefully, "especially Rose."
He laughed heartily. "What a little goose you are, sweetheart. Kiss me,
dear--dearest."
"I won't," she flashed back, stubbornly, nor would she, until at last,
by superior strength, he took his lover's privilege from lips that
refused to yield.
That night he dreamed that, for a single exquisite instant, Isabel had
answered him, giving him love for love. Then, strangely enough, Isabel
became Rose, in a gown of gold, with golden roses twined in her hair.
XIV
THE THIRTIETH OF JUNE
Dinner that night had been rather a silent affair at Kent's, as well as
at Madame Bernard's. Being absorbed in his own thoughts, Allison did not
realise how unsociable he was, nor that the old man across the table
from him perceived that they had reached the beginning of the end.
When Allison spoke, it was always of Isabel. Idealised in her lover's
sight, she stood before him as the one "perfect woman, nobly planned,"
predestined, through countless ages, to be his mate. Colonel Kent merely
agreed with him in monosyllables until Allison became conscious that his
father did not wholly share his enthusiasm.
"I wish you knew her, Dad," he said, regretfully. "You'll love her when
you do."
"I'm willing to," answered the Colonel, shortly. "I called on her this
afternoon," he added, after a brief pause.
Allison's face illumined. "Was she there? Did you see her?"
"Yes."
"Isn't she the loveliest thing that was ever made?"
"I'm not prepared to go as far as that," smiled the Colonel, "but she is
certainly a very pretty girl."
"She's beautiful," returned Allison, with deep conviction.
The Colonel forebore to remind him that love brings beauty with it, or
that the beauty which endures comes from the soul within.
"Just think, Dad," Allison was saying, "how lovely she'll be at that end
of the table, with me across from her and you at her right."
The Colonel shook his head, then cleared his throat. "Not always, lad,"
he said, kindly, "but perhaps, sometimes--as a guest."
Allison's fork dropped with a sharp clatter on his plate. "Dad! What do
you mean?"
"No house is large enough for two families," repeated the Colonel, with
an unconscious, parrot-like accent.
"Why, Dad! We've always stood together--surely you won't desert me now?"
The old man's eyes softened with mist. He could not trust himself to
meet the clear, questioning gaze of his son.
"I can't understand," Allison went on, doubtfully. "Is it possible--
could she-did-Isabel--?"
"No" said the Colonel, firmly, still avoiding the questioning eyes. "She
didn't!"