couldn't--she's not that kind. What a brute I was even to think it! But
why, Dad? Please tell me why!"
"Francesca asked me this afternoon if I would come to her and Rose,
after the--afterwards, you know, and I promised."
"If you promised, I suppose that settles it," remarked Allison,
gloomily, "but I wish you hadn't. I can understand that they would want
you, too, for of course they'll be desperately lonely after Isabel goes
away."
A certain peace crept into the old man's sore heart. Surely there was
something to live for still.
"I hope you didn't tell Aunt Francesca you'd stay there always," Allison
was saying, anxiously.
"No," answered the Colonel, with a smile; "there was no limit
specified."
"Then we'll consider it only a visit and a short one at that--just until
they get a little used to Isabel's being away. This is your rightful
place, Dad, and Isabel and I both want you--don't ever forget that!"
When Allison had gone in search of his beloved, the Colonel sat on the
veranda alone, accustomed, now, to evenings spent thus. His garden
promised well, he thought, having produced two or three sickly roses in
the very first season. The shrubs and trees that had survived ten years
of neglect had been pruned and tied and would doubtless do well next
year, if Isabel--
"I hope he'll never find out," the Colonel said to himself. Then he
remembered that, for the first time in his life, he had lied to his son,
and took occasion to observe the highly spectacular effect of an untruth
from an habitually truthful person.
"He never doubted me, not for an instant," mused the Colonel, "but it's
just as well that I'm going. She could probably manage it, if we lived
in the same house, so that I'd have to tell at least one lie a day, and
I'm not an expert. Perfection might come with practice--I've known it
to--but I'm too old to begin."
He was deeply grateful to Francesca for her solution of the problem that
confronted him. It had appeared and been duly solved in the space of
half an hour. She had been his good angel for more than thirty years. It
might be very pleasant to live there, after he became accustomed to the
change, and with Allison so near--why, he couldn't be half as lonely as
he was now. So his thoughts drifted into a happier channel and he was
actually humming an old song to himself when he heard Allison's step,
almost at midnight, on the road just beyond the gate.
He went in quietly, closed the door, and was in his own room when
Allison's latch-key rattled in the lock. The Colonel took pains not to
be heard moving about, but it was unnecessary, for Allison's heart was
beating in time with its own music, and surging with the nameless
rapture that comes but once.
Down in the moon-lit, dream-haunted garden, Allison waited for Isabel,
as the First Man might have waited for the First Woman, in another
garden, countless ages ago. Stars were mirrored in the lily-pool; the
waning moon swung low. The roses had gone, except a few of the late-
blooming sort, but the memory of their fragrance lingered still in the
velvet dusk.
No music came from the quiet house, for Rose had not touched the piano
since That Night. It stood out in his remembrance in capitals, as it did
in hers, for widely different reasons. Only Isabel, cherishing no
foolish sentiment as to dates and places, could have forgotten That
Night.
With a lover's fond fancy, Allison had written a note to Isabel, asking
her to meet him in the garden by the lily-pool, at nine, and to wear the
silver-spangled gown. It was already past the hour and he had begun to
be impatient, though he was sure she had received the note.
A cobweb in the grass at his feet shone faintly afar--like Isabel's
spangles, he thought. A soft-winged wayfarer of the night brushed
lightly against his cheek in passing, and he laughed aloud, to think
that a grey moth should bring the memory of a kiss. Then, with a swift
sinking of the heart, he remembered Isabel's unvarying coldness. Never
for an instant had she answered him as Rose--
"Nonsense," he muttered to himself, angrily. "What an unspeakable cad I
am!"
There was a light step on the path and Isabel appeared out of the
shadows. She was holding up her skirts and seemed annoyed. In the first
glance Allison noted that she was not wearing the spangled gown.
She submitted to his eager embrace and endured his kiss; even the
blindest lover could not have said more. Yet her coldness only thrilled
him to the depths with love of her, as has been the way of men since the
world began.
"I don't understand this foolishness," she said, fretfully, as she
released herself from his encircling arm. "It's damp and chilly out
here, and I'll get wet and take cold."
"It isn't damp, darling, and you can't take cold. Why didn't you wear
the spangles?"
"Do you suppose I want to spoil my best gown dragging it through the wet
grass?"
"The grass isn't wet, and, anyhow, you haven't been on it--only on the
path. Come over here to the bench and sit down."
"I don't want to. I want to go in."
"All right, but not just yet. I'll carry you, if you're afraid of
dampness." Before she could protest, he had picked her up and laughingly
seated her on the bench at the edge of the lily-pool.
Isabel smoothed her rumpled hair. "You've mussed me all up," she
complained. "Why can't we go in? Aunt Francesca and Rose are upstairs."
"Listen, sweetheart. Please be patient with me just a minute, won't you?
I've brought you your engagement ring."
"Oh," cried Isabel, delightedly. "Let me see it!"
"I want to tell you about it first. You remember, don't you, that the
first night I came here, you were wearing a big silver pin--a turquoise
matrix, set in dull silver?"
"I've forgotten."
"Well, I haven't. Someway, it seemed to suit you as jewels seldom suit
anybody, and you had it on the other night when you promised to marry
me. Both times you were wearing the spangled gown, and that's why I
asked for it to-night, and why I've had your engagement ring made of a
turquoise."
Isabel murmured inarticulately, but he went on, heedlessly: "It's made
of silver because you're my Silver Girl, the design is all roses because
it was in the time of roses, and it's a turquoise for reasons I've told
you. Our initials and the date are inside."
Allison slipped it on her finger and struck a match that she might see
it plainly. Isabel turned it on her finger listlessly.
"Very pretty," she said, in a small, thin voice, after an awkward pause.
"Why, dearest," he cried, "don't you like it?"
"It's well enough," she answered, slowly, "but not for an engagement
ring. Everybody else has diamonds. I thought you cared enough for me to
give me a diamond," she said, reproachfully.
"I do," he assured her, "and you shall have diamonds--as many as I can
give you. Why, sweet, this is only the beginning. There's a long life
ahead of us, isn't there? Do you think I'm never going to give my wife
any jewels?"
"Aunt Francesca and Rose put you up to this," said Isabel, bitterly.
"They never want me to have anything."
"They know nothing whatever about it," he replied, rather coldly, taking
it from her finger as he spoke. "Listen, Isabel. Would you rather have a
diamond in your engagement ring?"
"Of course. I'd be ashamed to have anybody know that this was my
engagement ring."
"All right," said Allison, with defiant cheerfulness. "You shall have
just exactly what you want, and, to make sure, I'll take you with me
when I go to get it. I'm sorry I made such a mistake."
There was a flash of blue and silver in the faint light, and a soft
splash in the lily-pool. "There," he went on, "it's out of your way
now."
"You didn't need to throw it away," she said, icily. "I didn't say I
didn't want it, nor that I wouldn't wear it. I only said I wanted a
diamond."
"It could be found, I suppose," he replied, thoughtfully, ashamed of his
momentary impulse. "If the pool were drained--"
"That would cost more than the ring is worth," Isabel interrupted.
"Come, let's go in."
He was about to explain that a very good-sized pool could be drained for
the price of the ring, but fortunately thought better of it, and was
bitterly glad, now, that he had thrown it away.
In the house they talked of other things, but the thrust still lingered
in his consciousness, unforgotten.
"How's your father?" inquired Isabel, in a conversational pause, as she
could think of nothing else to say.
"All right, I guess. Why?"
"I haven't seen him lately. He hasn't been over since the day he called
on me."
"Guess I haven't thought to ask him to come along. Dad is possessed just
at present by a very foolish idea. They've told you, haven't they?"
"No. Told me what?"
"Why, that after we're carried, he's to come over here to live with Aunt
Francesca and Rose, and give us the house to ourselves."
"I hadn't heard," she replied, indifferently.
"I don't know when I've felt so badly about anything," Allison resumed.
"We've always been together and we've been more like two chums than
father and son. It's like taking my best friend away from me, but I know
he'll come back to us, if you ask him to."
"Probably," she assented, coldly. "I suppose we'll be in town for the
Winters, won't we, and only live here in the Summer?"
"I don't know, dear; we'll see. I've got to go to see my manager very
soon, and Dad asked me to find out what you wanted for a wedding
present. I'm to help him select it."
"Can I have anything I choose?" she queried, keenly interested now.
"Anything within reason," he smiled. "I'm sorry we're not millionaires."
"Could I have an automobile?"
"Perhaps. What kind?"
"A big red touring car, with room for four or five people in it?"
"I'll tell him. It would be rather nice to have one, wouldn't it?"
"Indeed it would," she cried, clapping her hands. "Oh, Allison, do
persuade him to get it, won't you?"
"I won't have to, if he can. I've never had to persuade my father into
anything he could do for me."
When he went home, Isabel kissed him, of her own accord, for the first
time. It was a cold little kiss, accompanied with a whispered plea for
the red automobile, but it set his heart to thumping wildly, and made
him forget the disdained turquoise, that lay at the bottom of the lily-
pool.
Within a few days, Isabel was the happy possessor of an engagement ring
with a diamond in it--a larger, brighter stone than she had ever dreamed
of having. Colonel Kent had also readily promised the automobile, though
he did not tell Allison that he should be obliged to sell some property
in order to acquire a really fine car. It took until the end of the
month to make the necessary arrangements, but on the afternoon of the
thirtieth, a trumpeting red monster, bright with brass, drew up before
the Kent's door, having come out from town on its own power.
As the two men had taken a brief tour over the wonderful roads of
France, with Allison at the wheel, he felt no hesitation in trying an
unfamiliar car. The old throb of exultation came back when the monster
responded to his touch and chugged out of the driveway on its lowest
speed.
He turned back to wave his hand at his father, who stood smiling on the
veranda, with the chauffeur beside him. "I'll get Isabel," he called,
"then come back for you."
He reached Madame Bernard's without accident and Isabel, almost wild
with joy, ran out of the gate to meet him and climbed in. Only Rose,
from the shelter of her curtains, saw them as they went away.
"Where shall we go?" Isabel asked. She was hatless and the sun dwelt
lovingly upon her shining black hair.
"Back for Dad. He's waiting for us. Do you like it, dear?"
"Indeed I do. Oh, so much! It was lovely of him, wasn't it? He wouldn't
care, would he, if we took a little ride just by ourselves before we
went back for him?"
"Of course not, but we can't go far and we'll have to go fast."
"I love to go fast. I've never been fast enough yet. I wonder if the
Crosbys have got their automobile?"
"I heard so, but I haven't seen it. I understand that Romeo is learning
to drive it in the narrow boundaries of the yard."
"What day of the month is it?"
"The thirtieth. There's less than three months to wait now, darling--
then you'll be mine, all mine."
"Then this is the day the Crosbys were going to celebrate--it's the
anniversary of their uncle's death. I'm glad we've got our automobile.
Can't we go by there? It's only three miles, and I'd love to have them
see us go by, at full speed."
Obediently, Allison turned into the winding road which led to Crosbys's
and, to please Isabel, drove at the third speed. Once under way, the
road spun dustily backward under the purring car, and the wind in their
faces felt like the current of a stream.
"Oh," cried Isabel, rapturously; "isn't it lovely!"
"I'm almost afraid to go so fast, dear. If there should be another car
on this road, we might collide at some of these sharp turns."
"But there isn't. There's not another automobile in this sleepy little
town, except the Crosbys'. It isn't likely that they're out in theirs
now, on this road."
But, as it happened, they were. After some difficulties at the start,
Romeo had engineered "The Yellow Peril" out through a large break in the
fence. The twins wore their brown suits with tan leather trimmings, and,
as planned long ago, the back seat of the machine was partially filled
with raw meat of the sort most liked by Romeo's canine dependents.
Two yellow flags fluttered from the back of the driver's seat. One had
the initials "C. T." in black, on the other, in red, was "The Yellow
Peril." The name of the machine and the monogram were strikingly in
evidence on the doors and at the back, where a choice cut of roast beef,
uncooked, dangled temptingly by a strong cord.
Just before they started, Juliet unfastened the barn door and freed
nineteen starving dogs, all in collars suited to the general colour
scheme of the automobile, and bearing the initials: "C. T." When they
sniffed the grateful odour borne on the warm June wind, they plunged
after the machine with howls and yelps of delight. Only Minerva remained
behind, having five new puppies to care for.
"Oh, Romie, Romie!" shouted Juliet, in ecstasy. "They're coming! See!"
Romeo looked back for the fraction of an instant, saw that they were,
indeed, "coming," and then discovered that he had lost control of the
machine. "Sit tight," he said, to Juliet, between clenched teeth.
"I am," she screamed, gleefully. "Oh, Romie, if uncle could only see us
now!"
"Uncle's likely to see us very soon," retorted Romeo grimly, "unless I
can keep her on the road."
But Juliet was absorbed in the joy of the moment and did not hear. A
cloud of dust, through which gleamed brass and red, appeared on the road
ahead of them, having rounded the curve at high speed. At the same
instant, Allison saw just beyond him, the screaming fantasy of colour
and sound.
"Jump!" he cried to Isabel. "Jump for your life!"
She immediately obeyed him, falling in a little white heap at the
roadside. He rose, headed the machine toward the ditch at the right, and
jumped to the left, falling face down in the road with his hands
outstretched, Before he could stir, the other machine roared heavily
over him, grazing his left hand and crushing it into the deep dust.
There was almost an instant of unbelievable agony, then, mercifully,
darkness and oblivion.
XV
"HOW SHE WILL COME TO ME"
The darkness swayed but did not lift. There was a strange rhythm in its
movement, as though it were the sea, but there was no sound. Black
shadows crept upon him, then slowly ebbed away. At times he was part of
the darkness, at others, separate from it, yet lying upon it and wholly
sustained by it.
At intervals, the swaying movement changed. His feet sank slowly in
distinct pulsations until he stood almost upright, then his head began
to sink and his feet to rise. When his head was far down and his feet
almost directly above him, the motion changed again and he came back
gradually to the horizontal, sinking back with one heart-beat and rising
with the next--always a little higher.
How still it was! The silence of eternity was in that all compassing
dark, which reached to the uttermost boundaries of space. It was hollow
and empty, save for him, rising and falling, rising and falling, in a
series of regular movements corresponding almost exactly to the ticking
of a watch.
A faint, sickening odour crept through the darkness, followed by a black
overwhelming shadow which threatened to engulf him in its depths. Still
swaying, he waited for it calmly. All at once it was upon him, but
swiftly receded. He seemed to sway backward out of it, and as he looked
back upon it, gathering its forces for another attack, he saw that it
was different from the darkness upon which he lay--that, instead of
black, it was a deep purple.
The odour persisted and almost nauseated him. It was vaguely familiar,
though he had never before come into intimate contact with it. Was it
the purple shadow, that ebbed and flowed so strangely upon his dark
horizon, growing to a brighter purple with each movement?
The purple grew very bright, then deepened to blue--almost black.
Dancing tongues of flame shot through the darkness, as he swung through
it, up and down, like a ship moved by a heavy ground swell. The flames
took colour and increased in number. Violet, orange, blue, green, and
yellow flickered for an instant, then disappeared.
The darkness was not quite so heavy, but it still swayed. The javelins
of flame shot through it continually, making a web of iridescence. Then
the purple shadow approached majestically and put them out. When it
retreated, they came again, but the colour was fainter.
The yellow flames darted toward him from every conceivable direction,
stabbing him like needles. In this light, the purple shadow changed to
blue and began to grow brighter. The sickening odour was so strong now
that he could scarcely breathe. The blue shadow warred with the yellow
flames, but could not put them out. He saw now that the shadow was his
friend and the flames were a host of enemies.
All the little stabbing lights suddenly merged into one. He was
surrounded by fire that burned him as he swayed back and forth, and the
cool shadows were gone. The light grew intense and terrible, but he
could not lift his hand to shade his eyes. Slowly the orange deepened to
scarlet in which he spun around giddily among myriads of blood-red
disks. The scarlet grew brighter and brighter until it became a white,
streaming light. All at once the swaying stopped.
The intensity of the white light was agreeably tempered by a grey mist.
Through the vapour, he saw the outlines of his own chiffonier, across
the room. A woman in spotless white moved noiselessly about. Even though
she did not look at him, he felt a certain friendliness toward her. She
seemed to have been with him while he swayed through the shadow and it
was pleasant to know that he had not been alone.
On the table near the window, his violin lay as he had left it. The case
was standing in a corner and his music stand had toppled over. The torn
sheets of music rustled idly on the floor, and he wondered, fretfully,
why the woman in white did not pick them up.
As if in answer to his thought, she stooped, and gathered them together,
quietly sorting the pages and putting them into the open drawer that
held his music. She closed the drawer and folded up his music stand
without making a sound. She seemed far removed from him, like someone
from another world.
Cloud surrounded her, but he caught glimpses of her through it
occasionally. She took up his violin, very carefully, put it into its
case, and carried it out of the room. He did not care very much, but it
seemed rather an impolite thing to do. He knew that he would not have
stolen a violin when the owner was in the same room.
Soon she came back and he was reassured. She had not stolen it after
all. She might have broken it, for she seemed to feel very sorry about
something. She was wiping her eyes with a bit of white, as women always
did when they cried.
It was not necessary for her to cry, on account of one broken violin,
for he had thousands of them--Stradivarius, Amati, Cremona; everything.
Some of them were highly coloured and very rare on that account. He had
only to go to his storehouse, present a ticket, and choose whatever he
liked--red, green, yellow, or even striped.
Everybody who played the violin needed a great many of them, for the
different moods of music. It was obvious that the dark brown violin with
which he played slow, sad music could not be used for the Hungarian
Dances. He had a special violin for those, striped with barbaric colour.
The woman who had broken one of his violins stood at the window with her
back toward him. Her shoulders shook and from time to time she lifted
the bit of white to her eyes. It was annoying, he thought; even worse
than the shadows and the fire. He was about to call to her and suggest,
ironically, that she had cried enough and that the flowers would be
spoiled if they got too wet, when someone called, from the next room:
"Miss Rose!"
She turned quickly, wiped her eyes once more, and, without making a
sound, went out on the white cloud that surrounded her half way to her
waist.
He tried to change his position a little and felt his own bed under him.
His body was stiff and sore, but he had the use of it, except his left
arm. Try as he might, he could not move it, for it was weighted down and
it hurt terribly.
"Miss Rose, Miss Rose, Miss Rose, Miss Rose." The words beat hard in his
ears like a clock ticking loudly. The accent was on the "Miss"--the last
word was much fainter. "Rose Miss" was wrong, so the other must be
right, except for the misplaced accent. Did the accent always come on
the first beat of a measure? He had forgotten, but he would ask the man
at the storehouse when he went to get the striped violin for the
Hungarian Dances.
His left hand throbbed with unbearable agony. The room began to spin
slowly on its axis. There was no mist now, or even a shadow, and every
sense was abnormally acute. The objects in the whirling room were
phenomenally clear; even a scratch on the front of his chiffonier stood
out distinctly.
He could hear a clock ticking, though there was no clock in his room.
Afar was the sound of women sobbing--two of them. Above it a strange
voice said, distinctly: "There is not one chance in a thousand of saving
his hand. If I had nurses, I would amputate now, before he recovers
consciousness."
The words struck him with the force of a blow, though he did not fully
realise what they meant. The pain in his left arm and the sickening
odour nauseated him. The cool black shadow drowned the objects in the
room and crept upon him stealthily. Presently he was swaying again, up
and down, up and down, in the all-encompassing, all-hiding dark.
So it happened that he did not hear Colonel Kent's ringing answer: "You
shall not amputate until every great surgeon in the United States has
said that it is absolutely necessary. I leave on the next train, and
shall send them and keep on sending until there are no more to send.
Until a man comes who thinks there is a chance of saving it, you are in
charge--after that, it is his case."
Day by day, a continuous procession came to the big Colonial house.
Allison became accustomed to the weary round of darkness, pain,
sickening odours, strange faces, darkness, and so on, endlessly, without
pity or pause.
The woman in white had mysteriously vanished. In her place were two, in
blue and white, with queer, unbecoming caps. They were there one at a
time, always; never for more than a few minutes were they together. When
the fierce, hot agony became unendurable for even a moment longer, one
of them would lean over him with a bit of shining silver in her hand,
and stab him sharply for an instant. Then, with incredible quickness,
came peace.
Once, when two strange men had come together, and had gone into the
adjoining room, he caught disconnected fragments of conversation.
"Hypersensitive-impossible--not much longer--interesting case." He
wondered, as he began to sway in the darkness again, what
"hypersensitive" meant. Surely, he used to know.