of silver into her hair, but had been powerless to do more. Her lovely
face, where the colour came and went, the fleeting dimple at the corner
of her mouth and the crimson curve of her lips were eloquent with the
finer, more subtle charm of maturity. Her shining eyes literally
transfigured her. In their dark depths was a mysterious exaltation, as
from some secret, holy rapture too great for words.
Allison saw and felt it, yet did not know what it was. Once at sunset,
when they were talking idly of other things, he tried to express it.
"I don't know what it is, Rose, but there's something about you lately
that makes me feel--well, as though I were in a church at an Easter
service. The sun through the stained glass window, the blended fragrance
of incense and lilies, and the harp and organ playing the Intermezzo
from Cavalleria--all that sort of thing, don't you know?"
"Why shouldn't your best friend be glad," she had answered gently, "when
you have come to your own Easter--your rising from the dead?"
The dull colour surged into his face, then retreated in waves. "If you
can be as glad as that," he returned, clearing his throat, "I'd be a
brute ever to let myself be discouraged again."
That night, during a wakeful hour, his thoughts went back to Isabel. For
the first time, he saw the affair in its true light--a brief, mad
infatuation. He had responded to Isabel's youth and beauty and an old
moonlit garden full of roses much as his violin answered to his touch
upon the strings. "Had answered," he corrected himself, trying not to
flinch at the thought.
Even if his hand should heal, it was scarcely possible that he would
ever play again, and he knew, as well as anyone, what brilliant promise
the future had held for him. He remembered how wisely he had been
trained from the very beginning; how Aunt Francesca had insisted upon
mathematics, Latin, and chemistry, as well as literature, history, and
modern languages.
He had protested to her only once. She had replied kindly, but firmly,
that while broad culture and liberal education might not, in itself,
create an artist, yet it could not possibly injure one. Since then, he
had seen precocious children, developed in one line at the expense of
all others, fail ignominiously in maturity because there was no
foundation. The Child Wonder who had thrilled all Europe at nine, by his
unnatural mastery of the violin, was playing in an orchestra in a Paris
cafe, where one of the numerous boy sopranos was the head waiter.
How disappointed Aunt Francesca must be, even though she had too much
self-control to show it! And his father! Allison swallowed a lump in his
throat. After a lifetime of self-sacrificing devotion, the Colonel had
seen all his efforts fail, but he had taken the blow standing, like the
soldier that he was. In vain, many a time, Allison had wished that some
of his father's fine courage might have been transmitted to him.
And Rose--dear Rose! How persistently she held the new way open before
him; how steadily she insisted that the creative impulse was higher than
interpretative skill! How often she had reminded him of Carlyle's
stirring call: "Produce, produce! Though it be but the merest fraction
of a fragment, produce it, in God's name!" He had noticed that the
materials for composition were always close at hand, though she never
urged him to work.
He had come gradually to depend upon Rose--a great deal more than he
realised. Quite often he perceived the truth of the saying that "a blue-
ribbon friendship is better than an honourable mention love." It was
evident that Isabel had never loved him, though she had been pleased and
flattered by his love for her.
Even at the time that Aunt Francesca and Rose had congratulated him, and
he had kissed them both in friendly fashion, he had taken passing note
of the difference between Isabel and Rose. Of course it was only that
Isabel was made of ice and Rose of flesh and blood, but still, it was
pleasant to remember that--
His thoughts began to stray into other fields. Rose was his promised
wife, as far as name went, yet she treated him with the frank good
comradeship that a liberal social code makes possible between men and
women. As far as Rose was concerned, there was no sentiment in the
world.
When she read to him, it was invariably a story of adventure or of
humorous complications, or a well-chosen exposition of some recent
advance in science or art. Their conversation was equally impersonal,
even at the rare times they chanced to be alone. Rose made Colonel Kent,
Aunt Francesca, Doctor Jack, and even the nurse equally welcome to
Allison's society.
He went freely from room to room on the upper floor, but had not yet
been downstairs, as a possible slip on the steps might do irreparable
injury. Doctor Jack wanted to get him downstairs and outdoors, believing
that actual contact with the earth is almost as good for people as it is
for plants, but saw no way to manage it without a stretcher, which he
knew Allison would violently resent.
The twins came occasionally, by special invitation, though nobody
noticed that it was always Doctor Jack who suggested it. Once they
brought a pan of Juliet's famous fudges, which were politely appreciated
by the others and extravagantly praised by the Doctor. The following day
he was rewarded by a private pan of especially rich fudges--but Romeo
brought it, on his way to the post-office.
There was a daily card-party upon the upper veranda, and sometimes meals
were served there. The piano had been moved upstairs into a back room.
The whole-hearted devotion of the household was beautiful to behold, yet
underneath it all, like an unseen current, was the tense strain of
waiting.
It was difficult not to annoy Doctor Jack with questions. Rose and the
Colonel continually reminded themselves and each other that he would be
only too glad to bring encouragement at the moment he found it, and that
by quiet and patience they could help him most.
Juliet had pleaded earnestly with Doctor Jack to save Allison's hand.
"If you don't," she said, with uplifted eyes, "I'll be miserable all the
rest of my life."
"Bless your little heart," the Doctor had answered, kindly; "I'd do
'most anything to keep you from being miserable, even the impossible,
which happens to be my specialty."
She did not quite understand, but sent a burnt offering to the Doctor,
in the shape of a chocolate cake. He had returned the compliment by
sending her the biggest box of candy she had ever seen, and, as it
arrived about noon, she and Romeo had feasted upon it until they could
eat no more, and had been uncomfortably ill for two days. Romeo had
attributed their misfortune to the candy itself, but Juliet believed
that their constitutions had been weakened by their penitential fare,
and, as soon as she was able, proved her point by finishing the last
sweet morsel without painful results.
The Summer waned and tints of palest gold appeared here and there upon
the maples. The warm wind had the indefinable freshness of the Autumn
sea, blown far inland at dawn. Allison became impatient and restless,
the Colonel went off alone for long, moody walks; even Doctor Jack began
to show the effects of the long strain.
Only Rose was serene. Fortunately, no one guessed the tumult that lay
beneath her outward calm. Her manner toward Allison was, if anything,
more impersonal than ever, though she failed in no thoughtful kindness,
no possible consideration. He accepted it all as a matter of course, but
began to wish, vaguely, for something more.
He forebore to remind her of their strange relation, and could not
allude to the night he had kissed her, while his fiancee stood near by.
Yet, late one afternoon, when she had excused herself a little earlier
than usual, he called her back.
"Rose?"
"Yes?" She returned quickly and stood before him, just out of his reach.
"What is it? What can I do for you?"
The tone was kind but impersonal, as always. "Nothing," he sighed,
turning his face away.
That night she pondered long. What could Allison want that she had not
given? The blood surged into her heart for an instant, then retreated.
"Nonsense," she said to herself in tremulous anger. "It's impossible!"
Afterward it seemed continually to happen that she was alone with
Allison when the time came to say good-night and drive home, or walk,
escorted by Colonel Kent or the Doctor. By common consent, they seemed
to make excuses to leave the room as the hour of departure approached,
and she always found it easier when someone was there.
Again, when she had made her adieux and had reached the door leading
into the hall, Allison called her back.
"Yes?" "Couldn't you--just once, you know--for good-night?" he asked,
with difficulty.
His face made his meaning clear. Rose bent, kissed him tenderly upon the
forehead, and quickly left the room. Her heart was beating so hard that
she did not know she stumbled upon the threshold, nor did she hear his
low: "Thank you--dear."
That night she could not sleep. "I can't," she said to herself,
miserably; "I can't possibly go on, if--Oh, why should he make it so
hard for me!"
If the future was to be possible on the lines already laid down, he,
too, must keep the impersonal attitude. Yet, none the less, she was
conscious of an uplifting joy that would not be put aside, but
insistently demanded its right of expression.
She did not dare trust herself to see Allison again, and yet she must.
She could not fail him now, when he needed her so much, nor could she
ask the others to see that they were not left alone. One day might be
gained for respite by the plea of a headache, which is woman's friend as
often as it is her enemy.
And, after that one day, what then? What other excuse could she make
that would not seem heartless and cold?
It was an old saying of Aunt Francesca's that "when you can't see
straight ahead, it's because you're about to turn a corner." She
tormented herself throughout the night with futile speculations that led
to nothing except the headache which she had planned to offer as an
excuse.
A brief note gave her the day to herself, and also brought flowers from
Allison, with a friendly note in his own hand. Doctor Jack was the
messenger and took occasion to offer his services in the conquest of the
headache, but Rose declined with thanks, sending down word that she
preferred to sleep it off.
Though breakfast might be a movable feast at Madame's, it was always
consistently late. It was nearly nine o'clock in the morning when the
telephone wakened Madame from a dreamless sleep. She listened until it
became annoying, but no one answered it. Finally she got up, rather
impatiently, and went to it herself, anticipating Rose by only a minute.
Tremulous with suspense, Rose waited, scarcely daring to breathe until
Madame turned with a cry of joy, the receiver falling from her nerveless
hand. "Rose! Rose! he's saved! Our boy is saved! He's saved, do you
understand?"
"Truly? Is it sure?"
"Blessedly sure! Oh, Rose, he's saved!"
The little old lady was sobbing in an ecstasy of relief.
Rose led her to a couch and waited quietly until she was almost calm,
then went back to her own room. Once more her world was changed, as long
ago she had seen how it must be with her should the one thing happen.
She, with the others, had hoped and prayed for it; her dearest dream had
come true at last, and left her desolate.
She was unselfishly glad for Allison, for the Colonel, Aunt Francesca,
Doctor Jack, the sorrowing twins, and, in a way, for herself. It had
been given her to serve him, and she had not hoped for more. It made
things easier now, though she had not thought the corner would be turned
in just this way.
Having made up her mind and completed her plans, she went to Madame as
soon as she was dressed. She had hidden her paleness with so little
rouge that even Madame's keen eyes could not suspect it.
"Aunt Francesca," she began, without preliminary, "I've got to go away."
"Why, dear, and where? For how long?"
"Because I'm so tired. Things have been hard for me--over there, lately
--and I don't care where I go."
"I see," returned Madame, tenderly. "You want to go away for a rest.
You've needed it for a long time."
"Yes," Rose nodded, swinging easily into the lie that did not deceive
either. "Oh, Aunt Francesca, can I go to-day?"
"Surely--at any hour you choose."
"And you'll--make it right?"
"Indeed I will. I'll just say that you've been obliged to go away on
business--to look after some investments for both of us, and I hope
you'll stay away long enough to get the rest and change you've needed
for almost a year."
"Oh, Aunt Francesca, how good you are! But where? Where shall I go?"
Madame had been thinking of that. She knew the one place where Rose
could go, and attain her balance in solitude, untroubled by needless
questions or explanations. With the feeling of the mother who gives her
dead baby's dainty garments to a living child sorely in need, she spoke.
"To my house up in the woods--the little house where love lived, so long
ago."
Rose's pale lips quivered for an instant. "What have I to do with love?"
"Go to the house where he lived once, and perhaps you may find out."
"I will--I'll be glad to go. If I could make the next train, could you
arrange to have a trunk follow me?"
"Of course. Go on, dear. I know how it happens sometimes, that one can't
stay in one place any longer. I suffered from wanderlust until I was
almost seventy, and it's a long time since you've been away."
"And you'll promise not to tell anybody?"
"I promise."
While Rose was packing a suit-case, Madame brought her a rusty, old-
fashioned key, and a card on which she had written directions for the
journey. "I've ordered the carriage," she said, "and I'll drive down
with you to see you safely off."
After the packing was completed and while there was still nearly an hour
to wait before the carriage would come, Rose locked her door, and, after
many failures, achieved her note:
"MY DEAR ALLISON:
"You don't know how glad I am for you and how glad I shall be all the
rest of my life. I've hoped and dreamed and prayed from the very
beginning that it might be so, and I believe that, in time, you'll have
back everything you have lost.
"Now that you no longer need me, I am going away to attend to some
necessary business for Aunt Francesca and myself, and perhaps to rest a
little while in some new place before I go back to my work.
"Of course our make-believe engagement expires automatically now, and I
hope you'll soon find the one woman meant to make you happy. I am glad
to think that I've helped you a little when you came to a hard place,
for the most that any one of us may do for another is to smooth the
road.
"Remember me to the others, say good-bye for me, and believe me, with
all good wishes,
"Your friend always,
"ROSE."
When she sealed and addressed it, she had a queer sense of closing the
door, with her own hands, upon all the joy Life might have in store for
her in years to come. Yet the past few weeks were secure, beyond the
power of change or loss, and her pride was saved.
No one could keep her from loving him, and the thought brought a certain
comfort to her sore heart. Wherever he might be and whatever might
happen to him, she could still love him from afar, and have, for her
very own, the woman's joy of utmost giving.
When the carriage came, she went down, and, without a word put her note
into Aunt Francesca's faithful hands. Isabel had not appeared,
fortunately, and it was not necessary to leave any message--Aunt
Francesca would make it right, as she always had with everybody.
When the little old lady lifted her face, saying: "Good-bye, dear, come
back to me soon," Rose's heart misgave her. "I'll stay," she said,
brokenly; "I won't leave you."
But Madame only smiled, and nodded toward the waiting train. She stood
on the platform, waving her little lace-bordered handkerchief, until the
last car rounded the curve and the fluttering bit of white that was
waved in answer had vanished.
Then Madame sighed, wiped her eyes, and drove home.
XXII
A BIRTHDAY PARTY
Allison received the note from Rose at the time he was expecting Rose
herself, and was keenly disappointed. "She might at least have stopped
long enough to say good-bye," he said to his father.
"Don't be selfish, lad," laughed the Colonel. "We owe her now a debt
that we can never hope to pay."
The young man's face softened. "What a brick she has been!" Then, to
himself, he added: "if she had loved me, she couldn't have done more."
Life seemed very good to them both that crisp September morning. Just
after breakfast Doctor Jack had announced, definitely, that the crushed
hand was saved, unless there should be some unlooked-for complication
"But mind you," he insisted, "I don't promise any violin-playing, and
there'll be scars, but we'll make it look as well as we can. Anyhow,
you'll not be helpless."
Allison smiled happily. "Why can't I play, if it heals up all right?"
"There may be a nerve or two that won't work just right, or a twisted
muscle, or something. However we'll keep hoping."
The heavy weight that had lain so long upon Allison's heart was slow in
lifting. At first he could not believe the good news, greatly to Doctor
Jack's disgust.
"You don't seem to care much," he remarked. "I supposed you'd turn at
least one somersault. The Colonel is more pleased than you are."
"Dear old dad," said Allison, gratefully. "I owe him everything."
"Everything?" repeated the Doctor, with lifted brows. "And where does
Jonathan Ebenezer Middlekauffer come in, to say nothing of the future
Mrs. Kent?"
Allison's face clouded for an instant. "I'll never forget what you've
done for me, but there isn't any future Mrs. Kent."
"No? Why I thought--"
"So did I, but she's thrown me over and gone away. This morning she sent
me a note of congratulation and farewell."
"Upon my word! What have you done to her?"
"Nothing. She says I don't need her any more now, so she's going away."
Doctor Jack paced back and forth on the veranda with his hands in his
pockets. "The darkly mysterious ways of the ever-feminine are wonderful
beyond the power of words to portray. Apparently you've had to choose
between your hand and hers."
"I'm not sure," returned Allison, thoughtfully, "that I wouldn't rather
have hers than mine."
"Brace up, old man. Get well and go after her. The world isn't big
enough to keep a man away from the woman he wants."
"But," answered Allison, dejectedly, "she doesn't care for me. It was
only womanly pity, and now that I don't need that, I've lost her."
"She doesn't care for you!" repeated the Doctor. "Why, man, how can you
sit there and tell a lie like that? Of course she cares!"
Allison turned to look at him in astonishment. "It isn't possible!"
"Isn't it? Then I don't know anything about human nature, though I must
confess I'm not up much on the feminine part of it. How long--"
"Just since the accident. The girl I was going to marry let me release
her. She didn't want a cripple, you know."
"And Miss Bernard did, and you've disappointed her?"
"Something like that."
"You seem to have had fierce luck with girls. One gives you up because
you've only got one hand, and the other because you've got two. There's
no pleasing women. Hello--here comes another note. Maybe she's changed
her mind."
For a breathless instant Allison thought so, too, but Doctor Jack was
opening it. "Mine," he said. "It's an invitation to Crosby's. It seems
that they come of age day after to-morrow, and I'm invited out to supper
to help celebrate. I won't go, or anything, will I? Oh, no, of course
not! I haven't seen 'em for a week. Are presents expected?"
"Your presence seems to be expected," remarked Allison.
"I'm glad you've got that out of your system," the Doctor retorted, with
a scornful smile. "You ought to improve right along now."
"Is it a party?"
"They don't say so. I hope it isn't."
However, when Doctor Jack strolled up the dusty road, a carriage that
must have come from Crosby's passed him. He stopped short, wildly
considering an impulse of flight. Then he went on bravely, smiling at
the thought that any entertainment given by the twins could be by any
possibility, a formal affair.
The other guest was Isabel, whom Doctor Jack had not met and of whom he
knew nothing. She observed him narrowly when opportunity offered, for
she knew who he was, and wondered what he had heard of her. Soon she
became certain that her name carried no meaning to him, for he talked
freely of Allison and the Colonel and frankly shared the joy of the
twins at the welcome news.
"Oh," cried Juliet, clapping her hands in glee. "It's the very best
birthday present we could have, isn't it, Romie?"
"I should say," replied that young man, with an expansive smile. "Say,"
he added to Doctor Jack, "you must be a brick."
"I've only done my best," he responded, modestly.
Isabel could say nothing for some little time. She was furiously angry
with Aunt Francesca because she had not told her. The day that Rose went
away, everyone in the house had been very glad about something, even to
the servants, but she had asked no questions and received no
information, except that Rose had been obliged to go away very suddenly
upon business of immediate importance.
"You must be awful glad," said Juliet, to Isabel.
"Of course," answered Isabel, coldly, clearing her throat.
"He must feel pretty good," Romeo observed.
"Yes," returned Doctor Jack, "except that he's lost his girl."
Isabel flushed and nervously turned on her finger the diamond ring that
she still wore.
"He's had fierce luck with girls," resumed the Doctor, unthinkingly.
"One passed him up because he was hurt, and the other because he was
going to get well."
The tense silence that ensued indicated that he had made a mistake of
some sort. It had not occurred to him that the twins did not know of
Allison's engagement to Rose, nor did he suspect Isabel's identity.
Juliet was staring at Isabel in pained surprise. "Did you?" she asked,
slowly, "throw him over because he got hurt?"
"He offered to release me," said Isabel, in a small, cold voice, "and I
accepted. I did not know until just now that Cousin Rose had taken my
leavings." The older woman's mysterious departure presented itself to
her now in a new light.
"Suffering Cyrus," said Doctor Jack, aloud, "but I have put my foot into
it. Look here, kind friends, I never was meant for a parlour, and I
always make mistakes when I stray into one. My place is in a hospital
ward or at the bedside of those who have been given up to die. The
complex social arena is not where I shine to my best advantage. There
are too many rings to keep track of at once, and my mind gets cross-
eyed."
"Come on up to the attic," suggested Juliet, with a swift change of
subject, "and we'll do stunts on the trapeze."
Isabel and Doctor Jack sat side by side on a battered old trunk in stony
silence while the twins were donning their gymnasium costumes.
Fortunately, it did not take long and the sight of Juliet hanging by her
feet furnished the needed topic of conversation. The lithe little body
seemed to be made of steel fibres. She swayed back and forth, catching
Romeo as he made a flying leap from the other trapeze, as easily as
another girl would have wielded a tennis racquet.
At length Doctor Jack interposed a friendly word of warning. "Look here,
kid," he said, "you're made of flesh and blood, you know, just like the
rest of us. Better cut out that trapeze business."
"I don't know why," returned Juliet, resentfully, as she slipped
gracefully to the floor, right side up. "I'm as strong as Romie is, or
almost as strong."
"Girls do it in the circus," Romeo observed, wiping his flushed face.
"Ever heard of any of 'em living to celebrate their hundredth birthday?"
queried Doctor Jack, significantly.
The twins admitted that they had not. "I don't care," cried Juliet, "I'd
rather live ten years and keep going, than live to be a hundred and have
to sit still all the time."
"No danger of your sitting still too long," returned Doctor Jack, good-
humouredly. "It's hot up here, isn't it?"
"Rather warm," Romeo agreed. "You folks can go downstairs until we get
on our other clothes, if you like."
They had reached the head of the stairs when Isabel changed her mind. "I
believe I'll wait for Juliet," she said, turning back.
So the Doctor went down alone, inwardly reviling himself for his unlucky
speech, and glad of an opportunity to contemplate the characteristic
residence of the twins.