Rose and grannie had been living in an atmosphere of calm. Something was
not determined yet, and they had to wait for it. Osmond had not come to
the house for his early calls on grannie, and Rose, awake in her room to
hear his step, at least, listened for it with a miserable certainty of
disappointment. Every morning she gave a quick look of inquiry as she
and grannie met, and the old lady would say,--
"No, dear, no!"
She sickened mentally under the delay, and at last her heart began to
ask her whether he would ever see her again. On the day she told grannie
that she was going to Paris to settle MacLeod's estate, grannie said,--
"That's right. But you'll come back."
"I must come back. You must let me." It was a great cry out of a warring
heart. "But I must see him before I go. May I send for him to come?"
"You must send for him, my dear, and have your talk," said grannie.
So it was grannie who gave the message to Peter, and afterwards told him
Rose was to see Osmond alone. Peter walked up and down the room. He did
not altogether understand.
"What is it now, child?" asked grannie.
"I wondered if Rose needs to see him. This is all so painful for her!
Why should she be bothered?"
"She must see him," said grannie. "It wouldn't be possible for her to go
away without."
"She demands too much of herself," said Peter, stopping in his stride.
Grannie was smiling at him in a way that indicated she was very old and
Peter was young. A wave of knowledge swept upon him.
"What is it, grannie?" he demanded. "What is between them?"
"You must let them find out."
"But what is it? I ought to know. Don't you see what I mean? I'm going
to marry her, grannie, when all this is over."
Grannie looked at him in quick concern.
"Oh, no, Peter," she said. "No, you can't do that."
"Why can't I?"
"She doesn't love you, Peter."
"But she will. I can make her happy. I depend on showing her I can."
"That isn't enough, Peter."
"What?"
"To make her happy. You might make her miserable, and if she loved you,
it would be all one to her."
"Tom Fulton made her miserable. Was that all one to her?"
"She isn't the girl Tom Fulton hurt. She's a woman now."
"Then what is it between her and Osmond?"
Grannie looked at him a few moments seriously. She seemed to be
considering what he should be told. At last she spoke.
"Peter, I believe it's love between them."
"Love!"
"Yes, dear. She has a very strong feeling for Osmond."
"Osmond!"
Grannie got up out of her chair. She was trembling. Peter could almost
believe it was with indignation against him, her other boy, not so dear
as Osmond, but still her boy. Her calm face flushed, and when she spoke
her voice also trembled.
"Peter," she said, "whatever we do, let us never doubt the kindness of
God."
It was a little hard on Peter, he felt, for here was he, too, devoted to
Osmond with a full heart; yet nature was nature, and life was life. He
could not help seeing himself in the bridegroom's garment.
"Osmond is the greatest thing there is," he said. "But, grannie--" He
stopped.
"I know, I know," said grannie. She was not accustomed to speaking with
authority. The passion of her life had all resolved itself into deeds,
into a few simple words like the honey in the flower and the slowly
fructifying cells. Now she stood leaning on her staff and thinking back
over the course she had run. Osmond had been the child of her spirit
because he was maimed. She had drawn with him every breath of his horror
of life, his acquiescence, his completed calm. What withdrawals there
were in him, what wrestlings of the will, what iron obediences, only she
knew. There was the sweetness, too, of the little child who, when they
were alone, in some sad twilight, used to come and put his arms about
her neck and lay his cheek to hers, with a mute plea to her to
understand. And now when Osmond had harnessed himself to the earth, God
had let a beautiful flower spring up before him, to say, "Behold me."
God did everything, grannie knew. He had not merely created, in a space
of magnificent idleness, some centuries ago, and then, with the
commendation that it was "good," turned away his head and let his work
shift for itself. He was about it now, every instant, in the decay of
one seed to nourish another, in the blast and in the sunshine. He was
ever at hand to hear the half-formed cry of the soul, the whisper it
hardly knew it gave. He was the still, small voice. And He had
remembered Osmond as He had been remembering him all these years. He had
led him by painful steps to the hilltop, and then had painted for him a
great sunrise on the sky. The night might lower and obscure it, the rain
fall, or the lightning strike. But Osmond would have seen the sunrise.
And all grannie could say was,--
"It may not turn out well, dear, but it's a great thing for him to
have."
Peter strode away into the garden. She followed him, in an hour or so,
and asked if she should sit for him, and all that afternoon he painted
on her portrait, with the dash and absorption of one who knows his task.
"Tired, grannie?" he asked at length.
"No, Peter."
"You're going to be a sweet thing with your white cap here against the
hollyhocks," said Peter. "I must hurry. When it's done, I'll leave it
for exhibition, and then I'll go back to France."
That night he strode away for a walk, and grannie betook herself to her
own room. So Rose was alone when Osmond came. She had dressed for him,
and she looked the great lady. There was about her that air of proud
conquest worn by women when they are willing to let man see how much he
may lose in lacking them, or how rich he is in the winning. It says
also, perhaps, "This is the wedding garment. It is worn for you."
When Osmond entered, these things were in his mind because it was a part
of his bitter thought that he had no clothes to meet her in. For many
years he had seen no use for the conventional dress of gentlemen, and
grannie had never failed to like him in his clean blue blouse. So he
came in, as Rose thought at once, like a peasant of an Old World
country. All but the face. What peasant ever wore a mien like that: the
clarified look of conquered grief, the wistfulness of the dark eyes, the
majestic patience of one who, finding that the things of the world are
not for him, has put them softly by? There were new lines in the face,
Rose could well believe; in spite of those appealing softnesses of the
eyes, it was a face cut in bronze. She held out her hand, and he took it
briefly.
"I had to see you," she said, rushing upon the subject of her fears. "I
am going away."
They were seated now, and Osmond was looking at her steadily. "But I am
coming back," she smiled. "Please be glad to see me."
"I can't seem to talk to you," said Osmond abruptly, also smiling a
little, in his whimsical way. "You are such a fine lady."
She glanced down at her dress, and hated it.
"I don't know why I put this on, except, perhaps, I didn't want you to
despise me for what I am going to say."
"Despise you!"
She choked a little and dared it.
"You haven't been to the playhouse lately."
"No."
"Why?"
"Have you been there yourself?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I couldn't."
"Well, I couldn't, either."
"Why?" cried the girl passionately. "Why has everything got to change?
Why should you tell me you would be there always and then never come
again? Why?"
Osmond regarded her in what seemed a sad well-wishing.
"Youth can't last," he said. "That was youth. We are grown up now."
Tears gathered in her eyes. The finality of his tone seemed to be
consigning her to fruitless days without the joy of dreams.
"Well," he added, "it doesn't matter. You are going away."
"You said once I should take the key of the playhouse with me."
He smiled humorously, as at a child who must, if it is possible, be
allowed some pleasure in the game.
"Take it, playmate," he said.
The color ran over her face. She sparkled at him.
"Oh, now you've said it!" she entreated. "You've called me by my name.
Now we can go back."
Osmond still smiled at her. He shook his head.
"You are very willful," he remarked.
"That's right. Abuse me. I like it, playmate."
But he could abuse her no more. Fancy in him was dead or dumb. He was
tired of thinking, tired of his own life, with its special problems. A
deep gravity came over her own face also. When she spoke, it was with a
high dignity and seriousness.
"Osmond," she said, "I sent for you because I want to give you something
before I go away. I can't bear to go. I can't bear to leave this place
and grannie--and you. Sometimes I think I shall die of homesickness over
there, even in the few weeks I stay, to think what may happen to you
before I see you again. So I want to give it to you."
She was under some stress he did not understand, yet speaking with a
determined quiet.
"What is it?" he asked gently.
She had no words left, only the two she had thought of for days and days
until it had seemed to her he must hear her heart beating them out. She
held her hands together in her lap, and spoke clearly, though it
frightened her:--
"My love, Osmond, my love."
He had turned his look away from her, and feeling the aloofness of that,
she fell to trembling. When he began to speak, she stopped him. It
seemed to her that he was bringing rejection of her gift, and she could
not bear it.
"No," she said, "don't say it."