Another mongrel had been added to the Crosby collection, so the canine herd now numbered twenty, all in the best of health and spirits. Some unpleasantness had been caused at the breakfast table by a gentle hint from Juliet to the effect that the dog supply seemed somewhat in excess of the demand. She had added insult to injury by threatening to chloroform the next dog her brother brought home.
"Huh!" Romeo sneered, "they're as much yours as mine. You brought home the spotted one yourself."
"That was only because the boys were teasing him. I didn't want him."
"I've never brought home any without good reasons, and you know it.Besides, we've got room here for forty dogs, and they're all fenced in.They don't bother anybody."
"Except by barking," complained Juliet.
"They don't bark much unless somebody goes by, and there aren't any neighbours near enough to hear 'em, even then."
"They do bark," Juliet put in fretfully. "They bark all the time at something. They bark when they're hungry and when they've eaten too much, and they bark at the sun and moon and stars, and when they're not barking, some or all of 'em are fighting. They drive me crazy."
"Jule," said Romeo, sternly, "I don't see what's the matter with you lately. You act like a sissy girl. Go up into the attic and work on the trapeze for an hour or two, and you'll feel better. It wouldn't surprise me now if you got so sissy that you were afraid of mice and snakes."
Juliet's anger rose to the point of tears. "I'm not afraid of mice," she sobbed, "and you know it. And I'll hold a little green snake by the tail just as long as you will, so there!"
Man-like, Romeo hated tears. "Shut up, Jule," he said, not unkindly, "and we'll arbitrate."
When her sobs ceased and she had washed her face in cold water, they calmly argued the question at issue. Romeo candidly admitted that twenty dogs might well be sufficient for people of simple tastes and Juliet did not deny that only a "sissy girl" would be annoyed by barking. Eventually, Romeo promised not to bring home any more dogs unless the present supply should be depleted by disappearance or accident, and Juliet promised not to chloroform any without his consent. With one accord, they decided to fit out the dogs with brown leather collars trimmed with yellow and to train the herd to follow the automobile.
"They ought to be trained by the thirtieth of June," observed Romeo. "It would make more of a celebration for Uncle if we took 'em along."
"Did you order the monogram put on the automobile?"
"Sure. I told 'em to put 'The Yellow Peril' on each door and on the back, and the initials, 'C. T.' above it everywhere." The twins had adopted a common monogram, signifying "Crosby Twins." It adorned their stationery and their seal, but, as they seldom wrote letters, it had not been of much use.
"We might have the initials put on the dogs' collars, too," Juliet suggested.
"Sure," assented Romeo, cordially. "Then, if we lose any of 'em on the road, we can identify 'em when they're found, and get 'em back."
Juliet saw that she had made a mistake and hoped Romeo would forget about it, but vainly, for he lounged over and made a memorandum on the slate that hung in the hall.
"I wonder," continued Romeo, thoughtfully, "if the yard is big enough to train 'em in. We ought not to go out on the road until the thirtieth."
"That's easy enough," Juliet answered, with a superior air.
"How'd you go about it?" he demanded.
"If they were my dogs and I wanted 'em to follow me in an automobile, I'd let 'em fast for a day or two and fill the back seat of the machine with raw meat. They'd follow quick enough and be good and lively about it, too. They wouldn't need to be trained."
"Jule," said Romeo, solemnly, "will you please forgive me for calling you a 'sissy girl'?"
"Sure!" Juliet had learned long before she was twenty, that "forgive me," from a man's lips, indicates the uttermost depths of abasement and devotion.
"The fasting won't hurt 'em," Romeo continued, eager to change the subject. "They're all in good condition now."
"Except the last one. You can see some of his ribs yet."
"You can't by June."
"No, I guess not. Say, Romie, oughtn't she to be coming to see us by now?"
"Who?"
"Isabel—what's-her-name. You know, up at Bernard's."
Happy-hearted comrade though she was, Juliet had a secret longing for feminine association, at rare intervals. It would be pleasant she thought, to go skating sometimes with a girl or two instead of the usual crowd of boys. She hated herself fiercely for disloyalty, but the idea recurred persistently.
"I'm not up on etiquette," Romeo replied, casually, "but I should think, if she wanted to come, she could do it by now. We made a polite call as far as I know."
"We didn't leave any cards."
"Cards? What kind of cards?"
"Why, little cards with our names on 'em. People always leave 'em, in the books, when they make calls."
Romeo went over to the slate again and made another memorandum. "I'll get 'em. What'll we have on 'em?"
"We always go together," Juliet suggested, "so I think one will do. Just put on it 'The Crosby Twins,' with our address."
"No need of the address. Everybody who knows us knows where we live."
"Perhaps," Juliet went on, meditatively, "she doesn't like me."
"If she doesn't," Romeo retorted, "I'll know the reason why. Do you remember what I did to the red-headed boy from the Ridge who said he wouldn't skate with the crowd if there was a girl in it?"
Juliet nodded with satisfaction. "But you know, Romie, you can't hit a girl."
"That's so," he admitted disconsolately. "That fresh kid had to wear beefsteak over one eye for almost a week."
Juliet laughed at the idea of Isabel with beefsteak bandaged over one eye. "We won't worry about things we can't help," she said, philosophically. "We've done the proper thing and now it's up to her. If she doesn't come before we get the automobile, she doesn't get invited to go out in it."
"You bet she doesn't."
The talk quickly turned to the unfailing subject of automobiles. "The Yellow Peril" had been ordered and half paid for, but there was delay in delivery. The brown clothes trimmed with tan leather had also been ordered, as well as the brown felt hats, exactly alike, with yellow ribbon bands. They had the goggles and enjoyed glaring fiercely at each other through them, especially at meals. Juliet had thought of making a veil of yellow chiffon, but Romeo had objected violently. He thought they should look as much alike as possible, so she had yielded.
They had decided to make a wide track through the yard and around the barn to practise on. Suitable space for the, automobile had already been set aside in the barn and safely fenced in beyond the reach of canine interference. Romeo had not seen the necessity of the fence until Juliet had pointed out that some of the dogs would want to sleep on the leather cushions. "It would make it smell so doggy," she had said, "that we'd have to call it 'The Yellow Dog' instead of 'The Yellow Peril.'"
Romeo, with true masculine detachment, could talk automobile with unfailing enthusiasm, and yet think continually about something else. The thought that Isabel might not like Juliet had not occurred to him. It seemed impossible that anybody should not like Juliet, for, in the fond eyes of her twin, she was the most sane and sensible girl in the world.
"Anyhow," thought Romeo as he went to sleep that night, "if Jule wants her to come here, she's got to do it, that's all."
He meditated upon the problem for several days without reaching any satisfactory conclusion. At last he determined to go up to see Isabel himself, and, as he phrased it in his own mind, "see how the land lays." It would be difficult to elude Juliet, but, in Romeo's experience, the things one determined to do could nearly always be done.
It was an easy matter to make an errand to the City, "to poke 'em up a bit about the machine," and to get the visiting cards, which had promptly been ordered by mail. Juliet rather insisted upon going along, but was easily dissuaded by the fact that "there might be a row, and anyway, it's a man's job."
He came home about dusk with several packages, one of which he carefully concealed under a pile of leaves in the fence corner just inside the yard. He could easily reach through the palings and lift it over the fence as he passed.
Juliet admired the cards, was delighted with a box of chocolates and two new novels, and condescended to approve of Romeo's new red tie. He had gloves in his pocket, but feared to show them to her, gloves being her pet object of scorn.
After they had cleared off the table, Romeo strolled over to the window. Five of the dogs were gathered about some small object and the yard was littered with bits of white. Under his breath Romeo said something that sounded like profanity, and Juliet pricked up her ears.
"What's the matter?" she demanded.
"I brought home some flowers," explained Romeo, carefully, for it was written in the covenant that the twins should never, under any circumstances, lie to each other, "and I must have dropped 'em. The dogs have torn 'em to pieces, box and all."
Juliet clapped her hands gleefully. "I'm glad of it!"
"Why?" he asked quickly, with an uneasy sense that she was a mind- reader.
"Because we've got so many dogs."
Romeo chose to take offence at the innocent remark and relapsed into gloomy silence. Disdaining to speak, Juliet curled up on the decrepit sofa with a book and the chocolates, and presently went to sleep.
"Fortune favours the brave," he quoted to himself, as he tiptoed into the kitchen, cautiously closing the door. A subtle perfume filled the room and he sniffed appreciatively. An open bottle of vanilla extract stood on the kitchen table, where a pan of fudges was cooling, marked off into neat squares. He wrapped the pan in a newspaper, anointed his handkerchief liberally with the fragrant extract, and softly stole out into the night.
The dogs followed him to the back fence, but did not bark. Only a few soft whines followed him as he sped down the road, thrilled with a sense of adventure and romance. If Juliet should happen to wake, she would think he had gone away because he was angry, and never need know that like some misunderstood knight of old, he was merely upon an errand of chivalry for her. The fudges would do as well as the calla lilies, probably, though he felt instinctively that they were not quite as elegant.
It was a long way to Madame Bernard's, and Juliet's knight-errant was weary, after an exhausting day in town. He paused outside the gate long enough to clean the dust from his shoes with the most soiled of his two handkerchiefs, then went boldly up the steps and rang the bell.
He was embarrassed to find Colonel Kent and Allison there, though the younger man's tact speedily set him at ease again, and enabled him to offer Isabel the pan of fudges with unwonted grace of manner. Then he went over to Madame Bernard.
"Juliet couldn't come to-night," he said, "but here's our card."
Madame could not repress a smile as she read "The Crosby Twins" engraved in the fashionable script of the moment. "How very original," she said, kindly. "Nobody but you and Juliet would have thought of it."
"Jule thought of it," he replied, with evident pride. "She's more up on etiquette than I am."
"If it's proper for husband and wife to have their names engraved on the same card," Madame went on, "it must be all right for twins."
"It's more proper," Romeo returned, "because nobody is so much related as twins are. Husband and wife are only relatives by marriage."
Colonel Kent laughed appreciatively. "Good! May I have some of MissIsabel's candy?"
Isabel, convulsed with secret mirth, informally passed the pan, and onlyRomeo refused. "I can have 'em any time," he said, generously. "Doesn'tJule make dandy fudges, though?"
Everybody agreed that she did. Madame Francesca expressed something more than conventional regret that Juliet had not been able to come. "She was asleep," Romeo explained, with studied indifference.
"After she wakes," suggested Colonel Kent, "we'd like very much to have you both come to our house to dinner."
"Thank you," replied Romeo, somewhat stiffly. "We'd be very much pleased." Then to himself, he added: "That was a lie, but it wasn't to Jule, so it doesn't matter."
Rose made friendly inquiries about the dogs and told Allison that Romeo was said to have the finest collection of fishing tackle in the State. Much gratified, Romeo invited Allison to go fishing with him as soon as the season opened, and, as an afterthought, politely included the Colonel.
"I've never been fishing," remarked Isabel, as she could think of nothing else to say.
"Girls are an awful bother in a boat," Romeo returned, with youthful candour. "That is, except Juliet."
Isabel flushed faintly and bit her lips. To relieve an awkward pause,Madame Francesca asked Allison to play something.
"Yes," said Romeo, "go on and play." He meant to be particularly courteous, but his tone merely indicated that he would not be seriously annoyed by music.
As the first strains came from the piano and violin, Romeo established himself upon the couch beside Isabel, and, in a low, guarded tone, began to talk automobile. Isabel was so much interested that she wholly forgot Aunt Francesca's old-fashioned ideas about interrupting a player, and the conversation became animated.
Both Rose and Allison had too much good sense to be annoyed, but occasionally, until the last chord, they exchanged glances of amusement. When they stopped, Isabel was saying: "Your suits must be just lovely."
Romeo turned with a lordly wave of the hand. "You don't need to stop. Go on!"
"How can you expect us to play properly?" inquired Rose, tactfully, "when you're talking about automobiles? We'd much rather listen to you."
"Begin over again, won't you?" asked Allison. He added, with a trace of sarcasm wholly lost upon Romeo: "We've missed a good deal of it."
Thus encouraged, Romeo began again, thoughtfully allowing Isabel the credit of the original suggestion. He dwelt at length upon the fine points involved in the construction of "The Yellow Peril," described the brown leather and the specially designed costumes, and was almost carried away by enthusiasm when he pictured the triumphant progress of the yellow car, followed by twenty dogs in appropriate collars.
"Can you," he inquired of Allison, "think of anything more like a celebration that we could do for Uncle?"
"No," replied Allison, choking back a laugh, "unless you went out at night, too, and had fireworks."
Romeo's expressive face indicated displeasure. "Uncle was such a good man," he said, in a tone of quiet rebuke, "that I don't believe it would be appropriate."
Allison coughed and Colonel Kent hastily went to the window. Madame hid 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 andAllison and I've been with them all the evening. I'm sorry I stayed solong."
"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.
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 manypeople and it's no fun to go alone. Don't you and Rose ever go, AuntFrancesca?"
"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 whereLove 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!
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 AuntFrancesca 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?"
"I'd have to see 'em first," he replied, tactfully steering away from the danger of a choice. He had not felt the need of a dog and was merely trying to be pleasant.
"There's plenty to see," she went on, with a winning smile. "I like dogs myself but we fought once because I thought we had too many. We've named 'em all out of an old book we found in the attic. There's Achilles, and Hector, and Persephone, and Minerva, and Circe and Juno, and Priam, and Eurydice, and goodness knows how many more. Romie knows all their names, but I don't."
Hearing the sound of wheels outside, Colonel Kent, with a certain old- fashioned hospitality to which our generation might happily return, went to open the door himself for his expected guests. Juliet went hastily to the mirror to make sure that her turbulent curls were in order, and Romeo intercepted Allison on his way to the door.
"I heard what she said," Romeo remarked, in a low tone, "about my having been up here, but I didn't tell her I was here. I don't lie to Jule, but I'm responsible only for what I say, not for what she thinks."
Allison smiled with full understanding of the situation. "We men have to be careful what we say to women," he replied, with an air of caution and comradeship that made his young guest feel like a full-fledged man of the world.
"Sure," assented Romeo, with a broad grin and a movement of one eyelid which was almost—but not quite—a wink.
Presently the three other guests came in, followed by the Colonel. Madame Francesca was in white silk over which violets had been scattered with a lavish hand, then woven into the shining fabric. She wore violets in her hair and at her belt, and a single amethyst at her throat. Isabel was in white, with flounces of spangled lace, and Rose was unusually lovely in a gown of old gold satin and a necklace of palest topaz. In her dark hair was a single yellow rose.
Juliet was for the moment aghast at so much magnificence and painfully conscious of her own white muslin gown. Madame Francesca, reading her thought, drew the girl's tall head down and kissed her. "What a clover blossom you are," she said, "all in freshest white, with pink cheeks and sunshiny curls!"
Thus fortified, Juliet did not mind Isabel's instinctive careful appraisement of her gown, and she missed, happily, the evident admiration with which Romeo's eyes followed Isabel's every movement.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Allison was asking Rose, "so I could have ransacked the town for golden roses?"
"I've repeatedly done it myself," laughed Rose, "without success. I usually save my yellow gowns for June when all the yellow rose bushes in the garden may lavish their wealth upon me."
"Happy rose," Allison returned, lightly, "to die in so glorious a cause."
The twins were almost at the point of starvation when dinner was announced, though they had partaken liberally of bread and butter and jam just before leaving home. Romeo had complained a little but had not been sufficiently Spartan to refuse the offered refreshment.
"I don't see why you want to feed me now and spoil my dinner," he grumbled, as he reached out for a second slice.
"I don't want to spoil your dinner," Juliet had answered, with her mouth full. "Can't you see I'm eating, too? We don't want to be impolite when we're invited out, and eat too much."
"You've been reading the etiquette book," remarked Romeo, with unusual insight, "and there's more foolish things in that book than in any other we've got. When we're invited out to eat, why shouldn't we eat? They may have been cooking for days just to get ready for us and they won't like it if we only pick at things."
"Maybe they want some left," Juliet replied, brushing aside the crumbs. "I remember how mad Mamma was once when the minister ate two pieces of pie and she had to make another the next day or divide one piece between you and me."
"I'll bet she made another. She always fed us, and I remember that the kids around the corner couldn't even have bread and molasses between meals."
On the way to the dining-room, Juliet drew her brother aside and whispered to him: "watch the others, then you'll be sure of getting the right fork."
"Huh!" he returned, resentfully, having been accustomed to only one fork since he and Juliet began to keep house for themselves.
When he saw the array of silver at his plate, however, he blessed her for the hint. As the dinner progressed by small portions of oysters, soup, and fish, he gratefully remembered the bread and jam. The twins noted that the others always left a little on their plates, but proudly disdained the subterfuge for themselves.
Madame Francesca sat opposite the Colonel and Rose was at his right. Romeo sat next to her and across from them was Allison, between Isabel and Juliet.
Somewhat subdued by the unfamiliar situation, the twins said very little during dinner. Juliet took careful note of the appointments of the table and dining-room, and of the gowns the other women wore. When Romeo was not occupied with his dinner and the various forks, he watched Isabel with frank admiration, and wondered what made the difference between her and Juliet.
Everybody tried to produce general conversation, but could extract only polite monosyllables from the twins. Questions addressed directly to them were briefly answered by "yes" or "no," or "I don't know," or, more often, by a winning smile which included them all.
Had it not been for Madame Francesca, gallantly assisted by the Colonel, the abnormal silence of the younger guests might have reacted unfavourably upon the entertainment, for Isabel was as quiet as she usually was, in the presence of her aunt and cousin, Allison became unable to think of topics of general interest, and Rose's efforts to talk pleasantly while her heart was aching were no more successful than such efforts usually are.
But Madame Francesca, putting aside the burden of her seventy years, laughed and talked and told stories with all the zest of a girl. Inspired by her shining example, the Colonel dragged forth a few musty old anecdotes and offered them for inspection. They were new to the younger generation, and Madame affected to find them new also.
Rose wondered at her, as often, envying her the gift of detachment. The fear that had come upon Rose at midnight was with her still, haunting her, waking or sleeping, like some evil thing. Proudly she said to herself that she would seek no man, though her heart should break for love of him; that though her soul writhed in anguish, neither he nor the woman who took him from her should ever even suspect she cared.
She forced herself to meet Allison's eyes with a smile, to answer his questions, and to put in a word, now and then, when Madame or the Colonel paused. Yet, with every sense at its keenest, she noted Isabel's downcast eyes, the self-conscious air with which Allison spoke to her, and the exaggerated consideration of Juliet which he instinctively adopted as a shield. She saw, too, that Isabel was secretly annoyed whenever Allison spoke to Juliet, and easily translated the encouraging air with which Isabel met Romeo's admiring glances. Once, when he happened to turn quickly enough to see, a shadow crossed Allison's face, and he bit his lips.
"How civilised the world has become," Madame was saying, lightly. "The mere breaking of bread together precludes all open hostility. Bitter enemies may meet calmly at the dinner table of a mutual friend, and I understand that, in the higher circles in which we do not care to move, a man may escort his divorced wife out to dinner, and, without bitterness, congratulate her upon her approaching marriage."
"I've often thought," returned the Colonel, more seriously, "that the modern marriage service should be changed to read 'until death or divorce do us part.' It's highly inconsistent as it stands."
"'Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,'" she quoted. "Inconsistency goes as far toward making life attractive as its pleasures do toward spoiling it."
"What do you call pleasure?" queried Allison.
"The unsought joy. If you go out to hunt for it, you don't often get it. When you do, you've earned it and are entitled to it. True pleasure is a free gift of the gods, like a sense of humour."
By some oblique and unsuspected way, the words brought a certain comfort to Rose. Without bitterness, she remembered that Allison had once said: "In any true mating, they both know." Over and over again she said to herself, stubbornly: "I will have nothing that is not true—nothing that is not true."
It was a wise hostess who discovered the fact that changing rooms may change moods; that many a successful dinner has an aftermath in the drawing-room as cold and dismal as a party call. Madame Francesca had once characterised the hour after dinner as "the stick of a sky-rocket, which never fails to return and bring disillusion with it." Hence she postponed it as long as she could, but the Colonel himself gave the signal by moving back his chair.
An awkward pause followed, which lasted until Rose went to the piano of her own accord and began to play. At length she drifted into the running chords of a familiar accompaniment and Allison took his violin and joined in. As he stood by Rose, the mere fact of his nearness brought her a strange peace. Had she looked up, she would have seen that though he stood so near her, he had eyes only for Isabel and was playing to her alone.
Isabel did not seem to care. She sat with her hands folded idly in her lap, occasionally glancing at the twins who sat together on a sofa across the room. Madame Bernard and the Colonel had gone out on the balcony that opened off of the library.
The night was cool, yet had in it the softness of May. Every wandering wind brought a subtle, exquisite fragrance from orchards blooming afar. High in the heavens swung the pale gold moon of Spring.
"What a night," said Madame, almost in a whisper. "It seems almost as if there never had been another Spring."
"And as if there never would be another."
"That may be true, for one or both of us," she replied, with unwonted sadness.
"My work is done," sighed the Colonel. "I have only to wait now."
"Sometimes I think that all of Life is waiting," she went on, with a little catch in her voice, "and yet we never know what we were waiting for, unless—when all is done—"
A warm, friendly hand closed over hers. "Do not question too much, dear friend, for the God who ordained the beginning can safely be trusted with the end, as well as with all that lies between. Do you know," he continued, in a different tone, "a night like this always makes me think of those wonderful lines:
"'The blessed damozel leaned outFrom the gold bar of Heaven;Her eyes were deeper than the depthOf waters stilled at even;She had three lilies in her handAnd the stars in her hair were seven.'"
Francesca's eyes filled and the stars swam before her, for she remembered the three white lilies the Colonel had put into the still hands of his boy's mother, just before the casket was closed. "I wonder," she breathed, "if—they—know."
"I wonder, too," he said.
The strains of the violin floated out upon the scented night, vibrant with love and longing, with passion and pain. Something had come into the music that was never there before, but only Rose knew it.
"Richard," said Francesca, suddenly, "if you should go first, and it should be as we hope and pray it may be—if people know each other there, and can speak and be understood, will you tell him that I am keeping the faith; that I have only been waiting since we parted?"
"Yes. And if it should be the other way, will you tell her that I, too, am waiting and keeping the faith, and that I have done well with our boy?"
"I will," she promised.
The last chord of violin and piano died into silence. Colonel Kent bent down and lifted Madame's hand to his lips, then they went in together.