The days dragged on so wearily that, to Rose, the hours seemed unending. Allison came to the house frequently, but seldom spoke of his music; for more than a week, he did not ask her to play at all. On the rare occasions when he brought his violin with him, the old harmony seemed entirely gone. The pianist's fingers often stumbled over the keys even though Allison played with new authority and that magical power that goes by the name of "inspiration," for want of a better word.
Once she made a mistake, changing a full chord into a dissonance so harsh and nerve-racking that Allison shuddered, then frowned. When they had finished, he turned to her, saying, kindly: "You're tired, Rose. I've been a selfish brute and let you work too hard."
Quick denial was on her lips, but she stopped in time and followed his lead gracefully. "Yes, and my head aches, too. If all of you will excuse me, I'll go up and rest for a little while."
Evening after evening, she made the same excuse, longing for her own room, with a locked and bolted door between her and the outer world. Lonely and miserable though she was, she had at least the sense of shelter. Pride, too, sustained her, for, looking back to the night they met, months ago, she could remember no word nor act, or even a look of hers that had been out of keeping.
Over and over again she insisted to herself, stubbornly: "I will have nothing that is not true,—nothing that is not true." In the midnight silences, when she lay wide awake, though all the rest of the world slept, the words chimed in with her heart-beats: "Nothing that is not true—nothing—that is—not true."
Madame Francesca, loving Rose dearly, became sorely troubled and perplexed. She could not fail to see and understand, and, at times, feared that Allison and Isabel must see and understand also. She watched Rose faithfully and shielded her at every possible point. When Isabel inquired why Rose was always tired in the evening, Madame explained that she had been working too hard and that she had made her promise to rest.
Rose spent more time than usual at the piano but she neglected her own work in favour of Allison's accompaniments. When she was alone, she could play them creditably, even without the notes, but if, by any chance, he stood beside her, waiting until the prelude was finished, she faltered at the first sound of the violin.
At last she gave it up and kept more and more to her own room. Madame meditated upon the advisability of sending Isabel away, providing it could be done gracefully, or even taking her on some brief journey, thus leaving Rose in full possession of the house.
Yet, in her heart, she knew that it would be only a subterfuge; that it was better to meet the issues of Life squarely than to attempt to hide from them, since inevitably all must be met. She could not bear to see Rose hurt, nor could she endure easily the spectacle of her beloved foster son upon the verge of a lifelong mistake. Several times she thought of talking to Colonel Kent, and, more rarely, of speaking to Allison himself, but she had learned to apply to speech the old maxim referring to letter-writing: "When in doubt, don't."
It happened that Allison came late one afternoon, when Isabel had gone to town in search of new finery and Rose was in her own room. Madame had just risen from her afternoon nap, and, after he had waited a few moments, she came down.
"Where's Isabel?" he asked, as he greeted her.
"Shopping," smiled Madame.
"I know, but I thought she'd be at home by this time. She told me she was coming out on the earlier train."
"She may have met someone and gone to the matinee. It's Wednesday."
"She didn't need to do that. I'll take her whenever she wants to go and she knows it."
"I didn't say she had gone—I only said she might have gone. She may be waiting for the trimming of a hat to be changed, or for an appointment with tailor or dressmaker or manicure, or any one of a thousand other things. When you see her, she can doubtless give a clear account of herself."
"Did Rose go with her?" he asked, after a brief pause.
"No, she's asleep," sighed Madame. "Allison, I'm worried about Rose and have been for some time. She isn't well."
"I thought something was wrong," he replied, without interest. "She can't seem to play even the simplest accompaniment any more, and she used to do wonders, even with heavy work."
"I think," ventured Madame, cautiously, "that she needs to get out more. If someone would take her for a walk or a drive every day, it would do her good."
"Probably," assented Allison, with a faraway look in his eyes. "If you want to borrow our horses at any time, Aunt Francesca, when yours are not available, I hope you'll feel free to telephone for them. They're almost eating their heads off and the exercise would do them good."
"Thank you," she answered, shortly. Allison noted the veiled sharpness of her tone and wondered why anyone should take even slight offence at the friendly offer of a coach and pair.
"It must be nearly time for the next train," he resumed. "Is there anyone at the station to meet Isabel?"
"Nobody but the coachman and the carriage," returned Madame, dryly. "I'm not in the habit of being asked whether or not I have made proper provision for my guests."
"I beg your pardon, Aunt Francesca. I would have known, of course, if I had stopped to think."
"How is your father?" she put in, abruptly.
"All right, I guess. He's making a garden and the whole front yard is torn up as though sewer pipes were about to be put in."
Madame's heart softened with pity, for she knew that only loneliness would have set the Colonel to gardening. "I must go over and see it," she said, in a different tone. "My valuable advice hasn't been asked, but I think I could help a little."
"Undoubtedly. Your own garden is one of the loveliest I have ever seen.Isn't that the train?"
"I think so. If Isabel comes, I believe I'll leave you to entertain her while I drive over to inspect the new garden."
She was oppressed, as never before, by the necessity of speech, and, of all those around her, Colonel Kent was the only one to whom it would be possible for her to say a word. She did not stop to consider what she could accomplish by it, for in her heart, she knew that she was helpless—also that a great deal of the trouble in the world has not been caused by silence.
Allison drummed on the arm of his chair until he heard the rumble of wheels, then went to the window. "It's Isabel," he announced, joyously. "I'll go down and help her out—she may have parcels."
Presently they came in together, laughing. Isabel's face was flushed and Allison was heavily laden with packages, both small and large. "I feel like Santa Claus," he cried, gaily, to Madame, as she passed them on the way out.
She smiled, but did not take the trouble to speak. "Colonel Kent's," she called to the driver, as she closed the carriage door with a resounding bang, "and please hurry."
The Colonel was on the veranda when she arrived, superintending the gardening operations from there. He greeted her with surprise, for it was not her way to drive over there alone. "I am deeply honoured," he said, as he assisted her up the steps. "May I order tea?"
"No, thank you," she answered, somewhat primly. It was evident that she was ill at ease. "I understood from Allison that you were doing all this yourself. Instead, I find you sitting on the veranda like a landed proprietor, in command of an army of slaves."
"Two Irishmen don't make an army," he laughed, "though I'll admit that, if angry, they would make a formidable force. I helped to dig for a while this morning, but it didn't seem to agree with me, so I quit. My work seems to be done," he continued, with a sigh.
"No, it isn't," she returned, sharply. "There's work to be done, but whether you or I or both together can do it, is extremely doubtful."
"What do you mean, Francesca?"
Madame leaned toward him confidentially. "Richard," she said, in a low tone, "has it ever occurred to you that Allison might marry?"
A shadow crossed his face, then vanished in a smile. "Yes. Why?"
"Have you ever seen a woman you would be willing for him to marry?"
"Only one."
"And she—?"
"Rose," said the Colonel, softly. "Your Rose."
"I've felt that way, too," whispered Madame. There was silence for the space of a heart-beat, then she cried out sharply: "But it isn't Rose— it's Isabel!"
"What?" he cried, startled for once out of his usual calm. "That child?"
"'That child' is past twenty, and he is only ten years older. There was fifteen years' difference between you and—" Madame forebore to speak the name of the dead and beloved wife.
Colonel Kent turned his dim blue eyes toward the hills. Behind them the sun was setting, and he could guess that the gold of the Spring afternoon was scattered like star dust over the little sunken grave. He left Madame and went to the end of the veranda, where he stood for a few moments, facing the West. Then he came back.
"Francesca," he said, slowly, "you and I are on the Western slope and have been for a long time. The Valley of the Shadow lies at the foot of the hill and the descent is almost made. But the boy is young, and most of the journey lies before him. You chose for yourself, and so did I. Shall we not grant him the same right?"
"Yes, but Rose—"
"Rose," interrupted the Colonel, "is too good for any man—even my own son, though, as I said before, she is the only woman I would willingly see him marry. You stand almost in his mother's place to him, but neither you nor I can shield him now. We must try to remember that his life is his—to make or mar."
"I know," she sighed, "I've thought it all out."
"Besides," he went on, "what could we do? Separation wouldn't last long, if he wants her, and talking would only alienate him from us. Perhaps you could bear it, but I—I couldn't."
"Nor I," she returned, quickly. "When we come to the sundown road, we need all the love we have managed to take with us from the summit of the hill. I hadn't meant to say anything to anyone," she went on, in a changed tone, "but my heart was full, and you are—"
"Your best friend, Francesca, as you are mine. It seems to take a lifetime for us to learn that wisdom consists largely in a graceful acceptance of things that do not immediately concern us."
"How like you," she responded, with a touch of her old manner. "I ask for comfort and you give me an epigram."
"Many people find satisfaction in epigrams," he reminded her. "Sometimes a snap-shot is better than an oil painting."
"Or a geometrical design, or even a map," she continued, catching his mood. The talk drifted to happier themes and Madame was quite herself again at dusk, when she rose to go.
On the way back, she passed Allison, returning home to dinner by a well- worn path, but he was thinking of something else and did not see her at all.
The lilac-scented midnight was starred here and there with white blooms when May went out and June came in. Drifts of "bridal wreath" were banked against the side of the house and a sweet syringa breathed out a faint perfume toward the hedge of lilacs beyond. Blown petals of pink and white died on the young grass beneath Madame's wild crab-apple tree, transplanted from a distant woodland long ago to glorify her garden.
The hour was one of enchantment, yet to Rose, leaning out into the moonless night, the beauty of it brought only pain. She wondered, dully, if she should ever find surcease; if somewhere, on the thorny path ahead, there might not be some place where she could lay the burden of her heartache down. Her pride, that had so long sustained her, was beginning to fail her now. It no longer seemed more vital than life itself that Allison should not know.
She had the hurt woman's longing for escape, but could think of no excuse for flight. She knew Aunt Francesca would manage it, in some way, should she ask, and that she would be annoyed by no troublesome questions, yet loyalty held her fast, for she knew how lonely the little old lady would be without her.
Day by day, the tension increased almost to the breaking point. June filled the garden with rosebuds, but their pale namesake in the big white house took no heed of them. She no longer concerned herself about her gowns, but wore white almost constantly, that her pallor might not show.
The roses broke from their green sheaths, then bloomed, opening their golden hearts to every wandering bee. The house was full of roses. Aunt Francesca wore them even on her morning gowns and Isabel made wreaths of red roses to twine in her dark hair. Every breeze brought fragrance to the open windows and scattered it through the house.
Madame's heart ached for Rose, but still she said no word, though it seemed to her that the blindness of the others could not last much longer. She could not take Rose away unless she took Isabel also, and, should she do that, things would soon be just as they were now.
As Rose faded, Isabel blossomed into the full flower of her youth. Her high, bird-like laugh echoed constantly through the house and garden, whether anyone was with her or not. With sinking heart, Rose envied her even a tithe of her abundant joy.
As the moon approached its full, the roses had begun to drop their petals. Under every bush was a scattered bit of fragrance that meant both death and resurrection. Far down in the garden, where the sunken lily-pool mirrored the stars, the petals of golden roses drifted idly across the shining surface.
Rose had worn white at dinner, as she always did, now, the night the June moon came to its full. Isabel, too, was in white, but with a difference, for as surely as the older woman's white was mourning, her silver spangles were donned for joy. At the table, Madame had done most of the talking, for Isabel's conversational gifts were limited, at best, and Rose was weary beyond all words.
After dinner she went to the piano and struck a few aimless chords. Isabel, with a murmured excuse, went up to her own room. "Nothing that is not true," said Rose to herself, steadily; "nothing that is not true."
Presently a definite thought took shape in her mind. To-morrow she would tell Aunt Francesca, and see if it could not be arranged for her to go away somewhere, anywhere, alone. Or, if not to-morrow, at least the day after, as soon as she had seen him again. She wanted one last look to take with her into the prison-house, where she must wrestle with her soul alone.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
Her stiff fingers shaped the melody that Aunt Francesca loved, and into it went all her own longing, her love, and her pain. The notes thrilled with an ecstasy of renunciation, and the vibrant chords trembled far out into the night.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
A man entered the gate very quietly, paused, then turned into the garden, to soothe his wildly beating heart for a few moments with the balm of scent and sound. Upstairs, behind the shelter of the swaying curtain, a shining figure drew back into the shadow. Smiling, and with an agreeable sense of adventure, Isabel tiptoed down the back stairs, and entered the garden, unheard, by a side door.
With assumed carelessness, yet furtively watching, she made the circuit of the lily-pool, humming to herself. A quick leap and a light foot on the grass startled her for an instant, then she laughed, for it was only Mr. Boffin, playing with his own dancing shadow.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
The sound of the piano had become very faint, though the windows were open and the wind was in the right direction. Isabel stopped at another bush, picked a few full-blown white roses, and sat down on a garden bench to remove the thorns.
"I wonder where he can be," she said to herself. "Surely he can't have gone home again." She listened, but there was no sound save the distant piano, and the abrupt, playful purr of Mr. Boffin, as he pounced upon a fallen white rose.
Isabel put the flowers in her hair, consciously missing the mirror in which she was wont to observe the effect. "He must have gone in while I was coming down," she thought, "but I don't see why he shouldn't have gone straight in when he first came."
She decided to wait until he came to look for her, then as swiftly changed her mind. Rose was still playing.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
Isabel hummed the melody to herself, not noting that she was off the key, and started slowly toward the house, by another path.
Allison was standing in the shadow of a maple, listening to the music and drawing in deep breaths of the rose-scented air. The moon flooded the garden with enchantment, and a shaft of silver light, striking the sundial, made a shadow that was hours wrong. He smiled as he saw it, amiably crediting the moon with an accidental error, rather than a purposeful lie.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
Deeper and more vibrant, the woman within sent the cry of her heart into the night, where the only one who could answer it stood watching the shadow of the moon on the sun-dial and the spangled cobwebs on the grass. He picked a rose, put it into his button-hole, and turned toward the house.
A hushed sound, as of rustling silk, made him pause, then, at the head of the path, where another joined it, Isabel appeared, with white roses in her hair and the moon shining full upon her face. The spangles on her gown caught the light and broke it into a thousand tiny rainbows, surrounding her with faint iridescence.
The old, immortal hunger surged into his veins, the world-old joy made his senses reel. He steadied himself for a moment, then went to her, with his arms outstretched in pleading.
"Oh, Silver Girl," he whispered, huskily. "My Silver Girl! Tell me you'll shine for me always!"
[Illustration: musical notation.]
The last chord ceased, full of yearning that was almost prayer. Then Isabel, cold as marble and passionless as snow, lifted her face for his betrothal kiss.
With shyness that did not wholly conceal her youthful pride, Isabel told Madame, a few days later. The little old lady managed to smile and to kiss Isabel's soft cheek, murmuring the conventional hope for her happiness. Inwardly, she was far from calm, though deeply thankful that Rose did not happen to be in the room.
"You must make him very happy, dear," she said.
"I guess we'll have a good time," returned Isabel, smothering a yawn. "It will be lots of fun to go all over the country and see all the big cities."
"I hope he will be successful," Madame continued. "He must be," she added, fervently.
"I suppose we shall be entertained a great deal," remarked Isabel. "He has written to Mamma, but she hasn't had time to answer yet."
"I can vouch for my foster son," Madame replied.
"It isn't necessary," the girl went on, "and I told him so. Mamma never cares what I do, and she'll be glad to get me off her hands. Would you mind if I were married here?"
Madame's heart throbbed with tender pity. "Indeed," she answered, warmly, "you shall have the prettiest wedding I can give you. Your mother will come, won't she?"
"Not if it would interfere with her lecture engagements. She's going to lecture all next season on 'The Slavery of Marriage.' She says the wedding ring is a sign of bondage, dating back to the old days when a woman was her husband's property."
Madame Francesca's blue eyes filled with a sudden mist. Slowly she turned on her finger the worn band of gold that her gallant Captain had placed there ere he went to war. It carried still a deep remembrance too holy for speech. "Property," repeated the old lady, in a whisper. "Ah, but how dear it is to be owned!"
"I don't mind wearing it," said Isabel, with a patronising air, "but I want it as narrow as possible, so it won't interfere with my other rings, and, of course, I can take it off when I like."
"Of course, but I would be glad to have you so happily married, my dear, that you wouldn't want to take it off—ever."
"I'll have to ask Mamma to send me some money for clothes," the girl went on, half to herself.
"Don't bother her with it," suggested the other, kindly. "Let me do it.Rose and I will enjoy making pretty things for a bride."
"I'm afraid Cousin Rose wouldn't enjoy it," Isabel replied, with an unpleasant laugh. "Do you know," she added, confidentially, "I've always thought Cousin Rose liked Allison—well, a good deal."
"She does," returned Madame, meeting the girl's eyes clearly, "and so do I. When you're older, Isabel, you'll learn to distinguish between a mere friendly interest and the grand passion."
"She's too old, I know," Isabel continued, with the brutality of confident youth, "but sometimes older women do fall in love with young men."
"Why shouldn't they?" queried Madame, lightly, "as long as older men choose to fall in love with young women? As far as that goes, it would be no worse for Allison to marry Rose than it is for him to marry you."
"But," objected Isabel, "when he is sixty, she will be seventy, and he wouldn't care for her."
"And," returned Madame, rather sharply, "when he is forty, you will be only thirty and you may not care for him. There are always two sides to everything," she added, after a pause, "and when we get so civilised that all women may be self-supporting if they choose, we may see a little advice to husbands on the way of keeping a wife's love, instead of the flood of nonsense that disfigures the periodicals now."
"They all say that woman makes the home," Isabel suggested, idly.
"But not alone. No woman can make a home alone. It takes two pairs of hands to make a home—one strong and the other tender, and two true hearts."
"I hope it won't take too long to make my clothes," answered Isabel, irrelevantly. "He says I must be ready by September."
"Then we must begin immediately. Write out everything you think of, and afterward we'll go over the list together. Come into the library and begin now. There's no time like the present."
"Do you think," Isabel inquired as she seated herself at the library table, "that I will have many presents?"
"Probably," answered Madame, briefly. "I'll come back when you've finished your list."
She went up-stairs and knocked gently at the door of Rose's room, feeling very much as she did the day she went to Colonel Kent to tell him that the little mother of his new-born son was dead. Rose herself opened the door, somewhat surprised.
Madame went in, closed the door, then stood there for a moment, at a loss for words.
"Has it come?" asked Rose, in a low voice.
"Yes. Oh, Rose, my dear Rose!"
She put her arm around the younger woman and led her to the couch. Every hint of colour faded from Rose's face; her eyes were wide and staring, her lips scarcely pink. "I must go away," she murmured.
"Where, dearest?"
"Anywhere—oh, anywhere!"
"I know, dear, believe me, I know, but it never does any good to run away from things that must be faced sooner or later. We women have our battles to fight as well as the men who go to war, and the same truth applies to both—that only a coward will retreat under fire."
Rose sighed and clenched her hands together tightly.
"Once there was a ship," said Madame, softly, "sinking in mid-ocean, surrounded by fog. It had drifted far out of its course, and collided with a derelict. The captain ordered the band to play, the officers put on their dress uniforms and their white gloves. Another ship, that was drifting, too, signalled in answer to the music, and all were saved."
"That was possible—but there can be no signal for me."
"Perhaps not, but let's put on our white gloves and order out the band."
The unconscious plural struck Rose with deep significance. "Did you— know, Aunt Francesca?"
"Yes, dear."
"For how long?"
"Always, I think."
"Did it seem—absurd, in any way?"
"Not at all. I was hoping for it, until the wind changed. And," she added, with her face turned away, "Colonel Kent was, too."
Some of the colour ebbed slowly back into the white, stricken face. "That makes me feel," Rose breathed, "as if I hadn't been quite so foolish as I've been thinking I was."
"Then keep the high heart, dear, for they mustn't suspect."
"No," cried Rose sharply, "oh, no! Anything but that!"
"It's hard to wear gloves when you don't want to," replied Madame, with seeming irrelevance, "but it's easier when there are others. The Colonel will need them, too—this is going to be hard on him."
"Does-he—know?" whispered Rose, fearfully.
"No," answered Madame, laughing outright, "indeed he doesn't. Did you ever know of a man discovering anything that wasn't right under his nose?"
"And I am safe with-with—"
"With everybody but Isabel. She may be foolish, but she's a woman, and even a woman can see around a corner."
"Thank you for telling me," said Rose, after a little; "for giving me time. It was like you."
"I'm glad I could, but remember, I haven't told you, officially. Let her tell you herself."
Rose nodded. "Then I'll come down just as soon as I can."
"With white gloves on, dear, and flags flying. Make your old aunt proud of you now, won't you?"
"I'll try," she answered, humbly, then quickly closed the door.
Meanwhile Colonel Kent, most correctly attired, was making a formal call upon his prospective daughter-in-law, and the list had scarcely been begun. Isabel sat in the living room, trying not to show that she was bored. The Colonel had come in, ready to receive her into his house and his heart, but Isabel had shaken hands with him coolly, and accepted shrinkingly the fatherly kiss he stooped to bestow upon her forehead.
He had tried several preliminary topics of conversation, which had been met with chilling monosyllables, so he plunged into the heart of the subject, with inward trepidation.
"I told Allison this morning that I owed him my thanks for bringing me a daughter."
"Yes," said Isabel, placidly.
"The old house needs young voices and the sound of young feet," theColonel went on.
Isabel began to speak, then hesitated and relapsed into silence. Mr.Boffin came in, purring loudly, and rubbed familiarly against theColonel, leaving a thin coating of yellow hair.
"It seems to be the moulting season for cats," laughed the Colonel, observing the damage ruefully.
Isabel moved restlessly in her chair, but said nothing. The pause had become awkward when the Colonel rose to take his leave.
"I hope you may be happy," he said, gravely, "and make our old house happier for your coming."
"Oh," returned Isabel, quickly, "I hadn't thought of that. I hadn't thought of—of living there."
"The house is large," he ventured, puzzled.
"Mamma has always said," remarked Isabel, primly, "that no house was large enough for two families."
Colonel Kent managed to force a laugh. "You may be right," he answered."At least, everything shall be arranged to your liking."
He had said good-bye and was on his way out, when Francesca came down from Rose's room. Seeing her, he waited for a moment. Isabel had gone into the library and closed the door.
"Whence this haste?" queried Madame, with a lightness which was just then difficult to assume. "Were you going without seeing me?"
"I had feared I would be obliged to," he returned, gallantly. "I was calling upon my future daughter-in-law," he added, in a low tone, as they went out on the veranda.
Madame sighed and sank gratefully into the chair he offered her. In the broad light of day, she looked old and worn.
"Well," continued the Colonel, with an effort to speak cheerfully, "the blow has fallen."
"So I hear," she rejoined, almost in a whisper. "What tremendous readjustments the heedless young may cause!"
"Yes, but we mustn't deny them the right. The eternal sacrifice of youth to age is one of the most pitiful things in nature—human nature, that is. The animals know better."
"Would you remove all opportunity for the development of character?" she inquired, with a tinge of sarcasm.
"No, but I wouldn't deliberately furnish it. The world supplies it generously enough, I think. Allison didn't ask to be born," he went on, with a change of tone, "and those who brought him into the world are infinitely more responsible to him than he is to them."
"One-sided," returned Madame, abruptly. "And, if so, it's the only thing that is. What of the gift of life?"
"Nothing to speak of," he responded with a cynicism wholly new to her."I wouldn't go back and live it over, would you?"
"No," she sighed, "I wouldn't. I don't believe anyone would, even the happiest."
"Too much character development?"
"Yes," she admitted, with a shamefaced flush. "You'll have a chance to see, now. It will be right under your nose."
"No," he said, with a certain sad emphasis which did not escape her; "it won't. I shall be at a respectful distance."
"Why, Richard!" she cried, half rising from her chair; "what do you mean? Aren't you going to live with them in the old home?"
The Colonel shook his head.
"Why?" she demanded.
The Colonel raised his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. "Orders," he said, briefly. "From headquarters."
"Has Allison—" she began, in astonishment, but he interrupted her.
"No." He inclined his head suggestively toward the house, and she understood.
"The little brute," murmured Francesca. "Richard, believe me, I am ashamed."
"Don't bother," he answered, kindly. "The boy mustn't know. You always plan everything for me—where shall I live now?"
She leaned forward, her blue eyes shining. "Oh, Richard," she breathed, "if you only would—if you could—come to Rose and me! We'd be so glad!"
There was no mistaking her sincerity, and the Colonel's fine old face illumined with pleasure. Merely to be wanted, anywhere, brings a certain satisfaction.
"I'll come," he returned, promptly. "How good you are! How good you've always been! I often wonder what I should ever have done without you."
He turned away and, lightly as a passing cloud, a shadow crossed his face. Madame saw how hard it would be to part from his son, and, only in lesser degree, his old home.
"Richard," she said, "a ship was sinking once in a fog, miles out of its course. The captain ordered the band to play and all the officers put on their dress uniforms. Another ship, also drifting, signalled in answer to the music and all were saved."
The Colonel rose and offered his hand in farewell. "Thank you, Francesca," he answered, deeply moved. "I put on my white gloves the day you came to tell me. I thank you now for the signal—and for saving me."
She watched him as he went down the road, tall, erect, and soldierly, in spite of his three-score and ten. "Three of us," she said to herself, "all in white gloves." The metaphor appealed to her strongly.
She did not go in until Isabel appeared in the doorway, list in hand, and prettily perplexed over the problem of clothes. Madame slipped it into the chatelaine bag that hung from her belt. "We'll go over it with Rose," she said. "She knows more about clothes than I do."
"Have you told Cousin Rose?"
"No," answered Madame, avoiding the girl's eyes. "It's your place to tell her—not mine."
When Rose came down to dinner that night, she was gorgeously attired in her gown of old-gold satin, adorned with gold lace. The last yellow roses of the garden were twined in her dark hair, and the rouge-stick, that faithful friend of unhappy woman, had given a little needed colour to her cheeks and lips, for the first time in her life.
"Cousin Rose," began Isabel, a little abashed by the older woman's magnificence, "I'm engaged—to Allison."
"Really?" cried Rose, with well-assumed astonishment. "Come here and let me kiss the bride-to-be. You must make him very happy," she said, then added, softly: "I pray that you may."
"Everybody seems to think of him and not of me," Isabel returned, a little fretfully.
"That's what Aunt Francesca said, and Allison's father seemed to think more about my making Allison happy than he did about my being happy myself."
"That's because the only way to win happiness is to give it," put inMadame. "The more we give, the more we have."
Conversation lagged at dinner, and became, as often, a monologue by Madame. While they were finishing their coffee, they heard Allison's well-known step outside.
"I wonder why he had to come so early," complained Isabel. "I wanted to change my dress. I didn't have time before dinner."
"He'll never know it," Madame assured her. "We'll excuse you dear, if you're through. Don't keep him waiting."
When the dining-room door closed, Rose turned to Madame. "Did I—"
"Most wonderfully."
"But the hardest part is still to come," she breathed, sadly.
"'I was ever a fighter, so one fight more.The best and the last';"
Madame quoted, encouragingly.
Rose smiled—a little wan smile—as she pushed back her chair."Perhaps," she said, "the 'peace out of pain' may follow me."
She went, with faltering step, toward the other room, inwardly afraid.Another hand met hers, with a reassuring clasp. "One step more, Rose.Now then, forward, march, all flags unfurled."
When she went in, Allison came to meet her with outstretched hands. He had changed subtly, since she saw him last. Had light been poured over him, it would have changed him in much the same way.
"Golden Rose," he said, taking both her hands in his, "tell me you are glad—say that you wish me joy."
Her eyes met his clearly. "I do," she smiled. "There is no one in the world for whom I wish joy more than I do for you."
"And I say the same," chimed in Madame, who had closely followed Rose.
"Dear little foster mother," said Allison, tenderly, putting a strong arm around her. He had not yet released Rose's hand, nor did he note that it was growing cold. "I owe you everything," he went on; "even Isabel."
He kissed her, then, laughing, turned to Rose. "May I?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he turned her face to his, and kissed her on the lips.
Cold as ice and shaken to the depths of her soul, Rose stumbled out of the room, murmuring brokenly of a forgotten letter which must be immediately written. Madame lingered for the space of half an hour, talking brightly of everything under the sun, then followed Rose, turning in the doorway as she went out, to say: "Can't you even thank me for leaving you alone?"
"Bless her," said Allison, fondly. "What sweet women they are!"
"Yes," answered Isabel, spitefully, "especially Rose."
He laughed heartily. "What a little goose you are, sweetheart. Kiss me, dear—dearest."
"I won't," she flashed back, stubbornly, nor would she, until at last, by superior strength, he took his lover's privilege from lips that refused to yield.
That night he dreamed that, for a single exquisite instant, Isabel had answered him, giving him love for love. Then, strangely enough, Isabel became Rose, in a gown of gold, with golden roses twined in her hair.
Dinner that night had been rather a silent affair at Kent's, as well as at Madame Bernard's. Being absorbed in his own thoughts, Allison did not realise how unsociable he was, nor that the old man across the table from him perceived that they had reached the beginning of the end.
When Allison spoke, it was always of Isabel. Idealised in her lover's sight, she stood before him as the one "perfect woman, nobly planned," predestined, through countless ages, to be his mate. Colonel Kent merely agreed with him in monosyllables until Allison became conscious that his father did not wholly share his enthusiasm.
"I wish you knew her, Dad," he said, regretfully. "You'll love her when you do."
"I'm willing to," answered the Colonel, shortly. "I called on her this afternoon," he added, after a brief pause.
Allison's face illumined. "Was she there? Did you see her?"
"Yes."
"Isn't she the loveliest thing that was ever made?"
"I'm not prepared to go as far as that," smiled the Colonel, "but she is certainly a very pretty girl."
"She's beautiful," returned Allison, with deep conviction.
The Colonel forebore to remind him that love brings beauty with it, or that the beauty which endures comes from the soul within.
"Just think, Dad," Allison was saying, "how lovely she'll be at that end of the table, with me across from her and you at her right."
The Colonel shook his head, then cleared his throat. "Not always, lad," he said, kindly, "but perhaps, sometimes—as a guest."
Allison's fork dropped with a sharp clatter on his plate. "Dad! What do you mean?"
"No house is large enough for two families," repeated the Colonel, with an unconscious, parrot-like accent.
"Why, Dad! We've always stood together—surely you won't desert me now?"
The old man's eyes softened with mist. He could not trust himself to meet the clear, questioning gaze of his son.
"I can't understand," Allison went on, doubtfully. "Is it possible— could she-did-Isabel—?"
"No" said the Colonel, firmly, still avoiding the questioning eyes. "She didn't!"
"Of course she didn't," returned Allison, fully satisfied. "She 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 AuntFrancesca 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 theWinters, 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 theCrosbys 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.