The darkness swayed but did not lift. There was a strange rhythm in its movement, as though it were the sea, but there was no sound. Black shadows crept upon him, then slowly ebbed away. At times he was part of the darkness, at others, separate from it, yet lying upon it and wholly sustained by it.
At intervals, the swaying movement changed. His feet sank slowly in distinct pulsations until he stood almost upright, then his head began to sink and his feet to rise. When his head was far down and his feet almost directly above him, the motion changed again and he came back gradually to the horizontal, sinking back with one heart-beat and rising with the next—always a little higher.
How still it was! The silence of eternity was in that all compassing dark, which reached to the uttermost boundaries of space. It was hollow and empty, save for him, rising and falling, rising and falling, in a series of regular movements corresponding almost exactly to the ticking of a watch.
A faint, sickening odour crept through the darkness, followed by a black overwhelming shadow which threatened to engulf him in its depths. Still swaying, he waited for it calmly. All at once it was upon him, but swiftly receded. He seemed to sway backward out of it, and as he looked back upon it, gathering its forces for another attack, he saw that it was different from the darkness upon which he lay—that, instead of black, it was a deep purple.
The odour persisted and almost nauseated him. It was vaguely familiar, though he had never before come into intimate contact with it. Was it the purple shadow, that ebbed and flowed so strangely upon his dark horizon, growing to a brighter purple with each movement?
The purple grew very bright, then deepened to blue—almost black. Dancing tongues of flame shot through the darkness, as he swung through it, up and down, like a ship moved by a heavy ground swell. The flames took colour and increased in number. Violet, orange, blue, green, and yellow flickered for an instant, then disappeared.
The darkness was not quite so heavy, but it still swayed. The javelins of flame shot through it continually, making a web of iridescence. Then the purple shadow approached majestically and put them out. When it retreated, they came again, but the colour was fainter.
The yellow flames darted toward him from every conceivable direction, stabbing him like needles. In this light, the purple shadow changed to blue and began to grow brighter. The sickening odour was so strong now that he could scarcely breathe. The blue shadow warred with the yellow flames, but could not put them out. He saw now that the shadow was his friend and the flames were a host of enemies.
All the little stabbing lights suddenly merged into one. He was surrounded by fire that burned him as he swayed back and forth, and the cool shadows were gone. The light grew intense and terrible, but he could not lift his hand to shade his eyes. Slowly the orange deepened to scarlet in which he spun around giddily among myriads of blood-red disks. The scarlet grew brighter and brighter until it became a white, streaming light. All at once the swaying stopped.
The intensity of the white light was agreeably tempered by a grey mist. Through the vapour, he saw the outlines of his own chiffonier, across the room. A woman in spotless white moved noiselessly about. Even though she did not look at him, he felt a certain friendliness toward her. She seemed to have been with him while he swayed through the shadow and it was pleasant to know that he had not been alone.
On the table near the window, his violin lay as he had left it. The case was standing in a corner and his music stand had toppled over. The torn sheets of music rustled idly on the floor, and he wondered, fretfully, why the woman in white did not pick them up.
As if in answer to his thought, she stooped, and gathered them together, quietly sorting the pages and putting them into the open drawer that held his music. She closed the drawer and folded up his music stand without making a sound. She seemed far removed from him, like someone from another world.
Cloud surrounded her, but he caught glimpses of her through it occasionally. She took up his violin, very carefully, put it into its case, and carried it out of the room. He did not care very much, but it seemed rather an impolite thing to do. He knew that he would not have stolen a violin when the owner was in the same room.
Soon she came back and he was reassured. She had not stolen it after all. She might have broken it, for she seemed to feel very sorry about something. She was wiping her eyes with a bit of white, as women always did when they cried.
It was not necessary for her to cry, on account of one broken violin, for he had thousands of them—Stradivarius, Amati, Cremona; everything. Some of them were highly coloured and very rare on that account. He had only to go to his storehouse, present a ticket, and choose whatever he liked—red, green, yellow, or even striped.
Everybody who played the violin needed a great many of them, for the different moods of music. It was obvious that the dark brown violin with which he played slow, sad music could not be used for the Hungarian Dances. He had a special violin for those, striped with barbaric colour.
The woman who had broken one of his violins stood at the window with her back toward him. Her shoulders shook and from time to time she lifted the bit of white to her eyes. It was annoying, he thought; even worse than the shadows and the fire. He was about to call to her and suggest, ironically, that she had cried enough and that the flowers would be spoiled if they got too wet, when someone called, from the next room: "Miss Rose!"
She turned quickly, wiped her eyes once more, and, without making a sound, went out on the white cloud that surrounded her half way to her waist.
He tried to change his position a little and felt his own bed under him. His body was stiff and sore, but he had the use of it, except his left arm. Try as he might, he could not move it, for it was weighted down and it hurt terribly.
"Miss Rose, Miss Rose, Miss Rose, Miss Rose." The words beat hard in his ears like a clock ticking loudly. The accent was on the "Miss"—the last word was much fainter. "Rose Miss" was wrong, so the other must be right, except for the misplaced accent. Did the accent always come on the first beat of a measure? He had forgotten, but he would ask the man at the storehouse when he went to get the striped violin for the Hungarian Dances.
His left hand throbbed with unbearable agony. The room began to spin slowly on its axis. There was no mist now, or even a shadow, and every sense was abnormally acute. The objects in the whirling room were phenomenally clear; even a scratch on the front of his chiffonier stood out distinctly.
He could hear a clock ticking, though there was no clock in his room. Afar was the sound of women sobbing—two of them. Above it a strange voice said, distinctly: "There is not one chance in a thousand of saving his hand. If I had nurses, I would amputate now, before he recovers consciousness."
The words struck him with the force of a blow, though he did not fully realise what they meant. The pain in his left arm and the sickening odour nauseated him. The cool black shadow drowned the objects in the room and crept upon him stealthily. Presently he was swaying again, up and down, up and down, in the all-encompassing, all-hiding dark.
So it happened that he did not hear Colonel Kent's ringing answer: "You shall not amputate until every great surgeon in the United States has said that it is absolutely necessary. I leave on the next train, and shall send them and keep on sending until there are no more to send. Until a man comes who thinks there is a chance of saving it, you are in charge—after that, it is his case."
Day by day, a continuous procession came to the big Colonial house. Allison became accustomed to the weary round of darkness, pain, sickening odours, strange faces, darkness, and so on, endlessly, without pity or pause.
The woman in white had mysteriously vanished. In her place were two, in blue and white, with queer, unbecoming caps. They were there one at a time, always; never for more than a few minutes were they together. When the fierce, hot agony became unendurable for even a moment longer, one of them would lean over him with a bit of shining silver in her hand, and stab him sharply for an instant. Then, with incredible quickness, came peace.
Once, when two strange men had come together, and had gone into the adjoining room, he caught disconnected fragments of conversation. "Hypersensitive-impossible—not much longer—interesting case." He wondered, as he began to sway in the darkness again, what "hypersensitive" meant. Surely, he used to know.
Still, it did not matter—nothing mattered now. In the brief intervals of consciousness, he began to wonder what he had been doing just before this happened, whatever it was. It took him days to piece out the disconnected memories past the whirling room, the woman in white and the creeping shadows, to the red touring car and Isabel.
His heart throbbed painfully, held though it was by some iron hand, icy cold, in a pitiless clutch. Weakly, he summoned the blue and white woman who sat in a low chair across his room. She came quickly, and put her ear very close to his lips that she might hear what he said.
"Was—she—hurt?"
"No," said the blue and white woman, very kindly. "Only slightly bruised."
The next day he summoned her again. As before, she bent very low to catch the gasping words: "Where is-my—father?"
"He had to go to town on business. He will come back just as soon as he can."
"He-is—dead," said Allison, with difficulty. "Nothing else—could take- him-away—now."
"No," she assured him, "you must believe me. He's all right. Everybody else is all right and we hope you soon will be."
"No use—talking of—it," he breathed, hoarsely. "I know."
Singly, by twos and even threes, the strange men continued to come from the City. Allison submitted wearily to the painful examinations that seemed so unnecessary. Some of the men seemed kind, even sympathetic. Others were cold and impassive, like so many machines. Still others, and these were in the majority, were almost brutal.
It was one of the latter sort who one day drew a chair up to the side of the bed with a scraping noise that made the recumbent figure quiver from head to foot. The man's face was almost colourless, his bulging blue eyes were cold and fish-like, distorted even more by the strong lenses of his spectacles.
"Better have it over with," he suggested. "I can do it now."
"Do what?" asked Allison, with difficulty.
"Amputate your hand. There's no chance."
The blue and white young woman then on duty came forward. "I beg your pardon, Doctor, but Colonel Kent left strict orders not to operate without his consent."
The strange man disdained to answer the nurse, but turned to Allison again. "Do you know where your father can be reached by wire?"
"My father—is dead," Allison insisted. He closed his eyes and would answer no more questions. In the next room, he heard the nurse and the doctor talking in low tones that did not carry. Only one word rose above the murmur: "delusion."
Allison repeated it to himself as he sank into the darkness again, wondering what it meant and of whom they were speaking.
Slowly he recovered from the profound shock, but his hand did not improve. He had an idea that the ceaseless bandaging and unbandaging were dangerous as well as painful, but said nothing. He knew that his career had come to its end before it had really begun, but it did not seem to affect him in any way. He considered it unemotionally and impersonally, when he thought of it at all.
Two more men came together. One was brutal, the other merely cold. They shook their heads and went away. A few days later, a man of the rare sort came; a gentle, kindly, sympathetic soul, who seemed human and real.
After the examination was finished, Allison asked, briefly: "Any chance?"
The kindly man hesitated for an instant, then told the truth. "I'm afraid not."
The nurse happened to be out of the room, none the less, Allison motioned to him to come closer. Almost in a whisper he said: "Can you give me anything that will make me strong enough to write half a dozen lines?"
"Could no one else write it for you?"
"No one."
"Couldn't I take the message?"
"Could anyone take a message for me to the girl I was going to marry— now?"
"I understand," said the other, gently. "We'll see. You must make it very brief."
When the nurse came back, they gave him a pencil, propped a book up before him, and fastened a sheet of paper to it by a rubber band. After the powerful stimulant the doctor administered had begun to take effect, Allison managed to write, in a very shaky, almost illegible hand:
"My left hand will have to come off. As I can't ask you to marry a cripple, the only honourable thing for me to do is to release you from our engagement. Don't think I blame you. Good-bye, darling, and may God bless you.
The effort exhausted him greatly, but the thing was done. The nurse folded it, put it into an envelope, sealed it, and took the pencil from him.
"You'll let me address it, won't you?" she asked.
"Yes. Miss Isabel Ross. Anyone in the house can tell you where—anyone will take it to her. Thank you," he added, speaking to the doctor.
That night, for the first time, the situation began to affect him personally. In the hours after midnight, as the forces of the physical body ebbed toward the lowest point, those of the mind seemed to increase. Staring at the low night light, that by its feeble flicker exorcised the thousand phantoms that beset him, he could think clearly. In a rocking chair, across the room, the night nurse dozed, with a white shawl wrapped around her. He could hear her deep, regular breathing as she slept.
His father was dead—he knew that for an absolute fact, and wondered why the two kind women and the endless, varying procession of men should so persistently lie to him about this when they were willing to tell him the truth about everything else.
He also knew that, sooner or later, his left hand would be amputated and that his career would come to an inglorious end—indeed, the end had already come. The ordeal painfully shadowed upon his horizon was only the final seal. Fortunately there was money enough for everything—he would want pitifully little for the rest of his life.
His life stretched out before him in a waste of empty years. He was thirty, now, and his father had lived until well past seventy; might have lived many years more had he not died when his heart broke over the misfortunes of his idolised son. He could remember the rumble of the carriage wheels the night of the funeral. The nurse had dozed in her chair just as she was dozing now, while downstairs they carried his father out of the house in a black casket and buried him. It was all as clear as though it had happened yesterday, instead of ages ago.
A clock, somewhere near by, chimed three quick, silvery strokes. With the last stroke, the clock in the kitchen struck three, also, in a different tone and with an annoying briskness of manner. As the echo died away, the old grandfather's clock on the landing boomed out three portentously solemn chimes. It was followed almost immediately by a cheery, impertinent little clock, insisting that it was four and almost time for sunrise.
The nurse stirred in her chair, yawned, and came over to the bed. She straightened the blankets with a practised hand, changed his hot pillow for a fresh one, brought him a drink of cool water, and went back to her chair without having said a word. The gentle ministry comforted him insensibly. What magic there was in the touch of a woman's hand! But, in the long grey years ahead, there would be no woman, unless—Isabel—
Sometime that afternoon, or early in the evening, she had received his note. It was not strange that they had not allowed her to come to see him, because no one had seen him but the doctors and nurses. Even Aunt Francesca, whom he had known all his life, had not darkened his open door.
But now, Isabel would come—she could not help but come. With the passing of the fateful hour, strength began to return slowly. She would come to-morrow, and every tick of the clock brought to-morrow a second nearer.
A steadily increasing warmth came into his veins and thawed the ice around his heart. The cold hand that had held it so long mercifully loosened its fingers. He turned his face toward the Eastern window, that he might watch for the first faint glow.
A single long, deepening shadow struck across the far horizon like the turning out of a light. Almost immediately, the distant East brightened. Day was coming—the sun, and Isabel.
With the first hint of colour, hope dawned in his soul, changing to certainty as the light increased. It was not in the way of things that he, who had always had everything, should at one fell stroke be left desolate. Out of the wreckage there was one thing he might keep—Isabel.
He laughed at the thought that she would accept her release. What would he have done he asked himself, were it she instead of him? Could mutilation, or even death, change his love for her? He was equally sure that hers could not be changed.
It was fortunate that she was saved—that it was he instead of Isabel. She had pretty hands—such dear hands as men have loved and kissed since, back in the garden, the First Woman gave hers to the First Man, that he might lead her wheresoever he would.
In the midst of the wreckage, he perceived a divine compensation, for Isabel would not fail him—she could not fail him now. Transfigured by tenderness, her coldness changed to the utmost yielding, to-morrow would bring him his goddess, a deeply-loving woman at last.
"How she will come to me," he said to himself, feeling, in fancy, her soft arms around him, and her warm lips on his, while the life-current flowed steadily from her to him and made him a man again, not a weakling. His heart beat with a joy that was almost pain, for he could feel her intoxicating nearness even now. Perhaps her sweet eyes would overflow with the greatness of her love and her tears would fall upon his face when she knelt beside him, to lay her head upon his breast.
"How she will come to me!" he breathed, in ecstasy. "Ah, how she will come!"
And so, smiling, he slept, as the first shaft of sun that brought his dear To-Morrow fell full upon his face.
Madame Bernard and Rose were so deeply affected by Allison's misfortune that they scarcely took note of Isabel's few bruises, greatly to that young woman's disgust. She chose to consider herself in the light of a martyr and had calmly received the announcement that Allison's left hand would probably have to be amputated.
None of them had seen him, though the two older women were ready to go at any hour of the day or night they might be needed or asked for. Isabel affected a sprained ankle and limped badly when anyone was looking. Once or twice she had been seen to walk almost as usual, though she did not know it.
The upper hall, and, occasionally, the other parts of the house, smelled of the various liniments and lotions with which she anointed herself. She scorned the suggestion that she should stay in bed, for she was quite comfortable upon a couch, in her most becoming negligee, with a novel and a box of chocolates to bear her company.
At first, she had taken her meals in her own room, but, finding that it was more pleasant to be downstairs with the others for luncheon and dinner, managed to go up and down the long flight of stairs twice each day.
Placid as she was, the table was not a cheerful place, for the faces of the other two were haggard and drawn, and neither made more than a pretence of eating. Daily bulletins came from the other house as to Allison's condition, and Madame was in constant communication by telegraph with Colonel Kent. She kept him reassured as much as possible, and did not tell him of Allison's ineradicable delusion that his father was dead.
Allison's note was given to Isabel at luncheon the day after it was written, having been delayed in delivery the night before until after she was asleep. With it was a letter from her mother, which had come in the noon mail.
She opened Allison's note first, read it, and put it back into the envelope. Her mother's letter was almost equally brief. That, too, she returned to its envelope without comment.
"How is your mother, Isabel?" inquired Madame, having caught a glimpse of the bold, dashing superscription which was familiar, though infrequent.
"She's all right," Isabel answered, breaking open a hot muffin. "It's funny that it should come at the same time as the other."
"Why?" asked Rose, merely for the sake of making conversation.
"Because just as Mamma writes to tell me that marriage is slavery, but that if he can take care of me and Aunt Francesca approves of him, it will be all right, Allison writes and releases me from the engagement."
"Poor boy!" sighed Madame.
"I don't know why you should say 'poor boy,'" Isabel observed, rather fretfully. "He's not very ill if he can write letters. I'm sure I don't feel like writing any."
"I wasn't thinking of that," said Madame, half to herself.
"And as for his releasing me," Isabel went on, coolly, "I'm glad he was decent enough to do it and save me the trouble of releasing myself."
Rose got to her feet somehow, her face deathly white. "Do you mean," she cried, "that you would think for a minute of accepting release?"
"Why, certainly," the girl replied, in astonishment. "Why not? He says himself that he can't ask me to marry a cripple."
Rose winced visibly. "Isabel!" she breathed. "Oh, Isabel!"
"My dear," said Madame, with such kindness as she could muster, "have you forgotten that he saved you from death, or worse?"
"He didn't do anything for me but to tell me to jump. I did more for him than that. Nobody seems to think it was anything for me to get up out of the dust, with my best white dress all ruined and my face scratched and my ankle sprained and one arm bleeding, and help the Crosbys carry a heavy man to their machine and lay him on the back seat."
"I thought the Crosbys carried him," put in Madame. "They're strong enough to do it, I should think."
"Well, I helped. I had to take all that nasty raw meat out of the back seat and throw it out in the ditch to the dogs, and stand up all the way home, bruised as I was, to keep him from falling off the seat. We were in a perfect bedlam there for a while, but it doesn't seem to make any difference to anybody. Nobody cares what happens to me."
"Besides," she went on, with her voice raised to a high pitch by excitement, "I don't see why I should be expected to marry a man with only one hand. He can't play any more, and if he can't play, how can he make any money to take care of me, even if I should tie myself to him for life? Do you expect me to take in washing and take care of him?"
"Isabel," said Madame, coldly, "please stop talking so loudly and please listen for a moment. Nobody expects you to marry a man whom, for any reason on earth, you do not love well enough to marry. Kindly consider that as something to be settled in accordance with your own wishes and desires."
"Certainly,"' interrupted the girl. "I'd like to see anybody force me to marry him!"
Madame compressed her lips into a thin, tight line, and her face became stern, even hard. She clenched her small hands tightly and her breath came quickly. A red spot burned on either cheek.
Never having seen Madame angry before, Rose was almost frightened. She herself was not angry, but hurt—for him. At the moment she heard of the accident, her love for him had transcended the bounds of self and merged into prayer for him and for his good, whatever that might prove to be.
"Isabel," said Rose, very softly, "will you do one thing for me?"
"What?" Isabel demanded, suspiciously.
"Listen, dear. For me, if not for him, will you go to him, and—well, simply be kind? Don't let him think that this terrible thing has separated him from you or changed your love. Wait until he is strong and well again before you tell him. Will you, please?"
Isabel's flushed face took on the expression of outraged virtue. "I don't know why I should be expected to lie," she remarked evasively, with a subtle change of manner.
Madame Bernard cleared her throat. "Your love was a lie," she said, in a tone that neither of them had ever heard her use before. "One more won't matter."
Isabel fidgeted in her chair and nervously tapped the edge of her plate with her fork. "I haven't heard anybody say," she began, with the air of one scoring a fine point, "that his father doesn't love him, and yet he hasn't gone near him—hasn't even seen him since we were hurt. If Colonel Kent can stay away from him, I don't know why I can't."
The argument seemed unanswerable, for neither Madame nor Rose spoke.They sat with averted eyes until the silence became oppressive, andIsabel, with ostentatious difficulty, pushed back her chair and limpedpainfully out of the room.
When she had locked her own door, she was more at ease, and began to survey her unpleasant situation. Nobody seemed to consider her at all— it was only Allison, and everything and everybody, apparently, must be sacrificed for him. Just because she had promised to marry him, when he had both hands, they wanted her to go on with it, in spite of the fact that he saw it was impossible.
Isabel sighed heavily. Nobody knew how keenly disappointed she was. She had written to her few friends, told them about her engagement ring, the plans made for her trousseau, the promised touring car, and the brilliant social career that lay before her as the wife of a famous violinist.
She pictured a triumphal tour from city to city, with the leaders of fashion everywhere vying with each other in entertaining them—or, at least, her. It would, of course, be necessary for Allison to play occasionally in the evening and they would miss a great deal on that account, but her days would be free, and she could cancel all her own social obligations by complimentary tickets and suppers after the concerts.
She had planned it all as she took lazy stitches in her dainty lingerie. Aunt Francesca and Rose had been helping her, but the whole thing had stopped suddenly. It seemed rather selfish of them not to go on with it, for lingerie was always useful, and even though she should not marry Allison, it was not at all improbable that she would marry someone else.
If she could find anybody who had plenty of money and would be good to her, she knew that she would encounter no parental opposition, in spite of Mrs. Ross's pronounced views upon the slavery of matrimony.
Allison had been very decent in releasing her from her awkward predicament. He had even arranged it so that no answer was necessary and she need not even see him again. She had the natural shrinking of the healthy young animal from its own stricken kind. It would be much nicer not to see him again.
But, if he could write letters now, it would not be long before he would be able to come over, though his hand had not yet been taken off. It was too bad, for everything had been very pleasant until the accident. She had missed Allison's daily visits and had probably lost the touring car, though as she had taken pains to find out, it had fallen into the ditch and had been injured very little.
Aunt Francesca and Rose had been queer ever since it happened. After Colonel Kent and the servants and the twins had lifted Allison out of "The Yellow Peril" and carried him up to his own room on an improvised stretcher, while someone else was telephoning for every doctor in the neighbourhood, the twins had taken her home. She had insisted upon their helping her up the steps, and as soon as Aunt Francesca and Rose heard the news, they had paid no attention to her at all, but, with one voice, had demanded that the twins should take them to Kent's immediately.
They had gone without even stopping for their hats, and left her wholly to the servants. Even when they had come home, late at night, in their own carriage, it was over half an hour before Aunt Francesca came to her room, so overburdened with selfish grief that she did not even listen to the recital of Isabel's numerous bruises.
Perhaps it would be best to go away, though the city was terrible in Summer, and she had only money enough to take her to the hotel where her mother retained a suite of three rooms. If Aunt Francesca and Rose would leave her alone in the house long enough, and she could pack a suit-case and get the carriage just in time to take her to the train, she could write a formal note and ask to have the rest of her things sent by express. If there were a late train, or one very early in the morning, she could probably manage it, even without the carriage, but, on consulting the time-table, she found that trains did not run at hours suitable for escape.
However, it was just as well to pack while she had time. She could keep the suit-case hidden until the auspicious moment arrived. It would only take a moment to open it and sweep her toilet articles into it from the top of her dresser.
She had just taken a fresh shirtwaist out of the drawer when there was a light, determined rap at the door. When she opened it, she was much astonished to see Aunt Francesca come in, dressed for a drive.
"Are you almost ready, Isabel?" she asked, politely.
"Ready," gasped the girl. "For what?"
It seemed for the moment as though she had been anticipated in her departure and was about to be put out of the house.
"To drive over to Kent's," answered Madame, imperturbably. From her manner one would have thought the drive had been long planned.
Isabel sat down on her bed. "I'm not going," she said.
"Oh, yes, you are," returned Madame, in a small, thin voice. "You may go in your tea gown and slippers if you prefer, but I will wait until you dress, if you are quick about it."
"I won't," Isabel announced, flatly. "I'm sick. You know I'm all bruised up and I can't walk."
"You can walk down-stairs and it's only a few steps farther to the carriage. I telephoned over to ask if he would see you, and the nurse said that he would be very glad to see you—that he had been asking all day why you did not come. The carriage is waiting at the door, so please hurry."
Isabel was head and shoulders taller than the determined little lady who stood there, waiting, but there was something in her manner that demanded immediate obedience. Sullenly, Isabel began to dress. If Aunt Francesca went with her, it would not be necessary to say much. She caught at the thought as though she were drowning and the proverbial straw had floated into reach.
She took her time about dressing, but Madame said nothing. She simply stood there, waiting, in the open door, until the last knot was tied, the last pin adjusted, and the last stray lock brushed into place.
Isabel limped ostentatiously all the way down-stairs and had to be assisted into the carriage. During the brief drive neither spoke. The silence was unbroken until they reached the door of Allison's room, then Madame said, in a low tone: "The carriage will call for you in an hour. Remember he loves you, and be kind."
Up to that moment, Isabel had not suspected that she would be obliged to see him alone. She was furious with Aunt Francesca for thus betraying her, but no retreat was possible. The nurse smilingly ushered her in, passed her almost on the threshold, and went out, quietly closing the door.
Allison, as eager as a boy of twenty, had half risen in bed. The injured hand was hidden by the sheet, but the other was outstretched in welcome. "Isabel," he breathed. "My Isabel!"
Isabel did not move. "How do you do?" she said primly.
"I'm sorry I can't get you a chair, dear. Come close, won't you?"
Isabel limped painfully to the chair that was farthest from him, dragged it over to the bed, and sat down—just out of his reach. Below, the rumble of wheels announced that Madame had gone back home. Unless she walked, Isabel was stranded at Kent's for a full hour.
"My note," Allison was saying. "You got it, didn't you?"
"Yes. It came while I was at luncheon to-day."
It flashed upon him for an instant that the reality was disappointing, that this was not all as he had dreamed it would be, but pride bade him conceal his disappointment as best he could.
"You were hurt," he said, tenderly. "I'm so sorry."
"Yes. I was hurt quite a good deal."
"But you're all right now, and I'm so glad!"
"Thank you," she answered, listlessly.
Her eyes roved about the room, observing every detail of furniture and ornament. It was old-fashioned, and in a way queer, she thought. She was glad that she would never have to live there.
Allison watched her eagerly. Like a wayfarer in the desert thirsting for water, he longed for her tenderness; for one unsought kiss, even in farewell. His pride sustained him no longer. "Dear," he pleaded, like the veriest beggar; "won't you kiss me just once?"
Isabel hesitated. "It isn't proper," she murmured, "now that we are no longer engaged. I'm sorry you got hurt," she added, as an afterthought.
Allison's face paled suddenly. So, she accepted her release! Then eager justification of her made him wonder if by any chance she could have misunderstood.
"Dearest," he said, with cold lips, "did you think for a single instant that I wanted to release you? I did it because it was the only thing an honourable man could do and I wouldn't let pity for me hold you to a promise made in love. It wasn't that I didn't want you. I've wanted you every day and every hour. Only God knows how I've wanted you and shall want you all the rest of my life, unless—"
He paused, hoping, for the space of a heartbeat, that the dream might come true.
But Isabel did not move from her chair. She surveyed the opposite wall for a few moments before she spoke. "It was honourable," she said, in a more friendly tone. "Of course it was the only thing you could do."
"Of course," he echoed, bitterly.
Isabel rose, went to the foot of the bed, and leaned upon it, facing him. "I'm afraid I've stayed too long," she said. "I think I'd better go. I can wait downstairs for the carriage."
Allison did not answer. His eyes burned strangely in his white face, making her vaguely uncomfortable and afraid. She turned the diamond ring upon her finger and slowly slipped it off.
"I suppose I must give this back," she said, reluctantly. "I mustn't wear it now."
"Why not?" he asked huskily.
"Because it doesn't mean anything—now."
"It never did. Keep it, Isabel."
"Thank you," she said, calmly, putting it back, but on the middle finger. "I must go now. I hope you'll get along all right."
"Wait just a minute, please." He rang a bell that was on a table within his reach, and the nurse came in. "Please bring me my violin."
Isabel turned to the door but was held back by a peremptory command."Wait!"
"Here," he cried shrilly, offering Isabel the violin. "Take this, too!"
"What for?" she asked, curiously. "I can't play."
"Nevertheless, it belongs to you. Keep it, as a souvenir!"
Holding the violin awkwardly, Isabel backed out of the room, the nurse following her and closing the door. The nurse was a young woman who had not sacrificed her normal human sympathy to her chosen work, but had managed, happily, to combine the two. She watched Isabel disdainfully as she went down-stairs, very briskly for one with a sprained ankle.
"God!" said Allison, aloud. "Oh, God in Heaven!"
Then the nurse turned away in pity, for behind the closed door she heard a grown man sobbing like a hurt child.
The Crosby twins had gone home very quietly, after doing all they could to help Colonel Kent and Madame Bernard. "The Yellow Peril" chugged along at the lowest speed with all its gaudy banners torn down. Neither spoke until they passed the spot where the red touring car lay on its side in the ditch, and four or five dogs, still hungry and hopeful, wrangled over a few bare bones.
Juliet was sniffing audibly, and, as soon as she saw the wreck, burst into tears. "Oh, Romie," she sobbed, "if he's dead, we've killed him!"
Romeo swallowed a lump in his throat, winked hard, and roughly advisedJuliet to "shut up."
When the machine was safely in the barn, and all the scattered dogs collected and imprisoned, Romeo came in, ready to talk it over. "We've got to do something," he said, "but I don't know what it is."
"Oh, Romie," cried Juliet with a fresh burst of tears, "do you think they'll hang us? We're murderers!"
Romeo considered for a moment before he answered. "We aren't murderers, because we didn't go to do it. They won't hang us—but they ought to," he added, remorsefully.
"What can we do?" mourned Juliet. "Oh, what can we do?"
"Well, we can pay all the bills for one thing—that's a good start. To- morrow, I'll see about getting that car out of the ditch and taking care of it."
"Somebody may steal it," she suggested.
"Not if we guard it. One or both of us ought to sit by it until we can get it into the barn."
Juliet wiped her eyes. "That's right. We'll guard it all night to-night and while we're guarding it, we'll talk it all over and decide what to do."
The dinner of unwholesome delicacies which they had planned as the last feature of the day's celebration was hesitatingly renounced. "We don't deserve to have anything at all to eat," said Juliet. "What is it that they feed prisoners on?"
"Bread and water—black bread?"
"Where could we get black bread?"
"I don't know. I never saw any."
After discussing a penitential menu for some time, they finally decided to live upon mush and milk for the present, and, if Allison should die, forever. "We can warm it in the winter," said Romeo, "and it won't be so bad."
When their frugal repast was finished, they instinctively changed their festal garments for the sober attire of every day. Romeo brought in two lanterns and Juliet pasted red tissue paper around them, so that they might serve as warning signals of the wreck. At sunset, they set forth, each with a blanket and a lantern to do sentry duty by the capsized car.
"Oughtn't we to have a dog or two?" queried Romeo, as they trudged down the road. "Watchmen always have dogs."
"We oughtn't to have anything that would make it any easier for us to watch, and besides, the dogs weren't to blame. They don't need to sit up with us—let 'em have their sleep."
"All right," Romeo grunted. "Shall we divide the night into watches and one of us sit on the car while the other walks?"
"No, we'll watch together, and we won't sit on the car—we'll sit on the cold, damp ground. If we take cold and die it will only serve us right."
"We can't take cold in June," objected Romeo, "with two blankets."
"Unless it rains."
"It won't rain tonight," he said, gloomily; "look at the stars!"
The sky was clear, and pale stars shone faintly in the afterglow. There was not even a light breeze—the world was as still and calm as though pain and death were unknown.
When they reached the scene of the accident, Romeo set the two red lanterns at the point where the back of the car touched the road. They spread one blanket on the grass at the other side of the road and sat down to begin their long vigil. Romeo planned to go home to breakfast at sunrise and bring Juliet some of the mush and milk left from supper. Then, while she continued to watch the machine, he would go into town and make arrangements for its removal.
"Is there room in our barn for both cars?" she asked.
"No. Ours will have to come out."
Juliet shuddered. "I never want to see it again."
"Neither do I."
"Can we sell it?"
"We ought not to sell it unless we gave him the money. We shouldn't have it ourselves."
"Then," suggested Juliet, "why don't we give it away and give him just as much as it cost, including our suits and the dogs' collars and everything?"
"We have no right to give away a man-killer. 'The Yellow Peril' is cursed."
"Let's sacrifice it," she cried. "Let's make a funeral pyre in the yard and burn it, and our suits and the dogs' collars and everything. Let's burn everything we've got that we care for!"
"All right," agreed Romeo, uplifted by the zeal of the true martyr. "And," he added, regretfully, "I'll shoot all the dogs and bury 'em in one long trench. I don't want to see anything again that was in it."
"I don't either," returned Juliet. She wondered whether she should permit the wholesale execution of the herd, since it was a thing she had secretly desired for a long time. "You mustn't shoot Minerva and the puppies," she continued, as her strict sense of justice asserted itself, "because she wasn't in it. She was at home taking care of her children and they'd die if she should be shot now."
So it was settled that Minerva, who had taken no part in the fatal celebration, should be spared, with her innocent babes.
"And in a few years more," said Romeo, hopefully, "we'll have lots more dogs, though probably not as many as we've got now."
Juliet sighed heavily but was in honour bound to make no objections, for long ago, when they arbitrated the dog question, it was written in the covenant that no dogs should be imported or none killed, except by mutual consent. And Minerva had five puppies, and if each of the five should follow the maternal example, and if each of those should do likewise—Juliet fairly lost her head in a maze of mental arithmetic.
"We ought to go into deep mourning," Romeo was saying.
"I've been thinking of that. We should repent in sackcloth and ashes, only I don't know what sackcloth is."
"I guess it's that rough brown stuff they make potato bags of."
"Burlap?"
"Yes. But we haven't many ashes at this time of year and we'll have still less if we live on mush and milk."
"Maybe we could get ashes somewhere," she said, thoughtfully.
"We'd have to, because it would take us over a year to get enough to repent in."
"There'll be ashes left from the automobile and the suits, and if you can get enough potato bags, I'll fix 'em so we can wear 'em at the sacrifice and afterwards we can buy deep mourning."
"All right, but you mustn't make pretty suits."
"I couldn't, out of potato bags. They'll have to be plain—very plain."
"The first thing is to get this car into our barn, and write and tell Colonel Kent where it is. Then we'll get our black clothes, and then we'll shoot the dogs and bury 'em, and then we'll have the sacrifice, and then—"
"And then," repeated Juliet.
"Then we'll have to go and tell 'em all what we've done, and offer to pay all the bills, and give 'em the price of the car besides for damages."
"Oh, Romie," cried Juliet, with a shudder, "we don't have to go and tell 'em, do we? We don't have to take strangers into our consciences, do we?"
"Certainly," replied Romeo, sternly. "Just because we don't want to do it is why we've got to. We've got to do hard things when we make a sacrifice. Lots of people think they're charitable if they give away their old clothes and things they don't want. It isn't charity to give away things you want to get rid of and it isn't a sacrifice to do things you don't mind doing. The harder it is and the more we don't want to do it, the better sacrifice."
His logic was convincing, but Juliet drooped visibly. The bent little figure on the blanket was pathetic, but the twins were not given to self-pity. As time went on, the conversation lagged. They had both had a hard day, from more than one standpoint, and it was not surprising that by midnight, the self-appointed sentries were sound asleep upon one blanket, with Romeo's coat for a pillow and the other blanket tucked around them.
The red lanterns burned faithfully until almost dawn, then smoked and went out, leaving an unpleasant odour that lasted until sunrise. The rumble of a distant cart woke them, and they sat up, shamefacedly rubbing their eyes.
"Oh," cried Juliet, conscience-stricken, "we went to sleep! We went to sleep on duty! How could we?"
"Dunno," returned Romeo, with a frank yawn. "Guess we were tired.Anyhow, the machine is all right."
When the milkman came in sight, they hailed him and purchased a quart of milk. He was scarcely surprised to see them, for the Crosbys were widely known to be eccentric, and presently he drove on. His query about the wrecked car had passed unnoticed.
"If you'll stay here, Jule," said Romeo, wiping his mouth, "I'll go and get a team and some rope and we'll get the car in."
"Can't I go too?"
"No, you stay here. It's bad enough to sleep at your post without deserting it."
"You slept, too," retorted Juliet, quickly on the defensive, "and I'm a girl."
"Huh!" he sneered. The claim of feminine privilege invariably disgusted him beyond words.
"Suppose people come by—" Juliet faltered; "and—ask—questions."
"Answer 'em," advised Romeo, briefly. "Tell 'em we've killed a man and are going to suffer for it. We deserve to have everybody know it."
But, fortunately for Juliet's quicker sensibilities, no one passed by in the hour Romeo was gone. He came from the nearest farm with an adequate number of assistants and such primitive machinery as was at hand. The car was not badly damaged and was finally towed into the Crosbys' barn. Then they went into the house and composed a letter to Colonel Kent, but put off copying and sending it until they should be able to get black bordered stationery.
Two weeks later, clad in deepest mourning, the twins trudged into town. At Colonel Kent's there was no one in authority to receive them and their errand was of too much importance to be communicated to either physician or nurse. Their own unopened letter lay on the library table, with many others.
Subdued and chastened in demeanour, they went to Madame Bernard's and waited in funereal silence until Madame came down.
"How do you—" she began, then stopped. "Why, what is the matter?"
"We ran over him," explained Romeo, suggestively inclining his head in the general direction of Kent's. "Don't you remember?"
"And if he dies, we've killed him," put in Juliet, sadly.
"We'll be murderers if he dies," Romeo continued, "and we ought to be hung."
In spite of her own depression and deep anxiety, Madame saw how keenly the tragedy had affected the twins. "Why, my dears!" she cried. "Do you think for a minute that anybody in the world blames you?"
"We ought to be blamed," Romeo returned, "because we did it."
"But not on purpose—you couldn't help it."
"We could have helped it," said Juliet, "by not celebrating. We had no business to buy an automobile, or, even if we had, we shouldn't have gone out in it until we learned to run it."
"That's like staying away from the water until you have learned to swim," answered Madame, comfortingly, "and Allison isn't going to die."
"Really? Do you mean it? Are you sure? How do you know?" The words came all at once, in a jumble of eager questions.
"Because he isn't. The worst that could possibly happen to him would be the loss of his left hand, and his father is looking all over the country for some surgeon who can save it."
"I'd rather die than to have my hand cut off," said Juliet, in a small, thin voice.
"So would I," added Romeo.
"We're all hoping for the best," Madame went on, "and you must hope, too. Nobody has thought of blaming you, so you mustn't feel so badly about it. Even Allison himself wouldn't want you to feel badly."
"But we do," Romeo answered, "in spite of all the sacrifices and everything."
"Sacrifices," repeated Madame, wonderingly, "why, what do you mean?"
"We did sentry duty all night by his car," Romeo explained, "and we're taking care of it in our barn."
"And we've lived on mush and milk ever since," Juliet added.
"I shot all the dogs but the one with the puppies," said Romeo.
"She wasn't in it, you know," Juliet continued. "I helped dig the trench and we buried the whole nineteen end to end by the fence, with their new collars on."
"Then we burned the automobile," resumed Romeo. "We soaked it in kerosene, and put our suits into the back seat—our caps and goggles and everything. We took out all the pieces of iron and steel and gave 'em to the junk man, and then we repented in sackcloth and ashes."
"How so?" queried Madame, with a faint glimmer of amusement in her sad eyes.
"Juliet made suits out of potato sacks—very plain suits—and we put 'em on to repent in."
"We went and stood in the ashes," put in Juliet, "while they were so hot that they hurt our feet, and Romie raised his right hand and said 'I repent' and then I did the same."
"And after the ashes got cold, we sat down in 'em and rubbed 'em into the sackcloth and our hair and all over our faces and hands."
"All the time saying 'I repent! I repent!'" continued Juliet, soberly.
"And then we went into mourning," concluded Romeo.
Madame's heart throbbed with tender pity for the stricken twins, but she wisely said nothing.
"Can you think of anything more we could do, or any more sacrifices we could make?" inquired Juliet, ready to atone in full measure.
"Indeed I can't," Madame replied, truthfully. "I think you've done everything that could be expected of you."
"We wrote to the Colonel," said Romeo, "but he hasn't got it yet. We saw it on the library table. We want to pay all the bills."
"And give Allison as much money as we spent on the automobile and for the suits and everything, and pay for fixing up his car," interrupted Juliet.
"We want to do everything," Romeo said, with marked emphasis.
"Everything," echoed Juliet.
"That's very nice of you," answered Madame, kindly, "and we all appreciate it."
The stem young faces of the twins relaxed ever so little. It was a great relief to discover that they were not objects of scorn and loathing, for they had brooded over the accident until they had become morbid.
"Did you say that you had been living upon mush and milk ever since?" asked Madame.
"Ever since," they answered, together.
"I'm sure that's long enough," she said. "I wouldn't do it any longer.Won't you stay to dinner with us?"
With one accord the twins rose, impelled by a single impulse toward departure.
"We couldn't," said Romeo.
"We mustn't," explained Juliet. Then, with belated courtesy, she added:"Thank you, just the same."
They made their adieux awkwardly and went home, greatly eased in mind. As they trudged along the dusty road, they occasionally sighed in relief, but said little until they reached their ancestral abode, dogless now save for the pups gambolling about the doorstep and Minerva watching them with maternal pride.
"She said we'd lived on mush and milk long enough," said Romeo, pensively.
"We might fry the mush," Juliet suggested.
"And have butter and maple syrup on it?"
"Maybe."
"And drink the milk, and have bread, too?"
"I guess so."
"And jam?"
"Not while we're in mourning," said Juliet, firmly. "We can have syrup on our bread."
"That's just as good."
"If you think so, you ought not to have it."
"We've got to feed ourselves, or we'll die," he objected vigorously, "and if we're dead, we won't be any good to him or to anybody else, and we can't ever repent any more."
"I'm not so sure about that." said Juliet, with sinister emphasis.
"Nothing will happen to us that we don't deserve," Romeo assured her, "so come on and let's have jam. If it makes us sick, it's wrong, and if it doesn't, it's all right."
The following day, they voluntarily returned to their mush and milk, for they had eaten too much jam, and, having been very ill in the night, considered it sufficient evidence that their penance was not yet over.