X
ROSE had been ten minutes in the garden, and the judge was beginning to fidget in his chair when he heard the front door open and shut and at last steps came toward the library. A moment later William Fox entered the room. As he came into the mellow light from the open window the judge was struck by the change in his strong pale face. The old smile which had come so easily to his lips, and which, at times, had almost the sweetness of a woman’s, was gone; the brow and chin had a new resolution. The man was changed. Judge Temple saw it and held out his hand with a sudden impulse of warmer sympathy than he had felt before. After all, Fox had met it like a man and paid the cost.
On his side, Fox was as strongly affected by the broken appearance of the old man in his invalid chair with his white head and his sunken eyes. “My dear judge,” he said, “I hope you’re feeling better? I was glad to obey your summons, thoughI’m not sure that I understand the reference in your note.”
The judge looked at him a moment in silence, then drawing a letter from his pocket, opened it and handed it to him. Fox took it with evident reluctance; as he read it he colored a little and folding it hastily, handed it back without a word.
“I did not know until yesterday, sir, to whom I was indebted,” Judge Temple said slowly, his lip trembling slightly from weakness and profound emotion.
Fox stirred uneasily in his chair, his color deepening. “I didn’t intend you to know it at all, judge,” he said, almost with an air of diffidence; “I presume I owe my betrayal to Berkman. However, I want to assure you—since it is known—that you can have all the time you desire; I consider it a good investment!”
The judge’s spectacles grew misty and he took them off hurriedly and wiped them, his thin hands shaking as he did it. “I thank you for your confidence,” he said quietly, when he could speak; “you’ll get it—every cent.”
“I know it. I tell you I consider it a good investment, the best I ever made,” Fox retorted smiling; “I’m not usually so judicious in my ventures.”
The old man tried to force an answering smile but he failed, his head sank on his breast and his hands, lying on the carved arms of his great chair, still trembled. Fox looked at him in some anxiety, half afraid that the excitement and relief had been too much, and bitterly indignant that his secret had been betrayed. It had been a difficult matter for him to take up the mortgage, for he was by no means a rich man, but he had vowed in his heart to save Rose her home, the home that he knew she loved so well, and half the joy of doing it had been to do it without her knowledge; but it seemed impossible to keep a secret which, from its very nature, must be shared with others.
The change in the old face opposite was alarmingly sharp.
“My dear judge, you are too indisposed for business; let me ring for assistance,” Fox exclaimed, with real concern.
But the judge protested. “Sir, I’m better to-day than I have been for a year,” he said, a slight break in his voice; “I see my way clear, I’ll be able to save this property, I—” he broke off and passed his handkerchief over his eyes; there was a moment’s painful silence, then he held out his hand. “God bless you, Fox!” he broke out suddenly, “it was killing me to lose it—”
They shook hands. Fox had risen and his face was colorless. “Don’t tell her, judge,” he said abruptly.
The old man started and was about to speak but, meeting the other’s eye, refrained. Many things came into his mind, among them a memory of Rose’s face at Mrs. O’Neal’s ball. It was a bitter moment; no man was good enough for her, and this man had been too much talked about! Yet the child’s happiness was near his heart.
With a certain reluctance Fox turned at last to go, and as he did so his glance passed through the open window into the garden. “I can reach the gate by this path, can I not?” he asked, moving toward it.
The judge started uneasily, with an involuntary gesture as if to detain him, to keep him back at any cost, but Fox did not see it and the old man sank back in his chair quiescent. His lips moved but he said nothing; after all, had he a right to interfere? Unconsciously the younger man went out of the window and down the two short steps to the gravel path.
The judge watched him disappear behind the Persian lilac with a fascinated eye. Then he took out his handkerchief again, and passing it swiftly across his brow pushed back his scant white hairuntil it seemed to rise up in active protest. The glare of the May sunshine suddenly hurt his gaze and he shook out his handkerchief and threw it over his head, closing his eyes.
Aunt Hannah, opening the door a moment later, with a pleasant jingle of ice in the mint-julep glass on her tray, peeped in, thought him asleep and cautiously and discreetly closed the door again. “Fo’ de Lord,” she murmured, “ef it ain’t de fust time dat he didn’t kinder sense dat de julep was comin’; I reckon he’s right po’ly!”
Fox turned the corner by the lilac, walking slowly, holding his hat behind his back, his bare head bowed. His face was gloomy with thought, and he almost passed the arbor. At the turn a glint of white caught his eye and he looked up quickly and saw Rose industriously sewing without a needle, her head down over her work and the sunshine filtering through a trellis of vines on her soft bright hair and her white gown.
He came toward her with an exclamation of unrestrained joy, but as their eyes met a wave of mutual feeling swept over their souls and left them mute. Between them seemed to lie the sorrow and the love of that beautiful and unfortunate woman who had separated them. The language of conventionalitywas no longer possible; Rose tried to speak, but her words died in an inarticulate murmur. The anguish of Margaret’s letter came back to her; it had saved Fox in her eyes; she no longer condemned him, she no longer felt it a duty to avoid him, but she found it impossible to tell him of the change in her heart by any commonplace word of friendship. Her hand had slipped from his eager grasp and lay trembling on her work. It was terrible to betray herself so; her cheek reddened and tears of mortification came into her eyes. But to speak to him of common things at such a moment—how could she? And he made no effort to help her, but only watched her, his soul in his eyes. The marks of suffering on his face touched her, too; the lines had sharpened, the gaze deepened and become more introspective, the shock of primitive passions had really decentralized his life. He smiled at the sight of her, almost the old eager smile, but even that light had died out of his face now, and in the pause she seemed to hear her own heart beating against her breast.
He stood looking at her. “How long must I be silent?” he asked at last.
Rose busied herself in a fruitless attempt to thread an imaginary needle, and her slender fingers shook. It had been in her mind to tell him thatMargaret had written her, but as he spoke a sudden intuition of the truth arrested her impulse, a flood of light poured in upon her, illuminating the twilight of her thought. She felt that he must not only never know of Margaret’s confession—she had not meant to tell him that—but not even of her letter. It was impossible to answer him; her lips were tremulous as she looked up and met his grave, compelling gaze. In her look, so full of buoyant and beautiful youth, there was not even the shadow of reproach. Her simplicity, her renewal of confidence in him, were profoundly touching; the bitterness and humiliation of the past months seemed at last sanctified by her forbearance. The secret agony which had torn his heart during the long winter fell away from the present; it belonged at once to the past, sinking into that long vista which leads to oblivion. To-day was beautiful and strong with hope.
Before her youth and purity William Fox experienced a feeling of sudden and complete humility. “Can you forgive me?” he asked, in a low voice.
Margaret’s letter seemed to breathe its message in her ears. “There’s nothing to forgive,” Rose said simply.
“You understand?” there was passionateeagerness in his glance; his love for her was sweeping away the obstacles from his mind, leaping up again to demand its right to exist.
“Yes,” Rose said, with white lips, “I understand, not fully—but—”
“And now?” he was strongly moved; not knowing whose hand had lifted the veil of her misunderstanding and far from divining the truth.
“And now?” the tears gathered in her eyes and fell unheeded; “I cannot but think of her love—her unhappiness!”
“And you still blame me?” Fox stood motionless, his face resuming its stern reserve.
Rose shook her head. “I—I cannot!” she murmured, remembering that confession, and the thought of it sealing her lips.
He started, the color rushing to his temples, the kindling passion of his glance transforming him. “Rose!”
She looked up through her tears, and as suddenly hid her face in her hands. “I am afraid!” she murmured brokenly, “out of—of all this sorrow can there be happiness?”
Fox sat down beside her and gently took her hand. “You mean you cannot trust me?” he asked soberly.
For a moment she did not answer. He lookeddown at her drooping profile, the lovely arch of her brow, the soft cheek and chin; her eyes no longer met his. “Or is it that you do not love me?” he said quietly.
She raised her head at that, and the dawning sweetness of her glance illumined his soul. “It is because I love you—that I can no longer judge!” she faltered, with trembling lips.
He met her look without a word; language, for the moment, had not significance for them.
Silence, filled with the sweet murmur of summer life, the fragrance of flowers, the audible rustling of the magnolia leaves, seemed to enfold them in a new and beautiful world.
THE END.