Books: Old Rose and Silver
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Myrtle Reed >> Old Rose and Silver
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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.
XVI
HOW ISABEL CAME
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, and
Isabel, with ostentatious difficulty, pushed back her chair and limped
painfully 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.
XVII
PENANCE
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 advised
Juliet 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."
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