Books: Old Rose and Silver
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Myrtle Reed >> Old Rose and Silver
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"Yes." Her voice was very low now.
"And we'll be the best of friends, for always?"
"Yes--the best of friends in all the world."
"And you'll promise me that, if you're ever sorry, you'll come straight
and tell me--that you'll ask me to set you free?"
"I promise."
"Then everything is all right between you and me?"
"Yes, but I'm ashamed--bitterly ashamed."
"You mustn't be, for I'm very glad. We'll try to forget the wreckage
together. I couldn't have asked, unless I had known about--the other
man, and you wouldn't have told me, I know. It wouldn't have been like
you to tell me."
There was a knock, the door opened, and the nurse came in, watch in
hand. "I'm sorry, Miss Bernard, but you can come to-morrow if he's well
enough."
"I'll be well enough," said Allison, smiling.
"Of course," Rose assured him, shaking hands in friendly fashion. "Don't
forget that it's a secret."
"I won't. Good-bye, Rose."
When she had gone, the nurse studied him furtively, from across the
room. He had changed in some subtle way--he seemed stronger than before.
Unless it was excitement, to be followed by a reaction, Miss Bernard had
done him good. The night would prove it definitely, one way or the
other.
Allison slept soundly until daybreak, for the first time--not stupor,
but natural sleep. The nurse began to wonder if it was possible that a
hand so badly crushed and broken could be healed. Hitherto her service
had been mechanically kind; she had taken no interest because she saw no
hope. How wonderful it would be if that long procession of learned
counsellors should be mistaken after all!
Rose walked home, disdaining the waiting carriage. She had forgotten her
hat and the sunset lent radiance to a face that needed no more. By rare
tact and kindness, Allison had removed the sting from her shame and the
burden she had borne so long was lifted from her heavy heart.
She was happier now than she had ever been before in her life, but she
must hide her joy from the others as she had previously hidden her pain
--or tried to. She knew that Isabel would not see, but Aunt Francesca's
eyes were keen and she could not tell even her just now.
How strange it would be to wake in the night, without that dull, dead
pain! How strange it was to feel herself needed, and oh, the joy of
serving him!
She thrilled with the ecstasy of sacrifice; with that maternal
compassion which is a vital element in woman's love for man. Sublimated
beyond passion and self-seeking, and asking only the right to give, she
poured out the treasure of her soul at his feet, though her pride
demanded that he must never know.
When she went into the house, light seemed to enter the shaded room with
her. No one was there, but the open piano waited, ready to receive a
confidence. With a laugh that was half a sob of joy, she sat down, her
fingers readily finding the one thing that suited her mood.
The wild, half-savage music rang through the house in full, deep chords,
but only Rose knew the words, which, in her mind, fitted themselves to
the melody as though she dared to sing them:
"Less than the dust, beneath thy Chariot wheel,
Less than the rust, that never stained thy Sword,
Less than the trust thou hast in me, O Lord,
Even less then these.
"Less than the weed that grows beside thy door,
Less than the speed of hours spent far from thee,
Less than the need thou hast in life of me;
Even less am I."
Upstairs, Isabel yawned lazily, and wondered why Rose should play so
loud, but Aunt Francesca smiled to herself, for she knew that Allison
was better and that Rose was glad.
XIX
OVER THE BAR
As a flower may bloom in a night, joy returned to Madame Bernard's house
after long absence. There was no outward sign, for Rose was still quiet
and self-controlled, but her face was a shade less pale and there was a
tremulous music in her voice.
Isabel had ceased to limp, but still dwelt upon the shock and its
lingering effects. She amused herself in her own way, reading paper-
covered novels, feasting upon chocolates, teasing Mr. Boffin, and
playing solitaire. Madame remarked to Rose that Isabel seemed to have a
cosmic sense of time.
The guest never came down-stairs till luncheon was announced, and did
not trouble herself to make an elaborate, or even appropriate toilet.
Madame began to wonder how long Isabel intended to remain and to see the
wisdom of the modern fashion of appointing the hour of departure in the
invitation.
Yet, as she said to herself rather grimly, she would have invited Isabel
to remain through the Summer, and perhaps, in the early Autumn she might
return to town of her own accord. Moreover, there appeared to be no
graceful way of requesting an invited guest to leave.
Though Madame was annoyed by the mere fact of Isabel's presence, she had
ceased to distress Rose, who dwelt now in a world apart from the others.
She spent her afternoons at the other house, playing softly downstairs,
reading to Allison, or talking to him of the brilliant future that she
insisted was to be his.
Neither of them spoke of the hour in which Rose had unwittingly revealed
herself, nor did they seem to avoid the subject. Allison had taken her
for granted, on a high plane of pure friendliness, and not for an
instant did he translate her overpowering impulse as anything but
womanly pity.
She practised for an hour or two every morning that she might play
better in the afternoon, she ransacked the library for interesting and
cheerful things to read to him, and she even found a game or two that he
seemed to enjoy. From Madame Francesca's spotless kitchen came many a
dainty dish to tempt his capricious appetite, and all the flowers from
both gardens, daily, made a bower of his room.
Constantly, too, Rose brought the message of hopefulness and good cheer.
From her abounding life and superb vitality he drew unconscious
strength; the hidden forces that defy analysis once more exerted
themselves in his behalf. So far as man is of the earth, earthy, by the
earth and its fruits may he be healed, but the heavenly part of him may
be ministered unto only by the angels of God.
His old fear of the darkness had gone and the night light had been taken
out into the hall. In the faint glow, he could see the objects in his
room distinctly, during the brief intervals of wakefulness. A flower
dropped from its vase, a book lying half open, a crumpled handkerchief
upon his chiffonier, the pervading scent of attar of roses and dried
petals--all these brought him a strange sense of nearness to Rose, as a
perfume may be distilled from a memory.
Day by day, Isabel became more remote. He thought of her without emotion
when he thought of her at all, for only women may know the agony of love
enduring after the foundation upon which it was built has been swept
away.
The strange men from distant places came less frequently. Days would
pass, and bring no word. The country doctor who had first been called
stopped occasionally when time permitted, and his faithful old horse
needed a little rest, but he only shook his head. He admitted to the
nurse that he was greatly surprised because the inevitable operation had
not yet become imperative.
Colonel Kent seemed to have been lost for almost a week. During that
time no word had been received from him and Madame's daily bulletin: "No
change for the worse," had been returned, marked "not found." She was
vaguely troubled and uneasy, fearing that something might have happened
to him, but forebore to speak of her fears.
One morning, while Allison was still asleep, the nurse wakened him
gently. "A new man, Mr. Allison; can you see him now?"
"I don't care," he replied. "Bring him in."
The newcomer was a young man--one would have guessed that the ink was
scarcely dry on his diploma. He had a determined mouth, a square chin,
kind eyes, and the buoyant youthful courage that, by itself, carries one
far upon any chosen path.
He smiled at Allison and Allison smiled back at him, in friendly
fashion. "Now," said the young man, "let's see."
His big fingers were astonishingly gentle, they worked with marvellous
dexterity, and, for the first time, the dreaded examination was almost
painless. He asked innumerable questions both of Allison and the nurse,
and wanted to know who had been there previously.
The nurse had kept no record, but she knew some of the men, and
mentioned their names--names to conjure with in the professional world.
Even the two great Germans had said it was of no use.
The young man wrinkled his brows in deep thought. "What have you been
using?" he inquired, of the nurse.
"Everything. Come here."
She led him into the next room, where a formidable array of bottles and
boxes almost covered a large table. He looked them all over, carefully,
scrutinising the names on the druggist's labels, sniffing here and
there, occasionally holding some one bottle to the light, and finally,
out of sheer youthful curiosity, counting them.
Then he laughed--a cheery, hearty laugh that woke long-sleeping echoes
in the old house and made Allison smile, in the next room. "It seems,"
he commented, "that a doctor has to leave a prescription as other men
leave cards--just as a polite reminder of the call."
"What shall I do with them?"
"Dump 'em all out--I don't care. Or, wait a minute; there's no rush."
He went back to Allison. "I see you've got quite a drug store here. Are
you particularly attached to any special concoction?"
"Indeed I'm not. Most of 'em have hurt--sinfully."
"I don't know that anything has to be painful or disagreeable in order
to be healing," remarked the young man, thoughtfully. "Would you like to
throw 'em all out of the window?"
"I certainly would."
"All right--that'll be good business." He swung Allison's bed around so
that his right arm rested easily on the window sill, requested the nurse
to wheel the drug store within easy reach, and rapidly uncorked bottle
after bottle with his own hands.
"Now then, get busy."
He sat by, smiling, while Allison poured the varying contents of the
drug store on the ground below and listened for the sound of breaking
glass when the bottle swiftly followed the last gurgling drop. When all
had been disposed of, the nurse took out the table, and the young man
smiled expansively at Allison.
"Feel better?"
"I--think so."
"Good. Now, look here. How much does your hand mean to you?"
"How much does it mean?" repeated Allison, pitifully. "It means life,
career--everything."
"Enough to make a fight for it then, I take it."
Dull colour surged by waves into Allison's white face. "What do you
mean?" he asked, in a broken voice. "Tell me what you mean!"
But the young man was removing his coat. "Hot day," he was saying, "and
the young lady won't mind my negligee as long as the braces don't show.
Strange--how women hate nice new braces. Say," he said to the nurse as
she returned, "get somebody to go up to the station and bring down my
trunk, will you?"
"Trunk?" echoed Allison.
"Sure," smiled the young man. "My instructions were to stay if I saw any
hope, so I brought along my trunk. I'm always looking for a chance to
hope, and I've discovered that it's one of the very best ways to find
it."
The nurse had hastened away upon her errand. The new element in the
atmosphere of the sick room had subtly affected her, also.
"Don't fence," Allison was saying, huskily. "I've asked so much that
I've quit asking."
The young man nodded complete understanding. "I know. The moss-backs sit
around and look wise, and expect to work miracles on a patient who
doesn't know what they're doing and finally gets the impression that he
isn't considered fit to know. Far be it from me to disparage the
pioneers of our noble profession, but I'm modest enough to admit that I
need help, and the best help, every time, comes from the patient
himself."
He drew up his chair beside the bed and sat down. Allison's eager eyes
did not swerve from his face.
"Mind you," he went on, "I don't promise anything--I can't,
conscientiously. In getting a carriage out of the mud, more depends upon
the horse than on the driver. Nature will have to do the work--I can't.
All I can do is to guide her gently. If she's pushed, she gets balky.
Maybe there's something ahead of her that I don't see, and there's no
use spurring her ahead when she's got to stop and get her breath before
she can go up hill.
"That hand can't heal itself without good blood to draw upon, and good
material to make bone and nerve of, so we'll begin to stoke up,
gradually, and meanwhile, I'll camp right here and see what's doing. And
if you can bring yourself to sort of--well, sing at your work, you know,
it's going to make the job a lot easier."
Allison drew a long breath of relief. "You give me hope," he said.
"Sure," returned the young man, with an infectious laugh. "A young
surgeon never has much else when he starts, nor for some time to come.
Want to sit up?"
"Why," Allison breathed, in astonishment, "I can't."
"Who said so?"
"Everybody. They all said I must lie perfectly still."
"Of course," mused the young man, aloud, "blood may move around all
right of itself, and then again, it may not. Wouldn't do any harm to
stir it up a bit and remind the red corpuscles not to loaf on the job."
The nurse came back, to say that the trunk would be up immediately.
"Good. Can I have a bunk in the next room?" Without waiting for her
answer, he requested raw eggs and milk, beaten up with a little cream
and sherry.
While Allison was drinking it, he moved a big easy chair up near the
window, opened every shutter wide, and let the hot sun stream into the
room. He expeditiously made a sling for the injured hand, slipped it
painlessly into place, put a strong arm under Allison's shoulders, and
lifted him to a sitting posture on the edge of the bed. "Now then,
forward, march! Just lean on me."
Muscles long unused trembled under the strain but finally he made the
harbour of the easy chair, gasping for breath. "Good," said the young
man. "At this rate, we'll soon have clothes on us and be outdoors."
"Really?" asked Allison, scarcely daring to believe his ears.
"Sure," replied the marvellous young man, confidently. "What's the use
of keeping a whole body in the house on account of one hand? I'm going
to tell you just one thing more, then we'll quit talking shop and
proceed to politics or anything else you like.
"I knew a man once who was a trapeze performer in a circus and he was
training his son in the same lofty profession. The boy insisted that he
couldn't do it, and finally the man said to him: 'Look here, kid, if
you'll put your heart over the bar, your body will follow all right,'
and sure enough it did. Now you get your heart over the bar, and trust
your hand to follow. Get the idea?"
The sound of the piano below chimed in with the answer. A rippling,
laughing melody danced up the stairs and into the room. The young man
listened a moment, then asked, "Who?"
"A friend of mine--my very dearest friend."
"More good business. I think I'll go down and talk to her. What's her
name?"
"Rose."
"What's the rest of it? I can't start in that way, you know. Bad form."
"Bernard--Rose Bernard."
As quickly and silently as he did everything else, the young man went
down-stairs, and the piano stopped, but only for a moment, as he
requested her, with an airy wave of the hand, not to mind him. When she
finished the old song she was playing, he called her by name, introduced
himself, and invited her out into the garden, because, as he said,
"walls not only have ears, but telephones."
"Say," he began, by way of graceful preliminary, "you look to me as
though you had sense."
"Thank you," she replied, demurely.
"Sense," he resumed, "is lamentably scarce, especially the variety
misnamed common--or even horse. I'm no mental healer, nor anything of
that sort, you know, but it's reasonable to suppose that if the mind can
control the body, after a fashion, when the body is well, it's entitled
to some show when the body isn't well, don't you think so?"
Rose assented, though she did not quite grasp what he said. His all
pervading breeziness affected her much as it had Allison.
"Now," he continued, "I'm not unprofessional enough to knock anybody,
but I gather that there's been a procession of undertakers down here
making that poor chap upstairs think there's no chance. I'm not saying
that there is, but there's no reason why we shouldn't trot along until
we have to stop. It isn't necessary to amputate just yet, and until it
is necessary, there's nothing to hinder us from working like the devil
to save him from it, is there?"
"Surely not."
"All right. Are you in on it?"
"I'm 'in,'" replied Rose, slowly, "on anything and everything that human
power can do, day or night, until we come to the last ditch."
"Good for you. I'll appoint you first lieutenant. I guess that nurse is
all right, though she doesn't seem to be unduly optimistic."
"She's had nothing to make her so. Everything has been discouraging so
far."
"Plenty of discouragement in the world," he observed, "handed out free
of charge, without paying people to bring it into the house when you're
peevish."
"Very true," she answered, then her eyes filled. "Oh," she breathed,
with white lips, "if you can--if you only can--"
"We'll have a try for it," he said, then continued, kindly: "no salt
water upstairs, you know."
"I know," she sighed, wiping her eyes.
"Then 'on with the dance--let joy be unconfined.'"
Rose obediently went back to the piano. The arrival of the trunk and the
composition of a hopeful telegram to Colonel Kent occupied the
resourceful visitor for ten or fifteen minutes. Then he went back to his
patient, who had already begun to miss him.
"You forgot to tell me your name," Allison suggested.
"Sure enough. Call me Jack, or Doctor Jack, when I'm not here and have
to be called."
"But, as you said yourself a few minutes ago, I can't begin that way.
What's the rest of it?"
"If you'll listen," responded the young man, solemnly, "I will unfold
before your eyes the one blot upon the 'scutcheon of my promising
career. My full name is Jonathan Ebenezer Middlekauffer."
"What--how--I mean--excuse me," stammered Allison.
The young man laughed joyously. "You can search me," he answered, with a
shrug. "The gods must have been in a sardonic mood about the time I
arrived to gladden this sorrowful sphere. I've never used more of it
than I could help, and everybody called me 'Jem' until I went to
college, the initials making a shorter and more agreeable name. But
before I'd been there a week, I was 'Jemima' or 'Aunt Jemima' to the
whole class. So I changed it myself, though it took a thrashing to make
two or three of 'em remember that my name was Jack."
"How did you happen to come here?" queried Allison, without much
interest.
"The man who was down here on the fifth sent me. He told me about you
and suggested that my existence might be less wearing if I had something
to do. He just passed along his instructions and faded gracefully out of
sight, saying: 'You'd better go, Middlekauffer, as your business seems
to be the impossible,' so I packed up and took the first train."
"What did he mean by saying that your business was impossible?"
"Not impossible, but THE impossible. Good Heavens, man, don't things get
mixed like that! All he meant was that such small reputation as I have
been able to acquire was earned by doing jobs that the other fellows
shirked. I'm ambidextrous," he added, modestly, "and I guess that helps
some. Let's play piquet."
When Rose came up, an hour or so later, they were absorbed in their
game, and did not see her until she spoke. She was overjoyed to see
Allison sitting up, but, observing that she was not especially needed,
invented a plausible errand and said good-bye, promising to come the
next day.
"Nice girl," remarked Doctor Jack, shuffling the cards for Allison.
"Mighty nice girl."
"My future wife," answered Allison, proudly, forgetting his promise.
"More good business. You'd be a brute if you didn't save that hand for
her. She's entitled to the best that you can give her."
"And she shall have it," returned Allison.
Doctor Jack's quick ears noted a new determination in the voice, that
only a few hours before had been weak and wavering, and he nodded his
satisfaction across the card table.
That night, while Allison slept soundly, and the nurse also, having been
told that she was off duty until called, the young man recklessly burned
gas in the next room, with pencil and paper before him. First, he
carefully considered the man with whom he had to deal, then mapped out a
line of treatment, complete to the last detail.
"There," he said to himself, "by that we stand or fall."
The clocks struck three, but the young man still sat there, oblivious to
his surroundings, or to the fact that even strong and healthy people
occasionally need a little sleep. At last a smile lighted up his face.
"What fun it would be," he thought, "for him to give a special concert,
and invite every blessed moss-back who said 'impossible!' It wouldn't
please me or anything, would it, to stand at the door and see 'em come
in? Oh, no!"
There was a stir in the next room, and Allison called him, softly.
"Yes?" It was only a word, but the tone, as always, was vibrant with
good cheer.
"I just wanted to tell you," Allison said, "that my heart is over the
bar."
In the dark, the two men's hands met. "More good business," commented
Doctor Jack. "Just remember what somebody said of Columbus: 'One day,
with life and hope and heart, is time enough to find a world.' Go to
sleep now. I'll see you in the morning."
"All right," Allison returned, but he did not sleep, even after certain
low sounds usually associated with comfortable slumber came from the
doctor's room. He lay there, waiting happily, while from far, mysterious
sources, life streamed into him, as the sap rises into the trees at the
call of Spring. Across the despairing darkness, a signal had been
flashed to him, and he was answering it, in every fibre of body and
soul.
XX
RISEN FROM THE DEAD
COLONEL KENT, in a distant structure which, by courtesy, was called "the
hotel," had pushed away his breakfast untasted, save for a small portion
of the nondescript fluid the frowsy waitress called "coffee." He had
been delayed, missed his train at the junction point, and, fretting with
impatience, had been obliged to pass the night there.
He had wired to Madame Francesca the night before, but, as yet, had
received no answer. He had personally consulted every surgeon of
prominence in the surrounding country, and all who would not say flatly,
without further information than he could give them, that there was no
chance, had been asked to go and see for themselves.
One by one, their reports came back to him, unanimously hopeless.
Heartsick and discouraged, he rallied from each disappointment, only to
face defeat again. He had spent weeks in fruitless journeying, following
up every clue that presented itself, waited days at hospitals for chiefs
of staff, and made the dreary round of newspaper offices, where
knowledge of every conceivable subject is supposedly upon file for the
asking.
One enterprising editor, too modern to be swayed by ordinary human
instincts, had turned the Colonel over to the star reporter--a young man
with eyes like Allison's. By well-timed questions and sympathetic offers
of assistance, he dragged the whole story of his wanderings from the
unsuspecting old soldier.
It made a double page in the Sunday edition, including the
illustrations--a "human interest" story of unquestionable value,
introduced by a screaming headline in red: "Old Soldier on the March to
Save Son. Violinist about to Lose Hand."
When the Colonel saw it, his eyes filled so that he could not see the
words that danced through the mist, and the paper trembled from his
hands to the floor. He was too nearly heartbroken to be angry, and too
deeply hurt to take heed of the last stab.
No word reached him until late at night, when he arrived at the
metropolitan hotel that he had made his headquarters. When he
registered, two telegrams were handed to him, and he tore them open
eagerly. The first was from Madame Francesca:
"Slight change for the better. New man gives hope. Better return at
once."
The second one was wholly characteristic:
"Willing to take chance. Am camping on job. Come home." It was signed:
"J. E. Middlekauffer."
When he got to his room, the Colonel sat down to think. He knew no one
of that name--had never even heard it before. Perhaps Francesca--it
would have been like her, to work with him and say nothing until she had
something hopeful to say.
His heart warmed toward her, then he forgot her entirely in a sudden
realisation of the vast meaning of the two bits of yellow paper. Why, it
was hope; it was a fighting chance presenting itself where hitherto had
been only despair! He could scarcely believe it. He took the two
telegrams closer to the light, and read the blessed words over and over
again, then, trembling with weakness and something more, tottered back
to his chair.
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