Books: Old Rose and Silver

M >> Myrtle Reed >> Old Rose and Silver

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"She's a saint," said Rose with deep conviction, as the carriage turned
into the driveway.

The house, set far back from the street, was of the true Colonial type,
with stately white pillars at the dignified entrance. The garden was a
tangled mass of undergrowth--in spite of the snow one could see that--
but the house, being substantially built, had changed scarcely at all.

"A new coat of paint will freshen it up amazingly," said Rose, as they
went up the steps. She was thrilled with a mysterious sense of adventure
which the younger woman did not share. "I feel like a burglar," she
continued, putting the key into the rusty lock.

"I feel cold," remarked Isabel, shivering in her furs.

At last the wide door swung on its creaking hinges and they went into
the loneliness and misery of an empty house. The dust of ages had
settled upon everything and penetrated every nook and cranny. The floors
groaned dismally, and the scurrying feet of mice echoed through the
walls. Cobwebs draped the windows, where the secret spinners had held
high carnival, undisturbed. An indescribable musty odour almost stifled
them and the chill dampness carried with it a sense of gloom and
foreboding.

"My goodness!" Isabel exclaimed. "Nobody can ever live here again."

"Don't be discouraged," laughed Rose. "Soap, water, sunshine, and fire
can accomplish miracles."

At the end of the hall a black, empty fireplace yawned cavernously.
There was another in the living-room and still another in the library
back of it. Isabel opened the door on the left. "Why, there's another
fireplace in the dining-room," she said. "Do you suppose they have one
in the kitchen, too?"

"Go in and see, if you like."

"I'm afraid to go alone. You come, too."

There was no fireplace in the kitchen, but the rusty range was sadly in
need of repair.

"I'm going down cellar," Rose said. "Are you coming?"

"I should say not. Hurry back, won't you?"

Rose went cautiously down the dark, narrow stairway. The light was dim
in the basement but she could see that there was no coal. She went back
and forth several times from bin to window, making notes in a small
memorandum book. She was quite determined that Aunt Francesca should be
able to find no fault with her housekeeping.

When she went back, there were no signs of Isabel. She went from room to
room, calling, then concluded that she had gone back to the carriage,
which was waiting outside.

Rose took measurements for new curtains in all the rooms on the lower
floor, then climbed the creaking stairway. She came upon Isabel in the
sitting-room, upstairs, standing absorbed before an open desk. In her
hand she held something which gleamed brightly, even in the gathering
shadow.

"Isabel!" she cried, in astonishment.

The girl turned and came forward. Her eyes were sparkling. "Look!
There's a secret drawer in the desk and I found this in it. I love
secret drawers, don't you?"

"I never have looked for them in other people's houses," Rose answered,
coldly.

"I never have either," retorted Isabel, "except when I've been invited
to clean other people's houses."

There was something so incongruous in the idea of Isabel cleaning a
house that Rose laughed and the awkward moment quickly passed.

"Look," said Isabel, again.

Rose took it from her hand--a lovely miniature framed in brilliants. A
sweet, old-fashioned face was pictured upon the ivory in delicate
colours--that of a girl in her early twenties, with her smooth, dark
hair drawn back over her ears. A scarf of real lace was exquisitely
painted upon the dark background of her gown. The longing eyes held Rose
transfixed for an instant before she noted the wistful, childish droop
of the mouth. The girl who had posed for the miniature, if she had been
truthfully portrayed, had not had all that she asked from life.

"Look at this," Isabel continued.

She offered Rose a bit of knitting work, from which the dust of years
fell lightly. It had once been white, and the needles were still there,
grey and spotted with rust. Rose guessed that the bit had been intended
for a baby's shoe, but never finished. The little shoe had waited, all
those years, for hands that never came back from the agony in which they
wrung themselves to death in the room beyond.

The infinite pity of it stirred Rose to quick tears, but Isabel was
unmoved. "Here's something else," she said.

She shook the dust from an old-fashioned daguerreotype case, then opened
it. On the left side was a young soldier in uniform, full length--a
dashing, handsome figure with one hand upon a drawn sword. Printed in
faded gilt upon the dusty red satin that made up the other half of the
case, the words were still distinct: "To Colonel Richard Kent, from his
friend, Jean Bernard."

"Jean Bernard!" Isabel repeated, curiously. "Who was he?"

"Aunt Francesca's husband," answered Rose, with a little catch in her
voice, "and my uncle. He died in the War."

"Oh," said Isabel, unmoved. "He was nice looking, wasn't he? Shall we
take this to Aunt Francesca?"

"You forget that it isn't ours to take," Rose reminded her. "And, by the
way, Isabel, you must never speak to Aunt Francesca of her husband. She
cannot bear it."

"All right," assented the girl. "What is this?"

From the back of the drawer she took out a bronze medal, with a faded
ribbon of red, white, and blue attached to it. She took it to the light,
rubbed it with her handkerchief, and slowly made out the words: "Awarded
to Colonel Richard Kent, for conspicuous bravery in action at
Gettysburg."

"Put the things back," Rose suggested, gently. This tiny, secret drawer,
Colonel Kent's holy of holies, symbolised and epitomised the best of a
man's life. The medal for military service, the miniature of his wife,
the picture of his friend, and the bit of knitting work that
comprehended a world of love and anguish and bereavement--these were the
hidden chambers of his heart.

Isabel took up the miniature again before she closed the drawer. "Do you
suppose those are diamonds?"

"No; only brilliants."

"I thought so. If they'd been diamonds, he would never have left them
here."

"On the contrary," answered Rose, "I'm very sure he would." She had met
Colonel Kent only a few times, years ago, during the Summer he had spent
at home while Allison was still abroad, but she knew him now,
nevertheless.

They went on through the house, making notes of what was needed, while
their footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the empty rooms. "I'm glad
there are no carpets, except on the stairs," said Rose, "for rugs are
much easier to clean. It resolves itself simply into three C's--coal,
curtains, and cleaning. It won't take long, if we can get enough people
to work at it."

It was almost dusk when they went downstairs, but the cold slanting
sunbeams of a Winter afternoon came through the grimy windows and
illumined the gloomy depths of the open fireplace in the hall. Motes
danced in the beam, and the house somehow seemed less despairing, less
alone. A portrait of Colonel Kent, in uniform, hung above the great
mantel. Rose smiled at it with comprehension, but the painted lips did
not answer, nor the unseeing eyes swerve from their steady searching of
Beyond.

"How was it?" asked Madame, when they reached home. "Dirty and bad?"

"Rather soiled," admitted Rose.

"And colder than Greenland," Isabel continued, warming her hands at the
open fire.

"We'll soon change all that," Madame said. "I've ordered coal and
engaged people to do the cleaning since you've been gone, and I have my
eye upon two permanent retainers, provided their references are
satisfactory."

"I've measured for all the curtains," Rose went on. "Shall we make them
or buy them?"

"We'll make them. If we have help enough we can get them done in time."

The following day a small army, with Rose at the head of it, took
possession of the house. Every night she came home exhausted, not from
actual toil, but from the effort to instill the pride of good service
into unwilling workers who seemed to rejoice in ignorance.

"I'm tired," Rose remarked, one night. "I've cerebrated all day for
seven bodies besides my own and I find it wearing."

"I don't wonder," answered Madame. "I'll go over to-morrow and let you
rest."

"Indeed you won't," declared Rose, with emphasis. "I've begun it and I'm
going to finish it unless the Seven Weary Workers fail me absolutely."

At last the task was completed, and even Rose could find no speck of
dust in the entire establishment. The house was fresh with the smell of
soap-suds and floor wax and so warm that several windows had to be kept
open. The cablegram had come while the curtains were being made, but
everything was ready two days before the wayfarers could possibly reach
home.

On the appointed day, Rose and Isabel were almost as excited as Madame
Bernard herself. She had chosen to go over alone to greet the Colonel
and his son. They were expected to arrive about four in the afternoon.

At three, Madame set forth in her carriage. She wore her best gown, of
lavender crepe, trimmed with real lace, and a bunch of heliotrope at her
belt. Rose had twined a few sprays of heliotrope into her snowy hair and
a large amethyst cross hung from her neck by a slender silver chain. She
wore no other jewels except her wedding ring.

Fires blazed cheerily in every fireplace on the lower floor, and there
was another in the sitting-room upstairs. She had filled the house with
the flowers of Spring--violets, daffodils, and lilies of the valley. A
silver tea-kettle with a lamp under it waited on the library table.

When she heard the wheels creaking in the snowy road, Madame lighted the
lamp under the kettle with her own hands, then opened the door wide.
Followed by their baggage, the two men came up the walk--father and son.

The Colonel was a little older, possibly, but still straight and tall--
almost as tall as the son who walked beside him, carrying a violin case
under his arm. He wore the familiar slouch hat, the same loose overcoat,
and the same silvery goatee, trimmed most carefully. His blue eyes
lighted up warmly at the sight of the figure in the doorway.

"Welcome home!" cried Madame Francesca, stretching a hand toward each.
"Welcome home!"

Allison only smiled, taking the little hand in his strong young clasp,
but his father bent, hat in hand, to kiss the one she offered him.

"Oh," cried Madame, "I'm so glad to see you both. Come in!"

They entered their own hospitable house, where fires blazed and the
kettle sang. "Say," said Allison, "isn't this great! Why did we ever
leave it? Isn't it fine, Father?"

But "father" still had his eyes upon the dainty little lady who had
brought forth the miracle of home from a wilderness of dust and ashes.
He bent again over the small, white hand.

"A woman, a fire, and a singing kettle," he said. "All the dear,
familiar spirits of the house to welcome us home."

III

THE VOICE OF THE VIOLIN

Madame Bernard and Isabel had not yet come down when Rose entered the
living-room, half an hour before dinner. The candles were lighted, and
in the soft glow of the reading lamp was a vase of pink roses, sent by
Colonel Kent to his old friend. The delicate sweetness filled the room
and mingled with the faint scent of attar of roses and dried rose petals
which, as always, hung about the woman who stood by the table, idly
rearranging the flowers.

The ruby ring caught the light and sent tiny crimson gleams dancing into
the far shadows. Her crepe gown was almost the colour of the ruby; warm
and blood-red. It was cut low at the throat, and an old Oriental
necklace of wonderfully wrought gold was the only ornament she wore,
aside from the ring. The low light gave the colour of the gown back to
her face, beautiful as always, and in her dusky hair she had a single
crimson rose.

Aunt Francesca had said that the Colonel was very much pleased with the
house and glad to be at home again. She had sent over her own cook to
prepare their first dinner, which, however, she had declined to share,
contenting herself with ordering a feast suited to the Colonel's taste.
To-night, they were to dine with her and meet the other members of her
household.

Madame came in gowned in lustreless white, with heliotrope at her belt
and in her hair. She wore a quaintly wrought necklace of amethysts set
in silver, and silver buckles, set with amethysts, on her white shoes.
More than once Rose had laughingly accused her of being vain of her
feet.

"Why shouldn't I be vain?" she had retorted, in self-defence. "Aren't
they pretty?"

"Of course they are," smiled Rose, bending down to kiss her. "They're
the prettiest little feet in all the world."

Madame's fancy ran seriously to shoes and stockings, of which she had a
marvellous collection. Silk stockings in grey and white, and in all
shades of lavender and purple, embroidered and plain, with shoes to
match in satin and suede, occupied a goodly space in her wardrobe. At
Christmas-time and on her birthday, Rose always gave her more, for it
was the one gift which could never fail to please.

"How lovely the house is," said Madame, looking around appreciatively.
"I hope the dinner will be good."

"I've never known it to be otherwise," Rose assured her.

"Am I all right? Is my skirt even?"

"You are absolutely perfect, Aunt Francesca."

"Then play to me, my dear. If my outward semblance is in keeping, please
put my mind into a holiday mood."

Rose ran her fingers lightly over the keys. "What shall I play?"

"Anything with a tune to it, and not too loud."

Smiling, Rose began one of the simple melodies that Aunt Francesca
loved:

[Illustration: musical notation]

Suddenly, she turned away from the piano. Her elbow, falling upon the
keys, made a harsh dissonance. "Isabel, my dear!" she cried. "Aren't you
almost too gorgeous?"

The girl stood in the open door, framed like a portrait, against the
dull red background of the hall. Her gown was white net, shot and
spangled with silver, over lustrous white silk. A comb, of filagree
silver, strikingly lovely in her dark hair, was her only ornament except
a large turquoise, set in dull silver, at her throat.

"I'm not overdressed, am I?" she asked, with an eager look at Madame.

"Not if it suits you. Come here, dear."

Isabel obeyed, turning around slowly for inspection. Almost instantly it
was evident that Madame approved. So did Rose, after she saw how the
gown made Isabel's eyes sparkle and brought out the delicate fairness of
her skin.

"You do suit yourself; there's no question about that, but you're
gorgeous, nevertheless." Thus Rose made atonement for her first
impulsive speech.

Mr. Boffin came in, with a blue ribbon around his neck, and helped
himself to Aunt Francesca's chair. Isabel rocked him and he got down,
without undue haste. He marched over to a straight-backed chair with a
cushion in it; glared at Isabel for a moment with his inscrutable topaz
eyes, then began to purr.

The clock chimed seven silvery notes. Madame Bernard waved her white
lace fan impatiently. "It's the psychological moment," Rose observed.
"Why don't they come?"

"It's Allison's fault, if they're late," Madame assured her. "I could
always set my watch by the Colonel. He--there, what did I tell you?" she
concluded triumphantly, as footsteps sounded outside.

When the guests were ushered in, Madame advanced to meet them. The
firelight had brought a rosy glow to her lovely face, and her deep eyes
smiled. Allison put his violin case in a corner before he spoke to her.

"Did you really?" asked Madame. "How kind you are!"

"I brought it," laughed the young man, "just because you didn't ask me
to."

"Do you always," queried Rose, after he had been duly presented to her,
"do the things you're not asked to do?"

"Invariably," he replied.

"Allison," said Madame, "I want you to meet my niece once removed--Miss
Ross." The Colonel had already bowed to Isabel and was renewing his old
acquaintance with Rose.

"Not Isabel," said Allison, in astonishment.

"Yes," answered the girl, her eyes sparkling with excitement, "it's
Isabel."

"Why, little playmate, how did you ever dare to grow up?"

"I had nothing else to do." "But I didn't want you to grow up," he
objected.

"You've grown up some yourself," she retorted.

"I suppose I have," he sighed. "What a pity that the clock won't stand
still!"

Yet, to Madame, he did not seem to have changed much. He was taller, and
more mature in every way, of course. She noted with satisfaction that he
had gained control of his hands and feet, but he had the same boyish
face, the same square, well-moulded chin, and the same nice brown eyes.
Only his slender, nervous hands betrayed the violinist.

"Well, are you pleased with me?" he asked of Madame, his eyes twinkling.

"Yes," she answered with a faint flush. "If you had worn long hair and a
velvet collar, I should never have forgiven you."

Colonel Kent laughed outright. "I should never have dared to bring him
back to you, Francesca, if he had fallen so low. We're Americans, and
please God, we'll stay Americans, won't we, lad?"

"You bet," answered Allison, boyishly, going over to salute Mr. Boffin.
"'But in spite of all temptations to belong to other nations, I'm an Am-
er-i-can,'" he sang, under his breath. Through the mysterious workings
of some sixth sense, Mr. Boffin perceived approaching trouble and made a
hurried escape.

"Will you look at that?" asked Allison, with a hearty laugh. "I hadn't
even touched him and he became suspicious of me."

"As I remember," Madame said, "my cats never got on very well with you."

"I don't like them either," put in Isabel.

"I like 'em," Allison said. "I like 'em a whole lot, but it isn't
mutual, and I never could understand why."

At dinner, it seemed as though they all talked at once. Madame and the
Colonel had a separate conversation of their own, while Allison
"reminisced" with Isabel, as he said, and asked numerous questions of
Rose in regard to the neighbours.

"Please tell me," he said, "what has become of the Crosby twins?"

"They're flourishing," Rose answered.

"You don't mean it! What little devils they were!"

"Are," corrected Rose.

"Who are the Crosby twins?" inquired Isabel.

"They'll probably call on you," Rose replied, "so I won't spoil it by
endeavouring to describe them. The language fails to do them justice."

"What were their names?" mused Allison. "Let me see. Oh, yes, Romeo and
Juliet."

"'Romie' and 'Jule' by affectionate abbreviation, to each other," Rose
added. Did you know that an uncle died in Australia and left them a
small fortune ?"

"No, I didn't. What are they doing with it?"

"Do you remember, when you were a child, how you used to plan what you'd
do with unlimited wealth?"

Allison nodded.

"Well," Rose resumed, "that's just what they're doing with it. They have
only the income now, but this Fall, when they're twenty-one, they'll
come into possession of the principal. I prophesy bankruptcy in five
years."

"Even so," he smiled, "they'll doubtless have pleasant memories."

"What satisfaction do you think there will be in that?" queried Isabel.

"I can't answer just now," Allison replied, "but the minute I'm
bankrupt, I'll come and tell you. It's likely to happen to me at any
time."

Meanwhile Colonel Kent was expressing the pleasure he had found in his
well-appointed household. "Was it very much trouble, Francesca?"

"None at all--to me."

"You always were wonderful."

"You see," she smiled, "I didn't do it. Rose did everything. I merely
went over at the last to arrange the flowers, make the tea, and receive
the credit."

"And to welcome us home," he added. "They say a fireplace is the heart
of a house, but I think a woman is the soul of it."

"Then the soul of it was there, waiting, wasn't it?"

"But only for a little while," he sighed. "I am very lonely sometimes,
in spite of the boy."

Francesca's blue eyes became misty. "When a door in your heart is
closed," she said, "turn the key and go away. Opening it only brings
pain."

"I know," he answered, clearing his throat. "You've told me that before
and I've often thought of it. Yet sometimes it seems as though all of
life was behind that door."

"Ah, but it isn't. Your son and at least one true friend are outside.
Listen!"

"No," Allison was saying, "I got well acquainted with surprisingly few
people over there. You see, I always chummed with Dad."

"Bless him," said Francesca, impulsively.

"Have I done well?" asked the Colonel, anxiously. "It was hard work,
alone."

"Indeed you have done well. I hear that he is a great artist."

"He's more than that--he's a man. He's clean and a good shot, and he
isn't afraid of anything. Someway, to me, a man who played the fiddle
always seemed, well--lady-like, you know. But Allison isn't."

"No," answered Francesca, demurely, "he isn't. Do I infer that it is a
disgrace to be ladylike?"

"Not for a woman," laughed the Colonel. "Why do you pretend to
misunderstand me? You always know what I mean."

After dinner, when the coffee had been served, Allison took out his
violin, of his own accord. "You haven't asked me to play, but I'm going
to. Who is going to play my accompaniment? Don't all speak at once."

Rose went to the piano and looked over his music. "I'll try. Fortunately
I'm familiar with some of this."

His first notes came with a clearness and authority for which she was
wholly unprepared. She followed the accompaniment almost perfectly, but
mechanically, lost as she was in the wonder and delight of his playing.
The exquisite harmony seemed to be the inmost soul of the violin,
speaking at last, through forgotten ages, of things made with the world
--Love and Death and Parting. Above it and through it hovered a spirit of
longing, infinite and untranslatable, yet clear as some high call.

Subtly, Rose answered to it. In some mysterious way, she seemed set free
from bondage. Unsuspected fetters loosened; she had a sense of
largeness, of freedom which she had never known before. She was
quivering in an ecstasy of emotion when the last chord came.

For an instant there was silence, then Isabel spoke. "How well you
play!" she said politely.

"I ought to," Allison replied, modestly. "I've worked hard enough."

"How long have you been studying?"

"Thirty years," he answered. "That is, I feel as if I had been at work
all my life."

"How funny!" exclaimed Isabel. "Are you thirty?"

"Just," he said.

"Then Cousin Rose and I are like steps, with you half way between us.
I'm twenty and she's forty," smiled Isabel, with childlike frankness.

Rose bit her lips, then the colour flamed into her face. "Yes," she
said, to break an awkward pause, "I'm forty. Old Rose," she added, with
a forced smile.

"Nonsense," said Allison quickly. "How can a rose be old?"

"Or," continued the Colonel, with an air of old-world gallantry, "how
can earth itself be any older, having borne so fair a rose upon its
breast for forty years?"

"Thank you both," responded Rose, her high colour receding. "Shall we
play again?"

While they were turning over the music Madame grappled with a temptation
to rebuke Isabel then and there. "Not fit for a parlour yet," she
thought. "Ought to be in the nursery on a bread and milk diet and put to
bed at six."

For her part, Isabel dimly discerned that she had said something
awkward, and felt vaguely uncomfortable. She was sorry if she had made a
social mistake and determined to apologise afterward, though she
disliked apologies.

Allison was playing again, differently, yet in the same way. Through the
violin sounded the same high call to Rose. Life assumed a new breadth
and value, as from a newly discovered dimension. She had been in it, yet
not of it, until now. She was merged insensibly with something vast and
universal, finite yet infinite, unknown and undreamed-of an hour ago.

She was quite pale when they finished. "You're tired," he said. "I'm
sorry."

"I'm not," she denied, vigorously.

"But you are," he insisted. "Don't you suppose I can see?" His eyes met
hers for the moment, clearly, and, once more, she answered an unspoken
summons in some silent way. The room turned slowly before her; their
faces became white spots in a mist.

"You play well," Allison was saying. "I wish you'd let me work with
you."

"I'll be glad to," Rose answered, with lips that scarcely moved.

"Will you help me work up my programs for next season?"

"Indeed I will. Don't stop now, please--really, I'm not tired."

While she was still protesting, he led her away from the piano to an
easy chair. "Sit there," he said, "and I'll do the work. Those
accompaniments are heavy."

He went back to his violin, tightened a string, and began to play,
alone. The melody was as delicate in structure as the instrument itself,
yet strangely full of longing. Slowly the violin gave back the music of
which it was made; the wind in the forest, the sound of many waters,
moonlight shimmering through green aisles of forest, the mating calls of
Spring. And again, through it all, surged some great question to which
Rose thrilled in unspoken answer; a great prayer, which, in some secret
way, she shared.

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