Books: Old Rose and Silver

M >> Myrtle Reed >> Old Rose and Silver

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Madame Bernard had no patience with Mrs. Ross. When she had come for a
brief holiday, fifteen years before, bringing her child with her, she
had just begun to be influenced by the modern feminine unrest. Later she
had definitely allied herself with those whose mission it is to
emancipate Woman--with a capital W--from her chains, forgetting that
these are of her own forging, and anchor her to the eternal verities of
earth and heaven.

A single swift stroke had freed Mrs. Ross from her own "bondage."
Isabel's father had died, while her mother was out upon a lecturing
tour--in a hotel, which is the most miserable place in the world to die
in. The housekeeper and chambermaids had befriended Isabel until the
tour came to its triumphant conclusion. Mrs. Ross had seemed to consider
the whole affair a kindly and appropriate recognition of her abilities,
on the part of Providence. She attempted to fit Isabel for the duties of
a private secretary, but failed miserably, and, greatly to Isabel's
relief, gave up the idea.

Madame Bernard had looked forward to Isabel's visit with a certain
apprehension, remembering Mrs. Ross's unbecoming gowns and careless
coiffures. But the girl's passion for clothes, amounting almost to a
complete "reversion to type," had at once relieved and alarmed her. "If
I can strike a balance for her," she had said to herself in a certain
midnight musing, "I shall do very well."

As yet, however, Isabel had failed to "balance." She dressed for morning
and luncheon and afternoon, and again for dinner, changing to street
gowns when necessary and doing her hair in a different way for each
gown. Still, as Rose had said, she "suited herself," for she was always
immaculate, beautifully clad, and a joy to behold.

Madame Bernard greatly approved of the lovely white wool house gown
Isabel was wearing. She had no fault to find with the girl's taste, but
she wished to subordinate, as it were, the thing to the spirit; the
temple to the purpose for which it was made.

Isabel smiled at her sweetly as she folded up her work--a little
uncomprehending smile. "Are you going away now for your 'forty winks,'
Aunt Francesca?"

"Yes, my dear. Can you amuse yourself for an hour or so without playing
upon the piano?"

"Certainly. I didn't know that you and Cousin Rose were asleep
yesterday, or I wouldn't have played."

"Of course not." Madame leaned over her and stroked the dark hair, waved
and coiled in quite the latest fashion. "There are plenty of books and
magazines in the library."

Madame went upstairs, followed at a respectful distance by Mr. Boffin,
waving his plumed tail. He, too, took his afternoon nap, curled up
cosily upon the silken quilt at the foot of his mistress's couch. In the
room adjoining, Rose rested for an hour also, though she usually spent
the time with a book.

Left to herself, Isabel walked back and forth idly, greatly allured by
the forbidden piano. She looked over, carelessly, the pile of violin
music Allison had left there. Some of the sheets were torn and had been
pasted together, all were marked in pencil with hieroglyphics, and most
of them were stamped, in purple, "Allison Kent," with a Berlin or Paris
address written in below.

Isabel had met very few men, in the course of her twenty years. For this
reason, possibly, she remembered every detail of the two weeks she had
spent at Aunt Francesca's and the hours with Allison, on the veranda,
when he chose to amuse himself with the pretty, credulous child. It
seemed odd to have him coming to the house again, though, unless he came
to dinner, he usually spent the time playing, to Rose's accompaniment.
She had not seen him alone.

She surveyed herself in the long, gilt-framed mirror, and was well
pleased with the image of youth and beauty the mirror gave back. The
bell rang and she pinned up a stray lock carefully. It was probably
someone to see Aunt Francesca, but there was a pleasing doubt. It might
be the twins, though she had not returned their call.

Presently Allison came in, his cheeks glowing from his long walk in the
cold. "Silver Girl," he smiled, "where are the spangles, and are you
alone?"

"The spangles are upstairs waiting for candlelight," answered Isabel, as
he took her small, cool hand, "and I'm very much alone--or was."

"Where are the others?"

"Taking naps."

"I hope I haven't tired Rose out," said Allison, offering Isabel a
chair. He had unconsciously dropped the prefix of "Cousin." "We've been
working hard lately."

"Is she going with you on your tour?"

"I don't know. I wish she could go, but I haven't the heart to drag
father or Aunt Francesca along with us, and otherwise, it would be--
well, unconventional, you know. The conventions make me dead tired," he
added, with evident sincerity.

"And yet," said Isabel, looking into the fire, "they are all in the
interests of morality. If you're conventional, you'll be good,
negatively. It isn't good manners for a man to shoot a lady or to sign a
check with another man's name and get it cashed. If you're conventional,
you're not always explaining things."

"Very true," laughed Allison, "but sometimes 'the greatest good for the
greatest number' bears heavily upon the few."

"Of course," Isabel agreed, after a moment's pause. "Your friends, the
Crosby twins, have called," she continued.

"Really?" Allison asked, with interest. "How do you like them?"

"I wish they'd come often," she smiled. "They remind me of a field of
red clover, they're so breezy and so wholesome."

"I must hunt 'em up," he returned, absently. "They used to be regular
little devils. It's a shame for them to have all that money."

"Why?"

"Because they'll waste it. They don't know how to use it."

"Perhaps they do, in a way. One Fourth of July they gave every orphan in
the Orphans' Home two dollars' worth of fireworks. Anybody else would
have wasted the money on shoes, or hats."

"I see you haven't grown up. Would you rather have fireworks than
clothes?"

"There is a time in life when one sky-rocket can give more pleasure than
a pair of shoes, and the gift of pleasure is the finest gift in the
world."

Allison was agreeably surprised, for hitherto Isabel's conversation had
consisted mainly of monosyllables and platitudes, or the hesitating echo
of someone's else opinion. Now he perceived that it was shyness; that
Isabel had a mind of her own, and an unusual mind, at that. He looked at
her quickly and the colour bloomed upon her pale, cold face.

"Tell me, little playmate, what have the years done for you since you
went out and pulled up the rose bushes to find the scent bottles?"

"Nothing," she answered, not knowing what else to say.

"Still looking for the unattainable?"

"Yes, if you like to put it that way."

"Where's your mother?"

"Out lecturing."

"What about?"

"The Bloodless Revolution, or the Gradual Emancipation of Woman," she
repeated, parrot-like.

"Her work must keep her away from home a great deal," he ventured, after
a pause.

"Yes. I seldom see her."

"You must be lonely."

She turned her dark eyes to his. "I live in a hotel," she said.

In the simple answer, Allison saw an unmeasured loneliness, coupled with
a certain loyalty to her mother. He changed the subject.

"You like it here, don't you?"

"Yes, indeed. Aunt Francesca is lovely and so is Cousin Rose. I wish,"
she went on, with a little sigh as she glanced about the comfortable
room, "that I could always stay here." The child-like appeal in her tone
set Allison's heart to beating a little faster.

"I wish you could," he said. Remorsefully, he remembered the long hours
he had spent with Rose at the piano, happily oblivious of Isabel.

"Are you fond of music?" he asked.

"Yes, indeed! I always sit outside and listen when you and Cousin Rose
play."

"Come in whenever you want to," he responded, warmly.

"Won't I be in the way? Won't I be a bother?"

"I should say not. How could you be?"

"Then," Isabel smiled, "I'll come sometimes, if I may. It's the only
pleasure I have."

"That's too bad. Sometime we'll go into town to the theatre, just you
and I. Would you like to go?"

"I'd love to," she answered, eagerly.

The clock ticked industriously, the fire crackled merrily upon the
hearth, and the wind howled outside. In the quiet room, Allison sat and
studied Isabel, with the firelight shining upon her face and her white
gown. She seemed much younger than her years.

"You're only a child," he said, aloud; "a little, helpless child."

"How long do you think it will be before I'm grown up?"

"I don't want you to grow up. I can remember now just how you looked the
day I told you about the scent bottles. You had on a pink dress, with a
sash to match, pink stockings, little white shoes with black buttons,
and the most fetching white sunbonnet. Your hair was falling in curls
all round your face and it was such a warm day that the curls clung to
your neck and annoyed you. You toddled over to me and said: 'Allison,
please fix my's turls.' Don't you remember?"

She smiled and said she had forgotten. "But," she added, truthfully,
"I've often wondered how I looked when I was dressed up."

"Then," he continued, "I told you how the scent bottles grew on the
roots of the rose bushes, and, after I went home, you went and pulled up
as many as you could. Aunt Francesca was very angry with me."

"Yes, I remember that. I felt as though you were being punished for my
sins. It was years afterward that I saw I'd been sufficiently punished
myself. Look!"

She leaned toward him and showed him a narrow white line on the soft
flesh between her forefinger and her thumb, extending back over her
hand.

"A thorn," she said. "I shall carry the scar to my dying day."

With a little catch in his throat, Allison caught the little hand and
pressed it to his lips. "Forgive me!" he said.

VI

THE LIGHT ON THE ALTAR

Colonel Kent had gone away on a short business trip and Allison was
spending his evenings, which otherwise would have been lonely, at Madame
Bernard's. After talking for a time with Aunt Francesca and Isabel, it
seemed natural for him to take up his violin and suggest, if only by a
half-humorous glance, that Rose should go to the piano.

Sometimes they played for their own pleasure and sometimes worked for
their own benefit. Neither Madame nor Isabel minded hearing the same
thing a dozen times or more in the course of an evening, for, as Madame
said, with a twinkle in her blue eyes, it made "a pleasant noise," and
Isabel did not trouble herself to listen.

Both Rose and Allison were among the fortunate ones who find joy in
work. Rose was so keenly interested in her music that she took no count
of the hours spent at the piano, and Allison fully appreciated her. It
had been a most pleasant surprise for him to find a good accompanist so
near home.

The discouraging emptiness of life had mysteriously vanished for Rose.
Her restlessness disappeared as though by magic and her indefinite
hunger had been, in some way, appeased. She had unconsciously emerged
from one state into another, as the tiny dwellers of the sea cast off
their shells. She had a sense of freedom and a large vision, as of
dissonances resolved into harmony.

Clothes, also, which, as Madame had said, are "supposed to please and
satisfy women," had taken to themselves a new significance. Rose had
made herself take heed of her clothes, but she had never had much real
interest. Now she was glad of the time she had spent in planning her
gowns, merely with a view to pleasing Aunt Francesca.

To-night, she wore a clinging gown of deep green velvet, with a spray of
green leaves in her hair. Her only ornament was a pin of jade, in an
Oriental setting. Allison looked at her admiringly.

"There's something about you," he said, "that I don't know just how to
express. I have no words for it, but, in some way, you seem to live up
to your name."

"How so?" Rose asked, demurely.

"Well, I've never seen you wear anything that a rose might not wear.
I've seen you in red and green and yellow and pink and white, but never
in blue or purple, or any of those soft-coloured things that Aunt
Francesca wears."

"That only means," answered Rose, flushing, "that blue and grey and tan
and lavender aren't becoming to me."

"That isn't it," Allison insisted, "for you'd be lovely in anything.
You're living up to your name."

"Go on," Rose suggested mischievously. "This is getting interesting."
"You needn't laugh. I assure you that men know more about those things
than they're usually given credit for. Your jewels fit in with the whole
idea, too. That jade pin, for instance, and your tourmaline necklace,
and your ruby ring, and the topazes you wear with yellow, and the faint
scent of roses that always hangs about you."

"What else?" she smiled.

"Well, I had a note from you the other day. It was fragrant with rose
petals and the conventionalised rose, in gold and white, that was
stamped in place of a monogram, didn't escape me. Besides, here's this."

He took from his pocket a handkerchief of sheerest linen, delicately
hemstitched. In one corner was embroidered a rose, in palest shades of
pink and green. The delicate, elusive scent filled the room as he shook
it out.

"There," he continued, with a laugh. "I found it in my violin case the
other day. I don't know how it came there, but it was much the same as
finding a rose twined about the strings."

Aunt Francesca was on the other side of the room, by the fire. Her face,
in the firelight, was as delicate as a bit of carved ivory. Her thoughts
were far away--one could see that. Isabel sat near her, apparently
absorbed in a book, but, in reality, listening to every word.

"I wish," Allison was saying, "that people knew how to live up to
themselves. That's an awkward phrase, but I don't know of anything
better. Even their names don't fit 'em, and they get nicknames."

"'Father calls me William,'" murmured Rose.

"'And Mother calls me Will,'" Allison went on. "That's it, exactly. See
how the 'Margarets' are adjusted to themselves by their friends. Some
are 'Margie' and more of 'em are 'Peggy.' 'Margaret' who is allowed to
wear her full name is very rare."

"I'm glad my name can't be changed, easily," she said, thoughtfully.

"It could be 'Rosie,' with an 'ie,' and if you were that sort, it would
be. Take Aunt Francesca, for instance. She might be 'Frances' or 'Fanny'
or even 'Fran,' but her name suits her, so she gets the full benefit of
it, every time."

Madame turned away from the fire, with the air of one who has been away
upon a long journey. "Did I hear my name? Did someone speak to me?"

"Only of you," Allison explained. "We were talking of names and
nicknames and saying that yours suited you."

"If it didn't," observed Madame Bernard, "I'd change it. When we get
civilised, I believe children will go by number until they get old
enough to choose their own names. Fancy a squirming little imp with a
terrible temper being saddled with the name of 'William,' by authority
of Church and State. Except to his doting parents, he'll never be
anything but 'Bill.'"

"Does my name fit me?" queried Isabel, much interested.

"It would," said Allison, "if you weren't quite so tall. Does my name
fit me?"

He spoke to Madame Bernard but he looked at Rose. It was the older woman
who answered him. "Yes, of course it does. How dare you ask me that when
I named you myself?"

"I'd forgotten," Allison laughed. "I can't remember quite that far
back."

They began to play once more and Isabel, pleading a headache, said good-
night. She made her farewells very prettily and there was a moment's
silence after the door closed.

"I'm afraid," said Madame, "that our little girl is lonely. Allison,
can't you bestir yourself and find some young men to call upon her? I
can't think of anybody but the Crosby twins."

"What's the matter with me?" inquired Allison, lightly. "Am I not
calling? And behold, I give her a headache and she goes to bed."

"You're not exactly in her phase of youth," Madame objected. "She's my
guest and she has to be entertained."

"I'm willing to do my share. I'll take her into town to the theatre some
night, and to supper afterward, in the most brilliantly lighted place I
can find."

"That's very nice of you," responded Rose, with a look of friendly
appreciation. "I know she would enjoy the bright lights."

"We all do, in certain moods," he said. "Are you ready now?"

The voice of the violin rose to heights of ecstasy, sustained by full
chords in the accompaniment. Mingled with the joy of it, like a breath
of sadness and longing, was a theme in minor, full of question and
heartbreak; of appeal that was almost prayer. And over it all, as
always, hovering like some far light, was the call to which Rose
answered. Dumbly, she knew that she must always answer it, though she
were dead and the violin itself mingled with her dust.

Madame Bernard, still seated by the fire, stirred uneasily. Something
had come into her house that vaguely troubled her, because she had no
part in it. The air throbbed with something vital, keen, alive; the room
trembled as from invisible wings imprisoned.

Old dreams and memories came back with a rush, and the little old lady
sitting in the half light looked strangely broken and frail. The sound
of marching and the steady beat of a drum vibrated through her
consciousness and the singing violin was faint and far. She saw again
the dusty street, where the blue column went forward with her Captain at
the head, his face stern and cold, grimly set to some high Purpose that
meant only anguish for her. The picture above the mantel, seen dimly
through a mist, typified, to her, the ways of men and women since the
world began--the young knight riding forward in his quest for the Grail,
already forgetting what lay behind, while the woman knelt, waiting,
waiting, waiting, as women always have and always must.

At last the music reached its end in a low chord that was at once a
question and a call. Madame rose, about to say good-night, and go up-
stairs where she might be alone. On the instant she paused. Her heart
waited almost imperceptibly, then resumed its beat.

Still holding the violin, Allison was looking at Rose. Subconsciously,
Madame noted his tall straight figure, his broad well-set shoulders, his
boyish face, and his big brown eyes. But Rose had illumined as from some
inward light; her lovely face was transfigured into a beauty beyond all
words.

Francesca slipped out without speaking and went, unheard, to her own
room. She felt guilty because she had discerned something of which Rose
herself was as yet entirely unconscious. With the instinctive sex-
loyalty that distinguishes fine women from the other sort, Madame hoped
that Allison did not know.

"And so," she said to herself, "Love has come back to my house, after
many years of absence. I wonder if he cares? He must, oh, he must!"
Francesca had no selfish thought of her own loneliness, if her Rose
should go away. Though her own heart was forever in the keeping of a
distant grave, she could still be glad of another's joy.

Rose turned away from the piano and Allison put his violin into the
case. "It's late," he said, regretfully, "and you must be tired."

"Perhaps I am, but I don't know it."

"You respond so fully to the music that it is a great pleasure to play
with you. I wish I could always have you as my accompanist."

"I do, too," murmured Rose, turning her face away. The deep colour
mounted to the roots of her hair and he studied her impersonally, as he
would have studied any other lovely thing.

"Why?" he began, then laughed.

"Why what?" asked Rose, quickly.

"I was about to ask you a very foolish question."

"Don't hesitate," she said. "Most questions are foolish."

"This is worse--it's idiotic. I was going to ask you why you hadn't
married."

With a sharp stab at the heart, Rose noted the past tense. "Why haven't
you?" she queried, forcing a smile.

"There is only one answer to that question, and yet people keep on
asking it. They might as well ask why you don't buy an automobile."

"Well?" continued Rose, inquiringly.

"Because 'the not impossible she,' or 'he,' hasn't come, that's all."

"Perhaps only one knows," she suggested.

"No," replied Allison, "in any true mating, they both know--they must."

There was a long pause. A smouldering log, in the fireplace, broke and
fell into the embers. The dying flame took new life and the warm glow
filled the room.

"Is that why people don't buy automobiles?" queried Rose, chiefly
because she did not know what else to say.

"The answer to that is that they do."

"Sounds as if you might have taken it from Alice in Wonderland," she
commented. "Maybe they've had to give each other up," she concluded,
enigmatically.

"People who will give each other up should be obliged to do it," he
returned. "May I leave my violin here? I'll be coming again so soon."

"Surely. I hope you will."

"Good-night." He took her hand for a moment, in his warm, steady clasp,
and subtly, Rose answered to the man--not the violin. She was deathly
white when the door closed, and she trembled all the way up-stairs.

When she saw herself in the mirror, she was startled, for, in her
ghostly pallor, her deep eyes burned like stars. She knew, now. The
woman who had so hungered for Life had suddenly come face to face with
its utmost wonder; its highest gift of joy--or pain.

The heart of a man is divided into many compartments, mostly isolated.
Sometimes there is a door between two of them, or even three may be
joined, but usually, each one is complete in itself. Within the
different chambers his soul sojourns as it will, since immeasurably
beyond woman, he possesses the power of detachment, of intermittence.

Once in a lifetime, possibly, under the influence of some sweeping
passion, all the doors are flung wide and the one beloved woman may
enter in. Yet she is wise, with the wisdom of the Sphinx, if she refuses
to go. Let her say to him: "Close all these doors, except that which
bears my name. In that chamber and in that alone, we shall dwell
together." For, with these words, the memories housed in the other
chambers crumble to dust and ashes, blown only by vagrant winds of Fate.

In the heart of a woman there are few chambers and still fewer doors.
Instead of business-like compartments, neatly labelled, there are long,
labyrinthine passages, all opening into one another and inextricably
bound together. To shut out one, or even part of one, requires the
building of a wall, but it takes a long time and the barrier is never
firm.

At a single strain of music, the scent of a flower, or even one glimpse
of a path of moonlight lying fair upon a Summer sea, the barriers
crumble and fall. Through the long corridors the ghosts of the past walk
unforbidden, hindered only by broken promises, dead hopes, and dream-
dust.

Even while the petals of long-dead roses rustle through the winding
passages, where the windows are hung with cobwebs, greyed at last from
iridescence to despairing shadows, a barrier may fall at the sound of a
talismanic name, for the hands of women are small and slow to build and
the hearts of women are tender beyond all words.

Hidden in the centre of the labyrinth is one small secret chamber, and
the door may open only at the touch of one other hand. The woman herself
may go into it for peace and sanctuary, when the world goes wrong, but
always alone, until the great day comes when two may enter it together.

As Theseus carried the thread of Ariadne through the labyrinth of Crete,
there are many who attempt to find the secret chamber, but vainly, for
the thread will always break in the wrong heart.

When the door is opened, at last, by the one who has made his way
through the devious passages, there is so little to be seen that
sometimes even the man himself laughs the woman to scorn and despoils
her of her few treasures.

The secret chamber is only a bare, white room, where is erected the high
altar of her soul, served through life, by her own faith. Upon the altar
burns steadfastly the one light, waiting for him who at last has come
and consecrated in his name. The door of the sanctuary is rock-ribbed
and heavy, and he who has not the key may beat and call in vain, while
within, unheeding, the woman guards her light.

Pitifully often the man does not care. Sometimes he does not even
suspect that he has been admitted into the inmost sanctuary of her
heart, for there are men who may never know what sanctuary means, nor
what the opening of the door has cost. But the man who is worthy will
kneel at the altar for a moment, with the woman beside him, and
thereafter, when the outside world has been cruel to him, he may go in
sometimes, with her, to warm his hands at those divine fires and kindle
his failing courage anew.

When the sanctuary is not profaned by him who has come hither, its
blessedness is increased ten-fold; it takes on a certain divinity by
being shared, and thereafter, they serve the light together.

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