Books: Old Rose and Silver

M >> Myrtle Reed >> Old Rose and Silver

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"Huh!" he returned, resentfully, having been accustomed to only one fork
since he and Juliet began to keep house for themselves.

When he saw the array of silver at his plate, however, he blessed her
for the hint. As the dinner progressed by small portions of oysters,
soup, and fish, he gratefully remembered the bread and jam. The twins
noted that the others always left a little on their plates, but proudly
disdained the subterfuge for themselves.

Madame Francesca sat opposite the Colonel and Rose was at his right.
Romeo sat next to her and across from them was Allison, between Isabel
and Juliet.

Somewhat subdued by the unfamiliar situation, the twins said very little
during dinner. Juliet took careful note of the appointments of the table
and dining-room, and of the gowns the other women wore. When Romeo was
not occupied with his dinner and the various forks, he watched Isabel
with frank admiration, and wondered what made the difference between her
and Juliet.

Everybody tried to produce general conversation, but could extract only
polite monosyllables from the twins. Questions addressed directly to
them were briefly answered by "yes" or "no," or "I don't know," or, more
often, by a winning smile which included them all.

Had it not been for Madame Francesca, gallantly assisted by the Colonel,
the abnormal silence of the younger guests might have reacted
unfavourably upon the entertainment, for Isabel was as quiet as she
usually was, in the presence of her aunt and cousin, Allison became
unable to think of topics of general interest, and Rose's efforts to
talk pleasantly while her heart was aching were no more successful than
such efforts usually are.

But Madame Francesca, putting aside the burden of her seventy years,
laughed and talked and told stories with all the zest of a girl.
Inspired by her shining example, the Colonel dragged forth a few musty
old anecdotes and offered them for inspection. They were new to the
younger generation, and Madame affected to find them new also.

Rose wondered at her, as often, envying her the gift of detachment. The
fear that had come upon Rose at midnight was with her still, haunting
her, waking or sleeping, like some evil thing. Proudly she said to
herself that she would seek no man, though her heart should break for
love of him; that though her soul writhed in anguish, neither he nor the
woman who took him from her should ever even suspect she cared.

She forced herself to meet Allison's eyes with a smile, to answer his
questions, and to put in a word, now and then, when Madame or the
Colonel paused. Yet, with every sense at its keenest, she noted Isabel's
downcast eyes, the self-conscious air with which Allison spoke to her,
and the exaggerated consideration of Juliet which he instinctively
adopted as a shield. She saw, too, that Isabel was secretly annoyed
whenever Allison spoke to Juliet, and easily translated the encouraging
air with which Isabel met Romeo's admiring glances. Once, when he
happened to turn quickly enough to see, a shadow crossed Allison's face,
and he bit his lips.

"How civilised the world has become," Madame was saying, lightly. "The
mere breaking of bread together precludes all open hostility. Bitter
enemies may meet calmly at the dinner table of a mutual friend, and I
understand that, in the higher circles in which we do not care to move,
a man may escort his divorced wife out to dinner, and, without
bitterness, congratulate her upon her approaching marriage."

"I've often thought," returned the Colonel, more seriously, "that the
modern marriage service should be changed to read 'until death or
divorce do us part.' It's highly inconsistent as it stands."

"'Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,'" she quoted.
"Inconsistency goes as far toward making life attractive as its
pleasures do toward spoiling it."

"What do you call pleasure?" queried Allison.

"The unsought joy. If you go out to hunt for it, you don't often get it.
When you do, you've earned it and are entitled to it. True pleasure is a
free gift of the gods, like a sense of humour."

By some oblique and unsuspected way, the words brought a certain comfort
to Rose. Without bitterness, she remembered that Allison had once said:
"In any true mating, they both know." Over and over again she said to
herself, stubbornly: "I will have nothing that is not true--nothing that
is not true."

It was a wise hostess who discovered the fact that changing rooms may
change moods; that many a successful dinner has an aftermath in the
drawing-room as cold and dismal as a party call. Madame Francesca had
once characterised the hour after dinner as "the stick of a sky-rocket,
which never fails to return and bring disillusion with it." Hence she
postponed it as long as she could, but the Colonel himself gave the
signal by moving back his chair.

An awkward pause followed, which lasted until Rose went to the piano of
her own accord and began to play. At length she drifted into the running
chords of a familiar accompaniment and Allison took his violin and
joined in. As he stood by Rose, the mere fact of his nearness brought
her a strange peace. Had she looked up, she would have seen that though
he stood so near her, he had eyes only for Isabel and was playing to her
alone.

Isabel did not seem to care. She sat with her hands folded idly in her
lap, occasionally glancing at the twins who sat together on a sofa
across the room. Madame Bernard and the Colonel had gone out on the
balcony that opened off of the library.

The night was cool, yet had in it the softness of May. Every wandering
wind brought a subtle, exquisite fragrance from orchards blooming afar.
High in the heavens swung the pale gold moon of Spring.

"What a night," said Madame, almost in a whisper. "It seems almost as if
there never had been another Spring."

"And as if there never would be another."

"That may be true, for one or both of us," she replied, with unwonted
sadness.

"My work is done," sighed the Colonel. "I have only to wait now."

"Sometimes I think that all of Life is waiting," she went on, with a
little catch in her voice, "and yet we never know what we were waiting
for, unless--when all is done--"

A warm, friendly hand closed over hers. "Do not question too much, dear
friend, for the God who ordained the beginning can safely be trusted
with the end, as well as with all that lies between. Do you know," he
continued, in a different tone, "a night like this always makes me think
of those wonderful lines:

"'The blessed damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of Heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
Of waters stilled at even;
She had three lilies in her hand
And the stars in her hair were seven.'"

Francesca's eyes filled and the stars swam before her, for she
remembered the three white lilies the Colonel had put into the still
hands of his boy's mother, just before the casket was closed. "I
wonder," she breathed, "if--they--know."

"I wonder, too," he said.

The strains of the violin floated out upon the scented night, vibrant
with love and longing, with passion and pain. Something had come into
the music that was never there before, but only Rose knew it.

"Richard," said Francesca, suddenly, "if you should go first, and it
should be as we hope and pray it may be--if people know each other
there, and can speak and be understood, will you tell him that I am
keeping the faith; that I have only been waiting since we parted?"

"Yes. And if it should be the other way, will you tell her that I, too,
am waiting and keeping the faith, and that I have done well with our
boy?"

"I will," she promised.

The last chord of violin and piano died into silence. Colonel Kent bent
down and lifted Madame's hand to his lips, then they went in together.

XII

AN ENCHANTED HOUR

The days dragged on so wearily that, to Rose, the hours seemed unending.
Allison came to the house frequently, but seldom spoke of his music; for
more than a week, he did not ask her to play at all. On the rare
occasions when he brought his violin with him, the old harmony seemed
entirely gone. The pianist's fingers often stumbled over the keys even
though Allison played with new authority and that magical power that
goes by the name of "inspiration," for want of a better word.

Once she made a mistake, changing a full chord into a dissonance so
harsh and nerve-racking that Allison shuddered, then frowned. When they
had finished, he turned to her, saying, kindly: "You're tired, Rose.
I've been a selfish brute and let you work too hard."

Quick denial was on her lips, but she stopped in time and followed his
lead gracefully. "Yes, and my head aches, too. If all of you will excuse
me, I'll go up and rest for a little while."

Evening after evening, she made the same excuse, longing for her own
room, with a locked and bolted door between her and the outer world.
Lonely and miserable though she was, she had at least the sense of
shelter. Pride, too, sustained her, for, looking back to the night they
met, months ago, she could remember no word nor act, or even a look of
hers that had been out of keeping.

Over and over again she insisted to herself, stubbornly: "I will have
nothing that is not true,--nothing that is not true." In the midnight
silences, when she lay wide awake, though all the rest of the world
slept, the words chimed in with her heart-beats: "Nothing that is not
true--nothing--that is--not true."

Madame Francesca, loving Rose dearly, became sorely troubled and
perplexed. She could not fail to see and understand, and, at times,
feared that Allison and Isabel must see and understand also. She watched
Rose faithfully and shielded her at every possible point. When Isabel
inquired why Rose was always tired in the evening, Madame explained that
she had been working too hard and that she had made her promise to rest.

Rose spent more time than usual at the piano but she neglected her own
work in favour of Allison's accompaniments. When she was alone, she
could play them creditably, even without the notes, but if, by any
chance, he stood beside her, waiting until the prelude was finished, she
faltered at the first sound of the violin.

At last she gave it up and kept more and more to her own room. Madame
meditated upon the advisability of sending Isabel away, providing it
could be done gracefully, or even taking her on some brief journey, thus
leaving Rose in full possession of the house.

Yet, in her heart, she knew that it would be only a subterfuge; that it
was better to meet the issues of Life squarely than to attempt to hide
from them, since inevitably all must be met. She could not bear to see
Rose hurt, nor could she endure easily the spectacle of her beloved
foster son upon the verge of a lifelong mistake. Several times she
thought of talking to Colonel Kent, and, more rarely, of speaking to
Allison himself, but she had learned to apply to speech the old maxim
referring to letter-writing: "When in doubt, don't."

It happened that Allison came late one afternoon, when Isabel had gone
to town in search of new finery and Rose was in her own room. Madame had
just risen from her afternoon nap, and, after he had waited a few
moments, she came down.

"Where's Isabel?" he asked, as he greeted her.

"Shopping," smiled Madame.

"I know, but I thought she'd be at home by this time. She told me she
was coming out on the earlier train."

"She may have met someone and gone to the matinee. It's Wednesday."

"She didn't need to do that. I'll take her whenever she wants to go and
she knows it."

"I didn't say she had gone--I only said she might have gone. She may be
waiting for the trimming of a hat to be changed, or for an appointment
with tailor or dressmaker or manicure, or any one of a thousand other
things. When you see her, she can doubtless give a clear account of
herself."

"Did Rose go with her?" he asked, after a brief pause.

"No, she's asleep," sighed Madame. "Allison, I'm worried about Rose and
have been for some time. She isn't well."

"I thought something was wrong," he replied, without interest. "She
can't seem to play even the simplest accompaniment any more, and she
used to do wonders, even with heavy work."

"I think," ventured Madame, cautiously, "that she needs to get out more.
If someone would take her for a walk or a drive every day, it would do
her good."

"Probably," assented Allison, with a faraway look in his eyes. "If you
want to borrow our horses at any time, Aunt Francesca, when yours are
not available, I hope you'll feel free to telephone for them. They're
almost eating their heads off and the exercise would do them good."

"Thank you," she answered, shortly. Allison noted the veiled sharpness
of her tone and wondered why anyone should take even slight offence at
the friendly offer of a coach and pair.

"It must be nearly time for the next train," he resumed. "Is there
anyone at the station to meet Isabel?"

"Nobody but the coachman and the carriage," returned Madame, dryly. "I'm
not in the habit of being asked whether or not I have made proper
provision for my guests."

"I beg your pardon, Aunt Francesca. I would have known, of course, if I
had stopped to think."

"How is your father?" she put in, abruptly.

"All right, I guess. He's making a garden and the whole front yard is
torn up as though sewer pipes were about to be put in."

Madame's heart softened with pity, for she knew that only loneliness
would have set the Colonel to gardening. "I must go over and see it,"
she said, in a different tone. "My valuable advice hasn't been asked,
but I think I could help a little."

"Undoubtedly. Your own garden is one of the loveliest I have ever seen.
Isn't that the train?"

"I think so. If Isabel comes, I believe I'll leave you to entertain her
while I drive over to inspect the new garden."

She was oppressed, as never before, by the necessity of speech, and, of
all those around her, Colonel Kent was the only one to whom it would be
possible for her to say a word. She did not stop to consider what she
could accomplish by it, for in her heart, she knew that she was
helpless--also that a great deal of the trouble in the world has not
been caused by silence.

Allison drummed on the arm of his chair until he heard the rumble of
wheels, then went to the window. "It's Isabel," he announced, joyously.
"I'll go down and help her out--she may have parcels."

Presently they came in together, laughing. Isabel's face was flushed and
Allison was heavily laden with packages, both small and large. "I feel
like Santa Claus," he cried, gaily, to Madame, as she passed them on the
way out.

She smiled, but did not take the trouble to speak. "Colonel Kent's," she
called to the driver, as she closed the carriage door with a resounding
bang, "and please hurry."

The Colonel was on the veranda when she arrived, superintending the
gardening operations from there. He greeted her with surprise, for it
was not her way to drive over there alone. "I am deeply honoured," he
said, as he assisted her up the steps. "May I order tea?"

"No, thank you," she answered, somewhat primly. It was evident that she
was ill at ease. "I understood from Allison that you were doing all this
yourself. Instead, I find you sitting on the veranda like a landed
proprietor, in command of an army of slaves."

"Two Irishmen don't make an army," he laughed, "though I'll admit that,
if angry, they would make a formidable force. I helped to dig for a
while this morning, but it didn't seem to agree with me, so I quit. My
work seems to be done," he continued, with a sigh.

"No, it isn't," she returned, sharply. "There's work to be done, but
whether you or I or both together can do it, is extremely doubtful."

"What do you mean, Francesca?"

Madame leaned toward him confidentially. "Richard," she said, in a low
tone, "has it ever occurred to you that Allison might marry?"

A shadow crossed his face, then vanished in a smile. "Yes. Why?"

"Have you ever seen a woman you would be willing for him to marry?"

"Only one."

"And she--?"

"Rose," said the Colonel, softly. "Your Rose."

"I've felt that way, too," whispered Madame. There was silence for the
space of a heart-beat, then she cried out sharply: "But it isn't Rose--
it's Isabel!"

"What?" he cried, startled for once out of his usual calm. "That child?"

"'That child' is past twenty, and he is only ten years older. There was
fifteen years' difference between you and--" Madame forebore to speak
the name of the dead and beloved wife.

Colonel Kent turned his dim blue eyes toward the hills. Behind them the
sun was setting, and he could guess that the gold of the Spring
afternoon was scattered like star dust over the little sunken grave. He
left Madame and went to the end of the veranda, where he stood for a few
moments, facing the West. Then he came back.

"Francesca," he said, slowly, "you and I are on the Western slope and
have been for a long time. The Valley of the Shadow lies at the foot of
the hill and the descent is almost made. But the boy is young, and most
of the journey lies before him. You chose for yourself, and so did I.
Shall we not grant him the same right?"

"Yes, but Rose--"

"Rose," interrupted the Colonel, "is too good for any man--even my own
son, though, as I said before, she is the only woman I would willingly
see him marry. You stand almost in his mother's place to him, but
neither you nor I can shield him now. We must try to remember that his
life is his--to make or mar."

"I know," she sighed, "I've thought it all out."

"Besides," he went on, "what could we do? Separation wouldn't last long,
if he wants her, and talking would only alienate him from us. Perhaps
you could bear it, but I--I couldn't."

"Nor I," she returned, quickly. "When we come to the sundown road, we
need all the love we have managed to take with us from the summit of the
hill. I hadn't meant to say anything to anyone," she went on, in a
changed tone, "but my heart was full, and you are--"

"Your best friend, Francesca, as you are mine. It seems to take a
lifetime for us to learn that wisdom consists largely in a graceful
acceptance of things that do not immediately concern us."

"How like you," she responded, with a touch of her old manner. "I ask
for comfort and you give me an epigram."

"Many people find satisfaction in epigrams," he reminded her. "Sometimes
a snap-shot is better than an oil painting."

"Or a geometrical design, or even a map," she continued, catching his
mood. The talk drifted to happier themes and Madame was quite herself
again at dusk, when she rose to go.

On the way back, she passed Allison, returning home to dinner by a well-
worn path, but he was thinking of something else and did not see her at
all.

The lilac-scented midnight was starred here and there with white blooms
when May went out and June came in. Drifts of "bridal wreath" were
banked against the side of the house and a sweet syringa breathed out a
faint perfume toward the hedge of lilacs beyond. Blown petals of pink
and white died on the young grass beneath Madame's wild crab-apple tree,
transplanted from a distant woodland long ago to glorify her garden.

The hour was one of enchantment, yet to Rose, leaning out into the
moonless night, the beauty of it brought only pain. She wondered, dully,
if she should ever find surcease; if somewhere, on the thorny path
ahead, there might not be some place where she could lay the burden of
her heartache down. Her pride, that had so long sustained her, was
beginning to fail her now. It no longer seemed more vital than life
itself that Allison should not know.

She had the hurt woman's longing for escape, but could think of no
excuse for flight. She knew Aunt Francesca would manage it, in some way,
should she ask, and that she would be annoyed by no troublesome
questions, yet loyalty held her fast, for she knew how lonely the little
old lady would be without her.

Day by day, the tension increased almost to the breaking point. June
filled the garden with rosebuds, but their pale namesake in the big
white house took no heed of them. She no longer concerned herself about
her gowns, but wore white almost constantly, that her pallor might not
show.

The roses broke from their green sheaths, then bloomed, opening their
golden hearts to every wandering bee. The house was full of roses. Aunt
Francesca wore them even on her morning gowns and Isabel made wreaths of
red roses to twine in her dark hair. Every breeze brought fragrance to
the open windows and scattered it through the house.

Madame's heart ached for Rose, but still she said no word, though it
seemed to her that the blindness of the others could not last much
longer. She could not take Rose away unless she took Isabel also, and,
should she do that, things would soon be just as they were now.

As Rose faded, Isabel blossomed into the full flower of her youth. Her
high, bird-like laugh echoed constantly through the house and garden,
whether anyone was with her or not. With sinking heart, Rose envied her
even a tithe of her abundant joy.

As the moon approached its full, the roses had begun to drop their
petals. Under every bush was a scattered bit of fragrance that meant
both death and resurrection. Far down in the garden, where the sunken
lily-pool mirrored the stars, the petals of golden roses drifted idly
across the shining surface.

Rose had worn white at dinner, as she always did, now, the night the
June moon came to its full. Isabel, too, was in white, but with a
difference, for as surely as the older woman's white was mourning, her
silver spangles were donned for joy. At the table, Madame had done most
of the talking, for Isabel's conversational gifts were limited, at best,
and Rose was weary beyond all words.

After dinner she went to the piano and struck a few aimless chords.
Isabel, with a murmured excuse, went up to her own room. "Nothing that
is not true," said Rose to herself, steadily; "nothing that is not
true."

Presently a definite thought took shape in her mind. To-morrow she would
tell Aunt Francesca, and see if it could not be arranged for her to go
away somewhere, anywhere, alone. Or, if not to-morrow, at least the day
after, as soon as she had seen him again. She wanted one last look to
take with her into the prison-house, where she must wrestle with her
soul alone.

[Illustration: musical notation.]

Her stiff fingers shaped the melody that Aunt Francesca loved, and into
it went all her own longing, her love, and her pain. The notes thrilled
with an ecstasy of renunciation, and the vibrant chords trembled far out
into the night.

[Illustration: musical notation.]

A man entered the gate very quietly, paused, then turned into the
garden, to soothe his wildly beating heart for a few moments with the
balm of scent and sound. Upstairs, behind the shelter of the swaying
curtain, a shining figure drew back into the shadow. Smiling, and with
an agreeable sense of adventure, Isabel tiptoed down the back stairs,
and entered the garden, unheard, by a side door.

With assumed carelessness, yet furtively watching, she made the circuit
of the lily-pool, humming to herself. A quick leap and a light foot on
the grass startled her for an instant, then she laughed, for it was only
Mr. Boffin, playing with his own dancing shadow.

[Illustration: musical notation.]

The sound of the piano had become very faint, though the windows were
open and the wind was in the right direction. Isabel stopped at another
bush, picked a few full-blown white roses, and sat down on a garden
bench to remove the thorns.

"I wonder where he can be," she said to herself. "Surely he can't have
gone home again." She listened, but there was no sound save the distant
piano, and the abrupt, playful purr of Mr. Boffin, as he pounced upon a
fallen white rose.

Isabel put the flowers in her hair, consciously missing the mirror in
which she was wont to observe the effect. "He must have gone in while I
was coming down," she thought, "but I don't see why he shouldn't have
gone straight in when he first came."

She decided to wait until he came to look for her, then as swiftly
changed her mind. Rose was still playing.

[Illustration: musical notation.]

Isabel hummed the melody to herself, not noting that she was off the
key, and started slowly toward the house, by another path.

Allison was standing in the shadow of a maple, listening to the music
and drawing in deep breaths of the rose-scented air. The moon flooded
the garden with enchantment, and a shaft of silver light, striking the
sundial, made a shadow that was hours wrong. He smiled as he saw it,
amiably crediting the moon with an accidental error, rather than a
purposeful lie.

[Illustration: musical notation.]

Deeper and more vibrant, the woman within sent the cry of her heart into
the night, where the only one who could answer it stood watching the
shadow of the moon on the sun-dial and the spangled cobwebs on the
grass. He picked a rose, put it into his button-hole, and turned toward
the house.

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