Chapter 17

His wounded sensibilities impelled him to walk past the Bernard house, very slowly, two or three times, but there was no one in sight. He went to the post-office as a mere matter of habit; there was seldom any mail for the Crosbys except on the first of the month, when the lawyer's formal note, "enclosing remittance," came duly to hand. Nobody seemed to be around--there was nothing to do. It would have been natural to go back home, but he was too angry for that, and inwardly vowed to stay away long enough to bring Juliet to her senses.

He recalled the night he had called upon Isabel and had not reached home until late. He remembered the torrent of tears and Juliet's cry: "Oh, Romie! Romie! I don't care where you've been as long as I've got you back!" It pleased his masculine sense of superiority to know that he had power over a woman's tears--to make them come or go, as he chose.

He sauntered slowly toward Kent's, thinking that he might while away an hour or two there. It was a long time until midnight, and there seemed to be nothing to do but to sit and wait. He could ask about the car and whether it was all right now. If Doctor Jack could run it, maybe they could go out together for a little spin. It would be nice to go by his own house and never even turn his head. And, if they could get Isabel to go, too, it would teach Juliet a much-needed lesson.

He had nearly reached his destination when he came upon the picture of Beauty in Distress. Isabel sat at the roadside, leaning against a tree, sobbing. Romeo gave a long, low whistle of astonishment. "Say," he called, cheerfully, "what's wrong?"

Isabel looked up, wiped her eyes, and began to weep more earnestly. Though Juliet's tears had moved him to anger and disdain, Isabel's grief roused all his chivalry. He sat down beside her and tried to take her handkerchief away from her eyes.

"Don't," he said, softly. "What's the matter?"

"Oh," sobbed Isabel, "I'm the most miserable girl in the whole world. Nobody wants me!"

"What makes you say that?" demanded Romeo. "Look here, if you'll tell me who's been making you cry, I'll--"

He did not finish the sentence, but his tone indicated that dire misfortune would be visited upon the luckless individual directly responsible for Isabel's tears.

"You know," began Isabel, after her sobs had quieted somewhat, "I was engaged to Allison Kent until you ran over us. At first I couldn't go over--I was so bruised and lame and before I was well enough to go, I got a note from him, releasing me from the engagement."

"Yes?" queried Romeo, encouragingly. "Go on."

"Well, I didn't think I ought to go over, under the circumstances, but Aunt Francesca made me go--she's been mean to me, too. So I went and he was horrid to me--perfectly horrid. I offered him his ring and he almost threw his violin at me, and told me to keep that, too. I was afraid of him.

"Well, since that, everything has been awful. I wrote to Mamma and told her about it and that I couldn't stay here any longer, and she didn't answer for a long time. Then she said I would have to stay where I was until she could make new arrangements for me and that she was glad I wasn't going to marry a cripple. She said something about 'the survival of the unfit,' but I didn't understand it.

"And then, last night, when I heard that Allison wasn't going to lose his hand after all, I thought I ought to take his violin back to him and try to well,--to make up, you know. So I've just been there. He took the violin all right, but he didn't seem to want me. He said nothing could ever be as it was before. I was ready to get married and go away--I'd do almost anything for a change--but he actually seemed to be glad to get rid of me and they've given my automobile, that Colonel Kent himself gave to me for a wedding present, to that doctor who was out to your house last night. Oh," sobbed Isabel, "I wish I was dead. If you only hadn't run over us, everything would have been all right!"

Romeo's young face was set in stern and unaccustomed lines. He, then, was directly responsible for Isabel's tears. He had run over them and hurt Isabel and made everything wrong for her, and, because she was a lady, she wasn't blaming him in the least. She had merely pointed out to him, as gently as she could, what he had done to her.

A bright idea flashed into his mind, as he remembered that he was twenty-one now and could do as he pleased without consulting anybody. He reached into his pocket, drew out a handful of greenbacks and silver, even a gold piece or two. It would serve Juliet just right and make up to Isabel for what he had done.

"I say, Isabel," he began awkwardly. "Would you be willing to marry me?"

Isabel quickly dried her tears. "Why, I don't know," she answered, much astonished. Then the practical side of her nature asserted itself. "Have you got money enough?"

Romeo tendered the handful of currency. "All this, and plenty more in the bank."

"I know, but it was the bank I was talking about. Have you got enough for us to live at a nice hotel and go to the theatre every night?"

"More than that," Romeo asserted, confidently. "I've got loads."

"I--don't know," said Isabel, half to herself. "It would serve them all right. Allison used to be jealous of you," she added, with a sidelong glance that set his youthful heart to fluttering.

"Juliet is jealous of you," Romeo responded disloyally. "We had an awful scrap this morning because I asked her why she didn't try to be a lady, like you."

"Of course," replied Isabel, smoothing her gown with a dainty hand, "I've always liked Juliet, but I liked you better."

"Really, Isabel? Did you always like me?"

"Always."

"Then come on. Let's skip out now, the way they do in the books. Let's take the next train."

"Why not get married here?" objected Isabel, practically, "and take the four-thirty into town? There's a minister here, and while you're seeing about it, I can go home and get my coat."

"All right, but don't stop for anything else. We've got to hustle. Don't tell anybody."

"Not even Aunt Francesca?"

"No, she'd make a fuss. And besides, she doesn't deserve it, if she's been mean to you." Romeo leaned over and bestowed a meaningless peck upon the fair cheek of his betrothed.

"I'll never be mean to you," he said.

"I know you won't," Isabel returned, trustfully. Then she laughed as she rose to her feet. "It will be a good joke on Allison," she said, gleefully.

"It'll be a good joke on everybody," Romeo agreed, happily.

"Listen," said Isabel. A faint chug-chug was heard in the distance, gradually coming nearer. "It's my car. I wish you hadn't been so quick to get rid of it last night. We could have gone away in it now."

"Never mind, I'll buy you another."

They hoped to reach the turn in the road before the car got there, but failed. Doctor Jack came to a dead stop. "Want a lift?" he asked.

"No, thank you," said Romeo.

"No, thank you," repeated Isabel, primly. Colonel Kent had greeted her with the most chilling politeness, and she burned to get away.

"Say," resumed Romeo, "will you do something for me?"

"Sure," replied the Doctor, cordially. "Anything."

"Will you take a note out to my sister for me? I shan't get back for-- some time."

"You bet. Where is it?"

"I haven't written it yet. Just wait a minute."

Romeo tore a leaf from an old memorandum book which he carried, and wrote rapidly:

"DEAR JULE:

"Isabel and I have gone away to get married. You can have half of everything. I'll let you know where to send my clothes.

"R.C."

He was tempted to add an apology for what he had said earlier in the day, but his newly acquired importance made him refrain from anything so compromising.

He folded the note into a little cocked hat and addressed it. "Much obliged," he said, laconically. "So long."

"So long," returned Doctor Jack, starting the engine.

"Good-bye," said the Colonel, lifting his hat.

Romeo left Isabel at Madame Bernard's gate. "Hurry up," he said, in a low tone. "I'll meet you under the big elm down the road."

"All right," she whispered.

Madame Bernard was asleep, so Isabel hastily crammed a few things into a suit-case and slipped out of the house, unseen and unheard. As the half- starved minister of the country parish was sorely in need of the generous fee Romeo pressed upon him in advance, the arrangements were pitifully easy. He was at the trysting place fully ten minutes before she came in sight, staggering under the unaccustomed burden of a heavy suit-case.

It might not have occurred to him to relieve Juliet of a cumbrous piece of baggage, but he instinctively took it from Isabel. "Come on," he said. "We've got to hurry if we don't want to miss the four-thirty."

"How long does it take to get married?" queried Isabel.

"Not long, I guess. See how people fool around over it, and we're getting through with it in one afternoon. We're making a record, I guess."

It seemed that they were, for when they came to the shabby little brown house, near the big white church, the minister, his wife, and a next- door neighbour were waiting. In a very short time, the ceremony was over and Mr. and Mrs. Romeo Crosby were on the train, speeding toward their honeymoon and the lively years that undoubtedly lay ahead of them.

Allison had changed his mind about going out that afternoon, but promised to go next time. Colonel Kent remained at home, and Doctor Jack sped away alone upon his errand.

When he reached Crosby's, Juliet clad in her best, was just leaving the house. She was outwardly cheerful, but her face still bore traces of tears.

"Where were you going?" asked the Doctor, as Juliet greeted him. There was a new shyness in her manner, as of some unwonted restraint.

"I was going into town. I wanted to see Aunt Francesca." She slipped easily into the habit of the others, seldom hearing the name "Madame Bernard."

"I'll take you. Here's a note from your brother."

Juliet opened it, read the fateful message, and turned white as death.

"What is it?" asked the Doctor, much alarmed.

In answer, she offered him the note, her hand shaking pitifully. The Doctor read it twice before he grasped the full meaning of it. "Well, I'll be--" he said, half to himself.

Unable to stand, Juliet sat down upon the well-worn door-step and he sat down beside her. "It's all my fault," she said, solemnly. "Romie told me this morning that I wasn't a lady, and he wanted me to be like her. He said I was a tomboy, and I told him that if I was, he'd done it himself, and he got mad and went away, and now--"

Juliet burst into tears, but she had no handkerchief, so Doctor Jack gave her his.

"'Tears, idle tears,'" he quoted lightly. "I say, kid, don't take it so hard."

"I--I'm not a lady," she sobbed.

"You are," he assured her. "You're the finest little lady I know."

"Don't--don't," she sobbed. "Don't make fun of me. Romie said that you were--laughing at me--yesterday-because I was--a--a tomboy!"

"Kid," he said, softly, almost unmanned by a sudden tenderness quite foreign to his experience. "Oh, my dear little girl, won't you look at me?"

The tone was wholly new to Juliet--she did not know that any man could be so tender, so beautifully kind. "It's because he's a doctor," she thought. "He's used to seeing people when they don't feel right."

"I'm so sorry," he was saying. "Your brother didn't mean anything by it, little girl. He was just teasing."

"He wasn't," returned Juliet, wiping her eyes. "Don't you think I know when he's teasing and when he isn't? I'm not a lady; I'm only a tomboy, and now he's gone away with her and left me all alone."

"You'll never be alone if I can help it," he assured her, fervently. "Look here, do you suppose you could ever learn to like me?"

"Why, I like you now--I've always liked you."

"I know, but I don't mean that. Do you think you could ever like me a whole lot? Enough to marry me, I mean?"

"Why, I don't know--I never thought--" Juliet's voice trailed off into an inarticulate murmur of astonishment.

"Won't you try?" he pleaded. "Oh, Juliet, I've loved you ever since I first saw you!"

The high colour surged into her face. He was not joking--he meant every word. Even Juliet could see that.

"Won't you try, dear? That's all I'll ask for, now."

"Why, yes," she said, her wide blue eyes fixed upon his. "I'd try almost anything--for you, but I'm only a tomboy."

Doctor Jack caught her cold little hands in his. "Kiss me," he said, huskily.

Juliet's face burned, but she lifted her lips to his, obediently and simply as a child. The man hesitated for an instant, then pushed her away from him; not unkindly, but firmly.

"No, I won't take it, Princess," he said, in a strange tone. "I'll wait until you wake up." "I'm--not asleep," she stammered.

"You are in some ways." Then he added, irrelevantly, "Thank God!"

"I don't know," remarked Juliet, at the end of an uncomfortable pause, "what to do with myself. I don't want to stay here alone and I wouldn't go anywhere near them--not for the world."

"Where did you say you were going, when I came?"

"To Aunt Francesca's--Madame Bernard, you know."

"Good business," he answered, nodding vigorous approval. "Come on. She seems to be the unfailing refuge of the shipwrecked mariner in this district. If I'm not much mistaken, she'll take you into her big house and her bigger heart."

"Oh," said Juliet, wistfully, "do you think she would take me--and make me into a lady?"

"I think she'll take you," he responded, after a brief struggle with himself, "but I don't want you made over. I want you to stay just exactly as you are. Oh, you dear little kid," he muttered, "you'll try to care, won't you?"

"I'll try," she promised, sweetly, as she climbed into the big red machine. "I didn't think I'd ever be in this car."

"You can come whenever you like. It's mine, now."

Juliet did not seem to hear. The car hummed along the dusty road, making a soothing, purring noise. Pensively she looked across the distant fields, whence came the hum and whir of reaping. There was a far-away look in her face that the man beside her was powerless to understand. She was making swift readjustments as best she might, and, wisely, he left her to herself.

As they approached Madame Bernard's, Juliet turned to him. "I was just thinking," she sighed, "how quickly you grow up after you get to be twenty-one."

He made no answer. He swallowed hard and turned the car into the driveway. Aunt Francesca came out on the veranda, followed by Mr. Boffin, as Juliet jumped out of the car. She had the crumpled note in her cold little hand.

Without a word, she offered it to Madame Bernard and waited. The beautiful face instantly became soft with pity. "My dear child," she breathed. "My dear little motherless child!"

Juliet went into her open arms as straight as a homing pigeon to its nest. "Oh, Aunt Francesca," she sobbed, "will you take me and make a lady out of me?"

"You're already a lady," laughed the older woman amid her tears. "Come in, Juliet dear--come home!"

XXIV

THE HOUSE WHERE LOVE LIVED

It was past the middle of October, and Allison's injured hand was not only free of its bandages, but he had partially regained the use of it. Doctor Jack still lingered, eagerly seizing every excuse that presented itself.

"I suppose I ought to be back looking for another job," he regretfully observed to Allison, "but I like it here, and besides, I want to hear you play on your fiddle before I go."

Allison laughed and hospitably urged him to stay as long as he chose. Colonel Kent added, heartily, after an old Southern fashion: "My house is yours."

Crimson and golden leaves rained from the maples, and the purple winds of Autumn swept them into drifts at the roadside. Amethystine haze shimmered in the valleys and lay, cloud-like, upon the distant hills. Through the long aisles of trees a fairy patter of tiny furred feet rustled back and forth upon the fallen leaves. Only a dropping nut or a busy squirrel broke the exquisite peace of the forest, where the myriad life of the woods waited, in hushed expectancy, for the tide of the year to turn.

Like a scarlet shuttle plying through the web of Autumn, the big red touring car hummed and whirred, with a happy young man at the wheel and a laughing girl beside him. Juliet's momentary self-consciousness was gone, and she was her sunny self again, though she still occasionally wept in secret, longing for her brother.

"Aunt Francesca," she said, one day, when the two were sewing on dainty garments destined to adorn Juliet, "do you think Romie will ever come back to me?"

"Not in the sense you mean, dear," replied Madame, gently. "We live in a world of change and things are never the same, even from day to day."

"She made him think I was a tomboy, and now she'll teach him not to love me. Why does she want everything?"

"Some women do, when they marry. Many are not content to be sweetheart and wife, but must take the place of mother and sisters too. But remember, Juliet, when a woman closes a man's heart against those of his own blood, the one door she has left open will some day be slammed in her own face."

"And then--?"

"Then the other doors will swing ajar, turning slowly on rusty hinges, but the women for whom they are opened will never cross the threshold again."

"Why?"

"Because they have ceased to care. There is nothing so dead as a woman's dead love. When the fire goes out and no single ember is left, the ashes are past the power of flame to rekindle."

"Do you think that, after a while, I won't care for Romie any more?"

"Not as you used to--that is impossible even now."

Juliet sighed and hastily wiped away a tear. With a quick, sure stroke, her life seemed to have been divided.

"Don't, dear. Remember what you have had. I often think a woman has crossed the line between youth and maturity, when she begins to put away, in the lavender of memory, the lovely things she has had--and is never to have again. The after years are made up, so many times, of things one has had--rounded off and put away forever."

"I know," returned Juliet, with a far-away look in her eyes. "I remember the day I grew up--almost the hour. It was the day I came here."

Madame stooped to kiss the girl's rosy cheek, then swiftly turned the talk to linen and lace. Always quick to observe, Juliet had acquired little graces of tone and manner, softened her abruptness, and, guided by loving tact, had begun to bloom like a primrose in a sunny window.

"When--when Miss Bernard comes back again," asked Juliet, wistfully, "shall I have to go?"

"No, dear--indeed no! This is your home until the right man comes a- wooing, and takes you to a little house of your own."

Scarlet signals flamed in Juliet's cheeks as she earnestly devoted herself to her sewing, and Madame smiled. Already, in quiet moments, she had planned a pretty wedding gown for Juliet, and a still prettier wedding.

Allison came frequently, sometimes alone and sometimes with his father or Doctor Jack. He had remarked once that when he desired to consult his physician, he always knew where to find him. Madame affected not to notice that a strange young man had become a veritable part of her family, for she liked Doctor Jack and made him very welcome, morning, noon, and night.

On Wednesdays, the men of the other household dined with her. Saturdays, she and Juliet were honoured guests at the Colonel's, though he deprecated his own hospitality. "A house needs a woman at the head of it," he said. "It was different when Miss Rose was here."

"Indeed it was," thought Allison, though he did not put it into words.

At the end of the month, when it was cool enough to make an open fire seem the most cheerful of companions, Madame had them all at her own table. Juliet was surpassingly lovely in her first long gown, of ivory- tinted chiffon, ornamented only by hand embroidery and a bit of deep- toned lace. Her wavy hair was gathered into a loose knot, from which tiny tendrils escaped to cling about her face. Madame had put a pink rose into her hair, slipped another into her belt, and had been well pleased with the work of her own hands.

After dinner, while Juliet played piquet with the Colonel, and Doctor Jack sat quietly in the shadow, where he could watch every play of light and shade upon the girl's lovely changing face, Allison drew Madame into the library and quietly closed the door.

"Aunt Francesca," he said, without preliminary, "I've been more kinds of a fool in a few months than most men can manage to be in a lifetime."

"Yes," Madame agreed, with a cool little smile.

"Where is Rose?" he demanded.

"Rose," replied Madame, lightly, "has gone away."

"I know that," he flashed back. "I realise it every day and every hour of my life. I asked where she was."

"And I," answered Madame, imperturbably, "have told you. She is simply 'away.'"

"Is she well?"

"Yes."

"Is she happy?'

"Of course. Why not? Beauty, health, talent, sufficient income, love-- what more can a woman desire?"

"Aunt Francesca! Tell me, please. Where is Rose?"

"When I was married," answered Madame, idly fingering an ivory paper knife, "I went to live in a little house in the woods."

"Yes? Where is Rose?"

"It was only a tiny place, but a brook sang in front of it, night and day."

"Must have been pretty. Where did Rose go?"

"It was very quiet there. It would have been a good place to work, if either of us had been musical, or anything of that sort."

"Charming," replied Allison, absently.

"It wasn't far from town, either. We could take a train at two o'clock, and reach Holly Springs a little after three. It was half a mile up the main road from the station, and, as we had no horse, we always walked."

"Nice walk," said Allison, dejectedly.

"I have never been back since--since I was left alone. Sometimes I have thought my little house ought to have someone to look after it. A house gets lonely, too, with no one to care for it."

"I suppose so. Is Rose coming back?"

"I have often thought of the little Summer cottages, huddled together like frightened children, when the life and laughter had gone and Winter was swiftly approaching. How cold their walls must be and how empty the heart of a little house, when there is no fire there! So like a woman, when love has gone out of her life."

Allison sighed and began to sharpen his pencil. Madame observed that his hands were trembling.

"I see," he said. "I don't deserve to know where she is, and Rose doesn't want me chasing after her. Never mind--I had it coming to me, I guess. What a hopeless idiot I've been!"

"Yes," agreed Madame, cordially. "Carlyle says that 'there is no other entirely fatal person.'"

Something in her tone gave him courage for another question. "Once for all, Aunt Francesca, will you tell me where Rose is?"

"George Washington was a great man," Madame observed. "He never told a lie. If he had promised not to tell anything, he never told it." Then she added, with swift irrelevance, "this used to be a very pleasant time of the year at Holly Springs."

A great light broke in upon Allison. "Aunt Francesca!" he cried. He put his arms around her, lifted her from her chair, and nearly smothered her in a bear-like embrace. "God bless you!"

"He has," murmured Madame, disengaging herself. "My foster son has been a dunce, but his reason is now restored."

The two o'clock train to Holly Springs did not leave town until three, so Allison waited for an hour in the station, fuming with impatience. Both Colonel Kent and the Doctor had offered to accompany him, individually or together, but he had brusquely put them aside.

"Don't worry," he said. "My name and address are in my pocket and also inside my hat. I'll check my grip and be tenderly considerate of my left hand. Good-bye."

When he had gone Colonel Kent anxiously turned to the doctor. "Where do you suppose--and why--"

"Cherchez la femme," returned the Doctor.

"What makes you think so? It's not--"