Chapter 3

"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.

It came to an end at last when she felt that she could bear no more. "What is it?" she forced herself to ask.

"I haven't named it," he replied, putting down his violin.

"Is--is it--yours?"

"Of course. Why not?"

Isabel came to the piano and took up the violin. "May I look at it?"

"Certainly."

She stroked the brown breasts curiously and twanged the strings as though it were a banjo. "What make is it?"

"Cremona. Dad gave it to me for Christmas, a long time ago. It belonged to an old man who died of a broken heart."

"What broke his heart?" queried Isabel, carelessly.

"One of his hands was hurt in some way, and he could play no more."

"Not much to die of," Isabel suggested, practically.

"Ah, but you don't know," he answered, shaking his head.

Francesca had leaned forward and was speaking to Colonel Kent in a low tone. "I think that somewhere, in the House not Made with Hands, there is a young and lovely mother who is very proud of her boy to-night."

The Colonel's fine face took on an unwonted tenderness. "I hope so. She left me a sacred trust."

Francesca crossed the room, drew the young man's tall head down, and kissed him. "Well done, dear foster-child. Your adopted mother, once removed, is fully satisfied with you, and very much pleased with herself, being, vicariously, the parent of a great artist."

"I hope you don't consider me 'raised,'" replied Allison. "You're not going to stop 'mothering' me, are you?"

"I couldn't," was her smiling assurance. "I've got the habit."

He seemed very young as he looked down at her. Woman-like she loved him, through the man that he was, for the child that he had been.

"Come, lad," the Colonel suggested, "it's getting late and we want to be invited again."

Allison closed his violin case with a snap, said good-night to Aunt Francesca, then went over to Rose. "I don't feel like calling you 'Miss Bernard," he said. "Mayn't I say 'Cousin Rose,' as we rejoice in the possession of the same Aunt?"

"Surely," she answered, colouring faintly.

"Then good-night, Cousin Rose. I'll see you soon again, and we'll begin work. Your days of leisure are over now."

Isabel offered him a small, cool hand. Her eyes were brilliant, brought out by the sparkling silver of her gown. She glittered even in the low light of the room. "Good-night, Silver Girl," he said. "You haven't really grown up after all."

When the door closed, Rose gathered up the music he had forgotten, and put it away. Isabel came to her contritely. "Cousin Rose, I'm so sorry I said that! I didn't think!"

"Don't bother about it," Rose replied, kindly. "It was nothing at all, and, besides, it's true."

"'Tell the truth and shame the--family,'" misquoted Madame Bernard. "Age and false hair are not things to be flaunted, Isabel, remember that."

Isabel flushed at the rebuke, and her cheeks were still burning when she went to her room.

"I don't care," she said to herself, with a swift change of mood. "I'm glad I told him. They'd never have done it, and it's just as well for him to know."

Madame Bernard and Rose soon followed her example, but Rose could not sleep. Through the night the voice of the violin sounded through her consciousness, calling, calling, calling--heedless of the answer that thrilled her to the depths of her soul.

IV

THE CROSBY TWINS

The Crosby twins were making a formal call upon Isabel. They had been skating and still carried their skates, but Juliet wore white gloves and had pinned her unruly hair into some semblance of order while they waited at the door. She wore a red tam-o'-shanter on her brown curls and a white sweater under her dark green skating costume, which was short enough to show the heavy little boots, just now filling the room with the unpleasant odour of damp leather.

"Won't you take off your coat?" asked Isabel. "You'll catch cold when you go out, if you don't take it off."

"Thanks," responded Juliet, somewhat stiffly. Then she stretched out both hands to her hostess, laughing as she did so. "Look!" The sweater sleeves had crept up to her elbows, displaying several inches of bare, red arm between the sleeves and the short white gloves.

"That's just like us," remarked Romeo. "If we try to be elegant, something always happens."

The twins looked very much alike. They were quite tall and still retained the dear awkwardness of youth, in spite of the near approach of their twenty-first birthday. They had light brown curly hair, frank blue eyes that met the world with interest and delight, well-shaped mouths, not too small, and stubborn little chins. A high colour bloomed on their cheeks and they fairly radiated the joy of living.

"Can you skate?" inquired Romeo.

"No," smiled Isabel.

"Juliet can. She can skate as far as I can, and almost as fast."

"Romie taught me," observed Juliet, with becoming modesty.

"Do you play hockey? No, of course you don't, if you don't skate," he went on, answering his own question. "Can you swim?"

"No," responded Isabel, sweetly.

"Jule's a fine swimmer. She saved a man's life once, two Summers ago."

"Romie taught me," said Juliet, beaming at her brother.

"Can you row?" he asked, politely.

"No," replied Isabel, shortly. "I'm afraid of the water."

"Juliet can row. She won the women's canoe race in the regatta last Summer. The prize was twenty-five dollars in gold."

"Romie taught me," put in Juliet.

"We'll teach you this Summer," said Romeo, with a frank, boyish smile that showed his white teeth.

"Thank you," responded Isabel, inwardly vowing that they wouldn't.

"Juliet can do most everything I can," went on Romeo, with the teacher's pardonable pride in his pupil. "She can climb a tree in her knickers, and fish and skate and row and swim and fence, and play golf and tennis, and shoot, and dive from a spring board, and she can ride anything that has four legs."

"Romeo taught me," chanted Juliet, in a voice surprisingly like his own.

There was an awkward pause, then Romeo turned to his hostess. "What can you do?" he asked, meaning to be deferential. Isabel thought she detected a faint trace of sarcasm, so her answer was rather tart.

"I don't do many of the things that men do," she said, "but I speak French and German, I can sing and play a little, sew and embroider, and trim hats if I want to, and paint on china, and do two fancy dances. And when I go back home, I'm going to learn to run an automobile."

The twins looked at each other. "We never thought of it," said Juliet, much crestfallen.

"Wonder how much they cost," remarked Romeo, thoughtfully.

"Where can you buy 'em?" Juliet inquired. "Anywhere in town?"

"I suppose so," Isabel assented. "Why?"

"Why?" they repeated together. "We're going to buy one and learn to run it!"

"You must have lots of money," said Isabel, enviously.

"Loads," replied Romeo, with the air of a plutocrat. "More than we can spend."

"We get our income the first day of every month," explained Juliet, "and put it into the bank, but when the next check comes, there's always some left." They seemed to consider it a mild personal disgrace.

"Why don't you save it?" queried Isabel.

"What for?" Romeo demanded, curiously.

"Why, so you'll have it if you ever need it."

"It keeps right on coming," Juliet explained, pulling down her sweater. "Uncle died in Australia and left it to us. He died on the thirtieth of June, and we always celebrate."

"Why don't you celebrate his birthday?" suggested Isabel, "instead of the day he died?"

"His birthday was no good to us," replied Romeo, "but his death-day was."

"But if he hadn't been born, he couldn't have died," Isabel objected, more or less logically.

"And if he hadn't died, his being born wouldn't have helped us any," replied Juliet, with a dazzling smile.

There was another pause. "Will you have some tea?" asked Isabel.

"With rum in it?" queried Juliet.

"I don't think so," said Isabel, doubtfully. "Aunt Francesca never does."

"We don't, either," Romeo explained, "except when it's very cold, and then only a teaspoonful."

"The doctor said we didn't need stimulants. What was it he said we needed, Romie?"

"Sedatives."

"Yes, that was it--sedatives. I looked it up in the dictionary. It means to calm, or to moderate. I think he got the word wrong himself, for we don't need to be calmed, or moderated, do we, Romie?"

"I should say not!"

The twins sipped their tea in silence and nibbled daintily at wafers from the cracker jar. Then, feeling that their visit was over, they rose with one accord.

"We've had a dandy time," said Juliet, crushing Isabel's hand in hers.

"Bully," supplemented Romeo. "Come and see us."

"I will," Isabel responded, weakly. "How do you get there?"

"Just walk up the main road and turn to the left. It's about three miles."

"Three miles!" gasped Isabel. "I'll drive out."

"Just so you come," Romeo said, graciously. "It's an awful old place. You'll know it by the chimney being blown over and some of the bricks lying on the roof. Good-bye."

Juliet turned to wave her hand at Isabel as they banged the gate, and Romeo awkwardly doffed his cap. Their hostess went up-stairs with a sigh of relief. She had the sensation of having quickly closed a window upon a brisk March wind.

The twins set their faces toward home. The three-mile walk was nothing to them, even after a day of skating. The frosty air nipped Juliet's cheeks to crimson and she sniffed at it with keen delight.

"It's nice to be out," she said, "after being in that hot house. What do you think of her, Romie?"

"Oh, I don't know," he replied carelessly. "Say, how did she have her hair done up?"

"She had rats in it, and it was curled on a hot iron."

"Rats? What in thunder is--or are--that, or they?"

"Little wads of false hair made into cushiony rolls."

"Did she tell you?"

"No," laughed Juliet. "Don't you suppose I can see a rat?"

"I thought rats had to be smelled."

"Not this kind."

"She smelled of something kind of sweet and sticky. What was it?'

"Sachet powder, I guess, or some kind of perfume."

"I liked the smell. Can we get some?"

"I guess so--we've got the price."

"Next time you see her, ask her what it is, will you?"

"All right," answered Juliet, unperturbed by the request.

The rest of the way was enlivened by a discussion of automobiles. Romeo had a hockey match on for the following day, which was Saturday, so they were compelled to postpone their investigations until Monday. It seemed very long to wait.

"It's no good now, anyhow," said Romeo. "We can't run it until the roads melt and dry up."

"That's so," agreed his twin, despondently. "Why did she tell us now? Why couldn't she wait until we had some chance?"

"I guess we can learn something about it before we try to run it," he observed, cheerfully. "If we can get it into the barn, we can take it all apart and see how it's put together."

"Oh, Romie!" cried Juliet, with a little skip. "How perfectly fascinating! And we'll read all the automobile literature we can get hold of. I do so love to be posted!"

Upon the death of their father, several years ago, the twins had promptly ceased to go to school. The kindly old minister who had been appointed executor of their father's small estate and guardian of the tumultuous twins had been unable to present any arguments in favour of systematic education which appealed to them even slightly.

"What good is Latin?" asked Romeo, apparently athirst for information.

"Why--er--mental discipline, mostly," the harassed guardian had answered.

"Isn't there anything we'd like that would discipline our minds?" queried Juliet.

"I fear not," replied the old man, who lacked the diplomacy necessary to deal with the twins. Shortly after that he had died with so little warning that he had only time to make out a check in their favour for the balance entrusted to him. The twins had held high carnival until the money was almost gone. The bequest from the Australian uncle had reached them just in time, so, with thankful hearts, they celebrated and had done so annually ever since.

Untrammelled by convention and restraint, they thrived like weeds in their ancestral domicile, which was now sadly in need of repair. Occasionally some daring prank set the neighbourhood by the ears, but, for the most part, the twins behaved very well and attended strictly to their own affairs. They ate when they were hungry, slept when they were sleepy, and, if they desired to sit up until four in the morning, reading, they did so. A woman who had a key to the back door came in every morning, at an uncertain hour, to wash the dishes, sweep, dust, and to make the beds if they chanced to be unoccupied.

As Romeo had said, the chimney had blown down and several loose bricks lay upon the roof. They had a small vegetable garden, fenced in, and an itinerant gardener looked after it, in Summer, but they had no flowers, because they maintained a large herd of stray dogs, mostly mongrels, that would have had no home had it not been for the hospitable twins. Romeo bought the choicest cuts of beef for them and fed them himself. Occasionally they added another to their collection and, at the last census, had nineteen.

Their house would have delighted Madame Bernard--it was so eminently harmonious and suitable. The ragged carpets showed the floor in many places, and there were no curtains at any of the windows. Romeo cherished a masculine distaste for curtains and Juliet did not trouble herself to oppose him. The furniture was old and most of it was broken. The large easy chair in the sitting room was almost disembowelled, and springs showed through the sofa, except in the middle, where there was a cavernous depression. Several really fine paintings adorned the walls, and the dingy mantel was glorified by exquisite bits of Cloisonne and iridescent glass, for which Juliet had a pronounced fancy.

"Set the table, will you, Romie?" called Juliet, tying a large blue gingham apron over her sweater. "I'm almost starved."

"So'm I, but I've got to feed the dogs first."

"Let 'em wait," pleaded Juliet. "Please do!"

"Don't be so selfish! They're worse off than we are, for they haven't even had tea."

While the pack fought, outside, for rib bones and raw steak, Juliet opened a can of salmon, fried some potatoes, put a clean spoon into a jar of jam, and cut a loaf of bread into thick slices. When Romeo came in, he set the table, made coffee, and opened a can of condensed milk. They disdained to wash dishes, but cleared off the table, after supper, lighted the lamp, and talked automobile until almost midnight.

In less than an hour, Romeo had completed the plans for remodelling the barn. They had no horse, but as a few bits of harness remained from the last equine incumbent, they usually alluded to the barn as "the bridle chamber."

"We'll have to name the barn again," mused Juliet, "and we can name the automobile, too."

"Wait until we get it. What colour shall we have?"

"They're usually red or black, aren't they?" she asked, doubtfully.

"I guess so. We want ours different, don't we?"

"Sure. We want something that nobody ever had before--something bright and cheerful. Oh, Romie," she continued, jumping up and down in excitement, "let's have it bright yellow and call it 'The Yellow Peril'!"

Her twin offered her a friendly hand. "Jule," he said solemnly, "you're a genius!"

"We'll have brown leather inside, and get brown clothes to match. Brown hats with yellow bands on 'em--won't it be perfectly scrumptious?"

"Scrumptious is no word for it. Shall we have two seats or four?"

"Four, of course. A two-seated automobile looks terribly selfish."

"Stingy, too," murmured Romeo, "and we can afford the best."

"Do you know," Juliet suggested, after deep thought, "I think it would be nice of us if we waited to take our first ride until we celebrate for Uncle?"

"It would," admitted Romeo, gloomily, "but it's such a long time to wait."

"We can learn to run it here in the yard--there's plenty of room. And on the thirtieth of June, we'll take our first real ride in it. Be a sport, Romie," she urged, as he maintained an unhappy silence.

"All right--I will," he said, grudgingly. "But I hope Uncle appreciates what we're doing for him."

"That's settled, then," she responded, cheerfully. "Then, on our second ride, we'll take somebody with us. Who shall we invite?"

"Oughtn't she to go with us the first time?"

"She? Who's 'she'?"

"Miss Ross--Isabel. She suggested it, you know. We might not have thought of it for years."

Juliet pondered. "I don't believe she ought to go the first time, because the day that Uncle died doesn't mean anything to her, and it's everything to us. But we'll take her on the second trip. Shall I write to her now and invite her?"

"I don't believe," Romeo responded, dryly, "that I'd stop to write an invitation to somebody to go out four months from now in an automobile that isn't bought yet."

"But it's as good as bought," objected Juliet, "because our minds are made up. We may forget to ask her."

"Put it on the slate," suggested Romeo.

In the hall, near the door, was a large slate suspended by a wire. The pencil was tied to it. Here they put down vagrant memoranda and things they planned to acquire in the near future.

Juliet observed that there was only one entry on the slate: "Military hair brushes for R." Underneath she wrote: "Yellow automobile, four- seated. Name it 'The Yellow Peril.' Brown leather inside. Get brown clothes to match and trim with yellow. First ride, June thirtieth, for Uncle. Second ride, July first, for ourselves. Invite Isabel Ross."

"Anything else?" she asked, after reading it aloud.

"Dog biscuit," yawned Romeo. "They're eating too much meat."

It was very late when they went up-stairs. Their rooms were across the hall from each other and they slept with the doors open. The attic had been made into a gymnasium, where they exercised and hardened their muscles when the weather kept them indoors. A trapeze had been recently put up, and Juliet was learning to swing by her feet.

She lifted her face up to his and received a brotherly peck on the lips. "Good-night, Jule."

"Good-night, Romie. Pleasant dreams."

It was really morning, but there was no clock to tell them so, for the timepieces in the Crosby mansion were seldom wound.

"Say," called Romeo.

"What?"

"What do you think of her?"

"Who?"

"Miss--you know. Isabel."

"Oh, I don't know," responded Juliet, sleepily. "I guess she's kind of a sissy-girl."

V

AN AFTERNOON CALL

"Aunt Francesca," asked Isabel, "is Colonel Kent rich?"

"Very," responded Madame. She had a fine damask napkin stretched upon embroidery hoops and was darning it with the most exquisite of stitches.

"Then why don't they live in a better house and have more servants? That place is old and musty."

"Perhaps they like to live there, and, again, perhaps they haven't enough money to change. Besides, that has been Colonel Kent's home ever since he was married. Allison was born there."

Isabel fidgeted in her chair. "If they're very rich, I should think they'd have enough money to enable them to move into a better house."

"Oh," replied Madame, carefully cutting her thread on the underside, "I wasn't thinking of money when I spoke. I don't know anything about their private affairs. But Colonel Kent has courage, sincerity, an old- fashioned standard of honour, many friends, and a son who is a great artist."

The girl was silent, for intangible riches did not appeal to her strongly.

"Allison is like him in many ways," Madame was saying. "He is like his mother, too."

"When is he going away?"

"In September or October, I suppose--the beginning of the season."

"Is he going to play everywhere?"

"Everywhere of any importance."

"Perhaps," mused Isabel, "he will make a great deal of money himself."

"Perhaps," Madame responded, absently. "I do hope he will be successful." She had almost maternal pride in her foster son.

"Is Cousin Rose going, too?"

"Going where? What do you mean, dear?"

"Why, nothing. Only I heard him ask her if she would go with him on his concert tour and play his accompaniments, providing you or the Colonel went along for chaperone, and Cousin Rose laughed and said she didn't need a chaperone--that she was old enough to make it quite respectable."

"And---" suggested Madame.

"Allison laughed, too, and said: 'Nonsense!'"

"If they are going," said Madame, half to herself, "and decide to take me along, I hope they'll give me sufficient time to pack things decently."

"Would the Colonel go, if you went?"

"I hardly think so. It wouldn't be quite so proper."

"I don't understand," remarked Isabel, wrinkling her pretty brows.

"I don't either," Madame replied, confidentially. "However, I've lived long enough to learn that the conventions of society are all in the interests of morality. If you're conventional, you'll be good, in a negative sense, of course."

"How do you mean, Aunt Francesca?"

"Perfect manners are diametrically opposed to crime. For instance, it is very bad form for a man to shoot a lady, or even to write another man's name on a check and cash it. It saves trouble to be conventional, for you're not always explaining things. Most of the startling items we read in the newspapers are serious lapses from conventionality and good manners."

"The Crosbys aren't very conventional," Isabel suggested.

"No," smiled Madame, "they're not, but their manners proceed from the most kindly and friendly instincts, consequently they're seldom in error, essentially."

"They have lots of money, haven't they?"