Chapter 9

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

A hushed sound, as of rustling silk, made him pause, then, at the head of the path, where another joined it, Isabel appeared, with white roses in her hair and the moon shining full upon her face. The spangles on her gown caught the light and broke it into a thousand tiny rainbows, surrounding her with faint iridescence.

The old, immortal hunger surged into his veins, the world-old joy made his senses reel. He steadied himself for a moment, then went to her, with his arms outstretched in pleading.

"Oh, Silver Girl," he whispered, huskily. "My Silver Girl! Tell me you'll shine for me always!"

The last chord ceased, full of yearning that was almost prayer. Then Isabel, cold as marble and passionless as snow, lifted her face for his betrothal kiss.

XIII

WHITE GLOVES

With shyness that did not wholly conceal her youthful pride, Isabel told Madame, a few days later. The little old lady managed to smile and to kiss Isabel's soft cheek, murmuring the conventional hope for her happiness. Inwardly, she was far from calm, though deeply thankful that Rose did not happen to be in the room.

"You must make him very happy, dear," she said.

"I guess we'll have a good time," returned Isabel, smothering a yawn. "It will be lots of fun to go all over the country and see all the big cities."

"I hope he will be successful," Madame continued. "He must be," she added, fervently.

"I suppose we shall be entertained a great deal," remarked Isabel. "He has written to Mamma, but she hasn't had time to answer yet."

"I can vouch for my foster son," Madame replied.

"It isn't necessary," the girl went on, "and I told him so. Mamma never cares what I do, and she'll be glad to get me off her hands. Would you mind if I were married here?"

Madame's heart throbbed with tender pity. "Indeed," she answered, warmly, "you shall have the prettiest wedding I can give you. Your mother will come, won't she?"

"Not if it would interfere with her lecture engagements. She's going to lecture all next season on 'The Slavery of Marriage.' She says the wedding ring is a sign of bondage, dating back to the old days when a woman was her husband's property."

Madame Francesca's blue eyes filled with a sudden mist. Slowly she turned on her finger the worn band of gold that her gallant Captain had placed there ere he went to war. It carried still a deep remembrance too holy for speech. "Property," repeated the old lady, in a whisper. "Ah, but how dear it is to be owned!"

"I don't mind wearing it," said Isabel, with a patronising air, "but I want it as narrow as possible, so it won't interfere with my other rings, and, of course, I can take it off when I like."

"Of course, but I would be glad to have you so happily married, my dear, that you wouldn't want to take it off--ever."

"I'll have to ask Mamma to send me some money for clothes," the girl went on, half to herself.

"Don't bother her with it," suggested the other, kindly. "Let me do it. Rose and I will enjoy making pretty things for a bride."

"I'm afraid Cousin Rose wouldn't enjoy it," Isabel replied, with an unpleasant laugh. "Do you know," she added, confidentially, "I've always thought Cousin Rose liked Allison--well, a good deal."

"She does," returned Madame, meeting the girl's eyes clearly, "and so do I. When you're older, Isabel, you'll learn to distinguish between a mere friendly interest and the grand passion."

"She's too old, I know," Isabel continued, with the brutality of confident youth, "but sometimes older women do fall in love with young men."

"Why shouldn't they?" queried Madame, lightly, "as long as older men choose to fall in love with young women? As far as that goes, it would be no worse for Allison to marry Rose than it is for him to marry you."

"But," objected Isabel, "when he is sixty, she will be seventy, and he wouldn't care for her."

"And," returned Madame, rather sharply, "when he is forty, you will be only thirty and you may not care for him. There are always two sides to everything," she added, after a pause, "and when we get so civilised that all women may be self-supporting if they choose, we may see a little advice to husbands on the way of keeping a wife's love, instead of the flood of nonsense that disfigures the periodicals now."

"They all say that woman makes the home," Isabel suggested, idly.

"But not alone. No woman can make a home alone. It takes two pairs of hands to make a home--one strong and the other tender, and two true hearts."

"I hope it won't take too long to make my clothes," answered Isabel, irrelevantly. "He says I must be ready by September."

"Then we must begin immediately. Write out everything you think of, and afterward we'll go over the list together. Come into the library and begin now. There's no time like the present."

"Do you think," Isabel inquired as she seated herself at the library table, "that I will have many presents?"

"Probably," answered Madame, briefly. "I'll come back when you've finished your list."

She went up-stairs and knocked gently at the door of Rose's room, feeling very much as she did the day she went to Colonel Kent to tell him that the little mother of his new-born son was dead. Rose herself opened the door, somewhat surprised.

Madame went in, closed the door, then stood there for a moment, at a loss for words.

"Has it come?" asked Rose, in a low voice.

"Yes. Oh, Rose, my dear Rose!"

She put her arm around the younger woman and led her to the couch. Every hint of colour faded from Rose's face; her eyes were wide and staring, her lips scarcely pink. "I must go away," she murmured.

"Where, dearest?"

"Anywhere--oh, anywhere!"

"I know, dear, believe me, I know, but it never does any good to run away from things that must be faced sooner or later. We women have our battles to fight as well as the men who go to war, and the same truth applies to both--that only a coward will retreat under fire."

Rose sighed and clenched her hands together tightly.

"Once there was a ship," said Madame, softly, "sinking in mid-ocean, surrounded by fog. It had drifted far out of its course, and collided with a derelict. The captain ordered the band to play, the officers put on their dress uniforms and their white gloves. Another ship, that was drifting, too, signalled in answer to the music, and all were saved."

"That was possible--but there can be no signal for me."

"Perhaps not, but let's put on our white gloves and order out the band."

The unconscious plural struck Rose with deep significance. "Did you-- know, Aunt Francesca?"

"Yes, dear."

"For how long?"

"Always, I think."

"Did it seem--absurd, in any way?"

"Not at all. I was hoping for it, until the wind changed. And," she added, with her face turned away, "Colonel Kent was, too."

Some of the colour ebbed slowly back into the white, stricken face. "That makes me feel," Rose breathed, "as if I hadn't been quite so foolish as I've been thinking I was."

"Then keep the high heart, dear, for they mustn't suspect."

"No," cried Rose sharply, "oh, no! Anything but that!"

"It's hard to wear gloves when you don't want to," replied Madame, with seeming irrelevance, "but it's easier when there are others. The Colonel will need them, too--this is going to be hard on him."

"Does-he--know?" whispered Rose, fearfully.

"No," answered Madame, laughing outright, "indeed he doesn't. Did you ever know of a man discovering anything that wasn't right under his nose?"

"And I am safe with-with--"

"With everybody but Isabel. She may be foolish, but she's a woman, and even a woman can see around a corner."

"Thank you for telling me," said Rose, after a little; "for giving me time. It was like you."

"I'm glad I could, but remember, I haven't told you, officially. Let her tell you herself."

Rose nodded. "Then I'll come down just as soon as I can."

"With white gloves on, dear, and flags flying. Make your old aunt proud of you now, won't you?"

"I'll try," she answered, humbly, then quickly closed the door.

Meanwhile Colonel Kent, most correctly attired, was making a formal call upon his prospective daughter-in-law, and the list had scarcely been begun. Isabel sat in the living room, trying not to show that she was bored. The Colonel had come in, ready to receive her into his house and his heart, but Isabel had shaken hands with him coolly, and accepted shrinkingly the fatherly kiss he stooped to bestow upon her forehead.

He had tried several preliminary topics of conversation, which had been met with chilling monosyllables, so he plunged into the heart of the subject, with inward trepidation.

"I told Allison this morning that I owed him my thanks for bringing me a daughter."

"Yes," said Isabel, placidly.

"The old house needs young voices and the sound of young feet," the Colonel went on.

Isabel began to speak, then hesitated and relapsed into silence. Mr. Boffin came in, purring loudly, and rubbed familiarly against the Colonel, leaving a thin coating of yellow hair.

"It seems to be the moulting season for cats," laughed the Colonel, observing the damage ruefully.

Isabel moved restlessly in her chair, but said nothing. The pause had become awkward when the Colonel rose to take his leave.

"I hope you may be happy," he said, gravely, "and make our old house happier for your coming."

"Oh," returned Isabel, quickly, "I hadn't thought of that. I hadn't thought of--of living there."

"The house is large," he ventured, puzzled.

"Mamma has always said," remarked Isabel, primly, "that no house was large enough for two families."

Colonel Kent managed to force a laugh. "You may be right," he answered. "At least, everything shall be arranged to your liking."

He had said good-bye and was on his way out, when Francesca came down from Rose's room. Seeing her, he waited for a moment. Isabel had gone into the library and closed the door.

"Whence this haste?" queried Madame, with a lightness which was just then difficult to assume. "Were you going without seeing me?"

"I had feared I would be obliged to," he returned, gallantly. "I was calling upon my future daughter-in-law," he added, in a low tone, as they went out on the veranda.

Madame sighed and sank gratefully into the chair he offered her. In the broad light of day, she looked old and worn.

"Well," continued the Colonel, with an effort to speak cheerfully, "the blow has fallen."

"So I hear," she rejoined, almost in a whisper. "What tremendous readjustments the heedless young may cause!"

"Yes, but we mustn't deny them the right. The eternal sacrifice of youth to age is one of the most pitiful things in nature--human nature, that is. The animals know better."

"Would you remove all opportunity for the development of character?" she inquired, with a tinge of sarcasm.

"No, but I wouldn't deliberately furnish it. The world supplies it generously enough, I think. Allison didn't ask to be born," he went on, with a change of tone, "and those who brought him into the world are infinitely more responsible to him than he is to them."

"One-sided," returned Madame, abruptly. "And, if so, it's the only thing that is. What of the gift of life?"

"Nothing to speak of," he responded with a cynicism wholly new to her. "I wouldn't go back and live it over, would you?"

"No," she sighed, "I wouldn't. I don't believe anyone would, even the happiest."

"Too much character development?"

"Yes," she admitted, with a shamefaced flush. "You'll have a chance to see, now. It will be right under your nose."

"No," he said, with a certain sad emphasis which did not escape her; "it won't. I shall be at a respectful distance."

"Why, Richard!" she cried, half rising from her chair; "what do you mean? Aren't you going to live with them in the old home?"

The Colonel shook his head.

"Why?" she demanded.

The Colonel raised his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. "Orders," he said, briefly. "From headquarters."

"Has Allison--" she began, in astonishment, but he interrupted her.

"No." He inclined his head suggestively toward the house, and she understood.

"The little brute," murmured Francesca. "Richard, believe me, I am ashamed."

"Don't bother," he answered, kindly. "The boy mustn't know. You always plan everything for me--where shall I live now?"

She leaned forward, her blue eyes shining. "Oh, Richard," she breathed, "if you only would--if you could--come to Rose and me! We'd be so glad!"

There was no mistaking her sincerity, and the Colonel's fine old face illumined with pleasure. Merely to be wanted, anywhere, brings a certain satisfaction.

"I'll come," he returned, promptly. "How good you are! How good you've always been! I often wonder what I should ever have done without you."

He turned away and, lightly as a passing cloud, a shadow crossed his face. Madame saw how hard it would be to part from his son, and, only in lesser degree, his old home.

"Richard," she said, "a ship was sinking once in a fog, miles out of its course. The captain ordered the band to play and all the officers put on their dress uniforms. Another ship, also drifting, signalled in answer to the music and all were saved."

The Colonel rose and offered his hand in farewell. "Thank you, Francesca," he answered, deeply moved. "I put on my white gloves the day you came to tell me. I thank you now for the signal--and for saving me."

She watched him as he went down the road, tall, erect, and soldierly, in spite of his three-score and ten. "Three of us," she said to herself, "all in white gloves." The metaphor appealed to her strongly.

She did not go in until Isabel appeared in the doorway, list in hand, and prettily perplexed over the problem of clothes. Madame slipped it into the chatelaine bag that hung from her belt. "We'll go over it with Rose," she said. "She knows more about clothes than I do."

"Have you told Cousin Rose?"

"No," answered Madame, avoiding the girl's eyes. "It's your place to tell her--not mine."

When Rose came down to dinner that night, she was gorgeously attired in her gown of old-gold satin, adorned with gold lace. The last yellow roses of the garden were twined in her dark hair, and the rouge-stick, that faithful friend of unhappy woman, had given a little needed colour to her cheeks and lips, for the first time in her life.

"Cousin Rose," began Isabel, a little abashed by the older woman's magnificence, "I'm engaged--to Allison."

"Really?" cried Rose, with well-assumed astonishment. "Come here and let me kiss the bride-to-be. You must make him very happy," she said, then added, softly: "I pray that you may."

"Everybody seems to think of him and not of me," Isabel returned, a little fretfully.

"That's what Aunt Francesca said, and Allison's father seemed to think more about my making Allison happy than he did about my being happy myself."