Old Rose and Silver Part 46

Even at the time that Aunt Francesca and Rose had congratulated him, and he had kissed them both in friendly fas.h.i.+on, he had taken pa.s.sing note of the difference between Isabel and Rose. Of course it was only that Isabel was made of ice and Rose of flesh and blood, but still, it was pleasant to remember that--

His thoughts began to stray into other fields. Rose was his promised wife, as far as name went, yet she treated him with the frank good comrades.h.i.+p that a liberal social code makes possible between men and women. As far as Rose was concerned, there was no sentiment in the world.

When she read to him, it was invariably a story of adventure or of humorous complications, or a well-chosen exposition of some recent advance in science or art. Their conversation was equally impersonal, even at the rare times they chanced to be alone. Rose made Colonel Kent, Aunt Francesca, Doctor Jack, and even the nurse equally welcome to Allison's society.

He went freely from room to room on the upper floor, but had not yet been downstairs, as a possible slip on the steps might do irreparable injury. Doctor Jack wanted to get him downstairs and outdoors, believing that actual contact with the earth is almost as good for people as it is for plants, but saw no way to manage it without a stretcher, which he knew Allison would violently resent.

The twins came occasionally, by special invitation, though n.o.body noticed that it was always Doctor Jack who suggested it. Once they brought a pan of Juliet's famous fudges, which were politely appreciated by the others and extravagantly praised by the Doctor. The following day he was rewarded by a private pan of especially rich fudges--but Romeo brought it, on his way to the post-office.

There was a daily card-party upon the upper veranda, and sometimes meals were served there. The piano had been moved upstairs into a back room.

The whole-hearted devotion of the household was beautiful to behold, yet underneath it all, like an unseen current, was the tense strain of waiting.

It was difficult not to annoy Doctor Jack with questions. Rose and the Colonel continually reminded themselves and each other that he would be only too glad to bring encouragement at the moment he found it, and that by quiet and patience they could help him most.

Juliet had pleaded earnestly with Doctor Jack to save Allison's hand.

"If you don't," she said, with uplifted eyes, "I'll be miserable all the rest of my life."

"Bless your little heart," the Doctor had answered, kindly; "I'd do 'most anything to keep you from being miserable, even the impossible, which happens to be my specialty."

She did not quite understand, but sent a burnt offering to the Doctor, in the shape of a chocolate cake. He had returned the compliment by sending her the biggest box of candy she had ever seen, and, as it arrived about noon, she and Romeo had feasted upon it until they could eat no more, and had been uncomfortably ill for two days. Romeo had attributed their misfortune to the candy itself, but Juliet believed that their const.i.tutions had been weakened by their penitential fare, and, as soon as she was able, proved her point by finis.h.i.+ng the last sweet morsel without painful results.

The Summer waned and tints of palest gold appeared here and there upon the maples. The warm wind had the indefinable freshness of the Autumn sea, blown far inland at dawn. Allison became impatient and restless, the Colonel went off alone for long, moody walks; even Doctor Jack began to show the effects of the long strain.

Only Rose was serene. Fortunately, no one guessed the tumult that lay beneath her outward calm. Her manner toward Allison was, if anything, more impersonal than ever, though she failed in no thoughtful kindness, no possible consideration. He accepted it all as a matter of course, but began to wish, vaguely, for something more.

He forebore to remind her of their strange relation, and could not allude to the night he had kissed her, while his fiancee stood near by.

Yet, late one afternoon, when she had excused herself a little earlier than usual, he called her back.

"Rose?"

"Yes?" She returned quickly and stood before him, just out of his reach.

"What is it? What can I do for you?"

The tone was kind but impersonal, as always. "Nothing," he sighed, turning his face away.

That night she pondered long. What could Allison want that she had not given? The blood surged into her heart for an instant, then retreated.

"Nonsense," she said to herself in tremulous anger. "It's impossible!"

Afterward it seemed continually to happen that she was alone with Allison when the time came to say good-night and drive home, or walk, escorted by Colonel Kent or the Doctor. By common consent, they seemed to make excuses to leave the room as the hour of departure approached, and she always found it easier when someone was there.

Again, when she had made her adieux and had reached the door leading into the hall, Allison called her back.

"Yes?" "Couldn't you--just once, you know--for good-night?" he asked, with difficulty.

His face made his meaning clear. Rose bent, kissed him tenderly upon the forehead, and quickly left the room. Her heart was beating so hard that she did not know she stumbled upon the threshold, nor did she hear his low: "Thank you--dear."

That night she could not sleep. "I can't," she said to herself, miserably; "I can't possibly go on, if--Oh, why should he make it so hard for me!"

If the future was to be possible on the lines already laid down, he, too, must keep the impersonal att.i.tude. Yet, none the less, she was conscious of an uplifting joy that would not be put aside, but insistently demanded its right of expression.

She did not dare trust herself to see Allison again, and yet she must.

She could not fail him now, when he needed her so much, nor could she ask the others to see that they were not left alone. One day might be gained for respite by the plea of a headache, which is woman's friend as often as it is her enemy.

And, after that one day, what then? What other excuse could she make that would not seem heartless and cold?

It was an old saying of Aunt Francesca's that "when you can't see straight ahead, it's because you're about to turn a corner." She tormented herself throughout the night with futile speculations that led to nothing except the headache which she had planned to offer as an excuse.

A brief note gave her the day to herself, and also brought flowers from Allison, with a friendly note in his own hand. Doctor Jack was the messenger and took occasion to offer his services in the conquest of the headache, but Rose declined with thanks, sending down word that she preferred to sleep it off.

Though breakfast might be a movable feast at Madame's, it was always consistently late. It was nearly nine o'clock in the morning when the telephone wakened Madame from a dreamless sleep. She listened until it became annoying, but no one answered it. Finally she got up, rather impatiently, and went to it herself, antic.i.p.ating Rose by only a minute.

Tremulous with suspense, Rose waited, scarcely daring to breathe until Madame turned with a cry of joy, the receiver falling from her nerveless hand. "Rose! Rose! he's saved! Our boy is saved! He's saved, do you understand?"

"Truly? Is it sure?"

"Blessedly sure! Oh, Rose, he's saved!"

The little old lady was sobbing in an ecstasy of relief.

Rose led her to a couch and waited quietly until she was almost calm, then went back to her own room. Once more her world was changed, as long ago she had seen how it must be with her should the one thing happen.

She, with the others, had hoped and prayed for it; her dearest dream had come true at last, and left her desolate.

She was unselfishly glad for Allison, for the Colonel, Aunt Francesca, Doctor Jack, the sorrowing twins, and, in a way, for herself. It had been given her to serve him, and she had not hoped for more. It made things easier now, though she had not thought the corner would be turned in just this way.

Having made up her mind and completed her plans, she went to Madame as soon as she was dressed. She had hidden her paleness with so little rouge that even Madame's keen eyes could not suspect it.

"Aunt Francesca," she began, without preliminary, "I've got to go away."

"Why, dear, and where? For how long?"

"Because I'm so tired. Things have been hard for me--over there, lately --and I don't care where I go."

"I see," returned Madame, tenderly. "You want to go away for a rest.

You've needed it for a long time."

"Yes," Rose nodded, swinging easily into the lie that did not deceive either. "Oh, Aunt Francesca, can I go to-day?"

"Surely--at any hour you choose."

"And you'll--make it right?"

"Indeed I will. I'll just say that you've been obliged to go away on business--to look after some investments for both of us, and I hope you'll stay away long enough to get the rest and change you've needed for almost a year."

"Oh, Aunt Francesca, how good you are! But where? Where shall I go?"

Madame had been thinking of that. She knew the one place where Rose could go, and attain her balance in solitude, untroubled by needless questions or explanations. With the feeling of the mother who gives her dead baby's dainty garments to a living child sorely in need, she spoke.

"To my house up in the woods--the little house where love lived, so long ago."