Old Rose and Silver Part 50

"Say, Jule," inquired Romeo, casually, "why is it that you don't look like a lady?"

"What do you mean?" demanded Juliet, bristling.

"I don't know just what I mean, but you seem so different from everybody else."

"I'm clean, ain't I?"

"Yes," he admitted, grudgingly.

"And my hair is combed?"

"Sometimes."

"And my white dress is clean, isn't it?"

"Yes, but it doesn't look like--like hers, you know."

"Her? Who's 'her'?"

"You know--Isabel."

Juliet sighed and bit her lips. Her eyes filled with tears and she winked very hard to keep them back. An ominous pain clutched at her loyal little heart.

"What do you want me to do, Romie?" she asked, gently.

"Why, I don't know. Men never know about such things. Just make yourself like her--that's all."

"Huh!" Juliet was scornful now. "I don't know whether I want to look like her or not," she remarked, coldly.

"Why not?" he flashed back.

"And I don't want to be like her, either. She can't do anything. She can't cook, or swing on the trapeze, or skate, or fish, or row, or swim, or climb a tree, or ride horseback, or walk, or anything." "I could teach her," mused Romeo, half to himself. "I taught you."

"Yes," cried Juliet, swallowing the persistent lump in her throat, "and now you've done it, you're ashamed of me!"

"I didn't say so," he temporised.

"You didn't have to. Don't you suppose I can see?"

"Don't get so mad about it. She was laughing at you last night and so was the Doctor. They didn't think it was nice for you to put on your knickers and swing on the trapeze. Ladies don't do that."

"You taught me," she reminded him, quickly.

"Yes, but I didn't ask you to do it before everybody. You started it yourself. Isabel wouldn't look at you, and you remember what the Doctor said, don't you? He told you to cut it out."

"That was because he thought it was dangerous."

"'Tisn't dangerous, and he knows it. He knew it wasn't refined and lady- like for you to do that before men."

"It was only a doctor," Juliet replied, in a small, thin voice. "They're different from other people. I wouldn't let the Kents see me in my knickers, and you know it."

"You would, too, if you wanted to. You're a perfect tomboy. You wouldn't see Isabel doing that."

"Probably not," answered Juliet, dryly. "She's no more likely to do that than I would be to go back on the man I'd promised to marry, just because his hand was hurt."

"You'll never have a chance to go back on anybody, so you don't know what you'd do."

"Why won't I?"

"Because," answered Romeo, choosing his words carefully, "when a man gets married, he wants to marry a lady, not a tomboy." For some unknown reason, he resented any slur cast at Isabel.

"And," replied Juliet, cuttingly, "when a lady gets married, she wants to marry a gentleman." The accent carried insult with it, and Romeo left the house, slamming the door and whistling, defiantly until he was out of hearing.

There was no longer any need for Juliet to keep back the tears.

Stretched at full length upon the disembowelled sofa, she buried her face in the pillow and wept until she could weep no more. Then she bathed her face, and pinned up her tangled hair, and went to the one long mirror the Crosby mansion boasted of, to take an inventory of herself.

She could see that Romeo was right--she didn't look like a lady. Her skirt was too, short and didn't hang evenly, and her belt was wrong because she had no corsets. Juliet made a wry face at the thought of a corset. None of her clothes fitted like Isabel's, her face was tanned, her hands rough and red, and her nails impossible.

"I look just like a boy," Juliet admitted to herself, "dressed up in girl's clothes. If Romie's hair was long, and he had on this dress, he'd look just like me."

Pride forbade her to go to Isabel and inquire into the mysteries of her all-pervading femininity. Anyhow, Isabel would laugh at her. Anybody would laugh at her--unless Miss Bernard--but she had gone away. She was a lady, even more than Isabel, and so was the little old lady everybody called "Aunt Francesca."

If she could see "Aunt Francesca," she wouldn't be ashamed to tell her what Romeo had said. If she only knew what to do, she could do it, for she had plenty of money. Juliet dimly discerned that money was very necessary if one would be the same sort of "lady" that the others were.

"If Mamma hadn't died," said Juliet, to herself, "I guess I'd have been as much of a lady as anybody, and n.o.body would have dared call me a tomboy." Her heart ached for the gentle little mother who had died many years ago. "She would have known," sighed Juliet. "Mamma was a lady if anybody ever was, and she didn't have the money we've got either."

The life of the Crosbys had been bare of luxuries and sometimes even of comforts, until the considerate uncle died and left his money to the twins. As fortunes go, it was not much, but it seemed inexhaustible to them because they did not know how to spend it.

"I'll go this very day," thought Juliet, "and see Aunt Francesca. I'll ask her. If Isabel is there, I'll have to wait, but if I don't ask for Isabel, maybe I won't see her."

Having decided upon a plan of action, the way seemed easier, so Juliet went about her daily duties with a lighter heart, and even sang after a fas.h.i.+on, as she awkwardly pressed the wrinkles from her white muslin gown. Though it was September, it was still warm enough to wear it.

Romeo, having only the day before attained his maturity, had taken unto himself the masculine privilege of getting angry at someone else for what he himself had done. He was furious with Juliet, though he did not trouble himself to ask why. "The idea," he muttered, "of her criticising Isabel!"

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. n.o.body 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.

n.o.body wants me!"