Chapter V: Part 5

"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."

"That's because the only way to win happiness is to give it," put in Madame. "The more we give, the more we have."

Conversation lagged at dinner, and became, as often, a monologue by Madame. While they were finishing their coffee, they heard Allison's well-known step outside.

"I wonder why he had to come so early," complained Isabel. "I wanted to change my dress. I didn't have time before dinner."

"He'll never know it," Madame assured her. "We'll excuse you dear, if you're through. Don't keep him waiting."

When the dining-room door closed, Rose turned to Madame. "Did I--"

"Most wonderfully."

"But the hardest part is still to come," she breathed, sadly.

"'I was ever a fighter, so one fight more.
The best and the last';"

Madame quoted, encouragingly.

Rose smiled--a little wan smile--as she pushed back her chair. "Perhaps," she said, "the 'peace out of pain' may follow me."

She went, with faltering step, toward the other room, inwardly afraid. Another hand met hers, with a reassuring clasp. "One step more, Rose. Now then, forward, march, all flags unfurled."

When she went in, Allison came to meet her with outstretched hands. He had changed subtly, since she saw him last. Had light been poured over him, it would have changed him in much the same way.

"Golden Rose," he said, taking both her hands in his, "tell me you are glad--say that you wish me joy."

Her eyes met his clearly. "I do," she smiled. "There is no one in the world for whom I wish joy more than I do for you."

"And I say the same," chimed in Madame, who had closely followed Rose.

"Dear little foster mother," said Allison, tenderly, putting a strong arm around her. He had not yet released Rose's hand, nor did he note that it was growing cold. "I owe you everything," he went on; "even Isabel."

He kissed her, then, laughing, turned to Rose. "May I?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he turned her face to his, and kissed her on the lips.

Cold as ice and shaken to the depths of her soul, Rose stumbled out of the room, murmuring brokenly of a forgotten letter which must be immediately written. Madame lingered for the space of half an hour, talking brightly of everything under the sun, then followed Rose, turning in the doorway as she went out, to say: "Can't you even thank me for leaving you alone?"

"Bless her," said Allison, fondly. "What sweet women they are!"

"Yes," answered Isabel, spitefully, "especially Rose."

He laughed heartily. "What a little goose you are, sweetheart. Kiss me, dear--dearest."

"I won't," she flashed back, stubbornly, nor would she, until at last, by superior strength, he took his lover's privilege from lips that refused to yield.

That night he dreamed that, for a single exquisite instant, Isabel had answered him, giving him love for love. Then, strangely enough, Isabel became Rose, in a gown of gold, with golden roses twined in her hair.

XIV

THE THIRTIETH OF JUNE

Dinner that night had been rather a silent affair at Kent's, as well as at Madame Bernard's. Being absorbed in his own thoughts, Allison did not realise how unsociable he was, nor that the old man across the table from him perceived that they had reached the beginning of the end.

When Allison spoke, it was always of Isabel. Idealised in her lover's sight, she stood before him as the one "perfect woman, nobly planned," predestined, through countless ages, to be his mate. Colonel Kent merely agreed with him in monosyllables until Allison became conscious that his father did not wholly share his enthusiasm.

"I wish you knew her, Dad," he said, regretfully. "You'll love her when you do."

"I'm willing to," answered the Colonel, shortly. "I called on her this afternoon," he added, after a brief pause.

Allison's face illumined. "Was she there? Did you see her?"

"Yes."

"Isn't she the loveliest thing that was ever made?"

"I'm not prepared to go as far as that," smiled the Colonel, "but she is certainly a very pretty girl."

"She's beautiful," returned Allison, with deep conviction.

The Colonel forebore to remind him that love brings beauty with it, or that the beauty which endures comes from the soul within.

"Just think, Dad," Allison was saying, "how lovely she'll be at that end of the table, with me across from her and you at her right."

The Colonel shook his head, then cleared his throat. "Not always, lad," he said, kindly, "but perhaps, sometimes--as a guest."

Allison's fork dropped with a sharp clatter on his plate. "Dad! What do you mean?"

"No house is large enough for two families," repeated the Colonel, with an unconscious, parrot-like accent.

"Why, Dad! We've always stood together--surely you won't desert me now?"

The old man's eyes softened with mist. He could not trust himself to meet the clear, questioning gaze of his son.

"I can't understand," Allison went on, doubtfully. "Is it possible-- could she-did-Isabel--?"

"No" said the Colonel, firmly, still avoiding the questioning eyes. "She didn't!"

"Of course she didn't," returned Allison, fully satisfied. "She couldn't--she's not that kind. What a brute I was even to think it! But why, Dad? Please tell me why!"

"Francesca asked me this afternoon if I would come to her and Rose, after the--afterwards, you know, and I promised."

"If you promised, I suppose that settles it," remarked Allison, gloomily, "but I wish you hadn't. I can understand that they would want you, too, for of course they'll be desperately lonely after Isabel goes away."

A certain peace crept into the old man's sore heart. Surely there was something to live for still.

"I hope you didn't tell Aunt Francesca you'd stay there always," Allison was saying, anxiously.

"No," answered the Colonel, with a smile; "there was no limit specified."

"Then we'll consider it only a visit and a short one at that--just until they get a little used to Isabel's being away. This is your rightful place, Dad, and Isabel and I both want you--don't ever forget that!"

When Allison had gone in search of his beloved, the Colonel sat on the veranda alone, accustomed, now, to evenings spent thus. His garden promised well, he thought, having produced two or three sickly roses in the very first season. The shrubs and trees that had survived ten years of neglect had been pruned and tied and would doubtless do well next year, if Isabel--

"I hope he'll never find out," the Colonel said to himself. Then he remembered that, for the first time in his life, he had lied to his son, and took occasion to observe the highly spectacular effect of an untruth from an habitually truthful person.

"He never doubted me, not for an instant," mused the Colonel, "but it's just as well that I'm going. She could probably manage it, if we lived in the same house, so that I'd have to tell at least one lie a day, and I'm not an expert. Perfection might come with practice--I've known it to--but I'm too old to begin."

He was deeply grateful to Francesca for her solution of the problem that confronted him. It had appeared and been duly solved in the space of half an hour. She had been his good angel for more than thirty years. It might be very pleasant to live there, after he became accustomed to the change, and with Allison so near--why, he couldn't be half as lonely as he was now. So his thoughts drifted into a happier channel and he was actually humming an old song to himself when he heard Allison's step, almost at midnight, on the road just beyond the gate.

He went in quietly, closed the door, and was in his own room when Allison's latch-key rattled in the lock. The Colonel took pains not to be heard moving about, but it was unnecessary, for Allison's heart was beating in time with its own music, and surging with the nameless rapture that comes but once.

Down in the moon-lit, dream-haunted garden, Allison waited for Isabel, as the First Man might have waited for the First Woman, in another garden, countless ages ago. Stars were mirrored in the lily-pool; the waning moon swung low. The roses had gone, except a few of the late- blooming sort, but the memory of their fragrance lingered still in the velvet dusk.

No music came from the quiet house, for Rose had not touched the piano since That Night. It stood out in his remembrance in capitals, as it did in hers, for widely different reasons. Only Isabel, cherishing no foolish sentiment as to dates and places, could have forgotten That Night.

With a lover's fond fancy, Allison had written a note to Isabel, asking her to meet him in the garden by the lily-pool, at nine, and to wear the silver-spangled gown. It was already past the hour and he had begun to be impatient, though he was sure she had received the note.

A cobweb in the grass at his feet shone faintly afar--like Isabel's spangles, he thought. A soft-winged wayfarer of the night brushed lightly against his cheek in passing, and he laughed aloud, to think that a grey moth should bring the memory of a kiss. Then, with a swift sinking of the heart, he remembered Isabel's unvarying coldness. Never for an instant had she answered him as Rose--

"Nonsense," he muttered to himself, angrily. "What an unspeakable cad I am!"

There was a light step on the path and Isabel appeared out of the shadows. She was holding up her skirts and seemed annoyed. In the first glance Allison noted that she was not wearing the spangled gown.

She submitted to his eager embrace and endured his kiss; even the blindest lover could not have said more. Yet her coldness only thrilled him to the depths with love of her, as has been the way of men since the world began.

"I don't understand this foolishness," she said, fretfully, as she released herself from his encircling arm. "It's damp and chilly out here, and I'll get wet and take cold."

"It isn't damp, darling, and you can't take cold. Why didn't you wear the spangles?"

"Do you suppose I want to spoil my best gown dragging it through the wet grass?"

"The grass isn't wet, and, anyhow, you haven't been on it--only on the path. Come over here to the bench and sit down."

"I don't want to. I want to go in."

"All right, but not just yet. I'll carry you, if you're afraid of dampness." Before she could protest, he had picked her up and laughingly seated her on the bench at the edge of the lily-pool.

Isabel smoothed her rumpled hair. "You've mussed me all up," she complained. "Why can't we go in? Aunt Francesca and Rose are upstairs."

"Listen, sweetheart. Please be patient with me just a minute, won't you? I've brought you your engagement ring."

"Oh," cried Isabel, delightedly. "Let me see it!"

"I want to tell you about it first. You remember, don't you, that the first night I came here, you were wearing a big silver pin--a turquoise matrix, set in dull silver?"

"I've forgotten."

"Well, I haven't. Someway, it seemed to suit you as jewels seldom suit anybody, and you had it on the other night when you promised to marry me. Both times you were wearing the spangled gown, and that's why I asked for it to-night, and why I've had your engagement ring made of a turquoise."

Isabel murmured inarticulately, but he went on, heedlessly: "It's made of silver because you're my Silver Girl, the design is all roses because it was in the time of roses, and it's a turquoise for reasons I've told you. Our initials and the date are inside."

Allison slipped it on her finger and struck a match that she might see it plainly. Isabel turned it on her finger listlessly.

"Very pretty," she said, in a small, thin voice, after an awkward pause.

"Why, dearest," he cried, "don't you like it?"

"It's well enough," she answered, slowly, "but not for an engagement ring. Everybody else has diamonds. I thought you cared enough for me to give me a diamond," she said, reproachfully.

"I do," he assured her, "and you shall have diamonds--as many as I can give you. Why, sweet, this is only the beginning. There's a long life ahead of us, isn't there? Do you think I'm never going to give my wife any jewels?"

"Aunt Francesca and Rose put you up to this," said Isabel, bitterly. "They never want me to have anything."

"They know nothing whatever about it," he replied, rather coldly, taking it from her finger as he spoke. "Listen, Isabel. Would you rather have a diamond in your engagement ring?"

"Of course. I'd be ashamed to have anybody know that this was my engagement ring."

"All right," said Allison, with defiant cheerfulness. "You shall have just exactly what you want, and, to make sure, I'll take you with me when I go to get it. I'm sorry I made such a mistake."

There was a flash of blue and silver in the faint light, and a soft splash in the lily-pool. "There," he went on, "it's out of your way now."

"You didn't need to throw it away," she said, icily. "I didn't say I didn't want it, nor that I wouldn't wear it. I only said I wanted a diamond."

"It could be found, I suppose," he replied, thoughtfully, ashamed of his momentary impulse. "If the pool were drained--"

"That would cost more than the ring is worth," Isabel interrupted. "Come, let's go in."

He was about to explain that a very good-sized pool could be drained for the price of the ring, but fortunately thought better of it, and was bitterly glad, now, that he had thrown it away.

In the house they talked of other things, but the thrust still lingered in his consciousness, unforgotten.

"How's your father?" inquired Isabel, in a conversational pause, as she could think of nothing else to say.

"All right, I guess. Why?"

"I haven't seen him lately. He hasn't been over since the day he called on me."

"Guess I haven't thought to ask him to come along. Dad is possessed just at present by a very foolish idea. They've told you, haven't they?"

"No. Told me what?"

"Why, that after we're carried, he's to come over here to live with Aunt Francesca and Rose, and give us the house to ourselves."

"I hadn't heard," she replied, indifferently.

"I don't know when I've felt so badly about anything," Allison resumed. "We've always been together and we've been more like two chums than father and son. It's like taking my best friend away from me, but I know he'll come back to us, if you ask him to."

"Probably," she assented, coldly. "I suppose we'll be in town for the Winters, won't we, and only live here in the Summer?"

"I don't know, dear; we'll see. I've got to go to see my manager very soon, and Dad asked me to find out what you wanted for a wedding present. I'm to help him select it."

"Can I have anything I choose?" she queried, keenly interested now.

"Anything within reason," he smiled. "I'm sorry we're not millionaires."

"Could I have an automobile?"

"Perhaps. What kind?"

"A big red touring car, with room for four or five people in it?"

"I'll tell him. It would be rather nice to have one, wouldn't it?"

"Indeed it would," she cried, clapping her hands. "Oh, Allison, do persuade him to get it, won't you?"

"I won't have to, if he can. I've never had to persuade my father into anything he could do for me."

When he went home, Isabel kissed him, of her own accord, for the first time. It was a cold little kiss, accompanied with a whispered plea for the red automobile, but it set his heart to thumping wildly, and made him forget the disdained turquoise, that lay at the bottom of the lily- pool.

Within a few days, Isabel was the happy possessor of an engagement ring with a diamond in it--a larger, brighter stone than she had ever dreamed of having. Colonel Kent had also readily promised the automobile, though he did not tell Allison that he should be obliged to sell some property in order to acquire a really fine car. It took until the end of the month to make the necessary arrangements, but on the afternoon of the thirtieth, a trumpeting red monster, bright with brass, drew up before the Kent's door, having come out from town on its own power.

As the two men had taken a brief tour over the wonderful roads of France, with Allison at the wheel, he felt no hesitation in trying an unfamiliar car. The old throb of exultation came back when the monster responded to his touch and chugged out of the driveway on its lowest speed.

He turned back to wave his hand at his father, who stood smiling on the veranda, with the chauffeur beside him. "I'll get Isabel," he called, "then come back for you."

He reached Madame Bernard's without accident and Isabel, almost wild with joy, ran out of the gate to meet him and climbed in. Only Rose, from the shelter of her curtains, saw them as they went away.

"Where shall we go?" Isabel asked. She was hatless and the sun dwelt lovingly upon her shining black hair.

"Back for Dad. He's waiting for us. Do you like it, dear?"

"Indeed I do. Oh, so much! It was lovely of him, wasn't it? He wouldn't care, would he, if we took a little ride just by ourselves before we went back for him?"

"Of course not, but we can't go far and we'll have to go fast."

"I love to go fast. I've never been fast enough yet. I wonder if the Crosbys have got their automobile?"

"I heard so, but I haven't seen it. I understand that Romeo is learning to drive it in the narrow boundaries of the yard."

"What day of the month is it?"

"The thirtieth. There's less than three months to wait now, darling-- then you'll be mine, all mine."

"Then this is the day the Crosbys were going to celebrate--it's the anniversary of their uncle's death. I'm glad we've got our automobile. Can't we go by there? It's only three miles, and I'd love to have them see us go by, at full speed."

Obediently, Allison turned into the winding road which led to Crosbys's and, to please Isabel, drove at the third speed. Once under way, the road spun dustily backward under the purring car, and the wind in their faces felt like the current of a stream.

"Oh," cried Isabel, rapturously; "isn't it lovely!"

"I'm almost afraid to go so fast, dear. If there should be another car on this road, we might collide at some of these sharp turns."

"But there isn't. There's not another automobile in this sleepy little town, except the Crosbys'. It isn't likely that they're out in theirs now, on this road."

But, as it happened, they were. After some difficulties at the start, Romeo had engineered "The Yellow Peril" out through a large break in the fence. The twins wore their brown suits with tan leather trimmings, and, as planned long ago, the back seat of the machine was partially filled with raw meat of the sort most liked by Romeo's canine dependents.

Two yellow flags fluttered from the back of the driver's seat. One had the initials "C. T." in black, on the other, in red, was "The Yellow Peril." The name of the machine and the monogram were strikingly in evidence on the doors and at the back, where a choice cut of roast beef, uncooked, dangled temptingly by a strong cord.

Just before they started, Juliet unfastened the barn door and freed nineteen starving dogs, all in collars suited to the general colour scheme of the automobile, and bearing the initials: "C. T." When they sniffed the grateful odour borne on the warm June wind, they plunged after the machine with howls and yelps of delight. Only Minerva remained behind, having five new puppies to care for.

"Oh, Romie, Romie!" shouted Juliet, in ecstasy. "They're coming! See!"

Romeo looked back for the fraction of an instant, saw that they were, indeed, "coming," and then discovered that he had lost control of the machine. "Sit tight," he said, to Juliet, between clenched teeth.

"I am," she screamed, gleefully. "Oh, Romie, if uncle could only see us now!"

"Uncle's likely to see us very soon," retorted Romeo grimly, "unless I can keep her on the road."

But Juliet was absorbed in the joy of the moment and did not hear. A cloud of dust, through which gleamed brass and red, appeared on the road ahead of them, having rounded the curve at high speed. At the same instant, Allison saw just beyond him, the screaming fantasy of colour and sound.

"Jump!" he cried to Isabel. "Jump for your life!"

She immediately obeyed him, falling in a little white heap at the roadside. He rose, headed the machine toward the ditch at the right, and jumped to the left, falling face down in the road with his hands outstretched, Before he could stir, the other machine roared heavily over him, grazing his left hand and crushing it into the deep dust.

There was almost an instant of unbelievable agony, then, mercifully, darkness and oblivion.

XV

"HOW SHE WILL COME TO ME"

The darkness swayed but did not lift. There was a strange rhythm in its movement, as though it were the sea, but there was no sound. Black shadows crept upon him, then slowly ebbed away. At times he was part of the darkness, at others, separate from it, yet lying upon it and wholly sustained by it.

At intervals, the swaying movement changed. His feet sank slowly in distinct pulsations until he stood almost upright, then his head began to sink and his feet to rise. When his head was far down and his feet almost directly above him, the motion changed again and he came back gradually to the horizontal, sinking back with one heart-beat and rising with the next--always a little higher.

How still it was! The silence of eternity was in that all compassing dark, which reached to the uttermost boundaries of space. It was hollow and empty, save for him, rising and falling, rising and falling, in a series of regular movements corresponding almost exactly to the ticking of a watch.

A faint, sickening odour crept through the darkness, followed by a black overwhelming shadow which threatened to engulf him in its depths. Still swaying, he waited for it calmly. All at once it was upon him, but swiftly receded. He seemed to sway backward out of it, and as he looked back upon it, gathering its forces for another attack, he saw that it was different from the darkness upon which he lay--that, instead of black, it was a deep purple.

The odour persisted and almost nauseated him. It was vaguely familiar, though he had never before come into intimate contact with it. Was it the purple shadow, that ebbed and flowed so strangely upon his dark horizon, growing to a brighter purple with each movement?

The purple grew very bright, then deepened to blue--almost black. Dancing tongues of flame shot through the darkness, as he swung through it, up and down, like a ship moved by a heavy ground swell. The flames took colour and increased in number. Violet, orange, blue, green, and yellow flickered for an instant, then disappeared.

The darkness was not quite so heavy, but it still swayed. The javelins of flame shot through it continually, making a web of iridescence. Then the purple shadow approached majestically and put them out. When it retreated, they came again, but the colour was fainter.

The yellow flames darted toward him from every conceivable direction, stabbing him like needles. In this light, the purple shadow changed to blue and began to grow brighter. The sickening odour was so strong now that he could scarcely breathe. The blue shadow warred with the yellow flames, but could not put them out. He saw now that the shadow was his friend and the flames were a host of enemies.

All the little stabbing lights suddenly merged into one. He was surrounded by fire that burned him as he swayed back and forth, and the cool shadows were gone. The light grew intense and terrible, but he could not lift his hand to shade his eyes. Slowly the orange deepened to scarlet in which he spun around giddily among myriads of blood-red disks. The scarlet grew brighter and brighter until it became a white, streaming light. All at once the swaying stopped.

The intensity of the white light was agreeably tempered by a grey mist. Through the vapour, he saw the outlines of his own chiffonier, across the room. A woman in spotless white moved noiselessly about. Even though she did not look at him, he felt a certain friendliness toward her. She seemed to have been with him while he swayed through the shadow and it was pleasant to know that he had not been alone.

On the table near the window, his violin lay as he had left it. The case was standing in a corner and his music stand had toppled over. The torn sheets of music rustled idly on the floor, and he wondered, fretfully, why the woman in white did not pick them up.

As if in answer to his thought, she stooped, and gathered them together, quietly sorting the pages and putting them into the open drawer that held his music. She closed the drawer and folded up his music stand without making a sound. She seemed far removed from him, like someone from another world.

Cloud surrounded her, but he caught glimpses of her through it occasionally. She took up his violin, very carefully, put it into its case, and carried it out of the room. He did not care very much, but it seemed rather an impolite thing to do. He knew that he would not have stolen a violin when the owner was in the same room.

Soon she came back and he was reassured. She had not stolen it after all. She might have broken it, for she seemed to feel very sorry about something. She was wiping her eyes with a bit of white, as women always did when they cried.

It was not necessary for her to cry, on account of one broken violin, for he had thousands of them--Stradivarius, Amati, Cremona; everything. Some of them were highly coloured and very rare on that account. He had only to go to his storehouse, present a ticket, and choose whatever he liked--red, green, yellow, or even striped.

Everybody who played the violin needed a great many of them, for the different moods of music. It was obvious that the dark brown violin with which he played slow, sad music could not be used for the Hungarian Dances. He had a special violin for those, striped with barbaric colour.

The woman who had broken one of his violins stood at the window with her back toward him. Her shoulders shook and from time to time she lifted the bit of white to her eyes. It was annoying, he thought; even worse than the shadows and the fire. He was about to call to her and suggest, ironically, that she had cried enough and that the flowers would be spoiled if they got too wet, when someone called, from the next room: "Miss Rose!"

She turned quickly, wiped her eyes once more, and, without making a sound, went out on the white cloud that surrounded her half way to her waist.

He tried to change his position a little and felt his own bed under him. His body was stiff and sore, but he had the use of it, except his left arm. Try as he might, he could not move it, for it was weighted down and it hurt terribly.

"Miss Rose, Miss Rose, Miss Rose, Miss Rose." The words beat hard in his ears like a clock ticking loudly. The accent was on the "Miss"--the last word was much fainter. "Rose Miss" was wrong, so the other must be right, except for the misplaced accent. Did the accent always come on the first beat of a measure? He had forgotten, but he would ask the man at the storehouse when he went to get the striped violin for the Hungarian Dances.

His left hand throbbed with unbearable agony. The room began to spin slowly on its axis. There was no mist now, or even a shadow, and every sense was abnormally acute. The objects in the whirling room were phenomenally clear; even a scratch on the front of his chiffonier stood out distinctly.

He could hear a clock ticking, though there was no clock in his room. Afar was the sound of women sobbing--two of them. Above it a strange voice said, distinctly: "There is not one chance in a thousand of saving his hand. If I had nurses, I would amputate now, before he recovers consciousness."

The words struck him with the force of a blow, though he did not fully realise what they meant. The pain in his left arm and the sickening odour nauseated him. The cool black shadow drowned the objects in the room and crept upon him stealthily. Presently he was swaying again, up and down, up and down, in the all-encompassing, all-hiding dark.

So it happened that he did not hear Colonel Kent's ringing answer: "You shall not amputate until every great surgeon in the United States has said that it is absolutely necessary. I leave on the next train, and shall send them and keep on sending until there are no more to send. Until a man comes who thinks there is a chance of saving it, you are in charge--after that, it is his case."

Day by day, a continuous procession came to the big Colonial house. Allison became accustomed to the weary round of darkness, pain, sickening odours, strange faces, darkness, and so on, endlessly, without pity or pause.

The woman in white had mysteriously vanished. In her place were two, in blue and white, with queer, unbecoming caps. They were there one at a time, always; never for more than a few minutes were they together. When the fierce, hot agony became unendurable for even a moment longer, one of them would lean over him with a bit of shining silver in her hand, and stab him sharply for an instant. Then, with incredible quickness, came peace.

Once, when two strange men had come together, and had gone into the adjoining room, he caught disconnected fragments of conversation. "Hypersensitive-impossible--not much longer--interesting case." He wondered, as he began to sway in the darkness again, what "hypersensitive" meant. Surely, he used to know.

Still, it did not matter--nothing mattered now. In the brief intervals of consciousness, he began to wonder what he had been doing just before this happened, whatever it was. It took him days to piece out the disconnected memories past the whirling room, the woman in white and the creeping shadows, to the red touring car and Isabel.

His heart throbbed painfully, held though it was by some iron hand, icy cold, in a pitiless clutch. Weakly, he summoned the blue and white woman who sat in a low chair across his room. She came quickly, and put her ear very close to his lips that she might hear what he said.

"Was--she--hurt?"

"No," said the blue and white woman, very kindly. "Only slightly bruised."

The next day he summoned her again. As before, she bent very low to catch the gasping words: "Where is-my--father?"

"He had to go to town on business. He will come back just as soon as he can."

"He-is--dead," said Allison, with difficulty. "Nothing else--could take- him-away--now."

"No," she assured him, "you must believe me. He's all right. Everybody else is all right and we hope you soon will be."

"No use--talking of--it," he breathed, hoarsely. "I know."

Singly, by twos and even threes, the strange men continued to come from the City. Allison submitted wearily to the painful examinations that seemed so unnecessary. Some of the men seemed kind, even sympathetic. Others were cold and impassive, like so many machines. Still others, and these were in the majority, were almost brutal.

It was one of the latter sort who one day drew a chair up to the side of the bed with a scraping noise that made the recumbent figure quiver from head to foot. The man's face was almost colourless, his bulging blue eyes were cold and fish-like, distorted even more by the strong lenses of his spectacles.

"Better have it over with," he suggested. "I can do it now."

"Do what?" asked Allison, with difficulty.

"Amputate your hand. There's no chance."

The blue and white young woman then on duty came forward. "I beg your pardon, Doctor, but Colonel Kent left strict orders not to operate without his consent."

The strange man disdained to answer the nurse, but turned to Allison again. "Do you know where your father can be reached by wire?"

"My father--is dead," Allison insisted. He closed his eyes and would answer no more questions. In the next room, he heard the nurse and the doctor talking in low tones that did not carry. Only one word rose above the murmur: "delusion."

Allison repeated it to himself as he sank into the darkness again, wondering what it meant and of whom they were speaking.

Slowly he recovered from the profound shock, but his hand did not improve. He had an idea that the ceaseless bandaging and unbandaging were dangerous as well as painful, but said nothing. He knew that his career had come to its end before it had really begun, but it did not seem to affect him in any way. He considered it unemotionally and impersonally, when he thought of it at all.

Two more men came together. One was brutal, the other merely cold. They shook their heads and went away. A few days later, a man of the rare sort came; a gentle, kindly, sympathetic soul, who seemed human and real.

After the examination was finished, Allison asked, briefly: "Any chance?"

The kindly man hesitated for an instant, then told the truth. "I'm afraid not."

The nurse happened to be out of the room, none the less, Allison motioned to him to come closer. Almost in a whisper he said: "Can you give me anything that will make me strong enough to write half a dozen lines?"

"Could no one else write it for you?"

"No one."

"Couldn't I take the message?"

"Could anyone take a message for me to the girl I was going to marry-- now?"

"I understand," said the other, gently. "We'll see. You must make it very brief."

When the nurse came back, they gave him a pencil, propped a book up before him, and fastened a sheet of paper to it by a rubber band. After the powerful stimulant the doctor administered had begun to take effect, Allison managed to write, in a very shaky, almost illegible hand:

"MY DEAREST:

"My left hand will have to come off. As I can't ask you to marry a cripple, the only honourable thing for me to do is to release you from our engagement. Don't think I blame you. Good-bye, darling, and may God bless you.

"A. K."

The effort exhausted him greatly, but the thing was done. The nurse folded it, put it into an envelope, sealed it, and took the pencil from him.

"You'll let me address it, won't you?" she asked.

"Yes. Miss Isabel Ross. Anyone in the house can tell you where--anyone will take it to her. Thank you," he added, speaking to the doctor.

That night, for the first time, the situation began to affect him personally. In the hours after midnight, as the forces of the physical body ebbed toward the lowest point, those of the mind seemed to increase. Staring at the low night light, that by its feeble flicker exorcised the thousand phantoms that beset him, he could think clearly. In a rocking chair, across the room, the night nurse dozed, with a white shawl wrapped around her. He could hear her deep, regular breathing as she slept.

His father was dead--he knew that for an absolute fact, and wondered why the two kind women and the endless, varying procession of men should so persistently lie to him about this when they were willing to tell him the truth about everything else.

He also knew that, sooner or later, his left hand would be amputated and that his career would come to an inglorious end--indeed, the end had already come. The ordeal painfully shadowed upon his horizon was only the final seal. Fortunately there was money enough for everything--he would want pitifully little for the rest of his life.

His life stretched out before him in a waste of empty years. He was thirty, now, and his father had lived until well past seventy; might have lived many years more had he not died when his heart broke over the misfortunes of his idolised son. He could remember the rumble of the carriage wheels the night of the funeral. The nurse had dozed in her chair just as she was dozing now, while downstairs they carried his father out of the house in a black casket and buried him. It was all as clear as though it had happened yesterday, instead of ages ago.

A clock, somewhere near by, chimed three quick, silvery strokes. With the last stroke, the clock in the kitchen struck three, also, in a different tone and with an annoying briskness of manner. As the echo died away, the old grandfather's clock on the landing boomed out three portentously solemn chimes. It was followed almost immediately by a cheery, impertinent little clock, insisting that it was four and almost time for sunrise.

The nurse stirred in her chair, yawned, and came over to the bed. She straightened the blankets with a practised hand, changed his hot pillow for a fresh one, brought him a drink of cool water, and went back to her chair without having said a word. The gentle ministry comforted him insensibly. What magic there was in the touch of a woman's hand! But, in the long grey years ahead, there would be no woman, unless--Isabel--

Sometime that afternoon, or early in the evening, she had received his note. It was not strange that they had not allowed her to come to see him, because no one had seen him but the doctors and nurses. Even Aunt Francesca, whom he had known all his life, had not darkened his open door.

But now, Isabel would come--she could not help but come. With the passing of the fateful hour, strength began to return slowly. She would come to-morrow, and every tick of the clock brought to-morrow a second nearer.

A steadily increasing warmth came into his veins and thawed the ice around his heart. The cold hand that had held it so long mercifully loosened its fingers. He turned his face toward the Eastern window, that he might watch for the first faint glow.

A single long, deepening shadow struck across the far horizon like the turning out of a light. Almost immediately, the distant East brightened. Day was coming--the sun, and Isabel.

With the first hint of colour, hope dawned in his soul, changing to certainty as the light increased. It was not in the way of things that he, who had always had everything, should at one fell stroke be left desolate. Out of the wreckage there was one thing he might keep--Isabel.

He laughed at the thought that she would accept her release. What would he have done he asked himself, were it she instead of him? Could mutilation, or even death, change his love for her? He was equally sure that hers could not be changed.

It was fortunate that she was saved--that it was he instead of Isabel. She had pretty hands--such dear hands as men have loved and kissed since, back in the garden, the First Woman gave hers to the First Man, that he might lead her wheresoever he would.

In the midst of the wreckage, he perceived a divine compensation, for Isabel would not fail him--she could not fail him now. Transfigured by tenderness, her coldness changed to the utmost yielding, to-morrow would bring him his goddess, a deeply-loving woman at last.

"How she will come to me," he said to himself, feeling, in fancy, her soft arms around him, and her warm lips on his, while the life-current flowed steadily from her to him and made him a man again, not a weakling. His heart beat with a joy that was almost pain, for he could feel her intoxicating nearness even now. Perhaps her sweet eyes would overflow with the greatness of her love and her tears would fall upon his face when she knelt beside him, to lay her head upon his breast.

"How she will come to me!" he breathed, in ecstasy. "Ah, how she will come!"

And so, smiling, he slept, as the first shaft of sun that brought his dear To-Morrow fell full upon his face.

XVI

HOW ISABEL CAME

Madame Bernard and Rose were so deeply affected by Allison's misfortune that they scarcely took note of Isabel's few bruises, greatly to that young woman's disgust. She chose to consider herself in the light of a martyr and had calmly received the announcement that Allison's left hand would probably have to be amputated.