Chapter VI: Part 6

None of them had seen him, though the two older women were ready to go at any hour of the day or night they might be needed or asked for. Isabel affected a sprained ankle and limped badly when anyone was looking. Once or twice she had been seen to walk almost as usual, though she did not know it.

The upper hall, and, occasionally, the other parts of the house, smelled of the various liniments and lotions with which she anointed herself. She scorned the suggestion that she should stay in bed, for she was quite comfortable upon a couch, in her most becoming negligee, with a novel and a box of chocolates to bear her company.

At first, she had taken her meals in her own room, but, finding that it was more pleasant to be downstairs with the others for luncheon and dinner, managed to go up and down the long flight of stairs twice each day.

Placid as she was, the table was not a cheerful place, for the faces of the other two were haggard and drawn, and neither made more than a pretence of eating. Daily bulletins came from the other house as to Allison's condition, and Madame was in constant communication by telegraph with Colonel Kent. She kept him reassured as much as possible, and did not tell him of Allison's ineradicable delusion that his father was dead.

Allison's note was given to Isabel at luncheon the day after it was written, having been delayed in delivery the night before until after she was asleep. With it was a letter from her mother, which had come in the noon mail.

She opened Allison's note first, read it, and put it back into the envelope. Her mother's letter was almost equally brief. That, too, she returned to its envelope without comment.

"How is your mother, Isabel?" inquired Madame, having caught a glimpse of the bold, dashing superscription which was familiar, though infrequent.

"She's all right," Isabel answered, breaking open a hot muffin. "It's funny that it should come at the same time as the other."

"Why?" asked Rose, merely for the sake of making conversation.

"Because just as Mamma writes to tell me that marriage is slavery, but that if he can take care of me and Aunt Francesca approves of him, it will be all right, Allison writes and releases me from the engagement."

"Poor boy!" sighed Madame.

"I don't know why you should say 'poor boy,'" Isabel observed, rather fretfully. "He's not very ill if he can write letters. I'm sure I don't feel like writing any."

"I wasn't thinking of that," said Madame, half to herself.

"And as for his releasing me," Isabel went on, coolly, "I'm glad he was decent enough to do it and save me the trouble of releasing myself."

Rose got to her feet somehow, her face deathly white. "Do you mean," she cried, "that you would think for a minute of accepting release?"

"Why, certainly," the girl replied, in astonishment. "Why not? He says himself that he can't ask me to marry a cripple."

Rose winced visibly. "Isabel!" she breathed. "Oh, Isabel!"

"My dear," said Madame, with such kindness as she could muster, "have you forgotten that he saved you from death, or worse?"

"He didn't do anything for me but to tell me to jump. I did more for him than that. Nobody seems to think it was anything for me to get up out of the dust, with my best white dress all ruined and my face scratched and my ankle sprained and one arm bleeding, and help the Crosbys carry a heavy man to their machine and lay him on the back seat."

"I thought the Crosbys carried him," put in Madame. "They're strong enough to do it, I should think."

"Well, I helped. I had to take all that nasty raw meat out of the back seat and throw it out in the ditch to the dogs, and stand up all the way home, bruised as I was, to keep him from falling off the seat. We were in a perfect bedlam there for a while, but it doesn't seem to make any difference to anybody. Nobody cares what happens to me."

"Besides," she went on, with her voice raised to a high pitch by excitement, "I don't see why I should be expected to marry a man with only one hand. He can't play any more, and if he can't play, how can he make any money to take care of me, even if I should tie myself to him for life? Do you expect me to take in washing and take care of him?"

"Isabel," said Madame, coldly, "please stop talking so loudly and please listen for a moment. Nobody expects you to marry a man whom, for any reason on earth, you do not love well enough to marry. Kindly consider that as something to be settled in accordance with your own wishes and desires."

"Certainly,"' interrupted the girl. "I'd like to see anybody force me to marry him!"

Madame compressed her lips into a thin, tight line, and her face became stern, even hard. She clenched her small hands tightly and her breath came quickly. A red spot burned on either cheek.

Never having seen Madame angry before, Rose was almost frightened. She herself was not angry, but hurt--for him. At the moment she heard of the accident, her love for him had transcended the bounds of self and merged into prayer for him and for his good, whatever that might prove to be.

"Isabel," said Rose, very softly, "will you do one thing for me?"

"What?" Isabel demanded, suspiciously.

"Listen, dear. For me, if not for him, will you go to him, and--well, simply be kind? Don't let him think that this terrible thing has separated him from you or changed your love. Wait until he is strong and well again before you tell him. Will you, please?"

Isabel's flushed face took on the expression of outraged virtue. "I don't know why I should be expected to lie," she remarked evasively, with a subtle change of manner.

Madame Bernard cleared her throat. "Your love was a lie," she said, in a tone that neither of them had ever heard her use before. "One more won't matter."

Isabel fidgeted in her chair and nervously tapped the edge of her plate with her fork. "I haven't heard anybody say," she began, with the air of one scoring a fine point, "that his father doesn't love him, and yet he hasn't gone near him--hasn't even seen him since we were hurt. If Colonel Kent can stay away from him, I don't know why I can't."

The argument seemed unanswerable, for neither Madame nor Rose spoke. They sat with averted eyes until the silence became oppressive, and Isabel, with ostentatious difficulty, pushed back her chair and limped painfully out of the room.

When she had locked her own door, she was more at ease, and began to survey her unpleasant situation. Nobody seemed to consider her at all-- it was only Allison, and everything and everybody, apparently, must be sacrificed for him. Just because she had promised to marry him, when he had both hands, they wanted her to go on with it, in spite of the fact that he saw it was impossible.

Isabel sighed heavily. Nobody knew how keenly disappointed she was. She had written to her few friends, told them about her engagement ring, the plans made for her trousseau, the promised touring car, and the brilliant social career that lay before her as the wife of a famous violinist.

She pictured a triumphal tour from city to city, with the leaders of fashion everywhere vying with each other in entertaining them--or, at least, her. It would, of course, be necessary for Allison to play occasionally in the evening and they would miss a great deal on that account, but her days would be free, and she could cancel all her own social obligations by complimentary tickets and suppers after the concerts.

She had planned it all as she took lazy stitches in her dainty lingerie. Aunt Francesca and Rose had been helping her, but the whole thing had stopped suddenly. It seemed rather selfish of them not to go on with it, for lingerie was always useful, and even though she should not marry Allison, it was not at all improbable that she would marry someone else.

If she could find anybody who had plenty of money and would be good to her, she knew that she would encounter no parental opposition, in spite of Mrs. Ross's pronounced views upon the slavery of matrimony.

Allison had been very decent in releasing her from her awkward predicament. He had even arranged it so that no answer was necessary and she need not even see him again. She had the natural shrinking of the healthy young animal from its own stricken kind. It would be much nicer not to see him again.

But, if he could write letters now, it would not be long before he would be able to come over, though his hand had not yet been taken off. It was too bad, for everything had been very pleasant until the accident. She had missed Allison's daily visits and had probably lost the touring car, though as she had taken pains to find out, it had fallen into the ditch and had been injured very little.

Aunt Francesca and Rose had been queer ever since it happened. After Colonel Kent and the servants and the twins had lifted Allison out of "The Yellow Peril" and carried him up to his own room on an improvised stretcher, while someone else was telephoning for every doctor in the neighbourhood, the twins had taken her home. She had insisted upon their helping her up the steps, and as soon as Aunt Francesca and Rose heard the news, they had paid no attention to her at all, but, with one voice, had demanded that the twins should take them to Kent's immediately.

They had gone without even stopping for their hats, and left her wholly to the servants. Even when they had come home, late at night, in their own carriage, it was over half an hour before Aunt Francesca came to her room, so overburdened with selfish grief that she did not even listen to the recital of Isabel's numerous bruises.

Perhaps it would be best to go away, though the city was terrible in Summer, and she had only money enough to take her to the hotel where her mother retained a suite of three rooms. If Aunt Francesca and Rose would leave her alone in the house long enough, and she could pack a suit-case and get the carriage just in time to take her to the train, she could write a formal note and ask to have the rest of her things sent by express. If there were a late train, or one very early in the morning, she could probably manage it, even without the carriage, but, on consulting the time-table, she found that trains did not run at hours suitable for escape.

However, it was just as well to pack while she had time. She could keep the suit-case hidden until the auspicious moment arrived. It would only take a moment to open it and sweep her toilet articles into it from the top of her dresser.

She had just taken a fresh shirtwaist out of the drawer when there was a light, determined rap at the door. When she opened it, she was much astonished to see Aunt Francesca come in, dressed for a drive.

"Are you almost ready, Isabel?" she asked, politely.

"Ready," gasped the girl. "For what?"

It seemed for the moment as though she had been anticipated in her departure and was about to be put out of the house.

"To drive over to Kent's," answered Madame, imperturbably. From her manner one would have thought the drive had been long planned.

Isabel sat down on her bed. "I'm not going," she said.

"Oh, yes, you are," returned Madame, in a small, thin voice. "You may go in your tea gown and slippers if you prefer, but I will wait until you dress, if you are quick about it."

"I won't," Isabel announced, flatly. "I'm sick. You know I'm all bruised up and I can't walk."

"You can walk down-stairs and it's only a few steps farther to the carriage. I telephoned over to ask if he would see you, and the nurse said that he would be very glad to see you--that he had been asking all day why you did not come. The carriage is waiting at the door, so please hurry."

Isabel was head and shoulders taller than the determined little lady who stood there, waiting, but there was something in her manner that demanded immediate obedience. Sullenly, Isabel began to dress. If Aunt Francesca went with her, it would not be necessary to say much. She caught at the thought as though she were drowning and the proverbial straw had floated into reach.

She took her time about dressing, but Madame said nothing. She simply stood there, waiting, in the open door, until the last knot was tied, the last pin adjusted, and the last stray lock brushed into place.

Isabel limped ostentatiously all the way down-stairs and had to be assisted into the carriage. During the brief drive neither spoke. The silence was unbroken until they reached the door of Allison's room, then Madame said, in a low tone: "The carriage will call for you in an hour. Remember he loves you, and be kind."

Up to that moment, Isabel had not suspected that she would be obliged to see him alone. She was furious with Aunt Francesca for thus betraying her, but no retreat was possible. The nurse smilingly ushered her in, passed her almost on the threshold, and went out, quietly closing the door.

Allison, as eager as a boy of twenty, had half risen in bed. The injured hand was hidden by the sheet, but the other was outstretched in welcome. "Isabel," he breathed. "My Isabel!"

Isabel did not move. "How do you do?" she said primly.

"I'm sorry I can't get you a chair, dear. Come close, won't you?"

Isabel limped painfully to the chair that was farthest from him, dragged it over to the bed, and sat down--just out of his reach. Below, the rumble of wheels announced that Madame had gone back home. Unless she walked, Isabel was stranded at Kent's for a full hour.

"My note," Allison was saying. "You got it, didn't you?"

"Yes. It came while I was at luncheon to-day."

It flashed upon him for an instant that the reality was disappointing, that this was not all as he had dreamed it would be, but pride bade him conceal his disappointment as best he could.

"You were hurt," he said, tenderly. "I'm so sorry."

"Yes. I was hurt quite a good deal."

"But you're all right now, and I'm so glad!"

"Thank you," she answered, listlessly.

Her eyes roved about the room, observing every detail of furniture and ornament. It was old-fashioned, and in a way queer, she thought. She was glad that she would never have to live there.

Allison watched her eagerly. Like a wayfarer in the desert thirsting for water, he longed for her tenderness; for one unsought kiss, even in farewell. His pride sustained him no longer. "Dear," he pleaded, like the veriest beggar; "won't you kiss me just once?"

Isabel hesitated. "It isn't proper," she murmured, "now that we are no longer engaged. I'm sorry you got hurt," she added, as an afterthought.

Allison's face paled suddenly. So, she accepted her release! Then eager justification of her made him wonder if by any chance she could have misunderstood.

"Dearest," he said, with cold lips, "did you think for a single instant that I wanted to release you? I did it because it was the only thing an honourable man could do and I wouldn't let pity for me hold you to a promise made in love. It wasn't that I didn't want you. I've wanted you every day and every hour. Only God knows how I've wanted you and shall want you all the rest of my life, unless--"

He paused, hoping, for the space of a heartbeat, that the dream might come true.

But Isabel did not move from her chair. She surveyed the opposite wall for a few moments before she spoke. "It was honourable," she said, in a more friendly tone. "Of course it was the only thing you could do."

"Of course," he echoed, bitterly.

Isabel rose, went to the foot of the bed, and leaned upon it, facing him. "I'm afraid I've stayed too long," she said. "I think I'd better go. I can wait downstairs for the carriage."

Allison did not answer. His eyes burned strangely in his white face, making her vaguely uncomfortable and afraid. She turned the diamond ring upon her finger and slowly slipped it off.

"I suppose I must give this back," she said, reluctantly. "I mustn't wear it now."

"Why not?" he asked huskily.

"Because it doesn't mean anything--now."

"It never did. Keep it, Isabel."

"Thank you," she said, calmly, putting it back, but on the middle finger. "I must go now. I hope you'll get along all right."

"Wait just a minute, please." He rang a bell that was on a table within his reach, and the nurse came in. "Please bring me my violin."

Isabel turned to the door but was held back by a peremptory command. "Wait!"

"Here," he cried shrilly, offering Isabel the violin. "Take this, too!"

"What for?" she asked, curiously. "I can't play."

"Nevertheless, it belongs to you. Keep it, as a souvenir!"

Holding the violin awkwardly, Isabel backed out of the room, the nurse following her and closing the door. The nurse was a young woman who had not sacrificed her normal human sympathy to her chosen work, but had managed, happily, to combine the two. She watched Isabel disdainfully as she went down-stairs, very briskly for one with a sprained ankle.

"God!" said Allison, aloud. "Oh, God in Heaven!"

Then the nurse turned away in pity, for behind the closed door she heard a grown man sobbing like a hurt child.

XVII

PENANCE

The Crosby twins had gone home very quietly, after doing all they could to help Colonel Kent and Madame Bernard. "The Yellow Peril" chugged along at the lowest speed with all its gaudy banners torn down. Neither spoke until they passed the spot where the red touring car lay on its side in the ditch, and four or five dogs, still hungry and hopeful, wrangled over a few bare bones.

Juliet was sniffing audibly, and, as soon as she saw the wreck, burst into tears. "Oh, Romie," she sobbed, "if he's dead, we've killed him!"

Romeo swallowed a lump in his throat, winked hard, and roughly advised Juliet to "shut up."

When the machine was safely in the barn, and all the scattered dogs collected and imprisoned, Romeo came in, ready to talk it over. "We've got to do something," he said, "but I don't know what it is."

"Oh, Romie," cried Juliet with a fresh burst of tears, "do you think they'll hang us? We're murderers!"

Romeo considered for a moment before he answered. "We aren't murderers, because we didn't go to do it. They won't hang us--but they ought to," he added, remorsefully.

"What can we do?" mourned Juliet. "Oh, what can we do?"

"Well, we can pay all the bills for one thing--that's a good start. To- morrow, I'll see about getting that car out of the ditch and taking care of it."

"Somebody may steal it," she suggested.

"Not if we guard it. One or both of us ought to sit by it until we can get it into the barn."

Juliet wiped her eyes. "That's right. We'll guard it all night to-night and while we're guarding it, we'll talk it all over and decide what to do."

The dinner of unwholesome delicacies which they had planned as the last feature of the day's celebration was hesitatingly renounced. "We don't deserve to have anything at all to eat," said Juliet. "What is it that they feed prisoners on?"

"Bread and water--black bread?"

"Where could we get black bread?"

"I don't know. I never saw any."

After discussing a penitential menu for some time, they finally decided to live upon mush and milk for the present, and, if Allison should die, forever. "We can warm it in the winter," said Romeo, "and it won't be so bad."

When their frugal repast was finished, they instinctively changed their festal garments for the sober attire of every day. Romeo brought in two lanterns and Juliet pasted red tissue paper around them, so that they might serve as warning signals of the wreck. At sunset, they set forth, each with a blanket and a lantern to do sentry duty by the capsized car.

"Oughtn't we to have a dog or two?" queried Romeo, as they trudged down the road. "Watchmen always have dogs."

"We oughtn't to have anything that would make it any easier for us to watch, and besides, the dogs weren't to blame. They don't need to sit up with us--let 'em have their sleep."

"All right," Romeo grunted. "Shall we divide the night into watches and one of us sit on the car while the other walks?"

"No, we'll watch together, and we won't sit on the car--we'll sit on the cold, damp ground. If we take cold and die it will only serve us right."

"We can't take cold in June," objected Romeo, "with two blankets."

"Unless it rains."

"It won't rain tonight," he said, gloomily; "look at the stars!"

The sky was clear, and pale stars shone faintly in the afterglow. There was not even a light breeze--the world was as still and calm as though pain and death were unknown.

When they reached the scene of the accident, Romeo set the two red lanterns at the point where the back of the car touched the road. They spread one blanket on the grass at the other side of the road and sat down to begin their long vigil. Romeo planned to go home to breakfast at sunrise and bring Juliet some of the mush and milk left from supper. Then, while she continued to watch the machine, he would go into town and make arrangements for its removal.

"Is there room in our barn for both cars?" she asked.

"No. Ours will have to come out."

Juliet shuddered. "I never want to see it again."

"Neither do I."

"Can we sell it?"

"We ought not to sell it unless we gave him the money. We shouldn't have it ourselves."

"Then," suggested Juliet, "why don't we give it away and give him just as much as it cost, including our suits and the dogs' collars and everything?"

"We have no right to give away a man-killer. 'The Yellow Peril' is cursed."

"Let's sacrifice it," she cried. "Let's make a funeral pyre in the yard and burn it, and our suits and the dogs' collars and everything. Let's burn everything we've got that we care for!"

"All right," agreed Romeo, uplifted by the zeal of the true martyr. "And," he added, regretfully, "I'll shoot all the dogs and bury 'em in one long trench. I don't want to see anything again that was in it."

"I don't either," returned Juliet. She wondered whether she should permit the wholesale execution of the herd, since it was a thing she had secretly desired for a long time. "You mustn't shoot Minerva and the puppies," she continued, as her strict sense of justice asserted itself, "because she wasn't in it. She was at home taking care of her children and they'd die if she should be shot now."

So it was settled that Minerva, who had taken no part in the fatal celebration, should be spared, with her innocent babes.

"And in a few years more," said Romeo, hopefully, "we'll have lots more dogs, though probably not as many as we've got now."

Juliet sighed heavily but was in honour bound to make no objections, for long ago, when they arbitrated the dog question, it was written in the covenant that no dogs should be imported or none killed, except by mutual consent. And Minerva had five puppies, and if each of the five should follow the maternal example, and if each of those should do likewise--Juliet fairly lost her head in a maze of mental arithmetic.

"We ought to go into deep mourning," Romeo was saying.

"I've been thinking of that. We should repent in sackcloth and ashes, only I don't know what sackcloth is."

"I guess it's that rough brown stuff they make potato bags of."

"Burlap?"

"Yes. But we haven't many ashes at this time of year and we'll have still less if we live on mush and milk."

"Maybe we could get ashes somewhere," she said, thoughtfully.

"We'd have to, because it would take us over a year to get enough to repent in."

"There'll be ashes left from the automobile and the suits, and if you can get enough potato bags, I'll fix 'em so we can wear 'em at the sacrifice and afterwards we can buy deep mourning."

"All right, but you mustn't make pretty suits."

"I couldn't, out of potato bags. They'll have to be plain--very plain."

"The first thing is to get this car into our barn, and write and tell Colonel Kent where it is. Then we'll get our black clothes, and then we'll shoot the dogs and bury 'em, and then we'll have the sacrifice, and then--"

"And then," repeated Juliet.

"Then we'll have to go and tell 'em all what we've done, and offer to pay all the bills, and give 'em the price of the car besides for damages."

"Oh, Romie," cried Juliet, with a shudder, "we don't have to go and tell 'em, do we? We don't have to take strangers into our consciences, do we?"

"Certainly," replied Romeo, sternly. "Just because we don't want to do it is why we've got to. We've got to do hard things when we make a sacrifice. Lots of people think they're charitable if they give away their old clothes and things they don't want. It isn't charity to give away things you want to get rid of and it isn't a sacrifice to do things you don't mind doing. The harder it is and the more we don't want to do it, the better sacrifice."

His logic was convincing, but Juliet drooped visibly. The bent little figure on the blanket was pathetic, but the twins were not given to self-pity. As time went on, the conversation lagged. They had both had a hard day, from more than one standpoint, and it was not surprising that by midnight, the self-appointed sentries were sound asleep upon one blanket, with Romeo's coat for a pillow and the other blanket tucked around them.

The red lanterns burned faithfully until almost dawn, then smoked and went out, leaving an unpleasant odour that lasted until sunrise. The rumble of a distant cart woke them, and they sat up, shamefacedly rubbing their eyes.

"Oh," cried Juliet, conscience-stricken, "we went to sleep! We went to sleep on duty! How could we?"

"Dunno," returned Romeo, with a frank yawn. "Guess we were tired. Anyhow, the machine is all right."

When the milkman came in sight, they hailed him and purchased a quart of milk. He was scarcely surprised to see them, for the Crosbys were widely known to be eccentric, and presently he drove on. His query about the wrecked car had passed unnoticed.

"If you'll stay here, Jule," said Romeo, wiping his mouth, "I'll go and get a team and some rope and we'll get the car in."

"Can't I go too?"

"No, you stay here. It's bad enough to sleep at your post without deserting it."

"You slept, too," retorted Juliet, quickly on the defensive, "and I'm a girl."

"Huh!" he sneered. The claim of feminine privilege invariably disgusted him beyond words.

"Suppose people come by--" Juliet faltered; "and--ask--questions."

"Answer 'em," advised Romeo, briefly. "Tell 'em we've killed a man and are going to suffer for it. We deserve to have everybody know it."

But, fortunately for Juliet's quicker sensibilities, no one passed by in the hour Romeo was gone. He came from the nearest farm with an adequate number of assistants and such primitive machinery as was at hand. The car was not badly damaged and was finally towed into the Crosbys' barn. Then they went into the house and composed a letter to Colonel Kent, but put off copying and sending it until they should be able to get black bordered stationery.

Two weeks later, clad in deepest mourning, the twins trudged into town. At Colonel Kent's there was no one in authority to receive them and their errand was of too much importance to be communicated to either physician or nurse. Their own unopened letter lay on the library table, with many others.

Subdued and chastened in demeanour, they went to Madame Bernard's and waited in funereal silence until Madame came down.

"How do you--" she began, then stopped. "Why, what is the matter?"

"We ran over him," explained Romeo, suggestively inclining his head in the general direction of Kent's. "Don't you remember?"

"And if he dies, we've killed him," put in Juliet, sadly.

"We'll be murderers if he dies," Romeo continued, "and we ought to be hung."

In spite of her own depression and deep anxiety, Madame saw how keenly the tragedy had affected the twins. "Why, my dears!" she cried. "Do you think for a minute that anybody in the world blames you?"

"We ought to be blamed," Romeo returned, "because we did it."

"But not on purpose--you couldn't help it."

"We could have helped it," said Juliet, "by not celebrating. We had no business to buy an automobile, or, even if we had, we shouldn't have gone out in it until we learned to run it."

"That's like staying away from the water until you have learned to swim," answered Madame, comfortingly, "and Allison isn't going to die."

"Really? Do you mean it? Are you sure? How do you know?" The words came all at once, in a jumble of eager questions.

"Because he isn't. The worst that could possibly happen to him would be the loss of his left hand, and his father is looking all over the country for some surgeon who can save it."

"I'd rather die than to have my hand cut off," said Juliet, in a small, thin voice.

"So would I," added Romeo.

"We're all hoping for the best," Madame went on, "and you must hope, too. Nobody has thought of blaming you, so you mustn't feel so badly about it. Even Allison himself wouldn't want you to feel badly."

"But we do," Romeo answered, "in spite of all the sacrifices and everything."

"Sacrifices," repeated Madame, wonderingly, "why, what do you mean?"

"We did sentry duty all night by his car," Romeo explained, "and we're taking care of it in our barn."

"And we've lived on mush and milk ever since," Juliet added.

"I shot all the dogs but the one with the puppies," said Romeo.

"She wasn't in it, you know," Juliet continued. "I helped dig the trench and we buried the whole nineteen end to end by the fence, with their new collars on."

"Then we burned the automobile," resumed Romeo. "We soaked it in kerosene, and put our suits into the back seat--our caps and goggles and everything. We took out all the pieces of iron and steel and gave 'em to the junk man, and then we repented in sackcloth and ashes."

"How so?" queried Madame, with a faint glimmer of amusement in her sad eyes.

"Juliet made suits out of potato sacks--very plain suits--and we put 'em on to repent in."

"We went and stood in the ashes," put in Juliet, "while they were so hot that they hurt our feet, and Romie raised his right hand and said 'I repent' and then I did the same."

"And after the ashes got cold, we sat down in 'em and rubbed 'em into the sackcloth and our hair and all over our faces and hands."

"All the time saying 'I repent! I repent!'" continued Juliet, soberly.

"And then we went into mourning," concluded Romeo.

Madame's heart throbbed with tender pity for the stricken twins, but she wisely said nothing.

"Can you think of anything more we could do, or any more sacrifices we could make?" inquired Juliet, ready to atone in full measure.

"Indeed I can't," Madame replied, truthfully. "I think you've done everything that could be expected of you."

"We wrote to the Colonel," said Romeo, "but he hasn't got it yet. We saw it on the library table. We want to pay all the bills."

"And give Allison as much money as we spent on the automobile and for the suits and everything, and pay for fixing up his car," interrupted Juliet.

"We want to do everything," Romeo said, with marked emphasis.

"Everything," echoed Juliet.

"That's very nice of you," answered Madame, kindly, "and we all appreciate it."

The stem young faces of the twins relaxed ever so little. It was a great relief to discover that they were not objects of scorn and loathing, for they had brooded over the accident until they had become morbid.

"Did you say that you had been living upon mush and milk ever since?" asked Madame.

"Ever since," they answered, together.

"I'm sure that's long enough," she said. "I wouldn't do it any longer. Won't you stay to dinner with us?"

With one accord the twins rose, impelled by a single impulse toward departure.

"We couldn't," said Romeo.

"We mustn't," explained Juliet. Then, with belated courtesy, she added: "Thank you, just the same."

They made their adieux awkwardly and went home, greatly eased in mind. As they trudged along the dusty road, they occasionally sighed in relief, but said little until they reached their ancestral abode, dogless now save for the pups gambolling about the doorstep and Minerva watching them with maternal pride.

"She said we'd lived on mush and milk long enough," said Romeo, pensively.

"We might fry the mush," Juliet suggested.

"And have butter and maple syrup on it?"

"Maybe."

"And drink the milk, and have bread, too?"

"I guess so."

"And jam?"

"Not while we're in mourning," said Juliet, firmly. "We can have syrup on our bread."

"That's just as good."

"If you think so, you ought not to have it."

"We've got to feed ourselves, or we'll die," he objected vigorously, "and if we're dead, we won't be any good to him or to anybody else, and we can't ever repent any more."

"I'm not so sure about that." said Juliet, with sinister emphasis.

"Nothing will happen to us that we don't deserve," Romeo assured her, "so come on and let's have jam. If it makes us sick, it's wrong, and if it doesn't, it's all right."

The following day, they voluntarily returned to their mush and milk, for they had eaten too much jam, and, having been very ill in the night, considered it sufficient evidence that their penance was not yet over.

XVIII

"LESS THAN THE DUST"

The heat of August shimmered over the land, and still, to every inquiry at the door or telephone, the quiet young woman in blue and white said: "No change." Allison was listless and apathetic, yet comparatively free from pain.

Life, for him, had ebbed back to the point where the tide must either cease or turn. He knew neither hunger nor thirst nor weariness; only the great pause of soul and body, the sense of the ultimate goal.

One by one, he meditated upon the things he used to care for. Isabel came first, but her youth and beauty had ceased to trouble or to beckon. His father had gone on ahead. The delusion still persisted, but he spoke of it no more. Even the violin did not matter now. He remembered the endless hours he had spent at work, almost every day of his life for years, and to what end? In an instant, it had been rendered empty, purposeless, and vain--like life itself.

Occasionally a new man came to look at his hand; not from the city now, but from towns farther inland. The examinations were painful, of course, but he made no objections. After the man had gone, he could count the slow, distinct pulsations that marked the ebbing of the pain, but never troubled himself to ask either the doctor or the nurse what the new man had said about it. He no longer cared.

Aunt Francesca had not come--nor Rose. Perhaps they were dead, also. He asked the nurse one sultry afternoon if they were dead.

"No," she assured him; "nobody is dead."

He wondered, fretfully, why she should take the trouble to lie to him so persistently upon this one point. Then a cunning scheme came into his mind. It presented itself mechanically to him as a trap for the nurse. If they were dead, she could not produce them instantly alive, as a conjurer takes animals from an apparently empty box. If he demanded that she should bring them to him, or even one, it would prove his point and let her see that he knew how she was trying to deceive him.

"Have they gone away?" he inquired.

"No, they're still there."

"Then," said Allison, with the air of one scoring a fine point, "will you ask-well--ask Miss Bernard to come over and see me?"

Remembering the other woman who had come in response to his request, and the disastrous effect the visit had had upon her patient she hesitated. "I'm afraid you're not strong enough," she said kindly. "Can't you wait a little longer?"

"There," he cried. "I knew they were dead!"

As she happened to be both wise and kind, the young woman hesitated no longer. "If I brought you a note from her you would believe me, wouldn't you?"

"No," he replied, stubbornly.

"Isn't there any way you would know, without seeing her?"

He considered for a few moments. "I'd know if I heard her play," he said at length. "There's no one who could play just the way she does."

"Suppose I ask her to come over sometimes and play the piano downstairs for a few minutes at a time, very softly. Would you like that?"

"Yes--that is, I don't mind." He was sure, now, that his trap was in working order, for no one could deceive him at the piano--he would recognise Rose at the first chord.

"Excuse me just a minute, please." She returned presently with the news that Rose would come as soon as she could. "Can't you go to sleep now?" she suggested.

Allison smiled ironically. How transparent she was!

She wanted him to go to sleep and when he awoke, she would tell him that Rose had been there, and had played, and had just gone.

"No," he answered, "I don't want to go to sleep. I want to hear Rose play."

So he waited, persistently wide awake. Sharpened by illness and pain, his hearing was phenomenally acute; so much so that even a whisper in the next room was distinctly audible. He heard the distant rumble of wheels, approaching steadily, and wondered why the house did not tremble when the carriage stopped. He heard the lower door open softly, then close, a quick, light step in the living room, the old-fashioned piano stool whirling on its rusty axis, then a few slow, deep chords prefacing a familiar bit of Chopin.

He turned to the nurse, who sat in her low rocking-chair at the window. "I beg your pardon. I thought you were not telling me the truth."

The young woman only smiled in answer. "Listen!"

From downstairs the music came softly. Rose was playing with the exquisite taste and feeling that characterised everything she did. She purposely avoided the extremes of despair and joy, keeping to the safe middle-ground. Living waters murmured through the melody, the sea surged and crooned, flying clouds went through blue, sunny spaces, and birds sang, ever with an unfailing uplift, as of many wings.

Allison's calmness insensibly changed, not in degree, but in quality, as the piano magically brought before him green distances lying fair beneath the warm sun, clover-scented meadows and blossoming boughs. "Life," he said to himself; "life more abundant."

She drifted from one thing to another, playing snatches of old songs, woven together by modulations of her own making. At last she paused to think of something else, but her fingers remembered, and began, almost of their own accord:

Allison stirred restlessly, as he recalled how he had heard it before. He saw the drifted petals of fallen roses, the moon-shadow on the dial, hours wrong, the spangled cobwebs in the grass and the other spangles, changed to faint iridescence in the enchanted light as Isabel came toward him and into his open arms. Could marble respond to a lover's passion, could dead lips answer with love for love, then Isabel might have yielded to him at least a tolerant tenderness. He saw her now, alien and apart, like some pale star that shone upon a barren waste, but never for him.

Another phrase, full of love and longing, floated up the stairway and entered his room, a guest unbidden.

He turned to the nurse. "Ask Miss Bernard to come up for a few minutes, will you?"

"Do you think it's wise?" she temporised.

"Please ask her to come up," he said, imperatively. "Must I call her myself?"

So Rose came up, after receiving the customary caution not to stay too long and avoid everything that might be unpleasant or exciting.

She stood for a moment in the doorway, hesitating. Her face was almost as white as her linen gown, but her eyes were shining with strange fires.

"White Rose," he said, wearily, "I have been through hell."

"I know," she answered, softly, drawing up a chair beside him. "Aunt Francesca and I have wished that we might divide it with you and help you bear it."

He stretched a trembling hand toward her and she took it in both her own. They were soft and cool, and soothing.

"Thank you for wanting to share it," he said. "Thank you for coming, for playing--for everything."

"Either of us would have come whenever you wanted us, night or day."

"Suppose it was night, and I'd wanted you to come and play to me. Would you have come?"

"Why, yes. Of course I would!"

"I didn't know," he stammered, "that there was so much kindness in the world. I have been very lonely since--"

Her eyes filled and she held his hand more closely. "You won't be lonely any more. I'll come whenever you want me, night or day, to play, to read--or anything. Only speak, and I'll come."

"How good you are!" he murmured, gratefully. "No, please don't let go of my hand." In some inexplicable fashion strength seemed to flow to him from her.

"I think you'll be glad to know," she said, "how sympathetic everybody has been. Strangers stop us on the street to ask for you, and people telephone every day. Down in the library, there's a pile of letters that would take days to read, and many of them have foreign stamps. It makes one feel warm around the heart, for it brings the ideal of human brotherhood so near."

He sighed and his face looked haggard. The brotherhood of man was among the things that did not concern him now. The weariness of the ages was in every line of his body.

"I have been thinking," he went on, after a little, "what a difference one little hour can make, a minute, even. Once I had everything--youth, health, strength, a happy home, love, a dear father, and every promise of success in my chosen career. Now I'm old and broken; health, strength, and love have been taken away in an instant, my father is gone, and my career is only an empty memory. I have no violin, and, if I had, what use would it be to me without--why Rose, I haven't even fingers to make the notes nor hands to hold it."

Rose could bear no more. She sprang to her feet with arms outstretched, all her love and longing swelling into infinite appeal. "Oh Boy!" she cried, "take mine! Take my hands, for always!"

For a tense instant they faced each other. Her breast rose and fell with every quick breath; her eyes met his, then faltered, and the crimson of shame mantled her white face.

"Oh," she breathed, painfully, and turned away from him. When she was half way to the door, he called to her. "Rose! Dear Rose!"

She hesitated, her hand upon the knob. "Close the door and come back," he pleaded. "Please--oh, please!"

Trembling from head to foot, she obeyed him, but her face was pitiful. She could not force herself to look at him. "Forgive," she murmured, "and forget."

The hand he took in his was cold, but her nearness gave him comfort, as never before. His heart was unspeakably tender toward her.

"Rose," he went on, softly, "I've been too near the other world not to have the truth now. Tell me what you mean! Make me understand!"

She did not answer, nor even lift her eyes. She breathed hard, as though she were in pain.

"Rose," he said again, tightening his clasp upon the hand she tried to draw away, "did you mean that you would be my--"

"In name," she interrupted, throwing up her head proudly. "Just to help you--that was all."

He drew her hand to his hot lips and kissed it twice. "Oh, how divinely kind you are," he whispered, "even to think of stooping to such as I!"

"Have pity," she said brokenly, "and let me go."

"Pity?" he repeated. "In all the world there is none like yours. To think of your being willing to sacrifice yourself, through pity of me!"

The blood came back into her heart by leaps and bounds. She had not utterly betrayed herself, then, since he translated it thus.

"Listen," he was saying. "I cared--terribly, but it's gone, and my heart is empty. It's like an open grave, waiting for something that does not come. Did you ever care?"

"Yes," she answered, with eyes downcast.

"Did you care for someone who did not care for you?"

"Yes," she replied, again.

"And he never knew?"

"No." The word was almost a whisper.

"He must have been a brute, not to have cared. Was it long ago?"

"Not very."

"Have I ever met him?"

The suggestion of an ironical smile hovered for a moment around her pale lips, then vanished. "No."

"I have no right to--to ask his name."

"No. What difference does a name make?"

"None. Could you never bring yourself to care for anyone else?"

"No," she breathed. "Oh, no!"

"And yet, with your heart as empty as mine you still have pity enough to--"

"To serve you," she answered. Her eyes met his clearly now. "To help you--as your best friend might."

"Rose, dear Rose! You give me new courage, but how can I let you sacrifice yourself for me?" "Believe me," she said diffidently, "there is no question of sacrifice. Have you never thought of what you might do, that would be even better than the career you had planned?"

"Why, no. What could I do, without--"

"Write," she said, with her eyes shining. "Let others play what you write. Immortality comes by way of the printed page."

"I couldn't," he returned, doubtfully.

"I never composed anything except two or three little things that I never dared to play, even for encores."

"Never say you can't. Say 'I must,' and 'I will.'"

"You're saying them for me. You almost make me believe in myself."

"That's the very best of beginnings, isn't it?"

She was quite calm now, outwardly, and she drew her hand away. Allison remembered the long, happy hours they had spent together before Isabel came into his life. Now that she was gone, the old comradeship had returned, the sweeter because of long absence. Rose had never fretted nor annoyed him; she seemed always to understand.

"You don't know how glad I'd be," he sighed, "to feel that I wasn't quite out of it--that there was something in life for me still. I didn't want to be a bit of driftwood on the current of things."

"You're not going to be--I won't let you. Haven't you learned that sometimes we have to wait; that we can't always be going on? Just moor your soul at the landing place, and when the hour comes, you'll swing out into the current again. Much of the driftwood is only craft that broke away from the landing."

He smiled, for her fancy pleased him. An abiding sense of companionship crept into his loneliness; his isolation seemed to be shared. "And you'll stay at the landing with me," he whispered, "until the time comes to set sail again?"

"Yes."

"And--after the worst that can come--is over, we'll make it right with the world and go abroad together?"

"Yes." Her voice was very low now.

"And we'll be the best of friends, for always?"

"Yes--the best of friends in all the world."

"And you'll promise me that, if you're ever sorry, you'll come straight and tell me--that you'll ask me to set you free?"

"I promise."

"Then everything is all right between you and me?"

"Yes, but I'm ashamed--bitterly ashamed."

"You mustn't be, for I'm very glad. We'll try to forget the wreckage together. I couldn't have asked, unless I had known about--the other man, and you wouldn't have told me, I know. It wouldn't have been like you to tell me."

There was a knock, the door opened, and the nurse came in, watch in hand. "I'm sorry, Miss Bernard, but you can come to-morrow if he's well enough."

"I'll be well enough," said Allison, smiling.

"Of course," Rose assured him, shaking hands in friendly fashion. "Don't forget that it's a secret."

"I won't. Good-bye, Rose."

When she had gone, the nurse studied him furtively, from across the room. He had changed in some subtle way--he seemed stronger than before. Unless it was excitement, to be followed by a reaction, Miss Bernard had done him good. The night would prove it definitely, one way or the other.

Allison slept soundly until daybreak, for the first time--not stupor, but natural sleep. The nurse began to wonder if it was possible that a hand so badly crushed and broken could be healed. Hitherto her service had been mechanically kind; she had taken no interest because she saw no hope. How wonderful it would be if that long procession of learned counsellors should be mistaken after all!

Rose walked home, disdaining the waiting carriage. She had forgotten her hat and the sunset lent radiance to a face that needed no more. By rare tact and kindness, Allison had removed the sting from her shame and the burden she had borne so long was lifted from her heavy heart.

She was happier now than she had ever been before in her life, but she must hide her joy from the others as she had previously hidden her pain --or tried to. She knew that Isabel would not see, but Aunt Francesca's eyes were keen and she could not tell even her just now.

How strange it would be to wake in the night, without that dull, dead pain! How strange it was to feel herself needed, and oh, the joy of serving him!

She thrilled with the ecstasy of sacrifice; with that maternal compassion which is a vital element in woman's love for man. Sublimated beyond passion and self-seeking, and asking only the right to give, she poured out the treasure of her soul at his feet, though her pride demanded that he must never know.

When she went into the house, light seemed to enter the shaded room with her. No one was there, but the open piano waited, ready to receive a confidence. With a laugh that was half a sob of joy, she sat down, her fingers readily finding the one thing that suited her mood.

The wild, half-savage music rang through the house in full, deep chords, but only Rose knew the words, which, in her mind, fitted themselves to the melody as though she dared to sing them:

"Less than the dust, beneath thy Chariot wheel,
Less than the rust, that never stained thy Sword,
Less than the trust thou hast in me, O Lord,
Even less then these.

"Less than the weed that grows beside thy door,
Less than the speed of hours spent far from thee,
Less than the need thou hast in life of me;
Even less am I."

Upstairs, Isabel yawned lazily, and wondered why Rose should play so loud, but Aunt Francesca smiled to herself, for she knew that Allison was better and that Rose was glad.

XIX

OVER THE BAR