Back Aa

Old Rose And Silver

<h1 id="id00249" style="margin-top: 6em">III</h1> <h5 id="id00250">THE VOICE OF THE VIOLIN</h5> Madame Bernard and Isabel had not yet come down when Rose entered the living-room, half an hour before dinner. The candles were lighted, and in the soft glow of the reading lamp was a vase of pink roses, sent by Colonel Kent to his old friend. The delicate sweetness filled the room and mingled with the faint scent of attar of roses and dried rose petals which, as always, hung about the woman who stood by the table, idly rearranging the flowers. The ruby ring caught the light and sent tiny crimson gleams dancing into the far shadows. Her crepe gown was almost the colour of the ruby; warm and blood-red. It was cut low at the throat, and an old Oriental necklace of wonderfully wrought gold was the only ornament she wore, aside from the ring. The low light gave the colour of the gown back to her face, beautiful as always, and in her dusky hair she had a single crimson rose. Aunt Francesca had said that the Colonel was very much pleased with the house and glad to be at home again. She had sent over her own cook to prepare their first dinner, which, however, she had declined to share, contenting herself with ordering a feast suited to the Colonel's taste. To-night, they were to dine with her and meet the other members of her household. Madame came in gowned in lustreless white, with heliotrope at her belt and in her hair. She wore a quaintly wrought necklace of amethysts set in silver, and silver buckles, set with amethysts, on her white shoes. More than once Rose had laughingly accused her of being vain of her feet. "Why shouldn't I be vain?" she had retorted, in self-defence. "Aren't they pretty?" "Of course they are," smiled Rose, bending down to kiss her. "They're the prettiest little feet in all the world." Madame's fancy ran seriously to shoes and stockings, of which she had a marvellous collection. Silk stockings in grey and white, and in all shades of lavender and purple, embroidered and plain, with shoes to match in satin and suede, occupied a goodly space in her wardrobe. At Christmas-time and on her birthday, Rose always gave her more, for it was the one gift which could never fail to please. "How lovely the house is," said Madame, looking around appreciatively. "I hope the dinner will be good." "I've never known it to be otherwise," Rose assured her. "Am I all right? Is my skirt even?" "You are absolutely perfect, Aunt Francesca." "Then play to me, my dear. If my outward semblance is in keeping, please put my mind into a holiday mood." Rose ran her fingers lightly over the keys. "What shall I play?" "Anything with a tune to it, and not too loud." Smiling, Rose began one of the simple melodies that Aunt Francesca loved: [Illustration: musical notation] Suddenly, she turned away from the piano. Her elbow, falling upon the keys, made a harsh dissonance. "Isabel, my dear!" she cried. "Aren't you almost too gorgeous?" The girl stood in the open door, framed like a portrait, against the dull red background of the hall. Her gown was white net, shot and spangled with silver, over lustrous white silk. A comb, of filagree silver, strikingly lovely in her dark hair, was her only ornament except a large turquoise, set in dull silver, at her throat. "I'm not overdressed, am I?" she asked, with an eager look at Madame. "Not if it suits you. Come here, dear." Isabel obeyed, turning around slowly for inspection. Almost instantly it was evident that Madame approved. So did Rose, after she saw how the gown made Isabel's eyes sparkle and brought out the delicate fairness of her skin. "You do suit yourself; there's no question about that, but you're gorgeous, nevertheless." Thus Rose made atonement for her first impulsive speech. Mr. Boffin came in, with a blue ribbon around his neck, and helped himself to Aunt Francesca's chair. Isabel rocked him and he got down, without undue haste. He marched over to a straight-backed chair with a cushion in it; glared at Isabel for a moment with his inscrutable topaz eyes, then began to purr. The clock chimed seven silvery notes. Madame Bernard waved her white lace fan impatiently. "It's the psychological moment," Rose observed. "Why don't they come?" "It's Allison's fault, if they're late," Madame assured her. "I could always set my watch by the Colonel. He—there, what did I tell you?" she concluded triumphantly, as footsteps sounded outside. When the guests were ushered in, Madame advanced to meet them. The firelight had brought a rosy glow to her lovely face, and her deep eyes smiled. Allison put his violin case in a corner before he spoke to her. "Did you really?" asked Madame. "How kind you are!" "I brought it," laughed the young man, "just because you didn't ask me to." "Do you always," queried Rose, after he had been duly presented to her, "do the things you're not asked to do?" "Invariably," he replied. "Allison," said Madame, "I want you to meet my niece once removed—Miss Ross." The Colonel had already bowed to Isabel and was renewing his old acquaintance with Rose. "Not Isabel," said Allison, in astonishment. "Yes," answered the girl, her eyes sparkling with excitement, "it's Isabel." "Why, little playmate, how did you ever dare to grow up?" "I had nothing else to do." "But I didn't want you to grow up," he objected. "You've grown up some yourself," she retorted. "I suppose I have," he sighed. "What a pity that the clock won't stand still!" Yet, to Madame, he did not seem to have changed much. He was taller, and more mature in every way, of course. She noted with satisfaction that he had gained control of his hands and feet, but he had the same boyish face, the same square, well-moulded chin, and the same nice brown eyes. Only his slender, nervous hands betrayed the violinist. "Well, are you pleased with me?" he asked of Madame, his eyes twinkling. "Yes," she answered with a faint flush. "If you had worn long hair and a velvet collar, I should never have forgiven you." Colonel Kent laughed outright. "I should never have dared to bring him back to you, Francesca, if he had fallen so low. We're Americans, and please God, we'll stay Americans, won't we, lad?" "You bet," answered Allison, boyishly, going over to salute Mr. Boffin. "'But in spite of all temptations to belong to other nations, I'm an Am- er-i-can,'" he sang, under his breath. Through the mysterious workings of some sixth sense, Mr. Boffin perceived approaching trouble and made a hurried escape. "Will you look at that?" asked Allison, with a hearty laugh. "I hadn't even touched him and he became suspicious of me." "As I remember," Madame said, "my cats never got on very well with you." "I don't like them either," put in Isabel. "I like 'em," Allison said. "I like 'em a whole lot, but it isn't mutual, and I never could understand why." At dinner, it seemed as though they all talked at once. Madame and the Colonel had a separate conversation of their own, while Allison "reminisced" with Isabel, as he said, and asked numerous questions of Rose in regard to the neighbours. "Please tell me," he said, "what has become of the Crosby twins?" "They're flourishing," Rose answered. "You don't mean it! What little devils they were!" "Are," corrected Rose. "Who are the Crosby twins?" inquired Isabel. "They'll probably call on you," Rose replied, "so I won't spoil it by endeavouring to describe them. The language fails to do them justice." "What were their names?" mused Allison. "Let me see. Oh, yes, Romeo and Juliet." "'Romie' and 'Jule' by affectionate abbreviation, to each other," Rose added. Did you know that an uncle died in Australia and left them a small fortune ?" "No, I didn't. What are they doing with it?" "Do you remember, when you were a child, how you used to plan what you'd do with unlimited wealth?" Allison nodded. "Well," Rose resumed, "that's just what they're doing with it. They have only the income now, but this Fall, when they're twenty-one, they'll come into possession of the principal. I prophesy bankruptcy in five years." "Even so," he smiled, "they'll doubtless have pleasant memories." "What satisfaction do you think there will be in that?" queried Isabel. "I can't answer just now," Allison replied, "but the minute I'm bankrupt, I'll come and tell you. It's likely to happen to me at any time." Meanwhile Colonel Kent was expressing the pleasure he had found in his well-appointed household. "Was it very much trouble, Francesca?" "None at all—to me." "You always were wonderful." "You see," she smiled, "I didn't do it. Rose did everything. I merely went over at the last to arrange the flowers, make the tea, and receive the credit." "And to welcome us home," he added. "They say a fireplace is the heart of a house, but I think a woman is the soul of it." "Then the soul of it was there, waiting, wasn't it?" "But only for a little while," he sighed. "I am very lonely sometimes, in spite of the boy." Francesca's blue eyes became misty. "When a door in your heart is closed," she said, "turn the key and go away. Opening it only brings pain." "I know," he answered, clearing his throat. "You've told me that before and I've often thought of it. Yet sometimes it seems as though all of life was behind that door." "Ah, but it isn't. Your son and at least one true friend are outside. Listen!" "No," Allison was saying, "I got well acquainted with surprisingly few people over there. You see, I always chummed with Dad." "Bless him," said Francesca, impulsively. "Have I done well?" asked the Colonel, anxiously. "It was hard work, alone." "Indeed you have done well. I hear that he is a great artist." "He's more than that—he's a man. He's clean and a good shot, and he isn't afraid of anything. Someway, to me, a man who played the fiddle always seemed, well—lady-like, you know. But Allison isn't." "No," answered Francesca, demurely, "he isn't. Do I infer that it is a disgrace to be ladylike?" "Not for a woman," laughed the Colonel. "Why do you pretend to misunderstand me? You always know what I mean." After dinner, when the coffee had been served, Allison took out his violin, of his own accord. "You haven't asked me to play, but I'm going to. Who is going to play my accompaniment? Don't all speak at once." Rose went to the piano and looked over his music. "I'll try. Fortunately I'm familiar with some of this." His first notes came with a clearness and authority for which she was wholly unprepared. She followed the accompaniment almost perfectly, but mechanically, lost as she was in the wonder and delight of his playing. The exquisite harmony seemed to be the inmost soul of the violin, speaking at last, through forgotten ages, of things made with the world —Love and Death and Parting. Above it and through it hovered a spirit of longing, infinite and untranslatable, yet clear as some high call. Subtly, Rose answered to it. In some mysterious way, she seemed set free from bondage. Unsuspected fetters loosened; she had a sense of largeness, of freedom which she had never known before. She was quivering in an ecstasy of emotion when the last chord came. For an instant there was silence, then Isabel spoke. "How well you play!" she said politely. "I ought to," Allison replied, modestly. "I've worked hard enough." "How long have you been studying?" "Thirty years," he answered. "That is, I feel as if I had been at work all my life." "How funny!" exclaimed Isabel. "Are you thirty?" "Just," he said. "Then Cousin Rose and I are like steps, with you half way between us. I'm twenty and she's forty," smiled Isabel, with childlike frankness. Rose bit her lips, then the colour flamed into her face. "Yes," she said, to break an awkward pause, "I'm forty. Old Rose," she added, with a forced smile. "Nonsense," said Allison quickly. "How can a rose be old?" "Or," continued the Colonel, with an air of old-world gallantry, "how can earth itself be any older, having borne so fair a rose upon its breast for forty years?" "Thank you both," responded Rose, her high colour receding. "Shall we play again?" While they were turning over the music Madame grappled with a temptation to rebuke Isabel then and there. "Not fit for a parlour yet," she thought. "Ought to be in the nursery on a bread and milk diet and put to bed at six." For her part, Isabel dimly discerned that she had said something awkward, and felt vaguely uncomfortable. She was sorry if she had made a social mistake and determined to apologise afterward, though she disliked apologies. Allison was playing again, differently, yet in the same way. Through the violin sounded the same high call to Rose. Life assumed a new breadth and value, as from a newly discovered dimension. She had been in it, yet not of it, until now. She was merged insensibly with something vast and universal, finite yet infinite, unknown and undreamed-of an hour ago. She was quite pale when they finished. "You're tired," he said. "I'm sorry." "I'm not," she denied, vigorously. "But you are," he insisted. "Don't you suppose I can see?" His eyes met hers for the moment, clearly, and, once more, she answered an unspoken summons in some silent way. The room turned slowly before her; their faces became white spots in a mist. "You play well," Allison was saying. "I wish you'd let me work with you." "I'll be glad to," Rose answered, with lips that scarcely moved. "Will you help me work up my programs for next season?" "Indeed I will. Don't stop now, please—really, I'm not tired." While she was still protesting, he led her away from the piano to an easy chair. "Sit there," he said, "and I'll do the work. Those accompaniments are heavy." He went back to his violin, tightened a string, and began to play, alone. The melody was as delicate in structure as the instrument itself, yet strangely full of longing. Slowly the violin gave back the music of which it was made; the wind in the forest, the sound of many waters, moonlight shimmering through green aisles of forest, the mating calls of Spring. And again, through it all, surged some great question to which Rose thrilled in unspoken answer; a great prayer, which, in some secret way, she shared. It came to an end at last when she felt that she could bear no more. "What is it?" she forced herself to ask. "I haven't named it," he replied, putting down his violin. "Is—is it—yours?" "Of course. Why not?" Isabel came to the piano and took up the violin. "May I look at it?" "Certainly." She stroked the brown breasts curiously and twanged the strings as though it were a banjo. "What make is it?" "Cremona. Dad gave it to me for Christmas, a long time ago. It belonged to an old man who died of a broken heart." "What broke his heart?" queried Isabel, carelessly. "One of his hands was hurt in some way, and he could play no more." "Not much to die of," Isabel suggested, practically. "Ah, but you don't know," he answered, shaking his head. Francesca had leaned forward and was speaking to Colonel Kent in a low tone. "I think that somewhere, in the House not Made with Hands, there is a young and lovely mother who is very proud of her boy to-night." The Colonel's fine face took on an unwonted tenderness. "I hope so. She left me a sacred trust." Francesca crossed the room, drew the young man's tall head down, and kissed him. "Well done, dear foster-child. Your adopted mother, once removed, is fully satisfied with you, and very much pleased with herself, being, vicariously, the parent of a great artist." "I hope you don't consider me 'raised,'" replied Allison. "You're not going to stop 'mothering' me, are you?" "I couldn't," was her smiling assurance. "I've got the habit." He seemed very young as he looked down at her. Woman-like she loved him, through the man that he was, for the child that he had been. "Come, lad," the Colonel suggested, "it's getting late and we want to be invited again." Allison closed his violin case with a snap, said good-night to Aunt Francesca, then went over to Rose. "I don't feel like calling you 'Miss Bernard," he said. "Mayn't I say 'Cousin Rose,' as we rejoice in the possession of the same Aunt?" "Surely," she answered, colouring faintly. "Then good-night, Cousin Rose. I'll see you soon again, and we'll begin work. Your days of leisure are over now." Isabel offered him a small, cool hand. Her eyes were brilliant, brought out by the sparkling silver of her gown. She glittered even in the low light of the room. "Good-night, Silver Girl," he said. "You haven't really grown up after all." When the door closed, Rose gathered up the music he had forgotten, and put it away. Isabel came to her contritely. "Cousin Rose, I'm so sorry I said that! I didn't think!" "Don't bother about it," Rose replied, kindly. "It was nothing at all, and, besides, it's true." "'Tell the truth and shame the—family,'" misquoted Madame Bernard. "Age and false hair are not things to be flaunted, Isabel, remember that." Isabel flushed at the rebuke, and her cheeks were still burning when she went to her room. "I don't care," she said to herself, with a swift change of mood. "I'm glad I told him. They'd never have done it, and it's just as well for him to know." Madame Bernard and Rose soon followed her example, but Rose could not sleep. Through the night the voice of the violin sounded through her consciousness, calling, calling, calling—heedless of the answer that thrilled her to the depths of her soul. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.