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Old Rose And Silver

<h1 id="id00800" style="margin-top: 6em">VIII</h1> <h5 id="id00801">"THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING"</h5> Outside, in the grey darkness, the earth was soft with snow. Upon the illimitable horizon beyond the mountain peaks were straying gleams of dawn, colourless, but none the less surely a promise of daybreak. Rose had been awake for some time, listening to the ice-clad branches that clattered with every passing breeze. A maple bough, tapping on her window as ghostly fingers might, had first aroused her from a medley of dreams. She went to the window, shivering a little, and, while she stood there, watching the faint glow in the East, the wind changed in quality, though it was still cool. Hints of warmth and fragrance were indefinably blended with the cold, and Rose laughed as she crept back to bed, for she had chanced upon the mysterious hour when the Weaver of the Seasons changed the pattern upon the loom. Having raised another window shade, she could see the dawn from where she lay. Tints of gold and amethyst came slowly upon the grey and made the horizon delicately iridescent, like mother-of-pearl. Warm and soft from the Southland, the first wind of Spring danced merrily into Madame Francesca's sleeping garden, thrilling all the life beneath the sod. With the first beam of sun, the ice began to drip from the imprisoned trees and every fibre of shrub and tree to quiver with aspiration, as though a clod should suddenly find a soul. In the watcher's heart, too, had come another Spring, for once in time and tune with the outer world. The heart's seasons seldom coincide with the calendar. Who among us has not been made desolate beyond all words upon some golden day when the little creatures of the air and meadow were life incarnate, from sheer joy of living? Who among us has not come home, singing, when the streets were almost impassable with snow, or met a friend with a happy, smiling face, in the midst of a pouring rain? The soul, too, has its own hours of Winter and Spring. Gethsemane and Calvary may come to us in the time of roses and Easter rise upon us in a December night. How shall we know, in our own agony, of another's gladness, or, on that blessed to-morrow when the struggle is over, help someone else to bear our own forgotten pain? True sympathy is possible only when the season of one soul accords with that of another, or else when memory, divinely tender, brings back a vivid, scarlet hour out of grey, forgotten days, to enable us to share, with another, his own full measure of sorrow or of joy. Ah, but the world was awake at last! Javelin-like, across a field of melting snow, went a flash of blue wings, and in Madame Francesca's own garden a robin piped his cheery strain upon the topmost bough of a dripping tree. The woman, too, was awake, in every fibre of body and soul. Even her finger-tips seemed sentient and alive; her heart was strangely lifted, as though by imprisoned wings. She had no doubt of the ultimate hour, when he would know also, yet, half-afraid, she shrank from it, as she would not have shrunk from pain. Madame had once remarked that civilisation must have begun not earlier than nine in the morning, or later than noon. She had a horror of the early breakfast, when the family, cold, but clean, gathers itself around the board which only last night was festive and strives valiantly to be pleasant. It was almost an axiom with her that human, friendly conversation was not possible before nine in the morning. So, as there was no one else to be pleased, the three women breakfasted when and where they chose. If Rose preferred to robe herself immaculately in white linen and have her coffee in the dining-room at seven, she was at liberty to do so. If she wanted it in her own room, at ten, that also was easily managed, but this was the only "movable feast" Madame would permit. Luncheon and dinner went precisely by tae clock, year in and year out. Too happy to sleep and yearning to be outdoors, Rose dressed quietly and tiptoed down-stairs. She smiled whimsically as the heavy front door slammed behind her, wondering if it would wake the others and if they, too, would know that it was Spring. Tips of green showed now and then where the bulbs were planted, and, down in the wild garden, when she brushed aside the snow, Rose found a blushing hepatica in full bloom. "How indiscreet," she thought, then added, to herself, "but what sublime courage it must take to blossom now!" The plump robin, whose winter had evidently been pleasant, hopped about the garden after her, occasionally seeking shelter on the lower bough of a tree if she turned, or came too near. "Don't be afraid," she called, aloud, then laughed, as with a farewell chirp and a flutter of wings, the robin took himself beyond the reach of further conversational liberties. Her pulses leaped with abundant life; the wet road lured her eager feet. She went out, leaving the gate open, and turned toward the woods, where a flock of wild geese, breasting the chill winds far above the river, was steadily cleaving a passage to the friendly North. When she reached the woods, where the white birches stood like shy dryads among the oaks, she heard once more the robin's flutelike call. It was answered by another, exactly upon the same notes, yet wholly different as to quality. Presently, among the trees, she caught a glimpse of a tall man, and she paused for an instant, frightened. Then her heart leaped and her cheeks burned, as she saw who it was. "Boy!" she called, clearly. "Oh, Boy!" Allison turned, startled, then came to her, smiling, hat in hand. "Upon my word," he said. "I didn't think there was anyone else mad enough to come out at this hour." "Why it's Spring! Didn't you know?" "Yes. It came this morning just before sunrise." "Were you awake?" "Yes, were you?" "Of course," she answered. "I couldn't stay in." "Nor could I." "The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled," Rose quoted. "You know the rest, don't you?" "The rest doesn't matter. 'Morning waits at the end of the world—Gypsy, come away!'" "I'll go," she breathed, her eyes fixed on his, "anywhere!" "To the river, then. The last time I saw it, ice and snow had hidden it completely." The path was narrow until they got out of the woods, so Rose went ahead. "I don't believe I fooled that robin by whistling to him," Allison continued. "He pretended I did, but I believe he was only trying to be polite." "He wasn't, if it was the same robin I saw in our garden this morning. I spoke to him most pleasantly and told him not to be afraid of me, but he disappeared with a very brief, chirpy good-bye." "Don't hurry so," he said, as he came up beside her and assisted her over a fallen tree. "We've got the whole day, haven't we?" "We have all the time there is," laughed Rose. "Everybody has, for that matter." "Have you had your breakfast?" "No, have you?" "Far from it. Everybody was asleep when I came out." "Then you'll have breakfast with me," she said, quickly. "Thank you," he smiled, "for taking the hint." "But won't your father miss you?" she queried, with mock seriousness. "He pays no attention whatever to my irregular habits, and I think that's one reason why we get on so well together. It's a wise father who knows his own child." "Especially if it is a wise child," she replied. Her eyes were dancing with mirth, a scarlet signal burned on either cheek, and her parted lips were crimson. She seemed lovelier to him than ever before. "Honestly, Rose, you seem to get prettier every day." "Then," she smiled, "if I were younger, I might eventually become dangerous." "Rose—" "Old Rose," she interrupted. The high colour faded from her face as she spoke and left her pale. Allison put his hand on her arm and stopped. "Rose, please don't. You're not a day older than I am." "Ten years," she insisted stubbornly, for women are wont to lean upon the knife that stabs them and she was in a reckless mood. "When you're forty, I'll be fifty." A shadow crossed his face. "It hurts me, someway, to have you talk so. I don't know how—nor why." In a single swift surge her colour came back. "All right," she answered, quietly, "hereafter I'm thirty, also. Thanking you for giving me ten more years of life, for I love it so!" The sun was well up in the heavens when they came to the river, and the dark, rippling surface gave back the light in a thousand little dancing gleams. The ice was broken, the snow was gone, and fragments of shattered crystal went gently toward the open sea, lured by the song of the river underneath. "It doesn't look deep," remarked Rose. "But it is, nevertheless. I nearly drowned myself here when I was a kid, trying to dive to the bottom." "I'm glad you didn't succeed. What a heavy blow it would have been to your father!" "Dear old Dad," said Allison, gently. "I'm all he has." "And all he wants." "It's after eight," Allison complained, looking at his watch, "and I'm starving." "So am I. Likewise my skirts are wet, so we'd better go." When they reached Madame Bernard's, Rose ordered breakfast in the dining-room, for two, then excused herself to put on dry clothing. Allison waited before the open fire until she came down, fresh and tailor-made, in another gown and a white linen collar. "I thought women always wore soft, fluffy things in the morning," he observed, as they sat down. "Some do—the fluffy ones, always." "Who, for instance, are the fluffy ones?" "Aunt Francesca for one and Isabel for another." "How long is the kid going to stay?" "Until she gets ready to go home, I suppose." "I thought she had no home." "She hasn't. Poor Isabel is a martyr to the Cause of Woman." "How so?" "Her mother is Emancipated, with a large E, and has no time for trifles like a daughter. She devotes herself to what she calls the Higher World Service." "So Isabel is stranded, on a desert island." "Yes, except for us." "How good you are!" he exclaimed, with honest admiration. "It was Aunt Francesca," returned Rose, flushing slightly. "I had nothing to do with it. She took me from a desert island, too." "Is Isabel emancipated?" "Not in the sense that her mother is." "I don't see but what she is free." "She is. She can do exactly as she pleases and there is no one to say her nay." "I thought all women did as they please." "They do, in the sense that we all do as we please. If you make a sacrifice, you do it because you can get more pleasure out of making it than you would otherwise." "You've been reading Spencer." "I plead guilty," she laughed. "If it's true," he went on, after a moment's pause, "a genuine New England conscience must be an unholy joy to its proud possessor." "It's unholy at all events. One lump, or two?" she asked, as the coffee was brought in. "Two, please." It seemed very pleasant to Allison to sit there in the warm, sunny room, with Rose opposite him, pouring his coffee. There was an air of cosiness and domestic peace about it hitherto outside his experience. For the first time he was conscious of the peculiar graciousness and sense of home that only a home-loving woman may give to a house. "I like this," he said, as he took the steaming cup. "I'd like to do it often." "We'd like to have you," she returned, hospitably. "I thought you all had breakfast together at some fixed hour, and early at that." "How little you know Aunt Francesca! You can have breakfast in this house in any room you choose, at any hour before noon, all the year round. Sometimes we're all together, sometimes only two. Usually, however I'm alone, as I seem to get up a little earlier than the others." "I think I'll drop in occasionally, then. It looks as if there'd always be somebody to bear me company. Perhaps I'll bring Dad, too. He'd like to have you pour his coffee." There was no mistaking the admiration in Allison's eyes and Rose turned hers away. He sat with his back to the dining-room door and she, across from him, faced it squarely. For the merest fraction of a second Isabel, in a pink silk negligee, stood in the doorway, then vanished, as noiselessly as she had come. Her eyes were full of mysterious meaning that Rose was powerless to translate. "I'd enjoy it," Rose said quickly. "I love to pour the coffee and Aunt Francesca always lets me on the rare occasions when we breakfast together." If her colour was a little brighter, if her voice was in a higher key, if her eyes had changed their expression, Allison did not notice it. Yet, in the instant, she had attained a certain dual consciousness— there seemed to be two of her. One was the woman of the world, well- schooled in self-control, tactful, watchful, ready to smooth any awkwardness, and, at every point, to guard her guest. The other was Primitive Woman; questioning, curious, and watchful in the sense of rivalry. She put it resolutely aside to think about later, and was very glad that Allison did not know. She was greatly relieved when he went home, promising to return later for a few hours of work upon a difficult concerto. "We'll do it again," he said, laughing, as he went down the steps. "Ask Aunt Francesca to give me a meal ticket, to be used solely for breakfasts, will you?" Rose only smiled in answer, but waved her hand to him as he went out of the gate. She stood pensively in the hall for a moment or two after she had closed the door, and would have gone up to her own room had she not heard a step at the head of the stairs. Isabel was coming down, also fresh and tailor-made, with a white linen collar and a dashing crimson tie. Rose strolled into the library, took up a magazine, sat down, and pretended to read. "I'm so sorry to be late to breakfast," remarked Isabel, following her. "But perhaps it's just as well, as I wasn't invited." "Nobody was invited," returned Rose, coolly. "I went out for an early walk, chanced to meet Mr. Kent, and he invited himself here to breakfast." "I didn't know you were in the habit of taking early walks." "I'm trying to acquire the habit," answered Rose, with icy sweetness. "It won't be hard," Isabel said, maliciously, "if they're all equally pleasant." She slammed the door as she went out, shutting Rose in the library. For an instant Rose was angry, then her sense of humour triumphed and she laughed quietly until the tears came. There was no need now to meditate upon that mysterious look in the girl's eyes, for she had translated it herself. "The idea," said Rose to herself. "That foolish little child!" She tried to recall the conversation at the breakfast table, and remembered, with regret, that they had discussed Isabel quite freely. The thought that Isabel might have been listening before she made her presence known came forward persistently, though Rose hated herself for it. Then, with swift resolution, she put all annoying thoughts aside to dwell, happily, upon the perfect hour that nothing could ever change or spoil. She went into the hall by another door opening out of the library, thus avoiding Isabel, and sought her own room, singing to herself: "The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn, The morning's at seven, The hillside's dew-pearled, The lark's on the wing, The snail's on the thorn; God's in His heaven— All's right with the world!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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