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Old Rose And Silver

<h1 id="id01310" style="margin-top: 6em">XIII</h1> <h5 id="id01311">WHITE GLOVES</h5> With shyness that did not wholly conceal her youthful pride, Isabel told Madame, a few days later. The little old lady managed to smile and to kiss Isabel's soft cheek, murmuring the conventional hope for her happiness. Inwardly, she was far from calm, though deeply thankful that Rose did not happen to be in the room. "You must make him very happy, dear," she said. "I guess we'll have a good time," returned Isabel, smothering a yawn. "It will be lots of fun to go all over the country and see all the big cities." "I hope he will be successful," Madame continued. "He must be," she added, fervently. "I suppose we shall be entertained a great deal," remarked Isabel. "He has written to Mamma, but she hasn't had time to answer yet." "I can vouch for my foster son," Madame replied. "It isn't necessary," the girl went on, "and I told him so. Mamma never cares what I do, and she'll be glad to get me off her hands. Would you mind if I were married here?" Madame's heart throbbed with tender pity. "Indeed," she answered, warmly, "you shall have the prettiest wedding I can give you. Your mother will come, won't she?" "Not if it would interfere with her lecture engagements. She's going to lecture all next season on 'The Slavery of Marriage.' She says the wedding ring is a sign of bondage, dating back to the old days when a woman was her husband's property." Madame Francesca's blue eyes filled with a sudden mist. Slowly she turned on her finger the worn band of gold that her gallant Captain had placed there ere he went to war. It carried still a deep remembrance too holy for speech. "Property," repeated the old lady, in a whisper. "Ah, but how dear it is to be owned!" "I don't mind wearing it," said Isabel, with a patronising air, "but I want it as narrow as possible, so it won't interfere with my other rings, and, of course, I can take it off when I like." "Of course, but I would be glad to have you so happily married, my dear, that you wouldn't want to take it off—ever." "I'll have to ask Mamma to send me some money for clothes," the girl went on, half to herself. "Don't bother her with it," suggested the other, kindly. "Let me do it. Rose and I will enjoy making pretty things for a bride." "I'm afraid Cousin Rose wouldn't enjoy it," Isabel replied, with an unpleasant laugh. "Do you know," she added, confidentially, "I've always thought Cousin Rose liked Allison—well, a good deal." "She does," returned Madame, meeting the girl's eyes clearly, "and so do I. When you're older, Isabel, you'll learn to distinguish between a mere friendly interest and the grand passion." "She's too old, I know," Isabel continued, with the brutality of confident youth, "but sometimes older women do fall in love with young men." "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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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