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Old Rose And Silver

<h1 id="id02384" style="margin-top: 6em">XXIII</h1> <h5 id="id02385">"TEARS, IDLE TEARS"</h5> "Say, Jule," inquired Romeo, casually, "why is it that you don't look like a lady?" "What do you mean?" demanded Juliet, bristling. "I don't know just what I mean, but you seem so different from everybody else." "I'm clean, ain't I?" "Yes," he admitted, grudgingly. "And my hair is combed?" "Sometimes." "And my white dress is clean, isn't it?" "Yes, but it doesn't look like—like hers, you know." "Her? Who's 'her'?" "You know—Isabel." Juliet sighed and bit her lips. Her eyes filled with tears and she winked very hard to keep them back. An ominous pain clutched at her loyal little heart. "What do you want me to do, Romie?" she asked, gently. "Why, I don't know. Men never know about such things. Just make yourself like her—that's all." "Huh!" Juliet was scornful now. "I don't know whether I want to look like her or not," she remarked, coldly. "Why not?" he flashed back. "And I don't want to be like her, either. She can't do anything. She can't cook, or swing on the trapeze, or skate, or fish, or row, or swim, or climb a tree, or ride horseback, or walk, or anything." "I could teach her," mused Romeo, half to himself. "I taught you." "Yes," cried Juliet, swallowing the persistent lump in her throat, "and now you've done it, you're ashamed of me!" "I didn't say so," he temporised. "You didn't have to. Don't you suppose I can see?" "Don't get so mad about it. She was laughing at you last night and so was the Doctor. They didn't think it was nice for you to put on your knickers and swing on the trapeze. Ladies don't do that." "You taught me," she reminded him, quickly. "Yes, but I didn't ask you to do it before everybody. You started it yourself. Isabel wouldn't look at you, and you remember what the Doctor said, don't you? He told you to cut it out." "That was because he thought it was dangerous." "'Tisn't dangerous, and he knows it. He knew it wasn't refined and lady- like for you to do that before men." "It was only a doctor," Juliet replied, in a small, thin voice. "They're different from other people. I wouldn't let the Kents see me in my knickers, and you know it." "You would, too, if you wanted to. You're a perfect tomboy. You wouldn't see Isabel doing that." "Probably not," answered Juliet, dryly. "She's no more likely to do that than I would be to go back on the man I'd promised to marry, just because his hand was hurt." "You'll never have a chance to go back on anybody, so you don't know what you'd do." "Why won't I?" "Because," answered Romeo, choosing his words carefully, "when a man gets married, he wants to marry a lady, not a tomboy." For some unknown reason, he resented any slur cast at Isabel. "And," replied Juliet, cuttingly, "when a lady gets married, she wants to marry a gentleman." The accent carried insult with it, and Romeo left the house, slamming the door and whistling, defiantly until he was out of hearing. There was no longer any need for Juliet to keep back the tears. Stretched at full length upon the disembowelled sofa, she buried her face in the pillow and wept until she could weep no more. Then she bathed her face, and pinned up her tangled hair, and went to the one long mirror the Crosby mansion boasted of, to take an inventory of herself. She could see that Romeo was right—she didn't look like a lady. Her skirt was too, short and didn't hang evenly, and her belt was wrong because she had no corsets. Juliet made a wry face at the thought of a corset. None of her clothes fitted like Isabel's, her face was tanned, her hands rough and red, and her nails impossible. "I look just like a boy," Juliet admitted to herself, "dressed up in girl's clothes. If Romie's hair was long, and he had on this dress, he'd look just like me." Pride forbade her to go to Isabel and inquire into the mysteries of her all-pervading femininity. Anyhow, Isabel would laugh at her. Anybody would laugh at her—unless Miss Bernard—but she had gone away. She was a lady, even more than Isabel, and so was the little old lady everybody called "Aunt Francesca." If she could see "Aunt Francesca," she wouldn't be ashamed to tell her what Romeo had said. If she only knew what to do, she could do it, for she had plenty of money. Juliet dimly discerned that money was very necessary if one would be the same sort of "lady" that the others were. "If Mamma hadn't died," said Juliet, to herself, "I guess I'd have been as much of a lady as anybody, and nobody would have dared call me a tomboy." Her heart ached for the gentle little mother who had died many years ago. "She would have known," sighed Juliet. "Mamma was a lady if anybody ever was, and she didn't have the money we've got either." The life of the Crosbys had been bare of luxuries and sometimes even of comforts, until the considerate uncle died and left his money to the twins. As fortunes go, it was not much, but it seemed inexhaustible to them because they did not know how to spend it. "I'll go this very day," thought Juliet, "and see Aunt Francesca. I'll ask her. If Isabel is there, I'll have to wait, but if I don't ask for Isabel, maybe I won't see her." Having decided upon a plan of action, the way seemed easier, so Juliet went about her daily duties with a lighter heart, and even sang after a fashion, as she awkwardly pressed the wrinkles from her white muslin gown. Though it was September, it was still warm enough to wear it. Romeo, having only the day before attained his maturity, had taken unto himself the masculine privilege of getting angry at someone else for what he himself had done. He was furious with Juliet, though he did not trouble himself to ask why. "The idea," he muttered, "of her criticising Isabel!" His wounded sensibilities impelled him to walk past the Bernard house, very slowly, two or three times, but there was no one in sight. He went to the post-office as a mere matter of habit; there was seldom any mail for the Crosbys except on the first of the month, when the lawyer's formal note, "enclosing remittance," came duly to hand. Nobody seemed to be around—there was nothing to do. It would have been natural to go back home, but he was too angry for that, and inwardly vowed to stay away long enough to bring Juliet to her senses. He recalled the night he had called upon Isabel and had not reached home until late. He remembered the torrent of tears and Juliet's cry: "Oh, Romie! Romie! I don't care where you've been as long as I've got you back!" It pleased his masculine sense of superiority to know that he had power over a woman's tears—to make them come or go, as he chose. He sauntered slowly toward Kent's, thinking that he might while away an hour or two there. It was a long time until midnight, and there seemed to be nothing to do but to sit and wait. He could ask about the car and whether it was all right now. If Doctor Jack could run it, maybe they could go out together for a little spin. It would be nice to go by his own house and never even turn his head. And, if they could get Isabel to go, too, it would teach Juliet a much-needed lesson. He had nearly reached his destination when he came upon the picture of Beauty in Distress. Isabel sat at the roadside, leaning against a tree, sobbing. Romeo gave a long, low whistle of astonishment. "Say," he called, cheerfully, "what's wrong?" Isabel looked up, wiped her eyes, and began to weep more earnestly. Though Juliet's tears had moved him to anger and disdain, Isabel's grief roused all his chivalry. He sat down beside her and tried to take her handkerchief away from her eyes. "Don't," he said, softly. "What's the matter?" "Oh," sobbed Isabel, "I'm the most miserable girl in the whole world. Nobody wants me!" "What makes you say that?" demanded Romeo. "Look here, if you'll tell me who's been making you cry, I'll—" He did not finish the sentence, but his tone indicated that dire misfortune would be visited upon the luckless individual directly responsible for Isabel's tears. "You know," began Isabel, after her sobs had quieted somewhat, "I was engaged to Allison Kent until you ran over us. At first I couldn't go over—I was so bruised and lame and before I was well enough to go, I got a note from him, releasing me from the engagement." "Yes?" queried Romeo, encouragingly. "Go on." "Well, I didn't think I ought to go over, under the circumstances, but Aunt Francesca made me go—she's been mean to me, too. So I went and he was horrid to me—perfectly horrid. I offered him his ring and he almost threw his violin at me, and told me to keep that, too. I was afraid of him. "Well, since that, everything has been awful. I wrote to Mamma and told her about it and that I couldn't stay here any longer, and she didn't answer for a long time. Then she said I would have to stay where I was until she could make new arrangements for me and that she was glad I wasn't going to marry a cripple. She said something about 'the survival of the unfit,' but I didn't understand it. "And then, last night, when I heard that Allison wasn't going to lose his hand after all, I thought I ought to take his violin back to him and try to well,—to make up, you know. So I've just been there. He took the violin all right, but he didn't seem to want me. He said nothing could ever be as it was before. I was ready to get married and go away—I'd do almost anything for a change—but he actually seemed to be glad to get rid of me and they've given my automobile, that Colonel Kent himself gave to me for a wedding present, to that doctor who was out to your house last night. Oh," sobbed Isabel, "I wish I was dead. If you only hadn't run over us, everything would have been all right!" Romeo's young face was set in stern and unaccustomed lines. He, then, was directly responsible for Isabel's tears. He had run over them and hurt Isabel and made everything wrong for her, and, because she was a lady, she wasn't blaming him in the least. She had merely pointed out to him, as gently as she could, what he had done to her. A bright idea flashed into his mind, as he remembered that he was twenty-one now and could do as he pleased without consulting anybody. He reached into his pocket, drew out a handful of greenbacks and silver, even a gold piece or two. It would serve Juliet just right and make up to Isabel for what he had done. "I say, Isabel," he began awkwardly. "Would you be willing to marry me?" Isabel quickly dried her tears. "Why, I don't know," she answered, much astonished. Then the practical side of her nature asserted itself. "Have you got money enough?" Romeo tendered the handful of currency. "All this, and plenty more in the bank." "I know, but it was the bank I was talking about. Have you got enough for us to live at a nice hotel and go to the theatre every night?" "More than that," Romeo asserted, confidently. "I've got loads." "I—don't know," said Isabel, half to herself. "It would serve them all right. Allison used to be jealous of you," she added, with a sidelong glance that set his youthful heart to fluttering. "Juliet is jealous of you," Romeo responded disloyally. "We had an awful scrap this morning because I asked her why she didn't try to be a lady, like you." "Of course," replied Isabel, smoothing her gown with a dainty hand, "I've always liked Juliet, but I liked you better." "Really, Isabel? Did you always like me?" "Always." "Then come on. Let's skip out now, the way they do in the books. Let's take the next train." "Why not get married here?" objected Isabel, practically, "and take the four-thirty into town? There's a minister here, and while you're seeing about it, I can go home and get my coat." "All right, but don't stop for anything else. We've got to hustle. Don't tell anybody." "Not even Aunt Francesca?" "No, she'd make a fuss. And besides, she doesn't deserve it, if she's been mean to you." Romeo leaned over and bestowed a meaningless peck upon the fair cheek of his betrothed. "I'll never be mean to you," he said. "I know you won't," Isabel returned, trustfully. Then she laughed as she rose to her feet. "It will be a good joke on Allison," she said, gleefully. "It'll be a good joke on everybody," Romeo agreed, happily. "Listen," said Isabel. A faint chug-chug was heard in the distance, gradually coming nearer. "It's my car. I wish you hadn't been so quick to get rid of it last night. We could have gone away in it now." "Never mind, I'll buy you another." They hoped to reach the turn in the road before the car got there, but failed. Doctor Jack came to a dead stop. "Want a lift?" he asked. "No, thank you," said Romeo. "No, thank you," repeated Isabel, primly. Colonel Kent had greeted her with the most chilling politeness, and she burned to get away. "Say," resumed Romeo, "will you do something for me?" "Sure," replied the Doctor, cordially. "Anything." "Will you take a note out to my sister for me? I shan't get back for— some time." "You bet. Where is it?" "I haven't written it yet. Just wait a minute." Romeo tore a leaf from an old memorandum book which he carried, and wrote rapidly: <h5 id="id02473"> "DEAR JULE:</h5> "Isabel and I have gone away to get married. You can have half of everything. I'll let you know where to send my clothes. <h5 id="id02475"> "R.C."</h5> He was tempted to add an apology for what he had said earlier in the day, but his newly acquired importance made him refrain from anything so compromising. He folded the note into a little cocked hat and addressed it. "Much obliged," he said, laconically. "So long." "So long," returned Doctor Jack, starting the engine. "Good-bye," said the Colonel, lifting his hat. Romeo left Isabel at Madame Bernard's gate. "Hurry up," he said, in a low tone. "I'll meet you under the big elm down the road." "All right," she whispered. Madame Bernard was asleep, so Isabel hastily crammed a few things into a suit-case and slipped out of the house, unseen and unheard. As the half- starved minister of the country parish was sorely in need of the generous fee Romeo pressed upon him in advance, the arrangements were pitifully easy. He was at the trysting place fully ten minutes before she came in sight, staggering under the unaccustomed burden of a heavy suit-case. It might not have occurred to him to relieve Juliet of a cumbrous piece of baggage, but he instinctively took it from Isabel. "Come on," he said. "We've got to hurry if we don't want to miss the four-thirty." "How long does it take to get married?" queried Isabel. "Not long, I guess. See how people fool around over it, and we're getting through with it in one afternoon. We're making a record, I guess." It seemed that they were, for when they came to the shabby little brown house, near the big white church, the minister, his wife, and a next- door neighbour were waiting. In a very short time, the ceremony was over and Mr. and Mrs. Romeo Crosby were on the train, speeding toward their honeymoon and the lively years that undoubtedly lay ahead of them. Allison had changed his mind about going out that afternoon, but promised to go next time. Colonel Kent remained at home, and Doctor Jack sped away alone upon his errand. When he reached Crosby's, Juliet clad in her best, was just leaving the house. She was outwardly cheerful, but her face still bore traces of tears. "Where were you going?" asked the Doctor, as Juliet greeted him. There was a new shyness in her manner, as of some unwonted restraint. "I was going into town. I wanted to see Aunt Francesca." She slipped easily into the habit of the others, seldom hearing the name "Madame Bernard." "I'll take you. Here's a note from your brother." Juliet opened it, read the fateful message, and turned white as death. "What is it?" asked the Doctor, much alarmed. In answer, she offered him the note, her hand shaking pitifully. The Doctor read it twice before he grasped the full meaning of it. "Well, I'll be—" he said, half to himself. Unable to stand, Juliet sat down upon the well-worn door-step and he sat down beside her. "It's all my fault," she said, solemnly. "Romie told me this morning that I wasn't a lady, and he wanted me to be like her. He said I was a tomboy, and I told him that if I was, he'd done it himself, and he got mad and went away, and now—" Juliet burst into tears, but she had no handkerchief, so Doctor Jack gave her his. "'Tears, idle tears,'" he quoted lightly. "I say, kid, don't take it so hard." "I—I'm not a lady," she sobbed. "You are," he assured her. "You're the finest little lady I know." "Don't—don't," she sobbed. "Don't make fun of me. Romie said that you were—laughing at me—yesterday-because I was—a—a tomboy!" "Kid," he said, softly, almost unmanned by a sudden tenderness quite foreign to his experience. "Oh, my dear little girl, won't you look at me?" The tone was wholly new to Juliet—she did not know that any man could be so tender, so beautifully kind. "It's because he's a doctor," she thought. "He's used to seeing people when they don't feel right." "I'm so sorry," he was saying. "Your brother didn't mean anything by it, little girl. He was just teasing." "He wasn't," returned Juliet, wiping her eyes. "Don't you think I know when he's teasing and when he isn't? I'm not a lady; I'm only a tomboy, and now he's gone away with her and left me all alone." "You'll never be alone if I can help it," he assured her, fervently. "Look here, do you suppose you could ever learn to like me?" "Why, I like you now—I've always liked you." "I know, but I don't mean that. Do you think you could ever like me a whole lot? Enough to marry me, I mean?" "Why, I don't know—I never thought—" Juliet's voice trailed off into an inarticulate murmur of astonishment. "Won't you try?" he pleaded. "Oh, Juliet, I've loved you ever since I first saw you!" The high colour surged into her face. He was not joking—he meant every word. Even Juliet could see that. "Won't you try, dear? That's all I'll ask for, now." "Why, yes," she said, her wide blue eyes fixed upon his. "I'd try almost anything—for you, but I'm only a tomboy." Doctor Jack caught her cold little hands in his. "Kiss me," he said, huskily. Juliet's face burned, but she lifted her lips to his, obediently and simply as a child. The man hesitated for an instant, then pushed her away from him; not unkindly, but firmly. "No, I won't take it, Princess," he said, in a strange tone. "I'll wait until you wake up." "I'm—not asleep," she stammered. "You are in some ways." Then he added, irrelevantly, "Thank God!" "I don't know," remarked Juliet, at the end of an uncomfortable pause, "what to do with myself. I don't want to stay here alone and I wouldn't go anywhere near them—not for the world." "Where did you say you were going, when I came?" "To Aunt Francesca's—Madame Bernard, you know." "Good business," he answered, nodding vigorous approval. "Come on. She seems to be the unfailing refuge of the shipwrecked mariner in this district. If I'm not much mistaken, she'll take you into her big house and her bigger heart." "Oh," said Juliet, wistfully, "do you think she would take me—and make me into a lady?" "I think she'll take you," he responded, after a brief struggle with himself, "but I don't want you made over. I want you to stay just exactly as you are. Oh, you dear little kid," he muttered, "you'll try to care, won't you?" "I'll try," she promised, sweetly, as she climbed into the big red machine. "I didn't think I'd ever be in this car." "You can come whenever you like. It's mine, now." Juliet did not seem to hear. The car hummed along the dusty road, making a soothing, purring noise. Pensively she looked across the distant fields, whence came the hum and whir of reaping. There was a far-away look in her face that the man beside her was powerless to understand. She was making swift readjustments as best she might, and, wisely, he left her to herself. As they approached Madame Bernard's, Juliet turned to him. "I was just thinking," she sighed, "how quickly you grow up after you get to be twenty-one." He made no answer. He swallowed hard and turned the car into the driveway. Aunt Francesca came out on the veranda, followed by Mr. Boffin, as Juliet jumped out of the car. She had the crumpled note in her cold little hand. Without a word, she offered it to Madame Bernard and waited. The beautiful face instantly became soft with pity. "My dear child," she breathed. "My dear little motherless child!" Juliet went into her open arms as straight as a homing pigeon to its nest. "Oh, Aunt Francesca," she sobbed, "will you take me and make a lady out of me?" "You're already a lady," laughed the older woman amid her tears. "Come in, Juliet dear—come home!" <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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