Old Rose and Silver Part 41

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

"Of course," Rose a.s.sured him, shaking hands in friendly fas.h.i.+on. "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 compa.s.sion which is a vital element in woman's love for man. Sublimated beyond pa.s.sion 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

As a flower may bloom in a night, joy returned to Madame Bernard's house after long absence. There was no outward sign, for Rose was still quiet and self-controlled, but her face was a shade less pale and there was a tremulous music in her voice.

Isabel had ceased to limp, but still dwelt upon the shock and its lingering effects. She amused herself in her own way, reading paper- covered novels, feasting upon chocolates, teasing Mr. Boffin, and playing solitaire. Madame remarked to Rose that Isabel seemed to have a cosmic sense of time.

The guest never came down-stairs till luncheon was announced, and did not trouble herself to make an elaborate, or even appropriate toilet.

Madame began to wonder how long Isabel intended to remain and to see the wisdom of the modern fas.h.i.+on of appointing the hour of departure in the invitation.

Yet, as she said to herself rather grimly, she would have invited Isabel to remain through the Summer, and perhaps, in the early Autumn she might return to town of her own accord. Moreover, there appeared to be no graceful way of requesting an invited guest to leave.

Though Madame was annoyed by the mere fact of Isabel's presence, she had ceased to distress Rose, who dwelt now in a world apart from the others.

She spent her afternoons at the other house, playing softly downstairs, reading to Allison, or talking to him of the brilliant future that she insisted was to be his.

Neither of them spoke of the hour in which Rose had unwittingly revealed herself, nor did they seem to avoid the subject. Allison had taken her for granted, on a high plane of pure friendliness, and not for an instant did he translate her overpowering impulse as anything but womanly pity.

She practised for an hour or two every morning that she might play better in the afternoon, she ransacked the library for interesting and cheerful things to read to him, and she even found a game or two that he seemed to enjoy. From Madame Francesca's spotless kitchen came many a dainty dish to tempt his capricious appet.i.te, and all the flowers from both gardens, daily, made a bower of his room.

Constantly, too, Rose brought the message of hopefulness and good cheer.

From her abounding life and superb vitality he drew unconscious strength; the hidden forces that defy a.n.a.lysis once more exerted themselves in his behalf. So far as man is of the earth, earthy, by the earth and its fruits may he be healed, but the heavenly part of him may be ministered unto only by the angels of G.o.d.

His old fear of the darkness had gone and the night light had been taken out into the hall. In the faint glow, he could see the objects in his room distinctly, during the brief intervals of wakefulness. A flower dropped from its vase, a book lying half open, a crumpled handkerchief upon his chiffonier, the pervading scent of attar of roses and dried petals--all these brought him a strange sense of nearness to Rose, as a perfume may be distilled from a memory.

Day by day, Isabel became more remote. He thought of her without emotion when he thought of her at all, for only women may know the agony of love enduring after the foundation upon which it was built has been swept away.

The strange men from distant places came less frequently. Days would pa.s.s, and bring no word. The country doctor who had first been called stopped occasionally when time permitted, and his faithful old horse needed a little rest, but he only shook his head. He admitted to the nurse that he was greatly surprised because the inevitable operation had not yet become imperative.

Colonel Kent seemed to have been lost for almost a week. During that time no word had been received from him and Madame's daily bulletin: "No change for the worse," had been returned, marked "not found." She was vaguely troubled and uneasy, fearing that something might have happened to him, but forebore to speak of her fears.

One morning, while Allison was still asleep, the nurse wakened him gently. "A new man, Mr. Allison; can you see him now?"

"I don't care," he replied. "Bring him in."

The newcomer was a young man--one would have guessed that the ink was scarcely dry on his diploma. He had a determined mouth, a square chin, kind eyes, and the buoyant youthful courage that, by itself, carries one far upon any chosen path.

He smiled at Allison and Allison smiled back at him, in friendly fas.h.i.+on. "Now," said the young man, "let's see."

His big fingers were astonis.h.i.+ngly gentle, they worked with marvellous dexterity, and, for the first time, the dreaded examination was almost painless. He asked innumerable questions both of Allison and the nurse, and wanted to know who had been there previously.

The nurse had kept no record, but she knew some of the men, and mentioned their names--names to conjure with in the professional world.

Even the two great Germans had said it was of no use.

The young man wrinkled his brows in deep thought. "What have you been using?" he inquired, of the nurse.

"Everything. Come here."

She led him into the next room, where a formidable array of bottles and boxes almost covered a large table. He looked them all over, carefully, scrutinising the names on the druggist's labels, sniffing here and there, occasionally holding some one bottle to the light, and finally, out of sheer youthful curiosity, counting them.

Then he laughed--a cheery, hearty laugh that woke long-sleeping echoes in the old house and made Allison smile, in the next room. "It seems,"

he commented, "that a doctor has to leave a prescription as other men leave cards--just as a polite reminder of the call."

"What shall I do with them?"

"Dump 'em all out--I don't care. Or, wait a minute; there's no rush."

He went back to Allison. "I see you've got quite a drug store here. Are you particularly attached to any special concoction?"

"Indeed I'm not. Most of 'em have hurt--sinfully."

"I don't know that anything has to be painful or disagreeable in order to be healing," remarked the young man, thoughtfully. "Would you like to throw 'em all out of the window?"

"I certainly would."