Alternately possessed by hope and doubt, the young surgeon worked during the weeks that followed as he had never worked before. He kept his doubt to himself, however, and passed on his hope to the others when he could do so conscientiously. Allison had ceased to ask questions, but eagerly watched the doctor's face. He knew, without being told, just when the outlook was dubious and when it was encouraging.
The doctor did not permit either Rose or Colonel Kent to hope too much. Both were with Allison constantly, and Madame drove over three or four times a week. Gradually a normal atmosphere was established, and, without apparent effort, they kept Allison occupied and amused.
It seemed only natural and right that Rose should be there, and both Allison and his father had come to depend upon her, in a way, as though she were the head of the household. The servants came to her for orders, people who came to inquire for Allison asked for her, and she saved the Colonel from many a lonely evening after Allison had said good-night and the Doctor had gone out for a long walk as he said, "to clear the cobwebs from his brain."
Because of Isabel, whom he felt that he could not meet, the Colonel did not go over to Bernard's. Allison had not alluded to her in any way, but Madame had told the Colonel at the first opportunity. He had said, quietly: "A small gain for so great a loss," and made no further comment, yet it was evident that he was relieved.
Rose and Allison were back upon their old friendly footing, to all intents and purposes. Never by word or look did Rose betray herself; never by the faintest hint did Allison suggest that their relation to each other had in any way been changed. He was frankly glad to have her with him, urged her to come earlier and to stay later, and gratefully accepted every kindness she offered.
Perhaps he had forgotten—Rose rather thought he had, but her self- revelation stood before her always like a vivid, scarlet hour in a procession of grey days. Yet the sting and shame of it were curiously absent, for nothing could exceed the gentle courtesy and deference that Allison instinctively accorded her. He saw her always as a thing apart; a goddess who, through divine pity, had stooped for an instant to be a woman—and had swiftly returned to her pedestal.
Sustained by the joy of service, Rose asked no more. Only to plan little surprises for him, to anticipate every unspoken wish, to keep him cheery and hopeful, to read or play to him without being asked—these things were as the life-blood to her heart.
She had blossomed, too, into a new beauty. The forty years had put lines of silver into her hair, but had been powerless to do more. Her lovely face, where the colour came and went, the fleeting dimple at the corner of her mouth and the crimson curve of her lips were eloquent with the finer, more subtle charm of maturity. Her shining eyes literally transfigured her. In their dark depths was a mysterious exaltation, as from some secret, holy rapture too great for words.
Allison saw and felt it, yet did not know what it was. Once at sunset, when they were talking idly of other things, he tried to express it.
"I don't know what it is, Rose, but there's something about you lately that makes me feel—well, as though I were in a church at an Easter service. The sun through the stained glass window, the blended fragrance of incense and lilies, and the harp and organ playing the Intermezzo from Cavalleria—all that sort of thing, don't you know?"
"Why shouldn't your best friend be glad," she had answered gently, "when you have come to your own Easter—your rising from the dead?"
The dull colour surged into his face, then retreated in waves. "If you can be as glad as that," he returned, clearing his throat, "I'd be a brute ever to let myself be discouraged again."
That night, during a wakeful hour, his thoughts went back to Isabel. For the first time, he saw the affair in its true light—a brief, mad infatuation. He had responded to Isabel's youth and beauty and an old moonlit garden full of roses much as his violin answered to his touch upon the strings. "Had answered," he corrected himself, trying not to flinch at the thought.
Even if his hand should heal, it was scarcely possible that he would ever play again, and he knew, as well as anyone, what brilliant promise the future had held for him. He remembered how wisely he had been trained from the very beginning; how Aunt Francesca had insisted upon mathematics, Latin, and chemistry, as well as literature, history, and modern languages.
He had protested to her only once. She had replied kindly, but firmly, that while broad culture and liberal education might not, in itself, create an artist, yet it could not possibly injure one. Since then, he had seen precocious children, developed in one line at the expense of all others, fail ignominiously in maturity because there was no foundation. The Child Wonder who had thrilled all Europe at nine, by his unnatural mastery of the violin, was playing in an orchestra in a Paris cafe, where one of the numerous boy sopranos was the head waiter.
How disappointed Aunt Francesca must be, even though she had too much self-control to show it! And his father! Allison swallowed a lump in his throat. After a lifetime of self-sacrificing devotion, the Colonel had seen all his efforts fail, but he had taken the blow standing, like the soldier that he was. In vain, many a time, Allison had wished that some of his father's fine courage might have been transmitted to him.
And Rose—dear Rose! How persistently she held the new way open before him; how steadily she insisted that the creative impulse was higher than interpretative skill! How often she had reminded him of Carlyle's stirring call: "Produce, produce! Though it be but the merest fraction of a fragment, produce it, in God's name!" He had noticed that the materials for composition were always close at hand, though she never urged him to work.
He had come gradually to depend upon Rose—a great deal more than he realised. Quite often he perceived the truth of the saying that "a blue- ribbon friendship is better than an honourable mention love." It was evident that Isabel had never loved him, though she had been pleased and flattered by his love for her.
Even at the time that Aunt Francesca and Rose had congratulated him, and he had kissed them both in friendly fashion, he had taken passing note of the difference between Isabel and Rose. Of course it was only that Isabel was made of ice and Rose of flesh and blood, but still, it was pleasant to remember that—
His thoughts began to stray into other fields. Rose was his promised wife, as far as name went, yet she treated him with the frank good comradeship that a liberal social code makes possible between men and women. As far as Rose was concerned, there was no sentiment in the world.
When she read to him, it was invariably a story of adventure or of humorous complications, or a well-chosen exposition of some recent advance in science or art. Their conversation was equally impersonal, even at the rare times they chanced to be alone. Rose made Colonel Kent, Aunt Francesca, Doctor Jack, and even the nurse equally welcome to Allison's society.
He went freely from room to room on the upper floor, but had not yet been downstairs, as a possible slip on the steps might do irreparable injury. Doctor Jack wanted to get him downstairs and outdoors, believing that actual contact with the earth is almost as good for people as it is for plants, but saw no way to manage it without a stretcher, which he knew Allison would violently resent.
The twins came occasionally, by special invitation, though nobody noticed that it was always Doctor Jack who suggested it. Once they brought a pan of Juliet's famous fudges, which were politely appreciated by the others and extravagantly praised by the Doctor. The following day he was rewarded by a private pan of especially rich fudges—but Romeo brought it, on his way to the post-office.
There was a daily card-party upon the upper veranda, and sometimes meals were served there. The piano had been moved upstairs into a back room. The whole-hearted devotion of the household was beautiful to behold, yet underneath it all, like an unseen current, was the tense strain of waiting.
It was difficult not to annoy Doctor Jack with questions. Rose and the Colonel continually reminded themselves and each other that he would be only too glad to bring encouragement at the moment he found it, and that by quiet and patience they could help him most.
Juliet had pleaded earnestly with Doctor Jack to save Allison's hand. "If you don't," she said, with uplifted eyes, "I'll be miserable all the rest of my life."
"Bless your little heart," the Doctor had answered, kindly; "I'd do 'most anything to keep you from being miserable, even the impossible, which happens to be my specialty."
She did not quite understand, but sent a burnt offering to the Doctor, in the shape of a chocolate cake. He had returned the compliment by sending her the biggest box of candy she had ever seen, and, as it arrived about noon, she and Romeo had feasted upon it until they could eat no more, and had been uncomfortably ill for two days. Romeo had attributed their misfortune to the candy itself, but Juliet believed that their constitutions had been weakened by their penitential fare, and, as soon as she was able, proved her point by finishing the last sweet morsel without painful results.
The Summer waned and tints of palest gold appeared here and there upon the maples. The warm wind had the indefinable freshness of the Autumn sea, blown far inland at dawn. Allison became impatient and restless, the Colonel went off alone for long, moody walks; even Doctor Jack began to show the effects of the long strain.
Only Rose was serene. Fortunately, no one guessed the tumult that lay beneath her outward calm. Her manner toward Allison was, if anything, more impersonal than ever, though she failed in no thoughtful kindness, no possible consideration. He accepted it all as a matter of course, but began to wish, vaguely, for something more.
He forebore to remind her of their strange relation, and could not allude to the night he had kissed her, while his fiancee stood near by. Yet, late one afternoon, when she had excused herself a little earlier than usual, he called her back.
"Rose?"
"Yes?" She returned quickly and stood before him, just out of his reach.
"What is it? What can I do for you?"
The tone was kind but impersonal, as always. "Nothing," he sighed, turning his face away.
That night she pondered long. What could Allison want that she had not given? The blood surged into her heart for an instant, then retreated. "Nonsense," she said to herself in tremulous anger. "It's impossible!"
Afterward it seemed continually to happen that she was alone with Allison when the time came to say good-night and drive home, or walk, escorted by Colonel Kent or the Doctor. By common consent, they seemed to make excuses to leave the room as the hour of departure approached, and she always found it easier when someone was there.
Again, when she had made her adieux and had reached the door leading into the hall, Allison called her back.
"Yes?" "Couldn't you—just once, you know—for good-night?" he asked, with difficulty.
His face made his meaning clear. Rose bent, kissed him tenderly upon the forehead, and quickly left the room. Her heart was beating so hard that she did not know she stumbled upon the threshold, nor did she hear his low: "Thank you—dear."
That night she could not sleep. "I can't," she said to herself, miserably; "I can't possibly go on, if—Oh, why should he make it so hard for me!"
If the future was to be possible on the lines already laid down, he, too, must keep the impersonal attitude. Yet, none the less, she was conscious of an uplifting joy that would not be put aside, but insistently demanded its right of expression.
She did not dare trust herself to see Allison again, and yet she must. She could not fail him now, when he needed her so much, nor could she ask the others to see that they were not left alone. One day might be gained for respite by the plea of a headache, which is woman's friend as often as it is her enemy.
And, after that one day, what then? What other excuse could she make that would not seem heartless and cold?
It was an old saying of Aunt Francesca's that "when you can't see straight ahead, it's because you're about to turn a corner." She tormented herself throughout the night with futile speculations that led to nothing except the headache which she had planned to offer as an excuse.
A brief note gave her the day to herself, and also brought flowers from Allison, with a friendly note in his own hand. Doctor Jack was the messenger and took occasion to offer his services in the conquest of the headache, but Rose declined with thanks, sending down word that she preferred to sleep it off.
Though breakfast might be a movable feast at Madame's, it was always consistently late. It was nearly nine o'clock in the morning when the telephone wakened Madame from a dreamless sleep. She listened until it became annoying, but no one answered it. Finally she got up, rather impatiently, and went to it herself, anticipating Rose by only a minute.
Tremulous with suspense, Rose waited, scarcely daring to breathe until Madame turned with a cry of joy, the receiver falling from her nerveless hand. "Rose! Rose! he's saved! Our boy is saved! He's saved, do you understand?"
"Blessedly sure! Oh, Rose, he's saved!"
The little old lady was sobbing in an ecstasy of relief.
Rose led her to a couch and waited quietly until she was almost calm, then went back to her own room. Once more her world was changed, as long ago she had seen how it must be with her should the one thing happen. She, with the others, had hoped and prayed for it; her dearest dream had come true at last, and left her desolate.
She was unselfishly glad for Allison, for the Colonel, Aunt Francesca, Doctor Jack, the sorrowing twins, and, in a way, for herself. It had been given her to serve him, and she had not hoped for more. It made things easier now, though she had not thought the corner would be turned in just this way.
Having made up her mind and completed her plans, she went to Madame as soon as she was dressed. She had hidden her paleness with so little rouge that even Madame's keen eyes could not suspect it.
"Aunt Francesca," she began, without preliminary, "I've got to go away."
"Why, dear, and where? For how long?"
"Because I'm so tired. Things have been hard for me—over there, lately —and I don't care where I go."
"I see," returned Madame, tenderly. "You want to go away for a rest.
You've needed it for a long time."
"Yes," Rose nodded, swinging easily into the lie that did not deceive either. "Oh, Aunt Francesca, can I go to-day?"
"Surely—at any hour you choose."
"Indeed I will. I'll just say that you've been obliged to go away on business—to look after some investments for both of us, and I hope you'll stay away long enough to get the rest and change you've needed for almost a year."
"Oh, Aunt Francesca, how good you are! But where? Where shall I go?"
Madame had been thinking of that. She knew the one place where Rose could go, and attain her balance in solitude, untroubled by needless questions or explanations. With the feeling of the mother who gives her dead baby's dainty garments to a living child sorely in need, she spoke.
"To my house up in the woods—the little house where love lived, so long ago."
Rose's pale lips quivered for an instant. "What have I to do with love?"
"Go to the house where he lived once, and perhaps you may find out."
"I will—I'll be glad to go. If I could make the next train, could you arrange to have a trunk follow me?"
"Of course. Go on, dear. I know how it happens sometimes, that one can't stay in one place any longer. I suffered from wanderlust until I was almost seventy, and it's a long time since you've been away."
"And you'll promise not to tell anybody?"
"I promise."
While Rose was packing a suit-case, Madame brought her a rusty, old- fashioned key, and a card on which she had written directions for the journey. "I've ordered the carriage," she said, "and I'll drive down with you to see you safely off."
After the packing was completed and while there was still nearly an hour to wait before the carriage would come, Rose locked her door, and, after many failures, achieved her note:
"You don't know how glad I am for you and how glad I shall be all the rest of my life. I've hoped and dreamed and prayed from the very beginning that it might be so, and I believe that, in time, you'll have back everything you have lost.
"Now that you no longer need me, I am going away to attend to some necessary business for Aunt Francesca and myself, and perhaps to rest a little while in some new place before I go back to my work.
"Of course our make-believe engagement expires automatically now, and I hope you'll soon find the one woman meant to make you happy. I am glad to think that I've helped you a little when you came to a hard place, for the most that any one of us may do for another is to smooth the road.
"Remember me to the others, say good-bye for me, and believe me, with all good wishes,
When she sealed and addressed it, she had a queer sense of closing the door, with her own hands, upon all the joy Life might have in store for her in years to come. Yet the past few weeks were secure, beyond the power of change or loss, and her pride was saved.
No one could keep her from loving him, and the thought brought a certain comfort to her sore heart. Wherever he might be and whatever might happen to him, she could still love him from afar, and have, for her very own, the woman's joy of utmost giving.
When the carriage came, she went down, and, without a word put her note into Aunt Francesca's faithful hands. Isabel had not appeared, fortunately, and it was not necessary to leave any message—Aunt Francesca would make it right, as she always had with everybody.
When the little old lady lifted her face, saying: "Good-bye, dear, come back to me soon," Rose's heart misgave her. "I'll stay," she said, brokenly; "I won't leave you."
But Madame only smiled, and nodded toward the waiting train. She stood on the platform, waving her little lace-bordered handkerchief, until the last car rounded the curve and the fluttering bit of white that was waved in answer had vanished.