"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 pa.s.sing 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-a.s.sumed 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 a.s.sured 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 rea.s.suring 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 s.p.a.ce 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.

XIV

THE THIRTIETH OF JUNE

Dinner that night had been rather a silent affair at Kent's, as well as at Madame Bernard's. Being absorbed in his own thoughts, Allison did not realise how unsociable he was, nor that the old man across the table from him perceived that they had reached the beginning of the end.

When Allison spoke, it was always of Isabel. Idealised in her lover's sight, she stood before him as the one "perfect woman, n.o.bly planned,"

predestined, through countless ages, to be his mate. Colonel Kent merely agreed with him in monosyllables until Allison became conscious that his father did not wholly share his enthusiasm.