"How she will come to me!" he breathed, in ecstasy. "Ah, how she will come!"

And so, smiling, he slept, as the first shaft of sun that brought his dear To-Morrow fell full upon his face.

XVI

HOW ISABEL CAME

Madame Bernard and Rose were so deeply affected by Allison's misfortune that they scarcely took note of Isabel's few bruises, greatly to that young woman's disgust. She chose to consider herself in the light of a martyr and had calmly received the announcement that Allison's left hand would probably have to be amputated.

None of them had seen him, though the two older women were ready to go at any hour of the day or night they might be needed or asked for.

Isabel affected a sprained ankle and limped badly when anyone was looking. Once or twice she had been seen to walk almost as usual, though she did not know it.

The upper hall, and, occasionally, the other parts of the house, smelled of the various liniments and lotions with which she anointed herself.

She scorned the suggestion that she should stay in bed, for she was quite comfortable upon a couch, in her most becoming negligee, with a novel and a box of chocolates to bear her company.

At first, she had taken her meals in her own room, but, finding that it was more pleasant to be downstairs with the others for luncheon and dinner, managed to go up and down the long flight of stairs twice each day.

Placid as she was, the table was not a cheerful place, for the faces of the other two were haggard and drawn, and neither made more than a pretence of eating. Daily bulletins came from the other house as to Allison's condition, and Madame was in constant communication by telegraph with Colonel Kent. She kept him rea.s.sured as much as possible, and did not tell him of Allison's ineradicable delusion that his father was dead.

Allison's note was given to Isabel at luncheon the day after it was written, having been delayed in delivery the night before until after she was asleep. With it was a letter from her mother, which had come in the noon mail.

She opened Allison's note first, read it, and put it back into the envelope. Her mother's letter was almost equally brief. That, too, she returned to its envelope without comment.

"How is your mother, Isabel?" inquired Madame, having caught a glimpse of the bold, dashing superscription which was familiar, though infrequent.

"She's all right," Isabel answered, breaking open a hot m.u.f.fin. "It's funny that it should come at the same time as the other."

"Why?" asked Rose, merely for the sake of making conversation.

"Because just as Mamma writes to tell me that marriage is slavery, but that if he can take care of me and Aunt Francesca approves of him, it will be all right, Allison writes and releases me from the engagement."

"Poor boy!" sighed Madame.

"I don't know why you should say 'poor boy,'" Isabel observed, rather fretfully. "He's not very ill if he can write letters. I'm sure I don't feel like writing any."

"I wasn't thinking of that," said Madame, half to herself.

"And as for his releasing me," Isabel went on, coolly, "I'm glad he was decent enough to do it and save me the trouble of releasing myself."

Rose got to her feet somehow, her face deathly white. "Do you mean," she cried, "that you would think for a minute of accepting release?"

"Why, certainly," the girl replied, in astonishment. "Why not? He says himself that he can't ask me to marry a cripple."

Rose winced visibly. "Isabel!" she breathed. "Oh, Isabel!"

"My dear," said Madame, with such kindness as she could muster, "have you forgotten that he saved you from death, or worse?"

"He didn't do anything for me but to tell me to jump. I did more for him than that. n.o.body seems to think it was anything for me to get up out of the dust, with my best white dress all ruined and my face scratched and my ankle sprained and one arm bleeding, and help the Crosbys carry a heavy man to their machine and lay him on the back seat."

"I thought the Crosbys carried him," put in Madame. "They're strong enough to do it, I should think."

"Well, I helped. I had to take all that nasty raw meat out of the back seat and throw it out in the ditch to the dogs, and stand up all the way home, bruised as I was, to keep him from falling off the seat. We were in a perfect bedlam there for a while, but it doesn't seem to make any difference to anybody. n.o.body cares what happens to me."

"Besides," she went on, with her voice raised to a high pitch by excitement, "I don't see why I should be expected to marry a man with only one hand. He can't play any more, and if he can't play, how can he make any money to take care of me, even if I should tie myself to him for life? Do you expect me to take in washing and take care of him?"

"Isabel," said Madame, coldly, "please stop talking so loudly and please listen for a moment. n.o.body expects you to marry a man whom, for any reason on earth, you do not love well enough to marry. Kindly consider that as something to be settled in accordance with your own wishes and desires."

"Certainly,"' interrupted the girl. "I'd like to see anybody force me to marry him!"

Madame compressed her lips into a thin, tight line, and her face became stern, even hard. She clenched her small hands tightly and her breath came quickly. A red spot burned on either cheek.

Never having seen Madame angry before, Rose was almost frightened. She herself was not angry, but hurt--for him. At the moment she heard of the accident, her love for him had transcended the bounds of self and merged into prayer for him and for his good, whatever that might prove to be.

"Isabel," said Rose, very softly, "will you do one thing for me?"

"What?" Isabel demanded, suspiciously.

"Listen, dear. For me, if not for him, will you go to him, and--well, simply be kind? Don't let him think that this terrible thing has separated him from you or changed your love. Wait until he is strong and well again before you tell him. Will you, please?"

Isabel's flushed face took on the expression of outraged virtue. "I don't know why I should be expected to lie," she remarked evasively, with a subtle change of manner.

Madame Bernard cleared her throat. "Your love was a lie," she said, in a tone that neither of them had ever heard her use before. "One more won't matter."

Isabel fidgeted in her chair and nervously tapped the edge of her plate with her fork. "I haven't heard anybody say," she began, with the air of one scoring a fine point, "that his father doesn't love him, and yet he hasn't gone near him--hasn't even seen him since we were hurt. If Colonel Kent can stay away from him, I don't know why I can't."

The argument seemed unanswerable, for neither Madame nor Rose spoke.

They sat with averted eyes until the silence became oppressive, and Isabel, with ostentatious difficulty, pushed back her chair and limped painfully out of the room.

When she had locked her own door, she was more at ease, and began to survey her unpleasant situation. n.o.body seemed to consider her at all-- it was only Allison, and everything and everybody, apparently, must be sacrificed for him. Just because she had promised to marry him, when he had both hands, they wanted her to go on with it, in spite of the fact that he saw it was impossible.

Isabel sighed heavily. n.o.body knew how keenly disappointed she was. She had written to her few friends, told them about her engagement ring, the plans made for her trousseau, the promised touring car, and the brilliant social career that lay before her as the wife of a famous violinist.

She pictured a triumphal tour from city to city, with the leaders of fashion everywhere vying with each other in entertaining them--or, at least, her. It would, of course, be necessary for Allison to play occasionally in the evening and they would miss a great deal on that account, but her days would be free, and she could cancel all her own social obligations by complimentary tickets and suppers after the concerts.

She had planned it all as she took lazy st.i.tches in her dainty lingerie.

Aunt Francesca and Rose had been helping her, but the whole thing had stopped suddenly. It seemed rather selfish of them not to go on with it, for lingerie was always useful, and even though she should not marry Allison, it was not at all improbable that she would marry someone else.

If she could find anybody who had plenty of money and would be good to her, she knew that she would encounter no parental opposition, in spite of Mrs. Ross's p.r.o.nounced views upon the slavery of matrimony.

Allison had been very decent in releasing her from her awkward predicament. He had even arranged it so that no answer was necessary and she need not even see him again. She had the natural shrinking of the healthy young animal from its own stricken kind. It would be much nicer not to see him again.

But, if he could write letters now, it would not be long before he would be able to come over, though his hand had not yet been taken off. It was too bad, for everything had been very pleasant until the accident. She had missed Allison's daily visits and had probably lost the touring car, though as she had taken pains to find out, it had fallen into the ditch and had been injured very little.