Old Rose and Silver Part 3

Madame smiled at that, and yielded gracefully. "There must be infinite scrubbing, after all these years. I believe I'll superintend operations from here. Then, when it's all done, I'll go over and welcome them home."

"That is as it should be. Isabel and I will go over this afternoon, and when we come back, we can tell you all about it."

"You'd better drive--I'm sure the paths aren't broken."

So, after luncheon, the two started out with the keys, Madame waving them a cheery good-bye from the window.

"Everything about this place seems queer to me," said Isabel. "It's the same, and yet not the same."

"I know," Rose answered. "Things are much smaller, aren't they?"

"Yes. The rooms used to be vast and the ceilings very far away. Now, they're merely large rooms with the ceilings comfortably high. The garden used to seem like a huge park, but now it's only a large garden.

There used to be a great many steps in the stairway, and high ones at that. Now it's nothing compared with other flights. Only Aunt Francesca remains the same. She hasn't changed at all."

"She's a saint," said Rose with deep conviction, as the carriage turned into the driveway.

The house, set far back from the street, was of the true Colonial type, with stately white pillars at the dignified entrance. The garden was a tangled ma.s.s of undergrowth--in spite of the snow one could see that-- but the house, being substantially built, had changed scarcely at all.

"A new coat of paint will freshen it up amazingly," said Rose, as they went up the steps. She was thrilled with a mysterious sense of adventure which the younger woman did not share. "I feel like a burglar," she continued, putting the key into the rusty lock.

"I feel cold," remarked Isabel, shivering in her furs.

At last the wide door swung on its creaking hinges and they went into the loneliness and misery of an empty house. The dust of ages had settled upon everything and penetrated every nook and cranny. The floors groaned dismally, and the scurrying feet of mice echoed through the walls. Cobwebs draped the windows, where the secret spinners had held high carnival, undisturbed. An indescribable musty odour almost stifled them and the chill dampness carried with it a sense of gloom and foreboding.

"My goodness!" Isabel exclaimed. "n.o.body can ever live here again."

"Don't be discouraged," laughed Rose. "Soap, water, sunshine, and fire can accomplish miracles."

At the end of the hall a black, empty fireplace yawned cavernously.

There was another in the living-room and still another in the library back of it. Isabel opened the door on the left. "Why, there's another fireplace in the dining-room," she said. "Do you suppose they have one in the kitchen, too?"

"Go in and see, if you like."

"I'm afraid to go alone. You come, too."

There was no fireplace in the kitchen, but the rusty range was sadly in need of repair.

"I'm going down cellar," Rose said. "Are you coming?"

"I should say not. Hurry back, won't you?"

Rose went cautiously down the dark, narrow stairway. The light was dim in the bas.e.m.e.nt but she could see that there was no coal. She went back and forth several times from bin to window, making notes in a small memorandum book. She was quite determined that Aunt Francesca should be able to find no fault with her housekeeping.

When she went back, there were no signs of Isabel. She went from room to room, calling, then concluded that she had gone back to the carriage, which was waiting outside.

Rose took measurements for new curtains in all the rooms on the lower floor, then climbed the creaking stairway. She came upon Isabel in the sitting-room, upstairs, standing absorbed before an open desk. In her hand she held something which gleamed brightly, even in the gathering shadow.

"Isabel!" she cried, in astonishment.

The girl turned and came forward. Her eyes were sparkling. "Look!

There's a secret drawer in the desk and I found this in it. I love secret drawers, don't you?"

"I never have looked for them in other people's houses," Rose answered, coldly.

"I never have either," retorted Isabel, "except when I've been invited to clean other people's houses."

There was something so incongruous in the idea of Isabel cleaning a house that Rose laughed and the awkward moment quickly pa.s.sed.

"Look," said Isabel, again.

Rose took it from her hand--a lovely miniature framed in brilliants. A sweet, old-fashioned face was pictured upon the ivory in delicate colours--that of a girl in her early twenties, with her smooth, dark hair drawn back over her ears. A scarf of real lace was exquisitely painted upon the dark background of her gown. The longing eyes held Rose transfixed for an instant before she noted the wistful, childish droop of the mouth. The girl who had posed for the miniature, if she had been truthfully portrayed, had not had all that she asked from life.

"Look at this," Isabel continued.

She offered Rose a bit of knitting work, from which the dust of years fell lightly. It had once been white, and the needles were still there, grey and spotted with rust. Rose guessed that the bit had been intended for a baby's shoe, but never finished. The little shoe had waited, all those years, for hands that never came back from the agony in which they wrung themselves to death in the room beyond.

The infinite pity of it stirred Rose to quick tears, but Isabel was unmoved. "Here's something else," she said.

She shook the dust from an old-fashioned daguerreotype case, then opened it. On the left side was a young soldier in uniform, full length--a dashing, handsome figure with one hand upon a drawn sword. Printed in faded gilt upon the dusty red satin that made up the other half of the case, the words were still distinct: "To Colonel Richard Kent, from his friend, Jean Bernard."

"Jean Bernard!" Isabel repeated, curiously. "Who was he?"

"Aunt Francesca's husband," answered Rose, with a little catch in her voice, "and my uncle. He died in the War."

"Oh," said Isabel, unmoved. "He was nice looking, wasn't he? Shall we take this to Aunt Francesca?"

"You forget that it isn't ours to take," Rose reminded her. "And, by the way, Isabel, you must never speak to Aunt Francesca of her husband. She cannot bear it."

"All right," a.s.sented the girl. "What is this?"

From the back of the drawer she took out a bronze medal, with a faded ribbon of red, white, and blue attached to it. She took it to the light, rubbed it with her handkerchief, and slowly made out the words: "Awarded to Colonel Richard Kent, for conspicuous bravery in action at Gettysburg."

"Put the things back," Rose suggested, gently. This tiny, secret drawer, Colonel Kent's holy of holies, symbolised and epitomised the best of a man's life. The medal for military service, the miniature of his wife, the picture of his friend, and the bit of knitting work that comprehended a world of love and anguish and bereavement--these were the hidden chambers of his heart.

Isabel took up the miniature again before she closed the drawer. "Do you suppose those are diamonds?"

"No; only brilliants."

"I thought so. If they'd been diamonds, he would never have left them here."

"On the contrary," answered Rose, "I'm very sure he would." She had met Colonel Kent only a few times, years ago, during the Summer he had spent at home while Allison was still abroad, but she knew him now, nevertheless.

They went on through the house, making notes of what was needed, while their footsteps echoed and re-echoed through the empty rooms. "I'm glad there are no carpets, except on the stairs," said Rose, "for rugs are much easier to clean. It resolves itself simply into three C's--coal, curtains, and cleaning. It won't take long, if we can get enough people to work at it."

It was almost dusk when they went downstairs, but the cold slanting sunbeams of a Winter afternoon came through the grimy windows and illumined the gloomy depths of the open fireplace in the hall. Motes danced in the beam, and the house somehow seemed less despairing, less alone. A portrait of Colonel Kent, in uniform, hung above the great mantel. Rose smiled at it with comprehension, but the painted lips did not answer, nor the unseeing eyes swerve from their steady searching of Beyond.

"How was it?" asked Madame, when they reached home. "Dirty and bad?"