Part 11

Rose had just mounted her horse at her own door and was dismissing the negro who had held the reins. The sun shone full in her face and made a nimbus of her soft bright hair, while her slim figure in the saddle looked more youthful than ever. She had recognized Sandy and greeted him with a kindly word as he leaped at her stirrup, and seeing his master behind him, she held in her restless horse and waited quietly, only a slight deepening of the color in her cheeks indicating the tumult in her heart. She had schooled herself for the moment and even in the shock of unexpected meeting her training held good; she was more composed than he was, as she answered his greeting. But, at a glance, he saw the change in her, the reserve in her eyes, the slightness of her smile, and taking offense at what seemed to him an injustice, he overlooked the fact that it was the baldest, the most pitiful acting of one who had never dissembled before in her life.

“It’s too perfect a day to be indoors,” she said, with a lightness of tone which shocked her own ears; “I am going down by the speedway to see the river and that soft haze which I know is lying over on the Virginia shore; in the afternoon sun it looks like a mirage.”

“I don’t think I should enjoy the sight,” Fox said dryly; “life has been too much of a mirage to me lately.”

She looked down at him, the sun illuminating her beautiful eyes. “Life?” she repeated, with sudden girlish enthusiasm; “isn’t it what we make it? We owe it to ourselves--that moral responsibility.”

He laughed with bitterness; her childishness struck him with renewed force; she could never understand his impossible situation; she would condemn him, and he deserved it! “Moral responsibility!” he repeated, with sudden fury, “what cant it is. I’d be willing to cast it all into Hades for one moment of liberty from these wretched shackles which ‘make cowards of us all!’ No living man can control his life where it touches another’s.”

She shrank instinctively, with a sharp moral recoil, from his impassioned words, coloring deeply. Her hands trembled as she held the bridle, and even that slight motion made her horse swerve, eager to be off. Intuition, swift and unerring, interpreted his words and his sudden stress of feeling. “Pardon me,” she said simply, “I did not mean to set myself up as a judge. I suppose I’m very ignorant of such matters and--I would rather be so,” she added with gentle dignity.

He looked at her deeply touched. “My God, Rose,” he murmured, “leave me; if you stay a moment longer I must speak, and you will never forgive me!”

Her lip trembled like a child’s, but her clear eyes were full of a grave condemnation; yet she was deeply moved; he had never called her by her name before, and the sound of it upon his lips, the very way in which it was uttered voiced his heart; she could not close her ears to it, no matter how much she struggled with herself, and she did struggle, determined to hide her own pang of anguished regret. For a moment neither spoke, then she leaned slightly from her saddle and held out her hand. “Let us part friends,” she said in a voice of restraint.

He did not take her hand; he groaned. “I cannot!” he exclaimed with renewed bitterness; “do not offer a sop to a starving man!”

Her horse plunged and she grasped the bridle again with both hands. Her face changed so completely that it seemed to him a strange face. He could not read it but he believed that, in her heart, she condemned him, that he appeared to her in the guise of Mephistopheles himself. Yet, as she turned and looked back at him, there was an expression in her eyes at once inscrutable and beautiful; he could never be sure how far it confessed her heart. Had she loved him? It was impossible to know, and he stood mute watching her slight figure outlined against the sun as she galloped down the long quiet street, under an arcade of new green, wreathed here and there with the bloom of the tulip trees, narrowing at last to an arched vista of luminous sky above blue distant hills; its stillness and its new thick foliage shutting from view, at once of mind and eye, the city life which enfolded it, and was shut out by its gracious gift of leafage, which hid long rows of houses or clothed them with imaginary beauty.

Fox stood still, rooted to the spot, his mind darkened by the fierce tumult of feeling which clamored against fate and against Margaret. She had broken with him long ago, what right had she to thrust herself into his life? Then the picture of her in her forlorn grief, in her appeal to him, came back with an abruptness which wrung a groan from his lips. What man, so placed as he, could fling her unhappy love in her face?

And Rose? What she believed of him, shaping her thoughts by that stern old moralist her father, it was not difficult to imagine!

He started to self-consciousness as Sandy, tired of waiting, suddenly jumped up and pawed his arm. Coming to himself again he flushed hotly at the discovery that some chance passers-by were staring at him, and whistling to the dog he walked rapidly away, the battle still raging in his soul with bitterness.

Meanwhile Rose had turned her horse’s head through less frequented streets toward the White Lot, and galloping through the bridle paths around the ellipse, she turned and crossing the street rode down to the speedway, the sun shining athwart her path and the river lying before her a sheet of silver.

As she had anticipated, a soft haze floated on the farther shore, the sun seemed to turn the very mist to gold, and through this glowing, impalpable atmospheric vapor she saw the beautiful swelling hills, half fledged in tenderest green, the shadows purple, the distances melting into the sky itself. Across the river a flock of birds winged their flight, vanishing at last into the heart of the west.

The long white road stretched smooth and bare to the water’s edge, she heard the tide lap the sand, and the sharp hoofbeats of her horse rang clear. It was almost deserted; some social function had drawn the tide of carriages and motors elsewhere; a few stragglers passed her, but she galloped on. Behind her the city dropped away into silence, the foliage in the open spaces of the park and the White House grounds almost hiding the public buildings and clothing the whole with a sylvan aspect. Some children paddled at the water’s edge; a boy cast his net; the prattle of their voices came up through the clear soft air.

Rose checked her horse and sat looking across the river, shading her eyes with her hand. The sight of Fox, the sound of his voice had unnerved her. She had thought herself strong enough to dismiss him from her mind, to live down that dream, that idle futile dream, but she found that she had not counted the cost, that she had suffered a serious hurt. Already Rose’s inner mind began to question her own judgment. She knew nothing of the circumstances; had she a right to condemn him? Secretly she blamed Margaret; what woman does not blame the other woman a little? What woman does not know that the other’s charming ways, her skill, her beauty, may have captured the unwary male creature almost against his will and certainly against his better judgment? Eve would never have blamed Adam in her heart if there had been any one for Adam to flirt with, but therein lay Eve’s profound superiority over her descendants--she was the only woman!

But Rose knew Margaret, knew her charm, her subtilty, her daring, and she battled with herself, trying to beat down her secret condemnation of the woman only. She was a stern little moralist, and she tried to be just; Fox must be to blame also, for was not Margaret married? The enormity of his offense could not be excused; besides, as she reflected, with a gnawing pain at her heart, of what avail to argue? If the divorce was granted--and it would be, beyond a doubt--Fox would marry Margaret.

Her lips tightened, her hands grasped the bridle again, and she galloped on, a wave of misery sweeping over her young soul, blotting out the bright contentment of her life, her natural cheerfulness. Suddenly she thought of that day a year ago, how happy she had been! She remembered it, a bright beautiful day, and she and Mrs. Allestree and Robert had driven out to Rock Creek Park and she had found some wood violets. A few months, and her old life had been blotted out, her happiness clouded; even her affection for her father seemed overshadowed, her whole being preoccupied and absorbed with this new misery. Was this then what men called love? Alack, she wished that she had never met the little blind god, or meeting him, had passed unscathed!

She turned her horse’s head and rode slowly back; the scent of flowers, of sweet new grass, of the fresh turned earth came to her, and the sweet treble note of a song-sparrow, but the world would never be quite the same again; she had met life face to face and learned one of its profound lessons. The young purity of her soul refused to accept it as a common lot, and it was characteristic of the sweetness of her temperament that, however she suffered, she did not blame Fox for having deliberately won her love, but she shrank, with almost physical repugnance, from the thought of him as the lover of a married woman. The judge’s lessons had gone even deeper than he knew.

XVII

GERTRUDE ENGLISH, with her hands clasped behind her, stood looking over Allestree’s shoulder and watching him as he worked, in a desultory way, at some details of Margaret’s now nearly finished portrait. It was good work, but it lacked the inspiration of his picture of Rose; it had been, indeed, well nigh impossible to convey the mockery, the uninterpreted mystery of Margaret’s glance.

“You haven’t made the face half sad enough,” was Gerty’s candid criticism, “and her eyes--do you suppose any one else ever had quite such eyes?”

Allestree smiled. “I was going to say that I hoped not, but I suppose you would construe that as a want of appreciation.”

Miss English opened her own eyes. “Of course I should,” she said promptly, “and I can’t see what you mean; her eyes are lovely!”

“Admitted!” he said teasingly; “you can’t understand me, Gerty; I have vagaries.”

“Oh, I suppose that’s genius, isn’t it?”

“Precisely, genius is a form, a mild one, of adolescent insanity.”

“Well, don’t get violent while I’m here, Robert,” she retorted; “I have enough of whirlwind and tornado just now with Margaret. Heavens, how glad I’d be if I didn’t have to go to Omaha with her!”

“Poor child, must you?” Allestree stopped painting and looked around with open sympathy.

“Oh, yes, I must,” Gerty replied with resignation; “I’m homely and poor, Robert, and they will take me along labelled--‘Propriety, reduced gentlewoman as secretary and chaperon, age near thirty, conduct exemplary, travelling expenses paid!’”

“I’d take to the woods, Gerty!” he laughed, not without sympathy; he dimly imagined the sting under the words.

“Or do something outrageous and get sent home--I wish I could, but I’d starve,” Gerty said calmly; “nothing else keeps me in the straight and narrow way but the fact that meat is twenty cents a pound and bread five. Isn’t it sordid? But I’m really dreadfully sorry for Margaret!”

“I was beginning to lose sight of that fact,” remarked Allestree dryly.

“I’m not sorry for Fox though,” she added, laughing maliciously.

Allestree frowned, concentrating his attention on the picture again. “It’s a wretched business,” he observed.

Gerty walked to the window and looked out; when she came back her face was flushed. “Robert, do you know I’m afraid that I did something wrong the other day,” she broke out; “I’m nearly sure I did!”

He looked at her smiling grimly. “You forgot about the scale of domestic necessities then, Gerty?” he said.

But she ignored him. “I went to see Rose some time ago, just after Margaret told me, and I talked--I talked too much.”

“The unruly member, alas!” he mocked, laughing now.

“I did,” she replied. “I told her about Fox and Margaret--and Robert,” Gerty paused and dropped into a convenient chair, “Robert, she turned as white as a ghost! Is it possible, do you think it’s possible that she loves Fox? I never thought of it until Lily Osborne told me so last week.”

“Mrs. Osborne--why do you listen to Mrs. Osborne?” Allestree broke out, with a fury which astounded Miss English; “she has no right to speak of Rose Temple, it’s--it’s an outrage!”

Gerty stared at him a moment in silence, her face reddening still more with the horrified recognition of another blunder; of course she knew that he had always loved Rose, in fact she had discounted his devotion as too stale an affair to be really vital. “I know Lily Osborne is a cat, _of_ course,” she said slowly, “but then one can’t be rude without any given reason. She didn’t say a word against Rose, and I suppose it’s natural enough if Fox has admired her; everybody does.”

But Allestree was not appeased. “Mrs. Osborne!” he broke out again, “of all women--Mrs. Osborne! Gerty, don’t you let her say a word to you again.”

“Good heavens, Robert, I shan’t dare squeak after this!” Miss English retorted plaintively; “and, of course, Mrs. Osborne will marry White and, they say, he’s going to lose his place in the Cabinet. What on earth has she been doing about the Russian and German ambassadors?”

“I don’t know,” said Allestree sharply, “and I don’t care!”

Gerty rose abruptly and picked up her parasol. “Robert,” she said with feeling, “you’re like a bear with a sore head, and I always said you had such a nice disposition; I should have fallen in love with you myself if I hadn’t had a snub nose and freckles.”

In spite of himself Robert laughed. “Was that an insurmountable barrier, Gerty?”

“Certainly; snub nosed girls never fall in love with artists, it isn’t profitable!” and Gerty moved toward the door.

As she did so she glanced out of the open window. “There’s Rose now,” she said and beckoned gayly; “she’ll come up and make amends for my blunders!” she laughed.

Allestree colored hotly, aware that he had betrayed himself; the amazing indelicacy of Gerty’s raillery was not inconsistent with her usual careless freedom of speech which gave much unwitting pain and had cost her correspondingly dear more than once, yet it made him wince to encounter it, to feel her thoughtless probe sink into the dearest recesses of his heart and be powerless to resent it. Frankness, after all, is frequently a doubtful virtue; like a two-edged sword it cleaves both ways and leaves no healing balsam in its train. It was Margaret White who always said that an expert and comfortable liar was an absolute blessing to society.

Meanwhile, Rose had dismounted at the door and come up stairs with no other motive than a desire to escape her own society. The sight of Gerty at the window furnished her with an excuse, and she came in still pale, in spite of her swift gallop by the river, and with a look in her eyes which shocked Allestree; he had never seen pain in her look before. Miss English greeted her affectionately; at heart she was really penitent.

“I came up here to see Lily Osborne’s picture,” she declared, “and Robert has sent it off already! Isn’t it a shame? I hadn’t seen it.”

“It was excellent,” Rose replied soberly, taking the chair Allestree pushed forward for her; “she really is a beauty, Gerty; I like to say that to show myself just and broad-minded!”

“That makes two pictures Robert has finished this winter;--yours and the serpent’s, as I call Lily Osborne, and now he is nearly done with Margaret.”

“Not many, if I’m to make a living by it, Gerty,” Allestree retorted smiling.

“A living? Goodness, if I could only get your prices!” Gerty raised her eyes and hands to heaven; “I’m a poor thing worth a dollar an hour and expenses.”

“Raise your rates, Gerty, you’re indispensable,” said Rose.

“Indeed I’m not, there are lots of others waiting for my shoes. Good-bye, dear children; I’m going now to write two dozen notes, pay fifty bills and interview a caterer and a florist,” and she kissed her hand to them as she withdrew, mischievously aware that she had coaxed Rose into an interview with Allestree; like Judge Temple, Gerty thought happiness lay in this direction and in no other.

As she disappeared Rose left her chair and went to look at Margaret’s portrait with dreamy eyes. “I must go, too,” she said, “I only stopped for a moment on my way. I’ve been riding by the river and through the White Lot. I kept thinking of those lines, do you remember them, Robert?--

“‘Hast thou seen by daisied leas, And by rivers flowing Lilac-ringlets which the breeze Loosens, lightly blowing!’”

“I’ve been longing to be out all day myself,” he said soberly enough, “to see the ‘lilac-ringlets,’ but I must finish this; in some way I have grown to believe that Margaret will never again be quite the Margaret we have known so long. I wanted to be sure of this expression.”

Rose looked again at the picture, and her lip quivered a little in spite of herself. “Yes,” she replied simply, “I understand you; I don’t believe you will see that old look again. I feel--” she paused, choosing her words, her eyes darkening with an emotion which she was controlling with an effort--“I feel as if Margaret had died, that some one else would come back to us, some one we do not know!”

It was a striking fact that at the very moment when Margaret believed that she was about to achieve happiness, her friends regarded her as approaching its final eclipse. One moment of detachment, of the external view-point, would open an appalling vista to many a human soul, for it is true that those whom the gods desire to destroy they first make blind.

As Rose voiced this thought Allestree averted his eyes; he felt the keenest regret for his thoughtless words; Gertrude English’s unmerciful tongue had torn away the veil from Rose’s emotions. He would have been more than human had not his heart burned with a sudden fierce anger. What right had Fox, who had so much, to step in between him and the girl he loved,--to wound a heart so delicate, so sensitive, so tender as hers?

“I pity Margaret!” he said sharply, with some bitterness, “but he who sows the tares--”

“I don’t want to judge,” Rose rejoined quietly; “father is very bitter against divorce; he thinks it a menace to the national existence, and I know I think always as he does and--perhaps I’m hard, Robert;” as she spoke she looked at him appealingly, resting her slender, ungloved hand on the easel beside Margaret’s portrait; her whole attitude was one of regret, of reluctance.

“I shouldn’t like to speak of it too often,” he said in a low voice, “as it stands--in the bare aspect that we see it--Margaret’s plain justification is lost in what we know to be her wild determination to be happy at any price.”

Rose sighed. His words revealed her own thought, she knew that Margaret sought divorce to marry Fox; it was hideous to her, unpardonable, and Fox? She was silent, looking at the pictured face, seeing its mystical beauty, that weird suggestion of an unhappy fate which seemed to shadow its wild loveliness. Allestree had only dimly conveyed it, but Rose’s memory supplied the details. No wonder that men fell under her spell; there was a charm as subtle as it was absolute in her whole personality.

“Ah, well,” Rose said at last, “it is natural--she is wonderful.”

She had almost forgotten Allestree, so absorbed was she in her own thoughts; and he saw her emotion and raged again at the thought of it. With a sudden impulse he bent and kissed the hand upon the easel. Rose started violently and blushed with painful emotion.

“Robert!” she exclaimed reproachfully.

“Can I say nothing?” he replied with passion; “must I stand by like a mute and let my happiness, my love, my life slip away from me? Rose, you ask too much!”

“I’m so sorry!” she said simply, “now I must go and--and I hate to seem unkind, Robert!”

Their eyes met with the shock of natural feeling and his face blanched. “Of course I know it’s useless, Rose, I’ve always known it, but--well, I had to speak, and you’ll have to forgive me for it!”

She smiled faintly. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said gently, “and I must go home to meet father anyway. Won’t you come with me, Robert?”

Without a word he laid down his brushes and the two went down the old stairs together, each miserable enough in different ways; the man bitterly rebellious, the girl resolutely enduring with a self repression that suggested her father in her.

XVIII

THAT very day Judge Temple violated his usual custom and did not come home promptly after court adjourned. The hour came and passed and he had not appeared.

Rose was waiting for him in the library and she began to glance uneasily at the clock. His habits were as fixed as the laws of the Medes and Persians; any deviation indicated something out of the common. These spring evenings it was his custom to walk in the garden before dinner. Rose had accordingly opened the long French window on the piazza and the tendrils of the jasmine vine, not yet budding, swung across it; the air was sweet, redolent with the perfume of the wistaria which hung in festoons on the arbor. The sweet full note of a catbird broke the stillness.

Rose walked to and fro, trying to distract her mind; if she relaxed a moment she heard Fox’s voice, saw his strong pale face. It was pathetically significant that Allestree, and Allestree’s pain at her finality had dropped from her mind. Love and youth are absolutely selfish, they ignore the universe.