Old Rose and Silver | Page 2

leaving few lines. Her hands, resting on the arms of her chair, had not
lost their youthful contour, but around her eyes and the corners of her
mouth were the faint prints of many smiles.
"Rose," said Madame Bernard, suddenly, "you are very lovely
to-night."
"I was thinking the same of you," responded the younger woman,
flushing. "Shall we organise ourselves into a mutual admiration
society?"
"We might as well, I think. There seems to be nobody else."
A shadow crossed Rose's face and her beauty took on an appealing
wistfulness. She had been sheltered always and she hungered for Life
as the sheltered often do. Madame Bernard, for the thousandth time,
looked at her curiously. From the shapely foot that tapped restlessly on
the rug beneath her white lace gown, to the crown of dusky hair with
red- gold lights in it, Rose was made for love--and Madame wondered
how she had happened to miss it.
"Aunt Francesca," said Rose, with a whimsical sadness, "do you realise
that I'm forty to-day?"
"That's nothing," returned the other, serenely. "Everybody has been

forty, or will be, if they live."
"I haven't lived yet," Rose objected. "I've only been alive."
"'While there's life there's hope,'" quoted Madame lightly. "What do
you want, dear child? Battle, murder, and sudden death?"
"I don't know what I want."
"Let's take an inventory and see if we can find out. You have one
priceless blessing--good health. You have considerably more than your
share of good looks. Likewise a suitable wardrobe; not many clothes,
but few, and those few, good. Clothes are supposed to please and
satisfy women. You have musical talent, a love of books and flowers, a
fine appreciation of beauty, a host of friends, and that one supreme gift
of the gods--a sense of humour. In addition to all this, you have a
comfortable home and an income of your own that enables you to do
practically as you please. Could you ask for more?"
"Not while I have you, Aunt Francesca. I suppose I'm horrid."
"You couldn't be, my dear. I've left marriage out of the question, since,
if you'd had any deep longing for it, you'd have chosen some one from
the horde that has infested my house for fifteen years and more. You've
surely been loved."
Rose smiled and bit her lip. "I think that's it," she murmured. "I've
never cared for anybody--like that. At least, I don't think I have."
"'When in doubt, don't,'" resumed the other, taking refuge in a platitude.
"Is there any one of that faithful procession whom you particularly
regret?"
"No," answered Rose, truthfully.
"Love is like a vaccination," continued the little lady in grey, with
seeming irrelevance. "When it takes, you don't have to be told."
Her tone was light, almost flippant, and Rose, in her turn, wondered at

the woman and her marvellous self-control. At twenty-five, Madame
Bernard married a young French soldier, who had chosen to serve his
adopted country in the War of the Rebellion. In less than three months,
her gallant Captain was brought home to her--dead.
For a long time, she hovered uncertainly between life and death. Then,
one day, she sat up and asked for a mirror. The ghost of her former self
looked back at her, for her colour was gone, her hair was quickly
turning grey, and the light had vanished from her eyes. Yet the valiant
spirit was not broken, and that day, with high resolve, she sent her soul
forward upon the new way.
"He was a soldier," she said, "and I, his wife, will be a soldier too. He
faced Death bravely and I shall meet Life with as much courage as God
will give me. But do not, oh, do not even speak his name to me, or I
shall forget I am a soldier and become a woman again."
So, gradually, it became understood that the young soldier's name was
not to be mentioned to his widow. She took up her burden and went on,
devoting herself to the army service until the war was over. Then she
ceased to labour with lint and bandages and betook herself to new
surroundings. Her husband's brother offered her a home, but she was
unable to accept, for the two men looked so much alike that she could
not have borne it. Sometimes, even now, she turned away in pain from
Rose, who resembled her father.
"'Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,'" Madame Bernard was
saying. "I seem to run to conversational antiques tonight. 'Doctor,
lawyer, merchant, chief--' which will you have, Rose? If I remember
rightly, you've had all but the thief already. Shall I get you a nice
embezzler, or will a plain burglar do?"
"Neither," laughed Rose. "I'm safe from embezzlers, I think,