Old Rose and Silver | Page 7

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. "Nobody 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 basement 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 passed.
"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," assented 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