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Page 15
"Nonsense," said Allison quickly. "How can a rose be old?"
"Or," continued the Colonel, with an air of old-world gallantry, "how
can earth itself be any older, having borne so fair a rose upon its
breast for forty years?"
"Thank you both," responded Rose, her high colour receding. "Shall we
play again?"
While they were turning over the music Madame grappled with a temptation
to rebuke Isabel then and there. "Not fit for a parlour yet," she
thought. "Ought to be in the nursery on a bread and milk diet and put to
bed at six."
For her part, Isabel dimly discerned that she had said something
awkward, and felt vaguely uncomfortable. She was sorry if she had made a
social mistake and determined to apologise afterward, though she
disliked apologies.
Allison was playing again, differently, yet in the same way. Through the
violin sounded the same high call to Rose. Life assumed a new breadth
and value, as from a newly discovered dimension. She had been in it, yet
not of it, until now. She was merged insensibly with something vast and
universal, finite yet infinite, unknown and undreamed-of an hour ago.
She was quite pale when they finished. "You're tired," he said. "I'm
sorry."
"I'm not," she denied, vigorously.
"But you are," he insisted. "Don't you suppose I can see?" His eyes met
hers for the moment, clearly, and, once more, she answered an unspoken
summons in some silent way. The room turned slowly before her; their
faces became white spots in a mist.
"You play well," Allison was saying. "I wish you'd let me work with
you."
"I'll be glad to," Rose answered, with lips that scarcely moved.
"Will you help me work up my programs for next season?"
"Indeed I will. Don't stop now, please--really, I'm not tired."
While she was still protesting, he led her away from the piano to an
easy chair. "Sit there," he said, "and I'll do the work. Those
accompaniments are heavy."
He went back to his violin, tightened a string, and began to play,
alone. The melody was as delicate in structure as the instrument itself,
yet strangely full of longing. Slowly the violin gave back the music of
which it was made; the wind in the forest, the sound of many waters,
moonlight shimmering through green aisles of forest, the mating calls of
Spring. And again, through it all, surged some great question to which
Rose thrilled in unspoken answer; a great prayer, which, in some secret
way, she shared.
It came to an end at last when she felt that she could bear no more.
"What is it?" she forced herself to ask.
"I haven't named it," he replied, putting down his violin.
"Is--is it--yours?"
"Of course. Why not?"
Isabel came to the piano and took up the violin. "May I look at it?"
"Certainly."
She stroked the brown breasts curiously and twanged the strings as
though it were a banjo. "What make is it?"
"Cremona. Dad gave it to me for Christmas, a long time ago. It belonged
to an old man who died of a broken heart."
"What broke his heart?" queried Isabel, carelessly.
"One of his hands was hurt in some way, and he could play no more."
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