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Page 28
"Only of you," Allison explained. "We were talking of names and
nicknames and saying that yours suited you."
"If it didn't," observed Madame Bernard, "I'd change it. When we get
civilised, I believe children will go by number until they get old
enough to choose their own names. Fancy a squirming little imp with a
terrible temper being saddled with the name of 'William,' by authority
of Church and State. Except to his doting parents, he'll never be
anything but 'Bill.'"
"Does my name fit me?" queried Isabel, much interested.
"It would," said Allison, "if you weren't quite so tall. Does my name
fit me?"
He spoke to Madame Bernard but he looked at Rose. It was the older woman
who answered him. "Yes, of course it does. How dare you ask me that when
I named you myself?"
"I'd forgotten," Allison laughed. "I can't remember quite that far
back."
They began to play once more and Isabel, pleading a headache, said good-
night. She made her farewells very prettily and there was a moment's
silence after the door closed.
"I'm afraid," said Madame, "that our little girl is lonely. Allison,
can't you bestir yourself and find some young men to call upon her? I
can't think of anybody but the Crosby twins."
"What's the matter with me?" inquired Allison, lightly. "Am I not
calling? And behold, I give her a headache and she goes to bed."
"You're not exactly in her phase of youth," Madame objected. "She's my
guest and she has to be entertained."
"I'm willing to do my share. I'll take her into town to the theatre some
night, and to supper afterward, in the most brilliantly lighted place I
can find."
"That's very nice of you," responded Rose, with a look of friendly
appreciation. "I know she would enjoy the bright lights."
"We all do, in certain moods," he said. "Are you ready now?"
The voice of the violin rose to heights of ecstasy, sustained by full
chords in the accompaniment. Mingled with the joy of it, like a breath
of sadness and longing, was a theme in minor, full of question and
heartbreak; of appeal that was almost prayer. And over it all, as
always, hovering like some far light, was the call to which Rose
answered. Dumbly, she knew that she must always answer it, though she
were dead and the violin itself mingled with her dust.
Madame Bernard, still seated by the fire, stirred uneasily. Something
had come into her house that vaguely troubled her, because she had no
part in it. The air throbbed with something vital, keen, alive; the room
trembled as from invisible wings imprisoned.
Old dreams and memories came back with a rush, and the little old lady
sitting in the half light looked strangely broken and frail. The sound
of marching and the steady beat of a drum vibrated through her
consciousness and the singing violin was faint and far. She saw again
the dusty street, where the blue column went forward with her Captain at
the head, his face stern and cold, grimly set to some high Purpose that
meant only anguish for her. The picture above the mantel, seen dimly
through a mist, typified, to her, the ways of men and women since the
world began--the young knight riding forward in his quest for the Grail,
already forgetting what lay behind, while the woman knelt, waiting,
waiting, waiting, as women always have and always must.
At last the music reached its end in a low chord that was at once a
question and a call. Madame rose, about to say good-night, and go up-
stairs where she might be alone. On the instant she paused. Her heart
waited almost imperceptibly, then resumed its beat.
Still holding the violin, Allison was looking at Rose. Subconsciously,
Madame noted his tall straight figure, his broad well-set shoulders, his
boyish face, and his big brown eyes. But Rose had illumined as from some
inward light; her lovely face was transfigured into a beauty beyond all
words.
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