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Page 9
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 the best of a
man's life. The medal for military service, the miniature of his wife,
the picture of his friend, and the bit of knitting work that
comprehended a world of love and anguish and bereavement--these were the
hidden chambers of his heart.
Isabel took up the miniature again before she closed the drawer. "Do you
suppose those are diamonds?"
"No; only brilliants."
"I thought so. If they'd been diamonds, he would never have left them
here."
"On the contrary," answered Rose, "I'm very sure he would." She had met
Colonel Kent only a few times, years ago, during the Summer he had spent
at home while Allison was still abroad, but she knew him now,
nevertheless.
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