Rose Galbraith (26 page)

When the dinner was over and they drifted out on the great porch with the silver sea all about and the fresh breeze blowing in from the path the moonlight was making across the water, he suddenly found Sydney Repplier beside him, looking up confidingly into his face, slipping her white arm inside his. She was beautifully gowned in something white and silvery, and again he had that distinct sensation of a lure, the little hand on his arm, glittering with more jewels, resting so lightly, just touching his wrist, almost as if she had a right.

And anger rose within him as he stood there, and he was glad of the semi-darkness that hid the annoyance in his eyes. He just could not, would not, be taken possession of by this girl! It was outrageous. Just because her mother and his mother went to school together. School was a great bond, but it couldn't bind the children. He had a bond with his school, too, but it was different from this. His girl wasn't running around fishing for a man, as so many girls seemed to be doing today, trying out this line and that, determined to succeed, as if the whole of life consisted in getting married!

He looked down at Sydney.

“Lovely night!” he remarked irrelevantly.

“Yes, isn't it,” purred Sydney. “And you promised to take me down in the woods and the garden, you know. I think this would be a lovely time to go. Is this the way down?”

He followed her, and they walked slowly down the flower-bordered paths and out toward the denser foliage on the land side of the man-built island.

“You know, Gordon, I think you're perfectly wonderful!” said Sydney earnestly. “You have so much strength of character. I was watching you at the table. You never touched the wine. Everybody around you was drinking, having their glasses filled again and again, and you never touched it.”

Gordon laughed.

“Why, that doesn't take strength of character for me,” he grinned. “I was brought up without it. I loathe the smell and the taste of it, and I despise what it does to human lives and human souls. Sometimes I can hardly sit at a table where drinking is going on, when I see nice sweet girls drinking, and fine men who are letting themselves in for being ruined. A good many of them do it just because everybody else is doing it. But it doesn't take strength of character to say no thank you. I wouldn't have to eat onions if I didn't like them just because I was afraid somebody would laugh at me, or call me peculiar, would I? I don't call that strength of character. I call it common sense.”

“Oh, but you are wonderful!” said Sydney. “Your mother must be so proud of you!”

With relief Gordon saw someone approaching, just emerging from the woods, and as he drew nearer he recognized the man as Palmer Atkinson, the man he suggested that his mother “wish on Sydney.” Here was his chance! He had never been glad to see Palmer Atkinson before, but now he really was, and glad too, that Palmer was alone.

He made the introduction rather elaborate, professed to have long desired that these two should meet, asking the Atkinson one to go with them to the woods, and when they were well started, he paused, hesitated, and then said, “Palmer, I wonder if you'd mind taking Miss Repplier down to see the pool in the woods. I've got to make a phone call, and I'd like to do it now before my party gets away for the evening.”

“Oh, Gordon!” pouted Sydney. “Your mind is on your business all the time. You might just as well have stayed in your office, the way you are doing. Can't you let your phone call go for a while? I wanted you to show me all those lovely places you spoke about on the way up.”

“Oh, that's all right, Sydney,” said Gordon amusedly. “Palmer knows those places. I think he knows more of them than I do. He's often down here, and I've never been here but once before. You go on with Palmer, and I'll get through this as soon as possible. Maybe I'll catch up with you before you've seen it all. Thanks, Palmer. I'm sure you'll show Miss Repplier a good time, and I'll see you later.” Then he turned and hurried back up to the house.

As he mounted the steps to the porch he saw a car drive up. A young man got out. That looked like Fran Tallant's brother, Edward.

“Say!” he said eagerly. “So you got back, Ed! That's great! How come?”

“Why, I found I didn't have to go to Boston after all,” said the young man. “Fran was so upset at my going that I thought I'd come back. I'm mighty glad to see you here.”

“But I've got to go,” said Gordon, with sudden resolve. “I'm just going in to make a phone call now. But I ought to go back tonight. Is there any station near here where I could get a train? Aren't there taxis nearby? Couldn't I drive to some station that isn't too far?”

“Why yes, Gordon, our man could drive you over to Pelham. It's only a matter of fifteen miles, and there's a train that passes there at eleven ten. I often have to do that. Sorry you have to go, old man, but we'll fix it for you all right if you find you absolutely must.”

What Gordon did was to telephone his mother that he was coming home on the one o'clock out to Shandon, and please leave the night latch off as he had forgotten to bring his key with him. Then he went back, hunted up Fran and made his excuses, wrote a little note of excuse to Sydney for not coming back, flung his things into his suitcase, and was off before anybody realized he was going.

He had quite a wait at Pelham, because the train was late, and the quiet darkness around the closed station as he marched up and down gave him plenty of time for thought. The letter from Rose was in his pocket and seemed a talisman. It had certainly helped him to discern between the worthless and the precious. His whole soul revolted at the program that he would have had to live through during the evening and on the morrow. He did not enjoy the kind of thing he had just left behind, and he did not care for many of the people who had been assembled for a good time. He was glad to be away. He was glad to have a chance to think.

Here in the darkness, with the bright stars overhead and the moon slipping softly down in the west, he seemed to be seeing Rose again as she was that night on the ship. Rose! Beside her vision, all the faces of those smart girls in the crowd he had just left paled and were only painted toys.

He thought of some of the phrases that were in her letter and suddenly his heart was at rest. He knew for a surety that it was Rose he wanted, and that somehow he had to see her soon or go heart hungry.

M
eantime, Aunt Rose had at last arrived in Kilcreggan. With her family, of course.

Donald and David seemed to have been in the secret and knew exactly when their ship was going to dock. They had slipped away in the night so that Grandmother shouldn't be excited. They met the boat train and brought Aunt Rose and her family home.

Yet grandmother must have had some uncanny way of knowing, for when they came softly in at the door, even with the boys muting their heavy shoes and suppressing their shouts of greetings, there was Grandmother coming out of her bedroom door with her stiff starched nightgown and her clean kerchief, an air about her of having been up a long time, as if she had known exactly when the ship touched the dock.

And such a happy time! Rose, standing back out of the way, watching them all, with her eyes shining and her cheeks rosy, thought how wonderful it would have been if her mother could have been there. How great it was to have real relatives, a lot of them!

The family stood the two Roses together and said how they resembled each other. And afterward they escorted the new arrivals into the big guest room and stood around while the wondering baby's little cap was taken off. Her mother even sat her down in the little rocking chair that Grandmother had cherished all the years, and rocked her a little. Then the littlest Rose looked about on them all and laughed aloud, a little chuckling baby laugh, half between a laugh and a crow. Then she bent her little head down and laughed louder, looking about on them all admiringly, showing off in the sweetest way and to the great delight of everyone.

It was a beautiful exciting day, full of lovely work and charming errands to be done. And oh, how Rose loved that darling baby, and enjoyed picking it up and hugging it and kissing each tiny pink finger on the roseleaf hands, and laughing into the soft pink neck, the baby laughing, too.

That day also there was a letter for Rose, from Edinburgh.

She was feeding the baby when it came, and she slipped it into the pocket of her apron when they handed it to her and thought no more about it until late that night. Then she opened it.

She had known it was from Aunt Janet, for they had had three or four such letters before her mother died, relative to their coming back to Scotland. Though the crest and coat of arms was blazoned heavily in embossed gold and green on the envelope, these letters had never brought a thrill of anticipation, and even less now did she care about them. Some more fault-finding perhaps, that was all she expected. So she read it with growing amazement.

Rose was very much stirred by this letter. The poor old lonely soul was getting frightened over the fear of death, and it was her responsibility to answer that, to say something that would give life and hope to her. Aunt Janet was her mother's sister, and her mother would have wanted her to know how to be safe and sure when she died. And there was no one but herself who could help.

She tried to think whose advice she could ask.

Not Grandmother. She had had too much excitement, and besides, Rose had an innate feeling that it would be breaking a confidence if she told any of them. There were loving, gentle, kindly Christian people who would know well how to point the way of life and assurance to a frightened soul afraid of death, but they were not Aunt Janet's family, and Aunt Janet might resent their knowing she had written. She would, of course. They were all aliens to her. They were a part of the thing that had torn her mother away from them all these years. No, she could not ask any of them. It would not be right to let them know.

She considered how it would be if she were to go up and ask the wonderful preacher at the church, and then she put that aside. No, that would not do. The question was a personal family question, and no one else must be involved in it, that is, no one around here.

The thought came to her that if Gordon McCarroll were only here she could talk it over with him. He was the only one who could be entirely impersonal about it. She had never talked of such matters as fear of death or anything like that with him, but she somehow felt he would understand and would help her know what to say. If he only lived around here and they were near neighbors, perhaps she would try it, because he always seemed to understand so well what she told him and to enter fully into her ideas. But he wasn't here, and that was out of the question. This letter must be answered at once. If anything should happen to Aunt Janet before she got it answered, she would feel responsible. She felt as if her mother were standing beside her, urging her to write at once.

So she sat down at the little desk and wrote by the light of a flickering candle which she shaded from Kirsty's eyes by piling up a couple of pillows in front of her cousin.