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Show 134 1n !llfcncc at'bomc llliD 1lose anD Stiller ness would have been unbearable had it not been for the steady ticking of the clock. Madame leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. Rose tried to read, but could not concentrate her mind upon the page. Her thoughts were far away, with the two who had so recently left the house. In fancy she saw the brilliantly lighted streets, the throng of pleasure seekers and pretty women in gay attire. She heard the sound of wheels, the persistent "honk~honk, of motor cars, and, in the playhouse, the crash of cymbals and drums. Somewhere in the happy crowd were Allison and Isabel, while she sat in silence at home. Madame Francesca stirred in her chair. "I 've been asleep, I think." "You're not going to wait until they come home, are you?" "Why should I? Isabel has a key." Rose remembered how Aunt Francesca had invariably waited for her, when some gallant cavalier had escorted her to opera or play, and was foolishly glad, for no discoverable reason. "I was dreaming," Madame went on, drowsily, "of the little house where Love lived." "Where was it?" asked Rose gently. "You know. I've told you of the little house in the woods where I went as a bride, when I was no older than Isabel. When we turned the key and went away, we must have left some of our love there. I 've never been back, but I like to think that some of the oldtime sweetness is still in the house, shut away like a jewel of great price, safe from meddling hands." Only once Before, in the fifteen years they had lived together, had Madame Bernard spoken of her brief marriage, yet Rose knew, by a thousand little betrayals, that the past was not dead, but vitally alive. "I can bear it," said Madame, half to herself, "because I have been his wife. If he had been taken away before we were married, I should have gone, too. But now I have only to wait until God brings us together again." Outwardly, Rose was calm and unperturbed ; inwardly, tense and unstrung. She wondered if, at last, the sorrow had been healed enough for speech. Upstairs there was a room that was always locked. No one but Aunt Francesca ever entered it, and she but rarely. Once or twice, Rose had chanced to see her coming through the open door, transfigured by some spiritual exaltation too great for words. For days afterward there was about her a certain uplift of soul, fading gradually into her usual serenity. Mr. Boffin stalked in, jumped into Madame's lap, and began to purr industriously. She |
