At the table, Madame had done most
of the talking, for Isabel's conversational gifts were limited, at best,
and Rose was weary beyond all words.
After dinner she went to the piano and struck a few aimless chords.
Isabel, with a murmured excuse, went up to her own room. "Nothing that
is not true," said Rose to herself, steadily; "nothing that is not
true."
Presently a definite thought took shape in her mind. To-morrow she would
tell Aunt Francesca, and see if it could not be arranged for her to go
away somewhere, anywhere, alone. Or, if not to-morrow, at least the day
after, as soon as she had seen him again. She wanted one last look to
take with her into the prison-house, where she must wrestle with her
soul alone.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
Her stiff fingers shaped the melody that Aunt Francesca loved, and into
it went all her own longing, her love, and her pain. The notes thrilled
with an ecstasy of renunciation, and the vibrant chords trembled far out
into the night.
[Illustration: musical notation.]
A man entered the gate very quietly, paused, then turned into the
garden, to soothe his wildly beating heart for a few moments with the
balm of scent and sound.
Pages:
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187