The White Shield by Myrtle Reed
A Rosary of Tears
The orchestra had paused, either through simple human pity, or, asseemed more likely, to rest. Even a good orchestra must have time forphysical and mental refreshment, and the guests at the St. James wouldgladly have accorded eternity to this one, had the management beenkindly disposed and permitted it.
A faint breath of the tropical night stirred the foliage in thepalm-room, where there was light and laughter and the crystallinetinkle of glasses. The predatory lady from Memphis, clad resplendentlyin white lace, and paste jewels, moved restlessly about the room. Herblue eyes were cat-like in their quick intense scrutiny. They said, atthe St. James, that nothing under the roof escaped her knowledge.
Designedly she passed the two who sat at a glass-covered table in asecluded corner, affecting not to notice them. When the rustle of hergarments and the clatter of her high heels died away, the man spoke.
"She must have spilled the peroxide," he said with a grating laugh. Herhair was indeed more brilliant than usual.
The woman laughed too--a little hysterical laugh which sounded morelike a sob. She took her watch from the silver bag that hung at herbelt, opened it, and laid it before them.
"An hour more," she answered irrelevantly. "Like Cinderella, I must goat twelve."
"Are you afraid your auto will turn into a pumpkin drawn by white ratsand your chauffeur into--let's see, who was Cinderella's footman?"
She shook her head. "I used to know, but it was long ago when I was achild."
"You're only a child now," he returned quickly.
"No, I'm a woman, and I must meet whatever comes to me as a brave womanshould." She fixed her clear eyes on his and spoke steadily. "I mustn'tbe a coward, I mustn't refuse to do anything just because it is hard.I've got to be true to my best self, and you've got to help me."
The war correspondent's face whitened for an instant, then the coloursurged back in waves. "Come out on the balcony," he whispered, "it'sinsufferable in here."
She followed him through the French window. Their two chairs were intheir own particular corner still, placed as they had been every nightfor a week. He arranged the rose and green velvet cushion at her backprecisely as she liked it, and drew his own chair near hers--just closeenough not to touch.
A white-coated waiter whisked out of sight tactfully. He was neededwithin where the lady from Memphis had cornered a hardware drummerfrom Pittsburg and was coyly inquiring whether or not champagne wasintoxicating.
"A week ago to-night," said the war correspondent abruptly. "I believenow that the world was made in seven days. Mine has been made andshattered into atoms in an equal space of time."
"Don't say that! There's good in it--there's got to be good in itsomewhere! We'll have to find it together, past all the pain."
The late moon rose slowly above the grove of palms beyond them; theSouthern night breathed orange blossoms and roses. A tiny ray of bluelight shot from the solitaire on the third finger of her left hand. Itwas the only ring she wore.
"I can't believe it's true," he said, somewhat roughly. "If you caredas you say you do, you'd"--he choked on the word, and stopped abruptly,but his eyes made his meaning clear.
They were unusual eyes--for a man. So she had thought a week ago, whenshe went down the corridor to her room at midnight, humming gaily toherself a little fragment of a love song. They were big and brown andboyish, with laughter lurking in their depths--they met her own clearlyand honestly, always, and in their look there had never been that whichmakes a woman ashamed. Yes, they were unusual eyes--for a man.
"Honour is an elastic word," she replied. "For most women, it meansonly one thing. A woman may lie and steal and nag and break up homes,and steam open other people's letters, and betray her friends, and yet,if she is chaste, she is called honourable. I made up my mind early inlife, that I'd make my own personal honour include not only that, butthe things men are judged by, too. If a man broke his solemn pledge,you'd call him a coward and a cur. So," she concluded with a pitifulpride, "I'll not break mine."
Her voice was uneven and he felt, rather than saw, the sufferingplainly written on her face. "Tell me," he began gently, "of him. Whatdoes he look like? What sort of man is he?"
"I came away in such a rush that I forgot his picture, else I'd show itto you. I would have sent back for it, only I didn't want my people tothink I was silly, and besides, there is no need, I could remember howhe looked, and every tone of his voice until a week ago to-night."
"Is he tall?" The war correspondent himself was a trifle over six feet.
"No, not very,--only a little taller than I."
"Smooth-shaven?"
"Yes."
"Dark?"
"Very."
"What does he do?"
"Business in a stuffy office, from nine to six. He spends his eveningswith me."
"Every evening?"
"Yes, and all day Sunday. There are just two things in his life--theoffice and me."
"Go on," he reminded her, after a pause.
"It's simple, and, in a way, commonplace. We met, and hecared--terribly--from the first. I didn't, because it was difficult forme to trust any man. I told him so, and he said he'd make me trust him.He did, but it took him a long time. It's pathetically easy for a womanto love a man she can trust. And so I wear his ring and have for twoyears. When I go back, we're to be married."
"Do you call it honourable to marry one man while you love another?"
"He's been everything in the world to me," she continued, ignoring thethrust. "I've never had a doubt nor a difficulty of any kind, sinceI've known him, that he hasn't helped me through. Every thought thatcame into my mind, I have felt perfectly free to tell him. We've neverquarrelled. On my side, the feeling has been of long slow growth, butthere are no hard words lying between us. It's all been sweet untilnow. He's clean-minded and clean-hearted and true-souled. If he hasever lied to me, I've never found it out. He has been absolutelyand unswervingly loyal in thought, word, and deed, and as forjealousy--why, I don't believe he knows what the word means.
"You know there are two kinds of love. One is an infinite peace thatillumines all your life, so surely and so certainly that it's not to betaken away. It's like daily bread to you. The other is like wine--swiftand terrible and full of fatal fascination. The one has come to me fromhim--the other from you."
"Honey!" It was the shrill, high, bird-like voice of the lady fromMemphis swiftly rounding the corner of the balcony. "Is this yourwatch? I've found it on the table and I've been looking all over foryou!"
"Thank you." Miss Ward took the trinket coldly and never turned herhead. The man, having small respect for the lady from Memphis, neverrose from his chair.
After a little hesitation she retreated, pausing in the background,among the palms, to shake a warning finger with assumed coquetry.
"Naughty," she shrilled. "You mustn't flirt! If you do, I'll write toyour honey and tell him what you are doing. You see if I don't. Andthen he'll come and catch you at it, and where will you be then?" Witha mirthless cackle, she vanished into the palm-room, where there waslight and the tinkle of glasses and the bubbling of champagne.
"Half-past eleven," said Miss Ward dully. "Thirty minutes more."
The war correspondent caught his breath as if he had been suddenlyhurt. "One little hour," he answered, his voice low and tense withsuppressed feeling. "Only one little hour to last us for all eternity,and we're wasting it like this. I love you, I love you, I love you! Ilove you with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my strength, andwith all my will. I love you so much that heaven would be hell withoutyou, and hell itself would be heaven if you were there. I love you witha love that will not die, when I do. I love you, do you understand? Godknows I love you!"
She turned her face towards him thrilled to the depths of her soul."And I," she breathed, caught in the whirlwind of his emotion, "loveyou--in just that way!"
His hands closed quickly over hers. "Then," he pleaded, "come. Thereare no bar
In thought she surrendered for an instant, then broke away from him,shuddering. "Don't," she gasped. "Don't make it so hard for me to dowhat is right. I won't be dishonourable, I won't be disloyal, I won'tbe untrue. Happiness that comes from wrong doing is always brief, but,oh, dear lad, I love you with a love nobody ever had before, or everwill have again. I'm not taking anything away from anybody else to giveto you, so it isn't dishonourable--it can't be. Tell me it isn't!" shecried. "Oh, tell me."
"It isn't," he assured her. "You couldn't be dishonourable if youtried. You're the bravest, finest woman I've ever known."
From within came the notes of a violin muted. The piano, mercifullysoftened, followed the melody with the full rich accompaniment whicheven miserable playing can never wholly spoil.
"The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, Are as a string of pearls to me; I count them o'er, every one apart-- My rosary! My rosary!"
"The pearls mean tears," she whispered brokenly. "Our rosary is made oftears!"
The lady from Memphis clattered past them on the balcony, singing thewords apparently to herself, but really with an eye to dramatic--andimpertinent--effect.
* * * * *
For a week they had been together, the gayest of the gay crowd. Thatday all plans had mysteriously fallen through. Miss Ward's chaperon hadbeen called home by a telegram. A letter had caused another unexpecteddeparture, a forgotten engagement loomed up before another, a sickheadache laid low a fourth, and only they two were left--the "tatteredremnant of the old guard," she laughingly said that morning when theymet in the palm-room after breakfast, as usual, to discuss the programof the day.
"Then," he retorted, "the old guard will make the best of it!"
So they had spent the day together in public places, mindful of theproprieties. A long talk in the afternoon, full of intimate andsearching details, had paved the way for the dazzling revelation madeby an accidental touching of hands. In an instant, the world waschanged.
"Suppose," she said, "that you had been obliged to go away thisafternoon, before everything was fully acknowledged between us? Oh,don't you see what we have? We've got one whole day--a little laughter,and a great deal of love and pain, crystallised by parting and denial,into something sweet to keep in our hearts for always. Nothing can taketo-day away from us--it's ours beyond the reach of estrangement orchange. To-night we'll shut the door upon it and steal away, as from acasket enshrining the dead."
"Not dead," he flashed bitterly, "but buried alive!"
"Oh, memories that bless and burn, Oh, barren gain and bitter loss, I kiss each bead and strive at last to learn To kiss the cross, sweetheart! To kiss the cross."
The last echo died away, the violin rattled into its case, the pianowas closed. The musicians went home, and there was a general movementtoward the doors. A far clock chimed twelve and she rose wearily fromher chair. "Good night," she faltered, her hand fluttering toward his;"I cannot say good-bye, but we must never see each other again."
How it happened they never knew, but he took her into his arms,unresisting, and kissed her fully, passionately, upon the lips.
All the joy and pain of the world seemed crowded into the instant theystood there, locked in each other's arms. Then the high, bird-likevoice of the lady from Memphis broke on their ears in a gratingstaccato.
"She was out here, when I saw her last, flirting dreadfully with thewar correspondent. I guess she didn't know you were coming on that latetrain."
Eagerly, happily, the Other Man rushed out on the balcony, cryingboyishly, "Mabel! Are you here?"
The words died on his lips. The man who held her in his arms kissed heragain, slowly, hungrily; then reluctantly released her. She steadiedherself against the railing of the balcony. In the moonlight her facewas ghastly. The scent of the orange blossoms seemed overpowering herwith deadly fragrance.
"Didn't I tell you?" asked the lady from Memphis gleefully. From theopen window she was enjoying the situation to the full.
The Other Man was bewildered.
"Mabel," he said enquiringly, "I don't quite understand. Didn't you getmy wire?"
The war correspondent stepped forward. He had faced the guns of theenemy before and was not afraid now. A single commanding glance,mingled with scorn, sent the lady from Memphis scurrying back into thepalm-room.
"I know who you are," he said to the Other Man, "and I owe you anexplanation. I love Miss Ward and I have been trying all day to induceher to break her engagement with you and marry me instead."
The Other Man laughed. He went to the balcony rail, where the girlstood, half fainting, and put his arm around her. "I don't doubt it,"he said. "Isn't she the finest, sweetest, truest woman the Lord evermade? Any man who doesn't love her is a chump. You and I will be goodfriends--we have a great deal in common."
He offered his hand but the war correspondent bowed and swerved aside."Good night," he said thickly. "I have played and lost. I lay down myhand." He went through the window hastily, leaving the two alone.
"Mabel, dear Mabel!" said the Other Man softly. "You've been throughsomething that is almost too much for you. Sit down and rest--you'retired!"
The words, calm and tender, brought back to her tortured soul a hint ofthe old peace. In a pitiless flash of insight she saw before her twowomen, either of which she might become. One was serene and content,deeply and faithfully loved, sheltered from everything love couldshield her from, watched, taken care of in all the countless littleways that mean so much. The other was to know Life to its uttermost,all its rage, jealousy and despair, to be shaken in body and soul byfierce elemental passions, to face eclipsing miseries alone, and drainthe cup to the lees. The difference was precisely that between apleasure craft, anchored in a sunny harbour, and the toiling ship thatbreasts the tempestuous seas.
She sat down and suffered him to take her hand. He stroked her wristsilently, in the old comforting way he had when she was nervous ortired. His face was troubled--hers was working piteously. The lightshad died down in the palm-room and the last of the revellers went away.The house detective paced through the long rooms twice and made acareful survey of the balcony.
"Darling," said the Other Man, "you don't have to tell me anything youdon't want to--you know that; but wouldn't it make you feel better?You've always told me things, and I'm the best friend you've got.Surely you're not afraid now?"
His voice failed at the end, and the girl drew a quick shudderingbreath but she did not answer.
"He was kissing you, wasn't he?" asked the Other Man, "when I came?"
"Yes," she said dully, "he was kissing me, but it was for good-bye.He told me he loved me, and I had told him I loved him. I've knownhim only a week. He never so much as touched my hand until to-day,but it was only my own personal honour that kept me from marrying himto-morrow, as he begged me to do. I've told you the worst now. Believewhat you like--do what you will."
The Other Man sighed. His mouth was boyish and for the momentunsteady, but his eyes sought hers as honestly and clearly as the warcorrespondent's, who had unusual eyes--for a man.
"I think I understand," he said brokenly. "I don't blame any man forloving you, dear--I'm prepared for that--and we've been separatedso long, and the moonlight and the palms and the roses and all, andyou were used to being loved--I think that's why. You were lonesome,wer'n't you, sweetheart? Didn't you want me?"
Infinite love and infinite pain surged together in her heart, blendinginto unspeakable tenderness. "Yes, I wanted you," she whispered--"Ialways want you. I'm--I'm a bit upset just now, but I haven'ttaken anything away from you to give to
"Good night," he said thickly. "I have played and lost.I lay down my hand."_From the Drawing by Dalton Stevens._]
"Hush! There'll never be any need of that word between you and me. I'veforgiven you long ago, for everything you've ever done or ever can do.It's an unlimited fund to draw upon--that and my love. You know," hewent on in another tone, "that if it were for your happiness, I couldgive you up, but I'm pretty sure it isn't. You'd never be as happywith anybody you'd only known a week, as you would with me, becauseI've loved you for years. You have my whole heart, Mabel,--there'snever been another woman with even a hint of a claim. I know all yourlittle moods and tenses and you don't have to explain things to me. Iknow you can't ride backward and you don't like to walk when you havehigh-heeled shoes on, and a thousand other things that are infinitelydear just because they are you. I was thinking of them all the way downhere, and loving them--every one."
"I don't deserve it," she answered, and then broke into a wild sobbing.
The Other Man moved his chair closer and drew her head to his shoulder."There," he said, slipping a handkerchief into the hand that coveredher eyes; "cry if you want to. You're tired--my little girl is tired."
He held her so until the storm had spent itself. He kept his faceagainst her hair, soft and silky, and fragrant with orris--forgettinghimself utterly in his loving pity for her. At last she moved away fromhim. Her tear-stained face in the moonlight, filled him with tendernessso great that his love was pain.
"It's late," she said, "it must be after one o'clock. I must goup-stairs." She started toward the open window, but still he held herback gently. "Dear," he said softly, "we've been away from each otherfour weeks and three days, and I've come two thousand miles to see you.You haven't kissed me yet. Don't you want to? You don't need to ifyou'd rather not, but if you could----"
His voice vibrated with passionate appeal. She lifted her white face tohis and kissed him mechanically. "To-morrow," she breathed, "I'll bemore like myself; I'll try to make up for to-night, but if you loveme, let me go now!"
He went with her to the elevator, and watched until she was lifted outof his sight, smiling at her until the last--the old loving smile.He went out to the balcony again, and sat down with his arms thrownover the back of the chair that had so recently held her. His brow waswrinkled with deep thought, but his boyish mouth still smiled.
Presently there was a step behind him and he turned--to look into theface of the war correspondent who spoke first.
"I've come back," he said, "to shake hands with you, if you don't mind."
The Other Man's hand met his, more than half-way.
"And," continued the war correspondent, "I want to apologise. I've beenall kinds of a brute, but what I said was the truth. I love her as noman ever before loved a woman. That's my only excuse."
"You're not to blame for loving her," returned the Other Mangenerously; "nobody is. And as for her loving you, that's all righttoo. She's got a lot of temperament and she's used to being loved, andyou're not a bad sort, you know--not at all." And he concluded fondly,"my little girl was lonesome without me."
The war correspondent went away quietly. In the moonlight he couldsee the boyish face of the Other Man, radiant with an all-believing,all-forgiving love.
"Yes," said the Other Man again, after an interval, and not realisingthat he was alone, "that was it. My little girl was lonesome withoutme."
The Roses and the Song