Myrtle Reed

Old Rose and Silver Myrtle Reed

The last hushed chord died into silence, but the woman lingered, dreaming over the keys. Firelight from the end of the room brought red- gold gleams into the dusky softness of herhair and shadowed her profile upon the opposite wall. No answering flash of jewels met thequestioning light-there was only a mellow glow from the necklace of tourmalines, quaintly set, that lay upon the white lace of her gown. She turned her face toward the fire as a flower seeks the sun, but her deep eyes lookedbeyond it, into the fires of Life itself. A haunting sense of unfulfilment stirred her to vagueresentment, and she sighed as she rose and moved restlessly about the room. She lightedthe tall candles that stood upon the mantel-shelf, straightened a rug, moved a chair, andgathered up a handful of fallen rose-petals on her way to the window. She was about todraw down the shade, but, instead, her hand dropped slowly to her side, her fingersunclasped, and the crushed crimson petals fluttered to the floor. Outside, the purple dusk of Winter twilight lay soft upon the snow. Through an opening inthe evergreens the far horizon, grey as mother-of- pearl, bent down to touch the plain in amisty line that was definite yet not clear. At the left were the mountains, cold and calm, veiled by distances dim with frost. There was a step upon the stair, but the strong, straight figure in white lace did not turnaway from the window, even when the door opened. The stillness was broken only by thecheerful crackle of the fire until a sweet voice asked: "Are you dreaming, Rose?"Rose turned away from the window then, with a laugh. "Why, I must have been. Will youhave this chair, Aunt Francesca?"She turned a high-backed rocker toward the fire and Madame Bernard leaned backluxuriously, stretching her tiny feet to the bla