UNKNOWN

Dunstan Times, Issue 2316, 8 January 1906, Page 6

UNKNOWN

THE-ROSES. There were three ef them, leisurely sipping their afternoon tea in a pretty little room, whose warm air was perfumed with roses and’moist with the steam from the singing ketfle of the samovar. The hostess was a fair, girlish bride in her early twenties, and her guests just rounding tke next mile-stone, but etill young and fair. One of these was telling the atory. *■. ‘ Tour roses remind me,’ she said, poising her slender spoon across the quaint flat cup of shining Belleek ware, —‘ it was last year, when I was abroad, and, oh, so homesick ! The remnants of a slight attack of Roman fever still clung to me, and I was low in every way,—pulse, tamperaturo, appetite, and spirits. Fred would not bo able to come for me for nearly two months yet, and these months seemed centuries, stretching out dully between myself and happiness. ‘The good Madame of our pension was very kind, and Jlried vainly to tempt my languid palate with her daintiest dishes, but I was .too gloomy and distraite to eat them, and too «ross, I fear, to be properly grateful. ‘ One day, as I lay on my couch, believing myself almost weary of life, icy maid brought me a dainty whit* box, long and Barrow.

* From whom?’ I asked, listlessly. * There is a* «arte, madams ; a garcon brought it.’ 4 I opened it, ts find a rose, —just ono, —pure and wax°n white ; the most perfect, most fragrant of it* kind. Something about it made ma think *f home, —of loro, —of Fred.

* It brought the tears to my eyes, and gave mo the first thrill of life and pleasure I had felt for weeks.

4 I have received quantities of flowers in my day, and most have given me pleasure, but the state I was then in made me difficult to please. A sof' bouquet, all lacepaper and tin-foil, 1 would have flung’ into the fire; a mass of blossoms that required arranging would have made me weak and weary ; but that one rose was so sweet, so satisfying, so restful, it seemed like the kiss of a lover in a strange land 4 Tbe next day, to my added surprise, the same thing happened again ; but now the rose was of a deeper, mote creamy hue, though quite as peifect,—a Venus among roses ! 4 I had not expected another, and it roused me from my languor. * Who was my unknown friend ? Would I receive one to-morrow ?

4 In this fresh oecessiou of interest I arose, dressed myself, and actually ate some dejeuner.

4 Yes, next day brought the rose again, but—it could not bo mere fancy—my queenblossom now had a soupcou of color—was it yellow, or pink ? The shade was so vague, so delicate, so exquisite, I could not name it: as well try to define the hue of a baby’s flesh.

‘By this time I was thoroughly aroused. I went for a drive, that day, and woke with a fresh feeling, the next morning, and the happy thought, 4 Will my rom come today? and what color fill it bear, this time P’

4 Yes, it came, and now I could plainly see that it was not yellow, but tho palest flesh tint. And so each day brought one, tho last always deeper by an almost imperceptible shading, until in time I held in my eager fingers a rose which was all one pink blush, warm and delicious. 4 Was this the climax ? Had I reached the end ? And what, what did it all mean P

4 1 felt my cheeks grow us pink as the rose I held while I wondered thus; then, half asnamed, but all aglow with strange pleasure, I sprang to my feet, eager again for life and its joys, anxious to consult my mirror and see if illness had left mo but a wreck of a woman.

4 Well, I was not so bad, what with the the blush and my brightening eves ; and that day I took my maid, and shopped as I had not in weeks.

* You see, I had found an interest in life again. This daily gift was like a picture or a poem, growing in beauty before my eyes; yes, a love-poem—and at that I paused. ‘ Was that what it all meant? Were my roses daily changing from cold white to this vivid blush, intended to convey the story of a love which must not bo expressed in words? If so, had I—Fred’s wife—any right to them? And who was the giver ? ‘ Really, my dears, it was a delicate question. I put it by, and waited. ‘By this time a good part of my first mouth—my first century—was over, and I wondered how the time had fled so rapidly. If the roses should cease, now—but they didn't. Daily the long box was laid in my hand, daily the tint glided, by faint gradations, from pink to carmine —from carmine to the deepest damask, —tho rich, warm hue of passion undisguised, unchecked, ‘ I was now cpiite well, and cheerfully busy eight-seeing, the days going by all too quickly for tho things 1 wished to do and when a telegram came from Fred that same morning, announcing fcis arrival at Havre, I was shocked to find I did not feel that delirium of joy I should have felt—and would two months ago. ‘ What ailed mo? Was I falling in lover But one can’t love an abstraction, and I had never received a word, a hint, a glance, to suggest the unknown donor of the roses.’

She stopped, and the bride, who had for some time evidently forgotten her tea, and sitting rapt, the egg-shell cup held poised in her fingers, now loosed her slight hold and let it slide to the floor, where it shattered with a sharp crash against the brass claw of the tea-stand.

She stooped to pick up the fragments, and her face flushed and paled as she rose, but it was the other of the trio who cried out, impatiently,— ‘ Well, go on! What next ?’ •There is no ‘next.’ The roses ceased from that day, as abjuptly as they began, and Fred came the next. I was delighted to see him, of course, and charmed to return to my native land ; but, alas, my roseromance was ended and was still a mystery.’ She rose, and drew up her dainty wrap. ‘ Well,’ she said, with a sigh, 1 1 must« go. Come, Annie, there’s Mrs. Luxrnore’s dinner ; but she furtively watched them down the steps with an air of repressed excitelumt

' At their loot they met the young master of the house, who greeted them with frank totdiality, handed them into the waiting carriage, lifted his hat, and turned back towards the house.

Two eager hands seized him at the dooi, and dresv him into the privacy of the little tea-room, fragrant with its rose-bowls and its gently streaming beverage ; and two tearful eyes gazed into his own. ‘ Will,’ said the choked voice of fats pretty wife, ‘l’ve found out who received all those roses we’ve wondered about so often,—those you ordered sent me in Paris before wo were married, you know. The stupid florists sent them to the wrong pension—to a lady ; and she—she—she’s in love with you !’ •With mo P Impossible! She can’t have the remotest idea who I am. I did not give even the florist my name.’ • No, but—oh, Will, it breaks my heart! ‘Good heavens, darling, this is absurd,! Who is the woman, anyhow ?’ • I’ll never tell you,—never!' • Well, don’t, then ; but’-laughing grimly —‘if she doesn’t kno-” me, nor I her, bow

can we C ‘ Oh, I know, dear, I know—you can t! And, besides, I trust you fully,—perfectly; hut, oh, can’t you seep She has my roses, my lomatioe, my poem, my —’

* Not your husband, love. Y>u still have me.’ ‘ Oh, I suppose so, but’ wUh t fresh burst of sobs— 1 it’s too, too bitter 4 Really, my dear, your language is a trifle ambiguous.’ ‘Hush, Will! Don’t add to my despair. I’ll try—yes, I will try to bo recoa oiled, only ’ She threw herself into his arms, and neither finished the sentence. In fact, they avoid the subject as ono avoids some treacherous quicksand ; they avoid roses, too, and the little bride’s home is no longer abloom with them, while tho piet'.y story-teller of that afternoon wonders'vainly why she has received the cold shoulder of its mistress. Alas, alas for these life-tangles,—so droll, so sad, and so inexplicable! Where and when shall they be straightened?— Fannie E. Newberry.