THE Rose=petal Necklet.

Otago Witness, Issue 3327, 19 December 1917, Page 64

THE Rose=petal Necklet.

By Fabian Belt,.

A CHRISTMAS FANTASY

Scene 1: A large and beautiful garden in the neighbourhood of a New Zealand city —a garden containing many secluded paths and unexpected sheltered nooks; a garden full of flowers and green, velvety lawns, where the hand and the brain of tha gardener were everywhere, but not too obtrusively active. Nature had been helped, not forced. Result, an ideal garden as each one pictures it to him or her self. Time: A perfect summer evening in early December of the year 19—. Just at the moment when the sun touches the horizon a thousand vivid tints flash into the sky, and every flower, every blade of grass, takes on an added brilliancy. The poppies and other red blossoms are flaming rubies, and all the green leaves glow like living emerald.

It was the place and the hour to invite confidence; to whisper of love or of friendship; to press willing lips or hold hands in a tighter clasp; to draw closer together, heart to heart.

In one of the secluded paths tv/o women walked and talked. On one of the cosy seats two men sat and smoked.

One of the women was viuite young —in the early twenties. She was fair, with bright, sparkling eyes, a provocative mouth, and the decided chin of one who knows her own mind and never allows herself to worry over trifles. She wore an engagement ring, to which her finger had not yet become quite accustomed, so that she unconsciously fingered it while talking, and as she did so a happy smile played round the gently-curved, rosy lips. Her name was Eunice Grey; but it woukl not be Grey much longer, for she had promised to merge it in that of Tom Rutherford. Her companion was a good ten years older than Miss Grey, and looked older still. She had a plain face with a wistful, tender expression, a droop in the corners of the mouth, and a few lines already forming near the eyes. She looked like one who had lost something many years before, and was constantly seeking it. What she had lost was her youth, which, once lost, is never regained! She had" a beautiful, well-developed figure, and small hands and feet. She had a golden heart,, full of love and charity, but withal sad, for a drop of gall lay at tne bottom. Her name was Jane Munro, and she had had no childhood and no youth, a heavy burden of poverty, hard work, and sicknursing had been laid on her shoulders long before thej r were strong enough to bear them. Thankless toil and vicarious suffering had left no leisure for personal considerations. She had studied hard not because she loved learning, though she loved knowledge, but because she desired to earn more monev for those dependent on her; and for the same reason she chose the driest subjects. They paid best. Ease, rest, enough money to make a single woman feel rich had come to her lately, but, so she felt, too late. Though her features were plain, the character formed bv these long years of trial and self-con-trol was a very noble one, and it was written plain for all to see. She had many friends.

On one of the comfortable seats two men sat and smoked. One was Tom Rutherford, lat-ely engaged to Eunice Grey, a man "of -parts," as our grandmothers would have said, still young and with excellent prospects. The other was Martin Reredon, no longer young, but still in his prime. An excellent man of business, hard as flint to the outside world, but with a curiously romantic kernel; shy and diffident with the opposite sex. He had never married, and always described himself as one of Nature's bachelors.

The women spoke of love, and glided into business. The men spoke of business and drifted —or, at least, Tom did—into love. But there was no clash between the subjects or the speakers. Is not love life, and life love, and have they not both a common and a -practical side where they touch the material world? For love and work are the weft and the woof of which is woven the tissue of life. Neither can exist in completeness without its complement.

" No. No. It is quite impossible," said Jane with a kind of sad finality—"quite impossible." "Why?" "Oh, well, you know. It's just impossible ; that's all. Love is for young and happy people on the threshold of life, like you and Tom Rutherford. Everything is before you. You have the making of life in your own hands. You are like this lovely spring just passing into summer. You will be happy. I am glad and thankful for your sake; but such a venture is not for elder people—for me." " I don't see that at all," broke in the younger woman almost impatiently. "Love is life. All true love- springs from life, and happiness is of no age, or clime, or nation. All have the right to stretch out

their hands and grasp it when it comes their way, and hold tightly, never to let it go."

"But it has not come my waj—yet." "It is coming. I feel it in my bones, as the old nurses say. Don't refuse it when it comes. That's all I ask." " But at this season of universal trouble and suffering surely it is mean and sellish to grasp at any personal satisfaction." " You are wrong—quite wrong. Pure happiness is for the good of all, else why is this ' Star of Sorrow' so beautiful. Why does the rain fall on the just and the unjust, and the sun shine on the evil and on the good? Happiness is greater than suffering. Cheerfulness is a duty. It helps everyone. It unlocks the very springs of life and health. The mere sight of happiness uplifts and cheers. \Sadness and happiness can even exist together at the same time and in the same heart. Happiness does not mean noise, excitement, and so-called pleasure. It is something deeper and more lasting. It has a, spiritual and inexhaustible source. A sad heart tires in a mile, but a light heart goes all the way. Happiness is also a great beautifier: 'it makes the plainest face attractive. Happiness is not aggressive. It is really another name for love. Ah! doar friend, do not turn your eyes away. People can -be in trouble yet deeply content—content to give, content to suffer. But bitterness is fatal. You cannot destroy evil by evil or suffering by suffering. Sympathy "is a good thmg, but it must not be carried too far, for then it weakens and encourages despondency. True sympathy uplifts and strengthens."

".Is it well to be happy at all costs? 1 ' "That would be impossible. Happiness seeks the good of others. It would not be happiness if it were bought at the expense of others. At the same time it must be above conventional prejudice's. To give up probable happiness because others may think you foolish is foolish indeed." "But ... it seems so selfish."

"Seems, perhaps; but it is not really so. Every smiling face, every cheerful word, every honest laugh is a real uplift. A help and encouragement, an acknowledgment of Divine support and human fellowship. ■ 'God's in His heaven: all's right with His world.' To deny this is to deny all Higher guidance. All the misery in the world is of man's making. The more fully \so realise the duty of happiness, and the wider we can spread that thought, the more anxious we shall all be not only to attain our own happiness, but to -increase that of others. But I beg your pardon for talking so seriously. It seems as if I were preaching. Come, let me tell you about my pretty presents and some of our plans for the future." The men also talked 1 , as men will occasionally when the spell of time and place and a congenial listener tempts to confidence. Martin was speaking: 'T don't quite see my way. And yet " "What's the difficulty? She is a woman, therefore to be wooed; she is a woman, therefore to be won." "Well, for one thing, I can't see myself in the role of Avooer. I'm a confirmed old bachelor, as I've told vou before." "Not old." "Too- old to change. I have all sorts of faddy ways, of which you know nothing, but which would be hard to give up; and my old housekeeper makes me very .comfortable." "Too comfortable. You might be eighty." "I'm more than half way."

''What's that matter. You're just in your prime. You have not played ducks and drakes with you constitution. You are in perfect- condition, only, perhaps, a little too stout. You have never indulged in the follies of youth. I don't believe that you have ever been really in love." "I have not. And indeed I often doubt whether the feeling of which you talk so much has any real existence beyond the urge of Xature to the preservation of the race. However, I will say no more on that subject, for in your present condition I am well aware that it would sound rank heresy." ''You are refuted out of your own mouth, my friend," said Tom, laughing. "But to return to our muttons • if not young, ehe is young enough. You would not marry a girl?" "I've iio desire to marry at all, I tell von."

Tom paid no heed to the interruption, but continued quietly : "Her face may not be beautiful, but her figure is perfect; she is sweet and sensible, highly educated, companionable, and sympathetic. Think how she would grace your table, walk, ride, and drive with you in summer, entertain you in winter evenings. Moreover, she, too is lonely, and, if I mistake not, she w. .'d look kindly on your suit."

"You have no right to say that. It is not fair. I have never said a word. And yet . . . and yet . . . She is all yon gay, and more. And once, I remember, ten —nay. fifteen years ago, I was on the point of telling her so, when her father died and tho whole family went under. Went away for a time, I think; nnd I believe she worked for them all. If wo had seen a little more of each other then . . . But it was not to be. She had determined not to marry, or so she said. And I . . . What could T say? I was hardly earning tucker. I might, I would, have supported her, somehow; but I could not take on the whole family. And now she is wealthy. How could I speak now? But she is a fine woman, a noble woman, and to me she is beautiful. Have you remarked her noble carriage, and the way her head is set on her shoulders, and how her eyes shine and her lips tremble when she hears of some heroic deed, or some act of unobtrusive charity. But why rouse these long-buried feelings? Let sleeping dogs lie. I am content, and so is she—at any rate, she will now have plenty of chances of changing her state if she wishes. To have kept silent so long and to speak now would be an insult."

"Well, think it over. She won't fall like an over-ripe peach, into any man's mouth. You should put your 'old bachelor' ways and woo her properly. And look. There she is walking with Eunice beside the lily pond. Let us join them. The air is growing chill." They rose and sauntered towards the pond that glimmered like opal in the last rays of the setting sun ; and at the same moment their hostess came from the house to gather her guests, and suggest bridge or some other diversion.

It is well known that the whole world is topsy-turvy; and perhaps Australasia ia the most topsy-turvy of all the countries. At least such was the opinion of the late George Augustus Sala when he visited us some years ago. However that may be, it is undoubtedly the young people's age, and they know it and take advantage of the knowledge. As may be seen from the two conversations just recorded. Tom and Eunice spoke to their older friends without hesitation, as people sure of their ground. Jane and Martin wero hesitant, conventional, uncertain, afraid of what "people "would say." People whose opinion was of no earthly importance, who cared nothing for them personally, and would forget them as soon as they were out of eight. But the words of the younger pair were not lost: thev carried a certain amount of conviction.

Reredon, accepting a hand at bridge, found opportunity to watch Miss Mnnro moving among her friends, to note -the smiles with which they received her, the respect they paid to her opinions. With a strange glow at his heart he saw that she was really well turned out—a very attractive woman. A wife and homemistress of whom any man might be proud. "What a fool I wag to let her go years ago!" he thought. "But it's too late now." Jane was conscious of his glance, and it exercised a telepathetic influence over her. She remembered the youthful episode, though she had not mentioned it to Eunice. "I did like him then," she thought. "And he is betterlooking and more manly now. But it is altogether too late. And I'm -sure he never thinks of me in that way. I'm an old woman, and he is still in the prime of life. A man is no older than he looks, while a woman- ?' But she knew that, in her case, the old saw was not true—that her heart was still young, that it it had not really been awakened. Perhaps it would continue to sleep until she herself passed into the long sleep called death. Anyhow, she would do nothing foolish. . Of that she was quite determined.

Tom caught Eunice's eye and solemnly winked.

Scene II: A room in a very modern cottage in the bungalow style, with all the latest improvements, electric light, and every labour-saving appliance. Simply and sparsely furnished, with that perfect atmosphere of content which only a born home-maker can impart. Time, 3 o'clock in the afternoon two days before Christmas, and nearly a fortnight after the last scene. Jane, quietly dressed, sits alone lost- in thought, with her head on her hand. Eunice, in the latest fashion, hurries in. "My dear Jane, you will come with me, won't you-?" "Of course. But what's the hurry?" " Why, only two days from Christmas, and I've lots and lots of things to get. ■ And that reminds me, I've often wanted to ask you, but did not quite like; Are you really very fond of your name? I think' Jane so hard and unromantic. It is all very well for a queen —indeed, it's quite queenly, and even Lady Jane sounds well. But Jane, plain Jane! Ido not like it. I . wish you would let me call you Joan, or Janet, or even Jinny. "Sounds too much like a spinning machine," interjected Jane softly. " No, I like Jane. It is simple and honest and unpretentious. Of course, it is plain; but, then, I am plain." " You are not plain now." "What do you mean by 'now.' I ani_ plain; I have always been plain. It was" my tragedy as a girl whenever I had time to think of myself. I never have forgotten it. I never can forget it. Beauty means so much to a woman. And I have, none—none."

"How bitterly you'sneak !" "If I do it is your fault for waking thoughts long dead. Why did you wake me? If not happy I was at least not unhappy. It was not kind, Eunice." " But you are not plain. Come, stand beside me, and we will compare notes." And very tenderly she led her h-'end to a mirror and pointed out ner many good points, emphasising and dwell ; ng on each. For a moihent Jane listened, half persuaded, half incredulous. Then she turned quickly away. "It is useless. I know myself, and cannot believe that black is white."

Then said Eunice boldly: "The features may be plain; but what of the expression ! To those who can see the real woman below the surface —to your lovers and vour friends. —vou are beautiful, and you will always be beautiful. Ah ! do believe me, for it is true." " I cannot believe you. and —and—it does not matter. I am a fool. All women are fools in this matter. Old or young—the woman of the past and the woman of the present—are alike in this : thej desire to love and be loved. And beauty of person is a woman's greatest weapon." "And do not men desire the same?" " Not to the same extent, I think. Byron's words are as true now as when they were first written : ' Love is of man's life a thing apart; 'tis woman's sole existence.' It is true that women have now other interests and amusements; but the principal fact remains the same. As a homemaker and a potential mother, love—the great divine verity—must always hold the first place in her heart. When I was working night and day for my dear ones it was love that upheld me. Now that

that is no longer necessary or now that I have every material thing that 1 have ever desired, I am lonely, very lonely."

Eunice bit her lip. She knew something that Jane did not know, and she was determined not to let it out.

"Come," she cried. "We are wasting time. The afternoon will be gone before we get out. Has he not spoken yet?" "He has not spoken. " " But he will."

" I doubt it. Also my own answer if he should. Sometimes I feel a hundred."

"And sometimes you look and feel no more than twenty-five. You will never grow old. Your heart is too young. Come, get your hat."

What are you going to buy?" "Oh, lots and lots of things! I feel so happy I want to make a few other people happy, too." " What are you going to give Tom?" "Well, I had thought of giving him myself, since he seems to prefer that to any ordinary Christmas box. Oh, you look amazed ! I had nearly forgotten to tell you. On, the principle' of ' the better the day the better the deed,'- we have decided to be married earlv on Christmas morning, spend most of the day with the united families, and make a, quiet escape later on." "Am I invited?"

"Of course—that is to say, no one is invited, but all friends who feel inclined are at liberty to come. No ceremony, no long faces, no tears, but plenty of good wishes and cheerfulness." "It sounds good." " It will be very good." While the women talked thus lightly on the surface, but with the inner depths stirred, Martin Eeredon sat alone. He was thinking deeply, questioning life both past and future, Tom Rutherford's influence and presence, his remarks and suggestions, the atmosphere of his assured happiness, and his confident attitude towards those problems which still tormented the elder man had not been without effect. Silent and shy by temperament and circumstance, Martin was yet extraordinarily tenacious of an' idea when he had once caught hold of and assimulated it. As a boy he had admired Jane Munro." but circumstances had parted them, and he had well-nigh forgotten her. Her appearance after so many years had reawakened the old interest; her sweet, pathetic smile and beautiful figure had further attracted him; but he was no coxcomb, and knew that she was his equal in most things and his superior in a few. ' He would nave accepted her friendship gratefully. The idea that he might ask more, as suggested by Tom, was slowly but steadily rising in his mind, and as it grew it took possession of his imagination. He thought of her in his home at the head of his table as' the possible mother of his children. Pictures rose before the inner eye. A real home, a loving wife, bonnie children. As a man grows older, and sees the warning white hairs and crow's feet he thinks of these things. And then came the question, Could he ask her? Dare he put it to the test? What would she say? Would she make fun of him {he hated ridicule, as all shy people do). He was not so m.uch afraid of what she would say, however, as of his own failure to express himself properly. He knew that he would stammer, falter, make a mess of it. Whenever he tried to say anything serious he always made a mess of it. If only there were some gobetween. But no, he did not li'ke that. He did not want anyone interfering in his business. Tom Rutherford _ had said enough, almost too much. If it was to be done at all he would do it himself. But would he do it? What should he say? If he could only think of some sort of* introduction, some'kind of preliminary. Something that would prepare her, so that she might not be taken by surprise and misunderstand his halting statement. Should he give up the idea altogether and go away without seeing her again? Perhaps that would be She _ would certainly say "No" ; and if she did not, the thought of a big wedding filled him with terror. And women always liked a fuss, even this woman, the best and wisest of them all. So he weighed the matter back and forth, and could come to no conclusion. But ever Tom's words sang in his heart, and his pulses beat, and he could not go away. He could not leave what might well be the one chance of his life, without at least putting his fortune to the test. It seemed as if he owed it to her and to himself. Then a. bright idea struck him. T!o went out hurriedly, and sought in many streets for manv hours, until at last that thing materialised which he had vaguely Fought, and did not know, yet, quite why he had sought it. When he returned home a small box lay snugy in his inner pocket, and a new light of adventure shone in his eyes. Romance is net yet dead even in this work-a-day world.

Scene III: Same as»Scene I, but, it is now later in the evening, and there is a brilliant full moon, making everything almost as light as day. Time, Christmas Eve. The two -couples now walk separately. Eunice and Tom walk together: they are occupied with thoughts and plans for the future. In spite of the sorrow and tribute of the world, they are happy, and it is right that they should be happy, for their future opens before them full of promise and radiant with love. Martin and Jane are still undecided. Thev walk a little and finally sit down. The other couple are quickly lost sight of. From the distant city 'comes the hum of late traffic and the loud buzz of occasional motor cars returning from various entertainments and amusements, for the streets are crowded and every house is ablaze: but the garden seems all the more still in contrast _ to those distant noises. A. warm, wooing wind from the north lists the little tendrils of hair from Jane's brow. In the soft light she looks singularly young,

sweet, and appealing. A deep, almost passionate love fills Martin's hearty He knows all at once that he "wants" her as he had never "wanted" anything before in all his quiet, well-ordered life. The years fell away from both. They are once again in the morning of life. The silence appears to deepen. "Will he never speak," thinks Jane, and chides herself for folly. Why should he speak? He would not speak. There was nothing to say. Eunice had been mistaken, that was all. A flood of bitter thought swamped her mind. The smile dropped froni her lips. A bird woke and fluttered in the boskage; it startled her so that she cried out softly. Martin woke from his reverie. "Hey! What's that? Were you startled?" and he put a 'protecting hand over her'e, giving it a little reassuring squeeze, and then, absent-mindedly, left it there. It did not seem worth while drawing it away, and the sense of companionship - was pleasant. Her heart seemed to beat more quickly. She grew all alert and alive. "Where were you last Christmas?" she asked tentatively, for she felt that she must speak or scream.

"I ? Oh! I was up-country, at the station, you know. We had just finished shearing, and I had not had time to get into town, indeed, I did not particularly want tßi go. There was nothing doing here then." She flinched at the last word. Was it a mere accident? or had it a special significance? "And this year —have you already finished the shearing? You have been here some time, have you not?"

"Oh! This year, somehow, I felt as if I wanted a change. The place grew all at once stale and unbearable. And so — I came to town to look round and see how things were moving. I have been here about a fortnight. I have a good manager, yau know;, everything will be all right." He spoke easily ,and freely on this subject; enlarging on the _ good points of his manager and other similar matters, as if it were a relief to speak of every-day business. Jane scarcely heard him. She was conscious of a certain impatience, and almost jerked'her hand from his. He caught at and missed it, saying, with a kind of surprice, "I thought you were frightened." "Oh, no! Not frightened, only a little startled. The night is so still and lovely, even a bird's cry comes as a shock. Shall we go in?" "Why? Are vou afraid of catching cold?"

"I never catch cold." > "Well, then, stay a little longer. It is not really late. I ... I want to say something, and/ I don't know how to say it. I'm such a shy, awkward beggar. Jane sat very still. She did not help him at all. He made another spasmodic effort. "You know there is something the lawyers say about ' without prejudice.' Do you know what that_means?" " I believe thai;- it means whatever they say or write on a certain occasion shall not be used against them or to their prejudice." "That's just what I mean. That's just my case. We are friends, aren't we? I've never had a woman friend before, and I don't quite know " "How to treat her? Is that what you mean? . Well, so far as I am concerned, don't let that trouble you. Treat me like a man."

He shrank visibly. " I could not. But it conies' to this: I want to ask you something, and you may say ' No.' And if you do, could it he 'without prejudice'? Could we be friends after, as we are now?" "Of course. Why not?"

A breath of relief, as after the removal of a heavy weight, broke from him. "That's all right; and then there is another thing. To-morrow will be Christmas Day. The merest acquaintances who are not friends give each other presents on that day, and nobody minds. I've got a little thing here." He dived into is pocket and drew out the small parcel, for the contents of which he had hunted the town round on the previous evening. "It is worth nothing." He knew instinctively that the women to whom men give jewels and money presents are not those for whom they feel the deepest love and respect. Money was of no special value to him. He longed to give her all that he had, and count it but dross. When he was younger he would have worked for her and delighted in the opportunity. Money meant something then. **• was only the means to an end now. "*' But I just saw this, and I thought it would suit you, and so " *. He laid the little box between her hands, and she took it wondering. It did not look like a jeweller's box, and it was very light. She opened it carefully, and there on a bed of soft white cotton wool lay a long string of dark brown beads, which looked black in the moonlight. Between each of the dark beads was one of smooth gold, and the necklet was fastened by a little gold clasp so that it could be twisted once or twice round the neck as mighi be desired. It was a dainty little offering. Jane uttered a little cry of pleasure. She understood and appreciated tho delicacy of the gift. How could she ever have doubted this man? She had nevei thought him so intuitional. She lifted th? necklet. As she did so a small folded paper fell to the ground. She stooped quickly to pick it up. "What is that?" cried Martin, thinking for one terrible moment that it might be the bill. Fatal blow to all romance 1 She laughed and opened it, pushing away his detaining hand. And this is what she saw: THE SYMBOLISM OF THE ROSEPETAL NECKLET. The shape is itself emblematic of Eternity—without beginning or end. The rose—queen of flowers—is itself the emblem of Love. The petals, wrought by great care and patience into the semblance of rock, are ' the type of enduring Beauty.

The golden beads, that will never decay or rust, axe type of Truth. The ewect, subtle, penetrating odour —the soul of the flower—is emblematic of Grcodness. Thus combining the trinity of Beauty, G-oodness, and Truth, bound about in an endless circle of Love.

"What is all this? I cannct understand. How did that paper get into the box. I never saw it when I bought the necklet, and I have not opened it since." " Perhaps the woman who made it By the way, was it a woman?'" "Certainly it was, and she told me that she had made it herself; that there was nothing in the baads but the real rosepetals, worked for many hours with a little oil of roses. ' Most of the pretty coloured beads are faked,' she told me. ' but I will guarantee these, and the scent will not leave them in any ordinary life-time. Perhaps it will never go.' " By this time the delicate, subtle perfume of the imprisoned flowers had risen to Jane's nostrils with a poignant force which, aided by the mysterious paper, the occult influences of the night, and the near presence of the man she loved, began to affect her strangely. She took up the necklet daintily, having first restored the paper and closed the box, lest by any chance it should blow away. Martin watched her eagerly. ' You will accept it, dear?"

"Why not? As you say, even the most casual acquintances give and receive gifts on Christmas Day." Then Martin gripped his courage with both hands, and, taking the beads from her, flung them round her neck. "If you take them you must take me, too," he said. " They are an omen of our future happiness." And so it was settled.