ROSE LEAVES.

Otago Witness, Issue 3802, 25 January 1927, Page 82

ROSE LEAVES.

By

Mallyvern

It was a stifling afternoon in July, but Grace Haden was not on holiday, although she was sitting on the garden seat fondling the petals of a rose-bush close by. No, Grace was down on her luck. Although the little two-roomed cottage in which she lived was her own, left her by her dear dead mother, Grace was employed in the bitr laundry on the outskirts of the city, toiling eight hours each day for the upkeep of it and for her own livelihood. The reason for her being at home this afternoon was because she had been paid off owing to the strike having affected the laundry to the extent of its closing down. This state of affairs worried Grace considerably. Very little weighed heavily upon her mind. She was not at. all. a pretty girl; in fact she was extraordinarily plain, and- to make matters worse, she was too obviously aware of this fact. She was also extremely shy and sensitive, and would not mix with her fellowworkers. The result of this was that the rest of the girls thought her strange and stale, and in fact they made a laughing stock of her, although indeed she did not deserve it, and she was far <.OO reserved a girl to uphold her own rights. Thus poor Grace led a lonely life. Her mother had been the only friend she had really had, but as her mother had died while Grace was but twenty she had spent the following six years in solitary isolation in her little cottage. No one came near to molest her, and therefore no one knew her. • Strange it may seem that in this world of ours we can be so misunderstanding and so unconcerned with the natures of our fellow-mortals.' Yet it is true that though a first careless glance at Grace Haden’s countenance did not produce much' approval, one sympathetic, understanding glance into her nature would have sufficed to cast a glamour of radiance over her outward shortcomings.

Only one man had a faint notion _ot the wealth of goodness arid the deptA of character that lay beneath the plain features. He was a sort of semi-invalid who, along with his sister, occupied the cottage next door. He’ had lost both feet in answering his country’s call, but oven this fact the 'neighbours seemed to have forgotten. His sister and he managed to live off his scant pension, together with a little which he earned by contributions to papers and magazines. Tom Garnet was contented with his lot, however, and did not mind if sister Molly merely placed his chair in the back garden and darted off to enjoy herself without coming near him for hours. Tom studied human nature with great interest, therefore he understood Milly’s frivolous pleasure-loving nature, but never would he be a drag on her by wishing her to stay with him if she herself wished to go out. In the same way, too, had he studied Grace’s nature from the other side of the trellis work which divided the two gardens. The occasion on which they first spoke was when a mischievous breeze had blown a page from the article Tom was writing right over to the little cairn of stones in the corner of Grace’s garden on which the statue of Our Lady stood. The Hadens were good Catholics, and that little altar,, practically concealed by rose bushes, was very sacred to Grace. Here she was kneeling amid the falling petals when the sheet of paper was blown upon the cairn. With one hand full of fallen rose petals Grace picked up the sheet of paper and | crossed the garden to restore it to ’the owner. He was profuse in his thanks, and explained to her that it was part of an article which he was writing for a paper. “You write then?” she asked with interest. “Yes, just a little. I have contributed articles to several papers under the nom de plume of ‘Gold Pen’ for a few years now, but I have never yet had any real success.” A curious expression crossed Grace’s countenance, and with a wistful gaze she turned over the rose petals in her hand. Tom noticed the action, and it puzzled him. Grace, seeing his perplexity, hastened to explain. “I’m afraid you will think me a very strange person,” she said. “You are right. I have many strange whims and fancies. For instance, I gather up all the fallen rose leaves because they seem to me to resemble my own life. Yet, why should I annoy you with an account of it?” she finished with a sigh and a hopeless toss of her head. Tom was annoyed. He felt a warm compassion for this girl, who lived so forlorn yet so good a life. Time and again he had watched her pick up the fallen rose petals, and wondered in his own symapthetic understanding heart what was the reason lor it. He urged her now to explain why those rose leaves were alike to her life. She flushed crimson, but began her explanation. “You see, I myself write articles in my spare time. My mother used to read them over, for she said there were many beautiful passages in some of them, but somehow-jao one seemed to want them — in fact, scarcely anyone cared to read them over. Many of them would have served excellent examples in this world had they been accepted, but you see they weren’t. Those rose leaves have a similar fate. Their beauty and fragrance could have filled the whole garden and cheered the hearts of all who entered it and saw them, but the harsh, unrelenting wind without the least consideration of this, and without giving them even a fair chance to prove their value, swept them away, leaving the virtuous rose bush blasted and broken, devoid of the charm -it possessed. Thus it is with human nature. Our hopes are built up in something and our imagination leads us to build castles in the air. It may be that we do have the talent to aspire to our ambitions, given a fair chance and a little consideration, but man, with his impetuous hustling and jostling, thwarts our plans and crushes our hopes in the bud, leaving our hearts paralysed with disappointment. Now you will be able. I am sure, to understand my whim of the rose leaves, Mr Garnet.” “I do’ exactly, Miss Haden. It surprises me that your work has not met with success, for, judging by your speech, I should imagine that your articles are written in most beautiful language. Perhaps I may have the pleasure of looking through some of them?” “Most certainly. I shall bring you them now if you wish.” Accordingly, Grace entered the house and brought forth tho manuscripts over which she had had many disappointments. She left them with-him, telling- him that he need not hasten to return them. From that day on Grace and Tom became very friendly. Every evening she would go into the back garden and talk to him over the trellis fence. Tom had read her articles over many times, and fully realised their value. Her writings had the same fault as Grace herself possessed. The outward appearance was not tempting. The beginnings were dry and stale, and would not make light reading, but behind it all was a wealth of language which seemed to Tom like a clear, easy-flowing stream, flowing from the sweet purity of Grace’s soul. Tom was very, very sorry for her, but could do nothing- to help her. He was extremely sorry, too, that she was out of work, knowing, or at least guessing, as he did, that she could ill afford it. Nor did he guess the battle between two decisions that was raging in Grace's mind that afternoon as she sat fondling the rose bush. Grace had been idle for

a whole month, and there was no sign of getting a start; besides, supposing had been, it was not a very pleasing prospect for Grace to g-o back and commence work in a place where she was made a laughing stock. Grace made her decision, however. She got up early next morning, and, taking what money she had, together with a few sandwiches, and a note to put into the laundry box, she locked the doors of her cottage, and set off to catch the early south train. It was a grim problem that faced her; loneliness and poverty were driving her to it. During the time her mother was alive, Grace had gone to Roehampton to spend a holiday in the Sacreik Heart Convent, the Mother Superior of which was a great friend of her mother’s. Hither she was bound on this misty July morning ; but not on holiday by any means. She was g-oing to become- a nun. Some inward instinct seemed to be appealing to her not to go. She saw no reason why she shouldn’t. She would be well cared for, and she would have no worries regarding food and work. She had nothing to- regret. She had only closed up her cottage, so that if there was any likelihood of her coming back, she would still have a home to return to, and no one would miss her, because no one cared for her. When she reached the convent the Mother Superior proved dubious about the step she was about to take, but, as Grace insisted, the ceremony for the commencement of her noviceship was to be the following day. Grace slept well, and awoke next morning welcoming the great change which was to take place in her life. She had a strange sensation of tranquillity during the ceremony, and was fully convinced that her soul belonged in this haven of rest and blessedness. She. was wrong, however, someone did miss her. It is strange how quickly information. will spread, anti so did the information that Grace had entered a convent reach the ears of Tom Garnet. Grace had mentioned in her note to the laundry manageress saying that she would not be back to work after the strike, as she had gone to become a nun. This piece of news had spread like wildfire, the manageress having told Milly, and also the other workers. Tom had never realised how much Grace had meant to him till now. He had always been sorry for her, but as pity is akin to love, his feelings had merged into deeper than sympathy. The rose garden next door seemed to be devoid of its charm, as Grace herself had said about the roses. He-had nothing left to remind him or her but the manuscripts which he had never returned. These he re-read, and putting his whole grief-stricken heart into his work, he copied, passages from them, and compiled a book which he entitled “Rose Leaves.” This he dedicated to the memory of Grace Haden, the misjudged angel of the rose garden. It is said that no author can achieve success until he has had some great grief. So it was in the case of Tom Garnet. “ Rose Leaves ” became worldfamous, but the lonesome author found no pleasure in his success. * * * Milly had married, and Tom had to be content to live with her and her husband, but he felt dreadfully in the way, and longed many, many times to be possessor of that empty cottage next door. While all those changes had taken place in the cottages which surrounded the laundry Grace was diligently working and studying in the convent. Her heart was not really set on the vocation she had ordained herself to fill, but nevertheless she was content.

- Her contentment was short-lived, however. She had served about eight months of her novitiate when one day a lady friend presented the convent library with the famous book of the day entitled “ Rose Leaves,” by Tom Garnet. This book all the nuns were requested to read. Grace needed no more than a look at the title, the author’s name, and a glance at the lines written by her own hand in bygone days, together with the passionate, longing, heart-rending lines which must have been written with Tom’s own heart’s blood. Forcibly’ the meaning of it all was struck home upon her. Tom was missing her, and she loved him, though she had not dared let herself admit .it. For four months more Grace endured the agonies of what she thought to be a hopeless love, but when at the end of that time she had her choice of renouncing the world she flew to it instead, with love in her heart, right back to the dear little rose garden. She opened the doors, and with a strange happiness, in her heart she crossed the garden’, and kneeling down in that sacred corner where she had knelt exactly one year before she heard her name from over the trellis fence. “ Grace, my Grace, you have come back.” Grace turned and looked into the face of Tom Garnet. Still the same face, only looking more lined than she had remembered it, and the same old chair in which he wheeled himself about. “ Aren’t you> going to invite me to have some tea?”.he asked. “Milly and her husband have gone picnicking, so [ unless you prove charitable I’ll have to starve till they come back.” He was I joking, but yet there was a quaver in his voice. Grace assented, and opening the little gate in the trellis fence for him, he wheeled himself through. There in the rose garden beside the little altar he told her of his love for her.

“ How could you hurt me by saying such a thing,” she exclaimed with a sob. “ You could never love me. There is

nothing about me to love. Oh! I know I am not pretty like other girls, but whytorture me with that knowledge. I came back here just to be kind to you because I was sorry for you and because I loved you, but now ”

“ Grace, darling Grace, how could you love a useless cripple like me?” Then she understood that love is blind to earthly defaults. Their souls were mated and their lives united amid the Rose Leaves.—The Y£eekly Scotsman.