The Last Rose of Summer

by Rupert Hughes

  CHAPTER VI

  One morning, as she was making ready to go to the store, and takingready to go to the store, and taking much time at the process, sheobserved at her forehead a white hair. It startled her, frightened herfor a moment; then she laughed.

  "Why, I'm growing old!"

  What use had she for youth? It had never been kind to her. All theloss of it meant was that it might harm her a little at the store. Sheplucked out the white thread and forgot it-nearly.

  Another day there was another white hair. She removed that, too. Thencame another, and others, swiftly, till she was afraid to take any moreaway.

  At last there was a whole gray lock. She tucked it in and pinned itbeneath the nondescript mass of her coiffure. It would have terrifiedher more if she had not been so busy. She chattered and proffered herwares all day long. Hunger became one of her most sincere emotions.Fatigue wore her out but strengthened her, sweetened her sleep, keptdreams away. When she woke she must hurry, hurry to the store. The oldstupidity of her life had given way to an eternal hurry.

  And now the white hairs were hurrying, too, like the snowflakes thatsuddenly fill the air. But with this snow came the quickening of pulseand glistening of eyes, the reddening of cheeks that the snow brings.

  The white fell about her hair as if she stood bareheaded in asnow-storm. There was a kind of benediction in it. She felt that itsoftened something about her face, as the snow softens old rubbish-heapsand dreary yards and bleak patches.

  People began to say, "How well you look, Debby!" They began to dignifyher as "Deborah" or "Miss Larrabee." Her old contemners came to hercounter with a new meekness. Age was making it harder and harder forthem to keep the pace. Bright colors did not become them any longer.Their petals were falling from them, the velvet was turning to plush,and the plush losing its nap, rusting, sagging, wearing through. Theyears, like moths, were gnawing, gnawing.

  Debby felt so sorry for the women who had been beautiful. She couldimagine how the decay of rosehood must hurt. It is not necessary to havebeen Napoleon to understand Elba.

  One day a sad, heavy figure dragged along Deborah's aisle and sank uponthe mushroom stool in front of her. Deborah could hardly believe thatit was Josie Shillaber. She could hardly force back the shock thatleaped to her expression. From thin, white lips crumpled with pain camea voice like a rustling of dead leaves in a November gust. And thevoice said, with a kind of envy in it:

  "Why, Deborah, how well you look!"

  "Oh, I am well!" Deborah chanted, then repressed her cheerunconsciously. It was not tactful to be too well. "That is, I'mtol'able. And how are you this awful weather?"

  "Not well, Debby. I'm not a bit well; no, I'm never well any more.Why, your hair is getting right white, isn't it, dear? But it's realbecoming to you. Mine is all gray, too, you see, but it's awful!"

  "Indeed it's not! It's fine! Your children must love it. Don't they?"

  "Oh, the children!" Josie wailed. "What do they think of me? The grownones are away, all flirting and getting married. They say they'll comeback, but they never do. But I don't care. I don't want them to see melike this. And the young ones are so selfish and inconsiderate. It'sawful, getting old, isn't it, Debby? It don't seem to worry you,though. I suppose it's because you haven't had sorrow in your life as Ihave. I'm looking for something to wear, Debby. The styles aren't whatthey used to be. There's not a thing fit to wear to a dog-fight inthese new colors. What are people coming to? I can't find a thing towear. What would you suggest? Do help me!"

  Deborah emptied the shelves upon the counter, sent to the stock-room fornew shipments that had not been listed yet, ransacked the place; butthere was nothing there for the woman whose husband owned it all. Thephysician's wife was sick with time, and even he could not cure her ofthat. The draper's wife was turning old; he could not swaddle her fromthe chill of that winter. Josie was trying to dress up a rose whosepetals had fallen, whose sepals were curled back; the husk could notendure colors that the blossom had honored.

  Josie, however, would not acknowledge the inevitable autumn; she wouldnot grow old with the grace of resignation. She limped from the store,shaking her unlovely head. Could this be Josie Shillaber, who hadromped through life with beauty in and about everything she was and woreand did?

  Deborah could have moralized over her as Hamlet over Yorick's skull:Where be your petal cheeks, your full, red lips, your concise chin, andthat long, lithe throat, and those pearly shoulders, and all thathigh-breasted, spindle-hipped, lean-limbed girlishness of yours? Andwhere your velocity, your tireless laughter, your amorous enterprise?

  Could they have ever been a part of this cumberer of the ground,creeping almost as slowly and heavily as a vine along a cold, gray wall.

  Deborah's hand went to her heart, where there was an ache of pity forone who had never pitied her. It was Deborah now that was almostgirlish of form; she was only now filling out, taking flesh upon herbones and rhythm into her members. And that scrawny chicken-chest ofhers was becoming worthy of that so beautiful name for so dear a place;she was gaining a bosom. She did not know how the whimsical sultan Timehad shifted his favor to her from his other slaves.

  She knew only that Josie was in disgrace with beauty and stared afterher in wet-eyed pity. Who can feel so sorry for a fallen tyrant as therisen victim of tyranny?

  A few weeks later Deborah went again to the Shillaber house, sat againon the sofa in the dining-room. The children had all come home. Josiewas in the parlor, almost hidden in flowers. She did not rise toreceive her guests. They all filed by and looked at her and shook theirheads. She did not answer with a nod. Birdaline wept over her, lookingolder and terrified. But Pamela was wonderfully pretty in black. Shesang Josie's favorite hymn, "Jesus, lover of my soul," with a quartetaccompanying her. Then the preacher said a few words and prayed.

  Mr. Crankshaw was there, and so were his camp-stools. One of them hadcollapsed, and the bass of the choir had been unable to open his. Someof the young people giggled, as always. But even for them the laughterwas but the automatic whir of a released spring, and there was no mirthin the air.

  Deborah was filled with a cowering awe, as one who sees a storm rushpast and is unhurt save by the vision of its wreckage. The girl Pamelahad sung here a year or so ago that song to the rose, and had shreddedthe flower and ruined it and tossed it aside. So time had sung away therose that had been Josie. Deborah had heard the rose cry out in itsagony of dissolution, and now it was fallen from the bush, scentless anddead. But it had left at least other buds to replace it. That was morethan Deborah had ever done.

  The store was closed the day of the funeral, and Deborah went home withher mother. All that her mother could talk about was:

  "Poor Josie! But did you see Birdaline? My, how poorly she looks! Andso kind of scared. And she used to be such a nice-looking girl! My,how she has aged! Poor Josie! But Birdaline! What was she so scaredabout?"

  It was the very old triumphing over the old for meeting the same fate.In her own summer Mrs. Larrabee had been a rose and had shriveled on thestem.

  That night Deborah thanked God that He had not lent her beauty. Itsrepayment was such ruin.