by Myrtle Reed
The Roses and the Song
There had been a lover's quarrel and she had given him back his ring.He thrust it into his pocket and said, unconcernedly, that there wereother girls who would be glad to wear it.
Her face flushed, whether in anger or pain he did not know, but shemade no reply. And he left her exulting in the thought that the oldlove was dead.
As the days went by, he began to miss her. First, when his chum diedin a far-off country, with no friend near. He remembered with a panghow sweetly comforting she had always been, never asking questions, butsoothing his irritation and trouble with her gentle womanly sympathy.
He knew just what she would do if he could tell her that Tom was dead.She would put her soft cheek against his own rough one, and say: "I amso sorry dear. I'm not much, I know, but you've got me, and nothing,not even death can change that."
"Not even death"--yes, it was quite true. Death changes nothing.--It isonly life that separates utterly.
He began to miss the afternoon walks, the lingering in book store andart galleries, and the quiet evenings at home over the blazing fire,when he sat with his arm around her and told her how he had spent thetime since they last met. Every thought was in some way of her, and theemptiness of his heart without her seemed strange in connection withthe fact that the old love was dead.
He saw by a morning paper that there was to be a concert for thebenefit of some charitable institution, and on the program, printedbeneath the announcement, was her name. He smiled grimly. How often hehad gone with her when she sang in public! He remembered every littledetail of every evening. He always waited behind the scenes, becauseshe said she could sing better when he was near her. And whatever thecritics might say, she was sure of his praise.
It was on the way home from one of these affairs that he had first toldher that he loved her. Through the rose-leaf rain that fell from herhair and bosom at his touch he had kissed her for the first time, andthe thrill of her sweet lips was with him still. How short the ride hadbeen that night and why was the coachman in such an unreasonable hurryto get home?
He made up his mind that he would not go to the concert that night, butsomehow, he bought a ticket and was there before the doors opened. Sohe went out to walk around a little. People who went to concerts earlywere his especial detestation.
In a florist's window he saw some unusually beautiful roses. He hadalways sent her roses before, to match her gown, and it seemed queernot to buy them for her now.
Perhaps he really ought to send her some to show her that he cherishedno resentment. Anyone could send her flowers over the footlights. Theother men that she knew would undoubtedly remember her, and he didn'twant to seem unfriendly.
So he went in. "Four dozen La France roses," he said, and the clerkspeedily made the selection. He took a card out of his pocket, andchewed the end of his pencil meditatively.
It was strange that he should have selected that particular kind,he thought. That other night, after he had gone home, he had founda solitary pink petal clinging to his scarf-pin. He remembered witha flush of tenderness that it had come from one of the roses--hisroses--on her breast. He had kissed it passionately and hidden it in abook--a little book which she had given him.
With memory came heartache, his empty life and her wounded love. Thewords shaped themselves under his pencil:
"You know what the roses mean. Will you wear one when you sing thesecond time? Forgive me and love me again--my sweetheart."
He tied the card himself into the centre of the bunch, so it was halfhidden by the flowers. He gave them to the usher with a queer tremolonote in his voice. "After her first number, understand?"
There was a piano solo, and then she appeared. What she sang he did notknow, but her deep contralto, holding heaven in its tones, he both knewand understood. She did not sing as well as usual. Her voice lackedwarmth and sincerity and her intonation was faulty. The applause wasloud but not spontaneous although many of her friends were there. Hiswere the only flowers she received.
When she came out the second time, he looked at her anxiously, butthere was never a sign of a rose. He sank down in his chair with a sighand covered his face with his hand.
This time she sang as only _she_ could sing. Oh, that gloriouscontralto! Suggestions of twilight and dawn, of suffering and joy, oflove and its renunciation.
There was no mistaking her success and the great house rang withplaudits from basement to roof. He, only, was silent; praying in muteagony for a sign.
She willingly responded to the encore and a hush fell upon the audiencewith the first notes of Tosti's "Good-Bye."
"_Falling leaf, and fading tree._"
Oh, why should she sing that? He writhed as if in bodily pain, but thebeautiful voice went on and on.
"_Good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye!_"
How cruel she seemed! Stately, imperious, yet womanly, she held herlisteners spellbound, but every word cut into his heart like a knife.
"_All the to-morrows shall be as to-day._"
The tears came and his lips grew white. Then some way into the cruelmagnificence of her voice came a hint of pity as she sang:
"_Good-bye to hope, good-bye, good-bye!_"
There was a hush, then she began again:
"_What are we waiting for, Oh, my heart? Kiss me straight on the brows, and part!_"
All the love in her soul surged into her song; the joy of happy love;the agony of despairing love; the pleading cry of doubting love; thedull suffering of hopeless love; and then her whole strength was mergedinto a passionate prayer for the lost love, as she sang the last words:
"_Good-bye forever, good-bye forever! Good-bye, good-bye, good--bye--!_"
She bowed her acknowledgments again and again, and when the clamour wasover, he hastened into the little room behind the stage where she wasputting on her wraps. She was alone but her carriage was waiting.
As he entered, she started in surprise, then held out her hand.
"Dear," he said, "if this is the end, won't you let me kiss you _once_for the sake of our old happiness? We were so much to each other--youand I. Even if you wouldn't wear the rose, won't you let me hold youjust a minute as I used to do?"
"Wear the rose," she repeated, "what do you mean?"
"Didn't you see my card?"
"No," she answered, "I couldn't look at them--they are--La--France--youknow--and----"
She reached out trembling fingers and found the card. She read thetender message twice--the little message which meant so much, thenlooked up into his face.
"If I could," she whispered, "I'd pin them all on."
Someway she slipped into her rightful place again, and very littlewas said as they rolled home. But when he lit the gas in his own roomhe saw something queer in the mirror, and found, clinging to hisscarf-pin, the petal of a La France rose.
A Laggard in Love
