RED ROSES.

Otago Witness, Issue 4030, 9 June 1931, Page 73

RED ROSES.

By

L. G. Moberly.

( Copyright.—For the Otago Witness. ) It drifted along the crowded bus to her—the warm sweetness of roses, a great handful of them held in the arms of a girl seated somewhere in front. That warm sweetness seemed to mount to her brain. She had struggled into the bus, one of a surging mass of humanity, each atom of which was striving to push its way out of the drinving rain into its sheelter. Through an almosphere of steaming macintoshes, and more or less reeking men and women, she had finally found a seat, and sunk into it with a sigh of fatigue. Even the inside of a bus, crammed with damp and dejected fellow-creatures, was better than the street, where cold rain was coming down with maddening persistency; where the roads were seas of eburnedup mud; and grey houses, grey pavements, grey sky, made up a world of impenetrable drabness. Tired? She was tired out, body and soul, and the whole of her universe was draped in grey; nowhere was there a glint or glimmer of sunlight, and then—there drifted along the crowded bus to her that warm fragrance of roses. She drew a long breath and for a moment shut her eyes. The damp dejected fellow-beings round her vanished from her sight; she was no longer aware of the windows,, down which the raindrops coursed without ceasing; of the grey streets and houses beyond the windows she lost all cognisance.

A garden upon a hillside unrolled itself before her, where the roses were in flower. Terrace above terrace that garden rose towards a low, white house, and upon the lowest terrace, close to a wall, stood a sundial. There was a grass plot round the sundial, and upon the grass plot, standard rose trees in full bloom. Deep red roses all of them, whose sweetness filled the air; a warm, delicious fragrance. Out across the low wall, beyond the sundial, the ground broke abruptly away in a foreground of low scrub and bracken; and beyond that again, an infinite blue distance spread itself out, under an infinite blue sky.

The Woman who stood beside, the rose trees looked out over the sunlit distance, and instead of seeing and understanding its loveliness, her heart was hot with impatience and sore with misery. The country •? solitudes oppressed her; their beauty made scant’ appeal to her pleasure-loving soul.

Even the scent of the roses, here on the terrace by the sundial, fretted her. If they had been heaped up in a ballroom, .or held in her hand as a bouquet in some crowded place—yes, she would have loved them. But here in this great silence, where only the wind whispered softly amongst the pine trees, and the larks soared, singing overhead, she. felt as if she loathed them and their warm fragrance. Why had it come about that she, Enid Merraly, a creature made for excitement, for gaiety, for enjoyment of the great world and its pleasures, should be set down here in this terraced garden, with one scholarly man as her sole companim ? Pah ! She •moved impatiently away from the wall, and began pacing up and down beside the sundial, the sweetness of the roses seeming to pursue her wherever she went.

Heavens above ! What had induced her to marry Gervase ? What crass folly, or blindness, had made her suppose she could be happy, buried in the country with a mail who spent his' time in writing, in reading, and dreaming; who expected her to find contentment in that low, white house on the hillside and the terraced gardens spread out in view of the infinite distance ?

He had swept her off her feet with his impetuous wooing.. Was that the answer to her question? Perhaps. Yes, he had swept her off her feet. She had felt honoured, uplifted, even a little mentally breathless, when the great writer had singled her out from all other women to be his wife.

It had felt so wonderful to carry oft such a prize as Gervase.Merraly from the crowds of adoring females who worshipped at his shrine! It had been such a triumph, because she herself had never been a worshipper.: Always the shoe had been qh the other foot. Gervase had worshipped her, not she Gervase; although when she married him she loved him, yes, certainly she loved him. But love grew thin when it was nourished only upon country solitudes, and big views, and a rose scented garden. She wanted life again, the eager, pulsating life of a great city! I Her feet beat an impatient tattoo upon the gravel path as her pacing ceased; and once again she leant against the wall, and thought of the gay old times of dancing, and frivolity, and fun. If only she could have those times back, or hAve new times like them. But Gervase was too obtuse to realise how much she missed them all. Gervase was satisfied with his books and work, and this eternal country. Gervase vould never miss her, even if

Just at that point her thoughts paused Even if—what?

She drew back from the wall. From the bag that swung on her wrist she took out a letter and read it through once, twice, three times. Already sb? almost knew it by heart, yet she read it again, and the words danced over the rose trees and the sundial in big, flaming letters: “Why do you stick it? Yon know he doesn't care two hoots about you your self. As long as his house is well run (which could be done by any house keeper) what does he care? His books are his life. My dear, come with me Don’t you realise that I love every scrap of you, from the crown of your pretty head to the sole of your dainty feet. -1 want you for yourself. We Pk the same things. The same sort of life appeals to us. Enid, throw up that rotten existence at Hillstone, and come to me. I can promise you happiness.—Owen. P.S.: 11 you agree, be at the cross-roads on Thursday evening. I’ll pick you up in my car.”

This was Thursday, and to-day her momentous decision must be made. Phrases from the letter in her hand raced to and fro in her mind:'“ His books are his life,” “ don’t you realise that 1 love every scrap of you ?. ” “ the same sort of life appeals to us.” Well, it was true, she argued fiercely with herself. The same sort of life did appeal to her and to Owen DarioThey liked Hie same things. They loved pleasure, and gaiety, and good times They loved the bustle of mties, and the “ va et vient ”of humanity. Country soli tudes did not appeal to Owe - any more than they did to her. And Gervase did not care! His passionate love-making had died down into the humdrum affection of married life. Owen was right Her husband no longer needed her, excepting as a housekeeper, to run hi* house smoothly. Her own life was being , wasted out here, on the hillside. Meanwhile another man really needed her, wanted her for herself, would give her the happiness she craved. Owen’s face, handsome, dark, eager, rose y before her; she flung out her hands towards the great landscape.

“Oh, what’s, the good of eating mv heart out here ? ” she cried. “ I can’t bear it any longer. I shall, be at the crossroads this- evening-rand let all the rest go hang!” As she walked slowly up the terraced garden towards the low, white house, the warm fragrance-of the roses seemed to follow her and wrap’ her round.

The woman next to her rose to leave the bus, and with a,start Enid Merraly awoke from her dream, to the reality of the crowded bus, the windows blurred with rain, the grey world outside, the damp, dejected human beings around her. The fragrance of roses still drifted .to her from the bunch held by the girl in th i front seat, but the terraced garden, the white house on the hill, the wide reach of landscape had faded away; she was back in the drab, ugly present. She was no longer the impatient girl who

had looked out over the wall and longed passionately for good times, for gaiety, for change, and excitement. She was a woman, tired and lonely, weary of struggling for bare existence, heartsick to the verge of desperation, dull despair eating into her soul.

As the warm fragrance of roses drifted to her across the bus it brought another picture out of the past. The sundial on the terrace, that was the centre of this picture, as of the other; and the roses were still in bloom, crimson roses, that dropped their sheeny petals upon the grass at her feet and upon the whitene 3 of her gown; red roses that seemed to hold all the glory of the summer day, Gervase was in this picture. Gervase, her husband, stood by her side, one hand resting upon the sundial, the other holding out to her a great, velvety blossom of glorious blood red.

“ ‘ I bring a rose to you, my sweet.’ ” Gervase’s voice, very deep and tender, hid spoken the words—the quotation from one of his own poems. A smile had flashed over his face, the smile that had won her heart in the days of his passionate wooing. Do you know,” he had gone on, speaking dreamily, “do you know, mv wife, that nothing in all the world could change my love for you? It is part of the fabric of my life.” She had laughed lightly—her own laugh came echoing back to her across the years, with her light words: “Oh, Gervase, how sentimental!” “ No—not sentimental,” the answer came quickly; “not sentimental, just the simple truth.” “Supposing 1 did something you hated?” Her own words were still lightly spoken, for in those days' Owen Darley had not come into her‘life, “I might kill your love.” “You couldn’t kill my love,”.his voice was very earnest, “ whatever you do, or are, I shall always love you. Never forget that. I shall love you for ever and ever, Amen! ”

With a little laugh he;had stooped and kissed her softly, as he put the roses into her hand.

The bus stopped with a jerk. The girl who held the great handful of roses was passing down between the seats, sending wafts of sweetness on either side of her as she passed. Enid’s eyes fixed themselves upon the roses. They were red, sheeny and velvety, like those that had grown beside the sundial. Perhaps there was more in her eyes than she realised, some wistfulness, some appeal, who can say? But for a second the girl paused, and drawing one great blossom from her bunch, handed it to the woman on the seat, smiling as she did so.

Enid clutched the rose tightly in her band, and sat staring straight in front of her, until the bus drew up at its next stopping place, when her dazed glance realised that it was time for her to alight.

The rain was still coming down in torrents, a cold rain that chilled her to the bone; and pavements and roadway alike seemed to be a sea of greasy mud. Before she had gone many paces she was wet through, and the dreary lodgings which she called home offered neither warmth nor consolation. Only the lovely fragrance of the rose she carried held with it some strange sense of peace; it touched, with some foreshadowing of hope, tire despair that was eating into her soul. “ You couldn’t kill my love. Whatever you are, or do, I shall always love you.” Gervase’s voice echoed in ner heart; Gervase’s face, with its clear blue eyes, and flasning smile, seemed to be looking into hers. Gervase was standing by her side again on the terrace, where the sundial on its grass plot was ringed round by a glory of crimson roses.

Her first care was to put the rose the girl had given her into a tumbler of water, and place it in the centre of her rather rickety table; then she changed her wet clothing, and tried to warm herself by a wholly inadequate fire. And the rose spread its sweetness over her room, as the roses had wafted their warm fragrance along the bus to her; and old memories awoke again, and the past rose up and stared her in the face.

It had all been a mistake, a ghastly, hideous fiasco; after a very short time the falseness of the step she had taken was brought home to her with devastating certainty. Those good times, that happiness which Owen had promised her with such assurance, had turned to dust and ashes almost before they materialised. There had been, a few months of feverish gaiety, just a few months of headlong excitement, spent now in London, next in Paris, then in Monte Carlo, and back again in London. ’ But in all those months some words she had once heard haunted her without ceasing, “Dead Sea fruit—Dead Sea fruit.” And through all the months, although she had told herself Gervase did not really need her, Gervase was absorbed in his books, Gervase only wanted a good house-keeper—-through all the months, nevertheless, she had. been haunted by thoughts of a lonely Gervase, of a Gervase whose words would paraphrase that haunting refrain, “ Behold, my house is left unto me desolate! ”

The feverish months had been brought to an end by her illness, and with that illness Owen’s love for her had waned—died. Sitting huddled over her inadequate fire, Enid shivered. The picture of those days that followed Owen’s desertion of her were pictures of utter desolation and despair. Shame and pride alike held her back from appealing to her husband; a weary search for work resulted in uncongenial posts, ill-paid and

arduous; and the long days passed into weeks, the weeks dragged on into months, the months crept into years, and now she was a tired woman, tired, and very heartsick, and very lonely. All at once she drew herself upright and stared at the crimson blossom upon the table.

If only! But it was impossible; quite impossible. The very idea was outrageous. By what right could she—a derelict, an outcast —dare to find her way back to the home she had deserted, the husband she had dishonoured'! The thought was preposterous; and yet —if only she could stand again on the terrace by the sundial, and see the blossoms upon the rose trees, and look into Gervase’s face!

But. the idea was fantastic. She had no right to ask for forgiveness from the man she had so cruelly hurt. To remain for ever away from him was the only least reparation she could make. Bui still the scent of the rose mounted to her brain, and awakened longings that refused to be stilled. Gervase need not even know she had been there, but surely she might steal down to her old home and look just once more at the little white house on the hill, and the terrace where the sundial st'o! amongst the roses? She would nut attempt to see Gervase. She would do nothing to disturb his peace; but—tomorrow was Sunday—she had no work on Sunday. She would go. just for once, to see whether the roses were in blossom, to drink in the air that blew over those

g.v-it spaces, to hear the larks upon the uplands, the wind amongst the pines. Her g'anee wandered towards the grey, wei roofs outs de her windows, the grey roofs, the serried chimney pots, the rows o! iiii?e window-, and she covered her face v. th her hands, and slow tears tru-klel through her lingers. She hail ome despised the wide spaces of the country; ide, she had hated the country silences and the country sounds. Now her soul ached for them all. She ■. limbed slowly up the steen nula-i lane, for -die was very tired, and the day was very hot. The rain, the ■ lies’ tiie chill misery of yesterday, had gone. Jo nay was a day in late June, a .lune day such as June days should be. Over head the sky was clear and blue: th* great landscape was steeped in sunlight; a wind that was soft as silk sang amongst the pine trees, and the larks sang overhead. hnid came more and more slowly up the lane, as towards the top it ’grew steeper. She knew just the place in the long wall where the little green gate opened into the lane; she meant to open the gate an inch or so, and peep int* the garden, to see the terrace and the sundial —to get a glimpse, if she could, of the low white house at the top of tin hill. She would only peep, and perhaps, if the terrace was empty, she night creep on to it for a moment and carry avvav with her a memorv of it all. to "ive her fresh courage for the battle of life. The green gale stood ajar. It had often stood ajar in the old days. The gardener came in and out this wav te the farm on the far side of the lane. It was ajar now. She opened it a trifle further, and looked in, her hungry e\es scanning the terrace and seeing it empty. She drew a long breath. Pulling the door a little more open she slipped quietly Inside and stood upon the gravel path, just within the wall. The roses were in bloom, each tree was laden with great crimson blossoms, and the aii was filled with their sweetness. A sob climbed into Enid's throat, the roses danced . mistily before eyes that were dim with tears; she stumbled along the path to the spot near the sumlia., from which she could see the house, and, because her knees shook so desperately, she put out her hand and clutched at the grey stone of the sundial itself. 'Die motto upon the dial caught her eye. Gervase had loved those words.

Per incerta eertas amor.” 1 hrough uncertainty love is certain. “ 1 shall love you for ever and ever, Amen.”

Gervase s own words came echoin" back to her across the years; she leaiit more heavily against the sundial, and her eyes turned from gazing at the house to look across the siinuv landscape to the far-away hills.' She was so absorbed in co- *.- ■■ -.i .* that she did not hear a footfall on the grass plot; and only the so.; un.crai.ee of her name made her turn sharply to find her husband by her side. \\ ith a little startled cry, she drew nearer to the sundial, and in her eyes there was shame, and shrinking, ami a great fear. “Enid, my dear,’’ Gervase said again, his hand upon her arm. his eyes locking tenderly down at the worn face, on which time and privation had set their ravaging marks. “Enid you have come back at last 1 Thank God, my dear.” “ But you can’t;—you won't want me any more—you couldn’t forgive,” she said incoherently. “Even your love couldn t do that; I am not worthy.” “ My wile,” he gathered her into his aims, we don t talk of worthiness, we don t think of it. we just love, and love, ‘for ever and ever, Amen.’”

The wind sang amongst the pines, and the larks sang overhead, and as the man and woman moved slowly towards the low white house on the hill top the warm fragrance of the roses drifted with them as they went.