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 were
other girls who would be glad to wear it.
Her face flushed, whether in anger or pain he did not know, but she
made no reply. And he left her exulting in the thought that the old
love was dead.
As the days went by, he began to miss her. First, when his chum died
in a far-off country, with no friend near. He remembered with a pang
how sweetly comforting she had always been, never asking questions, but
soothing 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 am
so 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 is
only life that separates utterly.
He began to miss the afternoon walks, the lingering in book store and
art 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 the
time since they last met. Every thought was in some way of her, and the
emptiness of his heart without her seemed strange in connection with
the fact that the old love was dead.
He saw by a morning paper that there was to be a concert for the
benefit of some charitable institution, and on the program, printed
beneath the announcement, was her name. He smiled grimly. How often he
had gone with her when she sang in public! He remembered every little
detail of every evening. He always waited behind the scenes, because
she said she could sing better when he was near her. And whatever the
critics might say, she was sure of his praise.
It was on the way home from one of these affairs that he had first told
her that he loved her. Through the rose-leaf rain that fell from her
hair and bosom at his touch he had kissed her for the first time, and
the thrill of her sweet lips was with him still. How short the ride had
been that night and why was the coachman in such an unreasonable hurry
to get home?
He made up his mind that he would not go to the concert that night, but
somehow, he bought a ticket and was there before the doors opened. So
he went out to walk around a little. People who went to concerts early
were his especial detestation.
In a florist's window he saw some unusually beautiful roses. He had
always sent her roses before, to match her gown, and it seemed queer
not to buy them for her now.
Perhaps he really ought to send her some to show her that he cherished
no resentment. Anyone could send her flowers over the footlights. The
other men that she knew would undoubtedly remember her, and he didn't
want to seem unfriendly.
So he went in. "Four dozen La France roses," he said, and the clerk
speedily made the selection. He took a card out of his pocket, and
chewed 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 found
a solitary pink petal clinging to his scarf-pin. He remembered with
a flush of tenderness that it had come from one of the roses--his
roses--on her breast. He had kissed it passionately and hidden it in a
book--a little book which she had given him.
With memory came heartache, his empty life and her wounded love. The
words shaped themselves under his pencil:
"You know what the roses mean. Will you wear one when you sing the
second time? Forgive me and love me again--my sweetheart."
He tied the card himself into the centre of the bunch, so it was half
hidden by the flowers. He gave them to the usher with a queer tremolo
note in his voice. "After her first number, understand?"
There was a piano solo, and then she appeared. What she sang he did not
know, but her deep contralto, holding heaven in its tones, he both knew
and understood. She did not sing as well as usual. Her voice lacked
warmth and sincerity and her intonation was faulty. The applause was
loud but not spontaneous although many of her friends were there. His
were the only flowers she received.
When she came out the second time, he looked at her anxiously, but
there was never a sign of a rose. He sank down in his chair with a sigh
and covered his face with his hand.
This time she sang as only _she_ could sing. Oh, that glorious
contralto! Suggestions of twilight and dawn, of suffering and joy, of
love and its renunciation.
There was no mistaking her success and the great house rang with
plaudits from basement to roof. He, only, was silent; praying in mute
agony for a sign.
She willingly responded to the encore and a hush fell upon the audience
with 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 the
beautiful voice went on and on.
"_Good-bye, summer, good-bye, good-bye!_"
How cruel she seemed! Stately, imperious, yet womanly, she held her
listeners 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 cruel
magnificence 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; the
dull suffering of hopeless love; and then her whole strength was merged
into 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 was
over, he hastened into the little room behind the stage where she was
putting 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--you
and I. Even if you wouldn't wear the rose, won't you let me hold you
just 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--you
know--and----"
She reached out trembling fingers and found the card. She read the
tender message twice--the little message which meant so much, then
looked 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 little
was said as they rolled home. But when he lit the gas in his own room
he saw something queer in the mirror, and found, clinging to his
scarf-pin, the petal of a La France rose.