Mrs. Bickford’s house appeared to watch her out of sight down the road,
the next morning. She had lost all spirit for her holiday. Perhaps it
was the unusual excitement of the afternoon’s reminiscences, or it might
have been simply the bright moonlight night which had kept her broad
awake until dawn, thinking of the past, and more and more concerned
about the rose. By this time it had ceased to be merely a flower, and
had become a definite symbol and assertion of personal choice. She found
it very difficult to decide. So much of her present comfort and
well-being was due to Mr. Bickford; still, it was Mr. Wallis who had
been most unfortunate, and to whom she had done least justice. If she
owed recognition to Mr. Bickford, she certainly owed amends to Mr.
Wallis. If she gave him the rose, it would be for the sake of
affectionate apology. And then there was Albert, to whom she had no
thought of being either indebted or forgiving. But she could not escape
from the terrible feeling of indecision.
It was a beautiful morning for a drive, but Mrs. Bickford was kept
waiting some time for the chaise. Her nephew, who was to be her escort,
had found much social advantage at the blacksmith’s shop, so that it was
after ten when she finally started with the three large flat-backed
bouquets, covered with a newspaper to protect them from the sun. The
petals of the almond flowers were beginning to scatter, and now and then
little streams of water leaked out of the newspaper and trickled down
the steep slope of her best dress to the bottom of the chaise. Even yet
she had not made up her mind; she had stopped trying to deal with such
an evasive thing as decision, and leaned back and rested as best she
could.
“What an old fool I be!” she rebuked herself from time to time, in so
loud a whisper that her companion ventured a respectful “What, ma’am?”
and was astonished that she made no reply. John was a handsome young
man, but Mrs. Bickford could never cease thinking of him as a boy. He
had always been her favorite among the younger members of the family,
and now returned this affectionate feeling, being possessed of an
instinctive confidence in the sincerities of his prosaic aunt.
As they drove along, there had seemed at first to be something
unsympathetic and garish about the beauty of the summer day. After the
shade and shelter of the house, Mrs. Bickford suffered even more from a
contracted and assailed feeling out of doors. The very trees by the
roadside had a curiously fateful, trying way of standing back to watch
her, as she passed in the acute agony of indecision, and she was annoyed
and startled by a bird that flew too near the chaise in a moment of
surprise. She was conscious of a strange reluctance to the movement of
the Sunday chaise, as if she were being conveyed against her will; but
the companionship of her nephew John grew every moment to be more and
more a reliance. It was very comfortable to sit by his side, even though
he had nothing to say; he was manly and cheerful, and she began to feel
protected.
“Aunt Bickford,” he suddenly announced, “I may ’s well out with it! I’ve
got a piece o’ news to tell you, if you won’t let on to nobody. I expect
you’ll laugh, but you know I’ve set everything by Mary Lizzie Gifford
ever since I was a boy. Well, sir!”
“Well, sir!” exclaimed aunt Bickford in her turn, quickly roused into
most comfortable self-forgetfulness. “I am really pleased. She’ll make
you a good, smart wife, John. Ain’t all the folks pleased, both sides?”
“Yes, they be,” answered John soberly, with a happy, important look that
became him well.
“I guess I can make out to do something for you to help along, when the
right time comes,” said aunt Bickford impulsively, after a moment’s
reflection. “I’ve known what it is to be starting out in life with
plenty o’ hope. You ain’t calculatin’ on gettin’ married before fall,—or
be ye?”
“’Long in the fall,” said John regretfully. “I wish t’ we could set up
for ourselves right away this summer. I ain’t got much ahead, but I can
work well as anybody, an’ now I’m out o’ my time.”
“She’s a nice, modest, pretty girl. I thought she liked you, John,” said
the old aunt. “I saw her over to your mother’s, last day I was there.
Well, I expect you’ll be happy.”
“Certain,” said John, turning to look at her affectionately, surprised
by this outspokenness and lack of embarrassment between them. “Thank
you, aunt,” he said simply; “you’re a real good friend to me;” and he
looked away again hastily, and blushed a fine scarlet over his
sun-browned face. “She’s coming over to spend the day with the girls,”
he added. “Mother thought of it. You don’t get over to see us very
often.”
Mrs. Bickford smiled approvingly. John’s mother looked for her good
opinion, no doubt, but it was very proper for John to have told his
prospects himself, and in such a pretty way. There was no
shilly-shallying about the boy.
“My gracious!” said John suddenly. “I’d like to have drove right by the
burying-ground. I forgot we wanted to stop.”
Strange as it may appear, Mrs. Bickford herself had not noticed the
burying-ground, either, in her excitement and pleasure; now she felt
distressed and responsible again, and showed it in her face at once. The
young man leaped lightly to the ground, and reached for the flowers.
“Here, you just let me run up with ’em,” he said kindly. “’Tis hot in
the sun to-day, an’ you’ll mind it risin’ the hill. We’ll stop as I
fetch you back to-night, and you can go up comfortable an’ walk the yard
after sundown when it’s cool, an’ stay as long as you’re a mind to. You
seem sort of tired, aunt.”
“I don’t know but what I will let you carry ’em,” said Mrs. Bickford
slowly.
To leave the matter of the rose in the hands of fate seemed weakness and
cowardice, but there was not a moment for consideration. John was a
smiling fate, and his proposition was a great relief. She watched him go
away with a terrible inward shaking, and sinking of pride. She had held
the flowers with so firm a grasp that her hands felt weak and numb, and
as she leaned back and shut her eyes she was afraid to open them again
at first for fear of knowing the bouquets apart even at that distance,
and giving instructions which she might regret. With a sudden impulse
she called John once or twice eagerly; but her voice had a thin and
piping sound, and the meditative early crickets that chirped in the
fresh summer grass probably sounded louder in John’s ears. The bright
light on the white stones dazzled Mrs. Bickford’s eyes; and then all at
once she felt light-hearted, and the sky seemed to lift itself higher
and wider from the earth, and she gave a sigh of relief as her messenger
came back along the path. “I know who I do hope ’s got the right one,”
she said to herself. “There, what a touse I be in! I don’t see what I
had to go and pick the old rose for, anyway.”
“I declare, they did look real handsome, aunt,” said John’s hearty voice
as he approached the chaise. “I set ’em up just as you told me. This one
fell out, an’ I kept it. I don’t know ’s you’ll care. I can give it to
Lizzie.”
He faced her now with a bright, boyish look. There was something gay in
his buttonhole,—it was the red rose.
Aunt Bickford blushed like a girl. “Your choice is easy made,” she
faltered mysteriously, and then burst out laughing, there in front of
the burying-ground. “Come, get right in, dear,” she said. “Well, well! I
guess the rose was made for you; it looks very pretty in your coat,
John.”
She thought of Albert, and the next moment the tears came into her old
eyes. John was a lover, too.
“My first husband was just such a tall, straight young man as you be,”
she said as they drove along. “The flower he first give me was a rose.”