NOT far from a great town, in the midst of a well-wooded valley, lived a
rose-gardener and his wife. All round the old home green sleepy hollows
lay girdled by silver streams, long grasses bent softly in the wind, and
the half fabulous murmur of woods filled the air.
Up in their rose-garden, on the valley's side facing the sun, the
gardener and his wife lived contentedly sharing toil and ease. They had
been young, they were not yet old; and though they had to be frugal they
did not call themselves poor. A strange fortune had belonged always to
the plot of ground over which they laboured; whether because the soil
was so rich, or the place so sheltered from cold, or the gardener so
skilled in the craft, which had come down in his family from father to
son, could not be known; but certainly it was true that his rose-trees
gave forth better bloom and bore earlier and later through the season
than any others that were to be found in those parts.
The good couple accepted what came to them, simply and gladly, thanking
God. Perhaps it was from the kindness of fortune, or perhaps because the
sweet perfume of the roses had mixed itself in their blood, that her man
and his wife were so sweet-tempered and gentle in their ways. The colour
of the rose was in their faces, and the colour of the rose was in their
hearts; to her man she was the most beautiful and dearest of
sweethearts, to his wife he was the best and kindest of lovers.
Every morning, before it was light, her man and his wife would go into
the garden and gather all the roses that were ripe for sale; then with
full baskets on their backs they would set out, and get to the market
just as the level sunbeams from the east were striking all the vanes and
spires of the city into gold. There they would dispose of their flowers
to the florists and salesmen of the town, and after that trudge home
again to hoe, and dig, and weed, and water, and prune, and plant for the
rest of the day. No man ever saw them the one without the other, and the
thought that such a thing might some day happen was the only fear and
sorrow of their lives.
That they had no children of their own was scarcely a sorrow to them.
"It seems to me," said her man after they had been married for some
years, "that God means that our roses are to be our children since He
has made us love them so much. They will last when we are grown grey,
and will support and comfort us in our old age."
All the roses they had were red, and varied little in kind, yet her man
and his wife had a name for each of them; to every tree they had given a
name, until it almost seemed that the trees knew, and tried to answer
when they heard the voices which spoke to them.
"Jane Janet, and you ought to blossom more freely at your age!" his wife
might say to one some evening as she went round and watered the flowers;
and the next day, when the two came to their dark morning's gathering,
Jane Janet would show ten or twelve great blooms under the light of the
lantern, every one of them the birth of a single night.
"Mary Maudlin," the gardener would say, as he washed the blight off a
favourite rose, "to be sure, you are very beautiful, but did I not love
you so, you were more trouble than all your sisters put together." And
then all at once great dew-drops would come tumbling down out of Mary
Maudlin's eyes at the tender words of his reproach. So day by day the
companionable feet of the happy couple moved to and fro, always intent
on the nurture and care of their children.
In their garden they had bees too, who by strange art, unlike other
bees, drew all their honey from the roses, and lived in a cone-thatched
hive close to the porch; and that honey was famous through all the
country-side, for its flavour was like no other honey made in the world.
Sometimes his wife said to her man, "I think our garden is looked after
for us by some good Spirit; perhaps it is the Saints after whom we have
named our rose-children."
Her man made answer, "It is rich in years, which, like an old wine, have
made it gain in flavour; it has been with us from father to son for
three hundred years, and that is a great while."
"A full fairy's lifetime!" said his wife. "'Tis a pity we shall not hand
it on, being childless."
"When we two die," said her man, "the roses will make us a grave and
watch over us." As he spoke a whole shower of petals fell from the
trees.
"Did no one pass, just then?" said his wife.
Now one morning, soon after this, in the late season of roses, her man
had gone before his wife into the garden, gathering for the market in
the grey dusk before dawn; and wherever he went moths and beetles came
flocking to the light of his lantern, beating against its horn shutters
and crying to get in. Out of each rose, as the light fell on it, winged
things sprang up into the darkness; but all the roses were bowed and
heavy as if with grief. As he picked them from the stem great showers of
dew fell out of them, making pools in the hollow of his palm.
There was such a sound of tears that he stopped to listen; and, surely,
from all round the garden came the "drip, drip" of falling dew. Yet the
pathways under foot were all dry; there had been no rain and but little
dew. Whence was it, then, that the roses so shook and sobbed? For under
the stems, surely, there was something that sobbed; and suddenly the
light of the lantern took hold of a beautiful small figure, about three
feet high, dressed in old rose and green, that went languidly from
flower to flower. She lifted up such tired hands to draw their heads
down to hers; and to each one she kissed she made a weary little sound
of farewell, her beautiful face broken up with grief; and now and then
out of her lips ran soft chuckling laughter, as if she still meant to be
glad, but could not.
The gardener broke into tears to behold a sight so pitiful; and his wife
had stolen out silently to his side, and was weeping too.
[Illustration]
"Drip, drip," went the roses: wherever she came and kissed, they all
began weeping. The gardener and his wife knelt down and watched her; in
and out, in and out, not a rose blossom did she miss. She came nearer
and nearer, and at last was standing before them. She seemed hardly able
to draw limb after limb, so weak was she; and her filmy garments hung
heavy as chains.