A RED ROSE.
From nervous and unreasoning dread to overweening and extravagant
confidence there was but a single bound. After the timid confession she
had made, how could he have any further fear? He knew now the answer she
must certainly give him. What but the one word "_yes_"--musical as the
sound of summer seas--could fitly close and atone for all that long
period of doubt and despair? And would she murmur it with the low, sweet
voice, or only look it with the clear and lambent eyes? Once uttered,
anyhow, surely the glad message would instantly wing its flight away to
the far North; and Colonsay would hear; and the green shores of Ulva
would laugh; and through all the wild dashing and roaring of the seas
there would be a soft ringing as of wedding-bells. The Gometra men will
have a good glass that night; and who will take the news to distant
Fladda and rouse the lonely Dutchman from his winter sleep? There is a
bride coming to Castle Dare!
When Norman Ogilvie had even mentioned marriage, Macleod had merely
shaken his head and turned away. There was no issue that way from the
wilderness of pain and trouble into which he had strayed. She was
already wedded--to that cruel art that was crushing the woman within
her. Her ways of life and his were separated as though by unknown
oceans. And how was it possible that so beautiful a woman--surrounded by
people who petted and flattered her--should not already have her heart
engaged? Even if she were free, how could she have bestowed a thought on
him--a passing stranger--a summer visitor--the acquaintance of an hour?
But no sooner had Gertrude White, to his sudden wonder, and joy, and
gratitude, made that stammering confession, than the impetuosity of his
passion leaped at once to the goal. He would not hear of any obstacles.
He would not look at them. If she would but take his hand, he would lead
her and guard her, and all would go well. And it was to this effect that
he wrote to her day after day, pouring out all the confidences of his
heart to her, appealing to her, striving to convey to her something of
his own high courage and hope. Strictly speaking, perhaps, it was not
quite fair that he should thus have disturbed the calm of her
deliberation. Had he not given her till the end of the week to come to a
decision? But when, in his eagerness, he thought of some further reason,
some further appeal, how could he remain silent? With the prize so near,
he could not let it slip from his grasp through the consideration of
niceties of conduct. By rights he ought to have gone up to Mr. White and
begged for permission to pay his addresses to the old gentleman's
daughter. He forgot all about that. He forgot that Mr. White was in
existence. All his thinking from morning till night--and through much of
the night too--was directed on her answer--the one small word filled
with a whole worldful of light and joy.
"If you will only say that one little word," he wrote to her, "then
everything else becomes a mere trifle. If there are obstacles, and
troubles, and what not, we will meet them one by one, and dispose of
them. There can be no obstacles, if we are of one mind; and we shall be
of one mind sure enough, if you will say you will become my wife; for
there is nothing I will not consent to; and I shall only be too glad to
have opportunities of showing my great gratitude to you for the
sacrifice you must make. I speak of it as a sacrifice; but I do not
believe it is one--whatever you may think now--and whatever natural
regret you may feel--you will grow to feel there was no evil done you
when you were drawn away from the life that now surrounds you. And if
you were to say 'I will become your wife only on one condition--that I
am not asked to abandon my career as an actress,' still I would say
'Become my wife.' Surely matters of arrangement are mere trifles--after
you have given me your promise. And when you have placed your hand in
mine (and the motto of the Macleods is _Hold Fast_), we can study
conditions, and obstacles, and the other nonsense that our friends are
sure to suggest, at our leisure. I think I already hear you say 'Yes;' I
listen and listen, until I almost hear your voice. And if it is to be
'Yes,' will you wear a red rose in your dress on Saturday? I shall see
that before you speak. I will know what your message is, even if there
are people about. One red rose only."
"Macleod," said Major Stuart to him, "did you come to London to write
love-letters?"
"Love-letters!" he said, angrily; but then he laughed. "And what did
you come to London for?"
"On a highly philanthropic errand," said the other, gravely, "which I
hope to see fulfilled to-morrow. And if we have a day or two to spare,
that is well enough, for one cannot be always at work; but I did not
expect to take a holiday in the company of a man who spends
three-fourths of the day at a writing-desk."
"Nonsense!" said Macleod, though there was some telltale color in his
face. "All the writing I have done to-day would not fill up twenty
minutes. And if I am a dull companion, is not Norman Ogilvie coming to
dinner to-night to amuse you?"
While they were speaking, a servant brought in a card.
"Ask the gentleman to come up," Macleod said, and then he turned to his
companion. "What an odd thing! I was speaking to you a minute ago about
that drag accident. And here is Beauregard himself."
The tall, rough-visaged man--stooping slightly as though he thought the
doorway was a trifle low--came forward and shook hands with Macleod, and
was understood to inquire about his health, though what he literally
said was, "Hawya, Macleod, hawya?"
"I heard you were in town from Paulton--you remember, Paulton, who dined
with you at Richmond. He saw you in a hansom yesterday; and I took my
chance of finding you in your old quarters. What are you doing in
London?"
Macleod briefly explained.
"And you?" he asked, "what has brought you to London? I thought you and
Lady Beauregard were in Ireland."
"We have just come over, and go down to Weatherill to-morrow. Won't you
come down and shoot a pheasant or two before you return to the
Highlands?"
"Well, the fact is," Macleod said, hesitatingly, "my friend and I--by
the way, let me introduce you--Lord Beauregard, Major Stuart--the fact
is, we ought to go back directly after we have settled this business."
"But a day or two won't matter. Now, let me see. Plymley comes to us on
Monday next, I think. We could get up a party for you on the Tuesday;
and if your friend will come with you, we shall be six guns, which I
always think the best number."
The gallant major showed no hesitation whatever. The chance of blazing
away at a whole atmosphereful of pheasants--for so he construed the
invitation--did not often come in his way.
"I am quite sure a day or two won't make any difference," said he,
quickly. "In any case we were not thinking of going till Monday, and
that would only mean an extra day."
"Very well," Macleod said.
"Then you will come down to dinner on the Monday evening. I will see if
there is no alteration in the trains, and drop you a note with full
instructions. Is it a bargain?"
"It is."
"All right. I must be off now. Good-by."
Major Stuart jumped to his feet with great alacrity, and warmly shook
hands with the departing stranger. Then, when the door was shut, he went
through a pantomimic expression of bringing down innumerable pheasants
from every corner of the ceiling--with an occasional aim at the floor,
where an imaginary hare was scurrying by.
"Macleod. Macleod," said he, "you are a trump. You may go on writing
love-letters from now till next Monday afternoon. I suppose we will have
a good dinner, too?"
"Beauregard is said to have the best _chef_ in London; and I don't
suppose they would leave so important a person in Ireland."
"You have my gratitude, Macleod--eternal, sincere, unbounded," the major
said, seriously.
"But it is not I who am asking you to go and massacre a lot of
pheasants," said Macleod; and he spoke rather absently, for he was
thinking of the probable mood in which he would go down to Weatherill.
One of a generous gladness and joy, the outward expression of an eager
and secret happiness to be known by none? Or what if there were no red
rose at all on her bosom when she advanced to meet him with sad eyes?
They went down into Essex next day. Major Stuart was surprised to find
that his companion talked not so much about the price of machines for
drying saturated crops as about the conjectural cost of living in the
various houses they saw from afar, set amidst the leafless trees of
November.
"You don't think of coming to live in England, do you?" said he.
"No--at least, not at present," Macleod said. "Of course; one never
knows what may turn up. I don't propose to live at Dare all my life."
"Your wife might want to live in England," the major said, coolly.
Macleod started and stared.
"You have been writing a good many letters of late," said his companion.
"And is that all?" said Macleod, answering him in the Gaelic. "You know
the proverb--_Tossing the head will not make the boat row_. I am not
married yet."
The result of this journey was, that they agreed to purchase one of the
machines for transference to the rainy regions of Mull; and then they
returned to London. This was on Wednesday. Major Stuart considered they
had a few days to idle by before the _battue;_ Macleod was only
excitedly aware that Thursday and Friday--two short November days--came
between him and that decision which he regarded with an anxious joy.
The day went by in a sort of dream. A pale fog hung over London: and as
he wandered about he saw the tall houses rise faintly blue into the gray
mist; and the great coffee-colored river, flushed with recent rains,
rolled down between the pale embankments; and the golden-red globe of
the sun, occasionally becoming visible through the mottled clouds, sent
a ray of fire here and there on some window-pane or lamp.
In the course of his devious wanderings--for he mostly went about
alone--he made his way, with great trouble and perplexity, to the court
in which the mother of Johnny Wickes lived; and he betrayed no shame at
all in confronting the poor woman--half starved, and pale, and emaciated
as she was--whose child he had stolen. It was in a tone of quite
gratuitous pleasantry that he described to her how the small lad was
growing brown and fat; and he had the audacity to declare to her that as
he proposed to pay the boy the sum of one shilling per-week at present,
he might as well hand over to her the three months' pay which he had
already earned. And the woman was so amused at the notion of little
Johnny Wickes being able to earn anything at all, that, when she
received the money and looked at it, she burst out crying; and she had
so little of the spirit of the British matron, and so little regard for
the laws of her country, that she invoked Heaven knows what--Heaven does
know what--blessings on the head of the very man who had carried her
child into slavery.
"And the first time I am going over to Oban," said he, "I will take him
with me, and I will get a photograph of him made, and I will send you
the photograph. And did you get the rabbits?" said he.
"Yes, indeed, sir, I got the rabbits."
"And it is a very fine poacher your son promises to be, for he got every
one of the rabbits with his own snare, though I am thinking it was old
Hamish was showing him how to use it. And I will say good-by to you
now."
The poor woman seemed to hesitate for a second.
"If there was any sewing, sir," wiping her eyes with the corner of her
apron, "that I could do for your good lady, sir--"
"But I am not married," said he, quickly.
"Ah, well, indeed, sir," she said with a sigh.
"But if there is any lace, or sewing, or anything like that you can send
to my mother, I have no doubt she will pay you for it as well as any one
else--"
"I was not thinking of paying, sir; but to show you I am not
ungrateful," was the answer; and if she said _hun-grateful_, what
matter? She was a woman without spirit; she had sold away her son.
From this dingy court he made his way round to Covent Garden market, and
he went into a florist's shop there.
"I want a bouquet," said he to the neat-handed maiden who looked up at
him.
"Yes, sir," said she; "will you look at those in the window?"
"But I want one," said he, "with a single rose--a red rose--in the
centre."
This proposition did not find favor in the eyes of the mild-mannered
artist, who explained to him that something more important and ornate
was necessary in the middle of a bouquet. He could have a circle of
rose-buds, if he liked, outside; and a great white lily or camellia in
the centre. He could have--this thing and the next; she showed him how
she could combine the features of this bouquet with those of the next.
But the tall Highlander remained obdurate.
"Yes," said he, "I think you are quite right. You are quite right, I am
sure. But it is this that I would rather have--only one red rose in the
centre, and you can make the rest what you like, only I think if they
were smaller flowers, and all white, that would be better."
"Very well," said the young lady, with a pleasing smile (she was rather
good-looking herself). "I will try what I can do for you if you don't
mind waiting. Will you take a chair?"
He was quite amazed by the dexterity with which those nimble fingers
took from one cluster and another cluster the very flowers he would
himself have chosen; and by the rapid fashion in which they were
dressed, fitted, and arranged. The work of art grew apace.
"But you must have something to break the white," said she, smiling, "or
it will look too like a bride's bouquet;" and with that--almost in the
twinkling of an eye--she had put a circular line of dark purple-blue
through the cream-white blossoms. It was a splendid rose that lay in the
midst of all that beauty.
"What price would you like to give, sir?" the gentle Phyllis had said at
the very outset. "Half a guinea--fifteen shillings?"
"Give me a beautiful rose," said he, "and I do not mind what the price
is."
And at last the lace-paper was put round; and a little further trimming
and setting took place; and finally the bouquet was swathed in soft
white wool and put into a basket.
"Shall I take the address?" said the young lady no doubt expecting that
he would write it on the back of one of his cards. But no. He dictated
the address, and then lay down the money. The astute young person was
puzzled--perhaps disappointed.
"Is there no message, sir?" said she--"no card?"
"No; but you must be sure to have it delivered to-night."
"It shall be sent off at once," said she, probably thinking that this
was a very foolish young man who did not know the ways of the world. The
only persons of whom she had any experience who sent bouquets without a
note or a letter were husbands, who were either making up a quarrel with
their wives or going to the opera, and she had observed that on such
occasions the difference between twelve-and-sixpence and fifteen
shillings was regarded and considered.
He slept but little that night; and next morning he got up nervous and
trembling, like a drunken man, with half the courage and confidence,
that had so long sustained him, gone. Major Stuart went out early. He
kept pacing about the room until the frightfully slow half-hours went
by; he hated the clock on the mantelpiece. And then, by a strong effort
of will, he delayed starting until he should barely have time to reach
her house by twelve o'clock, so that he should have the mad delight of
eagerly wishing the hansom had a still more furious speed. He had chosen
his horse well. It wanted five minutes to the appointed hour when he
arrived at the house.
Did this trim maid-servant know? Was there anything of welcome in the
demure smile? He followed her; his face was pale, though he knew it not;
in the dusk of the room he was left alone.
But what was this on the table? He almost uttered a cry as his
bewildered eyes fixed themselves on it. The very bouquet he had sent the
previous evening; and behold--behold!--the red rose wanting! And then,
at the same moment, he turned; and there was a vision of something all
in white--that came to him timidly--all in white but for the red star of
love shining there. And she did not speak at all; but she buried her
head in his bosom; and he held her hands tight.
And now what will Ulva say--and the lonely shores of Fladda--and the
distant Dutchman roused from his winter sleep amidst the wild waves? Far
away over the white sands of Iona--and the sunlight must be shining
there now--there is many a sacred spot fit for the solemn plighting of
lovers' vows; and if there is any organ wanted, what more noble than the
vast Atlantic rollers booming into the Bourg and Gribun caves? Surely
they must know already; for the sea-birds have caught the cry; and there
is a sound all through the glad rushing of the morning seas like the
sound of wedding-bells. _There is a bride coming to Castle Dare_--the
islands listen; and the wild sea calls again; and the green shores of
Ulva grow greener still in the sunlight. There is a bride coming to
Castle Dare; and the bride is dressed all in white--only she wears a red
rose.