MRS BOSENNA GIVES THE ROSE.
"It's a delicate thing to say to a woman," suggested Cai; "'specially
when she happens to be your land-lady."
"You do the talkin', of course," said 'Bias hurriedly.
"Must I? Why?"
"Well, to begin with, you knew her first."
"I don't see as that signifies."
"No? Well, you used to make quite a point of it, as I remember.
But anyway you're a speaker, and it'll need some gift, as you say."
They had reached the small gate at the foot of the path. The day was
hot, the highroad dusty. Cai halted and removed his hat; drew out a
handkerchief and wiped his brow; wiped the lining of the hat;
wiped his neck inside the collar.
"There's another way of lookin' at it," he ventured. "Some might say as
'twas more tactful to let your feelin's cool off by degrees."
"That's no way for me," said 'Bias positively. "Short and sharp's our
motto."
"'Tis the best, no doubt," Cai agreed. "But there's the trouble of
puttin' it into words. . . . I wish, now, I'd thought of consultin'
Peter Benny. There'd be no harm, after all, in steppin' back and askin'
his advice."
"No, you don't," said 'Bias shortly. "In my belief, if we hadn't made
so free wi' consultin' Peter Benny in the past, we shouldn't be where we
be at this moment."
If Cai's thought might be read in his face, he would not have greatly
minded _that_, just now.
"In the matter of these letters for instance--"
"I wonder if she ever got 'em?"
"You bet she did. She's been playin' us off, one against t'other, ever
since."
"We let our feelin's carry us away."
"We let Peter Benny's feelin's carry us away," 'Bias corrected him.
"That's the worst of these writin' chaps. Before you know where you are
they'll harrow you up with feelin's you wasn't aware you entertained.
Now I don't mind confessin' that, afore Benny had started to make out a
fair copy I found myself over head an' ears in love with the woman."
"Me too," agreed Cai, musing.
"You're _sure_ you're not any longer?"
"Eh? . . . Of course I am sure. I was only thinkin' how queer it was he
should have pumped it out of us, so to say, with the same letters--
almost to a syllable."
"There's two ways o' lookin' at that," said 'Bias thoughtfully.
"You may put it that marryin's as common as dirt. Nine out o' ten
indulges in it; and, that bein' so, the same form o' words'll do for
everybody, more or less, in proposin' it; just as (when you come to
think) the same Marriage Service does for all when they come to the
scratch. If all men meant different to all women, there wouldn't be
enough dictionary to go round."
Cai shook his head. "I'm the better of it now," he confessed; "but I
got to own that, at the moment, though Benny did well enough, there
didn't seem enough dictionary to go round."
"I felt something of a rarity myself at the time," owned 'Bias.
"But there's another explanation I like better, though you'll think it
far-fetched. . . . You and me--until this happened, there was never a
cross word atween us, _nor_ a cross thought?"
"That's so, 'Bias."
"Well, and that bein' so, if Benny hit the note for one, how could it
help bein' the note for both? . . . I've had pretty rash thoughts about
Benny: but--put it in that way--who's to blame the man? Or the woman,
for that matter?"
"I like that explanation better," said Cai.
"--Or the woman? She can't help bein' a two-headed nightingale."
"To be sure she can't. . . . We might leave it at that and say no more
about it. She'd be sure to understand in time."
"The agreement was, last night," insisted 'Bias with great firmness,
"to put it to her straight and get it over."
They resumed their walk and mounted the pathway over which--from the
first angle of the outbuildings to the garden-gate--Banksian roses hung
from the wall in heavy honey-coloured clusters of bloom. These were
scentless and already past their prime; but by the gate at the
south-east end of the house the white Banksian, throwing far wider
shoots, saluted them with a scent as of violets belated. And within the
gate the old roses were coming on with a rush--Provence and climbing
China; Moschata alba, pouring over an arch in a cascade of bloom that
hid all its green as with shell-pink foam; crimson and striped Damask
along the border; with Paul Neyron eclipsing all in size, moss-roses
bursting their gummy shells, Gloire de Dijon climbing and asserting
itself above the falsely named "pink Gloire"; Reine Marie Henriette--
which, grown by everybody, is perhaps the worst rose in the world.
Gloire de Dijon rampant smothered the pretender and covered the most of
its mildewing buds from sight; to be conquered in its turn by the sheer
beauty of Marechal Niel, whose every yellow star, bold on its stalk as
greenhouses can grow it, shamed all feebler yellows. Devoniensis flung
its sprays down from the thatch. La France and Ulrich Brunner
competed--silver rose against cherry rose--on either side of the porch.
Yet the fragrance of all these roses had to yield to that of the Cottage
flowers, mignonette, Sweet-William, lemon verbena, Brompton stocks--
annuals, biennials, perennials, intermixed--that lined the border, with
blue delphiniums and white Madonna lilies breaking into flower above
them.
Dinah, answering their ring at the bell after the usual delay for
reconnaissance, opined that her mistress would probably be found in the
new rose-garden. She said it, as they both observed, with a demure,
half-mischievous smile.
"Amused to see us in company again, I reckon," said Cai to 'Bias as they
went up through the old rose-garden, where the June-flowering H.P.'s ran
riot in masses of colour from palest pink to deepest crimson.
"Ay," assented 'Bias, "we'll have to get used to folks smilin', these
next few days. . . . Between ourselves, I never fancied that woman,
though I couldn' give you any particular reason for it."
"Sly," suggested Cai.
"'Tis more than that. Slyness, you may say, belongs to the whole sex,
and I've known men say as they found it agreeable, in moderation."
"I never noticed that in her mistress, to do her justice."
'Bias halted. "Look here. . . . You're _sure_ you ain't weakenin'?"
"Sure."
"Because, as I told 'ee last night--and I'll say it again, here, at the
last moment--she's yours, and welcome, if so be--"
"--'If so be as I didn' speak my true mind last night, when I said the
same to you '--is that what you mean? Here, let's on and get it over!"
said Cai, mopping his brow anew.
"'Tis a delicate business to broach, as you mentioned just now," said
'Bias dallying. "We'll have to be very careful how we put it."
"Very. As I told 'ee before, if you like to take it over--"
"Not at all. You're spokesman--only we don't want to put it so's she
can round on us with 'nobody axed you.' And you gave me a turn, just
then, by sayin' as you never noticed she was sly; because as I reckon,
that's the very point we've come to make."
"As how?"
'Bias stared at him in some perturbation. "Why, didn't she put that
trick on us over the investment? And ain't we here to give her back her
money? And wasn't it agreed as we'd open on her reproachful-like? an'
then, one thing leadin' to another--"
"Ay, to be sure--I got all that in my mind really." Cai wiped the back
of his neck and pocketed his handkerchief with an air of decision--or of
desperation. "What you don't seem to know--though with any experience
o' speakin' you'd understand well enough--is that close upon the last
moment all your thoughts fly, and specially if folks _will_ keep
chatterin': but when you stand up and open your mouth--provided as
nobody interrupts you . . ."
"I declare! If it isn't Captain Hocken--_and_ Captain Hunken with him!"
At the creaking of the small gate, as Cai opened it, Mrs Bosenna had
looked up and espied them. She dropped the bundle of raffia, with the
help of which she had been staking such of her young shoots as were
overlong or weighted down by their heavy blooms, and came forward with a
smile of welcome.
"Come in--come in, the both of you! What lovely weather! You'll excuse
my not taking off my gloves? We are busy, you see, and some of my new
beauties have the most dreadful thorns! . . . By the way"--she glanced
over her shoulder, following Cai's incredulous stare. "I believe you
know Mr Middlecoat? Yes, yes, of course--I remember!" She laughed and
beckoned forward the young farmer, who dropped his occupation among the
rosebuds and shuffled forward obediently enough, yet wearing an
expression none too gracious.
"'Afternoon, gentlemen," mumbled Farmer Middlecoat, and his sulky tone
seemed to show that he had not forgotten previous encounters.
"Won't offer to shake hands. 'Cos why?" He showed the backs of his
own, which were lacerated and bleeding. "Caterpillars," added Mr
Middlecoat in explanation.
"There now!" cried Mrs Bosenna in accents of genuine dismay. "I'd no
idea you were tearin' yourself like that--and so easy to ask Dinah to
fetch out a pair o' gloves!"
"Do you mean to say, sir," asked Cai in his simplicity, "that
caterpillars bite?"
"No, I don't," answered Mr Middlecoat. "But you can't get at 'em and
avoid these pesky thorns."
Said Mrs Bosenna gaily,--"Mr Middlecoat called on me half an hour ago
wi' the purpose to make himself disagreeable as usual--though I forget
what his excuse was, this time--and I set him to hunt caterpillars."
"Dang it, look at my hands!" growled the young farmer, holding them out.
"And last month, wi' that spell of east wind, 'twas the green-fly.
But I reckon we've mastered the pests by this time. Didn't find many
caterpillars, eh?"
"No, I didn'," answered Mr Middlecoat, still sulkily. "But them as I
did you bet I scrunched."
"Well, they deserved it, for the last few be the dangerousest.
They give over the leaves to eat the buds. But 'tis labour well spent
on 'em, and we'll have baskets on baskets now, by Jubilee Day."
"'Tis the Queen's flower--the royal flower--sure enough," said Cai,
looking about him in admiration. He had not visited the new garden for
some weeks, and on the last visit it had been but an unpromising patch
stuck about with stiff, thorny twigs, all leafless, the most of them
projecting but a few inches above the soil. The plants were short yet,
and the garden itself far from beautiful; but the twigs had thrown up
shoots, and on the shoots had opened, or were opening, roses that drew
even his inexperienced eye to admire them.
"I'm afraid there's no doubt of it," said Mrs Bosenna. "I love the old
H.P.'s: but you must grow the Teas and Hybrid Teas nowadays, if you want
to exhibit. Yet I love the old H.P.'s, and I've planted a few, to hold
their own and just show as they won't be shamed. See this one now--
there's a proper Jubilee rose, and named _Her Majesty!_ Brought out,
they tell me, in 'eighty-five: but the Yankees bought up all the stock,
and it didn't get back into this country until 'eighty-seven, the last
Jubilee year. See the thorns on her, _and_ the stiff pride o' stem,
_and_ the pride o' colour--fit for any queen! She's not the best,
though. . . . She'll do for last Jubilee--not for this. Wait till
you've seen the best of all!"
She led them to a plant--stunted by the secateurs, yet vigorous--which
showed, with three or four buds as yet closed and green, one solitary
bloom, pure white and of incomparable shape.
"There!" said she proudly. "That's a tea, and the finest yet grown, to
_my_ mind. That's the rose for this Diamond Jubilee, and white as a
diamond. A proper royal Widow's rose!"
"Is that its name?" asked Cai.
Mrs Bosenna laughed and plucked the bloom.
"On the contrary," said she with a mischievous twitch of the mouth,
"'tis called _The Bride!_ There's only one bloom, you see, and I can't
offer to part it. Now which of you two 'd like it for a buttonhole?"
She held out the rose, challenging them.
"I--I--" stammered Cai, backing against 'Bias's knuckles which dug him
in the back--"I grant ye, ma'am, 'tis a fine rose--a lovely rose--but
for my part, a trace o' colour--"
"Bright red," prompted 'Bias.
"Bright red--for both of us--"
"And now I've plucked it," sighed Mrs Bosenna.
"Well, if you won't, perhaps Mr Middlecoat will, rather than waste it."
Mr Middlecoat stepped forward and allowed the enormous bloom to be
inserted in his buttonhole, where its pure white threw up a fine
contrast to his crimsoning face.
"You won't think me forward, I hope?" said Mrs Bosenna, turning about.
"The fact is--though I don't want it generally known yet--that yesterday
Mr Middlecoat, in his disagreeable way, made me promise to marry him?"
Before the pair could recover, she had moved to another bush.
"Red roses, you prefer? Red is rare amongst the Teas--there's but one,
as yet, that can be called red--if this suits you? And, by luck, there
are two perfect buttonholes."
She plucked the buds and held them out.
"It's name," said she, "is _Liberty._"