Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 202, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 August 1910 — The Wrong Roses [ARTICLE]

The Wrong Roses

By Joanna Single

“When is Avis to be married?” Mrs. Johnson asked the question with polite malice and In a casual tone as she adjusted her wraps ar i prepared to end her call. The girl’s mother was, however, mistress of herself—and of the situation “I hope to keep my girl as long as I can,” she said simply. “I suppose a mother will never get over thinking she has first claim! Isn’t It a lovely day for March? My plants are taking new lease of ’life—see that geranium?” She maneuvered her caller to the door with the change of subject. What the mother said to herself was that if Avis was not engaged to John Avery she should be, In the light of his constant attendance, his claiming so much of the girl’s time and interest that the numerous other men in her wake a year before had seemingly yielded their ground—all except, perhaps, Guy Hardin, who persisted intermittently In calls, dance and theater invitations and the like. Mrs. Horton wished that the girl’s father were living or that she had a brother to call John Avery to account. She herself shrank from intimating to the young man that his friendly prerogative should not give him the rights of a lover, that, in short, he should ask Avis to marry him, or clear the field and give others a chance. Not that John Avery was anything she could find the slightest objection to. He was simply, It seemed to the mother, rather a laggard in love. Or was it overdejicacy, his not pressing his claim, till Avis was a bit older and better acquainted with him? Still —surely a year was enough of a test. Just then she heard Avis whirling down the stairs to answer a ring of the door hell. In a moment she entered, her dainty blond face in a glow of pleasure, a cluster of pink roses in her hands. They were Avery’s roses and had been coming every few days for months—always the same. There used to be carnations from Harry York, violets from Guy, and various offerings from others, but now there were only pink roses. The mother noted the girl’s wistful, absorption in them, as she put them in a bowl and stood bending over their fresh fragrance. She thought that this young man needed a little more competition, but she did not wish to make the girl conscious, to let her think she wished her to marry at all —she did not But she knew Guy Hardin was not the man to be safehold for a young wife’s happiness, whereas John could he trusted. “I’m going to the theater, mother, dear,” the girl said; “I forgot to tell you before.” “With Guy?” asked the mother, with an impartial voice. “He was too slow —John asked me first.” The tenderness In her voice hurt the mother—lt was John who was too slow. She hoped the girl might not show her love until It was asked for. What was to be done? As she paused she saw Avis lean her fair head over the pink roses and murmur: ==.==— “You darlings! But—sometimes I —wish you were red, red roses.” A wish which was food for reflection to the mother mind. Avis, all smiles, went to the play, her dark young cavalier bending adoringly over her, shutting her out from anything, anybody but himself, selfish with the supreme selfishness of young love. The next day marked a change, In things. Guy Hardin called in the afternoon and outdid himself in interesting the girl, He rallied her into taking a long walk with him. At dusk, as he left her again at her door and swung laughingly off, a florist’s boy handed her a long slender box. Buy turned back at her exclamation as she opened It and took cut a single exquisite red rose. She breathed her delight. “Oh, Guy! how —lovely of you!” Ho had come back to stand beside her in the doorway. “What’s lovely of me? To love you? Oh, the flower? Is my card with it? I refuse to own to the blossom—lt’s not good enough to send you, Avis. Think! a mere red rose to —you!” He laughed and left her. But she treasured the rose, not showing it to her mother—taking it upstairs with her. And at twilight the next day came another, and thereafter each dusk brought the girl one perfect red rose—with no card. Guy steadfastly denied knowledge of them. Avery still sent the pink ones as of yore. Finally one evening when he called she was sitting before the fire with a glowing red blossom In her blue belt Avery’s eyes opened. “What’s this?” he questioned lightly. “Wearing the wrong rose?” “Can a rose be wrong? Then why send it?” she parried. *1 didn't send it—that’s why It’s the wrong rose—pink ‘the color o’ love,’ the books say—my color for you. Whence the red?” “They come every night—with no card. I believe you send “em. Guy declares he doesn’t him.” Then, lightly, she changed the subject, while the young man’s wrath rose within him. If Guy Hardin dared to send her —then the bell rang, and in a moment Guy himself entered the room. He greeted Avery cheerfully, sat down, and simply proceeded

to stay, and, moreover, to make the girl and the girl’s mother glad that he did. He Interested, amused, claim* ed and got attention. It was early when John Avery rose and declared It time to go. “So early? Walt awhile longer and I’ll go with you, Avery.” Guy’s voice was easy—a little patronizing. He was the elder and more successful man, and the younger man’s blood boiled. He had come to ask—rather to tell Avis—that he was going to take her to the Scranton dance. He could not believe his ears when Hardin said coolly, anticipating him: “I came hoping you would not be already promised for that Scranton affair, Miss Horton. I want to present myself as a candidate for your escort —will you give me a chance? Or am I too late?” It was all so easy and casual. The girl laughed—she was a little fascinated. And It pleased her pride—his manner, his look. “You are first In the field—and therefore In favor, Guy. I’ll—give you back your rose for an answer.” She tossed the red flower to him. He caught It—laughingly. He was too wise to make too much of any favor given him. “My rose—since you honor me with the gift—and a most adroit answer! It makes me wish I had sent it, really! Nothing like a red rose! It means—at least three dances for me. Well, it’s time for me to take Avery home, I believe.” He rose and the two made their farewells. Mrs. Horton said nothing, but she looked very wise—she had seen something new awake in John Avery’s face, speak from his eyes when he looked at Avis, show in the tightening of his jaw. Late the next forenoon Avery called, through he had to leave his office to do so. Mrs. Horton told him Avis had gone for a walk—with Guy Hardin—they’d be back soon, with an appetite for lunch. Would he not stay, also? He refused. “I wish—she would not go abont with Hardin—l don’t quite ” Then the mother’s cold look—assumed, for she agreed with him—made him remember that he had no right to criticise the friends of Avis, or, indeed, to choose her friends for her. He saw the pink flowers he had sent the day before in their bowl—but no red rose anywhere—she was, of course, wearing the red rose—the wrong rose! He came to a sudden conclusion. “Mrs. Horton,” he said, “if you’ll let me, I’ll stay until 12 and wait for Avis in the library—l want just a word with her. I won’t Btay to lunch —but when she comes you will send her to me a moment?” A few minutes past twelve Avis Horton came, still in her wraps, into the pretty library. Her face was aglow with exercisey her hair blowing about her rosy ears, her eyes deep and blue. She wore a red rose. “Here I am, John. Mother says you want a word with me. Which word is it? Is it in the dictionary here?” She came and stood near him. a merry, teasing light in her eye. He rose, pale and angry. “What on earth is it? Are you ill —what has happened?” The girl leaned toward him as he held himself back a moment, and then almost roughly took her into his arms. “The matter is—that I love youyou know I do—and you’re torturing me, Avis! Won’t you say you love me? Don’t you? You must! I have, for months, wanted to tell you, but feared to lose your friendship by asking your love! I had to see you, be with you—and now! Avis, will you marry me?" She had been very still, her cheek paling, her hands clutching at his sleeve as his arm held her. He looked down. She looked up and then nodded her head. “Of—course —l love you!” she whispered. “Of course I do!" But who sent the wrong roses? Not Guy Hardin, who, with Mrs. Horton, came in after a while and found the two unashamed, and “ holding each other’s hands. Certainly not Avery—• he could not have sent them—he hated them. Perhaps Mrs. Horton knew something about it, for they never came after that day, and sh» mailed a check and a note to a certain discreet florist. Many mothers, unsuspected, have the wisdom of Eve, and know that competition, even when manufactured, does its littlo work.