Crimson Roses (24 page)

His ordinary tone reassured her, and she lifted her gaze once more shyly, the light coming into her eyes at the remembrance.

“Oh, yes, I shall never forget that; it was at the church—Mr. Radnor introduced you. I thought it so kind of him, because nobody else ever noticed me much. Mr. Radnor appreciated Father a little, I think.”

“He did, yes. I’m sure he did from some things he said to me,” said Lyman thoughtfully; then, frowning slightly at the memory of some other things Mr. Radnor had said, “but I don’t think he appreciates his daughter as much as I do. He has never gotten well enough acquainted. Someday I hope he will.”

Marion smiled.

“I don’t suppose he’ll ever see enough of me to know more than he does now about me. He is a very busy man, and I’m quite inconspicuous.”

She spoke with a sweet humility, and the young man thought how very lovely she looked as she said it.

“Time changes all things,” said Lyman, smiling. “You might find the order reversed, and Mr. Radnor may one day find you conspicuous enough on his horizon to warrant the time for appreciation. However, just at present I don’t care much, do you? I prefer to appreciate you myself. And, by the way, you’re all off about where I first saw you. I did not see you that night for the first time, by any means.”

“Oh, you mean at the store when you bought the ribbon roses,” she said. “Of course! How stupid of me! But I felt you did not recognize me then.”

“Oh, but I did,” he said, “but that wasn’t the first time either. I had seen you on several different occasions before that, besides once when I couldn’t see you very well.”

“Oh, what can you possibly mean?” she said looking at him with such an air of utter bewilderment, as if her world had suddenly turned upside down, that he laughed joyfully again; and the deferential waiter, appearing just then to serve the first course, was relieved to see that his delay had not been noticed.

Marion sat wondering and watching while the waiter served them, laying so carefully before her the delicate china, heavy silver, and crystal as if she were a queen. How did it come that all this beauty and honor were for her even for a night? She could not understand it; and, looking up at the man across the table, she found her answer in his eyes, and her own drooped once more, while her heart beat rapid, joyous time in tune with the orchestra.

She dared not put into thoughts the thing she had seen in his eyes; yet it had entered her consciousness with a thrill that lifted the heavy weight she had been carrying all the week and made her feel it was right to be happy in this good time, at least for tonight.

“Isn’t it strange that there should be roses on the table just like mine tonight?” she said, suddenly laying her hand lovingly on the flowers on her chest.

The waiter was fussing with the silver covers of the soup tureen that he had just brought; but he gave her a quick, knowing glance.

“Well, yes, that is a coincidence,” said Lyman with a twinkle in his eye toward the solemn black man, who never stirred a muscle of his ebony countenance, though Lyman could see by the roll of his eyes that he was enjoying the little secret immensely. Then the soup was served, and the waiter took himself to a suitable distance.

Now, Marion had eaten no lunch, and she had starved herself during the week as much as she dared for the sake of buying the new dress and hat, so that the delicious, rich soup and the courses that followed were fully appreciated by her. But still the delightful new dishes kept appearing, and still the pleasant conversation kept up its charm, until the girl dreaded the thought that the evening must soon be over—this great, wonderful, beautiful evening in which there had been given to her a glimpse of the world of beauty she had never thought to enter.

“But what did you mean?” she dared shyly when they had finished a most delectable salad and were waiting for dessert. She had hoped her companion would answer this without her having to ask again; but, when the waiter left them, he had introduced another subject as if he delighted to leave it unanswered. “Where did you first see me?”

“At Harley’s music store, when you bought your first symphony tickets,” he answered, watching her changing face delightedly.

Her eyes kindled with the happy memory.

“Oh! Were you there?”

“I was standing just behind you in the line and heard you say you had never been before. I did a very bold thing, I’m afraid. I bought my ticket and selected a seat as near the one you had chosen as possible, so that I might have the added delight of hearing a symphony in the vicinity of one who had never heard one before. Will you think I was very much to blame if I confess that I wanted to watch your face as you listened?”

“Oh!” said Marion with wonder in her eyes; and then she suddenly became terribly confused and dropped her gaze from his. Why did this most unusual man say such strange things to her? Did he say them to other girls? Was it quite right to let him? Of course he meant nothing wrong by it; his face was too fine and pure to admit of a doubt about his having other than the noblest motives in all that he did, but did he quite understand how a girl felt when a man looked at her like that, and said such things? Perhaps girls who were used to society and heard these nice things said to them every day would not think anything about it; but she felt embarrassed and did not know what to do. She lifted troubled eyes to his, and, seeing her embarrassment, he said in an easy tone, “When are you going to tell me about your roses? I’ve been hoping for a long time that you would speak of them.”

She was at her ease at once.

“Oh, would you care to know about them? Aren’t they beautiful? Aren’t they
dear?
Almost like human faces! And such a deep, wonderful velvet! I’ve wanted to tell you about them two or three times; but I haven’t had the courage, because, you see, it’s kind of a strange story, and you might not understand. For you see I don’t know where they come from.”

She touched the roses lightly, caressingly, with the tips of her fingers, and looked up to see what he would say.

“You don’t know where they come from?”

She could not tell whether this was a question or an exclamation.

“No,” she went on, “I don’t know in the least. They come to me from time to time. I always think each time is the last, but today they came again.”

“And you haven’t the least suspicion who sends them?”

“No, not the least. At first I thought they were not sent to me at all, and it was all just a happening or mistake that I got them; but now the concerts are over, and these came to the store this morning, and there were lots of them. I was so glad. There were enough to wear all these and give one to each one of the girls in our department. I liked having them to give even better than wearing them, and I had wished so much the last one could have lived for me to wear today. Then, once before, some came to the house a day when I was not well enough to go to the store, and how could anyone know that? I don’t understand it.”

“Tell me about it. When did they begin to come?” His tone was low, and he was toying with his glass of water. He was not looking directly at her now. He seemed to be thinking hard.

“Why, I found the first one in my seat the night of the second symphony concert. I thought someone had dropped it and laid it in the chair next to mine, but no one came to claim it. I asked an usher about it, but he only laughed and said that the owner probably had plenty more. But, when it happened again the next concert, I tried to find out who had left it there. I asked some women in the same gallery, but they acted as if I were impertinent to speak to them; so after that I kept the roses for myself, and they came every symphony night. I always found one there, all but the last night; and then there were two. I thought it was a kind of good-bye, and I kept them in water until every leaf fell. I couldn’t bear to put them away in the box with the rest of the dead ones. I made them last as long as possible. And then these came today just when I wanted them.”

“Who do you think sent them?” His tone was still quiet and his gaze downward.

“I don’t know at all,” she said. “At first I tried to think of someone I could see who might have done it. Down in the balcony where we went today there was a beautiful old lady with a silvery dress and lovely white hair. I pleased myself by thinking maybe someone like that had sent them because she saw I was a girl alone, and perhaps she thought I looked like someone she had loved or something. Then it came to me that perhaps someone had my seat last year who had a friend who used to send roses and didn’t know she was gone away, and so the roses kept coming; but that wouldn’t explain those that came to the house and the store. And so I didn’t know what to think, and I just thought God knew I needed them and so He sent them; and I thanked Him, for I hadn’t anyone else to thank.”

Her voice had grown low and sweet, and the eyes across the table looked at her with reverence, and when she looked up, his tenderness almost blinded her. It seemed so very much what she needed and yet couldn’t expect to have, of course.

“I have something to tell you,” he said very gently and with a voice full of feeling. “Suppose we take a walk. Do you like to walk? Do you feel like walking? Or would you prefer to stay here awhile?”

“I love to walk,” said Marion with delight. “I haven’t had a good walk for a long, long time. Father and I used to go when he had a Saturday afternoon off, or sometimes when he came home early in the evenings and wasn’t too tired.”

“Then let us walk,” said Lyman with satisfaction, rising from his chair. “The moon is almost full, and the Avenue will not be crowded by this time. There will be opportunity to talk.”

“It will be beautiful,” said the girl wistfully, “but I have already taken a great deal of your day.”

“I shall be only too pleased to give you the rest of it,” he said smiling, “and as many more as you will take.”

Then he turned to the waiter and said in a low tone, “Just put this on my account.”

It was a common enough sentence, but it startled Marion.

“Put this on my account!”
Then this man was accustomed to come to this wonderful place and partake of such meals! Nothing that he could have said would have so impressed the girl who listened with a sense of the difference between his station and hers. And a man like this had been giving her his time and attention!

Doubtless it was but a passing whim. Very likely he brought other girls to this beautiful place after other concerts. She was to him but a psychological study; and, when he had examined her little life awhile, and analyzed and tabulated her species, she would soon be forgotten. But need she resent that? Might she not take this pleasant spot in life, knowing it was fleeting, and enjoy it while it lasted? Would it leave a pain greater than the pleasure when it was gone, because of what she missed? Well, she must look well to herself that she did not let the joy enter into her soul too deeply. It was to be like her roses, fleeting but sweet.

With this thought passing through her mind, she walked the length of the palm-girded rooms and out into the lovely night.

It was lovely even in the city, for the moon was nearly full, and the air was balmy with the promise of spring, yet held a tang of bracing air left over from the winter to give a zest to the walk.

Lyman led her quickly through the more crowded part of the streets and out to the Avenue, where pedestrians were not too many for comfort and where the fine pavement and the brilliant lighting made a beautiful place for a promenade.

He had drawn her hand firmly within his arm when they started and dropped his step into unison with her own, and she could not but feel the exhilaration of walking so.

“Now!” said he when they had come into the broad part of the Avenue, where they did not have to thread their way so carefully between people and it was quieter for talking. “Now would you like
me
to tell
you
about your roses?”

“Oh, do
you
know where they came from? Do you know who sent them?”

He felt her hand trembling on his arm, and her eyes looked anxiously into his. She knew the time of revelation had come, and she dreaded to hear about them, lest it would make them less her own. With a tenderness he laid his own hand over hers and kept it there. Looking down into her eyes, he said in a low tone, “Don’t you know now? Can’t you guess who it was?”

She searched his face and hesitated, then read his answer there.

“Oh, it was not…. It could not have been…. It—was—you!”

There was awe and delight and then real alarm in her voice, as her conviction became a certainty and she began to realize what it all meant.

He was troubled at her silence.

“Are you glad or sorry it was me?” he asked anxiously.

She did not answer for a moment; and then, looking down with troubled air, she said half tremblingly, “Oh, why—why—did—you—do—it?”

He felt the moment had come, and he was not half so sure of her as he had been a little while before.

“Because I loved you from the first minute I saw you, and I wanted to win you for my wife,” he answered in a low, intense voice.

Chapter 15

F
or your wife!” she repeated in wonder, as if she had not heard correctly. “You would not choose
me
for your
wife!
“

“I surely do,” he said tenderly. “I want it more than I ever wanted anything in my life before. I tell you I have loved you ever since that first morning. I could not get the vision of your fresh, sweet face out of my mind. It stayed with me all day long, and I looked for you eagerly at the first concert.”

“How wonderful!” answered Marion in a low, sweet voice as if she had just received a message from a heavenly visitant and angel wings were still visible to her eye.

“Didn’t the roses tell you that someone loved you?”

“They tried to, but I wouldn’t let them.”

“Why wouldn’t you let them?”

“Because I was afraid. I didn’t see how it could ever come true. I was sure no one for whom I could care would ever care for me.”