# The Saturday Evening Post/Rose-Fever

[Extracted from the Saturday Evening Post, 1910, pp. 12-13, 30. Accompanying illustrations by Gustavus C. Widney omitted.]
A rose by any other name is just as—nauseous. So felt Gwendolyn.
ROSE-FEVER
By Rupert Hughes
THEY had met at the seashore, in the usual seashore mood. The strip of Sahara called the beach had seemed like paradise to them, though it raised nothing but pale and skippy sand-fleas, and though the same sand in a drawing-room would have been accounted a disaster. They had heaved rhapsodic sighs about the ocean, which is, after all, only a very large pond, exceptionally messy and floppy at the edges.
The moon paced its usual beat, getting larger and later every evening, as of old; but they found something extraordinary in its radiance, though they would have complained to the Gas Company or the General Electric if such insipid illumination had been provided for ordinary purposes.
So they reveled in sea and sky and romance and all that sort of thing, which has been written up so often and so much better than it is likely to be done again.
But soon she left the sea and went to the mountains. And there he turned up, too, after a decent interval. Here there was more scenery, of a highly-embossed description. There were admirable peaks and thoroughly commendable valleys and pines and cedars, and things with gorgeous colors splashed round in excellent taste. But that also has been done so often and so well that, perhaps, one might better skip the landscape and get to the dialogue.
She was sitting in one of the parlors at the hotel, whose prices most nearly rivaled the magnificence of the peaks. She was talking about The Man to the Other Man:
"The thing I like most about Charles Newman is that he never sends me flowers."
"They're about the only thing he hasn't sent you," the Other Man growled.
"Yes; he has sent me candy by the ton, books enough for a fifty-five-foot shelf, bushels of trinkets—souvenirs! He's awfully generous."
"Oh, I know. He's one of those present presenters. The minute that sort of man is introduced to a girl he rushes out and buys her something. It's Christmas every day with him."
"A woman appreciates those little attentions, Ned."
"Attentions! They're nothing but tips. Men give those things to women to make 'em a little politer—as they slip a quarter to a waiter in the hope of getting some nearly-fresh eggs in the omelet or some coffee in the coffee. And you women are flattered by it instead of insulted!"
"Oh, I know you don't like Mr. Newman. You never did. You dislike him because I like him."
"Well, isn't that reason enough? Who is he, anyway? What does he do for a living?"
"Ugh, what a Yankee question! Mr. Newman is plainly a gentleman of means with sense enough to enjoy his leisure. Now, when I was abroad, I met any number of that sort."
"Oh, yes; I know. We've all been abroad, and met the male or female loafer who settles down on eight hundred dollars a year, calls himself a gentleman and does nothing but drink other people's tea. But in America it's suspicious. I'll bet he's a gambler or a promoter or something shady."
"Look here, Ned, do you think it's manly to run down a rival behind his back?"
"No; I don't think it's at all manly, but I think it's all-fired human. I love you, Gwen, and you prefer him. That drives me crazy and I don't care what I say about him. I only wish I could think of worse things than I do."
"You love me! Humph! Why, you haven't even remembered that it's my birthday."
"Oh, Lord! is it really?—the eighteenth! Of course it is! I'm an awful fool. I have no memory, but I have a big heart and I love you twice as much as that——"
"There you go again. You love me twice as much and forget my birthday. But he remembered it. He's giving a dinner party here at the hotel tonight in my honor."
"Oh, yes; he invited me. He felt sure enough of you for that! But he didn't tell me it was your birthday."
"He flattered you by thinking you'd probably remember it, as you're always telling how you and I grew up together. I'm so afraid you'll give away my real age! And I know he thinks I'm as old as you are."
"You used to be within a year of it, Gwen. But you've been backsliding."
"If you dare tell him that, Ned Milholland, I'll never speak to you again as long as I live."
"Oh, I'm not going to tell anybody. I forget the date of your birthdays so easily I'm not likely to remember how many there have been. Besides, you don't look half as old as you are."
"You have the most atrocious way of saying things! I'm not old. I won't have the word used of me!"
Great tears filled her eyes and one rolled gleaming down her cheek. He stared in amazement.
"Why, Gwen, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I never dreamed that—you were so sensitive."
"Hurt my feelings!" she snapped. "Don't be an idiot. There's a rose in this room somewhere!"
He looked about hastily.
"I don't see any."
"Neither do I—but there's one here—can't I tell? Look for it, quick. Find it. Get it out before I—before I—fore I—it seems as if my very soul wanted to sneeze! Have you got a rose in your buttonhole?"
"Of course I haven't. I remember that much, anyway. I wouldn't insult you by wearing a rose. I hate roses because you don't like them."
She ran here and there, holding her exquisite handkerchief to her exquisite nose, and he scurried about frantically. At last he gave a cry: "Here it is—under the table. Just a head that fell from somebody's bouquet."
He held up a slightly passé bud of the most winsome color and the most suave perfume; but she waved it away in terror: "Throw it out of the window, quick, or I'll jump out. Oh, oh—what an affliction!"
He tossed the innocent flower into the valley as if he were casting a murderess from the Tarpeian Rock. Then he turned to her soothingly: "It's gone, Gwen. The country is saved. That explains why you were so snappy. I notice that the sniff of a rose makes you mad at me."
"Mad? I want to bite anybody that comes near. Can you blame me? Here I am an ordinary, commonplace, normal, sane girl, with no deformities or eccentricities to speak of. Yet every time I come within sniffing distance of fresh roses my eyes begin to stream and I try to blow my own head off with sneezes."
"Poor Gwen!"
"Do you remember when I graduated at Wellesley—how everybody sent me flowers and all the other girls got flowers, and I couldn't dodge them—and I was so ill I couldn't stop for my diploma?"
"Yes, I remember. I was there. I usually am. I've been hanging round you since our perambulators first collided, and I've always——" But she was musing upon the Other Man.
"That's one of the reasons I like Mr. Newman so much. He never sends me flowers. Heavens! do you suppose he knows?"
"Of course not! How could he? You came up from the seaside before the hay-fever season began. He followed. He's never had a sneeze out of you."
"But you might have told him, Ned."
"Do you think I'm quite as low as all that?"
"No, no! Forgive me! But it is such an affliction, Ned. Promise me that you will not tell him."
"It's hardly necessary to promise, Gwen."
"Say: 'I hereby solemnly promise that I will not under any circumstances disclose to Charles Newman or anybody else, without special permission, the fact that Miss Gwendolyn Norbrook is afflicted with rose-fever.’"
"I hereby solemnly promise that I will not under any circumstances—all that you said."
"You might swear, too."
"Well, I'll be damned if I tell him—is that better?"
"Ned!"
"You asked for it, didn't you?" He made a wry face that was not quite the wry face he had made because of disprized love, and he said: "I'm getting mighty hungry. What time is that birthday dinner set for, anyway?"
"You forget everything, don't you?"
"My stomach tells me it's late already. I've been dressed for half an hour. The sun has set and the moon's coming up. The other guests of the hotel have been working away in the big dining-room for more than an hour. I believe I'll join them and cut out this Newman affair altogether."
"You'll do no such thing."
"Why do you want to drag me along—just to torment me with the sight of my rival's triumph?"
"How could you think me capable of such a thought?"
"You're a woman, aren't you?"
"There are going to be half a dozen other guests, including Irene Oakley. She's a nice girl. You can sit with her."
"Lord! You can't care much for me if you palm off another woman on me. Well, if you say stay, stay I will—as usual. I'm nothing but a messenger boy to you, anyway, Gwen. You ought to give me a uniform, or at least a cap."
"If I decide to marry Charles Newman I'll set you free."
"You are a brute, Gwen!"
Thereupon entered a tall and imposing young man, built on the plan of architecture and draped according to the demi-godlike models in the clothing advertisements.
"Good-evening, Miss Norbrook," he said.
"Why, Mr. Newman! Good-evening! You know Mr. Milholland?"
"Oh, yes; h'-wah you, Milholland?" He shook hands indifferently and then turned on the girl, "I've come to evict you."
"Evict me?"
"Yea, this parlor is the room where the dinner is to be. The waiters are coming with the table now."
"Then you don't want me here?
"Well, of course you're the whole dinner. But if you could spare me a few minutes I've prepared a little surprise for you—a—well, you understand."
"A surprise? How jolly of you to have thought of it! But then, you always——"
"Ahem! Ahem!"—savagely from the Other Man.
"Well, I'll vanish. I'll wait in the next drawing-room. Send for me when you are ready."
"Promise not to peek?"
"I promise—come along, Ned."
The sartorial marvel put out a restraining hand:
"Oh, but pardon me. I was going to ask Milholland to stay and help me—lend me his good taste. Do you mind, old man?"
"Er—ah—um—certainly——"
Miss Norbrook sauntered out with curious backward glances, like Lot's wife. Her eyes rested on Mr. Newman with evident delight. He was a man of such taste and tact that it was a pleasure to have him order her about a bit. It was a pleasure to obey. As her shapely form glided from sight into the King's Highway of the corridor, waiters came stumbling into the room with a large circular table. Others brought napery and silver service.
Two pages arrived next, tottering under toppling stacks of large boxes. One of the top bundles wobbled and fell. Milholland with a violent lunge caught it in midair. He admonished the boy.
"Be careful, you'll break them——"
"Don't worry," said Newman; "there's nothing to break. They're just—roses."
"Roses?"
"Roses—to decorate the table and the room, you know."
"But Miss Norbrook—er—ah—um—that is——"
"What's the matter, old man? Aren't roses rather the usual thing for decoration in a case like this?"
"Oh, of course, certainly, undoubtedly, naturally."
"But you seem so surprised."
"Well—er—the quantity is surprising. So many roses, you know—bushels of them, like cabbages. They must have cost you a pretty penny—a small fortune."
"Not at all. They cost me nothing."
"How did you get 'em—steal 'em?"
"Not at all."
"Well, you're certainly making up for lost time, Newman. Only a few minutes ago, Gwen—er—Miss Norbrook was commenting on the fact that you had never sent her any flowers."
"Really? Did she think it was strange? Did she disapprove?"
"No; she didn't disapprove exactly; she just commented on it, that's all. Most men who send a girl anything at all send her roses, you know."
"Of course they do. But I had a special reason. I—you see—I didn't want to—well, I didn't want to introduce shop into my relations with Miss Norbrook, of all women."
"Shop? Did you say shop?"
"Shop, yes."
"I don't quite get you."
"I'll explain frankly. Let me see, you're Miss Norbrook's cousin, aren't you?"
"Well, a sort of distant cousin."
"Then I can speak freely to you. I'm going to take you into my confidence, Milholland, old boy. The fact is, I am madly—come over here where those waiters can't hear—as I was saying, I am simply—yes, pile the roses on that table and take the boxes out—what I started to say was—here, waiter, waiter! don't touch those flowers; Mr. Milholland and I will arrange them—Milholland, old man, I'm head over heels in love with your adorable cousin, Miss Norbrook. I followed her from the sea to the mountains, because I'm determined to win her. I know she likes you very much, and I'd like to have your approval of my suit—no, not the one I'm wearing—the one I'm pressing—that is, my suit for your dear cousin's hand. Have I your approval?"
"Well—er—this is very sudden. I—I—I don't know much about you, Newman, you know."
"I know. So I'm going to tell you. I haven't mentioned it before, because I wanted to have the dear girl love me just for myself without regard for my business."
"And what is your business?—though, of course, it's none of my business."
"Oh, yes it is, old man. As Miss Norbrook's cousin, you have a right to know."
"You needn't harp so much on my being Miss Norbrook's cousin. I assure you that——"
"Oh, that's all right, old man. But as I say, I want to be loved for myself alone, not for my business."
"Is your business such a fascinating thing as all that?"
"Well, it ought to seem so to a woman of Miss Norbrook's exquisite taste and love of the beautiful. It's not like the ordinary base commercial dealing in iron or stocks or shoes."
"What kind of business is it, anyway? Are you a lady's tailor?"
"Oh, Milholland! How could you suspect me of such a thing?"
"Well, you say it's a business. That means you're not an artist or a professional man. What is your line of goods, anyway?"
"The most beautiful, delightful, delicious merchandise in the world. And I am the largest dealer in it—in them—in the world."
"What in thunder is it—are they?"
"Flowers."
"Flowers! Are you one of those florist fellows?"
"In a way, yes."
"Have you got a shop on Fifth Avenue where they sell a pint of violets for a fortune, and that sort of thing—jonquils and orchids and——"
"No; I have no shop, and I deal only in roses. I'm a wholesaler. I have an enormous rose-farm—a paradise-acres on acres of roses—an ideal place for a woman. All the year round fresh roses are in bloom there. The air is alive with their perfume. Any woman would revel in the thought of making her home among roses—roses—roses—— That's why I didn't tell Miss Norbrook. I didn't want to have my future happiness embittered by the suspicion that she might have been swayed by the thought of my rows. I want to be loved for myself alone. Silly, eh, but what are you laughing at, Milholland?"
"Who's laughing?"
"You're grinning all over. What's the matter with you? Do I look so idiotic in your eyes? Wait till you fall in love with some fascinating girl like Miss Norbrook, then you'll be as ridiculous as I am."
"Nobody could be that, Newman."
The florist regarded the shaking Milholland with bewildered resentment; then he beamed again:
"Oh, I'm not so ridiculous as you may think. I made pretty sure of my ground. I don't want to brag, but Miss Norbrook—God bless her—has already given me good reason to believe that she cares deeply for me. She loves me for myself alone—without knowing who or what I am. But when she learns that I am Newman, the biggest rose-raiser in the world, she'll say yes in a jiffy. Every one of these roses came from my own place. Come along, old man, and help me spread them about, will you?"
"With all my heart, Newman, with all my heart."
The emptied boxes had spilled an avalanche of roses on a side table and Milholland fell to with a ghoulish activity.
Newman worked with equal rapture. When the room was finally transformed into a bower he sprinkled petals from the table to the door.
Then he opened the door slightly and looked out.
"There they are, Milholland," he chortled. "Miss Norbrook and Miss Oakley and her mother and old General Moncrieff. If you'll bring in Miss Oakley he'll take in her mother, and I—I will escort my future bride."
Then he added:
"I'm going to switch out the light and lead the people into the room, so that the first thing they get will be the full glory of the perfume. Miss Norbrook's nostrils shall feast first. Then her eyes shall have the banquet. Then we'll sit down to the material food. Promise you won't mention this little surprise till I spring it, will you, old man?"
"I solemnly promise," said Milholland.
The eager suitor pressed the button and the room became instantly a black cave. Newman breathed deep of the incense and so did Milholland. Then the two men went into the drawing-room where the guests were waiting. Each man gave bis arm to his respective allotment.
The little procession walked into the spicy ambush, and stood fast, not daring to proceed far into the mysterious and aromatic gloom.
"Everybody stand fast, please," said Newman, "and breathe deep."
There was a long and luxurious silence. It was broken by a brisk crepitation which Milholland recognized as Miss Norbrook's voice. All she said was:
"At-choo!"
There was another silence; and Newman felt a violent convulsion shake the form at his elbow and once more he heard the fatal words:
"At-choo! At-choo!"
He waited for her to calm herself long enough to understand the rapture in the air. But now the velvet suspense was broken by an outcry:
"Let me out! I'm suffocating! I'm—at-choo!—I'm dy—at-choo—ing! Help! Hel—at-choo—p!"
The bewildered Newman exclaimed:
"One moment, Miss Norbrook, while I turn on the light."
"Don't you dare turn on the lide—at-choo. I dode wand anybody to see be. I—at-choo!—I'b goig blide. Oh, Ded, Ded! Ded Bidhoddad!"
Milholland groped toward her: "Are you speaking to me, Gwen?"
"Ob code I'b speagig to you. Dode you dough your ode dabe?"
"Yes, dear; what is it?"
"Tage be oud ob did roob at wudse. Oh—huddy, huddy!"
By this time the agitated Newman had reached the electric switch and the room flashed into view in all its flowery glory. But Miss Norbrook flashed into view also. Her eyes were streaming, her face contorted. She was doubled up and snapped out with sneezes.
The vision of the rosy multitude threw her into a rage of hysterics. She thrust Newman away from the electric button and put out the light once more. And once more her voice wailed:
"Oh, Ded, Ded! Tage be oud ob did hoddibud doob."
"Yes, Gwen dear. Shall I take you to your own room?"
"Dough! Dough!! Dough!!! I dode wad eddybody to see be. Tage be oud od de veradda id de bood-dide."
He took her by the arm and led her through a door-window to the moonlit piazza. Newman followed in a panic of anxiety. But she cried: "Go away. Dode you ebba speag to be agedd!"
Milholland waved Newman back with magnificent disdain and guided his blind and swishing cousin to the farthest peninsula of the veranda.
"Who id did bad Doobad, eddyway?"
"I beg your pardon," said Milholland.
"Who id did bad Doobad?"
"Doobad?"
"Chad Doobad!" she shrieked. "Cad you udderstad Igglish? I say, who id did bad Doobad?"
"Oh, Newman, you mean?"
"Yed."
"He was only trying to please you."
"Why didn't you ted hib I can't stad roded?"
"You made me swear I wouldn't. I wanted to. But I had solemnly promised. And he told me you loved him and he wanted to marry you, and——"
"Baddy? Be baddy dad bad?"
"He said you were going to. Do you know what he is?"
"Dough! What id he?"
"He's a florist."
"A fodid!"
"Yes, and he raises roses."
"Raided roded! Ad he expegs be to baddy hib?"
"So he said. But you won't, will you, Gwen dear?"
"Be! Baddy a bad like Doobad! I'd like to budder hib."
"So would I. And I will murder him if he ever speaks to you again, sha'n't I, Gwen dear?"
"Plead! If you dub be!"
"Love you? You know I love you. And now that he's disposed of, won't you reward my devotion? I've loved you for years, and if you'll marry me I'll watch over you and protect you, and see that no horrible roses ever darken your path again. Won't you be my wife, Gwendolyn? Mrs. Gwendolyn Milholland—what a beautiful name for what a beautiful girl! Won't you say yes?"
"Biddid Gweddodyd Bidhoddad. Yed, Ded; it id a dice dabe."
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1956, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 67 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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