# Winter Roses

Extracted from Everybody's magazine, 1906 December, pp. 853-857. Accompanying illustrations may be omitted.
Winter Roses
By Ralph Henry Barbour
IN the hall the big clock broke the silence with its florid chimes. Then, as though recollecting its eight feet of aristocratic dignity, it paused in seeming embarrassment, and at last struck four, soberly, impressively. As the last peal died away there reached me the soft thud of hoofs on the snow-covered drive before the house.
I wondered idly, and, from force of a lately acquired habit, drew the rug again about my knees. Through the windows near by I could see a mile or two of rolling hills, snow-blanketed, dotted with dark firs and cedars. On the panes the flakes clung momentarily till they felt the heat and slipped, dissolving, down the glass. Before me a cannel-coal fire glowed warmly under its thick coating of pearl-gray ashes, hissing and sputtering softly now and then, and throwing flecks of light upon the brass screen.
I had been sitting there since luncheon. For a while I had read the book lying in my lap, but now the shadows were creeping across the library and the printed pages had become blurred. Far away a bell tinkled softly. Then followed the closing of the front door. The visitor, whoever it was, meant nothing to me, and yet I speculated idly, drowsily, secure in the fact that Horace had orders to admit no one to the library.
The knowledge of immunity from disturbing presences gave me a brief sensation of pleasure, and I sighed almost contentedly as I reached to rescue my pipe from the hearth-rug. I had sighed frequently during the last three months, but seldom for contentment. When I had found my pipe and sat erect again there came a warning rattle of curtain-rings at the hall door, and with it another sound, the sound of quick steps on the border of parquetry. I turned.
“Please don't get up,” said a woman's voice.“Please!”
I said “Helen!” rather bewilderedly, and kept my seat.
She came over to me and we shook hands. She was in riding-habit and the snowflakes still sparkled on her shoulders. Winter roses blossomed in her cheeks. I had forgotten she was so fair, and I sighed to myself.
“You don't say you're glad to see me,” she complained smilingly, placing one little boot on the edge of the low screen. “Is it because I disobeyed orders and insisted on finding you? You mustn't blame Horace, please; he did his best; but I was conceited enough to think that your orders weren't meant for me.”
“Nor were they,” I answered.“I think I am terribly glad to see you; just at this moment I am too surprised to judge of my feelings; I thought you were in New York.”
“And so I was until yesterday. Then I made dad bring me down here for Christmas. I don't think I could have stood Christmas in the city—this year!”
“Really? I've been wondering whether I could stand Christmas here—this year. But won't you sit down?” I moved, but she laid a hand on my shoulder.
“Stay where you are, please. I'll bring a chair myself.”
“At least let me ring for some tea,” I begged. “That, I assure you, is quite within my power.”
“Tea?” she repeated, sinking into a chair beside me.“No, I don't think I care for tea to-day.”
“You are not ill?” I asked anxiously. “A drop of sherry?”
“No.” She laughed softly. “I am quite well, only—I want to get away from tea and all that tea stands for, for a while. Tea means the city and—and all the rest of it. Here in the country it doesn't seem to belong.”
“I'm sorry I can't offer you a glass of sweet cider,” I murmured fretfully.
“How have you been?” she asked, paying no heed to my pleasantry.
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“Why did you not write to me? You promised to.”
“Pure laziness, I assure you,” I answered lightly.
“It's not like you.”
“I have always been a poor correspondent.”
“Not with me, Joe.”
“Shall I—shall we have lights?” I asked in a sudden panic.
“No, no lights, no tea, no sherry. I only want to see you a bit, Joe. That's the reason I got dad to come down. I might as well be honest. We used to be honest, Joe. Can't we yet?”
“Up to a certain point,” I replied suavely, “honesty is a virtue; beyond that point it is a weakness.”
She tapped her boot with her crop in a way that bespoke irritation.
“Don't go in for philosophy, or whatever you call it,” she begged. “It's beyond me.”
“It is beyond most women,” I said politely.
“It ought to be,” she answered viciously. Then, “Why can't you be the same as you used to be?” she demanded.
“Am I not?” I answered weakly.
“You know you're not! We used to be good friends, but now—see how you treat me!”
“Don't talk that way, old girl,” I said gently. “You're the best friend I've got, and your coming will be the finest sort of a Christmas present.”
She was silent, staring into the flames.
“I forgot to tell you,” I said presently, “that the folks have gone to the village. I believe we're to have a Christmas tree or something of the sort this evening.”
“Your mother is well?” she asked absently; “and Molly?”
“Quite, both. You knew of Molly's engagement?”
“Yes. I'm ever so glad. He's such a fine fellow!”
“He is. I hope they'll be undeservedly happy.”
There was another silence.
“And what about me, Joe?” she asked presently with a little tremble in her voice. I clutched my pipe-stem between my teeth until there was danger of its breaking.
“I hope you'll be deservedly happy, Helen. That means a whole lot of happiness. Your father is well?”
“Quite.” She turned and smiled ironically. “Don't you think we've about done our duty by our relatives, yours and mine? Let us take it for grant that they are all quite, quite well.”
“All right. Mine are a beastly healthy lot, anyway. The mother did manage to have a headache Saturday—or was it Friday?—and was so stuck up about it that there was no living in the same house with her. As for Molly——”
“I didn't come to talk about your mother and sister!” said Helen irascibly.
“I beg your pardon!” I turned and felt about the little table.
“What do you want?” she asked. “A match? Let me get it for you.” She arose and came to the table.
“No, only the bell. It is so dark——”
“Here it is,” she answered.
“Thank you. If you wouldn't mind ringing; Horace sometimes hears it.”
“I should mind,” she answered. She placed the bell on the mantel. “Joe, I've got something to say to you, and I'd a heap rather say it in the dark.”
“Must be a ghost story,” I said. “I dote on 'em, Helen.”
“Well, it is a story—sort of,” she answered thoughtfully. “We'll call it a story.”
“I'll call it anything you like,” I replied quite cheerfully. Then I gripped my pipe-stem again. Helen sank on to the floor at my feet and leaned a shoulder against my knee.
“Give me your hand, Joe,” she said softly.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Helen, please don't; that's a good old girl. Some one might come——”
“You used not to be so particular about the conventions,” she said bitterly.
“You're not playing the game fairly, Helen,” I answered unsteadily. I slipped the rug from my lap, and it fell to the floor. She turned and looked up at me in the dim light and laughed softly.
“You foolish boy!” she whispered.
Then she gather up the rug and tossed it aside.
“There,” she said. I shrugged my shoulders and waited.
“Once upon a time,” began Helen, snuggling up to my knee, “once upon a time there was a man.”
“It starts well,” I said humorously.
“A nice man,” supplemented Helen.
“I can scarcely believe it,” I murmured.
“And there was a girl.”
“A nice girl?” I asked interestedly.
She shook her head.
“Not very. She meant to be, but she wasn't—always.”
“Let us remember her intentions.”
“You mustn't interrupt, please. The man met the girl in the country. They both lived there in the summer. He was nice to her, and—and they got on.”
“She must have been nice, after all.”
“When they moved to town he used to call on her and meet her places. And sometimes he sent her flowers.”
“Quite an ordinary tale,” I said, yawning behind my hand—my left hand; Helen had the other. I don't know how it happened.
“Yes, it was ordinary, I suppose. Only—the girl didn't think so. To her it was a very wonderful tale, quite the most wonderful that ever was told. She used to wonder sometimes whether it could really be true; sometimes she feared—it wasn't. Well, the man and the girl fell in love.”
There was silence. Then:
“You know he did love her!” she challenged.
“I can quite believe it,” I replied politely. “She seems a nice girl, in spite of your insinuations.”
“And she loved him.”
“She was a nice girl.”
“But—but they weren't engaged—exactly. He had never asked her to marry him. Once when he was going to”—Helen turned and looked up at me; I was gazing at the fire—“there was a—a misunderstanding——”
“There usually is,” I said in a wise manner.
“And he didn't. Afterward when they had made it up——”
Helen ceased and for a long while the room was very still. Then she shook herself and gave a little sigh; I couldn't hear that sigh, but I felt it.
“Where was I?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?” I asked with a start.
“Oh, yes; they made it up and were happy again. And then they went back to the country. It was summer, such a beautiful summer!”
Again the tale paused. Well, it had been a beautiful summer!
“They went riding together and—and—oh, lots of things! I think he would have asked her to marry him, only the girl wouldn't let him. You see, she was frightfully happy and—and it seemed too good to spoil. So she put him off—twice.”
“Three times.”
“Only twice.”
“How about the Camerons' picnic?”
“Really?” cried Helen.“I didn't know. Are you sure, Joe?”
“Quite, old girl.”
There was more silence. My hand was against her cheek. I was happy—and miserable.
“And then one day”—Helen's voice dropped almost to a whisper—“they went for a ride in the man's automobile. And the girl wanted to learn to run it, and he let her take the wheel. And there was a hill, and—Oh, I can't!” she cried miserably.
“Nonsense! There was a hill, a regular brute of a hill, and the man hadn't sense enough to take the wheel. And there was a smash-up. You see, I can tell a story myself. The girl wasn't hurt the least bit in the world, for which the man thanks God every day of his life, and the man busted his leg. And the automobile busted its everything—and served it jolly well right, too!”
“And then?” whispered Helen.
“Oh, then they sawed off the man's leg——”
“Above his knee,” interpolated Helen with a shudder, and clasped my hand tighter.
“There as well as anywhere,” I said lightly.
“And then?” asked Helen again.
“That's all of the story I know. It ended there,” I added grimly.
“But it oughtn't to!” cried Helen, turning, her elbows on my knee and my hand against her lips.
“Oh, yes, it ought,” I said steadily. “Every story has its ending.”
“But not ours, Joe! Not ours!”
“Yes, dear, ours too.”
“Oh, but why?”
“You know why, Helen. Don't think I don't appreciate your—your goodness and sweetness. I know well enough that if I'd let you you'd gladly throw yourself away on a good-for-nothing cripple, a half a man, a man who will have to go through life on a crutch—or a wooden leg! Not that I mind, old girl. I've got over that.” Good Lord, what a lie! But even a cripple has some sense of honor. “You and I, Helen, are going to be fine friends as long as we both live, but we aren't going to make a mistake that we'd both be sorry for.”
“Both?”
“Both,” I answered firmly.
“Then—then—” Helen dropped my hand slowly and drew away a little—“then I was mistaken, Joe? It—it wasn't as I've told it? The man—didn't care—so much?”
“Well—” I laughed a mean, brutal little laugh.“You see, old girl, a fellow doesn't always—that is——”
“I see.”
I was glad she did; I certainly didn't. She rose to her feet.
“It was—just make-believe, Joe?”
“Not as bad as that, really, Helen!”
“You did care—some?”
“Helen!” I cried indignantly.
“I'm glad,” she said simply.“It doesn't seem so—quite so—terrible.” She caught her breath sharply. I felt like a soul in hell.
The fire sputtered. Then:
“Oh, I don't believe it!” she cried. “It's a lie! It's a lie, Joe, isn't it?”
I was silent I could hear her breath coming and going there where she stood at the end of the mantel.
“No,” she said faintly as though to herself, “it isn't a lie. It's the truth, only I couldn't see it, I didn't want to see it. Well …” She laughed uncertainly, and I knew she was putting up her hand to replace a strand of her copper-brown hair. “I suppose I've made a frightful fool of myself, Joe,” she went on quite easily, “coming here and throwing myself at your head this way, but——”
I muttered something about being sensible of the honor she had done me—some Godforsaken rot—and she turned on me like a tiger.
“Honor! What do you know of honor? Have you ever been honest with me—for a single minute since I met you? I—I—” She stopped. “I didn't mean that, Joe,” she said then, quietly. “Forget it, won't you? I must be going. Will you say to your mother and Molly, please, that I was sorry to miss them, and wish them a merry Christmas?”
She must have taken my compliance for granted, for I certainly said nothing. Nor did I until I heard the curtains parting under her hands. Nor did I, heaven knows, mean to speak then. But——
“Helen!” I cried hoarsely, despairingly.
I could have bitten my tongue off for it!
There was silence. I looked resolutely at the dying fire. Outside the flakes made a little sighing sound as they brushed the casements.
“Well?” asked a voice close beside me. “Well?”
I made no answer, nor did I turn my head.
“You called me, Joe?”
“I—yes, I wanted to wish you—a merry Christmas.”
It was an idiotic, an insulting thing to say, but I could think of nothing else. She came close beside me until I felt her gown against my sleeve, and shivered.
“A merry Christmas! I wonder! Was that what you meant to say, Joe? Was it? Look at me!”
I looked. I could see only her eyes, glowing sparks of fire in the twilight.
“That—was all,” I muttered.
“Say it again, Joe,” she whispered.
“A merry Christmas, Helen,” I said almost without a tremor.
She laughed under her breath.
“Thanks, Joe. The same to you. Shall we—shake hands?”
For answer I put mine in hers. They trembled together with every throb of our hearts. She leaned closer; I felt her breath on my cheek.
“Once more, Joe,” she whispered tremulously. “Say it once more.”
“But——”
“It may be the last time, Joe,” she pleaded.
“I wish you a—a——”
Our hands were clinging to each other desperately; her breath was on my face.
“Yes—yes—go on.”
“I can't!” I whispered helplessly, and watched my defenses crumble about me, nor cared.
“Don't tempt me, Helen,” I groaned presently.“Lord knows I'm selfish enough—almost—to do it!”
“Selfish! Yes, I've seen your selfishness,” she scoffed. “I've watched you flaunt that poor maimed leg of yours before me whenever we've met; that was selfishness, wasn't it? You feared I might forget it and—and keep on caring! You've stayed down here in the country for two months to keep out of my way; that was selfishness, too, wasn't it? Perhaps if she doesn't see me she'll forget, you told yourself. Poor old selfish Joe!”
She took my face between her hands and turned my eyes to hers.
“Joe,” she whispered, “Joe, be selfish, dear, and—take me!”
It was quite, quite dark. The fire was just a crumpled bed of glowing ashes. Outside the flakes rustled against the panes and sang a little song to us. Presently:
“When you came, dear,” I said, “there were roses blossoming in your cheeks, winter roses. Are they still there?”
“See for yourself,” she whispered.
“It's very dark.”
“But——”
And after a moment:
“Well?” she asked, laughing softly.
“I shouldn't like to say—yet,” I answered, “after such a cursory investigation. I thought I felt rose petals, but——”
“But what?”
“I think those roses are blossoming in my heart now, dear!”
“Really?” she whispered happily. “Really!”
“And—and they're all mine?”
“Every one, sweetheart. Would you—could you be tempted to—accept one now?”
“I—I think so,” sighed Helen.
And our lips met in the darkness.
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 1944, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 79 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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