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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bride Roses, by W. D. Howells
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Bride Roses
+
+Author: W. D. Howells
+
+Release Date: September 2, 2010 [EBook #33608]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRIDE ROSES ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Edwards, Josephine Paolucci and the
+Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net.
+(This file was produced from images generously made
+available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+BRIDE ROSES
+
+W. D. HOWELLS
+
+
+
+
+_Bride Roses_
+
+A SCENE
+
+_By W. D. Howells_
+
+
+BOSTON AND NEW YORK
+
+_Houghton, Mifflin and Company_ MDCCCC
+
+
+COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY HARPER & BROTHERS
+
+COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY W. D. HOWELLS
+
+ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
+
+
+
+
+_Bride Roses_
+
+
+SCENE
+
+_A Lady_, entering the florist's with her muff to her face, and
+fluttering gayly up to the counter, where the florist stands folding a
+mass of loose flowers in a roll of cotton batting: "Good-morning, Mr.
+Eichenlaub! Ah, put plenty of cotton round the poor things, if you don't
+want them frozen stiff! You have no idea what a day it is, here in your
+little tropic." She takes away her muff as she speaks, but gives each of
+her cheeks a final pressure with it, and holds it up with one hand
+inside as she sinks upon the stool before the counter.
+
+_The Florist:_ "Dropic? With icepergs on the wintows?" He nods his head
+toward the frosty panes, and wraps a sheet of tissue-paper around the
+cotton and the flowers.
+
+_The Lady:_ "But you are not near the windows. Back here it is
+midsummer!"
+
+_The Florist:_ "Yes, we got a rhevricherator to keep the rhoces from
+sunstroke." He crimps the paper at the top, and twists it at the bottom
+of the bundle in his hand. "Hier!" he calls to a young man warming his
+hands at the stove. "Chon, but on your hat, and dtake this to--Holt on!
+I forgot to but in the cart." He undoes the paper, and puts in a card
+lying on the counter before him; the lady watches him vaguely. "There!"
+He restores the wrapping and hands the package to the young man, who
+goes out with it. "Well, matam?"
+
+_The Lady_, laying her muff with her hand in it on the counter, and
+leaning forward over it: "Well, Mr. Eichenlaub. I am going to be very
+difficult."
+
+_The Florist:_ "That is what I lige. Then I don't feel so rhesbonsible."
+
+_The Lady:_ "But to-day, I _wish_ you to feel responsible. I want you to
+take the whole responsibility. Do you know why I always come to you,
+instead of those places on Fifth Avenue?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "Well, it is a good teal cheaper, for one thing"--
+
+_The Lady:_ "Not at all! That isn't the reason, at all. Some of your
+things are dearer. It's because you take so much more interest, and you
+talk over what I want, and you don't urge me, when I haven't made up my
+mind. You let me consult you, and you are not cross when I don't take
+your advice."
+
+_The Florist:_ "You are very goodt, matam."
+
+_The Lady:_ "Not at all. I am simply just. And now I want you to provide
+the flowers for my first Saturday: Saturday of this week, in fact, and I
+want to talk the order all over with you. Are you very busy?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "No; I am qvite at your service. We haf just had to
+egsegute a larche gommission very soddenly, and we are still in a little
+dtisorter yet; but"--
+
+_The Lady:_ "Yes, I see." She glances at the rear of the shop, where
+the floor is littered with the leaves and petals of flowers, and sprays
+of fern and evergreen. A woman, followed by a belated smell of
+breakfast, which gradually mingles with the odor of the plants, comes
+out of a door there, and begins to gather the larger fragments into her
+apron. The lady turns again, and looks at the jars and vases of cut
+flowers in the window, and on the counter. "What I can't understand is
+how you know just the quantity of flowers to buy every day. You must
+often lose a good deal."
+
+_The Florist:_ "It gomes out about rhighdt, nearly always. When I get
+left, sometimes, I can chenerally work dem off on funerals. Now, that
+bic orter hat I just fill, that wass a funeral. It usedt up all the
+flowers I hat ofer from yesterday."
+
+_The Lady:_ "Don't speak of it! And the flowers, are they just the same
+for funerals?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "Yes, rhoces nearly always. Whidte ones."
+
+_The Lady:_ "Well, it is too dreadful. I am not going to have roses,
+whatever I have." After a thoughtful pause, and a more careful look
+around the shop: "Mr. Eichenlaub, why wouldn't orchids do?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "Well, they would be bretty dtear. You couldn't make any
+show at all for less than fifteen tollars."
+
+_The Lady_, with a slight sigh: "No, orchids wouldn't do. They are
+fantastic things, anyway, and they are not very effective, as you say.
+Pinks, anemones, marguerites, narcissus--there doesn't seem to be any
+great variety, does there?"
+
+_The Florist_, patiently: "There will be more, lader on."
+
+_The Lady:_ "Yes, there will be more sun, later on. But now, Mr.
+Eichenlaub, what do you think of plants in pots, set around?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "Balmss?"
+
+_The Lady_, vaguely: "Yes, palms."
+
+_The Florist:_ "Balmss would to. But there would not be very much
+golor."
+
+_The Lady:_ "That is true; there would be no color at all, and my rooms
+certainly need all the color I can get into them. Yes, I shall have to
+have roses, after all. But not white ones!"
+
+_The Florist:_ "Chacks?"
+
+_The Lady:_ "No; Jacks are too old-fashioned. But haven't you got any
+other very dark rose? I should like something almost black, I believe."
+
+_The Florist,_ setting a vase of roses on the counter before her: "There
+is the Matame Hoste."
+
+_The Lady,_ bending over the roses, and touching one of them with the
+tip of her gloved finger: "Why, they _are_ black, almost! They are
+nearly as black as black pansies. They are really wonderful!" She stoops
+over and inhales their fragrance. "Delicious! They are beautiful,
+but"--abruptly--"they are hideous. Their color makes me creep. It is so
+unnatural for a rose. A rose--a rose ought to be--rose-colored! Have you
+no rose-colored roses? What are those light pink ones there in the
+window?"
+
+_The Florist_, going to the window and getting two vases of cut roses,
+with long stems, both pink, but one kind a little larger than the other:
+"That is the Matame Watterville, and this is the Matame Cousine. They
+are sister rhoces; both the same, but the Matame Watterville is a little
+bigger, and it is a little dtearer."
+
+_The Lady:_ "They are both exquisite, and they are such a tender
+almond-bloom pink! I think the Madame Cousine is quite as nice; but of
+course the larger ones are more effective." She examines them, turning
+her head from side to side, and then withdrawing a step, with a decisive
+sigh. "No; they are too pale. Have you nothing of a brighter pink? What
+is that over there?" She points to a vase of roses quite at the front of
+the window, and the florist climbs over the mass of plants and gets it
+for her.
+
+_The Florist:_ "That is the Midio."
+
+_The Lady:_ "The what?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "The Midio."
+
+_The Lady:_ "You will think I am very stupid this morning. Won't you
+please write it down for me?" The florist writes on a sheet of
+wrapping-paper, and she leans over and reads: "Oh! _Meteor!_ Well, it is
+very striking--a little _too_ striking. I don't like such a vivid pink,
+and I don't like the name. Horrid to give such a name to a flower." She
+puts both hands into her muff, and drifts a little way off, as if to get
+him in a better perspective. "Can't you suggest something, Mr.
+Eichenlaub?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "Some kind off yellow rhoce? Dtea-rhoces?"
+
+_The Lady,_ shaking her head: "Tea-roses are ghastly. I hate yellow
+roses. I would rather have black, and black is simply impossible. I
+shall have to tell you just what I want to do. I don't want to work up
+to my rooms with the flowers; I want to work up to the young lady who is
+going to pour tea for me. I don't care if there isn't a flower anywhere
+but on the table before her. I want a color scheme that shall not have
+a false note in it, from her face to the tiniest bud. I want them to all
+_come together_. Do you understand?"
+
+_The Florist_, doubtfully: "Yes." After a moment: "What kindt looking
+yo'ng laty iss she?"
+
+_The Lady:_ "The most ethereal creature in the world."
+
+_The Florist:_ "Yes; but what sdyle--fair or tark?"
+
+_The Lady:_ "Oh, fair! Very, very fair, and very, very fragile-looking;
+a sort of moonlight blonde, with those remote, starry-looking eyes,
+don't you know, and that pale saffron hair; not the least ashen; and
+just the faintest, faintest tinge of color in her face. I suppose you
+have nothing like the old-fashioned blush-rose? That would be the very
+thing."
+
+_The Florist_, shaking his head: "Oh, no; there noding like that in a
+chreen-house rhoce."
+
+_The Lady:_ "Well, that is exactly what I want. It ought to be something
+very tall and ethereal; something very, very pale, and yet with a sort
+of suffusion of color." She walks up and down the shop, looking at all
+the plants and flowers.
+
+_The Florist_, waiting patiently: "Somet'ing beside rhoces, then?"
+
+_The Lady_, coming back to him: "No; it must be roses, after all. I see
+that nothing else will do. What do you call those?" She nods at a vase
+of roses on a shelf behind him.
+
+_The Florist_, turning and taking them down for her: "Ah, those whidte
+ones! That is the Pridte. You sait you woultn't haf whidte ones."
+
+_The Lady:_ "I may have to come to them. Why do they call it the Pride?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "I didn't say Bridte; I said Pridte."
+
+_The Lady:_ "Oh, Bride! And do they use Bride roses for"--
+
+_The Florist:_ "Yes; and for weddtings, too; for everything." The lady
+leans back a little and surveys the flowers critically. A young man
+enters, and approaches the florist, but waits with respectful impatience
+for the lady to transact her affairs. The florist turns to him
+inquiringly, and upon this hint he speaks.
+
+_The Young Man:_ "I want you to send a few roses--white ones, or nearly
+white"--He looks at the lady. "Perhaps"--
+
+_The Lady:_ "Oh, not at all! I hadn't decided to take them."
+
+_The Florist:_ "I got plenty this kindt; all you want. I can always get
+them."
+
+_The Young Man_, dreamily regarding the roses: "They look rather
+chilly." He goes to the stove, and drawing off his gloves, warms his
+hands, and then comes back. "What do you call this rose?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "The Pridte."
+
+_The Young Man_, uncertainly: "Oh!" The lady moves a little way up the
+counter toward the window, but keeps looking at the young man from time
+to time. She cannot help hearing all that he says. "Haven't you any
+white rose with a little color in it? Just the faintest tinge, the
+merest touch."
+
+_The Florist:_ "No, no; they are whidte, or they are yellow;
+dtea-rhoces; Marshal Niel"--
+
+_The Young Man:_ "Ah, I don't want anything of that kind. What is the
+palest pink rose you have?"
+
+_The Florist_, indicating the different kinds in the vases, where the
+lady has been looking at them: "Well, there is nothing lighder than the
+Matame Cousine, or the Matame Watterville, here; they are sister
+rhoces"--
+
+_The Young Man:_ "Yes, yes; very beautiful; but too dark." He stops
+before the Madame Hoste: "What a strange flower! It is almost _black_!
+What is it for? Funerals?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "No; a good many people lige them. We don't sell them
+much for funerals; they are too cloomy. They uce whidte ones for that:
+Marshal Niel, dtea-rhoces, this Pridte here, and other whidte ones."
+
+_The Young Man_, with an accent of repulsion: "Oh!" He goes toward the
+window, and looks at a mass of Easter lilies in a vase there. He speaks
+as if thinking aloud: "If they had a little color--But they would be
+dreadful with color! Why, you ought to have _something_!" He continues
+musingly, as he returns to the florist: "Haven't you got something very
+delicate, and slender, about the color of pale apple blossoms? If you
+had them light enough, some kind of azaleas"--
+
+_The Lady_, involuntarily: "Ah!"
+
+_The Florist_, after a moment, in which he and the young man both glance
+at the lady, and she makes a sound in her throat to show that she is not
+thinking of them, and had not spoken in reference to what they were
+saying: "The only azaleas I haf are these pink ones, and those whidte
+ones."
+
+_The Young Man:_ "And they are too pink and too white. Isn't there
+anything tall, and very delicate? Something, well--something like the
+old-fashioned blush-rose? But with very long stems!"
+
+_The Florist:_ "No, there is noding lige that which gomes in a
+crheenhouse rhoce. We got a whidte rhoce here"--he goes to his
+refrigerator, and brings back a long box of roses--"that I didn't think
+of before." He gives the lady an apologetic glance. "You see there is
+chost the least sdain of rhet on the etch of the leafs."
+
+_The Young Man_, examining the petals of the roses: "Ah, that is very
+curious. It is a caprice, though."
+
+_The Florist:_ "Yes, it is a kind of sbordt. That rhoce should be
+berfectly whidte."
+
+_The Young Man:_ "On the whole, I don't think it will do. I will take
+some of those pure white ones. Bride, did you call them?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "Yes, Pridte. How many?"
+
+_The Young Man:_ "Oh, a dozen--two dozen; I don't know! I want very
+long, slender stems, and the flowers with loose open petals; none of
+those stout, tough-looking little buds. Here! This, and this, and all
+these; no, I don't want any of those at all." He selects the different
+stems of roses, and while the florist gets a box, and prepares it with a
+lining of cotton and tissue-paper, he leans over and writes on a card.
+He pauses and puts up his pencil; then he takes it out again and covers
+the card with writing. He gives it to the florist. "I wish that to go
+into the box where it will be found the first thing." He turns away, and
+encounters the lady's eyes as she chances to look toward him. "I beg
+your pardon! But"--
+
+_The Lady_, smiling, and extending her hand: "I felt almost _sure_ it
+was you! But I couldn't believe my senses. All the other authorities
+report you in Rome."
+
+_The Young Man:_ "I returned rather suddenly. I just got in this
+morning. Our steamer was due yesterday, but there was so much ice in the
+harbor that we didn't work up till a few hours ago."
+
+_The Lady:_ "You will take all your friends by surprise."
+
+_The Young Man:_ "I'm a good deal taken by surprise myself. Two weeks
+ago I didn't dream of being here. But I made up my mind to come, and--I
+came."
+
+_The Lady_, laughing: "Evidently! Well, now you must come to my
+Saturdays; you are just in time for the first one. Some one you know is
+going to pour tea for me. That ought to be some consolation to you for
+not having stayed away long enough to escape my hospitalities."
+
+_The Young Man_, blushing and smiling: "Oh, it's a very charming welcome
+home. I shall be sure to come. She is--everybody is--well, I hope?"
+
+_The Lady:_ "Yes, or everybody _was_ on Monday when I saw them.
+Everybody is looking very beautiful this winter, lovelier than ever, if
+possible. But so spiritual! _Too_ spiritual! But that spirit of hers
+will carry her--I mean everybody, of course!--through everything. I
+feel almost wicked to have asked her to pour tea for me, when I think of
+how much else she is doing! Do you know, I was just ordering the flowers
+for my Saturday, and I had decided to take her for my key-note in the
+decorations. But that made it so difficult! There doesn't seem anything
+delicate and pure and sweet enough for her. There ought to be some
+flower created just to express her! But as yet there isn't."
+
+_The Young Man:_ "No, no; there isn't. But now I must run away. I
+haven't been to my hotel yet; I was just driving up from the ship, and I
+saw the flowers in the window, and--stopped. Good-by!"
+
+_The Lady:_ "Good-by! What devotion to somebody--everybody! Don't forget
+my Saturday!"
+
+_The Young Man:_ "No, no; I won't. Good-by!" He hurries out of the door,
+and his carriage is heard driving away.
+
+_The Florist:_ "I wondter if he but the attress on the cart? No; there
+is noding!" He turns the card helplessly over. "What am I coing to do
+about these flowers?"
+
+_The Lady:_ "Why, didn't he say where to send them?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "No, he rhon away and dtidn't leaf the attress."
+
+_The Lady:_ "That was _my_ fault! I confused him, poor fellow, by
+talking to him. What are you going to do?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "That is what I lige to know! Do you know what hotel he
+stobs at?"
+
+_The Lady:_ "No; he didn't say. I have no idea where he is going. But
+wait a moment! I think I know where he meant to send the flowers."
+
+_The Florist:_ "Oh, well; that is all I want to know."
+
+_The Lady:_ "Yes, but I am not certain." After a moment's thought. "I
+know he wants them to go at once; a great deal may depend upon
+it--everything." Suddenly: "Could you let me see that card?"
+
+_The Florist_, throwing it on the counter before her: "Why, soddonly; if
+he is a frhiendt of yours"--
+
+_The Lady_, shrinking back: "Ah, it isn't so simple! That makes it all
+the worse. It would be a kind of sacrilege! I have no right--or, wait! I
+will just glance at the first word. It may be a clew. And I want you to
+bear me witness, Mr. Eichenlaub, that I didn't read a word more." She
+catches up a piece of paper, and covers all the card except the first
+two words. "Yes! It is she! Oh, how perfectly delightful! It's charming,
+charming! It's one of the prettiest things that ever happened! And I
+shall be the means--no, not the means, quite, but the accident--of
+bringing them together! Put the card into the box, Mr. Eichenlaub, and
+don't let me see it an instant longer, or I shall read every word of it,
+in spite of myself!" She gives him the card, and turns, swiftly, and
+makes some paces toward the door.
+
+_The Florist_, calling after her: "But the attress, matam. You forgot."
+
+_The Lady_, returning: "Oh, yes! Give me your pencil." She writes on a
+piece of the white wrapping-paper. "There! That is it." She stands
+irresolute, with the pencil at her lip. "There was something else that I
+seem to have forgotten."
+
+_The Florist:_ "Your flowers?"
+
+_The Lady:_ "Oh, yes, my flowers. I nearly went away without deciding.
+Let me see. Where are those white roses with the pink tinge on the edge
+of the petals?" The florist pushes the box towards her, and she looks
+down at the roses. "No, they won't do. They look somehow--cruel! I
+don't wonder he wouldn't have them. They are totally out of character. I
+will take those white Bride roses, too. It seems a fatality, but there
+really isn't anything else, and I can laugh with her about them, if it
+all turns out well." She talks to herself rather than the florist, who
+stands patient behind the counter, and repeats, dreamily, "Laugh with
+her!"
+
+_The Florist:_ "How many shall I sendt you, matam?"
+
+_The Lady:_ "Oh, loads. As many as you think I ought to have. I shall
+not have any other flowers, and I mean to toss them on the table in
+loose heaps. Perhaps I shall have some smilax to go with them."
+
+_The Florist:_ "Yes; or cypress wine."
+
+_The Lady:_ "No; that is too crapy and creepy. Smilax, or nothing; and
+yet I don't like that hard, shiny, varnishy look of smilax either. You
+wouldn't possibly have anything like that wild vine, it's scarcely more
+than a golden thread, that trails over the wayside bushes in New
+England? Dodder, they call it."
+
+_The Florist:_ "I nefer heardt off it."
+
+_The Lady:_ "No, but that would have been just the thing. It suggests
+the color of her hair; it would go with her. Well, I will have the
+smilax too, though I don't like it. I don't see why all the flowers
+should take to being so inexpressive. Send all the smilax you judge
+best. It's quite a long table, nine or ten feet, and I want the vine
+going pretty much all about it."
+
+_The Florist:_ "Perhaps I better sendt somebody to see?"
+
+_The Lady:_ "Yes, that would be the best. Good-morning."
+
+_The Florist:_ "Goodt--morning, matam. I will sendt rhoundt this
+afternoon."
+
+_The Lady:_ "Very well." She is at the door, and she is about to open
+it, when it is opened from the outside, and another lady, deeply veiled,
+presses hurriedly in, and passes down the shop to the counter, where the
+florist stands sorting the long-stemmed Bride roses in the box before
+him. The first lady does not go out; she lingers at the door, looking
+after the lady who has just come in; then, with a little hesitation, she
+slowly returns, as if she had forgotten something, and waits by the
+stove until the florist shall have attended to the new-comer.
+
+_The Second Lady_, throwing back her veil, and bending over to look at
+the box of roses: "What beautiful roses! What do you call these?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "That is a new rhoce: the Pridte. It is jost oudt. It is
+coing to be a very bopular rhoce."
+
+_The Second Lady:_ "How very white it is! It seems not to have the least
+touch of color in it! Like snow! No; it is too cold!"
+
+_The Florist:_ "It _iss_ gold-looging."
+
+_The Second Lady:_ "What do they use this rose for? For--for"--
+
+_The Florist:_ "For everything! Weddtings, theatre barties, afternoon
+dteas, dtinners, funerals"--
+
+_The Second Lady:_ "Ah, that is shocking! I can't have it,
+then. I want to send some flowers to a friend who has lost
+her only child--a young girl--and I wish it to be something
+expressive--characteristic--something that won't wound them with other
+associations. Have you nothing--nothing of that kind? I want something
+that shall be significant; something that shall be like a young girl,
+and yet--Haven't you some very tall, slender, delicate flowers? Not this
+deathly white, but with, a little color in it? Isn't there some kind of
+lily?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "Easder lilies? Lily-off-the-valley? Chonquils? Azaleas?
+Hyacinths? Marcuerites?"
+
+_The Second Lady:_ "No, no; they won't do, any of them! Haven't you any
+other kind of roses, that won't be so terribly--terribly"--She looks
+round over the shelves and the windows banked with flowers.
+
+_The Florist:_ "Yes, we haf dtea-rhoces, all kindts; Marshal Niel;
+Matame Watterville and Matame Cousine--these pink ones; they are sister
+rhoces; Matame Hoste, this plack one; the Midio, here; Chacks"--
+
+_The Second Lady:_ "No, no! They won't any of them do. There ought to
+be a flower invented that would say something--pity, sympathy--that
+wouldn't hurt more than it helped. Isn't there anything? Some flowering
+vine?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "Here is the chasmin. That is a very peautiful wine, with
+that sdtar-shaped flower; and the berfume"--
+
+_The Second Lady_, looking at a length of the jasmine vine which he
+trails on the counter before her: "Yes, that is very beautiful; and it
+is girlish, and like--But no, it wouldn't do! That perfume is
+heartbreaking! Don't send that!"
+
+_The Florist_, patiently: "Cypress wine? Smilax?"
+
+_The Second Lady_, shaking her head vaguely: "Some other flowering
+vine."
+
+_The Florist:_ "Well, we have cot noding in, at present. I coult get
+you some of that other chasmin--kindt of push, that gifs its berfume
+after dtark"--
+
+_The Second Lady:_ "At night? Yes, I know. That might do. But those pale
+green flowers, that are not like flowers--no, they wouldn't do! I shall
+have to come back to your Pride roses! Why do they call it Pride?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "It is Pridte, not Bridte, matam."
+
+_The Second Lady_, with mystification: "Oh! Well, let me have a great
+many of them. Have you plenty?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "As many as you lige."
+
+_The Second Lady:_ "Well, I don't want any of these hard little buds. I
+want very long stems, and slender, with the flowers fully open, and
+fragile-looking--something like _her_." The first lady starts. "Yes:
+like this--and this--and this. Be sure you get them all like these. And
+send them--I will give you the address." She writes on a piece of the
+paper before her. "There, that is it. Here is my card. I want it to go
+with them." She turns from the florist with a sigh, and presses her
+handkerchief to her eyes.
+
+_The Florist:_ "You want them to go rhighdt away?" He takes up the card,
+and looks at it absently, and then puts it down, and examines the roses
+one after another. "I don't know whether I cot enough of these oben ones
+on handt, already"--
+
+_The Second Lady:_ "Oh, you mustn't send them to-day! I forgot. It
+isn't to be till to-morrow. You must send them in the morning. But I am
+going out of town to-day, and so I came in to order them now. Be very
+careful not to send them to-day!"
+
+_The Florist:_ "All rhighdt. I loog oudt."
+
+_The Second Lady:_ "I am so glad you happened to ask me. It has all been
+so dreadfully sudden, and I am quite bewildered. Let me think if there
+is anything more!" As she stands with her finger to her lip, the first
+lady makes a movement as if about to speak, but does not say anything.
+"No, there is nothing more, I believe."
+
+_The Florist_, to the First Lady: "Was there somet'ing?"
+
+_The First Lady:_ "No. There is no hurry."
+
+_The Second Lady_, turning towards her: "Oh, I beg your pardon! I have
+been keeping you"--
+
+_The First Lady:_ "Not at all. I merely returned to--But it isn't of the
+least consequence. Don't let me hurry you!"
+
+_The Second Lady:_ "Oh, I have quite finished, I believe. But I can
+hardly realize anything, and I was afraid of going away and forgetting
+something, for I am on my way to the station. My husband is very ill,
+and I am going South with him; and this has been so sudden, so terribly
+unexpected. The only daughter of a friend"--
+
+_The First Lady:_ "The only"--
+
+_The Second Lady:_ "Yes, it is too much! But perhaps you have come--I
+ought to have thought of it; you may have come on the same kind of sad
+errand yourself; you will know how to excuse"--
+
+_The First Lady_, with a certain resentment: "Not at all! I was just
+ordering some flowers for a reception."
+
+_The Second Lady:_ "Oh! Then I beg your pardon! But there seems nothing
+else in the world but--death. I am very sorry. I beg your pardon!" She
+hastens out of the shop, and the first lady remains, looking a moment at
+the door after she has vanished. Then she goes slowly to the counter.
+
+_The Lady_, severely: "Mr. Eichenlaub, I have changed my mind about the
+roses and the smilax. I will not have either. I want you to send me all
+of that jasmine vine that you can get. I will have my whole decorations
+of that. I wonder I didn't think of that before. Mr. Eichenlaub!" She
+hesitates. "Who was that lady?"
+
+_The Florist_, looking about among the loose papers before him: "Why, I
+dton't know. I cot her cart here, somewhere."
+
+_The Lady_, very nervously: "Never mind about the card! I don't wish to
+know who she was. I have no right to ask. No! I won't look at it." She
+refuses the card, which he has found, and which he offers to her. "I
+don't care for her name, but--Where was she sending the flowers?"
+
+_The Florist_, tossing about the sheets of paper on the counter: "She
+dtidn't say, but she wrhote it down here, somewhere"--
+
+_The Lady_, shrinking back: "No, no! I don't want to see it! But what
+right had she to ask me such a thing as that? It was very bad taste;
+very obtuse,--whoever she was. Have you--ah--found it?"
+
+_The Florist_, offering her a paper across the counter: "Yes; here it
+iss."
+
+_The Lady_, catching it from him, and then, after a glance at it,
+starting back with a shriek: "Ah-h-h! How terrible! But it can't be! Oh,
+I don't know what to think--It is the most dreadful thing that
+ever--It's impossible!" She glances at the paper again, and breaks into
+a hysterical laugh: "Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha! Why, this is the address that I
+wrote out for that young gentleman's flowers! You have made a terrible
+mistake, Mr. Eichenlaub--you have almost killed me. I thought--I thought
+that woman was sending her funeral flowers to--to"--She holds her hand
+over her heart, and sinks into the chair beside the counter, where she
+lets fall the paper. "You have almost killed me."
+
+_The Florist:_ "I am very sorry. I dtidn't subbose--But the oder attress
+must be here. I will fint it"--He begins tossing the papers about again.
+
+_The Lady_, springing to her feet: "No, no! I wouldn't look at it now
+for the world! I have had one escape. Send me all jasmine, remember."
+
+_The Florist:_ "Yes, all chasmin." The lady goes slowly and absently
+toward the door, where she stops, and then she turns and goes back
+slowly, and as if forcing herself.
+
+_The Lady:_ "Mr. Eichenlaub."
+
+_The Florist:_ "Yes, matam."
+
+_The Lady:_ "Have you--plenty--of those white--Bride roses?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "I get all you want of them."
+
+_The Lady:_ "Open, fragile-looking ones, with long, slender stems?"
+
+_The Florist:_ "I get you any kindt you lige!"
+
+_The Lady:_ "Send me Bride roses, then. I don't care! I will not be
+frightened out of them! It is too foolish."
+
+_The Florist:_ "All rhighdt. How many you think you want?"
+
+_The Lady:_ "Send all you like! Masses of them! Heaps!"
+
+_The Florist:_ "All rhighdt. And the chasmin?"
+
+_The Lady:_ "No; I don't want it now."
+
+_The Florist:_ "You want the smilax with them, then, I subbose?"
+
+_The Lady:_ "No, I don't want any smilax with them, either. Nothing but
+those white Bride roses!" She turns and goes to the door; she calls
+back, "Nothing but the roses, remember!"
+
+_The Florist:_ "All rhighdt. I don't forget. No chasmin; no smilax; no
+kindt of wine. Only Pridte rhoces."
+
+_The Lady:_ "Only roses."
+
+_The Florist_, alone, thoughtfully turning over the papers on his
+counter: "That is sdrainche that I mage that mistake about the attress!
+I can't find the oder one anwhere; and if I lost it, what am I coing to
+do with the rhoces the other lady ortert?" He steps back and looks at
+his feet, and then stoops and picks up a paper, which he examines. "Ach!
+here it iss! Zlipped down behindt. Now I don't want to get it mixed with
+that oder any more." He puts it down at the left, and takes up the
+address for the young man's roses on the right; he stares at the two
+addresses in a stupefaction. "That is very sdrainche too. Well!" He
+drops the papers with a shrug, and goes on arranging the flowers.
+
+THE RIVERSIDE PRESS
+
+PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON & CO.
+
+CAMBRIDGE, MASS.
+
+U.S.A.
+
+
+
+
+_Plays and Poems_
+
+BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
+
+A Counterfeit Presentment. 18mo, $1.25.
+
+Out of the Question. 18mo, $1.25.
+
+The Sleeping-Car, and other Farces. 12mo, $1.00.
+
+The Elevator; The Sleeping-Car; The Parlor Car; The Register. Each 50
+cents.
+
+Room Forty-Five; Bride Roses; An Indian Giver; The Smoking-Car. (_The
+last two in Press._) Each, 18mo, 50 cents.
+
+A Sea Change. $1.00.
+
+Poems. 12mo, parchment cover, $2.00.
+
+_For Mr. Howells's novels and books of travel_, see Catalogue.
+
+_Houghton, Mifflin and Company_
+
+BOSTON AND NEW YORK
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bride Roses, by W. D. Howells
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRIDE ROSES ***
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