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diff --git a/33608-h/33608-h.htm b/33608-h/33608-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a09e9be --- /dev/null +++ b/33608-h/33608-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1221 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Bride Roses, by W. D. Howells. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 1em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +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: ISO-8859-1 + +*** 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.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + +<h1>BRIDE ROSES</h1> + +<h2>W. D. HOWELLS</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><i>Bride Roses</i></h2> + +<h2>A SCENE</h2> + +<h2><i>By W. D. Howells</i></h2> + + +<p class="center"> +BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br /> +<br /> +<i>Houghton, Mifflin and Company</i> MDCCCC<br /> +<br /> +<br /> +COPYRIGHT, 1893, BY HARPER & BROTHERS<br /> +<br /> +COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY W. D. HOWELLS<br /> +<br /> +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/header.jpg" width="600" height="129" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h2><i>Bride Roses</i></h2> + + +<h3>SCENE</h3> + +<p><i>A Lady</i>, 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.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span></p><p><i>The Florist:</i> "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.</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "But you are not near the windows. Back here it is +midsummer!"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "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!" +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span>He restores the wrapping and hands the package to the young man, who +goes out with it. "Well, matam?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, 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."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "That is what I lige. Then I don't feel so rhesbonsible."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "But to-day, I <i>wish</i> 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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Well, it is a good teal cheaper, for one thing"—</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Not at all! That isn't the reason, at all. Some of your +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span>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."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "You are very goodt, matam."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "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"—</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p><p><i>The Lady:</i> "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."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> usedt up all the +flowers I hat ofer from yesterday."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Don't speak of it! And the flowers, are they just the same +for funerals?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Yes, rhoces nearly always. Whidte ones."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Well, they would be bretty dtear. You couldn't make any +show at all for less than fifteen tollars."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, with a slight sigh: "No, orchids wouldn't do. They are +fantastic<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> 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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, patiently: "There will be more, lader on."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Yes, there will be more sun, later on. But now, Mr. +Eichenlaub, what do you think of plants in pots, set around?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Balmss?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, vaguely: "Yes, palms."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Balmss would to. But there would not be very much +golor."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "That is true; there would be no color at all, and my rooms +certainly need all the color I can get<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> into them. Yes, I shall have to +have roses, after all. But not white ones!"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Chacks?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "No; Jacks are too old-fashioned. But haven't you got any +other very dark rose? I should like something almost black, I believe."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist,</i> setting a vase of roses on the counter before her: "There +is the Matame Hoste."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady,</i> bending over the roses, and touching one of them with the +tip of her gloved finger: "Why, they <i>are</i> 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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> 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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, 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."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "That is the Midio."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "The what?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "The Midio."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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! <i>Meteor!</i> Well, it is +very striking—a little <i>too</i> striking. I don't like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> 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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Some kind off yellow rhoce? Dtea-rhoces?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady,</i> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> 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 +<i>come together</i>. Do you understand?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, doubtfully: "Yes." After a moment: "What kindt looking +yo'ng laty iss she?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "The most ethereal creature in the world."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Yes; but what sdyle—fair or tark?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> blush-rose? That would be the very +thing."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, shaking his head: "Oh, no; there noding like that in a +chreen-house rhoce."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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.</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, waiting patiently: "Somet'ing beside rhoces, then?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, 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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, turning and taking them down for her: "Ah, those whidte +ones! That is the Pridte. You sait you woultn't haf whidte ones."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "I may have to come to them. Why do they call it the Pride?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "I didn't say Bridte; I said Pridte."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Oh, Bride! And do they use Bride roses for"—</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> + +<p><i>The Young Man:</i> "I want you to send a few roses—white ones, or nearly +white"—He looks at the lady. "Perhaps"—</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Oh, not at all! I hadn't decided to take them."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "I got plenty this kindt; all you want. I can always get +them."</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man</i>, 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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "The Pridte."</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man</i>, uncertainly: "Oh!" The lady moves a little way up the +counter toward the window, but keeps looking at the young man from time +to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> 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."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "No, no; they are whidte, or they are yellow; +dtea-rhoces; Marshal Niel"—</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man:</i> "Ah, I don't want anything of that kind. What is the +palest pink rose you have?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, 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"—</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man:</i> "Yes, yes; very beautiful; but too dark." He stops +before the Madame Hoste: "What a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> strange flower! It is almost <i>black</i>! +What is it for? Funerals?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "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."</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man</i>, 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 <i>something</i>!" He continues +musingly, as he returns to the florist: "Haven't you got something very +delicate, and slender, about the color of pale apple<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> blossoms? If you +had them light enough, some kind of azaleas"—</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, involuntarily: "Ah!"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, 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."</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man:</i> "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!"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "No, there is noding lige that which gomes in a +crheenhouse<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> 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."</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man</i>, examining the petals of the roses: "Ah, that is very +curious. It is a caprice, though."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Yes, it is a kind of sbordt. That rhoce should be +berfectly whidte."</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man:</i> "On the whole, I don't think it will do. I will take +some of those pure white ones. Bride, did you call them?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Yes, Pridte. How many?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span></p> + +<p><i>The Young Man:</i> "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"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span>—</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, smiling, and extending her hand: "I felt almost <i>sure</i> it +was you! But I couldn't believe my senses. All the other authorities +report you in Rome."</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man:</i> "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."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "You will take all your friends by surprise."</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man:</i> "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."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, laughing: "Evidently!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> 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."</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man</i>, blushing and smiling: "Oh, it's a very charming welcome +home. I shall be sure to come. She is—everybody is—well, I hope?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Yes, or everybody <i>was</i> on Monday when I saw them. +Everybody is looking very beautiful this winter, lovelier than ever, if +possible. But so spiritual! <i>Too</i> spiritual! But that spirit of hers +will carry her—I mean everybody, of course!—through everything.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> 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."</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man:</i> "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!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Good-by! What devotion to somebody—everybody! Don't forget +my Saturday!"</p> + +<p><i>The Young Man:</i> "No, no; I won't. Good-by!" He hurries out of the door, +and his carriage is heard driving away.</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Why, didn't he say where to send them?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "No, he rhon away and dtidn't leaf the attress."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "That was <i>my</i> fault! I confused him, poor fellow, by +talking to him. What are you going to do?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "That is what I lige to know! Do you know what hotel he +stobs at?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Oh, well; that is all I want to know."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, throwing it on the counter before her: "Why, soddonly; if +he is a frhiendt of yours"—</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, shrinking back: "Ah, it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> 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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> turns, swiftly, and +makes some paces toward the door.</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, calling after her: "But the attress, matam. You forgot."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, 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."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Your flowers?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> 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!"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "How many shall I sendt you, matam?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Yes; or cypress wine."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "I nefer heardt off it."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> judge +best. It's quite a long table, nine or ten feet, and I want the vine +going pretty much all about it."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Perhaps I better sendt somebody to see?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Yes, that would be the best. Good-morning."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Goodt—morning, matam. I will sendt rhoundt this +afternoon."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> 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.</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady</i>, throwing back her veil, and bending over to look at +the box of roses: "What beautiful roses! What do you call these?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "That is a new rhoce: the Pridte. It is jost oudt. It is +coing to be a very bopular rhoce."</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady:</i> "How very white it is! It seems not to have the least +touch of color in it! Like snow! No; it is too cold!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span></p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "It <i>iss</i> gold-looging."</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady:</i> "What do they use this rose for? For—for"—</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "For everything! Weddtings, theatre barties, afternoon +dteas, dtinners, funerals"—</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady:</i> "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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> white, but with, a little color in it? Isn't there some kind of +lily?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Easder lilies? Lily-off-the-valley? Chonquils? Azaleas? +Hyacinths? Marcuerites?"</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady:</i> "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.</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "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"—</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady:</i> "No, no! They won't any of them do. There ought to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> +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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Here is the chasmin. That is a very peautiful wine, with +that sdtar-shaped flower; and the berfume"—</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady</i>, 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!"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, patiently: "Cypress wine? Smilax?"</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady</i>, shaking her head vaguely: "Some other flowering +vine."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Well, we have cot<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> noding in, at present. I coult get +you some of that other chasmin—kindt of push, that gifs its berfume +after dtark"—</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady:</i> "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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "It is Pridte, not Bridte, matam."</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady</i>, with mystification: "Oh! Well, let me have a great +many of them. Have you plenty?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "As many as you lige."</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady:</i> "Well, I don't want any of these hard little buds. I +want very long stems, and slender, with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> the flowers fully open, and +fragile-looking—something like <i>her</i>." 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.</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "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"—</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady:</i> "Oh, you mustn't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> 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!"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "All rhighdt. I loog oudt."</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady:</i> "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."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, to the First Lady: "Was there somet'ing?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> + +<p><i>The First Lady:</i> "No. There is no hurry."</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady</i>, turning towards her: "Oh, I beg your pardon! I have +been keeping you"—</p> + +<p><i>The First Lady:</i> "Not at all. I merely returned to—But it isn't of the +least consequence. Don't let me hurry you!"</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady:</i> "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"—</p> + +<p><i>The First Lady:</i> "The only"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>—</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady:</i> "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"—</p> + +<p><i>The First Lady</i>, with a certain resentment: "Not at all! I was just +ordering some flowers for a reception."</p> + +<p><i>The Second Lady:</i> "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.</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, severely: "Mr. Eichenlaub, I have changed my mind about<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> 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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, looking about among the loose papers before him: "Why, I +dton't know. I cot her cart here, somewhere."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, 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?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, tossing about the sheets of paper on the counter: "She +dtidn't say, but she wrhote it down here, somewhere"—</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, 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?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, offering her a paper across the counter: "Yes; here it +iss."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, 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!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> 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."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "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.</p> + +<p><i>The Lady</i>, springing to her feet:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> "No, no! I wouldn't look at it now +for the world! I have had one escape. Send me all jasmine, remember."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "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.</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Mr. Eichenlaub."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "Yes, matam."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Have you—plenty—of those white—Bride roses?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "I get all you want of them."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Open, fragile-looking ones, with long, slender stems?"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "I get you any kindt you lige!"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Send me Bride roses,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> then. I don't care! I will not be +frightened out of them! It is too foolish."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "All rhighdt. How many you think you want?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Send all you like! Masses of them! Heaps!"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "All rhighdt. And the chasmin?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "No; I don't want it now."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "You want the smilax with them, then, I subbose?"</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "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!"</p> + +<p><i>The Florist:</i> "All rhighdt. I don't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> forget. No chasmin; no smilax; no +kindt of wine. Only Pridte rhoces."</p> + +<p><i>The Lady:</i> "Only roses."</p> + +<p><i>The Florist</i>, 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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> "That is very sdrainche too. Well!" He +drops the papers with a shrug, and goes on arranging the flowers.</p> + +<h4>THE RIVERSIDE PRESS</h4> + +<h4>PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON & CO.</h4> + +<h4>CAMBRIDGE, MASS.</h4> + +<h4>U.S.A.</h4> + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;"> +<img src="images/header.jpg" width="600" height="129" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<h2><i>Plays and Poems</i></h2> + +<h3>BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS</h3> + +<p>A Counterfeit Presentment. 18mo, $1.25.</p> + +<p>Out of the Question. 18mo, $1.25.</p> + +<p>The Sleeping-Car, and other Farces. 12mo, $1.00.</p> + +<p>The Elevator; The Sleeping-Car; The Parlor Car; The Register. Each 50 +cents.</p> + +<p>Room Forty-Five; Bride Roses; An Indian Giver; The Smoking-Car. (<i>The +last two in Press.</i>) Each, 18mo, 50 cents.</p> + +<p>A Sea Change. $1.00.</p> + +<p>Poems. 12mo, parchment cover, $2.00.</p> + +<p><i>For Mr. Howells's novels and books of travel</i>, <span class="smcap">see Catalogue</span>.</p> + +<p class="center"> +<i>Houghton, Mifflin and Company</i><br /> +<br /> +BOSTON AND NEW YORK<br /> +</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bride Roses, by W. D. 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