VI. THE ROSES
Miranda crossed the bridge and struck into the little copse.
“To think,” said she, “that Love is that! To think that I should be loved like that! She smiled at the recollection, and then sighed. “Oh, for my garden!” she exclaimed wearily. “There is no such thing as Love. There are only the flowers, and the spring, and the sunshine.”
The thicket was close-set with trees; the way was rough and thorny.
“I will break through,” cried Miranda angrily, and tore the briers viciously from her gown. As she was bent thus lowly, and ere she raised her head, she was aware of someone standing by. A little shadow of fear sailed across her heart. She started, and looking up met the eyes of a young man.
Miranda looked down: her heart throbbed fast; the fragrance of the wild roses stole through her senses. Miranda looked up: the sunlight flashed and sparkled on the green thicket.
“Pray give me leave,” said the stranger, and dropped upon his knees.
Miranda’s bosom rose and fell as he disentangled her frock from the thorns.
“I thank you, Sir,” she said timidly, when he was got upon his feet again.
He laughed, and looked at her with smiling eyes. Their glances met, and both fell on the instant. In the silence upon that the stream wimpled loud behind them. Miranda took her gown in hand and moved gently away. The young man raised his face and watched her go. She reached a little bend in the pathway, and he stirred.
“I pray you,” he called, “pardon my interruption, but the brake is grown thick and the passage narrow. You were better upon the roadway.”
“I have no fears,” said she, “and the road is adust and dreary.”
She vanished round the point. He sped after her to the corner.
“I pray you,” he called, “forgive my foolish importunity, but the hill beyond is steep and crowned with thorns.”
“I have climbed it often,” she responded, “and in the spring daffodils grow upon the slopes.”
He bit his finger meditatively as he watched her. Suddenly——
“Let me help you, then,” he cried.
“Help?” she echoed, and hesitated.
He pushed aside the branches of the nut-tree. “See,” he said, “they would close against a girlish arm. They are in a sworn conspiracy against maidens. ‘Tis only the strong hand of the woodman bends them to his will.”
“Are you a woodman?” she asked demurely.
He shook his head, laughing. “Nay, but I have learned a trick to teach the surly louts civility.” A branch leapt forth and struck him on the cheek. A stain of red sprang up to meet it.
“Oh!” cried Miranda, in distress.
“’Tis spite—they rankle,” said he, with a merry smile; “see, how they would entreat you. But they shall know their master, and bow to a lady.” He swept them back with a movement of his long arm. “Pass, pass,” he said; “they cringe, and dare not.”
Miranda looked, and bent her head. “’Tis closer than I had thought,” she murmured, as she disappeared beneath the archway of his arms.
He followed, and she turned to him in despair.
“I was a little, wanton fool,” she said plaintively. “How is it possible to pierce this thicket?”
With a laugh he threw himself against the brushwood, and a passage slowly opened.
“I thank you, Sir,” she said softly. “You are too kind to a wilful maid.”
“’Tis worse and worse,” he said, surveying the tangle breathlessly. “But the hill slopes lie beyond. Come.” He took her hand. Miranda breathed hard. She fluttered after him beneath the coppice.
“My hair!” she cried suddenly, in a sharp note of pain.
He stopped in a moment and begged a thousand pardons. A brown tress glimmered in the clutch of an alder. He put up his hand and pulled.
“I pray you, Sir, be gentle,” she murmured distressfully.
He invoked a thousand murrains on himself. “I must come closer,” said he.
“I think,” she murmured, “that I myself”—she shrank from him and gave her head a shake, stopping with a little gasp.
“I fear ‘tis too secure,” said he, and drew gently nearer.
He peered into the tangle; his breath moved in her hair; his fingers were entwined in the brown tresses. Miranda’s heart beat quickly. With a deft twist of his hand she was free.
“I thank you, Sir,” again quoth she. She sped along the pathway into the open, where the track ran lazily up the slope.
“I thank you,” she repeated, and put out her hand, with a bow. He took it, bowing in answer, and his face fell.
“But there is the hill,” he said dolefully. “I may not leave you yet.”
“An excellent hill to climb upon a soft morning,” says she. “Good-bye.”
“Were you to stumble——” he began anxiously.
“I should pick myself up and laugh,” she concluded promptly.
He sighed, and looked back at the copse. She moved away a pace or two, and pausing, glanced at him. Before his gaze her own sank, and again her heart swung faster.
“’Tis a rough way,” he said sadly.
“’Tis true,” she murmured, “there is the quarry.”
He climbed towards her. “I will see you past it,” he said firmly.
Miranda answered nothing, but went slowly onwards. He leapt above her, and, leaning back, gave her his hand. “There is a huge boulder here,” he explained.
“I had forgot,” she murmured.
He pulled her over the obstruction.
“Good Heavens!” he cried, “the gorse! We had forgot also the gorse.”
She surveyed the gorse with dismay. The bushes rose waist high.
“How stupid!” said Miranda pettishly. “They should have been cut down.”
“There’s never a path runs through them,” he said triumphantly.
“We must go back,” said Miranda with a sigh.
“There is the thicket again,” he cried with jubilation.
“True,” she murmured.
There was a moment’s pause, and then:
“I must carry you through the gorse!” he exclaimed, with ill-repressed exultation.
Miranda flushed. “Indeed, I can walk,” said she coldly. She took a step into the midst, and the thorns pierced her ankles. Miranda kept her lips close, and took another step. The thorns crept higher.
“Oh!” cried Miranda in the dismay of pain.
“Let me have your arm,” he said, “and we shall help each other.”
“No, no,” said Miranda dolefully; “it hurts, it hurts; I will go back.”
“You cannot,” said he.
Miranda frowned. “I will sit down.”
“You dare not,” said he joyfully.
Miranda’s head sank; the tears came into her eyes.
“Lean upon me,” he whispered.
Miranda leant. He put his arms beneath her, and, disengaging the thorns from her skirt, lifted her from her feet.
“Oh,” she exclaimed. “How dare you?”
“Hush,” he whispered, “’twill be over soon. Shut your eyes and hold your breath, so shall you never set eyes upon my horrid face. ‘Tis but a horse, an ass, an elephant that carries you over a difficult crossing.”
Miranda said not a word. He jogged heavily along amid the gorse. He stumbled. Miranda clutched his shoulder tightly. He stopped and bent over her.
“Put me down,” she said imperiously, shutting her eyes.
He set her down. Miranda smoothed her gown. She turned her pink face from him.
“I am much in your debt, Sir,” she said, “and now I will wish you good-day.”
“There is yet the quarry,” he objected.
Miranda winced. He walked by her side, and in silence they clambered into the quarry and out upon the further side. In silence they reached the garden. Miranda turned and thrust out her hand for the third time. His eyes were fastened upon her throat.
“And now,” says she primly, “’tis really good-day. I do not know how I may repay you for your goodness. But——”
“With a rose,” he stammered.
Miranda glanced demurely around.
“There is none by,” she answered.
“’Tis at your throat,” he said, “if I may make so bold——”
“Oh, if you will,” said she with indifference. “I was about to have discarded it.”
She plucked it from her neck and held it forth. He stuck it in the lapel of his coat. She opened the little gate and entered the garden. The first turning of the pathway hid the stranger from her view. She lingered and stooped over a rose-bush. A flood of new fragrance rushed through her senses. Something sang in her blood. A loud knock sounded in her heart. Miranda started, and the young man stood before her.
“I crave your indulgence, “he stammered, “but I have forgot the hour, and it is now late, and I must needs be thinking of my destination.”
Miranda crossed to the sun-dial on the lawn.
“’Tis only noon,” she said. “’Tis very late,” she added quickly.
“Ah, noon,” he responded; “yes, noon, of course. How foolish!” and walked back slowly towards the gate.
Miranda bent over the roses, and the perfume filled her with an ecstasy till now unknown. The garden was ringing with song, and her body thrilled with a passionate sympathy till now unfelt. Again at her heart a loud noise sounded, and again she started.
“’Tis very stupid in me,” laughed the stranger, in embarrassment. “My wits have wandered. But is it Tuesday or surely Wednesday to-day?”
Miranda reflected. “’Twas Monday yesterday,” she answered thoughtfully.
“Ah, then,” said he sagely, “’tis Tuesday to-day, and ‘twill be Wednesday to-morrow.” He moved away again reluctantly. “A fine shining day,” he called, “and admirable weather for the flowers.”
“’Twill rain, maybe,” said Miranda, glancing at the sky.
“No doubt,” he said, and lingered.
Miranda stooped over the roses. He melted slowly round the bend in the pathway. The sunlight flashed upon the lilac, and Miranda’s heart danced up and down tumultuously. A shadow fell across the bed.
“If you said noon,” said the stranger, “I could reach the Vale ere one?”
“Why, yes,” she answered, “if you should start at once.”
“’Tis time, indeed, to go,” said he absently.
“’Tis certainly time,” said Miranda. A cloud blew over the sunlight, and the roses blurred before her eyes.
There was a long silence. Miranda sighed, and turning, moved slowly up the pathway. At the distance of ten steps she stopped and glanced down at her shoe. The latchet trailed upon the ground, and, with a pout, she bent to lace it up. But the young man was before her, and, kneeling upon the ground, looked up in her face.
“’Tis my last privilege ere I go,” he pleaded.
Miranda looked away, but, for all she saw, the garden was a desert. It seemed he was a long time at her shoe, but the garden was so large and beautiful that she had forgot the minutes. And all the time her heart was thumping in her side, and the door was creaking on its latch. He rose and stood before her.
“The Vale,” said he, “is far distant.”
“’Tis very far,” she answered gently.
“And the sun is past noon,” he continued.
“’Tis late,” she assented.
“’Twere better I should wait and take refreshment ere I go,” said he.
“No doubt, ‘twere wiser,” she murmured, looking down.
“I shall be very lonely,” said he.
“’Tis lonely to be alone,” she whispered.
He put out his arm. She stared at the roses. How they blew. How red they grew. How their hearts fluttered. How sweet and fragrant smelled the garden.
“I were not alone with Love,” he said in low tones.
“With Love!” she murmured to the roses.
The clouds drifted from the face of the sun, and the light streamed down upon them. Larks sprang warbling to Heaven. The garden awoke into light and music. In the pause something drew Miranda’s eyes to his face; his eyes were deep in dew. Miranda felt her own grow misty. A surge of tears rose up from her heart; the swing-gates of her soul flew open, and through the portals, ere she was aware, there passed swiftly—Something—Something—she knew not what.
She gave a little sob. The young man put his arms about her.