Part 5

There came the sound of an opening door from beyond the rose-garden. At the top of the steps stood a girl in a muslin gown and a broad-brimmed hat. The gown was caught at her waist with a sash of light blue ribbon. With one gloved hand she held a basket, with the other her skirts. For a moment she stood there in the half-shadow of the rose-vines looking thoughtfully over the sea of color that broke at her feet. Over the garden her gaze wandered to the farther end, to the neighboring house, to a window open to the morning sunlight; and suddenly a flush of color ran riot over her cheeks, then faded. She stepped down to the path between the box hedges, and Burton, watching from beyond the fence, lost sight of her.

He contemplated retreat; he even reached a point half way to the side door; then he stole back, like a thief, to the shade of the Daphne-tree and waited there, his heart galloping and plodding by turns; waited for just one more sight of her, for a word before he went away. He could hear the snipping of her scissors and, as often before, could catch a glimpse now and then of her hat above the bushes. He waited and tried to think of things to say, things which would tell nothing of his heart-sickness. And, ere he had prepared his speech of greeting, she turned the corner of the path and stood gazing full upon him.

She was surprised; oh, yes, she must have been surprised, for the color came and went in her cheeks and her lips parted breathlessly as she bowed to him. Burton removed his hat and took a step towards the fence. But he said nothing; nor did she; and the next instant they were gazing at each other again in silence over the topmost leaves. Burton made a desperate effort; he advanced to the fence and with a picket in each hand for support uttered a remark masterly in its originality, utter simplicity, and veracity,--

“A lovely morning?”

“Yes,” she answered. The blushes were gone, leaving her clear, soft cheeks paler than before. She moved towards the fence until, had he stretched forth his hand, he could have almost touched her gown. She was the same Kitty, he thought with something of wonder; a year had made no change in her that his eyes could discern. And yet--perhaps--she seemed graver, though not a whit less sweetly fair and gracious.

“A year makes little difference to a Princess,” he said smilingly.

“It leaves her a year older,” she answered.

“But perhaps, after all, it hasn’t been a year. Perhaps it was only yesterday that you left me here and went up the path and into the Castle; I could almost believe it.” She shook her head.

“Things have happened since then,” she replied with a little sigh. He echoed the sigh; did not he know it?

“Yes, I suppose so. You’ve travelled much and seen many things since that morning.”

“Yes.” She showed no surprise that he should know.

“And----” But he stopped. “The Ogre is well, I trust?”

“Very well,” she answered with a laugh.

“You know you fooled me there.”

“Not I; you fooled yourself. We found your card when we returned yesterday.”

“Yes. I remember.” He looked thoughtfully at one of his thin, sunburned hands.

“My uncle will be glad to see you,” she went on a little breathlessly. “He was saying so this morning.”

“You are very kind,” he said, “but I fear I can’t give myself the pleasure of calling upon him this time. I am leaving for the North at eleven o’clock.”

“Oh!” she said. There was silence between them. Then,--

“Are those for the church?” he asked, indicating the roses in the basket.

“The church?”

“Yes, the--the wedding is to-night, I presume?”

“Yes, to-night; but these are not for that. They are having a florist in Washington do the decorating.”

“I see.” He put a hand inside his serge coat and drew forth a pocket-book. From it he brought to light a flattened, crumbling rose. He held it forth, smiling bravely.

“I want you to accept this as a present,” he said lightly. “It is no longer very lovely to look at, but”--with a bow of artificial gallantry--“it has been what I prized most in the world.”

“A present?” she repeated, while a tinge of color crept into her cheeks. “You mean----”

“A wedding-present, yes.” He wondered whether the smile on his face looked as ugly as it felt! She looked from the rose in his outstretched palm to his face and back again to the rose with a puzzled expression in her brown eyes.

“But I don’t understand,” she said.

“I beg your pardon,” he answered gravely, “it was a poor joke.” He began to slip the dried blossom back into his pocket-book.

“But I will accept it,” she cried, and held forth a small hand. “I will take it as a wedding-present, although it is somewhat ahead of time.”

He placed it in her hand, looking, in turn, puzzled.

“But you said it was to-night--the wedding?”

“But why should you give me presents?”

“Why--but--you’re to be married!”

She shook her head, smiling across at him with a new light in her eyes.

“Not I, alas!” He stared back in bewilderment.

“But I saw! I looked in the window last night!”

“And you thought I was the bride?” She laughed deliciously. “Didn’t you know that it was bad luck for a bride to take part in a rehearsal? I was only a substitute, you see.”

“Kitty!” He had seized her hand and was gazing rapturously into her eyes. “Kitty!”

The lids fluttered down over the brown depths. The hand trembled.

“You--you’re crushing my rose,” she whispered.

“Kitty!” he cried again, releasing her hand as though it were life itself, “tell me again that it’s true!”

“True that I was only a substitute bride?” she asked tremulously, with hidden eyes. “Yes, it’s quite true, sadly true.” She looked up with an attempt at exaggerated woe, but when she saw his face she averted her own again and gave all her attention to the crushed rose in her hand. “I--I must be going now,” she said.

“Going? No, you mustn’t go!” he cried.

“I must,” she murmured from the safe distance of a yard away. “Good-by.”

“Good-by?”

“You are going North, are you not?” she asked innocently.

“North? I? Never!”

“Oh!” said Kitty.

“North!” he repeated witheringly. “I’m not such an idiot! I lost you twice, Kitty, and now--now I’m not going to let you out of my sight!”

“I fear you’ll have to,” she laughed, with a shake of her head, “at least as far as the house.”

“I shall follow!”

“You mustn’t.”

“But you said your uncle----”

“He won’t be at home until dinner-time.”

Burton groaned.

“But you’re coming back into the garden, aren’t you, after awhile?” She shook her head again.

“No, you forget the wedding,” she answered.

“Hang the wedding, Kitty!”

“I--I don’t think you ought to call me Kitty so--so much,” she protested.

“Don’t you?” he scoffed. “Kitty--Kitty--Kitty! But--but there’s another name I know, and if you like I’ll call you that--Kitty; shall I? May I tell you what it is--Kitty?”

“No, I--I don’t think so,” she answered in sudden alarm. She moved away as though meditating flight. “Good-by,” she said again.

“But it’s not good-by,” he pleaded. “I may come this evening, mayn’t I?”

“If you are not afraid of the Ogre,” she laughed.

She moved farther.

“Kitty,” he called softly.

“Yes?”

“It begins with an S!”

“It?--Oh!”

She fled to the house.

XI

A cool breeze, moist and fresh from the river, was blowing across the garden, stirring the leaves to sleepy rustlings and wafting the fragrance of thousands of roses into the evening air. There was no light save the soft radiance of the stars; no sound save their voices as they strolled slowly back and forth between the hedges and swaying blossoms.

“A confession?” he was saying.

“Yes,” she answered. “I wonder if you will absolve me?”

“Kitty----”

“Wait until you hear,” she advised solemnly. “There was a paper.”

“A paper?”

“Yes, I found it on the path that first morning. It must have blown through the fence, you see. I picked it up; I didn’t know what it was. Afterwards, in the house, I found it in among the roses and--and I saw something on it that made me--made me read it. Was it frightfully wrong?”

“Wrong? No, but what was it?”

“It was ‘Kitty’!”

“But the paper?”

“Don’t you remember?” she asked wonderingly. “Really?”

“Really!”

“Well----” She took something from the bosom of her dress and spread it out in the half-darkness. Then, “Listen,” she said: “‘Belle Harbour, Virginia, June the third. She’s coming; she’s almost in sight. I don’t quite know what I am writing. The situation grows intense. Will she----’”

“I remember!” he cried. “And you found that? And you knew, then, that----”

“Listen,” she said sternly. Again she bent over the paper. “‘Will she retreat or advance? I can see the white of her gown through the leaves. She is almost at the corner of the path. My courage is ebbing fast; if she delays much longer, I shall beat a disordered retreat myself. Now! She’s coming, coming, coming--she’s here----’”

“Kitty,” he cried, “you’re not reading! You couldn’t in this light.”

“I don’t need to,” she said with a little, soft laugh, “I know it by heart. ‘Had I the courage I would ask for a parley, but, alas! I am already wavering along my entire line; I can only put up a brave front and rely upon awing her. She is delicious, simply delicious. Her eyes----’ What about my eyes? You stopped there.”

“Your eyes? Your eyes--your eyes----” He paused, at a loss for words. She sighed dolefully.

“There, you’ve stopped again! I reckon I’ll never know,” she mourned.

He took her hands and turned her about until the light of the stars was full upon her face.

“Your eyes, Kitty--ah, I’ll spend my life, sweetheart, telling you about your eyes!” They dropped before his own ardent ones. “Was it--was it then, Kitty?” he whispered.

“What?” she murmured.

“That you cared for me?”

“I--I think so!”

With sudden shyness she broke from his clasp and went forward up the path. When he caught up with her she was bending with her face almost buried in a great cup-like rose. He stooped and placed his cheek against hers and their hands met and caught.

“Ah, dear, dear roses,” she murmured tremulously, “how I love you, how I love you!”

“And me, Kitty?” he whispered in her ear.

She raised her head and laid her hands upon his arms, looking up silently into his face. About them the roses whispered and nodded in the breeze. He bent until his lips were upon hers.

“Kitty,” he cried softly, “my Kitty! Kitty of the Roses!”

* * * * *

Transcriber’s Notes:

--Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

--Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to follow the text that they illustrate.

--Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

--The Author’s long dash style has been retained.

End of Project Gutenberg's Kitty of the Roses, by Ralph Henry Barbour