"Jane, Jane, how odious you are! none of those things would matter, of course. If he were hurt or ill, nothing could keep me from his side. I should not even stop to pack. I should fly.... What?... Well, I might let Marsdon pack a handbag, but I should certainly catch the first possible train."
The baby's godmother stooped for the poker once more and this time she assaulted the dying embers vigorously, remarking in a muffled voice: "Yes, I think a handbag would be wise. Decidedly, I would have Marsdon and a handbag in the programme." Then, suddenly dropping the poker with a clatter, she caught Flower's fluttering hands in hers and held them firmly, looking searchingly into her upturned face.
"Ah, child, child! You remind me of the story of a white rose-tree. Sit down for five minutes while I tell it to you.
"Two friends of mine have a lovely little place in Hertfordshire. She—Sybel—takes a great delight in her garden, particularly in growing roses. They had one tiny girl of four years old, rightly named Angela—the sweetest little angel-child I ever beheld. I ran down to them for one night last June. Sybel and I were having tea in the garden, close to a magnificent white rose-tree, a mass of fragrant bud and blossom. Sybel was very proud of it. Presently we heard little dancing feet down the gravel path behind us, and the baby-girl appeared. She stood gravely contemplating us at tea, not asking for anything. Sybel is a great disciplinarian. Suddenly the baby eyes fell upon the rose-tree, and a wistful look of longing passed into them. She drew close to Sybel and looked pleadingly up into her face. 'Oh, mummie, they are so lubly! May I pick one of your roses?' 'Certainly not,' said Sybel. 'How often am I to tell you, baby, that you are never to pick flowers in the garden! Run along to nurse, and don't be troublesome.'
"The baby said no more, but I saw the little mouth droop and quiver. The small feet trailed slowly away over the grass, all the dance gone out of them, and Sybel gave me a long dissertation on the bringing up of children and the importance of checking their natural tendency to destructiveness, my only reply being, I am afraid, 'What on earth is the good of a garden full of flowers if your own baby can't gather and enjoy them!' To which Sybel made answer: 'It is just as well, my dear Jane, that you remain unmarried. You would hopelessly spoil your children if you had any.'
"With that we laughed and ceased sparring; for Sybel is a good sort and was a devoted mother, provided her little child pleased her in all things."
The baby's godmother paused a moment, as if mentally reviewing a scene and seeking for words in which to describe it. Then she leaned forward, with her arms upon her knees and her hands clasped in front of her, and as she spoke, slowly and quietly, she kept her eyes fixed upon those firmly folded hands.
"Three weeks later I was wired for, to go back there and comfort a despairing, childless mother.
"When poor Sybel took me up to see the little body, it lay upon the bed, smothered in white roses—roses in the little hands, roses round the tiny feet, snowy petals framing the baby face, now whiter than the whitest rose. When I saw them, and when poor Sybel fell on her knees at the foot of the little bed and moaned in anguish of heart, I knew why she had sent for me.
"'Oh, Jane,' she said, 'Jane! You remember. She wanted one white rose, just one, and I would not let her have it. Oh, my baby, my baby!'