JUNE ROSES.
Uncle Joseph was a good judge of many things besides bonds, debentures, shares, and scrip. When he bought "The Lilies" we may be sure he had his wits about him, and made no imprudent investment. A prettier villa never was reflected in the Thames. Huge elms, spreading cedars, delicate acacias quivering in the lightest air, the very point-lace of the forest, were grouped by Nature's master-hand round a wide-porched, creeper-clad building, with long low rooms, and windows opening on a lawn, all aglow with roses budding, blushing, blooming, to the water's edge. It was a little Paradise of leaf and flower and stream, such as is only to be found on the banks of our London river; such as calls up at sight images of peace and love and hope, and sweet untried romance for the young and trustful; such as wafts a thrill, not altogether painful, to the hearts of weary, wayworn travellers, for whom, in all that golden belief of the Past, there is nothing real now but a memory and a sigh. Such a lawn, such a scene, such flowers, were thoroughly in keeping with such a woman as Mrs. Lascelles, moving gracefully among the roses under a summer sky.
So thought poor Goldthred, emerging from the French windows of the breakfast-room for a tête-à-tête with his goddess, that might last half an hour, that might be cut short (he knew her caprices) in less than five minutes! A tête-à-tête from which he hoped to advance positively and tangibly in her favour, but which, like many others of the same kind, he feared might terminate in disappointment, discomfiture, despair.
Breakfast, with this unfortunate young man, had been a repast of paroxysms, alternating between rapture and dismay, such as completely destroyed anything like appetite or digestion. It was all very well for Uncle Joseph to go twice at the ham on the side-table, and devour such a lump of pâté de foie gras as would have choked a coal-heaver. It was all very well for Sir Henry, lounging down when everybody else had nearly done, avowedly with no appetite, after a cup of exceedingly hot coffee, to play as good a knife and fork as an Eton boy. It was all very well for the ladies, Mrs. Lascelles especially, to peck here and peck there—a slice of chicken, a strawberry, a bit of toast, an egg, a morsel of muffin, the least possible atom of pie—till each had made a pretty substantial meal. But could their heartless voracity stifle his (Goldthred's) sensibilities, or prevent his food tasting like leather, his tea like camomiles? Breakfast was over ere he recovered his proper senses, and then it was too late! The tonic so long denied this patient sufferer consisted of a few words from Mrs. Lascelles, not addressed, indeed, to himself, but accompanied by a glance he interpreted correctly, and accepted with delight.
"Uncle Joseph," said she, "your roses are shamefully neglected, and I shall inspect them thoroughly when I've drunk my tea."
Uncle Joseph, who, for sanitary reasons, never stirred till half an hour had elapsed after eating, grunted acquiescence; but Goldthred, unmindful of the convenances, rapturously followed his tyrant into the garden, the instant her muslin skirt disappeared over the window-sill.
She waited till they were out of sight from the house, then gathered a rose, fragrant, blooming, lovable as herself, and gave it him with a winning smile.
"I've got something to say to you, Mr. Goldthred—something I don't want everybody else to hear."
But for the flower pressed close against his lips, he felt that his heart must have leaped out of his mouth, and fallen at her feet. Never a word he spoke, but the light in his eyes, the glow on his face were answer enough.
"You won't be offended?" she continued, gathering rose after rose, and tying them up in a cluster, as she walked on. "You won't be cross, unreasonable, unkind? Indeed, it's for your own sake quite as much as mine. Mr. Goldthred, you can do me a great favour. Promise now; will you do it?"