Queen rose of the rosebud, garden of girls. . . . .             .             .             .             .             .             .            . Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls. — Tennyson.

THERE were tall white lilies down the path, and hollyhocks, and great bushes of lavender: and, down below, carnations, stocks, and mignonette vied for the place of honour from their tangled mass of sweetness.

       It was all very untidy, though, nevertheless, rich in a beauty peculiarly its own, which made the old-fashioned garden seem the most delightful place in the world, and its close-cut box hedges and quaintly-trimmed yews the prettiest things on earth. People said that the latter were the beauty of the place; but the Major liked the lilies best. He thought they stood in their purity like guardian angels to the inmates of the garden.

       Generally speaking, these were only two in number; but often other voices and footsteps came to wake its echoes. They were all young save one — an old, old lady, whose hair had borrowed its whiteness from the winter snows, though her heart was young as in the days of long ago.

       "Madam," they called her; and she was known by no other name, even to her grandchild Marjory.

       The name suited her with its quaint dignity.

       She was sitting now under the old cedar waiting for the party who would come to drink the fast-cooling tea. Every afternoon during that sunny month of June, Madam had sat under that tree with her knitting and waited. To and fro the needles flitted busily, never stopping in their pendulum-like motion, while Madam's thoughts kept pace silently. Now and then her eyes were lifted to the spot she was watching, otherwise nothing indicated that her thoughts were anywhere but on her work.

       There was no impatience manifested, nothing but calm expectancy. Old people are not often in a hurry for things, they are past the fever and restlessness of youth.

       At last voices were heard. Madam's work lay still in her lap. She knew just how they would come for their tea, as they came every night, up from the river. A flutter of dresses among the trees, little snatches of girlish laughter, deeper tones joining in; then they emerged from the shrubbery path.

       First Marjory with the Major, her head just reaching to his shoulder; over which he was bending to answer some saucy question from her laughing lips. Then two other couples — two more officers, and two Miss Fortescues.

       They were very fashionable young ladies, who always spent a season in London, and only came back to the village to recruit their looks after heated ball-rooms; but they were never too fashionable to dislike the old garden, or think Madam anything but the best company in the world.

       Sometimes they laughed at Marjory for her quaint dresses, with short waist and soft flowing skirt, unadorned by frill or flounce like their own; but when they dressed her one day in some of the latter, they were fain to confess with Juliet (Madam's maid), that "Miss Marjory's own clothes became her best;" and the girl went back to her "faded silk," like Enid of old, unconscious of the charm it possessed.

       The Major was even so bold as to affirm (to himself) that no new-fangled garment which was ever invented could improve this little girl; but then perhaps he was prejudiced, and when he looked at her face, forgot all about the gown.

       Madam, however, shared his opinion. She looked at the girl now, lying back in a low, easy chair, and her lips parted in a smile.

       "Tea, Marjory? Have you quite forgotten us this evening?"

       "Oh, Madam, and you must be tired of waiting. I am so sorry."

       The girl's fingers moved deftly about among the cups; but when all were supplied she leaned back again in her chair, idly swinging her hat.

       It was the Major who broke the silence.

       "This is my idea of happiness," he said, stirring his tea.

       "Which, tea or cake?" asked the elder Miss Fortescue.

       "Both," he answered smiling. "Each part of this scene makes up a most perfect whole." He gave a wave of his hand to include the whole group, but unconsciously his eyes seemed to get no further than Marjory.

       "You don't soar very high," she said severely, sitting upright to join in the conversation. Your ideas of happiness should be hardships and long marches, and dying on a battlefield, and such-like enjoyments."

       "Should they?" he asked, meeting her eyes. "Won't you sometimes allow me a little civilised pleasure?" His voice always had a gentle tone when speaking to her as if talking to a wilful child.

       Just the faintest tinge of colour came into Marjory's cheeks, like the bloom of the peach-blossoms which had lately dropped from the wall; but before she could answer one of the other officers had spoken.

       "I thought an Indian life was your idea of happiness, Major?"

       "Not quite," he answered gravely; though I own it has its advantages."

       "Oh, but it is rather jolly, isn't it?" persisted the other. His regiment was going to India soon, and he thought of asking the youngest Miss Fortescue whether she would not try the life out there with him!

       The Major smiled. He knew what the young man meant.

       "I have had a great many happy days out there," he began lazily; but then his good nature prevailing, he roused himself, and kept them all amused for the next half-hour with such graphic descriptions of scenes and doings in the far East that anyone might fairly long to be there. The Miss Fortescues were charmed, and even the subalterns were satisfied: noting that day with a red letter in their mental diaries.

       Only Marjory remained silent. Once or twice the Major's eyes rested questioningly upon her, but nothing this evening could draw forth a mischievous sally or gay repartee. Later on, they all walked to the gate. The visitors were going away — officers to mess, young ladies home to dinner.

       Madam had asked the Major to stay, and he first declined, but at the last minute changed his mind.

       "Will you have me now?" he asked, running back as the others sauntered down the path.

       "Certainly," she nodded back. "No! No! go with them" (as he would have offered his arm); "I shall go indoors to rest now, and Juliet can see to me."

       Then he followed the little party to the gate. The two officers would see the Miss Fortescues home. Marjory and the Major turned slowly back.

       "Did you really think that I ought to have no pleasures outside my profession?" he asked, following up a train of thought from their late conversation.

       "Why? — Oh! you mean what I said just now?" she answered listlessly. "I don't know. I suppose everybody has their own idea of happiness.

       The Major looked down at the little figure beside him.

       "I am afraid you're tired," he said.

       She roused herself. "No, not tired, but cross."

       "Is that possible?" he asked.

       "Don't be silly," she answered, a smile breaking over her face in spite of herself: then it died away. "But I really am cross, and so would you be, if —–"

       "Yes?" he queried.

       "I didn't mean to tell you," she said naïvely; but now I must. It's Mr. Benjamin!"

       The Major's face darkened. "Yes" (in a different tone).

       "There! you see you're cross already! but I'll forgive you —" laughing merrily. "Well, what do you think he did? He wrote yesterday, actually wrote to Madam, and proposed for me!"

       "And you said?"

       "What did you suppose I said?" turning on him with scorn. "I just told Madam to inform him that Miss Clive was very much flattered, but that she preferred being asked a question direct instead of through another person, and that she must decline the great honour he had offered her."

       "Poor man!"began the Major sympathetically.

       "Oh, but wait, you've not heard the best of it. He came this morning himself, with the meekest apology, and tried to propose in person. Madam said it was my fault, and I must see him; but I thought I should have died of laughter. Oh! you've no idea how funny he looked: he was quite white and shaky; and talked about his heart, and going away, and I tried to be dignified, but it was no use." And leaning back her head, she laughed again at the recollection.

       For one moment the Major felt tempted to join in. A vision of the Reverend David Benjamin's pale face, white and trembling before the shrine of his devotion, filled his mind with a feeling first of amusement, then indignation at the presumption of the "weak-hearted fool;" but finally pity gained the mastery. Would she one day laugh at him like this? Think him perhaps "old" and "funny"? A little pain came into his voice.

       "Hush, child," he said. "You don't understand these things yet. Perhaps he really loves you; and if so, God help him."

       She was startled by his earnestness.

       "I didn't mean to laugh," she said penitently, "but he's such a horror. Please don't look so grave, because I'm going to get you a flower for your coat, and you mustn't be angry any more."

       "I am never angry with you," he said.

       They had reached the rose-garden, and he watched her roaming among the trees. Roses of every shade and hue grew there. Here a great Gloire de Dijon lifted its creamy head by the side of a delicate la France; there a beautiful crimson burnt out its glowing heart near a tender Marechal Niel. From a trellis the pink moss-buds nodded to the blush roses, and asked the little China dwarfs if they could ever climb so high. In fact, there was nothing but roses to be seen, like those which had bloomed there for generations, and would still re-open year after year, when winter should have come for the owners of the garden.

       Marjory chose a deep red bud, and brought it with a smile.

       "Now, I'm going to put it in your coat for you; isn't it a beauty?"

       The Major bent down and watched the deft white fingers at their work. His own went up and touched them softly.

       "What pretty little hands you have," he said.

       She drew them away with a cry of pain.

       "Oh, don't."

       "Why, my child, have I hurt you? I would not for worlds. No, no, only somebody else used to say that."

       Did a chord stop beating in the Major's heart! The roses still bloomed round him, a breath of summer air brought him their scent. The sun was tinging the sky with as many and varied tints. He drew in a deep breath and spoke.

       "Yes, dear, and somebody —–"

       "Somebody died," sobbed Marjory.

       Then his kind strong hands went up and stroked the bowed head.

       "Poor little girl," he said. "Poor, dear little girl."
 

CHAPTER II.

I hear alone the memory of his words. — E. B. Browning.

       THAT little incident in the garden decided the Major upon a point he had before only contemplated. (It was the summer of '82, when all eyes were turned towards Egypt; when Tel-el-Kebir had yet to be fought, and won.)

       He was a quiet man, and a lonely one; and when he saw that Marjory did not respond to the only wish of his life, he shut up his sorrow in his heart and kept it to himself. Only, he knew that henceforth he must lead a life of action, with no spare moments for day-dreams.

       Using what interest he possessed, he effected an exchange into a battalion already on active service; and, having made his preparations, came to say good-bye to his friends.

       They were both surprised and genuinely sorry, and told him so. The Major was touched by it.

       Even Marjory seemed sobered, and a little troubled, when she heard the two subalterns talk of the chances and dangers of war. Perhaps Madam, in her wise old head, guessed somewhat of the truth, but she kept her counsel; and only gave the Major a very special invitation to dine with them on the last night.

       Other men, perhaps, might have taken the opportunity to advance their suit, but the Major was not quite commonplace; or, perhaps, was too much so, and kept to his old-fashioned, chivalric notions, with no desire for change. He would not, for worlds, have roused Marjory's grief again by intruding on those feelings which were still too near the surface to be touched by a new-comer's hand.

       "If I ever come back from the war," he said to himself, "I will ask her then; if not, God grant she may find some one worthier and better to care for her than I."

       And the girl herself never realised the wealth of love which was lying at her feet, till it was too late to pick it up — too late even to call it back.

       Therefore, although the last evening was necessarily a little sad, she made no sign, whereby he might gain the slightest hope, or put to a venture the question which trembled on his lips.

       When Madam bade him good-bye, she added a reminder that there would always be a welcome for him at the old house; and he thanked her quietly, saying:

       "I shall always think of the happy days spent here, even if I never come back."

       Marjory felt a strange and unwonted inclination to cry, but hid her feelings under a veil of petulancy.

       "I wish you wouldn't talk in that horrid way. Of course you're coming back, and then we'll have tea in the garden again, and no end of fun."

       The Major glanced up sadly at her. She was standing in the window, with the cool breeze lifting her white dress softly to and fro, and stirring the little curls on her forehead. What should she know of sadness?

       "Yes, when I come back, we'll have great fun again," he said gently.

       Then he shook hands with Madam — a firm, strong clasp, and said good-bye.

       "I'll come to the gate and let you out," said Marjory, pushing open the window, but the Major stopped her.

       "No, it is raining, see!"he held out his hand, and drew it in with the raindrops sparkling upon it.

       "How tiresome! I did so want to go and get you a rose."

       She was like a spoilt child this evening, impatient of being crossed; and as such the Major treated her.

       "Never mind," he said, "when I come back you shall give me one."

       She looked up smiling. "All right; I will."

       They were standing rather behind the curtains, in the deep recess of the window. Madam bent over her knitting near the lamplight, oblivious of anything happening among the shadows.

       "Good-bye, little girl," the Major said. "od bless and keep you." He had softly taken both Marjory's hands in his, and, moved by an irresistible impulse, he gently — nay, almost reverentially — stooped down and kissed them, and was gone.

       Marjory's eyes filled with sudden tears, but too late for him to see; too late to comfort the brave heart which had fought so often right valiantly against fearful odds, yet was well-nigh broken now.

       He did not go home at once, but wandered for a few minutes in the rose-garden, listening to the rain which pattered down on the leaves, and thinking it very fairly represented his own state of mind.

       If the Major had been a wise man, he would have gone home, taken off his wet things, smoked a cigar, and gone to bed; but he was in that mood which comes to all of us sometimes; when, wretched ourselves, we take a positive pleasure in all that is dreary and miserable around us.

       So he paced up and down among the roses, thinking of the many happy hours he had spent there, and of Marjory's sweet young face, and whether he would ever see it again; till a neighbouring clock warned him it was getting late, and he ought to go.

       Down by the gate, however, he lingered for a moment, and turned back to look at the half-hidden house.

       "Good-night, my beloved," he whispered; "good-bye."

       And the tall, white lilies, hanging their stately heads, felt a drop, warmer than the summer rain, fall on their fast-fading loveliness. Then the firm tread went swiftly by, and the gentle night fell and shrouded the flowers in its darkness.

       After that day the old garden seemed to grow quieter. Marjory's footsteps still tripped lightly over the grass, and up and down the pathway; but somehow the merry laugh was less frequent, the gay tones seemed softer, more subdued, graver.

       The visitors, too, seemed changed; for instead of frequenting the river, they now rarely left the garden, but sauntered instead down its most hidden bye-ways: always two and two, and always talking low and earnestly.

       Madam did not need to be told what they talked of; she knew too well how the old story was repeated among the roses, as it had been in her young days, when the earth seemed so beautiful, and no thought of care came to sadden the brightest dreams.

       They came to tell it her one day, with many smiles and blushes, and a few tears also on the part of the young ladies, who began to realise that a soldier's wife must be ready to let her husband go wherever his orders take him, be it to a foreign land, or — war.

       And Madam listened, sympathising, advising, encouraging; and sent them away in a blissful state of happiness.

       Then she kept Marjory more than ever with her, guarding the girl with a special care.

       Gradually the summer waned into autumn, with that imperceptible change which is felt rather than seen. On the wall the peaches blushed beneath the kisses of the sun: in the orchard he touched the apples till they glowed like balls of flame.

       And September sped on, while there crept into the air the crispness of early frosts; and anxious eyes were searching the papers for the last news from the Soudan.

       There came one afternoon when Madam was seated at the window, her work for once unused in her lap, her hands holding a letter. It was a long one, written on thin, foreign paper, but she had read it twice before laying it down.

       Outside everything was bright; in the distance the reapers called to each other amongst the golden corn, and their voices came up from the meadows with a cheerful sound. The lovers had wandered there, presumably to watch the last loads in; too busy, really, in their own world, to notice anything beyond each other. Down the gravel-path came Marjory, in the brilliant sunshine, and stopped at the window.

       "Come in, my child," said Madam, "I want you."

       Something in her tone made her look up.

       "Is anything the matter?" she asked.

       For answer Madam pulled her softly down till she sat on the stool at her feet; then she took both her hands and held them tightly.

       "I have had a letter, Marjory."

       No need to ask from whom. One glance showed Marjory the foreign paper; some subtle instinct told the rest. A great wave of crimson flooded her face for a moment, then faded into white. Mutely she held out her hands for the letter, and Madam gave it her without a word.

       After that there was a long, long silence in the room while Marjory read — read as though each word were being burnt into her brain with letters of fire.

       It was only the old story which comes so often from those wars where Englishmen, loving their country more than anything else, lay down their lives with that gallant pluck which never questions the why or wherefore of the sacrifice.

       Marjory's cheek glowed as she read the tale of daring, which the Major's friend seemed as proud to tell as if he himself shared those distinctions which his brother officer had died to gain.

       Yes, that was the summing-up of the whole letter — the Major was dying. Suffering from his wound, worn with fever, away from proper nurses and comforts, the writer said that long before his letter reached its destination his friend would be laid to rest beneath the desert sand.

       He was a kind-hearted man and wrote at length, giving every detail of the camp life and its surroundings which he thought might interest the recipients of the letter in far-away England.

       But there was one bit of it in which he had no part; a little scrap folded up tight, whose faint pencilled words said, "Child Marjory, good-bye. God bless you, dear, for I love you." That was all the Major's message.

       The room seemed to grow quieter and yet more still. Not a sound within. Outside,

The reapers reaped, and the sun fell, And all the land was dark.

Dimly, and like a blind person groping for help, Marjory stretched out her hands to Madam.

       "Oh, Madam, dear Madam, let me always stay with you!"

       Then her kind old friend bent down and gathered the girl to her motherly heart.

       "You shall never leave me, Marjory."

       And up from the glowing cornfields strolled the lovers in the sweet evening light.
 

CHAPTER III.

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew; I would be so tender, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

       IT is only in novels that people die of broken hearts. In real life they have to hide their sorrows with a smiling face, and go on battling with the world in spite of it's all being dark for them. Sometimes they have to drink their cup of grief to the bitter end; but more often new joys and interests spring up to heal the wound. In the first days of her sorrow Marjory thought she could not live through it. When too late she woke to know that her heart had gone from her own keeping into another's, who would never now come to claim it. The fact had grown upon her gradually and unconsciously till that sad afternoon when she read the Major's farewell message.

       Then she knew why the days had seemed so long lately; why the light had gone out of the bright afternoons and left them dull. When the Major first went away she missed him — missed having some one to tease, to listen to her nonsense, and be her patient slave. Then she began to think about him, wondering what he was doing, and if he would come back when the war was over, till the wonder grew into a longing which checked her laughter and made her eagerly scan the papers for news.

       Madam, silent and observant, noted it all, but she did not speak, not even in those long sad days which followed the letter. Nevertheless, by a thousand loving ways did she shield and comfort the child who had clung to her in her broken-heartedness. There was a sympathy which had no need of words between the elder woman and the girl.

       Marjory knew that Madam guessed her secret, but she could not bear to speak of it then, nor until long after the winter evenings first closed in, and the flickering firelight invited those whispered confidences and low, hushed talks, which eased and soothed her mind.

       Three years ago, when she was barely seventeen, Marjory fell in love. There had been a bonny sailor lad, scarcely one year her senior, who worshipped the very ground on which she trod. Together they walked and talked in the old garden, vowing a love which neither time nor impediments should sever.

       It was all very sweet and pretty, and they firmly believed in each other. But before a year had passed away, and they were just beginning to learn that the world contained other nice and pretty people besides themselves, the sailor lad died, leaving Marjory only the tender memory of what might have been.

       The girl told herself she would never, no, never, marry or love anybody else, and cherished her belief until the present all-absorbing passion taught her that only once in our lives does the real love come to us.

       Sometimes in after happier years she wondered why these weeks of misery had been hers. Of course there was much sympathy. The two young men were sincerely sorry, for the Major had been justly popular. The young ladies dropped tears of genuine sympathy, guessing but half the truth. For a few days the lovers almost felt ashamed of being so happy; they walked about with slow steps and hushed voices. Then the natural exuberance of youth returned, and they were light-hearted once more.

       And Madam wrote, but the letter, like so many another one, lay unheeded for long weeks at a little foreign post-office, and never reached its owner until the answer had come to its senders in quite another way; for the troops had gone back to India almost directly after the victory, and that letter was not the only one delayed or lost.

       And the garden grew still more deserted. Not that the lovers abandoned it all at once. Oh, no! They paced up and down its sheltered paths in spite of cold winds and rare sunshine. But they were often very busy, and at the end of October there came one bright day when they bid farewell to it, and the next they drove away with much commotion of flags flying, music, and people cheering, to a new life of their own, where it is to be hoped they found many happy days.

       Such a gay wedding it was; and Marjory had helped both brides to dress, and gone with them to church, and breakfast, until everything was over: leaving but a confused jumble in her head of blessings and speeches, tears and smiles, to think over afterwards in her own little room.

       "If he would only come back," she said, sobbing herself to sleep, "I would never say one cross word again, never!" Courage! Marjory. This year's roses are dead, but others will bloom again. The winter snows are hiding the buds, not killing them; they will spring forth once more fresh and beautiful: better perhaps for the waiting time. There are soft winds blowing in a far-off land which are bringing back life and health to weary limbs, and by-and-by they will blow the good ship home with a freight precious to waiting hearts. But that is in the future; at present the dark days go on without a change.

       Once indeed Mr. Benjamin renewed his suit; in much fear and trembling of course, and anticipating by instinct the answer he received. But this time it was given in such different guise from the last that he could scarcely believe it was the same haughty young lady who had given him his dismissal before.

       "Do not think any more about me," she said quite gently and humbly now. "Madam and I shall often think of you; and you must go away and work, and help others to be happy; then some day you will be happy too."

       He smiled sadly; but calling up all his pluck, took his disappointment like a man: and, giving up his present curacy, went and worked hard in a big, manufacturing town; where, after a time, he found that some one else could make him happy; and their joint labours brought forth a rich harvest sown in those good deeds of which the world takes no notice, because they are done by the people she gathers under the significant head of "nobodies."

       There was snow on the ground one afternoon when Marjory came in from her customary walk in the garden. It had become a habit of hers to wander daily into the rose-garden — from whence the bright blossoms had fled.

       Indoors Madam had gathered their sweetness in great jars of pot-pourri, which emitted its subtle fragrance from unknown nooks and corners of the quaint old house. Marjory loved them. She always had from the time when, as a child, she plunged her tiny hands into their hidden recesses and brought up a handful of the sweet-smelling stuff.

       But this afternoon, it seemed to oppress her. She went to her room and lingered there till the growing darkness warned her it was late.

       With a little sigh she rose. Life had been dreary lately. Christmas had but just passed; the new year was still young. Outside, the roses were dead; there was yet no sign of the fresh ones spring would bring.

       Very slowly Marjory began to go down. In the drawing-room Madam was waiting — Madam and tea — in the quaint Sèvres cups on the little table drawn up to the fire. Everywhere, and all round, the faint sweet perfume, like ghosts of the roses of happier days.

       Still more slowly she descended the last flight, a quaint little figure in old-fashioned gown and wistful face.

       A servant was letting some one in at the front door. He came and stood under the light in the hall; and unfastened his heavy military overcoat — wet with fast-falling snow.

       "Miss Marjory? "the servant said, and withdrew.

       Had winter so suddenly changed to spring? Were the dark days really gone? Was there anything else in the whole world except their two selves standing gazing into each other's eyes with a longing born of the love which is heaven-sent, because it lifts us into an atmosphere purer, fairer, higher than ourselves?

       Marjory had gone forward with outstretched hand, as in a dream, scarcely knowing what she did: and now the Major was the first to break the silence in tones so low they were almost whispered,

       "I have come back, child," he said; "and you promised me a rose."

       "What shall I do?" she asked, with the love-light in her eyes. "What can I give you?"

       Then he bent down till his lips met hers in one long, long kiss.

       "This is sweeter to me than roses, dear love," he answered, "dearer than anything earth can give."
 

       And if there are some who wish to know how it was that the Major got over his illness, and ever came back at all, I can only give them the answer he gave to Madam; for he was always a man of few words; and, after all, it was the best answer that could be given, for it solved all questions and left nothing further to be asked.

       It was in the evening as they sat talking in hushed tones of all that had passed; and Madam, from her side of the hearth, had leant forward to say interrogatively,

       "You must have gone through so much, but it did not keep you from coming back to us!"

       "No," said the Major simply, "I did not die."

MABEL F. WILSON.