Roses (Boyce)

by Neith Boyce

Roses

By NEITH BOYCE

I WISHED to give Helena something for Christmas. Ever since I married Helena I have been wanting to give her things, over and above the present of myself and of all my worldly goods. I have given her a great many things that she did not want. Helena wants nothing that she cannot turn to immediate practical good. When I married her she was a wonderfully pretty, gay, courted girl, full of energy, high spirits, coquetry and desire for amusement. But she proved that she was beyond all else practical by marrying me. I was some ten years older than herself, with a good professional position and in addition a private income. I was deeply in love with her and have been ever since. Years passed, we acquired three children and a house in New York, and Helena developed into a most conscientious and able manager of the family. She is a good housekeeper, with a firm hand over the servants; she supervises most carefully the children's health, morals and education, and she maintains an atmosphere of cheer and comfort in the home. She works about fifteen hours a day. She is economical in her personal expenditures. She makes both ends meet over a large monthly budget. She has the bank account and the checkbook. She pays my tailor and club dues by check, and allows me a few dollars a week for my luncheons and carfares. I seldom want any more.

 

BUT with the approach of the happy holiday season, I felt a keen desire to give Helena something. Helena hates Christmas. She always has a large family dinner on that day, besides the tree for the children, presents to relatives and friends and banknotes to the servants. She rushes madly from morning to night, concealing her feelings under an appearance of festal joy. Knowing all this, I determined to give her a little pleasure, or at least a reminder, so to speak, of my affection. But I hadn't any money, and as she had just had to write the cheek for my Christmas fee's to the servants at the club, I really didn't like to ask her for any, especially as she would, of course, have asked what I wanted it for.

However, I had credit. I didn’t dare give her anything very expensive, so the day before Christmas I stopped at the florist’s, round the comer from our house, and looked for something that looked like Helena. I wouldn’t have orchids, those purple dowagers, nor the hypocritical lilies, nor the smug violets, nor commonplace carnations. Among the roses too there had to be a careful choice. But I found a rose that really was like Helena—deep in color, richly curved in form, with strong stems and leaves, firm and full of sap. I ordered a dozen—doubled in price, of course, on account of the season of rejoicing—charged them, and took them round to Helena.

She greeted me with her usual cheerfulness over the tea-table. When I presented the roses, with a gallant little speech, she cried mechanically, “Oh, how sweet of you! How lovely!” But I saw her face fall, and she couldn't help adding, “But you extravagant old dear, they must have cost a fortune!”

"You shouldn't look a gift-horse in the bill,” I said, rather piqued.

“No, I know it,” she said repentantly. "They are lovely, and just what ——”

"Just what I wanted, thank you so much, as the man said when the brick fell on his head.” I interrupted ironically.

 

THEN she got up and kissed me and I said a few pleasant things, and put the roses in a vase, where they looked very handsome, and we had tea easily together. …

But after Christmas comes New Year's, and that means hills. Helena is always in a frightful temper on the first of January, and doesn't try to conceal it. I always try to keep out of the way when she is wrestling with the hills and her checkbook, for, after all, that is her business, and if I make the money she ought to be willing to spend it.

But on this particular day she did not spare me. She almost flung the bill at me.

“To one dozen roses … $15.00.”

“Now, George, how could you?” she cried tearfully. “Fifteen dollars for roses! Roses at Christmas! Do you know what I have to pay for coal?”

“I don’t care,” I said peevishly.

“No, I know you don’t! And here I am slaving and contriving and at my wits’ end to pay the bills, and with the cost of living almost out of sight, and I need a new evening coat and can’t afford it, and it was agreed we shouldn’t give one another presents, and——"

She said a lot more, along that line, for Helena, like all conscientious and energetic people, is a bit of a nagger. Finally I interrupted with these remarks: “You’re right, Helena, gifts are absurd especially between business partners. It's ridiculous for me to give you roses and expect you to pay the bill. I apologize. It was self-indulgence on my part. It always is. A gift means quid pro quo. Nothing for nothing. I had a romantic feeling for your beauty and charm. I tried to find something that would express it. The roses seemed to me like you in color, fragrance and form. I gave them to you to please myself. You did not want them. You object to paying fifteen dollars for them when there are fifteen tons of coal to be paid for. You are right, Helena; coal is a necessity——

“LAST year I gave you a little book of love sonnets, dedicated to you, and printed at my own expense. Another piece of self-indulgence. You thought the sonnets rather pretty, but wondered how I could write such things, at my age. The year before that I gave you my historical tragedy, likewise printed at my own expense. And that you didn’t even read.—And long before that, I gave you my heart, Helena, and you never quite read that, either. You turned down the page, and forgot to go on— And for all of them, you’ve had to pay, haven’t you, and the bills have been heavy. Greek gifts! Poor Helena!”

My voice broke as I uttered these words, looking at her listening profile. She was writing during the last part of my speech—a check, which she slipped into the envelope along with the fatal bill. In her cheek, turned toward me, I suddenly perceived a dimple—in love, you know, there is always one who kisses, and one who turns the cheek. Helena had always turned her cheek—with the dimple in it.

All she said then was, looking up at me with a smile:

“You are a sweet, old, romantic, silly thing, and how you can talk!—You can give me a gold brick if you want to, after that, and I'll pay for it and go in debt for coal, rather than hurt a single one your precious feelings. And it isn’t true—I did read the tragedy. It was too sweet for words."

This year, I have resolved to to Helena one single pure white rose, and as I give it to her, I shall say meekly: “I paid for it out of my own money.”

I rather think she will like that.