RED AS A ROSE IS SHE.
A Novel.
BY
RHODA BROUGHTON,
AUTHOR OF "COMETH UP AS A FLOWER," "GOOD-BYE, SWEETHEART!""SECOND THOUGHTS," ETC.
ELEVENTH EDITION.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1887.
ESTHER CRAVEN.
(ELISH LA MONTI. PINX. — JOSEPH BROWN. SC.)
RED AS A ROSE IS SHE.
CHAPTER I.
Have you ever been to Wales? I do not ask this question of any one inparticular; I merely address it to the universal British public, or,rather, to such member or members of the same as shall be wise enoughto sit down and read the ensuing true and moving love story—true asthe loves of wicked Abelard and Heloise, moving as those of good Pauland Virginia. Probably those wise ones will be very few; numerableby tens, or even units: they will, I may very safely aver, not formthe bulk of the nation. However high may be my estimate of my ownpowers of narration, however amply Providence may have gifted me withself-appreciation, I may be sure of that, seeing that the only booksI know of which enjoy so wide a circulation are the Prayer-book andBradshaw. I am not going to instruct any one in religion or trains,so I may as well make up my mind to a more limited audience, while Ipipe my simple lay (rather squeakily and out of tune, perhaps), and maythink myself very lucky if that same kind, limited audience do not hissme down before I have got through half a dozen staves of the dull oldditty.
Have you ever been to Wales? If you have ever visited the pretty,dirty, green spot where Pat and his brogue, where potatoes andabsenteeism and head-centres flourish, alias Ireland, you haveno doubt passed through a part of it, rushing by, most likely, inthe Irish mail; but in that case your eyes and nose and ears wereall so very full of dust and cinders—you were so fully employed inblinking and coughing and enjoying the poetry of motion—as to betotally incapable of seeing, hearing, or smelling any of the beauties,agreeable noises, or good smells, which in happier circumstances mighthave offered themselves to your notice. Perhaps you are in the habit,every midsummer, of taking your half-dozen male and female oliveshoots to have the roses restored to their twelve fat cheeks by blowyscrambles about the great frowning Orme's Head, or by excavations inthe Rhyl Sands. Perhaps you have gone wedding-touring to Llanberis onthe top of a heavy-laden coach, swinging unsafely round sharp corners,and nearly flinging your Angelina from your side on to the hard Welshroad below. Perhaps you have wept with Angelina at the spurious graveof the martyred Gelert, or eaten pink trout voraciously at Capel Curig,and found out what a startlingly good appetite Angelina had. But haveyou ever lived in the land of the Cymri? Have you ever seen how drunkthe masculine Cymri can be on market days, or what grievous old hagsthe feminine Cymri become towards their thirtieth year? Have you ever,by bitter experience, discovered the truth of that couplet—
"Taffy was a Welshman,
Taffy was a thief?"
I have lived in Wales, so I speak with authority; and for my partI don't think that Taffy is much more given to the breaking of theeighth commandment than the canaille of any other country. He is nota bright fellow, is not Taffy; happiest, I think, when rather tips