Kitabı oku: «Rose Clark», sayfa 19

CHAPTER LXV

The old Bond mansion, though threatening to tumble down at every wind-gust, stood just where Rose had left it. The woodbine still festooned its piazza with green garlands in summer, and scarlet and purple berries and leaves in autumn. The tall butternut-trees still stood sentinel before it, the old moss-roofed barn leaned over on one side, like some old veteran whose work was almost done, and the iron-gray horse still took his afternoon-roll on the grass-plot before the door, kicking up his hoofs in the very face of old Time. The brown chickens, once Charley's delight, had become respectable mothers of families, and clucked round after their lordly chanticleer, too happy to escape with half a dozen rebuffs a day from his majesty, and old Bruno, the house-dog, took longer naps on the sunny side of the house, and was less irascible at tin peddlers and stray cattle. The once nicely-kept little garden was overrun with pig-weed and nettles, and the tall, slender hollyhocks swung hither and thither with their flushed faces, like some awkward overgrown school-girl, looking for a place to hide.

It was five o'clock in the afternoon, and yet old Mrs. Bond had not thrown open the kitchen-door opposite the well-sweep, or filled the tea-kettle, or kindled up the kitchen-fire for tea. But look! a strange woman steps out upon the piazza; such a woman as every country village boasts; round, rubicund, check-aproned and spectacled, with very long cap-strings, turtle-shaped feet, thick ankles, and no waist. With her fat, red hands crossed over the place where her waist once was, she steps out on the piazza and looks over her spectacles, this way and that, up and down the road.

The little brook babbles on as usual, and the linden-trees and maples are nodding and whispering to each other across the road; but nothing else is stirring. So Mrs. Simms goes back into the house, and closes the door, and Bruno gives a low growl to signify that all is right, as far as he knows.

Then Mrs. Simms lays her hand on the latch of the sitting-room door, and softly glides in. It is very dark; just a ray of light is shining in through a chink in the shutter. She opens it a little further, and the pleasant afternoon sunlight streams in across the floor – across the pine table – across the coffin – across the placid face of good, dear, old Mrs. Bond.

She has gone to that city where "there is no need of the sun, nor of the moon, to shine in it, for the glory of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof."

And now the neighbors drop in gently, one by one. Not one there but can remember some simple act of kindness, which makes the warm tears drop upon the placid face, upon which they are looking for the last time. Mrs. Bond had no kin; and yet every trembling lip there, called her "mother."

Not for thee, "mother," whom the busy world honored not, whom the Lord of Glory crowned; not for thee the careless city sepulture, the jostled hearse, the laughing, noisy, busy crowd. Reverently the prayer is said; now the little, rosy child is lifted up, to see how sweet a smile even icy Death may wear; and now toil-hardened hands, though kindly, bear her gently on to the quiet corner in the leafy church-yard, to which she has so long looked forward. The mold has fallen on her breast, the grave is spaded over, and still they linger, loth to leave even to the fragrant night, the kindly heart which had beat so long responsive to their homely joys and sorrows.

Oh, many such an earth-dimmed diamond shall Jehovah set sparkling in his crown, in the day when he maketh up his jewels.

CHAPTER LXVI

It is astonishing the miles one may pass over unconsciously when one's mind is absorbed in thought. John strode rapidly down street, after his interview with Gertrude, running against foot-passengers with an audacity which his bland "beg pardon" scarcely atoned for. Some scowled, some muttered "tipsy;" an old apple-woman whose basket he upset, picked up the half-dollar he threw her with a very equivocal look of thanks, and a lady whose flounces he pinned to the sidewalk, darted vengeance at him, from a pair of eyes evidently made only for love-glances. Poor, distracted John! pedestrians should have seen that his elbow had a pugilistic crook in it, which might have notified any one with half an eye, that he was in a state of mind. But it is heart-rending how indifferent and stupid the out-door world is to one's individual frames. The hardhearted teamster persists in halting his cart on the only dry street-crossing, though bright eyes look down imploringly at pretty gaiter boots; gentlemen who have practiced before the looking-glass the most killing way of carrying a cane, and finally settled down upon the arm-pit style, mercilessly extinguish unwary eyes with the protruding weapon. It matters not to the smoker that he poisons the fresh air upon which one has depended to cure a villainous headache. It matters not that the stain of the cigar-stump he tosses upon your dress, is as indelible as the stamp of loaferism upon the best-dressed man who smokes in the street. It matters not to the grocer's boy, as he walks with his head hind side before, that he draws a slimy salt-fish across a silk mantle, or fetches up against a brocade with a quart of molasses. It matters not that you are unable to decide whether the world is not big enough, or whether there are too many people in it; the census keeps going on all the same.

As our hero was sufficiently unfashionable never to have defiled his very handsome mouth with a cigar, he had no escape-valve for his irritation but accelerated motion; and that brought him, after a time, to the door of a restaurant which stood invitingly open. Entering, partly from weariness, partly from extreme thirst, consequent upon being in an excited state, he seated himself in a curtained alcove, and tossing his hat on the table, gave his order to the waiter, and listlessly took up a newspaper. Ere his eyes were riveted upon any particular paragraph, voices in the next alcove attracted his attention.

"Do you stay long in the city?"

"I think not; only a day or two."

"Well, there are plenty of things to look at, if you are fond of sight-seeing; and if your taste runs to women, we have plenty of fair faces. There is one in – street – ripe, rosy lips – such a foot, and such a symmetrical little form; knows what she is about, too – demure as a nun and sly as a priest; took me completely in with her Methodist way. I thought she was what she pretended to be, and all the time she was carrying on a most desperate flirtation with a fellow by the name of Perry. She was a picture, that little Rose, and now it seems he has caged her at last."

"Rose? Married her?"

"Lord bless you, no – of course not. He schools the boy, and all that – pays the bills, etc. – you understand. The boy goes to school with my little brother; that's the way I tracked her out. You see, it was on board ship I first saw her, and then I lost sight of her again until I got this clew. This whining Perry carried her off under my very nose – I – who have had such success; well, I don't wish to boast, but Perry's money was the thing – women are mercenary creatures. I suppose she passes here for respectable. They have a lady with them whom Perry pretends is his sister, to give it a more respectable air. No woman treats me with contempt without rueing it. By Jupiter, she was as imperious as a duchess because I honored her with a few compliments. I'll turn their little comedy into a tragedy, as sure as my name is Fritz."

"I will save you that trouble," exclaimed John, darting into the alcove, and slapping him across the face with his glove. "There's my card. You know me, sir," and he stood facing him with folded arms.

It is half the battle to have right on one's side, and Fritz was taken at a liar's disadvantage. Conscious of this, he made no attempt at a retort, but pointing to "his friend," muttered something to John about "hearing from him."

John strode out into the open air, to the astonishment of the open-mouthed waiter, who stood, tray in hand.

"A word with you, sir," said the gentleman, whom he had just seen in Fritz's company, following him. "The lady who was the occasion of this quarrel – 'Rose' – I would speak of her."

"I am not accustomed to hearing her so familiarly designated by a stranger," answered Perry, haughtily.

"Pardon me!" exclaimed the gentleman, much agitated. "I – I – in fact, sir, I am a stranger to Mr. Fritz. We met casually in a railroad-car, and meeting me just now before De Marco's, he invited me in to take a glass of wine with him. I have declined having any thing to do as his second in this affair. His manner to you convinced me that he has no right to consider himself a gentleman. With regard to the lady, sir, it may seem to you an impertinence that I should speak of her again – the name attracted me – it is that of a dear lost friend – I fancied this might be she," and the speaker became more agitated. "Now – it is at your option, sir, whether to pursue the subject further."

John looked him in the face; there was goodness there, and must have been sorrow, too – for the eyes were sunken and the form emaciated, and his thin pale hands were as transparent as a woman's.

"Could this be he?" and John in his turn became agitated.

"If it were? should he lead him out of this labarynth of doubt? should he place in his hand the thread which should conduct him through its dim shadows out under the clear blue sky, 'mid soft breezes and blossoming flowers? or leave him there to grope, while he wooed the blessed sun-light for his own path?"

The temptation was but for a moment.

"You seem feeble," said John, kindly, though his voice still trembled with emotion; "do me the favor to accompany me home, and then we will talk of this more at length."

The two walked on, overshadowed each with the presence of a power, of which all of us have been at some eventful moment conscious, and over which the conventionalities of life have had no control. It did not seem strange therefore to either, that they who had exchanged words, so fraught with meaning to each, should walk on side by side in thoughtful silence.

CHAPTER LXVII

Arrived at John's lodgings, he ushered the stranger into Gertrude's studio, of which she had given him the key when they parted, as she intended riding out with Rose. Motioning him to a seat, and adding that he would rejoin him presently, John left him there alone.

The stranger looked around; there were landscape, game, fruit, cattle, and flower pieces, and all so exquisitely painted that any other moment each would have been a study to him – now heart and brain were both pre-occupied. What was in store for him? He felt this to be a turning-point in his life.

A slight jar, and a picture, which stands with the back toward him, falls over. The stranger rises, and stoops to replace it!

Ah! – why that suppressed cry of joy? Why those passionate kisses on the insensible canvas? Why those fast-falling tears, and heart-beaming smiles?

"It is not your mamma – it is my mamma," said Charley, stepping up between the picture and the stranger.

"His own eyes! his own brow! and Rose's sweet mouth! his own, and Rose's child!

"My God, I thank thee!" he murmured; but the thin arms that were outstretched to clasp his new found treasure, fell powerless at his side. To sorrow he had become inured; he could not bear the out-gushing fountain of joy.

John, who had been an unseen spectator, had not looked for this tragic termination of his test. On his kind heart his rival's head was pillowed, his hand bathed his cold temples, his voice assisted returning consciousness.

"Who is he?" whispered Charley, tiptoeing up to John.

"Ask him," whispered John, as the stranger slowly opened his eyes.

Charley advanced, then retreated a step – then, won by the beaming smile which irradiated the stranger's face, he asked,

"Did you come here to see my Aunt Gertrude's pictures?"

"No," replied the stranger, with the same bright smile.

"Did you come to see John?"

"No, my dear."

"Did you come to see me?"

"Yes."

"What did you come to see me, for?"

Drawing him closer to his heart, and kissing his brow, the stranger said, "See if you can not guess."

Charley looked at Cousin John, but the conflicting expressions which flitted over his face gave him no clew. He looked at the stranger – his dark eyes were brimming with tears, but the same smile still played upon his lips. Charley stood for a moment irresolute, then, with another timid look into his face, he said, "I don't know —certainly– who you are, but – "

"But what, my dear?"

"Perhaps – you are my own papa come home."

No reply – but a deadly pallor overspread the stranger's face as he glanced in the direction of the door. John, who was standing with his back to it, turned around – and there – in the doorway, stood Rose with her small head bent forward – her lips apart – and her dilated eyes fixed upon the prostrate form before her. It was only for an instant – with a piercing cry, in which fear and joy both found utterance, she bounded to his side – kissed his brow, his lips, his eyes. Oh, was death to divide them then? God forbid!

"Vincent – Vincent – my own Vincent!" and in that long, idolatrous kiss, her woman's heart absolved the past, whatever that past might be.

CHAPTER LXVIII

"Sit down by me – tell me what you have learned from Rose," said John, the next day to his sister.

"His history is so singular," said Gertrude, "that in a novel it would be stigmatized as incredible, overdrawn, and absurd; in truth, a novelist who would not subject himself to such charges must not too closely follow Nature. If the gorgeous colors of our autumnal scenery were faithfully transferred to canvas, the artist would be considered a glaring, tasteless burlesquer. Both artist and novelist must learn to 'tone down' their pictures; but as my story is not for the critic's ear, but for yours, John, I shall tell it verbatim.

VINCENT'S HISTORY

"Rose and Vincent were legally married by the Rev. Mr. Lehmann, a few miles from the boarding-school where Vincent first saw Rose. Vincent took her from thence immediately to the hotel, where his friend, the Rev. Mr. Lehmann, was staying for a few days previous to his departure for the Continent. The rector's brother, who was with him, was the witness to the ceremony.

"Rose and Vincent then left for a few days' sojourn in a neighboring city. There Vincent received intelligence of the dying condition of his aged father. As his father had been unapprised of his sudden marriage, he thought it not best to take Rose with him at such a time; – providing, therefore, every thing necessary for her comfort, and expecting to be gone at farthest but a few days, he took a reluctant leave of her – he little thought for how long a time.

"Part of the journey lay off from the regular public conveyances; and Vincent, being anxious to return to Rose as soon as possible, hesitated not, though the road was lonely, to perform it at night on horseback. On this night he was met by a gang of desperados, who, unknown to him, herded in the vicinity, and who attacked him and left him for dead, after possessing themselves of his watch, pocket-book, and papers. There he was found the next day, by a passing traveler, in an insensible state, and taken to the nearest farm-house. He was quite unable to give any account of himself; and not wishing to be burdened with the care of him, they put him into a cart and took him to the county poor-house. Here his sufferings, aggravated by neglect, assumed the form of brain fever, and from thence, after awhile, he was removed to the lunatic asylum, where he remained for a year without any symptoms of returning reason.

"His distress, when he finally became conscious of the length of time which had elapsed since he left Rose, was too much for his weak frame. A relapse ensued, and for months longer he vibrated between life and death.

"When consciousness again returned, though weakened in body and enfeebled in mind, he commenced his weary search for Rose. He could hear nothing except that part of her story which he gleaned from Mrs. Bond, and which only served to aggravate his distress. Since then he has traveled unceasingly in steamboats, railroad cars, and stages; haunted hotels, haunted villages, and loitered trembling in churchyards. There is no misery like suspense, and acting upon an already enfeebled frame, it sapped the very fountains of life, and reduced him so fearfully as to render him quite unable to bear the sudden shock of joy which so unexpectedly met him."

"Poor Vincent!" exclaimed John; "and I have grudged him his happiness."

"Dear John!"

"Where was Charley born, Gertrude?"

"In a Lying-in Hospital; in which poor Rose took refuge when the sorrowful hour drew near.

"Then," said Gertrude, resuming her story, "Rose's husband had a cousin of the same name as himself, extravagant, reckless, and dissipated, who, though only twenty-five, had run through a handsome property, inherited in his own right from his grandmother, besides making unreasonable demands upon the paternal purse-strings. The old gentleman at last remonstrated, and the young man's affairs being even worse than he had dared to represent, he became desperate and unscrupulous.

"The father of Rose's husband, who, spite of the profligacy of his nephew, cherished a warm attachment for him, had willed him his property, in case of his son's death. This the young spendthrift was aware of, and when he first heard of the old gentleman's illness, he planned with three desperados to murder his cousin, and remove the only obstacle to his immediate possession of the fortune."

"How was this discovered?" asked John.

"It was revealed by one of the gang on his deathbed, though not until after the instigator had met his own doom at the hands of a woman whom he had betrayed and deserted."

"Then," said John, after a pause, "Rose and her husband have no immediate means of support. It is happiness to know that I can be of service even now."

"But Vincent is not a man to incur such an obligation," said his sister, "enfeebled as he is."

"He must – he shall," said the generous John, "at least till he is stronger and better able to substantiate his claim to what is rightfully his own; he may get even more than his own," said John, "when the old lady in New Orleans finds out that he is the father of the beautiful child she fancied so much; the family likeness must have been well handed down in Charley's face."

"That is not strange," said Gertrude; "cases have occurred in which the family likeness, after having been apparently wholly obliterated, has re-appeared in the third or fourth generation."

"Well, Vincent's story passes belief," said John; "truth is, indeed, stranger than fiction."

CHAPTER LXIX

Had cousin John no war to wage with self? Could the long-hoarded hope of years be relinquished without a struggle? Could blissful days and nights, in which to breathe the same air with Rose, win even the faintest smile, were reward enough for any toil, – could such memories cease at once to thrill? Could he see that smile, in all its brightness, beaming upon another? – hear that voice ten fold more musically modulated whispering (not for him) words he would have died to hear – and not feel a pang bitter as death? Tell me, ye who have made earth-idols only to see them pass away?

No – cousin John felt all this; Rose lost all was lost – nothing to toil for – nothing to hope for – nothing to live for.

Was it indeed so? He dashed the unmanly tears away. Was he, indeed, such a poor, selfish driveler that the happiness of her whom he loved was less dear to him than his own? Was it no joy to see that sweet eye brighten with hope, though kindled by another? Was it nothing to see the shadow of shame pass from that fair brow, and see it lifted in the world's scornful face in loving pride to him who rightfully called her "wife?" Was it nothing that Charley's little heaving heart had found his own papa?

"Shame – shame – was his manly heart powerless to bear what she, whom he so loved, had borne in all her woman's feebleness?"

"I knew it would be so, John," said Gertrude, gazing into her brother's calm face, in which the traces of suffering still lingered. "I knew you could conquer" – and tears of sympathy fell upon the hand she pressed.