RETURN.
For nearly a week after Jessie’s death, Mr. Delafield remained at the
Pines, doing whatever he could for the comfort of his servants, and as
at the end of that time the disease had wholly disappeared, he returned
to Cedar Grove, accompanied by his sister and Ada, who had learned by
sad experience that the dangers from which we flee, are oftentimes less
than those to which we go. They found Rose better, but still quite low,
and as the fever had not entirely left her, neither Mrs. Lansing nor Ada
ventured near her room, but shut themselves in their own apartment,
where the former received the sympathy of her friends, which in this
case was truly sincere, for Jessie was universally beloved and the
tidings of her death carried sorrow to many hearts.
Over Dr. Clayton a change had come. The hopeful, happy expression of his
face was gone, and in its place was a look of utter hopelessness which
at first roused Richard’s fears lest Rose should be worse, and in much
alarm he asked if it were so.
“No, no,” answered the doctor, while a shadow of pain passed over his
handsome features; “she will live.”
Then hurrying to the window he looked out to hide his tears from him
whom he knew to be his rival, and who, now that he was unobserved, bent
over the sleeping Rose, kissing her wasted cheek and mourning for her as
he thought how she would weep when she learned the fate of her favorite.
Oh, could he have known the whole, how passionately would he have
clasped her to his bosom and held her there as his own, his darling
Rose! But it was not yet to be, and he must bide his time.
She had seemed greatly relieved at his absence, and on the second day
after his departure, she called Dr. Clayton to her side, fancying him to
be her brother Charlie. Taking his hands in hers, she told him the whole
story of her trials; how she had tried to bring back the old affection
of her childhood, but could not because of the love she had for Richard
Delafield.
“Oh, Charlie,” she exclaimed, “he would forgive me, I know, if he knew
how much I suffered during those terrible days, when I thought of giving
my hand without my heart. The very idea set my brain on fire and my head
has ached, oh, so hard since then, but it’s over now, for I conquered at
last, and on the night before the wedding, I resolved to tell him all,
how I could not and would not marry him. But a dark cloud, which seemed
like the rushing of mighty waters, came over me, and I don’t know where
I am, nor what has happened, only _he_ has been here, hanging like a
shadow over my pillow, where sat another shadow tenfold blacker, which
he said was death; but grim and hideous as it was, I preferred it to a
life with him, when my whole soul was given to another. He, too, was
here occasionally, and in his presence the shadow grew less and less,
while his voice called me back from the deep darkness in which I was
groping. Once, when I was almost home, so near that I heard the song
which little Jamie sings—Jamie, who died so long ago—he laid his cool
hand upon my forehead, which was wet with the waters of the rolling
river, and I heard him say to some one, ‘Look up; she is better, she
will live.’ The next moment he was gone, but I struggled with the waves
and floated back to the shore, where, though I could not see him, _his_
hand was stretched out to save me, and for a time he stood between me
and Dr. Clayton, who, when he thought nobody heard him, whispered in my
ear, ‘my bride—my own.’ But from my inmost soul I answered, ‘Never,
never,’ while I looked again towards the river which is still in sight,
though slowly receding from view.”
She paused a moment and then continued: “When I am dead, Charlie, you
must tell him how it was, and ask him to forgive and think with pity of
poor little Rose, who would have loved him if she could. If he will not
listen—if he still persists in marrying me, tell him I would rather die
ten thousand deaths than wed a man I do not love, and then his pride
will come to his aid. But not a word of this to Mr. Delafield, Charlie,
never let _him_ know how I loved him. My affection is not returned, and
he would despise me—would never visit my grave or think with pity of one
who died so far away from home.”
Then followed a message for the loved ones of Meadow Brook, but this Dr.
Clayton did not hear. Perfectly paralyzed, he had listened to her story
until his reason seemed in danger of leaving him, and long ere she had
finished he knew he must give her up—but not to _death_; and as Richard
Delafield had done, so he, in this his hour of bitter trial, felt how
much rather he would see her in her coffin than the wife of another.
Then in his ear the tempter whispered, “Why need these things be? She is
not yet out of danger. A little relaxation of care on your part, and
Richard Delafield will never call her his.”
Only for a moment, however, did Dr. Clayton listen, and then laying his
head upon the pillow beside that of Rose, who, wearied with her story,
had fallen asleep, he wept as he had never wept before, not even when he
saw creeping over her the shadow of death. Turn which way he would,
there was naught before him save the darkness of despair; and as wave
after wave broke over him, his mind went backward to the time when she
might have been his—when he could have gathered her to his bosom—and in
piteous accents he cried aloud, “My punishment is greater than I can
bear.”
But as the fiercest storm soonest expends its fury, so he ere long grew
calm and capable of sober, serious thought. Rosa Lee was very dear to
him, and to have possessed her love, he would have given almost
everything; but as that could not be, ought he to stand in the way of
her happiness? He knew she was deceived, for he remembered many things
he had seen in Mr. Delafield, which, though he had not thought of it
then, convinced him now that her affection was reciprocated; and should
he not tell her so, and at the same time disclose to Richard the true
state of affairs? Rosa’s quiet, unobtrusive, and rather reserved manner
had misled Richard, no doubt, or he would long ere this have declared
his love.
“Yes, God helping me, I _will_ do right,” he said aloud, clasping his
hands over his feverish brow. “I will watch by her until _his_ return,
and then committing her to his care I will leave her forever.”
There was a movement at his side—Rose was dreaming, and she uttered the
name of _Richard_, while, with a shiver, the doctor stopped his ears and
shut out the hated sound. In a moment she awoke and asked for water. It
was brought, but he no longer supported her in his arms—no longer
smoothed back the tangled curls from her brow, or kissed her white lips.
“She is not mine, and it were wrong to caress her now,” he thought, and
his tears fell upon her face as he laid her gently back upon the pillow.
Wonderingly she gazed upon him, and lifting her hand, wiped his tears
away, asking why he wept.
“Heaven help me from going mad,” he exclaimed aloud, as he walked to the
window, where for a long time he stood, trying to school himself for the
part he was to act.
He succeeded at last, and never did a tender brother watch more
carefully over a darling sister than did he over her during the few days
which elapsed ere Mr. Delafield’s return. He was alone with her when he
came, and with comparative calmness he greeted his rival, who, as we
have before stated, was surprised at the change in his looks.
That night, in the solitude of his chamber the doctor penned two
letters; one for Rose and the other for Richard. In substance, the
contents of each were much the same, for he told them all he had heard
from Rose, and how, though it broke his heart to do so, he had given her
up. “Deal very, very gently with her,” he wrote to Mr. Delafield, “for
never was there a purer, gentler being, or one more worthy of your love
than she. Then take her, and when your cup is overflowing with
happiness, think sometimes of one, who, henceforth will be a lonely,
wretched man.”
The letters being written he put them away until such time as he should
need them. Once he thought to talk with Richard face to face, but this
he felt he could not do; so one morning about a week after the return of
the family to Cedar Grove, and when Rose was out of danger, he pressed a
burning kiss upon her forehead, and placing the letters on the little
dressing bureau where they would attract the immediate attention of Mr.
Delafield, who, he knew would soon be there, he went in quest of Mrs.
Lansing, whom he bade good-bye as composedly as if no inward fire were
consuming him. In much surprise, she asked why he left them so abruptly,
and he replied, “something which has recently come to my knowledge makes
it necessary for me to go.”
“You will of course return ere long for Miss Lee,” continued the lady,
who had no suspicion of the truth.
“If _I_ do not come I shall send her brother as soon as she is able to
be moved,” said he. “She does not know that I am going, for she would
not understand me if I told her, so I leave it with you to tell her when
you think she will comprehend it.”
Then leaving a few directions as to how she must be treated, he hurried
away, never looking back, and turning into a side street when in the
distance he saw Mr. Delafield coming towards him. Half an hour afterward
and the puffing engine, which now each day thundered into town, was
bearing him away from a place whither he had come for a bride, and from
which he bore only a crushed and aching heart. Scarcely had he left
Rose’s chamber when a colored woman entered it to “set it to rights” as
was her daily custom. She was near-sighted, and going up to the
dressing-bureau, carelessly brushed off the letter directed to Richard!
Falling behind the bureau, it lay concealed from view, while the negress
proceeded with her duties, unconscious of the mischief she had done!
In great surprise Richard heard of Dr. Clayton’s sudden departure.
“There must be something wrong,” he thought, though what he did not
know. Going up to Rosa’s chamber, he found her still asleep. The room
was in order—the servant gone, and on the bureau lay the letter which
soon caught his attention. Glancing at the superscription he saw it was
for Rose, and thinking to keep it safely until she could understand its
contents, he placed it in his pocket; then taking a book, he sat by her
bedside until she awoke. She was apparently better, but an unnatural
brightness of her eyes told that her mind was still unsettled. So he
said nothing to her concerning the doctor’s desertion, but himself
ministered to her wants.
In the course of a few days Mrs. Lansing was induced to visit her. This
she did more willingly, for Rose had loved her little Jessie; she would
weep bitterly when she knew she was dead; and the proud nature of the
haughty woman gave way to the softer feelings, which often prompts a
mother to take a deeper interest in whatever was once dear to a lost, a
precious child. So casting aside her nervous fear, she at last went
frequently to the sick-room, her own white, delicate hands sometimes
arranging the tumbled pillow or holding the cooling draught to the lips
of her formerly despised governess—despised, not for anything which she
had done, but because it was hers to labor for the bread she ate.