LIGHT.
It was early morning. The windows of my room were open, admitting the
fresh, cool air, which had been purified by one of those terrific
thunder storms, so common in a southern clime. For many weeks I had lain
there in a state of unconsciousness, save at intervals when I had a
dreamy realization of what was transpiring around me. The physician who
was called in Dr. Clayton’s stead had more than once hinted of continued
insanity, citing similar cases which had come under his observation; but
in spite of his opinion, I, that bright August morning, awoke from a
refreshing sleep, with perfectly restored faculties. At first I thought
I was alone, for there was a deep stillness in the room, and from the
hall below I distinctly heard the ticking of the clock, reminding me of
the time, years ago, when once before I had hovered between life and
death. Now, as then, I experienced the delicious feeling of returning
health, but I missed the familiar faces of my friends, and as I thought
how far I was from home, and all who loved me, I said aloud, “I am
alone, alone.”
“Not alone, Rosa, for _I_ am with you,” answered a deep voice near, and
the next moment the dark form of Richard Delafield bent over me.
Eagerly scanning my face, he said, “Do you know me?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Mr. Delafield.” Then as a dim remembrance of the
past came over me, I lifted my head and looked around the room for one
who I knew had not long since been there.
Divining my thought, he said very gently, as if the announcement would
of course give me pain, “He is not here, Rosa. He was obliged to go
home, but I dare say he will soon return—meantime I will take care of
you. Don’t feel so badly,” he continued, as tears of _genuine joy_ at
Dr. Clayton’s absence gathered in my eyes.
I could not tell him the truth, and when I next spoke it was to ask him
concerning my illness, how long it had been, etc.
After telling me all that he thought proper, he took the letter from his
pocket, and said, “Dr. Clayton left this for you. Have you strength to
read it now?”
“Yes, yes,” I replied eagerly, at the same time stretching out my hand
to take it.
There was a blur upon my eyes as I read, and I pitied Dr. Clayton, who
had thus laid bare to me his wretchedness, but mingled with this was a
feeling of relief to know that I was free. He told me what he had
written to Mr. Delafield, and when I came to that portion of the letter,
I involuntarily uttered an exclamation of delight, while I glanced
timidly towards him. _But he made no sign._ The letter which would have
explained all was safely lodged behind the bureau, and with a gloomy
brow he watched me while I read, interpreting my emotions into the
satisfaction he naturally supposed I would feel in hearing from my
lover. With me the revulsion was too great, for I fancied I saw in the
expression of his face contempt for one who had presumed to love him,
and bursting into tears, I cried and laughed alternately, while he tried
to soothe me; but I would not be comforted by him—he hated me, I knew,
and very pettishly I told him at last “to let me alone and go away—I was
better without him than with him,” I said, “and he would oblige me by
leaving the room.”
The next moment I repented my harshness, which I knew had caused him
pain, for there was a look of sorrow upon his face as he complied with
my request. But I was too proud to call him back, and for the next half
hour I cried and fretted alone, first at him for making Dr. Clayton
think he loved me when he didn’t, secondly, at Dr. Clayton for meddling
with what didn’t concern him, and lastly, at myself, for being so
foolish as to care whether anybody loved me or not! At the end of that
time Richard came back. The cloud had disappeared, and very
good-humoredly he asked “if I had got over my pet, and if I wanted
anything.”
I did not, but wishing to make amends for my former ill humor, I asked
him _to shut the windows_, which he did, opening them again in less than
five minutes, and fanning me furiously, I was “so hot and fidgety.” For
several hours he humored all my whims and caprices, and then, as he saw
I was tiring myself out, he began to exercise his authority over me,
telling me once, I remember, “to lie still and behave, or I would make
myself worse!”
Intimidated by his voice and manner, I sank down among my pillows, nor
stirred again until I awoke from a sweet sleep into which I had fallen.
This time he was gone, but Mrs. Lansing was with me, and the tones of
her voice seemed unusually kind as she addressed me. Richard again came
in, bearing a beautiful bouquet, which he presented to me “as a peace
offering,” he said, “for having scolded me so in the morning.”
Before night I was so much better that Ada, Lina, and Halbert came in to
see me, each expressing their pleasure at my convalescence. But one
there was who came not to greet me, and at whose absence I greatly
marvelled. She had ever been the first to meet me in the morning, and
the last to leave me at night. Why, then, did she tarry now, when I
wished so much to see her? Alas, I did not know that never again would
her home be gladdened by the sunshine of her presence, for it was Jessie
whom I missed—Jessie for whom I longed—straining my ear to catch the
sound of her ringing laugh, or bounding footsteps.
At last, as the day wore on and she did not come, I asked for her and
why she stayed so long away.
Wringing her hands, Mrs. Lansing exclaimed, “Tell her, Richard, I
cannot. It will kill me. Oh, Jessie, Jessie!”
But I had no need for further knowledge. I saw what I had not before
observed, viz., the mourning garments of those around me, and in tears
of anguish, I cried, “My darling is dead!”
“Yes, Jessie is dead,” answered Richard. “We shall never see her again,
for she is safe in the Happy Land, of which you so often told her.”
I could not weep. My sorrow was too great for tears, and covering my
face I thought for a long, long time. “Why was it,” I asked myself,
“that always when death had hovered near me, _I_ had been spared, and
another taken,” for, as in the case of Jessie, so had it been with
brother Jamie—they had died, while I had lived, and with a fervent
thanksgiving to Heaven, which had dealt thus mercifully with me, I
prayed that it might not be in vain.
Gradually, as I could bear it, Mr. Delafield told me the sad story—how
she had hung fearlessly over my pillow when all else had deserted me—how
she had come for him—and how naught but her mother’s peremptory commands
had taken her from my side. As he talked, there came back to me a vague
recollection of a fairy form, a seraph I thought it to have been, which,
when the dark river was running fast at my feet, had hovered near,
whispering to me words of love, and bidding some one bury me beneath the
tall magnolia. Then he told me how she had stood like a ministering
spirit by the rude couch of the poor Africans, who, with their dying
breath, had blessed her, calling her “The Angel of the Pines.” From her
head he himself had shorn her beautiful shining curls, one of which he
gave to me, and which I prize as my most precious treasure; for often as
I look upon it, I see again the little gleeful girl, my “Georgia rose,”
who, for a brief space, dwelt within her fair southern home, and was
then transplanted to her native soil, where now she blooms, the fairest,
sweetest flower of all which deck the fields of heaven.
The shock of her death very naturally retarded my recovery, and for many
weeks more was I confined to my room. About the middle of October,
Charlie, whose coming I had long expected, arrived, bringing to me the
sad news that death had again entered our household, that by my father’s
and Jamie’s grave was another mound, and at home another vacant chair,
that of my aged grandmother, whose illness, he said, had prevented him
from coming to me sooner, adding further that they had purposely kept
her sickness from me, fearing the effect it might have. Of Dr. Clayton
he could tell me but little. He had not visited Meadow Brook at all, but
immediately after his return to Boston, he had written to them, saying I
was out of danger, and Charlie must go for me as soon as the intense
heat of summer was over. This was all they knew, though with woman’s
ready tact, both my mother and my sisters conjectured that something was
wrong, and Charlie’s first question after telling me what he did, was to
inquire into the existing state of affairs between me and the doctor,
and if it were my illness alone which had deferred the marriage.
“Don’t ask me now,” I replied, “not until we are far from here, and then
I will tell you all.”
This silenced Charlie, and once when Mr. Delafield questioned him
concerning Dr. Clayton, and why he, too, did not come for me, he replied
evasively, but in a manner calculated still further to mislead Mr.
Delafield, who had no suspicion of the truth, though he fancied there
was something wrong. In the meantime he was to me the same kind friend,
ministering to all my wants, and with a lavish generosity procuring for
me every delicacy, however costly it might be.
One day Charlie, with his usual abruptness, said to me, “Rose, why
didn’t you fall in love with Mr. Delafield. I should much rather have
him than a widower?”
The hot blood rushed to my cheeks as I replied quickly, “He is engaged
to Miss Montrose. They were to have been married this fall, Mrs. Lansing
said, but the marriage is, I presume, deferred on account of their
recent affliction. At least I hear nothing said of it.”
“If I am any judge of human nature,” returned Charlie, “Mr. Delafield
cares far more for _you_ than for Miss Montrose, even if they _are_
engaged. But then you are poor, while she is rich, and that I suppose
makes the difference.”
I knew Mr. Delafield too well to suspect him of mercenary motives in
marrying Ada, and so I said, “He loved her, of course, and it was
natural that he should, for though she had some faults, he probably saw
in her enough of good to overbalance the bad.”
And still I could not help thinking that, as Charlie had said, his
attentions to me were far more lover-like than they were towards her.
But then I fancied that his kindness was prompted by the pity which he
felt for me, a young girl so far from home. Thus the days wore on,
leaving me deceived—and him deceived, while the letter still lay behind
the bureau!
At last the morning dawned on which I was to say good-bye to the scenes
I loved so well. I was to leave the “sunny South,” with its dark
evergreens, its flowering vines, its balmy air. I was to leave _him_,
who, ere the next autumn leaves were falling, would take to his
beautiful home a bride. Then I thought of little Jessie’s grave, which I
had not seen, and on which my tears would never fall, and taking from
its hiding-place the tress of shining hair, I wept over that my last
adieu. It was later than usual when Mr. Delafield appeared, and as he
came in I saw that he was very pale.
“Are you sick?” I asked, as he wiped the perspiration from his face.
“No, no,” he hurriedly answered; at the same time crossing over to a
side table, he poured out and drank two large goblets of ice water.
Then resuming his former seat near me, he took my hand, and looking me
earnestly in my face, said, “_Rose_, shall I ever see you here again?”
Before I could answer, Ada chimed in, “Of course we shall. Do coax the
doctor to bring you here sometime, and let us see how you bear the
honors of being madam!”
Instantly the earnest look passed away from Mr. Delafield’s face, and
was succeeded by a scowl, which remained until the carriage which was to
take me to the dépôt was announced. Then the whole expression of his
countenance changed, and for a brief instant my heart thrilled with joy,
for I could not mistake the deep meaning of his looks as he bent over me
and whispered his farewell.
“God bless you, Rose,” he said. “_My Rose_ I once hoped to call you. But
it cannot be. Farewell!”
There was one burning kiss upon my lips, and the next moment he was
gone.
“Are you going to the dépôt?” asked his sister, as he was leaving the
room.
“No, no, no,” he replied, and then as Charlie again bade me come, I rose
bewildered to my feet, hardly realizing when Mrs. Lansing, Ada and Lina
bade me adieu.
Halbert went with me in the carriage, and together with Charlie looked
wonderingly at me, as I unconsciously repeated in a whisper, “_My Rose_
I once hoped to call you. It is _Ada_ who stands in the way,” I said to
myself, and covering my face with my veil, I wept as I thought of all I
had lost when Richard Delafield offered his heart to another. He _did_
love me. I was sure of that, but what did it avail me. He was too
honorable to break his engagement with Ada, so henceforth I must walk
alone, bearing the burden of an aching heart.
* * * * *
“Oh, I have loved you so much,” said Halbert, winding his arms about my
neck—“loved you as I shall never love another teacher,” and the boy’s
tears flowed fast as he bade me good-bye.
One parting glance at Cedar Grove, one last lingering look at Sunny
Bank, one thought of Jessie’s grave, and then the hissing engine shot
out into the woods, leaving them all behind. Leaning back on Charlie’s
arm and drawing my veil over my face, I thought how impossible it was
that I should ever visit that spot again.
* * * * *
In the meantime a far different scene was being enacted in the apartment
I had just vacated. Scarcely had the whistle of the engine died away in
the distance, when a troop of blacks, armed with boiling suds and
scrubbing-brushes, entered my chamber for the purpose of cleaning it.
They had carried from it nearly every article of furniture, and nothing
remained save the matting and the bureau, the latter of which they were
about to remove when they were surprised at the unexpected appearance of
Mr. Delafield, who could not resist the strong desire which he felt to
stand once more in the room where _Rose_ had spent so many weary weeks.
For a moment the blacks suspended their employment, and then Linda, who
seemed to be leading, took hold of the bureau, giving one end of it a
shove towards the centre of the room. The movement dislodged the long
lost letter, which, covered with dirt and cobwebs, fell upon the floor,
at her feet. She was the same woman who, weeks before, had carelessly
knocked off the letter, which she now picked up and handed to Mr.
Delafield, saying, as she wiped off the dirt, “It must have laid thar a
heap of a while, and now I think on’t, ‘pears like ever so long ago,
when I was breshin’ the bureau, I hearn somethin’ done drap, but I
couldn’t find nothin’, and it must have been this.”
Glancing at the superscription, and recognizing the handwriting of Dr.
Clayton, Mr. Delafield broke the seal, and read! From black to
white—from white to red—from red to speckled—and from speckled back
again to its natural color, grew his face as he proceeded, while his
eyes grew so dazzlingly bright with the intensity of his feelings that
the negroes, who watched him, whispered among themselves that he “must
be gwine stark mad.”
His active, quick-seeing mind took in the meaning of each sentence, and
even before he had finished the letter he understood everything just as
it was—why Rose had appeared so strangely when she read Dr. Clayton’s
letter to herself, and realized perfectly what her feelings must have
been as day after day went by and he still “_made no sign_.”
“But she is mine now, _thank Heaven!_ and nothing shall take her from
me,” he exclaimed aloud, unmindful of the presence of the negroes, who,
confirmed in their impression of his insanity, looked curiously after
him as he went down the stairs, down the walk, and out into the street,
proceeding with rapid strides towards the dépôt.