THE BOUQUET OF ROSES.
And now Mabel was left alone, with the cup of bitter trial removed from
her lips, and a flood of thankfulness gushing up from her heart. How she
loved those two young people! How her eyes filled as she gazed after
them!
She sat down in her easy-chair, serene and happy. The very absence of
the harassing doubts that had tormented her, was in itself almost a
bliss.
The day was quiet and dreamy--one of those late Indian Summer mornings,
when existence itself seems heavenly. The sash was open, and the odor of
heliotrope and roses came through, softening the sweet thoughts that
floated in her brain, and becoming, as it were, a part of them. She
became very languid and dreamy after this, for the strain upon her
energies being removed, the reaction rendered her helpless as a little
child. God had put aside the evil day. She was not to be wounded by
those whom she had cherished closest to her heart. Ralph and Lina! How
she loved to murmur over those names in her solitude! How pleasant it
was to think of them, united, and still keeping the family bond
unbroken.
Ralph had forgotten to enforce secrecy on his mother, and her first
thought was to talk this new promise of family union over with James
Harrington. Then, all at once, she remembered that since her accident,
no message had been given her from him, and though he was always
admitted to her boudoir with as little ceremony as her own son, that
privilege had not been once claimed since the storm.
This thought fell like a shadow amid her serene contentment. She began
to wonder at this strange desertion, and have a vague consciousness that
something was wrong between them. Still, how could this be? Had not
Harrington saved her life at the peril of his own? Was not his face,
full of agonized hope, bending over her when she awoke from the midnight
of the deep?
Mabel gave a sudden start, and her eyes took an expression of alarm.
What if he were ill? What if the terrible exertions of that night had
overpowered him, and all this was kept from her knowledge? Starting up
under the excitement of this apprehension, she was approaching the door,
when it opened, and Agnes Barker came in. The young woman looked more
than usually excited that morning. The fire, which always lay
smouldering in her evasive eyes, was kindled up, and a flush lay redly
on her cheek, an evil flush, such as we may imagine the poison in a
laurel plant to spread over its blossoms. In her hand she held a few
leaves of verbena and rose geranium, encircling a white rose-bud, and a
crimson rose, which had evidently been arranged with considerable care.
Mabel moved back to her seat, overcome by that strange thrill of
repulsion which always troubled her at the approach of this girl.
"Who sent them?" she inquired, with a gleam of pleasure, as she saw the
exquisite bouquet, "who sent them?" and with a look half wistful, half
pleased, she reached out her hand. Agnes withheld the bouquet, smiling:
"I fear to give offence were I to part with it, even to you, madam. It
was intended for me, I believe."
Mabel drew back her hand, stung by the smile, and recoiling proudly from
any further question. A faint flush of self-reproach stole up to her
forehead, for her heart had leaped back twenty years, when rose buds
buried in fragrant leaves had been the mystic language by which her
heart read the pulses of another.
Agnes stood before her gazing down into the tiny bouquet with apparent
unconsciousness of the feelings she had aroused, and with a smile
quivering about her lips, she began blowing dreamily into the half open
bud, till it fluttered apart, and took an unhealthy bloom from her hot
breath.
"Don't--it will sicken and droop," said Mabel, who could never see a
flower rudely touched, without a sensation that it must feel a pang.
"But I shall have it in full bloom while it lasts," answered the
governess, "and when that is gone, more will come: I like things that
flash into a glow and out again."
Mabel was surprised; the girl, hitherto so retiring and quiet, had all
at once taken an air of authority. There was something in the speech
that shocked the heart more than the ear, and the sensitive woman felt a
thrill of pain as she saw Agnes tear off a leaf from the crimson
rose--place it between her lips--and fasten the cluster in her bosom.
The quiet self-possession with which she did all this was so unlike her
usual manner, that Mabel sat regarding her in silent astonishment.
When Agnes had arranged the flowers to her satisfaction, she looked up.
"I beg pardon," she said, "for intruding, but Mr. Harrington told me
that Lina was in here, and I hurried to join her, fearing that my walk
after breakfast had encroached on the hour for lessons."
"Miss Lina has just left me," answered Mrs. Harrington, coldly, but with
a quiver of the voice, "you will find her with my son somewhere about
the grounds, I fancy."
Agnes looked out of the window, casting sharp glances over that portion
of the grounds which it commanded.
"Oh," she said, "yes, it is a heavenly day--what a pity that you cannot
go out," and, with a little haste in her manner, Agnes left the room.
Mabel looked out of the window, in time to catch a glimpse of James
Harrington walking slowly and thoughtfully towards the shore. Directly
Agnes Barker joined him, and they seemed to enter into conversation, but
moved on, and were soon out of sight.
He was not ill then, but avoided her purposely, and took long strolls
with that strange girl. More and worse--no other hand could have
arranged those rose buds. Years and years ago, she had worn such buds
and leaves, tint for tint, upon her own bosom. Alas, that the memory
gave her so much anguish.