‘I have a story to tell you, Rose, which I think you may like to hear,’
I said presently.
‘A story!’ she said in surprise.
‘Yes, darling, a story.’
‘Many years ago, a gentleman was passing through the streets of Vienna.
He was a man about thirty years of age, but he looked older, for he
had known sorrow and disappointment, and life appeared to him then
nought but vanity and vexation of spirit. Yet many would have envied
his position, for he possessed much of what the world most values.
He was walking listlessly along, when his attention was attracted by
a group of musicians, who were performing at the corner of a square.
In the centre of the band stood a pretty little fair-haired girl
about six years old. She was poorly clad. Her tiny feet were bare,
and bleeding from contact with the sharp stones with which the roads
were strewn; and tears were in her large blue eyes as, in her childish
voice, she joined in the song. Her pretty yet sorrowful face and the
plaintive tone in which she sang touched the stranger’s kind heart.
He stood still to watch the group, and when the song was ended went
forward to place some money in the child’s upturned palm. “Is this
your little girl?” he asked the man by whose side she was standing. He
replied in the negative. The little girl was an orphan, the child of
an Englishman, who had formerly belonged to the band, but who had died
some months before, leaving his little daughter entirely dependent on
the good-will of his late comrades.
‘Well, darling, you must know that they did not object to keeping
her with them, as her appearance was calculated to call forth pity,
and thus increase their earnings. But it was a rough life for the
child, and she suffered from the exposure to all weathers which it
entailed. Her father, who it was believed had seen better days, had
never allowed her to go out with the troop, and had done his utmost
to shield her from hardships. But now there was no help for it; she
could not be kept in idleness. Moved with pity for the child’s hapless
lot, the gentleman inquired where the musicians resided, and returned
to his hotel to consider how he might best serve the little orphan.
After much reflection his resolution was taken. He was a lonely man,
with no near relative to claim his love. His heart yearned with pity
for the desolate child, whose pleading blue eyes and plaintive voice
kept appealing to his compassion, to the exclusion of all other
considerations. He determined to adopt her, and provide for her for the
rest of her life. With this intention he sought the street musicians on
the following day, and easily induced them to commit the child to his
care. After handsomely rewarding the musicians, he took her away with
him that very day, and ever since she has had the first place in his
heart. His loving care for the orphan child brought its own reward, for
in striving to promote the happiness of little Rose he found his own.’
I was interrupted by a cry from my companion. ‘Rose!’ she exclaimed
excitedly. ‘What are you saying, Miss Bygrave? Tell me—was I—am _I_
that little child?’
‘You are, darling; and now you know how truly you are the light of Mr
Aslatt’s life. He has no one to care for but you, and you alone can
make him happy.’
‘And I have really no claim upon him, am in no way related to him, as
I thought! I knew I owed him much, but I had no idea to what extent I
was indebted to him. But for his goodness, what should I be now? Oh, if
I had only known this before! How ungrateful I have been to him, how
wayward and perverse! Oh, Miss Bygrave, I cannot bear to think of it!’
‘Do not trouble about that, dear,’ I said, trying to soothe her, for
her agitation alarmed me; ‘it is all forgiven and forgotten by Mr
Aslatt.’
‘But I shall never forgive myself,’ she exclaimed passionately. ‘To
think that I have been receiving everything from him for years, living
upon his bounty, and yet making no return, evincing no gratitude,
taking all his kindness as a matter of course, just because I imagined
I was dear to him for my parents’ sake!’
‘Nay; you are too hard upon yourself, dear Rose,’ I said gently. ‘To a
certain extent you have been grateful to him; you have again and again
acknowledged to me your sense of his goodness; and now that you know
all, you will clearly _prove_ your gratitude, I have no doubt.’
‘But how?’ exclaimed Rose. ‘How can I express—how can I shew my deep
sense of all that I owe him?’
‘In the first place, by getting well as soon as possible, and by
letting him see that you once more take an interest in life. For his
sake, I know you will strive to bear bravely a trial, the bitterness
of which he fully appreciates. And Rose, I must beg you not to attempt
to express to Mr Aslatt your sense of indebtedness. He feels a morbid
shrinking from hearing such words from your lips, and has implored
me—in case I ever revealed to you the secret of your early life, as I
have been led to do this evening—to assure you that you are under no
great obligation to him, for he considers that he has been fully repaid
for what he has done for you, by the happiness your companionship has
given him.’
‘But I cannot bear to go on receiving so much from him, and yet give no
expression to my gratitude,’ said Rose.
‘You cannot do otherwise,’ I replied; ‘unless you wish to make him
very unhappy, and that would be a poor return for all his goodness. Do
all you can to please him; be as bright and cheerful as possible; but
do not, I beseech you, let him see that you labour under a sense of
painful obligation to him.’
‘I will act as you desire,’ said Rose. ‘But is there really no other
way in which I can prove my gratitude?’
‘Not at present,’ I replied. ‘But perhaps at some future time you may
be able to give him what he will consider worth far more than all he
has ever bestowed upon you; but it would not be acceptable to him if it
proceeded only from the promptings of gratitude.’
‘I do not understand you,’ said Rose, though her cheek flushed.
‘Perhaps you may some day,’ I answered. ‘But now, darling, you must be
still, and not talk any more, else I am afraid you will not be so well
to-morrow.’
I had hard work to persuade her to be quiet, and though after a time
she refrained from talking in obedience to my repeated injunctions, I
could see her thoughts were dwelling on the communication I had made to
her. Only good results, however, followed from the excitement of that
evening. There was a tinge of pink on Rose’s delicate cheek the next
day; her countenance was brighter, and her manner more animated than we
had seen it for some time. Mr Aslatt was delighted at the change, and
encouraged by it, he began to talk to Rose of the plans he had formed
for taking her to Italy as soon as she felt strong enough to travel. He
was overjoyed to find that she made no objection to his proposal, but
even entered cheerfully into his plans, and declared that she should be
quite ready to start in the course of a few weeks. And so it proved,
for she gained strength with a rapidity which shewed the truth of the
doctor’s words, that she only needed to be roused in order to get well.
We started for the continent at the end of October. It was thought
that residence abroad during the winter months would promote Rose’s
restoration to health, and afford that diversion of mind which was
so desirable after the trying experience she had passed through. The
result was most satisfactory. There was no return of the apathetic
melancholy which had been so distressing to witness; and her enjoyment
of the various entertainments her kind friend provided for her was
unassumed. I began to hope that, after all, her attachment to Mr
Hammond had not been very deep, but merely a romantic fancy, kindled
by the thought of his misfortunes, and fanned into a flame by the
breath of opposition. A thousand little incidents strengthened this
conviction of mine. Every day it became evident that Rose was learning
to appreciate her guardian’s character more highly than she had done
before. She took a growing delight in his society, and indeed never
seemed quite at ease if he were absent.
When in the spring we returned to England, Rose’s health and spirits
had so completely returned, that she appeared little different from
the radiant girl whose loveliness had charmed me when I first looked
at her, save that her manner was gentler, being marked by a winning
humility and patience which her former bearing had lacked.
I did not long remain at Westwood Hall in the capacity of Rose’s
companion, though I have frequently visited it since as her friend. One
day soon after our return from Italy, she came to me with a bright and
blushing countenance, and whispered that she had a secret to tell me. I
had little doubt what the secret was, and could therefore help Rose out
with her confession, that Mr Aslatt had asked her to be his wife, and
that she had consented, though with some reluctance, caused by a sense
of her unworthiness.
‘I could not do otherwise,’ she said, ‘when he told me that the
happiness of his future life depended upon my answer; though I know how
little I deserve the love he bestows upon me.’
‘But Rose,’ I said, anxious to be relieved of a painful doubt, ‘you
have not, I trust, been led to a decision contrary to the dictates of
your heart? You know nothing would be further from Mr Aslatt’s desire
than that you should sacrifice your own inclinations from a mistaken
notion of his claims upon you. He would not be happy if he thought you
had only consented that you might not make him unhappy, and not because
your own happiness would be promoted by the union.’
‘I know that,’ murmured Rose, as her cheek took a deeper tint; ‘but it
is not so. I feel very differently towards Mr Aslatt from what I did
when you first knew me. I think him the best and noblest of men, and I
shall be proud and happy to be his wife; only I wish I were more worthy
of him. O Miss Bygrave! I cannot tell you how ashamed I feel, when I
think of the infatuation which led me to deceive so kind a friend,
or how intensely thankful I am that you saved me from a wicked act
which would have caused unspeakable misery for us both! I pity poor Mr
Hammond, and forgive him for the injury he so nearly inflicted upon me;
but I must confess to you that I never really had such confidence in
him or cared for him, as I now care for and trust the one whose love I
have slighted and undervalued so long.’
It only remains to add that shortly after that terrible scene at the
Priory, Mr Hammond disappeared, and it was thought, went abroad; but of
him and his wretched wife not a scrap of intelligence has ever reached
us.