A THORNY ROSE.
“There’s a divinity that shapes our ends,
Roughhew them how we will.”--SHAKESPEARE.
“Your aunt is an invalid, I regret to say,” Mr. Tredick remarked as
they drove rapidly through the streets, “and we must not come upon
her too suddenly with this good news. I shall have to ask you, Miss
Farnese, to take a seat in the parlor below while I seek a private
interview with her in her boudoir.”
Our heroine bowed in acquiescence, and he went on:
“It will not take long to break the matter to her, and you are not
likely to be kept waiting many minutes.”
“Please do not concern yourself about that,” she said; “I should
prefer to be kept waiting for hours rather than run the slightest risk
of injury to the only relative I am certain of possessing in all the
world.”
The girl seemed composed--the lawyer thought her so, and rather
wondered at such an amount of self-control in one so young--but
inwardly she was full of agitation and excitement.
Her lonely heart yearned for the love and companionship of kindred, yet
dreaded to find in this unknown relative one who might prove wholly
uncongenial and even repulsive. She remembered that she was not
yet of age, and was about to place herself under authority of which
she knew nothing. There might be conflict of tastes and opinions on
very vital subjects. Yet she had no thought of drawing back. She had
weighed the matter carefully, viewed it in all its aspects, had decided
that this was her wisest and best course, and was ready to pursue it
unfalteringly to the end.
So wholly absorbed in these thoughts and emotions was she that she took
no note of the direction in which they were moving, nor what streets
they traversed.
The carriage stopped. Mr. Tredick threw open the door, sprang out, and,
turning, assisted her to alight.
He led her up the steps of a large and handsome dwelling, and rang the
bell. She glanced about her, and started with surprise. The street, the
house, everything within range of her vision, had a strangely familiar
look.
They had reached the suburbs of the city, and before them--as they
stood on the threshold, looking out toward the east--lay the great
lake, quiet as a sleeping child, under the fervid rays of the sun
of that still summer day, one of the calmest and most sultry of the
season. A second glance around, and Floy--as we must still call
her--turned to her conductor with an eager question on her lips.
But the door opened, a smiling face appeared, and a cheery voice
exclaimed:
“Is it you, Misther Tredick, sir? Will ye plaze to walk in, and I’ll
run up an’ tell the Madame. She’s dressed and ready to resave ye, by
good luck.
“An’ the lady too,” added Kathleen, catching a sight of Floy, but
without recognizing her, her face being partially concealed by her veil.
“Step intil the parlor, both o’ yees, plaze, an’ who shall I say wishes
to see the Madame?” she asked, with another and curious glance at the
veiled lady.
“Mr. Tredick,” said that gentleman, giving her his card; “don’t mention
the lady at all. She will wait here till I come down again. Just tell
the Madame that Mr. Tredick wishes to see her a moment on business.”
But Mary’s voice spoke from the stairhead, “Katty, the Madame says ask
the gentleman to walk right up,” and Mr. Tredick, hearing, awaited no
second invitation.
Floy’s brain was in a whirl.
“The Madame? the Madame?” she repeated in low, agitated tones, dropping
into a chair in the luxuriously-furnished parlor, but with no thought
of its richly-carved, costly wood and velvet cushions. “My aunt must be
visiting here. But ’twas for the Madame he asked, ’twas the Madame he
wished to see! Can it be that she--she is-- Yes, it must--it is!”
She hid her face in her hands, with a slight shudder and something
between a groan and a sigh.
The poor Madame had never been an attractive person to Floy; she was
not one whom she could greatly respect or look up to for comfort in
sorrow, for guidance in times of doubt and perplexity.
In finding her she had not found one who would at all fill the place of
the parents she mourned, and whose loss had left her without an earthly
counsellor, an earthly prop.
In the bitterness of her disappointment she learned how much she
had been half unconsciously hoping for. The pressure of poverty had
been sorely felt by the young girl during these past months, but was
as nothing to the yearning for the tender love and care and happy
trustfulness that had been the crowning blessing of earlier days.