ROSE WARNER.
Nestled among the tall old trees which skirt the borders of Leominster
village was the bird's-nest of a cottage which Rose Warner called her
home, and which, with its wealth of roses, its trailing vines and
flowering shrubs, seemed fitted for the abode of one like her. Slight
as a child twelve summers old, and fair as the white pond lily when
first to the morning sun it unfolds its delicate petals, she seemed
too frail for earth; and both her aunt and he whom she called brother
watched carefully lest the cold north wind should blow too rudely on
the golden curls which shaded her childish brow. Very, very beautiful
was little Rose, and yet few ever looked upon her without a feeling of
sadness; for in the deep blue of her eyes there was a mournful, dreamy
look, as if the shadow of some great sorrow were resting thus early
upon her.
And Rose Warner had a sorrow, too--a grief which none save one had
ever suspected. To him it had come with the words, "I cannot be your
wife for I love another; one who will never know how dear he is to
me."
The words were involuntarily spoken, and George Douglas, looking down
upon her, guessed rightly that he who would never know how much he
was beloved was Henry Warner. To her the knowledge that Henry was
something dearer than a brother had come slowly, filling her heart
with pain, for she well knew that whether he clasped her to his bosom,
as he often did, or pressed his lips upon her brow, he thought of her
only as a brother thinks of a beautiful and idolized sister. It had
heretofore been some consolation to know that his affections were
untrammeled with thoughts of another, that she alone was the object of
his love, and hope had sometimes faintly whispered of what perchance
might be; but from that dream she was waking now, and her face grew
whiter still as there came to her from time to time letters fraught
with praises of Margaret Miller; and if in Rose Warner's nature there
had been a particle of bitterness, it would have been called forth
toward one who, she foresaw, would be her rival. But Rose knew no
malice, and she felt that she would sooner die than do aught to mar
the happiness of Maggie Miller.
For nearly two weeks she had not heard from Henry, and she was
beginning to feel very anxious, when one morning, two or three days
succeeding the memorable Hillsdale celebration, as she sat in a small
arbor so thickly overgrown with the Michigan rose as to render her
invisible at a little distance, she was startled by hearing him call
her name, as he came in quest of her down the garden walk. The next
moment he held her in his arms, kissing her forehead, her lips, her
cheek; then holding her off, he looked to see if there had been in her
aught of change since last they met.
"You are paler than you were, Rose darling," he said, "and your eyes
look as if they had of late been used to tears. What is it, dearest?
What troubles you?"
Rose could not answer immediately, for his sudden coming had taken
away her breath, and as he saw a faint blush stealing over her face he
continued, "Can it be my little sister has been falling in love during
my absence?"
Never before had he spoken to her thus; but a change had come over
him, his heart was full of a beautiful image, and fancying Rose might
have followed his example he asked her the question he did, without,
however, expecting or receiving a definite answer.
"I am so lonely, Henry, when you are gone and do not write to me!" she
said; and in the tones of her voice there was a slight reproof, which
Henry felt keenly.
He had been so engrossed with Maggie Miller and the free joyous life
he led in the Hillsdale woods, that for a time he had neglected Rose,
who, in his absence, depended so much on his letters for comfort.
"I have been very selfish, I know," he said; "but I was so happy, that
for a time I forgot everything save Maggie Miller."
An involuntary shudder ran through Rose's slender form; but,
conquering her emotion, she answered calmly: "What of this Maggie
Miller? Tell me of her, will you?"
Winding his arm around her waist, and drawing her closely to his side,
Henry Warner rested her head upon his bosom, where it had often lain,
and, smoothing her golden curls, told her of Maggie Miller, of her
queenly beauty, of her dashing, independent spirit, her frank,
ingenuous manner, her kindness of heart; and last of all, bending very
low, lest the vine leaves and the fair blossoms of the rose should
hear, he told her of his love; and Rose, the fairest flower of all
which bloomed around that bower, clasped her hand upon her heart, lest
he should see its wild throbbings, and, forcing back the tears which
moistened her long lashes, listened to the knell of all her hopes.
Henceforth her love for him must be an idle mockery, and the time
would come when to love him as she loved him then would be a sin--a
wrong to herself, a wrong to him, and a wrong to Maggie Miller.
"You are surely not asleep," he said at last, as she made him no
reply, and bending forward he saw the tear-drops resting on her cheek.
"Not asleep, but weeping!" he exclaimed. "What is it, darling? What
troubles you?" And lifting up her head, Rose Warner answered, "I was
thinking how this new love of yours would take you from me, and I
should be alone."
"No, not alone," he said, wiping her tears away. "Maggie and I have
arranged that matter. You are to live with us, and instead of losing
me you are to gain another--a sister, Rose. You have often wished you
had one, and you could surely find none worthier than Maggie Miller."
"Will she watch over you, Henry? Will she be to you what your wife
should be?" asked Rose; and Henry answered: "She is not at all like
you, my little sister. She relies implicitly upon my judgment; so you
see I shall need your blessed influence all the same, to make me what
your brother and Maggie's husband ought to be."
"Did she send me no message?" asked Rose; and taking out the tiny
note, Henry passed it to her, just as his aunt called to him from the
house, whither he went, leaving her alone.
There were blinding tears in Rose's eyes as she read the few lines,
and involuntarily she pressed her lips to the paper which she knew had
been touched by Maggie Miller's hands.
"My sister--sister Maggie," she repeated; and at the sound of that
name her fast-beating heart grew still, for they seemed very sweet to
her, those words "my sister," thrilling her with a new and strange
emotion, and awakening within her a germ of the deep, undying love she
was yet to feel for her who had traced those words and asked to be her
sister. "I will do right," she thought; "I will conquer this foolish
heart of mine, or break it in the struggle, and Henry Warner shall
never know how sorely it was wrung."
The resolution gave her strength, and, rising up, she too sought the
house, where, retiring to her room, she penned a hasty note to Maggie,
growing calmer with each word she wrote.
"I grant your request [she said] and take you for a sister well
beloved. I had a half-sister once, they say, but she died when a
little babe. I never looked upon her face, and connected with her
birth there was too much of sorrow and humiliation for me to think
much of her, save as of one who, under other circumstances, might have
been dear to me. And yet as I grow older I often find myself wishing
she had lived, for my father's blood was in her veins. But I do not
even know where her grave was made, for we only heard one winter
morning, years ago, that she was dead with the mother who bore her.
Forgive me, Maggie dear, for saying so much about that little child.
Thoughts of you, who are to be my sister, make me think of her, who,
had she lived, would have been a young lady now nearly your own age.
So in the place of her, whom, knowing, I would have loved, I adopt
you, sweet Maggie Miller, my sister and my friend. May Heaven's
choicest blessings rest on you forever, and no shadow come between you
and the one you have chosen for your husband! To my partial eyes he is
worthy of you, Maggie, royal in bearing and queenly in form though you
be, and that you may be happy with him will be the daily prayer of
"ROSE."
The letter was finished, and Rose gave it to her brother, who, after
its perusal, kissed her, saying: "It is right, my darling. I will send
it to-morrow with mine; and now for a ride. I will see what a little
exercise can do for you. I do not like the color of your face."
But neither the fragrant summer air, nor yet the presence of Henry
Warner, who tarried several days, could rouse the drooping Rose; and
when at last she was left alone she sought her bed, where for many
weeks she hovered between life and death, while her brother and her
aunt hung over her pillow, and Maggie, from her woodland home, sent
many an anxious inquiry and message of love to the sick girl. In the
close atmosphere of his counting-room George Douglas too again battled
manfully with his olden love, listening each day to hear that she was
dead. But not thus early was Rose to die, and with the waning summer
days she came slowly back to life. More beautiful than ever, because
more ethereal and fair, she walked the earth like one who, having
struggled with a mighty sorrow, had won the victory at last; and Henry
Warner, when he looked on her sweet, placid face, and listened to her
voice as she made plans for the future, when Maggie would be his wife,
dreamed not of the grave hidden in the deep recesses of her heart,
where grew no flower of hope or semblance of earthly joy.
Thus little know mankind of each other!