BROTHER AND SISTER.
Brightly shone the moonlight on the sunny isle of Cuba, dancing
lightly on the wave, resting softly on the orange groves, and stealing
gently through the casement, into the room where a young girl
lay, whiter far than the flowers strewn upon her pillow. From the
commencement of the voyage Rose had drooped, growing weaker every day,
until at last all who looked upon her felt that the home of which she
talked so much would never again be gladdened by her presence. Very
tenderly Henry Warner nursed her, bearing her often in his arms up on
the vessel's deck, where she could breathe the fresh morning air as it
came rippling o'er the sea. But neither the ocean breeze, nor yet the
fragrant breath of Florida's aromatic bowers, where for a time they
stopped, had power to rouse her; and when at last Havana was reached
she laid her weary head upon her pillow, whispering to no one of the
love which was wearing her life away. With untold anguish at their
hearts, both her aunt and Henry watched her, the latter shrinking ever
from the thought of losing one who seemed a part of his very life.
"I cannot give you up, my Rose. I cannot live without you," he said,
when once she talked to him of death. "You are all the world to me;"
and, laying his head upon her pillow, he wept as men will sometimes
weep over their one great sorrow.
"Don't, Henry," she said, laying her tiny hand upon his hair. "Maggie
will comfort you when I am gone. She will talk to you of me, standing
at my grave, for, Henry, you must not leave me here alone. You must
carry me home and bury me in dear old Leominster, where my childhood
was passed, and where I learned to love you so much--oh, so much!"
There was a mournful pathos in the tone with which the last words were
uttered, but Henry Warner did not understand it, and covering the
little blue-veined hand with kisses he promised that her grave should
be made at the foot of the garden in their far-off home, where the
sunlight fell softly and the moonbeams gently shone. That evening
Henry sat alone by Rose, who had fallen into a disturbed slumber. For
a time he took no notice of the disconnected words she uttered in her
dreams, but when at last he heard the sound of his own name he drew
near, and, bending low, listened with mingled emotions of joy, sorrow,
and surprise to a secret which, waking, she would never have told
him, above all others. She loved him,--the fair girl he called his
sister,--but not as a sister loves; and now, as he stood by her, with
the knowledge thrilling every nerve, he remembered many bygone scenes,
when but for his blindness he would have seen how every pulsation of
her heart throbbed alone for him whose hand was plighted to another,
and that other no unworthy rival. Beautiful, very beautiful, was the
shadowy form which at that moment seemed standing at his side, and
his heart went out towards her as the one above all others to be his
bride.
"Had I known it sooner," he thought, "known it before I met the
peerless Maggie, I might have taken Rose to my bosom and loved her--it
may be with a deeper love than that I feel for Maggie Miller, for Rose
is everything to me. She has made and keeps me what I am, and how can
I let her die when I have the power to save her?"
There was a movement upon the pillow. Rose was waking, and as her soft
blue eyes unclosed and looked up in his face he wound his arms around
her, kissing her lips as never before he had kissed her. She was
not his sister now--the veil was torn away--a new feeling had been
awakened, and as days and weeks went by there gradually crept in
between him and Maggie Miller a new love--even a love for the
fair-haired Rose, to whom he was kinder, if possible, than he had been
before, though he seldom kissed her lips or caressed her in any way.
"It would be wrong," he said, "a wrong to myself--a wrong to her--and
a wrong to Maggie Miller, to whom my troth is plighted;" and he did
not wish it otherwise, he thought; though insensibly there came over
him a wish that Maggie herself might weary of the engagement and seek
to break it. Not that he loved her the less, he reasoned, but that he
pitied Rose the more.
In this manner time passed on, until at last there came to him
Maggie's letter, which had been a long time on the sea.
"I expected it," he thought, as he finished reading it, and though
conscious for a moment of a feeling of disappointment the letter
brought him far more pleasure than pain.
Of Arthur Carrollton no mention had been made, but he readily guessed
the truth; and thinking, "It is well," he laid the letter aside and
went back to Rose, deciding to say nothing to her then. He would wait
until his own feelings were more perfectly defined. So a week went by,
and again, as he had often done before, he sat with her alone in the
quiet night, watching her as she slept, and thinking how beautiful
she was, with her golden hair shading her childish face, her long
eyelashes resting on her cheek, and her little hands folded meekly
upon her bosom.
"She is too beautiful to die," he murmured, pressing a kiss upon her
lips.
This act awoke her, and, turning towards him she said, "Was I
dreaming, Henry, or did you kiss me as you used to do?"
"Not dreaming, Rose," he answered--then rather hurriedly he added: "I
have a letter from Maggie Miller, and ere I answer it I would read it
to you. Can you hear it now?"
"Yes, yes," she whispered faintly; "read it to me, Henry;" and,
turning her face away, she listened while he read that Maggie Miller,
grown weary of her troth, asked a release from her engagement.
He finished reading, and then waited in silence to hear what Rose
would say. But for a time she did not speak. All hope for herself had
long since died away, and now she experienced only sorrow for Henry's
disappointment.
"My poor brother," she said at last, turning her face towards him and
taking his hand in hers; "I am sorry for you--to lose us both, Maggie
and me. What will you do?"
"Rose," he said, bending so low that his brown locks mingled with the
yellow tresses of her hair--"Rose, I do not regret Maggie Miller's
decision, neither do I blame her for it. She is a noble, true-hearted
girl, and so long as I live I shall esteem her highly; but I too have
changed--have learned to love another. Will you sanction this new
love, dear Rose? Will you say that it is right?"
The white lids closed over the eyes of blue, but they could not keep
back the tears which rolled down her face, as she asked somewhat
sadly, "Who is it, Henry?"
There was another moment of silence, and then he whispered in her ear:
"People call her Rose; I once called her sister; but my heart now
claims her for something nearer. My Rose," he continued, "shall it be?
Will you live for my sake? Will you be my wife?"
The shock was too sudden--too great; and neither on that night, nor
yet the succeeding day, had Rose the power to answer. But as the dew
of heaven is to the parched and dying flower, so were these words of
love to her, imparting at once new life and strength, making her as it
were another creature. The question asked that night so unexpectedly
was answered at last; and then with almost perfect happiness at her
heart, she too added a few lines to the letter which Henry sent to
Maggie Miller, over whose pathway, hitherto so bright, a fearful
shadow was falling.