ROSALIE.
“And I am blessed, to my mind.”—_E. B. Browning._
Rosalie’s content was undisturbed and perfect. She had not witnessed
India’s fainting. She knew of it, but ascribed it, as others did, to
fatigue, heat, and over-excitement. She never once associated the swoon
of the bride with the meeting with her former lover. It is true she had
dreaded this meeting, for the sake of Mark, who, she feared, still
cherished an affection for India; but she had no such fears for her. She
could not have imagined—the simple integrity of her heart shielded her
from imagining—that India could have given her hand to one man, while
cherishing a thenceforth guilty preference for another. Of course, she
had heard and read of ladies who desecrated marriage by making a legal
sale of themselves for money, rank, or convenience; but then such were
ladies of society, ladies of the great world—not highhearted women, not
women of noble _sentiments_, like her friend India, who, if she were
fickle, was at least truthful, even in her fickleness. No; the thought
of India, while the wife of another, still loving Mark, and fainting at
his sudden appearance, never entered the girl’s mind. She heard and
entirely believed India’s own explanation of her swoon—“the closeness of
the room”—and so, undisturbed by the suspicion of that suffering near
her, which, had she known it, would have greatly troubled her peace,
Rosalie yielded up her soul to serene joy. That night in her prayers she
returned earnest thanks for the happiness accorded her. She sought her
pillow in the fulness of content. Mark loved her! beyond this, she did
not care to ask or hope any earthly good. Mark loved her! this was
happiness enough for one long season. Mark loved her! the thought
enveloped her soul in a benign sense of perfect protection, safety, and
comfort. Mark loved her! the thought was perfect peace. Wrapped in it,
she sweetly fell asleep.
She awoke in the morning, with a vague impression of a great happiness
sleeping in her heart. Suddenly, with a shock of electric joy, she
remembered what it was—Mark loved her! Again, in her morning worship,
she offered up fervent thanksgiving for this priceless boon of love; and
after she had made her simple morning toilet, she left her room, and
went down stairs. Her self-assumed domestic duties claimed attention;
but still the light of her inward joy brightened all her countenance.
Colonel Ashley, always an early riser, was in the hall when she
descended. He met her, smiling. She was smiling, too.
“Well, my bonny girl!” he said, “spite of late hours, our mountain
breezes are beginning to make the roses bloom on your cheeks. You look
very pretty this morning!”
“Well,” said Rosalie, “how long am I to keep the keys, or when am I to
deliver them up to _Madame l’épouse_?”
“Ah! I don’t know. How should I? You must settle that between you. In a
few days, I suppose. Ask your pretty little mamma; she is likely to know
such points of domestic etiquette. Madam does not look very much like
the material of which Virginia housewives are composed, I must say. I
fear, little girl, that you will still have to carry the keys.”
“Now, you know, uncle, if I am to have all the duties of housekeeper,
without the dignities of mistress, I intend to demand a salary for my
services. Do you hear?”
“And you shall have it, my dear—ten kisses a day. Will that suit you?”
Rosalie laughed and left him.
It was yet early in the morning, and she went to “see after” breakfast.
Her first visit was to her diary, to have the new milk strained, and the
old milk skimmed, and the cream and butter iced and brought out for
breakfast. Then she sent two little negro girls into the garden, to
gather raspberries—a necessary luxury in its season on a country
breakfast table. Then she went into the cellar, to select the fresh fish
and game and oysters that had been kept in ice. Then went to the pantry,
to give out coffee, tea, chocolate, sugar, &c. Then to the plate and
china closet, to “parade” the best Sevres breakfast service and the
family plate, in honour of the occasion. Her next visit was to the
breakfast room, to see that the table was well arranged. “I wonder,
after all, if India _will_ like to spend two hours of the early morning
in this manner, instead of lounging them away over her own elegant
toilet,” said Rosalie to herself, as she passed into the room. Finding
all in order here, the busy little housewife passed next into that
pleasant room near the kitchen and the pantry, and fronting upon the
garden, and devoted to the picking of vegetables and fruit, and such
little half-horticultural, half-culinary pursuits. Here she found her
two little black handmaids, with their baskets of raspberries, waiting
for her. She praised their diligence and took the raspberries, and was
engaged in putting them in cut-glass dishes, and powdering them with
sugar, when she felt a light hand laid upon her shoulder, and, glancing
around, she saw Mark Sutherland standing behind her, smiling upon her. A
sudden bright blush suffused her beautiful countenance; but she
exclaimed, saucily—
“Not even the grace of Paul Pry, to say, ‘I hope I don’t intrude.’”
“You know you gave me the freedom of this room long ago, little
housekeeper.”
“A privilege which men like you seem inclined to abuse,” answered
Rosalie, glancing at her gingham gown, holland apron, and turned-up
sleeves.
“Beautiful in that also, Rosalie. What a charming little peasant you
make!”
“I think so too,” said Rose, ingenuously; and then, blushing and
laughing, she suddenly corrected herself, saying, “_Oh!_ I did not mean
_that_; I meant I like this dress and this occupation, and think they
suit me perhaps as well as any other.”
“Shall I help you with this also, Rosalie?” said Mark, taking up a
sugar-duster.
“Oh, no, thank you! I have nearly done. If you want employment, you may
go into the garden and select a bouquet of the sweetest half-blown white
rose buds and heliotrope that you can find, as a morning offering to our
bride.”
“And for you, a posy of heartsease,” he answered meaningly, pressing her
fingers as he went.
Rosalie finished her fruit, ornamenting the edges of the dishes with
fresh green leaves, and sent them to the table. Then she went and
changed her dress for breakfast; and when Mark returned from the garden,
he found her standing in the hall waiting for him.
She was looking very lovely, in her fresh white muslin morning dress,
without any ornament, but her own soft brown ringlets, and the bright
blush and smile lighted by happiness.
“Here they are, sweetheart!” he said, gaily and fondly showing the
flowers.
“An elegant bouquet for the bride!” she exclaimed admiringly.
“And a sweet little posy for you,” he said, placing the heartsease on
her bosom.
“_Il est a propos, n’est ce pas?_”
“It is fit.”
“_Oui! Comme il faut, Monsieur?_”
“It is faultless.”
“Do you mean to say you won’t talk French with me, Mark?”
“I mean only to show you, as long as you speak it to me, that there is
not a word or phrase in that fashionable and hackneyed language, that
has not a shorter, stronger, and more expressive synonym in our own
mother tongue. There is no language for true thought and strong feeling
like our earnest English. But, my Rose! even English has no word to tell
how much I love you—how dear you are to me! All last evening, occupied,
monopolized as I was, sometimes for a moment I would forget you, and
then your image would return to me with—how shall I say it?—how express
it?—with such a thrill of life and joy as I never felt before; an
emotion purer, higher, more blissful than I ever knew before. But, Rose!
my rose! will this dream fade also? Must I wake, to find that you cannot
go with me through the rough paths of life, up which my footsteps have
to toil?”
“No, Mark! No—unless you will it so. Believe in me, for I am true.
‘Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge;
thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God; and the Lord do so to
me, and more also, if aught but death part me and thee,’” she said
earnestly.
There was earnest honour as well as deep affection in the broken words
wherewith he blessed her, as he led her back into the parlour where all
the family were now assembled.