Slowly Rose regained her consciousness. Had she been dreaming about
Vincent's death? The dim light of morning was struggling in through the
vines that latticed the window. She raised herself from the floor. Ah,
now she remembered. It was only the incoherent ravings of the poor
crazed being who had been in the evening before; how foolish to let it
make her so miserable! As if there were not more than one person of the
name of Vincent in the world. She tried to shake off her miserable
thoughts; she knelt by the side of little Charley's bed, and kissed his
blue eyes awake, although it was scarcely daylight; for she felt so
lonely, just as if _her_ Vincent were _really_ dead, and the wide earth
held but one. She took Charley up and held him in her arms, and laid her
cheek to his. Strange she could not shake off that leaden feeling. It
must be that she were ill, she was so excitable; she would be better
after breakfast. Sad work those trembling fingers made with Charley's
toilet that morning. Still she kept tying, and buttoning, and pinning,
and rolling his curls over her fingers--for the restless, unquiet heart
finds relief in motion; ay, motion--when the brain reels and despair
tugs at the heart-strings. Oh, Time be merciful! bear swiftly on the
restless spirit to meet its fate; torture it no longer, suspended by a
hair over the dread abyss!
It had commenced raining. Rose believed it was that which made her
linger on that morning, forgetting through how many drenching rains she
had patiently traversed those streets.
She walks back and forth from the window irresolutely. She thinks she
will wait till the skies clear. Poor Rose! will thy sky _ever_ be clear?
Now she listlessly takes up a newspaper, with which Charley has been
playing. She smooths out its crumpled folds, and reads mechanically
through advertisements of runaway negroes, sales of slaves at the
auction block, ship-news, casualties, marriages, deaths. Ah! what is
that?
"THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED.
"It is at length ascertained that the young man who was poisoned in
Natchez, in a house of questionable reputation, by an abandoned
female, was Vincent L'Estrange Vincent. The deceased was about
twenty-five, of splendid personal appearance, and will doubtless be
much regretted by the large and fashionable circle in which he
moved. The murderess has not yet been apprehended."
The arrow has reached its mark--the bolt has sped--the weary search is
ended--Vincent is found. Rose's Vincent?
No, not _hers_.
The idol is dethroned forever: the Vincent _her_ innocent heart loved
was good, and pure, and true. Rose suffers, but she no longer loves.
There is a deep sense of wrong and injury, a hurried look back upon all
that is lost, a shuddering look forward, from youth's blighted
threshhold, at the long, dreary years yet to come--a helpless folding of
the hands at Fate--a hopeless, tearless, measureless grief.
Blessed tears come quickly; lighten that heavy load; moisten those
burning eyelids; unclasp those icy hands; give to those dumb lips
speech; take from young life death's stony semblance!
Speak to her, Charley. Stir the deep fountains of a mother's love, poor
fatherless one! Nestle close to her desolate heart. Bid her live for
_thee_, Charley. Tell her that 'mid thorns roses are found. Tell her
that to the _night_ alone, many a dew-gemmed flower yields up its
incense.