Had cousin John no war to wage with self? Could the long-hoarded hope of
years be relinquished without a struggle? Could blissful days and
nights, in which to breathe the same air with Rose, win even the
faintest smile, were reward enough for any toil,--could such memories
cease at once to thrill? Could he see that smile, in all its brightness,
beaming upon another?--hear that voice ten fold more musically modulated
whispering (not for him) words he would have died to hear--and not feel
a pang bitter as death? Tell me, ye who have made earth-idols only to
see them pass away?
No--cousin John felt all this; Rose lost all was lost--nothing to toil
for--nothing to hope for--nothing to live for.
Was it indeed so? He dashed the unmanly tears away. Was he, indeed, such
a poor, selfish driveler that the happiness of her whom he loved was
less dear to him than his own? Was it no joy to see that sweet eye
brighten with hope, though kindled by another? Was it nothing to see the
shadow of shame pass from that fair brow, and see it lifted in the
world's scornful face in loving pride to him who rightfully called her
"wife?" Was it nothing that Charley's little heaving heart had found his
own papa?
"Shame--shame--was _his_ manly heart powerless to bear what _she_, whom
he so loved, had borne in all her woman's feebleness?"
"I knew it would be so, John," said Gertrude, gazing into her brother's
calm face, in which the traces of suffering still lingered. "I knew you
could conquer"--and tears of sympathy fell upon the hand she pressed.