THE SHADOWS DEEPEN.
From one of the luxuriously furnished chambers of her father's elegant
mansion, Jenny Lincoln looked mournfully out upon the thick angry
clouds, which, the livelong day, had obscured the winter sky. Dreamily
for a while she listened to the patter of the rain as it fell upon the
deserted pavement below, and then, with a long, deep sigh, she turned
away and wept. Poor Jenny!--the day was rainy, and dark, and dreary,
but darker far were the shadows stealing over her pathway. Turn which
way she would, there was not one ray of sunshine, which even her
buoyant spirits could gather from the surrounding gloom. Her only
sister was slowly, but surely dying, and when Jenny thought of this
she felt that if Rose could only live, she'd try and bear the rest;
try to forget how much she loved William Bender, who that morning had
honorably and manfully asked her of her parents, and been spurned with
contempt,--not by her father, for could he have followed the dictates
of his better judgment, he would willingly have given his daughter to
the care of one who he knew would carefully shield her from the storms
of life. It was not he, but the cold, proud mother, who so haughtily
refused William's request, accusing him of taking underhanded means to
win her daughter's affections.
"I had rather see you dead!" said the stony-hearted woman, when Jenny
knelt at her feet, and pleaded for her to take back the words she had
spoken--"I had rather see you dead, than married to such as _he_. I
mean what I have said, and you will never be his."
Jenny knew William too well to think he would ever sanction an act of
disobedience to her mother, and her heart grew faint, and her eyes dim
with tears, as she thought of conquering the love which had grown with
her growth, and strengthened with her strength. There was another
reason, too, why Jenny should weep as she sat there alone in her room.
From her father she had heard of all that was to happen. The luxuries
to which all her life she had been accustomed, were to be hers no
longer. The pleasant country house in Chicopee, dearer far than her
city home, must be sold, and nowhere in the wide world, was there a
place for them to rest.
It was of all this that Jenny was thinking that dreary afternoon; and
when at last she turned away from the window, her thoughts went back
again to her sister, and she murmured, "If _she_ could only live."
But it could not be;--the fiat had gone forth, and Rose, like the fair
summer flower whose name she bore, must fade and pass away. For
several days after Mrs. Russell's party she tried to keep up, but the
laws of nature had been outraged, and now she lay all day in a
darkened room, moaning with pain, and wondering why the faces of those
around her were so sad and mournful.
"Jenny," said she one day when the physician, as usual, had left the
room without a word of encouragement--"Jenny, what does make you look
so blue and forlorn. I hope you don't fancy I'm going to die? Of
course I'm not."
Here a coughing fit ensued, and after it was over, she continued,
"Isn't George Moreland expected soon?"
Jenny nodded, and Rose proceeded, "I must, and _will_ be well before
he comes, for 'twill never do to yield the field to that Howard girl,
who they say is contriving every way to get him,--coaxing round old
Aunt Martha, and all that. But how ridiculous! George Moreland, with
his fastidious, taste, marry a pauper!" and the sick girl's fading
cheek glowed, and her eyes grew brighter at the absurd idea!
Just then Mr. Lincoln entered the room. He had been consulting with
his wife the propriety of taking Rose to her grandmother's in the
country. She would thus be saved the knowledge of his failure, which
could not much longer be kept a secret; and besides that, they all,
sooner or later, must leave the house in which they were living; and
he judged it best to remove his daughter while she was able to endure
the journey. At first Mrs. Lincoln wept bitterly for if Rose went to
Glenwood, she, too, must of course go and the old brown house, with
its oaken floor and wainscoted ceiling, had now no charms for the gay
woman of fashion who turned with disdain from the humble roof which
had sheltered her childhood.
Lifting her tearful eyes to her husband's face, she said "Oh, I can't
go there. Why not engage rooms at the hotel in Glenwood village.
Mother is so odd and peculiar in her ways of living, that I never can
endure it," and again Mrs. Lincoln buried her face in the folds of her
fine linen cambric, thinking there was never in the world a woman as
wretched as herself.
"Don't, Hatty, don't; it distresses me to see you feel thus. Rooms and
board at the hotel would cost far more than I can afford to pay, and
then, too,--" here he paused, as if to gather courage for what he was
next to say; "and then, too, your mother will care for Rose's _soul_
as well as body."
Mrs. Lincoln looked up quickly, and her husband continued, "Yes,
Hatty, we need not deceive ourselves longer. Rose must die, and you
know as well as I whether our training has been such as will best fit
her for another world."
For a time Mrs. Lincoln was silent, and then in a more subdued tone,
she said, "Do as you like, only you must tell Rose. _I_ never can."
Half an hour after, Mr. Lincoln entered his daughter's room, and
bending affectionately over her pillow, said, "How is my darling
to-day?"
"Better, better,--almost well," returned Rose, raising herself in bed
to prove what she had said. "I shall be out in a few days, and then
you'll buy me one of those elegant plaid silks, won't you? All the
girls are wearing them, and I haven't had a new dress this winter, and
here 'tis almost March."
Oh, how the father longed to tell his dying child that her next dress
would be a shroud. But he could not. He was too much a man of the
world to speak to her of death,--he would leave that for her
grandmother; so without answering her question, he said, "Rose, do you
think you are able to be moved into the country?"
"What, to Chicopee? that horrid dull place! I thought we were not
going there this summer."
"No, not to Chicopee, but to your grandma Howland's, in Glenwood. The
physician thinks you will be more quiet there, and the pure air will
do you good."
Rose looked earnestly in her father's face to see if he meant what he
said, and then replied, "I'd rather go any where in the world than to
Glenwood. You've no idea how, I hate to stay there. Grandma is so
queer, and the things in the house so fussy and countrified,--and
cooks by a _fireplace_, and washes in a tin basin, and wipes on a
crash towel that hangs on a roller!"
Mr. Lincoln could hardly repress a smile at Rose's reasoning, but
perceiving that he must be decided, he said, "We think it best for you
to go, and shall accordingly make arrangements to take you in the
course of a week or two. Your mother will stay with you, and Jenny,
too, will be there a part of the time;" then, not wishing to witness
the effect of his words, he hastily left the room, pausing in the hall
to wipe away the tears which involuntarily came to his eyes, as he
overheard Rose angrily wonder, "why she should be turned out of doors
when she wasn't able to sit up!"
"I never can bear the scent of those great tallow candles, never,"
said she; "and then to think of the coarse sheets and patchwork
bedquilts--oh, it's dreadful!"
Jenny's heart, too, was well-nigh bursting, but she forced down her
own sorrow, while she strove to comfort her sister, telling her how
strong and well the bracing air of the country would make her, and how
refreshing when her fever was on would be the clear, cold water which
gushed from the spring near the thorn-apple tree, where in childhood
they so oft had played. Then she spoke of the miniature waterfall,
which not far from their grandmother's door, made "fairy-like music;"
all the day long, and at last, as if soothed by the sound of that
far-off falling water, Rose forgot her trouble, and sank into a sweet,
refreshing slumber, in which she dreamed that the joyous summer-time
had come, and that she, well and strong as Jenny had predicted, was
the happy bride of George Moreland, who led her to a grass-grown
grave,--the grave of Mary Howard, who had died of consumption and been
buried in Glenwood!
While Rose was sleeping, Jenny stole softly down the stairs, and
throwing on her shawl and bonnet, went across the street, to confide
her troubles with Mary Howard; who, while she sympathized deeply with
her young friend, was not surprised, for, from her slight
acquaintance with Mrs Lincoln, she could readily believe that one so
ambitious and haughty, would seek for her daughter a wealthier
alliance than a poor lawyer. All that she could say to comfort Jenny
she did, bidding her to wait patiently, and hope for the best.
"You are blue and dispirited," said she, "and a little fresh air will
do you good. Suppose we walk round a square or two; for see, the rain
is over now."
Jenny consented, and they had hardly gone half the length of a street
when William himself joined them. Rightly guessing that her absence
would not be noticed, Mary turned suddenly into a side street, leaving
William and Jenny to themselves. From that walk Jenny returned to her
home much happier than she left it. She had seen William,--had talked
with him of the past, present, and future,--had caught from his
hopeful spirit the belief that all would be well in time, and in a far
more cheerful frame of mind, she re-entered her sister's room; and
when Rose, who was awake, and noticed the change in her appearance,
asked what had happened, she could not forbear telling her.
Rose heard her through, and then very kindly informed her that "she
was a fool to care for such a rough-scuff."
In a few days, preparations were commenced for moving Rose to
Glenwood, and in the excitement of getting ready, she in a measure
forgot the tallow candles and patchwork bedquilt, the thoughts of
which had so much shocked her at first.
"Put in my embroidered merino morning gown," said she to Jenny, who
was packing her trunk, "and the blue cashmere one faced with white
satin; and don't forget my best cambric skirt, the one with so much
work on it, for when George Moreland comes to Glenwood I shall want to
look as well as possible; and then, too, I like to see the country
folks open their mouths, and stare at city fashions.'
"What makes you think George will come to Glenwood?" asked Jenny, as
she packed away dresses her sister would never wear.
"I know, and that's enough," answered Rose; "and now, before you
forget it, put in my leghorn flat, for if I stay long, I shall want
it; and see how nicely you can fold the dress I wore at Mrs. Russell's
party!"
"Why, Rose, what can you possibly want of that?" asked Jenny, and Rose
replied, "Oh, I want to show it to grandma, just to hear her groan
over our extravagance, and predict that we'll yet come to ruin!"
Jenny thought that if Rose could have seen her father that morning,
when the bill for the dress and its costly trimmings was presented,
she would have wished it removed for ever from her sight. Early in the
winter Mr. Lincoln had seen that all such matters were settled, and of
this bill, more recently made, he knew nothing.
"I can't pay it now," said he promptly to the boy who brought it.
"Tell Mr. Holton I will see him in a day or two."
The boy took the paper with an insolent grin, for he had heard the
fast circulating rumor, "that one of the _big bugs_ was about to smash
up;" and now, eager to confirm the report, he ran swiftly back to his
employer, who muttered, "Just as I expected. I'll draw on him for what
I lent him, and that'll tell the story. My daughters can't afford to
wear such things, and I'm not going to furnish money for his."
Of all this Rose did not dream, for in her estimation there was no end
to her father's wealth, and the possibility of his failing had never
entered her mind. Henry indeed had once hinted it to her on the
occasion of her asking him "how he could fancy Ella Campbell enough to
marry her."
"I'm not marrying _her_, but her _money_" was his prompt answer; "and
I assure you, young lady, we are more in need of that article than you
imagine."
Rose paid no attention to this speech, and when she found that her
favorite Sarah was not to accompany her, she almost wept herself into
convulsions, declaring that her father, to whom the mother imputed the
blame, was cruel and hard-hearted, and that if it was Jenny instead of
herself who was sick, she guessed "she'd have forty waiting-maids if
she wanted them."
"I should like to know who is to take care of me?" said she. "Jenny
isn't going, and grandma would think it an unpardonable extravagance
to hire a servant. I will not go, and that ends it! If you want to be
rid of me, I can die fast enough here."
Mrs. Lincoln had nothing to say, for she well knew she had trained her
daughter to despise every thing pertaining to the old brown house,
once her childhood home, and where even now the kind-hearted
grandmother was busy in preparing for the reception of the invalid.
From morning until night did the little active form of Grandma Howland
flit from room to room, washing windows which needed no washing,
dusting tables on which no dust was lying, and doing a thousand things
which she thought would add to the comfort of Rose. On one room in
particular did the good old lady bestow more than usual care. 'Twas
the "spare chamber," at whose windows Rose, when a little girl, had
stood for hours, watching the thin, blue mist and fleecy clouds, as
they floated around the tall green mountains, which at no great
distance seemed to tower upward, and upward, until their tops were
lost in the sky above. At the foot of the mountain and nearer
Glenwood, was a small sheet of water which now in the spring time was
plainly discernible from the windows of Rose's chamber, and with
careful forethought Mrs. Howland arranged the bed so that the sick
girl could look out upon the tiny lake and the mountains beyond. Snowy
white, and fragrant with the leaves of rose and geranium which had
been pressed within their folds, were the sheets which covered the
bed, the last Rose Lincoln would ever rest upon. Soft and downy were
the pillows, and the patchwork quilt, Rose's particular aversion, was
removed, and its place supplied by one of more modern make.
Once Mrs. Howland thought to shade the windows with the Venetian
blinds which hung in the parlor below; but they shut out so much
sunlight, and made the room so gloomy, that she carried them back,
substituting in their place plain white muslin curtains. The best
rocking chair, and the old-fashioned carved mirror, were brought up
from the parlor; and then when all was done, Mrs. Howland gave a sigh
of satisfaction that it was so well done, and closed the room until
Rose should arrive.