Rose Clark

"Poor – poor Rose!" murmured Gertrude, terrified at the idea which forced itself upon her, "reason gone! Poor Rose!" and as she gazed, the warm tears fell upon the pillow.

Gertrude passed her soft hand magnetizingly over Rose's closed lids and temples; gradually the bright flush left her cheek, and she sank quietly to sleep.

"Was this to be the end of all Rose's sufferings? God forbid," murmured Gertrude. "Death itself were preferable to this," said she, her eyes still riveted on the beauty of that pale, childish face.

"Hush!" whispered Gertrude, with her finger on her lips, as her brother rapped on the door for her; she little thought that she had an unread page in her own eventful history to turn.

"I am so glad I did not see him," exclaimed she, when her brother finished his narration. "I should have felt as if a rattlesnake lay coiled in my path. He deserved his chastisement; and yet, John, I do not like this whipping system; it always seems to me as if a gentleman who stooped to it put himself on a level with the villain whom he punished."

"It is the only way, Gertrude," said the doctor; "especially where the law gives no redress. Besides, it is the only thing that appeals to that kind of fellow."

"But he is so vindictive;" said Gertrude, looking apprehensively at her brother, "he may lay coiled like a wounded snake, but he will yet make a spring."

"You forget that his Christian reputation stands in the way of any such little personal gratification," said John, sarcastically.

"He has been able, though, heretofore, to make a compromise with it," said Gertrude.

"Ah! he had only a woman to deal with," answered John, "and one whom he knew would suffer in silence, as many an injured high-minded woman has done before, rather than sacrifice the delicacy of her sex, by publicly brandishing the cudgel in her own defense, even in a righteous cause. I shall have no such scruples, and you will see that he understands it. A good sound flagellation is the only 'moral suasion' for such women tyrants; it is only against the defenseless such cowards dare wage war."

"Let us talk of something else," said Gertrude; and she related to John what had transpired between her and Rose.

John looked very grave, and sat absorbed in thought.

"I knew it would trouble you," said Gertrude; "it would be so dreadful should she lose her reason."

"I do not fear that," replied John; "I do not think her mind was wandering when she told you her dream. I think you will find that she will be perfectly sane when she wakes.

"Her dream," – and John hesitated, "may prove true; stranger things have happened. Stronger chains of evidence than that which apparently overthrew her hopes have been snapped in twain, and, if – he should – be living – if – he – should prove worthy of her – dear as she is to me, I feel Gertrude, that my love is capable of self-sacrifice. I will use my best endeavors to bring them together.

"I shall never love again," said John; "I shall never see another woman who will so satisfy my soul, so pure, so childlike, so trusting, and yet so strong, so immovable in what she considers right – so vastly superior to all other women. I had woven bright dreams, in which she had a part," and John walked to the window to conceal his emotion.

Gertrude did not follow him; she knew from experience that there are moments when the presence even of the dearest friend is a restraint, when the overcharged spirit must find relief only in solitude and self-communing, and with a heart yearning with tenderness toward her brother, she stole softly from his presence.

CHAPTER LVI

"Don't talk to me, Mrs. Howe," said her husband, slamming to the door, and dumping down in his arm-chair as if to try the strength of the seat. "If there is any thing I hate, Mrs. Howe, it is that tribe of popinjays, one of whom has just gone through that door; hate don't express it, Mrs. Howe, I detest, and abominate, and despise him."

"Well, now, Mr. Howe, I am athtonithed," lisped his wife, that lady not having yet accommodated her speech to the play of her new set of teeth. "I am thure he ith the moth elegant and refined and thivil thpoken young man I ever thaw; I never heard him thay an offenthive thing to any one in my life."

"Of course you haven't, Mrs. Howe; and that's just what I hate him for; a man who is so loaded and primed with civil speeches is always rotten at the core. I always steer clear of such a fellow," said John, forgetting the compliments to himself which he had heretofore swallowed.

"That man never sneezes without calculating the effect of it; he has the same smile and bow and obsequious manner for every body; it is his aim to be popular, and it may go down with women and softheaded men, but he don't take John Howe in. He is an oily-tongued hypocrite. That's plain Saxon, Mrs. Howe. I am astonished at you – no, I am not, either," said John, slamming himself down again into the chair.

"Mrs. Howe!"

And John wheeled his chair close up to her, "didn't you hear him the other day, when that tiresome, stupid Mrs. Frink was here, inquire so touchingly after a bad cough which he recollected she had when he met her a year ago? Did you see the effect it had on the silly old thing? I wonder she got out the door without having it widened, she was so puffed up.

"Mrs. Howe!"

And John moved up still closer, "if that man should meet our old cat in the entry after a month's absence, he'd take off his hat, and inquire after that very precocious kitten of hers he had the pleasure of seeing on the stairs when he was last here. Fact – I'm astonished at you, Mrs. Howe," and John dumped himself down again into the chair; "the man is a jackass, a fool, a perfume-bottle on legs – faugh!

"Mrs. Howe!"

And John wheeled round again, "didn't he upset that old squirrel-eyed Miss Price, by repeating a common-place remark of hers which she made him two or three years ago, and which he had the brass to say struck him so forcibly at the time that he never forgot it? Didn't she go home in the full belief that she had up to that time been terribly underrated by her folks at home? Certainly; – now do you suppose he does all that for nothing, Mrs. Howe? No – he gets his pay out of you all by an invitation to a good dinner. He does the same here, whenever it is more convenient to stop here than down town, and then you and all the rest of these silly women become his trumpeters.

"For his fine speeches to steamboat captains, he gets a free pass in their boats; landlords of hotels, ditto; that's it, Mrs. Howe.

"I am astonished at you, Mrs. Howe.

"He gets presents of hats, presents of coats, presents of canes, presents of pictures, presents of books and stationery.

"As for the women, of course, as I said before, such flummery takes them right down – just as it did you, Mrs. Howe.

"May he be strangled in his pink and blue cravat before he comes here to another dinner.

"That's right, Jonathan, come in," said Mr. Howe, as an unpolished, but good-hearted country cousin strode over the carpet in his thick-soled boots; "that's right. You have come just in time to save me from being sick at the stomach; sit down – any where, top of the piano if you like; put your feet on that Chinese work-table, and hang your hat on that Venus. It will do me good. And give me that bit of hay sticking on your outside coat. Let us have something natural, somehow."

Mrs. Howe retired in disgust, although she was too much under the yoke to make any remonstrance, which she felt sure would be thrown in her teeth!

In default of any more children, Mrs. Howe, like many other ladies similarly situated, consoled herself with her dog, Consuelo.

Seating herself in what she called her "boudoir," a little room whose walls were covered with red satin paper, which Mrs. Howe imagined particularly in harmony with her rubicund complexion, she took Consuelo on her lap, and stroking his long silken ears, said: "How like Mr. Howe, to prefer that clumsy country cousin of his to the elegant Finels. There is just the same difference between them that there is between you, my lovely Consuelo, and that hideous yellow terrier of the butcher's boy. I think I may say, Consuelo, that both you and I are quite thrown away in this house," and wrapping her pet in his embroidered blanket, she laid him down in her lap to sleep.

"Jealous! ah, ha! That's it, Consuelo. That is what sets Mr. Howe so against Finels; as for his coming here for our good dinners, that is all sheer nonsense. He sees plainly enough, with all his politeness to John, that I am miserably sacrificed to him. I was not aware of it myself until after I became acquainted with Mr. Finels. Finels always pays so much attention when I speak. John, on the contrary, half the time, does not seem to hear me. It is not at all uncommon for him to leave the room or to fall asleep in the middle of one of my conversations. It is very irritating to a sensible woman. Finels always remembers some little remark I have made him. I think I must have been in the habit of throwing away a great many good things on John. John has grown very stupid since I married him.

"Finels says such pretty French words; I have not the slightest idea what they mean, but doubtless there is some delicate compliment conveyed in them, if I only understood the language. I think I will study French. Oh! that would be delightful, and then John can't understand a word dear Finels and I say;" and Mrs. Howe tied on her hat, and went in pursuit of a French grammar.

"What on earth is this?" exclaimed Mrs. Howe, as she entered the parlor two hours after, with her French bonnet and French grammar. "What on earth is this?" applying a tumbler which stood on the center-table to her nose, and tasting some remaining crumbs in a plate.

"What is it?" repeated John, puffing away, not at the chibouk, but at the old clay pipe. "What is it? Why, it is the dregs of some molasses and water Jonathan has been drinking, and those crumbs are all that remain of a loaf of brown bread, for which I sent Mary to the grocer's. If he likes country fare he shall have it – why not, as well as your superfine Finels his olives, and sardines, and gimcracks? I pay the 'damages,' you know, Mrs. Howe;" and John's eye gave a triumphant twinkle.

"Of course, my dear – of course," replied that subjugated lady; "it is all right, my dear, and does great credit to your kindness of heart; but it is such a very odd, old-fashioned taste, you know;" and applying her embroidered handkerchief to her nose, she motioned Mary to remove the remains of the homespun feast.

CHAPTER LVII

Old Mrs. Bond had taken her station on the sunny side of her piazza. Mrs. Bond was no sentimentalist, as I have said before. She had never read a line of poetry in her life; but she had read her Bible, and she loved to watch the glorious sun go down, and think of the golden streets of the New Jerusalem, with its gates of pearl, and walls of jasper. Many a blessed vision from that sunset-seat had she seen with her spiritual eyes; and many a sealed passage in the Holy Book which lay upon her lap, had then, and there, and thus, been solved; and many a prayer had gone from thence swift-winged to heaven.

The Bible contains great and mighty truths which none of us may safely reject; but apart from this, no mind, how uncultivated soever, can be familiar with its glowing beauty and sublimity, without being unconsciously refined.

Oh! how many times, even to the God-forgetting, has the beauty of its imagery come home with a force and aptness which no uninspired pen, how gifted soever, could rival!

How vital and immovably lodged, though buried for years under the dust of worldliness, its wise and indisputable precepts!

How like a sun-flash they sometimes illume what else were forever mystery-shrouded!

And now the last tint of gold and crimson had faded out, and one bright star sparkled like a gem on the brow of the gray old mountain, behind which the sun had sank – bright as the Star of Bethlehem to Judea's gazing shepherds, and like them, Mrs. Bond knelt and worshiped.

Broad as the world was her Bible-creed: it embraced all nations, all colors, all sects. Whosoever did the will of God the same was her father, sister, and mother; and like the face of Moses when he came down from the mount, hers shone that evening with the reflected glory of heaven.

The traveler could not have told, as he stopped before that little brown house, and stepped on its homely piazza, why he raised his hat with such an involuntary deference to the unpretending form before him; why his simple "Good evening, madam," should have been so reverently spoken; but so it was; and the kind old lady's welcome to a seat by her frugal board was just as unaccountably to himself accepted.

The traveler was a tall, dark-browed man, with a face and form which must have been once pre-eminently attractive; but now, his fine dark eyes were sunken, as if grief, or sickness, perhaps both, had weighed heavily there; and his tall form seemed bent with weakness. All this his kind hostess noted, and her nicest cup of tea was prepared, and the wholesome loaf set before him, and a blessing craved over it, from lips which knew no fear of man, with Heaven in sight. Perhaps this touched a chord to which the stranger's heart vibrated, for his eyes grew moist with unshed tears, and his voice was tremulous when he addressed his hostess.

"Can you tell me, madam, how far it is to the nearest inn?"

"A weary way, sir – a matter of fifteen miles, and you so feeble. You are quite welcome to stay here, sir, till morning; and your horse will be well content in yonder pasture."

"You are very kind, madam," said the stranger, hesitatingly; then adding with a smile, "travelers who have preceded me on this road must have borne a good name."

"There is nothing here to tempt a thieving hand," said Mrs. Bond. "I seldom think at night of barring yonder door. Where one's trust is in an Almighty arm, there is little room for fear.

"I can remember when yonder broad oak was but a sapling. I was born and married here, sir; through that door my husband and child passed to their long home. My time can not be long; but while I stay, every stone and twig in this place is dear to me."

"With pleasant memories for company, one can not be lonesome," replied the stranger.

"No – and sad ones may be made pleasant, if one only knows how," and she laid her withered hand on the Bible.

As she did so a paper fluttered out from between its leaves. "Sometimes, though," said she, as she took it up, "one's faith is sorely tried.

"This now – this letter – it was from my child. I called her my child, and yet no blood of mine ever flowed in her veins; and she called me 'mother,' because my heart warmed to her; God knows she had sore need of it, poor lamb.

"An old woman like myself may speak plain words, sir. He who was her child's father left her to weep over it alone. It was heart-breaking to see the poor young thing try to bear up, try to believe that he whom her innocent heart trusted, would turn out worthy of its love; but sometimes she would quite break down with the grief; and when she grew fretful with it, I did not chide her, because I knew her heart was chafed and sore.

"Her's was such a lovely babe; so bright, and handsome, and winsome. She was good and loving too. She had not sinned. She had been deceived and wronged. So she could not bear the taunting word, sir; and when it came, unexpectedly to us, she fled away like a hunted deer, through yonder door, till her poor strength gave out, and then we found her and the babe just like dead.

"I brought her home, and nursed her along, and thought to keep her, and make it all easy for her; but her young heart pined for him– she fancied, poor child, she could find him, and the world so wide – and that he would lift her pure brow in the taunting world's face, and call her 'wife;' and so she fled away in the night, no one knew whither, and left me this letter, sir. My eyes are dim – but I have no need to read it, for the words come up to me by day and by night; read it yourself, sir – mayhap in your travels, you may hear of the poor young thing – I should so like to know of her, before I die.

"The light is but dim, sir," said the old lady, as the traveler took it in his hand, and held the letter between his face and Mrs. Bond's.

Yes – the light was dim, so were the traveler's eyes; he must have been sadly feeble too, for his hands trembled so that he could scarcely hold the letter.

"And you never heard from her, after this?" he asked, his eyes still riveted on the letter.

"Not a word, sir; it makes me so sad when I think of it; perhaps she may be dead."

"Perhaps so," answered the traveler, shuddering.

"May be you could make some inquiries, sir, if it would not trouble you, as you go along; her name was Rose, though she looked more like a lily when she left us, poor thing! Rose – and her lover's name was Vincent; perhaps you may have heard of him."

"The name sounds familiar," said the stranger; "perhaps I shall be able to get some clew to it."

"Thank you," said Mrs. Bond, gratefully; "and now, sir, as I get up early I go to rest early; so, if you please, I will show you your room; it is very plain – but it is all the spare one I have. It was poor Rose's room;" and Mrs. Bond taking her candle, led the way to it.

"There," said she, setting the light down upon the table, "many a time when she stood at that little window, sir, she and the babe, people stopped here to ask who they were, they were both so handsome, and so different from our country folks.

"On that very little table she left her letter; it was a long time before I could come here and feel that it was all right she should suffer so, although I know that God's ways are just; but I shall know all about it when I get to heaven; perhaps it was only 'the narrow way' to take her there – who knows? I would rather be Rose than they who brought her here; and yet," said the mild old lady, hesitatingly, "perhaps they thought they did right, but riches make us take strange views of things; it takes grace to be a rich Christian. And when I feel displeased with Mrs. Howe's heartlessness, I say, money might have turned me aside too – who knows? Good-night, sir; heaven send you sweet sleep;" and Mrs. Bond went down into her small kitchen.

And it was here – in this very room, that Rose had wept, and suffered, and wrestled with her great sorrow! On that very pillow her aching head vainly sought rest; at that window she had sat thinking – thinking – till brain and heart grew sick, and God himself seemed to have forsaken her; and down that road she had fled, like a hunted deer, with slander's cruel arrow rankling in her quivering heart!

Not on that pillow could sleep woo our weary traveler.

At the little window he sat and saw the night-shadows deepen, and only the shivering trees, as the night-wind crept through them, made answer to his low moan,

"Rose! Rose!"

CHAPTER LVIII

"Dear Tom, —

"I am glad you are going abroad. You see I can be unselfish. How I wish I were going! Of course you mean to take notes on the way. For Heaven's sake, if you do, don't bore us with re-vamping the travelers' guide-book, like all your predecessors; don't prate stereotyped stupidities about Madonnas, and Venuses, and Gladiators, or go mad over a bit of Vesuvius lava, or wear Mont Blanc or the Rhine threadbare. Spare us also all egotistical descriptions of your dinners and breakfasts with foreign literary lions, and great lords and ladies. Strike out a new path, 'an thou lovest me, Hal, or I will write your book down with one dash of my puissant goose-quill.

"Mrs. John has gone to the dogs. Well, listen, and I will tell you. As John's allowance to her grew fitful, so did my attentions; a man can not live on air you know, or waste his time where it will not pay. Mrs. John pouted, and I whistled. Mrs. John coaxed, and I sulked. Mrs. John took to drinking, and I took French leave, making love to little Kate, who, I hear, has lately had a fortune left her. Well, I had quite lost sight of old Mrs. John for some months; I only knew that her husband was a hanger-on at Gripp's gambling-house, and, like all steady fellows when they break loose, was out-heroding Herod in every sort of dissipation, leaving Mrs. John to take care of herself.

"Well, the other night Harry and I – you remember Harry? that clever dog who always beat us at billiards – Harry and I were coming home about midnight, when we came across a policeman dragging off a woman, who was swearing at him like a privateersman. That was nothing to us, you know, or would not have been, had I not heard my name mentioned. I turned my head; the light from the gas-lamp fell full upon her bloated face, and, by Jove! if it was not old Mrs. John! her clothes half torn off her in the drunken scuffle, looking like the very witch of Endor. Wasn't it a joke? She died that night, at the station-house, of delirium tremens, shrieking for 'John,' and 'Rose,' and 'Finels,' and the deuce knows who. So we go. Have you seen the new danseuse, Felissitimi? If not, do so by all means when she comes to Baltimore. She will dance straight into your heart with her first pas. I'm off, like all the world, to see her.

"As ever, yours,"Finels."

CHAPTER LIX

"And here we are in Boston!" said Gertrude. "Find me any thing lovelier than this Common," she exclaimed, as she seated herself under the trees one sweet summer morning.

"See! Beyond Charles River the hills stretch away in the distance, while the fragrant breath of their woods and hay-fields come wafted on every passing breeze.

"And the Common! one might look till the eye grows weary through those long shady vistas, on whose smoothly-trodden paths the shifting sunlight scarce finds place, through the leafy roofs, to play.

"Look, Rose, at those lovely children gamboling on the velvet grass, fresher and sweeter than the clover-blossoms they hide in their bosoms.

"See! Up springs the fountain! like the out-gushing of Nature's full heart at its own sweet loveliness; leaping upward, then falling to earth again, only to rise with fresher beauty. No aristocratic 'park' key keeps out the poor man's child, for Bunker Hill lifts its granite finger of warning there in the distance, and the little plebeian's soiled fingers are as welcome to pluck the butter-cups as his more dainty little neighbor's.

"God be thanked for that!" said Gertrude. "I well remember one balmy summer morning in New York, when my gipsy feet carried me out over the pavements in search of a stray blade of grass or a fresh blossom. My new dress was an 'open sesame' to one of the 'locked parks' under the charge of an old gardener. Lovely flowers were there, odorous shrubs, and graceful trees. The children of the privileged few, daintily clad, played in its nicely-graveled, shady walks.

"It was beautiful; but outside, the poor man's child, hollow-eyed and sad, crouched that balmy morning on the heated pavement, pressing his pale face close against the iron rails, looking and longing, as only the children of poverty can look and long, into that forbidden Eden!

"It made my heart ache. I could not walk there. That little pale, sad face haunted me at every step. The very flowers were less sweet, the drooping trees less graceful, and the lovely green hedge seemed some tyrant jailor, within whose precincts my very breath grew thick; and so," said Gertrude, "I thank God for this 'Common' – free to all – yes, Common. I like the homely, democratic word.

"Not that there is no aristocracy in Boston," said she, laughing; "on the contrary, the Beacon-street millionaire, whose father might have made his débût three years ago as a tin peddler, looks down contemptuously on those who live outside this charmed locality. The Boston Unitarian never dreams of sharing the same heaven as the Boston Presbyterian, and this is the only platform on which he and the Boston Presbyterian meet! And 'High Church' and 'Low Church' are fenced off and labeled, with a touch-me-not precision, for which the 'Great Shepherd of the sheep' furnished no precedent.