University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
BROTHER AND SISTER.

Brightly shone the moonlight on the sunny isle of Cuba,
dancing lightly on the wave, resting softly on the orange
groves, and stealing gently through the casement, into the
room where a young girl lay, whiter far than the flowers
strewn upon her pillow. From the commencement of the
voyage, Rose had drooped, growing weaker every day, until
at last all who looked upon her, felt that the home, of which
she talked so much, would never again be gladdened by her
presence. Very tenderly, Henry Warner nursed her, bearing
her often in his arms upon the vessel's deck, where she
could breathe the fresh morning air as it came rippling o'er
the sea. But neither ocean breeze, nor yet the fragrant
breath of Florida's aromatic bowers, where for a time they
stopped, had power to rouse her; and when at last Havana
was reached, she laid her weary head upon her pillow, whispering
to no one of the love which was wearing her life
away. With untold anguish at their hearts, both her aunt
and Henry watched her, the latter shrinking ever from the
thoughts of losing one who seemed a part of his very life.

“I cannot give you up, my Rose. I cannot live without
you,” he said, when once she talked to him of death. “You
are all the world to me,” and laying his head upon her pillow,
he wept as men will sometimes weep over their first
great sorrow.

“Don't, Henry,” she said, laying her tiny hand upon his
hair. “Maggie will comfort you when I am gone She
will talk to you of me, standing at my grave, for, Henry,
you must not leave me here alone. You must carry me
home and bury me in dear old Leominster, where my childhood
was passed, and where I learned to love you so much;
oh, so much!”

There was a mournful pathos in the tone with which the
last words were uttered, but Henry Warner did not understand
it, and covering the little blue veined hand with
kisses, he promised that her grave should be made at the
foot of the garden in their far off home, where the sunset-light
fell softly, and the moonbeams gently shone. That
evening, Henry sat alone by Rose, who had fallen into a
disturbed slumber. For a time he took no notice of the disconnected
words she uttered in her dreams, but when, at
last, he heard the sound of his own name, he drew near,
and bending low, listened with mingled emotions of joy,
sorrow and surprise to a secret which, waking, she would
never have told to him, above all others. She loved him—
the fair girl he called his sister—but not as a sister loves,
and now, as he stood by her, with the knowledge thrilling
every nerve, he remembered many by-gone scenes, where,
but for his blindness, he would have seen how every pulsation
of her heart throbbed alone for him, whose hand was
plighted to another, and that other no unworthy rival.
Beautiful, very beautiful, was the shadowy form which, at
that moment, seemed standing at his side, and his heart
went out towards her as the one above all others to be his
bride.

“Had I known it sooner,” he thought, “known it before
I met the peerless Mag, I might have taken Rose to my
bosom and loved her, it may be, with a deeper love than

that I feel for Maggie Miller, for Rose is everything to me.
She has made and keeps me what I am, and how can I let
her die, when I have the power to save her?”

There was a movement upon the pillow. Rose was
waking, and as her soft blue eyes unclosed and looked up in
his face, he wound his arms around her, kissing her lips, as
never before he had kissed her. She was not his sister
now—the veil was torn away—a new feeling had been
awakened, and as days and weeks went by there gradually
crept in between him and Maggie Miller a new love—even a
love for the fair-haired Rose, to whom he was kinder, if
possible, than he had been before, though he seldom kissed
her lips, or caressed her in any way.

“It would be wrong,” he said, “a wrong to himself—a
wrong to her—and a wrong to Maggie Miller, to whom his
troth was plighted,” and he did not wish it otherwise, he
thought; though insensibly there came over him a wish that
Maggie herself might weary of the engagement, and seek
to break it. “Not that he loved her the less,” he reasoned,
“but that he pitied Rose the more.”

In this manner time passed on, until at last there came to
him Maggie's letter which had been a long time on the sea.

“I expected it,” he thought, as he finished reading it,
and though conscious for a moment of a feeling of disappointment,
the letter brought him far more pleasure than
pain.

Of Arthur Carrollton no mention had been made, but he
readily guessed the truth; and thinking “it is well,” he laid
the letter aside and went back to Rose, deciding to say
nothing to her then. He would wait until his own feelings
were more perfectly defined. So a week went by, and again,
as he had often done before, he sat with her alone in the stilly
night, watched her as she slept, and thinking how beautiful

she was, with her golden hair shading her childish face, her
long eyelashes resting on her cheek, and her little hands
folded meekly upon her bosom.

“She is too beautiful to die,” he murmured, pressing a
kiss upon her lips.

This act awoke her, and turning towards him she said,
“Was I dreaming, Henry, or did you kiss me as you used
to do?”

“Not dreaming, Rose,” he answered—then rather hurriedly
he added, “I have a letter from Maggie Miller, and
ere I answer it, I would read it to you. Can you hear it
now?”

“Yes, yes,” she whispered faintly, “read it to me,
Henry;” and turning her face away, she listened, while he
read that Maggie Miller, grown weary of her troth, asked a
release from her engagement.

He finished reading, and then waited in silence to hear
what Rose would say. But for a time she did not speak.
All hope for herself had long since died away, and now she
experienced only sorrow for Henry's disappointment.

“My poor brother,” she said at last, turning her face towards
him and taking his hand in hers; “I am sorry
for you—to lose us both, Maggie and me. What will you
do?”

“Rose,” he said, bending so low that his brown locks
mingled with the yellow tresses of her hair, “Rose, I do
not regret Maggie Miller's decision, neither do I blame her
for it. She is a noble, true-hearted girl, and so long as I
live I shall esteem her highly; but I, too, have changed—
have learned to love another. Will you sanction this new
love, dear Rose? Will you say that it is right?”

The white lids closed wearily over the eyes of blue, but
they could not keep back the tears which rolled down

her face, as she answered somewhat sadly, “Who is it,
Henry?”

There was another moment of silence, and then he
whispered in her ear, “People call her Rose; I once called
her sister; but my heart now claims her for something
nearer. My Rose,” he continued, “shall it be? Will you
live for my sake? Will you be my wife?”

The shock was too sudden—too great, and neither on that
night, nor yet the succeeding day, had Rose the power to
answer. But as the dew of heaven is to the parched and
dying flower, so were these words of love to her, imparting
at once new life and strength, making her as it were another
creature. The question asked that night so unexpectedly,
was answered at last; and then with almost perfect happiness
at her heart, she, too, added a few lines to the letter
which Henry sent to Maggie Miller, over whose pathway,
hitherto so bright, a fearful shadow was falling.