 | CHAPTER XXIV.
THE LOVERS. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan |  |
24. CHAPTER XXIV.
THE LOVERS.
It was a clear, mild, delightful day in the month of
May; and earth had donned her green robe; and bright
leaves waved in the soft, south breeze; and brighter flowers
exhaled their perfume on the genial air. Among the
flowers of her own little garden, herself the fairest flower
among them, stood Rosalind Clendennan, motionless as a
statue, her features pale and pensive, and her eyes resting
upon the ground. It scarcely needed the long drawn sigh,
to prove that her heart was not wholly at ease. While
standing thus, she heard steps behind her; and starting
from her reverie, she turned, and perceived her favorite
domestic hastening toward her.
“Well, Kitty?” she exclaimed, quickly.
“Don't be alarmed, Miss Rosa—I'm not the bearer of
bad news,” said the serving-girl, who remarked the expression
of uneasiness on the countenance of her beloved mistress.
“I am glad to hear that, Kitty,” replied Rosalind; “but
I see you have something to communicate. Have you
seen my father this morning?”
“Yes, Miss Rosa, and I bring you a message from him.”
“Well, speak!”
“I was passing his door, a few minutes ago, when he
called to me, and said, `Tell Rosalind to hold herself in
readiness to pay me a visit in exactly two hours.”'
“Did you inquire how he felt?”
“I did; but he shut the door, and wouldn't answer me.”
“Alas!” sighed Rosalind—“I fear he is failing fast;
for he appears every day to grow more strange and eccentric.
I know his health is feeble; I know he needs kind
care—such care as an affectionate daughter might bestow;
but even me, his only child, he treats almost as a stranger.
In his usual health, I could bear this, Kitty, as I have
borne; but now—believing, as I do, that he is gradually
failing—gradually wasting away—and going down, step
by step, to the dark grave—it makes my heart very, very
heavy!” and as she spoke, her soft blue eyes grew dim
with tears, that she strove in vain to repress.
“Don't cry, Miss Rosa!” said Kitty, affectionately:
“I can't bear to see you cry. Perhaps it is not as bad as
you think. Master was always strange—at least ever
in his present conduct.”
“He was always strange, Kitty, I know,” said Rosalind;
“that is, he was always different from other persons;
but never, at any period of his life, has he seemed toward
me so very cold as now—now, when I think he most needs
a companion in his sorrow. Oh! if he would only let me
approach him, as an affectionate child should approach an
afflicted parent—instead of shutting off all my sympathy,
and making my own sad heart more desolate,—oh! if he
would only let me nurse him, talk to him, and sing to him,
as I have sometimes done—let me feel as if I were doing
something to render his burden of sorrow less heavy to
bear—methinks I should be comparatively happy!”
“He has never seemed just the same since the loss of
little Ellen,” said Kitty.
“That is true, and I know that loss preys heavily upon
his mind. Poor child! would to Heaven we could get
some tidings of her! But I fear we never may. He took
a deep interest in her; and I think, toward the latter part
of her stay with us, I could discover a change in him for
the better; and even now, her restoration might bring
about a favorable result.”
And then she added, mentally:
“Strange, how mind will operate on mind! He knew
not that she was one who had in her veins the blood of
those he once called friends; and whom (may God forgive
him!) his own hand doomed to sorrow, and himself to
unceasing remorse; and yet he was drawn to her by a
sympathy which to him must have appeared mysterious
indeed. Ah! mind! mind! mind! the most wonderful
attribute of the Almighty! who can comprehend it?
Measuring, weighing, sounding, seeing, and knowing—yet
incomprehensible, and eternal!”
“I wish little Ellen could be found, for dear master's
sake!” said Kitty.
“Ay!” sighed Rosalind—“for his sake, her sake, and
my own—but I fear it will never be!”
“Have you tried the police, Miss Rosa?”
“No,” replied Rosalind; “but perhaps I had better.”
“I thought so in the first place,” said Kitty, with the
air of one who fancied her own opinion of considerable
importance.
“I will first consult—”
Rosalind paused, and Kitty rejoined, with a sly look:
“If you mean Dr. Stanhope, you can do so at once,
for he is now in the drawing-room.”
Instantly a warm glow suffused the lovely features of
Rosalind; and stooping down, apparently to pluck a
flower, she said, rather hastily:
“Kitty, why did you not tell me this at first?”
“Why, thinking of poor master, put it out of my mind.”
“Did he inquire for me, Kitty?”
“Why, who else could he want to see?” returned
Kitty, very innocently, trying to get a glimpse of the face
of Rosalind, who, just at that moment, was very intently
occupied with a modest little flower at her feet.
“Perhaps he has some intelligence of Ellen!” said
Rosalind, keeping her face averted. “Run in, and say I
will be with him presently.”
Kitty hastened away, and Rosalind lingered not long
in her little garden. She met the young physician with a
pleasant “Good morning,” and without any perceptible
embarrassment; but her features were tinged with a glow
that heightened their beauty.
“And how is your father this morning?” was the first
kind inquiry of young Stanhope.
“Alas!” sighed Rosalind—“I do not know;” and a
shade of sorrow swept over her lovely countenance, and
left it pale as marble. “It is hard for an only child to
be obliged to answer thus, concerning a beloved father,”
she continued, sadly; “but I have not been permitted to
see and speak to him for several days. I have just
received a message, that I must visit him in a couple of
hours; but I know not whether I shall be received with
affection, or formality—as a child, or as a stranger.”
“His strange moods must be very trying to you, Rosa
lind!” said Stanhope, with much feeling.
“No one knows how trying!” returned Rosalind, a
tear glistening in her eye. “I feel sometimes as if I could
not have it so. Oh! Newton, if we could only find little
Ellen! You get no news of her, I suppose?”
“None, Rosalind—none—and I fear it is vain to hope.
I would that the mystery might be solved—though I no
longer believe that the child herself is among the living.”
“Oh! Newton, do not say thus!” cried Rosalind.
“I do not say it, Rosalind, to add to your sorrows,” rejoined
Stanhope, in a voice of deep emotion; “for, Heaven
knows, I would joyfully relieve you of every depressing
thought, by taking them upon myself; but a painful certainty
can not wear down the mind like hope long deferred.”
“But notwithstanding what we may believe,” replied
Rosalind, “it is, you perceive, a painful uncertainty still,
and therefore still hope deferred. If I knew her fate, even
though the worst, I grant you it would be better for the
mind than its present wearying suspense.”
“There is one who, notwithstanding his protestations of
innocent ignorance, I still believe could tell something
lips; “for never, in my life, did I see a man exhibit so
much seeming guilt, as he did at the time of my making
the bold accusation.”
“You refer to Deacon Pinchbeck?”
I do; and were it not that he has already undergone a
punishment greater than man could inflict, I think, with
your permission, I would, even now, venture to enter a
complaint against him.”
“But you are not certain that he is guilty, Newton.”
“We are often not certain of the murderer, till after his
trial, Rosalind. But as I have no proof, perhaps I had
better let the matter rest; nor could I find it in my nature,
without positive proof, to proceed against a man so crushed
with grief and misfortune as he is at the present time.
There was a rumor current yesterday, that, by a sudden
fall in stocks, he would lose, at the very least, fifty thousand
dollars; and I learn, this morning, that he has taken
to his bed, and is threatened with a brain fever.”
“Poor man!” said Rosalind.
“Miserable wretch!” ejaculated Stanhope, bitterly.
“He does not deserve pity, Rosalind; for he has wronged,
when he could, every man that has ever been so unfortunate
as to have dealings with him. Besides, he has more
than once turned a poor, starving family into the street, in
the dead of winter, because they could not pay rent; and a
man whose heart is black enough to do that, would murder
for money, were he certain that he could escape detection.
A base, paltry, cowardly scoundrel, without filial affection,
or one noble trait in his character—who uses religion as a
cloak to hide his spiritual deformity! Faugh! the very
mention of such a wretch excites indignant loathing!
Rosalind, what punishment is too great for the villain who
in the almshouse?”
“Good heavens! Newton, you do not mean to say—”
“Ay!” interrupted the other, with a flush of honest indignation—“I
do mean to say, that the mother of Deacon
Pinchbeck died in the almshouse, not ten days ago, whither
she had been taken by Mr. Shelden, who found her
sick and destitute, and thus displayed more Christian
charity toward her than her own son.”
“And is it possible that he let her die there among
strangers?”
“It is true she died there among strangers; but it is
said that the good Deacon did not know of her being there,
till after her death. Yet what matters that? he left her
to suffer in poverty, or she would never have been taken
there.”
“Of all wicked things,” said Rosalind, “I know of none
more wicked, than that of a prosperous child neglecting an
aged parent. Oh! would to Heaven, I had a mother to
care for! or that my afflicted father would permit me to
care for him!” She hastily brushed a tear from her eye,
and continued: “But this Mr. Sheldon, Newton—you
know he promised to make every effort to find Ellen!”
“He says he has done so, but without getting the
faintest clue to the mystery of her disappearance.”
“Ah! poor child! poor child!” sighed Rosalind: “I
shall never see her again, I fear. I almost regret that I
did not apply to the police at first. What think you, Newton—had
we not better do so now?”
“It may be as well; we may be better satisfied that we
have done right; though, I am sorry to say, I have not
the least hope that she will be found. Ah! poor little
thing! After passing through so much sorrow, what a
pity that she should have been snatched away, just at the
grasp!”
“You think, then, this immense fortune would really
have come into her possession?”
“I do, most assuredly. As I told you the other day,
John De Carp Montague is dead; and I certainly believe
your little friend, if living, to be the next rightful inheritress;
for, from all you have told me, I am satisfied that
she is the Ellen Norbury alluded to in the paper which
was stolen from my father.”
“And how many stand between her and your mother,
Newton?” inquired Rosalind.
“None, now, Rosalind—Mrs. Pinchbeck did—but she
is in her grave.
“Then, if Ellen be dead, this estate falls to your mother,
Newton?”
“So I now believe; and to myself next, should I outlive
her.”
“It is certainly very noble on your part, Newton,” said
Rosalind, with a kind of proud animation, “to be so
anxious for the discovery of this child, when you know that
she will step between you and a princely fortune!”
“I trust,” returned the other, with a manly glow, “that
I let no sordid feelings sway me in this matter. That I
should like to come into possession of this estate, it were
false in me to deny; but I have looked into my heart, and
I can honestly say, that it would bound with pleasure to
know Ellen Norbury lives. The fortune belongs to her,
and it is but right that she should have it—so much for
mere justice: but as your dear friend, Rosalind—as one
who would bring happiness to you and to your afflicted
father—it would afford me more joy than I can now express,
could I be the means of placing her in your arms.”
“Thanks! my noble friend—thanks!” said Rosalind,
and an expression of generous admiration beaming from
her soft blue eyes.
For a moment, the young physician looked at the fair
being before him; and then his eyes slowly sunk to the
ground, a deep crimson hue overspread his own manly features,
and for a short time he seemed greatly embarrassed,
like one who wished to make a communication, but was fearful
it might be considered mal a propos. Rosalind seemed intuitively
to know his thoughts; for the warm glow instantly
deepened into a conscious blush; and she turned her head
away, as if attracted by some object which she did not see.
For a brief time, there was a kind of embarrassing silence;
and then the young man, with a glance at his lovely companion,
ventured to speak.
“Rosalind,” he said; and his voice was low and tremulous,
and the name pronounced was followed by a short
pause, during which he evidently sought to gather courage:
“Rosalind—should I not be so fortunate as to restore this
little girl to you—should it, in fact, be discovered that she
is no longer among the living—in short, should I become
possessed of this immense estate—may I, can I, dare I
hope—that—that one who has so long been my friend—
the friend of my family; one whom I have so long esteemed
—nay, loved—for the heart speaks now, and the truth
must be told; may I hope, I say, that one fair being, whom
I have long secretly, but ardently, loved—loved with a
love that is true and holy, because untainted with a single
feeling that an angel might not harbor in his sinless breast;
may I venture to hope, that this one lovely being, without
whom earth would seem a desert, will share the fortune
with me?”
Gradually, while Stanhope was speaking, the color forsook
the face of the lovely listener, till it became as pale
heart seemed to cease its motion; and when his voice died
away to silence, that silence remained unbroken by one
who seemed rather an exquisite statue, from the hand of a
master sculptor, than a living, sentient being.
“Speak, dear Rosalind!” at length murmured Stanhope,
gently taking her hand, and fairly trembling with emotions
that each moment grew more rapturous with hope: “Speak,
dear Rosalind! but oh! let not your tongue syllable words
that will chill my heart with despair! Remember! I
have only asked you to share my fortune; for though
nothing may increase or lessen my love, yet I know too
well the difference between my present circumstances and
yours, to ask you to share my poverty.”
As he said this, Rosalind started, the warm blood rushed
upward to her very temples, and turning quickly toward
her companion, her gentle eyes beaming a kind of sorrowful
reproach, she said:
“Newton, why so cruel a remark?”
“Forgive me!” he said, quickly; “I meant not to
wound your feelings; but I speak as one who has seen
something of the world, and learned some bitter lessons.”
“What care I for wealth?” pursued Rosalind. “It is
not happiness—it brings not happiness; and though, considered
by itself, it may not, strictly speaking, lessen happiness—yet
I am sometimes led to think, that where much
wealth is given, other blessings are taken away, to make
all equal. How many pass this dwelling, and think of its
owner with feelings of envy! and yet, how very few, of all,
would not lose by the exchange of circumstances! They
might gain in wealth, it is true; but if they lost in happiness—as
I believe they would—it would surely be a loss,
instead of a gain, to them.”
“It is pleasant to hear one noble heart utter sentiments
number, as regards mere wealth, Rosalind,” replied the
other; “but it grieves me, at the same time, to know that
she who speaks, has been made so bitterly to feel the
aching void which no earthly treasures can fill! Do not
misjudge my heartfelt sentiments, dear Rosalind, in asking
you to share with me a fortune; it was not because I fancied
that mere wealth would give me favor in your sight;
but because my proud nature revolted at the idea, that you
should, even for one brief moment, suppose a sordid motive
influenced me in asking your hand!”
Here he paused, and seemed deeply embarrassed; and
Rosalind looked down, and perceptibly trembled. At
length, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, he continued:
“Rosalind—dear Rosalind—you have not, so far, said
aught, or done aught, to cast a shadow over my brightest
earthly hope; and oh! may I still venture to hope on?—
to hope that you will one day be mine—come weal—come
woe?”
Rosalind trembled more than ever, and her lovely features
flushed and paled alternately. She struggled to
speak; but the words died upon her quivering lips; and
at length her emotions found vent in a flood of tears; and
she wept freely, and long.
“Speak, dearest!” whispered Stanhope, when she had
become somewhat composed, again taking her hand, and
seating himself by her side. “Speak, dear Rosalind—
one word! I have acknowledged my love—and oh! let
me hear, from your own sweet lips, that I have not loved
in vain!”
“My father”—murmured Rosalind—“I cannot leave
him!”
“Nor would I have you, dearest—for filial love and
duty I hold to be sacred. But your father, dear Rosalind—do
remain with you; and then—”
He paused and sighed.
“And then?” murmured Rosalind.
“You will be alone!” he concluded, in a low, tremulous,
solemn tone.
She raised her soft blue eyes to his—all swimming in
tears, but beaming with love—and the next moment her
head reclined against his manly breast, and she wept
anew.
“Thank God!” fervently exclaimed Stanhope, as he
stole an arm around her gentle form, and drew her closer
to his noble heart, and imprinted upon her sweet lips the
seal of true and holy love: “thank God! my sweet
flower, I am happy once more!”
And a single bright sunbeam, like the brilliant star of
truth, found its way through the open window and parted
curtains, and, resting upon her golden tresses, seemed to
cast around her a halo of purity, peace, and love.
| CHAPTER XXIV.
THE LOVERS. Ellen Norbury, or, The adventures of an orphan | |