University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.
BROTHER AND SISTER.

During the time which had elapsed since Ben Van
Vechten first made the acquaintance of Rosamond, he
had not once been to Riverside, for failing to enter college,
and overwhelmed with mortification at his failure,
he had returned to Alabama, from which place he wrote
to her occasionally, always addressing her as a little girl,
and speaking of himself as a very ancient personage in
comparison with herself. But that Rosamond was now
no longer a little girl, was proved by her finely rounded
figure, her intelligent face, her polished manners and self-reliant
air. And Rosamond was beautiful, too—so beautiful
that strangers invariably asked who she was, turning
always for a second look, when told she was the adopted
sister or daughter—the villagers hardly knew which—of
the wealthy Mr. Browning. But whether she were the
daughter or the sister of the man with whom she lived,
she was in reality the mistress of his household, and those
who at first slighted her as the child of a milliner, now
gladly paid her homage as one who was to be the heir of
Mr. Browning's wealth. He would never marry her, the
wise ones thought—would never marry anybody—and so,
with this understanding, he was free to talk, walk, and
ride with her as often as he chose. He liked her, the
people said, but did not love her, while Rosamond herself

believed he almost hated her, so strangely cold and
harsh was his manner toward her at times.

This coldness had increased of late, and when the Lawries,
who, next to Mr. Browning, were the most aristocratic
people in the place, suggested that she should accompany
them for a few weeks to the Springs, she was
delighted with the plan, and nothing doubting that Mr.
Browning would be glad to have her out of the way, she
went to him for his consent. She found him in his
library, apparently so absorbed in reading that he did not
observe her approach until she stood between him and
the light. Then he looked up quickly, and, as she fancied,
an expression of displeasure passed over his face.

“Excuse me for disturbing you,” she said, rather
petulantly; “I have to break in upon your privacy if I
would see you at all.”

He gave her a searching glance, and then laying aside
his book and folding his arms, said pleasantly, “I am at
your service now, Miss Leyton. What is it you wish?”

Very briefly she stated her request, and then sitting
down in the window, awaited his answer. It was not
given immediately, and when he did speak, he said—
“Rosamond, do you wish to go?”

“Of course I do,” she replied, “I want to go where it
is not as lonesome as I find it here.”

“Lonesome, Rosamond, lonesome,” he repeated, “Riverside
has never been lonesome since—” he paused a
moment and then added, “since you came here.”

The shadow disappeared from Rosamond's face, as she
replied—“I did not suppose you cared to have me here.
I thought you did not like me.”

“Not like you, Rosamond?” and over his fine features

there came a look of pain, which increased as Rosamond
continued:—“You are so cold at times, and shun me as
it were; inventing excuses to drive me from you when
you know I would rather stay.”

“Oh, Rosamond,” he groaned, “how mistaken you are.
The world would be to me a blank were it not for you;
and if my manner is sometimes cold and cruel, it is because
stern duty demands it should be so. I cannot lay
bare my secret heart to you of all others, but could you
know me as I am, you would censure much, but pity
more.” He paused a moment, then, scarcely knowing
what he said, he continued—“Rosamond, we will understand
each other. I shall never marry—never can marry.
In your intercourse with me, will you always remember
that?”

“Why, yes,” answered Rosamond, puzzled to comprehend
him. “I'll remember that you say so, but it is not
likely you'll keep your word.”

“I am not trifling with you,” he said. Marriage is not
for me. There is a dreadful reason why I cannot marry,
and if at times I am cold toward you, it is because—because—”

Rosamond's eyes were riveted upon his face;—darker
and darker they grew, becoming at last almost black in
their intensity. She was beginning to understand him,
and coloring crimson, she answered bitterly, “I know
what you would say, but you need have no fears, for I
never aspired to that honor. Rosamond Leyton has yet
to see the man she could love.”

“Rosamond,” and Mr. Browning's voice was so low,
so mournful in its tone that it quelled the angry feelings
in the young girl's bosom, and she offered no resistance

when he came to her side and took her hand in his, saying
as he did so—“Listen to me. You came here a little
girl, and at first I did not heed you, but you made your
presence felt in various ways, until at last I thought I
could not live without you. You are a young lady now—
the world calls you beautiful. To me you are beautiful.
Oh, so beautiful,” and he laid one hand upon her shining
hair, softly, tenderly, nay, proudly, as if she had been his
child. “I am not old yet, and it would be natural that
we should love each other, but we must not—we cannot.”

“And lest I should love you too well, you have tried
to make me hate you,” interrupted Rosamond, trying in
vain to release herself from his powerful grasp, and adding,
“but you can spare yourself the trouble. I like you
too well to hate you; but as I live, I would not marry
you if I could. I mean what I say!”

He released her hand, and returning to his chair, laid
his head upon the table, while she continued—“I know
just about how well you like me—how necessary I am to
your comfort, and since fate has decreed that we should
be thrown together, let us contribute to each other's happiness
as far as in us lies. I will think of you as a brother,
if you like, and you shall treat me as a sister, until somebody
takes me off your hands. Now, I can't say I shall
never marry, for I verily believe I shall. Meantime, you
must think of me just as you would if you had a wife.
Is it a bargain, Mr. Browning?”

She spoke playfully, but he knew she was in earnest,
and from his inmost soul he blessed her for having thus
brought the conversation to a close. He would not tell
her why he had said to her what he had—it was not what
he intended to say, and he knew she was in a measure deceived,

but he could not explain to her now; he could
not tell her that he trembled for himself far more than
for her, and it was not for her then to know how much
he loved her, nor how that love was wearing his life away
because of its great sin. He was growing old now very
fast. The shadows of years were on his brow, and Rosamond
almost fancied she saw his brown locks turning
white. She was a warm-hearted, impulsive girl, and going
toward him, she parted from his forehead the hair,
streaked with grey, saying softly to him, “Shall it not be
so? May I be your sister?”

“Yes, Rosamond, yes,” was his answer; and then,
wishing to bring him back to the point from which they
started, Rosamond said abruptly—“And what of the
Springs? Can I go?”

The descent was a rapid one, but it was what he needed,
and lifting up his head, he replied, just as he had done
before, “Do you want to go?”

“Not as much as I did when I thought you were
angry, and if you would rather, I had quite as lief stay
with you.”

“Then stay,” he said, “and we will have no more misunderstandings.”

The next evening, as he sat alone in the parlor, a servant
brought to him a letter, the superscription of which
made him reel, as if he would have fallen to the floor. It
was nearly four years since he had seen that hand-writing
—he had hoped never to look upon it again—but it was
there before his eyes, and she who wrote that letter was
coming to Riverside—“would be there in a few days,
Providence permitting. Do not commit suicide on my
account,” she wrote, “for I care as little as yourself to

have our secret divulged, and unless I find that you are
after other prey, I shall keep my own counsel.”

The letter dropped from his nerveless fingers—the objects
in the room swam before his eyes, and like one on
whom a crushing weight has fallen, he sat bewildered,
until the voice of Rosamond aroused him, and fleeing to
his chamber he locked the door, and then sat down to
think. She was coming to Riverside, and wherefore?
He did not wish for a reconciliation now—he would rather
live there just as he was, with Rosamond.

“Nothing will escape her,” he said; “those basilisk eyes
will see every thing—will ferret out my love for that fair
young girl. Oh, Heaven, is there no escape!”

He heard the voice of Anna Lawrie in the yard. She
was coming for Rosamond's decision, and quick as thought
he rang the bell, bidding the servant who appeared to send
Miss Leyton to him.

“Rosamond,” he said, when she came to the door, “I
have changed my mind. You must go to the Springs.”

“But I'd rather stay at home—I do not wish to go,”
she said.

“I say you must. So tell Miss Lawrie you will,” he
answered, and his eyes flashed almost savagely upon her.

Rosamond waited for no more. She had discovered the
impediment to his marrying. It was hereditary insanity,
and she had seen the first signs of it in him herself! Magnanimously
resolving never to tell a human being, nor let
him be chained if she could help it, however furious he
might become, she went down to Miss Lawrie, telling her
she would go.

One week from that day was fixed upon for their departure,
and during that time Rosamond was too much

absorbed in dresses and finery to pay much heed to Mr.
Browning. Of one thing she was sure, though—he was
crazy; for what else made him stalk up and down the
gravel-walk, his head bent forward, and his hands behind
him, as if intently thinking. Once, when she saw him
thus, she longed to go out to him, to tell him she knew
his secret, and that she would never leave him, however
unmanageable he should become! But his manner toward
her now was so strange that she dared not, and she was
almost as glad as himself when at last the morning came
for her to go.

“Promise me one thing,” he said, as they stood together
a moment alone. “Don't write until you hear from
me, and don't come home until I send for you.”

“And suppose the Lawries come, what then?” she
asked, and he replied, “No matter; stay until I write.
Here are five hundred dollars in case of an emergency,”
and he thrust a check into her hand. “Stop,” he continued,
as the carriage came round—“did you put your
clothes away where no one can see them, or are you taking
them all with you?”

“Why no, why should I?” she answered. “Ain't I
coming back?”

“Yes, yes—Heaven only knows,” he said. “Oh, Rosamond,
it may be I am parting with you forever, and at
such a moment, is it a sin for you to kiss me? You asked
to do so once. Will you do it now?”

“I will,” she replied, and she kissed, unhesitatingly, his
quivering lips.

The Lawries were at the door—Mrs. Peters also—and
forcing down his emotion, he bade her a calm good-bye.
The carriage rolled away, but ere its occupants were six

miles from Riverside, every article of dress which had
belonged to Rosamond had disappeared from her room,
which presented the appearance of any ordinary bedchamber,
and when Mrs. Peters, in great alarm, came to
Mr. Browning, asking what he supposed had become of
them, he answered quietly—“I have put them in my private
closet and locked them up!”