University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
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 live-long 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 be
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.