University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
GOING HOME.

The windows of Rose Lincoln's chamber were open, and the
balmy air of May came in, kissing the white brow of the
sick girl, and whispering to her of swelling buds and fair
young blossoms, which its breath had wakened into life, and
which she would never see.

“Has Henry come?” she asked of her father, and in
the tones of her voice there was an unusual gentleness, for
just as she was dying Rose was learning to live.

For a time she had seemed so indifferent and obstinate,
that Mrs. Howland had almost despaired. But night after
night, when her daughter thought she slept, she prayed for
the young girl, that she might not die until she had first
learned the way of eternal life. And, as if in answer to her
prayers, Rose gradually began to listen, and as she listened,
she wept, wondering though why her grandmother thought
her so much more wicked than any one else. Again, in a
sudden burst of passion, she would send her from the room,
saying, “she had heard preaching enough, for she wasn't
going to die,—she wouldn't die any way.”

But at last such feelings passed away, and as the sun of
her short life was setting, the sun of righteousness shone
more and more brightly over her pathway, lighting her
through the dark valley of death. She no longer asked to

be taken home, for she knew that could not be, but she wondered
why her brother stayed so long from Glenwood, when
he knew that she was dying.

On her return from the city, Jenny had told her as gently
as possible of his conduct towards Ella, and of her fears
that he was becoming more dissipated than ever. For a
time Rose lay perfectly still, and Jenny, thinking she was
asleep, was about to leave the room, when her sister called
her back, and bidding her sit down by her side, said, “Tell
me, Jenny, do you think Henry has any love for me?”

“He would be an unnatural brother if he had not,” answered
Jenny, her own heart yearning more tenderly towards
her sister, whose gentle manner she could not understand.

“Then,” resumed Rose, “if he loves me, he will be sorry
when I am dead, and perhaps it may save him from ruin.”

The tears dropped slowly from her long eyelashes, while
Jenny, laying her round rosy cheek against the thin pale
face near her, sobbed out, “You must not die,—dear Rose.
You must not die, and leave us.”

From that time the failure was visible and rapid, and
though letters went frequently to Henry, telling him of his
sister's danger, he still lingered by the side of the brilliant
beauty, while each morning Rose asked, “Will he come to-day?”
and each night she wept that he was not there.

Calmly and without a murmur she had heard the story
of their ruin from her father, who could not let her die
without undeceiving her. Before that time she had asked
to be taken back to Mount Auburn, designating the spot
where she would be buried, but now she insisted upon being
laid by the running brook at the foot of her grandmother's
garden, and near a green mossy bank where the spring blossoms
were earliest found, and where the flowers of autumn
lingered longest. The music of the falling water, she said,

would soothe her as she slept, and its cool moisture keep the
grass green and fresh upon her early grave.

One day, when Mrs. Lincoln was sitting by her daughter,
and, as she frequently did, uttering invectives against Mount
Holyoke, &c., Rose said, “Don't talk so, mother. Mount
Holyoke Seminary had nothing to do with hastening my
death. I have done it myself by my own carelessness;”
and then she confessed how many times she had deceived her
mother, and thoughtlessly exposed her health, even when
her lungs and side were throbbing with pain. “I know you
will forgive me,” said she, “for most severely have I been
punished.”

Then, as she heard Jenny's voice in the room below, she
added, “There is one other thing which I would say to you.
Ere I die, you must promise that Jenny shall marry William
Bender. he is poor, I know, and so are we, but he has a
noble heart, and now for my sake, mother, take back the bitter
words you once spoke to Jenny, and say that she may wed
him. She will soon be your only daughter, and why should
you destroy her happiness? Promise me, mother, promise
that she shall marry him.”

Mrs. Lincoln, though poor, was proud and haughty still,
and the struggle in her bosom was long and severe, but love
for her dying child conquered at last, and to the oft-repeated
question, “Promise me, mother, will you not?” she answered,
“Yes, Rose, yes, for your sake I give my consent,
though nothing else could ever have wrung it from me.”

“And, mother,” continued Rose, “may he not be sent
for now? I cannot be here long, and once more I would
see him, and tell him that I gladly claim him as a brother.”

A brother! How heavily those words smote upon the
heart of the sick girl. Henry was yet away, and though in
Jenny's letter Rose herself had once feebly traced the

words, “Come, brother,—do come,” he still lingered, as if
bound by a spell he could not break. And so days went by,
and night succeeded night, until the bright May morning
dawned, the last Rose could ever see. Slowly up the eastern
horizon came the warm spring sun, and as its red beams
danced for a time upon the wall of Rose's chamber, she
gazed wistfully upon it, murmuring, “It is the last,—the
last that will ever rise for me.”

William Bender was there. He had come the night before,
bringing word that Henry would follow the next day.
There was a gay party to which he had promised to attend
Miss Herndon, and he deemed that a sufficient reason why
he should neglect his dying sister, who every few minutes
asked eagerly if he had come. Strong was the agony at
work in the father's heart, and still he nerved himself to
support his daughter while he watched the shadows of death
as one by one they crept over her face. The mother, wholly
overcome, declared she could not remain in the room, and on
the lounge below she kept two of the neighbors constantly
moving in quest of the restoratives which she fancied she
needed. Poor Jenny, weary and pale with watching and
tears, leaned heavily against William; and Rose, as often as
her eyes unclosed and rested upon her, would whisper,
“Jenny,—dear Jenny, I wish I had loved you more.”

Grandma Howland had laid many a dear one in the
grave, and as she saw another leaving her, she thought,
“how grew her store in Heaven,” and still her heart was
quivering with anguish, for Rose had grown strongly into
her affection. But for the sake of the other stricken ones
she hushed her own grief, knowing it would not be long ere
she met her child again. And truly it seemed more meet
that she with her gray hair and dim eyes should die even

then, than that Rose, with the dew of youth still glistening
upon her brow, should thus early be laid low.

“If Henry does not come,” said Rose, “tell him it was
my last request that he turn away from the wine-cup, and
say, that the bitterest pang I felt in dying, was a fear that
my only brother should fill a drunkard's grave. He cannot
look upon me dead, and feel angry that I wished him to reform.
And as he stands over my coffin, tell him to promise
never again to touch the deadly poison.”

Here she became too much exhausted to say more, and
soon after fell into a quiet sleep. When she awoke, her
father was sitting across the room, with his head resting
upon the window sill, while her own was pillowed upon the
strong arm of George Moreland, who bent tenderly over her,
and soothed her as he would a child. Quickly her fading
cheek glowed, and her eye sparkled with something of its
olden light; but “George,—George,” was all she had
strength to say, and when Mary, who had accompanied him,
approached her, she only knew that she was recognized by
the pressure of the little blue-veined hand, which soon
dropped heavily upon the counterpane, while the eyelids
closed languidly, and with the words, “He will not come,”
she again slept, but this time 'twas the long, deep sleep,
from which she would never awaken.

Slowly the shades of night fell around the cottage where
death had so lately left its impress. Softly the kind-hearted
neighbors passed up and down the narrow staircase, ministering
first to the dead, and then turning aside to weep as
they looked upon the bowed man, who with his head upon
the window sill, still sat just as he did when they told him
she was dead. At his feet on a little stool was Jenny,

pressing his hands, and covering them with the tears she for
his sake tried in vain to repress.

At last, when it was dark without, and lights were burning
upon the table, there was the sound of some one at the
gate, and in a moment Henry stepped across the threshold,
but started and turned pale when he saw his mother in violent
hysterics upon the lounge, and Mary Howard bathing
her head and trying to soothe her. Before he had time
to ask a question, Jenny's arms were wound around his
neck, and she whispered, “Rose is dead.—Why were you so
late?”

He could not answer. He had nothing to say, and mechanically
following his sister he entered the room where
Rose had died. Very beautiful had she been in life; and
now, far more beautiful in death, she looked like a piece of
sculptured marble, as she lay there so cold, and still, and all
unconscious of the scalding tears which fell upon her face,
as Henry bent over her, kissing her lips, and calling upon
her to awake and speak to him once more.

When she thought he could bear it, Jenny told him of all
Rose had said, and by the side of her coffin, with his hand
resting upon her white forehead, the conscience-stricken
young man swore, that never again should ardent spirits of
any kind pass his lips, and the father who stood by and heard
that vow, felt that if it were kept, his daughter had not died
in vain.

The day following the burial, George and Mary returned
to Chicopee, and as the next day was the one appointed for
the sale of Mr. Lincoln's farm and country house, he also
accompanied them.

“Suppose you buy it,” said he to George as they rode
over the premises. “I'd rather you'd own it than to see it
in the hands of strangers.”

“I intended doing so,” answered George, and when at
night he was the owner of the farm, house and furniture, he
generously offered it to Mr. Lincoln rent free, with the privilege
of redeeming it whenever he could.

This was so unexpected, that Mr. Lincoln at first could
hardly find words to express his thanks, but when he did he
accepted the offer, saying, however, that he could pay the
rent, and adding that he hoped two or three years of hard
labor in California, whither he intended going, would enable
him to purchase it back. On his return to Glenwood, he
asked William, who was still there, “how he would like to
turn farmer for a while.”

Jenny looked up in surprise, while William asked what
he meant.

Briefly then Mr. Lincoln told of George's generosity,
and stating his own intentions of going to California, said
that in his absence somebody must look after the farm,
and he knew of no one whom he would as soon trust as William.

“Oh, that'll be nice,” said Jenny, whose love for the
country was as strong as ever. “And then, Willie, when pa
comes back we'll go to Boston again and practise law, you
and I!”

William pressed the little fat hand which had slid into
his, and replied, that much as he would like to oblige Mr.
Lincoln, he could not willingly abandon his profession, in
which he was succeeding even beyond his most sanguine
hopes. “But,” said he, “I think I can find a good substitute
in Mr. Parker, who is anxious to leave the poor-house. He
is an honest, thorough-going man, and his wife, who is an
excellent housekeeper, will relieve Mrs. Lincoln entirely
from care.”

“Mercy!” exclaimed the last-mentioned lady, “I can

never endure that vulgar creature round me. First, I'd
know she'd want to be eating at the same table, and I
couldn't survive that!”

Mr. Lincoln looked sad. Jenny smiled, and William
replied, that he presumed Mrs. Parker herself would
greatly prefer taking her meals quietly with her husband in
the kitchen.

“We can at least try it,” said Mr. Lincoln, in a manner
so decided that his wife ventured no farther remonstrance,
though she cried and fretted all the time, seemingly lamenting
their fallen fortune, more than the vacancy which death
had so recently made in their midst.

Mr. Parker, who was weary of the poor-house, gladly
consented to take charge of Mr. Lincoln's farm, and in the
course of a week or two Jenny and her mother went out to
their old home, where every thing seemed just as they had
left it the autumn before. The furniture was untouched,
and in the front parlor stood Rose's piano and Jenny's guitar,
which had been forwarded from Boston. Mr. Lincoln
urged his mother-in-law to acompany them, but she shook
her head, saying, “the old bees never left their hives,” and
she preferred remaining in Glenwood.

Contrary to Mrs. Lincoln's fears, Sally Ann made no advances
whatever towards an intimate acquaintance, and frequently
days and even weeks would elapse without her ever
seeing her mistress, who spent nearly all her time in her
chamber, musing upon her past greatness, and scolding Jenny,
because she was not more exclusive. While the family
were making arrangements to move from Glenwood to Chicopee,
Henry for the first time in his life began to see of how
little use he was to himself or any one else. Nothing was
expected of him, consequently nothing was asked of him,
and as his father made plans for the future, he began to

wonder how he himself was henceforth to exist. His father
would be in California, and he had too much pride to lounge
around the old homestead, which had come to them through
George Moreland's generosity.

Suddenly it occurred to him that he too would go with his
father,—he would help him repair their fortune,—he would
not be in the way of so much temptation as at home,—he
would be a man, and when he returned home, hope painted a
joyful meeting with his mother and Jenny, who should be
proud to acknowledge him as a son and brother. Mr. Lincoln
warmly seconded his resolution, which possibly would
have never been carried out, had not Henry heard of Miss
Herndon's engagement with a rich old bachelor whom he had
often heard her ridicule. Cursing the fickleness of the fair
lady, and half wishing that he had not broken with Ella,
whose fortune, though not what he had expected, was considerable,
he bade adieu to his native sky, and two weeks after
the family removed to Chicopee, he sailed with his father
for the land of gold.

But alas! The tempter was there before him, and in an
unguarded moment he fell. The newly-made grave, the
narrow coffin, the pale, dead sister, and the solemn vow were
all forgotten, and a debauch of three weeks was followed by
a violent fever, which in a few days cut short his mortal career.
He died alone, with none but his father to witness his
wild ravings, in which he talked of his distant home, of Jenny
and Rose, Mary Howard, and Ella, the last of whom he
seemed now to love with a madness amounting almost to
frenzy. Tearing out handfuls of his rich brown hair, he
thrust it into his father's hand, bidding him to carry it to
Ella, and tell her that the heart she had so earnestly coveted
was hers in death. And the father, far more wretched now,

than when his first-born daughter died, promised every
thing, and when his only son was dead, he laid him down to
sleep beneath the blue sky of California, where not one of
the many bitter tears shed for him in his far off home could
fall upon his lonely grave.