University of Virginia Library

27. XXVII.
OUR ROSEBUD

It was a December day, cold, even at Washington.
Warren Hereford drew a fur-lined cloak about his
shoulders, as he stepped on board a crowded ferry-boat
to cross over to Alexandria. There was a lady on
the other side of the boat whose appearance singularly
interested him. He could only see the outline of her
classic profile beneath the long folds of her black crape
veil, and a single curl, which, unconsciously to the
wearer, had strayed out from the close hat, and floated
like a ray of sunshine over her mourning garments.
Every time he looked, there seemed something more
and more familiar in her aspect, something that made
his pulses thrill, and his heart beat faster. On the
seat beside her, stood a graceful little creature, a sweet
child, as beautiful as an infant angel. He watched
them both, furtively, yet eagerly, until a friend standing
near called his attention to some object at a little
distance.

Before he again turned toward them, a piercing

scream froze upon the air. A voice gave it utterance
which he recognized but too surely; a voice which had
haunted the dreams of years. “Save her!” it shrieked,
“save her, my child, my Rosebud!”

He sprang forward just as the mother was struggling
to throw herself into the sea, in a frantic attempt
to rescue her lost darling. He threw his cloak to a
by-stander. “Hold her, in Heaven's name hold her,”
he shouted, “and stop the boat!” In an instant more
he was in the wake of the boat, near the spot where
the little one had fallen, waiting for her to rise the
second time. There was a moment's breathless hush—
the child rose to the surface of the water—he sprang
forward—he caught her. In two minutes more she
was in her mother's arms.

Then the tears came, falling on the little one's
hair, rousing her from her trance, and when the blue
eyes opened at length, the young mother lifted her
tearful face. “May God bless you,” she murmured;
“I cannot thank you.”

His reply came as naturally, as authoritatively
almost, as if they had not been parted for a day, and
she was still the young girl, happy most of all in
yielding to his wishes. “Grace,” he said, holding out
the cloak lined with fur, “give her to me, she is too
heavy for you now, and beside she is wet. I will wrap
her in this.”

Abandoning herself for a moment to the old dream,

she obeyed his tone of command, and gave him the
child. He said nothing more for a while, then bending
over to look into her eyes, he noticed for the first
time how fearfully thin and pale she had grown.
“Grace!” he murmured.

The hoped-for reply came—“Warren!” and he
seemed satisfied.

When they reached the landing, he called a carriage,
and she looked up inquiringly. “I am going
with you, Grace,” he said; “you could not think I
would leave you.”

She blushed slightly, but made no objection,
merely remarking that it was but a step, as she gave
directions to the driver.

“Grace,” he asked once more, as still holding the
dripping child he sprang to a seat beside her, “do
you live here?”

“Yes, I am all alone now,—Rose and I, I mean.”

He chided himself for a wild joy-thrill which he
could not help at the thought that she was once more
free; but he controlled his voice perfectly, and calmly
inquired if he could be of any farther assistance after
she reached home. No, she was very grateful, but she
should need nothing. At least, then, she would let
him come back again in the evening. He would go and
get some dry clothes, and be with her very early.
She did not refuse. When he gave the little Rose
back again to her arms, he bent over and pressed a

fond kiss on the child's sweet brow, and then drawing
his cloak around him sprang back into the carriage.

His heart beat tumultuously as he opened her gate
that evening, and walked up to the door. She met
him with a smile of welcome, and he entered. Little
Rose sprang to greet him, and he raised her in his
arms. “It did not hurt her, Grace?” he said, inquiringly.

“No, I think not in the least, but I fear you cannot
say the same. I have been feeling badly ever
since, lest I treated you almost unkindly, in my anxiety
for her. Oh, I was not thankless, do not think so;
I owe you more than life. To live would have been
terrible, without her, my darling.”

Then she spoke of his success. She had heard he
was in Congress, and she congratulated him warmly.
For a time they conversed on indifferent subjects,
until the little Rose had fairly gone to sleep in his
arms. The mother raised her from his lap, and laid
her on the bed, and when she came back, he drew his
chair nearer, and said, “Grace, may I tell you what
has been in my heart for nearly four years past?”

“Surely the preserver of my child has earned a
right to speak to me freely.”

“I would you had not said that, Grace; but I have
no right to murmur. What I suffered when we parted,
you can never dream. The next year was one long,

despairing void. It boots not now to speak of that.
Then my father died, and Grace, may-be it was wicked,
but I could not help a feeling something like relief.
I had never dreamed that you would not be true to
me, and I thought when the year of mourning was
over I could come to your side, and call you mine.
Your image was with me night and day, and with this
hope strong in my heart, I went home to my mother,
on the anniversary of my father's death. She showed
me that day a paper containing your marriage. Grace,
my idolized Grace was another's. I thought I should
go mad. I dared not blame you, for I myself had
given you up; and yet God knows if you had been
false to me ten thousand times, I could never have
loved another. Perhaps it was well for me that my
mother mistook my despair for indifference, and told
me what I had never before suspected, that she loved
me, not with a mother's unselfish tenderness, but with
a woman's passionate love. I could not return it, I
could not stay with her, and that very hour we parted.
I have never entered her doors since. I studied law
without her aid, and now, as you have heard, I am in
Congress. For nearly two years I have been with my
own mother and the sisters of whom we used to talk;
but oh, Grace, there has been such an aching void at
my heart all these years. I am not like you, I could
not love another.”

“Warren,” she cried, with flashing eyes, “that is

ungenerous, unmanly. Had you not to-day given me
back my child rescued by your hands from death, I
would tell you that you did not deserve to hear the
story of my life since our parting. But listen, you
shall know all. When that cruel letter came—forgive
the word, but it seemed cruel then—when I knew that
you had chosen between love and wealth, between me
and Mrs. Clifford, I fell to the floor more dead than
alive. For six long weeks I lay in the delirium of a
brain fever that had well-nigh proved fatal. Week
after week those anxious parents watching over me
had no hope that I would arise unless it were to madness.
But youth and their fond care at length prevailed,
and I went forth into the sunshine, a girl no
longer; a heart-broken, miserable woman. Malcom
Hastings knew all, and longed to comfort me. I
learned then that he had worshipped me with all his
noble, generous heart, ever since we first came to Glenthorne.
He did not ask me then to marry him, but
his care for my comfort was constant. The flowers in
my vases, the books on my table, the fresh fruit with
which he strove to tempt my capricious appetite, all
were his gift. At that time my heart seemed dead.
It never thrilled with one such emotion as you had
inspired, and yet he became very dear. I should have
been worse than an ingrate to have borne a thankless
heart for his constant kindness.

“At last my parents sickened. I have no strength

to speak of that. They died on the same day, and
were buried in one grave. It was God's own reward
to the life-long faithfulness of their love. The day they
died I was kneeling by their bedside. Malcom Hastings
was there too. He had shared my watching through it
all. My father had been a long time silent. At last he
put forth his thin hand, and drew my curls caressingly
through his fingers. `My poor Grace,' he said, `this
is hardest. I shall have to leave you poor, and so
friendless.'

“`Not friendless while I live,' said Malcom, drawing
nearer. `I know,' my father answered, `you
have loved her long and faithfully, but the world
would judge her harshly if you were her protector
and not her husband. I would have given her to your
care so gladly. If she were your wife, I could die
happy!' I rose and turned my pale face toward Malcom
Hastings. `Malcom,' I said, `I loved Warren
Clifford as I can never love another. He gave me up
at the command of his father, and I have never seen
him since. That father has been dead a year, and he
has not sought my side. He is lost, dead to me, and
now you are dearer than all others, save these my
parents. It is not such love as I bore him that I can
give you, but it is calm and pure; it will be faithful.
Is it worth your having?'

“He came to my side. `It is worth all things,' he
said, fervently. `Will you be my wife now? It

would make them happier?' I saw the anxious look
in my father's eyes, and I bowed my head. In half
an hour a clergyman stood at the bedside. It was
Joseph Seaton, who was then in Glenthorne. We
were married, and I bent to kiss my father's brow.
He clasped me convulsively to his heart, murmuring,
`Thank God!' and in that embrace he died. My
mother moved then, it was the first time that day, and
laid her head upon his breast. She never lifted it
again.

“After the burial, my husband took me home.
It was a fair, sweet home which he gave me, and I
loved it, but my heart was very sad. I could not forget
the past. Its bitter waters would surge chokingly
over my soul until I longed to lie down in the churchyard
beside that double grave. Malcom was gentle
with me always. Oh, how he loved me! My sad face
and mourning robes brought only darkness to his
hearthstone, and yet I was dearer than his own life.
When they put my baby in my arms, I thanked God.
I thought the touch of those tiny fingers would bring
the warmth back to my life. For a time I was happier;
and then, just as I was learning to requite his
tenderness, my husband died. There was another
grave in the churchyard, and another empty place in
my heart.

“And then came poverty. He had been very rich,
and he thought he had left enough for me and baby.

But a friend for whom he had endorsed to the amount
of his whole fortune, one whom he loved and trusted
as a brother, failed and swept away our whole dependence
in the wreck of his own property. Then I came
here. I knew I had one friend still, in the wife of
Joseph Seaton, and I was too much a bankrupt in
human love not to seek her, and this was her home.
By means of her influence I got employment, and I
managed to support myself very comfortably.”

Warren dared not question her as to the nature of
her task, but a roll of music lay upon the stand, and
he fancied she was a teacher. “Forgive me, Grace,”
he said, when she had concluded her recital, “forgive
me that I ever dared to deem you false or fickle. We
have both suffered, shall we not both forgive? Grace,
may we not dream the old dream o'er again? Will
you be my wife now?”

She rose from her chair and drew her slight figure
up to its fullest height. “Mr. Hereford,” she said, in
a tone very firm and almost haughty, “if you would
have my friendship, if you would visit here at all,
never mention this again. You chose once. You
gave up the poor Grace Atherton for wealtheir friends,
and now Grace Hastings, poorer still, will not accept
from your compassion, what she failed to gain from
your love.”

“But oh, Grace, my life's angel, you cannot be so
unforgiving, so merciless. It broke my heart to give

you up, but I thought it duty. Grace, Grace, my own
sweet love, life of my life, do not send me forth from
your presence, hopeless, miserable.”

She heard him through, she could not help it, for
his words thrilled her heart with a joy whose exquisiteness
was almost pain, but her cheeks were flushed, and
her eyes glittering.

“No,” she said, “I will not bid you hope; I will
not be your wife. You wronged me bitterly. But
for you, my parents might be living still. They looked
upon my sorrow till their hearts were broken, and they
died. Go! When you can speak of other themes,
my child's preserver will be welcome.”

He had no choice but to obey, and when once more
she was alone, she bowed her head and wept wildly.
She loved him still. Every tone of his voice had
power to make her heart tremble with the olden thrill.
She would have given worlds but to be folded to his
breast once more, but pride had triumphed. While
she was obscure and portionless she would not become
his bride. At length she raised her head, and said
hopefully to herself—“Courage, faint heart. All is
not lost yet. Even his love may be mine. In three
months I shall know whether `Cousin Elsie' succeeds,
and if it does, oh then the successful authoress
may be even his bride. He has been faithful, and it
may be the reward is at hand.”