Rose Clark Part 22

Yes, Mr. Howe smoked "a pipe." Mrs. Howe got up several hysteric fits about it, but on that point only he was immovable, spite of smelling-salts and burned feathers. Finally, Mrs. Howe made up her mind to remove the odium by artistifying it, and with the sweetest conjugal smile presented him with an expensive chibouk, to take the place of that leveling clay pipe. She also added a crimson velvet smoking-cap, in which she declared he looked "as Oriental as a dervish."

"Thunder!" exclaimed Mr. Howe, as he caught sight of himself in a gla.s.s, "you have made me look like that foreign fool of a conjuror we went to see the other evening, who turned eggs into watches. You don't expect me to wear this gimcrack?"

Mrs. Howe whispered something in Mr. Howe's ear. Whatever it was, the effect was electrifying. Husband's have their weak points like other mortals. The smoking-cap was received into favor--so was the chibouk.

In default of any preference of Mr. Howe's for the baby's name, Mrs.

Howe had selected "Fenella Fatima Cecilia." It was written on a card, all ready for the Reverend Doctor Knott, who had the misfortune to be a little deaf, laid by the side of the gilt Bible, and held down to the table by an alabaster hand, with a _real_ diamond ring on the third finger.

The baptismal basin was of silver, with two doves perched on the edges.

The water to be used on the occasion, said to have come from the river Jordan, was in a state of preparedness in a corked bottle in the china closet.

All the preparations were completed, but still the baby slept on. Mrs.

Howe was rather glad than otherwise, partly because it gave her plenty of time to survey her new apparel in a full-length mirror, partly because the baby always had "such a pretty color in its cheeks when it first 'woke," and she wanted to carry it in when the flush was on.

The last pin was adjusted in the maternal head-dress; the Reverend Dr.

Knott had arrived, so had the appreciative select; Mr. Howe's cravat and waistcoat had been duly jerked into place by his wife, and now the baby "really must be woke." Mrs. Howe sprinkles a little jockey-club on Mr.

Howe's handkerchief, takes one last lingering look in the mirror, readjusts a stray ribbon, changes the lat.i.tude of a gold head pin, then steps up to the rose-wood cradle, and draws aside the lace curtains.

What a pity! There is no flush on the babe's face! and how very pale she looks! Mrs. Howe takes hold of the plump little waxen hand that lies out upon the coverlid. What is there in the touch of her own flesh and blood to blanch her lip and palsy her tongue?

Ah! she can not face death, who could gaze with stony eyes on misery worse than death?

"Vengeance is mine--I will repay, saith the Lord."

CHAPTER x.x.xII.

"A stiff breeze, captain; we shall soon be in New Orleans at this rate.

Talk about yellow fever; it can not be worse than sea-sickness. If a good appet.i.te does not come to my rescue, on reaching land I shall pa.s.s for a live skeleton.

"But, captain, who is this pretty stewardess you have on board? and you a family-man, too; eh, captain? And what child is that she has the care of? And what the deuce ails her?--so young and so sedate, so pretty and so uncome-atable! I don't understand it."

"I don't know that it is necessary you should," said the old captain, dryly.

"That's true enough; and if she were homely, she might sigh her soul out before my curiosity would be piqued; but a pretty woman in trouble is another thing, you know. I feel an immense desire to raise a smile on that pretty face, though it could hardly look more enchanting under any circ.u.mstances."

"Look here, Fritz," said the captain; "while that young creature is aboard my ship, she is under my protection. Understand? Not that any of your c.o.xcombical nonsense could make any impression on her, for her heart is heavy with sorrow of some kind, but I won't have her annoyed or insulted. I don't know her history myself, nor shall I ask to know; her post as stewardess is a mere sinecure, though she does not know it.

"She came to me with that child in her arms, in great distress to get to New Orleans, and proposed herself as stewardess. I saw she was in trouble, somehow--young, beautiful, and unprotected; I have daughters just her age; I imagined them in a similar position. Her dignified modesty was a sufficient recommendation and guaranty. I knew she would be hurt at the offer of a _free_ pa.s.sage, so I told her that I needed a second stewardess. That is all I know about her; and, as I said before, while she is aboard my ship, I will protect her as if she were my own child;" and the old man stowed away a tobacco-quid, and walked fore and aft the cabin, with a determined step.

"Certainly," said the foiled Fritz; "your sentiments do you honor, captain. But I have not seen her for two or three days; is she sick?"

"No; but the boy is, and I told her to let every thing go by the board, and attend to him till he was better. Beautiful child he is too; I have never seen a finer one. Doctor Perry thinks he will soon right him."

"Doctor Perry!" exclaimed Fritz, with a spasm of jealousy; "it is my opinion he will make a long job curing that boy."

"The doctor is not one of _your_ sort," said the captain; "her very defenselessness would be to him her surest shield. The doctor is a fine man, Mr. Fritz."

"Yes, and young and unmarried," answered Fritz, with a prolonged whistle. "We shall see," said he, taking the captain's spy-gla.s.s to look at a vessel that was looming up in the distance.

"Charley appears brighter to-day," said Rose to Doctor Perry. "Captain Lucas is very kind to me; but I am very anxious to get about to fulfill my engagements. Don't you think my boy will be well soon?"

"There is every prospect of it," said Doctor Perry. "He is improving fast. I will stay by him, if you will allow me," said he, more anxious to give Rose a reprieve from the confined air of the cabin than solicitous for the "fulfillment of her engagements."

"Thank you," replied Rose, in her usual grave tone, without raising her eyes; "but I would not like to trouble you."

"Nothing _you_ could ask would trouble me," replied the doctor, "unless you asked me to leave your presence."

Rose drew her girlish form up to its full height as she answered: "I did not think you would take advantage of my position to insult me, sir."

"Nor have I, nor do I," replied the doctor, with a flushed brow. "I love you--I love you honorably; I would make you my wife; I am incapable of insulting any woman."

Tears sprang to Rose's eyes as she answered, "Forgive me; I can not explain to you _why_ I am so sensitive to a fancied insult."

"Nor need you," replied the doctor, as an expression of acute pain pa.s.sed over his fine features; "Rose, let me stand between you and harm; be my wife--my own, dear, honored wife."

"Oh no, no, no!" gasped Rose, retreating as he approached her; "you do not know--or you would not. Sir!" and the color receded from her lip and cheek--"that boy!--G.o.d knows I believed myself an honored wife."

"Rose," again repeated the doctor, without heeding her confession, "will you be my wife?"

"I can not," said Rose, moved to tears by his generous confidence, "_that_ would be sin--I have no heart to give you. Though all is mystery, though I never more may see him, I love the father of my boy."

The doctor rose, and walked the little cabin.

"Is this your final answer?" asked he, returning to the side of Rose.

"I can give no other, much as I thank you for this proof of your--" and here her voice again failed her.

"Rose," exclaimed the doctor, pa.s.sionately seizing her hand, "I will not ask you to love _me_. I will be satisfied if you will allow me to love _you_."

Poor Rose, none knew better than herself how eloquently the heart may plead; and _because_ she knew this, because only to the voice of the loved one would the chords of _her_ heart vibrate, did she turn away from that pleading voice and those br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes.

For a long time Rose sat with her face buried in her hands after the doctor left her. It was hard so to repay such trust. Could he only be her brother--her counselor--but no--her path in life must be solitary.

Would the cloud never roll away?

Must it always be so?

Would Vincent never come to claim her?

Would a life of purest rect.i.tude _never_ meet its reward?

Would the world's scornful "Magdalena" be her earth-baptism?