Rose Clark Part 40

"Beautiful Mount Auburn! beautiful when summer's warm breath distills spicy odors from thousand flowers, trembling with countless dewy diamonds; beautiful when the hushed whisper pa.s.ses through its tall treetops, as weeping trains of mourners wind slowly with their dead beneath them.

"Beautiful at daybreak! when the sun gilds thy sacred temple; when the first wakeful bird trills out his matin song.

"Beautiful when evening's star creeps softly out, to light the homeless widow's footstep to the grave of him, whose strong arm lies stricken at her trembling feet.

"Beautiful when the radiant moon silvers lovingly some humble grave, monumentless but for the living statue--Grief!

"Beautiful, even when winter's pall softly descends over its sacred dust; when the tall pines, in their unchanging armor of green, stand firm, like some brave body-guard, while all around is fading, falling, dying; pointing silently upward, where there is no shadow of change.

"Beautiful Mount Auburn! beautiful even to the laughing eye which sorrow never dimmed; beautiful even to the bounding foot, which despair never paralyzed at the tomb's dark portal--but _sacred_ to the rifled heart whose dearest treasures lay folded to thy fragrant bosom!"

CHAPTER LX.

"Is that you, John? because if it is, you can not come in," said Gertrude, opening the door just wide enough for her head to be seen.

"I am so miserable, Gertrude."

"Poor John! Well, just wait a bit, and I will open the door;" and darting back into the room, Gertrude shuffled away a picture on which she had been painting, and then threw open the door of her studio.

"Poor John, what is it?" and Gertrude seated herself on the lounge beside him, and laid her cheek against his, "what is it, John?"

"I am so dissatisfied and vexed with myself," said her brother, "I thought I was disinterested and unselfish, and I am not. I have caught myself hoping that Rose's dream might _not_ prove true--that Vincent might never appear, so that I might win her--and she so bound up in him, too! I am a disgrace to my manhood, Gertrude, a poor, miserable, vacillating, unhappy wretch."

"No, you are not," said Gertrude, kissing his moist eyelids; "only a great soul would have made the generous confession which has just pa.s.sed your lips; a more ign.o.ble nature would have excused and palliated it, perhaps denied its existence; you _are_ generous, and n.o.ble, and good, and I only wish you were not my brother, that I might marry you myself;"

and she tried to force a smile upon John's face, by peeping archly into it.

"Do not jest with me, Gertrude; comfort me if you can. I too have had my dream; I am about to lose Rose. I can not tell you about it now, it is too painfully vivid. How can I live without love? without Rose's love?

Tell me how you learned, Gertrude, to tame down that fiery heart of yours."

Gertrude only replied by her caresses; for, in truth, her heart was too full.

There is an _outward_ life visible to all; there is an _inward_ life known only to our own souls, and Him who formed them.

_Was_ Gertrude's heart "tamed?"

Ah, there were moments when she threw aside book, pallet, and pencil, when she could listen only to its troubled, mournful wailings, because there was nothing in all the wide earth, that could satisfy its cravings. Only in the Infinite can such a spirit find rest; and leaning her head upon John's shoulder, Gertrude sang:

"Oh, ask thou, hope thou not too much From sympathy below; Few are the hearts whence one same touch Bids the sweet fountains flow: Few, and by still conflicting powers, Forbidden here to meet, Such ties would make this world of ours Too fair for aught so fleet;

"But for those bonds all perfect made, Wherein bright spirits blend; Like sister flowers of one sweet shade, With the same breeze that bends.

For that full bliss of soul allied Never to mortals given; Oh, lay thy lovely dreams aside, Or lift them up to Heaven!"

"You are a good girl, Gertrude," said her brother. "I am no Puritan, but your song has soothed me. There _must_ be something more satisfying in another state of existence than there is in this, else were our very being a mockery."

"Poor John; he will arrive at the truth by and by," said Gertrude, as he left the room. "I think it is easier for woman to lean upon an Almighty arm; it is only through disappointment and suffering that man's proud spirit is bowed childlike before the cross. And how, when it gets there, the soul looks wondering back that it should ever have opposed its own poor pride of self to Calvary's meek sufferer!"

CHAPTER LXI.

How the wind roared! how the sails creaked and flapped! and the tall masts groaned! How the great vessel rolled from side to side, and tossed hither and thither, like a plaything for the winds and waves. The poor invalid groaned in his berth with pain and _ennui_. It mattered little to him whether the vessel ever made port or not. Sea-sickness is a great leveler, making the proud and haughty spirit quail before it, and disposing it to receive a sympathizing word from even the humblest.

"A rough sea, sir," said the captain, stripping off his s.h.a.ggy deck-coat, and seating himself by the side of the invalid; "rough even for us old sea-dogs; but for a landsman, ah! I see it has taken you all aback," and the captain smiled as a man may smile who is quits with old Neptune in his fiercest moods.

"I can't say, though," continued the captain, "that you looked any too robust when you came on board. I suppose we must take that into the account. I hope you find yourself comfortable here--stewardess attentive, and so on. She is an uncouth creature, but seems to understand her business. Ah! had you been aboard my ship some years ago, you would have seen a stewardess! Such a noiseless step; such a gentle voice; such a soft touch; it was quite worth while to be sick to be so gently cared for."

The invalid made no reply, save to turn his head languidly on the pillow; he was too weak, and sick, and dispirited to take any interest in the old captain's story.

"I wonder what ever became of her," continued the captain, tapping on the lid of his snuff-box; "I made all sorts of inquiries when I returned from my last voyage. Such a boy as she had with her! You should have seen that boy (bless me, I hope you'll excuse my sneezing). Such a pair of eyes; black--like what, I fancy, yours might have been when you were young, and handsomer; he was a splendid child. We thought one spell the little fellow was going to slip his cable; but he managed to weather the storm, and came out from his sickness brighter than ever. Poor Rose! how she did love him!"

"Rose?" asked the invalid, for the first time betraying any sign of interest.

"Yes; pretty name, wasn't it? and just sweet enough for her too. But, poor girl, she was a blighted Rose!" and the old captain set his teeth together, and bringing his h.o.r.n.y palm down on his knee, exclaimed, "Great Caesar! I should like to see the rascal who broke that woman's heart run up to the yard-arm yonder. I don't care how fine a broad-cloth such a fellow wears; the better his station the greater his sin, and the more weight his d.a.m.ning example carries with it. If a man wants to do a mean action, let him not select a woman to victimize. Yes, sir, as I said before, I should like to have that fellow dangling from yonder yard-arm! I am an old man, and have seen a great deal of this sort of thing in my travels round the world. The laws need righting on this subject, and if men were not so much interested in letting them remain as they are, women would be better protected. Imprisonment for life is none too heavy a penalty for such an offense. It is odd," said the old captain, reflectively, "how a woman will forgive every thing to a man she loves. Now that poor little Rose--she clung to the belief that her lover had neither betrayed nor deserted her--isn't it odd now? and isn't it a cursed shame," said the old captain, striking his hand down again on his knee, "that the most angelic trait in woman's nature should be the very noose by which man drags her down to perdition? Hang it, I could almost foreswear my own s.e.x when I think of it.

"But you don't agree with me, I suppose," said the captain, unb.u.t.toning his vest, as if it impeded the play of his feelings. "You young fellows are not apt to look on it in this light. You _will_, sir, if you ever have daughters. Every such victim is somebody's daughter, somebody's sister. No man can indulge in illicit gratification--not even with a consenting party--and say he does no wrong. In the first place, as I look at it, he blunts his own moral sense; secondly, that of his companion; for it is well known that even the most depraved have moments when their better natures are in the ascendant; who can tell that _on him_ does not rest the responsibility of balancing the scales at such a critical moment? Thirdly, the weight of his example on society; for none, not even the humblest, is without his influence; the smallest pebble thrown into a lake will widen out its circle; but I am talking too much to you," said the old captain; "I think of these things oftener since I saw poor Rose. You must forgive me if I said aught to displease you."

The invalid stretched out his hand, and said, with a languid smile, "I have not strength to talk to you about it now, captain; but G.o.d will surely bless you for befriending poor Rose, as you call her."

"Oh, that's a trifle!" said the captain; "it was a blessing to look on her sweet face and the boy's; you should see that boy, sir; any father might have been proud of _him_. Good-day; bear up, now. n.o.body dies of sea-sickness. We shall make port before long. Let me know if you want any thing. Good-day, sir."

CHAPTER LXII.

"Weeping! dear Gertrude," exclaimed John, as he entered his sister's studio, and seated himself by her side.

Gertrude laid her head upon his shoulder without replying.

"You do not often see me thus," she said, after a pause. "To-day is the anniversary of my husband's death, and as I sat at the window and saw the autumn wind showering down the bright leaves, I thought of that mournful October day, when, turning despairingly away from his dying moans, I walked to the window of his sick room, and saw the leaves eddying past as they do now. I could almost see again before me that pallid face, almost hear those fleeting, spasmodic breaths, and all the old agony woke up again within me. And yet," said Gertrude, smiling through her tears, "such blissful memories of his love came with it! Oh!

surely, John, love like this perishes not with its object--dies not in this world?

"And my little Arthur, too, John--you have never seen my treasures. You have never looked upon the faces which made earth such a paradise for me;" and touching a spring in a rosewood box near her, Gertrude drew from it the pictures of her husband and child, and as John scanned their features in silence, she leaned upon his shoulder, and the bright teardrops fell like rain upon them.

"It is seldom that I allow myself to look at them," she said. "I were unfitted else for life's duties."

"It is a fine face,", said John, gazing at that of Gertrude's husband.

"It is a faithful index of the n.o.ble soul you worship. Your boy's face is yours in miniature, Gertrude."