Part 18 (1/2)

”Men seldom wish to marry a woman who says she does not love them, and Henry Warner will not prove an exception,” answered Madam Conway; and, comforted with this a.s.surance, Maggie folded up her letter, which was soon on its way to Cuba.

The next evening, as Madam Conway sat alone with Mr. Carrollton, she spoke of his return to England, expressing her sorrow, and asking why he did not remain with them longer.

”I will deal frankly with you, madam,” said he, ”and say that if I followed my own inclination I should stay, for Hillsdale holds for me an attraction which no other spot possesses. I refer to your granddaughter, who, in the little time I have known her, has grown very dear to me--so dear that I dare not stay longer where she is, lest I should love her too well, and rebel against yielding her to another.”

For a moment Madam Conway hesitated; but, thinking the case demanded her speaking, she said: ”Possibly Mr. Carrollton, I can make an explanation which will show some points in a different light from that in which you now see them. Margaret is engaged to Henry Warner, I will admit; but the engagement has become irksome, and yesterday she wrote asking a release, which he will grant, of course.”

Instantly the expression of Mr. Carrollton's face was changed, and very intently he listened while Madam Conway frankly told him the story of Margaret's engagement up to the present time, withholding from him nothing, not even Maggie's confession of the interest she felt in him, an interest which had weakened her girlish attachment for Henry Warner.

”You have made me very happy,” Mr. Carrollton said to Madam Conway, as, at a late hour, he bade her good-night--”happier than I can well express; for without Margaret life to me would be dreary indeed.”

The next morning, at the breakfast table, Anna Jeffrey, who was in high spirits with the prospect of having Mr. Carrollton for a fellow-traveler, spoke of their intended voyage, saying she could hardly wait for the time to come, and asking if he were not equally impatient to leave so horrid a country as America.

”On the contrary,” he replied, ”I should be sorry to leave America just yet. I have therefore decided to remain a little longer;” and his eyes sought the face of Maggie, who, in her joyful surprise, dropped the knife with which she was helping herself to b.u.t.ter; while Anna Jeffrey, quite as much astonished, upset her coffee, exclaiming: ”Not going home! What has changed your mind?”

Mr. Carrollton made her no direct reply, and she continued her breakfast in no very amiable mood; while Maggie, too much overjoyed to eat, managed ere long to find an excuse for leaving the table. Mr.

Carrollton wished to do everything honorably, and so he decided to say nothing to Maggie of the cause of this sudden change in his plan until Henry Warner's answer was received, as she would then feel freer to act as she felt. His resolution, however, was more easily made than kept, and during the succeeding weeks, by actions, if not by words, he more than once told Maggie Miller how much she was beloved; and Maggie, trembling with fear lest the cup of happiness just within her grasp should be rudely dashed aside, waited impatiently for the letter which was to set her free. But weeks went by, and Maggie's heart grew sick with hope deferred, for there came to her no message from the distant Cuban sh.o.r.e, which in another chapter we shall visit.

CHAPTER XVII.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

Brightly shone the moonlight on the sunny isle of Cuba, dancing lightly on the wave, resting softly on the orange groves, and stealing gently through the cas.e.m.e.nt, into the room where a young girl lay, whiter far than the flowers strewn upon her pillow. From the commencement of the voyage Rose had drooped, growing weaker every day, until at last all who looked upon her felt that the home of which she talked so much would never again be gladdened by her presence. Very tenderly Henry Warner nursed her, bearing her often in his arms up on the vessel's deck, where she could breathe the fresh morning air as it came rippling o'er the sea. But neither the ocean breeze, nor yet the fragrant breath of Florida's aromatic bowers, where for a time they stopped, had power to rouse her; and when at last Havana was reached she laid her weary head upon her pillow, whispering to no one of the love which was wearing her life away. With untold anguish at their hearts, both her aunt and Henry watched her, the latter shrinking ever from the thought of losing one who seemed a part of his very life.

”I cannot give you up, my Rose. I cannot live without you,” he said, when once she talked to him of death. ”You are all the world to me;”

and, laying his head upon her pillow, he wept as men will sometimes weep over their one great sorrow.

”Don't, Henry,” she said, laying her tiny hand upon his hair. ”Maggie will comfort you when I am gone. She will talk to you of me, standing at my grave, for, Henry, you must not leave me here alone. You must carry me home and bury me in dear old Leominster, where my childhood was pa.s.sed, and where I learned to love you so much--oh, so much!”

There was a mournful pathos in the tone with which the last words were uttered, but Henry Warner did not understand it, and covering the little blue-veined hand with kisses he promised that her grave should be made at the foot of the garden in their far-off home, where the sunlight fell softly and the moonbeams gently shone. That evening Henry sat alone by Rose, who had fallen into a disturbed slumber. For a time he took no notice of the disconnected words she uttered in her dreams, but when at last he heard the sound of his own name he drew near, and, bending low, listened with mingled emotions of joy, sorrow, and surprise to a secret which, waking, she would never have told him, above all others. She loved him,--the fair girl he called his sister,--but not as a sister loves; and now, as he stood by her, with the knowledge thrilling every nerve, he remembered many bygone scenes, when but for his blindness he would have seen how every pulsation of her heart throbbed alone for him whose hand was plighted to another, and that other no unworthy rival. Beautiful, very beautiful, was the shadowy form which at that moment seemed standing at his side, and his heart went out towards her as the one above all others to be his bride.

”Had I known it sooner,” he thought, ”known it before I met the peerless Maggie, I might have taken Rose to my bosom and loved her--it may be with a deeper love than that I feel for Maggie Miller, for Rose is everything to me. She has made and keeps me what I am, and how can I let her die when I have the power to save her?”

There was a movement upon the pillow. Rose was waking, and as her soft blue eyes unclosed and looked up in his face he wound his arms around her, kissing her lips as never before he had kissed her. She was not his sister now--the veil was torn away--a new feeling had been awakened, and as days and weeks went by there gradually crept in between him and Maggie Miller a new love--even a love for the fair-haired Rose, to whom he was kinder, if possible, than he had been before, though he seldom kissed her lips or caressed her in any way.

”It would be wrong,” he said, ”a wrong to myself--a wrong to her--and a wrong to Maggie Miller, to whom my troth is plighted;” and he did not wish it otherwise, he thought; though insensibly there came over him a wish that Maggie herself might weary of the engagement and seek to break it. Not that he loved her the less, he reasoned, but that he pitied Rose the more.

In this manner time pa.s.sed on, until at last there came to him Maggie's letter, which had been a long time on the sea.

”I expected it,” he thought, as he finished reading it, and though conscious for a moment of a feeling of disappointment the letter brought him far more pleasure than pain.

Of Arthur Carrollton no mention had been made, but he readily guessed the truth; and thinking, ”It is well,” he laid the letter aside and went back to Rose, deciding to say nothing to her then. He would wait until his own feelings were more perfectly defined. So a week went by, and again, as he had often done before, he sat with her alone in the quiet night, watching her as she slept, and thinking how beautiful she was, with her golden hair shading her childish face, her long eyelashes resting on her cheek, and her little hands folded meekly upon her bosom.

”She is too beautiful to die,” he murmured, pressing a kiss upon her lips.

This act awoke her, and, turning towards him she said, ”Was I dreaming, Henry, or did you kiss me as you used to do?”