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 casement, 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 passed, 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 passed 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?"
"Not dreaming, Rose," he answered—then rather hurriedly he added: "I have a letter from Maggie Miller, and ere I answer it I would read it to you. Can you hear it now?"
"Yes, yes," she whispered faintly; "read it to me, Henry;" and, turning her face away, she listened while he read that Maggie Miller, grown weary of her troth, asked a release from her engagement.
He finished reading, and then waited in silence to hear what Rose would say. But for a time she did not speak. All hope for herself had long since died away, and now she experienced only sorrow for Henry's disappointment.
"My poor brother," she said at last, turning her face towards him and taking his hand in hers; "I am sorry for you—to lose us both, Maggie and me. What will you do?"
"Rose," he said, bending so low that his brown locks mingled with the yellow tresses of her hair—"Rose, I do not regret Maggie Miller's decision, neither do I blame her for it. She is a noble, true-hearted girl, and so long as I live I shall esteem her highly; but I too have changed—have learned to love another. Will you sanction this new love, dear Rose? Will you say that it is right?"
The white lids closed over the eyes of blue, but they could not keep back the tears which rolled down her face, as she asked somewhat sadly, "Who is it, Henry?"
There was another moment of silence, and then he whispered in her ear:
"People call her Rose; I once called her sister; but my heart now
claims her for something nearer. My Rose," he continued, "shall it be?
Will you live for my sake? Will you be my wife?"
The shock was too sudden—too great; and neither on that night, nor yet the succeeding day, had Rose the power to answer. But as the dew of heaven is to the parched and dying flower, so were these words of love to her, imparting at once new life and strength, making her as it were another creature. The question asked that night so unexpectedly was answered at last; and then with almost perfect happiness at her heart, she too added a few lines to the letter which Henry sent to Maggie Miller, over whose pathway, hitherto so bright, a fearful shadow was falling.