CHAPTER XX.
THE BOUQUET OF ROSES.
And now Mabel was left alone, with the cup of bitter trial removed from her lips, and a flood of thankfulness gushing up from her heart. How she loved those two young people! How her eyes filled as she gazed after them!
She sat down in her easy-chair, serene and happy. The very absence of the harassing doubts that had tormented her, was in itself almost a bliss.
The day was quiet and dreamy—one of those late Indian Summer mornings, when existence itself seems heavenly. The sash was open, and the odor of heliotrope and roses came through, softening the sweet thoughts that floated in her brain, and becoming, as it were, a part of them. She became very languid and dreamy after this, for the strain upon her energies being removed, the reaction rendered her helpless as a little child. God had put aside the evil day. She was not to be wounded by those whom she had cherished closest to her heart. Ralph and Lina! How she loved to murmur over those names in her solitude! How pleasant it was to think of them, united, and still keeping the family bond unbroken.
Ralph had forgotten to enforce secrecy on his mother, and her first thought was to talk this new promise of family union over with James Harrington. Then, all at once, she remembered that since her accident, no message had been given her from him, and though he was always admitted to her boudoir with as little ceremony as her own son, that privilege had not been once claimed since the storm.
This thought fell like a shadow amid her serene contentment. She began to wonder at this strange desertion, and have a vague consciousness that something was wrong between them. Still, how could this be? Had not Harrington saved her life at the peril of his own? Was not his face, full of agonized hope, bending over her when she awoke from the midnight of the deep?
Mabel gave a sudden start, and her eyes took an expression of alarm. What if he were ill? What if the terrible exertions of that night had overpowered him, and all this was kept from her knowledge? Starting up under the excitement of this apprehension, she was approaching the door, when it opened, and Agnes Barker came in. The young woman looked more than usually excited that morning. The fire, which always lay smouldering in her evasive eyes, was kindled up, and a flush lay redly on her cheek, an evil flush, such as we may imagine the poison in a laurel plant to spread over its blossoms. In her hand she held a few leaves of verbena and rose geranium, encircling a white rose-bud, and a crimson rose, which had evidently been arranged with considerable care.
Mabel moved back to her seat, overcome by that strange thrill of repulsion which always troubled her at the approach of this girl.
"Who sent them?" she inquired, with a gleam of pleasure, as she saw the exquisite bouquet, "who sent them?" and with a look half wistful, half pleased, she reached out her hand. Agnes withheld the bouquet, smiling: