On the outskirts of the town, embosomed in a grove of trees, stood Rose Cottage, the pleasant home of the Sutherlands. It was named partly from Rosalie, and partly from her favourite flower—the rose—of which every variety had been collected and cultivated to adorn her house and garden. The house itself was simple and plain in its structure—just an oblong two-story frame building, painted white, with green Venetian blinds, and having four rooms on each floor, with a wide passage running through the centre from front to back, and with an upper and lower piazza running all around the house.
The grounds were unpretending, too—behind the house a kitchen garden and young orchard; in front and at the sides a spacious yard, where single great forest trees were left standing, with rural seats fixed under their shade. In that rich and fertile soil the favourite rose flourished luxuriantly. Rose-trees adorned the yard, rose-bushes hedged the parterres, rose vines shaded the arbours and climbed the pillars of the piazza and gracefully festooned the eaves, and the fragrance of roses filled the air. What gave a tenderer interest to these beautiful roses was, that they were all love-offerings from the young girls and children to their beautiful and beloved teacher.
Mark Sutherland approached this sweet home. Every care and sorrow dropped from his spirit as he opened the little wicket-gate that separated his garden of Eden from the wilderness. He walked on through the shaded yard to the house, and went up to the piazza, and through the front door into the hall, or passage. Here two doors, opposite each other to the right and left, opened—one into their parlour and dining-room, and the other into the school and classroom. He paused a moment, and listened, with a smile, as the low murmur of girls’ voices revealed to him that the school was not yet dismissed.
He opened the door and entered.
Surely, there never was a school-room so pleasant as this, from which the aspect of dullness, weariness, restraint, and irksomeness, was so completely banished, as there certainly never was a teacher so lovely and so beloved. It was a spacious, airy apartment, lighted with many windows, shaded at a little distance by the rose-wreathed pillars and eaves of the piazza. The furniture was of bright cherry, in cheerful contrast to the white walls and floor. Maps and pictures, of rare beauty and appropriateness, decorated the walls, and shells and minerals and mosses adorned the tables.
The young girls and children—some engaged in study, some in pencil-drawing or penmanship, and some in needlework—looked cheery and very much at their ease. They left their seats, and spoke to each other without infringing any rule, but all was done quietly and gracefully, as under the influence of a beloved mistress, whom they obeyed with no forced eye-service, and whom they would not for the world distress or annoy.
And there, at the upper end of the room, on a platform raised but one step above the floor, on a chair, at a table, sat the young schoolmistress—the wife of four years’ standing—scarcely turned twenty-one, and with the loveliest and most delicate face and form in the world, yet by the power of her soul’s strength and beauty keeping in willing subjection a miscellaneous crowd of girls, of all ages, sizes, and tempers. There she sat, with her sweet, fair face, and pale, golden, curly hair, and white muslin wrapper—looking the fairest girl among them all. When Mark entered, the quiet light of joy dawned in her eyes, and she arose and came softly down to meet him. There was a subdued gladness in the manner of both, as they clasped hands.
“My dearest Rose, you are so much better than when I went away,” said Mark, looking fondly at her, as the bloom deepened on her cheeks.
“I am better—I am well” replied Rosalie, smiling round upon her girls, several of whom left their seats, and came fluttering forward to welcome Mr. Sutherland with saucy pleasure. He had a merry jest or a loving word for each affectionate child, but soon sent them gaily back to their places, as the hour of dismissal had come. And Rosalie, accompanied by Mark, went back to her seat, and called the school to order, and gave out and led the evening hymn that closed their exercises.
When the song was finished, and the girls all gone, Mark Sutherland turned to his young wife, and with a smile of joy drew her to his bosom. But in a moment a shade of anxiety clouded his face; and, still clasping her close to his bosom, he asked—