Mark Sutherland returned at the end of the month, with the flush of hope upon his cheek, the light of anticipated triumph in his eyes; but both light and colour faded from his face at the sudden sight of Rosalie’s brilliant eyes and burning cheeks. Was it strange that he never was struck by her illness, except upon meeting her after an absence? On the contrary, I think it was natural, for a few days accustomed him to her appearance; and her sweet patience, her cheerfulness and hope, mesmerised him into peace and joy. But this time, as he drew her into the house, he said—
“Indeed, Rosalie, you must, you shall give up your school. You are not strong enough to continue it! Besides, it is not needful. My election is nearly certain, and then another sphere and other more graceful, agreeable, and lady-like amusements will await you, dearest.”
Rosalie smiled.
“Dear Mark, whenever you make a circuit among our hardy country people, you come back thinking me more fragile than ever, from the contrast.”
And so she reassured him—and oh! he was very willing to be reassured—and she continued the charge of her school—anxious for every good principle she could instil into the minds of her young pupils—saying to herself, “These little ones will hereafter be the wives and mothers of law-makers, as all our people are law-makers; they will live in an era when American women will have more influence upon the destinies of the nation than they dream of now. That influence must be for the right; I must sow the good seed, and cultivate it while I live, that, after I die, the germ may grow and flourish, and bring forth much fruit in other lives!”
But the day came at last when her school had to be closed, and the labourer was obliged to rest from her labour. It was during the afternoon session of a certain Friday—a day never to be forgotten by the young girls, who loved their gentle teacher with enthusiastic devotion—in the midst of one of the class-exercises—a little extempore lecture on their history lesson—that a sudden failure of strength drew all colour from her face, her head dropped forward on her desk, and she swooned. And after this she did not teach. Her school was opened but once more, and for the last time. It was the day that she received her pupils for the purpose of bidding them farewell. It was quite a cheerful parting on her part, saddened by no vain repining; on theirs, darkened by no vision of the shadow of death. She made it the occasion of a little festival, that her children’s last reminiscences of her might be associated with pleasant thoughts; and yet it was an earnest parting, too, that she sought to sanctify to their good. In taking leave of each dear girl, she laid upon the heart of each a text of Scripture, suited to the individual need, to be remembered for her sake, and acted upon until they should meet again. For instance, Regina’s besetting sin was ambition, and with her she left, “What shall it profit a man, if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?” and to Augusta, who had a haughty mind, she said, “Pride goeth before a fall, and a haughty spirit before destruction;” to Maud, who had a high temper, she whispered, “A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger;” to little Alice, who was poor and neglected, and inclined—child as she was—to despondency, she said, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth;” to Fanny, who was an impetuous, impassioned child of impulse, she said, “He that ruleth his own spirit is greater than he who taketh a city.” All these the affectionate girls promised to lay to heart, and act upon until they should meet their teacher again. Only Fanny said she hoped their dear teacher would not treat them as Lycurgus did the Spartans, and leave them laws to be obeyed during her absence, and then go away, never to return. A cloud passed over the sunshine of Rosalie’s countenance; but after a little hesitation she said, “If I live, dear girls, I will return in the spring.” And soon after saying this, she dismissed all the bright-eyed, light-hearted children to their homes.
Rosalie had been directed by her physician to spend the fall and winter in the South. She had an old, standing engagement to spend a few months in Louisiana, at the house of the Lauderdales, with whom she had kept up a regular correspondence. But, previous to embracing this opportunity of benefitting her health by accepting the invitation, Rosalie wrote to her step-mother, telling her frankly of the feeble state of her health and the precarious tenure of her life, and of the order of her physician relative to her removal South; but expressing, at the same time, her dread of the inconvenience and trouble to which her illness and death at their house might possibly subject her host and hostess. There could but one possible answer to such a letter suggest itself to the mind of Rosalie’s affectionate step-mother—it was an answer in her own person. Accordingly, in about two weeks from the day that Rosalie mailed her letter to Mrs. Lauderdale, that lady arrived at Shelton, stopping only long enough at the hotel to write a note to Mark Sutherland, requesting him to break the news of her presence to Rosalie, and then come and take her to his wife.
The meeting between Rosalie and her step-mother was most affectionate and tender; but the patience of Rose and the self-possession of Mrs. Lauderdale restrained their mutual agitation. Mrs. Lauderdale had come, in person, to take her step-daughter to Louisiana, that she might nurse and watch over her during the journey. And as soon as she found herself alone with Mark Sutherland, she said—
“And you must let her go at once, dear Mark. She is iller than you think, and the mornings and the evenings are already chill in this bleak clime. Yes, dear Mark, you must let her go at once; and if you cannot possibly leave your political interests here, you may confidently trust her to me on the journey, for I love her as my own child, and will not leave her, night or day; and you can join us as soon as you get through this bustling and bothersome election.”
“No, I will never suffer her to go without me. I will accompany her—attend upon her. I will never leave her again. Let the election go. What is success to me, if I lose her? You do not know all that she has been to me—all that she is to me—Mrs. Lauderdale! I tell you, if she should sink into the grave, earth could not offer me a boon so welcome as the half of that grave!”