Then followed a message for the loved ones of Meadow Brook, but this Dr. Clayton did not hear. Perfectly paralyzed, he had listened to her story until his reason seemed in danger of leaving him, and long ere she had finished he knew he must give her up—but not to death; and as Richard Delafield had done, so he, in this his hour of bitter trial, felt how much rather he would see her in her coffin than the wife of another. Then in his ear the tempter whispered, “Why need these things be? She is not yet out of danger. A little relaxation of care on your part, and Richard Delafield will never call her his.”
Only for a moment, however, did Dr. Clayton listen, and then laying his head upon the pillow beside that of Rose, who, wearied with her story, had fallen asleep, he wept as he had never wept before, not even when he saw creeping over her the shadow of death. Turn which way he would, there was naught before him save the darkness of despair; and as wave after wave broke over him, his mind went backward to the time when she might have been his—when he could have gathered her to his bosom—and in piteous accents he cried aloud, “My punishment is greater than I can bear.”
But as the fiercest storm soonest expends its fury, so he ere long grew calm and capable of sober, serious thought. Rosa Lee was very dear to him, and to have possessed her love, he would have given almost everything; but as that could not be, ought he to stand in the way of her happiness? He knew she was deceived, for he remembered many things he had seen in Mr. Delafield, which, though he had not thought of it then, convinced him now that her affection was reciprocated; and should he not tell her so, and at the same time disclose to Richard the true state of affairs? Rosa’s quiet, unobtrusive, and rather reserved manner had misled Richard, no doubt, or he would long ere this have declared his love.
“Yes, God helping me, I will do right,” he said aloud, clasping his hands over his feverish brow. “I will watch by her until his return, and then committing her to his care I will leave her forever.”
There was a movement at his side—Rose was dreaming, and she uttered the name of Richard, while, with a shiver, the doctor stopped his ears and shut out the hated sound. In a moment she awoke and asked for water. It was brought, but he no longer supported her in his arms—no longer smoothed back the tangled curls from her brow, or kissed her white lips. “She is not mine, and it were wrong to caress her now,” he thought, and his tears fell upon her face as he laid her gently back upon the pillow. Wonderingly she gazed upon him, and lifting her hand, wiped his tears away, asking why he wept.
“Heaven help me from going mad,” he exclaimed aloud, as he walked to the window, where for a long time he stood, trying to school himself for the part he was to act.
He succeeded at last, and never did a tender brother watch more carefully over a darling sister than did he over her during the few days which elapsed ere Mr. Delafield’s return. He was alone with her when he came, and with comparative calmness he greeted his rival, who, as we have before stated, was surprised at the change in his looks.
That night, in the solitude of his chamber the doctor penned two letters; one for Rose and the other for Richard. In substance, the contents of each were much the same, for he told them all he had heard from Rose, and how, though it broke his heart to do so, he had given her up. “Deal very, very gently with her,” he wrote to Mr. Delafield, “for never was there a purer, gentler being, or one more worthy of your love than she. Then take her, and when your cup is overflowing with happiness, think sometimes of one, who, henceforth will be a lonely, wretched man.”
The letters being written he put them away until such time as he should need them. Once he thought to talk with Richard face to face, but this he felt he could not do; so one morning about a week after the return of the family to Cedar Grove, and when Rose was out of danger, he pressed a burning kiss upon her forehead, and placing the letters on the little dressing bureau where they would attract the immediate attention of Mr. Delafield, who, he knew would soon be there, he went in quest of Mrs. Lansing, whom he bade good-bye as composedly as if no inward fire were consuming him. In much surprise, she asked why he left them so abruptly, and he replied, “something which has recently come to my knowledge makes it necessary for me to go.”
“You will of course return ere long for Miss Lee,” continued the lady, who had no suspicion of the truth.