“It was Charlie,” I said, so I did not look up, even when he sat down by my side and wound his arm around me, wrapping my shawl closer together, oh, so gently! “Charlie is very tender of me since my sickness,” I thought, and much I loved that he should thus caress me. It thrilled me strangely, bringing back to my mind the night when I sat in the vine-wreathed arbor, where I should never sit again.
For a moment there was perfect silence and I could hear the beating of Charlie’s heart. Then leaning forward and removing my hand from my eyes, he pressed a kiss upon my lips and whispered as he did so, “My own Rose!”
Once, when I was apparently dying, the sound of that voice had called me back to life, and now with a cry of joy I sprang to my feet and turning round, stood face to face with Richard Delafield, who, stretching his arms towards me, said, “Come to my bosom, Rose. Henceforth it is your resting-place.”
The shock was too much for me in my weak state. A faintness stole over me, and if I obeyed his command, it was because I could not help it!
When I returned to consciousness, Richard’s arms were around me, and my head was resting upon his bosom, while he whispered to me words which I leave to the imagination, as I dare not give them to the world, lest he (Uncle Dick I call him) should be angry in his way, and I have learned to be a very little afraid of him since that morning when on board the steamer Delphine we sat and talked together of the past.
Wonderingly I listened while he told me how long he had loved me—how once he had thought to tell me of his love, but the manner in which I answered his leading question disheartened him, for he feared his affection was not returned—how it had filled his heart with bitter grief when he saw me about to marry another—how his sister had deceived him or he should have spoken to me then—and how in a moment of temptation when he stood over my pillow he had asked that I might die, for he would far rather that death should be his rival than a fellow man. Then as he thought how near I had been to the dark valley he shudderingly drew me closer to his side and told me how he had wondered at Dr. Clayton’s leaving me so abruptly and how sometimes when a ray of hope was beginning to dawn upon him, it had been chilled by my manner, which he now understood.
“You cannot conceive,” said he in conclusion, “what my feelings were yester morn when I bade you adieu, nor yet can you comprehend the overwhelming delight I experienced when I read that letter and felt that you would at last be mine.”
When he had ceased to speak I took up the story and told him of all my own feelings, and that nothing would ever have induced me to think for a moment of becoming Dr. Clayton’s wife, but the belief that he was engaged to Ada, a story which I told him his sister affirmed when I went to her for counsel.
“And so Angeline played a double part,” said he, sighing deeply; “I never thought she could be guilty of so much deception, though I have always known she was averse to my marrying any one.”
Of Ada he said that never for a moment had he been engaged to her. “She is to me like a sister,” said he, “and though I know she has many faults, I am greatly attached to her, for we have lived together many years. She was committed to my care by her father and I shall always be faithful to my trust. And if, dear Rose, in the future, circumstances should render it necessary for her to live with us, shall you object? She cannot harm you now.”