Herbert was dead!
At the foot of the garden, near the long avenue where the shadow of the maple trees would fall upon his grave, and the moan of the lake be always heard, we buried him; and then, the broken-hearted Anna, widowed thus early, went back to her accustomed duties, performing each one quietly and gently, but without a smile upon her white, stony face, or a tear in her large mournful blue eyes. Aunt Charlotte, too, utterly crushed and wretched, went back to her city home, having first won a promise from Anna that in the autumn she would follow her. And then we were left alone with our great sorrow, wholly dependent, as it were, upon Mr. Watson, for support and counsel.
There had always been about him a mystery I could not fathom, and greatly was I surprised when one evening, a week after Herbert’s death, he asked me to go with him to his room, as there was something he wished to tell me. I complied with his request, and was soon seated in the large willow chair near the table on which lay many works of our best authors, for he possessed a taste for literature, and devoted all his leisure moments to study. Drawing a seat to my side, he said, taking my hand in his, “Rosa, what do you think I am going to tell you?”
I tried to wrest my hand from his grasp, for the unwonted liberty angered me. But he held it fast, smiling at my fruitless endeavors, and after a moment continued: “Why do you try to remove your hand from mine? I have held it many a time, and I have a right so to do—a cousin’s right. Look at me, Rosa, don’t you know me?”
Involuntarily I started to my feet, gazing earnestly upon him, then with a cry of joy I threw my arms around his neck, exclaiming, “Cousin Will! Cousin Will!”
It was indeed he, come back to us when we had thought of him as dead. A few words will suffice to tell his story. Perfectly disgusted with sea life, he had deserted at Calcutta, where he kept himself secreted until the vessel sailed. But it was not his wish to remain there long, and the first time an English ship was in port he offered to work his passage to Liverpool. The offer was accepted, and while we were mourning over his supposed death he was threading the smoky streets of London, doing sometimes one thing and sometimes another, but always earning an honest livelihood.
“Never, for a moment,” said he, “did I forget your family, but I have fancied they were glad to be rid of me, and hence my silence. When at last I returned again to New York, I went one day to a reading-room, where I accidentally came across Mr. Langley’s advertisement, and something prompted me to answer it in person. If I had ever heard of him before, I had forgotten it; consequently I neither recognized him nor his wife, who has changed much since I saw her; but when I accidently heard them speak of “Rosa,” and “Meadow Brook,” my curiosity was roused, and I became aware of the relationship existing between us. Why I have kept it a secret so long I can hardly tell, except that there was about it, to me, a kind of pleasing excitement, and then, too, I fancied that Mr. Langley would not so well bear restraint and direction from me if he supposed me an interested party; but he has gone, and concealment on that score is no longer necessary. I have told you my story, Rosa, and now it is for you to say whether I am again received and loved as the “Cousin Will” of olden time.”
He was a big, tall man, six feet two inches high, while I was a young girl scarcely yet seventeen; but notwithstanding all this, I threw my arms around his sun-burnt neck and kissed his sun-burnt cheek as I had often done before. This was my answer, and with it he was satisfied.
After leaving his room I went directly to my sister, to whom I repeated the strange story I had heard. She was pleased and gratified, but her faculties were too much benumbed for her to manifest any particular emotion, though as time wore on I could see how much she leaned upon him and confided in his judgment. It seemed necessary for her to remain in Rockland through the summer, and as she would not consent to my leaving her, I was rather compelled to stay; although almost weekly there came to us letters from home urging our return, and at last, near the middle of September, we one day received a letter from Charlie, which, owing to some delay, had been on the road two whole weeks. In it he wrote that our father had failed rapidly within a few days and we must come quickly if we would again see him alive, adding that he talked almost constantly of Rose, asking if they thought she would come.