“You do. Why?”
“Ah! that you cannot understand. You do not know—I hope never will—what it is to live only in the past. This place has had a past, like myself, once smiling; and now like me all desolation.”
“O sister! do not speak so. It pains me—indeed it does. Besides your words only go half-way. As you say, it’s had a smiling past, and’s going to have a smiling future. And so will you sis. I’m determined to have it all laid out anew, in as good style as it ever was—better. Luis shall do it—must, when he marries, me—if not before.”
To the pretty bit of bantering Helen’s only answer is a sigh, with a sadder expression, as from some fresh pang shooting through her heart. It is even this; for, once again, she cannot help contrasting her own poor position with the proud one attained by her sister. She knows that Dupré is in reality master of all around, as Jessie will be mistress, she herself little better than their dependant. No wonder the thought should cause her humiliation, or that, with a spirit imperious as her’s, she should feel it acutely. Still, in her crushed heart there is no envy at her sister’s good fortune. Could Charles Clancy come to life again, now she knows him true—were he but there to share with her the humblest hut in Texas, all the splendours, all the grandeurs of earth, could not add to that happiness, nor give one emotion more.
After her enthusiastic outburst, to which there has been no rejoinder, Jessie continues on toward the bottom of the garden, giving way to pleasant fancies, dreams of future designs, with her fan playfully striking at the flowers as she passes them.
In silence Helen follows; and no word is exchanged between them till they reach the lower end; when Jessie, turning round, the two are face to face. The place, where they have stopped is another opening with seats and statues, admitting the moonlight. By its bright beam the younger sister sees anguish depicted on the countenance of the older.
With a thought that her last words have caused or contributed to this, she is about to add others that may remove it. But before she can speak, Helen makes a gesture that holds her silent.
Near the spot where they are standing two trees overshadow the walk, their boughs meeting across it. Both are emblematic—one symbolising the most joyous hour of existence, the other its saddest. They are an orange, and a cypress. The former is in bloom, as it always is; the latter only in leaf, without a blossom on its branches.
Helen, stepping between them, and extending an arm to each, plucks from the one a sprig, from the other a flower. Raising the orange blossom between her white fingers, more attenuated than of yore, she plants it amid Jessie’s golden tresses. At the same time she sets the cypress sprig behind the plaits of her own raven hair; as she does so, saying:—
“That for you, sister—this for me. We are now decked as befits us—as we shall both soon be—you for the bridal, I for the tomb!”