"You darling!" to a white rose, "I'm so glad you have come; I have watched for you so long; perhaps she is like you, my queen," and she touched her lips to the delicate petals. "What if she were like you, Madam Camelia, in stiff white silken robes, or you, Lady Calla, beautiful, and white, and cold—not sweet? What if she be some little plain, humble creature like you, my mignonette, he would love her none the less, I am sure. But none of you tell me about her. You pansies, in your new purple and buff velvets, you are full of thoughts. Is she wise and good? She must be like him," she whispered to the heliotrope, putting her face down amid its sweetness, "or he could not have called her life fragrant." She put a sharp, quick check just then on both tongue and fancies, and reminded herself that she was taking an unwarrantable amount of interest in Mr. Thornton's affairs, and had enjoyed the evening far too much for one who had made such resolutions as she had. What a happy evening it had been! She had forgotten to put on her mantle of reserve when she donned her white cashmere. She had shown such pleasure at his coming, too, and so he was obliged to take early leave to impress it upon her that it was not she he sought; that his visits were purely benevolent. Speaking of his friend, too, as if to say, "Be careful, do not set your heart upon me." She felt vexed with herself. She talked no more to the flowers, but went about preparations for the next day's work with a resolute, business-like air. She clipped off blossoms energetically, and made them swiftly into little knots or graceful handfuls for the next day's market, for people would need flowers, even though Christmas had come and gone. Somehow the day had left a weight upon her spirits, indefinable and vague, but the very touch of the soft flowers and the cool green leaves calmed her, and brought sharp rebukes from her conscience. What ingratitude! It should end up in gladness, this day of days to them, and she shut the door on all disturbing thoughts, and broke out in song—snatches of old Christmas hymns. If she had but known that the violets travelled as fast as they could go to "The Old Ladies' Home," and gave out their fragrance by the bedside of an invalid who loved English violets as she did no other flower, because it was a breath from her native land; had she known, too, that the giver of them hastily plucked out a few before he parted with them, carefully placed them in an inner pocket, then stored them among his treasures when he reached home!
Life had settled down in the cottage to calm content. Mr. Winthrop seemed to have forgotten that he was ever other than a dweller in a humble home, with no more important business than sorting flowers and pruning plants.
Sturdy Gretchen was still at her post, maid of all work. In the time of the deepest trouble Lily had told her she must go as they had no means of paying her, but she shook her faithful head, saying, "No, no, I will stay. I haf leetle money, petter days come for you. You die if I leaf you; you haf so too much work; you good to me, I not go," whereat Lily bestowed upon her a warm embrace, thus forging the last link that bound her in loving servitude to the family.
By many skillful manœuvres Mr. Thornton had contrived to have his own gardener relieve them of much of the drudgery in the greenhouse, assuring Mr. Winthrop that the man must have more to keep him from idleness. Mr. Thornton himself was the best patron the greenhouse had, paying his own prices, which were exorbitant. One might suppose he furnished flowers for all the weddings and parties in the city. Certain it is that all his friends, and public charities with which he had to do, were kept well supplied. Plants, too, bloomed in attic windows that had been bare, and every old lady in the "Home" had her pet in the shape of a plant of his giving.
The winter was gliding away, and Mr. Thornton still spent long evenings at the cottage. He did not longer conceal from himself the fact that it was not benevolence alone that drew him thither, nor because a fireside and a welcome from a genial old friend awaited him. He had come to know that while he enjoyed Mr. Winthrop's conversation, and the room was as cosy as ever, yet there was a painful void about it all unless a maiden stole in, dropped the curtain, shaded the lamp, stirred the fire and sat in the corner opposite him, where his eyes might often meet hers; indeed she could converse well with her eyes, and give one a tolerable impression of her thoughts and convictions without spoken words, as they thoughtfully gazed into the fire, rested in smiling affection upon her grandfather, or flashed an appreciative look at some word of his own. If he had sometimes made reply to a profound opinion of Mr. Winthrop's in words that were floating through his mind, they might have been these:—
"A sweet attractive kinde of grace,
A full assurance given by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face
The lineaments of Gospell bookes."
And yet he had by no word or look to her given a sign of all this. The truth was, Mr. Thornton had been engaged in an intricate though delightful study. His heart was pleading to go in a certain direction, and he, holding it back, declared it never should, unless reason and conscience approved.
There was a cause for this excessive caution. He had seen much hollowness and deceit in society, had found a low standard among young ladies themselves, and their pleasure being so universally the aim of life, that he was tempted to believe that sterling worth in womankind had died with his mother and grandmother. Moreover, he had in early manhood a bitter experience; had been carried captive by a beautiful face, and came near linking his life to one who proved to be empty-headed and empty-hearted, and yet she was fair as an angel, and counterfeited all virtues and graces most admirably. It was a keen disappointment, and inclined him to place no confidence in mere appearances. And so he had watched this lovely flower unfolding day by day before him, hardly daring to hope that the self-sacrifice, the consecration and sweetness were genuine, trembling lest some day he should discover the hideous blight spot.
It had come to be a matter of course that as often as Mr. Thornton came, he carried away a knot of white violets for his friend, and Lily, while she made it up with care, made up also a pretty little romance. She pictured his friend a fair, sweet creature, arrayed in garments of finest texture and softest tints, with rare old laces and jewels, and a hint odor of violets always about her. How blest and happy must she be, having the right to wait and watch for him, to be glad at his coming—always with her flowers! How lovely she must be when that rare, delicate fragrance typified her to him!
If sometimes while she worked, a tear sparkled on the white blossoms, she dashed off the intruder and took herself sternly in hand. What was this? Was she growing envious? Jealous? What? Ah! She must look well to her heart, treacherous heart repining at another's happiness. This was only momentary weakness that nobody guessed aught of—that she did not admit even to herself. She still went her daily rounds, cheerful, trusting, thankful, looking with brave eyes into the future that promised only a life of toil.