Who could have done this cruel deed? She recollected her rencontre with the woman Grayson—she remembered her guilty look, and the quick, yet stealthy, pace with which she passed her, and to her mind the question was answered beyond a doubt. The coming day was the anniversary of her mother’s death, and must it pass unmarked by the only outward tribute it was in her power to render to her memory? Thought after thought passed through her mind as she stood silent before her desolated tree, but the misfortune was irreparable, and sadly she returned at last to the bedside of her father—he was sleeping calmly, his respiration was free and natural, and the kind neighbor who watched with her, composed her by the assurance that “the fit was over and the morning would find him mending;” still at short intervals he woke, and the same question, “Are they all gone?” was constantly repeated, and then with an imploring tone he would ask for “but one bud, to speak to him of her.”
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CHAPTER V.
Alicia de Rochemont stood, as on the reader’s first introduction to her, before the tall mirror which reflected back her youthful and lovely figure, arrayed as when we before beheld her, yet with more care and precision, for this was the night of the long-expected fancy-ball, and as the Goddess of Flowers, her head was crowned with garlands of living and fragrant roses, her snowy arms were wreathed with them, and the artificial blossoms that had before filled her cornucopia, were replaced by the most delicious flowers of the conservatory, among which roses of snowy whiteness predominated, lending their pearly lustre and exquisite fragrance to the whole.
The toilette of the young beauty had been for some time completed, and a few admiring friends were now gathered to witness and approve its tout ensemble, among whom was Captain Clairville, the assiduous attendant, though not as yet the declared lover, of Miss De Rochemont. The dress of the young lady elicited the commendation of all—for who could censure what was in such perfect taste? But above all, the lovely profusion of roses, which lent to it such a chaste and elegant effect, were especially admired, and many inquiries arose as to where she could have procured them—“such unique roses as they were”—“so unlike any they had ever seen,” etc.; questions which an innate feeling of shame forbade Alicia to answer.
Her refusal to tell where she had obtained them, and indeed her evident desire to avoid the subject, a little excited the curiosity of Captain Clairville, and awakened some suspicion in his mind that the knowledge would not redound greatly to her credit. This doubt, however, he scarcely admitted to himself, but it determined him, before finally committing his happiness to the keeping of his fair Alicia, to study her character more closely, and as a key to it, discover if possible the story, for he was sure there was one, connected with the roses; but for this evening he would strive to dismiss distrust, and enjoy the beauty and vivacity which had almost completed their conquest over him.
With this resolution he was just preparing to depart for his lodgings and dress for the ball, when a violent ringing at the street-door, and then a bustle in the hall, attracted the attention of the little circle. The servants were heard endeavoring to prevent some one from entering, and then steps sounded on the stairs and the tones of a woman’s voice—such tones as issue from the broken chords of a crushed heart—came nearer and nearer, till they paused at the very door of the dressing-room.
Captain Clairville arose and threw it open, when a slight figure, wrapped in a gray Canadian cloak, crossed the threshold and stood within the lighted room—but when she saw herself reflected in the large mirror opposite the door she started and seemed for a moment on the point of retreating, then, as if suddenly taking courage, she threw back the hood which covered her head, revealing the delicate and spiritual face of Rosalie La Motte. Casting a quick, but earnest gaze round the room, her eye rested on Alicia, radiant as the goddess she personated, who stood watching with interest the motions of the intruder.
For an instant the girl’s gaze seemed fascinated by so bright a vision, then with an agitation visible in her whole frame, she rapidly crossed the floor and paused before the fauteuil in which sat Madame de Rochemont. That lady’s native boldness and hauteur seemed to desert her at the appearance of the young girl—her face grew scarlet through her rouge, and her manner exhibited the utmost disorder and embarrassment. Grayson, on the contrary, who stood behind her mistress, assumed a look of fierce defiance when the object she had so wantonly wronged unexpectedly presented herself. But Rosalie, regardless of every thing save the one purpose she had come hither to accomplish, addressed herself immediately with the utmost simplicity and directness to Madame de Rochemont.
“You remember, Madame,” she said, “the object of your visit to me this morning, but perhaps you are not aware that after your departure your servant, having informed herself of my absence, stole back and rifled my precious rose-tree! There are its flowers,” pointing to Alicia, “and I have come to ask that they may be restored to me. They did not bloom for the brow of beauty, but have been watered with tears and cherished for the departed.”