Rose did as she was bid—and that night the farmer prayed earnestly and fervently for the child who was about to quit his protection, and committed her to the watchful care of Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps. The prayer over, he retired immediately to his pillow, which was wet before morning with an old man’s unwonted tears.
In the course of the following month, Rose was duly installed in the authority of her new station. Her active and energetic mind, on which the useful branches of education had been thoroughly grounded, soon comprehended all the mysteries of her office, while her sprightliness and good humor, joined to her unusual decision of character, fitted her admirably for her occupation. The first term of her initiation, however, passed wearily away. Her spirit pined in the confinement to which she had voluntarily subjected herself—and with a feeling of home-sickness gnawing at her heart, she repaired to her patroness, Mrs. Sandford, to tell her that she could remain no longer. “I get thinking of my father,” said she, “when I ought to be attending to the lessons—and sometimes my mind gets so confused, that I almost imagine myself mad, and the school a bedlam. Indeed, Mrs. Sandford, I cannot engage for another quarter. I find I was not made for a city life, after all. The confusion distracts me, and the high houses and narrow streets, make me gloomy and low-spirited. I feel as if I couldn’t breathe in the smoke and dust here. Oh, if you only knew how I long for the pure air of the country, and the sight, once more, of the wild, free ocean.”
“But, my dear child,” said the lady, “you cannot think of returning now, in the depth of winter. The communication by water is closed, and you know it is a three days’ journey by land in the best of traveling. At present, they say the roads are nearly impassable. Come, take my advice and content yourself till spring. Believe me, you will not find every thing as you expect when you return to the country. A short absence from home, often produces a great change in our own minds, and we are led to view the same objects in a different light. New impressions of life and manners frequently destroy the power of old associations to bring back past happiness; and we are left to experience a painful disappointment, without being at first sensible that the change is in ourselves. We can never be again what we were before.”
Rose listened attentively, and though far from being fully convinced by the reasoning of Mrs. Sandford, she bent her will to a seeming necessity, and consented to remain. Naturally buoyant, she rallied her spirits, and overcame her transient depression. Interested continually in receiving as well as imparting knowledge, she said no more about returning home until the summer vacation left her at liberty to revisit her native town. Then it was that she understood the change which the more experienced woman of the world had sought to picture to her imagination. She was once more in the bosom of her family; on the very spot where life had opened to her with such bright anticipations of happiness. The same scenes were around her. The extended range of level country, and “The sea, the open sea,” with its mountainous and heaving billows, presented itself, as in former days, to her unobstructed view. What then was lost? It was the simple taste, the unsophisticated mind, the feelings untainted with the world, and, most of all, the heart at peace! She was no longer contented. The quietude and sameness of the country left her too much time for thought; and her restless spirit wandered again to the thronged and bustling city, and the ceaseless routine of her labors in the school as a sort of necessary means of relief. The sight of the ocean grew painful to her, from its reminding her too forcibly of her absent lover. Selwyn wrote not, came not. Some said he was married in London, and there came not a word from himself to contradict the report.
Edward Burton took advantage of it to renew the offer of his hand to Rose.
“No,” answered she, decidedly, “if Cousin Robert is really married, as people say, my faith in man’s love is destroyed forever. I hope you will never ask me again, Edward, for my answer will always be the same.”
So Burton gave her up, and consoled himself by marrying another; and Rose returned to New York, and again devoted herself to the arduous task of teaching, which often filled her heart with weariness; yet no one would have imagined her to be a disappointed girl. Love-sick she was not; she had too much strength of mind—but she was true-hearted and constant. Nine years had elapsed since she had heard a word of Selwyn, and she knew not whether he were living or dead. They had been parted fifteen years; and who will wonder that time had robbed her of some of her early bloom; but there was an added expression of intellect in her countenance, and a certain refinement of manner imperceptibly acquired, which she had never possessed in her father’s house: so that altogether she was more attractive, more to be admired at thirty-three years of age, than when she first appeared at eighteen as a country belle.
And where was Robert Selwyn, while by slow gradations from year to year this change had been silently wrought in his heart’s first idol. His migrations in the meantime had been many, and his fortunes varied. Profits and loss were for some years nearly balanced in his accounts, but at length the brighter side predominated. Misfortunes and mishaps were cleared away from his horizon, and his sails swept onward through a tide of unexpected success. It was then that he began to weary of his long, self-imposed exile, and turn his thoughts and wishes to home and “native land.” Energetic in purpose, and prompt in action, he no sooner formed the resolution of returning than it was put in execution. The voyage, quickly accomplished, he once more found himself among his old friends and townsmen, who shook him heartily by the hand, and welcomed him back with right good will. Some author remarks, that “one of the greatest pleasures in life, is to be born in a small town, where one is acquainted with all the inhabitants, and a remembrance clings to every house.” He no doubt felt this on his first arrival, and his satisfaction was unalloyed; for, like Rose, he had yet to know himself as he now was. Most of his youthful companions were married, and settled down into steady, sober-minded, every-day sort of people—having made but little improvement either in mind or manners; but they were not slow to perceive that the Selwyn who had just returned, was quite a different man from the Selwyn they had formerly known. There was certainly a change in him, but in what it consisted, they found it impossible to decide. He lacked nothing in cordiality—he assumed no airs of superiority—he was neither elegant nor fashionable—but he was not what he used to be. Perhaps it was that he had acquired more manliness of character; and there was the least bit more of dignity in his manners; he was the smallest possible degree more guarded in his expressions; and his frank and easy address was entirely free from the most distant approach to awkwardness. It is true, he was still the gay and jovial sailor, noble-spirited and generous to a fault—but he was more the gentleman, more the man of the world than before he went to foreign parts; and upon the whole, the conclusion was that he was greatly improved, and would most likely turn out to be quite a credit to the town. He had certainly grown handsomer, as he had grown older. His face wore no traces of any inward discontent or disappointment, and it is probable that he had worn his love either lightly or hopefully in his heart. His first inquiry, after his return, however, was for Rose; and hearing she was in New York, he hastened thither to meet her. It was at the close of a summer afternoon when he found himself at the door of the house where he was told she boarded. He inquired for her, walked in, and sat down in the parlor in the dim light of the fading day, which was rendered more obscure in the shadow of the curtained windows.
Rose had gone to her room fatigued and somewhat dispirited. The name of her visiter was unannounced, and as she descended with a languid step to the parlor, she was little prepared for the surprise that awaited her.
Selwyn rose at her entrance with a confused and doubtful air. “I beg your pardon, madam,” said he, “I called to see Miss Winters—Rose Winters—I understood she was here.”