Stranica 188 [188]
38
ful and agonizing of all apprehensions, "
said the young man, “the fear of losing
the one dear being on whom my every
wish and hope are centered. You had
been dying—trembling between earth
and heaven. We know that when the
young, the beautiful, and good, are visit¬
ed with sickness, their pure spirits in¬
sensibly turn towards their bright home
of lasting rest, and hence it is that the
best and fairest of our kind so often fade
in blooming.”
There were tears in the eyes of the
gentle girl as these words were spoken,
and when one fell upon the flower over
which she bent, and glistened brightly in
its cup, making it more beautiful, it seem¬
ed as though the outpourings of a fresh
young heart claimed common kindred
with the loveliest things in nature.
« An angel,” continued the young man
passionately, “a creature as fair and in¬
nocent of guile as one of God’s own
angels, fluttered between life and death.
Oh! who could hope, when the distant
world to which she was akin half opened
to her view, that she would return to the
sorrow and calamity of this! Rose,
Rose, to know that you were passing
away like some soft shadow, which a light
from above casts upon the earth—to have
no hope that you would be spared to those
who linger here, and to know no reason
why you should—to feel that you belong¬
ed to that bright sphere whither so many
gifted creatures in infancy and youth have
winged their early flight—and yet to pray,
amid all these consolations, that you
might be restored to those who loved you
—these are distractions almost too great
to bear. They were mine by day and
night, and with them came such a rush¬
ing torrent of fears and apprehensions,
and selfish regrets lest you should die and
never know how devotedly I loved you,
as almost bore down sense and reason in
its course. You recovered—day by day,
and almost hour by hour, some drop of
health came back, and mingling with the
spent and feeble stream of life which
circulated languidly within you, swelled
it again to a high and rushing tide. I
have watched you change almost from
death to life, with eyes that moistened
with their own eagerness and deep affec¬
tion. Do not tell me that you wish | had
lost this; for it has softened my heart to
all mankind.”
‘«T did not mean that,” said Rose, weep¬
ing; “I only wished you had left here,
noble pursuits again—to pursuits well
worthy of you.”
s There is no pursuit more worthy ot
me— more worthy of the highest nature
that exists—than the struggle to win such
a heart as yours,” said the young man,
taking her hand. | “ Rose, my own dear
Rose, for years — for years I have loved
you, hoping to win my way to fame, and
then come proudly home; in my day¬
dreams how I would remind you in that
happy moment and tell you it had been
sought, only for you to share; thinking
of the many silent tokens I had given of
a boy’s attachment and rally you who had
blushed to mark them, and then claim
your hand, as if in redemption of some
old mute contract that had been sealed
between us. That time has not arrived;
but here, with no fame won and no young
vision realized, I give to you the heart so
long your own, and stake my all upon the
words with which you greet the offer.”
“Your behaviour has ever been kind
and noble,” said Rose, mastering the emo¬
tions by which she was agitated. “As
you believe that I am not insensible or
ungrateful, so hear my answer.”
“Tt is that I may endeavour to deserve
you-—is it, dear Rose!"
“ It is,” replied Rose, “that you must
endeavour to forget me — not as your old
and dearly-attached companion, for that
would wound me deeply, but as the object
of your love. Look into the world ; think
proud to gain are there. Confide some
other passion to me if you will, and I will
be the truest, warmest, most faithful friend
you have.”
There was a pause, during which Rose,
who had covered her face with one hand,
gave free vent to her tears, Harry still
retained the other.
“And your reasons, Rose,” he said, at
length, in a low voice, " your reasons for
this decision—may I ask them?"
“+ You have a right to know them,” re¬
joined Rose. "You can say nothing to
alter my resolution. It is a duty that I
must perform. I owe it alike to others,
and to myself.”
“To yourself?”
“ Yes, Harry, I owe it to myself that
I, a friendless, portionless girl, with a
blight upon my name, should not give the
didly yielded to your first passion, and
fastened myself a clog, upon all your
hopes and projects. I owe it to you and