Rose Clark Part 44

CHAPTER LXX.

"Sit down," said John, a few hours after, as Vincent rapped at his room-door. "I was just wis.h.i.+ng for you, although it were cruel to monopolize you a moment, at such a time as this. Sit down--I want to confess to you," said John, with a heightened color. "It will make my heart easier--it will be better for both of us.

"Vincent--you have taken away from me all that has made life dear to me since I first saw your--since I first saw Rose; and yet"--and John reached out his hand--"I can look on your happiness and hers, and thank G.o.d for it. It has cost me a struggle--but it is all over now. Peerless as Rose is--I feel that you are worthy of her."

"I can not find words to say what I would," said Vincent; "by my gain, my dear friend, I can measure your loss," and he grasped John's hand with unfeigned emotion. "Rose has spoken of you to me in a way this morning that, independent of this n.o.ble frankness on your part, would forever have insured you a brother's place in my heart. How can I thank you for it all? How can I prove to you my grat.i.tude for your kindness to me and mine?"

"By not leaving us," answered John; "by considering my ample means as yours, and Rose's, and Charley's; by making my otherwise solitary life glad, bright, and blessed by your presence; by placing a confidence in me which you will never have cause to regret," said John, with a flushed brow.

"I know it--I believe it--I know it--G.o.d bless you," said Vincent; "you can ask nothing that I could refuse. Had it not been for you, I might never have found my treasures. I will be your guest for a time, until I have established claims which I must not neglect, for those who are dear to me--and _then_ our homes shall be one. G.o.d bless you, John, my brother."

Rose glided in! Oh how surpa.s.singly lovely! with those love-br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes and that sunny smile. Placing her little hand in John's, she said, "and my brother, too."

"Seal it with a kiss, Rose," said Vincent.

"That I will," exclaimed the happy little wife. "Kiss me, John."

"Me, too," said Charley. "Oh, John, is not _he_ (pointing to Vincent) all of our papas? Mayn't I run and tell Tommy Fritz?"

CHAPTER LXXI.

It was a cold January night. The stars glowed and sparkled, and ever and anon shot rapidly across the clear blue sky, as if it was out of all reason to expect them to stay on duty such a bitter night, without a little occasional exercise.

The few pedestrians whom business had unfortunately driven out, hurried along with rapid strides, steaming breath, and hands thrust into their pockets; and, as their arms protruded, handle-fas.h.i.+on, they might have been mistaken for so many brown jugs in locomotion.

Through many a richly-curtained window, the bright lights gleamed cheerfully, while the merry song or laugh from within, might be heard by the s.h.i.+vering outsiders, quickening the steps of those who were so lucky as to have firesides of their own, and making the night, to those who had none, seem still more cold and drear.

Beneath one of these brilliantly-lighted windows, down upon the frosty pavement, crouched a bundle of rags, it scarce seemed more, so motionless had it lain there, for hours; for on such a bitter night no one felt inclined to stop and investigate it; and yet there was life within it, feeble and nickering though it was.

Now and then a pair of hollow eyes gleamed out, and gazed wildly about, and then the lids would close over them, and the head droop back again to its old posture.

Now and then a murmur issued from the parched lips, and one might have heard, had he been very near, the words--

"Mercy! mercy!"

And still from the window above, the bird-like voice caroled out its sweet song, and merry voices joined in the chorus.

Now a little child, with broad, expansive brow, and sweet, soul-lit eyes, parts the rich damask curtains, and pressing his little face closely against the window-pane, gazes out into the frosty night.

"How brightly the gleaming stars s.h.i.+ne! I wonder how _long_ have they shone? I wonder are they _really_ all little worlds? and people in them?

I wonder--" and here the child stopped, for the bundle of rags beneath the window gave a convulsive heave, and his quick ear had caught the words despair had uttered:

"Mercy! mercy!"

"Oh! papa--dear papa, Gertrude, John, oh, come!" and with heart of pity and winged feet, little Charley darted through the dining-room door, out into the wide hall, and down the steps to the bundle of rags whence the sound issued.

The eyes had closed again, the head had drooped, and the poor thin, outstretched hands fallen hopelessly down upon the frosty pavement.

"Run in, Charley," said John; "the air is bitter cold. Move away, dear, and let me take this poor creature up."

It was a light burthen, that bundle of rags, though the heart beneath it was so heavy.

Rose and Gertrude sprang forward and arranged pillows on the sofa for the dying woman, for such she seemed to be, and chafed her hands and temples, while John and Vincent dropped some wine between the pale lips.

Slowly she opened her eyes. Warmth! light! kind words! kind faces! Where was she?

Now Rose bends over her a face pitying as G.o.d's angels. The hollow eyes glare wildly upon it, a spasm pa.s.ses over the pale face of the sufferer, and as she turns away to the pillow, she falters out,

"Oh! G.o.d forgive me! Mercy! mercy!"

"May He grant it!" said the shuddering Rose, hiding her face in her husband's bosom, as Markham's despairing, dying wail rang in her ears.

"May G.o.d grant it, even at the eleventh hour."

When youth had pa.s.sed, and, standing upon the threshhold of manhood, Charley looked out upon the tangled web of life, and saw (_seemingly_) the scales of eternal justice unevenly balanced, memory painted again, in freshened colors, _that_ scene, and inscribed beneath it--

G.o.d IS JUST!

THE END.

IN PRESS.

EDITH;

OR, THE QUAKER'S DAUGHTER.

1 Vol., 12mo. Price $1.

As a powerfully-written romance of puritanical times, this book can not fail to enchain the attention of the reader. The interest of the story begins with the very first page, and is continued on through the volume to the close. The trials and the sufferings of that persecuted sect, the Quakers, are told in bold and thrilling language.

HAMPTON HEIGHTS.

A DOMESTIC TALE.

1 Vol., 12mo. Price $1.25.

The events of this volume are founded on facts. Many persons now residing in Connecticut will recognize not only the incidents, but many of the characters, which are introduced into the story. The characters, in many respects, are faithful portraitures of individuals now living, who played in real life the parts a.s.signed them in this volume. Caleb Starbuck, the author, is evidently an "old salt;" and the story savors much of the interest of the forecastle.