Rose Clark Part 23

Would the sweet fount of her boy's life be turned to bitterness?

Would he grow up to blush at his mother's name?

Would his hand be raised in deadly fray to avenge the undeserved taunt which yet he knew not how to repel?

O, Vincent!

Rose's refusal of Doctor Perry but added fuel to the flame; it is the unattainable we seek, the unattainable only that we fancy can satisfy; the unattainable that at any cost we must have.

How could he give her up? How think of her in the great, busy, wicked city, to which she was going, unfriended and penniless? Was there no way he could be of service to her? No way in which, without offending her sensitiveness, he could s.h.i.+eld her from suffering and insult. Who was the father of her child? She "still loved him," believed him true to her--looked forward to the time when his honor should be vindicated on her behalf.

The doctor knew more of the world. The film would fall from her eyes by and by; he would wait patiently for that moment: then, perhaps, she would not turn away from him. She was too n.o.ble to cherish the memory of one she believed to be base. What alliance could purity have with pollution? Poor, trusting, wronged Rose! How immeasurably superior was she even now, and scorned thus, to the pharisaical of her own s.e.x who, intrenched outwardly in purity, and pointing the finger of scorn at the suspected of their own s.e.x, yet hold out the ready hand of welcome to him who comes into their presence, foul from the pollution of promiscuous harlotry.

Beautiful consistency! Pure Christianity! From the decision of such an incompetent tribunal, thank G.o.d! Rose could appeal to a Higher Court.

Rose was a daily marvel to the conceited Fritz. Accustomed in his grosser moments to those debasing _liaisons_ which so infallibly unfit a man for the society of the pure in heart, he could not comprehend the reserve--even _hauteur_--with which the pretty Rose repelled every advance to an acquaintance.

At first, his surprised vanity whispered that it was only a cunning little _ruse_, to enhance the value of surrender, but this astute conclusion was doomed to be quenched by Rose's determinate and continued persistency. Then Fritz had fallen into the common error of fancying that to know _one_ woman was to know the whole s.e.x; not dreaming that it is necessary to begin with a different alphabet, in order to read understandingly _each_ new female acquaintance;--a little fact which most men blunder through life without finding out.

In vain he displayed his white hands. In vain he donned successively his black suit, his gray suit, and his drab suit (which last he never resorted to except in very obstinate cases); in vain he tied his cravats in all sorts of fanciful forms; in vain he played "sick" in his crimson silk dressing-gown, or languished on deck in his Jersey overcoat. In vain he, who detested children, made advances through Charley, who was now convalescent; in vain he remarked in Rose's hearing that "his gloves needed mending," and that "the b.u.t.tons were off his linen." Rose might as well have been deaf, dumb, and blind, for all the notice she took of him.

It was unaccountable. Fritz was piqued--in fact he did not like it, and consulted his never-failing solace, the looking-gla.s.s, to see what was the matter. There was still Fritz enough left (such was the verdict of the looking-gla.s.s), spite of sea-sickness, to satisfy any reasonable woman.

"Pooh! Rose was a stupid little thing; that was the amount of it; there was no use wasting his time on her;" and this last, by the way, was the only sensible reflection he had yet arrived at. He could fancy very well why she had not liked Doctor Perry (the doctor's distrait manner of late had attracted his notice). "Perry was well enough, but"--and Fritz finished the sentence by affectionately caressing his adolescent mustache.

"Yes, Rose was a stupid little automaton--she had no soul." Fritz had so much soul himself, that he considered that article a _sine qua non_ in any woman he honored with his notice.

Meanwhile the gallant vessel plowed her plas.h.i.+ng way through the pathless waters. Over the mermaids, if there were any, over the coral reefs, over the wondrously beautiful sea-weeds, over the sheeted dead in their monumentless sepulchers; das.h.i.+ng--plunging--creaking--soaring and sinking--defying winds and storms--scattering the dolphins--startling the sea-birds--hailing cheerily the homeward and outward bound--careering as gayly over the treacherous waves, as if the s.h.i.+vering of a mast, a little water in the hold, or the leaden lids of the pilot, might not land the pa.s.sengers with their joys, sorrows, and embryo plans on that measureless sh.o.r.e whence there is no return boat.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

"I am sorry for you, my dear Perry," replied the captain. "Rose is a glorious, little creature, and you are a whole-souled fellow, and I wish I could pilot your boat into the port of matrimony; but women are queer things, you can no more tell which way they'd be likely to jump, than I can tell what wind will next blow my vessel. Now, I should have thought she is all alone so, and unprovided--but it is no use talking, cheer up, Perry. I will do all you ask; I'll disburse the funds for you, and she shall never know where it comes from; you are a good fellow, Perry; there are not many rejected suitors that would act as magnanimously as you have; but do you suppose when you get to New Orleans you can watch over her, without her finding it out?"

"Yes," said the doctor. "I think so, with the aid of a little disguise, false whiskers, etc. At any rate, it is no use for me to try to fix my mind on any thing. I never was in love before, never saw a woman whom I did not shudder to think of, in the light of a life-companion. Perhaps you marvel that I can overlook, what to most men would be an insuperable obstacle to marriage with Rose; and yet, viewing it through the world's spectacles, why should you? Do not priests and parents every day legalize the prost.i.tution of youth to toothless Mammon? Beside Rose has been deceived. She is at heart pure. In G.o.d's sight, she is innocent. I would stand between her and the scorn of the world. She has been more sinned against than sinning.

"True," said the captain, "and loves the rascal in spite of it."

"Because, with a woman's generous devotion, she does not believe him false; she looks yet to have the mystery cleared up, and to find his honor untarnished."

"G.o.d grant it, for her sake," replied the captain.

"Amen!" exclaimed Perry; for in truth his love for Rose, surpa.s.sing the love of men, was capable even of this magnanimity.

"s.h.i.+pwreck me!" exclaimed the captain, consoling himself with a bit of tobacco, "if I can make out how it is, that the finest women invariable throw themselves away on these good-for-nothing fellows. It is always so, Perry."

"Not always," said the doctor. "Not in your case, at least," and he grasped the captain's hand.

"Thank you--thank you," replied Captain Lucas, with emotion. "I believe my Mary is a happy wife."

And this was New Orleans! its hot breath swept across Rose's cheek, as she stood upon the deck of the Neptune, gazing upon its nearing spires, roofs, and chimneys. The city's distant hum even now falls upon her watchful ear. Amid its motley population should she find him whom she had come to seek? Would he take the pain from out her young heart? claim her, and his boy? or should she walk the crowded streets day by day, reading faces, measuring forms, listening to voices, and return at nightfall with eye, ear, and heart, dissatisfied.

"Rose?"

She turned her head. "A few words with you," said Captain Lucas.

Ah--that was what she had been dreading, payment for her services, and they had been so slight, so interrupted by Charley's sickness, and so she told the captain with her usual ingenuousness, for she had begun to fear latterly that Captain Lucas had not needed them at all, and that his engagement with her was a delicate cover for his charity. But it was useless talking; the captain was as peremptory as if he were on quarter-deck among his sailors, instead of talking there in the cabin to a little woman four feet high; he said "he was in a hurry," he said (presenting her with Doctor Perry's roll of bills after he had himself paid her) that "that was a present from himself for Charley," and he said that as she was all alone, she must let an old man like him direct her where to find proper lodgings; so he penciled on a card the address of an old lady, whose quiet house he thought would just suit her; and then he said, kissing Charley, "G.o.d bless you both," and drew his hand across his eyes.

Good Captain Lucas! when was ever a sailor's heart callous to the touch of sorrow? May there not be something in the strong brave element on which he rides to quicken what is grand and n.o.ble in his nature?

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

Rose found the new quarters to which Captain Lucas had directed her, very comfortable. Her French landlady seemed altogether too busy, attending to her domestic matters, and nursing her poodle, to trouble herself about Rose's private affairs. This of itself was an infinite relief, for she had learned to shrink from the scrutiny of strangers.

Her apartment was furnished neatly, and Charley's delight was unbounded to be able to pursue his educational baby instincts, untrameled by the pitching of the vessel. But Rose counted every moment lost, in which she was not pursuing her search for Vincent; a night of broken slumber, a hurried breakfast, a hasty toilet, and she started with Charley in her arms on her almost hopeless errand, she scarce knew whither.

Past the large hotel, on whose broad piazza strangers and citizens congregated, past the busy stores, past the quays and wharves, turning hastily the street corners, gazing into shops, now startled by the tone of a voice, now quickening her pace at the deceptive outline of a distant form. Fear found no place in her throbbing heart, and if it had, was there not an angel in her arms? It is a sweet thought, that the presence of a little child is often to an unattended woman the surest protection. The abandoned idler recognizes and respects this holy tie.

He, too, was once a pure and stainless child--the lisping little voice seems to whisper in his sin-dulled ear, "Go and sin no more."

Rose could not have told why, of all the Southern cities, she had selected New Orleans for her search for Vincent. Had you asked, she could have given no reason for the magnetism which had drawn her thither.

Still she pursued her search day after day, spite of discouragement; still the great busy human tide ebbed and flowed past her, bearing on its surface barks without ballast--barks without rudder or compa.s.s--drifting hither and thither, careless how surely Time's rapids were hurrying them on to the sh.o.r.eless ocean of eternity.

It was evening. Rose had put Charley in his little bed to sleep, and sat at the open window, as she had done many an evening before, watching and listening. It was now a fortnight since she came to New Orleans, and still no clew of Vincent. She could not always live in this way; she had not the purse of Fortunatus; she must soon again seek employment. Rose's heart grew sick and faint with hope deferred.

A low moan of pain fell upon her ear. She started to her feet and ran up to the little bed. It was not Charley; he was quietly sleeping. She looked out of the window; a woman had fallen upon the pavement beneath it. Rose ran down the steps to her a.s.sistance. She had only turned her ankle, but the pain was so acute that she was unable to rise unaided.

"Lean on me," said Rose, as she gently placed her arm at her disposal, and guided her up the steps and into her little parlor; then kneeling before her, she gently drew off the stocking, and laved the pained foot with cold water. It was a pretty foot, small, white, and if a high instep, as some would have us believe, is proof of "blood," an aristocratic foot. The stranger might have been twenty-five years of age, and had the remains of great beauty.

"You are very kind," said she, at length, opening her large eyes; "very kind--and beautiful too; more's the pity. I was once beautiful; look at me now. You don't believe it, perhaps. _He_ thought so; he said, 'my eyes were stars, my teeth pearls.' Did you ever love? It is very sweet to be loved. My mother died; my father had a new wife. In their happiness they forgot me, and in my loneliness I prayed for death. Then _he_ came. Oh, _now_ I prayed to live! he made earth so fair to me. I was glad that I was beautiful for his sake. He asked me to be his wife.

So one night, when the stars came out, I put my hand in his, and looked on my home for the last time. I knew my father and his new wife would not miss me. Oh, I was so happy! I did not see the face of the priest who married us; it was down by the old church, and the stars were the only witnesses. That night I slept on my husband's breast, and I wished my mother were living to know how blest was her child. You are glad I was so happy; you think some day _you_ will be happy too; you think you will madden some fiery heart with love. So you may; and then you will be the blighted thing I am; for our marriage was a mockery; the priest was his servant. One night, as I sat at the window watching for him, I heard voices; I heard him, my husband, speak my name lightly to this servant.

I, who believed myself his wife; I, who had thought to turn my back on misery forever, and hug happiness to my bosom; I, who had trusted all, given all, and asked for no surety! I heard him plan with his servant to decoy a young school-girl to his arms, and blight her as he had me. The roof over my head stifled me; I did not stay to upbraid him; I could not have taken a drop of water from his hand had I been dying. I fled from the house;--but oh! not as I left my childhood's home! I sought labor; for I loathed sin. None would employ me; I hungered for bread; all turned coldly away. Then one saw me, who knew my story, and wherever I turned, scorn pointed her finger. The 'good' closed their doors, and said, 'Stand aside, I am holier than thou;' the bad opened theirs, and said, 'Eat, drink, and be merry.' Then Despair took me by the hand, and led me in. Sin fed me, clothed me; sin baptized my child.

"One night, with other revelers, _he_ came to that unholy place; _he_, my 'husband!'--oh, it was gay! He smiled the old smile; he said, 'Right, my girl, a short life and a merry one; there is no future--we die and there's an end!' My tortured soul gave these false words the lie; but I smiled back--he was to be _my_ victim now! Peace was lost, heaven was lost; what should hold me back? The wine cup went round. 'Pledge me,' I said, 'here's to your happy future!' He drained it, poison and all, to the dregs--why not? Men make the laws to suit themselves, so they make no law for the seducer. I had to be judge and jury; oh it was gay! He writhed--why not? What was it to the writhings of my spirit every hour in that accursed gilded prison-house! He died, my seducer; then I fled hither.

"Down--down--down I am going; beauty buys me no bread now; down--down!"

and the fire died out from her eyes, and her head drooped upon her breast.

"Dreadful," said the horror-struck Rose, "don't talk so, I am a stranger here; but surely," and the crimson flush overspread her cheeks, "there must be Magdalen Asylums here."

"Oh, that's gay," said the half-crazed woman, laughing hysterically, "gay; they write 'Magdalen' over the door where you go in and out, they tell visitors you are a Magdalen,' when you want to hide your shame, and be good. They drag you _away_ from heaven, and then tell you to go there. Listen," and she lowered her voice, and laid her thin hand on that of Rose. "Listen, and I will tell you a story. Once, at the Magdalen Asylum, a young girl, half starved, and out of employment, came and asked for a shelter. They asked her 'if she was virtuous,' she said 'yes,' then they shut the door in her face, saying 'that their house was for Magdalens;' she wept, and wrung her hands, as she turned away into the dark night. Next day she came back, and said, 'take me in, now, I'm a Magdalen, now I shall have a shelter.' Oh it was gay; children of this world are wiser in their generation than the children of light. Satan is too busy; down, down. If Vincent sees your pretty face you'll go down, down, too, but Vincent's dead. Good-by, you are beautiful, more's the pity."