Democratic Sentinel, Volume 4, Number 12, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 April 1880 — THE MAGIC ROSE. [ARTICLE]

THE MAGIC ROSE.

CHAPTER I. THE WISHING FLOWER. 'Gin I were but the white, white rose That decks her waist, sae jimp and sma’, I’d road ilk thought o’ my lady's heart, And Jove should still be the lord o’ a’. Helen Aubrey sat in her little parlor, listlessly watching the changing shadows that the fire cast in the twilight upon the flower-papered walls. All was neat and well-arranged in that model “dove’s nest,” the pet name bestowed by her young husband on that center of his heart’s happiness—his humble, comfortable home. Oh; that inimitable word “comfort!” what countless images of love and rest, of fireside coziness, of well-aired slippers, of easy chairs, tender smiles, tea and muffins, books and leisure—are suggested by that genial word to the weary wrestlers with the anxieties and toils of ■ life. What dark, dull city desks are tinged by those golden syllables with a sunbeam from fairyland ; what whirling wheels are attuned to celestial harmonies ; what rough, rude shapes of labor’s countless elements are dignified and hallowed by the loving thought that the hardened hands and toil-dewed faces work only through their ministry to gain “comfort’’for the loved ones, and insure the halcyon bliss of household joys ! And Helen’s little parlor was truly comfortable. It had no piano, to be sure, but by her side, gay with /.nowy drapery and azure ribbons, stood the prettiest little wicker-work basket that ever contained earth’s divinest treasure —a sleeping baby. The simple classicshaped lamp was not yet lighted, but the bright firelight shone on the glittering steel guardians, the soft crimson hearthrug, the gay-hued qirpet, and the flower gkrlands on the wall, with a warm and ruddy glow, and the .bloom on Helen’s delicate cheek deepened into the tint of a sunny peach as she sat gazing on the cheerful blaze. She was very pretty, that fair young wife, in her modest evening dress; its soft grey hues relieved by the. artless coquetry of a delicately embroidered guimpe, and a neck-ribbon of rose-color. A few lilies of the valley, entwined with airy blonde, shadowed the rich braids of her fair hair, forming an approach to that mysterious symbol of matronhood—a cap—but light and graceful enough to adorn, not disguise, the pretty head assuming it so early. What a happy evening scene awaited the weary one, plodding through mud and fog, to enjoy the peace and warmth *f that dove’s nest in the suburbs. And yet Helen Aubrey has no smile upon her lips; her eyes look vacantly around, or brighten with a disdainful gleam. Ah, Helen, what demon has disturbed thy household paradise? “ Yes, it is certainly as Mrs. Medlicott says,” she murmured, “ the room is very small, and the furniture so humble, so very unfashionable, that it would be impossible to invite any one of taste or pretensions to visit us here. In fact, I could not have a pleasant party.” Ah, Helen, was not thy Christmas party pleasant? Old friends, kind relations and old-fashioned fare; roast beef, plum pudding, green holly and mistletoe boughs! How merrily they all laughed (the poor old aunt from the almshouse the heartiest of all); what innocent frolic, what time-hallowed jests, and olden carols blithely chorused by happy voices, made the little parlor ring with gladsome sounds! And now, what strange sorcery has hushed and dimmed thy Eden? What hawk has ruffled thy dove-cote ? What evil sprite has scattered thorns and thistles where confiding love slumbered on down and roses?. Helen has acquired a ncw.friend, and the whole happiness of her life has mournfully departed! “ And my dress,” she continued, “is so very plain ! I have no delicate laces, no rich satins, no trinkets; my gowns are of unfashionable colors; even that lavender silk, my wedding gown, which I once thought so pretty, is decidedly dull and faded. Mrs. Medlicott was right in her hint—Charles is certainly stingy. I know his income is limited', but he might allow me to look a little like the rest of the world. Mrs. Medlicott’s husband is in the same office, and has, I dare say, the same salary; but how elegantly she dresses—what a handsome house she has, in a fashionable street, too —not like this humdrum suburban solitude. Ah, I was certainly very foolish to think only of love in a cottage ! ” Poor Helen, in her first days of wedded happiness, how cheerfully did she enter this little rural bower; arrange within its simple, tasteful furniture, and commence her modest round of domestic duties with a meek and holy content as if she felt overshadowed by the white wings of household angels! Darker grew the cloud upon the young wife’s brow, and a soft cooing from the baby’s little nest was answered by an impatient locking that stilled the tender sound, ami Helen returned in bitterness to her self-torture. By degrees it appeared to hei as if the firelight faded away, and she saw around her a f . azure gleaming like winter ht reflecting back from a”. The at mosphere g" >sted wind P ?r sounding or by ilibrating nonica, ipirit n—om is I

plainly on the little table beside her—a white rose! ■An innocent-looking flower in itself, bnt invested with associations that made it terrible, she gazed ujxin it with a shuddering fear, and an irresistible impulse urged her to take it up. It was fresh and fair, but on its heart-leaves then* hung glittering drops like frozen tears. “It is impossible," said Helen, “that any magic power can bo hidden in these simple leaves, or that riches could be mine by severing a single petal.” As qjhe a]M»ke, her fingers touched the snowy tissue of the flower, and a leaf was instantly detached, seeming to vanish as it tttMiteal toward her feet. With real alarm she east aside the rose ; it fell within the liaby’s cot, but nt the same moment her husband's knock was heard —it was loud, hurried and impatient—and Helen rushed eagerly to the narlor door, wondering what made Charles in such a hurrv. He entered with a lx*aining look am) rapid steps ; in his hand he held several papers, and a long red morocco case. “ Eight the lamp,” he said, “dear Helen, and prepare for wonders. We are rich, Helen ; richer than the wealthy merchant at whose desk 1 have toiled without Ix'ing honored by a l<x»k ! Tonight he shook mv hand and solicited my friendship. That is the world’s way, Helen. A (listant relative has died in India, and I am sole heir to his enormous wealth. I have just left the lawyer's office, and I bring with me a few diamonds only—a small portion of the jewels which, they say, are in their jxvssession ; but I could not resist the wish to brighten the eyes of my little wife with some of her new treasures. I shall certainly assume my deceased relative’s name out of compliment to his magnificent memory. Mrs. Aubrey Howard, let me try on this necklace !” And the jovful husband placed around her fair neck the glittering brilliants, imprinting on her rosy lips a kiss of true conjugal tenderness. A low moan from the infant’s cot startled them. Helen drew the curtain hastily aside, and saw her blooming cherub changed darkly, and struggling with convulsions. With a shriek she raised it to her bosom ! Alas, in vain ! It was the thorn of the rose ! Riches and splendor had olieyed her wish, but the nestling dove had perished on the golden altar ! CHAPTER 11. THE THORNS OF THE ROSE. “ And ever, a)a«” the lady sight'd. Am down the gold and jewels fa’, “ e My heart ia «air for the heather glen. Where love wan still the lord of a’ I ” The reception soirees of Mrs. Aubrey Howard were the fashion—magical word —uniting pleasure and despotism—the golden fetter link binding the world’s will to that butterfly chariot whose wheels, restless as Ixion’s, are still guided by the cloud goddess, the everchanging “Cynthia of the minute.” It was the fashion to dine with the “nabob” Howard; the merchant prince, whose clerk he had been, sat at his table, almost at the foot, for aristocracy possessed the high places, and were the chief worshipers at the shrine of the golden calf. We have seen it in our own day, at the footstool of the iron crown, so potent is the power of wealth, and the desire to stand well with its possessors. It was the fashion to attend the soirees of the “nabob’s” pretty wife; and Helen found her magnificent mansion in Park Lane again “ too small ” for her pleasant parties. What a revolution in her thoughts, her feelings and her actions! The superb Mrs. Medlicott and her house in Baker street were forgotten; but the spirit of that “female friend ” animated the higher clique now surrounding her; and wishes, daring and dazzling as the impossible roc’s egg in the old Arabian tales, still disturbed the peace of the ambitious Helen. But a darker thread now ran through the golden tissue of her life. Her husband had ceased to love her; she rarely saw him, and he was then either agreeable, blandly indifferent, or coldly dignified, as if rehearsing a new scene in public life. He had no time for home affections—he was a member of Parliament, a committee-man, a railway director, the Chairman of a host of societies for promoting universal happiness, and how could his patriotic enthusiasm stoop to the minor details of common household amenities ? And thus Helen, tasting the flowerwreathed wine in the golden cup of Circe, found only absynthe in the draught. What now remained to her for consolation or excitement ? The conversation of two dowagers in the card-room, unwittingly overheard, suggested a new ambition—the portentous silver tissue and birds-of-paradise turban of the Countess of Camomile, and the yellow point-lace lappets and cairngorms of the Lady Elspeth M’Tartan were well known to Mrs. Aubrey Howard—but a polite crowd of fashionables, going down to supper, prevented her retreat, thus she had the uncommon pleasure— To see hereel’ as ithere tee us. “ Ah, my dear Lady Elspeth,” said the Countess, in that bland tone of agreeable bitterness only to be acquired by a long course of censuring the follies of our neighbors, “ah, my dear Lady Elspeth, Aubrey Howard has himself a noble presence, quite an aristocratic tournure. But his poor little wife. Her attempts at assuming the airs of a lady are ludicrous in the extreme. She has no idea of the difference between rank and money, and thinks herself on an equality with a Countess, who has sixteen quarterings in her shield, and a royal bar sinister.” “Aye, aye, my leddie, the nabob is a Soucy chiel and weel faur’d, but she is a puir feckless windle strar.” “You say true, Lady Elspeth; with her insipid smile and parvenu profusion of diamonds, the little Begum always puts me in mind of Cheapside; she has quite the air of a plebeian. They were, I was told, immensely rich, but I hear whispers that she is extravagant to a marvel, and they do say, ah, well, it is a pity for Aubrey; he might wear a coronet with dignity; my daughter, Lady Laura—and you know she is a woman of discernment—says he wants only rank to—but they are leaving the tables; I wonder who has taken Lady Laura down to supper ?” That night Helen gathered a leaf from the Magic Rose, for she had learned too well the uses of the talisman, and ceased to wonder when her wish was granted. A perfumed billet on her breakfasttable next morning coolly informed her that her husband’s claim to the longdormant Earldom of Annesley had been fully established, and that she was now a Countess, but he came not to congratulate her with the frank step and the beaming glance that blessed her in her cottage home; ho had “ gone down to the family seat to superintend improvements,’’and, alone and deserted, she received her coronet with tears, and felt that her husband’s love was lost to her forever !

CHAPTER 111. PARLOR MAGIC. She laid her pale cheek on the bier, She gie’d him kisses ane and twa; “ We’ll sleep th’gither, the lang last s'eep, And love will still be the lord of a’.’’ It was the last fete of the season, a bal costume, at Annesley House, and the superb apartments were resplendent with all that fashion and luxury could devise or desire. The beautiful Countess stood in her sumptuous dressingroom, before the silver-framed Psyche, affixing, herself, the last ornament of her attire—the Magic Rose. She had gath*red the last leaf, on which there hung frozen dew-drop; but her wish was a re one now; she asked only the return i.er husband’s love; riches and ambihad embittered her existence, and ’ow seemed to her the pearl of

great price, without which there is no light in the soul. If beauty could win love, Helen felt that she possessed it. Never liefore had she looked so radiant; bnt there was a feverish glitter in her large blue eyes, and the bloom upon her cheek was artificial—hiding the touch of care. Her costume was superb, a graceful adaptation of the fanciful and brilliant attire of “La Reine Marie,” the first bridal rol»es of the young Mary Stuart, passing from her convent to the throne of France, and in which, we are told by ancient chroniclers, she shone forth with the beauty of an angel. Long, floating robes of silver tissue, and snowy silk ; the long, wide, open sleeves, and jeweled bodice, wrought with seed pearls and goldsmith's work, and “ powdered ” with bright-colored gems; a profusion of diamonds of the purest water clasped and blazed upon the antique stomacher and the unique head-dress of the Countess; the green light of emeralds gleamed iqsui her snowy arms, and pearls of the Orient mingled with the soft blonde tresses of her hair; but the heart that throbbed lieneath the radiant jewels yearned only for the love that had veiled itself before their splendor. Fair shorn* tin* Magic Rose upon her bosom, fresh and stainless as in that evil hour when first she paid the mournful price of the Talisman; and with a sigh she turned away to meet the gay throng of the noble and the fair—tin* silken courtiers of wealth and gratified ambition. A soft light, like the mellow amber of the harvest moon, shone from the pendant lamps, illuminating the spacious conservatory, and the rich exotic fragrance of a thousand gorgeous Indian flowers made the air heavy as with incense. The dark, glossy leaves, and large, snowy, roserlike blossoms of a magnolia rose high around an Eastern divan. “La Reine Marie ” sat there, and at her feet knelt the poet Chatelar ; his lute and sword lay on the purple cushions, and his words were warm and passionate as the songs of that martyr lover. “Beautiful Helen,” said he, “pronounce my doom—your love to him is worthless ; to me it is the light of life ! Why should your beauty wither in his cold neglect, while in my undying adoration——”

“Hold, Lord Algernon,” interrupted Helen, “who has presumed to whisper of neglect, or how have I encouraged this daring ?” “It is too visible, fair Helen; ‘he leaves your fair side all unguarded, ’ lady, and the enchantment of your beauty emboldens the truest of your worshipers. Fly with me, dearest Helen, now, even now! I, too, have wealth, and rank, and, above all—love—to share with thee. ” “ Rise, Sir Poet,” hissed a voice in the ear of Chatelar ; “we will play out this scene by moonlight, in the garden.” “Aubrey dear Aubrey,” shrieked Helen, ‘ ‘ protect me—l am innocent; I have loved you ever.” “Madam,” said her husband, sternly and coldly, “ I am the guardian of mine own honor, and its avenger ! Sir Poet, Ruy Blas has a,sword for Chatelar.” Lord Algernon answered only by unsheathing his rapier, and the husband and the roue rushed out together in the garden. The shrieks of Helen soon drew a gay crowd into the conservatory, and, while the ladies endeavored vainly to remove the unhappy Countess, the gentlemen hastened to the scene of the deathstruggle going on without. It was already decided. Helen saw that the pale form brought in bleeding, and laid fainting on the silken divan, was her husband. She rushed forward and clasped him in a wild embrace, dabbling in his blood the silver tissues of her robes. But she spoke no word in that bewildering agony; she only listened for his voice. “ Helen; my Helen!” he uttered, in a hoarse, struggling whisper; “the old love returns with death. We were happy once, Helen.” His head sank upon her bosom, and, with a low, shuddering sigh, the husband of her youth expired. * * * * * * * * At that moment, a hand was placed upon her shoulder; a soft, warm kiss breathed upon her lips, and Helen Aubrey awoke! She was once more in that snug, quiet parlor; the fire burned merrily, the lamp was lighted, and a smile of roguish mirth lit up the frank, glowing countenance of her handsome husband. “Ah, Helen,” said he, “ I have stolen a pair of gloves while you slept so soundly. Poor little wife, was it lonely and drowsy this whiter night? Come, waken up, dearest, I am impatient for a cozy cup of tea, and baby Charlie is crowing merrily there, as if he knew papa had come home through a famous snowstorm, to be as happy as love and leisure can make him.” With what rapture did Helen receive her smiling boy. Like the enchanted Caliph, a whole life had fleeted before her in that short oblivion, and as she gazed upon her recovered treasures she breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness that the Magic Rose and its train of sorrows were but the wild phantasma of a dream.