Rensselaer Republican, Volume 15, Number 39, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 June 1883 — A ROSE IN THE WILDERNESS. [ARTICLE]

A ROSE IN THE WILDERNESS.

BY MAY FORD LAUREL.

My bonnle rose! my frail white rose! My sweetest queen ol flowers. —Old Sony. TJie war was over. Arthur Turner had laid down his "arms, aid returned to Iris home in North Ceroiina. He was a Southern gentleman of rank, and formerly of fortune, but the war had •wept away most of his property. It had taken from him also his only son, • lad of 1?, who fought at his father’s «ide, and fell in one of the last battles. Ami the unwonted exposures of the war, Ifie night marching, tlie bivouac* on rain-wet plains, Lad developed in Turner himself the hereditary conwunption, under which it was evident he was sinking fast. He had come home to the old countrj house, where his wife and daughter waited for him, only to leave it again. For his physician stated that his life could only be saved by a warmer climate; he must go farther south. Ho lie sold the old homestead, and with his wife and daughter went to seek • new home in Lower Florida. They took with them two misty servants, «nd traveled and removed their household goods in wagons, and spent the nights in farm-houses, when they could be found, determining to purchase a farm near the Gulf and settle there.

Arthur Turner was ‘.iS yearn old, tail, pale, dark-eyed, unmistakably consumptive in his appearance; his wife, a fair, gentle little matron; his daughter Bose, not yet 10, tall, slender and Tory lorely. Young as she was, she had known the weight of sorrow. But her brave young spirit rose,firm and elastic, under the burden. She had thrown off her gay childishness and bloomed ont, suddenly, but none the less sweetly, into a premature, yet perfect woman, earnest and gentle, tender and true. Her form was delicate in every outline; her features classically lovely; her face, from the brood, sweet brow to the dimpled chin, white as the drifted snow; no tinge of color in it; but her lips, noble and delicate, were “Like rubies, soft and rich;” her eyes dark and l/rilliant; her hair dark also, silken ami half-curling.

Many days and nights they traveled through miles of sweet (Southern scenery. At first Turner’s health seemed improving. He was quite cheerful; would laugh and talk in his old debonuaire way, with his wife and daughter, direct his servants, remark on the acenory around him and speak to the .other travelers upon the roads, with frank good fellowship. But toward the ond of their journey, when passing through Florida, lie seemed to become weaker and more wan; his great bright, eyes grow brighter; his cough deeper and more frequent. In those days Bose clung to him with desperate fondness; and watched and ministered to (him day and night. Mrs. Turner was as loving, but loss thoughtful, anc ■weakly, excitable and nervous. One morning they were passing through the dense, swampy Woodlands of Lower Florida, the awnings femovet from the wagons to admit of the fresh, morning air. Turner had not yet obtained the farm of which lie was in quest. That morning, as the wagons rolled slowly over the causeway raise* above the morass, a horseman rode by, and, lifting his hat, said, “Good morning, senor, senoras.” It scarcely needed the words and voice to tell that he was of Spanish birth. Ho was a tall, splen-didly-built voung man, his face dark and strikingly handsome; liis eyes—true Spanish ones —were at once soft and languid and brilliaut and burning, Jus voice was pleasant, his manner prepossessing. “Good morning, sir,” said Turner. •"Do you live near here ?” “About a mile distant, seuor,” said the stranger, courteously. He looked toward the wagon, liis glance fell upon Bose, so sweet and slender, in her soft, Mack dress, with her lovely face an<! lifted, star-like eyes. He bent a gaze of snob intensity upon her that a wave of color swept over li«r face; but neither Her father nor her mother noticed the otrcu instance. said Turner, “will you direct mmr to the nearest farm-house. We -WMth to stop for refreshment and rest. ” “The nearest house is niy own-;” said tite Spaniard,quickly. “May I hope to. Ham (be honor of entertaining you ?” Turner hesitated.

"Ton see* like mm invalid, air,” mi d need rat it would be i pleasure to me. if yaw could come to my home. Scsons, will yow not add your pleaanre to mine?* “Arthur, my dear,* mud Mrs. Turner, languidly, *Fm sure yow need rest; you’re looking so tired. “I will accept your kind offer, sir,” said Turner, hastily, “with many thanks.* “It is my place, only, to return thanks,* said the Spaniard,gayly. His English was good; his accent quite pure. He rode qn beside the wagon; and Turner told him of the circumstances attendant upon his voluntary exile, and his plans for the. future. His new acquaintance, who called himself Gonzalez, listened with great attention; then rode on for some moments in silence. Presently he said: “I have two farms adjoining each other, of 150 acres each; if it would be of any convenience to you, I would sell you one of them. You can look at the land to-day—it is as good, I think, as any in Florida.” Turner thanked him, and readily promised to look at the land in question. - After ruling with them fora male further, the stranger, s tying that he wished to be ready to receive his guests, galloped ahead and was soon out of sight. Arthur Turner, after a few moment’s conversation with Bose and her mother, moved to the front of the wagon to speak to the driver, to whom Gonzalez had given directions as to the road to be taken.

“I am very jnuch pleased with that young man,” said Mrs. Turner to Bose, referring to Gonzalez. “Is he not handsome? And his manner is so pleasing.” “I do not like him,” said Bose, her voice trembling a little in spite of her effort at calmness. “I wish—oh, I wish we were not going to his house! Mamma, I feel afraid of him!” “My dear! You, who are always so strong-minded! And think, too, how Arthur needs rest!” Bose’s faint smile, at the mention of her strong mind, faded into a lopk of loving pain, as she glanced at Arthur’s thin, fragile figure and wan face; every thought of the Spaniard, to whom she felt an unreasoning aversion, was forgotten. The wagons passed on through the woods, until they reached a highway, cut through wide and fertile fields of rustling sugar-cane and blossoming cotton; along groves of orange and lemon-trees, and cool, pale-green ban-ana-plants. Then into a sort of park or garden, where tall forest-trees had been left standing here and there, when the wood that covered most of the land was cleared away; tall pines, oaks and hickories, a few laurels and cedars were scattered about, and hardy flowering shrubs were standing side by side with the clambering vines of the native jasmine, and clumps of lilac-phlox in blossom, for the month was June. A pretty, wild, romanticlooking place, and in the midst of it stood a house of yellow-pine boards, neatly smoothed, but unpainted; a house built in an odd, rambling, pie-

turesque fashion. The youjig Spaniard was standing on the steps. He came forward to meet his guests, and cour- ' teously assisted, first Mrs. Turner; and then Rose, out of the wagon. The girl shrank from him, involuntarily, as his strong hand closed over liers. She felt that odd sensation that is called an “antipathy” toward him. Gonzalez conducted his guests into liis house, which was comfortably, almost elegantly, furnished. He explained that he lived alone, but had a great many friends who paid him visits, and for whose accommodation he had fitted up his rural home. Mrs. and Miss Turner entered the guest chamber indicated to them, and removed their wraps and bonnets. Then, joining the gentlemen in the hall, they were escorted into a pretty diningroom to luncheon. Afterward they returned to the hall, which opened on a verandah. Rose went to one of the wiudows, and stood looking out. Her host came at once tojlier side. He bent down over her, and talked to her in his soft, foreign voice. Rose glanced up at the dark, burning eyes above her, and then quickly looked away. Her eyes fell upon her father. With a low, half-breathed cry, she sprang to his side. She had seen the awful ghastliness of his face. As she reached him his head sank down upon the table at which he was sitting; a stream of crimson poured over the smooth surface ol: the table. The Spaniard lifted Turner’s attenuated frame in his strong arms and carried him into an adjoining chamber. “A hemorrhage!” he said, in a low tone. Mrs. Turner burst into wild, hysterical sobbing, and clung in weak terror to her daughter. Rose gently put her mother aside, and, white and still as death, yet calm and collected, followed Gonzalez into the next room. He laic Turner gently on a couch, and, quickly getting a glass of water, held it to his lips.

“Tell mo what to do,” said Rose, quietly. He gave her one swift glance of admiration. “Wliat splendid nerve,” he thought. But he only said, placing the tumbler in her hand: “Hold this water to his lips; get him to drink- it, if you can,” and, rising, called sharply from the window to a servant without: “Go for the doctor; take my best horse, and ride for your life!” The day wore on; Turner lay wan and speechless; Gonzalez worked over liim with untiring patience, and some skill—his wife and daughter were beside him. The doctor lived miles away. Once toward evening as Genzalez was

rmkm nintr to tly» lick-TOOm. he ftoDDed attbe half-open door; for heheszd Turner’s voice, faint, broken, bat angulirly calm. He was speaking to his wife. "Dear,” he said, “I am—dying. I know it. There is something—l most —my to you.” Gonzalez, looking cautiously in, saw the young matron hide her face in the coverlet, her shoulder shaking with her sobs. An expression, of wistful pain, crossed Turner's face. He laid his thin hand on his wife’s bowed head and murmured, so low, that the Spaniard could barely catch the sounds; “My little Bose, you must listen to me then.” “O, not now, papa! Not now, my darling!” Bose pleaded. “You must not talk now, while you are so weak. You shall tell me to-morrow.” “To-morrow?” Turner echoed faintly. “No, dear, listen now! I cannot say—manv more words. The—money, Bose —all our money, except what your | mother has about her, is in a little tin box in the wagon, the one we came in. When I leave yon—you and vonr mother must go back to our home and friends. There will be money enough for the present. You understand ?” “I understand, papa!” Bose answered, bravely. “Do not speak any more, now; try and sleep!” Gonzalez turned into the verandah. Yes, this man was surely dying! And, when he was dead, his wife and daughter would go back to their home; and the face that had risen before him like a brilliant star, the voice that had stirred every pulse within him, the girl whose presence made his heart bound and touched every chord within his passionate and impnLsive nature, would be lost to him. Ah, he might follow her—would he fmd her heart-free? O, to keep her with him price! Then a thought came to him that made his dark cheek coloi* with mingled triumph 1 and shame. Yes, there was a way to keep her! The money of which the dying man had spoken was to be the means of taking Bose and her mother away from Florida. To remove those means, to offer a home to the helpless widow and her daughter, to win Bose’s love by her gratitude, if in no other way, (for she already seemed averse to him), to repay to them tenfold what he would have taken from them, for he was a rich man. That was his plan. With a rapid step be strode out toward the wagons, and sprang into the foremost one. He soon found the tin box, carried it into the house and into his own sleeping apartment. He unlocked a chest there containing books, threw the costly volumes out upon the floor, laid the box of money at tire bottom of the chest, the bookk upon it; then, locking the chest carefully, he slung the key upon his watch-chain and left the room. It was done now —the deed of dishonor!

A man’s step on the verandah—the doctor had come. He looked grave on seeing his patient. It was not a hopeful case, he told Gonzalez, but he would do all he could. He administered an anodyne to Arthur, and ordered perfect quiet in the sick-room. The night was passing with weary slowness; a shaded taper burned slowly in the room where Arthur Turner lay, watched by the doctor, Gonzalez, his wife and daughter. After midnight the rind physician tried to persuade the two ladies td test for a short time; it was plain that the frail little wife, soon to. be a widow, was exhausted by grief. She yielded helplessly to the persuasions t>l the doctor, Gonzalez and Rose, and tried to rest in a room adjoining that in which her husband was, and quietly took a sedative draught prepared for her by the doctor.

Rose, with gentle firmness, declined resting; so they were forced to let her sit there at her father’s side, white, silent and motionless as a small effigy, and, though they did not know the agony of the grief that her lovely, quiet face concealed so well, the two men who sat there in thatt dim room watched her pityingly. An hour or two passed in this way, then they saw Arthur Turner open his luminous dark eyes, that looked strangely misty then. He did not look at the two men who sat near him, nor at the girl, his daughter, who longed for some sign of recoguition, of love, from him; he did not look for his absent -wife, nearest and dearest of all the world to him. But his sweet, misty eyes looked upward; and he clasped the wasted hands that lay on his breast, and murmured something, but neither of the three listeners round him caught the wor<Js. Silence. The night waned; it passed into the dawning. The early light that crept into that room, showed the doctor in his chair, drowsy, almost dozing; it was natural, perhaps, for one of his profession, accustomed to sit beside the dying, despite his kind pity for his uninteresting patient; Gonzalez, bending forward, gazing with passionate earnestness upon Rose; she, poor child! thinking only of her father, as if they two were all alone there, and the fragile form upon the couch. By-aud-by an early sunbeam, a little strip of gold, came through the white window-curtain and rested on Turner’s shadowy face. His gentle breathing stopped. Gonzalez stepped forward; the doctor started from his chair; Rose, with a dreadful terror in her heart, stooped and kissed her father’s lips, and, as she felt them stiff and cold, she slid down upon, the floor quite unconscious. Gonzalez lifted her in his arms and carried her out into the cool morning air. And there, on the verandah, he dared to lay one kiss upon her senseless lips, without a thought o:! the dead ones they had just kissed. It was October. Arthur Turner’s widow and daughter were living in Carlos Gonzalez’ country house, the Spaniard haTing built a cottage on the same

A. ' *“*»• rambling principles upon the adjoining farm tor his own accommodation. He had bought at a liberal price the widow's wagons and horses and received from her a year’s rent for his house. The simple-minded kfctLe woman took greatly to Gonzales, and earnestly wished for “a match” between the Spaniard and her daughter. But Bose treated their benefactor with courteous, distant hauteur, much to her mother’s vexation. Bose taught a little class of the children of the rough farmers, who lived contentedly in their log cabins, and the small foresters began to grow gentler in their ways, to learn to read and cipher and to adore the sweetvoiced, beautiful girl who taught them. Mrs. Turner took in sewing work from the mothers of thes* children, who found the ax and hoe more congenial than the needle. In tins way the mother and daughter earned their livelihood.

It was October, and a fair, sunny afternoon, and Bose was taking her way down .the brambly weodpath that led to the shore of the narrow, blue bay that flowed into the land from the Gulf, which lay a mile distant from Bose’s Florida home. She wore her trailing mourning robes; her figure was slighter, slimmer, Hum ever, but her step was light and. her eyes sparkling, and a slight flush upon her satinsoft'cheek. Though deep grief comes to ua, we cannot be always unhappy, thank Heaven! And this girl was very young, and the woodland world about her Very.sweet; so, with tripping feet and a song .on her lips, she passed down to the bay shore. Upon the sand, with the blue water lapping* round it, a tiny boat wps anchored. Bose stepped into it, and seating herself is the stern began reading a volume of Shakspeare which she had brought with her. Presently she heard a step on the sand; it was that of Gonzalez. “May I come in?” he asked, with a smile; but without waiting for an answer he stepped into the skiff and sat down at Bose’s side.

“What are you reading ?” he asked, glancing at the book upon Bfer lap. ‘Romeo and Juliet’? Lay aside their ove-story, sweetheart, for your own and mine!” Taking the book, he laid it aside, and drawing so near to Rose that his lips almost touched her hair, he whispered: “Need I tell you that I love you? Or lave you seen it in my eyes, my sweet, white Rose ? I have come to look for the answering light in yours!” * And drawing nearer still, he slipped lis arm around her waist. Rose started to her feet. But Gonzalez rose also, and held her hand firmy in his. / “Will yon let me go, Mr, Gonzalez?” said Rose. “I wish to.” “You shall go if you will, sweetheart, and I will go with you —when you have told me that you love me.” “I do not love you. ” “You do not love me? Ah, try to, ' lose ! See, I love you so I would lay down my life for you! Give me a little ove for my whole heart. No? Then give me your hand, my fairest, and I will win your love afterward, Heaven helping me!”

“Icannot,” said Rose; I cannot! I am sorry you—love me—because I cannot return your love. lam so sorry. ” Her voice faltered, as if tears were coming. “Sorry?" he echoed in a strange tone, tightening his clasp on the little trembling hand. “Sorry to leave the world a desert to me, and living itself a bitter tornjent! To think that a coldhearted child should have the power to wreck a man’s life so! But you shall not wreck my life; you must be mine! Why do you play upon my heartstrings with such cruel skill?” “I have answered you,” said Rose gently. “I will tell you again, plainly, for that is kindest, best, most honorable. Ido not love you; I will never marry you. I —” She stopped halffrightened, for the face was purple with passion. “You would not marry me to save your own life ?” he asked. “I would not.”

“I take you at your word!” he said; and before she could guess his meaning, he sprang from the boat, and taking ont a pocket-knife, cut the anchor-rope; then with all his powerful strength, he gave the boat a push that sent it flying down the bay. The tide was going out; tlie boat went with it. Gonzales dashed up the wooded bank and out of sight. The boat went surely and swiftly drifting ont towards the gulf. There w r ere no oars; no possibility of Rose making her voice heard on the shore! There was one faint hope; that of being picked up by some vessel that might chance to be in the Gulf. Or Gonzales might telent and come after her. One of these things might happen; but it seemed far likelier that Rose would die a lingering death on the water. On—on the boat drifted, until Rose knew that she had left the bay and was in the great green Gulf. She bowed her head upon her hands to hide the beautiful majesty of the waters, and still felt her boat rocking, gliding, courtesying out. When she looked up, her heart gave a great bound, for she saw a white sail bending over the waves, in the same direction in which the current was carrying her little skiff. And, as she drew nearer, she saw a graceful yacht—a jolly-boat at its «side —several figures on deck. * Then, rising, the girl field up her handkerchief and waved it. Ah! who would see her poor little signal of distress? She waved it until her ariqs ached with weariness. Then she saw the jollyboat of, the yacht let down —men descending into it—the flash of an oar! It was coming over the waves straight toward her. She sat down again with folded hands—half overoocae by the

snddea transition from impair to hope. The boat drew near, a trim little craft, rowed by two stout sailers. And in the stean,holding the tiller, sat a tell young man, with bright blue eyes. How joyfully the sunshine.sparkled ea the foam about the jolly-boat’s bows. How like liquid gold it lit up the young steersman's chestnut curls! Bose’s eyes filled with happy tears. They looked all the more like stars for that, and her blue-eyed rescuer must have no-* ticed how like a white rose she and how lovely in her soft black dress, with her slim hands lying like lilies in her lap. He looked at her in evident bewQdsngpnt, but lifted his sailor hoi, saying; “Gan I be of any assistance to you?” : Bose briefly told her story, omitting all mention of Gonzalez. The young man assisted her into his which bore the elegant title of the “Saucy Polly,” and, offering her a seat at his side, steered by her direction toward the point from which Bose had started, her own little skiff being fastened behidd. The next morping a servant brought Bose a crumpled, barely-legible note, which read as follows: Bose, come to me! Yon need not fear me now. lam weaker than an infant, and lying between life and death. Come, for heaven’s sake, to Caxlos Goxzaxe*. Bose called her mother, and, taking the frightened and reluctant little 'widow with* her, at once followed the bearer of the note, who said that Gonzales had accidentally, wounded himself while loading hxs pistol. Rose found him, attended by a doctor- and * apparently near death. But he told* her how he had ever been subject to ungovernable fits of passion, in one ol which he had beep c© the previous evening; how he had'attempted to undo his sin by bringing her back, but had been too late to do so. And he told her of the money-box and its hidingplace. For two days Bose and her mother nursed the dying man. On the the third day he whispered to Rose; “Pray; I used to pray when I was a child, before my mother died.” And as she repeated the “Prayer for the Dead” he followed the words. Thea he said, wistfully, “I could die more easily holding your hand, Rose.” So he heldj it and restfully closed his eyes? When he opened them, his mind had wandered to the days of his bovhpod; the sinful man had “become even as a little child.” He said, the words sounding like a far-away chant, “Oui* Father* who art in heaven, hallowed^be Thy, name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done.” He was dead. His Father’s will was done. * * * Six months later the blue-eyed steersman of the Saucy Polly came back to the Florida wild for the sweet, white Bose.