Chapter IV

November was at its last day. A severe storm, half rain, half snow, was sweeping over Boston. The beacon upon Trimount trembled in the blast, and on the shores of the peninsula the waves roared sullenly. Few people were abroad, and there was never a watchman in the city who did not for that day at least regret having chosen a calling which kept him out of doors in such weather.

The house on Sun Court Street was too stoutly built to tremble, yet those within heard the wind howling over the hill as if scourged by all the furies. It was one of those nights when a man sits before his fire and realizes the value of all his blessings.

John and Rose sat together before the blazing hearth while the husband told stories of his boyhood in England. The wife nestled close to him, absorbed in the narration, yet not forgetting to fondle his hand with her smooth, soft fingers.

Suddenly into the room burst black, dumb Dinah, wringing her hands and moving her speechless lips with frightful earnestness. In her hands she carried the fragments of the pot which had held the tuberose.

Rose sprang up with a cry of anguish.

"Dinah! Dinah! My tuberose!"

The negress gesticulated wildly, but her mistress rushed past her; and, followed by her husband, hastened to see for herself the extent of the mischief.

The pot had been overturned by the wind, which had burst in one of the tiny greenish window panes, and the plant was completely crushed in the downfall. Not a single flower had escaped, and mingled with fragments of pottery and with the black church-yard mould in which the flower had--perhaps ill-fatedly--been planted, were the leaves and petals, torn and stained and mangled.

In the first sorrow of the discovery of the accident, Rose threw herself into her husband's arms and burst into tears; but she soon controlled herself, and became perfectly calm. She directed Dinah to remove the débris, and returned to listen to her husband's stories; and, although she was more quiet than before, she seemed no less interested.

It was late when they prepared to retire.

"John," Rose said, hesitatingly, as they lingered a moment side by side before the wide hearth, "it is just a year to-night since Mistress Henshaw died. If you are willing, I wish to pass the night alone in her room."

"I am always willing you should do whatever pleaseth you best," he answered, smiling upon her; "but why do you mean to shut me out from your sorrow? I, too, loved her."

"I know," Rose returned, bending to kiss the hand he had laid upon hers, "and I fear you can never be shut out from my sorrows, however much I could wish to spare you. Still, I wish it to be so for to-night."

"Then let it be so. The storm does not fright you?"

"The storm does not fright me."

She took from her throat the tuberoses she had worn that day, and gazed at them sadly.

"I can never wear another," she said. "These are faded like our happy days."

"You speak but sadly," returned her husband, with a look of such fondness that the tears started into her eyes despite all her efforts to restrain them. "You would have spoken so had you been bidding me farewell. The destruction of the flower makes you downcast. Mayhap there is still life in the root, and it may be made once more to grow and bloom."

"John," his wife said abruptly, "John, I have loved you from the first moment I saw you; I love you now, and I shall love you to all eternity. Whatever happens, remember that and believe it."

"I have never doubted that you love me," he answered, gathering her into his arms; "how else could it be that you could have made me so utterly happy?"

She clung to him passionately a moment. Then with an evident effort at self-control, she kissed his lips fervently, disengaged herself from his embrace, and turned away.

"Good-night, dear," she said.

Then upon the threshold of Mistress Henshaw's chamber she paused and looked back, tears shining in her beautiful dark eyes.

"Good-night," she repeated; "good-night."