# Orange Grove (Wall)/Chapter 18

"Why should I murmur? for the sorrow Thus only longer lived would be; Its end may come; and well, to-morrow, When God has done his work in me, So I say trusting,—as God will! And trusting to the end, hold still."
Although it was with no happy sensation Ernest departed that unlucky morning from his brief interview with Rosalind, he experienced no feeling of reproach or vexation. As he rode on musingly, and felt the gentle breeze from the river, flowing calm and peacefully, as if nothing in this outward world could disturb the eternal harmony with which God had rounded and perfected every wave that its rippling murmur should be heard through ages to come as it had been through ages past, a quiet peace overspread his soul, and he felt a willingness to trust all with unshaken confidence to Him who had power to command the winds and the sea, and they obey him. Love alone is immortal, for only in the divine attributes pertaining to its own comprehensive character is incarnated the Deity himself. Just in proportion as man possesses the gift which is free to all who ask it, can he wield the power flowing from it to heal the sins of humanity. Something of this nature, like the breath of inspiration, swept through the brain of ​Ernest. He returned to his room and sat down to give the finishing touches to a painting laid aside in his eagerness to sketch Rosalind. When it was completed he proposed to himself a short walk, indulging a hope of coming in contact with Walter. He had not proceeded far when he met the post-boy bringing him a letter. It contained a message from a near friend of his, an old classmate, who was fast wasting away in the last stage of consumption and wished to see him as soon as possible. Deeming it necessary to start next morning he had no time to lose, and instantly set about preparation for the journey, expecting to return in a few days. Seeing that his friend would not probably survive long he did not leave him again, and after his death was detained several weeks on business lie desired him to attend to. His thoughts constantly reverted to Rosalind, and the conjectures she would have about him, which made the time seem very long. Under other circumstances he would have written to Walter and explained his absence.
At length the wished—for day of his return arrived, when he secured a seat in the old lumbering stage coach which had a welcome, home-like look as it rumbled over the hills and valleys. At sunset he was safely landed at the door of the hotel which, in those days, was none the less popular for the ruinous traffic it carried on. Scarcely observing the fierce altercations and rude scuffling in the bar-room, sights and rounds that seldom failed to give him a painful sensation for the reminiscence they brought of the first and last night he ever spent in the society ​of staggering limbs and wandering brains, since which time not a drop of champagne had passed his lips, he hastened by to a private entrance through which he gained access to his own room. Refreshing himself a few moments after the heat and dust of the day, he soon traced his steps in the familiar direction of Orange Grove.
When Mr. Claremont was married he built a large and elegant mansion on a landed estate formerly the possession of one of his wife's ancestors. He laid out the grounds according to his own taste, preserving one old oak tree for its antiquity, which stood near the house. Mrs. Claremont had a great passion for orange trees, some half dozen of which were in full bloom at one time. From this circumstance he gave their residence the poetical name of Orange Grove.
As Mr. Livingston walked up the shaded avenue in the dusk of evening, a perfect silence reigned throughout the house and over the grounds. The rooms were not yet lighted, and there was no sign of any living thing save the little white-footed kitten capering in the flower circle, who signified her welcome by scampering off as fast as she could go when ho came up, unconscious of the invisible fibres of the human soul she had in her power to twinge with unutterable pain! She called up so vividly the memory of that other morning, as to unsettle for a moment the confidence with which he had looked forward to this hour, but quickly, reassuring himself and banishing his fears, he ascended the steps and pulled the bell. Kate fancied there was a slight ​tremor in his voice as he enquired for Rosalind which disappeared upon being told that she was in.
Being vexed with her Kate would not tell who the visitor was, but announced simply that a gentleman wished to see her. With the coolest indifference Rosalind descended to the parlor, neither caring nor guessing who her guest might be. As she met again those eyes that had never looked upon her but in kindness and love, and pressed again the hand that had so often pressed hers in silent sympathy, the floods of feeling swept away all self-control, and she burst into tears.
Weep on, Rosa, those tears are the seal of thy baptism into a higher life.
The barrier was dissolved. Deeper than all speech, more expressive than any outward symbol, was the impressive silence of that hour, the charm of which he sought not to break. It was the soul's confession. To him there was sweeter music in those sobs than ever came from sylvan lips. There was no more restraint or embarrassment, and in parting that night, though the outward pledge remained unspoken, each felt that they were wedded before God.
The moon, just risen, gave a sparkling radiance to the river whose peaceful flow they sat up long to watch in their respective chambers, to them symbolic of the quiet, noiseless manner in which their own lives had thus suddenly and silently merged into one.
Walter and his mother did not return until nearly midnight. She trembled at the sound of his footsteps lest he might intrude upon her meditations, ​desiring now to be left to herself. He, judging by the lateness of the hour and her own silence that she must be asleep, did not disturb her.
There was an evident change in her the next morning, but being full of changes these times, no comment was made. It was the subdued expression of a soul in which suffering and sorrow had been assuaged by a special revelation of inward peace. Neither Walter nor his mother could sympathize with her in the peculiar spiritual experience through which the singular combination of her mental powers led her, which fact, doubtless, accounted for the extraordinary affinity existing between herself and her father, whose organization her own resembled in some of its striking points.
It was instinct, more powerful than any outward demonstration of affection, that drew them together even in her babyhood, through which he derived his great influence over her.
At breakfast Walter joked her some in the course of the conversation upon the evening's entertainment, about the enjoyment she lost, to which she quietly replied that she had enjoyed herself at home. Interesting herself in her mother's plans with more spirit than was her wont, and Walter being absent, a quiet, yet happy time they had, which was not interrupted by a single visitor. Human nature is so magnetic that we cannot resist the contagious influences arising from the emotions of joy or grief. If a person is happy an involuntary radiation unconsciously raises the spirits of all within its sphere.
Rosalind diffused this peaceful contentment over ​the whole house that day. Milly and Kate felt it whenever they came in contact with her, and many conjectures they held privately of what might have taken place the night before, but one thing was certain Kate said, "he did her a mighty deal o' good anyhow," and became quite reconciled to the possibility which Milly had suggested, "that if he really loved her he would have her yet," though it did not quite square with her ideas of what a young man should do when a young lady "cut up such a shine with him." She really liked Rosalind better than she was willing to acknowledge, but Ernest was her ideal of perfection and she could not tolerate any breach of courtesy towards him from any source.
Walter had just entered the drawing room after his return that evening, when Ernest was ushered in. He met him with shouts of welcome, exclaiming, "I did not know you had come; did you know it Rosa?" She was silent. Not all the powers of the universe could have induced her to answer the question at that moment.
"Yes," said Ernest, "Rosa knew I had come, and it shows she can keep a secret," taking her hand in his as he seated himself beside her on the sofa. Walter looked puzzled.
"I did not know but you had cut our acquaintance as you did not write to Walter," said Mrs. Claremont, ironically, to which Walter quickly replied by way of turning the conversation, "A bad penny soon returns, so I had no fear we should not see you again."
​"I was gone much longer than I expected when I left. You knew where I went?" remarked Ernest.
"No, I went over to your room that morning just in season to get a glimpse of you in the old stage coach, and I made up my mind that as you had gone off without ceremony, you might return without ceremony, and I would let you enjoy it."
"Walter is such an easy genius he never borrows any trouble for aught that happens," observed his mother, "he would make light of it, and say, 'Oh, he knows his own business, he will come back when he gets ready, I know he will,' which nobody doubted."
The curious expression of Walter's face when his mother said this, convinced Ernest that he knew the whole, in spite of his assumed indifference as he said abstractly, "And so you did, didn't you? but it's been lonesome enough here without you."
All this conversation was torture to Rosalind. She would have given worlds had they been at her command to have blotted out that little page of her history. As Ernest held her hand he imagined he could feel the blood come and go; and to relieve her embarrassment, proposed going to an exhibition that evening, which in reality had no interest for either of them. As she rose without any hesitation to get ready. Walter glanced curiously from her to her mother, very much to the amusement of Ernest. She had not spoken since he entered the parlor, and her evident confusion betrayed a personal interest in the matter which excited her mother's curiosity not a little.
"That's a mighty funny affair," said Walter, after ​they had gone, "how ready she was to go off with him to-night when she has always been so afraid of his company."
Mrs. Claremont smiled. Soon Milly came in, looking very much amused.
"Milly," said Walter, "was Mr. Livingston here last night while we were gone?"
"That's for you to find out," she smilingly replied.
"Well I know how I can find out, I'll make Kate tell me," continued he, rushing out.
"Kate, did Mr. Livingston call here last night in our absence?"
"An' sure, you don't 'spose I'd be for tellin' the young lady's secrets do you?"
Walter had not been so "easy" as his mother represented or as his own manner indicated. He had a great deal of anxiety about the consequences. The friendship of Ernest was something beyond price and the thought of sacrificing it he could not tolerate. After witnessing what he had, there seemed to be reason for his staying away, and consoled himself with the belief that things would all come out right yet, a favorite dogma in his creed. He knew Ernest too well to suspect him of any such weakness as breaking a friendship voluntarily because of Rosalind's incomprehensible freaks. He might feel embarrassed about calling; which led Walter to seek him next morning, and watch his return, deeming it incumbent on himself under the circumstances to make the first advance.
Ernest and Rosalind walked on past the door of the exhibition, which it is doubtful if either knew ​when passing it to a favorite little dell, near the water's edge where he and Walter had held many a lively chat and—grave conversation. A fine breeze from the river was well calculated to cool the fevered brow of Rosalind; and the rising moon smiled beneficently on them as if to chase away her disquietude, and breathe over each the holy calm emanating from it's own bosom. Rosalind gazed at it for some moments in silence, apparently unconscious of the still more earnest gaze fixed upon her by the soft, loving eyes of Ernest, whose soul-lit radiance testified of a joy too deep for utterance, as they read in that young, thoughtful face the traces of a kindred sorrow which had bound their two souls in one, and sanctified their love by the consciousness that it was no dream of butterfly existence, but a sober reality in which trials were to be met and endured, as well as blessings shared and enjoyed.
"A faithful watch the moon and stars keep over each other," said she, playfully.
"As faithful as you and I will be to God, and to each other?"
"Oh Ernest, how dare you trust me?"
"Trust you, Rosalind? I have always trusted you, and I always shall!"