LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1997, 19 July 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A BOSE OF SHAKON. It was in a large and handsome green-house that two young people stood, admiring a magnificent plant, on the beauty of which the owner, Doctor Doran, was expatiating. ‘ But what is this ?’ the young lady said—- ‘ this odd, dingy little plant, in the shadow of these superb blossoms ? Was it placed here by way of contrast I wonder 1’ The plant to which she alluded was of a dull green color, and floated in a saucer of water, on the surface of which it lay with stiff leaves, flatly diverging from the centre. ‘ That,’ said the doctor, ‘is more Interesting than it looks. It was sent me from Palestine, where it is vulgarly known as the Bose of Sharon, thongh its botanical name is —” Some one of a group at the other end of the green-house suddenly called to him, and he was compelled to hasten away, without having explained the properties of the * old and dingy, little plant. The two young people stood where he had left them, screened by a group of myrtles and roses —fit surroundings for lovers. It was one of those delicious moments for seclusion and silent communion accidentally snatched from the society of others, which are so sweet and precious to the hearts of all lovers. A deep look into each other’s eyes, a pressure of the hand, a low whispered word, and then the clasping fingers separated, and then the girl’s eyes were downcast as a step came near. ‘Miss Oarrie, I have availed myself of the good doctor’s permission, and chosen for yon the prettiest flowers thst I could find. Will yon have them ? And will you wear them to-night ?’ The elegant aud rather confident-looking young man held out a superb camelia of vivid scarlet, flaming against its glossy waxen leaves, ‘ Oh, how beautiful! * the girl exclaimed, ‘ Too beautiful to droop and fade in the atmosphere of a ball-room.’ * I thought you preferred white,’ her companion remarked, quietly, yet with apparently some chagrin, ‘lt was you who expressed a preference for white flowers,’ she answered, laughingly. ‘ White is too Insipid for my taste—l like rich colors. Yes, thank you, Mr Farley, I will wear your flowers.’ Farley stroked his delicate moustache to hide a smile of triumph and amusement. The other taw it, aud turned haughtily away. ‘ His Highness is evidently not pleased,’ remarked Farley, with a shrug. ‘His Highness is welcome to be otherwise,’ the girl answered lightly. ‘ What a superb color !’ and she held up the camelia admiringly. • May I venture to ask yet another favor ? Will yon give me the first waltz ?’ * Yon know I don’t waltz, now.’ ‘ Yon did until recently,' he said significantly. Her color rose. • Well, I may perhaps give you one waltz. I won’t promise positively, though.’ ‘ Thank yon. I will live on the hope until nine o’clock, when— ’ ‘When you will take something more sub-stantial-oysters and turkey salad, ’ she said, archly. And with a graceful ‘ Aurevoir !’ not quite devoid of an air of innocent coquetry, she turned again to her companion, who had been pretending interest in the Rose of Sharon.

He now met her bright glance with a grave ccamtenance. ‘ Carrie, I am sorry that you promised to wear those Sowers. You most have known I had promised myself the pleasure of choosing some for yon. And I doubly regret that you should have consented to waltz with Farley. Excuse me, but under the circumstances I did not expect it of you.’ ‘I may bo allowed to judge of the propriety of my own actions,’ she returned,with assumed dignity. ‘ To be engaged to one man, and to wear the flowers presented by another— ’ ‘The engagement is not known except to ourselves,’ she interrupted. ‘And I really do not think, Mr Rutherford, that you have a right to demand that your wishes should be my law.’ 1 Carrie !’ He would have taken her hand, but she turned away abruptly. In the motion the saucer containing the plant which the doctor had called the Rose of Sharon fell to the ground and was shattered. ‘There! see the mischief you have done !’ he said, stepping back. ‘ It is you who are doing the mischief. You are crushing the plant beneath your foot.’ He picked it np, and stood holding it in his hand. Neither of them spoke a word. Both felt vexed and wounded,'and the heart of each accused the other of unkindness. ‘You are killing that poor plant,’ said Caroline, at length, a little sharply. ‘ See how its leaves are fading and curling np !’ True, the unfortunate plant was assuming a dull, brownish hue, and its leaves were already withering and crumpling into a dead-looking ball. They observed it curiously. ‘ How quickly it has withered ! ami for want of water, of which yon have deprived it.’ ‘ It is because you have crushed it.’ Light words, and yet there was something in the look and tone of each which sent a chill and a b.ight to the heart of the other. ‘ I will got fresh water,’ said Rutherford. ‘ It is useless ; it is -past resuscitating,’ said Caroline, with something hard in her tone. ‘ Then let it die !’ he returned, recklessly ; and he tossed the little brown ball upon the shelf. ‘ A thing which will die so quiokly is not worth having.’ Irate words, thoughtless words, on the part of both, tha result of a moment’s vexation, and yet to be repented of and mourned over, in sorrow and bitterness, for many a long year after They met that evening at the party, with a certain coldness and restraint cn the part of both. Each waited for some sign of yielding from the other. Each was too proud to make it. Caroline thought that her lover had been unreasonably jealous and exacting, and that it was, in any case, the part of tha man, and not of the woman, to make advances to a reconciliation. Rutherford, as he saw the scarlet camelia glowing in the dark tresses of his betrothed,

considered himself aggrieved, and this feeling was aggravated by observing the assiduity of his former rival, Farley, who encouraged by the apparent estrangement of the lovers, was renewing attentions which had been recently discontinued from a perception of their hopelessness. Caroline smiled, chatted, flirted, and made herself generally charming, tnd no one, not even Rutherford, suspected the troubled heart beneath. Despite his great love for her he felt disappointed in witnessing her conduct, so different from herself in general, and this feeling amounted to positive displeatnre on beholding her in Farley’s arms, whirling In the voloptuous mazes of a waltz. She knew how he detested waltzing, and that ho specially objected to her waltzing with Farley. He turned from the sight, with a feeling nearly approaching disgust, and devoted himself to a modest, pretty young girl, a stranger in the place. Later in the evening he approached Caroline, and addressed her, but coldly. She replied haughtily, and, turning to Farley, complained of the heat, and the two passed out upon the piazza. In displeasure, Rutherford did not again approach her. He did not call on ner the following day. When ha did call she excused herself from seeing him, and that evening he met h'r promenading with Parley. It was anough. The brisf dream of happiness of these two foolish young lovers was over. Rutherford went to join a brother of his iu the far WestJ and Caroline made herself a reigning belle that winter. * * # * * Ten years passed. Time had brought the usual changes to the little town of C , Children had grown to be young people, and most of the former young people had married, The name of Allan Rutherford was almost fergetten, except by a few who had best known him, for sines his departure he had scarcely been heard from. He had no relatives in C , and though he possessed property there, it had been left in the hands of agents. One chilly Octobor evening the windows of Doctor Doran’s parlor were brightly lighted, and within, the large, pleasant room was glowing with warm and comfort. The old doctor and his good wife were bolding one of their little, informal secial gatherings, known in village society as ‘teas. The old couple were cheery and kindly, and knew how ts make things pleasant for all sorts of guests, and consequently their 1 teas’ were popular with even the young people and children. The present, however, was no young people’s party. One or two married couples, an old bachelor or two, an elderly maiden lady, and one much younger, but still past the bloom of youth—these, with the doctor’s school girl nieee, constituted the company. The younger of the two single ladies was Caroline Dunn, who, ten years previous, had been the betrothed of Allan Rutherford. Everybody wondered why she had never married, and, in truth, she herself sometimes shared in the wonder. Offers she had, and still had ; bat though she intended to marry, somehow she had never done so. Sbe said to her intimate friends that she could never love any man sufficiently to marry him. And now, in her thirtieth year, she began to feel indifferent upon the subject, and had almost come to the conclusion that her destiny was to be an old maid. She presented a very pleasing and attractive picture, despite her thirty years, as she sat there on the low ottoman, teaching old Mrs Doran the intricacies of a new crochet stitch, a dress of soft grey silk fitting perfectly to her fine figure, with a simple garniture of delicate laoe and rose-colored ribbon ; soft brown hair, swept back from a smooth, fair brow, a smile on her lip, a pleasant light in her brown eyes. No wonder that the minister’s wife' looking at hsr, whispered to the professor’s lady that,in her opinion, Caroline Dunn was handsomer and more attractive now than when she had been a girl, ‘ I have a pleasant surprise for some of you,” said the doctor, rubbing his hands and looking around the cheery circle —“the meeting with an old friend. You, Doctor Rivera and Mr Dixon, remember oar promising young law graduate, Allan Rutherford?’ Caroline Bunn lifted startled eyes, and a warm color rushed over face and neck. She looked down again upon her work, but her fingers trembled, and she dropped atltoh after stich, knitting on without noticing them. IT a he continued.)