Chapter 12

Rose never, of course, made one at the brilliant assemblies which Mrs. Ivers gave and graced; she only saw those who breakfasted or lunched in the square, or who, like the little old gentleman, and one or two others, joined the family circle. The excitement of an election, and the (_pro tem._) equality which such an event creates, brought her more into contact with her cousin's acquaintances than she had yet been, and gave the gentleman, who evidently admired her, an opportunity of studying her character. There was something strange in a young woman, situated as was Rose, preserving so entirely her self-respect, that it encircled her like a halo; and wherever it is so preserved, it invariably commands the respect of others. After the first week or two had passed, Rose Dillon was perfectly undazzled by the splendour with which she was surrounded, and was now engaged in watching for a moment when she could escape from what she knew was splendid misery. If Helen had been simply content to keep her own position--if she had, as Rose's wisdom advised, sufficient moral courage to resent a slight openly, not denying her humble birth, and yet resolved to be treated as became her husband's wife--all would have been happiness and peace. Proud as Mr. Ivers was of her, her discontent and perpetual straining after rank and distinction, watching every body's every look and movement to discover if it concealed no _covert_ affront, rendered him, kind and careful though he was, occasionally dissatisfied; and she interpreted every manifestation of his displeasure, however slight, to contempt for her birth. Rose suffered most acutely, for she saw how simple was the remedy, and yet could not prevail on Helen to abate one jot of her restless ambition. The true spirit of a Christian woman often moved her to secret earnest prayer, that God, of His mercy, would infuse an humbler and holier train of thought and feeling into Helen's mind; and, above all, she prayed that it might not come too late.

"You do not think with Mrs. Ivers in all things, I perceive," said the gentleman I have twice alluded to.

"I am hardly, from my situation," replied Rose, "privileged to think her thoughts, though perhaps I may think of them."

"A nice distinction," he answered.

"Our lots in life are differently cast. In a week I return to Abbeyweld; I only came to be her nurse in illness, and was induced to remain a little longer because I was useful to her. They will go to the Continent now, and I shall return to my native village."

"But," said the gentleman, in a tone of the deepest interest, "shall you really return without regret?"

"Without regret? Oh yes!"

"Regret nothing?"

"Nothing."

"Suppose," he continued, in a suppressed tone of deep emotion--"suppose that a man, young, rich, and perfectly aware of the value of your pure and unsullied nature, was to lay his hand and heart"--

"I pray, I entreat you, say not another word," interrupted Rose, breathlessly. "If there should be any such, which is hardly possible, sooner than he should deign to make a proposal to me, I would tell him that before I came to visit my cousin, only the very night before, I became the betrothed of another."

"Of some one, Rose, who took advantage of your ignorance of the world--of your want of knowledge of society?"

"Oh no!" she replied, covering her face with her hand; "oh no! he is incapable of that. He would have suffered me to leave Abbeyweld free of promise, but I would not."

"And do you hold the same faith still Rose? Think, has not what you have seen, and shared in, made you ambitious of something beyond a country life? Your refined mind and genuine feeling, your taste--do not, I implore you, deceive yourself."

"I do not, sir; indeed, I do not. Pardon me; I would not speak disrespectfully of those above me. Of course, I have not been admitted into that familiarity which would lead me to comprehend what at present appears to me even more disturbed by the littleness of life than a country village. Conventional forms have, I fear, little to do with elevation of mind; they seem to me the result of habit rather than of thought or feeling. I know this, at least, 'All is not gold that glitters.' I have seen a tree, fair to look at in the distance, and covered with green leaves, but when approached closely, the trunk was foul and hollowed by impurities, and when the blast came, it could not stand; even so with many, fair without and foul within, and the first adversity, the first great sorrow, over-throws them."

"But this may be the case with the poor as well as the rich, in the country as well as the town."

"I am sure of it, sir. No station can be altogether free from impurity; but in the country the incitements to evil seem to me less numerous, and the temptations fewer by far; the most dangerous of all, a desire to shine, to climb above our fellows, less continual. The middle class is there more healthy and independent."

"And all this owing to the mere circumstance, think you, of situation?" interrupted the gentleman.

"I am only country bred, sir, as you know," replied Rose, earnestly but meekly; "and the only advantage I have had has been in the society of one you have heard me mention before now--our worthy rector--and he says it would make all that is wrong come right, if people would only fear God and love their neighbour."

"I believe," said the gentleman, "he is right, quite right; for out of such religion springs contentment, and all the higher as well as the humbler virtues. Yes, he is quite right." Much more he urged Rose, with all the persuasive eloquence of warm affection, to discover, if it were possible, she could change. He tried her on all points, but she replied with the clear straightforward truthfulness that has nothing to conceal. She wavered in nothing: firm to her love, steady to her principles, right-thinking and clear-sighted, he felt that Rose Dillon of Abbeyweld would have added the dignity of virtue to the dignity of rank, but that her mind was of too high an order to bend to the common influences that lead women along the beaten track of life.

They parted to meet no more; and Rose shed tears at their parting. "I did not wish you to make a declaration that did me too much honour," she said; "but I entreat you to say nothing of it to Mrs. Ivers. My own course is taken, and God knows how earnestly I will pray that you may find one in every way worthy your high caste of mind and station."

I wonder would Edward Lynne have quite approved of those tears; I wonder would he have been pleased to have observed the cheek of his affianced bride pressed against the drawing-room window, to catch a last glimpse of the cab which dashed from Mr. Ivers' door. Perhaps not--for the generous nature of woman's love and woman's friendship, is often beyond man's comprehension--but he would have been pleased to see, after she had paced the room for half an hour, the eagerness with which she received and opened a letter from himself; to have witnessed the warm kiss impressed upon his name; to hear the murmured "dear, _dear_ Edward!" Her heart had never for a moment failed in its truth--never for an instant wavered.

That day week the cousins separated. "You must come to me when I return, Rose," said Helen--"you must come and witness my triumphs. My husband's brother is very ill--cannot live long--but _that_ is a secret. I trust Ivers will make a figure in the lower, before called to the upper house; if he does not, it will break my heart. There, God bless you, Rose; you have been very affectionate, very sweet to me, but I do, I confess, envy you that cheerful countenance--cheerful and calm. I always think that contented people want mind and feeling; but you do not, Rose. By the way, how strangely Mr. ---- disappeared; I thought you had clipped his wings. Well, next season, perhaps. Of course, after this, you will think no more of Edward." Fortunately for Rose, Helen expected no replies, and after a few more words, as I have said, they parted.

In little more than three months, Rose Dillon and Edward Lynne were married.