Chapter 13

"It's a decent match enough," said old Mrs. Myles to the rector when two years had elapsed, and she had become reconciled to it. "Of course Rose never could have taken the same stand as Helen, who has been a lady now more than a year; though she's a good, grateful girl, and Edward very attentive--very attentive indeed--and I must say more so than I expected. Helen, I mean my lady, you know, has, as she says in her last letter, a great deal to do with her money--of course she must have; and so, sir, pray do not let any one in Abbeyweld know that the little annuity is not continued--regularly, I mean," she added, while a certain twitching of her features evinced how much she felt, though she did not at the moment confess it, the neglect of one she so dearly loved. Like most talkative people, she frequently talked away her sorrows; and, thinking she would be better if she opened her heart, she recommenced, after wiping away a few natural tears: "You see, sir, Helen--I mean her ladyship--said she would make it up by-and-bye to me, and so she ought, poor dear thing; for I sacrificed both myself and her cousin Rose for her advancement; and really I cannot tell how the money goes with those great folk. Only think," proceeded the old lady, bringing her face close to Mr. Stokes, and whispering--"only think, she says she never has five pounds she can call her own. Now, as I told Rose, this is very odd, because my lord is so very rich since the death of his brother, ten times as rich as he was at first, and yet Rose says they are poor now to what they used to be--is not that very strange? She says it is because of the increased expenditure, and that I don't understand; but it's very hard, very hard in my old days. If she can't live upon thirty thousand a-year, I wonder how she expects her poor old grandmother to live upon thirty pounds, for that's all my certainty; and the little farm, I must say, would have gone to destruction, but for Edward Lynne--he does every thing for it, poor fellow. She never sends me a paper now, with her presentations, and dresses, and fine parties, printed in it at full-length; she's ashamed of her birth, that's it; though sure you and your lady, sir, noticed them both like equals, and I never even asked to go near her, though his lordship invited me more than once--and he even came to see Rose, as you know, ay, and a good ten mile out of his way it was to come--a good ten mile--and kissed her baby, and said he wished he had one like it, which they say Helen never will have. Oh, it was a pity that first one of her ladyship did not live! It is so cruel of her not to let me see the papers with an account of her fine doings, all in print--very cruel--I who loved her so, and took care of her--I never could find out from Rose whether or no she thought her happy. Ah, Rose is a good girl! not, however," added the old lady, again wiping away her tears--"not, however, to be compared to her ladyship; and I would not say what I have done to any one in the world but you, sir, who have known them all their lives."

So talked old Mrs. Myles, and so she continued to talk at intervals, during the next five years, growing weaker in mind and body, until at last she took to her bed. "I could die happy," said the old woman, "if I were to see Helen once more; write to her, Rose, and tell her so; she will not refuse to see me, her first friend--only once."

Communications between the cousins had ceased for a long time, but Rose wrote. Mrs. Myles sent twice every day to the post-office--and her hopes, so constantly disappointed, increased her fever; at the end of a week, a letter came.

"Give it me, Rose, give it me!" exclaimed Mrs. Myles, "it is from my own darling child, bless her!--my beauty! Oh, deary me! I'm sure that's a beautiful seal, if I could only see it; prop me up--there. How the jessamine blinds the window--now my spectacles--so"--She tried hard to read, but the power of sight was gone. "She used to write the best hand in the school, but this fashionable writing is hard to make out," observed the old woman; "so do you read it, Rosy."

"Here is ten pounds to begin with," said Rose, placing the gossamer note before her.--Mrs. Myles mechanically took up the money, and played with it as a child plays with a toy, and Rose read the few words that accompanied the gift:--"Grieved to the heart to hear of the illness of her ever dear relative--would be miserable about her but from the knowledge of Rose being the best nurse in the world--begs she will let her know how the dear invalid is by return of post, and also if there is any thing she could send to alleviate her sufferings."

While Rose was reading the letter, Mrs. Myles's long thin feeble fingers were playing with the note, her dim eyes fixed upon the window; large round tears coursed each other down her colourless cheeks. "No word about coming, Rose--no word about coming," she muttered, after a pause; "send her back this trash," she added, bitterly--"send her back this trash, and tell her the last tears I shed were shed not for my sins, but for her cruelty." She continued to mutter much that they could not understand; but evening closed in, and Rose told Edward that she slept at last; she did certainly, and Rose soon discovered that it was her last sleep. The money was returned; and again five years elapsed without Rose hearing, directly or indirectly, from her rich and titled cousin. In the mean time, Edward and Rose prospered exceedingly; three handsome, happy children blessed their home. Their industry perfected whatever Providence bestowed; nothing was wasted, nothing neglected; the best farmers in the neighbourhood asked advice of Edward Lynne; and the "born ladies," as poor Mrs. Myles would have called them, would have forgotten that Rose was only a farmer's wife, if wise Rose had been herself disposed to forget it. But great as their worldly prosperity had been, it was nothing to the growth and continuance of that holy affection which cheered and hallowed their happy dwelling--the chief characteristic of which was a freedom from pretension of all kinds. Rose suffered appearances to grow with their means, but never to precede them; and though this is not the world's practice, the duty is not on that account the less imperative. They were seated one evening round their table, Edward reading, while his wife worked, when the master of the post-office brought them a letter.

"It has lain two days, Measter Lynne," said the man, "for you never send but once a-week; only, as I thought by the seal it must be something grand, whoy I brought it down myself."

It was from Helen!--from the ambitious cousin--a few sad, mournful lines, every one of which seemed dictated by a breaking heart.

She was ill and wretched, and the physician had suggested change of air; but above all her native air. Would Rose receive her for a little time, just to try what its effect might be?--she was sure she would, and she would be with her immediately.

"Strange," said Edward, "how nature will assert and keep its power; when luxury, art, skill, knowledge, fail to restore health, they tell you of native air, trusting to the simple, pure restorative, which is the peasant's birthright, as infallible. I wonder, Rose, how those fine people like to be thrown back upon the nature they so outrage."

"Poor Helen!" exclaimed Rose, "how dispirited she seems--how melancholy! I ought to feel afraid of your meeting her, I suppose, Edward; but I do not--you have grown satisfied with your poor Rose. We shall be able to make her very comfortable, shall we not?"--and then she smiled at the homeliness of the phrase, and wondered what Helen would say if she heard her.

It was not without sundry heartbeatings that Rose heard the carriage stop, and assisted Helen to alight; nor could she conceal her astonishment at the ravages which not past years but past emotions had wrought on her once beautiful face.

The habit of suppressing thoughts, feelings, and emotions, had altogether destroyed the frank expression of her exquisitely chiselled mouth, which, when it smiled now, smiled alone; for the eyes, so finely formed, so exquisitely fringed, did not smile in unison; they had acquired a piercing and searching expression, altogether different from their former brilliancy.

The elevated manners, the polished tone which high society alone bestows, only increased the distance between the two cousins, though Rose was certainly gratified by the exclamation of pleasure which told how much better than she anticipated were the accommodations prepared by her humble relative.

"Such pretty rooms--such beautiful flowers! Rose, you must have grown rich, and without growing unhappy. Strange, you look ten years younger than I do!"

"Late hours, public life, and anxieties," said Rose.

"Yes, that last appointment his lordship obtained, the very thing above all others I so desired for him, has completely divided him from his home. We hardly ever meet now, except at what I may call our own public dinners."

"And he, who used to be so affectionate, so fond of domestic life!" involuntarily exclaimed Rose.

"And is so still; but the usages of society, the intrigues and bustle of public business, quite overthrow every thing of that kind. Oh, it is a weary, wearying world!"

"But to a mind like yours, the achieving an object must be so delightful!"

"Ay, Rose, so it is; but that sort of thing soon passes away, and we have no sooner obtained possession of one, than another still more desirable presents itself. How peaceful and happy you seem. Well, an idle mind must be a perpetual feast."

"But I have not an idle mind, not an idle moment," replied Rose, colouring a little; "my husband, my children, my humble household, the care of the parochial schools, now that poor Mr. Stokes has grown so infirm"--

"Yes, yes!" interrupted Helen; "and yet, Rose, when I look at you, even now, I cannot but think you were fitted for better things."

"Better than learning how to occupy time profitably, and training souls for immortality!" she replied; "but you are worn and tired, let me wait upon you this one night, as I used long, long ago to do--let me wait upon my own dear cousin, instead of a menial, this one night, and to-morrow you shall see Edward and the children."

The worn-hearted woman of the great world laid her face upon her cousin's shoulder, and then fairly hid it in her bosom. Why it was, He only, who knows the mysterious workings of the human heart, can tell; but she wept long and very bitterly, assigning no cause for her tears, but sobbing and weeping like a sorrowing child, while the arms she had flung round her cousin's neck prevented Rose from moving. Their tears once more mingled, as they had often done in childhood--once more--but not for long.

"Leave me alone for a little, and I will ring for my maid," she said at last; "I am too artificial to be waited upon by you, Rose. It was otherwise when you used to twine gay poppies and bright flowers in my hair, telling me, at the same time, how much wiser it would have been to have chosen the less fading and more fragrant ones."

"Her husband--and her children!" thought Helen; "if she had neither children nor husband, she would have been of such value to me now; noisy children, I dare say, troublesome and wearying. Native air! native air, indeed, _ought_ to work wonders." It would be hardly credited that Helen--the beauty--the admired--the woman of rank--bestowed quite as much trouble upon her morning toilette as if she had been in London. Such was her aching passion for universal sway, that she could not bear to be thought faded by her old lover, though he was only a farmer; and this trouble was taken despite bodily pain that would have worn a strong man to a skeleton.

It would be difficult to say whether Helen was pleased or displeased at finding Edward Lynne what might, without any flattery, be termed a country gentleman, betraying no emotion whatever at the sight of one who had caused him so much suffering, and only anxious to gratify her because she was his wife's relative. She thought, and she was right, that she discovered pity, and not admiration, as he looked upon her.

"You think me changed," she said.

"Your ladyship has been ill and harassed."

"Ah! we all change except Rose."

"Ah!" replied the country bred husband, "she, indeed, is an exception; she could not even change for the better."

And then the children, two such glorious boys, fine, manly fellows. "And what will you be?" inquired her ladyship of the eldest.

"A farmer, my lady."

"And you?"

"A merchant, I hope."

"Your boys are as unambitious as yourself, Rose."

"I fear not," she answered; "this fellow wants to get into the middle class; but Mr. Stokes says the prosperity of a country depends more upon the middle class than upon either the high or the low."

To this Helen made no reply, for her attention was occupied by the loveliness of Rose's little girl. The child inherited, in its perfection, the beauty of her family, and a grace and spirit peculiarly her own. Rose could not find it in her heart to deprive her cousin of the child's society, which seemed to interest and amuse her, and the little creature performed so many acts of affection and attention from the impulse of her own kind nature, that Helen, unaccustomed to that sort of devotion, found her twine around her sympathies in a novel and extraordinary manner; it was a new sensation, and she could not account for its influence. After a week had passed, she was able to walk out, and met by chance the old clergyman. He kissed the child, and passed on with a bow, which, perhaps, had more of bitterness in its civility than, strictly speaking, befitted a Christian clergyman; but he thought of the neglect she had evinced towards old Mrs. Myles, and if he had spoken, it would have been to vent his displeasure, and reprove the woman whose rank could not shield her from his scorn. She proceeded towards the churchyard. "Look, lady!" said little Rose; "father put that stone over that grave to please mother. The relation who is buried there took care of my mother when she was a _littler_ girl than I am now, and he told me to strew flowers over the grave, which we do. See, I can read it--'Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Margaret Myles, who died the seventeenth of June, eighteen hundred'--and something--I can hardly read figures yet, lady. 'This stone was placed here by her grateful relatives, E. and R.S.,' meaning Rose and Edward Lynne."

The coldness of the clergyman was forgotten in the bitterness of self-reproach. "I was a fool," she thought, as she turned away, "to fancy that my native air could be untainted by the destiny which has mocked me from my cradle."

"Ah! lady dear," exclaimed a crone, rising from a grave where she had been sitting, "don't you remember old Betty? They all said in the village you'd be too proud to look on your grandmother's grave; but you're not, I see. Well, that's good--that's good. We had a funeral last week, and the vault of the old earl was broken in. The stupid sexton stuck his pick in amongst the old bricks, and so the great man's skull came tumbling out, and rolled beside the skull of Job Martin, the old cobbler; and the sexton laid them both on the edge of the grave, the earl's skull and the cobbler's skull, until he should fetch a mason to mend the vault, and--what do you think?--when the mason came, the sexton could not tell which was the earl's skull and which was the cobbler's! Lady, you must understand how this is--it's all the same in a hundred years, according to the saying; and so it is. None of them could tell which was the earl's, and which the cobbler's. My skull may lie next a lady's yet, and no one tell the difference."

The lady and child hastened from the churchyard, and the old woman muttered, "To see that! She's not half as well to look at now as the farmer's wife. Ah! 'All is not gold that glitters!'" How happy it is for those who believe in the truth of this proverb, and from it learn to be content!

It might be a week after this occurrence that Helen sent for Rose. The lady either was, or fancied herself better, and said so, adding, it was in her (Rose's) power to make her happier than she had ever been. Reverting to the period when her cousin visited her in London, she alluded to what she had suffered in becoming a mother, and yet having her hopes destroyed by the anxiety and impetuosity of her own nature. "At first," she said, "the trouble was anything but deep-rooted, for I fancied God would send many more, but it was not so; and now the title I so desired must go to the child of a woman--Oh, Rose, how I _do_ hate her!--a woman who publicly thanks God that no plebeian blood will disgrace _my_ husband's title and _her_ family. I would peril my soul to cause her the pain she has caused me."

"You do so now," said Rose, gently but solemnly. "Oh! think that this violence and revenge sins your own soul, and is every way unworthy of you."

Helen did not heed the interruption. "To add to my agony," she continued, "my husband cherishes her son as if it were his own; the boy stands even now between his affections and me. He has reproached me for what he terms my insensibility to his perfections, and says I ought to rejoice that he is so easily rendered happy--only imagine this! Rose, you must give me your daughter, to be to me as my own. Her beauty and sweetness will at once wean my husband's love from this boy; and, moreover, children brought up together--do you not see?--that boy will become attached to one of the 'plebeian blood,' and wedding _her_ hereafter, scald to the core the proud heart of his mother, as she has scalded mine!"

"I cannot, Helen," replied Rose, after a pause, during which her cousin's glittering inquiring eyes were fixed upon her face--"I cannot; I could not answer to my God at the last day for delivering the soul he gave to my care to be so tutored (forgive me) as to forget Him in all things."

"Forget God!" repeated Helen once or twice--"I forget God! Do you think I am a heathen?"

"No, cousin--no--for you have all knowledge of the truth; but knowledge, and profiting by our knowledge, are different. My little gentle-hearted girl will be happier far in her own sphere. I could not see her degraded to bait a trap for any purpose; she will be happy, happier in her own sphere."

The lady bit her compressed lips; but during her whole life she never gave up a point, nor an object, proving how necessary it is that the strong mind should be well and highly directed. Small feeble minds pass through the world doing little good and little harm, but to train a large mind is worth the difficulty--worth the trouble it occasions: its possession is either a great blessing or a great curse. To Helen it was the latter, and curses never fall singly. "You have boys to provide for," she said, "and if I adopted that child, I would not suffer their station to disgrace their sister."

"I am sure you mean us kindly and generously; nor am I blind to the advantages of such an offer for my boys. Their father has prospered greatly, and could at this moment place them in any profession they chose--still influence would help them forward; but the advancement of one child must not be purchased by"--Rose paused for a word--she did not wish to hurt her cousin's feelings--and yet none suggested itself but what she conceived to be the true one, and she repeated, lowly and gently, her opinion, prefacing it with, "You will forgive in this matter my plain speaking, but the advancement of one child must not be purchased by the sacrifice of another."

"Your prejudices have bewildered your understanding," exclaimed the lady. "Whatever my ambition may be, my morality is unimpeached; a vestal would lose none of her purity beneath my roof."

"Granted, fully and truly; woman's first virtue is untainted, but that is not her only one; forgive me. I have no right to judge or dictate, nor to give an unasked opinion; I am grateful for your kindness; but my child, given to me as a blessing for time and a treasure for eternity, must remain beneath my roof until her mind and character are formed."

"You are mad, Rose; consider her future happiness"--

"Oh, Helen! are you more happy than your humble cousin?"

"She would be brought up in the sphere I was thrust into, and have none of the contentions I have had to endure," said Helen.

"A sphere full of whirlpools and quicksands," replied the mother. "The fancy you have taken to her might pass away. She might be taught the bitterness of eating a dependant's bread, and the soft and luxurious habits of her early days would unfit her for bearing so heavy a burden; it would be in vain then to recall her to her humble home; she would have lost all relish for it. It might please God to take you after a few years, and my poor child would be returned to what she would then consider poverty. Urge me no more, I entreat you."

Helen's face grew red and pale by turns. "You mock at and mar my purposes," she said. "My husband was struck by the beauty of that child, and I longed to see her; but I am doomed to disappointment. I never tried to grasp a substance that it did not fade into a shadow! What am I now?" Her eyes rested upon the reflection, given by the glass, of the two cousins. "Look! that tells the story--worn in heart and spirit, blighted and bitter. You, Rose--even you, my own flesh and blood--will not yield to me--the only creature, perhaps, that could love me! Oh! the void, the desert of life, without affection!--a childless mother--made so by"--She burst into tears, and Rose was deeply affected. She felt far more inclined to yield her child to the desolate heart of Helen Marsh, than to the proud array of Lady ----; but she also knew her duty.

"Will you grant me this favour," said Helen at last; "will you let the child decide"--

"I would not yield to the child's decision, but you may, if you please, prove her," answered her mother.

The little girl came softly into the room, having already learned that a bounding step was not meet for "my lady's chamber."

"Rosa, listen; will you come with me to London, to ride in a fine coach drawn by four horses--to wear a velvet frock--see beautiful sights, and become a great lady. Will you, dear Rosa, and be my own little girl?"

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the child, gleefully; "that I will; _that_ would be so nice--a coach and four--a velvet frock--a great lady--oh! dear me!" The mother felt her limbs tremble, her heart sink. "Oh! my own dear mother, will not _that_ be nice? and the beautiful sights you have told me of--St. Paul's and Westminster--oh! mother, we shall be so happy!"

"Not _me_, Rosa," answered Mrs. Lynne, with as firm a voice as she could command. "Now, listen to me: you might ride _in_ a coach and four, instead of _on_ your little pony--wear velvet instead of cotton--see St. Paul's and Westminster--but have no more races on the downs, no more peeping into birds' nests, no more seeing the old church, or hearing its Sabbath bells. You _may_ become a great lady, but you must leave and forget your father and me."

"Leave you, and my father and brothers! You did not mean _that_ surely--you could not mean that, my lady--could they not go with me?"

"That would be impossible!"

"Then I will stay here," said the little girl firmly; "I love them better than every thing else in the world. Thank you, dear lady, but I cannot leave them."

"Leave _us_, then, Rosa," said Helen, proudly. The child obeyed with a frightened look, wondering how she had displeased the "grand lady."

If Helen had been steeped to the very lips in misery, she could not have upbraided the world more bitterly than she did, giving vent to long pent-up feelings, and reproaching Rose, not only for her folly in not complying with her wish, but for her happiness and contentment, which, while she envied, she affected to despise.

"You cannot make me believe that the high-born and wealthy are what you represent," said her cousin. "A class must not be condemned because of an individual; and though I never felt inclined to achieve rank, I honour many of its possessors. It is the unsatisfied longing of your own heart that has made you miserable, dear Helen; and oh! let me entreat you, by the remembrance of our early years, to suffer yourself to enjoy what you possess."

"What I possess!" she repeated; "the dread and dislike of my husband's relatives--the reputation of 'she _was_ very handsome'--a broken constitution--nothing to lean upon or love--a worn and weary heart!"

"You have a mine of happiness in your husband's affection."

"Not now," she answered bitterly; "not now--not now." And she was right.

The next day she left the farm, where peace and prosperity dwelt together; despite herself, it pained her to witness such happiness. It is possible that the practical and practised theories she had witnessed might have changed her, had she not foolishly thought it too late. Her disappointment had been great; from the adoption of that child she had expected much of what, after all, is the creating and existing principle of woman's nature--natural affection; but this was refused by its mother's wisdom. Her worldly prospects had been doomed to disappointment, because she hungered and thirsted after vanities and distinctions, which never can afford sustenance to an immortal spirit; and even when she desired to cultivate attachment, it did not proceed from the pure love of woman--the natural stream was corrupted by an unworthy motive.

Again years rolled on. In the records of fashionable life, the movements and fetes of Lady ---- continued to be occasionally noted as the most brilliant of the season; then rumours became rife that Lord and Lady ---- did not live as affectionately as heretofore; then, after twenty years of union, separation ensued upon the public ground of "incompatibility of temper"--his friends expressing their astonishment how his lordship could have so long endured the pride and caprice of one so lowly born, while hers--but friends! she had no friends!--a few partizans of the "rights of women" there were, who, for the sake of "the cause," defended the woman. She had been all her life too restless for friendship, and when the sensation caused by her separation from her husband had passed away, none of the gay world seemed to remember her existence. Rose and her husband lived, loved, and laboured together. It was astonishing how much good they did, and how much they were beloved by their neighbours. Their names had never been noted in any fashionable register, but it was engraved upon every peasant heart in the district. "As happy as Edward and Rose Lynne," became a proverb; and if any thing was needed to increase the love the one felt for the other, it was perfected by the affection of their children.

"I think," said the old rector, as they sat round the evening tea-table, "that our school may now vie with any in the diocese--thanks to the two Roses; twin roses they might almost be called, though Rosa hardly equals Rose. I wonder what Mrs. Myles would say if she were to look upon this happy group. Ah dear!--well God is very good to permit such a foretaste of heaven as is met with here." And the benevolent countenance of the good pastor beamed upon the happy family. "I have brought you the weekly paper," he continued; "the Saturday paper. I had not time to look at it myself, but here it is. Now, Edward, read us the news." The farther people are removed from the busy scenes of life, the more anxious they are to hear of their proceedings; and Edward read leading articles, debates, reviews, until, under the head of "Paris," he read as follows--"Considerable sensation has been excited here by the sudden death of the beautiful Lady ----."

Rose screamed, and the paper trembled in Edward's hand. "This is too horrid," he said.

"Do let me hear it all!" exclaimed his wife.

It was many minutes before Edward Lynne could tell her, that there was more than an insinuation, that, wearied of existence, she, the brilliant, the beautiful, the _fortunate_ Lady ----, wearied of life, had abridged it herself.

Before they separated that evening, the Holy Word was read with more than usual feeling and solemnity by Mr. Stokes, and yet he could not read as much as usual. "All flesh is grass," brought tears into his eyes. His prayer that all might long enjoy the perpetual feast of a contented mind, was echoed by every heart; and the gratitude all felt for God's goodness to them was mingled with regret for Helen; all intermediate time was forgotten, and the elders of that little party only remembered the bright and beautiful girl, the pride of Abbeyweld.

"God bless my beloved pupil!" said the venerable clergyman, as he departed; "without a holy grace all is indeed vanity. May Rosa learn, as early as her mother did, that

'ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS.'"

* * * * *

THERE IS NO HURRY.