Chapter 7

Years passed; the lovely children, who tripped hand in hand down the street of Abbeyweld, grew into ripe girlhood, and walked arm in arm--the pride and admiration of every villager. The curate became at last rector, and Mrs. Myles's absurdities increased with her years. The perfect beauty of the cousins, both of face and form, rendered them celebrated far and near. Each had a separate character as from the first; and yet--but that Rose Dillon was a little shorter than her cousin Helen Marsh, and that the _expression_ of her eyes was so different that it was almost impossible to believe they were the same shape and colour, the cousins might have been mistaken for each other--I say _might_, because it is rather remarkable that they never were. Helen's fine dark eyes had a lofty and forbidding aspect, while Rose had not the power, if indeed she ever entertained the will, of looking either the one or the other. I thought Rose the most graceful of the two in her carriage, but there could be no doubt as to Helen's being the most dignified; both girls were almost rustic in their manners, but rusticity and vulgarity are very distinct in their feelings and attributes. They _could not_ do or say aught that was vulgar or at variance with the kindnesses of life--those tender nothings which make up so large a something in the account of every day's existence. Similar, withal, as the cousins were in appearance, they grew up as dissimilar in feelings and opinions as it is possible to conceive, and yet loving each other dearly. Still Helen never for a moment fancied that any one in the village of Abbeyweld could compete with her in any way. She had never questioned herself as to this being the case, but the idea had been nourished since her earliest infancy--had never been disputed, except perhaps when latterly a town belle, or even a more conceited specimen, a country belle, visited in the neighbourhood; but popular voice (and there _is_ a popular voice, be it loud or gentle, everywhere) soon discovered that blonde, and feathers, and flowers, had a good deal to do with this disturbing of popular opinion; and after a few days, the good people invariably returned to their allegiance. "Ah! ah!" old Mrs. Myles would observe on these occasions--Ah! ah!"--I told you they'd soon find the fair lady was shaded by her fine laces. I daresay now she's on the look-out for a good match, poor thing! Not that Helen is handsome--don't look in the glass, Helen, child! My grandmother always said that Old Nick stood behind every young lady's shoulder when she looked in the glass, with a rouge-pot all ready to make her look handsomer in her own eyes than she really was; which shows how wicked it is to look much in a glass. Only a little sometimes, Nell, darling--we'll forgive her for looking _a little_; but certainly when I looked at the _new_ beauty in church the other day, and then looked, I know where, I thought--but no matter, Helen, no matter--I don't want to make either of my girls _vain_."

Why Mrs. Myles so decidedly preferred Helen to Rose, appeared a mystery to all who did not know the secret sympathy, the silent unsatisfied ambition, that lurked in the bosoms of both the old and the young. Mrs. Myles had lived for a long time upon the reputation of her own beauty; and whenever she needed _sympathy_ (a food which the weak-minded devour rapidly,) she lamented to one or two intimates, while indulging in the luxury of _tea_, that she was an ill-used person, simply because she had not been a baronet's lady at the very least. Helen's ambition echoed that of her grandmother; it was not the longing of a village lass for a new bonnet or a brilliant dress--it was an ambition of sufficient strength to have sprung up in a castle. She resolved to be something beyond what she was; and there are very few who have strength to give birth to, and cherish up a resolve, who will not achieve a purpose, be it for good or bad, for weal or for wo. Rose was altogether and perfectly simple and single-hearted: conscious that she was an orphan, dependent upon her grandmother's slender annuity for support, and that Helen's father could not provide both for his daughter and his niece, her life was one of patient industry and unregretted privation. Before she was fifteen, she had persuaded her grandmother to part with her serving maiden, and with very little assistance from Helen, she performed the labours of their cottage, aided twice a-week by an elderly woman, who often declared that such another girl as Rose Dillon was not to be found in the country. Both were now verging on seventeen, and Helen received the addresses of a young farmer in the neighbourhood--a youth of excellent yeoman family, and of superior education and manners.

The cousins walked out one evening together, and Rose turned into the lane where they used frequently to meet Edward Lynne.

"No, Rose," said Helen, "not there; I am not in a humour to meet Edward to-night."

"But you said you would," said Rose.

"Well, do not look so solemn about it. I daresay I did--but lover's promises--if indeed we are lovers. Do you know, Rose, I should be very much obliged to you to take Edward off my hands--he is just the husband for you, so rustic and quiet."

"Edward to be taken off your hands, Helen!--Edward Lynne!--the protector of our childhood--the pride of the village--the very companion of Mr. Stokes--why, he dined with him last Sunday! Edward Lynne! You jest, cousin! and"-- Rose Dillon paused suddenly, for she was going to add, "You ought not to jest with me." She checked herself in time; stooped down to gather some flowers to hide her agitation; felt her cheeks flush, her heart beat, her head swim, and then a chill creep through her frame. Helen had unconsciously awoke the hope which Rose had never dared to confess unto herself. The waking was ecstatic; but she knew the depth of Edward's love for Helen. She had been his confidant--she believed it was a jest--how could her cousin do otherwise than love Edward Lynne? And with this belief, she recovered the self-possession which the necessity for subduing her feelings had taught her even at that early age.

"And Rose," said Helen, in a quiet voice, "did you really think I ever intended to marry Edward Lynne?"

"Certainly, cousin. Why, you love him, do you not! Besides, he is rich--very rich in comparison to you--very, very rich. And if he were not--oh, Helen!--is he not in himself--but I need not reason--you are in your usual high spirits, and say what you do not mean."

"I do not, Rose, now, at all events. Last evening, Edward was so earnest, so affectionate, so very earnest, it is pleasant to have a true and faithful lover; but I should not quite like to break his heart--it would not be friendly, knowing him so long; for indeed," she added, gaily, "though I don't like Edward Lynne well enough to marry him, I like him too well to break his heart in downright earnest."

There are women cold and coquettish by nature. The disposition flourishes best in courtly scenes, but it will grow anywhere, ay, and flourish anywhere. It unfortunately requires but little culture; still Helen was in her novitiate. If she had not been so, she would not have cared whether Edward broke his heart or not.

"But Helen," stammered Rose, "surely--you--you have been very wrong."

"I know it--I know--there, don't you _hear me_ say I know it, and yet your lecturing face is as long as ever. Surely," she continued pettishly, "I confess my crime; and even Mr. Stokes says, when confessed it is amended."

"Helen!" exclaimed Rose suddenly; "Helen!--if what you have now said is really true, you have only told me half the truth. Helen Marsh, you have seen some one you like better than Edward Lynne."

"No!" was Helen's prompt reply, for she would not condescend to a falsehood--her own pride was a sufficient barrier against that. "No, Rose, I have not seen any one I like better than Edward. But, Rose"--She buried her face in her hands, and as suddenly withdrew them, and shaking back her luxuriant ringlets, while a bright triumphant colour mounted to her cheeks, added--"There is no reason _why_ I should be ashamed. I saw, last week, at Mrs. Howard's, one whom I would rather marry."

"I always thought," murmured Rose, weeping in the fulness of her generous nature, as the idea of Edward's future misery came upon her--"I always thought no good would come of your visiting a lady so much above us." It would be impossible to describe the contemptuous expression of Helen's finely moulded features, while she repeated, as if to herself, "Above _us_!--above _me_!" And then she added aloud, and with what seemed to Rose a forced expression of joy, "But good _will_ come of it, Rose--good will surely come of it; never fear but it will--it _must_. And when I am a great lady, Rosey, who but you, sweet cousin, will be next my heart?"

"I am satisfied to be _near_, even without being _next_ it, Helen," she replied mournfully; "but why have you kept this matter concealed from me so long? Why have you"--

"Found!" interrupted a well-known voice; and at the same moment Edward Lynne shook a shower of perfumed hawthorn blossoms from the scattered hedge which he struggled through; and repeating "Found!" in his full echoing voice, stood panting before the startled girls. "I have had such a hunt!" he exclaimed joyfully--"such a hunt for you, Helen! I have been over Woodland brook, and up as far as Fairmill, where you said you would be--oh, you truant! And I doubt if I should have caught you at last, but for poor Dash"--and the sagacious dog sprung about, as if conscious that he deserved a large portion of the praise. Rose was astonished at the perfect self-possession with which, after the first flush of surprise, Helen received her lover. Nor was poor Rose unconscious that she herself occupied no portion of his attention beyond the glance of recognition which he cast while throwing himself on the sward at Helen's feet.

"We must go home," said the triumphant beauty, after hearing a few of those half-whispered nothings which are considered of such importance in a lover's calendar; "the dew is falling, and I may catch cold."

"The dew falling!" repeated Edward.--"Why, look, the sky is still golden from the sun's rays; do not--do not, dearest Helen, go home yet. Besides," he added, "your grandmother has plenty of employment; there is Mrs. Howard's companion, and one or two strangers from the hall, at your cottage--so she is not at all lonesome."

"Who did you say?" inquired Helen, eagerly, now really losing her self-command.

"Oh, some of Mrs. Howard's fine friends. I never," he continued, "see those sort of people in an humble village, without thinking of the story of the agitation of all the little hedgerow birds, when they first saw a paroquet amongst them, and began longing for his gay feathers. Do not go, dear Helen--they will soon be gone; and I do so want you to walk as far as Fairmill Lawn. I have planted with my own hands this morning the silver firs you said you admired, just where the bank juts over the stream. Do come."

"Rose will go, and tell me all about it, but _I_ must get home. Granny cannot do without me; besides, Mrs. Howard is so kind to me, that I cannot suffer _her_ friends to be neglected. Nay, Edward, you may look as you please, but I certainly _shall_ go." Edward Lynne remonstrated, implored, and, finally, flew into a passion. At any other time Helen's proud spirit would have risen so as to meet this outburst of temper with one to the full as violent; but the knowledge of what had grown to maturity in her own mind, and the presence of Rose, restrained her, and she continued to walk home without reply.

"And I shall go also," he said, bitterly, "but not with you." Even at that moment Helen Marsh exulted in her own mind to find his words and his steps at variance; he was still by her side. The most perilous of all triumphs is the knowledge of possessing power over the affections of our fellow creatures; it is so especially intoxicating to women as to be greatly dangerous, and those who do not abuse such power deserve much praise. Rose walked timidly behind them, wondering how Helen could have imagined any alliance in the world more brilliant--but no, that was not the idea--any alliance in the world so _happy_ as that with Edward Lynne must be. When they reached the commencement of the village, Edward said, for the fifth or sixth time, "Then you will go, Helen?"

"Certainly."

"Very well, Helen. Good evening."

"Good evening, Edward," was the cool reply. Not one word of adieu did he bestow on Rose as he dashed into another path; while his dog stood for a moment, uncertain as to whether his master would return or not, and then rapidly followed.

"Oh, Helen! what have you done?" murmured Rose. Helen replied by one of those low murmuring laughs which sound like the very melody of love; and the two girls, in a few moments more, were in their own cottage, where Rose saw that evening, for the first time, the gentleman whom Helen had declared she did not prefer to Edward, though she would rather marry him.