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.