I think I have said before that the most trying and dangerous
position a young woman can occupy, is that where her station is not
defined--where she considers herself above the industrious classes
by whom she is surrounded--and where those with whom her tastes and
habits assimilate, consider her greatly beneath them. Superficial
observers (and the great mass of human beings are nothing more)
invariably look for happiness in the class one or two degrees above
their own. They would consider themselves absurd if they _at once_
set their minds upon being dukes and princes; they only want to be a
_little_ bit higher, only the _smallest bit_, and never for a moment
look to what they call "_beneath_ them" for happiness. This was
particularly the case with these young girls. Their station was not
defined, yet how different their practice! One was ambitious of the
glittering tinsel of the world--the other, refined but not ambitious,
sought her happiness in the proper exercise of the affections; neither
could have described her particular feelings, but an accurate observer
could not fail to do so for them. That night neither girl had courage
to speak to the other on the occurrences of the past day, and yet each
thought of nothing else. They knelt down, side by side, as they
had done from infancy, repeating the usual prayers as they had been
accustomed to do. Helen's voice did not falter, but continued its
unvaried tone to the end: Rose (Helen thought) delivered the petition
of "lead us not into temptation" with deeper feeling than usual; and
instead of rising when Helen rose, and exchanging with her the kiss
of sisterly affection, Rose buried her face in her hands; while her
cousin, seated opposite the small glass which stood on their little
dressing-table, commenced curling her hair, as if that day, which had
completed a revolution in her way of thinking, had been as smooth as
all the other days of her short calendar. The candle was extinguished,
and Helen slept profoundly. The moon shone in brightly through the
latticed window, whose leaden cross-bars chequered the sanded floor.
Rose looked earnestly upon the face of the sleeper, and so bright it
was, that she saw, or fancied she saw, a smile of triumph curling
on her lip. She crept quietly out of bed, and leaned her throbbing
temples against the cool glass. How deserted the long street of
Abbeyweld appeared; the shadows of the opposite trees and houses
lay prostrate across the road--the aspect of the village street was
lonely, very lonely and sad--there was no hum from the school--no
inquisitive eyes peeped from the casements--no echoing steps upon
the neatly-gravelled footpath--the old elm-tree showed like a mighty
giant, standing out against the clear calm sky--and there was one
star, only one, sparkling amid its branches--a diamond of the heavens,
shedding its brightness on the earth. The stillness was positively
oppressive. Rose felt as if every time she inhaled the air, she
disturbed the death-like quiet of the scene. A huge shadow passed
along the ledge of the opposite cottage; her nerves were so unstrung
that she started back as it advanced. It was only their own gentle
cat, whose quick eye recognised its mistress, and without waiting for
invitation, crawled quickly from its eminence, and came rubbing itself
against the glass, and then moved stealthily away, intent upon the
destruction of some unsuspicious creature, who, taught by nature,
believes that with night comes safety.
Almost at the end of the street, the darkness was as it were divided
by a ray of light, that neither flickered nor wavered. What a picture
it brought at once before her!--the pale, lame grandchild of old Jenny
Oram, watching by the dying bed of the only creature that had ever
loved her--her poor deaf grandmother. And the girl's great trouble
was, that the old woman could neither see to read the Word of God
herself, nor hear her when she read it to her; but the lame girl had
no time to waste with grief, so she plied her needle rapidly through
the night-watches, not daring to shed a tear upon the work, or damp
her needle with a sigh. Rose was not as sorry for her as she would
have been at any other time, for individual sorrow has few sympathies;
but the more she thought of the lonely lame girl, the less became her
own trouble, and she might have gone to bed with the consciousness
which, strange to say, brings consolation, that there was one very
near more wretched than herself, had she not seen the form of Edward
Lynne glide like a spectre from beneath the old elm-tree, and stand
before the window. Rose retreated, but still observed him; the moon
was shining on the window, so he must have seen the form, without,
perhaps, being able to distinguish whose it was. Rose watched him
until his silent death-like presence oppressed her heart and brain,
and she closed her eyes to shut out what had become too painful to
look upon. When she looked again, all was sleeping in the moonlight as
before; but he was gone. At the same moment Helen turned restlessly on
her pillow, and sobbed and muttered to herself. Rose felt that pillow
wet with tears. "Helen!" she exclaimed; "Helen, dear Helen! awake!
Awake, Helen!" Her cousin, at length aroused, flung her arms around
her neck; and the proud lip which she had left curled with the
consciousness of beauty and power, quivered and paled, while she sank
awake and weeping on Rose's bosom.