Never had the bells of Abbeyweld, within the memory of living
man--within the memory of old Mrs. Myles herself, and _she_ was the
oldest living woman in the parish--rung so merry a peal as on the
morning that Helen Marsh was married to the handsome and Honourable
Mr. Ivers. He was young as well as handsome--honourable both by
name and nature--rich in possession and expectancy. On his part it
was purely and entirely what is called a "love match"--one of the
strangest of all strange things perpetrated by a young man of rank and
fashion. His wealth and position in society enabled him to select for
himself; and he did so, of course, to the disappointment of as many,
or perhaps a greater number of mothers than daughters, inasmuch as
it is the former whose speculations are the deepest laid and most
dangerous in arts matrimonial.
Every body was astonished. Mrs. Howard--Helen's "kind friend"--Mrs.
Howard, little short of distracted for three weeks at the very least,
did nothing but exclaim, "Who would have thought it!" "Who, indeed!"
was the reply, in various tones of sympathy, envy, and surprise.
Poor Mrs. Howard, to the day of her death, never suffered another
portionless beauty to enter her doors while even the shadow of an
eldest son rested on its threshold. Mrs. Myles was of course in an
ecstacy of delight; her prophecy was fulfilled. Helen, _her_ Helen,
was the honourable wife of a doubly honourable man. What triumphant
glances did she cast over the railings of the communion-table at Mr.
Stokes--with what an air she marched down the aisle--how patronising
and condescending was her manner to those neighbours whom she
considered her inferiors--how bitterly did she lament that the
Honourable Mr. Ivers would not have any one to breakfast with them but
Mr. Stokes--and how surpassingly, though silently, angry was she with
Mr. Stokes for not glorying with her when the bride and bridegroom
drove off in their "own carriage," leaving her in a state of prideful
excitement, and Rose Dillon in a flood of tears.
"Well, sir!" exclaimed the old lady--"well, sir, you see it _has_
turned out exactly as I said it would; there's station--there's
happiness. Why, sir, if his brother dies without children, his own
valet told me, Mr. Ivers would be a lord and Helen a lady. Didn't she
look beautiful! Now, please, reverend sir, do speak, didn't she look
beautiful?"
"She did."
"Ah! it's a great gift that beauty; though," she added, resorting
to the strain of morality which persons of her character are apt to
consider a salve for sin--"though it's all vanity, all vanity. 'Flesh
is grass'--a beautiful text that was your reverence preached from last
Sunday--'All flesh is grass.' Ah, well-a-day! so it is. We ought not
to be puffed up or conceited--no, no. As I said to Mrs. Leicester,
'Don't be puffed up, my good woman, because your niece has what folk
call a pretty face, nor don't expect that she's to make a good market
of it--it's but skin deep; remember our good rector's sermon, 'All
flesh is grass.'' Ah, deary me! people do need such putting in mind;
and, if you believe me, sir, unless indeed it be Rose, poor child, who
never had a bit of love in her head yet, I'll be bound every girl is
looking above her station--there's a pity, sir. All are not born with
a coach and horses; no, no;" and so, stimulated a little, perhaps, by
a glass of _real_, not gooseberry, champagne, poor Mrs. Myles would
have galloped on with a strange commentary upon her own conduct (of
the motives to which she was perfectly ignorant,) had not the rector
suddenly exclaimed, "Where is Rose?"
"Crying in her own room, I'll be bound; I'm sure she is. Why,
Rose--and I really must get your reverence to speak to her, she is
a sad girl--Rose Dillon, I say--so silent and homely-like--ah, dear!
Why, granddaughter--now, is it not undutiful of her, good sir,
when she knows how much I have suffered parting from my Helen. Rose
Dillon!"
But Rose Dillon was not weeping in her room, nor did she hear her
grandmother's voice when the carriage, that bore the bride to a new
world, drove off. Rose ran down the garden, intending to keep the
equipage in sight as long as it could be distinguished from an
eminence that was called the Moat, and which commanded an extensive
view of the high road. There was a good deal of brushwood creeping
up the elevation, and at one side it was overshadowed by several tall
trees; in itself it was a sweet, sequestered spot, a silent watching
place. She could hardly hear the carriage wheels, though she saw
it whirled along, just as it passed within sight of the tall trees.
Helen's arm, with its glittering bracelet, waved an adieu; this little
act of remembrance touched Rose, and, falling on her knees, she sobbed
forth a prayer, earnest and heartfelt, for her cousin's happiness.
"God bless you, Rose!" exclaimed the trembling voice of the discarded
lover, who, pale and wo-worn, had been unintentionally concealed among
the trees--"God bless you, Rose!--that prayer has done me good.
Amen to every word of it! She is quite, quite gone now--another's
bride--the wife of a gentleman--and so best; the ambition which fits
her for her present station unfitted her to be my wife. I say this,
and think this--I know it! But though I do know it, her face--that
face I loved from infancy, until it became a sin for me to love it
longer--that face comes between me and reason, and its brightness
destroys all that reason taught."
Rose could not trust herself to reply. She longed to speak to him,
but she could not; she _dared_ not. He continued--"Did she leave no
message, speak no word, say nothing, to be said to me?"
"She said," replied her cousin, "that she hoped you would be happy;
that you deserved to be so"--
"Deserved to be so!" he repeated bitterly; "and that was the reason
why _she_ made me miserable. Oh! the folly, the madness of the man who
trusts to woman's love--to woman's faith! But the spell _once_ broken,
the charm once dispelled, that is enough!" And yet it was not enough,
for Edward talked on, and more than once was interrupted by Rose,
who, whenever she could vindicate her cousin, did so bravely and
generously--not in a half-consenting, frigid manner, but as a true
woman does when she defends a woman, as, if she be either good or
wise, she will always do.
Rose did not know enough of human nature to understand that the more
Edward complained of Helen's conduct and desertion, the less he really
felt it; and the generous portion of his own nature sympathised
with the very generosity which he argued against. He had found one,
who while she listened sweetly and patiently to his complaints,
vindicated, precisely as he would have desired, the idol of his
heart's first love. What we love appears so entirely our own, that
we question the right of others to blame it, whatever we may do
ourselves. If he had known the deep, the treasured secret that poor
Rose concealed within the sanctuary of her bosom, he would have
wondered at the unostentatious generosity of her pure and simple
nature.
"It is evident," said Rose Dillon to herself, when she bade Edward
adieu; "it is quite evident he never will or can love another. Such
affection is everlasting." How blind she was! "Poor fellow! he will
either die in the flower of his age of a broken heart, or drag on a
miserable existence! And if he does," questioned the maiden, "and
if he does, _what is that to me_?" She did not, for a moment or two,
trust herself to frame an answer, though the tell-tale blood, first
mounting to and then receding from her cheek, replied; but then she
began to calculate how long she had known Edward, and thought how very
natural it was she should feel interested, deeply interested, in him.
He had no sister; why should she not be to him a sister? Ah, Rose,
Rose! that sisterly reasoning is of all others the most perilous.
Time passed on. The bride wrote a letter, which, in its tone and
character, sounded pretty much like a long trumpet-note of exultation.
Mrs. Myles declared it to be a dear letter, a charming letter, a most
lady-like letter, and yet evidently she was not satisfied therewith.
She read scraps of it to all the neighbours, and vaunted Mrs. Ivers,
the Honourable Mrs. Ivers, up to the skies. Like all persons whose
dignity and station are not the result of inheritance, in the next
epistle she was even more anxious to impress her humble relatives
with an idea of her consequence. Mingled with a few epithets of love,
were a great many eulogiums on her new station. She was too honest to
regret, even in seeming, the rural delights of the country, (for Helen
could not stoop to deceit,) but she gave a list of titled visitors,
and said she would write more at length, were it not that every spare
moment was spent in qualifying herself to fill her station so as to do
credit to her husband." This old Mrs. Myles could not understand; she
considered Helen fit to be a queen, and said so.