For more than two months, Rose and Edward did not meet again; for more
than four after that, he never entered the cottage which had contained
what he held most dear on earth; but one evening he called with Mr.
Stokes. The good rector might have had his own reasons for bringing
the young man to the cottage; but if he had he kept them to himself,
the best way of rendering them effective.
After that, Edward often came, sometimes with a book from the rectory,
sometimes with a newspaper for Mrs. Myles, sometimes to know if he
could do anything for the old lady in the next town, where he was
going, sometimes for one thing, sometimes for another, but always with
some excuse, which Rose was happy to accept as the true one; satisfied
that she could see him, hear him, know that he was there.
It so chanced that, calling one evening (evening calls are suspicious
where young people are concerned,) Edward was told that Mrs. Myles had
gone over to Lothery, the next post town, and that Miss Rose was out.
The servant (ever since Helen's marriage, Mrs. Myles had thought it
due to her dignity to employ such a person) said this with an air of
mystery, and Edward inquired which way Miss Rose had walked. Indeed,
she did not know.
Edward therefore trusted to chance, and he had not gone very far down
a lane leading to the common of Abbeyweld, when he saw her seated
under a tree (where heroines are surely found at some period or other
of their life's eventful history) reading a letter. Of course he
interrupted her, and then apologised.
"The letter," said Rose, frankly, "is from poor Helen."
"Why do you call her poor?" he inquired.
"Because she is very ill; and I am going to her to-morrow morning."
"Ill!--to-morrow!--so suddenly--so soon!" stammered Edward.
Rose turned homewards with an air of cold constraint. She could not
attribute Edward's agitation to any other cause than his anxiety on
Helen's account, and the conviction gave her intense pain.
"Stay, Rose," he said. Rose walked steadily forward. "There is," he
continued bitterly, "a curse, a spell upon this place. Do you not
remember that it was here--_here_, within five yards of where we
stand--that _she_ first--. But where's the use of thinking of _that_,
or any thing else," he exclaimed with a sudden burst of passion,
"where a woman is concerned? They are all, _all_ alike, and I am a
double fool! But go, Rose, go--enjoy her splendour, and lie in wait,
as she did, for some rich idiot!"
It was now Rose's turn to interrupt. Turning upon Edward, with an
expression of deeply insulted feeling, "Sir," she said; and before she
proceeded the cold monosyllable had entered his heart; "Sir, my cousin
Helen did _not_ lie in wait; a woman's beauty may be called a snare,
if you please, but it is not one of her own making; she was sought and
won, and not by an _idiot_; and it is ungenerous in you to speak thus
now, when time, and her being another's wife"--
Poor Rose had entered on perilous ground, and she felt it, and the
feeling prevented her proceeding. She trembled violently; and if
Edward could have seen her blanched cheek and quivering lip, he would
have checked his impetuosity, and bitterly reproached himself for the
rash words he had uttered. If he could but have known how devoutly
the poor fond beating heart loved him at that moment, he would, rustic
though he was, have fallen at her feet, and entreated her forgiveness.
Doubtless it was better as it was, for if men could see into women's
hearts, I very much fear their reliance on their own power would
increase, and _that_ would be neither pleasant nor profitable to
themselves or others; the very existence of love often depends on its
uncertainty. Some evil star at that moment shed its influence over
them, for Edward Lynne, catching at Rose's words, answered,
"You need not, I assure you, entertain your cousin with an account of
how I grieve; and remember, believe me, I take good care to prevent
any woman's caprice from having power over me a second time."
"You do quite right," replied Rose--"quite right." They walked on
together until they arrived within sight of the cottage door, but
neither spoke.
"I have a great deal to do--much to prepare. I must wish you
good-night. Good-bye, and a kinder--temper." She faltered.
"Going," said Edward--"going away in such haste; and to part thus.
There must be some mistake. I have watched you narrowly, suspiciously,
as men do who have been once deceived; and I have seen no trace
of unwomanly ambition in you; I little thought you would, on the
slightest hint, so willingly embrace the first opportunity of entering
into the sphere I thought you dreaded--as I do."
"I told you Helen was ill."
"A megrim--a whim--a"--
"You do her wrong; she has been a mother, and her child is dead."
"A blow to her ambition," said Edward, so coldly that Rose (such is
human nature) breathed more freely. Was it possible, then--_could_ it
be possible--that his feelings had been excited not by the remembrance
of Helen, but the thought of her own departure? Yet still her simple
sense of justice urged her to say, "Again you do her wrong; Helen has
a great deal of feeling."
"For herself," he answered tersely, "I dare say she has."
"I did not think you could be so unjust and ungenerous," replied Rose;
"but you are out of sorts to-night, and will be sorry before morning.
You were always hasty, Edward. Good-night--good-bye."
"Good-bye, then, Rose--good-bye;" and without taking her hand, without
one kind word, one sign of love, Edward Lynne rushed through the
garden gate and disappeared.
Rose entered the little parlour, which of late had been well cared
for. The old sofa, though as stiff and hard as ever, triumphed in
green and yellow; and two cushions, with large yellow tassels, graced
the ends, and a huge square ottoman, which every country visitor
invariably tumbled over, stood exactly in front of the old seat. Upon
this Rose flung herself, and, covering her face with her hands, bent
down her head upon the stately seat. Her sobs were not loud but deep;
and as she was dealing with feelings, and not with time, she had
no idea how long she had remained in that state, until aroused by a
voice, whose every tone sent the blood throbbing and tingling through
her veins.
"Rose--dear Rose!"
Blushing--trembling--ashamed of an emotion she had not the power to
control--Rose could not move, did not at all events, until Edward was
on his knees beside her--until he had poured forth his affection--had
assured her how completely she had possessed herself of his respect
and admiration; that his feelings towards her not being of that
passionate nature which distracted him with love for Helen, he had not
truly felt her value until the idea of losing her for ever came upon
him; that then he indeed felt as though all hope of happiness was
to be taken away for ever--felt that he should lose a friend, one
on whose principles and truth he could rely--felt that in _her_ his
all was concentrated. It is only those who, having loved long and
hopelessly for years, find that love returned, and at the very moment
when they were completely bowed down by the weight of disappointment,
can understand what Rose experienced. She did not violate any of the
laws of maiden modesty, because she was pure in heart and single of
purpose; but she was too truthful to withhold the confession of her
love, and too sincere to conceal her happiness.
"I will give you a promise; but receive none," said the generous
lover. "I should be indeed miserable if I, for a moment, fancied
you were controlled only by a _promise. I rely upon you solely and
entirely_; no matter with what temptations you may be surrounded. If
Helen is so much admired, you must be admired also; but I do not fear
you will forget me; for now my only astonishment is how I could have
preferred the spirit and power of the one to the tender and womanly
grace of the other." In the midst of these effusions, so dear to
lovers' hearts, Mrs. Myles entered. Many and many a time had she
prayed that Edward Lynne might transfer his affections to Rose Dillon;
it would be such "a capital match for her, poor thing." She would
repeat to herself, "_Yes_, quite the thing for _her_, though, of
course, for Helen I could not hear of it--yet quite the thing of all
others for her." This frame of mind continued until the invitation
arrived, and it was determined that Rose should visit her cousin. "It
is," argued the good woman in her own way, "it is only to nurse her
strong and well again, I dare say; but yet, who knows, she may see
some one, or some one may see her? She certainly is a very pretty,
modest-looking girl; and I have heard say that modest-looking girls
are sometimes greatly admired among the grandees in fashionable
places, because of their rarity. I shall certainly show the cold
shoulder to Edward Lynne the next time he comes, and give him a hint
as to the expectations I have for Rose. I must not suffer the poor
child to throw herself away--oh no!--oh no! Edward Lynne is a very
nice young man certainly; and if Rose had not been going to London"--
She opened the parlour door as she so reasoned; and the peculiar
expression which passed over the countenances of both, convinced
her that every thing was proceeding in opposition to her "prudential
motives." Edward frankly expounded all, to her entire dissatisfaction.
"She did not," she said, "at all approve of engagements; she would not
sanction any engagement except at the altar; she thought _Mr._ Lynne
(Mr. Lynne! she had never in her life before called him any thing but
"Ned") she thought he ought to have spoken to _her_ first as became
_a gentleman_." And Edward, provoked beyond bearing at what always
upstirs a noble soul--mere worldly-mindedness--replied, "that he never
professed to be a _gentleman_; he was, and ever would be, a farmer,
and nothing more; and for all that, he thought a farmer--an honest,
upright, English farmer--might have as correct ideas as to right and
wrong as any gentleman." At this Mrs. Myles became very indignant;
like the frog in the fable, she endeavoured to think herself an ox,
and talked and looked magnificence itself, until at last she felt as
if being _her_ grand-children was enough to entitle Helen and Rose to
sit before a queen. She talked of Edward,--his occupation, his barns,
his cows, horses, and sheep--until Rose, all gentle as she was,
roused, and said, that for herself she had no ambition beyond that of
being the useful wife of an honest man; that Edward had honoured her,
and, sorry as she should be to displease the only parent she had ever
known, she had plighted her faith in the temple of her own heart to
him--and as long as the plight was of value in his eyes, it could not
be withdrawn. How truly did Edward Lynne feel that she indeed would be
a crown of glory to his old age, as well as to his manhood's prime!
The scene--for there are "scenes" wherever human passion runs
wild--ended by Mrs. Myles working herself into the belief that she
was the most ill-used old lady in the British dominions. She commanded
Edward from her presence; and though Rose wept and knelt at her feet,
she refused to be pacified, declaring that if it had not been for the
rheumatism, she would herself act as nurse to Helen, and not suffer so
low-minded a creature as Rose Dillon to look on the splendour of her
cousin's house. What she thought of that splendour, an extract from
a letter--not the first or second--which replied to those she had
received from Edward, will best tell:
"I have seen a great deal to astonish--every thing seems wonderful in
London--only I wish the people seemed more really happy. I have been
thinking that happiness is not a sudden thing like joy; it is more
quiet--_it takes time to be happy_--and the people here have no time.
In the midst of the gayest party, they do not suffer themselves
to enjoy it, but keep hurrying on to the next. I remember when we
were children, Helen and I, we have sat an hour over a bunch of
wildflowers, yet not discovered half their beauties; surely excitement
and happiness are not twin-born. Since Helen has been better, numbers
of ladies have called, so beautifully dressed, and so gentle-mannered
and reserved, one so very like the other, that they might have all
been brought up at the same school. They never appear to confide in
each other, but make a talk, after their own calm fashion, about small
things. Still, when they talk, _they do not say much_, considering how
highly bred they are. I have listened throughout an entire morning (a
fashionable morning, Edward, does not begin until three o'clock in the
afternoon), and really could not remember a single observation made
by a drawing-room full of ladies. _We_ could not talk ten minutes
with dear Mr. Stokes, without hearing something that we could not help
remembering all the days of our lives. It is wonderful how superior
Helen is (I am not afraid to tell you so) to every one around her;
there is a natural loftiness of mind and manner visible in her every
movement, that carries off her want of those pretty accomplishments
which the ladies value so highly. And then she is _so_ beautiful, and
her husband is so proud of having the handsomest woman in London for
his wife; and one artist begs to model her ear, another her hand--you
cannot think how fair and soft and 'do-nothing' it looks,--and as
to her portraits, they are in all those pretty painted books which
Mr. Stokes calls 'vanities.' There is a queer, quirky, little old
gentleman who visits here, who said that Helen owed her great success
in society to her 'tact.' Oh! Edward, she owes her sorrow to her
_ambition_. Would you believe it possible that she, the beauty
of Abbeyweld, who for so long a time seemed to us satisfied with
that distinction, is not satisfied now. Why, there is not such an
establishment, no, not at Mrs. Howard's, as that which she commands.
Oh! Edward, to have once loved Helen, is to be interested for her
always; there is something great in her very faults; there is nothing
poor or low about her. That little cranky old gentleman said the other
evening while looking at her, 'Miss Rose, a woman, to be happy, should
either have no ambition, or an ambition beyond this world.' Do ask Dr.
Stokes if that is true."