'She's give up religion, and gone off to the Church, I suppose,' said the senior deacon, who was president on the occasion.

'I fear it is worse than that,' whispered a young female teacher, who, as the neighbour of the missing Rose, was supposed to know more of her movements than anyone else.

'I can't say I am surprised; indeed, I may say it is only what I expected,' continued the senior deacon, 'considering how frivolous she was, and how little her family availed themselves of the means of grace.'

The senior deacon's words commended themselves to all. Rose Wilc.o.x was volatile. She was at that critical age when most pretty girls are so-a time of life always severely criticised by those who have pa.s.sed it, or who have been preserved by kindly circ.u.mstances from its many dangers, and who ignore the G.o.dly and humane advice of Burns:

'Then gently scan your brother Man, Still gentler sister Woman.'

The Rose thus criticised was, perhaps, the prettiest girl in all the town. Her father had been an officer in the navy, who had married for love a wife who had nothing to give him but a pretty face and a loving heart. For a time they lived humbly but comfortably on his half-pay.

They had two children, a son and a daughter. The former grew up wild and wayward, and was a sad trouble to the family on the occasion of his visits on sh.o.r.e; for he was a sailor, like his father. Rose was her father's companion. He taught her all that he knew himself: to read Shakespeare; to get a smattering of French; to play a little on the piano. But he became involved in debt through becoming a surety for an old friend who had no one else to stand between him and impending ruin, and that friend, alas! left him in the lurch, or, in other words, handed him over to his creditors, and he died broken-hearted, leaving his wife and daughter almost penniless and friendless. The mother then moved to Sloville, where she managed, with the a.s.sistance of her daughter, to secure a scanty living as milliner and dressmaker-a calling which she had followed before she became a wife, and where, almost to her alarm and at the same time much to her pride, she beheld her daughter grow handsomer and lovelier every day.

The Sloville people said Rose was the prettiest girl in the town, and they were right. The landlord of the leading hotel would have given anything to have secured her services at the bar. The sn.o.bs of the place were much given to pester her with their impertinence, while lads of a lower grade inundated her with valentines and poetical effusions, as amorous as they were ill-spelt and badly written; and gay Lotharios in the shape of commercials, far removed from the chastening influences of their own lawful spouses, said to her all sorts of silly things on their occasional visits to the town and her mother's shop.

As the world goes, this was not much to be wondered at. Even in the good houses round the Park, where all the best families lived, and where carriage company was kept, it was to be questioned whether any more attractive young lady could be found than Rose, in spite of the plainness of her dress and the humble drudgery of her daily life. In no conservatory in that part of the world were to be seen fairer roses than those which adorned her cheeks. Her profile was exquisitely cla.s.sical; her every action graceful. No lady in the town had such a head of rich brown hair, none so downy a cheek of loveliest pink, none a blue eye so l.u.s.trous or sparkling, none a more melodious voice. Many a Belgravian maiden would have given a fortune to have had a hand as delicately formed, a waist as tempting, a step as elastic, a figure as fair, a carriage as superb, a smile as irresistible.

Personal advantages, declaim against them as we will-though why we should do so I know not, since they are the gift of G.o.d, and not to be bought with hard cash-are of inestimable value to a woman. It is no use arguing with a jury, Serjeant Ballantine tells us, when the plaintiff or defendant, as the case may be, is a pretty woman, and that it was the same in the time of the Athenians the case of Phryne is an ill.u.s.tration.

Is it not Balzac who tells us that the faintest whisper of a pretty woman is louder than the trumpet-call of duty? Nevertheless, a poor girl whose only dower is her beauty finds it often a perilous gift. Indeed, it was owing to this very possession that poor Rose had the world at a disadvantage. She had been spoilt by an indulgent father, and her fond mother was little fitted to act the part of a guide, philosopher, and friend in the perplexities and temptations of real life. Her brother was of no avail, as when at sea he was too far away, and when on sh.o.r.e he had shown a thoughtlessness and heedlessness which made him a burden rather than a help.

It was not true that she had given up religion, as was indicated by some of her a.s.sociates; the fact was she had none to give up worth speaking of. She had gone to chapel with her mother as a matter of course, and being intelligent and good-natured and willing to be useful, she had been worked into the Sunday-school. It was interesting to her to teach the young idea how to shoot, and she was fond of children, and so she went as a Sunday-school teacher. She had left the chapel because it was dark and dull; because the people were censorious and hard; because the service was uninteresting; because the preacher was always full of the Jews and the prophecies, and seemed to have no idea of life as she saw it around her, and was perpetually railing at a world which seemed to her so bright and fair; because in her heart, as in that of most of us at her age, there was a love of pleasure, impetuous and impatient of control.

Nor was it true that she had gone to church, as intimated above. The fact was, she had summoned up her energies for an awful step for anyone to take: she had run away from poverty, and hard work, and privation, and discomfort, and wretchedness, in the hope and belief-alas! too rudely to be shaken-that henceforth there was to be perpetual sunshine in her path, and perpetual joy in her heart.

We are all of us too ready to fancy that grapes grow on thorns, and Rose was no exception to the general rule. She had never read Wordsworth, and perhaps if she had she would not have understood that grand ode, though the knowledge did painfully come to her in after-life, where he invokes Duty as stern daughter of the voice of G.o.d:

'Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove; Thou who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity.'

At home for a long time she had been disappointed at her lot. She was getting tired of hard work and humble fare, ignorant of the fact that G.o.d gives us what is best for us, and that His wisdom is as omnipotent as His love. She had no companions to guide her aright, and was tired of the awkward admiration of the homely and lubberly lads with whom she came in contact. She had taken to reading trashy novels, which had not merely amused her, but filled her head with nonsense. Greedily she drank in all their poison. Little by little they broke down all the defences of her common-sense, as she read of splendid marriages made by simple village girls, of runaway matches, of wonderful elopements. They taught her how pleasure was the supreme good, how true happiness consisted in having wealth, in riding in a brougham, in being dressed in silks and satins, in wearing diamonds, in going to grand b.a.l.l.s; in short, in realizing what at the meeting-house had been pretty plainly denounced as the pleasures of sin for a season.

The more the poor girl reasoned on her condition the harder to her it seemed to be. It must be false what the parsons said; people who had money, who lived sumptuously, who were arrayed in purple and fine linen, must be happy-as she herself was when she had a crown-piece in her pocket, a dress a little smarter than usual, or a bonnet of the latest fashion. There was the senior deacon, who more fond of money than he?

though he always called it dross and filthy lucre. Then there were the senior deacon's daughters and wife; did not they always look a little more amiable when they had new clothes on? There was the old parson himself; did not everyone laugh at him because he was poor and shabby, and had not his long life of poverty reduced him to such a state that he could not say 'Bo!' to a goose? Money meant health, and happiness, and honour, and power; that was clear. Why, the wickedest men in the town, who had money, were made more of than the old parson, who had never done harm to anyone, and whose long record was unsullied. Naturally, this sort of reasoning made the poor girl a little discontented and out of sorts.

At times she had all the youthful recklessness of her s.e.x, and not a little was her mother terrified. A father or a brother might have taught her a little common-sense, but her only confidante was her mother-as fond as she was foolish-who felt herself that her daughter had a smile as sunny, a carriage as graceful, an air as distinguished, and a birth as gentle, as any of the leaders of society in Sloville. She always insisted on her daughter's fitness for something higher. Love levels all distinctions of rank, and Rose herself was half a Radical-at any rate, much more of one than pretty women generally are. She was also ambitious. She had a charming voice, and danced well. Why should she not shine in society? Why should not she be the star of the ball-room and the theatre? Why should not she have a brougham and drive in the parks? Why should not the men fall down and worship at her shrine?

Beauty had a magic power, and wonders were ever being performed daily by the sorcery of Love. Did not King Cophetua take a beggar-maid to be his queen?

'I'll be a lady yet,' said the silly girl; 'I am tired of st.i.tching and sewing from morn to night; I am tired of this dull street and this dull town; I'll be a lady yet, mother,' she said, 'and you shall come and live with me in a fine house in town with plenty of servants to wait on us and real nice dinners to eat.'

'Nonsense, girl!' said the mother. 'You had better marry the deacon's shopman; he is very fond of you, and I am sure, by this time, he could furnish a house well and keep a wife comfortable.'

Now, as the individual in question was as fat as a porpoise, and very much the shape of one; as his manners were as plebeian as his appearance, and as he never had anything to say for himself, Rose regarded him with infinite disgust, and vowed she'd rather go into a nunnery or die an old maid.

On the night of the Chartist meeting already referred to, Rose was met by the individual in question, and as there were so many people about, Rose graciously accepted the offer of his arm to take her home, much to his delight and joy. He determined to make the best of his chance. There are some men who take an ell when you give them an inch. Rose's rustic admirer belonged to this cla.s.s.

Rose became alarmed at his amorous attention, and screamed. That scream was heard by a gentleman, Sloville's only baronet, the lord of the manor, as he was riding past in his brougham. By the clear moonlight he saw that the girl who stood trembling before him was the girl whose face had haunted his dreams since he first caught sight of her in Sloville, and in pursuit of whom he had scoured the town like a hawk ever since. He had caught sight of her for a moment at the Chartist meeting, and here she was actually in his power, and needing his aid! How he blessed his stars, as eagerly, with the most polished air, he offered to drive Rose home. At first she hesitated, as was natural. If she would get inside, he would mount the box and drive.

Rose accepted his offer; there could be no harm in that, though she would not allow the brougham to come nearer her home than the top of the street in which she lived, for fear of scandal. She accepted the offer, partly because she wished for the sensation of riding in a brougham like a real lady, and partly because of her anxiety to get rid of her loutish lover.

Perhaps it had been as well if Rose had ridden up to the door in the brougham, or had refused the offer of it altogether. As it was, she got out, and the driver of the brougham would not allow her to go home alone.

If he was proud as Lucifer, he was subtle as the serpent that tempted Eve. She could not refuse his offer of guardianship, his appearance was so handsome, and his manner so polished and flattering and deferential.

Surely he could not do her any harm. The offer was one she had not sufficient self-denial to repel as she ought to have done, as any well-regulated young lady in superior circles of course would have done.

Alas! Rose was but a poor dressmaker, barely eighteen, an age when to the young woman clings a good deal of the romantic folly of the girl. She was the pride of an indulgent mother who never restrained her little whims, and whose scanty means afforded but little relief to the dull monotony of her daily life. Rose, of course, was in her seventh heaven.

Her hour of triumph and reward had arrived. Here was the prince who had come to marry the beggar's daughter; the gallant knight who was to lead her out of the prison house of poverty, to reveal to her all the glories of a world which, after all, looks best at a distance.

There is a tide in the affairs of women as well as men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune, and Rose believed that the tide was now in her favour. Here was the chance for which she had been dreaming, for which she had been prepared by a due course of silly novel-reading.

'A tall, dark gentleman is in love with you,' said the gipsy whom Rose had last consulted on the subject. 'He will come to you when you least expect it. He is immensely rich, and will make you handsome presents.

He will take you to London, where he will marry you, and you shall have horses and carriages, and servants, and music, and wine, and b.a.l.l.s, and will live happy ever after.'

The tall, dark gentleman had come, and he had fallen in love with her.

It amused him in that dull town to have an affair of this kind on hand.

It gave a new zest to his _blase_ life; the only things he cared for were pretty faces, and he had spent his life ever since leaving Oxford in search of them. Now that he had come to the family estate and t.i.tle; now that he was Sir Watkin Strahan, of Elm Court, it is not to be presumed that there was any diminution of zeal in his search; on the contrary, he pushed it with more zest than ever. In the language of his friends, he was a devil of a fellow for women, and it was clear to him that this young rustic beauty would soon fall an easy prey.

The chances were all in favour of the execution of his wicked design, for he was a cruel man, in spite of his youth and handsome face and figure, a polished gentleman, yet venomous and dangerous as a cobra or a wolf. He was now given up to one pursuit, the ruin of this fair young girl, on whom, in an evil moment, he had cast a longing eye; and poor Rose thought him a model gentleman! He had no scruples of conscience when his fancy was aroused. All he cared for, all he thought of, was himself. Pleasure was to be had, regardless of the cost to himself, of the misery to others. In a rich and old community like ours the number of such men is immense, and the mischief they do no tongue can tell. In our streets by night we see the ruin they have wrought.

'I am mad after that girl,' said Sir Watkin to a friend one day. 'I have made her presents of all kinds; I have followed up every chance; I have promised even to marry her, and yet she keeps me at arm's length. She is a regular Penelope. It seems years since I first saw her.'

'Nonsense!' said his friend-an old rake of the Regency, to whom all women were mere childish toys-'she can't resist you. You are bound to win her.

She is only a little more artful than others of her cla.s.s.'

'I wish it were so. I almost despair; and that makes me the more determined she shall be mine. I was never disappointed yet.'

'Courage, mon ami,' was the reply. 'Such a little beauty is not to be caught in a day. Take the advice of an old soldier. You are too cautious. You must carry her by a grand _coup de main_.'

Alas! an opportunity soon occurred. There was to be a grand horse-race a few miles off. Rose had never seen one, and wished to go. She had let herself be taken there by the Baronet. She was very sorry she had agreed to the arrangement, but it was too late to draw back, and she made an excuse to her mother for her temporary absence. After the race there was a grand dinner, followed by a ball. The poor girl had hardly the heart to refuse, and, indeed, she was too far from home to go back alone, though the agreement was that she was to be taken back immediately the race was over. This part of the programme the Baronet never intended to put in execution, and he made some excuse or other for its non-fulfilment, which she was obliged to accept. Off her guard with excitement and wine yet not without misgivings of heart, she was persuaded to accompany the party back to London. In her sober moments she would never have done such a thing, but she was surrounded by men and women who laughed at her scruples and overcame her objections. Hardly knowing what she was about, she-a dove, innocent and unprotected-was borne by the vultures to town.

For the first time she had tasted of the charmed cup, and she found it pleasant. She felt sorry for her mother, to whom she wrote a hasty note, but without giving her any address, telling her not to be alarmed at her absence, stating that she was staying with some kind friends, and that she would soon let her know further particulars, which she felt sure would please her. She was to stay at the house of a real lady, who was to take her to see all the grand sights of the town. Her spirits rose to the occasion, and, dressed magnificently in the latest fashions, she found some kind of enjoyment in the gay company she kept, in riding in a brougham, in going to the theatre and the opera, in finding herself in a new world, where she was received with a favour never extended to her in the tamer circles of Sloville. She felt that she had made a wonderful start in the world, and how wrong were they who spoke of its pleasures as transitory and of little worth.

'That was the world for her,' said the Baronet, whose demeanour was at times most kind and considerate, and who treated her with the respect due from a gentleman to a lady, though occasionally he a.s.sumed a boldness which brought the hot blood to her cheek and filled her with alarm.

Once upon a time, it is said, an old Scotch beadle, with the astute utterance of his cla.s.s, went a-courting. 'Jeannie,' said he, as he took the object of his affection into the parochial cemetery, and pointed to some graves in a remote corner, 'that's whaur my people lie. Would ye like to lie with them?' Jeannie answered in the affirmative, and the happy pair soon became man and wife. In the same way the Baronet threw open to the dazzled eyes of this fatherless country girl all the usual resorts of the gay world in all their pomp and glory, and she was delighted, as she had not the experience to tell her how much was tinsel, how little of it was real, how much of it was selfishness, and nothing more. Her heart warmed towards her benefactor. Confident in her beauty and his goodness of heart, she feared no harm. In the circle in which she moved she achieved a complete success. The women were very envious, and the men were as foolish as most men are where a pretty woman is concerned.

Young people think little of what is felt for them by their fathers and mothers. The cynic may say, 'Why should they? I did not bring myself into existence; and what has life done for me but to make me toil for labour that profiteth not, to clothe me with a carcase that shall soon be dissolved in death, to give me a mind that utterly, after all its endeavour, fails to understand even what pa.s.ses under my very nose, to say nothing of the mysteries which lie around.' But most of us feel, nevertheless, that our fathers and mothers have claims on us that we can never sufficiently repay them for-the care and love which rocked us in the cradle, which gave joy and happiness to our early homes, which guarded us in youth, which helped to plant us out in the world-a love the memory of which lasts as long as life. The worst of it is that frequently we do not feel this till it is too late, till we can make no ear that it would rejoice to listen to such with rapture is stilled by the cold hand of death. I can never forget a picture of a girl weeping at her mother's grave. It was an ill.u.s.tration to one of Jane Taylor's simple poems, as follows:

'Oh, if she would but come again, I think I'd vex her so no more.'

In her new circle Rose had that natural feeling. It was hard for her to live without her mother. That mother might be ill; that mother she knew to be lonely and poor, and in need of her society and aid. It was her duty, she felt, to be by that mother's side. She intended to return, if not to-day, at any rate to-morrow; to tell her mother all, how, notwithstanding appearances, she was innocent as when she slept under that mother's roof. But the difficulty was to go back. Her mother would believe her story, but n.o.body else would; and all her little world would look at her in scorn. She could not face that little world that seems to us so big. What was she to do? Like too many of us in emergencies, she did nothing, and was overcome by the circ.u.mstances in which she had weakly allowed herself to be placed.

Yet Rose was not happy in her heart of hearts, and all the while an inner sense of fear, of something sad and sorrowful to come, restrained her natural light-heartedness. Scandal had been busy with her name in her native town. She could not ask, as she had done in her early days, the blessing of G.o.d on her life. But she had burnt her boats, and for her there was no return. She was clever, and was determined to cultivate her powers. All her mornings were spent in hard study. She had masters who made up for the defects of early education. The Baronet, who had left London for a while on a shooting tour in North America, was to return, and, of course, would marry her in due time; and then her fair fame would be vindicated, and her mother's heart would beat for joy. She was a born actress, and her chief delight was to be found in the study of the leading actors and actresses on the stage. Her musical talent was of a high order, and she had a knack of picking up foreign languages that made her the wonder of the extremely bad set in which she lived. She was always busy, always in a whirl of excitement, and had little time to think of what she was and whither she was going. She shrank from being brought face to face with her real self. Whenever she did so she found she really had gained but little, after all. It is true she was not vicious, but, then, she had grown hard and worldly, and that is little better in the Court of Conscience. Often she longed for her early home, her mother's side, her life of daily drudgery, the G.o.d of her early youth.

Very suddenly a change came. Sir Watkin Strahan had left England, not for a shooting tour in North America, as it had been understood, but on account of pecuniary embarra.s.sments, brought on by his extravagant habits. It was hinted that he was about to marry a fortune, 'but that matters little,' said the informant to poor Rose; 'he loves you and you love him. The hard necessities of his situation will compel him to go through the form of matrimony with another, but that is no reason why you two should not be virtually man and wife.' The Baronet said as much in the impa.s.sioned letters which he sent to Rose. He had lost, he regretted to say, heavily on the turf and at play. He had made some unfortunate speculations on the Stock Exchange. He had travelled to repair his losses at Homburg, and Baden, and Spa, and there he had made matters worse. His friends had insisted on his getting married, promising pecuniary a.s.sistance if he did. They did more. They found out for him a fitting heiress. A rich merchant had an only daughter whom he was willing to part with for a consideration-that she should be called my lady. As the lady was anxious for a t.i.tle, and the gentleman was equally anxious to finger her cash, there was little reason for delay. Indeed, it was felt on all sides that the sooner the business was settled the better. The lady and gentleman had met, and been mutually satisfied with one another. The Baronet, so proud of his t.i.tle, had sold himself for a mess of pottage. That was a very shabby thing to do; but he did something still shabbier, he implied that to Rose it would make no difference-that she would still be the dearest object to his heart. Poor girl! she felt the insult bitterly.

'It was the way of the world,' said her new friends. 'It was only what she need expect. She must have been a fool to think that it would be otherwise.' So said her London friends to her. Well, she owned she had been a fool. She had never meant to be a rich man's mistress. The Baronet had overwhelmed her with his wealth and magnificence. He had treated her with such consideration that she never expected anything from him other than what was right and honourable, and she had been prepared to give him all she could in return-her heart. Further than that she could never go. She would never be what he wished her to be for all his wealth. Her dream was over, and she woke to find herself helpless, friendless, poor, and alone. It was a bitter awakening for her. It would have broken her heart, and ruined her life, had it not been for her youthful pluck, and spirit, and pride. The man of the world who believes woman to be as bad as himself, who quotes Pope and tells us that every woman is at heart a rake, will tell me I have drawn an unreal girl. I tell him there are thousands of such in the homes of the poor, and it is because there are such that England is still a nation great and grand.

But to return to our heroine.

When the dishonourable proposal was made to her-a proposal which she could not at first understand, veiled as it was in artful language-all her pride was in arms, her anger was aroused, and her love was turned to hate. In her wrath she left the house, leaving behind her letters, books, jewellery, dresses, everything that had been given her, and, dressed in the simple style of her former life, she went out into the world shedding bitter tears, and not knowing where to go. Sad and mad, she walked the streets of London alone-streets in which it is more dangerous for a pretty girl to walk along, and at night, than it would be among Kaffir or Hottentots. She had given no one any intimation of her going, or as to what her intentions were. She had escaped from the destroyer, that was enough for her. A stranger to London, she wandered wearily about, till she came to a street with a blaze of light streaming from the shop windows on every side, crowded with cabs and carriages, whilst the pavement was so filled up as to render locomotion almost impossible.

What she saw struck her with astonishment and horror. She had never heard of such a thing, and did not believe it possible. It was night, and yet the place was as busy as if it were day. There were women in full dress from the adjacent theatres, other in couples or hanging on the arms of men, who might have been officers in the army and navy or members of the swell mob. There were similar parties in hansoms and broughams.

Intermixed with them were beggars, and pickpockets, and swindlers, and outcasts, and all the riffraff of a London street. Rose watched the broughams, and saw them setting down their inmates at a building which bore to her a name of no meaning. She watched awhile, and then, advancing to the door and paying her shilling, found herself in a dancing casino of a rather superior character. The walls were lined with seats on which men and women were seated. There was a bar at one end at which a good deal of chaffing and smoking and drinking were going on. Up in the gallery was a German band, and, as they played, some danced, while others looked on. Poor Rose was frightened beyond description at the appearance of all around her. The air was full of oaths and laughter, and all were gay, gay as wine could make them, from Lord Tom Noddy drinking himself into _del. trem._, to the last ticket-of-leave from Her Majesty's jails. Rose had never seen so many vagabonds collected together under a roof before, and they were all gay-the painted harlots, the City men, the Jew money-lenders, the clerk who had come to spend the proceeds of his latest embezzlement, the scheming M.P., the jockey from Newmarket, the prize-fighter from Whitechapel, the greenhorn from the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. Pulling her veil over her face, Rose stood in a corner by herself, trembling and alone, afraid to remain, yet afraid to go away, fearing she might be stopped. Already she found herself remarked on and pointed at; already she had seen in the crowded and heated room more than one of the boon companions of her quondam lover. What was she to do? She had never dreamt of such awful degradation as she saw there. She had never believed in its existence.