"G.o.d bless you, Rose!" exclaimed the trembling voice of the discarded lover, who, pale and wo-worn, had been unintentionally concealed among the trees--"G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 t.i.tled 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.

CHAPTER V.

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 pa.s.sion, "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 a.s.sure 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 ta.s.sels, 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 a.s.sured her how completely she had possessed herself of his respect and admiration; that his feelings towards her not being of that pa.s.sionate 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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.ble 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 ent.i.tle 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 pa.s.sion 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."

CHAPTER VI.

After she had been a little longer in town, Rose saw more clearly the workings of that ambition which had undermined her cousin's happiness.

She saw where the canker ate and withered, but she did not know how it could be eradicated. Something which women understand, prevented her laying open the secrets of the house to Edward; and yet she desired counsel. Possessing much observation as to the workings of the human heart, she had but little knowledge as to how those feelings might be moulded for the best; and she naturally turned for advice, and with the faith of a Christian spirit, to the pastor who had instructed her youth. He had loved them both, and she longed for his counsel, in the--alas! vain--hope that she, a right-minded but simple girl--simple as regards the ambition of life's drama--might be able to turn her cousin from the unsatisfied, unsatisfying longings after place and station. The difference in their opinions was simply this--Rose thought that Helen possessed everything that Helen could desire, while Helen thought that Helen wanted all things.