"Ah!" replied the country bred husband, "she, indeed, is an exception; she could not even change for the better."

And then the children, two such glorious boys, fine, manly fellows.

"And what will you be?" inquired her ladyship of the eldest.

"A farmer, my lady."

"And you?"

"A merchant, I hope."

"Your boys are as unambitious as yourself, Rose."

"I fear not," she answered; "this fellow wants to get into the middle cla.s.s; but Mr. Stokes says the prosperity of a country depends more upon the middle cla.s.s than upon either the high or the low."

To this Helen made no reply, for her attention was occupied by the loveliness of Rose's little girl. The child inherited, in its perfection, the beauty of her family, and a grace and spirit peculiarly her own. Rose could not find it in her heart to deprive her cousin of the child's society, which seemed to interest and amuse her, and the little creature performed so many acts of affection and attention from the impulse of her own kind nature, that Helen, unaccustomed to that sort of devotion, found her twine around her sympathies in a novel and extraordinary manner; it was a new sensation, and she could not account for its influence. After a week had pa.s.sed, she was able to walk out, and met by chance the old clergyman. He kissed the child, and pa.s.sed on with a bow, which, perhaps, had more of bitterness in its civility than, strictly speaking, befitted a Christian clergyman; but he thought of the neglect she had evinced towards old Mrs. Myles, and if he had spoken, it would have been to vent his displeasure, and reprove the woman whose rank could not shield her from his scorn. She proceeded towards the churchyard. "Look, lady!" said little Rose; "father put that stone over that grave to please mother. The relation who is buried there took care of my mother when she was a _littler_ girl than I am now, and he told me to strew flowers over the grave, which we do. See, I can read it--'Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Margaret Myles, who died the seventeenth of June, eighteen hundred'--and something--I can hardly read figures yet, lady. 'This stone was placed here by her grateful relatives, E. and R.S.,' meaning Rose and Edward Lynne."

The coldness of the clergyman was forgotten in the bitterness of self-reproach. "I was a fool," she thought, as she turned away, "to fancy that my native air could be untainted by the destiny which has mocked me from my cradle."

"Ah! lady dear," exclaimed a crone, rising from a grave where she had been sitting, "don't you remember old Betty? They all said in the village you'd be too proud to look on your grandmother's grave; but you're not, I see. Well, that's good--that's good. We had a funeral last week, and the vault of the old earl was broken in. The stupid s.e.xton stuck his pick in amongst the old bricks, and so the great man's skull came tumbling out, and rolled beside the skull of Job Martin, the old cobbler; and the s.e.xton laid them both on the edge of the grave, the earl's skull and the cobbler's skull, until he should fetch a mason to mend the vault, and--what do you think?--when the mason came, the s.e.xton could not tell which was the earl's skull and which was the cobbler's! Lady, you must understand how this is--it's all the same in a hundred years, according to the saying; and so it is. None of them could tell which was the earl's, and which the cobbler's. My skull may lie next a lady's yet, and no one tell the difference."

The lady and child hastened from the churchyard, and the old woman muttered, "To see that! She's not half as well to look at now as the farmer's wife. Ah! 'All is not gold that glitters!'" How happy it is for those who believe in the truth of this proverb, and from it learn to be content!

It might be a week after this occurrence that Helen sent for Rose. The lady either was, or fancied herself better, and said so, adding, it was in her (Rose's) power to make her happier than she had ever been.

Reverting to the period when her cousin visited her in London, she alluded to what she had suffered in becoming a mother, and yet having her hopes destroyed by the anxiety and impetuosity of her own nature.

"At first," she said, "the trouble was anything but deep-rooted, for I fancied G.o.d would send many more, but it was not so; and now the t.i.tle I so desired must go to the child of a woman--Oh, Rose, how I _do_ hate her!--a woman who publicly thanks G.o.d that no plebeian blood will disgrace _my_ husband's t.i.tle and _her_ family. I would peril my soul to cause her the pain she has caused me."

"You do so now," said Rose, gently but solemnly. "Oh! think that this violence and revenge sins your own soul, and is every way unworthy of you."

Helen did not heed the interruption. "To add to my agony," she continued, "my husband cherishes her son as if it were his own; the boy stands even now between his affections and me. He has reproached me for what he terms my insensibility to his perfections, and says I ought to rejoice that he is so easily rendered happy--only imagine this! Rose, you must give me your daughter, to be to me as my own.

Her beauty and sweetness will at once wean my husband's love from this boy; and, moreover, children brought up together--do you not see?--that boy will become attached to one of the 'plebeian blood,'

and wedding _her_ hereafter, scald to the core the proud heart of his mother, as she has scalded mine!"

"I cannot, Helen," replied Rose, after a pause, during which her cousin's glittering inquiring eyes were fixed upon her face--"I cannot; I could not answer to my G.o.d at the last day for delivering the soul he gave to my care to be so tutored (forgive me) as to forget Him in all things."

"Forget G.o.d!" repeated Helen once or twice--"I forget G.o.d! Do you think I am a heathen?"

"No, cousin--no--for you have all knowledge of the truth; but knowledge, and profiting by our knowledge, are different. My little gentle-hearted girl will be happier far in her own sphere. I could not see her degraded to bait a trap for any purpose; she will be happy, happier in her own sphere."

The lady bit her compressed lips; but during her whole life she never gave up a point, nor an object, proving how necessary it is that the strong mind should be well and highly directed. Small feeble minds pa.s.s through the world doing little good and little harm, but to train a large mind is worth the difficulty--worth the trouble it occasions: its possession is either a great blessing or a great curse. To Helen it was the latter, and curses never fall singly. "You have boys to provide for," she said, "and if I adopted that child, I would not suffer their station to disgrace their sister."

"I am sure you mean us kindly and generously; nor am I blind to the advantages of such an offer for my boys. Their father has prospered greatly, and could at this moment place them in any profession they chose--still influence would help them forward; but the advancement of one child must not be purchased by"--Rose paused for a word--she did not wish to hurt her cousin's feelings--and yet none suggested itself but what she conceived to be the true one, and she repeated, lowly and gently, her opinion, prefacing it with, "You will forgive in this matter my plain speaking, but the advancement of one child must not be purchased by the sacrifice of another."

"Your prejudices have bewildered your understanding," exclaimed the lady. "Whatever my ambition may be, my morality is unimpeached; a vestal would lose none of her purity beneath my roof."

"Granted, fully and truly; woman's first virtue is untainted, but that is not her only one; forgive me. I have no right to judge or dictate, nor to give an unasked opinion; I am grateful for your kindness; but my child, given to me as a blessing for time and a treasure for eternity, must remain beneath my roof until her mind and character are formed."

"You are mad, Rose; consider her future happiness"--

"Oh, Helen! are you more happy than your humble cousin?"

"She would be brought up in the sphere I was thrust into, and have none of the contentions I have had to endure," said Helen.

"A sphere full of whirlpools and quicksands," replied the mother. "The fancy you have taken to her might pa.s.s away. She might be taught the bitterness of eating a dependant's bread, and the soft and luxurious habits of her early days would unfit her for bearing so heavy a burden; it would be in vain then to recall her to her humble home; she would have lost all relish for it. It might please G.o.d to take you after a few years, and my poor child would be returned to what she would then consider poverty. Urge me no more, I entreat you."

Helen's face grew red and pale by turns. "You mock at and mar my purposes," she said. "My husband was struck by the beauty of that child, and I longed to see her; but I am doomed to disappointment. I never tried to grasp a substance that it did not fade into a shadow!

What am I now?" Her eyes rested upon the reflection, given by the gla.s.s, of the two cousins. "Look! that tells the story--worn in heart and spirit, blighted and bitter. You, Rose--even you, my own flesh and blood--will not yield to me--the only creature, perhaps, that could love me! Oh! the void, the desert of life, without affection!--a childless mother--made so by"--She burst into tears, and Rose was deeply affected. She felt far more inclined to yield her child to the desolate heart of Helen Marsh, than to the proud array of Lady ----; but she also knew her duty.

"Will you grant me this favour," said Helen at last; "will you let the child decide"--

"I would not yield to the child's decision, but you may, if you please, prove her," answered her mother.

The little girl came softly into the room, having already learned that a bounding step was not meet for "my lady's chamber."

"Rosa, listen; will you come with me to London, to ride in a fine coach drawn by four horses--to wear a velvet frock--see beautiful sights, and become a great lady. Will you, dear Rosa, and be my own little girl?"

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the child, gleefully; "that I will; _that_ would be so nice--a coach and four--a velvet frock--a great lady--oh! dear me!" The mother felt her limbs tremble, her heart sink. "Oh! my own dear mother, will not _that_ be nice? and the beautiful sights you have told me of--St. Paul's and Westminster--oh! mother, we shall be so happy!"

"Not _me_, Rosa," answered Mrs. Lynne, with as firm a voice as she could command. "Now, listen to me: you might ride _in_ a coach and four, instead of _on_ your little pony--wear velvet instead of cotton--see St. Paul's and Westminster--but have no more races on the downs, no more peeping into birds' nests, no more seeing the old church, or hearing its Sabbath bells. You _may_ become a great lady, but you must leave and forget your father and me."

"Leave you, and my father and brothers! You did not mean _that_ surely--you could not mean that, my lady--could they not go with me?"

"That would be impossible!"

"Then I will stay here," said the little girl firmly; "I love them better than every thing else in the world. Thank you, dear lady, but I cannot leave them."

"Leave _us_, then, Rosa," said Helen, proudly. The child obeyed with a frightened look, wondering how she had displeased the "grand lady."

If Helen had been steeped to the very lips in misery, she could not have upbraided the world more bitterly than she did, giving vent to long pent-up feelings, and reproaching Rose, not only for her folly in not complying with her wish, but for her happiness and contentment, which, while she envied, she affected to despise.

"You cannot make me believe that the high-born and wealthy are what you represent," said her cousin. "A cla.s.s must not be condemned because of an individual; and though I never felt inclined to achieve rank, I honour many of its possessors. It is the unsatisfied longing of your own heart that has made you miserable, dear Helen; and oh!

let me entreat you, by the remembrance of our early years, to suffer yourself to enjoy what you possess."

"What I possess!" she repeated; "the dread and dislike of my husband's relatives--the reputation of 'she _was_ very handsome'--a broken const.i.tution--nothing to lean upon or love--a worn and weary heart!"

"You have a mine of happiness in your husband's affection."

"Not now," she answered bitterly; "not now--not now." And she was right.

The next day she left the farm, where peace and prosperity dwelt together; despite herself, it pained her to witness such happiness.

It is possible that the practical and practised theories she had witnessed might have changed her, had she not foolishly thought it too late. Her disappointment had been great; from the adoption of that child she had expected much of what, after all, is the creating and existing principle of woman's nature--natural affection; but this was refused by its mother's wisdom. Her worldly prospects had been doomed to disappointment, because she hungered and thirsted after vanities and distinctions, which never can afford sustenance to an immortal spirit; and even when she desired to cultivate attachment, it did not proceed from the pure love of woman--the natural stream was corrupted by an unworthy motive.

Again years rolled on. In the records of fashionable life, the movements and fetes of Lady ---- continued to be occasionally noted as the most brilliant of the season; then rumours became rife that Lord and Lady ---- did not live as affectionately as heretofore; then, after twenty years of union, separation ensued upon the public ground of "incompatibility of temper"--his friends expressing their astonishment how his lordship could have so long endured the pride and caprice of one so lowly born, while hers--but friends! she had no friends!--a few partizans of the "rights of women" there were, who, for the sake of "the cause," defended the woman. She had been all her life too restless for friendship, and when the sensation caused by her separation from her husband had pa.s.sed away, none of the gay world seemed to remember her existence. Rose and her husband lived, loved, and laboured together. It was astonishing how much good they did, and how much they were beloved by their neighbours. Their names had never been noted in any fashionable register, but it was engraved upon every peasant heart in the district. "As happy as Edward and Rose Lynne,"

became a proverb; and if any thing was needed to increase the love the one felt for the other, it was perfected by the affection of their children.

"I think," said the old rector, as they sat round the evening tea-table, "that our school may now vie with any in the diocese--thanks to the two Roses; twin roses they might almost be called, though Rosa hardly equals Rose. I wonder what Mrs. Myles would say if she were to look upon this happy group. Ah dear!--well G.o.d is very good to permit such a foretaste of heaven as is met with here."

And the benevolent countenance of the good pastor beamed upon the happy family. "I have brought you the weekly paper," he continued; "the Sat.u.r.day paper. I had not time to look at it myself, but here it is. Now, Edward, read us the news." The farther people are removed from the busy scenes of life, the more anxious they are to hear of their proceedings; and Edward read leading articles, debates, reviews, until, under the head of "Paris," he read as follows--"Considerable sensation has been excited here by the sudden death of the beautiful Lady ----."

Rose screamed, and the paper trembled in Edward's hand. "This is too horrid," he said.