That day was an eventful one to Rose. In the evening she was seated opposite the window, observing the lamplighter flying along with his ladder and his link through the increasing fog, and wondering why the dinner was delayed so much beyond the usual hour—when the little old cranky gentleman, whose keen and clever observations had given Rose a very good idea of his head, and a very bad one of his heart, stood beside her. In a few brief words he explained, that seeing she was different to London ladies, he had come to the determination of making her his wife. He did not seem to apprehend any objection on her part to this arrangement; but having concluded the business in as few words as possible, stood, with his hands behind him, very much as if he expected the lady he addressed to express her gratitude, and suffer him to name the day. Firmly and respectfully Rose declined the honour, declaring "she had no heart to give," and adding a few civil words of thanks to the old gentleman, who would have evinced more sense had he proposed to adopt, not marry her. Without a reply, the old gentleman left the room; but presently her cousin entered, and in terms of bitter scorn, inquired if she were mad enough to refuse such an offer—one that would immediately take her out of her humble sphere, and place her where she might be happy. Rose replied, with more than usual firmness, that she had learned, since she had been with her, the total insufficiency of rank and power to produce happiness. "I am convinced," she continued, "that it is the most likely to dwell where there are the fewest cares, and that the straining after distinction is at variance with its existence. To be useful, and fulfil well the duties of our native sphere, is the surest way to be happy. Oh! Helen, you do not know what it is; you look too much to the future to enjoy the present; and I have observed it ever since you threw away the handful of jessamine we had gathered at the grey fountain of Abbeyweld, because you could not have moss roses like the squire's daughter."
"Foolish girl!" she answered, "has not perseverance in the desire obtained the moss roses?"
"Yes," said her cousin, sadly, "but now you desire exotics. I should despise myself if it were possible that I could forget the affection of my heart in what appears to me the unsubstantial vanities of life. Dear Helen, in sickness or sorrow let me ever be your friend; but I must be free to keep on in my own humble sphere."
It seemed as if poor Rose was doomed to undergo all trials. Helen was not one to yield to circumstances; and though her physician prescribed rest, she lived almost without it, avoiding repose, laying herself under the most painful obligations to obtain her end, and enduring the greatest mental anxiety. Not only this; she taunted poor Rose with her increased anxieties, affirming, that if she had not rendered the old gentleman her foe by the ill-timed refusal, he would have assisted, not thwarted, her cherished object; that his influence was great, and was now exerted against them. "If," she added, "you had only the common tact of any other girl, you might have played him a little until the election was over, and then acted as you pleased."
This seemed very shocking to Rose, and she would have gone to Abbeyweld immediately, but that she thought it cruel to leave her cousin while she felt she was useful to her. "Ah, Rose!" she said, when poor Rose hinted that in a short time she must return, "how can you think of it?—how can you leave me in an enemy's country? I dare not give even my husband my entire confidence, for he might fancy my sensitiveness a low-born feeling. I can trust you, and none other." Surrounded, according to the phrase, "with troops of friends," and yet able to trust "none other" than the simple companion of her childhood! "And yet," murmured the thoughtful Rose, "amongst so many, the blame cannot be all with the crowd; Helen herself is as incapable of warm, disinterested friendship as those of whom she complains."
Rose Dillon's constancy was subjected to a still greater trial. Amongst the "troops of friends" who crowded more than ever round Mr. Ivers while his election was pending, was a young man as superior to the rest in mind as in fortune, and Rose Dillon's ready appreciation of the good and beautiful led her to respect and admire him.
"Is it true, Miss Dillon," he said to her one morning, after a lagging conversation of some twenty minutes' duration—"is it true, Miss Dillon, that you have discarded altogether the attentions of Mr. ——?" and he named the old gentleman whose offer had been so painful to Rose, and who was now made painfully aware that the subject had been publicly talked of. This confused her. "Nay," he continued, "I think you ought to be very proud of the fact, for he is worth two hundred thousand pounds."
"If he were worth ten hundred thousand, it would make no difference to me," was the reply.
"Then, you admit the fact."
Rose could not tell a falsehood, though she confessed her pain that it should be known. "I intend," she added, "to remain in my own quiet sphere of life; I am suited for no other."