"I believe," said the gentleman, "he is right, quite right; for out of such religion springs contentment, and all the higher as well as the humbler virtues. Yes, he is quite right." Much more he urged Rose, with all the persuasive eloquence of warm affection, to discover, if it were possible, she could change. He tried her on all points, but she replied with the clear straightforward truthfulness that has nothing to conceal. She wavered in nothing: firm to her love, steady to her principles, right-thinking and clear-sighted, he felt that Rose Dillon of Abbeyweld would have added the dignity of virtue to the dignity of rank, but that her mind was of too high an order to bend to the common influences that lead women along the beaten track of life.
They parted to meet no more; and Rose shed tears at their parting. "I did not wish you to make a declaration that did me too much honour," she said; "but I entreat you to say nothing of it to Mrs. Ivers. My own course is taken, and God knows how earnestly I will pray that you may find one in every way worthy your high caste of mind and station."
I wonder would Edward Lynne have quite approved of those tears; I wonder would he have been pleased to have observed the cheek of his affianced bride pressed against the drawing-room window, to catch a last glimpse of the cab which dashed from Mr. Ivers' door. Perhaps not—for the generous nature of woman's love and woman's friendship, is often beyond man's comprehension—but he would have been pleased to see, after she had paced the room for half an hour, the eagerness with which she received and opened a letter from himself; to have witnessed the warm kiss impressed upon his name; to hear the murmured "dear, dear Edward!" Her heart had never for a moment failed in its truth—never for an instant wavered.
That day week the cousins separated. "You must come to me when I return, Rose," said Helen—"you must come and witness my triumphs. My husband's brother is very ill—cannot live long—but that is a secret. I trust Ivers will make a figure in the lower, before called to the upper house; if he does not, it will break my heart. There, God bless you, Rose; you have been very affectionate, very sweet to me, but I do, I confess, envy you that cheerful countenance—cheerful and calm. I always think that contented people want mind and feeling; but you do not, Rose. By the way, how strangely Mr. —— disappeared; I thought you had clipped his wings. Well, next season, perhaps. Of course, after this, you will think no more of Edward." Fortunately for Rose, Helen expected no replies, and after a few more words, as I have said, they parted.
In little more than three months, Rose Dillon and Edward Lynne were married.
CHAPTER VIII.
"It's a decent match enough," said old Mrs. Myles to the rector when two years had elapsed, and she had become reconciled to it. "Of course Rose never could have taken the same stand as Helen, who has been a lady now more than a year; though she's a good, grateful girl, and Edward very attentive—very attentive indeed—and I must say more so than I expected. Helen, I mean my lady, you know, has, as she says in her last letter, a great deal to do with her money—of course she must have; and so, sir, pray do not let any one in Abbeyweld know that the little annuity is not continued—regularly, I mean," she added, while a certain twitching of her features evinced how much she felt, though she did not at the moment confess it, the neglect of one she so dearly loved. Like most talkative people, she frequently talked away her sorrows; and, thinking she would be better if she opened her heart, she recommenced, after wiping away a few natural tears: "You see, sir, Helen—I mean her ladyship—said she would make it up by-and-bye to me, and so she ought, poor dear thing; for I sacrificed both myself and her cousin Rose for her advancement; and really I cannot tell how the money goes with those great folk. Only think," proceeded the old lady, bringing her face close to Mr. Stokes, and whispering—"only think, she says she never has five pounds she can call her own. Now, as I told Rose, this is very odd, because my lord is so very rich since the death of his brother, ten times as rich as he was at first, and yet Rose says they are poor now to what they used to be—is not that very strange? She says it is because of the increased expenditure, and that I don't understand; but it's very hard, very hard in my old days. If she can't live upon thirty thousand a-year, I wonder how she expects her poor old grandmother to live upon thirty pounds, for that's all my certainty; and the little farm, I must say, would have gone to destruction, but for Edward Lynne—he does every thing for it, poor fellow. She never sends me a paper now, with her presentations, and dresses, and fine parties, printed in it at full-length; she's ashamed of her birth, that's it; though sure you and your lady, sir, noticed them both like equals, and I never even asked to go near her, though his lordship invited me more than once—and he even came to see Rose, as you know, ay, and a good ten mile out of his way it was to come—a good ten mile—and kissed her baby, and said he wished he had one like it, which they say Helen never will have. Oh, it was a pity that first one of her ladyship did not live! It is so cruel of her not to let me see the papers with an account of her fine doings, all in print—very cruel—I who loved her so, and took care of her—I never could find out from Rose whether or no she thought her happy. Ah, Rose is a good girl! not, however," added the old lady, again wiping away her tears—"not, however, to be compared to her ladyship; and I would not say what I have done to any one in the world but you, sir, who have known them all their lives."
So talked old Mrs. Myles, and so she continued to talk at intervals, during the next five years, growing weaker in mind and body, until at last she took to her bed. "I could die happy," said the old woman, "if I were to see Helen once more; write to her, Rose, and tell her so; she will not refuse to see me, her first friend—only once."
Communications between the cousins had ceased for a long time, but Rose wrote. Mrs. Myles sent twice every day to the post-office—and her hopes, so constantly disappointed, increased her fever; at the end of a week, a letter came.