"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 pass 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 God 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 glass, 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.