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Page 19
Why Mrs. Myles so decidedly preferred Helen to Rose, appeared a
mystery to all who did not know the secret sympathy, the silent
unsatisfied ambition, that lurked in the bosoms of both the old and
the young. Mrs. Myles had lived for a long time upon the reputation of
her own beauty; and whenever she needed _sympathy_ (a food which the
weak-minded devour rapidly,) she lamented to one or two intimates,
while indulging in the luxury of _tea_, that she was an ill-used
person, simply because she had not been a baronet's lady at the very
least. Helen's ambition echoed that of her grandmother; it was not the
longing of a village lass for a new bonnet or a brilliant dress--it
was an ambition of sufficient strength to have sprung up in a castle.
She resolved to be something beyond what she was; and there are very
few who have strength to give birth to, and cherish up a resolve, who
will not achieve a purpose, be it for good or bad, for weal or for wo.
Rose was altogether and perfectly simple and single-hearted: conscious
that she was an orphan, dependent upon her grandmother's slender
annuity for support, and that Helen's father could not provide both
for his daughter and his niece, her life was one of patient industry
and unregretted privation. Before she was fifteen, she had persuaded
her grandmother to part with her serving maiden, and with very little
assistance from Helen, she performed the labours of their cottage,
aided twice a-week by an elderly woman, who often declared that such
another girl as Rose Dillon was not to be found in the country. Both
were now verging on seventeen, and Helen received the addresses of a
young farmer in the neighbourhood--a youth of excellent yeoman family,
and of superior education and manners.
The cousins walked out one evening together, and Rose turned into the
lane where they used frequently to meet Edward Lynne.
"No, Rose," said Helen, "not there; I am not in a humour to meet
Edward to-night."
"But you said you would," said Rose.
"Well, do not look so solemn about it. I daresay I did--but lover's
promises--if indeed we are lovers. Do you know, Rose, I should be
very much obliged to you to take Edward off my hands--he is just the
husband for you, so rustic and quiet."
"Edward to be taken off your hands, Helen!--Edward Lynne!--the
protector of our childhood--the pride of the village--the very
companion of Mr. Stokes--why, he dined with him last Sunday! Edward
Lynne! You jest, cousin! and"-- Rose Dillon paused suddenly, for she
was going to add, "You ought not to jest with me." She checked herself
in time; stooped down to gather some flowers to hide her agitation;
felt her cheeks flush, her heart beat, her head swim, and then a chill
creep through her frame. Helen had unconsciously awoke the hope which
Rose had never dared to confess unto herself. The waking was ecstatic;
but she knew the depth of Edward's love for Helen. She had been
his confidant--she believed it was a jest--how could her cousin do
otherwise than love Edward Lynne? And with this belief, she recovered
the self-possession which the necessity for subduing her feelings had
taught her even at that early age.
"And Rose," said Helen, in a quiet voice, "did you really think I ever
intended to marry Edward Lynne?"
"Certainly, cousin. Why, you love him, do you not! Besides, he is
rich--very rich in comparison to you--very, very rich. And if he were
not--oh, Helen!--is he not in himself--but I need not reason--you are
in your usual high spirits, and say what you do not mean."
"I do not, Rose, now, at all events. Last evening, Edward was so
earnest, so affectionate, so very earnest, it is pleasant to have
a true and faithful lover; but I should not quite like to break his
heart--it would not be friendly, knowing him so long; for indeed," she
added, gaily, "though I don't like Edward Lynne well enough to marry
him, I like him too well to break his heart in downright earnest."
There are women cold and coquettish by nature. The disposition
flourishes best in courtly scenes, but it will grow anywhere, ay, and
flourish anywhere. It unfortunately requires but little culture; still
Helen was in her novitiate. If she had not been so, she would not have
cared whether Edward broke his heart or not.
"But Helen," stammered Rose, "surely--you--you have been very wrong."
"I know it--I know--there, don't you _hear me_ say I know it, and
yet your lecturing face is as long as ever. Surely," she continued
pettishly, "I confess my crime; and even Mr. Stokes says, when
confessed it is amended."
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