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Page 22
CHAPTER IV.
Never had the bells of Abbeyweld, within the memory of living
man--within the memory of old Mrs. Myles herself, and _she_ was the
oldest living woman in the parish--rung so merry a peal as on the
morning that Helen Marsh was married to the handsome and Honourable
Mr. Ivers. He was young as well as handsome--honourable both by
name and nature--rich in possession and expectancy. On his part it
was purely and entirely what is called a "love match"--one of the
strangest of all strange things perpetrated by a young man of rank and
fashion. His wealth and position in society enabled him to select for
himself; and he did so, of course, to the disappointment of as many,
or perhaps a greater number of mothers than daughters, inasmuch as
it is the former whose speculations are the deepest laid and most
dangerous in arts matrimonial.
Every body was astonished. Mrs. Howard--Helen's "kind friend"--Mrs.
Howard, little short of distracted for three weeks at the very least,
did nothing but exclaim, "Who would have thought it!" "Who, indeed!"
was the reply, in various tones of sympathy, envy, and surprise.
Poor Mrs. Howard, to the day of her death, never suffered another
portionless beauty to enter her doors while even the shadow of an
eldest son rested on its threshold. Mrs. Myles was of course in an
ecstacy of delight; her prophecy was fulfilled. Helen, _her_ Helen,
was the honourable wife of a doubly honourable man. What triumphant
glances did she cast over the railings of the communion-table at Mr.
Stokes--with what an air she marched down the aisle--how patronising
and condescending was her manner to those neighbours whom she
considered her inferiors--how bitterly did she lament that the
Honourable Mr. Ivers would not have any one to breakfast with them but
Mr. Stokes--and how surpassingly, though silently, angry was she with
Mr. Stokes for not glorying with her when the bride and bridegroom
drove off in their "own carriage," leaving her in a state of prideful
excitement, and Rose Dillon in a flood of tears.
"Well, sir!" exclaimed the old lady--"well, sir, you see it _has_
turned out exactly as I said it would; there's station--there's
happiness. Why, sir, if his brother dies without children, his own
valet told me, Mr. Ivers would be a lord and Helen a lady. Didn't she
look beautiful! Now, please, reverend sir, do speak, didn't she look
beautiful?"
"She did."
"Ah! it's a great gift that beauty; though," she added, resorting
to the strain of morality which persons of her character are apt to
consider a salve for sin--"though it's all vanity, all vanity. 'Flesh
is grass'--a beautiful text that was your reverence preached from last
Sunday--'All flesh is grass.' Ah, well-a-day! so it is. We ought not
to be puffed up or conceited--no, no. As I said to Mrs. Leicester,
'Don't be puffed up, my good woman, because your niece has what folk
call a pretty face, nor don't expect that she's to make a good market
of it--it's but skin deep; remember our good rector's sermon, 'All
flesh is grass.'' Ah, deary me! people do need such putting in mind;
and, if you believe me, sir, unless indeed it be Rose, poor child, who
never had a bit of love in her head yet, I'll be bound every girl is
looking above her station--there's a pity, sir. All are not born with
a coach and horses; no, no;" and so, stimulated a little, perhaps, by
a glass of _real_, not gooseberry, champagne, poor Mrs. Myles would
have galloped on with a strange commentary upon her own conduct (of
the motives to which she was perfectly ignorant,) had not the rector
suddenly exclaimed, "Where is Rose?"
"Crying in her own room, I'll be bound; I'm sure she is. Why,
Rose--and I really must get your reverence to speak to her, she is
a sad girl--Rose Dillon, I say--so silent and homely-like--ah, dear!
Why, granddaughter--now, is it not undutiful of her, good sir,
when she knows how much I have suffered parting from my Helen. Rose
Dillon!"
But Rose Dillon was not weeping in her room, nor did she hear her
grandmother's voice when the carriage, that bore the bride to a new
world, drove off. Rose ran down the garden, intending to keep the
equipage in sight as long as it could be distinguished from an
eminence that was called the Moat, and which commanded an extensive
view of the high road. There was a good deal of brushwood creeping
up the elevation, and at one side it was overshadowed by several tall
trees; in itself it was a sweet, sequestered spot, a silent watching
place. She could hardly hear the carriage wheels, though she saw
it whirled along, just as it passed within sight of the tall trees.
Helen's arm, with its glittering bracelet, waved an adieu; this little
act of remembrance touched Rose, and, falling on her knees, she sobbed
forth a prayer, earnest and heartfelt, for her cousin's happiness.
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