|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 32
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.
"Give it me, Rose, give it me!" exclaimed Mrs. Myles, "it is from
my own darling child, bless her!--my beauty! Oh, deary me! I'm sure
that's a beautiful seal, if I could only see it; prop me up--there.
How the jessamine blinds the window--now my spectacles--so"--She tried
hard to read, but the power of sight was gone. "She used to write the
best hand in the school, but this fashionable writing is hard to make
out," observed the old woman; "so do you read it, Rosy."
"Here is ten pounds to begin with," said Rose, placing the gossamer
note before her.--Mrs. Myles mechanically took up the money, and
played with it as a child plays with a toy, and Rose read the few
words that accompanied the gift:--"Grieved to the heart to hear of the
illness of her ever dear relative--would be miserable about her but
from the knowledge of Rose being the best nurse in the world--begs she
will let her know how the dear invalid is by return of post, and also
if there is any thing she could send to alleviate her sufferings."
While Rose was reading the letter, Mrs. Myles's long thin feeble
fingers were playing with the note, her dim eyes fixed upon the
window; large round tears coursed each other down her colourless
cheeks. "No word about coming, Rose--no word about coming," she
muttered, after a pause; "send her back this trash," she added,
bitterly--"send her back this trash, and tell her the last tears I
shed were shed not for my sins, but for her cruelty." She continued to
mutter much that they could not understand; but evening closed in, and
Rose told Edward that she slept at last; she did certainly, and Rose
soon discovered that it was her last sleep. The money was returned;
and again five years elapsed without Rose hearing, directly or
indirectly, from her rich and titled cousin. In the mean time, Edward
and Rose prospered exceedingly; three handsome, happy children blessed
their home. Their industry perfected whatever Providence bestowed;
nothing was wasted, nothing neglected; the best farmers in the
neighbourhood asked advice of Edward Lynne; and the "born ladies,"
as poor Mrs. Myles would have called them, would have forgotten that
Rose was only a farmer's wife, if wise Rose had been herself disposed
to forget it. But great as their worldly prosperity had been, it was
nothing to the growth and continuance of that holy affection which
cheered and hallowed their happy dwelling--the chief characteristic
of which was a freedom from pretension of all kinds. Rose suffered
appearances to grow with their means, but never to precede them;
and though this is not the world's practice, the duty is not on that
account the less imperative. They were seated one evening round their
table, Edward reading, while his wife worked, when the master of the
post-office brought them a letter.
"It has lain two days, Measter Lynne," said the man, "for you never
send but once a-week; only, as I thought by the seal it must be
something grand, whoy I brought it down myself."
It was from Helen!--from the ambitious cousin--a few sad, mournful
lines, every one of which seemed dictated by a breaking heart.
She was ill and wretched, and the physician had suggested change of
air; but above all her native air. Would Rose receive her for a little
time, just to try what its effect might be?--she was sure she would,
and she would be with her immediately.
"Strange," said Edward, "how nature will assert and keep its power;
when luxury, art, skill, knowledge, fail to restore health, they tell
you of native air, trusting to the simple, pure restorative, which
is the peasant's birthright, as infallible. I wonder, Rose, how those
fine people like to be thrown back upon the nature they so outrage."
"Poor Helen!" exclaimed Rose, "how dispirited she seems--how
melancholy! I ought to feel afraid of your meeting her, I suppose,
Edward; but I do not--you have grown satisfied with your poor Rose. We
shall be able to make her very comfortable, shall we not?"--and then
she smiled at the homeliness of the phrase, and wondered what Helen
would say if she heard her.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|