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Page 36
"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.
The little girl came softly into the room, having already learned that
a bounding step was not meet for "my lady's chamber."
"Rosa, listen; will you come with me to London, to ride in a fine
coach drawn by four horses--to wear a velvet frock--see beautiful
sights, and become a great lady. Will you, dear Rosa, and be my own
little girl?"
"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the child, gleefully; "that I will; _that_ would
be so nice--a coach and four--a velvet frock--a great lady--oh! dear
me!" The mother felt her limbs tremble, her heart sink. "Oh! my own
dear mother, will not _that_ be nice? and the beautiful sights you
have told me of--St. Paul's and Westminster--oh! mother, we shall be
so happy!"
"Not _me_, Rosa," answered Mrs. Lynne, with as firm a voice as she
could command. "Now, listen to me: you might ride _in_ a coach
and four, instead of _on_ your little pony--wear velvet instead of
cotton--see St. Paul's and Westminster--but have no more races on
the downs, no more peeping into birds' nests, no more seeing the old
church, or hearing its Sabbath bells. You _may_ become a great lady,
but you must leave and forget your father and me."
"Leave you, and my father and brothers! You did not mean _that_
surely--you could not mean that, my lady--could they not go with me?"
"That would be impossible!"
"Then I will stay here," said the little girl firmly; "I love them
better than every thing else in the world. Thank you, dear lady, but I
cannot leave them."
"Leave _us_, then, Rosa," said Helen, proudly. The child obeyed with a
frightened look, wondering how she had displeased the "grand lady."
If Helen had been steeped to the very lips in misery, she could not
have upbraided the world more bitterly than she did, giving vent to
long pent-up feelings, and reproaching Rose, not only for her folly
in not complying with her wish, but for her happiness and contentment,
which, while she envied, she affected to despise.
"You cannot make me believe that the high-born and wealthy are what
you represent," said her cousin. "A class must not be condemned
because of an individual; and though I never felt inclined to achieve
rank, I honour many of its possessors. It is the unsatisfied longing
of your own heart that has made you miserable, dear Helen; and oh!
let me entreat you, by the remembrance of our early years, to suffer
yourself to enjoy what you possess."
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