Volume I Part 12 (1/2)

'She's give up religion, and gone off to the Church, I suppose,' said the senior deacon, who was president on the occasion.

'I fear it is worse than that,' whispered a young female teacher, who, as the neighbour of the missing Rose, was supposed to know more of her movements than anyone else.

'I can't say I am surprised; indeed, I may say it is only what I expected,' continued the senior deacon, 'considering how frivolous she was, and how little her family availed themselves of the means of grace.'

The senior deacon's words commended themselves to all. Rose Wilc.o.x was volatile. She was at that critical age when most pretty girls are so-a time of life always severely criticised by those who have pa.s.sed it, or who have been preserved by kindly circ.u.mstances from its many dangers, and who ignore the G.o.dly and humane advice of Burns:

'Then gently scan your brother Man, Still gentler sister Woman.'

The Rose thus criticised was, perhaps, the prettiest girl in all the town. Her father had been an officer in the navy, who had married for love a wife who had nothing to give him but a pretty face and a loving heart. For a time they lived humbly but comfortably on his half-pay.

They had two children, a son and a daughter. The former grew up wild and wayward, and was a sad trouble to the family on the occasion of his visits on sh.o.r.e; for he was a sailor, like his father. Rose was her father's companion. He taught her all that he knew himself: to read Shakespeare; to get a smattering of French; to play a little on the piano. But he became involved in debt through becoming a surety for an old friend who had no one else to stand between him and impending ruin, and that friend, alas! left him in the lurch, or, in other words, handed him over to his creditors, and he died broken-hearted, leaving his wife and daughter almost penniless and friendless. The mother then moved to Sloville, where she managed, with the a.s.sistance of her daughter, to secure a scanty living as milliner and dressmaker-a calling which she had followed before she became a wife, and where, almost to her alarm and at the same time much to her pride, she beheld her daughter grow handsomer and lovelier every day.

The Sloville people said Rose was the prettiest girl in the town, and they were right. The landlord of the leading hotel would have given anything to have secured her services at the bar. The sn.o.bs of the place were much given to pester her with their impertinence, while lads of a lower grade inundated her with valentines and poetical effusions, as amorous as they were ill-spelt and badly written; and gay Lotharios in the shape of commercials, far removed from the chastening influences of their own lawful spouses, said to her all sorts of silly things on their occasional visits to the town and her mother's shop.

As the world goes, this was not much to be wondered at. Even in the good houses round the Park, where all the best families lived, and where carriage company was kept, it was to be questioned whether any more attractive young lady could be found than Rose, in spite of the plainness of her dress and the humble drudgery of her daily life. In no conservatory in that part of the world were to be seen fairer roses than those which adorned her cheeks. Her profile was exquisitely cla.s.sical; her every action graceful. No lady in the town had such a head of rich brown hair, none so downy a cheek of loveliest pink, none a blue eye so l.u.s.trous or sparkling, none a more melodious voice. Many a Belgravian maiden would have given a fortune to have had a hand as delicately formed, a waist as tempting, a step as elastic, a figure as fair, a carriage as superb, a smile as irresistible.

Personal advantages, declaim against them as we will-though why we should do so I know not, since they are the gift of G.o.d, and not to be bought with hard cash-are of inestimable value to a woman. It is no use arguing with a jury, Serjeant Ballantine tells us, when the plaintiff or defendant, as the case may be, is a pretty woman, and that it was the same in the time of the Athenians the case of Phryne is an ill.u.s.tration.

Is it not Balzac who tells us that the faintest whisper of a pretty woman is louder than the trumpet-call of duty? Nevertheless, a poor girl whose only dower is her beauty finds it often a perilous gift. Indeed, it was owing to this very possession that poor Rose had the world at a disadvantage. She had been spoilt by an indulgent father, and her fond mother was little fitted to act the part of a guide, philosopher, and friend in the perplexities and temptations of real life. Her brother was of no avail, as when at sea he was too far away, and when on sh.o.r.e he had shown a thoughtlessness and heedlessness which made him a burden rather than a help.

It was not true that she had given up religion, as was indicated by some of her a.s.sociates; the fact was she had none to give up worth speaking of. She had gone to chapel with her mother as a matter of course, and being intelligent and good-natured and willing to be useful, she had been worked into the Sunday-school. It was interesting to her to teach the young idea how to shoot, and she was fond of children, and so she went as a Sunday-school teacher. She had left the chapel because it was dark and dull; because the people were censorious and hard; because the service was uninteresting; because the preacher was always full of the Jews and the prophecies, and seemed to have no idea of life as she saw it around her, and was perpetually railing at a world which seemed to her so bright and fair; because in her heart, as in that of most of us at her age, there was a love of pleasure, impetuous and impatient of control.

Nor was it true that she had gone to church, as intimated above. The fact was, she had summoned up her energies for an awful step for anyone to take: she had run away from poverty, and hard work, and privation, and discomfort, and wretchedness, in the hope and belief-alas! too rudely to be shaken-that henceforth there was to be perpetual suns.h.i.+ne in her path, and perpetual joy in her heart.

We are all of us too ready to fancy that grapes grow on thorns, and Rose was no exception to the general rule. She had never read Wordsworth, and perhaps if she had she would not have understood that grand ode, though the knowledge did painfully come to her in after-life, where he invokes Duty as stern daughter of the voice of G.o.d:

'Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove; Thou who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity.'

At home for a long time she had been disappointed at her lot. She was getting tired of hard work and humble fare, ignorant of the fact that G.o.d gives us what is best for us, and that His wisdom is as omnipotent as His love. She had no companions to guide her aright, and was tired of the awkward admiration of the homely and lubberly lads with whom she came in contact. She had taken to reading trashy novels, which had not merely amused her, but filled her head with nonsense. Greedily she drank in all their poison. Little by little they broke down all the defences of her common-sense, as she read of splendid marriages made by simple village girls, of runaway matches, of wonderful elopements. They taught her how pleasure was the supreme good, how true happiness consisted in having wealth, in riding in a brougham, in being dressed in silks and satins, in wearing diamonds, in going to grand b.a.l.l.s; in short, in realizing what at the meeting-house had been pretty plainly denounced as the pleasures of sin for a season.

The more the poor girl reasoned on her condition the harder to her it seemed to be. It must be false what the parsons said; people who had money, who lived sumptuously, who were arrayed in purple and fine linen, must be happy-as she herself was when she had a crown-piece in her pocket, a dress a little smarter than usual, or a bonnet of the latest fas.h.i.+on. There was the senior deacon, who more fond of money than he?

though he always called it dross and filthy lucre. Then there were the senior deacon's daughters and wife; did not they always look a little more amiable when they had new clothes on? There was the old parson himself; did not everyone laugh at him because he was poor and shabby, and had not his long life of poverty reduced him to such a state that he could not say 'Bo!' to a goose? Money meant health, and happiness, and honour, and power; that was clear. Why, the wickedest men in the town, who had money, were made more of than the old parson, who had never done harm to anyone, and whose long record was unsullied. Naturally, this sort of reasoning made the poor girl a little discontented and out of sorts.

At times she had all the youthful recklessness of her s.e.x, and not a little was her mother terrified. A father or a brother might have taught her a little common-sense, but her only confidante was her mother-as fond as she was foolish-who felt herself that her daughter had a smile as sunny, a carriage as graceful, an air as distinguished, and a birth as gentle, as any of the leaders of society in Sloville. She always insisted on her daughter's fitness for something higher. Love levels all distinctions of rank, and Rose herself was half a Radical-at any rate, much more of one than pretty women generally are. She was also ambitious. She had a charming voice, and danced well. Why should she not s.h.i.+ne in society? Why should not she be the star of the ball-room and the theatre? Why should not she have a brougham and drive in the parks? Why should not the men fall down and wors.h.i.+p at her shrine?

Beauty had a magic power, and wonders were ever being performed daily by the sorcery of Love. Did not King Cophetua take a beggar-maid to be his queen?

'I'll be a lady yet,' said the silly girl; 'I am tired of st.i.tching and sewing from morn to night; I am tired of this dull street and this dull town; I'll be a lady yet, mother,' she said, 'and you shall come and live with me in a fine house in town with plenty of servants to wait on us and real nice dinners to eat.'

'Nonsense, girl!' said the mother. 'You had better marry the deacon's shopman; he is very fond of you, and I am sure, by this time, he could furnish a house well and keep a wife comfortable.'

Now, as the individual in question was as fat as a porpoise, and very much the shape of one; as his manners were as plebeian as his appearance, and as he never had anything to say for himself, Rose regarded him with infinite disgust, and vowed she'd rather go into a nunnery or die an old maid.

On the night of the Chartist meeting already referred to, Rose was met by the individual in question, and as there were so many people about, Rose graciously accepted the offer of his arm to take her home, much to his delight and joy. He determined to make the best of his chance. There are some men who take an ell when you give them an inch. Rose's rustic admirer belonged to this cla.s.s.

Rose became alarmed at his amorous attention, and screamed. That scream was heard by a gentleman, Sloville's only baronet, the lord of the manor, as he was riding past in his brougham. By the clear moonlight he saw that the girl who stood trembling before him was the girl whose face had haunted his dreams since he first caught sight of her in Sloville, and in pursuit of whom he had scoured the town like a hawk ever since. He had caught sight of her for a moment at the Chartist meeting, and here she was actually in his power, and needing his aid! How he blessed his stars, as eagerly, with the most polished air, he offered to drive Rose home. At first she hesitated, as was natural. If she would get inside, he would mount the box and drive.

Rose accepted his offer; there could be no harm in that, though she would not allow the brougham to come nearer her home than the top of the street in which she lived, for fear of scandal. She accepted the offer, partly because she wished for the sensation of riding in a brougham like a real lady, and partly because of her anxiety to get rid of her loutish lover.

Perhaps it had been as well if Rose had ridden up to the door in the brougham, or had refused the offer of it altogether. As it was, she got out, and the driver of the brougham would not allow her to go home alone.

If he was proud as Lucifer, he was subtle as the serpent that tempted Eve. She could not refuse his offer of guardians.h.i.+p, his appearance was so handsome, and his manner so polished and flattering and deferential.

Surely he could not do her any harm. The offer was one she had not sufficient self-denial to repel as she ought to have done, as any well-regulated young lady in superior circles of course would have done.