Rose looked at her as she spoke.  In the glorious meridian of her beauty—­a creature so splendid—­of such a fair outside—­with energy, and grace, and power—­married by a weak ambition—­an ambition achieved by the accident of birth—­an ambition having neither honour, nor virtue, nor patriotism, nor any one laudable aim, for its object.  And she sorrowed in her inmost soul for her cousin Helen.

CHAPTER VII.

Rose never, of course, made one at the brilliant assemblies which Mrs. Ivers gave and graced; she only saw those who breakfasted or lunched in the square, or who, like the little old gentleman, and one or two others, joined the family circle.  The excitement of an election, and the (pro tem.) equality which such an event creates, brought her more into contact with her cousin’s acquaintances than she had yet been, and gave the gentleman, who evidently admired her, an opportunity of studying her character.  There was something strange in a young woman, situated as was Rose, preserving so entirely her self-respect, that it encircled her like a halo; and wherever it is so preserved, it invariably commands the respect of others.  After the first week or two had passed, Rose Dillon was perfectly undazzled by the splendour with which she was surrounded, and was now engaged in watching for a moment when she could escape from what she knew was splendid misery.  If Helen had been simply content to keep her own position—­if she had, as Rose’s wisdom advised, sufficient moral courage to resent a slight openly, not denying her humble birth, and yet resolved to be treated as became her husband’s wife—­all would have been happiness and peace.  Proud as Mr. Ivers was of her, her discontent and perpetual straining after rank and distinction, watching every body’s every look and movement to discover if it concealed no covert affront, rendered him, kind and careful though he was, occasionally dissatisfied; and she interpreted every manifestation of his displeasure, however slight, to contempt for her birth.  Rose suffered most acutely, for she saw how simple was the remedy, and yet could not prevail on Helen to abate one jot of her restless ambition.  The true spirit of a Christian woman often moved her to secret earnest prayer, that God, of His mercy, would infuse an humbler and holier train of thought and feeling into Helen’s mind; and, above all, she prayed that it might not come too late.

“You do not think with Mrs. Ivers in all things, I perceive,” said the gentleman I have twice alluded to.

“I am hardly, from my situation,” replied Rose, “privileged to think her thoughts, though perhaps I may think of them.”

“A nice distinction,” he answered.

“Our lots in life are differently cast.  In a week I return to Abbeyweld; I only came to be her nurse in illness, and was induced to remain a little longer because I was useful to her.  They will go to the Continent now, and I shall return to my native village.”