Rosa Grey: or The Officer's Daughter. By the Author of 'Anne Dysart,' etc

Chapter I

" I am sorry for her, poor thing," said Mr. Turner, addressing his wife as she sat at work. " It is sad, I may say melancholy, for so young a girl to be left without her natural protectors, and it is only doing a Christian action to ask her here for a week or ten days. Besides she is a nice, ladylike girl. Her mother was a highly genteel woman — quite the lady, though very quiet and not much in her, but very well con- VOL. I. B nected. That Mrs. Clifden that Rosa is going to stay with, is a woman of family and property. Who knows if we are kind to Rosa but she may ask one of our girls to her place." " Very likely, my dear. As you say, she is a nice, ladylike girl," answered Mrs. Turner, a weak-minded, good-natured, woman, who had always an implicit reliance upon the opinions of other people — of her husband, of course, more especially.

Mr., or Dr., Turner as he was generally called, was the principal medical practitioner in the village of Birkenside, in the south of Scot land. He was a portly, middle-aged man, with a fair, sunburnt complexion, light, short, straight, sandy hair, a nose like a button, and features otherwise of the commonest cast. His air and manner, though not offensively vulgar, were far from being gentlemanlike, having a tinge both of stiffness and pomposity. One would have been at a loss to say from his expression whether he was a kind-hearted or a worldly man. Perhaps he was both. Rosa Grey, of whom he spoke, was the or phan daughter of a lady whose death-bed he had just attended. Mrs. Grey had never been intimate with the Turners, and Rosa knew no more of them than might be gathered from exchanging morning visits about once in six months.

The doctor's two daughters were older than she was, and looked down on her as " not come out," while she considered them and the whole family as com monplace. Now, however, in her loneliness she felt they were kind, and she was grateful for the invitation which offered her the companionship of her fellow creatures. Yet when the parting moment arrived, Rosa felt a bitter pang at quitting the home where she had lived with the mother who appeared to her now as an angel. She wandered all over the little garden. The summer flowers were all gone ; not even an aster or a verbena re mained to bear witness of the beauty which had been. All had been laid waste by the storm of the previous week. The flower beds and the gravel walks were strewed with mouldering heaps of leaves upon which the hoar-frost of the previous night lay yet white, damp and glittering, while those that had freshly fallen were driven rustling along by the keen wind, which blew now from a bright, cold, October sky.

The storm was passed but it had left desolation. And so it was too with the little world within the heart of Rosa Grey. Hastily returning to the little suburban cottage which had been so long her home, but which she was to quit that morning for ever, she visited every familiar apartment. But though nothing yet had been changed they seemed all to have about them a peculiar emptiness and desolation. And home to the heart of the youthful mourner came with a dread certainty and power the words — " Her place shall know her no more." And in all the agony of a first grief, Rosa Grey lifted up her voice and wept. For a long time she lay with her face buried in the pillow of the parlour sofa and wept pas sionately. She was at last recalled to a consciousness of other things besides her own grief by the pres sure of a rough but not ungentle hand on her shoulder, whilst a pair of piercing dark eyes looked keenly but not unkindly into hers as she raised her face from the pillow.

" Miss Rosa, hinny — c'way like a dear. Oh hinny — ye maunna bide here i' the cauld. It's fair nonsense, dearie ; I've made ye a sop o' fine beef-tea." " Oh, Nelly ! I cannot come. My heart will break. I care for nothing in the world. I can never, never be happy more." " Hout, hinny — dinna say that. A bonny young lassie like ye to be speaking that gate." " Wait a moment — -just one moment longer." " I canna wait. The gude beef-tea will be cauld." " Don't speak to me of your beef-tea," cried the girl passionately and impatiently. " Deed, but I wull, begging yer pardon, my dear. It wull do ye a dale o'gude, and it wull do nane to you or ony body else to bide here. Ye canna bring her back, hinny," she added in a softened tone, though something like a reproof was mingled with it, for Nelly was ever sternly sensible.

"I know that — I know that. I am so young to be alone, Nelly. Oh Nelly! They say life is a hard, terrible thing' — and I am alone, alone !" Passionate sobs, violent trembling, ac companied these words. "Weel, hinny — I dinna say it's no a hard thing whiles. I've been my lane a' my life. I never had nae mither. I've been at service sin I was twal year auld. But there's naething like set ting a stout heart to a stey brae," said Nelly, drawing herself up with an air of determina tion. Nelly was a woman between forty and fifty years of age, tall, angular, hard-featured, swar thy-complexioned, with sparkling dark eyes, and an expression penetrating, shrewd, resolute, and though by no means soft or affectionate, not unkindly. Beyond being able to read, she had had no education whatever, but she had a large share of natural sagacity and an immense fund of practical energy.

She looked indeed like one, who, to make use of the homely Scottish proverb she herself had just quoted, had " set a stout heart to a stey brae," and climbed it too. Rosa looked up to her as she spoke. Her words had not been without some influence. Rosa remembered then that her father had been a hero, and that she too had a battle to fight. Drying her eyes, and holding her hand tightly over her chest to repress her rising sobs, she followed Nelly out of the room. Arrived in the kitchen, she made an effort to gulp down the beef-tea, though to eat the toast which the considerate Nelly had prepared along with it, was impossi ble. " So Nelly, you never had a mother ? " " Na, Miss Rosa. My mither deed when I was a bit toddling bairn, and my gudemither was bad till me. I wish her nae waur," Nelly continued, her face assuming a vindictive ex pression, and her eye sparkling with hate, " than to be as meeserable as she made me."

Rosa shuddered. "Oh Nelly!" she said reproachfully, " It is not right. It is unchris tian." " Bide till ye're tried, Miss Rosa. It's nat'ral. I like them that's gude till me. I like you, hinny. I liked her that's gane, but I canna like a woman I ne'er got a kind word frae a' my life. Like her — I like her as I like puzzen." " But the Bible says ' Love your enemies.' ': " Very weel, dearie," cried Nelly, cutting her short. " Wait till ye have enemies, and see if ye can love them. Naebody that I e'er kenned loved their enemies, and I'm nae waur a Christian nor ither folk, though I dinna pretend to things I canna do and wunna do." " I am sure, Nelly, if mamma had enemies she forgave them." " I daresay that, hinny, but yer mamma was a saint. There's nane on us a' like her. May be I would ha been better had I listened mair on her ; but there's nae help for't now, an' I'm nae waur nor my neebors," said Nelly, who, if she had any little qualms always soothed them by this, to her, satisfactory reflection.

" But Nelly," said Rosa, who, though she had been less intimate with her servant than is usu ally the case when a domestic has been so many years in the family, now clung to her as a friend — her only familiar friend in the world. " But Nelly, I hope I shall see you again. You will not forget me, Nelly." Nelly was touched. She was not often touched; but it was not so much from any deficiency of sensibility, as because during the course of her lonely and loveless life, her affec tions had never been called forth by kindness and sympathy; but on the contrary had been chilled and repressed, till in self-defence as it were, she opposed a hardened nature to a hard world. She sought no affection from any one and she gave none, as no one sought it from her. She had been happier with the Greys than she had ever been before.

They did not give her more work than she was able to do, they were satisfied with her performances, and they did not wound her pride by seeming to dis trust her honesty or her truthfulness. More than this Nelly did not expect or even desire from a mistress. Nay, she looked upon all ef forts at greater intimacy on the part of superiors as savouring of the mysterious and indicative of some design upon her. She regarded the bond between mistress and servant as a bargain for service and honesty on the one side, mainte nance and civility on the other, and a reasona ble degree of accommodation on both. Nelly was fond of money and very saving — a habit which had been first fostered by the anxiety natural to a shrewd and prudent mind like hers of providing for her old age, but had now from long continuance become a love of accumulation.

This was one of her chief interests in life — equalled only by the pride she took in perform ing her duties conscientiously. But when she looked on the pale, sad, youthful face now turned to hers in its anxious appeal not to be forgotten, she was more moved than she had ever been before. She was of a little importance to some one. Her regard was really of some consequence to this young, warm-hearted girl. " Forget ye, hinny — na, na, I'se ne'er forget ye. Ye've been a gude mistress to me and yer mither that's now in Paradise.' And with her rough hand, Nelly touched her young mistress's dark hair, while with the other she brushed from her eyes the unwonted tiny drop of moisture which for an instant had dimmed their shining darkness. But the unusual emotion was quickly repressed ; to do Nelly justice, however, chiefly because she feared it might in jure her young companion.

She continued after a short pause in her ordinary tone of clear, steady rationality, yet with more softness than was common with her. " I'm but a puir body, Miss Rosa, and it's no muckle the like o' me could do for ony body; but ye've aye a freend in Nelly — mind that. I wad do mair for ye, hinny, than onybody I ken. I'm nane o' yer flatteren folk, Miss Rosa, but I mean what I say." " And if I am ever a rich lady, Nelly, and have a house of my own, you must come and be my housekeeper." "That I will, hinny," said Nelly, glad to perceive from this speech that Rosa was not quite in despair since she could admit the possibility of future happiness, and for the moment dazzled herself with the idea of her probable future eminence; "but," she added, "it's time I'm thinking ye was gane doon to the Doctor's. Now bear up like a wuman."

And fearful of any fresh outbreak of grief, Nelly hurried her young mistress out of the house, promising to call on her on the morrow, " afore she gade to her cusens," where she was to remain till she got a cottage of her own, where she intended to live for the future and take in washing, or go out to work instead of going again to service. And somehow or other, without quite under standing the way in which it was effected, Rosa found herself out of the house and beyond the railing, within which grew some now leaf less lilacs. Nelly returned to her solitary kitchen, and watched the retreating figure of her young mistress. There was at her heart an unwonted void and an unaccustomed softness. She sat down and gave way to the gentler feelings and thoughts which the events of the last week had given rise.

Wonderful to relate she sat thus, as she would have said idle, for about ten mi nutes, then rising suddenly and briskly, set about scouring and cleaning things for the sale with redoubled energy, as if to atone for her few minutes of unusual repose. With her return to her natural activity, her thoughts were restored to their more ordinary channel. As soon as she had completed rubbing and polishing some tin and brass utensils, and had arranged them all neat and straight upon the table, she repaired to her own bedroom, which was next to the kitchen and there began rejoic ingly to inspect and carefully to fold certain ar ticles of wearing apparel, belonging to her late mistress, which Rosa had given her. "Rale a-ude folk," she muttered to herself, " rale free and just. I'll ha need of nae claise this three year — save a' my wage.

I ha fifty pund i' the bank a' honest gains. Puir Rosa ! I hope she'll ha' somebody to guide her, or she'll ha' the very een pickit out o' her head. She'll soon for get me, I ken that, and I'm a fule to heed whether she minds me or no : but she's a bit winsome lassie for a' that.

Chapter II

From the hour of her birth up to the present time Rosa Grey had been the object of the greatest solicitude and the tenderest care that parent ever lavished on an only child. About ten years before the period at which this narrative opens, Rosa's father — an officer in the navy — had perished in a storm, after having gallantly and at the cost of his own life saved the lives of several other persons. Commander, or as he was generally called, Captain Grey, had been an excellent officer, sensible, prompt, ener getic, and brave, ambitious of distinction, yet nice in his efforts to obtain-it. As a man, he was warm-hearted and cheerful, though quick tempered; in person handsome, with a frank, pleasant countenance and a genial presence. He was much attached to his wife whom he had married for love, and a perfect worshipper of his child whom he would play with for hours to gether.

Mrs. Grey's had been altogether a different cast of character from her husband's. His had been clever, practical, bold, and as piring — hers was intellectual, timid and reserved. Her feelings were passionately strong, but shown only to a few and only in private ; his were warm, prompt, and demonstrative. Mrs. Grey had loved her husband dearly, and if in her romantic girlhood her imagination had ever pic tured a being more entirely suited to her, she had certainly never actually known one whom she thought his equal. While ho lived, he was regarded by her as the kindest and truest of mortals, and after his untimely death her imagination invested him with the attributes of a hero. As such little Rosa had been brought up to regard her dead father, and her childish me mory seemed to bear witness of the truth of the representation.

Captain Grey had never been rich in the world's wealth and at his death his widow was left with only her pension. Mrs. Grey, English both by birth and education, had no near relatives — her nearest was a half brother, with whom she had never had much intercourse — though the little she had had was always of a friendly nature. Ofher husband's family she knew still less. Of Scottish extraction, and highly respectable descent, but very poor, all his brothers and sisters had emigrated to America. At a very early age he had entered the navy under the patronage of a distant connection. His father dying shortly afterwards, and his mother having long been dead, he had hardly ever had any personal intercourse with his family, though a form of correspondence had always been preserved. At the time of his death, his eldest brother — a merchant in New York — had addressed a letter of condolence to his widow, VOL. I. C accompanied by an invitation to her to cross the Atlantic and to take up her abode near his family, with a very kind promise that she should receive the welcome of a sister, and every necessary assistance in the education of her daughter.

But the timorous Rosa dreaded the long voyage and the meeting with so many strangers, and had besides a not ill-founded dread, that when they did meet they might not suit. She grate fully, but decidedly, declined the invitation, and in a year or two the correspondence dropped entirely. From her half brother, the son of her mother by a first marriage, she also received a letter containing an offer to take her child to educate. Take her child ! Mrs. Grey's blood grew chill with horror at the very idea. She wrote an indignant refusal, of which the consequence was an additional estrangement between her brother and herself; still, however, they wrote civilly to one another at considerable intervals, and when the former died the correspondence was maintained in the same strain with his widow, a woman of large fortune, whom, however, Mrs. Grey had never seen.

Mrs. Clifden's (such was the name ofher brother's widow) letters were a puzzle to Mrs. Grew She could not make out her character from their tone, and not being a graphiologist, neither could she discover it from the mere form of the letters. Less characteristic handwriting than Mrs. Clifden's is certainly seldom seen. The letters were well-shaped but stiff, the strokes strong and dark, but utterly without boldness or originality. They looked as if they had been made with care by a person who wrote but little, and whose beau-ideal of penmanship was the style of a copy-line. The composition of the letters did not altogether suit Mrs. Grey's somewhat fastidious taste. True, there were no glaring grammatical faults, only such as are not uncommon among persons considered to be well-educated; but there was a total want of ease, grace, and euphony.

Then as to the mat ter, one could not say that it was unkind or even cold ; the expressions were all proper, perhaps they were too proper; yet somehow or other Mrs. Grey never received a letter from Mrs. Clifden without having an uncomfortable sensation, as if she had been out on a raw, sun less, February day. She fancied involuntarily that she should not like her half sister-in-law, and then she re proached herself with folly and ingratitude in so fancying, for the actions of the latter like her words had never been otherwise than kind. Every year did she send presents of fruit, and game, and dress ; every year did she invite the mother and child to visit her at Riversthwaite. These invitations, however, Mrs. Grey had alto gether declined, though she had meant at some future time to avail herself of Mrs. Clifden's offered hospitality.

But Mrs. Grey had always shrunk from society, and since her husband's death more so than ever. Then Mrs. Clifden was wealthy and important, and entertained per* sons of consequence at her manorial residence of Riversthwaite Hall, and contact with such persons Mrs. Grey especially shunned, for she was poor, proud, and sensitive. Her child and her books, flowers and fields, and the blue sky gave her more pleasure than the society of men and women. She became a sort of hermit, but was too gentle and too good to be a misanthrope. Captain Grey and his wife had spent their honeymoon in Scotland — their first Sunday at a small and beautifully situated village some way south from Edinburgh. It was beautiful summer weather, and the green shady woods half hiding, half disclosing the picturesque ruins of a little abbey ; the cool crystal river winding round green meadows, or rushing beneath romantic cliffs, the rich uplands, the blue hills, made an impression on the lively imagination of the youthful bride which was never effaced.

There had been spent the happiest days of her life, and thither she came in her widowhood with the precious legacy those happy times had left her. For some months previous to her death Mrs. Grey had known her disease was mortal ; but it was only a few days before its fatal termination that she had found courage to tell Rosa the awful truth. From the time, how ever, that she became aware of her own state, the future of her own child, now almost a wo man, pressed on her mind with the heaviest anxiety. Bitterly did she now reproach herself that she had made no friends for Rosa. How selfish she had been ! The gratification of her own inclinations had blinded her to the true in terests of her child, and while she had fancied that child was dearer to her than herself, she now discovered that it was herself she had in dulged.

How she was to repair her error — her sin it now appeared, was her anxious consi deration. After mature reflection she resolved on appealing to Mrs. Clifden. To her she wrote. Mrs. Clifden's answer was prompt and to the point. She trusted sincerely Mrs. Grey was mis taken in her opinion of her own health ; but begged that she would not allow anxiety on her little girl's account to weigh upon her mind. As long as she ( Mrs. Clifden ) had a home, her late husband's niece should never want one. Mrs. Grey's mind was partially relieved. She had, it was true, a slight sensation of the February atmosphere as she read the letter ; but she strove to repress it as ungrateful, and re turned an answer full of the most fervent thanks. Mrs. Grey was a religious woman with a tem perament leading her rather to the devotional than to the benevolent exercises of religion.

Not that she was wanting in goodwill to all men ; but in her nature this benevolence was rather passive than active. She was one of those who thought no evil, who hoped all things ; but she was not one of those who go about doing good — at least when she did it, it was from a sense of duty purely, not from a love of the work. In the presence of her in feriors Mrs. Grey was never at ease. Shy with all the world, she was shyer with them, for this reason that she did not understand them. She feared to be too familiar, she feared to be too condescending. She attributed her own sensitive feelings to other people, and always dreaded to wound where she wished to heal. Then she was poor ; she could hardly with the strictest economy make her slender income suf fice for the wants of her daughter and herself — and she did not like to go to the houses of the poor when she could not relieve the wants she saw.

It seemed torturing her own feelings to no purpose. Some ladies, indeed, as poor as herself she knew, could go and without gifts make their presence welcome and blessed by the kind sympathy, the word in season, the gentle reproof which reformed, the counsel which in structed, and the encouragement which kindled exertion and woke the love which endureth all things. Mrs. Grey admired such persons but she could not imitate them. She feared to pre sume, she feared to offend. She dreaded to do harm where she wished to do good. She was often miserable that she did so little good, yet how to do it she knew not. She had often tried and as often failed. Her servant and her child, at all events, it was her duty to instruct. With them she would begin accordingly. One Sunday evening shortly after Nelly's establish ment in her household, she glided into the kitchen for the purpose of conversing seriously with the latter.

But Nelly cut her short ; " I gang tell the Kirk, mem, and I gang to the sacrament. I'm an honest woman. I'm nae eye-servant, mem. I can say my carritch, and I read my chapter ilka nicht, and my judgment's nae waur nor ither folks. I'm nae waur than my neebors, mem, and aiblins better nor some." Mrs. Grey could have answered, " One thing lackest thou ; " but she had not the courage. After this interview, which confirmed her in the opinion she had from the first entertained of Nelly's self-righteousness and pride, it seemed more incumbent on her than ever to warn her that she built on the sand ; but never more did she dare to address her on the subject. True she read a sermon every Sunday night for her especial benefit, and chose often the morning and evening chapter with a view to meet what she believed to be the state of her mind.

But all in vain. Nelly approved both of the sermon and the chapters ; but as to dreaming of mak ing any practical application of them to the con dition of her own needs, it never entered into her imagination that there could be any advan tage in so doing. It was right and proper in her mistress to read sermons and chapters — right and proper in herself to listen — that was all. Even with her daughter Mrs. Grey was more tongue-tied than she wished. She taught her Bible lessons and hymns, and Rosa learned with ease and docility ; but her mother could never perceive that she regarded them in any other light than lessons or poetry, or occasion ally in the same view as Nelly regarded them. Her feelings as she grew older were often touched with the pathos or the majesty of the Scripture narrative, and her understanding filled with admiration for its wisdom ; but that she understood the true import of its tidings, her mother never could be certain.

When she spoke on these subjects, Rosa listened respect fully ; she thought her mamma a saint, and on one occasion she said so. Mrs. Grey was then in her last illness. She shrank from the appellation in the sense Rosa meant it, namely, that her mother was distinguished by piety from the rest of her fellow mortals. She eagerly, with flushed cheek and sparkling eye, disclaimed every superior goodness, and took the opportunity to explain the only ground on which she or any one could hope to be freed from the power of pride, selfishness, and worldliness. For once in her life, in the near prospect of death, Mrs. Grey spoke to her fellow-creatures with the ardour which had hitherto breathed only in her prayers. Nelly was in the room. She listened to her mistress with reverence and awe, for she knew, though poor Rosa did not, that the former stood on the verge of the unseen world.

From that time forth, Nelly too regarded her as a saint, and spoke of her as a Roman Catholic might speak of one who had been canonised. But Nelly continued in all things to go on in her own way, and was as certain as ever it was the right way for her at least. On Rosa, her mother's unusual outbreak of fer vour made a strong impression. Often during the period that the latter remained in the world, the subject was renewed. The ice once broken, the stream gushed forth in a living flood. The mother made a disclosure of her whole heart to her daughter ; of her struggles, her at tempts, her failures; her fervent desires, her agonising prayers, yet her weak deeds ; her sinful timidity, her subsequent remorse ; her struggles and prayers again, and finally her con viction of her own utter helplessness, and her humble trust in Him who is touched with a feeling of our infirmities ; and who had at last given her power to speak as she had so long desired.

Like Nelly, Rosa was convinced that her mother was a saint, while she had long believed her father was a hero, and in her youthful en thusiasm she resolved to imitate them both. Somewhat of the character of both she had in herited. She had her mother's intellect and imagination, her father's ambition and enterprise, with a tinge of the sensitive pride of the former, and a touch of the impetuous spirit of the latter. But Rosa was only sixteen.

Chapter III

Rosa found her sojourn at Mr. Turner's not ofthe most interesting nature. The family in tended to be kind to her, but they did not un derstand how to carry out their intentions. " Now my dear Rosa," Mrs. Turner would say, " do try to be cheerful, my love. It is very hard for you, no doubt, my poor child, to be left so young, but it is what many others have been, my dear. It is the will of God. I cannot tell what I feel for you, my dear, but still, submission is our duty." It was, however, no want of good intention in Mrs. Turner that prompted such speeches. She was, on the contrary, anxious to console her young guest, and she thought that in such com mon phrases she took the most effectual way, and was rather surprised, and half inclined to suspect Rosa of obstinacy because she did not seem in the least consoled by her attempts, but, on the contrary, generally became more distres sed and agitated.