In the country--where the sensible heart is still more susceptible of
impressions; and where the unfeeling mind, in the want of other men's wit
to invent, forms schemes for its own amusement--our youths both fell in
love: if passions, that were pursued on the most opposite principles, can
receive the same appellation. William, well versed in all the licentious
theory, thought himself in love, because he perceived a tumultuous
impulse cause his heart to beat while his fancy fixed on a certain object
whose presence agitated yet more his breast.
Henry thought himself not in love, because, while he listened to William
on the subject, he found their sensations did not in the least agree.
William owned to Henry that he loved Agnes, the daughter of a cottager in
the village, and hoped to make her his mistress.
Henry felt that his tender regard for Rebecca, the daughter of the curate
of the parish, did not inspire him even with the boldness to acquaint her
with his sentiments, much less to meditate one design that might tend to
her dishonour.
While William was cautiously planning how to meet in private, and
accomplish the seduction of the object of his passion, Henry was
endeavouring to fortify the object of _his_ choice with every virtue. He
never read a book from which he received improvement that he did not
carry it to Rebecca--never heard a circumstance which might assist
towards her moral instruction that he did not haste to tell it her; and
once when William boasted
"He knew he was beloved by Agnes;"
Henry said, with equal triumph, "he had not dared to take the means to
learn, nor had Rebecca dared to give one instance of her partiality."
Rebecca was the youngest, and by far the least handsome daughter of four,
to whom the Reverend Mr. Rymer, a widower, was father. The other sisters
were accounted beauties; and she, from her comparative want of personal
charms, having been less beloved by her parents, and less caressed by
those who visited them, than the rest, had for some time past sought
other resources of happiness than the affection, praise, and indulgence
of her fellow-creatures. The parsonage house in which this family lived
was the forlorn remains of an ancient abbey: it had in later times been
the habitation of a rich and learned rector, by whom, at his decease, a
library was bequeathed for the use of every succeeding resident. Rebecca,
left alone in this huge ruinous abode, while her sisters were paying
stated visits in search of admiration, passed her solitary hours in
reading. She not merely read--she thought: the choicest English books
from this excellent library taught her to _think_; and reflection
fashioned her mind to bear the slights, the mortifications of neglect,
with a patient dejection, rather than with an indignant or a peevish
spirit.
This resignation to injury and contumely gave to her perfect symmetry of
person, a timid eye, a retiring manner, and spread upon her face a placid
sweetness, a pale serenity indicating sense, which no wise connoisseur in
female charms would have exchanged for all the sparkling eyes and florid
tints of her vain and vulgar sisters. Henry's soul was so enamoured of
her gentle deportment, that in his sight she appeared beautiful; while
she, with an understanding competent to judge of his worth, was so
greatly surprised, so prodigiously astonished at the distinction, the
attention, the many offices of civility paid her by him, in preference to
her idolised sisters, that her gratitude for such unexpected favours had
sometimes (even in his presence, and in that of her family) nearly
drowned her eyes with tears. Yet they were only trifles, in which Henry
had the opportunity or the power to give her testimony of his
regard--trifles, often more grateful to the sensible mind than efforts of
high importance; and by which the proficient in the human heart will
accurately trace a passion wholly concealed from the dull eye of the
unskilled observer.
The first cause of amazement to Rebecca in the manners of Henry was, that
he talked with _her_ as well as with her sisters; no visitor else had
done so. In appointing a morning's or an evening's walk, he proposed
_her_ going with the rest; no one had ever required her company before.
When he called and she was absent, he asked where she was; no one had
ever missed her before. She thanked him most sincerely, and soon
perceived that, at those times when he was present, company was more
pleasing even than books.
Her astonishment, her gratitude, did not stop here. Henry proceeded in
attention; he soon selected her from her sister to tell her the news of
the day, answered her observations the first; once gave her a sprig of
myrtle from his bosom in preference to another who had praised its
beauty; and once--never-to-be-forgotten kindness--sheltered her from a
hasty shower with his _parapluie_, while he lamented to her drenched
companions,
"That he had but _one_ to offer."
From a man whose understanding and person they admire, how dear, how
impressive on the female heart is every trait of tenderness! Till now,
Rebecca had experienced none; not even of the parental kind: and merely
from the overflowings of a kind nature (not in return for affection) had
she ever loved her father and her sisters. Sometimes, repulsed by their
severity, she transferred the fulness of an affectionate heart upon
birds, or the brute creation: but now, her alienated mind was recalled
and softened by a sensation that made her long to complain of the burthen
it imposed. Those obligations which exact silence are a heavy weight to
the grateful; and Rebecca longed to tell Henry "that even the forfeit of
her life would be too little to express the full sense she had of the
respect he paid to her." But as modesty forbade not only every kind of
declaration, but every insinuation purporting what she felt, she wept
through sleepless nights from a load of suppressed explanation; yet still
she would not have exchanged this trouble for all the beauty of her
sisters.