Allan Clare was just two years older than Rosamund. He was a boy of
fourteen, when he first became acquainted with her--it was soon after
she had come to reside with her grandmother at Widford.
He met her by chance one day, carrying a pitcher in her hand, which
she had been filling from a neighboring well--the pitcher was heavy,
and she seemed to be bending with its weight.
Allan insisted on carrying it for her--for he thought it a sin that a
delicate young maid, like her, should be so employed, and he stand
idle by.
Allan had a propensity to do little kind offices for everybody--but
at the sight of Rosamund Gray, his first fire was kindled--his young
mind seemed to have found an object, and his enthusiasm was from that
time forth awakened. His visits, from that day, were pretty frequent
at the cottage.
He was never happier than when he could get Rosamund to walk out with
him. He would make her admire the scenes he admired--fancy the wild
flowers he fancied--watch the clouds he was watching--and not
unfrequently repeat to her poetry which he loved, and make her love
it.
On their return, the old lady, who considered them yet as but
children, would bid Rosamund fetch Mr. Clare a glass of her
currant-wine, a bowl of new milk, or some cheap dainty which was more
welcome to Allan than the costliest delicacies of a prince's court.
The boy and girl, for they were no more at that age, grew fond of
each other--more fond than either of them suspected.
"They would sit, and sigh,
And look upon each other, and conceive
Not what they ail'd; yet something they did ail,
And yet were well--and yet they were not well;
And what was their disease, they could not tell."
And thus,
"In this first garden of their simpleness
They spent their childhood."
A circumstance had lately happened, which in some sort altered the
nature of their attachment.
Rosamund was one day reading the tale of "Julia de Roubignè"--a book
which young Clare had lent her.
Allan was standing by, looking over her, with one hand thrown round
her neck, and a finger of the other pointing to a passage in Julia's
third letter.
"Maria! in my hours of visionary indulgence, I have sometimes painted
to myself a _husband_--no matter whom--comforting me amidst the
distresses which fortune had laid upon us. I have smiled upon him
through my tears; tears, not of anguish, but of tenderness!--our
children were playing around us, unconscious of misfortune; we had
taught them to be humble, and to be happy; our little shed was
reserved to us, and their smiles to cheer it.--I have imagined the
luxury of such a scene, and affliction became a part of my dream of
happiness."
The girl blushed as she read, and trembled--she had a sort of
confused sensation, that Allan was noticing her--yet she durst not
lift her eyes from the book, but continued reading, scarce knowing
what she read.
Allan guessed the cause of her confusion, Allan trembled too--his
color came and went--his feelings became impetuous--and flinging both
arms round her neck, he kissed his young favorite.
Rosamund was vexed and pleased, soothed and frightened, all in a
moment--a fit of tears came to her relief.
Allan had indulged before in these little freedoms, and Rosamund had
thought no harm of them; but from this time the girl grew timid and
reserved--distant in her manner, and careful of her behavior in
Allan's presence--not seeking his society as before, but rather
shunning it--delighting more to feed upon his idea in absence.
Allan too, from this day, seemed changed: his manner became, though
not less tender, yet more respectful and diffident--his bosom felt a
throb it had till now not known, in the society of Rosamund--and, if
he was less familiar with her than in former times, that charm of
delicacy had superadded a grace to Rosamund, which, while he feared,
he loved.
There is a _mysterious character_, heightened, indeed, by fancy and
passion, but not without foundation in reality and observation, which
true lovers have ever imputed to the object of their affections. This
character Rosamund had now acquired with Allan--something _angelic,
perfect, exceeding nature._
Young Clare dwelt very near to the cottage. He had lost his parents,
who were rather wealthy, early in life; and was left to the care of a
sister some ten years older than himself.
Elinor Clare was an excellent young lady--discreet, intelligent, and
affectionate. Allan revered her as a parent, while he loved her as
his own familiar friend. He told all the little secrets of his heart
to her--but there was _one_, which he had hitherto unaccountably
concealed from her--namely, the extent of his regard for Rosamund.
Elinor knew of his visits to the cottage, and was no stranger to the
persons of Margaret and her granddaughter. She had several times met
them, when she had been walking with her brother--a civility usually
passed on either side--but Elinor avoided troubling her brother with
any unseasonable questions.
Allan's heart often beat, and he has been going to tell his sister
_all_--but something like shame (false or true, I shall not stay to
inquire) had hitherto kept him back;--still the secret, unrevealed,
hung upon his conscience like a crime--for his temper had a sweet and
noble frankness in it, which bespake him yet a virgin from the world.
There was a fine openness in his countenance--the character of it
somewhat resembled Rosamund's--except that more fire and enthusiasm
were discernible in Allan's; his eyes were of a darker blue than
Rosamund's--his hair was of a chestnut color--his cheeks ruddy, and
tinged with brown. There was a cordial sweetness in Allan's smile,
the like to which I never saw in any other face.
Elinor had hitherto connived at her brother's attachment to Rosamund.
Elinor, I believe, was something of a physiognomist, and thought she
could trace in the countenance and manner of Rosamund, qualities
which no brother of hers need be ashamed to love.
The time was now come when Elinor was desirous of knowing her
brother's favorite more intimately--an opportunity offered of
breaking the matter to Allan.
The morning of the day in which he carried his present of fruit and
flowers to Rosamund, his sister had observed him more than usually
busy in the garden, culling fruit with a nicety of choice not common
to him.
She came up to him, unobserved, and, taking him by the arm, inquired,
with a questioning smile--"What are you doing, Allan? and who are
those peaches designed for?"
"For Rosamund Gray"--he replied--and his heart seemed relieved of a
burden which had long oppressed it.
"I have a mind to become acquainted with your handsome friend--will
you introduce me, Allan? I think I should like to go and see her this
afternoon."
"Do go, do go, Elinor--you don't know what a good creature she is;
and old blind Margaret, you will like _her_ very much."
His sister promised to accompany him after dinner; and they parted.
Allan gathered no more peaches, but hastily cropping a few roses to
fling into his basket, went away with it half-filled, being impatient
to announce to Rosamund the coming of her promised visitor.
* * * * *