In my catalogue of the little library at the cottage, I forgot to
mention a book of Common Prayer. My reader's fancy might easily have
supplied the omission--old ladies of Margaret's stamp (God bless
them!) may as well be without their spectacles, or their elbow-chair,
as their prayer-book--I love them for it.
Margaret's was a handsome octavo, printed by Baskerville, the binding
red, and fortified with silver at the edges. Out of this book it was
their custom every afternoon to read the proper psalms appointed for
the day.
The way they managed was this: they took verse by verse--Rosamund
_read_ her little portion, and Margaret repeated hers in turn, from
memory--for Margaret could say all the Psalter by heart, and a good
part of the Bible besides. She would not unfrequently put the girl
right when she stumbled or skipped. This Margaret imputed to
giddiness--a quality which Rosamund was by no means remarkable
for--but old ladies, like Margaret, are not in all instances alike
discriminative.
They had been employed in this manner just before Miss Clare arrived
at the cottage. The psalm they had been reading was the hundred and
fourth--Margaret was naturally led by it into a discussion of the
works of creation.
There had been _thunder_ in the course of the day--an occasion of
instruction which the old lady never let pass--she began--
"Thunder has a very awful sound--some say God Almighty is angry
whenever it thunders--that it is the voice of God speaking to us; for
my part, I am not afraid of it"----
And in this manner the old lady was going on to particularize, as
usual, its beneficial effects, in clearing the air, destroying of
vermin, &c., when the entrance of Miss Clare put an end to her
discourse.
Rosamund received her with respectful tenderness--and, taking her
grandmother by the hand, said, with great sweetness,--"Miss Clare is
come to see you, grandmother."
"I beg pardon, lady--I cannot _see_ you--but you are heartily
welcome. Is your brother with you, Miss Clare?--I don't hear him."
"He could not come, madam, but he sends his love by me."
"You have an excellent brother, Miss Clare--but pray do us the honor
to take some refreshment--Rosamund"----
And the old lady was going to give directions for a bottle of her
currant wine--when Elinor, smiling, said "she was come to take a cup
of tea with her, and expected to find no ceremony."
"After tea, I promise myself a walk with you, Rosamund, if your
grandmother can spare you." Rosamund looked at her grandmother.
"Oh, for that matter, I should be sorry to debar the girl from any
pleasure--I am sure it's lonesome enough for her to be with _me_
always--and if Miss Clare will take you out, child, I shall do very
well by myself till you return--it will not be the first time, you
know, that I have been left here alone--some of the neighbors will be
dropping in bye and bye--or, if _not_, I shall take no harm."
Rosamund had all the simple manners of a child; she kissed her
grandmother, and looked happy.
All tea-time the old lady's discourse was little more than a
panegyric on young Clare's good qualities. Elinor looked at her young
friend, and smiled. Rosamund was beginning to look grave--but there
was a cordial sunshine in the face of Elinor, before which any clouds
of reserve that had been gathering on Rosamund's soon brake away.
"Does your grandmother ever go out, Rosamund?"
Margaret prevented the girl's reply, by saying--"My dear young lady,
I am an old woman, and very infirm--Rosamund takes me a few paces
beyond the door sometimes--but I walk very badly--I love best to sit
in our little arbor when the sun shines--I can yet feel it warm and
cheerful--and, if I lose the beauties of the season, I shall be very
happy if you and Rosamund can take delight in this fine summer
evening."
"I shall want to rob you of Rosamund's company now and then, if we
like one another. I had hoped to have seen _you_, madam, at our
house. I don't know whether we could not make room for you to come
and live with us--what say you to it? Allan would be proud to tend
you, I am sure; and Rosamund and I should be nice company."
Margaret was all unused to such kindnesses, and wept--Margaret had a
great spirit--yet she was not above accepting an obligation from a
worthy person--there was a delicacy in Miss Clare's manner--she could
have no interest but pure goodness, to induce her to make the
offer--at length the old lady spake from a full heart.
"Miss Clare, this little cottage received us in our distress--it gave
us shelter when we had _no home_--we have praised God in it--and,
while life remains, I think I shall never part from it--Rosamund does
everything for me"--
"And will do, grandmother, as long as I live;"--and then Rosamund
fell a-crying.
"You are a good girl, Rosamund; and if you do but find friends when I
am dead and gone, I shall want no better accommodation while I
live--but God bless you, lady, a thousand times, for your kind
offer."
Elinor was moved to tears, and, affecting a sprightliness, bade
Rosamund prepare for her walk. The girl put on her white silk bonnet;
and Elinor thought she never beheld so lovely a creature.
They took leave of Margaret, and walked out together; they rambled
over all Rosamund's favorite haunts--through many a sunny field--by
secret glade or wood-walk, where the girl had wandered so often with
her beloved Clare.
Who now so happy as Rosamund? She had oft-times heard Allan speak
with great tenderness of his sister--she was now rambling, arm in
arm, with that very sister, the "vaunted sister" of her friend, her
beloved Clare.
Not a tree, not a bush, scarce a wild flower in their path, but
revived in Rosamund some tender recollection, a conversation perhaps,
or some chaste endearment. Life, and a new scene of things, were now
opening before her--she was got into a fairy land of uncertain
existence.
Rosamund was too happy to talk much--but Elinor was delighted with
her when she _did_ talk:--the girl's remarks were suggested most of
them by the passing scene--and they betrayed, all of them, the
liveliness of present impulse;--her conversation did not consist in a
comparison of vapid feeling, an interchange of sentiment lip-deep--it
had all the freshness of young sensation in it.
Sometimes they talked of Allan.
"Allan is very good," said Rosamund, "very good _indeed_ to my
grandmother--he will sit with her, and hear her stories, and read to
her, and try to divert her a hundred ways. I wonder sometimes he is
not tired. She talks him to death!"
"Then you confess, Rosamund, that the old lady _does_ tire _you_
sometimes?"
"Oh no, I did not mean _that_--it's very different--I am used to all
her ways, and I can humor her, and please her, and I ought to do it,
for she is the only friend I ever had in the world."
The new friends did not conclude their walk till it was late, and
Rosamund began to be apprehensive about the old lady, who had been
all this time alone.
On their return to the cottage, they found that Margaret had been
somewhat impatient--old ladies, _good old ladies_, will be so at
times--age is timorous and suspicious of danger, where no danger is.
Besides, it was Margaret's bedtime, for she kept very good
hours--indeed, in the distribution of her meals, and sundry other
particulars, she resembled the livers in the antique world, more than
might well beseem a creature of this.
So the new friends parted for that night. Elinor having made Margaret
promise to give Rosamund leave to come and see her the next day.
* * * * *