“You had a fine long chat with Rosa, in the garden,” said my uncle, as
we walked home.
“Yes,” replied I, “such a one as will _never_ be forgotten by me.”
“That’s a mighty emphatical _never_,” repeated my uncle.
“It is, however, a reality,” said I.
“Why, what conversation can have made so deep an impression on your
mind?” continued he.
“The language of the heart, the extacies of the soul, which in the
moment of impulse, I revealed to Rosa.”
“You have?” said my uncle, grasping my arm tighter.
“Yes, Sir, most solemnly, I swear it--and never will I for a moment be
guilty of duplicity to you--by your counsel I will ever abide; and, if
I attain the accomplishment of my hopes, ’tis to you _only_ I shall be
indebted for the earthly bliss I may enjoy.”
“Noble boy,” exclaimed my uncle; “I blame no part of your conduct but
the precipitancy of your explanation.”
“But do you reflect on the torments of suspence, to counterbalance
that precipitancy? do you consider the priority of _rivalship_? do you
think it possible any man can behold Rosa Fitzclarence with a heart of
indifference? and may not that heart be devoted in a moment, whilst I,
through the idle prepossession of diffidence, became its unalterable
victim, and lead a life of despair.”
My uncle uttered one of his deepest groans, but made no reply--and by
this time we reached home.
“Success and happiness attend you, my boy,” said my uncle, as he closed
the door of his apartment, with his eyes suffused in tears. “Don’t be
too sanguine, I’ll make a point of conversing with Dr. Markwell on the
subject, from whom I shall gain much information, as he is the intimate
friend of the guardian who consigned Rosa to his protection, at the
period of whose return from the continent all her concerns will be
settled, and she becomes her own mistress, if with a disengaged heart,
vive l’amour, and Victor St. Alban, if----”
“For heaven’s sake, not another word, that _if_ is dagger sufficient,”
cried I, closing my door to press my pillow, and ruminate on hopes
and fears, for certainty of her sentiments I had none; Dr. Markwell’s
interruption had precluded even the most faultering syllable from
escaping her lips--time, and patience, were the only alternatives, and
I was compelled to abide by them.
With sleepless eyes, and feverish anxiety, I left my thorny restless
pillow the moment I heard the domestics arranging the house, and
without knowing why, directed my wandering footsteps to the Rectory,
without reflecting on the impropriety of such an early intrusion--but
rosy-footed love would not be checked in his career, though the path
had been strewn with thorns, and I found myself at the gate before I
knew I was half way there.
I gazed earnestly around: Rosa’s chamber-window was thrown open, but
the closed shutters of the good Rector denoted he was still in the
embraces of Morpheus. My heart beat high--no Rosa made her appearance.
A cow-boy advanced towards the spot--’twas little Peter, the gardner’s
son, who worked for Dr. Markwell: the boy was alternately whistling the
cows along, and munching a handful of cold suet pudding.
“Do you know Miss Rosa?” asked I.
“Ees, Sir.”
“Have you seen her this morning?”
“Ees, Sir,” and he took another mouthful of pudding.
“Can you tell where she is?”
“Noa, Sir.”
“How long ago did you see her?”
“A main good bit,”--and down went another piece of pudding, which Peter
regarded more than my enquiry.
“Tell me,” continued I, taking out all the halfpence I had, and putting
them in his spare hand, “tell me where to find her.”
Peter stuffed the last morsel of pudding into his mouth, eyed the
halfpence, which he pocketted, and half choaking, with a variety of
faces to clear his mouth, and pointing with his smutty finger down the
opposite lane, exclaimed, “yonder be’es leady a-coming.”
Away I flew, and met her in a moment; she had been herberising on the
heath that bounded one extremity of the village, and had collected in a
little willow basket, a variety of wild blossoms, which she smilingly
told me were for her pupil, St. Alban’s edification.
We soon entered into a more interesting conversation, for I persuaded
her to return to the heath, where, unheard and unseen, our intercourse
was sacred, and in this sequestered spot I again renewed the subject of
my thoughts.
Rosa heard me with attention: her ingenuous lip avowed her heart had
no prior prepossession, neither had her guardian any dominion over her
at the moment of her coming of age, but that the high estimation in
which she held Dr. Markwell, from the character represented of him by
her guardian, would never permit her to dispose of her hand without his
approbation, as she beheld him with parental love and reverence.
“Allow me time,” said she, with one of her angelic smiles, “to learn
the virtues of St. Alban, that I may assure myself my heart is no
truant to his precepts, and by that means experience, in various
shapes, will convince him if the _bauble_ he seeks is _worthy_ his
acceptance.”
I was now the happiest of human beings, and when I parted with Rosa, at
the Rectory gate, I learned with rapture we were to meet again at Lady
Lustre’s in the evening, where Rosa extorted a faithful promise I would
not render myself particular, as the embarrassment would cause her much
displeasure, for the observant eye of my uncle, on such occasion, would
expose what she most wished to conceal, “for I know not why,” said she,
“but whenever he looks at me my heart _trembles_, and my _burning_
cheek seems to indicate some _unfathomable reason_.”
“And is it not equally strange,” said I, “that the sight of you always
creates _similar_ sensations in him; but I can in some measure account
for his perturbation, by your _similitude_ to a lady to whom he once
paid his addresses in the early part of life, and whom he loved with
that degree of fervour, that he never suffered any other women to
supplant her: thus, when he gazes on your polygraphic form, wonder no
longer at his starting tear, his heart-felt sigh, for he loves you as
his child.”
“Good heavens,” said Rosa, “how singular; I almost wish you had’nt told
me, I shall now feel doubly embarrassed--good old gentleman, how much I
pity him; his sensibility must be exquisite, and I am the unfortunate
cause of perpetually rousing its dormant tranquillity.”
The village clock struck nine--we bade each other a hasty adieu--and
in a few minutes I reached home, just as my uncle had descended to
breakfast, who, like myself, had passed a sleepless night. Disdaining
an iota of duplicity towards my uncle, I frankly told him where, and
with whom, I had been; the topic of our conversation, the surprise of
Rosa at the explanation of her resemblance; and, in short, all that had
past, soliciting his advice how to proceed towards the attainment of
my hopes, as I felt as much awe in the presence of Dr. Mark well, as
Rosa did in that of my uncle; he, however assured me, I had nothing to
fear, if the worthy Rector was the only impediment: “but I advise you
to write to your father,” continued he, “explain the affair, dutifully
implore his consent to your happiness, and tell him, if liberality has
not power to draw _his_ purse-strings, love and nature have sufficient
influence with your _churlish old misanthropical_ uncle, to induce him
to reward virtue, and constitute happiness, with the contents of _his_,
even to his last shilling; or, though he died a bankrupt, you now know
my sentiments Victor, therefore express your own to your father in what
terms you think proper, and if he disproves your choice, lay the blame
at _my_ door.”
“My gratitude, Sir,” replied I--but my voice faultered, I felt the
momentary sensation of strangulation seize my throat--I burst into
tears like an infant--nor could I have finished the sentence for
worlds, had even the loss of Rosa, at that moment, been the consequence
of my silence.
“Keep your gratitude, my boy, till it is more requisite--it’s always a
current coin in every country, and when you forget to enrich yourself
by its possession, you will be _poor_ indeed; liberally disburse what
you can spare, but reserve a portion for the hour of exigence; retire
after breakfast to my study, and dispatch your letter to London.”
“Not till you have perused its contents, Sir,” replied I.
“That as you please,” answered he, “but here comes Mr. Prolix, on some
tenantry business, I will give him audience while you retire.”
Away I brushed, and never pen glided smoother on such a subject. My
uncle highly approved its effusions, and the portentous letter was
dispatched two hours after in the postman’s bag, much to my joy and
anticipated hope.