Rosamund had just made an end of her story, (as I was about to relate,)
and was listening to the application of the moral, (which said
application she was old enough to have made herself, but her grandmother
still continued to treat her, in many respects, as a child, and Rosamund
was in no haste to lay claim to the title of womanhood,) when a young
gentleman made his appearance, and interrupted them.
It was young Allan Clare, who had brought a present of peaches, and some
roses, for Rosamund.
He laid his little basket down on a seat of the arbour; and in a
respectful tone of voice, as though he were addressing a parent,
enquired of Margaret "how she did."
The old lady seemed pleased with his attentions--answered his enquiries
by saying, that "her cough was less troublesome a-nights, but she had
not yet got rid of it, and probably she never might; but she did not
like to teaze young people with an account of her infirmities."
A few kind words passed on either side, when young Clare, glancing a
tender look at the girl, who had all this time been silent, took leave
of them with saying "I shall bring _Elinor_ to see you in the evening."
When he was gone, the old lady began to prattle.
"That is a sweet dispositioned youth, and I _do_ love him dearly, I must
say it--there is such a modesty in all he says or does--he should not
come here so often, to be sure, but I don't know how to help it; there
is so much goodness in him, I can't find in my heart to forbid him. But,
Rosamund, girl, I must tell you beforehand; when you grow older, Mr.
Clare must be no companion for _you_--while you were both so young, it
was all very well--but the time is coming, when folks will think harm of
it, if a rich young gentleman, like Mr. Clare, comes so often to our
poor cottage.--Dost hear, girl? why don't you answer? come, I did not
mean to say any thing to hurt you--speak to me, Rosamund--nay, I must
not have you be sullen--I don't love people that are sullen."
And in this manner was this poor soul running on, unheard and unheeded,
when it occurred to her, that possibly the girl might not be _within
hearing_.
And true it was, that Rosamund had slunk away at the first mention of
Mr. Clare's good qualities: and when she returned, which was not till a
few minutes after Margaret had made an end of her fine harangue, it is
certain her cheeks _did_ look very _rosy_. That might have been from the
heat of the day or from exercise, for she had been walking in the
garden.
Margaret, we know, was blind; and, in this case, it was lucky for
Rosamund that she was so, or she might have made some not unlikely
surmises.
I must not have my reader infer from this, that I at all think it
likely, a young maid of fourteen would fall in love without asking her
grandmother's leave--the thing itself is not to be conceived.
To obviate all suspicions, I am disposed to communicate a little
anecdote of Rosamund.
A month or two back her grandmother had been giving her the strictest
prohibitions, in her walks, not to go near a certain spot, which was
dangerous from the circumstance of a huge overgrown oak tree spreading
its prodigious arms across a deep chalk-pit, which they partly
concealed.
To this fatal place Rosamund came one day--female curiosity, we know, is
older than the flood--let us not think hardly of the girl, if she
partook of the sexual failing.
Rosamund ventured further and further--climbed along one of the
branches--approached the forbidden chasm--her foot slipped--she was not
killed--but it was by a mercy she escaped--other branches intercepted
her fall--and with a palpitating heart she made her way back to the
cottage.
It happened that evening, that her grandmother was in one of her best
humours, caressed Rosamund, talked of old times, and what a blessing it
was they two found a shelter in their little cottage, and in conclusion
told Rosamund, "she was a good girl, and God would one day reward her
for her kindness to her old blind grandmother."
This was more than Rosamund could bear. Her morning's disobedience came
fresh into her mind, she felt she did not deserve all this from
Margaret, and at last burst into a fit of crying, and made confession of
her fault. The old gentlewoman kissed and forgave her.
Rosamund never went near that naughty chasm again.
Margaret would never have heard of this, if Rosamund had not told of it
herself. But this young maid had a delicate moral sense, which would not
suffer her to take advantage of her grandmother, to deceive her, or
conceal any thing from her, though Margaret was old, and blind, and easy
to be imposed upon.
Another virtuous _trait_ I recollect of Rosamund, and, now I am in the
vein, will tell it.
Some, I know, will think these things trifles--and they are so--but if
these _minutiæ_ make my reader better acquainted with Rosamund, I am content
to abide the imputation.
These promises of character, hints, and early indications of a _sweet
nature_, are to me more dear, and choice in the selection, than any of
those pretty wild flowers, which this young maid, this virtuous
Rosamund, has ever gathered in a fine May morning, to make a posy to
place in the bosom of her old blind friend.
Rosamund had a very just notion of drawing, and would often employ her
talent in making sketches of the surrounding scenery.
On a landscape, a larger piece than she had ever yet attempted, she had
now been working for three or four months. She had taken great pains
with it, given much time to it, and it was nearly finished. For _whose_
particular inspection it was designed, I will not venture to conjecture.
We know it could not have been for her grandmother's.
One day she went out on a short errand, and left her landscape on the
table. When she returned she found it _gone_.
Rosamund from the first suspected some mischief, but held her tongue. At
length she made the fatal discovery. Margaret, in her absence, had laid
violent hands on it; not knowing what it was, but taking it for some
waste paper, had torn it in half, and with one half of this elaborate
composition had twisted herself up--a thread-paper!
Rosamund spread out her hands at sight of the disaster, gave her
grandmother a roguish smile, but said not a word. She knew the poor soul
would only fret, if she told her of it,--and when once Margaret was set
a fretting for other people's misfortunes, the fit held her pretty long.
So Rosamund that very afternoon began another piece of the same size and
subject; and Margaret, to her dying day, never dreamed of the mischief
she had unconsciously done.