Allan Clare was just two years elder 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 neighbouring 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 every body--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 Roubigné"--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 colour
came and went--his feeling became impetuous--and, flinging both arms
round her neck, he kissed his young favourite.
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 behaviour, 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 grandaughter. 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
enquire) 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 chesnut colour--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 her's 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, enquired,
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
burthen, 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.