Fain would I draw a veil over the transactions of that night--but I
cannot--grief, and burning shame, forbid me to be silent--black deeds
are about to be made public, which reflect a stain upon our common
nature.
Rosamund, enthusiastic and improvident, wandered unprotected to a
distance from her guardian doors--through lonely glens, and wood walks,
where she had rambled many a _day_ in safety--till she arrived at a
shady copse, out of the hearing of any human habitation.
_Matravis_ met her.--"Flown with insolence and wine," returning home
late at night, he passed that way!
Matravis was a very ugly man. Sallow-complexioned! and, if hearts can
wear that colour, his heart was sallow-complexioned also.
A young man with _gray_ deliberation! cold and systematic in all his
plans; and all his plans were evil. His very lust was systematic.
He would brood over his bad purposes for such a dreary length of time,
that it might have been expected, some solitary check of conscience must
have intervened to save him from commission. But that _Light from
Heaven_ was extinct in his dark bosom.
Nothing that is great, nothing that is amiable, existed for this unhappy
man. He feared, he envied, he suspected; but he never loved. The sublime
and beautiful in nature, the excellent and becoming in morals, were
things placed beyond the capacity of his sensations. He loved not
poetry--nor ever took a lonely walk to meditate--never beheld virtue,
which he did not try to disbelieve, or female beauty and innocence,
which he did not lust to contaminate.
A sneer was perpetually upon his face, and malice _grinning_ at his
heart. He would say the most ill-natured things, with the least remorse,
of any man I ever knew. This gained him the reputation of a wit--other
_traits_ got him the reputation of a villain.
And this man formerly paid his court to Elinor Clare!--with what success
I leave my readers to determine.--It was not in Elinor's nature to
despise any living thing--but in the estimation of this man, to be
rejected was to be _despised_--and Matravis _never forgave_.
He had long turned his eyes upon Rosamund Gray. To steal from the bosom
of her friends the jewel they prized so much, the little ewe lamb they
held so dear, was a scheme of delicate revenge, and Matravis had a
two-fold motive for accomplishing this young maid's ruin.
Often had he met her in her favorite solitudes, but found her ever cold
and inaccessible. Of late the girl had avoided straying far from her own
home, in the fear of meeting him--but she had never told her fears to
Allan.
Matravis had, till now, been content to be a villain within the limits
of the law--but, on the present occasion, hot fumes of wine,
co-operating with his deep desire of revenge, and the insolence of an
unhoped for meeting, overcame his customary prudence, and Matravis rose,
at once, to an audacity of glorious mischief.
Late at night he met her, a lonely, unprotected virgin--no friend at
hand--no place near of refuge.
Rosamund Gray, my soul is exceeding sorrowful for thee--I loath to tell
the hateful circumstances of thy wrongs. Night and silence were the only
witnesses of this young maid's disgrace--Matravis fled.
Rosamund, polluted and disgraced, wandered, an abandoned thing, about
the fields and meadows till day-break. Not caring to return to the
cottage, she sat herself down before the gate of Miss Clare's house--in
a stupor of grief.
Elinor was just rising, and had opened the windows of her chamber, when
she perceived her desolate young friend.--She ran to embrace her--she
brought her into the house--she took her to her bosom--she kissed
her--she spake to her; but Rosamund could not speak.
Tidings came from the cottage. Margaret's death was an event, which
could not be kept concealed from Rosamund. When the sweet maid heard of
it, she languished, and fell sick--she never held up her head after that
time.
If Rosamund had been a _sister_, she could not have been kindlier
treated, than by her two friends.
Allan had prospects in life--might, in time, have married into any of
the first families in Hertfordshire--but Rosamund Gray, humbled though
she was, and put to shame, had yet a charm for _him_--and he would have
been content to share his fortunes with her yet, if Rosamund would have
lived to be his companion.
But this was not to be--and the girl soon after died. She expired in the
arms of Elinor--quiet, gentle, as she lived--thankful, that she died not
among strangers--and expressing by signs, rather than words, a gratitude
for the most trifling services, the common offices of humanity. She died
uncomplaining; and this young maid, this untaught Rosamund, might have
given a lesson to the grave philosopher in death.