ROSALIE AND HER LOVER.
“She loves, but ’tis not him she loves—
Not him on whom she ponders,
When in some dream of tenderness
Her truant fancy wanders.
The forms that flit her vision through
Are like the shapes of old,
Where tales of prince and paladin
On tapestry are told.
Man may not hope her heart to win,
Be his of common mould.”—_C. F. Hoffman._
In the meantime, the two young riders took their way up a narrow
bridle-path, leading up a long crooked pass of the mountain.
The morning was glistening with brightness and freshness, and the
mingled joyous sounds of rural life made music in the air. They rode
along awhile in silence, strange enough in a pair so youthful. At length
the young man broke the spell.
“Rose!”
“Well, Robert!”
“I cannot bear this suspense! I cannot, indeed. Heart and frame are
wearing out with it!”
Rosalie stole a glance at his clear, bright blue eye, and round, fresh,
ruddy cheek, looking still brighter and fresher under the glossy, crisp,
curling, auburn hair—and a smile lighted up her countenance.
“Ah! you may laugh! You have the hardest, the most unimpressible heart I
ever saw in my life! But good and strong as my constitution is, it will
break down—it will indeed, Rosalie—if you keep this up much longer. And
I wish it _would_ break down! I do so! Then perhaps you would pity me.”
“But, Robert, my pity would be very poor compensation for lost health.”
“I don’t know! If I could make you feel for me any way, or at any cost,
I should be glad.”
“I _do_, Robert. I feel a very sincere esteem and friendship for you.
Surely you cannot doubt that.”
“Oh! yes, you are good to me to a certain degree. Your heart is like a
peach!”
“Like a peach!”
“Yes; it is superficially soft and impressible, but the core of it is
hard and rough—hard and rough! Oh, Rosalie, can’t you _try_ to like me a
little?”
“I like you very much without trying!”
“Oh, you know what I mean, you tormenting girl! Can’t you—you—can’t you
love me well enough to be my own? Speak! Answer! Tell me, Rose!”
“Oh, Robert, how many times have I told you—no?”
“I—but I won’t take no for an answer! All my affections and hopes are
freighted in you, and I _will not_ resign you; I _will not_, Rose. I
will go on hoping in spite of you—hoping against hope! It is
_impossible_—mind I say _impossible_—any one loving as I do, should not
win love in return. It does seem to me as if it would be unjust in
heaven to permit it!”
He spoke with impatient, passionate vehemence and earnestness.
Rosalie watched and heard him with wondering and sorrowing interest. She
gravely said—
“‘It is impossible that one loving so much should not win love in
return,’ you say? Yes, it _does_ seem impossible, if we did not know it
to be often really possible. It _does_ seem unjust!”
“You acknowledge it! You own it to be unjust that I should give you so
much—give you _all_—my entire heart, with all its affections and
hopes—and get back nothing, _nothing_ in return—or next to it—only
‘esteem,’ forsooth! and ‘friendship!’ That provokes and exasperates me
beyond endurance! Rosalie, I don’t want your esteem or friendship. I
refuse and repudiate it! I reject and repulse it! I will have none of
it! Give me _nothing_, or give me your whole heart and hand!”
“I would to Heaven I could do it, Robert! I would to Heaven I could give
you my heart. I am ready to say that if I could, I should then be a
happy and enviable girl, because I believe you a most excellent young
man, whose only weakness is your regard for me. But I cannot, Robert.
With all my friendship for you”—
“_Don’t_ name it!”
“I must, Robert! With all my friendship for you, when you talk of love,
my heart grows hard and cold, and silent as a stone—it has no response
for you at all.”
“And you say that to drive me out of my senses—to make me wild!”
“I say it because it is the simple truth. I am sorry that such _is_ the
truth. I think, with you, it is strange—strange—almost unjust, that so
much priceless love should be thrown away.”
“How cool she is! Good Heaven, how cool she is!”
“I have a problem for you, Robert; and I want to see if, with all your
mathematics, you can solve it, and satisfy me as to why there is so much
love lost in this world.”
“She can philosophise, too, after her fashion. She can do anything but
love!”
“Will you solve my problem?”
“It belongs rather to metaphysics than mathematics, one would
think—nevertheless, state it.”
“Thus, then: A loves B—or rather, to be clearer, Aaron loves Belinda
with a perfect passion; and he thinks, by reason of its great power, it
_must_ win a response from her. But Belinda involuntarily turns from
Aaron, and fixes her affection upon Charles, who does not in the least
return it. Now, why should these cross purposes exist? They say that
marriages are made in heaven. I wish the angel that has charge of them
would look into this matter a little.”
She spoke in a light, bantering manner, yet her voice quivered slightly.
She stole an arch glance at her companion, and said—
“There is my problem—solve it.”
He eyed her closely, jealously.
“Are you putting an imaginary case?” he asked.
“Nay, answer my question before asking another.”
“Well, then, yes! I _will_ tell you how this ought to end, and how it
_shall_ end, too. Belinda will soon feel it to be unwomanly, indelicate,
undignified, to leave her heart in the possession of one who undervalues
the priceless treasure; she will withdraw it, and yield it up at the
demand of the rightful owner—of him who _justly_ claims it because he
prizes it above all treasures, and desires it above all possessions!”
“You think so?” said Rosalie, averting her face, and bending down, and
stroking her horse’s mane.
“I _know_ so.”
“How do you know it?”
“Because it _ought_ to be so.”
“Again—_why_?”
“Because _man’s_ love is the conquering love! But now, tell me—were you
putting an imaginary case?”
“Yes, I was putting an imaginary case,” she said, in a low, quiet tone.
She drew rein.
“What is the matter, Rosalie? Are you tired? Has the ride been too much
for you?” inquired the young man, checking his horse, and looking
anxiously at her.
“Yes, I think so,” she answered, wearily.
“Rest awhile, and then we will go on.”
“No—I must go home—the air is very chill,” she said, shivering.
“And you are pale,” he observed, gazing at her with earnest,
affectionate interest.
She returned that gaze with a pensive, grateful glance, saying—“Indeed,
I feel I ought to be very grateful to you for caring so much for a poor,
sickly creature, like me. You in such fine health, too. I do not
understand it. I thought every one preferred blooming girls; but you
attach yourself to poor, pale me. Dear Robert, believe me, I am very,
_very_ grateful for your love, however this may end. I _do_ wish I could
be _more_ than grateful. Dear Robert, if I could give you my whole heart
as easily as I give you this rose, I would do it.” And detaching a white
rose from her bosom, she handed it to him.
And they turned their horses’ heads, and went down the mountain path,
towards home.