A SCENE WHICH WILL PUT SOME OF THOSE READERS WHO HAVE BEEN MOST
IMPATIENT WITH THE AUTHOR, IN THE BEST HUMOUR WITH HIM.
There is no argument of more antiquity and elegancy than is the matter
of Love; for it seems to be as old as the world, and to bear date from
the first time that man and woman was: therefore in this, as in the
finest metal, the freshest wits have in all ages shewn their best
workmanship.
ROBERT WILMOT.
When Leonard had resided three years at Oxford, one of his
college-friends invited him to pass the long vacation at his father's
house, which happened to be within an easy ride of Salisbury. One
morning therefore he rode to that city, rung at Miss Trewbody's door,
and having sent in his name, was admitted into the parlour, where
there was no one to receive him, while Miss Trewbody adjusted her
head-dress at the toilette, before she made her appearance. Her
feelings while she was thus employed were not of the pleasantest kind
toward this unexpected guest; and she was prepared to accost him with
a reproof for his extravagance in undertaking so long a journey, and
with some mortifying questions concerning the business which brought
him there. But this amiable intention was put to flight, when Leonard
as soon as she entered the room informed her that having accepted an
invitation into that neighbourhood from his friend and
fellow-collegian, the son of Sir Lambert Bowles, he had taken the
earliest opportunity of coming to pay his respects to her, and
acknowledging his obligations, as bound alike by duty and inclination.
The name of Sir Lambert Bowles acted upon Miss Trewbody like a charm;
and its mollifying effect was not a little aided by the tone of her
nephew's address, and the sight of a fine youth in the first bloom of
manhood, whose appearance and manners were such that she could not be
surprized at the introduction he had obtained into one of the first
families in the county. The scowl therefore which she brought into the
room upon her brow past instantly away, and was succeeded by so
gracious an aspect, that Leonard if he had not divined the cause might
have mistaken this gleam of sunshine for fair weather.
A cause which Miss Trewbody could not possibly suspect had rendered
her nephew's address thus conciliatory. Had he expected to see no
other person in that house, the visit would have been performed as an
irksome obligation, and his manner would have appeared as cold and
formal as the reception which he anticipated. But Leonard had not
forgotten the playmate and companion with whom the happy years of his
childhood had been passed. Young as he was at their separation his
character had taken its stamp during those peaceful years, and the
impression which it then received was indelible. Hitherto hope had
never been to him so delightful as memory. His thoughts wandered back
into the past more frequently than they took flight into the future;
and the favourite form which his imagination called up was that of the
sweet child, who in winter partook his bench in the chimney corner,
and in summer sate with him in the porch, and strung the fallen
blossoms of jessamine upon stalks of grass. The snow-drop and the
crocus reminded him of their little garden, the primrose of their
sunny orchard-bank, and the blue bells and the cowslip of the fields
wherein they were allowed to run wild and gather them in the merry
month of May. Such as she then was he saw her frequently in sleep,
with her blue eyes, and rosy cheeks, and flaxen curls: and in his day
dreams he sometimes pictured her to himself such as he supposed she
now might be, and dressed up the image with all the magic of ideal
beauty. His heart, therefore, was at his lips when he enquired for his
cousin. It was not without something like fear, and an apprehension of
disappointment that he awaited her appearance; and he was secretly
condemning himself for the romantic folly which he had encouraged,
when the door opened and a creature came in,—less radiant indeed, but
more winning than his fancy had created, for the loveliness of earth
and reality was about her.
“Margaret,” said Miss Trewbody, “do you remember your cousin Leonard?”
Before she could answer, Leonard had taken her hand. “'Tis a long
while Margaret since we parted!—ten years!—But I have not forgotten
the parting,—nor the blessed days of our childhood.”
She stood trembling like an aspen leaf, and looked wistfully in his
face for a moment, then hung down her head, without power to utter a
word in reply. But he felt her tears fall fast upon his hand, and felt
also that she returned its pressure.
Leonard had some difficulty to command himself, so as to bear a part
in conversation with his aunt, and keep his eyes and his thoughts from
wandering. He accepted however her invitation to stay and dine with
her with undissembled satisfaction, and the pleasure was not a little
heightened when she left the room to give some necessary orders in
consequence. Margaret still sate trembling and in silence. He took her
hand, prest it to his lips, and said in a low earnest voice, “dear
dear Margaret!” She raised her eyes, and fixing them upon him with one
of those looks the perfect remembrance of which can never be effaced
from the heart to which they have been addressed, replied in a lower
but not less earnest tone, “dear Leonard!” and from that moment their
lot was sealed for time and for eternity.