University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

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 parlor, 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 neighborhood, 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 surprised 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, passed 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 favorite 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 sat with him
in the porch, and strung the fallen blossoms of jessamine
upon stalks of grass. The snowdrop and the crocus reminded
him of their little garden, the primrose of their
sunny orchard-bank, and the bluebells 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 inquired 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.
“'T is 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, pressed 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.