Duty and Inclination/Chapter 56
CHAPTER XIII.
And oft with sweet celestial grace,
Soft as the gentle dove,
She gazed upon the infant face
With tenderness and love.
Anonymous.
In the rich bloom of life, ere the heart has made its selection, ere it acknowledges one object the sole partner of its joys and pains, the central sphere of all its hopes, wishes, and fond vibrations; ere the blessed period, when the happy conjugal tie is formed, and the young, tender, and sensitive female feels that she lives but for herself alone; or, if indeed not so wholly insulated, if amidst the regards and lively interest of her kindred; still she will repine until her soul meets with its one dear associate—life will pass away tedious and irksome.
Though doomed to the sameness of solitude, a well-cultivated mind discovers in its own resources an infinite fund of amusement; it may soar in the regions of imagination, taste, and sentiment. The mild voice of religion also whispers, that a placid spirit is to be obtained by resignation, and the mind for a time submits: but wearied at last, it becomes sunk and exhausted by its very efforts to regain composure.
An unvaried monotony of existence is the reign of desolation. Age, infirmity, sickness, or adversity, may detach the affections from the love of society; but never, in the bloom of youth, in the spring of our days; never, where the natural inclination for sociability is strong, can the will become so resigned to its destiny, as to be happy under a privation so severe. Every better feeling of our nature rises up to oppose it—warmth of temperament, benevolence, tenderness, and affection.
In this state of mind week after week passed over Rosilia at the Bower.
The usual season had commenced when Dr. Lovesworth visited his Hermitage. Fond of country diversions and exercise, Rosilia was happy to avail herself of the occasion; and often when her parents were indisposed to leave home, she accompanied him in his rambles. It was in one of these excursions he informed her that the health of Philimore was in a dangerous state, so much so, that his medical attendant conceived his life precarious. Rosilia heard the news with alarm and dismay, for should such fears be verified how would her sister support the shock?
"For this amiable young man," continued the Doctor, "I have felt nearly the affections of a father; and should it please Providence to call him from us, I shall grieve for him as a parent would for a favourite son. Nevertheless, though it it is with pain I see his dissolution approaching, I would not prolong his existence; so much has my young friend had to combat with, so few have been his enjoyments, that his longer sojourn amongst us would serve but to extend instead of shortening the term of his miseries. With what delight have I witnessed the never-ceasing industry and moral rectitude with which he has conducted himself during the whole progress of his professional career! To his cultivated talents, had interest been conjoined, success would infallibly have attended him; but, I am sorry to say, merit alone, devoid of friends and fortune, is insufficient for advancement. Though his abilities, however, were left to languish, he had always the power of attracting numerous hearers to his discourses. At the last at which I was present,—and, perhaps, it was the last he will ever deliver,—it seemed, in his zeal for the cause of truth, that whilst his mortal frame was descending to the earth, his spirit was soaring to that eternity, the beatitudes of which he could so well describe."
The Doctor paused, and Rosilia, herself in tears, perceived by his altered voice that he was deeply affected.
"It has sometimes forcibly occurred to me," continued he, after a while, "that Philimore has long since laboured under some secret and weighty affliction. I have tried to awaken his confidence in that respect, but never could succeed, although his disposition is unreserved, and free in communication; I have thence thought, that his virtuous soul might be combating with an unhappy but unconquerable attachment to some one worthy of him, whom he would not reduce to indigence. I have often inwardly conjectured that this object might be your sister; and, if so, Philimore, indeed, must have severely struggled to bring himself to renounce a woman so accomplished; rather than by making her his own, reduce her to a level with his humble fortunes."
Rosilia replied not. Much as it was contrary to her character to act with deception, and much as she esteemed her venerable friend, who, whilst he spoke, had fixed upon her his penetrating eye; yet it was not for her to betray a confidence reposed in her, or reveal a secret concerning Philimore, who had not himself thought proper to divulge it.
"That secrets are a sacred trust,
That friends should be sincere and just,
That constancy befits them."
Her drooping head, however, and the deepening hue of her cheeks, might have bore ample evidence to the Doctor that he had not been mistaken. He, however, changed the conversation to subjects various and edifying, while Rosilia looked upon him as the pattern of all goodness.
What can equal that calm delight of which the mind is sensible, when it rests in confidence, assimilates in thought, and looks for lessons of instruction from a being fraught with the highest intelligence; a being who, aspiring to the skies, feels no other tie so valuable as that of rendering himself useful to his fellow-mortals;—who in every instance disregards and sacrifices his own interests, to render himself serviceable to another;—who, in the short span of life, crowds into it all the good in his power;—who, in denying himself, follows the dictates of the gospel, whose disciple he is;—and whose heart expands with universal compassion, benevolence and love, the spring of all his actions? Such was Doctor Lovesworth; and Rosilia loved, esteemed, and revered him, because such was his character.
Having extended their walk beyond their usual boundary, in the circuit they made towards home, they accidentally missed their way. Fatigued, and wishing to repose themselves, they were pleased, on perceiving at no great distance a humble, but beautifully picturesque cottage, situated upon the declivity of a hill, surrounded on all sides by tufted beauties. Upon approaching nearer, they observed at the door a young woman of rustic, but neat appearance, holding in her arms a child of soft and lovely mien, upon whom she was lavishing her fond caresses. The flush of health was on her cheek, and the glow of pleasure in her eye, as she fondly caressed the playful innocent in her arms. Rosilia could have snatched from her the sweet babe, and wished she had been the nurse.
Beckoning to the young woman, the Doctor expressed a desire to rest awhile in her humble abode, and was cheerfully welcomed. The child, which was about two years old, dropped from its hand a glittering toy, bestudded with valuable gems; Rosilia, in hastening to restore it, sought at the same time to embrace the infant, which clung the closer to its nurse; but won by Rosilia's encouraging smile and accent, it soon nestled in her bosom.
"What a sweet child," said she to the young woman; "you are, doubtless, the mother; and yet there is no resemblance."
"I am but her nurse," replied the young woman; "but I love her as much as if she were my own."
The child, stretching forward, playfully sought to seize Rosilia's flowers, who, forming them into a wreath, decked the head of the "sweet little cherub." In beginning to give articulation to sounds, she frequently lisped the word "papa," which still further increased the curiosity of Rosilia: the Doctor having engaged the nurse in conversation, she addressed herself to an old infirm woman who sat in a corner of the cottage, employed at her spinning-wheel, and requested to be informed who had the happiness of being mother to so lovely a child. She was answered, that the child had been brought to the cottage by her daughter, a few months since, in company with a lady, whose name she did not recollect. The lady was not the child's mother, nor even any relation, being sister merely to the child's godmother; but both seemed to take a great interest in it, adding that they would not have entrusted so precious a charge with her daughter, had they not known her to be in every way worthy of confidence, and as well-behaved a girl as any in the neighbourhood:—that when the lady came to see the child, she often wept over her; and was sometimes heard to say, she feared the dear innocent would become an orphan.
"And where does the lady live?" inquired Rosilia.
"About thirty miles off."
"Alas! and is there then a possibility that this lovely little creature may become parentless?" exclaimed Rosilia, while continuing to lavish her caresses upon the object of her sympathy.
Dr. Lovesworth felt sorry to terminate so engaging a scene, and would have gladly prolonged it had not his watch told him it was time to consign Rosilia to her parents, who might be then suffering uneasiness from her having exceeded the usual period of her absence. He therefore raised the child from her lap, and impressing a benign salute upon its glowing cheek, delivered it back to the arms of its nurse. Rosilia then left the cottage with many assurances of renewing her visit. The chief topic of her discourse was the inmates of the cottage until she arrived at the Bower; when the subject was renewed, and the parents of Rosilia felt happy that she had discovered so pleasing a source of amusement.
Seldom did she suffer a day to pass without visiting the interesting child. Sometimes the nurse brought her to the Bower, when the General and Mrs. De Brooke, equally with Rosilia, were charmed with her playful endearments. Rosilia's skill at her needle was often exerted in ornamenting her little frocks and caps; and thus beguiled, she did not find the time pass with such monotony as formerly.
Notwithstanding this new resource for the occupation of her mind, she yet deeply felt the absence of her excellent friend, the good Dr. Lovesworth, who was called upon to quit his Hermitage; but more so on account of the melancholy cause which had recently drawn him away. He had received a letter from the father of Philimore of a nature truly distressing, calculated to excite his fears respecting the safety of his young friend. The physicians having pronounced him in imminent danger, Mr. Philimore, the unhappy father, had insinuated how greatly his presence would afford consolation to his son.
Conceiving it, therefore, the last act of friendship he might have it in his power to perform towards that superior young man, and brother minister, the Doctor delayed not to depart immediately for London.