“You had a fine long chat with Rosa, in the garden,” said my uncle, as we walked home.

“Yes,” replied I, “such a one as will never be forgotten by me.”

“That’s a mighty emphatical never,” repeated my uncle.

“It is, however, a reality,” said I.

“Why, what conversation can have made so deep an impression on your mind?” continued he.

“The language of the heart, the extacies of the soul, which in the moment of impulse, I revealed to Rosa.”

“You have?” said my uncle, grasping my arm tighter.

“Yes, Sir, most solemnly, I swear it—and never will I for a moment be guilty of duplicity to you—by your counsel I will ever abide; and, if I attain the accomplishment of my hopes, ’tis to you only I shall be indebted for the earthly bliss I may enjoy.”

“Noble boy,” exclaimed my uncle; “I blame no part of your conduct but the precipitancy of your explanation.”

“But do you reflect on the torments of suspence, to counterbalance that precipitancy? do you consider the priority of rivalship? do you think it possible any man can behold Rosa Fitzclarence with a heart of indifference? and may not that heart be devoted in a moment, whilst I, through the idle prepossession of diffidence, became its unalterable victim, and lead a life of despair.”

My uncle uttered one of his deepest groans, but made no reply—and by this time we reached home.

“Success and happiness attend you, my boy,” said my uncle, as he closed the door of his apartment, with his eyes suffused in tears. “Don’t be too sanguine, I’ll make a point of conversing with Dr. Markwell on the subject, from whom I shall gain much information, as he is the intimate friend of the guardian who consigned Rosa to his protection, at the period of whose return from the continent all her concerns will be settled, and she becomes her own mistress, if with a disengaged heart, vive l’amour, and Victor St. Alban, if——”

“For heaven’s sake, not another word, that if is dagger sufficient,” cried I, closing my door to press my pillow, and ruminate on hopes and fears, for certainty of her sentiments I had none; Dr. Markwell’s interruption had precluded even the most faultering syllable from escaping her lips—time, and patience, were the only alternatives, and I was compelled to abide by them.

With sleepless eyes, and feverish anxiety, I left my thorny restless pillow the moment I heard the domestics arranging the house, and without knowing why, directed my wandering footsteps to the Rectory, without reflecting on the impropriety of such an early intrusion—but rosy-footed love would not be checked in his career, though the path had been strewn with thorns, and I found myself at the gate before I knew I was half way there.

I gazed earnestly around: Rosa’s chamber-window was thrown open, but the closed shutters of the good Rector denoted he was still in the embraces of Morpheus. My heart beat high—no Rosa made her appearance. A cow-boy advanced towards the spot—’twas little Peter, the gardner’s son, who worked for Dr. Markwell: the boy was alternately whistling the cows along, and munching a handful of cold suet pudding.

“Do you know Miss Rosa?” asked I.

“Ees, Sir.”

“Have you seen her this morning?”

“Ees, Sir,” and he took another mouthful of pudding.

“Can you tell where she is?”

“Noa, Sir.”

“How long ago did you see her?”

“A main good bit,”—and down went another piece of pudding, which Peter regarded more than my enquiry.

“Tell me,” continued I, taking out all the halfpence I had, and putting them in his spare hand, “tell me where to find her.”

Peter stuffed the last morsel of pudding into his mouth, eyed the halfpence, which he pocketted, and half choaking, with a variety of faces to clear his mouth, and pointing with his smutty finger down the opposite lane, exclaimed, “yonder be’es leady a-coming.”

Away I flew, and met her in a moment; she had been herberising on the heath that bounded one extremity of the village, and had collected in a little willow basket, a variety of wild blossoms, which she smilingly told me were for her pupil, St. Alban’s edification.

We soon entered into a more interesting conversation, for I persuaded her to return to the heath, where, unheard and unseen, our intercourse was sacred, and in this sequestered spot I again renewed the subject of my thoughts.

Rosa heard me with attention: her ingenuous lip avowed her heart had no prior prepossession, neither had her guardian any dominion over her at the moment of her coming of age, but that the high estimation in which she held Dr. Markwell, from the character represented of him by her guardian, would never permit her to dispose of her hand without his approbation, as she beheld him with parental love and reverence.

“Allow me time,” said she, with one of her angelic smiles, “to learn the virtues of St. Alban, that I may assure myself my heart is no truant to his precepts, and by that means experience, in various shapes, will convince him if the bauble he seeks is worthy his acceptance.”

I was now the happiest of human beings, and when I parted with Rosa, at the Rectory gate, I learned with rapture we were to meet again at Lady Lustre’s in the evening, where Rosa extorted a faithful promise I would not render myself particular, as the embarrassment would cause her much displeasure, for the observant eye of my uncle, on such occasion, would expose what she most wished to conceal, “for I know not why,” said she, “but whenever he looks at me my heart trembles, and my burning cheek seems to indicate some unfathomable reason.”

“And is it not equally strange,” said I, “that the sight of you always creates similar sensations in him; but I can in some measure account for his perturbation, by your similitude to a lady to whom he once paid his addresses in the early part of life, and whom he loved with that degree of fervour, that he never suffered any other women to supplant her: thus, when he gazes on your polygraphic form, wonder no longer at his starting tear, his heart-felt sigh, for he loves you as his child.”

“Good heavens,” said Rosa, “how singular; I almost wish you had’nt told me, I shall now feel doubly embarrassed—good old gentleman, how much I pity him; his sensibility must be exquisite, and I am the unfortunate cause of perpetually rousing its dormant tranquillity.”

The village clock struck nine—we bade each other a hasty adieu—and in a few minutes I reached home, just as my uncle had descended to breakfast, who, like myself, had passed a sleepless night. Disdaining an iota of duplicity towards my uncle, I frankly told him where, and with whom, I had been; the topic of our conversation, the surprise of Rosa at the explanation of her resemblance; and, in short, all that had past, soliciting his advice how to proceed towards the attainment of my hopes, as I felt as much awe in the presence of Dr. Mark well, as Rosa did in that of my uncle; he, however assured me, I had nothing to fear, if the worthy Rector was the only impediment: “but I advise you to write to your father,” continued he, “explain the affair, dutifully implore his consent to your happiness, and tell him, if liberality has not power to draw his purse-strings, love and nature have sufficient influence with your churlish old misanthropical uncle, to induce him to reward virtue, and constitute happiness, with the contents of his, even to his last shilling; or, though he died a bankrupt, you now know my sentiments Victor, therefore express your own to your father in what terms you think proper, and if he disproves your choice, lay the blame at my door.”

“My gratitude, Sir,” replied I—but my voice faultered, I felt the momentary sensation of strangulation seize my throat—I burst into tears like an infant—nor could I have finished the sentence for worlds, had even the loss of Rosa, at that moment, been the consequence of my silence.

“Keep your gratitude, my boy, till it is more requisite—it’s always a current coin in every country, and when you forget to enrich yourself by its possession, you will be poor indeed; liberally disburse what you can spare, but reserve a portion for the hour of exigence; retire after breakfast to my study, and dispatch your letter to London.”

“Not till you have perused its contents, Sir,” replied I.

“That as you please,” answered he, “but here comes Mr. Prolix, on some tenantry business, I will give him audience while you retire.”

Away I brushed, and never pen glided smoother on such a subject. My uncle highly approved its effusions, and the portentous letter was dispatched two hours after in the postman’s bag, much to my joy and anticipated hope.