A DAY'S RIDE: A LIFE'S ROMANCE.

CHAPTER VI.

OUR life at the Rosary—for it was our life
now of which I have to speak—was one of
unbroken enjoyment. On fine days we fished, that
is, Crofton did, and I loitered along some river's
bank till I found a quiet spot to plant my rod,
and stretch myself on the grass, now reading,
oftener dreaming, such glorious dreams as only
come in the leafy shading of summer time, to a
mind enraptured with all around it. The lovely
scenery and the perfect solitude of the spot
ministered well to my fanciful mood, and left
me free to weave the most glittering web of
incident for my future. So utterly was all the
past blotted from my memory, that I recalled
nothing of existence more remote than my first
evening at the cottage. If for a passing instant
a thought of bygones would obtrude, I hastened
to escape from it as from a gloomy reminiscence.
I turned away as would a dreamer who dreaded
to awaken out of some delicious vision, and who
would not face the dull aspect of reality. Three
weeks thus glided by of such happiness as I can
scarcely yet recal without emotion! The Croftons
had come to treat me like a brother; they spoke
of family events in all freedom before me; talked
of the most confidential things in my presence,
and discussed their future plans and their means
as freely in my hearing as though I had been
kith and kin with them. I learned that they
were orphans, educated and brought up by a rich,
eccentric uncle, who lived in a sort of costly
reclusion in one of the Cumberland dales:
Edward, who had served in the army, and been
wounded in an Indian campaign, had given up
the service in a fit of impatience at being passed
over in promotion. His uncle resented the rash
step by withdrawing the liberal allowance he
had usually made him, and they quarrelled.
Mary Crofton, espousing her brother's side,
quitted her guardian's roof to join his, and thus
had they rambled about the world for two or
three years, on means scanty enough, but still
sufficient to provide for those who neither sought
to enter society nor partake of its pleasures.

As I advanced in the intimacy, I became
depositary of the secrets of each. Edward's was
the sorrow he felt for having involved his sister
in his own ruin, and been the means of
separating her from one so well able and so willing
to befriend her. Hers was the more bitter
thought that their narrow means should
prejudice her brother's chances of recovery, for his
chest had shown symptoms of dangerous disease,
requiring all that climate and consummate care
might do to overcome. Preyed on incessantly by
this reflection, unable to banish it, equally unable
to resist its force, she took the first and only
step she had ever adventured without his
knowledge, and written to her uncle a long letter of
explanations and entreaty.

I saw the letter; I read it carefully. It
was all that sisterly love and affection could
dictate, accompanied by a sense of dignity, that
if her appeal should be unsuccessful, no slight
should be passed upon her brother, who was
unaware of the step thus taken. To express
this sufficiently, she was driven to the
acknowledgment that Edward would never have himself
stooped to the appeal; and so careful was she
of his honour in this respect, that she repeated
—with what appeared to me unnecessary
insistence—that the request should be regarded
as hers, and hers only. In fact, this was the
uppermost sentiment in the whole epistle. I
ventured to say as much, and endeavoured to
induce her to moderate in some degree the
amount of this pretension; but she resisted
firmly and decidedly. Now I have recorded
this circumstance here—less for itself than to
mention how by its means this little controversy
led to a great intimacy between us—inducing
us, while defending our separate views, to
discuss each other's motives, and even characters,
with the widest freedom. I called her enthusiast,
and in return she styled me worldly
and calculating; and, indeed, I tried to seem
so, and fortified my opinions by prudential
maxims and severe reflections I should have
been sorely indisposed to adopt in my own case.
I believe she saw all this. I am sure she read
me aright, and perceived that I was arguing
against my own convictions. At all events, day
after day went over, and no answer came to the
letter. I used to go each morning to the post in
the village to inquire, but always returned with the
same disheartening tidings, "Nothing to-day!"

One of these mornings it was, that I was
returning disconsolately from the village, Crofton,
whom I believed at the time miles away on the
mountains, overtook me. He came up from
behind, and passing his arm within mine, walked
on for some minutes without speaking. I saw