Love occasioned my first scrape in life, and thus it came to pass.
About the period of my aimless existence, detailed in the last chapter, the mansion of Mr. Nathan Wylie received a new, and to him, in no way welcome inmate, in the person of an orphan niece from London, the daughter of a brother who had died in circumstances the reverse of affluent, bequeathing this daughter—then in her sixteenth year—to his care.
This brother's letter—one penned on his death-bed in an agony of anxiety for the future of his orphan Ruth—was deeply touching in its simple tenor; and some of the references therein to years that had long passed away, and to the pleasant days of their boyhood, should have been more than enough to soften even the heart of Nathan Wylie; but he read it unmoved, with a grimace on his thin mouth and his beetle brows knit.
Then he carefully folded and docketed it among others, with a gleam of irritation in his cat-like eyes; and equally unmoved by sympathy or compassion did he receive his charge, when she arrived by the stagecoach from London, pale with sorrow, weary with travel, and clad in cheap and simple mourning for the father she had lost.
One generally imagines a Ruth to be solemn, demure, and quiet—something between a little nun and a Quakeress; but Ruth Wylie sorely belied her name, being a merry, kind, and affectionate girl, with bewitching dark eyes, full of fun and waggery, especially when uncle Nathan was absent, for she failed to conceal that his hard, short, and dry manner, and his cold, immoveable visage chilled and saddened her.
New and strange thoughts came into my mind now; and soon I conceived a regard for Ruth, notwithstanding her hideous relation, the lawyer; for to me old Nathan was a bugbear—an ogre!
Despite his angry and reiterated injunctions, she frequently brought her workbasket or book into the room where we plodded with our pens, day after day, for she loved companionship, and Nathan's churlish old housekeeper bored her.
Then sometimes, when we would be writing, and she was sewing or reading near us, I might pause, for irresistible was the temptation to turn to the soft and downcast face of Ruth; and it was strange that however deeply interested in her book—however anxious about her needlework, by some hidden or magnetic influence, she, at the same time paused, and raised her eyelids with a bright inquiring smile, that never failed to thrill my heart with joy, to make my hand tremble, and every pulse to quicken, as our glances instantly met and were instantly withdrawn.
"Here is a little bit of romance at last!" thought I; "already our thoughts and aspirations draw towards each other."
So I resolved to fall in love—most desperately in love with Ruth Wylie—and did so accordingly.
In the full bloom of girlhood, she was at an age when all girls are pretty, or may pass for being so; but Ruth was indeed charming!
She had very luxuriant hair of a colour between brown and bright auburn; its tresses were wavy rather than curly, and her complexion was of the dazzling purity which generally accompanies hair of that description, while her eyes were dark, and their lashes black as night.
Our residence in the same house brought us constantly together, and my love ripened with frightful rapidity. In three days my case was desperate, and Ruth alone could cure it. I was sleepless by night—feverish and restless by day; yet I dared scarcely to address Ruth, for love fills the heart of a boy with timidity.
On the other hand, it endues a girl with courage, and so Ruth talked to me gaily, laughed and rallied me, while my tongue faltered, my cheek flushed or grew pale, and my heart ached with love and new-born joy.
There is a strange happiness in the first love of a boy and girl—the magnetic sympathy which draws heart to heart, and lip to lip, in perfect innocence, and without a thought of the future, or of the solemn obligations of life, and of the world—the weary world, which, with all its conventionalities, is more a clog to us than we to it.
However, I soon perceived that Ruth changed colour, too, when we met; and my heart leaped joyously, when playfully she kissed her hand to me at parting. I felt that I loved her dearly and deeply, but how was I to tell her so?
In all the romances lent to me by my friend, the milliner, the tall and handsome heroes, cast their plumed beavers and ample mantles on the ground, and flung themselves on their knees before their mistresses, beseeching them, in piercing accents, to make them the happiest of men, by giving them even the tips of their snowy fingers to kiss; but I lacked the courage to imitate these striking proceedings; moreover, I possessed neither velvet mantle nor ostrich plume.
One evening, old Nathan was absent on business, and Ruth and I were seated in the recess of a window, looking at a collection of Hogarth's prints. We sat close, very close together, for the window was narrow, and then the volume was so large that we both required to hold it. I felt Ruth's breath at times upon my cheek, and our hands touched every time we turned a leaf.
Her pretty bosom, that heaved beneath her bodice, which was cut square at the neck, and somewhat low in front; her snow-white arms, that came tapering forth from the loose falling sleeves of her black dress, and her delicate little hands so bewildered me, that I never saw the prints with which we were supposed to be engrossed. I saw Ruth—Ruth only, and felt all the joy her presence inspired.
I knew that we both spoke at random, and were somewhat confused in our questions and answers; still more confused in our long pauses. I would have given the world to have clasped this plump little Ruth to my breast; yet I dared scarcely to touch her hand.
As we stooped over the print of "Love à la Mode," her bent head, her white temple, and rich soft hair touched mine, and she did not withdraw.
For a few seconds we sat thus, head reclined against head; then I panted rather than breathed, as my arm stole round her waist, and my trembling lips were pressed upon her pure forehead.
Mr. William Hogarth was permitted to fall ignominiously on the carpet; and we sat thus entwined in each other's arms for a long time—I know not how long—till the twilight deepened round us, and we were roused from our dream of happiness by a harsh and croaking voice, which exclaimed:
"Fool that I am, not to have foreseen this!"
We started and found ourselves confronted by Mr. Nathan Wylie, whose grey eyes glared in the dusk like those of a polecat, through the rims of his horn spectacles.
Poor Ruth uttered a cry and fled; but I turned boldly and faced the enemy.
"So, sir," he exclaimed, in a voice that trembled with silly rage; "so, sir, this is the way you conduct yourself in the house of a God-fearing man, who has saved you from destruction, when your whole family abandoned you! Is this your gratitude, Master Philander—this the result of those pious lessons which I have sought to instil into you? But hark you, sirrah, so sure as I stand here—
"Mr. Wylie," I began, with all the coolness I could assume; "I beg that you——"
"Peace, you young villain, and don't attempt to bully me!" he thundered out; but, immediately adopting his usual whining tone, he added: "Peace I say, for I stand here as a rampart between you and destruction—as a watchman unto Israel. But what virtue or honour, piety or morality am I likely to find in one who bears the name of Basil Gauntlet? After what I have seen to-night, Ruth shall remain a prisoner in her own room, and I must consult with your grandfather about having you sent off to sea, or away from here on any terms."
This would have been welcome intelligence some time ago; but the presence of Ruth had altered the aspect of everything, and I retired to my attic, less to ponder over the rough manner in which we had been wakened from our dream of joy, than to repeat, react and dream it over and over again, with the sweet conviction that Ruth permitted me to love her, and loved me in return.