The evening was sultry, and Rosabella was compelled to shelter herself from the sun’s overpowering heat. In the garden was a small fountain, bordered by a bank of moss, over which the magic hands of art and nature had formed a canopy of ivy and jessamine. Thither she bent her steps. She arrived at the fountain, and instantly drew back, covered with blushes, for on the bank of moss, shaded by the protecting canopy, whose waving blossoms were reflected on the fountain, Flodoardo was seated, and fixed his eyes on a roll of parchment.
Rosabella hesitated whether she should retire or stay. Flodoardo started from his place, apparently in no less confusion than herself, and relieved her from her indecision by taking her hand with respect, and conducting her to the seat which he had just quitted.
Now, then, she could not possibly retire immediately, unless she meant to violate every common principle of good breeding.
Her hand was still clasped in Flodoardo’s; but it was so natural for him to take it, that she could not blame him for having done so. But what was she next to do? Draw her hand away? Why should she, since he did her hand no harm by keeping it, and the keeping it seemed to make him so happy? And how could the gentle Rosabella resolve to commit an act of such unheard-of cruelty as wilfully to deprive any one of a pleasure which made him so happy, and which did herself no harm?
“Signora,” said Flodoardo, merely for the sake of saying something, “you do well to enjoy the open air. The evening is beautiful.”
“But I interrupt your studies, my lord,” said Rosabella.
“By no means,” answered Flodoardo; and there this interesting conversation came to a full stop. Both looked down; both examined the heaven and the earth, the trees and the flowers, in the hopes of finding some hints for renewing the conversation; but the more anxiously they sought them, the more difficult did it seem to find what they sought; and in this painful embarrassment did two whole precious minutes elapse.
“Ah, what a beautiful flower!” suddenly cried Rosabella, in order to break the silence, then stooped and plucked a violet with an appearance of the greatest eagerness, though, in fact, nothing at that moment could have been more a matter of indifference.
“It is a very beautiful flower, indeed,” gravely observed Flodoardo, and was out of all patience with himself for having made so flat a speech.
“Nothing can surpass this purple,” continued Rosabella; “red and blue so happily blended, that no painter can produce so perfect a union.”