After this interview there took place a slight estrangement between Master Richard and Lady Jean that lasted a few days, during which they had much less of conversation and music than for some time before. Both observed this circumstance; but each ascribed it to accident, while it was in reality occasioned by mutual reserve. Master Richard was afraid that Lady Jean might be offended were he to propose anything like a repetition of the garden drama; and Lady Jean, on her part, could not, consistently with the rules of maidenly modesty, utter even a hint at such a thing, however she might secretly wish or long for it. The very consciousness, reciprocally felt, of having something on their minds, of which neither durst speak, was sufficient to produce this reserve, even though the emotions of the “tender passion” had not come in, as they did, for a large share of the cause.
At length, however, this reserve was so far softened down, that they began to resume their former practice of walking together in the garden; but, though the theorbo continued to make one of the party, no more operatic performances took place. Nevertheless, the mutual affection which had taken root in their hearts, experienced on this account no abatement, but, on the contrary, continued to increase.
As for Master Richard, it was no wonder that he should be deeply smitten with the charms of his mistress; for, ever as he stole a long, furtive glance at her graceful form, he thought he had never seen in Spain or Italy any such specimens of female loveliness; and (if we may let the reader so far into the secret) he had indeed come to Cumbernauld with the very purpose of falling in love.
Different causes had operated upon Lady Jean. Richard being the first love-worthy object she had seen since the period when the female heart becomes most susceptible,—the admiration with which she knew he beheld her,—his musical accomplishments, which had tended so much to her gratification,—all conspired to render him precious in her sight. In the words of a beautiful modern ballad, “all impulses of soul and sense had thrilled” her gentle and guileless heart—
——hopes, and fears that kindled hopes,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes, long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long,
had exercised their tender and delightful influence over her; like a flower thrown upon one of the streams of her own native land, whose course was through the beauties, the splendours, and the terrors of nature, she was borne away in a dream, the magic scenery of which was alternately pleasing, fearful, and glorious, and from which she could no more awake than could the flower restrain its course on the gliding waters. The habit of contemplating her lover every day, and that in the dignified character of an instructor, gradually blinded her in a great measure to his humbler quality, and to the probable sentiments of her father and the world upon the subject of her passion. If by any chance such a consideration was forced upon her notice, and she found occasion to tremble lest the sentiments in which she was so luxuriously indulging should end in disgrace and disaster, she soon quieted her fears, by reverting to an idea which had lately occurred to her, namely, that Richard was not what he seemed. She had heard and read of love assuming strange disguises. A Lord Belhaven, in the immediately preceding period of the civil war, had taken refuge from the fury of Cromwell in the service of an English nobleman, whose daughter’s heart he won under the disguise of a gardener, and whom, on the recurrence of better times, he carried home to Scotland as his lady. This story was then quite popular, and at least one of the parties still survived to attest its truth. But even in nursery tales Lady Jean could find examples which justified her own passion. The vilest animals, she knew, on finding some beautiful dame, who was so disinterested as to fall in love with them, usually turned out to be the most handsome princes that ever were seen, who invariably married and made happy the ladies whose affection had restored them to their natural form and just inheritance. “Who knows,” she thought, “but Richard may some day, in a transport of passion, throw open his coat, exhibit the star of nobility glittering on his breast, and ask me to become a countess!”
Such are the excuses which love suggests to reason, and which the reason of lovers easily accepts; while those who are neither youthful nor in love wonder at the hallucination of their impassioned juniors. Experience soon teaches us that this world is not one of romance, and that few incidents in life ever occur out of the ordinary way. But before we acquire this experience by actual observation, we all of us regard things in a very different light. The truth seems to be that, in the eyes of youth, “the days of chivalry” do not appear to be gone; our ideas are then contemporary, or on a par with the early romantic ages of the world; and it is only by mingling with mature men, and looking at things as they are, that we at length advance towards, and ultimately settle down in the real era of our existence. Was there ever yet a youth who did not feel some chivalrous impulses,—some thirst for more glorious scenes than those around him,—some aspirations after lofty passion and supreme excellence—or who did not cherish some pure firstlove that could not prudentially be gratified?