Part 5

_Rosalind._ I hope Josephine's afternoon nap will not be as long as usual: I am so impatient to tell her. O, how we shall enjoy ourselves together!

* * * * *

When Josephine awoke and heard of the new arrangement, she was as much delighted as _she_ could be at any thing; and she begged that Rosalind might be allowed to share her chamber during this happy week.

Monday morning came; and Rosalind (such is the power of habit) awoke, as usual, with the dawn; but soon recollected that she was not to get up till nine o'clock. She saw the light gleaming through the Venetian shutters, and she heard the morning song of the scarlet oriole, whose nest was in a locust tree close to the window; and the twittering of the martins as they flew about their box, which was affixed to the wall just below the roof of the house. She heard Adelaide, who was in the next room, get up to dress herself, and exclaim as she threw open the shutters, "O, what a beautiful sunrise!" Rosalind felt some desire to enjoy the loveliness of the early morning; but determined to remain in bed, and indulge herself with another nap. She turned and shook her pillow, and tumbled about for a long time before she could get to sleep; and at last she awoke again just as the clock was striking seven. She had still two hours to remain in bed, and she found the time extremely tedious. "Are you asleep, Josephine?" said she. "No," replied Josephine, "I am never asleep after this hour."

_Rosalind._ Why, then, do you remain in bed?

_Josephine._ O, because I hate to get up.

_Rosalind._ Well then let us talk.

_Josephine._ O, no! I never talk in bed. For, even when I do not sleep, I am not quite awake.

At length it was nine; and at the first stroke of the clock, Rosalind started from her bed, and began to wash and dress herself. When the girls went down stairs, they found the family breakfast had long been over, and they had theirs on a little table in a corner of the room. Rosalind thought her breakfast did not taste very well; probably, because remaining so long in bed, had taken away her appetite.

After breakfast, they went out and walked a little while in the most shady part of the garden. Then they sat down; first in the arbour of honeysuckles, then on the green bank behind the ice-house; then on a garden chair; and then on the bench at the foot of the great walnut tree. They picked a few currants and ate them; and they gathered some roses and smelled them. For some time they held their parasols over their heads; and then they shut them, and made marks on the gravel with the ends of the ivory sticks. They looked awhile at a nursery of young peach-trees at one side of the garden; and then they turned and looked towards a clover-field on the other side. Josephine pulled the strings of her reticule backwards and forwards; and Rosalind counted the palisades in the fence of the kitchen-garden. At last a bright idea struck her; and she gathered some dandelions that were going to seed, and blew off the down; recommending the same amusement to Josephine, who, after two or three trials, gave it up.

"Suppose we go to the play-room," said Rosalind. Josephine assented, and they slowly walked back to the house, and ascended the stairs. "Now," said Rosalind, "we can play domino _in the morning_. Generally, we never amuse ourselves with any of those little games in the day-time; though we have domino, draughts, and loto, sometimes in the evening." They played domino awhile in a very spiritless manner, and then they tried draughts and loto, which they also soon gave up; Josephine saying that all these games required too much attention. She then had recourse to the rocking-chair, and Rosalind took some white paper and cut fly-traps; in which amusements they tried to get rid of the time till near the dinner-hour, when they combed their hair, and changed their dresses. Adelaide did not join them in the play-room, being much engaged with a very amusing book.

After dinner, Rosalind, accompanied Josephine to her room to take a nap likewise. But she found it so warm, and turned and tossed about so much, and had such difficulty in fixing herself in a comfortable position, that she thought, if it was not for the name of taking a nap, she had better have stayed up as usual. Josephine had less difficulty, being accustomed to afternoon-sleeping; and at length Rosalind shut her eyes, and fell into a sort of uneasy doze.

When they awoke, Rosalind proposed that they should put on their frocks, and go down into the porch, where Mrs. Mortlake and Adelaide were reading and sewing. But Josephine thought it would be much less trouble to sit in their loose gowns until near tea-time. To this Rosalind agreed, and they sat and gazed at the river. But it happened _this_ afternoon that no ships came in, and only one went out; and all the steamboats kept far over towards the opposite shore. They were glad when the bell rung for tea; for when people do nothing, their meals are a sort of amusement, and are therefore expected with anxious interest. In the evening, they declined joining Mrs. Mortlake and Adelaide in their usual long walk, and took a short stroll under the willows on the bank of the river; after which they returned to the parlour, where Mr. Edington sat reading the newspaper, and Josephine threw herself on the sofa; while Rosalind sat beside her on a chair, and played with the kitten.

Next morning, their amusements in the garden were a little diversified by playing jack-stones and platting ribbon-grass; and when they went up to the play-room, Rosalind, looking among her old toys, found a doll long since laid aside, and a basket with its clothes. She offered the doll to Josephine proposing that she should dress it: but Josephine said "I would rather look at you, while _you_ do it." Rosalind accordingly dressed the doll in two different suits, one after another; but soon grew tired, and had recourse to an ivory cup and ball, which she failed to catch with as much dexterity as usual. She gave Josephine a wooden lemon, which on being opened in the middle, contained a number of other lemons one within another, and diminishing in size till the last and smallest was no bigger than a pea. When Josephine had got through the lemon, Rosalind took it, and resigned the cup and ball to her cousin, who soon gave it up, as she could never make the cup catch the ball; and she again finished the morning with her never-failing resource the rocking-chair.

Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday having been passed in this manner, on Thursday Rosalind began to acknowledge to herself, what she had indeed suspected on the first day, that a life of entire idleness was not quite so agreeable as she had supposed. Having no useful or interesting occupation to diversify her time, she found that play had lost its relish; and now that she could play all day, she found all plays tiresome. These three days had appeared to her of never-ending length; and she began to think that when her week of idleness had expired she would not solicit Mrs. Mortlake to prolong the term.

On Thursday afternoon Rosalind gave up her nap, and went and seated herself at the open window, that she might hear Mrs. Mortlake and Adelaide read aloud in the porch. And next morning, she actually stopped and listened at the school-room door while Adelaide was repeating her French lesson; and she returned again, and stood behind the door, to hear Mrs. Mortlake instructing her sister in a new song accompanied on the harp. All that day and the next, she felt as if she was actually sick of doing nothing; and she absolutely languished to be allowed once more to take a book and read, or to draw, or play on the piano. Even sewing, she thought, would now seem delightful to her.

On Saturday morning Rosalind met Adelaide in her brown linen apron with long sleeves, going into the housekeeper's room to assist in making cakes and pastry. She longed to go in with her, and to do her part as formerly; and her longing increased when she heard the sound of beating eggs, and grinding spice. She had hitherto looked forward with great pleasure to her holiday on Saturday afternoon. Now, after doing nothing all the week, Saturday afternoon had no charms for her; and she was glad to find it was to be devoted to a ride in the carriage, through a pleasant part of the adjacent country.

"Well, Rosalind," said Josephine, as they were taking off their bonnets, after their return from the ride, "you have now spent a week in _my_ way. Do you not wish you could pass your whole life in the same manner?"

_Rosalind._ No, indeed--nor even another week. This week of idleness has seemed to me like a month; and I have no desire to renew the experiment. I have never in my life gone to bed so tired as after those days of doing nothing. I find that want of occupation is to me absolute misery; though it may be very delightful to _you_, as you have been brought up in a different manner, and have never been accustomed to any sort of employment. Yet, still I think you would be much happier, if you had something to do.

In the evening Mr. Edington said to his youngest daughter, "Well, Rosalind, how do you like your week of idleness? Are you going to request Mrs. Mortlake to lengthen the term of your enjoyment?"

_Rosalind._ O no, dear father; it has been no enjoyment to _me_. On the contrary, I am glad to think that it is now over. I have found it absolutely a punishment.

_Mr. Edington._ So I suspected.

_Rosalind._ And I deserved it, for allowing myself to become dissatisfied with the manner in which Mrs. Mortlake chose that I should occupy myself. I am tired of lying in bed, tired of idleness, and tired of play. So, dear Mrs. Mortlake, be so kind as to let me rise at daylight on Monday morning, to work in my garden, and resume my lessons as usual. You may depend on it I shall never again wish for a single day of idleness.

_Mrs. Mortlake._ I am very glad to hear you say so, my dear Rosalind. And I do not despair of at length convincing Josephine that she would be more happy if she had some regular employment.

That night Rosalind returned to her own chamber, and next morning she was up at daylight. It being Sunday, they went as usual to church in the city, and Rosalind was now delighted to pass the remainder of the day in reading a volume of Mrs. Sherwood's excellent work, the Lady of the Manor. A book now seemed like a novelty to her.

Next day Rosalind went through her lessons with a pleasure she had never felt before; and when they were over, she highly enjoyed her two hours' recreation after dinner. She took no more afternoon naps; and after a short time even Josephine was persuaded to give them up, and found it possible, with some practice, to keep awake while her cousins or Mrs. Mortlake were reading aloud in the porch.

Finally, Josephine became ashamed of being the only idle person in Mr. Edington's house, and was prevailed on by her uncle and Mrs. Mortlake to join her cousins in their lessons. By degrees, and by giving her only a very little to learn at a time, and by having constantly before her such good examples as Adelaide and Rosalind, she entirely conquered her love of idleness. She was really not deficient in natural capacity, and she soon began to take pleasure in trying to improve herself; so that when she returned to Maryland, she carried with her a newly acquired taste for rational pursuits, which she never afterwards lost.

MADELINE MALCOLM.

Now here--now there--in noise and mischief ever. _Rogers._

"Well, Juliet, how is your friend, Cecilia Selden?" said Edward Lansdowne to his sister, as they were sitting by the parlour fire, in the interval between daylight and darkness. It was the evening after his arrival from Princeton college to spend a fortnight at Christmas with his family in Philadelphia.

_Juliet._ I believe Cecilia is very well. At least she was so when last I saw her, about five weeks since.

_Edward._ Is it five weeks since you have seen Cecilia Selden? You were formerly almost inseparable. I hope there has been no quarrel between you.

_Juliet._ None at all. But--somehow--I am tired of Cecilia Selden. She is certainly a very dull companion.

_Edward._ Dull! You once thought her very amusing. For my part, _I_ always found her so. She has read a great deal, is highly accomplished, and as she travels every summer with her parents, she has had opportunities of seeing a variety of interesting places and people. And above all, she has an excellent natural understanding.

_Juliet._ But she is always so sensible and so correct, and every thing that she says and does is so very proper.

_Edward._ So much the better. You will improve by being intimate with her.

_Juliet._ I never shall be intimate again with Cecilia Selden. She is too particular, too fastidious. She does not like Madeline Malcolm.

_Edward._ And who is Madeline Malcolm? I never heard of her before.

_Juliet._ Her father is our next door neighbour. You know we did not live in this house when you were last in Philadelphia. The very day we moved, Madeline Malcolm came in to see us, in the midst of all our bustle and confusion, and stayed the whole afternoon. She said she had long been desirous of becoming acquainted with me, was delighted that we were now near neighbours, and therefore could not forbear running in to commence the intimacy immediately.

_Edward._ But "in the midst of all your bustle and confusion," it must have been very in convenient to receive a visitor, and to entertain her the whole afternoon.

_Juliet._ Why,--we were a little disconcerted at first, but she begged of us not to consider her a stranger. She was just as sociable as if she had known us for seven years; and she was so queer, and there was so much fun in every thing she said and did, that she kept me laughing all the time.

_Edward._ I should like to see this prodigy of fun.

_Juliet._ No doubt you will soon have that pleasure; for she runs in and out, the back way, ten times a-day.

Juliet had scarcely spoken when they heard a voice in the entry, singing "I'd be a butterfly," and Madeline Malcolm, a tall, black-eyed, red-cheeked girl, with long ringlets of dark hair, came flying into the parlour, exclaiming, "What, still by fire-light--I shall have to pull your Peter's ears myself, if he does not mind his business and light the astral lamp sooner. O! here he comes. Now, Peter, proceed; and take yourself off as soon as you have accomplished the feat. Well,--now that there is no longer any danger of falling over this young gentleman, I must beg leave to be introduced to him in form. I surmise that he is the most learned Mr. Edward Lansdowne of Nassau-Hall, Princeton. Ah! I have torn my frock on the fender. Just like me, you know." Juliet immediately introduced her brother. "Well, Ned," exclaimed Miss Malcolm, "you have come to make us happy at last. Your sister has talked so much about you that I have actually been longing for your arrival. Come, tell us the best news at college. I have a cousin there, but he has not been in town since the rebellion before the last. I suppose he goes to New York to take his frolics. Come, tell us all the particulars of your last 'Barring out;' I suppose it was conducted according to the newest fashion. Juliet, did you ever see any thing like Ned's face? A sort of mixed expression; trying to smile and be agreeable, but looking all the time as if he could bar _me_ out himself."

In this manner she ran on for near half an hour, Juliet laughing heartily, and Edward not at all. At last she rose to go away, and when Juliet invited her to stay all the evening, she said she _must_ go home, for they were to have waffles at tea, and she would not miss them on any consideration. However, the tea-table in Mrs. Lansdowne's parlour being now set, she took a spoonful of honey which she dripped all over the cloth, and then giving Juliet a hearty kiss, she seized Edward's arm saying, "Come, Ned, escort me home. I am going in at the front-door this time, and there is always ice on our steps, so be sure to take care that I do not fall."

When Edward took his leave at Madeline's door, she shook hands with him, saying, "Am I not a wild creature? You see how my spirits run away with me."

Edward came back with a countenance of almost disgust. "If this is your new friend," said he to his sister, "I must say that I consider her scarcely endurable. Why, she never saw me before this evening, and yet she is as familiar as if she had known me all her life. To think of her calling me Ned."

"Ah!" said Juliet with a smile, "I suspect _that_ to be the grand offence, after all. But depend upon it, you will like her better when you know her better."

"I very much doubt my ever liking her at all," replied Edward.

* * * * *

Nothing could exceed the sociability of Madeline Malcolm. She breakfasted, dined, and drank tea at Mrs. Lansdowne's table nearly as often as at her father's; and she frequently ran in early in the morning, and scampered into Juliet's chamber before she had risen. Mr. and Mrs. Lansdowne (both whose dispositions were remarkably amiable and indulgent) did not approve of their daughter's intimacy with Madeline. They had spoken to her on the subject; but Madeline's frank and caressing manner, and her perpetual good-humour, had so won the heart of Juliet, that it was painful to her to hear a word against her friend, as she called her. So her parents concluded to let it pass for the present; trusting to Juliet's becoming eventually disgusted by some outrageous folly of Madeline's, who seemed to think her professed volatility an excuse for every thing; and that the appellation of _a wild creature_, which she took pride in giving herself, would screen her from any resentment her unwarrantable conduct might provoke.

Still, as Edward observed, she had a great deal of selfishness and cunning; as is generally the case with wild creatures; for when females have so little of the delicacy of their sex as to throw aside the restraints of propriety, the same want of delicacy makes them totally regardless of the feelings or convenience of others, and renders them callous to every thing like real sympathy or kindness of heart.

At home, Madeline was allowed to do exactly as she pleased; her father's thoughts were perpetually in his counting-house, and her step-mother, who spent all her time in the nursery, was incessantly occupied with the care of a large family of young children, of whom Madeline never took the least account. And she was so much at Mr. Lansdowne's that Juliet had few opportunities of returning her visits.

She borrowed all Juliet's best books, and did not scruple to lend them again to any person that she knew. Some of the books were never returned; and others were brought back soiled, torn, and in a most deplorable condition. One of her jokes was to take up Juliet's muslin-work, and disfigure it with what she called gobble-stitch. She came in one day and found the parlour unoccupied, and Juliet's drawing-box on the table, with a beautiful landscape nearly finished. Madeline sat down and daubed at it till it was quite spoiled, and when Juliet discovered her at this employment, she turned it off with a laugh, insisting that she had greatly improved the picture. She found Juliet one evening engaged in copying a very scarce and beautiful song, which she had borrowed from her music-master, and which had never been published in America. On Juliet's being called up stairs for a few moments to her mother, Madeline took the pen, and scribbled on the margin of the borrowed music, some nonsensical verses of her own composition, in ridicule of the music-master.

Edward presented his sister at Christmas with a set of a new English magazine, which contained biographical sketches and finely engraved portraits of some of the most celebrated female authors. Madeline came in soon after the arrival of the books; and having looked them over, she insisted on carrying one of the volumes home with her. Next day she brought it back, with a pair of spectacles drawn with a pen and ink round the eyes of each of the portraits that, as she said, "The learned ladies might look still wiser." Upon this Edward immediately left the room, lest his indignation should induce him to say too much, and Juliet could not help warmly expressing her dissatisfaction. But Madeline pacified her by hanging round her neck and pleading that her love of fun was constantly leading her to do mischievous things; and that she was sure her darling Juliet loved her too well not to forgive her.

Cecilia Selden, a sensible and amiable girl, and formerly Juliet's most intimate friend, was an object of Madeline's particular dislike and ridicule; of which Cecilia perceived so many palpable symptoms, that she left off visiting at Mrs. Lansdowne's house; to the great regret of Edward.

Mrs. Templeton, a lady that lived at the distance of a few squares, gave a juvenile ball, to which Juliet and Edward were invited, and also Madeline with several of her little brothers and sisters. Soon after Juliet had gone up to her room to commence dressing, Madeline came in followed by a servant with two bandboxes, and exclaiming, "Well, Juliet, I have brought all my trappings, and have come here to dress with _you_, that I may escape being put in requisition at home to assist in decorating the brats, who will entirely fill up _our_ carriage, so I am going to the ball in _yours_. There now, get away from the glass and let me begin."

Juliet removed from the glass, and throwing a shawl over her shoulders, sat down by the fire, determined to wait patiently till Madeline had finished her toilet. But this was no expeditious matter. Madeline always professed to be too giddy to have her clothes in order, or to think of any thing before the last moment. Every article that she was to wear this evening required some alteration, which Juliet was called upon to make, till Lucy, a mulatto seamstress that lived in the family, came up to assist the young ladies in dressing. Madeline's white satin under-frock was longer than the tulle dress that she wore over it: and after it was put on, it was necessary to make it shorter by turning the hem up all round and running it along with a needle and thread. Her satin belt would not meet, and after a great deal of pulling and squeezing in vain, the only remedy was to take off the hooks and eyes and set them nearer to the ends. She desired Lucy to arrange her hair for her, which was a difficult task, as Madeline would not hold still a moment; and after it was at last accomplished, she declared that Lucy had made a fright of her, and demolished the whole structure with her own hands, strewing the floor with hair-pins and flowers. She then called Juliet to her assistance; and, in the course of time, her hair was finished to her satisfaction.