_Rockland Hill_, —, —.
Here I am in my new home. Angel spirit of my mother! are you indeed
hovering around your child, as in your last moments you assured me you
would? When alone I fancy her near me, and my bitter, heart-aching sobs
are soothed.
How all my sad forebodings have been dispelled. Though filled with grief
for my mother’s loss, I feel I am not without friends. My new father and
mother, as they insist upon calling themselves, are indeed kind to me.
The husband is still a very handsome man, though past middle age, and
“Aunt Mary,” as she permits me to call her—for “mother” I cannot
say—is gentle and lovely in both person and mind. She treats me with
all the affectionate tenderness of a mother. When we arrived at this
beautiful place she introduced me to her niece Adelan, a bright,
merry-looking girl, about my own age; and on showing me to my apartment,
which is a beautifully furnished room, she threw open a door, which led
into a fine large room, handsomely furnished also, with piano, harp and
guitar, a large well chosen library, and writing and work-tables, with a
number of comfortable chairs and lounges. The windows of this delightful
room opened on a balcony that commanded a full view of the high
mountains, which rise abruptly on the opposite side of the mountain
stream, which dashes darkly, but brightly along at the foot of the lawn
that leads from beneath our windows.
“This,” said Aunt Mary, “is Adelan’s study and yours. That door opposite
yours leads to Adelan’s room, and here you are both free to come,
whenever you wish, secure from interruption. These are your own
apartments, subject to your own control. Adelan has often wished I had a
daughter to cheer her solitary hours—now Providence has kindly bestowed
upon me a daughter.”
Both aunt and niece tenderly caressed me when my grateful tears began to
flow, and tried all in their power to dispel every feeling of restraint.
If I am not content here it will be my own fault—were it not for the
agonizing recollection that weighs on me like lead, that never again on
earth am I to see my mother, I should even be happy. But, Father above,
grant unto me a spirit of resignation; let me not grieve these kind
friends by my wretchedness; teach me that in another world we shall meet
again.
* * * * *
My mother spent all her childhood and girlhood at this beautiful place.
My Uncle Walter’s father lived here, and this was her home for many
years. How often have I heard her describe every place about it. Aunt
Mary tells me the house is different, and that some changes have been
made in the arrangement of the grounds. My aunt brought her husband a
handsome fortune, which enabled him to put up a fine, commodious
mansion-house on the estate, and throw more of the land into the
immediate grounds of the house.
Mountains surround us on all sides. A rapid, dashing stream rolls along
some distance from the house, and an undulating lawn sweeps down from
the back part of the house to it. It is a wild, romantic spot. This
morning on awakening I threw on my dressing-gown, and passing through
“our study,” as Adelan calls our pleasant room, stepped out on the
balcony. It was early morn, and I watched the curling mists sweep up the
sides of these bluish green hills, forming themselves into fantastic
shapes, as they felt the penetrating heat and light of the sun. They
curled, waved, rolled together, and as the sun rose higher, beaming upon
them, they gradually melted away. I gazed with an elevated spirit, then
turned back to my sleeping-room, and kneeling, thanked God fervently for
having made so beautiful a world. In such moments I feel my blessed
mother near me, and the fancied waving of her angel wings brings gentle
soothings to my wailing spirit.
* * * * *
I have been here now two months, and how quickly has sped the time. I am
quite domesticated. I ride on horseback in the morning and evening with
Uncle Walter; walk, sing and play duets with dear Adelan; and read with
Aunt Mary. She is studying German of me, and after our lesson is over I
read to her from the works of my “_vaterland_.” She is fond of books and
study, and her heart responded when I read to her to-day those hopeful
cheering lines of Novalis.
“Let him who is unhappy in the outdoor world—who finds not what he
seeks—let him go into the world of books and art—into Nature, that
eternal antique and yet eternal novelty—let him live in that _Ecclesia
pressa_ of the better world. Here he will be sure to find a beloved and
a friend—a fatherland and a God.”
These words sound to my ears like my mother’s strong heart words.
Blessed mother! thou art ever with me!
* * * * *
We paid a visit yesterday to some very nice people, who live four or
five miles off, across the mountains; and yet they are our nearest
neighbors. The day passed delightfully. It was a true summer outdoor
visit. There was a large family of beautiful children; fine,
noble-looking boys, and bright-eyed, laughing girls. They grew fond of
me, and twined their arms about me tenderly. I taught them German games,
into which they entered with spirit, and I quite forgot in their shouts
of merry, gleeful laughter, the heavy, tearful cloud that hung over me
when I awakened in the morning. We returned by moonlight; my aunt and
Adelan in the carriage, uncle and I on horseback. The road for the
greater part of the way lay beside the beautiful Undine stream, that
gurgles and dashes daily before my eyes, as I look from the balcony. I
slackened the reins of my horse, and my uncle kindly loitered with me
beside the dancing waters, whose fairy billows glittered with the moon’s
silvery rays. The rich silver flood of light that came pouring down from
heaven touched every wavelet that went dancing along, as if rejoicing in
its snowy crest. I wished I could linger by this flashing streamlet all
night, and when a turning of the road bore me from the sparkling, joyous
waters, I sighed inwardly a sad, unwilling good-bye, as I would in
childhood to a darling playmate—nay, to crowds of playmates—for in the
tiny white-crested billows I fancied the shining locks and flashing eyes
of the lovely water-nymphs; the rippling dash of the waters I told
myself was their sweet spirit-talk. It was a lovely, moonlight, waking
dream to me.
* * * * *
Adelan is quite a pretty girl, I think—little and delicate in form, and
merry and bright as a bird. She is a sunbeam to us. She chants and
warbles all the day long. Her voice is very melodious, and great care
has been taken in its culture—indeed much care has been given to her
education. She is a great heiress, I am told, inheriting a large
property; and Lizzie, the little maiden who waits upon us, said to me
this morning, as I was looking at Adelan on the lawn from my room
window, that old Nancy, the nurse, had told her “Miss Adelan would marry
Mr. Lewis sometime.” This “Mr. Lewis” is my aunt and uncle’s only son,
who I have never seen; as he is away finishing his studies at a
university. In the fall he will have completed them, and will then
return to his home. A picture of him as a bright-looking, handsome boy
hangs in Aunt Mary’s dressing-room. She talks of him constantly, with
much affection and pride, and his letters prove that he is affectionate
as well as clever in mind. Adelan has never displayed any embarrassment
when talking of him. Strange if she loves him and yet preserve it so
secretly from me, for she is a warm-hearted, frank creature, and
innocent and artless as a young child; but Love—sad, naughty
Love—teaches, even the most guileless, art.
This morning we both arose very early and wandered out in the mountain
paths, far from the house, long before breakfast. Nurse Nancy would make
us eat before starting, one of her white rolls, which, with a glass of
the sparkling spring-water, quite invigorated us. The sun shone
brightly, and the clear blue sky with its wavy, wreathy clouds were
reflected in the quiet parts of the stream most vividly. As we roamed
along we came to a rude bridge that spanned our beautiful stream. It was
a spot of peculiar beauty—high mountains environed us, covered with
tall trees of luxuriant foliage. Dashing and foaming along came the
mountain waters, and as they rolled away they formed cascades in their
impetuous flow. The sky above was blue; rich, heavy clouds at times
obscured the brilliancy of the blessed sun; but as we paused upon the
bridge, the clouds swept aside and the sun shone out brightly. The
dancing, coquettish waves, as they caught the glittering sunbeams,
seemed to leap along their rocky bed more joyously, and made me almost
certain I could see the wild, reckless Undine spirits of the flood. I
had brought my camp-stool and sketching-paper with me, for it pleases my
uncle to find beside his plate at the breakfast-table sketches of our
morning rambles, and this beautiful view I determined to secure for him.
Adelan left me making my sketch, to gather wild flowers. She came up to
me at last, with a handfull of St John’s wort, fox-glove, wild roses,
and sweet violets. When I was a child and used to gather wild flowers
for my mother, she would repeat to me a simple little story, which she
called “Woman’s Hopes.” Adelan’s bunch reminded me of it, and as she
threw herself beside me on the grass I repeated it to her.
“Some merry, laughing children were tripping along gayly, one bright
summer’s morning, when they stopped to admire and gather the road-side
flowers. The flowers had just awakened from their sleep and were in
tears.
“‘Languish not, pretty ones,’ said the children caressingly, ‘you shall
be our dearly loved flowers. We will take you home with us, give you
fresh spring-water, and set you before a mirror which shall reflect your
beauties.’
“One gay, vain little flower, at these bright promises, lifted up its
drooping head, rolling off the sparkling dewy drops proudly, but the
little humble violet sighed, for it knew its moments were numbered. A
few short hours passed, and the sportive children were chasing
butterflies—but the poor wild flowers! where were they? Cast aside and
forgotten!”
* * * * *
Summer is fast waning—a year has passed since my blessed mother died.
What agony I suffered then, and how wildly I wished for death. So lonely
and cheerless seemed my future without her sweet smile and
heart-cheering words. But Heaven has raised up dear friends to me, and
has granted unto me a sweet peaceful frame of mind. My mother’s death
has been hallowed unto me. Faith and resignation have been bestowed upon
me. I see before me a reunion with her in another world. Now, my
life-path is no longer gloomy, and I feel that I can rouse my suffering
spirit. As my mother used to wish, I have learned to _act_ as well as
_meditate_. I do not often permit myself to contemplate and brood over
past sorrows. I do not permit myself even to take up this little book,
unless I am sure my mind is in a healthy state; but when sad, languid
feelings come over me, I rouse myself, and shake off the morbid
sentimentality to which woman is so prone. “I hear the voice of my
soul—thy actions, and thy actions alone, determine thy worth.”
I practice with Adelan, read with Aunt Mary, and share my uncle’s
outdoor exercises, of which he is so fond; and how happy it makes me to
see that they look for my coming, and feel that every occupation must be
shared with me. I know my mother would smile upon me if she were alive,
and feel that I had tried to discover my mission, and perform its
duties. How often I repeat to myself those lines of hers, and they give
me strength.
Thy earthly bonds are tightening,
Thy powers are failing fast,
Awake, oh! Spirit hear me,
And break these chains at last.
Thy angel wings are drooping,
Earth clogs them all around;
The spirit’s flight is heavenward,
Why then to earth art bound?
Why thou art banished heaven,
’Twill yield thee naught to know;
Thy duties are before thee,
Why sink to rest below?
Earth slowly gathers o’er thee,
Soon, soon thou wilt be bound,
And all thy heavenly beauty
In death’s strong clasp be found.
The remembrance of thy heavenly life
Has’t left no trace with thee?
Gone, are the spirit’s longings,
The sighing to be free?
Oh! raise those wings of beauty,
Shake off each earthly clod,
And Psyche-like uprising,
Seek union with thy God!
* * * * *
Great preparations have been made—the whole house has been in a state
of bustling hurry for weeks. Each one has been anxious to perform their
part; and the secret of this is, that the son of the family, “the young
master,” our Cousin Lewis, is to return home. To-day he is expected. The
final touch has been given to every thing. I have just visited every
part of the house and grounds with my uncle and aunt, to satisfy them
all was right. His rooms are fairy spots. They adjoin his mother’s
dressing-room—the same rooms he occupied in childhood, but newly fitted
up. Adelan, Aunt Mary and myself have just completed for these rooms a
set of furniture covers, of the most beautiful embroidery. Bouquets of
the rarest flowers, Sandy has spared from the conservatory, for they all
say “Master Lewis is so fond of flowers.” A year has passed since he
visited his home—he was here just a few months before I arrived—it has
been five years since he has remained any length of time at home, now he
has completed his studies, and will have no need to leave his family
again. He brings with him a college friend, a Mr. Turner, who will
remain with him some time. I dread the change this will make in our
quiet life; but I must not, it is selfish; this change, though irksome
to me, brings happiness to others.
As I sit writing, I can lift my eyes and see Adelan decking her
beautiful head. Her room-door is open, and she has been tripping around
for the last half hour, performing her _toilette_. A grand dinner-party
is to greet this arrival of our cousin and his friend, and Adelan is
preparing herself for it. She does not know I am watching her. Now she
holds a consultation with little Lizzie about the arrangement of a knot
of ribbon, and Lizzie’s face bears such an expression of admiration and
anxiety blended that it is amusing. How lovely Adelan looks; her
beautiful curls sweep over her finely moulded neck and shoulders, and
her bright eyes and cunning, rosy mouth have a more mischievous, saucy
expression than ever. Ah! Cousin Adelan, is that little heart looking
forward to the approach of a lover in this Cousin Lewis?
* * * * *
Our cousin is here, and his friend. How handsome—how spiritual-looking
is he; not the friend, but Lewis. He resembles his mother most; has her
high, intellectual brow, and soft, beaming, melting, dark eyes. He is
very interesting. They did not arrive until just before dinner, and as
many of our friends had assembled in the drawing-room, I was presented
to my Cousin Lewis in the midst of this company. Dear Uncle Walter and
Aunt Mary introduced me to him as his “Sister Ida.” My heart was full,
my eyes became dim, and ears throbbed; but I heard his gentle greeting
words with pleasure. His friend Frank Turner is pleasant looking, and
agreeable, but is quite thrown in the shade in my cousin’s presence. Who
would not be though? Adelan looks very happy and joyous, and Cousin
Lewis regards her with evident delight. Blessed—happy girl!
* * * * *
Gay parties have succeeded one another in hasty eagerness for weeks
past. All the neighbors for miles around seem anxious to make much of
the new comers. At the houses of the most intimate friends I have gone,
where I would meet the smallest parties, but my sombre mourning-dress
keeps me from general society, and my spirit feels harassed and wearied
in large companies. These gayeties bring me many lonely hours. My aunt’s
German studies are laid aside for the present, and Adelan is up so late
at night she cannot arise early for our morning rambles; even the
horseback rides have to be given up partly, so busy are they going here
and there. The house is filled with visiters, and all this will last for
some weeks I suppose. I wish I could enter into this gayety, but I
cannot; my thoughts are with my own dear mother; my heart is heavy, and
I pine for rest. Oh how willingly would I lie beside her in the cold,
damp grave!
* * * * *
How delightful is it to me to watch the father, mother and son—they are
wrapt up in each other. Lewis is indeed the model of a man. He is as
calm and gentle in manner as in disposition. He converses most
eloquently.—I listen spell bound to his words. I do not think Adelan
really loves him as he should be loved. She yawned this evening in the
midst of his conversation with a gentleman on modern literature, and
rose up from beside him and went into the music-room, as if wearied. I
could have listened to him forever, even had the subject been one less
interesting. The sound of Adelan’s rich voice, accompanied by the
rippling notes of the harp, came sweeping into the drawing-room, like an
angel melody, and broke up the conversation. A little after I saw Lewis
leaning over Adelan at the harp, and then their voices swelled out in
delightful harmony together. They looked so happy, and my uncle and aunt
sat near each other with countenances expressive of content. Naughty,
melancholy thoughts came brooding over my mind. An aching sense of
loneliness crept over me, chilling my very heart, and I abruptly left
Mr. Turner, who was kindly endeavoring to entertain me, and came to my
own room. As I write, the delicious music from below comes floating in
through the windows of the balcony, and mingled with it is the rippling
dash of my Undine stream. How strange, Adelan is singing Thekla’s song,
which I arranged for her, “_Der Eichwald brauset, die Wolken
ziehn_”—how true sound the words to my ears—they seem an echo of my
heart.
“The heart is dead, the world is empty, and gives me nothing further to
desire. Thou holy one! take thy child unto thee. I have enjoyed the
happiness of this life—I have lived and have loved.”
Ah, how sad and heavy I feel! Angel mother, hast thou forsaken thy
child? Why are evil thoughts and dark spirits brooding around me?
* * * * *
Several weeks have again passed. I have not been well; it pains me to
sit writing, and I have, moreover, avoided it, for I fear the sad
gloominess that hangs over me may be increased by communings with
myself—communings which I dread. At last my eyes are opened, and opened
by the trouble of another. A few days since, Mr. Turner, to my
amazement, made to me a most fervent declaration of love. I had not
imagined I was an object of interest to him, and I felt grieved to hear
his avowal. My uncle and aunt, and even Lewis pressed his suit. Rich,
good-looking, and intelligent, I suppose they wondered at my refusal;
but it was useless—I could not love him, and frankly told him so. Sadly
he took his leave of us all, and left me to a misery, a wretchedness,
worse, fifty times worse than his. His offer disclosed to me my
weakness, my wicked frailty. I love my Cousin Lewis passionately, with
all the ardor of an untried heart—and, shame upon me, I love without
return. Adelan and he are inseparable. He adapts his conversation and
pursuits to her tastes—and they are happy lovers.
* * * * *
I have been reading over this journal, and am filled with mortification.
When little was required of me, what self-gratulation I gave myself.
Now, when temptation and heart-trials come upon me, I weakly, wickedly
yield. Where is that inner voice of my spirit—“thy actions, and thy
actions alone determine thy worth.” I will rouse myself and shake off
this morbid feeling; I will bring myself to look upon the happiness of
others, and be willing to sacrifice my own. I have withdrawn myself so
much from the family as to excite attention. All evince a kind, tender
earnestness for me; and Aunt Mary’s soft eyes filled with tears to-day
when she noticed my paleness; she upbraided herself for having been so
occupied with her son. How my heart reproached me for my selfishness. I
_will_ rouse myself, and shake off this wicked passion. Mother, sweet,
angel mother, aid me!
* * * * *
How foolish I have been in seeking and making trouble for myself. My
poor head and heart are so filled with wild happiness that I can
scarcely command words to express the cause of my great joy. Blessed
mother! thou hast, indeed, watched over thy child; and, although
undeserving and doubting, great happiness has been reserved for me.
Lewis loves me with all the fond earnestness that a woman’s heart can
desire. He has loved me from the first; but my own willful selfishness,
and suspicious, jealous nature, blinded me. He has never loved Adelan
more than as a sister, and she regards him as a dear brother. They all
thought I was attached to Frank Turner, because I so freely accepted his
attentions. Lewis forbore to press his suit out of regard to his friend;
and, moreover, I had always observed such a repelling coldness toward
him, he feared he was disagreeable to me.
When I last wrote in here, I resolved to mingle more with the family,
and try to overcome my unhappy love. As the circle was smaller, our
visiters having left, Lewis and I were thrown more together. The delight
of listening to him overcame my fear of love; we rode together; he
united in our German studies; joined my morning rambles, and
unconsciously, I scarcely know how, my happiness became known to me. A
mere chance disclosed his love; he intended waiting patiently. Everyone
else knew it but myself—my aunt, uncle, and Adelan; while I, with mock
heroism, was determining myself to be very miserable. I do not deserve
this good fortune—wicked, selfish, and doubting as I have been; but I
will pray for strength to guide my future. As my aunt folded me in her
arms this evening, when Lewis with joyful eagerness presented me to his
parents, she murmured in my ears, “My blessed child, will you not _now_
call me ‘mother!’”
My inner spirit praises Heaven for all its mercies, and bows down in
serious, confiding gratitude. But the future still lies before me.
Suffering I have but indifferently borne; let me pray that strength may
be given me to bear my prosperity.
The angel pinions of my blessed spirit mother again float around me. A
violet hue is spread before my mental vision, and the clouds of doubt
and selfish jealousy, that hung curling around me like the mists on the
mountain’s side, are all dissipated and melted away under the soft beams
of my rising sun of love and confidence.
* * * * *
A few weeks after I attended the wedding of my dear cousin Ida—Adelan
and I officiating as bride-maids to the gentle creature. She trembled at
the excess of her happiness, and never realized how like an angel we all
deemed her. She gave me this journal, she said, as a _penance_ for
herself, to let me know how wicked she was. Many happy years have been
hers, and she still enjoys life. A crowd of beautiful children troop
around her; and the violet hue of an angelic atmosphere seems always to
pervade her presence, to my fancy.
Her spirit has been one of those which Jean Paul says “falls from heaven
like a flower-bud, pure and spotless.” Hers has remained undimmed
through life’s toilsome journey, and the pure, fresh bud has opened,
exhaling spiritual fragrance on all around her.
* * * * *