girlhood I recall with but little pleasure, for the recollection is
associated with remembrances of dependence, loneliness, and ill-health.
My parents died while I was yet quite young. Of my father I have no
recollection—of my mother a faint memory, which may be but fancy after
all. A girl always imagines she recollects her mother, and with the
fancied memory she blends all that is lovely and beautiful.
My relatives were kind-hearted, but plain matter-of-fact people. They
were mostly well to do in the world, but they had families of their own
to forward in life, and the poor weakly girl was but a burthen to them.
As I grew larger and stronger in health, they all agreed that something
must be done to make me independent when I should grow to woman’s
estate. Very properly they argued “she may never marry, and although a
woman, she must have some means of support to free her from the humbling
feeling of dependence.” My weakly constitution had made me shy and
reserved. A mother’s watchful, fearful love would have overcome this
tendency, but I shrank from the abrupt kindnesses of my plain, homely
friends, and in secret, with a sort of “sorrowing luxury” pined for the
gentle hand of a mother to smooth the pillow for my constant aching
brow, and listen to, and soothe my childish complainings. I loved to be
alone, and fortunately I early imbibed a love for reading. In books I
forgot the sensation of loneliness that weighed down my young spirits.
The bustling, busy natures of those amongst whom the death of my parents
had thrown me, caused them to look upon this very natural tendency of
mine as something quite remarkable. They thought I must surely be
uncommonly clever, uncommonly intelligent to display, thus early, a love
for books; their own memories told a different story—study and reading
had been irksome to their restless minds—minds which found food enough
in every-day worldly pursuits. My vocation was decided upon—I was fond
of study, therefore I would surely make a good teacher, and to fit me
for this trying office, they all resolved that I should have an
excellent education, cost what it might. As I grew older, I fully
appreciated their judicious kindness, and prayed Heaven might bless such
single-hearted people—for although I had not received from my homely,
matter-of-fact relatives, the gentle caresses, and persuasive, patient
endurance of parents, for which I pined in childhood, yet they freely
gave of their store to me, and provided me with the resources, which in
womanhood fortified my mind, and enabled me to bear with sore trials.
An old established prosperous school was selected, where, under the
supervision of a highly accomplished and superior mind, my early days
were passed. I improved rapidly. Each session at its conclusion gave a
most satisfactory report of my progress; and when I reached the age of
fifteen I had obtained such a position as to entitle me to a vacant
subordinate teachership in the school, the duties of which were but
light, and left me sufficient time to pursue the higher branches of
study. My position as half-teacher, half-pupil, caused a slight barrier
to be raised between my fellow scholars and myself, but amongst them I
had many dear friends, who disregarded this fancied difference, and
loved me as one of themselves. My most intimate school-girl friend was
Clara Neale. So different were we in every respect, that even as a girl
I used to wonder at our intimacy. She was beautiful, rich, and
surrounded by a troop of loving and admiring friends. I poor, not
absolutely ugly, yet plain, and almost if not quite alone in the school
world. How I worshiped her beauty—I was always strangely affected and
influenced by personal appearance. Beauty, particularly in a woman,
attracted me—it was a weakness, but still I acknowledge its power. The
blue of Clara’s eyes was so deep, so dark—I can see their melting,
bewitching softness of expression even now, though many, many years have
passed away, and those eyes are closed in death.
Her hair was of the purest shade of chestnut brown; and many an hour
have I hung over her as if under the influence of a beautiful dream,
listening to her sweetly modulated voice reading some impassioned tale;
her graceful form thrown carelessly in a lovely attitude, and every
movement beaming with beauty. She was my idol, I confess, but the idol
also of many. My enthusiastic love pleased her, for I was cold to
others, being as in childhood, quiet and reserved, and seldom giving
evidence of any emotion. In the school I ranked high as a scholar, and
on account of my incessant, ambitious application, received from my
principals more credit for superiority of mind, than I fear I really
deserved; which, although it caused me to be an object of envy to many,
yet by girls possessing the associations and independence of position
which Clara did, I was regarded with respect and admiration. Therefore
did my romantic love flatter her. She was my first infatuation. I
clothed her with every virtue under the sun—I endowed her with every
mental gift in my fancy. As I look upon the ideal being created by my
girlish fascination, I can scarcely refrain from smiling, though in
sadness. Beautiful, she truly was, “as a poet’s or a painter’s
dream”—but she was little else. Clever enough, but not superior. She
was romantic, easily influenced, and gentle—but I loved her
passionately, and I love her memory now, even though she caused me great
suffering.
My vacations were generally spent at the school, for it was situated in
a very healthy section of country, and there were always many of the
boarding scholars that different circumstances compelled to remain. But
the summer of my sixteenth year, my health gave evidences of failing.
The preceding winter had been a trying one, both out of doors and
in—bleak and stormy had been the weather—the studies had likewise been
arduous and severe for me. The class of younger girls, my charges, had
been uncommonly large, consequently my duties increased, which caused me
to take from my sleeping hours the time necessary for accomplishing my
other studies. I felt that my reputation as the leading scholar in the
establishment was all I had to depend upon, therefore I could not permit
any thing to deprive me of that which I knew was my only capital. But,
ah! how wretchedly I felt at the close of the session; all the old
pining sadness of my childhood returned to me—I sickened for a tender
mother’s gentle soothings, a father’s looks of anxious pride—but these
were not for me, poor lone hearted girl, and “the future rose only as a
wall of darkness before me.” No longer did my heart beat with pride when
the principal prizes were unanimously awarded to me; and the directors
of the school looked compassionately on me, as they marked my thin form,
hollow cheeks, and dim eyes. A change of scene was necessary, so all
said, and I received from a distant relative an invitation to spend the
weeks of my vacation in his family. Passively I accepted the kind offer,
for so despondent was I, that all places seemed alike to me; but I
little expected the happiness that awaited me. They were relatives I had
never met with before; the husband was kind, intelligent, and
pleasant—the wife was still handsome, though no longer young—in my
eyes a great virtue—had known and loved my mother, and was gentle and
affectionate. They had many children, all married, and young
grandchildren shouted merrily through the house. It was a beautiful
country place where they lived, high mountains surrounded them, and
thick forests, such as I had never seen but in pictures and dreams. The
glow of health soon bloomed once more upon my cheeks; the dark cloud of
the Future was no longer regarded by me, for the bright sunny light of
the Present, blinded me to its shadows and I again rejoiced in life.
When my visit was about half over, a ward of my cousin’s came to pay
them a visit. Does not my reader see already that I am approaching the
history of my second infatuation? How my heart beats even now, old as I
am, when I recall the image of Walter Grey. He was also beautiful, or my
heart would never have been enchained. A miniature of him lies beside me
as I write, and I fancy I am a girl again, as I look in those liquid
dark eyes and dwell on the lovely lines of the countenance—massive and
rich are the dark clusters of the wavy hair; beautiful is the face, and
deeply, devotedly, did I love the original.
The last weeks of my sojourn in that blessed region floated as on
dream-wings. Walter was my constant companion. We wandered through the
forests—by the gushing, dancing, Undine streams, and he imagined, while
listening to my girlish rhapsodies, that I was the realization of an
intellectual perfection he had created in his fancy. We parted in the
fall, promising to meet again. My cousin’s family had become much
attached to me, and they insisted on parting, that every vacation should
be spent with them. Gladly I consented, and with a heart beating as it
never before had beat, with feelings of rapture and hope, I returned to
school. Clara was my confidante, and yet I had nothing to confide, as
she with more worldly wisdom said. She looked disappointed when I told
her Walter had made no offer, and my sensitive spirit felt shocked that
she should think it a necessary attendant upon our intercourse. He had
talked of love, but not particularly of loving me. We had roamed
together by the banks of the mountain streamlets, watching the
moon-beams glistening on the tiny white-crested wavelets, listening to
the chiming of their ringing foam bells, as they sprang aloft to kiss
the overhanging branches of the osier willows that hung as in “love-sick
langor” o’er the banks of the faëry waters. Hand clapped in hand, we had
talked of nature, of spiritual love and beauty—earthly every day
matters were unthought of by us, we were dreamers, and happy in our
visions.
A winter vacation came, and again I visited my cousin’s beautiful
home—again met with Walter. I saw those magnificent forests clothed in
snow—a glittering mantle enveloped all nature; but still the dancing
streamlet leaped, dashing and sparkling along its mountain path, unbound
by the icy chains that held captive other streams; it seemed as an
emblem of my own joyous nature. I was so happy. Another summer came, and
I revisited the lovely place; but that summer I had indeed much to
confide to Clara. Walter and I were betrothed, with the willing, joyful
consent of my relatives. We were to be married at some future time, when
he should have accomplished his studies. Two or three years might
elapse, but then we could meet frequently at my cousin’s, and we could
write, oh! such eloquent letters to each other. I yielded myself up
heart and soul to this infatuation, with an earnestness that surprised
me, for I had been so accustomed to control my feelings from childhood,
that I was almost ignorant of the depth of feeling I possessed.
Walter was wealthy, and every one congratulated me on my good fortune.
Little I cared for his worldly goods, and with all the romance of a
young disinterested spirit, I sighed that he was not poor—but he
rejoiced over his wealth for my sake, he said, and longed with
impatience to release me from what he deemed degrading thraldom. He
implored that I should no more return to Penley-Hill—that I should
remain with my cousins—they united their entreaties, but I refused; no,
until our marriage, I preferred my residence at the school. I
represented to him that it was not disagreeable to me, my pursuits were
intellectual, and it was better for me to continue my studies. This was
the only cause for dispute between us, and I felt more pained than I was
willing to confess when I discovered that he rather looked down on my
position in life; but his love, freely and fervently expressed, for my
own self, soothed my wounded feelings, and we again parted—I for
Penley-Hill, he for the gay metropolis, where he was to commence the
study of a profession, which would occupy two years—two long years—at
the expiration of which we were to be married.
That winter was a long one to me, for Clara had left the school at the
close of the preceding session—her education completed, she was to make
her debut that season in society. But her letters and Walter’s, cheered
the hours which would have otherwise hung heavily. I was exceedingly
anxious they should meet, and looked forward with delight to Walter’s
residence in the city where Clara’s parent’s resided. They did meet—in
the same circle of fashionable, wealthy families did they mingle, and I
was charmed at the rapturous description my friend and my lover gave me
of each other. How could they fail being pleased, one with the other I
said, and I pressed their letters with transport to my bosom. That
either should prove false, never entered my mind, and long, long was it
before I opened my eyes with fearful certainty to the truth fatal to my
happiness. The constrained, short letters I received from both, I
attributed to every cause but the right one. Clara was so occupied in a
whirl of dissipation I thought, as to be unable to write differently.
Walter was hurried in his studies, I said self-consolingly; he was
vainly endeavoring to shorten by intense application the tedious two
years probation.
The winter’s vacation I spent at Penley—for Walter wrote that his
studies would detain him in the city. The next vacation was indeed
passed at my cousin’s mountain-home—but in such wretchedness that my
heart aches as I recall that sad time. The lovely place had lost all
beauty in my eyes. Long before the spring flowers had drooped, I became
convinced of my friend’s perfidy—my lover’s infidelity; and I was
nearer death than life when my tender relatives bore me from Penley to
their home, vainly endeavoring to soothe and comfort my outraged
spirits. Long and severe was the illness which held me helpless as an
infant to my bed. Those who still loved me watched with painful anxiety,
scarcely hoping for my recovery, for they felt that returning health
would only restore me to a miserable, forsaken existence. But I did
recover, and quietly and calmly resolved to bend to the burden imposed
upon me. But a greater trial came. My dangerous illness had awakened
feelings of remorse in both Clara and Walter. She wrote wild,
self-reproaching letters, begging my forgiveness, and yielding up all
claim to Walter; whilst he renewed his protestations of love, imploring
me to pardon his wandering; but the same spirit which made me return to
Penley the preceding summer, caused me to reject firmly these weak
overtures. But I wrote with earnest affection to both, communicating my
firm determination. They both sought to see me, but I steadily refused
all interviews, and assured them if they really wished my future quiet
and rest, they must love each other as I had loved them, but not harass
my wounded heart by useless scenes and letters. Some of my friends
commended my course, others attributed it to a natural coldness of
disposition, and felt a sympathy for the two who had so deeply injured
me; but I was alike deaf to commendation or censure. I acted as my heart
and spirit impelled me, and felt a cold indifference to the remarks or
opinions of any one.
I heard from Walter and Clara no more for years. Before the two years
necessary for the completion of his studies had passed around, they were
married; but I was far distant at the time, and did not hear of it until
some months after. After my health was established my devoted
application to my duties was the remark of every one, and I soon rose in
the school to one of the head teacherships. I gave myself up heart and
spirit to my business, and it was regarded as a wonder that I so young,
should display such endurance and strength. They knew not how I suffered
in secret—they knew not of the moments when my overtaxed heart could
bear up no longer—when I trembled before the wailings of my inner
spirit. I felt that I had
“Poured out my soul’s full tide
Of hope and trust,
Prayer, tear, devotedness;
’Twas but to write with the heart’s fiery rain,
Wild words on dust.”
The habit of self-control which I had early acquired, enabled me,
however, to struggle against such feelings of sorrowful, hopeless
despondency, and I would rouse myself, seeking constant, unceasing
occupation in my daily duties, that I might strengthen my fainting
spirit.
Amongst my pupils was one whose situation had always endeared her to me.
Lucy Hill was a delicate, weakly orphan girl. She reminded me of myself
in my early days; but, unlike me, though dependent, it was on an
affectionate, wealthy uncle, who, being unmarried, had no one to care
for but her. He watched anxiously every breath, and anticipated every
wish of this idolized niece. A fall in her infancy had increased a
debility natural to her, and the fear of personal deformity at last
became realized. As she passed the age of early childhood, her
physicians thought that to place her at Penley-Hill would be of benefit
to her, bodily as well as mentally; and she had resided there for three
or four years, as half pupil, half boarder. She loved me as she would
have loved an elder sister; and I taught her, nursed her, and after my
great sorrow, tried to forget my own griefs in the interest I felt for
her. Symptoms of the disease which had swept off her family displaying
themselves in her, a milder climate than her bleak northern home was
deemed necessary—and her uncle resolved to take her to the South of
Europe. She insisted upon my accompanying her—urged how necessary I was
to her health and happiness. Her uncle joined his entreaties, and even
the principals of Penley urged me to accept the offer, though at the
same time, with kind, flattering words, assured me that on my return
they would gladly again receive me in their establishment, from which
they said they could illy spare me. But in truth they feared that I, as
well as poor Lucy, needed the change of scene and climate. Though quiet
and resigned, my health was gradually sinking under the burden pride
imposed upon my suffering spirit, and my friends began to tremble for my
life.
I accepted the munificent offers Lucy and her uncle made to me. Money
was of no consequence to him compared to the gratification of that loved
girl; and we set sail for Europe. A year and more passed delightfully to
me. Lucy’s health seemed, indeed, benefited by the change. We traveled
leisurely through the classic scenes of Europe—lingering where we
wished, and roaming where fancy led us; and I almost forgot—yes, quite
forgot—my sorrows in the intellectual gratification I was enjoying. But
a new cause of annoyance sprung up; Mr. Hill became, to my surprise, my
lover, and Lucy added her entreaties to his. I shrank from the idea of
marrying. No, I had loved once, I never could again—and I would never
marry without love. Mr. Hill was much older than I—many years my
senior, but pleasant, intelligent and gentlemanly. He knew of my
unfortunate connection with Walter, and was one of those who had looked
with respect upon the course I had pursued; this sympathy and respect
had deepened into love. I liked him—respected him—had even a warm
friendship for him—but marry him! oh, no—that I could never do; and
when he found that his offers pained me, he and Lucy, with kind
consideration, desisted from their entreaties. But I could see in his
countenance and manner that great was the struggle he endured; and I had
resolved upon returning home, when an alarming change took place in
Lucy, which forbade my leaving her. A few weeks of violent, intense
suffering to her ensued, which ended in her death. On her death-bed I
yielded to her request—I became the wife of her uncle. She dreaded to
leave him alone in life, and her parting breath was calmed with the
certainty that I was, indeed, her aunt, by the ceremony which was
performed sadly, at her bed-side a few hours previous to her death.
We remained abroad many years, and I was quietly happy. I at last
fancied I loved my husband; not as I had loved Walter, it is true; but
the many excellent qualities which my husband possessed, won upon me.
His kindness, his attention to my unexpressed wishes, could not but be
appreciated—and I valued him as he deserved to be valued. We had
troubles in our married life, however; our three lovely children were
laid, one after another, beside dear Lucy, in the beautiful Neapolitan
burial-place; and when, after ten years of quiet, calm happiness, my
husband died, he left me a childless widow. We had returned to our
native country a year or so before his death, and he had taken great
pleasure the last few months of his existence, in beautifying in every
possible manner, our country residence, which was my favorite abode. One
could scarcely imagine a more lovely spot; nature had been lavish in its
bounties, and my husband added every thing that wealth could purchase to
adorn its exterior and interior. It reminded me of the beautiful villa
belonging to the Italian, Paul Jovius; and I wish for his glowing words,
that, like him, I could paint with rapture “the gardens bathed by the
waters of the lake—the shade and freshness of the woods—the green
slopes, sparkling fountains—the deep silence and calm of solitude.”
My husband, in adorning this place, followed out with loving precision,
the classic description given of the Italian eulogist’s beautiful
residence. Like the villa of Jovius, “a statue was raised in the gardens
to Nature. In the hall stood a fine statue of Apollo and the Muses
around, with their attributes. The library was guarded by a Mercury, and
there was an apartment, adorned with Doric columns, and with pictures of
the most pleasing subjects dedicated to the Graces.”
The loss of such a husband could not but be deeply felt by me, and
though young, wealthy, and more comely than I had been in youth, I shut
myself up from society, long after the period of mourning had elapsed. I
became resigned at last, and in intellectual pursuits was tranquilly
happy. Being surrounded by images of beauty—the works of masters
glowing on my walls—exquisite and costly pieces of sculpture around
me—my library almost a fairy spot—my days passing in luxurious
quiet—the recollection of past sorrow became subdued and softened, and
I breathed with calm tranquillity the delicious atmosphere of the
present.