Here was, therefore, another pleasure, for I now became passionately fond of works of this nature, and my greedy mind devoured all that came within reach. I had nothing to interfere with my plan of study, living entirely alone, and having no associates; I hired a room in which I slept and studied, and I took my breakfast, dinner, and supper, at a cheap ordinary near the office. As I stipulated to labour only between sunrise and sunset, I had as much time as I wanted for exercise and reading, and my practice was to walk from the hour I left the office until it was dark, eat my supper, and then retire to my room. Being an early riser, there was time, therefore, to attend to my dress, for I had again become fastidiously clean. It now appears to me that I hurried from one thing to another, and engaged in every thing so vigorously, to keep off the ever-intruding feeling of loneliness. I wonder if any other human being suffered so acutely on this subject as I did; it seemed as if I would have given all I was worth in the world for one friend.
But heaven at length took pity on my desolate situation, and I was about to be rewarded for all that I had suffered; it came in a way, too, in which a man should be blest—in the form of love.
I was always a regular attendant at divine worship, excepting during the latter part of poor O’Brien’s life, being then compelled to walk out with him and talk to him; but after his death I used to go twice every Sunday to church, going to every one that would admit me. Now that I was my own master, and had the means to do it, I hired a seat in a church about three miles out of town, where I could worship God without the fear of having my attention distracted by the restlessness and frivolity of a fashionable city congregation. I gained another object, too; I had a pleasant walk, and the exercise was necessary to my health.
Directly in front of the pew that I occupied sat two ladies and a gentleman, regular attendants likewise; the elderly lady was very lame, and required assistance both in getting in and out of the carriage, and the gentleman, I thought, seemed rather indifferent about her comfort, for he was not as tender and delicate in his attentions as he should have been. Almost the whole trouble of assisting her fell on the young lady, who, I presumed, was her daughter. I had a very great desire to offer my services, but my shyness of strangers prevented me, although every succeeding week I saw that the poor invalid was less and less able to help herself. Standing very near them one day, I found that it was utterly impossible for the young lady to get her aged relative in the carriage without help, so I stepped hastily forward just as the old lady was falling from the step, and in time to catch her in my arms. I lifted her gently in the carriage, seated her comfortably in it, sprung out again, and offered my hand to the young lady. It was the impulse of a moment. The door closed, and the carriage was soon out of sight.
But what a tumult and confusion I was in; what strange feelings overpowered me. There had been magic in the touch of the hand. There had been magic in the glance of her eye, as she turned to thank me. A dreamy softness came over me, and diffused itself through my very soul. I could not imagine why it was that so slight an incident should have affected me so deeply; but I thought of nothing, dreamed of nothing, but the touch of that hand and the glance of that beautiful eye. It was in vain that I took up my pen or my book, in the evening; in a few seconds, my hand dropped and my eye rested on vacancy.
With more than usual care I attended to my dress on the following Sunday, and I was there at the church door sooner than necessary, waiting for the carriage. It did not arrive, and I was compelled to enter and take my seat, as the clergyman had commenced the service. You may imagine my feelings when I saw the lady sitting quietly in her pew, by the side of the old gentleman: they had walked to church, having left the invalid at home; and they had passed me while I was gazing up the road for the carriage. When leaving the church I inquired whether the lady had been prevented from coming to church from indisposition; and a voice, the sweetest and the gentlest that ever fell on human ear, answered my question. I was so startled, both by my own temerity, in thus venturing to address her, and by the uncommon softness of her voice, that I did not hear the import of the words; but the loveliness of the tones remained imprinted on my memory for ever. No music, since, has ever made the like impression.
Sunday was now a day of exquisite enjoyment; for, added to strong devotional feelings, I was breathing the same atmosphere with a being that I considered as all perfection. She appeared to be that for which I had so long sought—a friend, a sister—and I hoped the time was not far distant when I could approach her and again hear that musical voice. In this blissful state the summer passed, unclouded, save that the lady was once absent from church—it was owing to the death of the elderly person who, I discovered, was not her mother, but a distant connexion, who had resided with them for many years; and that the gentleman I supposed to be her father was her uncle. She was an orphan, and her destiny seemed for ever linked with mine, from this circumstance.
Toward the close of the summer, the young lady sometimes came to church alone; and fearing that, when the cold weather set in, I should lose sight of her, perhaps for ever, I determined to make one attempt to interest her in my favour. I had superintended the getting up of a beautiful prayer-book, the type, paper, plates and execution were perfect, and I had one copy exquisitely bound. I even ventured to write the name of this fair being in the first page, and intended to present it to her; but it was a month before I gained courage to make the attempt. At one time I thought to lay it on the ledge of her pew, in silence; but I could not bear that her devotions should be interrupted by what might be considered as an act of levity on my part, so I forbore. I ventured, at last, to address her on coming out of church; and to my surprise, I found myself walking forward with her. She always carried her prayer-book, and I asked permission to look at it; she smiled and gave it to me, and I then took the one intended for her from my pocket, and presented it to her, making my bow suddenly, and hastening with the speed of lightning from her sight—I need not say that the little worn out prayer-book is still a treasure to me.
How she received the book I could not tell, nor had I an opportunity of knowing, on the following Sunday, for it stormed so violently that none but a devoted lover, like myself, would have ventured out. She was not there, nor did I expect to see her; but I had an exquisite pleasure in being in a spot where I had so frequently been near her. On the Saturday following the lectures commenced; I was to attend three, Astronomy, Natural Philosophy and Chemistry, but fearing that my mind was in too unsettled a state to attend to them all, I only entered my name for two—Chemistry and Astronomy.
The lecture room was in a narrow street, badly lighted; and, there being a basement, it became necessary to have a number of steps to the porch. It was November, and there had been a little sleet in the afternoon, so that the steps were slippery, and I could not avoid the reflection that it would be exceedingly unsafe for ladies to pass up and down. It being an introductory lecture, the room was crowded, as it always is, and I therefore stood near the door, not caring to disturb any one by making an attempt to look for a seat. A lady and gentleman sat near to the corner where I stood, and on his getting up, she turned her head. You may judge of my amazement and rapture when I saw it was the lady who was ever present to my mind.