“You have pierced my heart with grief. You are to leave the city, and I am to see you no more. My whole soul is absorbed in one feeling; and that is, love for you; and now that you are going from me, existence will be a burden. I ask you not to love me in return; that seems impossible. I can never hope to create a passion such as I now feel for you; such as I felt from the moment I first heard your voice. But deign to think of me—no, I cannot give up the thought of calling you mine—at some future day, when fortune has been propitious; or should some evil overtake you, remember me. I must hasten from your presence, for I am unfit to remain here; but if, on reading this, you can feel compassion for my hopeless love, let these few lines remain; but if you have no pity to offer me, tear them out and put them in my hand as you leave the house. I shall be there to receive my doom; but be merciful.”
After having written this, in great agony of mind, I turned to her, and our eyes met. She saw that I was uncommonly agitated, and her concern for me prevented her speaking. I bent close to her ear and said, read this immediately—pointing to the page—and remember that my life depends on what you do. I hurried from her, and walked up and down the narrow street until the lecture was over; which, to my fevered apprehensions, seemed never to have an end.
At length the door opened, and I saw one, and another, and then groups, descend the steps; the young lady appearing amongst the last, moving slowly, so as to give me time to see and approach her. When at the bottom of the flight she stopped, for a moment, and as I came near her she said, in a low tone, “Here are the notes, and I have added a few lines to them; good night.” It was well she said this, as the giving me the paper, as I requested, would have plunged me into despair. I need not say that I hastened to my lodgings, that I might read the precious contents; for I could not but augur favourably of them from the manner of her giving the paper to me. Under my own impassioned scrawl were these lines.
“Notwithstanding the fear of giving you pain, I must return the leaf; for I should not like to leave it in the book. My whole manner must be a convincing proof that I have a high esteem for your character, and that I feel a strong interest in your welfare; more than this I dare not say. I am entirely dependent on my uncle; and it has been his wish, for many years, to see me the wife of his grandson—the person who has always accompanied me to the lectures. You need not fear that this event will ever take place, as my disinclination to it has long been known to the young man; and neither he nor my uncle have any power to compel me. In saying thus much I do not wish to encourage you, as my uncle is obstinate and unyielding, and would never consent to the addresses of any other man. I hope you may forget me and be as happy as you deserve. I do violence to my feelings in bidding you farewell; but prudence and a regard to your interests dictate it.”
Prudence, indeed! What were the prudential reasons? My inability to support her? Surely if she loved me, there were means enough to be comfortable, and I would move mountains to place her in affluence. She has an esteem for me, and she does violence to her feelings in bidding me farewell. I have hopes, therefore, that, as her heart is disengaged, I may, in time, aspire to her love.
In thoughts like these I passed the night; nor did I recover my equanimity for several days; every thing, every thought, that did not relate to her, was irksome and distasteful, and my labours at the office were conducted mechanically. The commencement of the great work was now contemplated. I was told to get ready for it; and, as there was a translation of a very popular French work wanted, Mr. Blagge pressed me to undertake it. Perhaps it was well for me that I was thus suddenly compelled to exertion, for with this depression of spirits I might have sunk into apathy incurable. I likewise owed much to Mr. Blagge’s kindness; and being of a grateful nature, determined not to disappoint him.
To work, therefore, I went, reading proofs and attending to the types during the day, and translating at night. Proceeding in this way for six weeks, not allowing myself any exercise but a short walk, between churches, on Sunday. Mr. Blagge was delighted, both with the execution and diligence, and he promised to raise my salary the ensuing year, to six hundred dollars. The French translation was likewise commended; and I felt an honest pride in sending all the papers which spoke of the merits of my performances to the only one whose applause I desired. For this translation I received two hundred dollars; so that my little fortune had increased to two thousand dollars. I saw it with a pleasure that cannot be expressed, for I had now an object in view; and instead, as heretofore, of spending all my income, I began a rigid system of economy, amounting almost to meanness—but thank heaven, my heart was not so exclusively selfish as to forget the poor.
As soon as these two important works were through the press, I went to my accustomed seat in the church, on Sunday; which, as I before mentioned, was three miles out of town; but my disappointment was very great in not seeing the young lady. On inquiry of the sexton, I learned that the family had removed to a country seat, about thirty miles distant; and that they had given up their pew. He could not tell the name of the place to which they had gone; but he promised to inquire, and let me know on the following Sunday. It is impossible to describe my uneasiness at this intelligence. I fancied that what was so desirable a blessing to me would be equally coveted by others; and that her uncle and cousin had removed her from the world that their plans might be the more readily executed. I was fearful that her tender nature might be subdued by importunities; and that she would yield to their wishes, rather than incur their displeasure. I did not flatter myself that her love for me was strong enough to enable her to brave persecution; and how could she be assured of the strength and continuance of mine?
Four long weeks passed and I could gain no further intelligence, than that Mr. Bewcastle, the young lady’s uncle, had purchased a farm on the island, three miles from the river and about thirty from the city; that he was devoted to the cultivation of it, and was making preparations for building a large house. My worst fears were realized: these improvements were no doubt in the expectation of his niece’s marriage, and I once more abandoned myself to despair. This state of mind, added to the severe labour I had gone through, had so perceptible an effect on my health that Mr. Blagge became concerned. He entreated me to relax a little in my attention to business, but I persevered until the first of August, when fearing that I should really be unable to continue in the office I determined on making an excursion in the country.
I need not say in which direction I bent my steps. In fact, my intention was to explore the whole of the neighbourhood until I heard where Mr. Bewcastle lived, and then to take up my residence near him. I was very fortunate indeed, for the man in whose house I rested the first night, knew the family, and he promised to take me to a friend of his who lived about half a mile from them. It was about ten o’clock the next morning when I reached the house, and as I liked the place and the appearance of the people, I was induced to remain with them, paying them a moderate board. I had a bed-room and parlour entirely to myself, and their kindness soon made me feel myself at home. They saw I was the very sort of lodger they wanted, and they exerted themselves to the utmost to make me comfortable. When I tell you that the landlord of the little inn was old uncle Porter, now living in the small stone house, and that his sister was our kind aunt Martha, you will think how fortunate I was in becoming an inmate of their house.