Glad of any excuse to be alone, I left the room, going to my chamber, where I wept myself to sleep. When I awoke the sun had set, but I heard the voices of the family below, and once when I thought I caught the sound of Dr. Clayton’s name, I involuntarily stopped my ears to shut out the sound. A moment after, the door of my room was softly opened, and Carrie came stealing in on tiptoe. Learning that I was awake, she advanced towards me, holding to view a note, which she said had been left there for me by Captain Thompson’s hired man, and was an invitation to the wedding! It was still sufficiently light for me to see, and leaning upon my elbow, I read on a card, that Mrs. Thompson would be “at home” from eight to eleven on the evening of the 25th, while in the corner were the names of “Dr. Clayton and Dell Thompson.”
There was no longer a shadow of hope!—it was all true, and he had insulted me with an invitation to witness his marriage with another! I did not know then, as I afterwards did, that the invitation was purposely sent by Dell to annoy me! For a moment I forgot my headache in my anger, but ere long it returned in all its force, and if the next day my headache continued with unabated severity, it was not without a sufficient cause, for sleepless nights are seldom conducive to one’s health. Of course I did not attend the wedding, which was said to have been a brilliant affair; the bride and the table looking beautifully, while the bridegroom, it was rumored, was pale and nervous, making the responses in a scarcely audible tone of voice.
The next morning, between eight and nine o’clock, as I was on my way to school, I met the travelling carriage of Capt. Thompson, which was taking the newly married couple to the dépôt. John was driving, while on the back seat, with his arm partly around his bride, was the doctor. My first impulse was not to look at them, but this act pride forbade, and very civilly I returned the nod of Dell, and the polite bow of the doctor, whose face turned crimson when he saw me. A moment more, and a turn of the road hid them from my view; then seating myself upon a large flat stone, beneath a tree, where were the remains of a play-house built by my own hands only the autumn before, I cried out loud, thinking myself the most wretched of beings, and wondering if ever any one before had such trouble as I! As nearly as I am able to judge, I was taking my first lesson in love-sickness; a kind of disease which is seldom dangerous, but, like the toothache, very disagreeable while it lasts. At least I found it so, and for weeks I pined away with a kind of sentimental melancholy, which now appears to me wholly foolish and ridiculous; for were I indeed the wife of Dr. Clayton, instead of Rosa Lee, this book would undoubtedly never have been written; while in place of bending over the inkstand this stormy morning, as I am doing, I should probably have been engaged in washing, dressing, scolding, and cuffing three or four little Claytons, or in the still more laudable employment of darning the socks and mending the trousers (a thing, by the way, which I can’t do) of said little Claytons’ sire; who, by this time, would, perhaps, have ceased to call me “his Rose,” bestowing upon me the less euphonious title of “she,” or “my woman?”
But not thus did I reason then. I only knew that I had lost him and was very unhappy. Many a long walk I took alone in the shadowy woods, singing to myself snatches of love-songs, particularly the one containing the following:
“I have not loved lightly—
I’ll think of thee yet,
And I’ll pray for thee nightly.
Till life’s sun is set.”
Somehow, too, I got the impression that my heart was all broken to pieces; and this fact satisfactorily settled, I began to take a melancholy pleasure in brooding over my early death, and thinking how Dr. Clayton would feel, when he heard the sad news! Almost every week I was weighed, feeling each time a good deal chagrined to find that I was not losing flesh as fast as a person in a decline would naturally do. In this state of affairs, I one day came across a little sketch of Hannah More, in which her early disappointment was described, and forthwith I likened myself to her, and taking courage from her example, I finally concluded that if I could not have the doctor I could at least write for the newspapers, and some day I might perhaps be able to make a book. This, I thought, would amply atone for my loss—an opinion which I hold still, for if ever I do see myself in a book, and the reviews let me alone, which, in consideration of all I have suffered, I am sure they will do, I shall consider it a most fortunate circumstance that Dell’s $10,000, in prospect, proved a stronger temptation than my father’s $5,000 divided by thirteen!