There is a romance and interest in the simple unadorned recital of any woman’s life, no matter how confined may have been her sphere of action. When I look around a circle of elderly ladies, whose countenances, so quiet and calm, tell the victory they have gained over “the weary strife of frail humanity.” I think, ye were once young and full of hope, love and enthusiasm, and ye have passed through scenes of romance unconsciously. Each wrinkle, each line on their aged faces seem glorified to me, for they are records of woman’s trials—evidences of the earnest struggle of each fond, enduring woman’s heart.
Years, many and trying have passed since I was a child. The days of my 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.