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.
One summer, some four or five years after my husband’s death, I ventured to visit the mountain region where my dear cousins had resided. They were dead—kind creatures—but their youngest child, a married daughter, of whom I was fond, resided there with a lovely family of children. They were such romping, blessed little ones, I envied her the possession of these darlings. One lovely child, which bore the name of my mother and hers—Mary—I quietly resolved to adopt and coax away from her parents, when she should become sufficiently fond of me. The days passed delightfully to me, although that lovely place was connected with the most bitter recollections of my past life. Again I roamed through the deep forests—along the mountain paths, and traced the course of the stream as it dashed over its rocky bed as I had in girlish days with Walter, and at last found myself recalling his beautiful face to my memory. One day, on my return from my ramblings, I was told that he—Walter—the long parted one—had arrived. He was, like myself, alone in life—a childless widower. Clara was dead. How my heart sprung—and then sunk; recollections of bitter agony came with his presence—and I was chilled. We met—and days did we spend together. I knew that the meeting and intercourse had been planned by my kindly meaning friends; they thought we would renew our love—how little they knew of woman’s heart. Again we visited our old haunts; again Walter addressed words of passionate love to me, and for a while I fancied the influence of the old dream hung over me. I returned abruptly to my home, and spent weeks in its quiet, calm seclusion; severely and earnestly questioning my heart, my first conclusion remained; the recollection of past love was mingled too deeply with the remembrance of those bitter moments of heart-breaking agony, when I had dared, in my sufficiency, to question the justice of Providence. Walter’s desertion had taught me to still and calm my feelings—to coldly reason on heart-throbbings; now he was the sufferer by the lesson—and again we parted, never more to meet. I was firm—he said, heartless—and it may be I was; if so, his early faithlessness had caused that heartlessness.
Life passed quietly around. I succeeded in persuading the little Mary to love me as she loved her mother—and her merry voice and light footstep cheered my residence. I saw her married to one she loved; and my former quiet, solitary home has rung with the joyous laughter of her children, who troop around me daily. I have known great sorrow, but also much happiness, and have contributed to lighten the griefs of many. I am now old, but I am surrounded with dear, loving friends; and when I would sigh over the past, I look on these happy faces around me, and raise my heart in grateful thoughts to the Power that guided me through a painful childhood—a bitter womanhood—and led me at last to the quiet waters of peaceful prosperity, where I may lay down my spirit to rest.
DO I LOVE THEE?
———
BY RICHARD COE, JR.