Indeed I was a fit subject. I knew nothing then of the faults of women. I had sisters, and thought all women pure and saint-like, like my dear cousin. I never could attach an improper sentiment to any of the sex. I cannot now think them mean and deceitful, though I have strong proof of their being so. I am willing to be deceived in this respect. I hope I always may be. I make it a principle to think myself mistaken, when a woman of respectable standing in society appears to be in fault.
I suspected nothing wrong in this case. I was excited and happy, and I did not look to mar my own enjoyment. I was fascinated, although Miss Clair did not appear so well in a ball-room as in a simple dress at home—I mean not so loveable. Dressed in rich ornaments, she looked too unapproachable, too like a queen, an Indian queen, if you will; her high and commanding forehead, her glancing eye, her unshrinking gaze. And then she did not dance well. She often told me she hated the trouble. I think she was too intellectual to care much for dancing, or her ear was in fault. She never sang; though I believe she loved the music of the drum and fife. Do not infer, kind reader, that she was masculine—far from it. I have seen the tears roll out from her open eyes, when she was strongly affected by some pathetic tale, or some choice poetry; and when in our walks and rides we stopped to gaze upon some beautiful or grand scene of nature, she would weep from the very excess of her delight—perhaps from some association she did not confide to me. When at home, in a natural state of mind, surrounded by her family, and engaged in her duties, she was all delicate attention to the wants of others.
I had hardly become acquainted with her, when she suddenly left the village for an absence of three months. I cannot describe the pain I underwent during that time. I could not study or read, even novels. She promised to correspond with me, and all I did was to write letters to her. I wrote every day, and at night threw them into the fire. They did not suit me. Sometimes they were too warm. What I had written in the morning, seemed a different thing in the afternoon. I was now angry, now penitent, and in that conflicting state of mind which lovers, particularly young ones, know so well; and which I will venture to say they all agree is the most unenviable state of feeling in the world.
At last she returned. She would not see me for a week, for some cause or other—I never could discover what. When I did see her, at last, she received me with stately coldness. I did not know what to make of it. It made me feel very unhappy, and I recollect I did not think of blaming her, but supposed the fault lay in myself.
This fickleness of hers did not cool my passion, but rather inflamed it. During these formal visits, there was always a look given, or a flower, or some appeal to me in a matter of literature, from which I drew encouragement that she was not indifferent to me—something I always carried away to dwell upon with pleasure; that kept her in my thoughts, and kept me from giving up the pursuit of such a charming object.
Things went on in this way for weeks. At last, if my calls were not frequent, she would ridicule my apathy to society; if I walked with another lady, I could see her eyes flash with indignation when she met me. She evidently considered me as her property, and I was doomed to submit patiently to all her caprices.
I now understand her. She did love me, as the sequel will show; but she dared hardly confess it to herself. She had seen very few young men from cities, or of much rank. Her idea of young men of fortune was drawn chiefly from novels. She feared I was fickle, and only bent upon a little amusement. She acted on the defensive. She only wished to be assured of my true affection for her, to pour out upon me all the repressed tenderness of her nature. Her coldness was assumed to conceal her feelings; for she was a creature of extremes. Her only safety, she thought, was to shield herself in frowns. Easy politeness would have been torture to her. Before I left her, she usually gave me one kind word, enough, if I loved her, she thought, to anchor my heart to hers. She knew the nature of the passion. Her absence was to try me. She has told me that she loved me at first sight, as I certainly did her.
Her father was an open-hearted man, of profuse hospitality. He liked me, and invited me to his house whenever we met. He was an easy man, who had married, himself, from prudent motives; he could not imagine how there could be any romance in his family, if he understood the true meaning of the word. I rode, walked, and sat with his daughter a good deal of the time. We were happy; he saw we were, and supposed it was the happiness of youth and prosperity.
He had been gay himself, when young, and loved the girls. He had no Byron to read—no Moore to ponder over—no stories of Petrarch and Laura to inflame his imagination. He did not see our danger. And this, by-the-by, is a fault of no small magnitude in the education of the young; that parents do not enough know the reading of their children. Books change with time. The novel of the present day is no more the novel of our father's day, than the fashion of a dandy now-a-days is the fashion of the exquisite of the last century.
Parents do not know the minds of their children, or the effects of their reading. Not knowing their books, how can they judge? Children are always reserved before their parents; and as a general remark, applicable to children, we may say, that parents know less of their own children than they do of their neighbors'. They, good easy souls! suppose all is right. Like geese, who hide their heads, and think (if geese do think) their bodies are safe, so parents shut their eyes, and hope for the best. 'Well,' they say, 'we can't tell what is to become of him,' looking at the child some one is praising to his face; 'he may make a man: heaven, I hope, will take care of him.' And so this pious, conscientious father attends to his business, and the child is left to the chance of being ruined.