at Mr. Rockland’s house, not by him, but by Lottie, and I visited there often, and was frequently so unlucky as to meet Mr. Heartsell there, and sometimes other young men who had entered the lists. I watched Lottie very closely, but I could not tell whether she loved any one of her suitors or not. So far as I was able to judge, she treated all alike.
“I spent at least three days of each week strolling about by Lottie’s side, half crazy with love for her, sometimes buoyed up with hope, at others struggling with suspense and despair. Summer was about to step out, and autumn was ready to walk in. The weather was hot and dry, while dust and heat hung about over all things. Vegetation was parched and withered by the long drought, while gloom and dust combined to make me very miserable, except when I was lingering with Lottie in her beautiful flower garden, which, owing to her industry, was always delightful and cool, for she had everything thoroughly watered every evening. The east side of her garden was thickly shaded with young magnolias, whose broad green leaves protected the thick velvety turf that covered the ground beneath. The west side was set apart for flowers alone, and notwithstanding the protracted drought that had prevailed, they looked as fresh and vigorous as they did in May and June. Old Uncle Zack, as Lottie called the old negro gardener, was always anxious to please his pretty nightingale (a pet name he had given Lottie). During her attendance at the Kentucky school, Uncle Zack had been the manager of her garden and her birds, and on her return she found that the duty had been faithfully performed. A charming summer-house stood near the east boundary of the garden, all covered over with clustering vines and blooming roses. It was at this delightful spot that I had spent so many happy hours with Lottie. A large wooden table sat in the center of the summer house, and low willow chairs were ranged around the sides, and when the weather was fine the table was covered with books, maps, sheet music, drawing materials, magazines and a guitar. Lottie called this her study, for that was the delightful spot where she practiced music and drawing and reviewed her studies generally.
“The time when I was to start to Philadelphia for the purpose of attending the medical lectures was near at hand, and still I had not been able to muster up the courage to make my love known to her. Doctor Dodson was anxious for me to start immediately, because he was uneasy about my health, which was on the decline, but he had no suspicions as to the cause. He thought that a trip to the sea-coast would be beneficial; then he had some business at New York and Boston which he wanted me to transact for him. I could have told him that no journey would restore my health. There was one thing, and only one, that could ever bring health and happiness back to me. I knew that could I be assured of Lottie’s love, all would be well with me; but if that was denied, I never would know health or happiness any more.
“One sultry evening near the end of August, when the sun was about to disappear in the West, after having scorched and burned the earth for twelve consecutive hours, I found myself lingering in the summer-house by Lottie, where I had been for a long time trying to collect the necessary courage to tell her of my love.
“‘Sing one more song for me, Lottie, before I go, please,’ said I, as I drew my chair closer to hers.
“‘What shall it be?’ she inquired, as she picked up her guitar and began to run her fingers over the strings.
“‘I would like to hear the one you sang the night of the ball—I do not know its name. It says something about a hero who loved you in the happy days of old, who loves you now no more.’
“‘Oh, yes; I never will forget that song, for it is one of my favorites, and my own composition. Do you like it, Edward?’
“‘I like to hear you sing it, but I do not think I like the sentiment, for I am sure no one ever loved you in the days of old who does not love you now.’
“I saw a crimson tinge steal over her cheeks, as her beautiful eyes were for a moment fixed on me.
“‘A hero did love me, long ago, anyway, though I don’t know so well about it now; but let that pass—we poor, foolish women should never complain about anything.’
“She then began to tune the instrument, which was suspended by a broad blue ribbon that passed over her left shoulder and was tied to a little brass hook in each end of the guitar.
“Lottie’s voice seemed to be in excellent tune, and in all respects under her control, though it was low and tremulous; and when she came to the line that said, ‘He loves me now no more,’ she looked me full in the face, and repeated the line in a pathetic tone that brought the tears to my eyes. Every vein in my body was full of hot blood. When Lottie came to the last three lines her voice sank to a mere whisper, and I could see that some unusual emotion was at work in her bosom. She paused a moment as the sweet echo of her voice gradually died away, and then she turned round, and fixing her eyes upon me, repeated the last verse:
“‘I remember every vow—
A hero loved me then.
It crowds my memory now,
For he kissed me on the brow,
Then he sweetly told me how
He loved me truly then.’
“She laid the guitar down and turned her face another way, and as I leaned forward slightly, I saw something like a drop of dew trembling on her cheek. That little trembling tear settled my fate. An unaccountable boldness came upon me, and all my timidity disappeared, and I was rash, impetuous, and I might say rude, because I seized her hand and pressed it to my lips a dozen times in rapid succession. My impetuosity seemed to astonish and frighten her, and she began to move away.
“‘It is time I was in the house, Edward,’ said she as she moved away; ‘mother will be calling me if I don’t go.’
“‘No, no, Lottie!’ I exclaimed as I moved toward her; ‘don’t go now; remember I am going away next week, to stay a long, long time, and we never may meet again. The fact of the business is, I think I never shall come back to Memphis any more.’
“Her beautiful face grew a shade paler, but she soon regained composure: ‘Come along then, and let me show you my pretty birds,’ she said as she moved toward a little latticed house that stood about fifty feet from the summer-house. I imagined she was endeavoring to get my mind fixed on other subjects than the one on which my thoughts were bent. I followed her, and when we entered the cozy little house, the old parrot began to laugh and chatter away.
“‘Lottie! Lottie! Lottie!’ he screamed, as he leaped down on her shoulder. ‘Ah, ha! here we come. Lottie! Lottie! Lottie! ah, ha! here we come!’
“‘How did he learn to imitate Doctor Dodson so perfectly?’ I asked.
“‘The doctor frequently comes to see me, and old Roderick has heard him so often that he has caught his expressions.’
“A mocking-bird was singing in a cage that sat on the joist, and a dozen canaries were making sweet music in their little silver-mounted houses, while an old jackdaw was muttering to himself in a wire cage. Each bird seemed to be making music for his own amusement, and on his own hook. It was a combination of discordant sounds, which might have been good music if they could have been induced to sing one at a time. It was a shrewd maneuver of Lottie to decoy me to that place, for no man could talk loud enough to be heard amid such an ear-splitting clatter as was made by these birds.
“I concluded that she had resorted to this strategic maneuver in order to avoid the disagreeable revelation which she had guessed I was about to make. Then I became angry, and that increased my courage and made me quite reckless, and I was determined to know my fate before I left. I believed she could read
