“The deepest sorrow that stern fate can bring
In all her catalogue of suffering,
To love, adore, and be beloved again;
To know between you lies a gulf that ever
Your forms, your hopes, your destinies must sever.”
“Oh, Mabel dear, I am so tired; I have come so fast,” said Evelyn
Wentworth, as she ran into the little parlor where Mabel Dacre sat with
her workbasket beside her, busily employed as usual. Her brilliant eyes
sparkled with excitement, and her cheek glowed with a feverish flush as
she took Mabel’s small hands in her own, and exclaimed—“Do come, Mabel,
darling, I have so much to tell you, and I want you to help me to gather
some flowers to deck our little cottage, for William is to be here
to-night—just think, dear sister, this very evening—oh, I can hardly
believe it. Six whole months since I have seen him, and now, Mabel, he
writes so lovingly, and says he will never leave me any more; oh, I am
so happy.”
“But, sister mine,” said the silvery voice of Mabel, as she lifted her
large, serene eyes to the excited face of Evelyn, whom she loved with
all a sister’s fondness; “my darling, why have you run so fast and
exhausted yourself now, when you wish and need most to be bright and
well; will you never learn prudence, thoughtless Evelyn. I shall not let
you stir now until you are quite, quite rested; for, see here are
flowers enough to make a perfect bower of your little room.”
Mabel was right in chiding the imprudent girl, for in a few moments the
glow had faded from her cheek, and was succeeded by a deadly paleness;
Mabel ran for water, and just arrived in time to catch her sinking form
as she fell faint and breathless upon a couch.
“I am a poor, weak child,” she said, softly; “but I shall soon be
better, Mabel, darling.” A sweet, grateful smile played over her
delicate features as Mabel tenderly kissed her and smoothed back the
soft auburn ringlets.
A few hours passed, and they were all seated in the little flower-decked
parlor awaiting William’s return, save Mabel—she had escaped into the
garden, and seating herself in the shadiest corner, her thoughts flew
back to the time when she, too, was happy in the blessedness of love;
unconsciously her lips moved and breathed in low, impassioned accents
the name that was ever in her heart.
“I am here, dear Evelyn,” said a voice close beside her, whose tones
made her heart leap and her pulses thrill; she turned quickly—and
Walter Lee stood before her.
One moment, and they were clasped in each other’s arms; the long hoarded
love of years seemed all to flow out in that close, silent, passionate
embrace, the next—and Mabel’s heart recalled with a pang as keen as
death, his first words. A cold shudder crept over her.
“Walter, speak!” she almost gasped forth; “tell me, tell me _truly_,
what have you to do with Evelyn?”
“I am her affianced husband,” he said, in those low, despairing tones
that tell of a crushed and broken spirit; “but you, Mabel, why are you
here; you, the proud and titled wife of a noble; say, beautiful vision,
why have you come to mock me in this trying hour—to take from me all my
firm resolves, and to light again the fire that for so long has
smouldered in my poor, desolate heart. Oh, Mabel, Mabel, why were you
false?”
At first, a bitter, piercing cry was her only answer. “Walter,” at
length she said, with tearful accents, “for six long, weary years I have
thought and wept and dreamed of only thee; my sleep was filled with
visions so blissful of thy dear presence, that I dreaded the awakening,
and yet, you could doubt me—ah, how little can man’s heart know of the
depth, the devotedness, the unchanging constancy of woman’s love.”
“Mabel, you wrong me; indeed you wrong me. I did not doubt you, even
through long months of utter silence, until there came that cruel letter
signed by your father, and sent by your request, to tell of your
_marriage_; yes, the words burnt into my heart like letters of fire, and
can never, never be erased. How could I but think it true, in spite of
all my faith, since it bore your father’s seal?”
With mute anguish Mabel heard this new revelation of her father’s sinful
tyranny; she could hardly believe that he was capable of such meanness
and guilt; she could not comprehend the absorbing nature of that eager
grasping for power that has led men to wade through the blood even of
near relatives to reach the object of their desires.
Then Walter spoke of their beloved friend, Mr. Dacre, of his death, so
sudden at the last, though long expected; and Mabel knew, though no such
words were spoken, that it was her father’s letter which had hastened
the final blow.
She wept as she thought that never more on earth should she behold the
face whose smile had been the sunshine of her youth, but even while she
wept, a smile of triumph lit up her tear-bathed eyes, as she remembered
he was now in a world where there is no doubting or darkness, “for the
Lamb is the light thereof;” he knew now that his prayers, his lessons,
and his example had not been all in vain, and that the trial of her
faith, though a fiery one, had but strengthened and confirmed it.
Long and earnestly they conversed, and Mabel drew from her lover all his
varied history. Into her ear he poured forth the long hidden, but still
fervent love that even his belief in her estrangement could never
subdue. Then he told of his promise to Charles Wentworth, of Evelyn’s
tender love, and his almost involuntary engagement.
Mabel heard his words with a beating heart, each moment her cheek grew
paler, but in her eye and on her lip there rested a look of calm, almost
sublime self-sacrifice, a firm resolve to obey the dictates of that
still, small voice within.
“Walter,” she said, in a tone so low and solemn that he was
awed—“Walter, you must never breathe to human ear the secret of our
mutual love; it would kill Evelyn, she is your plighted wife; would you
snap the frail thread of her young life; your promise to that dying man
forbids it, your own conscience forbids it.
“Walter, my beloved, my cherished friend, my brother, remember her
_life_ depends on the fidelity with which you keep this secret, and I
charge you, as you will answer to her brother, that you be not guilty of
her life!”
“Oh, Mabel, my angel Mabel, must it indeed be so; is there no
hope—think how hard it will be to press back once again the rushing
tide of love that has for long years been gathering silently yet
strongly in my heart.”
“Is it easier, think you, for me,” said the noble girl, lifting her
clear eyes, lit with the purity of an angelic spirit, to his; “shall I
have no struggle, now that hopes long since crushed have sprung up only
to be once more blasted; it is hard, but we can do it, my Walter; yes,
and we must do it, faithfully and truly, as we hope for peace in our
lives and joy in heaven.”
She took once more his hand in hers, and kissed it with a sister’s
tenderness—“Be strong, dear _brother_; trust in God, we shall meet
again where there is neither sorrow nor sighing—farewell.”
The next morning Mabel left M——; she wrote a line to Evelyn, saying
that she was summoned to attend the sick-bed of a friend, her old
companion, Alice, and wishing her, at the same time, the purest
happiness earth can bestow.
In a few weeks Walter and Evelyn were married.