+FIRST LOVE+
COLONEL REGINALD MELVILLE TO EVELYN TRAVERS.
London, February 28th.
BEFORE you receive this, Evelyn, I shall be far away; it may,
perhaps, cost you one pang in the midst of your triumphs, to
know that we are at last parted; it may be for years—it may be
_forever_.
My regiment is under immediate orders for India, and we sail in
a week. We are required to quell the Sepoy rebellion, and to
avenge the horrible brutalities perpetrated by those savages on
our innocent countrywomen and their helpless babes. I will not,
at this supreme moment, reproach you—your naturally good heart
will teach you how far you have erred—but I will simply mention
how deeply I felt your inconsiderate conduct at the last ball,
when you knew that, in two days, one who loved you as his own
soul must leave; and how still more bitterly was I disappointed
at having been prevented by the prince’s presence from bidding
you a last adieu.
You are very beautiful and talented. It is natural you should
command attention wherever you go. But, oh! Evelyn, does this
satisfy your heart? Ask yourself, are you not sometimes unhappy,
even amid the most brilliant scenes? Do not imagine that every
fop who approaches you, is capable of sincere attachment, even
to a creature as fascinating as yourself. You are, to the
majority of men, but as the pastime of an idle hour—or worse,
the coquette whose smiles flatter their selfish vanity, and of
whose favors they boast at the public promenades or the _cafés_.
But of this I cannot bear to speak—even the thought is madness.
It is true, alas! that I dare not hope that one so gifted and so
adored, will await the uncertainties of war, and mourn, in some
retired corner of the earth, the absence of a future husband.
No, Evelyn—I deeply feel the vanity of entertaining such a hope,
even for a moment. I know, too well, you will meet those who
will hang on each word, and watch every look, as I have done.
You will _never_ forget me; but I shall share your heart with
others. It is for this, therefore, that I am resolved, cost what
it will, and at the risk of breaking my heart, to utter this
fatal word—Farewell, then, beloved of my soul—my first, my only
love—_you are free_. Think of me, henceforth, as a tender
brother. I will ever cherish you as a sister. For your own sake,
and that of your dear Ella, be prudent; remember that a woman’s
name should never even be breathed upon.
One more effort—one more bitter pang, and my self-imposed duty
is done. If ever my sweet sister should find one who loves her
as I do—but who, unlike poor Melville, approaches near to
the standard of perfection she has erected in her own
imagination—then, dearest, do not hesitate to become his wife.
My prayers shall ever be offered up for your happiness; and you,
my ever-beloved Evelyn, will not, even in the midst of that
bliss, refuse—if I fall—to drop a tear for one who would die to
save you even one moment’s uneasiness. Farewell—farewell!
R. M.
EVELYN TRAVERS TO REGINALD MELVILLE.
Castellamare, Villa des Alberi, 5th May.
I have been seriously ill, dear Reginald, or you would have
heard from me ere this. I left Florence a week after I received
your letter; and the fatigues of the journey, added to the
violent shock consequent on the receipt of such sad news, quite
overcame me. I was taken with a nervous trembling, which ended
in fever. For two months I have been confined to my room, and
strictly forbidden to write, read, or even to think. I have,
however, succeeded in persuading my doctor, that to remain alone
with my regrets for the past is retarding indefinitely my
recovery. He has, therefore, permitted me to write these few
lines to you.
And are we, then, really to be parted _forever_? Oh! my once
kind Reginald, why condemn me to live without your love! I see
at last the folly and madness of sacrificing a true attachment
for the heartless and aimless admiration of the passing hour.
Oh! how lonely do I feel now in the world—how its hollowness
wearies me! Sweet Ella even seems to reproach my frivolity with
her calm angel eyes; nor can I endure Mary’s face of grave and
sad reproof.
Reginald, if you ever loved me, write and say that I am
forgiven—tell me that I have not ruined your happiness. Do not
speak of my poor attractions. Would that I were plain, since my
beauty has caused our separation.
You say you are not my “_beau ideal_.” If it be true, that my
foolish romantic fancy has portrayed an impossible hero—at
least, your rare devotion to one worthless as myself is the very
“_beau ideal_” of all that mortals term love. For this, accept
my undying gratitude.
One last request—for your Evelyn’s sake, be prudent. Do not
expose yourself to danger unnecessarily; and she will nightly
kneel before the throne of grace, and pray that her numerous
faults and follies may rather he visited on her own head, and
that every blessing, temporal and eternal, may fall to the lot
of him who, though absent, is forever present with his repentant
EVELYN.
P. S.—Remember, I shall count the days, the hours, the moments,
until I hear from you. Do not keep me in suspense. Mary desires
kindest regards, and little Ella her best love.
After the preceding letter was dispatched to Colonel Melville’s agents
for transmission to India, I endeavored as much as possible to divert
Evelyn’s mind from dwelling on painful subjects. The state of her health
was far from satisfactory. I therefore used all my influence to persuade
her to enter a little into society, as we calculated no reply could
possibly come under three months from the seat of war, and till that
time had elapsed anxiety would be but needless self-torment. We were
acquainted with an English family, whose pretty schooner—the
“Turquoise”—was lying in the bay of Sorrento. Captain and Mrs. Blake had
frequently invited us to make excursions with them to the various
objects of interest which abound on the classic shores of the ancient
Parthenope. We had hitherto refused—myself because I detested the sea;
Evelyn, because she was utterly out of spirits. One evening, however,
our kind friends came and would take no denial. They were accompanied by
a young Sicilian nobleman, a great friend of Ella’s, for he never called
without a box of bonbons, a basket of fruit, or a bouquet for the young
lady, whom he had named _Sorcietto_, or “little Mousey.” The Duc di
Balzano was a fine-looking man of from twenty-eight to thirty years of
age. Dark as the very darkest of his race, he possessed an open
countenance, and an expression beaming with goodness. Unlike the
generality of his rather effeminate countrymen, Balzano was cast in the
mould of a Hercules, and even in England, (that land of splendidly
formed men), he would have been remarked for the perfection of his
figure and the grace of his movements. I remember later seeing him
execute the Tarantella, or national dance of Naples, in a manner that
might have shamed many a Terpsichorean star of the opera.
Yielding to Ella’s entreaties, Evelyn consented to make one of the
party, and arranged on the following morning to drive to Sorento and
there embark in our friend’s yacht. I was excused, as all were aware
that a marine excursion was anything but a pleasure to me. It was
proposed first to visit the purple cave of Capri, which can only be
entered in calm weather and at low tide. Even then the visitor must
almost recline in the boat, so low is the entrance to the cave. When
this difficulty is passed you are amply repaid by the sight of a lofty
dome of rock, spanning a body of water actually of the color of indigo.
Great care is necessary in making the visit that no storm is in
prospect, for when the waves are high, the imprudent traveler has been
unable to return, sometimes for days, in consequence of the exit to the
cave having been entirely submerged by the raging element which
surrounds it.
Our party entered under favorable auspices, for the sea was calm, though
there was at the same time a ground swell, which had made poor Ella very
sea-sick, and obliged her to be left on a sofa in the yacht. Ella’s
indisposition gave rise to a rather amusing adventure which I shall now
relate:
On her return on board, Evelyn found the child very ill, so much so as
to alarm her mother who went to Captain Blake and begged him to put them
instantly ashore.
“My dear lady,” replied he, “it is all very well for you to talk, but I
know no landing place within some hours’ sail.”
“Then,” besought Evelyn, “let us put back to Sorento.”
“Impossible,” exclaimed the captain, “the little wind there is, is
contrary. It would take us twelve hours to get there.”
Just then di Balzano made his appearance, and the poor mother, in
despair, began in Italian to explain the circumstances to him. The duke
in the kindest manner reassured Captain Blake as to the nature of the
coast, and informed Evelyn that although he knew of no _good_ landing
place near, he would gladly escort her and little Ella in safety home to
Castellamare. “But,” he added, looking at Evelyn, “the signorina must
have a little patience, for we cannot make even the nearest landing
place till nightfall.”
Gratefully thanking him, Evelyn returned to her daughter, who soon
became pacified under the hope of once more being on terra firma.
At eight o’clock, true to his promise, the Captain stopped the schooner,
a boat was lowered, and the party entered. Balzano held the sick child
in his arms like a tender nurse. The landing was indeed far rougher than
even he had expected—it was a regular mountain scramble in the dark.
Arrived at the summit, Ella and her mother were glad to repose on the
floor of the miserable hut appropriated to the coast guard. On inquiry,
they learned they were eight miles from Sorento, the road thither lying
over a mountain ridge, which must be passed on donkeys. None of these
animals, they were told, were to be had under a two-hours’ ride from
thence. Balzano at once started in search of asses, pressing a boy into
the service. For nearly three hours did the poor tired travellers wait
in the smoky atmosphere of the guard-house, the return of their kind
escort. At last the welcome patter of donkeys’ feet was heard, and three
sorry beasts made their appearance. No time was lost in mounting.
Balzano, who was dressed in summer costume, wrapped his plaid around
Evelyn, who had placed her own shawl about the little girl.
The cold on the mountains was excessive, the path difficult, and there
was no moon. At about two A. M. the party arrived at Sorento; but though
they knocked loudly at the doors of the principal hotels, no one would
rise to admit them. A testy Englishman only, in a red night-cap, looked
out from a third floor window, and abused them in very bad Italian for
disturbing his slumbers. Evelyn getting angry herself, replied in the
same language, which her excitement rendered less melodiously correct
than usual. The colloquy greatly amused her cavalier, who laughed
heartily at the expense of the _dui Inglese_ disputing in bad Italian.
To make a long story short, our friends dismounted, and passed the night
in an empty carriage, for the poor donkeys could not, or would not go a
step further—and soon after sunrise they persuaded its owner to put
horses to the vehicle, thus arriving at our Villa, to my infinite
surprise, at about six in the morning.
The suite of this otherwise laughable adventure had well nigh proved
fatal to poor Balzano. His kindness and politeness in giving up his
plaid when so thinly clothed, caused a severe chill, which ended in a
most dangerous attack of fever, in which he nearly lost his life. A
strong constitution, and a calm, well-regulated mind, to our infinite
relief, enabled our excellent friend eventually and perfectly to recover
his health.
[Illustration]
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