+ELLA+
EVELYN had saved Philip D’Arcy’s life, but almost at the cost of her
own. The reaction from intense despair to the excess of joy, was too
much for her, and to a deathlike swoon succeeded the frantic ravings of
delirium. The fever of her beloved had fastened its cruel fangs in her
very vitals. During weeks and weeks of suffering, I scarcely left the
bedside of my poor friend—for ever and for ever did she utter the name
of Philip, her true mate, her celestial bridegroom, her first, last, her
only love. Unwilling that other ears should discover the secret of her
heart, I permitted none to approach, cautiously concealing from Ella the
dangerous nature of the malady, lest the dear girl should insist on
sharing my anxious watch, and thus be made aware of her mother’s
weakness—a weakness which, while pitying, I deeply deplored. Poor D’Arcy
too, I remembered, must not be left alone with strangers. At my desire,
therefore, Ella, accompanied by an elderly female attendant, supplied
her mother’s place in the sick room of him who still required the utmost
attention and solicitude.
Many days elapsed ere the patient was pronounced out of danger, and
permitted to speak.
“Sir, I am both surprised and happy to be able to announce your
convalescence; and it is to the devoted attention of this young girl,”
designating Ella, “that, under divine Providence, you owe your life.” So
spake the man of science, not aware of the whole truth, as we know it,
and he spake as he thought. The sick man turned a grateful look on his
young nurse, gently raising the hand she had placed in his to his pallid
lips.
Many a time, as he daily grew stronger, would D’Arcy desire to ask after
Evelyn; and yet, simple as was the question, it appeared as if his
tongue refused to frame it. “Strange that she never inquires—never
comes,” he mused. “Were not Ella so calm, I should say her mother, too,
must be ill.” At length, he determined to solve his doubts—“Your dear
mother, my child, and Miss Mildmay—tell me of them?”
“Poor mama,” replied the young girl, “is not very well.”
“Nothing serious, I trust.”
“Oh! no. She caught cold, I believe, the last time she was out.”
D’Arcy sighed—in his heart he maligned poor Evelyn as a true woman of
the world, a fashionable coquette, heartless as she was beautiful; and
thinking thus, he unconsciously watched the graceful, half-childish form
of Ella, as she noiselessly stole about the room, or bent over her
tapestry frame, till at length he grew to listen eagerly for her coming
and regret her parting step. Sweetly would the tones of her silvery
voice fall on his ear, as, reclining on a couch propped up by cushions,
he listened while she read to him extracts from Byron, Wordsworth,
Tennyson, or some noble bard of his own fair land. At such times he
would name her, half in jest, “Elaine, the lily maid,” who died of love
for the brave Sir Launcelot.
One afternoon, as the invalid drew fresh life from the warm beams of the
mid-day sun, his young companion, seated on a low stool at his feet, her
fairy fingers busily engaged with her tapestry, D’Arcy said—“Sweet
Elaine! shall we read, or shall we have a little quiet talk together?”
With a sweet smile, she answered, still diligently plying her needle:
“We will converse to-day—for I must finish this cushion for mama by the
time she is quite well.”
But D’Arcy appeared embarrassed; and, after a pause of some minutes’
duration, he probably said just the thing he had never intended to
utter:
“My child, could you love?”
Wonderingly, Ella raised her soft blue eyes, and fixed them on the face
of the speaker—“Why, certainly,” she said; “I dearly, dearly love my
mother.”
“And none other?”
“Oh! yes, indeed—Mary—our kind, good Mary, for example. You, too, of
course,” blushing slightly—“you are now another dear friend.”
“But, Ella, listen. Could you, for instance, love as—as—Elaine loved
Launcelot?”
She paused. “I have never thought of that—at any rate, if he had not
loved me, I should never have been so silly as to care for him.”
“No—but supposing he had loved you?”
“Well, in that case, perhaps I might; but, oh! Mr. D’Arcy, never, even
then, nearly so much as I love my own dear mother. Ah! you do not know
how I love her,” and the tears started to the dear child’s clear eyes;
“but,” she hesitated, “I _do_ wish to say something to you—you must
never, _never_ mention it, though. Perhaps it is foolish to tell
you—but, I should so like my mother to marry.”
It now was D’Arcy’s turn to feel his cheek all flame. “It is,
doubtless,” he forced himself to reply, “by your mother’s own desire
that she remains single.”
“I do not know,” mused Ella—“she was very nearly married once; but _it_
(I mean the marriage) was postponed, in consequence of her not being
willing to change her religion. I, however, know she loved the ——, but I
will not name him.”
D’Arcy was now pale as death. “Perhaps,” said he, “all may at present be
at an end.”
“Oh! no, indeed,” exclaimed Ella, eagerly; “they still correspond, I
know—and he is _so_ handsome, _so_ good, _so_ fond of her—she would be
very, _very_ happy—_do_, Mr. D’Arcy, persuade mama to become a
Catholic!”
He seemed lost in thought. “Sweet Elaine,” at length he said, “rest
assured, that, to further your mother’s welfare and your own, I would
gladly sacrifice my life. I will take an early occasion of conversing
with her on this subject.”
Meanwhile, my poor invalid lay turning and tossing on her fevered couch,
and ever and forever would she thus make moan: “Philip, my own true
mate—Philip, bridegroom of my soul—why so cruel?” Then, in her wild
delirium, would she sing snatches of melody, and her voice was strong,
clear, and of unearthly sweetness. Often would she repeat those
exquisite lines of Shelly:
“The nightingale’s complaint, it dies upon her heart,
As I must on thine, beloved as thou art—
A spirit hath led me to thee, love.”
“Yes, Lilian—thy loved Lilian, hath given thee to Evelyn—Reginald, too,
looks upon me with tender and forgiving eyes. See! they descend together
to bless our union—they bear a wreath of orange blossoms and myrtle—they
place it on my burning brow—it is cool—cool—delicious! Oh! what
fragrance! It soothes my brain—it recalls my senses—the dews of Paradise
fall like a shower of pearls over my tangled hair. Ah! see—they place a
white moss rose on my bosom—it stills the throbbings of my heart—it
deadens the pain! Thanks, blessed, loving angels! Pray for poor Evelyn.
She is saved!”
As she uttered these words an exquisite perfume filled the sick chamber,
and I saw, as it were, a halo of white light around the head of the poor
sufferer, and fancied I beheld a hand, white as alabaster, holding a
rose to her breast. A moment, and the light faded, or rather, gave place
to the sickly rays of the early dawn, as they penetrated the closed
blinds and shone on the pale form of the patient. Was this a vision or a
mere disorder of the fancy? I know not; but I do know that from that
moment the fever left her; that she slept profoundly for twelve
consecutive hours; and on awakening was declared convalescent.
[Illustration]
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