+THE PROPOSAL+
IT was the sixteenth of August; the heat had been intense, but toward
evening a cool air stirred the leaves of the trees, and entered the open
window of the pretty boudoir in the Avenue Gabriel. That day our beloved
invalid quitted her room for the first time. Languidly reclining on an
elegant couch of pale green silk, her sweet face half buried in the rich
lace which ornamented the downy cushions, she enjoyed the voluptuous
sensations incident to the convalescent state. Ella had decked the
apartment with flowers, to _fête_ the recovery of her dear mother, and a
silver tea-service, standing on a small table near, plentifully supplied
with cakes and fruit, added greatly to the home comfort of the scene.
Evelyn’s illness, if it had somewhat detracted from the brilliancy of
her beauty, had replaced it with an air of delicacy and refinement,
which, perhaps, suited still better the classic outline of her features.
Her complexion, transparent as porcelain, was now colorless, if we
except a bright spot on either cheek—the result of emotion rather than
of returning health. Her soft, hazel eyes seemed humid with a tender
languor which gave to them a remarkable charm. The warm pulses of
renewed life and hope seemed to pervade each nerve and fibre of her
being. I could scarcely keep my eyes from looking at her, while Ella,
echoing my thoughts, exclaimed:
“Dearest mama, how very beautiful you look this evening!”
The mother pensively smiled, passed her hand through her daughter’s
hair, and then was again lost in thought.
But let us now permit her to speak for herself.
MORE LEAVES.
_August 16th._—It is nearly three whole months since I have seen him,
and oh! what events since then. Both have been sick nigh unto death;
both have received revelations from the angel world, and I shall see him
this day, and he said to Ella he would speak with me alone. Ah! the
cruel moments lengthen themselves into hours to retard his coming. And
if, after all, he should fail. But that is not possible, has he not
given his word!
* * * * *
_17th._—I have made a violent effort to collect my scattered senses, for
I would fain write the occurrences of _that_ night. Though the day
appeared as if it would never end, yet, as evening approached, I almost
dreaded to meet him. The thought that I had dared to clasp him, living,
in my arms—that unasked, unsought, my lips had been pressed to his, made
me timid as a young girl. This remembrance, even now, dyes my cheek with
crimson. Oh! were he then conscious of all, how could I ever, ever,
again lift my eyes to his; how could I ever support his glance of
withering scorn. As these reflections passed through my brain, I half
arose. “I will retire to my room,” I thought, “and leave Mary and Ella
to receive him.” Just then there was a ring, and a well-known step was
heard in the antechamber. Philip D’Arcy entered, and in the delirious
joy of his presence, I forgot all but that he was here once
more—restored to life, to health, to hope, to love. He appeared
surprised to find me still an invalid, for as he took my hand and
pressed it with that soft, thrilling pressure which may mean friendship,
or so much more, he murmured words of sorrow and sympathy, though I
scarcely caught their meaning. Then seating himself, as Mary served the
tea, he addressed some polite and common-place observations to her and
Ella. I could now satisfy the hunger of my soul by dwelling on that
noble countenance, the light of which had so long been hidden from my
weary eyes.
After long silence, I said suddenly,
“Pray, Mr. D’Arcy, tell me how did you manage to catch that fever?”
The formality of this address sounded strangely even to my own ears, and
almost as if another had spoken.
Philip smiled his old smile, and replied that he would prefer this
should remain a secret. Perceiving a somewhat mocking expression on
Mary’s lips, I exclaimed with petulance,
“But I insist on your telling me—I _will_ know.”
Turning upon me a calm and penetrating, though rather surprised look, he
said quietly,
“I have the gift of healing by mesmeric passes; over fatigued by too
close attendance on a patient suffering from a virulent attack of morbid
typhus, I saved him, but succumbed to the malady myself.”
I cast a triumphant glance at Mary. It was with difficulty I could
resist the impulse I felt to throw myself at his feet, almost in
adoration. Mary then happily observed, in her usual calm and philosophic
style, that “magnetism appeared to be the grand motive power of organic
nature.”
“Say rather,” replied D’Arcy, “of the entire visible universe. Do we not
know that the poles of the earth are magnetic? Is there not
electro-magnetism in the sun’s beams? And in fact I have very little
doubt that the power named gravitation by Newton, is neither more nor
less than magnetic attraction.”
“That,” replied Mary, “is both a philosophic and a beautiful idea.”
“I think,” rejoined he, “it at least bears the impress of truth, and as
science progresses, who knows whether it will not be ascertained that
similar internal laws govern these apparently distinct forces? All true
science tends towards unity, as all religions point to the ONE TRUE
GOD.”
So passed the time, till tea being over, Mary with Ella proposed taking
a stroll—the latter laughingly saying that the two invalids might amuse
each other by expatiating on the delights of panada, _tisane_, and
chicken broth.
In the sweet hour of twilight, alone once more with _him_, and awaiting,
as it were, the fiat of my destiny, is it wonderful that pale with
emotion I lay almost as one inanimate?
“I fear”—and the tones of his voice were low and tender as he bent over
me—“I fear me much you still suffer.”
“I have been ill, very ill,” I murmured, scarcely daring to trust my
voice.
“Can you listen,” he almost whispered, “if I speak to you on a subject
important to me, interesting to you—to both——”
I signed assent, for I was powerless now to articulate one word.
“During my illness,” he proceeded, “I was in constant communication with
the spirit of my Lilian. Much advice she gave, and much she cautioned as
to my future; finally, she informed me that it was not her destiny to
become my bride through eternity, but that there was one then near who
would save my life—one whose tender bosom would ever pulsate in unison
with my own, whose character of mind and heart was, from contrast,
fitted alone to complete mine—‘but,’ she added, solemnly, ‘make not
shipwreck of your happiness. _Pass not by your fate._’”
He paused. I could make no reply. My blood was coursing rapidly and
tumultuously through every vein and artery. My voice, passion-choked,
could only express itself in sighs. My soul seemed bathed in an ocean of
hitherto unknown delights. I scarcely dared breathe, lest I should lose
a word, a tone. A few moments more of suspense would have killed me.
Would that it had been so!
Soft as the murmur of a summer brook, thrilling as the song of birds,
tender as the cooing of the wood-pigeon, did that loved voice again
steal upon my ear. “At one time,” it said, “methought I was dying. I
lost all physical sensation. My heart felt like a stone in the midst of
my body. My breathing seemed to be carried on through the spiritual
lungs alone—when, suddenly, as if from afar, I heard, as it were, a
faint cry—a cry of distress: ‘Philip, mine own, do not die,’ it said,
‘Return—oh! return.’ (I covered my burning face with my hands, as he
continued.)
“At this time I felt on my lips a warm breath—a human heart appeared to
touch my own—then all was dark, dark. On opening my eyes, I beheld, as
an angel of light, standing at my bedside, your sweet child Ella.”
As if one had taken a sledge-hammer, and struck with violence a blow on
the very centre of my heart—such was the shock I experienced. Stunned,
unconscious, I heard no more. Had it not been thus mercifully arranged,
I had not stifled a burst of passionate anguish. When I in some measure
recovered my senses a mortal despair seized upon me.
The shades of evening had now closed in, my soul too was all gloom.
Still those soft accents fell on my ear, till at length I distinguished
the words, “Have I then your consent?” In vain would I have replied, but
my throat was parched—my tongue paralyzed. I could only bend my head in
token of assent. “On one other subject would I also for a moment speak,”
and then the beloved voice trembled and faltered, “Pardon me, but your
happiness is dear—dearer to me than my own. I understand,”—he hesitated,
and then spoke rapidly, as though he would be rid of an ungrateful task,
“I hear, there is one who adores you—one who has haply not loved in
vain—one, in fine, who even now stands toward you in the light of an
affianced husband. May I express the hope that this union will no longer
be delayed, and that bliss such as rarely falls to mortal lot may be
yours, and his for your sweet sake?” Philip raised my hand to his lips.
“Good God?” he cried, “you are ill—your hand is cold and clammy as in
death.”
I tried to smile. Happily the darkness covered the ghastly and futile
attempt. By a supreme effort I rose to my feet.
“I am well. I thank you,” I gasped, “for—for your good wishes. I
shall”—and I pressed both hands on my heart to still its wild beatings,
now and forever, if I could—“I shall marry soon—very soon.”
Staggering to the door, I met Mary and Ella.—Motioning the latter toward
the boudoir, and clinging almost fainting to Mary, who caught me in her
arms, I was half-led, half-carried to my bed-chamber—where, left alone
with my grief, my despair, my lost love, my wounded woman’s pride—worn
out by that “hope deceived which maketh the heart sick,” exhausted
nature could no more, and sleep at length in pity steeped my weary soul
in forgetfulness.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------