+LOVED IN VAIN+
IS there one among us who has not, at some period of his life,
experienced the dull pain which, on the morrow of a great grief, ever
returns to us with the first dawn of consciousness? Have we not hated
the very light of another day? Have not all familiar objects lost their
charm for us? How sensitively, too, have we shrunk from contact with the
domestics—aye, even from the loved faces of the home circle! Alone would
we entertain our sorrow. We are in love with her, and from her we will
not be parted. This is the very luxury of grief. Joy may be a social
passion; but surely the converse is true of profound misery.
Our unhappy heroine dared not thus indulge her sorrow—she must up and be
doing. The poisoned arrow which had pierced her bosom must there remain,
an agonized but concealed torture. Ah! me—those pangs for which the
world would have no pity, and which, therefore, we must hide under the
semblance of smiles, are ever the most poignant.
Like lawful love, legitimate grief may be deep; but neither are of that
stormy nature which shakes the soul to its foundation, and blights the
whole existence. So Evelyn arose, mechanically, and suffered her maid to
attire her; then, causing the blinds to be closed, the better to conceal
her haggard countenance, she bade the attendant leave the room.
To the question—“Will madame take breakfast now?” her mistress replied,
that she merely required a cup of tea; and added, that, having important
letters to write, she must not for the present be disturbed. Then
flinging herself into a chair, and covering her aching eyes with her
hand, she endeavored to collect her thoughts. Just then, she felt a soft
warm touch—when, starting, she turned and perceived her faithful dog,
the gift of di Balzano. He had placed his paw in her hand, and he looked
into her face with a fond, wistful glance, which seemed to say, “Dear
mistress, you are sick or sad; but your poor dog loves you, and will
never forsake you.” And Evelyn comprehended, and she flung her arm about
the shaggy neck of her favorite, and the large scalding drops fell on
his honest head. “Poor Dashey,” she said—“poor fellow!”—and tears, too,
almost human, stood in the eyes of the loving animal. Nay, mock not,
gentle reader—for, as the author has observed, so she writes. She once
had a dog whom she has seen weep more than once; and when the poor fond
creature died, she mourned for her (for she was of the softer sex) as
for a friend.
And Evelyn went to her writing-table—her resolve was taken. “Good, kind
Balzano,” she said; “how he loved me—unworthy as I am! I will no longer
delay writing to him;” and she penned the letter we here transcribe:
A Sua Excellenza, il Duca di Balzano,
Palazzo Balzano, Naples, August—, 18—.
DEAR FRIEND,—Pardon my prolonged silence, and apparent neglect.
I have been ill—dangerously ill—for many weeks. Before that, I
had come to no decision on the subject of your last letter. I
cannot be a Catholic; but, if you can procure a dispense from
the Pope, I will now be your wife. Can you forgive my caprice!
At last, I understand how cruelly you must have suffered through
me. Henceforth, it will be the sole aim of my life to compensate
for past folly, by future devotion to your happiness. Write
soon, and say when we may expect you here. Ella you will find
grown out of all knowledge. You were ever a favorite with her. I
cannot write more. I am still very weak—but, as ever,
Your affectionate friend,
EVELYN.
The letter was just concluded, when a gentle tap at the door caused the
writer’s heart to give one bound, and then almost to cease beating.
Evelyn withdrew the bolt—for she must speak with Ella. The young girl
threw herself on her mother’s neck; but that mother’s kiss was cold, for
the first time—and, as she felt the soft contact of her child’s pure
lips, almost a shudder passed through her frame. Ah! wherefore did the
shadow of _that man_ come between those two! And Ella knelt at her
mother’s feet, an unconscious rival; and as the latter, faint and sick
at heart, leaned back in her _fauteuil_, she held the poor burning hand
in her cool fresh palm, and poured out before her mother all the
thoughts and feelings of her innocent, loving heart. She told how D’Arcy
loved her, how kind he was, how clever—far too wise and clever for her,
how could he think of such a child? True, Lilian had told him, or it
could never have been; but her dear mother must teach her to become
wise, worthy of him, that he may not think her foolish—“But oh! my own,
own mama, I never, never will marry and leave you all alone. I told Mr.
D’Arcy so. Never till you are a duchess, you know,” kissing her hand,
“for though I like him very much, I never shall love him like my own
sweet mother; how could I!”
Alas! poor Evelyn; bitterly did thy heart reproach thee that thou
couldst not feel as the tender maiden at thy feet—that thy now guilty
love still glowed in thy tortured heart, as in a furnace, to the
exclusion of each gentle and more holy sentiment. Unhappy mother! she
could scarce support the presence of her child now.
“Dear girl,” she said, with an effort, “be happy. I have written to
accept M. di Balzano.”—Ella made a movement of delight. “Bless you,
darling, now leave me. Take that letter and see that it is sent. I would
be alone, my head aches terribly.” A true woman’s excuse, but in our
heroine’s case not a fictitious one.
Once more left to her own sad thoughts, Evelyn endeavored to realize her
painful position. It was necessary to meet D’Arcy; to show him that she
consented, nay, that she was even happy, in the idea of his union with
another, and that other her own daughter. “Alas!” she repeated to
herself,
“To love thee dumbly, nor by look or word
To break the silence set upon my soul,
To crush the voice that struggles to be heard,
To gaze unmoved on the forbidden goal.
“To sit and look into thine eyes, and yearn
To tell thee all my closely hoarded thought,
And still to know that I must calmly learn
To meet thy gaze, and yet to utter naught
“To know there is no hope; hourly to feel
That Destiny forbids a word, a breath;
This bitter fate is mine, until the seal
Is broken, by the welcome hand of death.”
And she accepted her fate, and she made the heroic resolve—cost what it
might, she would see D’Arcy this evening, if but for five minutes. She
would school her eyes to gaze calmly on those still beloved features.
She would force herself to support the sight of those lover-like
attentions which were not, which never could be for her. She would even
be happy in the mutual happiness of those two dear ones. Did she,
perchance, miscalculate her strength? For the present, at least, that
trial was spared her. Just about the hour D’Arcy’s visit was expected, a
telegraphic despatch arrived from Havre. It was handed to me by Evelyn
to open and read. It ran thus:
“Pressing public business recalls me to America. I sail
to-night. Will write from Cowes.
“PHILIP D’ARCY.”
A sigh of inexpressible relief burst from Evelyn’s overcharged bosom, as
she murmured involuntarily, “Thank God.” Last evening, at the same hour
had an event so unexpected occurred, how different would have been her
feelings! Truly “we know not what a day may bring forth.”
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------