+FOREGLEAMS+
IT is evening; the air is soft and balmy, the gorgeous sunset flushes
the mountain tops, and falling on the gladsome river causes it to
glitter like molten gold. The advancing steamer, heavy with its freight
of human hearts, their loves and their cares, is enveloped in a glow of
hazy light; the clear mirror of the crystal Hudson reflects the blue,
unclouded expanse of the heavens. The acacias gently wave, and the
aspens tenderly quiver in the languid air. A moment, and the amber sun
sinks below the horizon, and white-robed twilight advances stealthily,
as a holy nun bearing incense; softly she distils with fairy fingers,
the sparkling dew-drops, and the water-lilies close their waxen petals,
and the birds fold their weary wings, all but the nightingale, who ever
maketh melody. Now the dragon-fly awakes, and the glancing fish make
ripple on the water: the cricket chirps, and the glow-worm and her
sister, the fire-fly, prepare their tiny lamps. How blissful a calm
steals over the senses; what sweet peace pervades the soul attuned to
the harmonies of nature. On such a night as this did Philip D’Arcy and
Evelyn wander forth in the clear obscure, their feet sought the green
paths where the cool moss grew beside the bubbling streamlet, and the
night flowers wept beneath the silent stars, dreamily they sauntered
side by side, their souls permeated with the placid tenderness of that
soft hour. They spoke not, yet Evelyn felt through her entire being, the
passionate gaze of those deep eyes, and the delicious consciousness that
she was beloved glowed on her cheek and caused her eyelids to droop in
timid emotion; they spake not, for they dared not break the ineffable
charm of that mute language. Yet D’Arcy must leave that night, and he
had much to say, and Evelyn, by the instinct of love, knew that he had
much to say, and yet they could not find it in their heart to break the
spell, the elysium of that silent hour. But Philip must no longer keep
silence. “Evelyn,” he murmured softly, and it was the first time he had
thus named her, “I know not how I shall support absence from—from my
friends—from you.”
“You will return,” she whispered.
“Return—ah! if God spare my life to happiness—to love. Evelyn,
forgive—pardon, my mistake; the fatal misapprehension, not of my
heart—oh! do not think it; but I believed—I feared you loved another.”
“_Never_, Philip! Oh! I know it now, too well!”
Then in words of burning eloquence, he poured forth the long restrained
passion of his soul. He told how that she was the one love of his life;
how that all past feelings were cold and worthless compared to this; how
his very being was entwined with hers; and kneeling at her feet he
besought her to become his bride—his own.
Though the intense joy of that moment was almost an agony, Evelyn by a
supreme effort mastering her agitation, besought her lover to rise, then
she said, sadly, sorrowfully, tearfully, but with firmness:
“Too late—too late. Philip, this can never be.”
“Never? Oh, God! Evelyn, do not jest. Can it be that after all, I am
indifferent to you?”
She turned upon him a look of such fond, such devoted, such adoring
love, that he would have caught her to his breast, but he dared not—so
timid, so respectful, is true love.
“Philip, you are dear—dearer to me than existence. From the first moment
I beheld you, you have been the star of my destiny; and yet, I repeat, I
never, never can be yours.”
“And that lip, the very arch of Cupid’s bow—those perfect lips, where
love in smiles and dimples holds his throne—can they frame such cruel
words. Sweetest, this is no time for coquetry.”
“Ah! Philip, speak not of that fatal beauty which has ever been my
curse. Hear me with patience. Your affection to me is beyond all price;
but, yet, far more do I prize your honor. Never, oh! never, may the
unwedded wife of Sir Percy Montgomery become the bride of the noble, the
peerless D’Arcy. The world——”
“What of that?” broke in Philip.
“Nothing, when we act rightly—everything when we do wrong. Never through
Evelyn shall the heartless world have reason to cast a slur on the fair
fame of him she venerates above all men; never shall it be said that his
name is no longer untarnished. Philip, the mother of your once betrothed
can not, must not, name you husband. We must, therefore, part.”
“Part, Evelyn? In pity, say not so! My life—my love—my bird of beauty—we
will forsake the haunts of men; together will we fly to distant
climes—there, alone in the wilds of a yet virgin solitude, will we live
each for the other only, and earth shall become for us a second Eden.
Say, sweet one! shall it not be so?”
For one moment only did she waver. The idea of such bliss was too
intoxicating—her brain reeled as in delirium. The temptation to give up
all for him was too strong. A moment, and she would have sunk upon his
breast, breathless, fainting, overcome—when, suddenly, she seemed to
behold, over against the dark sycamore grove, the form of Ella—her
child—her first-born—her only one—the long fair hair, dank and uncurled,
floating in the dewy night—the sweet young face pale and sad. The
semblance vanished: but, once more, Evelyn listened to her better angel.
Self was forgotten—the weakness past—the struggle over. Turning on her
beloved a look which he never ceased to remember—a look which consoled
him in all troubles, and which ever inspired him to noble deeds, because
in that pure glance earthly passion had given place to celestial love,
she said, gently, but decisively, and without wavering—“We have both
duties to perform; you will serve your country—be it mine to protect my
child, to soothe the suffering, to console the afflicted. Ah! me—I have
much to redeem in the past.”
“Cruel and unkind!—and since when have you thus changed?”
“Since I have known you, Philip. All that is good in me I owe to you
alone—and to you, next God, I look for strength and courage to
persevere.”
“And so help me Heaven, you shall not look in vain!” rejoined her lover,
now restored to better feeling. “But must we part?”
“Yes—more than ever beloved—here for a time, to be united forever ere
long, when made ‘perfect through suffering,’ we shall be found worthy to
attain to the joys of angelhood. In the faith of this sweet hope, I can
bear to part on earth for ever even from you.”
Evelyn’s eyes beamed with an almost supernatural radiance; and as the
moon, bursting from forth a cloud that had momentarily veiled her
splendor, shone full upon her chiselled features, she almost looked a
denizen of that world to which she aspired. But the light of inspiration
was soon quenched in tears of pardonable human sorrow; and, as Philip
strained her to his wildly-throbbing heart, their lips met, and their
souls blended in one long, long kiss—the first—the last—seal of their
union for eternity. Surely the angels were present, and smiled
benignantly on their pure and holy espousals.
[Illustration]
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