CHAPTER XIX.
LEAVES FROM A LADY’S DIARY
March 13th.—I have, of late, greatly neglected my journal, not from want of time, neither for lack of incident nor material for thought and feeling—rather the reverse.
Since my last musical reception, I have not penned one line. Oh! that night is a kind of era in my life. I then made the acquaintance of a remarkable man—perhaps the most uncommon person I ever met. It is not only that he is very, very handsome, nor highly intellectual, nor most refined in manners—it is that, over and above all these qualifications, he possesses, in a wonderful degree, the power of attraction—magnetism, if you will—the je ne sais quoi of the French. You forget self in his presence, and think of him only. I cannot analyze my feelings. I only know, that, as the soft and musical tones of that voice fell on my ear, as I felt the magic of that glance in my inmost soul, the words uttered by Lady Caroline Lamb, when first she beheld Byron, came unbidden to my memory, and seemed to me as a foreboding of sorrow—
I murmured, as a vague terror crept over me.
On the morning we received Mr. D’Arcy’s first visit—Mary and myself—our conversation turned upon spiritual manifestations. I sat and listened—for my own experience and the clairvoyant powers of Ella had long since set me wondering. D’Arcy, it appears, is a firm believer. He recounted to us the circumstances which led to his conversion. Lilian—what a sweet name! Ah! instead of pitying, I almost envied her. Did he not say that he had loved her fondly—that he still wore her miniature next his heart? Happy Lilian! Would I could change with thee—to have drained the cup of intoxicating bliss to the dregs, and then to die, to pass away in the freshness of youth—hopes undeceived—trust unshaken—loving, beloved, regretted, happy Lilian! See the reverse, fair spirit, and pity poor Evelyn’s far sadder fate! Behold her as the wretched wife of one totally unsuited to her—then, as the murderess of the noble, the loving Reginald—lastly, as the faithless betrothed of the generous-hearted Balzano; and wherefore? Because she is not of the happy “few, who find what they love or could have loved,” and who, therefore, are influenced through life by “accident, blind contact, and the strong necessity of loving,”—that touchstone of woman’s weakness and folly.
21st.—My Ella’s birthday. She is now fifteen, and in the eyes of a partial mother, the loveliest of God’s feminine creation. Mr. D’Arcy brought her a bouquet of the most priceless hot-house flowers of the purest white—emblematic, he said, of her ethereal nature. How good of him to think of her. Though but a child, she doubtless reminds him of his Lilian. I have observed those limpid and unfathomable eyes of his fixed upon her more than once in silent contemplation. He is now a frequent visitor—perhaps too frequent. There are flowers so fair, fruits so tempting, that we forget the danger which lurks within. We inhale their perfume; we press to our lips their luscious juice, and we perish.
31st.—The first mild day of spring. The air from the conservatory enters laden with the breath of flowers. I feel the blood pulsating in my veins with unusual ardor. There is a bouquet of Parma violets by my side, sent by him. Their perfume inebriates my senses; an indefinable charm penetrates my whole being. If, after all, he loves me! Oh! hush! foolish heart be still. Such happiness is not for earth. And yet, I think he is not indifferent. Friendship from him is preferable to love from another—yes, it would content me. But then, friends part, to meet again God alone knows when. This is terrible; and what is friendship when love intervenes, for another. Oh! that thought is torture. Why, what an ingenious self-tormentor am I. Why search the possible future to embitter the happy reality of the present. If the worst comes I can die—no, WE CANNOT DIE, we live; live forever with an eternal passion in the heart, when we make of a mere mortal the “god of our idolatry.”
April 15th.—This evening, it being my reception day, and a few intimates having collected in our salon, the conversation turned upon love and jealousy.
“I cannot,” observed D’Arcy, “understand the simultaneous existence of these two passions in one bosom.”
“How,” cried one of the party, “has not jealousy been termed the ‘child of insatiate love?’”
“Nay, rather,” rejoined D’Arcy, “has not Tennyson more aptly described this passion as ‘dead love’s harsh heir jealous pride.’ Where true love exists, believe me, there can be no jealousy.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed, and I felt the warm blood mount to my temples, “Mr. D’Arcy is right. True love must be based on esteem, and cannot, therefore, live without perfect confidence.”
“You have divined me,” said D’Arcy, with that smile of rare sweetness peculiar to him; “jealousy originates in mistrust, and is, therefore, an insult when unfounded.”
“But supposing you had cause,” said another of the circle.
“Then,” replied he, with an almost stern severity, “I should no longer love.”
“Ah! ah! monsieur,” said a pretty little Frenchwoman, “I differ, quite. As for me, I am jealous; as a wolf—a tiger.”
A general laugh followed this innocent and truly French sally, from all but D’Arcy, who bowing profoundly, and with an air of inimitable, mock humility, said:
“Then, madame, I am most unhappy, for I can never make love to you.”
“This is growing too serious,” I said; “let me introduce to you, Mr. D’Arcy, as a poet, and my friend, Miss Mildmay, as a musician second only to Rossini. Ella will sing you a song of their joint composition. It is really charming.”
I here transcribe the words, which, with the music, met with great success:
April 27th.—The old adage, “Love is blind,” is by no means true, at least in my case. Cupid for me never fails to put on a pair of magnifying glasses, which have the power of exaggerating alike the virtues and defects of those who have with me entered the lists of the tournament of love. I have detested many an admirer for “trifles light as air,” cruelly criticising his dress, voice, manner, or tastes; and I once took a fancy to a person, mainly because his gloves fitted exquisitely—and had the other qualities corresponded, my fancy would, doubtless, have taken other shape. But, to return. To what a severe scrutiny have I not subjected Philip D’Arcy; but, “alas! and well-a-day,” I find no fault in him. Men frequently term him effeminate-looking; and it is true, that he is formed in a delicate, rather than a robust mould; but this suits well with that spiritual style of beauty so pre-eminent in him: and who could fail to read in the pose of that noble head, in the expression of the compressed and chiselled lips, moral grandeur, indomitable will. Women, too, frequently call him cold. Ah! they have not marked, as I have, that glance of flame which (rarely, it is true) flashes from the depth of those orbs, usually so serene, so untroubled. The volcano may be smouldering, but it is not extinct. Long years of self-control may have schooled the heart; but its pulses, nevertheless, throb warmly, passionately, humanly, still.
May 8th.—Mr. D’Arcy possesses, in a remarkable degree, the power of affecting the heart and imagination with what remains unspoken. He sets you thinking. In his presence, you brush the rust from your mind, and new ideas flow in upon you. To-day, he spoke to us of Swedenborg, and of the charming and consoling doctrine of that great Christian seer; that however lonely our earthly lot, however mistaken we may have been in our choice of a mate, those who by perseverance in well doing eventually become angels, will, sooner or later, meet with their true conjugal partner—their other self—in a higher sphere. A beautiful philosophy, and not unreasonable, when we consider that love, in its true sense, is the strongest and purest, as well as the most exquisitely delightful sentiment of our nature: nor would the Creator have implanted this passion in our souls, but that He intended to satisfy it to the full; if, therefore, sad experience shows how rarely on earth we are truly mated, it follows, logically, that this sweetest and tenderest of the spirit’s yearnings looks for realization in a higher sphere of being. Such, at least, is D’Arcy’s firm belief; such also, he tells me, is that of many of the most eminently intellectual and spiritual of his countrymen and countrywomen. Mary is, of course, charmed: she says there is, at last, some chance for her.