CHAPTER XXIII.
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,
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.
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.”