Reveries of a Bachelor; or, A Book of the Heart

by Donald Grant Mitchell

I also told her of all I saw in that great world of Paris—writing as I would write to a sister; and I told her, too, of the sweet Roman girl, Enrica—of her brown hair, and of her rich eyes, and of her pretty Carnival dresses. And when I missed letter after letter I told her that she must still write her letters, or some little journal, and read it to me when I came back. I thought how pleasant it would be to sit under the trees by her father’s house and listen to her tender voice going through that record of her thoughts and fears. Alas, how our hopes betray us!

It began almost like a diary, about the time her father fell sick. “It is”—said she to Lilly, when she gave it to her, “what I would have said to Cousin Paul if he had been here.”

It begins:“—I have come back now to father’s house; I could not leave him alone, for they told me he was sick. I found him not well; he was very glad to see me, and kissed me so tenderly that I am sure, Cousin Paul, you would not have said, as you used to say, that he was a cold man! I sometimes read to him, sitting in the deep library window (you remember it), where we used to nestle out of his sight at dusk. He can not read any more.

“I would give anything to see the little Carry you speak of; but do you know you did not describe her to me at all; will you not tell me if she has dark hair, or light, or if her eyes are blue, or dark, like mine? Is she good; did she not make ugly speeches, or grow peevish, in those long days upon the ocean? How I would have liked to have been with you, on those clear starlit nights, looking off upon the water! But then I think that you would not have wished me there, and that you did not once think of me even. This makes me sad; yet I know not why it should; for I always liked you best, when you were happy; and I am sure you must have been happy then. You say you shall never see her after you have left the ship; you must not think so, cousin Paul; if she is so beautiful, and fond, as you tell me, your own heart will lead you in her way some time again; I feel almost sure of it.

* * * “Father is getting more and more feeble, and wandering in his mind; this is very dreadful; he calls me sometimes by my mother’s name; and when I say—it is Isabel—he says—what Isabel! and treats me as if I was a stranger. The physician shakes his head when I ask him of father; oh, Paul, if he should die—what could I do? I should die, too—I know I should. Who would there be to care for me? Lilly is married, and Ben is far off, and you, Paul, whom I love better than either, are a long way from me. But God is good, and He will spare my father.

* * * “So you have seen again your little Carry. I told you it would be so. You tell me how accidental it was; ah, Paul, Paul, you rogue, honest as you are, I half doubt you there! I like your description of her, too—dark eyes like mine, you say—’almost as pretty;’ well, Paul, I will forgive you that; it is only a white lie. You know they must be a great deal prettier than mine, or you would never have stayed a whole fortnight in an old farmer’s house far down in Devon! I wish I could see her; I wish she was here with you now; for it is midsummer, and the trees and flowers were never prettier. But I am all alone; father is too ill to go out at all. I fear now very much that he will never go out again. Lilly was here yesterday, but he did not know her. She read me your last letter; it was not so long as mine. You are very—very good to me, Paul.

* * * “For a long time I have written nothing; my father has been very ill, and the old housekeeper has been sick, too, and father would have no one but me near him. He can not live long. I feel sadly—miserably; you will not know me when you come home; your ‘pretty Bella’—as you used to call me—will have lost all her beauty. But perhaps you will not care for that, for you tell me you have found one prettier than ever. I do not know, Cousin Paul, but it is because I am so sad and selfish—for sorrow is selfish—but I do not like your raptures about the Roman girl. Be careful, Paul; I know your heart; it is quick and sensitive; and I dare say she is pretty and has beautiful eyes; for they tell me all the Italian girls have soft eyes.

“But Italy is far away, Paul; I can never see Enrica; she will never come here. No—no, remember Devon. I feel as if Carry was a sister now. I can not feel so of the Roman girl; I do not want to feel so. You will say this is harsh, and I am afraid you will not like me so well for it; but I can not help saying it. I love you too well, Cousin Paul, not to say it.

* * * “It is all over! Indeed, Paul, I am very desolate! ‘The golden bowl is broken’—my poor father has gone to his last home. I was expecting it; but how can we expect that fearful comer—death? He had been for a long time so feeble that he could scarce speak at all; he sat for hours in his chair, looking upon the fire or looking out at the window. He would hardly notice me when I came to change his pillows or to smooth them for his head. But before he died he knew me as well as ever. ‘Isabel,’ he said, ‘you have been a good daughter. God will reward you!’ and he kissed me so tenderly, and looked after me so anxiously, with such intelligence in his look that I thought perhaps he would revive again. In the evening he asked me for one of his books that he loved very much. ‘Father,’ said I, ‘you can not read; it is almost dark.’

“‘Oh, yes,’ said he, ‘Isabel, I can read now.’ And I brought it; he kept my hand a long while; then he opened the book—it was a book about death.