The afternoon following the day of the disaster I went over to Congress Hall, and sent up my card, and inquiries after Carlotta’s health. The servant returned with a card from mother, saying Carlotta was almost well enough to go out, but that she was now sleeping under the influence of an opiate, and must remain quiet all the evening. They were in their parlor, and insisted that I should join them. I immediately went up stairs, and was met at the door by mother, with her bonnet on. She invited me in, in a whisper, and explained that she had just gotten ready to do some shopping that was necessary. She pointed to the centre table, on which were some new books, and begged me to amuse myself for a quarter of an hour, when she would be back, or Carlotta would awaken.
I accordingly took my seat, nothing loth to watch over such a beautiful charge, and picking up Beulah, which was the sensation just then, began to read. The room was very quiet, and the shaded light from the soft green curtains was very pleasant, but I could not become interested in the book, and, laying it down, I moved a chair noiselessly near Carlotta, and sat silently looking and loving. She was reclining on a folding lounge of pink damask, that reflected a faint tint on her face, which was white as marble. Her hair was parted simply over her forehead, and fell in voluminous waves over the pillow, while her lashes lay in deep black crescents on her cheeks. One soft hand rested under her face, while the other lay at her side, its tapering fingers half closed. No quivers of the lids, no slightest motion, told of life, save the rise and fall of the snowy frill at her throat. Oh, hopeless love! the saddest of all earth’s sadness, the deepest of all earth’s gloom!
She could not, did not love me, I knew from all the past and the present. To tell her of my love would only distress her and make home unhappy. Mine alone must be the struggle and the victory. I would kneel by her side, touch her cheek but once with my lips, and henceforth only be her brother. I rose softly and knelt by the sofa, and my face bent over hers. That kiss was to be the seal of my silence, and I was, from that moment, to bury the love of my life in my own heart, and trust to Time to build its tomb. I steadied myself with one hand on the back of the sofa, leaned down, and whispering only that one word, “Darling!” kissed her cheek. As gentle as was my touch her eyes unclosed and she looked in my face. Overwhelmed with shame and confusion, I could not move or speak, but kneeled motionless with our faces almost touching, and my eyes fixed on hers. The next instant her soft arm was laid timidly around my neck, and, with a look that thrilled my very soul, she said, in a tone of wondrous tenderness, “John!” It was only one word, but it told me all; and the next instant, in a delirium of surprise and joy, I had clasped her in my arms, kissing her brow, and cheeks, and mouth, and murmuring, “Darling, do you love me?”
And when Reason had returned, what a Heaven on earth ‘twas to sit by her side, to hold her hand in mine, to feel the glorious resurrection of hope and love from the grave to which I was about to consign them, to know that the very truth and sincerity of her nature assured the certainty and earnestness of her love for me! Then it was such a delightful surprise, so different from what I expected, that I feared it could not be true—that it was all a dream. “Carlotta,” I said, looking at her fondly, “is this real, do you love me? Is it possible that, after all my fears, all my despair, you will be mine, my own darling—mine to love, cherish and honor, with a devotion man never knew before?” She looked up into my face with a depth of truth in her dark eyes that dispelled every doubt, as she said:
“I have always loved you, John.”
“Always, Lottie? What hours of unhappiness ‘twould have saved me had I known it; for, though I have loved you constantly during these long years of our separation, yet I have felt that my love was hopeless, and while I treasured that dear curl, the pledge of your remembrance, I somehow felt that you would remember me only as the friend, perhaps the brother of your childhood. As I received letters telling me of your growth into beautiful womanhood, and of the attention and devotion that were lavished upon you everywhere, I felt that the gulf between us was widening—that you would return proud and supercilious, inflated with your success, and contemptuous of my quiet student life. Almost fearing to meet you, I delayed along my trip, hoping that when I reached Niagara I would find our party gone; hence I stopped at the Springs, intending, after a week’s stay, to run across to the Falls. You know the rest; how cordially you met me, and how the thraldom of my life was sealed. The love that had glowed so steadily during your absence burst into a resistless flame before your superb beauty and lovely character. Yet O, darling, the anguish of the thought that you would never love me—that another would soon claim the hand that held in its grasp my soul! I could have borne it better had I found you haughty and vain, for then resentment would have aided me; but I found that you were still the same sweet Carlotta that had told me farewell in Raleigh; that the brilliant belle of every occasion was as guileless and pure as when I found her on the beach; that she was unspoilt by the caresses of society. How I worshipped you none can ever know, and I longed to fall at your feet and tell you all, but I felt sure you would laugh at the idea of ‘John’s loving,’ and this evening I was going to kiss your cheek, and bid farewell forever to my love, when you awoke—and thank Heaven for it! And now, darling, tell me again that you love me, for your voice, talking of love, is the sweetest music in the world to me.”
She smiled such a tender, loving smile, and, nestling up close to me, said:
“I have loved you, John, ever since we met. When I clasped your hand first after the shipwreck there was a thrill in my heart that ever came back when you were near me. So fearful was I that you might detect this feeling, that I tried to be reserved and silent in your presence, and even avoided you as much as possible. Conscious of my own love, I felt, child as I was, that every one else knew it, and hence my extreme sensitiveness at any connection of our names together. You doubtless remember the scene with Mrs. Smith, when you were asleep in the hall, or pretending to be. That explained the nature of my feelings. I shrank from the position I seemed to occupy—that of awaiting your love, and of being trained to suit that love if you pleased to confer it. While I saw you so full of Lulie and Lillian I buried my feelings in my own heart, and strove strenuously to crush them out of existence; but there were times when you were tender and loving to me, and then they came resistlessly. Do you remember one night, years ago, when we were out on the stoop, and you took my hand and held it awhile? No words can ever tell how I have treasured up that little scene. When you told me farewell, the night of our departure for Europe, and I gave you the curl, it was an earnest pledge of what I faithfully performed.”
“Darling, do not speak of Lulie and Lillian. One was only the passing object of boyish affection, and the other a heartless though brilliant woman, who flattered me by her notice into an admiration that was as vain as it was transient. Dearest Lottie, your heart believes me, I know, when I vow that the purest, fondest love of my nature is yours, that without it all life is void and blank. Darling, have you loved me always, have you never wavered in your love, as affections more worthy, but none more devoted than mine, have been laid at your feet?”
“Never, John. No faintest shadow of love for another has ever passed across my mind, and the only pleasure I took in the attention I may have received has been the thought that, if others see aught in me to love, perhaps, when we meet, he will.”