CHAPTER XI.
FIRST LOVE
COLONEL REGINALD MELVILLE TO EVELYN TRAVERS.
London, February 28th.
Before you receive this, Evelyn, I shall be far away; it may, perhaps, cost you one pang in the midst of your triumphs, to know that we are at last parted; it may be for years—it may be forever.
My regiment is under immediate orders for India, and we sail in a week. We are required to quell the Sepoy rebellion, and to avenge the horrible brutalities perpetrated by those savages on our innocent countrywomen and their helpless babes. I will not, at this supreme moment, reproach you—your naturally good heart will teach you how far you have erred—but I will simply mention how deeply I felt your inconsiderate conduct at the last ball, when you knew that, in two days, one who loved you as his own soul must leave; and how still more bitterly was I disappointed at having been prevented by the prince’s presence from bidding you a last adieu.
You are very beautiful and talented. It is natural you should command attention wherever you go. But, oh! Evelyn, does this satisfy your heart? Ask yourself, are you not sometimes unhappy, even amid the most brilliant scenes? Do not imagine that every fop who approaches you, is capable of sincere attachment, even to a creature as fascinating as yourself. You are, to the majority of men, but as the pastime of an idle hour—or worse, the coquette whose smiles flatter their selfish vanity, and of whose favors they boast at the public promenades or the cafés. But of this I cannot bear to speak—even the thought is madness.
It is true, alas! that I dare not hope that one so gifted and so adored, will await the uncertainties of war, and mourn, in some retired corner of the earth, the absence of a future husband. No, Evelyn—I deeply feel the vanity of entertaining such a hope, even for a moment. I know, too well, you will meet those who will hang on each word, and watch every look, as I have done. You will never forget me; but I shall share your heart with others. It is for this, therefore, that I am resolved, cost what it will, and at the risk of breaking my heart, to utter this fatal word—Farewell, then, beloved of my soul—my first, my only love—you are free. Think of me, henceforth, as a tender brother. I will ever cherish you as a sister. For your own sake, and that of your dear Ella, be prudent; remember that a woman’s name should never even be breathed upon.
One more effort—one more bitter pang, and my self-imposed duty is done. If ever my sweet sister should find one who loves her as I do—but who, unlike poor Melville, approaches near to the standard of perfection she has erected in her own imagination—then, dearest, do not hesitate to become his wife. My prayers shall ever be offered up for your happiness; and you, my ever-beloved Evelyn, will not, even in the midst of that bliss, refuse—if I fall—to drop a tear for one who would die to save you even one moment’s uneasiness. Farewell—farewell!
R. M.