“What then? What a question!—when you are on the eve of marriage with one who possesses almost every quality you can desire. I say almost, for perfection is not to be found here below.”
Evelyn was silent for a few moments; then rising, she said, as one inspired, her cheek glowing, her eyes flashing, while her voice trembled with an emotion to which she rarely gave way—
“Hear me, Mary. Do not think me insensible. The passion so frequently misnamed love on earth is but its counterfeit. Love, as I understand it, is a spiritual passion—a union of souls—that magnetic or electric affinity which is as irresistible as it is indissoluble; for it makes of two imperfect creatures one perfect being—it replaces the original self with another and dearer self; so that where once all thoughts and feelings culminated in the ego, they are now centered in Tu. This love knows neither change nor death—nor jealousy, strong as death; for it places implicit trust in the beloved one—and if, by chance, that trust is misplaced—ah! then,” shuddering, and placing her hand on her bosom—“then the fountain of life is quenched, and the world say, ‘Ah! she died of a broken heart.’ But this love,” she continued, pointing to heaven, “is there, and there only. While here,
“‘If there be a sympathy in choice,
War, death, or sickness doth lay siege to it,
Making it momentary as a sound,
Swift as a shadow, brief as any dream.’
“Such our sad destiny!”
Evelyn paused, and, coming close to me, seated herself; and taking my hand, she said, as her eyes slowly filled with tears: “Poor Balzano! would that he had loved you, Mary. You have more heart to bestow than I have. Mine has depths, few—none may ever sound. And now, tell me, candidly, ought I to marry him?”
She looked anxiously into my face. I scarcely knew what to reply. The strength of her—what shall I say?—imagination surprised me; or rather, are not the mind’s ideal shapes more real than that which we term reality?