“Heavens! how like Ella!” cried Evelyn.
CHAPTER XIX.
LEAVES FROM A LADY’S DIARY
March 13th.—I have, of late, greatly neglected my journal, not from want of time, neither for lack of incident nor material for thought and feeling—rather the reverse.
Since my last musical reception, I have not penned one line. Oh! that night is a kind of era in my life. I then made the acquaintance of a remarkable man—perhaps the most uncommon person I ever met. It is not only that he is very, very handsome, nor highly intellectual, nor most refined in manners—it is that, over and above all these qualifications, he possesses, in a wonderful degree, the power of attraction—magnetism, if you will—the je ne sais quoi of the French. You forget self in his presence, and think of him only. I cannot analyze my feelings. I only know, that, as the soft and musical tones of that voice fell on my ear, as I felt the magic of that glance in my inmost soul, the words uttered by Lady Caroline Lamb, when first she beheld Byron, came unbidden to my memory, and seemed to me as a foreboding of sorrow—
“That pale face is my fate!”
I murmured, as a vague terror crept over me.
On the morning we received Mr. D’Arcy’s first visit—Mary and myself—our conversation turned upon spiritual manifestations. I sat and listened—for my own experience and the clairvoyant powers of Ella had long since set me wondering. D’Arcy, it appears, is a firm believer. He recounted to us the circumstances which led to his conversion. Lilian—what a sweet name! Ah! instead of pitying, I almost envied her. Did he not say that he had loved her fondly—that he still wore her miniature next his heart? Happy Lilian! Would I could change with thee—to have drained the cup of intoxicating bliss to the dregs, and then to die, to pass away in the freshness of youth—hopes undeceived—trust unshaken—loving, beloved, regretted, happy Lilian! See the reverse, fair spirit, and pity poor Evelyn’s far sadder fate! Behold her as the wretched wife of one totally unsuited to her—then, as the murderess of the noble, the loving Reginald—lastly, as the faithless betrothed of the generous-hearted Balzano; and wherefore? Because she is not of the happy “few, who find what they love or could have loved,” and who, therefore, are influenced through life by “accident, blind contact, and the strong necessity of loving,”—that touchstone of woman’s weakness and folly.
21st.—My Ella’s birthday. She is now fifteen, and in the eyes of a partial mother, the loveliest of God’s feminine creation. Mr. D’Arcy brought her a bouquet of the most priceless hot-house flowers of the purest white—emblematic, he said, of her ethereal nature. How good of him to think of her. Though but a child, she doubtless reminds him of his Lilian. I have observed those limpid and unfathomable eyes of his fixed upon her more than once in silent contemplation. He is now a frequent visitor—perhaps too frequent. There are flowers so fair, fruits so tempting, that we forget the danger which lurks within. We inhale their perfume; we press to our lips their luscious juice, and we perish.