I glad with the strains of the seraph choirs.
April 27th.—The old adage, “Love is blind,” is by no means true, at least in my case. Cupid for me never fails to put on a pair of magnifying glasses, which have the power of exaggerating alike the virtues and defects of those who have with me entered the lists of the tournament of love. I have detested many an admirer for “trifles light as air,” cruelly criticising his dress, voice, manner, or tastes; and I once took a fancy to a person, mainly because his gloves fitted exquisitely—and had the other qualities corresponded, my fancy would, doubtless, have taken other shape. But, to return. To what a severe scrutiny have I not subjected Philip D’Arcy; but, “alas! and well-a-day,” I find no fault in him. Men frequently term him effeminate-looking; and it is true, that he is formed in a delicate, rather than a robust mould; but this suits well with that spiritual style of beauty so pre-eminent in him: and who could fail to read in the pose of that noble head, in the expression of the compressed and chiselled lips, moral grandeur, indomitable will. Women, too, frequently call him cold. Ah! they have not marked, as I have, that glance of flame which (rarely, it is true) flashes from the depth of those orbs, usually so serene, so untroubled. The volcano may be smouldering, but it is not extinct. Long years of self-control may have schooled the heart; but its pulses, nevertheless, throb warmly, passionately, humanly, still.
May 8th.—Mr. D’Arcy possesses, in a remarkable degree, the power of affecting the heart and imagination with what remains unspoken. He sets you thinking. In his presence, you brush the rust from your mind, and new ideas flow in upon you. To-day, he spoke to us of Swedenborg, and of the charming and consoling doctrine of that great Christian seer; that however lonely our earthly lot, however mistaken we may have been in our choice of a mate, those who by perseverance in well doing eventually become angels, will, sooner or later, meet with their true conjugal partner—their other self—in a higher sphere. A beautiful philosophy, and not unreasonable, when we consider that love, in its true sense, is the strongest and purest, as well as the most exquisitely delightful sentiment of our nature: nor would the Creator have implanted this passion in our souls, but that He intended to satisfy it to the full; if, therefore, sad experience shows how rarely on earth we are truly mated, it follows, logically, that this sweetest and tenderest of the spirit’s yearnings looks for realization in a higher sphere of being. Such, at least, is D’Arcy’s firm belief; such also, he tells me, is that of many of the most eminently intellectual and spiritual of his countrymen and countrywomen. Mary is, of course, charmed: she says there is, at last, some chance for her.
CHAPTER XX.
THE SISTER OF MERCY
It was now the middle of summer, and remarkably hot for the season. All our friends had left, or were leaving Paris, and yet we still lingered on in our pretty apartment of the Avenue Gabriel.
One morning, suddenly looking up from my embroidery, I was struck with the pallor of Evelyn’s countenance, and the look of weariness she wore. A book was lying open on a table near; but she did not read. Silently she dreamed, her head resting on her hand.