“I have been ill, very ill,” I murmured, scarcely daring to trust my voice.
“Can you listen,” he almost whispered, “if I speak to you on a subject important to me, interesting to you—to both——”
I signed assent, for I was powerless now to articulate one word.
“During my illness,” he proceeded, “I was in constant communication with the spirit of my Lilian. Much advice she gave, and much she cautioned as to my future; finally, she informed me that it was not her destiny to become my bride through eternity, but that there was one then near who would save my life—one whose tender bosom would ever pulsate in unison with my own, whose character of mind and heart was, from contrast, fitted alone to complete mine—‘but,’ she added, solemnly, ‘make not shipwreck of your happiness. Pass not by your fate.’”
He paused. I could make no reply. My blood was coursing rapidly and tumultuously through every vein and artery. My voice, passion-choked, could only express itself in sighs. My soul seemed bathed in an ocean of hitherto unknown delights. I scarcely dared breathe, lest I should lose a word, a tone. A few moments more of suspense would have killed me. Would that it had been so!
Soft as the murmur of a summer brook, thrilling as the song of birds, tender as the cooing of the wood-pigeon, did that loved voice again steal upon my ear. “At one time,” it said, “methought I was dying. I lost all physical sensation. My heart felt like a stone in the midst of my body. My breathing seemed to be carried on through the spiritual lungs alone—when, suddenly, as if from afar, I heard, as it were, a faint cry—a cry of distress: ‘Philip, mine own, do not die,’ it said, ‘Return—oh! return.’ (I covered my burning face with my hands, as he continued.)
“At this time I felt on my lips a warm breath—a human heart appeared to touch my own—then all was dark, dark. On opening my eyes, I beheld, as an angel of light, standing at my bedside, your sweet child Ella.”
As if one had taken a sledge-hammer, and struck with violence a blow on the very centre of my heart—such was the shock I experienced. Stunned, unconscious, I heard no more. Had it not been thus mercifully arranged, I had not stifled a burst of passionate anguish. When I in some measure recovered my senses a mortal despair seized upon me.
The shades of evening had now closed in, my soul too was all gloom. Still those soft accents fell on my ear, till at length I distinguished the words, “Have I then your consent?” In vain would I have replied, but my throat was parched—my tongue paralyzed. I could only bend my head in token of assent. “On one other subject would I also for a moment speak,” and then the beloved voice trembled and faltered, “Pardon me, but your happiness is dear—dearer to me than my own. I understand,”—he hesitated, and then spoke rapidly, as though he would be rid of an ungrateful task, “I hear, there is one who adores you—one who has haply not loved in vain—one, in fine, who even now stands toward you in the light of an affianced husband. May I express the hope that this union will no longer be delayed, and that bliss such as rarely falls to mortal lot may be yours, and his for your sweet sake?” Philip raised my hand to his lips. “Good God?” he cried, “you are ill—your hand is cold and clammy as in death.”
I tried to smile. Happily the darkness covered the ghastly and futile attempt. By a supreme effort I rose to my feet.