“I am well. I thank you,” I gasped, “for—for your good wishes. I shall”—and I pressed both hands on my heart to still its wild beatings, now and forever, if I could—“I shall marry soon—very soon.”
Staggering to the door, I met Mary and Ella.—Motioning the latter toward the boudoir, and clinging almost fainting to Mary, who caught me in her arms, I was half-led, half-carried to my bed-chamber—where, left alone with my grief, my despair, my lost love, my wounded woman’s pride—worn out by that “hope deceived which maketh the heart sick,” exhausted nature could no more, and sleep at length in pity steeped my weary soul in forgetfulness.
CHAPTER XXIII.
LOVED IN VAIN
Is there one among us who has not, at some period of his life, experienced the dull pain which, on the morrow of a great grief, ever returns to us with the first dawn of consciousness? Have we not hated the very light of another day? Have not all familiar objects lost their charm for us? How sensitively, too, have we shrunk from contact with the domestics—aye, even from the loved faces of the home circle! Alone would we entertain our sorrow. We are in love with her, and from her we will not be parted. This is the very luxury of grief. Joy may be a social passion; but surely the converse is true of profound misery.
Our unhappy heroine dared not thus indulge her sorrow—she must up and be doing. The poisoned arrow which had pierced her bosom must there remain, an agonized but concealed torture. Ah! me—those pangs for which the world would have no pity, and which, therefore, we must hide under the semblance of smiles, are ever the most poignant.
Like lawful love, legitimate grief may be deep; but neither are of that stormy nature which shakes the soul to its foundation, and blights the whole existence. So Evelyn arose, mechanically, and suffered her maid to attire her; then, causing the blinds to be closed, the better to conceal her haggard countenance, she bade the attendant leave the room.
To the question—“Will madame take breakfast now?” her mistress replied, that she merely required a cup of tea; and added, that, having important letters to write, she must not for the present be disturbed. Then flinging herself into a chair, and covering her aching eyes with her hand, she endeavored to collect her thoughts. Just then, she felt a soft warm touch—when, starting, she turned and perceived her faithful dog, the gift of di Balzano. He had placed his paw in her hand, and he looked into her face with a fond, wistful glance, which seemed to say, “Dear mistress, you are sick or sad; but your poor dog loves you, and will never forsake you.” And Evelyn comprehended, and she flung her arm about the shaggy neck of her favorite, and the large scalding drops fell on his honest head. “Poor Dashey,” she said—“poor fellow!”—and tears, too, almost human, stood in the eyes of the loving animal. Nay, mock not, gentle reader—for, as the author has observed, so she writes. She once had a dog whom she has seen weep more than once; and when the poor fond creature died, she mourned for her (for she was of the softer sex) as for a friend.
And Evelyn went to her writing-table—her resolve was taken. “Good, kind Balzano,” she said; “how he loved me—unworthy as I am! I will no longer delay writing to him;” and she penned the letter we here transcribe: