She turned upon him a look of such fond, such devoted, such adoring love, that he would have caught her to his breast, but he dared not—so timid, so respectful, is true love.
“Philip, you are dear—dearer to me than existence. From the first moment I beheld you, you have been the star of my destiny; and yet, I repeat, I never, never can be yours.”
“And that lip, the very arch of Cupid’s bow—those perfect lips, where love in smiles and dimples holds his throne—can they frame such cruel words. Sweetest, this is no time for coquetry.”
“Ah! Philip, speak not of that fatal beauty which has ever been my curse. Hear me with patience. Your affection to me is beyond all price; but, yet, far more do I prize your honor. Never, oh! never, may the unwedded wife of Sir Percy Montgomery become the bride of the noble, the peerless D’Arcy. The world——”
“What of that?” broke in Philip.
“Nothing, when we act rightly—everything when we do wrong. Never through Evelyn shall the heartless world have reason to cast a slur on the fair fame of him she venerates above all men; never shall it be said that his name is no longer untarnished. Philip, the mother of your once betrothed can not, must not, name you husband. We must, therefore, part.”
“Part, Evelyn? In pity, say not so! My life—my love—my bird of beauty—we will forsake the haunts of men; together will we fly to distant climes—there, alone in the wilds of a yet virgin solitude, will we live each for the other only, and earth shall become for us a second Eden. Say, sweet one! shall it not be so?”
For one moment only did she waver. The idea of such bliss was too intoxicating—her brain reeled as in delirium. The temptation to give up all for him was too strong. A moment, and she would have sunk upon his breast, breathless, fainting, overcome—when, suddenly, she seemed to behold, over against the dark sycamore grove, the form of Ella—her child—her first-born—her only one—the long fair hair, dank and uncurled, floating in the dewy night—the sweet young face pale and sad. The semblance vanished: but, once more, Evelyn listened to her better angel. Self was forgotten—the weakness past—the struggle over. Turning on her beloved a look which he never ceased to remember—a look which consoled him in all troubles, and which ever inspired him to noble deeds, because in that pure glance earthly passion had given place to celestial love, she said, gently, but decisively, and without wavering—“We have both duties to perform; you will serve your country—be it mine to protect my child, to soothe the suffering, to console the afflicted. Ah! me—I have much to redeem in the past.”
“Cruel and unkind!—and since when have you thus changed?”
“Since I have known you, Philip. All that is good in me I owe to you alone—and to you, next God, I look for strength and courage to persevere.”