“That is true, Melburn; but many a heart lives on hope that never enjoys fruition.”
Melburn smiled as he answered, “In gazing upon the forbidden garden that crowns some lofty hill inaccessible to us, we may forget the fruits and flowers that are lying in profusion at our feet, untasted, unappreciated. Is it not so, Giovanni?”
“I mean the hopes that stand out in bold relief wearing the hues of immortality; I mean the undying yearnings of the loving heart, the glorious aspirations of the godlike mind. Nothing short of fruition in these can satisfy a nature such as mine.”
“Then, Giovanni, your hope must cast its anchor in the ‘deep profound’ of another world—it must seek its fruition in the Eternal. You may as well search for coral in the bowels of the earth, or for gold in the bosom of the sea, as to seek a resting-place for the immortal spirit in the regions of mortality. I am not a religionist—I am not the bigoted follower of any creed; but in the exalted aspirations of our nature, I recognize the immaterial principle that will hereafter assimilate us to God. It instills a perception of the beautiful, a yearning for the good, an appreciation of the true, that cannot be realized in this imperfect state of existence. Looking abroad upon the stupendous universe, I see every thing fulfilling its destined end. Surely, these heaven-born aspirations will not be quenched in the forgetfulness of the grave, but, disencumbered of their material elements, will find their completeness and felicity in the source from which they sprung. Would to God, my friend, that you could feel as deeply as I do, how infinitely the interests of our future destiny transcend those of our present state of being.”
“I have reflected, Melburn, upon our frequent conversations, and I feel, that had my mind been trained as yours has been, I should not be the creature of wayward impulse that I am. My temperament is an unhappy one—a temperament that might induce insanity, should my life be spared. But that life is fast ebbing to its close, and I am content to die. I have prayed that God may be merciful.”
He paused, and threw back from his brow the rich, dark locks that had fallen over it; and assuming a tone of cheerfulness, he said, “Tell me of your bride, Melburn; you had not spoken to me of her.”
Melburn smiled as he answered, “She is not an angel, Giovanni, but I think that there are few who can be compared to my sweet Alice.”
“Alice! did you say?”
“Yes, Alice Templeton.”
A change, a fearful change came over the face of the Italian. The crimson blood rushed to his brow, while his eyes glared with the furious passion of a demon. Rage, hate, despair, were all concentrated in the wild glance which he threw upon Melburn, as he advanced toward him; then the blood retreated to his heart, and left his cheek as white as marble. His breath came short and heavy; and he stood rooted to the spot like a thing of stone.