Evelyn was just sixteen; and never did a sweeter face, or a warmer heart, animate a lovely form. Her features were not regularly beautiful, but the expression of almost angelic purity which pervaded her countenance, when in repose, made her more beautiful than the most studied regularity of feature could have done. The extreme gentleness of her manners, the half-reluctant, half-confiding way she had of speaking of herself, made me think her weak and timid, until I knew her better. She was never gay, but always cheerful; and never did I see her polished brow ruffled by a frown. She was the only child of fond and wealthy parents, residing in Mobile; and the fame of Madame B——’s school had induced them to leave her in New York for a year, in order that she might finish her education.
Six months passed away, and Evelyn and myself were still inseparable. We unfolded to each other every secret of our hearts; and I often smile now to think with how much importance we treated a thousand trifling things. We would sit hours together by the window in our little room, laying plans for the future—that future so short and sad to my sweet friend. Beloved Evelyn, dear companion, thine was a sad lot, born to all that could make life joyous, yet doomed to so cruel a fate.
In one of our confidences, not long after her arrival, she spoke to me of one very dear to her—a cousin, a passed-midshipman in the navy. He had spent several months with her family, and had sailed on a short cruise to Brazil only a few days before she left home; but ere they parted, he had won her consent to an engagement, which was to be kept a secret from all until her return from school. “He will be home just about that time,” said she in conclusion; “he will then tell father all, and we shall be so happy!”
Oh! how often does her image come before me, as she stood and blushingly told me of her joyful hopes. What a blessed thing it is that we know not the trials the mysterious future may have in store for us. We can at least be happy in anticipation; and if our bright dreams are dissipated by a dark and mournful reality, memory can still lessen the gloom of many a lonely hour by recalling those pleasant visions.
Six months, as I have said, passed away, each day only endearing Evelyn Grahame more to my heart. About this time she received letters from home, announcing the death of Mrs. Grahame’s only sister, Mrs. Dutton; and, also, that the latter’s eldest child, a daughter, one year older than Evelyn, had been adopted by her aunt. Mrs. Grahame wrote in the most flattering manner concerning Sarah Dutton; and from the letters the young girl herself wrote Evelyn, I was led to entertain a high opinion of her mind and heart. Evelyn had often visited her aunt, and therefore knew her cousin well. She often spoke to me in the warmest manner of Sarah’s beauty and amiability.
In the meantime, Arthur Noel, Eva’s lover, remained at sea; but the time was drawing near when he would return. The months rolled swiftly by; and as the period approached for her leaving school, Evelyn became more impatient each day. She was expecting her father to come on for her, when a letter arrived, telling her that it was impossible for him to leave his business, and that she would be obliged to remain at school for a few weeks longer, until some good opportunity offered for her to reach home.
Eva was very much distressed at this. She felt sure that Arthur would reach Mobile before her, and she had promised to meet him there. But she was forced to submit; and after some little persuasion, consented to accompany me to my father’s summer residence on the North River. She was charmed with the scenery of the Hudson, and arrived in much better spirits than I expected at “Lily Grove”—the fanciful name my dear mother had bestowed upon our dear, beautiful home. The day after our arrival, Evelyn received a letter, which had been forwarded to her from school, where it was directed. It was from Arthur Noel, the first she had ever received from him. How brightly her eyes beamed as she read it. Fourteen months of separation had failed to erase her image from his heart. He was at Pensacola, and thinking she would soon be on her return home, designed meeting her in Mobile.
“O, Ellen!” she exclaimed, when she had finished reading the precious missive, “I never felt before how truly, how devotedly I am his.” Poor Evelyn! she loved with a woman’s first, deep, passionate love—a love that either makes or mars her happiness—a love that rude neglect may chill, but naught but death destroy.
The next week brought my dear Eva another tender letter. Arthur had reached Mobile, and though much disappointed at not meeting her there, felt obliged, he said, to smother his desire to fly to New York for her, as so sudden a move, before he had visited his own family, would cause “very unpleasant remarks.” Evelyn was chagrined at this, and so was I. We had both yet to learn how little of the world’s opinion a man is willing to sacrifice for the sake of the one he pretends to love. My friend said little upon the subject, however; but I saw that she anxiously awaited the coming of the following week, when she felt sure of hearing again from her lover. The week came, but brought disappointment—there was no letter. Three weeks more of great anxiety were passed, and still Evelyn heard nothing from home. She was beginning to be seriously alarmed, when one morning, at the beginning of the fourth week, I flew to her room with a letter that the servant had just brought from the village post-office. She grasped it eagerly—the superscription was Arthur’s. She broke the seal, but, as if a sudden presentiment of evil had come over her, she laid it down, and sinking into a chair, burst into tears. “Ellen,” said she, “you must read it first—I have not courage; I feel as if it contained bad news.” I laughed at her, but she insisted upon my reading it first. I took it up, opened it, and silently read as follows: —
Mobile, May 20, 18—.