73. CHAPTER LXXIII.
EVELYN BLAND.
Evelyn sat down, resting her hands in her lap. She held her
head erect, but her eyes were fixed upon the carpet, and the long
lashes half concealed them. There was in her attitude, the carriage
of her person, and the expression of her face, which was exceedingly
pale, something cold, constrained—almost disdainful. The
fierce struggle between love and pride had made its mark there;
any one who knew her character might have seen that the high
spirit of the Blands wrestled in her with that other wellnigh absorbing
sentiment, which, little by little, in spite of all her attempts
to control it, had become a part of her being.
Harley was not less agitated, and by emotions even more conflicting.
He had persuaded himself that the young lady cared nothing
for him—that his suit was hopeless—and had determined to go
away with St. Leger without visiting Blandfield again. He had,
however, been compelled to go thither in order to arrange the
business of the deed with Judge Bland, and the painful interview
with the Lady of the Snow had followed, moving him deeply.
Then Miss Clementina had aroused in him a very different sentiment—a
sentiment of anger and disdain, which he had been scarcely
able to conceal under the forms of politeness; and lastly, Evelyn
had appeared upon the scene, electrifying him with her generous
espousal of the poor woman's cause.
It was as a sequence to all these trying emotions, that he now
found himself face to face with the woman he loved so passionately—whom
he had not expected to see again. A single glance at
her, banished every feeling but compassion and tenderness. Her
face was thin and pale, there were red rings around her eyes; now
and then her lips trembled a little. As Harley stood looking at her,
every harsh emotion disappeared—an immense tenderness smote
him, and his expression became gentle and full of a sad sweetness.
“So we have met again,” he said, in a low tone. “I did not expect
to see you again. I am sorry to see you looking so very pale. You
are not well.”
The earnest voice brought a slight color to the white cheeks.
“I am—well. I am not sick,” she said.
“You are very far from well. What has changed you so? But I
am intruding, and I have no right to intrude—pardon me. And
yet,” he went on, “something is excusable in a friend speaking to a
friend—some neglect of ceremony; and we were friends once—were
we not? I have remained yours, at least—I do not know whether
you have remained mine. I fear you are no longer such—something
has come between us. But let us part at least without unkindness.
I should be sorry to take away with me, as a last memory, this cold
look—your face looking so pale—so very pale!”
It was impossible not to be moved by the earnest tones of Harley's
voice; and the young lady's color grew deeper, and her lips
moved slightly, but she did not speak.
“This is our last greeting,” Harley went on. Time and distance
are hard masters—they separate people, as the grave does, or, what
is worse, they make friends indifferent to each other. I am nothing
to you, perhaps, but—again—let us part without unkindness. I can
ask that, and offer you my hand—it was all I intended to do, in
begging you to come back for a moment.”
Harley looked at her, and saw her color come and go—her bosom
labor with long breaths. She did not make any movement to offer
her hand, in respose to his own half-extended toward her. But
she was no longer the statue of ice which she had been, and instead
of going, as he had intended, he was carried away by a sudden impulse
to utter what was pressing like a weight upon his breast.
“I am weak!” he said. “I thought I was proud and strong
enough to act like a man. But I am a child—I have no pride for
you!”
He stopped for a moment, and went on more earnestly still:
“Shall I tell you what I mean? A last parting has some privileges.
The friend you may never see again can drop ceremony a
little. My life has been a sorrowful one, and I am going to let you
form your own opinion of that. At twenty I was engaged to be
married to a young girl of rare beauty. I thought she had given me
her whole heart, as she told me so. The day for my marriage was
fixed. I came full of joy and hope—and—do you know what
awaited me?”
Harley's voice shook a little.
“The woman who had become the dream of my life—whom I
loved loyally, passionately—as a boy loves—this woman had fled,
on that very day, with another person!”
Evelyn raised her head and looked at him—her eyes full of wonder,
her cheeks flushed.
“And the man,” Harley continued, “who did me this wrong was
one with whom I had been brought up as a brother. In my absence
he had supplanted me, winning the heart of my affianced. They
went away—were married—they were unhappy—she left him—you
have seen her in this room just now—a poor, unhappy person, who
repented long ago of the wrong done me—whom I have forgiven
from my heart!”
A profound silence followed these words. The deep tones of the
speaker showed how much he was moved.
“You know now,” he said, without waiting for any reply, “why
my life has been so melancholy, and why I went away to divert
my mind from its brooding misery, by new scenes. My whole life
was embittered, and I could not remain here. I was away a
long time—came back in response to a summons from my uncle—
and—shall I go on? It is useless, perhaps—worse than useless;
and yet, why not speak and tell you all?—it will make no difference!
True, it will cut me to the heart—but you shall know
everything!
“I came back a sad, dispirited man, growing old at thirty—and
saw you! I hated the very sight of women—to be frank with you—
and that day, in the Blackwater, I found myself holding a woman
in my arms—you—your head lying on my breast, your arms clinging
around my neck. But for me you would have been drowned.
We feel kindly toward persons when we have saved their lives.
I went home thinking of you—that was all. But I saw you again:
rode with you, walked with you, listened to your voice in singing;
and you changed my life! Is this avowal uncalled-for—useless—
absurd? Yes!—I feel all that, and never intended to make it. But
I have begun, and I will finish. With every meeting I came to love
you more; you grew to be the sole thought of my life—and—and—
the result has been this interview—when you are listening to me
with ill-concealed distaste—wishing me to leave you, no doubt!—
wondering how a man can be so weak, so deficient in decent pride—
so childish, as to come whining about himself and his love, to one
who cares nothing for him!”
Harley's tone was bitter almost. He spoke vehemently, and his
brows were knit. But a glance at Evelyn melted him suddenly.
She was utterly pale now, and her head had sunk upon her bosom.
Again pity and tenderness drove away every other feeling, and he
said, in a voice of deep sadness:
“You know all now—it was better to tell you. At least I go away
without laboring under these imputations. You will be able to
respect me at least, and will, I hope, think of me—not unkindly.
I shall not probably come back to Virginia. I am wellnigh ruined,
as I have lived too carelessly, and my estate is so much encumbered
that it will probably be sold; but that gives me little concern, except
on Sainty's account. And now I have said everything—far
more than I intended to say. I am going, and will not detain you
any longer. Good-bye—Evelyn!”
He held out his hand. She did not take it, or move. He looked
at her for an instant, his heart throbbing; hesitated—and went
toward the door.
Suddenly he stopped and turned round. The young lady had
burst all at once into passionate sobs, covering her face with her
hands.
“Do not—go!” she faltered.
Harley came back quickly, his face flushing.
“Evelyn!”
One of the hands covering her face was held out toward him. He
took it, pressed it passionately to his lips, and said,
“Good-bye!”
But the hand would not be released. It held his own.
“Evelyn!” repeated Harley, with vehemence, his eyes full of
astonishment and joy.
She raised her head and looked at him. Her coldness had completely
disappeared. She was all sunshine and tenderness.
“Do not—go!” she repeated, in a sort of whisper, the beautiful
face lighting up with an exquisite smile. “Why should you be unhappy?”......
An hour after this scene, or—if the reader prefers the phrase—
this part of the scene, the sound of wheels was heard at the door;
Judge Bland emerged from his coach; and a moment afterward the
old counsellor came into the apartment.
As he entered, he gravely saluted Harley.
“I have bad news for you, my dear sir,” he said. “Your uncle
Joshua is dead!”
“Dead!” exclaimed Harley.
“He was seized by a third attack of apoplexy this morning, and
sent for you and your brother, and myself. I presume the message
did not reach you. He lived but an hour after my arrival. He had
sent for me on business connected with his will.”
Harley received this intelligence with sincere grief.
“My poor uncle!” he said; “if I could only have seen him again!”
“He spoke of you, and informed me that every feeling of unkindness
he had ever had for you had been completely obliterated by
your last interview. His will sufficiently indicates that fact, and I
may inform you of its purport without a breach of professional reserve.
He gives you the Glenvale estate, together with about ten
thousand pounds in London investments; leaving the Elmwood
property and his own estate of Oakhill to your brother. I drew up
his will only a day or two since, and the execution of it seemed to
afford him great relief. He was carrying out, he said, the wishes
of his brother George.”
