FELICES TER ET AMPLIUS.
Amelie, by accident or by contrivance of her fair companions,--girls are so wily and sympathetic with each other,--had been left seated by the side of Philibert, on the twisted roots of a gigantic oak forming a rude but ****** chair fit to enthrone the king of the forest and his dryad queen. No sound came to break the quiet of the evening hour save the monotonous plaint of a whippoorwill in a distant brake, and the ceaseless chirm of insects among the leafy boughs and down in the ferns that clustered on the knolls round about.
Philibert let fall upon his knee the book which he had been reading.
His voice faltered, he could not continue without emotion the touching tale of Paolo and Francesca da Rimini. Amelie's eyes were suffused with tears of pity, for her heart had beat time to the music of Dante's immortal verse as it dropped in measured cadence from the lips of Philibert.
She had read the pathetic story before, but never comprehended until now the weakness which is the strength of love. Oh, blessed paradox of a woman's heart! And how truly the Commedia, which is justly called Divine, unlocks the secret chambers of the human soul.
"Read no more, Pierre," said she, "that book is too terrible in its beauty and in its sadness! I think it was written by a disembodied spirit who had seen all worlds, knew all hearts, and shared in all sufferings. It sounds to me like the sad voice of a prophet of woe."
"Amelie," replied he, "believe you there are women faithful and true as Francesca da Rimini? She would not forsake Paolo even in the gloomy regions of despair. Believe you that there are such women?"
Amelie looked at him with a quick, confident glance. A deep flush covered her cheek, and her breath went and came rapidly; she knew what to answer, but she thought it might seem overbold to answer such a question. A second thought decided her, however. Pierre Philibert would ask her no question to which she might not answer, she said to herself.
Amelie replied to him slowly, but undoubtingly: "I think there are such women, Pierre," replied she, "women who would never, even in the regions of despair, forsake the man whom they truly love, no, not for all the terrors recorded in that awful book of Dante!"
"It is a blessed truth, Amelie," replied he, eagerly; and he thought, but did not say it, "Such a woman you are; the man who gets your love gets that which neither earth nor heaven nor hell can take away."
He continued aloud, "The love of such a woman is truly given away, Amelie; no one can merit it! It is a woman's grace, not man's deserving."
"I know not," said she; "it is not hard to give away God's gifts: love should be given freely as God gives it to us. It has no value except as the bounty of the heart, and looks for no reward but in its own acceptance."
"Amelie!" exclaimed he, passionately, turning full towards her; but her eyes remained fixed upon the ground. "The gift of such a woman's love has been the dream, the ambition of my life! I may never find it, or having found it may never be worthy of it; and yet I must find it or die! I must find it where alone I seek it--there or nowhere! Can you help me for friendship's sake--for love's sake, Amelie de Repentigny, to find that one treasure that is precious as life, which is life itself to the heart of Pierre Philibert?"
He took hold of her passive hands. They trembled in his, but she offered not to withdraw them. Indeed, she hardly noticed the act in the tide of emotion which was surging in her bosom. Her heart moved with a wild yearning to tell him that he had found the treasure he sought,--that a love as strong and as devoted as that of Francesca da Rimini was her own free gift to him.
She tried to answer him, but could not. Her hand still remained fast locked in his. He held to it as a drowning man holds to the hand that is stretched to save him.
Philibert knew at that moment that the hour of his fate was come.
He would never let go that hand again till he called it his own, or received from it a sign to be gone forever from the presence of Amelie de Repentigny.
The soft twilight grew deeper and deeper every moment, changing the rosy hues of the west into a pale ashen gray, over which hung the lamp of love,--the evening star, which shines so brightly and sets so soon,--and ever the sooner as it hastens to become again the morning star of a brighter day.
The shadow of the broad, spreading tree fell darker round the rustic seat where sat these two--as myriads have sat before and since, working out the problems of their lives, and beginning to comprehend each other, as they await with a thrill of anticipation the moment of mutual confidence and fond confession.
Pierre Philibert sat some minutes without speaking. He could have sat so forever, gazing with rapture upon her half-averted countenance, which beamed with such a divine beauty, all aglow with the happy consciousness of his ardent admiration, that it seemed the face of a seraph; and in his heart, if not on his knees, he bent in worship, almost idolatrous, at her feet.
And yet he trembled, this strong man who had faced death in every form but this! He trembled by the side of this gentle girl,--but it was for joy, not for fear. Perfect love casts out fear, and he had no fear now for Amelie's love, although she had not yet dared to look at him. But her little hand lay unreprovingly in his,-- nestling like a timid bird which loved to be there, and sought not to escape. He pressed it gently to his heart; he felt by its magnetic touch, by that dumb alphabet of love, more eloquent than spoken words, that he had won the heart of Amelie de Repentigny.
"Pierre," said she,--she wanted to say it was time to rejoin their companions, but the words would not come. Her face was still half- averted, and suffused with an unseen blush, as she felt his strong arm round her; and his breath, how sweet it seemed, fanning her cheek. She had no power, no will to resist him, as he drew her close, still closer to his heart.
