Part 40 (1/2)
Winter pa.s.sed away. The fragile snowdrop, offspring of a night--the mute herald of a coming and welcome guest--might be seen peering beneath the gnarled oak, or enlivening the emerald circle beneath the wide-spreading elm.
Spring too glided by, and another messenger came. The migratory swallow, returned from foreign travel, sought the ancient gable, and rejoicing in safety, commenced building a home. At twilight's hour might she be seen, unscared by the truant's stone, repairing to the placid pool--skimming over its gla.s.sy surface, in rapid circle and with humid wing--and returning in triumph, bearing wherewithal to build her nest.
Summer too went by; and as the leaves of Autumn rustled at his feet, Delme started, as he felt that the sting and poignancy of his grief was gone. It was with something like reproach, that he did so. There is a dignity in grief--a pride in perpetuating it--and his had been no common affliction.
It is a trite, but true remark, that time scatters our sorrows, as it scatters our joys.
The heat of fever and the delirium of love, have their gradations; and so has grief. The impetuous throbbing of the pulse abates;--the influence of years makes us remember the extravagance of pa.s.sion, with something approaching to a smile;--and Time--mysterious Time--wounding, but healing all, leads us to look at past bereavements, as through a darkened gla.s.s.
We do not forget; but our memory is as a dream, which awoke us in terror, but over which we have slept. The outline is still present, but the fearful details, which in the darkness of the hour, and the freshness of conception, so scared and alarmed us,--these have vanished with the night.
Emily's wedding day drew nigh, and the faces of the household once more looked bright and cheerful.
Chapter XIV.
A Wedding.
”'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it has ceased to move, But though I may not be beloved, Still let me love!”
”I saw her but a moment, Yet methinks I see her now, With a wreath of orange blossoms Upon her beauteous brow.”
Spring of life! whither art thou flown?
A few hot sighs--and scalding tears--fleeting raptures and still fading hopes--and then--thou art gone for ever. Lovelorn we look on beauty: no blush now answers to our glance; for cold is our gaze, as the deadened emotions of our heart.
Fresh garlands bedeck the lap of Spring. Faded as the shrivelled flowers, that withering sink beneath her rosy feet: yet we exclaim:--Spring of life! how and whither art thou flown?
Clarendon Gage was a happy man. He had entered upon the world with very bright prospects. The glorious visions of his youth were still unclouded, and his heart beat as high with hope as ever.
Experience had not yet instilled that sober truth, that Time will darken the sunniest, as well as the least inviting antic.i.p.ations; and that the visions of his youth were unclouded, because they were undimmed by the reflections of age.
Clarendon Gage was happy and grateful; and so might he well be! Few of us are there, who, on our first loving, have met with a love, fervent, confiding, and unsuspecting as our own,--fewer are there, who in reflection's calm hour, have recognised in the form that has captivated the eye, the mind on which their own can fully and unhesitatingly rely,--and fewest of all are they, who having encountered such a treasure, can control adverse circ.u.mstances--can overcome obstacles that oppose--and finally call it their own.
Pa.s.sionate, imaginative, and fickle as man may be, this is a living treasure beyond a price: than which this world has none more pure--none as enduring, to offer.
Ah! say and act as we may--money-making--worldly--ambitious as we may become--who among us that will not allow, that in the success of his honest suit--that in his possession of the one first loved--and which first truly loved him--a kind ray from heaven, seems lent to this changeful world. Such affection as this, lends a new charm to man's existence. It lulls him in his anger--it soothes him in his sorrow--calms him in his fears--cheers him in his hopes--it deadens his grief--it enlivens his joy.
It was a lovely morning in May--the first of the month. Not a cloud veiled the sun's splendour--the birds strained their throats in praise of day--and the rural May-pole, which was in the broad avenue of walnut trees, immediately at the foot of the lawn, was already encircled with flowers. Half way up this, was the station of the rustic orchestra--a green bower, which effectually concealed them from the view of the dancers.
On the lawn itself, tents were pitched in a line facing the house. Behind these, between the tents and the May-pole, extended a long range of tables, for the coming village feast.
Emily Delme looked out on the fair sunrise, and noted the gay preparations with some dismay. Her eye fell on her favourite bed of roses, the rarest and most costly that wealth and extreme care could produce; and she mournfully thought, that ere those buds were blown, a very great change would have taken place in her future prospects. She thought of all she was to leave.
Will _he_ be this, and more to me?
How many a poor girl, when it is all too late, has fearfully asked herself the same question, and how deeply must the answer which time alone can give, affect the happiness of after years!