A Love Story
Chapter XIII.
Home.
"'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest bark
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home,
'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come."
Embarking on its tributary stream, Delmé reached the Rhine--passed through
the land of snug Treckschut, and wooden-shoed housemaid--and arrived at
Rotterdam, whence he purposed sailing for England.
To that river, pay we no passing tribute! The Rhine--with breast of
pride--laving fertile vineyards, cities of picturesque beauty,
beetling crags, and majestic ruins; hath found its bard to hymn an
eulogy, in matchless strains, which will be co-existent, with the
language they adorn.
Sir Henry was once more on the wide sea. Where were they who were his
companions when his vessel last rode it? where the young bride breathing
her devotion? where the youthful husband whispering his love?
The sea yet glistened like a chrysolite; the waves yet laughed in the
playful sunbeams--the bright-eyed gull yet dipped his wing in the billow,
fearless as heretofore;--where was the one, who from that text had deduced
so fair a moral?
Sir Henry wished not to dwell on the thought, but as it flashed across
him, his features quivered, and his brow darkened.
He threw himself into the chaise which was to bear him to his home, with
alternate emotions of bitterness and despair!
Hurrah for merry England! Click, clack! click, clack! thus cheerily
let us roll!
Great are the joys of an English valet, freshly emancipated from
sauerkraut, and the horrors of silence!
Sweet is purl, and sonorous is an English oath. Bright is the steel,
arming each clattering hoof! Leather strap and shining buckle, replace
musty rope and ponderous knot! The carriage is easier than a
Landgravine's,--the horses more sleek,--the driver as civil,--the road is
like a bowling green,--the axletree and under-spring, of Collinge's latest
patent. But the heart! the heart! _that_ may be sad still.
Delmé's voyage and journey were alike a blank. On the ocean, breeze
followed calm;--on the river, ship succeeded ship;--on the road, house and
tree were passed, and house and tree again presented themselves. He drew
his cap over his eyes, and his arms continued folded.
His first moment of full consciousness, was as a sharp turn, followed by a
sudden pause, brought him in front of the lodge at Delmé.
On the two moss-grown pillars, reposed the well known crest of his family.
The porter's daughter, George's friend, issued from the lodge, and threw
open the iron gates.
She was dressed in black. How this recalled his loss.
"My dear--dear--dear brother!"
Emily bounded to his embrace, and her cheek fell on his shoulder. He felt
the warm tear trickle on his cheek. He clasped her waist,--gazed on her
pallid brow,--and held her lip to his.
How it trembled from her emotion!
"My own brother! how pale--how ill you look!"
"Emily! my sister! I have something yet left me on earth! and my worthy
kind aunt, too!"
He kissed Mrs. Glenallan's forehead, and tried to soothe her. She pressed
her handkerchief to her eyes, and checked her tears; but continued to sob,
with the deep measured sob of age.
How mournful, yet how consoling, is the first family meeting, after death
has swept away one of its members! How the presence of each, calls up
sorrow, and yet assists to repress it,--awakes remembrances full of grief,
yet brings to life indefinable hopes, that rob that grief of its most
poignant sting! The very garb of woe, whose mournful effect is felt to the
full, only when each one sees it worn by the other--the very garb
paralyses, and brings impressively before us, the awful truth, that for
our loss, in this world, there is no remedy. How holy, how chaste is the
affection, which we feel disposed to lavish, on those who are left us.
Surely if there be a guardian spirit, which deigns to flit through this
wayward world, to cheer the stricken breast, and purify feelings, whose
every chord vibrates to the touch of woe; surely such presides, and throws
a sunny halo, on the group, that blood has united--on which family love
has shed its genial influence--and of which, each member, albeit bowed
down by sympathetic grief, attempts to lift his drooping head, and to
others open some source of comfort, which to the kind speaker, is
inefficient and valueless indeed!
For many months, Sir Henry continued to reside with his family. Clarendon
Gage was a constant visitor, and companion to the brother and sister in
their daily walks and rides.
He had never met poor George, but loved Emily so well, that he could not
but sympathise in their heavy loss; and as Delmé noted this quiet
sympathy, he felt deeply thankful to Providence, for the fair prospect of
the happiness, that awaited his sister.
Winter passed 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 glassy 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, Delmé
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 passion, 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 glass.
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 anticipations; 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 circumstances--can overcome obstacles that oppose--and
finally call it their own.
Passionate, 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 Delmé 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!
Emily took her mother's miniature, and gazing on that face, of which her
own appeared a beautiful transcript; she prayed to God to support him who
was still present to her every thought.
The family chapel of the Delmés was a beautiful and picturesque place of
worship. With the exception of one massive door-way, whose circular arch
and peculiar zig-zag ornament bespoke it co-eval with, or of an earlier
date than, the reign of Stephen--and said to have belonged to a ruin apart
from the chapel, whose foundations an antiquary could hardly trace--Delmé
chapel might be considered a well preserved specimen of the florid Gothic,
of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.
The progress of the edifice, had been greatly retarded during the wars of
the Roses; but it was fortunately completed, before, the doctrine of the
Cinquecentists--who saw no beauty save in the revived dogmas of
Vitruvius--had so far gained ground, as to make obsolete and
unfashionable, the most captivating and harmonious style of Architecture,
that has yet flourished in England.
Its outer appearance was comparatively simple--it had neither spire,
lantern, or transepts--and its ivy-hidden belfry was a detached tower.
The walls of the aisles were supported by massive buttresses, and
surmounted by carved pinnacles; and from them sprung flying buttresses,
ornamented with traced machicolations, to bear the weight of the embattled
roof of the nave.
The interior was more striking. As the stranger entered by the western