A Love Story
door, and proceeded up the nave, each step was re-echoed from the crypt
below:--as he trod on strange images, and inscriptions in brass;
commemorative of the dead, whose bones were mouldering in the subterranean
chapel. On them, many coloured tints fantastically played, through
gorgeously stained panes--the workmanship of the Middle Ages.
The richly carved oaken confessional--now a reading desk--first attracted
the attention.
In the very centre of the chapel, stood a white marble font, whose chaplet
of the flower of the Tudors, encircled by a fillet, sufficiently bespoke
its date. Between the altar and this font was a tomb, which merits special
attention. It was the chantry of Sir Reginald Delmé, the chief of his
house in the reign of Harry Monmouth. It was a mimic chapel, raised on
three massive steps of grey stone. The clustered columns, that bore the
light and fretted roof, were divided by mullions, rosettes, and trefoils
in open work; except where the interstices were filled up below, to bear
the sculptured, and once emblazoned shields of the Delmés, and their
cognate families. The entrance to the chantry, was through a little turret
at its north-eastern corner, the oaken door of which, studded with
quarrel-headed nails, was at one time never opened, but when the priests
ascended the six steep and spiral steps, and stood around the tomb to
chant masses for the dead.
The diminutive font, and the sarcophagus itself, had once been painted. On
this, lay the figure of Sir Reginald Delmé.
On a stone cushion--once red--supported by figures of angels in the
attitude of prayer, veiling their eyes with their wings, reposed the
unarmed head of the warrior:--his feet uncrossed rested on the image of a
dog, crouching on a broken horn, seeming faithfully to gaze at the face of
his master.
The arms were not crossed--the hands were not clasped; but were joined as
in prayer. Sir Reginald had not died in battle. Above the head of the
sleeping warrior, hung his gorget, and his helmet, with its beaver, and
vizor open; and the banner he himself had won, on the field of Shrewsbury,
heavily shook its thick folds in the air. The fading colours on the
surcoat of the recumbent knight, still faintly showed the lilies and
leopards of England;--and Sir Henry himself was willing to believe, that
the jagged marks made in that banner by the tooth of Time, were but cuts,
left by the sword of the Herald, as at the royal Henry's command, he
curtailed the pennon of the knight; and again restored it to Sir Reginald
Delmé--a banner.
The altar, which extended the whole width of the chapel, was enclosed by a
marble screen, and was still flanked by the hallowed niche, built to
receive the drainings of the sacred cup.
The aisles were divided from the nave, by lancet arches, springing from
clustered columns. But how describe the expansive windows, with their rich
mullions, and richer rosettes--their deeply moulded labels, following the
form of the arch, and resting for support on the quaintest masks--how
describe the matchless hues of the glass--valued mementoes of a bygone
age, and of an art that has perished?
The walls of the chapel were profusely ornamented with the richest
carving; and the oaken panels of the chancel, were adorned with those
exquisite festoons of fruit and flowers, so peculiarly English. The very
ceiling exacted admiration. It closed no lantern--it obstructed no
view--and its light ribs, springing from voluted corbels, bore at each
intersection, an emblazoned escutcheon, or painted heraldic device. The
intricate fan-like tracery of the roof--the enriched bosses at each
meeting of the gilded ribs--gave an airy charm and lightness to the whole,
which well accorded with the florid Architecture, and with the chivalrous
associations, with which it is identified.
And here, beneath this spangled canopy, in this ancient shrine, whose
every ornament was as a memory of her ancestors; stood Emily Delmé, as
fair as the fairest of her race, changeful and trembling, a faint smile
on her lip, and a quivering tear in her eye.
Clarendon Gage took her hand in his, and placed on her finger the golden
pledge of truth, and as he did so, an approving sunbeam burst through the
crimson-stained pane, and before lightening the tomb of Sir Reginald, fell
on her silvery veil--her snowy robe--her beautiful face.
There was a very gay scene on the lawn, as they returned from the chapel.
The dancing had already commenced--strains of music were heard from on
high--the ever moving circle became one moment contracted, then expanded
to the full length of the arms of the dancers, as they actively footed it
round the garlanded May-pole.
At the first sight of the leading carriage, however, a signal was
given--the music suddenly ceased--and the whole party below, with the
exception of one individual, proceeded in great state towards an arch,
composed of flowers and white thorn, which o'ercanopied the road.
The carriage stopped to greet the procession.
On came the blushing May-Queen, and Maid Marian--both armed with wands
wreathed with cowslips--followed by a jovial retinue of morrice dancers
with drawn swords--guisers in many-coloured ribbons--and a full train of
simple peasants, in white smock-frocks.
The May Queen advanced to the carriage, followed by the peasant girls, and
timidly dropped a choice wreath into the lap of the bride. Loud hurras
rung in the air, as Sir Henry gave his steward some welcome instructions
as to the village feast; and the cavalcade continued its route.
We have said that one individual lingered near the May-pole. As he was
especially active, we may describe him and his employment. He was
apparently about fifteen. He had coarse straight white hair--a face that
denoted stupidity--but with a cunning leer, which seemed to belie his
other features.
He was taking advantage of the cessation of dancing, to supply the
aspiring musicians with sundry articles of good cheer. A rope, armed with
a hook, was dropped from their lofty aërie, and promptly drawn up, on the
youngster's obtaining from the neighbouring tents, wherewithal to fill
satisfactorily the basket which he attached.
Sir Henry Delmé and George had been so much abroad, and Emily's attachment
to Clarendon was of so early a date, that it happened that the members of
the Delmé family had mixed little in the festivities of the county in
which they resided; and were not intimately known, nor perhaps fully
appreciated, in the neighbourhood.
But the family was one of high standing, and had ever been remarkable for
its kind-heartedness; and what _was_ known of its individuals, was so much
to their credit, that it kept alive the respect and consideration that
these circumstances might of themselves warrant.
Sir Henry, on the other hand, regarded his sister's marriage as an event,
at which it might be proper to show, that neither hauteur nor want of
sociability, had precluded their friendly intercourse with the
neighbouring magnates; and consequently, most of the principal families
were present at Emily's wedding.
While this large assemblage increased the gaiety of the scene, it was
somewhat wearisome to Delmé, who was too truly attached to his sister, to
be otherwise than thoughtful during the ceremony, and the breakfast that
succeeded it.
At length the time came when Emily could escape from the gay throng; and
endeavour, in the quiet of her own room, to be once more calm, before she
prepared to leave her much-loved home.
The preparations made, a note was despatched to her brother, begging him
to meet her in the library. As he did so, a fresh pang shot through
Delmé's heart.
As he looked on Emily's flushed face--her dewy cheek--and noted her
agitated manner; he for the first time perceived, her very strong
resemblance to poor George, and wondered that he had never observed
this before.
Clarendon announced the carriage.
"God bless you! dear Henry!"
"God bless and preserve you! my sweet! Clarendon! good bye! I am sure you
will take every care of her!"
In another moment, the carriage was whirling past the library window; and
Sir Henry felt little inclined, to join the formal party in the
drawing-room. Sending therefore a brief message to Mrs. Glenallan, he
threw open the library window, and with hurried steps reached a
summer-house, half hidden in the shrubbery. He there fell into a deep
reverie, which was by no means a pleasurable one.
He thought of Emily--of George--of Acmé,--and felt that he was becoming an
isolated being.
And had _he_ not loved too? As this thought crossed him, his ambitious
dreams were almost forgotten.
Sir Henry Delmé was aroused by the sound of voices. A loving couple, too
much engaged to observe _him_, passed close to the summer-house.
It was the "Queen of the May," the prettiest and one of the poorest
girls in the parish, walking arm in arm with her rural swain. They had
left the "roasted beeves," and the "broached casks," for one half-hour's
delicious converse.
There was some little coquettish resistance on the part of the girl, as
they sat down together at the foot of a fir tree.
Her lover put his arm round her waist.
"Oh! Mary! if father would but give us a cow or so!"
This little incident decided the matter. Delmé at once resolved that Mary
Smith _should_ have a cow or so; and also that his own health would be
greatly benefited, by a short sojourn at Leamington.
Chapter XV.
The Meeting.
"Oh ever loving, lovely, and beloved!
How selfish sorrow ponders on the past,
And clings to thoughts now better far removed,
But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last."
We know not whether our readers have followed us with due attention, as we
have incidentally, and at various intervals, made our brief allusion to
the gradual change of character, wrought on Delmé, by the eventful scenes
in which he so lately played a prominent part.
When we first introduced him to our reader's notice, we endeavoured to
depict him as he then really was,--a man of strong principles, warm
heart, and many noble qualities; but one, prone to over-estimate the
value of birth and fortune--with a large proportion of pride and
reserve--and with ideas greatly tinctured with the absurd fallacies of
the mere man of the world.
But there was much in the family events we have described, to shake
Delmé's previous convictions, and to induce him to recal many of his
former opinions.
He had seen his brother form a connection, which set at naught all those
convenances, which _he_ had been accustomed to regard as essential to, and
as indeed forming the very ingredient of, domestic happiness.
And yet Sir Henry Delmé could not disguise from himself, that if, in
George's short-lived career, there had been much of pain and sorrow, they
were chiefly engendered by George's mental struggle, to uphold those very
opinions to which he himself was wedded; and that to this alone, might be
traced much of the suffering he had undergone. This was it that had so
weakened mind and body, as to render change of scene necessary;--this was
it that exposed Acmé to the air of the pestiferous marshes, and which left
George himself--a broken hearted man--totally incapable of bearing his
bereavement.
On the other hand, the sunny happiness his brother had basked in,--and it
was very great,--had sprung from the natural out-pourings of an
affection, which,--unfettered as it had been by prudential
considerations,--had yet the power to make earth a heaven while Acmé
shared it with him, and the dark grave an object of bright promise, when
hailed as the portal, through which _he_ must pass, ere he gazed once
more on the load-star of his hopes.
In the case, too, of Emily and Clarendon, although their union was far