We haste,-the chosen and the
lovely bringing;
Love still goes
with her from her place of birth;
Deep, silent joy, within her
soul is springing,
Though in her
glance the light no more is mirth.—Mrs.
Hemans.
“Damn it!” said the General.
“The vile creature!” cried Miss Diana.
“I don’t understand things of that sort,”
ejaculated the bewildered Mr. Glumford.
“She has certainly gone,” said the valiant
General.
“Certainly!” grunted Miss Diana.
“Gone!” echoed the bridegroom not to be.
And she was gone! Never did more loving and
tender heart forsake all, and cling to a more loyal
and generous nature. The skies were darkened
with clouds,—
“And the dim stars rushed
through them rare and fast;”
and the winds wailed with a loud and ominous voice;
and the moon came forth, with a faint and sickly smile,
from her chamber in the mist, and then shrank back,
and was seen no more; but neither omen nor fear was
upon Mordaunt’s breast, as it swelled beneath
the dark locks of Isabel, which were pressed against
it.
As Faith clings the more to the cross of life, while
the wastes deepen around her steps, and the adders
creep forth upon her path, so love clasps that which
is its hope and comfort the closer, for the desert
which encompasses and the dangers which harass its
way.
They had fled to London, and Isabel had been placed
with a very distant and very poor, though very high-born,
relative of Algernon, till the necessary preliminaries
could be passed and the final bond knit. Yet
still the generous Isabel would have refused, despite
the injury to her own fame, to have ratified a union
which filled her with gloomy presentiments for Mordaunt’s
fate; and still Mordaunt by little and little broke
down her tender scruples and self-immolating resolves,
and ceased not his eloquence and his suit till the
day of his nuptials was set and come.
The morning was bright and clear; the autumn was drawing
towards its close, and seemed willing to leave its
last remembrance tinged with the warmth and softness
of its parent summer, rather than with the stern gloom
and severity of its chilling successor.
And they stood beside the altar, and their vows were
exchanged. A slight tremor came over Algernon’s
frame, a slight shade darkened his countenance; for
even in that bridal hour an icy and thrilling foreboding
curdled to his heart; it passed,—the ceremony
was over, and Mordaunt bore his blushing and weeping
bride from the church. His carriage was in attendance;
for, not knowing how long the home of his ancestors
might be his, he was impatient to return to it.
The old Countess d’Arcy, Mordaunt’s relation,
with whom Isabel had been staying, called them back
to bless them; for, even through the coldness of old
age, she was touched by the singularity of their love
and affected by their nobleness of heart. She
laid her wan and shrivelled hand upon each, as she
bade them farewell, and each shrank back involuntarily,
for the cold and light touch seemed like the fingers
of the dead.
