“Bright blown hopes dispersed in air.”
What is there more beautiful than the first love of a young heart? every
thought is fresh and pure, the poetry of life has not yet been crushed
out of the soul—then it is we love with an intensity such as we never
feel again. It was thus that our heroine loved. Every thing Harry had
done, and every thing he had said, had been treasured, and had become,
as it were, unquestioned oracles with her. The flowers he had loved, now
possessed a fragrance hitherto undiscovered; and the landscape he had
praised, appeared more elegant than it had ever done before. The poetry
he had read to her, she now read so often, that she could repeat every
line. Sometimes she questioned her heart, why it turned so instinctively
toward one who was comparatively a stranger, for the gratification of
all its cherished feelings. She was perfectly sure that love had no
share in what she felt, notwithstanding uncle Pluribusi’s hints to the
contrary, or her father’s wishes that it might be so—love was entirely
out of the question, for he had never spoken of love to her, and she
could never love unbidden; though, to be sure, his eyes had often spoken
a language far more expressive than his lips could have done.
The summer months passed away; the green leaves fell from the trees, and
the bleak sea-breeze swept through the deserted garden, yet Mary had
never received tidings of Harry. Then came winter, spreading over nature
its wings laden with frosts and storms.
The winter of life resembles the winter of the year—both have their
withering storms, and both take the place of sweet summer, of roses and
hopes, and the dreams of youth.
Mary now awakened from her dream. She found that she had built up a
fairy palace, and that the scene of thrilling enchantment was dissolving
away. But where the scene had been, there appeared every prospect of a
ruin. She who had hitherto bloomed in freshness and beauty, now withered
in the blast; for she felt that she was utterly forgotten, at the same
time the startling consciousness of what was really the truth, that she
had given her love unsought, had burst upon her. Her smile lost its
brightness, her step its elasticity. At times she would rouse herself,
and assume a gayety she was far from feeling, especially if the eye of
her father or uncle rested upon her; but this artificial manner passed
away like the dew before the morning sun. About this time Mary received
a letter from a friend in Albany, inviting her to spend some weeks with
her. Her father, thinking scenes of festivity and pleasure would have a
charm for her, hurried her away, and Mr. Pluribusi accompanied her.