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.