frame, and wrought on my brain, turning remorse for the past, and fear for the future, into a dilirious dream of joy, even as laudanum can change pain itself into ecstacy. I dreamed that night that I was in church, and that everything was prepared for my marriage. We stood before the altar, and the priest opened the book for the marriage service; but as he began, it was the burial service that he read. They stopped him, and he turned the pages; but ever as he began again to read, the same words came to his lips, and the book in his hands grew larger and larger, and the words, "For the Burial of the Dead," stood out in bloody letters, and seemed to rise from the page. I looked up into the priest's face, and that was changing too. I had seen those features before; but I knew them not till the thin lips moved, and said — “Julia's murderer Julia's murderer!" And then the book and the altar were gone, and a coffin stood in its place; and the same voice said, "Open it!"—and the lid rose, and there was a corpse in its shroud. It lifted itself up slowly, and I could not see the face; but I cried out in terror "Who is it?" and the grave-clothes fell it was Alice! I closed my eyes and shrieked; and the same voice said, “Look again look again!" I looked, and it was Edward. Over and over again, during that night, I awoke in speechless terror; and when I went to sleep again, the same dream, with slight variations, haunted me anew. save me!" "from what? The last time I woke, Mrs. Middleton was standing by my bed-side; and as she pressed me to her heart, I clung to her convulsively, and repeated wildly, "Save me. "From what, my child?" she whispered Speak to me, Ellen. One word only; and at whatever cost it may be, it shall be done. Is it possible you do not love Edward?" as "O, too much! only too much!" I exclaimed, and burst into an agony of tears. Mrs. Middleton seemed relieved sured me I was only very nervous gave me something to drink, which calmed me and stayed with me while I dressed. We sat down to breakfast, and Edward soon arrived; he remarked my paleness, and spoke to me with a tenderness which brought again into my eyes the tears which I had resolutely repressed during the last hour. The time drew near, and I was taken to my room to put on my wedding-gown. By the time I was dressed, and the whole of the family were gathered together to look at me, and blessings were pronounced, and good wishes were uttered, and kisses were given, I had become quite calm again. I had gone through so much that the power of emotion seemed almost worn out, and I felt as if I had grown callous and cold. We drove to church, and I looked quietly out of window while my hand was locked in Mrs. Middleton's. I saw two or three acquaintances as we drove along, and read the names on the shops that we passed, with that kind of mechanical attention which fixes our eyes without occupying our thoughts. - When we came into the vestry of church, there were a number of people in it, all my relations, and some friends. My eyes sought out Henry; he was speaking to Mrs. Brandon; and, except that he was much flushed, there was nothing unusual in his appearance. Alice was standing by him. Mr. Middleton came for me, and the door of the vestry was opened. We walked up to the altar. The clergyman was already there, with the open book before him. I felt as if I was dreaming again. I trembled violently, and my teeth struck against each other. My aunt, Alice, and Henry, took their places on one side of the altar, and the rest of the people sat down in the surrounding pews. The clergyman bent forward and beckoned to my uncle, who went up to speak to him. At that moment I heard a step behind us, and somebody passed on Edward's side. I looked up, and saw a tall woman in deep mourning, and with a veil over her face, take her place in a pew which was nearly opposite to me. A vague terror seized me, and I could not take my eyes off this person. When everybody rose at the beginning of the opening exhortation, she remained sitting, till, when the priest said these words — "Therefore, if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or else hereafter for ever hold his peace." me; She slowly rose, drew back her veil, and fixed her eyes upon her thin lips moved as I had seen them move in my dream, and she seemed about to speak. I gave a hurried glance of despair at Henry; our eyes met, and then mine were rivetted to the ground, and my limbs and my heart seemed turned to stone. I felt that woman's gaze upon me. I knew that at the close of the exhortation she sat down, and that she rose again when the clergyman said - "Who gives this woman to be married to this man?" When Mr. Middleton took my hand and placed it in Edward's, the sound of a groan reached my ears; and when I raised my eyes, and, for the second time, fixed them by a kind of fascination on those malignant features and glassy eyes, they glared upon me with an expression which I cannot describe, and hardly dare to recall. The service went on, and when we knelt down to pray, while my face was buried in my hands, I heard the sound of receding footsteps; I looked up; she was gone, but I felt that she had cursed me as she went. The ceremony was concluded. I was Edward's wife. I rose from my knees and looked about me. Henry was gone. Alice was pale, and her eyes were full of tears; she, too, was like what I had seen in my dream. We went into the vestry and signed some papers. As I was stepping into Edward's chariot to drive home again, a paper was thrust into my hand; I took it mechanically, and held it unconsciously in my clenched hand. I smiled when Edward spoke to me, and looked at him with inexpressible affection when he drew me to him, and called me his wife - his own beloved wife! We arrived in Brook-street, and I went to dress for the journey. They brought me some biscuits and wine and water. I drank some hastily, but could not eat. Mrs. Middleton gave me her last kiss, and my uncle took me down to the carriage. I stepped into it, and Edward after me. The door was closed. I opened mechanically the paper in my hand; it contained these words - "Your sin shall find you out." I crumpled it again, and flung it out of window. I talked fast and eagerly to Edward. After an hour or two I fell into a heavy sleep. When we reached Dashminster, I awoke in a burning fever. Edward carried me upstairs, and laid me on a bed. I grew delirious, and raved all night. They bled me, I believe, and in two days I was better, and able to proceed to Hillscombe. CHAPTER XIX. "We take fair days in winter for the spring." YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS. "O how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the scene, SHAKESPEARE. EDWARD, I kneel to you in spirit while I write this record of our married life. By all the trembling hope I feel that a day may come, not of mercy, but of justice a day when, though you will not forgive me, yet you will believe in me when, though you will not open your arms to me, yet you will say, "She was false, but not false to me." By this hope I gather strength to write. But as I pace up and down my narrow room, or lay my head on the marble slab, the only cold place it can find, dare I think of what has been, of what is not? Shall I not go mad, and in my madness shall I not accuse you, Edward? Shall I not tell God and man, that you have shut your heart against me, and broken mine? And on the day of judgment, will not God ask you what you have done with her, who, however guilty, was guiltless to you? Oh, deeply loved and deeply mourned, ever absent from my sight, ever present to my thoughts! lord of my bosom's love, object of its idolatry, I do not accuse you. If a fallen spirit banished from Heaven ever mourned over his fall, without a murmur for the past or a hope for the future, his feelings are like mine, when in my solitude I think that once you loved me and called me yours. Can it be that such things are and pass away, and leave no traces behind them, save broken hearts and mental agonies? Does Nature, while it rejoices with those who rejoice, never weep with those who weep? Does the sun shine as brightly on the forest glades of Hillscombe as when I wandered through them with Edward? Does the stream dash through them with the same reckless joy as when he helped me over its mossy stones? Is the thyme as sweet, is the heather as purple, as when by his side I scrambled over its wild moors? And thyself, Edward, thyself — art thou as strong, as beautiful, as stern as ever? Hast thou driven me from thy side, and when the first anguish of that hour was gone by, hast thou said, "The bitterness of death is past," and raised again thy stately head in its beauty and its pride? - Is joy more sacred than grief, or is it so strange to the human heart that, when present, we dare not scan its fleeting form, nor recall its image when it is past. One short dream of bliss was mine; it stands alone in a life, which, though not long in years, has been long in sorrow. Once the cup has been raised to my lips; one draught I took of that for which my soul longs with a burning and quenchless thirst. Happiness! yes, happiness; one hour of which reveals to us what an eternity of bliss can be; for time and space, beginning and end, are as though they were not, in that intense life of the soul. For seven days the sun rose in cloudless majesty; for seven days he sunk to rest "in one unclouded blaze of living light." Sunshine streamed on the grassy hills; it gilded the fields of ripening corn; it pierced into the depths of the forest; it bathed the world in light, and gladdened the heart of man. And I too, for a while, was glad; in the fierce fever which for some hours had robbed me of my senses, the anguish of my soul seemed to have passed away. Nothing was changed in my fate, but I felt weak, and there is something in weaknes which resembles peace; and in the love which we give to man, when it is entire and undivided, there is a power which is strong for good or for evil, as the hand of the master wields it. |