CHAPTER III. "Who loves, raves!" BYRON. Of all sad sounds and mournful, two Are chiefly sad; a very knell Oh, sounds that still the heart must rue! Tho' brief our meetings, brief and few, I feel 'tis sad to say to you, Those mournful sister-sounds, adieu. Adieu-Farewell! Anon. We know not that we love indeed Until we part! T. G. GRANT. How strange is the propensity which exists in almost every human mind to dive into futurity! to conjecture possible, or probable fate; to drink the cup of misery to the dregs, even by anticipation. To watch anxiously for the record of every hurricane, every tempest which we may be destined to encounter in our journey through life. "Vain man would fain be wise !" And ever since our first parents, in their eager desire to "know good and evil," ate of the forbidden fruit, their children have inherited the same insane desire to "be as Gods." Can this be denied? How is it then that we waste hour after hour in conjectures and anticipations of the future, of which our whole amount of possible knowledge is absolutely nothing. The man of ambition, the man of literature, the man of science, the man of business, the man of pleasure, how many hours of horizontal, aye, and perpendicular meditation too, do these devote to that diving into futurity, until conjecture wears the garb of reality, and we are only roused from one waking dream by seeing what appeared to be a substantial certainty fade, like the mirage of the desert, and "leave not a wreck behind." At no period of life is this conduct a proof of wisdom, in all but extreme youth it argues folly. "While all is new," however, "and life is in its spring," we may be pardoned for the credulity which leads us to look forward to an unclouded futurity; for we cannot have had experience to warn us of the reverse, and on this ground we will forbear to blame Horace, very severely, for allowing the prospect of meeting Catherine at the ball to occupy his mind, from the time of his return, almost to the exclusion of any other topic. He was indeed, delighted to be re-united to his own family, but then he was certain of their love, and though he had as yet had no reason to fear lest Miss Carlton would not be quite as constant as himself, love such as his cannot exist without some misgiving concern ing our interest in the heart of our beloved. He knew that she was very lovely, for her beauty had filled his mind ever since he could remember, and he felt that during the past season in London many must have admired her as much as he did. Was it not possible for her to have seen some one among the many whom she preferred to him? Before the evening, however, he had argued himself into the certainty that she was as unchanged as he was--that he had done her injustice in even doubting her constancy for a moment, nor was his dream dissipated by his mother's remark when she saw him lay aside a beautiful little ring for Catherine, from among the multitude of souvenirs he had brought home. My dear Horace, is that for Miss Carlton? you will not take it to her this evening, will you? Your must remember she is no longer a young girl, but a woman; and might not be quite pleased." Horace said nothing, he thought he knew Catherine much better than his mother did, and felt confident of her truth; he put the ring in his pocket ready to present on the first convenient opportunity. His toilet that evening was made with unusual care, and when he joined his sisters in his mother's dressing-room, he was delighted with their exclamations of gratified surprise. He could with truth return the compliment, the simple elegance of his sisters' dress exactly coincided with his taste, and he rejoiced in the pertinacity with which he and his friend had entreated for the company of the two fair girls. Rochampton, proud of his charge led Fanny into the room, Mary Anne was under her brother's care-but his eye was wandering in search of Miss Carlton, whom he could not discover, and he was enduring all sorts of lover's agonies from the fear that, after all, he should not see her. |