Ethel Churchill/Chapter 21
CHAPTER XXI.
THE TOILETS.
Bring from the east, bring from the west,
Flowers for the hair, gems for the vest;
Bring the rich silks that are shining with gold,
Wrought in rich broidery on every fold.
Bring ye the perfumes that breathe on the rose,
Such as the summer of Egypt bestows;
Bring the white pearls from the depths of the sea—
They are fair like the neck where their lustre will be.
Such are the offerings that now will be brought,
But can they bring peace to the turmoil of thought?
Can they one moment of quiet bestow
To the human heart, feverish and beating, below?
The next chamber was that of Mrs. Courtenaye. For the first time since her husband's death, she had thrown off her weeds, and put on attire more suited to the occasion. She was richly, yet plainly dressed, in a purple velvet, with a hood of white point lace. Even her silent handmaids were surprised out of their ordinary propriety by her appearance. She waved away, with an impatient gesture of her hand, the mirror that they brought; and, saying she wished to he alone, flung herself on a seat.
"I know not," exclaimed she, "why I should feel this depression and regret. Does not this marriage ensure Norbourne all that life can desire—wealth, rank, and security? I wedded, as I thought, for love, faith, and happiness; and what was the end? Years of bitter fear and doubt. Dishonour has stood for ever, a spectre, viewless, but dreaded, at my side. That ghost is now laid for ever; why, then, am I sad?"
Her own heart told her why. Years had passed since, with a burning cheek and a beating heart she had knelt by the side of Norbourne's father, and arisen from before the priest and the crucifix, his bride. She thought what a world of sweet emotion sent the light to her eyes, and the colour to her blush, as they wandered together beneath the silvery shadows of the olive grove. How minutely was the slightest thing impressed on her memory! She remembered the childish sorrow with which she saw the thicker boughs shut out the sunshine, because she no longer could watch his shadow. She thought, too, how they leant beside the old Moorish well, whose deep water was like a dark and polished mirror—leant gazing each on the image of the other, and then laughed aloud in tender mockery, to think that they should gaze on a shadow with the reality so near; and they looked into each other's eyes with a deeper fondness. With what sweet confidence did they talk of the future; what a loveliness, never noted before, was on the blue sky and the fair earth!
It was the loveliness of love, flinging his own divine likeness over all; and this love, the only spiritual and mighty happiness of which humanity is capable, was henceforth to be to Norboume a forbidden word. He loved one, and was to wed another. Earth has no such misery. It is wretchedness to pine through long years of uncertain absence, subject to all the casualties of doubt and distance, feeding on long expectation; till, as the Scripture so touchingly says, hope deferred is sickness to the heart: still there is hope, and love has a store of subtle happiness in the many links that memory delights to bind, and whose tender recallings are the dearest guarantee for the future.
It is wretchedness to kneel by the grave of the departed, who have taken with them the verdure from the earth, and the glory from the sky; who have left home and heart alike desolate: but then the soul asserts its diviner portion, looks afar off through the valley of the shadow of tears, and is intensely conscious that here is but its trial, and beyond is its triumph. The love that dwells with the dead has a sanctity in its sorrow; for love, above all things, asserts that we are immortal. But wretchedness takes no form, varied as are its many modes in this our weary existence, like that where the hand is given, and the heart is far away—where the love vowed at the altar is not that which lies crushed, yet not quenched, within the hidden soul. Hope brings no comfort; for there were cruelty and crime in its promises: memory has no solace; it can, at best, only crave oblivion—and oblivion of what? Of all life's sweet dreams, and deepest feelings. Yet, what slight things must, with a sting like that of the adder, bring back the past—too dear, and yet too bitter! a word, a look, a tone, may be enough to wring every pulse with the agony of a vain and forbidden regret.
Mrs. Courtenaye felt that her son needed consolation; and she hurried to his chamber, and had opened the door before she recollected that she could say—nothing. He was already dressed, and alone. He was leaning against the fir-place, and so lost in thought that he did not hear his mother enter.
"My own dear child!" said she, laying her hand on his. He started—his cheek grew deadly pale: it was for a moment, and his part was taken.
"Ah! you were afraid I should not have finished my toilet," exclaimed he, with a forced smile; "but do let me admire the result of yours. Why, my dear mother, I did not know how beautiful you were!" and he gazed with a natural touch of pride on the noble face and stately figure, to which time, while it stole freshness, had given dignity.
The tears, in despite of her efforts, swam in her eyes. He would not seem to see them; but, taking her hand, kissed it fervently as he led her forth. Deep and bitter is the grief that shrinks from words, even with those the most loved and trusted: and what a world of unspoken sorrow was in the soul of both mother and son as they crossed the threshold!