1832.] A Story of the Heart. 689 



bitter pang, my dear girl," said he, as his favourite sister drew near, " but 

 it is the last, and let us pass through it bravely." It was after he had 

 blessed her, and kissed her, and bade her adieu, that he called her back 

 again. His noble face was changed to the marble of the grave, and those eyes 

 shone with the last burning flame of nature and of life. He dashed away 

 the tears that gathered till they flowed, and dashed them away again. 

 The impressiveness of death was on his tongue. " If ever you see Aer," 

 he sighed ; " if ever you meet, tell her but no I can say nothing. If 

 she knew all she would know too much my silence is enough." With 

 this he sank backward, and lay calmly ; a long drawn sigh was heard 

 and Delacour was dead. But the sorrow he had caused neither was ended 

 or died with him. His faults had been without extenuation, his errors 

 without excuse, and the world had not been backward to censure him ; 

 yet one heart was found that could pardon, one soft enough to pity his 

 frailties. All the mercy he could hope was there, and tenderness that 

 surpassed all he might imagine. The shriek that burst from Emily Sidney 

 while reading the news of his decease, was the knell of another untimely 

 end. The woe of years was ended, the link of past emotions broken. He 

 was then gone for ever and irrevocably gone. The pride of her thoughts 

 the friend of her heart the Jover of her youth. No scorn or maidenly 

 reserve could now uphold her. Modesty might fear to reveal the last fond 

 truth, but death wipes away all blushes. 



If sighs might speak of grief, or tears, or inward sorrowing, a broken 

 sleep, a restless and unenjoyed existence, if all these were the emblem 

 of woe, all this had been past, though in the last few years, and it was 

 over. <f Mourn not, my child," urged the mother, " he is happy, and has 

 long been a stranger to us/' " I am sensible of no grief," was the answer j 

 " yes, he has long been a stranger, at least to me, yes, yes, to me he has 

 been a stranger." This was the last time she ever spoke of him ; but the 

 thoughts will utter what the tongue never tells. She dreamed upon the 

 scene in the garden, that faint and indistinct recollection of something 

 most blissful and most wretched. He had thought of her, had returned 

 to her, it was enough, he was forgiven ; yet why had she not spoken to 

 him and soothed him, and parted in friendship, if not in love ? The idea 

 was fraught with madness, and here the fatality of all her misery was seen. 

 In the meantime she evinced no more than common grief. The day of 

 his funeral she took her usual walk ; she saw the sad procession pass, 

 speechless, tearless, and without a murmur. And yet after this she was 

 seen in company, and, to the same eyes, the same as ever. Is woman's 

 pride so delicate, or is it so unconquerable that it may feign all this ! 

 Yes sad necessity, that the last humility of disappointed affections can 

 only stoop thus low. 



At many public places, scenes of fashionable resort, or haunts of 

 fashionable invalids, she was afterwards met. The baronet was in constant 

 attendance, the parents hinted their hopes. She had never, willingly, 

 given sorrow to any one; she consented to accept him, received meekly 

 his attentions, smiled at the delighted congratulations of her friends, and 

 seemed happy. The sober twilight of morning just shadowed the apart- 

 ment where she lay ; it was her own accustomed attitude ; her arm 

 gently supporting her head, the long hair hanging luxuriously on the 

 bosom and veiling the hands. Her mother drew near and stooped to kiss 

 her. Enough; what would you more ! That cry might have well told the 

 rest. W. 



