How self-deceitful is the sages’ part
Of mortals whom thy art hath led along.—Byron.
I said that joy takes away the appetite as surely as grief does; and joy as well as grief banishes repose. Drusilla lay awake, in a happy reverie, until near morning, when she fell into fitful slumbers that soon deepened into dreamless sleep.
It was late in the forenoon when she awoke.
Ah! how many of us have awakened from such deep insensibility to the consciousness of some heavy but undefined and half-forgotten woe, that all too soon takes shape and distinctness to confront and overwhelm us!
Drusilla, on the contrary, awoke in the golden mist of some great but vague joy, that soon shaped itself into the thought that she was to be the wife of one she loved more than her own soul, and only less than her God.
But such exultation of the spirit seldom lasts long.
Before the girl had finished her simple morning toilet, her joy was sunk in remorseful tenderness that she could rejoice in anything so soon after her poor mother’s death. And she wept; but though less exultant, she was scarcely less happy.
She went down into the morning sitting-room. Alexander had waited for her, because he would not breakfast without her. He met her with a radiant smile, and he welcomed her with a warm embrace.
After breakfast, he spoke to her of his plans for the future. He told her that he wished their marriage to take place almost immediately.