In the course of a few weeks the new engagement was made known, and everybody expressed their astonishment. Hesper bore up bravely beneath it. There was only one thing which deeply disturbed the serenity of her soul, and that was the idle curiosity and most contemptible pity of the village gossips. Aunt Betsey raved, and advised Hesper to sue Harry for breach of promise, directly.
There was one, however, to whom this unexpected change was a cause of the deepest sorrow, and this one was aunt Nyna herself.
“Hesper, my dear girl!” she said, as she came one night, and putting her arm around her, drew her close to her bosom—“I had hoped one day to call thee my own child, but I feel it is ordered otherwise. Between thee and me, I will say, that I fear my Harry is not what he should be. God bless thee, dear one! I trust that He in whom there is neither variableness nor shadow of turning, hath reserved for thee better things.”
CHAPTER XXV.
A HEART BLEEDING IN SECRET.
There was an unusually large wedding at the Grimsbys, to which full half of the village was invited, and Hesper too was there, looking more beautiful than any one had ever seen her before. She wore moss rose-buds in her hair and upon her bosom, and her white dress, so floating and airy, gave her a light, spiritual appearance, which accorded well with the tender light in her eyes, and the serenity of her pale countenance. When the youthful pair stood up side by side, for the performance of the ceremony, Hesper felt the painful consciousness that as many eyes were turned upon her, as on them. They were probing the depths of her soul, to see how she bore her disappointment; but that calm, sweet countenance, betrayed nothing of the deep emotion within. Neither could the slightest affectation or insincerity be detected in her manner, when, at the conclusion of the ceremony, she went forward with others, to tender her congratulations and the kiss of affection to the newly married pair. The time, however, passed wearily to her, and feeling that she could not bear the scrutiny of curious eyes much longer, she retired at an early hour.
Alone in her little chamber once more, the feeling of her desolation came upon her with over-powering force. Still clothed in her wedding garments, she sat by the open window, looking out through the branches of the trees upon the distant landscape which lay so bright and beautiful beneath the summer moonlight. She held her clasped hands over her heart with a sensation of pain, and as the unnatural firmness to which she had nerved herself gave way, the tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Then she thought of that land of peace, “where they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven”—where “there is no more sorrow or crying, but where tears are wiped from all faces.” Never before had she felt such a yearning to lay down her earthly garment and leave the crushing cares of earth behind forever.
“O, that I had wings like a dove, that I might flee away and be at rest,” she exclaimed, as with tearful eyes she looked up to the cloudless heavens. “Pitying Father, take thy poor heart-stricken child to thyself!”