To return after long years of painful absence to some place which has been the scene of our former joys, and whence the force of circumstance, and not choice, has driven us, is oppressive to the heart. There is a mixed sense of regret and rejoicing, which struggle for predominance; we rejoice that our term of exile has expired, but we regret the years which that exile has deducted from the brief amount of human life, never to be recalled, and therefore as so much lost to us. We think of the wrong or the caprice of which we have been the victims, and thoughts will stray across the most confiding heart, if friends shall meet as fondly as they parted; or if time, while impressing deeper marks upon the outward form, may have obliterated some impressions within. Who has returned after years of absence, however assured of the unflinching fidelity of the love he left behind, without saying to himself, in the pardonable yearning of affection, “Shall I meet smiles as bright as those that used to welcome me? Shall I be pressed as fondly within the arms whose encompassment were to me the pale of all earthly enjoyment?”
Such thoughts crowded on Edward as he approached the house. There was not a lane, or tree, or hedge, by the way, that had not for him its association. He reached the avenue gate; as he flung it open he remembered the last time he passed it; Fanny had then leaned on his arm. He felt himself so much excited, that, instead of riding up to the house, he took the private path to the stables, and throwing down the reins to a boy, he turned into a shrubbery and endeavoured to recover his self-command before he should present himself. As he emerged from the sheltered path and turned into a walk which led to the garden, a small conservatory was opened to his view, awaking fresh sensations. It was in that very place he had first ventured to declare his love to Fanny. There she heard and frowned not; there, where nature's choicest sweets were exhaling, he had first pressed her to his heart, and thought the balmy sweetness of her lips beyond them all. He hurried forward in the enthusiasm the recollection recalled, to enter that spot consecrated in his memory; but on arriving at the door, he suddenly stopped, for he saw Fanny within. She was plucking a geranium—the flower she had been plucking some years before, when Edward said he loved her. She, all that morning, had been under the influence of feelings similar to Edward's; had felt the same yearnings—the same tender doubts—the same fond solicitude that he should be the same Edward from whom she parted. But she thought of more than this; with the exquisitely delicate contrivance belonging to woman's nature, she wished to give him a signal of her fond recollection, and was plucking the flower she gathered when he declared his love, to place on her bosom when they should meet. Edward felt the meaning of her action, as the graceful hand broke the flower from its stem. He would have rushed towards her at once, but that the deep mourning in which she was arrayed seemed to command a gentler approach; for grief commands respect. He advanced softly—she heard a gentle step behind her—turned—uttered a faint exclamation of joy, and sank into his arms! In a few moments she recovered her consciousness, and opening her sweet eyes upon him, breathed softly, “dear Edward!”—and the lips which, in two words, had expressed so much, were impressed with a fervent kiss in the blessed consciousness of possession, on that very spot where the first timid and doubting word of love had been spoken.
In that moment he was rewarded for all his years of absence and anxiety. His heart was satisfied; he felt he was dear as ever to the woman he idolised, and the short and hurried beating of both their hearts told more than words could express. Words!—what were words to them?—thought was too swift for their use, and feeling too strong for their utterance; but they drank from each other's eyes large draughts of delight, and, in the silent pressure of each other's welcoming embrace, felt how truly they loved each other.
He led her gently from the conservatory, and they exchanged words of affection “soft and low,” as they sauntered through the wooded path which surrounded the house. That live-long day they wandered up and down together, repeating again and again the anxious yearnings which occupied their years of separation, yet asking each other was not all more than repaid by the gladness of the present—
“Yet how painful has been the past!” exclaimed Edward.
“But now!” said Fanny, with a gentle pressure of her tiny hand on Edward's arm, and looking up to him with her bright eyes—“but now!”
“True, darling!” he cried; “'tis ungrateful to think of the past while enjoying such a present and with such a future before me. Bless that cheerful heart, and those hope-inspiring glances! Oh, Fanny! in the wilderness of life there are springs and palm-trees—you are both to me! and heaven has set its own mark upon you in those laughing blue eyes which might set despair at defiance.”
“Poetical as ever, Edward!” said Fanny, laughing.
“Sit down, dearest, for a moment, on this old tree, beside me; 'tis not the first time I have strung rhymes in your presence and your praise.” He took a small note-book from his pocket, and Fanny looked on smilingly as Edward's pencil rapidly ran over the leaf and traced the lover's tribute to his mistress.