“It will, Constance--it will. That is a marriage after my own heart; one that I have, now and then, dimly foreshadowed in imagination, but never thought to see.”
“It is over five years since we saw Blanche,” remarked Constance. “I wonder how she looks! If life's sunshine and rain have produced a rich harvest in her soul, or only abraded the surface, and marred the sweet beauty that captivated us of old! I wonder how she has borne the shadowing of earthly prospects--the change from luxurious surroundings!”
“They have not dimmed the virgin gold; you may be sure of that, Constance,” was my reply to this.
“At home, Wednesday evening, June fifteenth.”
And this was Tuesday. Only a single day intervened. And yet it seemed like a week in anticipation, so eager did we grow for the promised re-union with friends whose memory was in our hearts as the sound of pleasant music.
It was eight o'clock, on Wednesday evening, when we entered Ivy Cottage, our hearts beating with quickened strokes under their burden of pleasant anticipation. What a queenly woman stood revealed to us, as we entered the little parlor! I would hardly have known her as the almost shrinking girl from whom we parted not many years before. How wonderfully she had developed! Figure, face, air, manner, attitude--all showed the woman of heart, mind, and purpose. Yet, nothing struck you as masculine; but rather as exquisitely feminine. It took but one glance at her serene face, to solve the query as to whether there had been a free gift of heart as well as hand. My eyes turned next to the pale, thin face of Mrs. Montgomery, who sat, or half reclined, in a large cushioned chair. She was looking at her daughter. That expression of blended love and pride, will it ever cease to be a sweet picture in my memory? All was right--I saw that in the first instant of time.
The reception was not a formal one. There was no display of orange blossoms, airy veils, and glittering jewels--but a simple welcoming of a few old friends, who had come to heart-congratulations. It was the happiest bridal reception--always excepting the one in which my Constance wore the orange wreath--that I had ever seen. Do you inquire of Wallingford, as to how he looked and seemed? Worthy of the splendid woman who stood by his side and leaned towards him with such a sweet assurance. How beautiful it was to see the proud look with which she turned her eyes upon him, whenever he spoke! It was plain, that to her, his words had deeper meanings in them, than came to other ears.