e
entered the hall; saw him at the very first moment; saw nothing but
him, I dare say, though her eyes were shut and her head was turned
now towards her mother, and now bent down on the little niece's golden
curls. And the past and its dear histories, and youth and its hopes and
passions, and tones and looks for ever echoing in the heart, and present
in the memory--these, no doubt, poor Clive saw and heard as he looked
across the great gulf of time, and parting, and grief, and beheld
the woman he had loved for many years. There she sits; the same, but
changed: as gone from him as if she were dead; departed indeed into
another sphere, and entered into a kind of death. If there is no love
more in yonder heart, it is but a corpse unburied. Strew round it the
flowers of youth. Wash it with tears of passion. Wrap it and envelop
it with fond devotion. Break heart, and fling yourself on the bier, and
kiss her cold lips and press her hand! It falls back dead on the cold
breast again. The beautiful lips have never a blush or a smile. Cover
them and lay them in the ground, and so take thy hatband off, good
friend, and go to thy business. Do you suppose you are the only man who
has had to attend such a funeral? You will find some men smiling and
at work the day after. Some come to the grave now and again out of the
world, and say a brief prayer, and a "God bless her!" With some men, she
gone, and her viduous mansion your heart to let, her successor, the new
occupant, poking in all the drawers and corners, and cupboards of the
tenement, finds her miniature and some of her dusty old letters hidden
away somewhere, and says--Was this the face he admired so? Why, allowing
even for the painter's flattery, it is quite ordinary, and the eyes
certainly do not look straight. Are these the letters you thought so
charming? Well, upon my word, I never read anything more commonplace
in my life! See, here's a line half blotted out. Oh, I suppose she
was crying then--some of her tears, idle tears--Hark, there is Barnes
Newcome's eloquence still plapping on like water from a cistern--and our
thoughts, where have they wandered? far away from the lecture--as far
away as Clive's almost. And now the fountain ceases to trickle; the
mouth from which issued that cool and limpid flux ceases to smile; the
figure is seen to bow and retire; a buzz, a hum, a whisper, a scuffle, a
meeting of bonnets and wagging of feathers and rustling of silks ensues.
"Thank y