Not with pomp or with splendour, with rejoicing or strewing of summer
blossoms in the pathway of bride and bridegroom, had the marriage of
Valentine and Charlotte been solemnized. Simple and secret had been the
ceremonial, dark with clouds was the sky above them; and yet it is
doubtful if happier bridegroom ever trod this earth than Valentine
Hawkehurst as he went to his lonely lodging under the starry summer sky,
after leaving his young wife to her mother's care in the new home that
had been found for them.
He had reason to rejoice; for he had passed through the valley of the
shadow of death. He had seen, very near, that dread presence before which
the angels of faith and love can avail nothing. Fearless as Alcides had
he gone down to the realms of darkness; triumphant and glad as the
demigod he returned from the under-world, bearing his precious burden in
his strong arms. The struggle had been dire, the agony of suspense a
supreme torture; but from the awful contest the man came forth a better
and a wiser man. Whatever strength of principle had been wanting to
complete the work of reformation inaugurated by love, had been gained by
Valentine Hawkehurst during the period of Charlotte's illness. His
promised wife, his redeeming angel, she for whose affection he had first
learned to render thanks to his God, had seemed to be slipping away from
him.
Pages:
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496