“No after-friendship e’er can raze Th’ endearments of our early days, And ne’er the heart such fondness prove, As when it first began to love; Ere lovely nature is expelled, And friendship is romantic held. But prudence comes with hundred eyes, The veil is rent, the vision flies, The dear illusions will not last, The era of enchantment’s past: The wild romance of life is done, The real history begun!” CHAPTER II. Some time after this, Mr. Collingwood, rising from the breakfast-table, threw down the day’s paper, saying there was nothing in it; Mrs. Collingwood glancing her eye over it exclaimed-- “Do you call this nothing? Helen, hear this! “Marriage in high life--At the ambassador’s chapel, Paris, on the 16th instant, General Clarendon to Lady Cecilia Davenant, only daughter of Earl and Countess Davenant.” “Married! absolutely married!” exclaimed Helen: “I knew it was to be, but so soon I did not expect. Ambassador’s chapel--where did you say?--Paris? No, that must be a mistake, they are all at Florence--settled there, I thought their letters said.” Mrs. Collingwood pointed to the paragraph, and Helen saw it was certainly Paris--there could be no mistake. Here was a full account of the marriage, and a list of all “the fashionables who attended the fair bride to the hymeneal altar. Her father gave her away.” “Then certainly it is so,” said Helen; and she came to the joyful conclusion that they must all be on their way home:--“Dear Lady Davenant coming to Cecilhurst again!” Lady Cecilia, “the fair bride,” had been Helen’s most intimate friend; they had been when children much together, for the deanery was so close to Cecilhurst, that the shrubbery opened into the park. “But is it not rather extraordinary, my dear. Helen,” said Mrs. Collingwood, “that you should see this account of your dear Lady Cecilia’s marriage in the public papers only, without having heard of it from any of your friends themselves--not one letter, not one line from any of them?” A cloud came over Helen’s face, but it passed quickly, and she was sure they had written--something had delayed their letters. She was certain Lady Davenant or Lady Cecilia had written; or, if they had not, it was because they could not possibly, in such a hurry, such agitation as they must have been in. At all events, whether they had written or not, she was certain they could not mean anything unkind; she could not change her opinion of her friend for a letter more or less. “Indeed!” said Mrs. Collingwood, “how long is it since you have seen them?” “About two years; just two years it is since I parted from them at Florence.” “And you have corresponded with Lady Cecilia constantly ever since?” asked Mrs. Collingwood. “Not constantly.” “Not constantly--oh!” said Mrs. Collingwood, in a prolonged and somewhat sarcastic tone.