A Love Story, by a Bushman by - (best mobile ebook reader .txt) 📕

cannot but wish that happier circumstances had brought you to us. I have

a very great esteem for your brother, and am one of his warmest well

wishers. But I must not neglect the duties of hospitality. You must

allow me to present you to my officers at mess this evening. Our dinner

hour is late; but were it otherwise, we should miss that delightful hour

for our ride, when the sun’s rays have no longer power to harm us, and

the sea breezes waft us a freshness, which almost compensates for the

languor attending the summer’s heat.”

Delmé declined his invitation, stating his wish to dine with his brother

on that day; but expressed himself ready to accept his kind offer on the

ensuing one.

“Thank you!” said Colonel Vavasour, “it is natural you should wish to

see your brother; and it pains me to think that poor George cannot yet

dine with his old friends. Have you seen Mr. Graham?”

Delmé replied in the affirmative; adding, that he could not but feel

obliged to him for his frankness.

“I am glad you feel thus,” said Vavasour, “it emboldens me to address

you with equal candour; and, painful as our advice must be, I confess I

am inclined to side with George’s medical attendant. I have myself been

witness to such lamentable proofs of George’s state of mind—he has so

often, with the tears in his eyes, spoken to me of his feelings with

regard to Acmé Frascati, that I certainly consider these as in a great

measure the cause, and his state of mind the effect. I speak to you,

Sir Henry, without disguise. I had once a brother—the apple of my

eye—I loved him as I shall never love human being more; and, as God is

my witness, under similar circumstances, frankness is what I should have

prayed for,—my first wish would have been at once to know the worst.

Mr. Graham has told you of his long illness—his delirium—and has, I

conclude, touched upon the present state of his patient. Shall I shock

you, when I add that his lucid intervals are not to be depended upon;

that occasionally the wildest ideas, the most extraordinary projects,

are conceived by him? I wish you not, to act on any thing that Mr.

Graham, or that I may tell you, but to judge for yourself. Without this,

indeed, you would hardly understand the danger of these mental

paroxysms. So fearful are they, that I confess I should be inclined to

adopt any remedy, make any sacrifices which promised the remotest

possibility of success.”

“I trust,” said Sir Henry, “there are no sacrifices I would not

personally make for my only brother, were I once convinced these were

for his real benefit.”

“I frankly mean,” said Vavasour, “that I think almost the only chance of

restoring him, is by allowing him to marry Acmé Frascati.”

Delmé‘s brow clouded.

“Think not,” continued he, “that I am ignorant of what such a

determination must cost you. I, too, Sir Henry,”—and the old man drew

his commanding form to its utmost height,—”I too, know what must be

the feelings of a descendant of noble ancestors. I know them well; and

in more youthful days, the blood boiled in my veins as I thought of the

name they had left me. Thank heaven! I have never disgraced it. But were

I situated as you are, and the dead Augustus Vavasour in the place

of the living George Delmé, I would act as I am now advising you to do.

I speak solely as to the expediency of the measure. From what I have

stated—from my situation in life—from my character—you may easily

imagine that all my prejudices are enlisted on the other side of the

question. But I must here confess that I see something inexpressibly

touching in the devotion which that young Greek girl displayed, during

the whole of George’s illness. But putting this on one side, and

considering the affair as one of mere expediency, I think you will

finally agree with me, that however desperate the remedy, some such must

be applied. And now, let me assure you, that nothing could have induced

me to obtrude thus, my feelings and opinions on a comparative stranger,

were it not that that stranger is the brother of one in whose welfare I

feel the liveliest interest.”

Sir Henry Delmé expressed his thanks, and inwardly determined that he

would form no opinion till he had himself been witness to some act of

mental aberration. It is true, he had heard the medical attendant give a

decided opinion,—from George’s own lips he had an avowal of much that

had been stated,—and now he had heard one, for whom he could not but

feel great respect—one who had evidently no interest in the

question—declare his sentiments as strongly. We are all sanguine as to

what we wish. It may be, that a hope yet lurked in Delmé‘s breast, that

these accounts might be unconsciously exaggerated, or that his brother’s

state of health was now more established than heretofore.

On returning to Floriana, Delmé found George and the blushing Acmé

awaiting him. A delightful feeling is that, of again finding ourselves

with those from whom we have long been parted, once more engaged in the

same round of familiar avocations, once more reacting the thousand

little trifles of life which we have so often acted before, and that,

too, in company with those who now sit beside us, as if to mock the

lapse of intervening years. These meetings seem to steal a pinion from

time’s wing, and hard indeed were it if the sensations they called forth

were not pleasurable ones; for oh! how rudely and frequently, on the

other hand, are we reminded of the changes which the progress of years

brings with it: the bereavement of loved ones—the prostration of what

we revered—our buoyant elasticity of body and mind departed—all things

changing and changed.

We sigh, and gaze back. How few are the scenes, which memory’s

kaleidoscope presents in their pristine bright colours, of that

journey, performed so slowly, as it once appeared, but which, to the

eye of retrospection, seems to have hurried to its end with the rapid

wings of the wind!

Imbued with an association, what a trivial circumstance will please! As

the brothers touched each other’s glass; and drank to mutual happiness,

what grateful recollections were called up by that act! How did these

manifest their power, as they lighted up the wan features of George

Delmé. Acmé looked on smilingly; her hair flowing about her neck—her

dark eyes flashing with unusual brilliancy. Delmé felt it would be

unsocial were he alone to look grave; and although many foreboding

thoughts crowded on him, he too seemed to be happy. It was twilight

when the dinner was over. The windows were open, and the party placed

themselves near the jalousies. They here commanded a view of the public

gardens, where groups of Maltese were enjoying the coolness of the hour,

and the fragrance of the flowers. The walk had a roof of lattice work

supported by wooden pillars; round which, an image of woman’s love, the

honeysuckle clingingly twined, diffusing sweets.

Immediately before them, the principal outlet of the town presented

itself. Laughing parties of English sailors were passing, mounted on

steeds of every size, which they were urging forward, in spite of the

piteous remonstrances of the menials of their owners. The latter, for

the most part, held by the tails of their animals, and uttered a

jargon composed of English, Italian, and Maltese. The only words

however, that met the unregarding ears of the sailors, were some such

exclamations as these.

“Not you go so fast, Signore; he good horse, but much tire.”

The riders sat in their saddles swinging from side to side, evidently

thinking their tenure more precarious than that on the giddy mast; and

wholly unmindful of the expressive gestures, and mournful ejaculations

of the bare-legged pursuers. At another time, their antics and

buffoonery, as they made unmerciful use of the short sticks with which

they were armed, would have provoked a smile. Now our party gazed on

these things as they move the wise. They felt calm and happy; and

deceptive hope whispered they might yet remain so. Acmé took up her

guitar, and throwing her fingers over it, as she gave a soft prelude,

warbled that sweet although common song, “Buona notte, amato bene.” She

sung with great feeling, and feeling is the soul of music.

How plaintively! how tenderly did her lips breathe the

“ricordati! ricordati di me!”

There was something extremely witching in her precocious charms. She

resembled some beauteous bud, just ready to burst into light and bloom.

It is not yet the rose,—but a moment more may make it such. Her

beauties were thus ripe for maturity. It seemed as if the sunshine of

love were already upon them—they were basking in its rays. A brief

space—and the girl shall no longer be such. What was promise shall be

beauty. She shall meet the charmed eye a woman; rich in grace and

loveliness. As Delmé marked her sympathising glance at George—her

beaming features—her innocent simplicity;—as he thought of all she had

lost, all she had suffered for his brother’s sake,—as he thought of the

scorn of the many—the pity of the few—the unwearied watching—the

sleepless nights—the day of sorrow passed by the bed of sickness—all

so cheerfully encountered for him—he could not reproach her. No! he

took her hand, and the brothers whispered consolation to her, and to

each other.

Late that evening, they were joined by Colonel Vavasour, and Mr. Graham.

George’s spirits rose hourly. Never had his Colonel appeared to such

advantage—Acmé so lovely—or Henry so kind—as they did to George Delmé

that night.

It was with a sigh at the past pleasures that George retired to

his chamber.

Chapter XII.

The Mess.

“Red coats and redder faces.”

The following day, a room having been given up to Delmé, he discharged

his bill at Beverley’s; and moved to Floriana. He again accompanied

George in his drive; and they had on this occasion, the advantage of

Acmé‘s society, who amused them with her artless description of the

manners of the lower orders of Maltese.

Pursuant to his promise, at the bugle’s signal Delmé entered the mess

room; and the Colonel immediately introduced him to the assembled

officers. To his disappointment, for he felt curious to see one, who had

exercised such an influence over his brother, Delancey was not amongst

them. Sir Henry was much pleased with the feeling that appeared to

exist, between Colonel Vavasour and his corps of officers:—respect on

one side—and the utmost confidence on both. We think it is the talented

author of Pelham, who describes a mess table as comprising “cold dishes

and hot wines, where the conversation is of Johnson of ours and Thomson

of jours.”

This, though severe, is near the truth; and if, to this description, be

added lots of plate of that pattern called the Queen’s—ungainly

servants in stiff mess liveries—and a perpetual recurrence to Mr. Vice;

we have certainly caught the most glaring features of a commonplace

regimental dinner. Vavasour was well aware of this, and had directed

unremitting attention, to give a tone to the conversation at the mess

table, more nearly approaching to that of private life; one which should

embrace topics of general interest, and convey some general information.

Even in his well ordered regiment, there were some, whose nature would

have led them, to confine their attention to thoughts of the daily

military routine. This