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

the funeral procession arrived.

This stopped in front of the vault, and Delmé anxiously scrutinised the

proceedings. Another man—probably the one whose place George had

supplied—had joined them outside the town, and now walked by the side

of the calèche. He assisted George’s companion in bearing out the

coffins. The huge door grated on its hinges, as they opened it. The

coffins were borne in, and the whole party entered; the priest mumbling

a short Latin prayer. In a short time, the priest alone returned; and

looking cautiously around, and seeing no one, struck a light from a

tinder box, and lighted his cigar. The other two men brought back the

coffins, evidently relieved of their weight; and the priest—the

boy—with the man who had last joined them, and who had also lit his

cigar—entered the first calèche, after exchanging some jokes with

George’s companion, and returned at a rapid pace towards the town.

During this time, George Delmé had been left alone in the vault. His

companion returned to him, after taking the precaution to fasten its

doors inside.

Sir Henry was now at a loss what plan to adopt; but Thompson, after a

moment’s hesitation, suggested one.

“There is an iron grating, Sir, over part of the vault, through which,

when a bar was loose, I know one of our soldiers went down. Shall I

get a cord?”

The man ran towards his barrack, and returned with it. To wrench by

their united efforts, one bar from its place, and to fasten the rope to

another, was the work of an instant. Space was just left them to creep

through the aperture. Sir Henry was the first to breathe the confined

air of the sepulchre. A voice warned him in what direction to proceed;

and not waiting for the domestic, he groped his way forward through a

narrow passage. At first, Delmé thought there was a wall on either side

him; but as he made a false step, and the bones crumbled beneath, he

knew that it was a wall, formed of the bleached remains of the bygone

dead. As he drew nearer the voice, he was guided by the lanthorn brought

by George’s companion; and towards this he proceeded, almost overpowered

by the horrible stench of the charnel house, As he drew near enough to

distinguish objects, what a scene presented itself! In one corner of the

vault, lay a quantity of lime used to consume the bodies, whilst nearer

the light, lay corpses in every stage of putrefaction. In some, the lime

had but half accomplished its purpose; and while in parts of the body,

the bones lay bare and exposed; in others, corruption in its most

loathsome form prevailed. Here the meaner reptiles—active and

prolific—might be seen busily at work, battening on human decay. Sir

Henry stepped over a dead body, and started, as a rat, scared from its

prey, rustled through a wreath of withered flowers, and hid itself amid

a mouldering heap of bones. But there were some forms lovely still! In

them the pulse of life had that day ceased to beat. The rigidity of

Death—his impressive stillness was there—but he had not yet “swept the

lines where beauty lingers.”

The Maltese stood with folded arms, closely regarding George Delmé.

George leant against a pillar, with one knee bent. Over it was stretched

the corpse of a girl, with the face horribly decomposed. The dull and

flagging winds of the vault moved her dank and matted hair.

“Acmé,” said he, as he parted the dry hair from the blackened brow,

“do but speak to your own George! Be not angry with me, dearest!” He

held the disgusting object to his lips, and lavished endearments on the

putrid corpse.

Delmé staggered—and Thompson supported him—as he gasped for breath

in the extremity of his agony. At this moment his eye caught the face of

the Maltese. He had advanced towards George—his arms were still

folded—his eyes were sparkling with joy—and his features wore the

malignant expression of gratified revenge. Sir Henry sprang to his feet

and rushed forward.

“George! my brother! my brother!”

The maniac raised his pallid brow—his eye flashed consciousness—the

blue veins in his forehead swelled almost to bursting—he tossed his

arms wildly—and sunk powerless on the corpses around—his convulsive

shrieks re-echoing in that lonely vault. Thompson seized the Maltese,

and making him unlock the door, bore the brothers into the open air; for

Henry, at the time, was as much overpowered as George himself.

A clear solution to that curious scene was never given, for George could

not give the clue to his train of mental aberration.

With regard to his companion’s share in the transaction, the man was

closely questioned, and other means of information resorted to, but the

only facts elicited were these:

His son had been executed some years before for a desperate attempt to

assassinate a British soldier, with whom he had had an altercation

during the carnival.

The man himself said, that he had no recollection of ever having

seen George before, but that he certainly did remember some

officers questioning him on two occasions somewhat minutely as to

his mode of life.

This part of his story was confirmed by another officer of the regiment,

who remembered George and Delancey being with him on one occasion, when

the latter had taken much interest in the questioning of this man. The

Maltese declared, that on the night in question he was taken entirely by

surprise—that George entered the room abruptly—offered him money to be

allowed to accompany him to the vault—and told him that he had just

placed a young lady there whom he wished to see.

Colonel Vavasour, who took some trouble in arriving at the truth, was

satisfied that the man was well aware of George’s insanity, but that

he felt too happy in being able to wreak an ignoble revenge on a

British officer.

Chapter XVI.

The Marriage.

“The child of love, though born in bitterness,

And nurtured in convulsion.”

For many days, George Delmé lay on his couch unconscious and

immoveable. If his eye looked calm, it was the tranquillity of

apathetic ignorance, the fixedness of idiotcy. He spoke if he was

addressed, but recognised no one, and his answers were not to the

purpose. He took his food, and would then turn on his side, and close

his eyes as if in sleep. In vain did Acmé watch over him—in vain did

her tears bedew his couch—in vain did Delmé take his hand, and

endeavour to draw his attention to passing objects.

George had never been so long without a lucid interval. The surgeon’s

voice grew less cheering every day, as he saw the little amendment in

his patient, and remarked that the pulse was gradually sinking. Colonel

Vavasour never allowed a day to elapse without visiting the invalid; and

in the regiment, his illness excited great commiseration, and drew forth

many expressions of kindness.

“Oh God! oh God!” said Delmé, “he must not sink thus. Just as I am with

him—just as—oh, poor Emily! what will she feel? Can nothing he done,

Mr. Graham?”

“Nothing! Sir: we must now put our whole trust in an all-seeing

Providence. My skill can neither foresee nor hasten the result.”

One soft summer’s evening, when the wind blew in the scent of flowers

from the opposite gardens—and the ceaseless hum of the insects—those

twilight revellers—sounded happily on the ear, Acmé started from the

couch as a thought crossed her.

“We have never tried music,” said she, “I have been too unhappy to

think of it.”

Her tears fell fast on the guitar, as she tuned its strings. She sung a

plaintive Greek air. It was the first George ever heard her sing, and

was the favourite. He heard it, when watching; lover-like beneath her

balcony during the first vernal days of their attachment. The song was

gone through sadly, and without hope. George’s face was from her, and

she laid down the guitar, weary of life.

George gently turned his head. His eyes wore a subdued melancholy

expression, bespeaking consciousness. Down his cheek one big drop was

trickling.

“Acmé!” said he, “dearest Acmé!”

Delmé, who had left the room, was recalled by the hysterical sobs of the

poor girl, as she fell back on the chair, her hands clasped in joyful

gratitude.

The surgeon, who had immediately been sent for, ordered that George

should converse as little as possible.

What he did say was rational. What a solace was that to Henry and Acmé!

The invalid too appeared well aware of his previous illness, although he

alluded to it but seldom. To those about him, his manner was femininely

soft, as he whispered his thanks, and sense of their kindness.

Immediately after the horrible scene he had witnessed, Sir Henry’s mind

had been made up, as to the line of conduct he ought to pursue. The

affectionate solicitude of the young Greek, during George’s illness,

gave him no reason to regret his determination.

“Now,” said Mr. Graham, one day as George was rapidly recovering,

“now, Sir Henry, I would recommend you to break all you have to say to

George. For God’s sake, let them be married; and although, mark me! I

by no means assert that it will quite re-establish George’s health,

yet I think such a measure may effectually do so, and at all events

will calm him for the present; which, after all, is the great object

we have in view.”

The same day, Delmé went to his brother’s bedside. “George,” said he,

“let me take the present opportunity of Acmé‘s absence, to tell you what

I had only deferred till you were somewhat stronger. She is a good girl,

George, a very good girl. I wish she had been English—it would have

been better!—but this we cannot help. You must marry her, George! I

will be a kind brother-in-law, and Emily shall love her for your sake.”

The invalid sat up in his bed—his eyes swam in tears. He twice essayed

to speak, ere he could express his gratitude.

“Thank you! a thousand times thank you! my kind brother! Even you

cannot tell the weight of suffering, you have this day taken from my

mind. My conduct towards Acmé has been bowing me to the earth; and yet

I feared your consent would never be obtained. I feared that coldness

from you and Emily would have met her; and that I should have had but

her smile to comfort me for the loss of what I so value. God bless

you for this!”

Delmé was much affected.

To complete his good work, he waited till Acmé had returned from a visit

she had just made to her relations; and taking her aside, told her his

wishes, and detailed his late conversation with George.

“Never! never!” said the young Greek, “I am too happy as I am. I have

heard you all make better lovers than husbands. I cannot be happier!

No! no! I will never consent to it.”

All remonstrances were fruitless—no arguments could affect her—no

entreaties persuade.

Delmé, quite perplexed at finding such a difficulty, where he had so

little expected to find one,—pitying her simplicity, but admiring her

disinterestedness,—went to George, and told him Acmé‘s objections.

“I feared it,” said his brother, “but perhaps I may induce her to think

differently. Were I to take advantage of her unsophisticated feelings,

and want of knowledge of the world, I should indeed be a villain.”

Acmé was sent for, and came weeping in—took Georg’s hand—and gazed

earnestly in his face as he