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

Above it, stands the pyramid of Caius Cæstius, constructed some twenty

centuries since.

Immediately beneath it, in a line with a round tower buried with ivy, and

near the vault of our beautiful countrywoman, Miss Bathurst, who was

thrown from her horse and drowned in the Tiber, may be seen a sarcophagus

of rough granite, surmounted by a black marble slab.

Luxuriant with wild flowers, and studded even in the winter season, with

daisies and violets, the sides of the tomb are now almost concealed. Over

the slab, one rose tree gracefully droops.

When seen in the dew of the morning, when the cups of the roses are full,

and crystal drops, distilling from leaves and flowers, are slowly

trickling on the dark stone, you might think that inanimate nature was

weeping for the doom of beauty.

Only one word is engraved on that slab. Should you visit Rome, and read

it, recollect this story.

That word is—“Acmé!”

*

Sir Henry and his brother remained at Rome nearly a month.

The former, with hopes that the exertion might be useful, in distracting

George from the constant contemplation of his loss, plunged at once into

the sight-seeing of “the eternal city.”

Their days were busily passed—in visiting the classic sites of Rome and

its neighbourhood—in wandering through the churches and convents—and

loitering through the long galleries of the Vatican.

Delmé, fearfully looking back on the scenes that had occurred in Malta,

was apprehensive, that George’s despair might lead to some violent

outbreak of feeling; and that mind and body might sink simultaneously.

It was not so.

That heavy infliction appeared to bear with it a torpedo-like power. The

first blow, abrupt and stunning, had paralysed. Afterwards, it seemed to

carry with it a benumbing faculty, which repressed external display. We

say seemed; for there were not wanting indications, even to Sir Henry’s

partial eye, that the wound had sunk very deep,

The mourner might sink, although he did not writhe.

In the mornings, George, followed by Thompson, would find his way to

the Protestant burial ground; and weep over the spot where his wife

lay interred.

During the day, he was Sir Henry’s constant and gentle companion; giving

vent to no passionate display, and uttering few unavailing complaints. Yet

it was now, that a symptom of disease first showed itself, which Delmé

could not account for.

George would suddenly lean back, and complain of a spasm on the left side

of the chest. This would occasionally, but rarely, affect the circulation.

George’s sleep too, was disturbed, and he frequently had to rise from his

bed, and pace the apartment; but this last circumstance, perhaps, was the

mere result of anxiety of mind.

Sir Henry, without informing George, consulted a medical gentleman, who

was well known to him, and who happened to be at Rome at the time,

regarding these novel symptoms.

He was reassured by being informed, that these pains were probably of a

neuralgic character, and not at all likely to proceed from any organic

affection.

George Delmé‘s mind was perfectly clear and collected; with the

exception, that he would occasionally allude to his loss, in connection

with some scene or subject of interest before them; and in a tone, and

with language, that, appeared to his brother eccentric, but

inexpressibly touching.

For instance, they were at Tivoli, and in the Syren’s grotto, looking up

to the foaming fall, which dashes down a rude cleft, formed of

fantastically shaped rocks.

Immediately below this, the waters make a semicircular bend.

On their surface, a mimic rainbow was depicted in vivid colours.

“Not for me!” burst forth the mourner, “not for me! does the arc of

promise wear those radiant hues. Prismatic rays once gilded my existence.

With Acmé they are for ever fled. But look! how the stream dashes on! Thus

have the waters of bitterness passed over my soul!”

In the gallery of the Vatican, too, the very statues seemed to speak to

him of his loss.

“I like not,” would he exclaim, “that disdainful Apollo. Thus cold,

callous, and triumphing in the work of destruction, must be the angel of

death, who winged the shaft at my bright Acmé.

“May the launching of his arrow, have been but the signal, for her

translation to a sphere, more pure than this.

“Let us believe her the habitant of some bright planet, such as she

pointed out to us in the Bay of Naples—a seraph with a golden lyre—and

shrouded in a white cymar! No, no!” would he continue, turning his

footsteps towards the adjacent room, where the suffering pangs of

Apollo’s high priest are painfully told in marble, “let let me rather

contemplate the Laocoon! His agony seems to sympathise with mine—but was

his fate as hard? He saw his sons dying before him; could a son, or

sons, be as the wife of one’s bosom? The serpent twines around him, too,

awaking exquisite corporeal pangs, but would it not have been luxury to

have died with my Acmé?

“Can the body suffer as the mind?”

At night, reposing from the fatigues of the day, might the brothers

frequently be seen at the fountain of Trevi; George listlessly swinging

on the chains near it, and steadfastly watching the water, as it gurgled

over the fantastic devices beneath—while his mind wandered back to

Malta, and to Acmé.

Sir Henry’s conduct during this trying period was most exemplary. Like the

mother, who lavishes her tenderest endearments on her sickliest child,

did he now endeavour to support his brother in his afflictions.

As the bleak night wind came on, he would arouse George from his

reverie—would make him lean his tall form on his—would wrap closely

the folds of his cloak around him—would speak so softly—and soothe

so tenderly.

And gratefully did George’s heart respond to his kindness. He knew that

the sorrow which bowed him to the earth, was also blanching the cheek of

his brother, and he loved him doubly for his solicitude.

Ah! few brothers have thus made sweet the fraternal tie!

Chapter V.

The East Indian.

“Would I not stem

A tide of suffering, rather than forego

Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm

Of those whose thoughts are only turn’d below,

Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts that dare not glow?”

From Rome and our care-worn travellers, let us turn to Mrs. Vernon’s

drawing-room at Leamington.

An unforeseen event suddenly made a considerable change in the hopes and

prospects of our fair friend Julia.

One warm summer’s morning—it was on the very day, that the brothers, with

Acmé, were sailing close to the Calabrian mountains, and the latter was

telling her ghost story, within view of the sweet village of Capo del

Marte—one balmy summer’s morning, the Miss Vernons were seated in a room,

furnished like most English drawing-rooms; that is to say, it had tables

for trinkets—a superb mirror—a Broadwood piano—an Erard harp—a

reclining sofa—and a woolly rug, on which slept, dreamt, and snored, a

small Blenheim spaniel.

Julia had a mahogany frame before her, and was thoughtfully working a

beaded purse.

The hue of health had left her cheek. Its complexion was akin to that of

translucent alabaster. The features wore a more fixed and regular aspect,

and their play was less buoyant and quick changing than heretofore.

Deep thought! thus has been thy warfare for ever. First, thou stealest

from the rotund face its joyous dimples; then, dost thou gradually imprint

remorseless furrows on the anxious brow.

A servant entered the room, and bore on a salver a letter addressed to

Miss Vernon.

Its deep black binding—its large coat of arms—bespoke it death’s

official messenger.

Julia’s cheek blanched as she glanced over its first page.

Her sisters laid down their work, and looked towards her with some

curiosity.

Julia burst into tears.

“Poor uncle Vernon!”

Her sisters seemed surprised at the announcement, but not to participate

in Julia’s feelings on the occasion.

One of them took up the letter, which had fallen to the ground, and the

two read its contents.

“How very odd!” said they together, “uncle has left you Hornby, and

Catesfield, and almost all the property!”

“Has he?” replied Julia, “I could not read it all, for however he may

have behaved to mamma, I ever found him good and kind; and had always

hoped, that we might have yet seen him with us once more. Poor old man!

and the letter says a lingering illness—how sad to think that we were

not with him to soothe his pillow, and cheer his death bed!”

“Well!” said one of the sisters reddening, “I must say it was his own

fault. He would not live with his nearest relations, who loved him, and

tried to make his a happy home—but showed his caprice then, as he has

now. But I will go up stairs, and break it to mamma, and will tell her

you are an heiress.”

“An heiress!” replied Julia, with heart-broken tone! “an heiress!” The

tear quivered in her eye; but before the moisture had formed its liquid

bead, to course down her pallid cheek; a thought flashed across her, which

had almost the power to recal it to its cell.

That thought comprised the fervency and timidity—the hopes and fears of

woman’s first love. She thought of her last meeting with Sir Henry Delmé:

of the objections which might now be removed.

A new vista of happiness seemed to open before her.

It was but for a moment.

The blush which that thought called up, faded away—the tear trickled

on—her features recovered their serenity—and she turned with a sweet

smile to her sisters.

“My dear—dear sisters! it is long since we have seen my poor uncle.

“Affection’s ties may have been somewhat loosened. They cannot—I am

sure—have been dissolved.

“Do not think me selfish enough to retain this generous bequest.

“It may yet be in my power, and it no doubt is, to amend its too partial

provisions.

“Let us be sisters still—sisters in equality—sisters in love and

affection.”

Julia Vernon was a very noble girl. She lived to become of age, and she

acted up to this her resolve.

And, now, a few words as to the individual, by whose death the Miss

Vernons acquired such an accession of property.

The Miss Vernons’ father had an only and a younger brother, who at an

early age had embarked for the East, in the civil service. He had

acquired great wealth, and, after a residence of twenty-five years in the

Bengal Presidency, had returned to England a confirmed bachelor, and a

wealthy nabob. His brother died, while Mr. Benjamin Vernon was on his

passage home. He arrived in England, and found himself a stranger in his

native land.

He shouldered his cane through Regent Street, and wandered in the

Quadrant’s shade;—and in spite of the novelties that every where met

him—in spite of cabs and plated glass—felt perfectly isolated and

miserable.

It is true, his Indian friends found him out at the Burlington, and their

cards adorned his mantelpiece—for Mr. Benjamin Vernon was said to be

worth a plum, and to be on the look out for a vacancy in the Directory.

But although these were indisputably his Indian friends, it appeared to

Mr. Vernon, that they were no longer his friends of India. They seemed to

him to live in a constant state of