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

Caspar did so, and did sip his negus. The little gentleman in black,

was very facetious, and very affable.

“Are you not going to dance again, Caspar? Look at all those pretty girls,

waiting for partners! Why do you not lead one to the country dance?”

As he ended speaking, a sylph-like figure, with long golden ringlets,

floated past them.

“I can, and I will,” replied Caspar, laughing, as he took the fair-haired

girl by the hand, and led her to the dance.

He turned to address his friend in triumph, but he had disappeared.

The dance was over, and Caspar led the stranger towards a silken ottoman.

“Will you not try one waltz?” said the beautiful girl, as she shook

her ringlets, over his flushed cheek; “but I must not ask you, if you

are tired.”

“How can I refuse?” rejoined Caspar.

Caroline was forgotten, as his partner’s golden hair floated on his

shoulders, and her soft white arms were twined around him, as they danced

the mazy coquettish waltz, which was then the fashion in Lausanne.

“How warm these rooms are!” she exclaimed at last. “The moon is up: let us

walk in the avenue.”

Caspar assented; for he grew fonder of his new partner, and more forgetful

of Caroline. She pressed closer and closer to his side. A distant clock

struck ten. Entwined in her tresses, encircled in her arms, he sunk

senseless to the ground.

When Caspar recovered from the trance, into which he had fallen, the cold

morning breeze, that precedes the dawn, was freshening his cheek; a few

faint streaks on the horizon, reflected the colours of the coming sun; and

the night birds were returning tired to the woods, as the day birds were

merrily preparing for their flight. He was not where he had fallen: he was

sitting on a rustic bench, beneath a moss-grown rock.

Caroline de Werner was beside him.

Her white frock was torn; her hair was hanging in Bacchante curls, twined

with the ivy that had wreathed it; her eyes glared wildly, and blood

bubbled from her mouth. Her hand was fast locked in that of Hazenfeldt.

“Caroline!” he exclaimed, in a tone of wonderment, as one who awakes from

a deep sleep, “Caroline! why are we here? what means this disorder?”

“You now speak,” said she, “as did my Caspar,”

Caroline de Werner is in a mad-house near Vevay:—the man in black has not

been seen since he disappeared from the ball room of Beau-Séjour:—my

cousin, Caspar von Hazenfeldt, took to wandering alone over the Swiss

mountains; and before three months had elapsed, from the time he met _the

old gentleman_, was buried in the fall of an avalanche, near the pass of

the Gemmi.

*

Supper was not ready as the student finished this story; and George

proposed a stroll. The change from the heated room to the margin of the

lake, was a most refreshing one. As the brothers silently gazed upwards, a

young lad approached, and accosted them.

“Gentlemen! I have seen the horses fed, and they are now lying down.”

“Have you?” said Delmé, drily.

“A very fine night! gentlemen! Perhaps you have heard of the famous echo,

on the other side of the lake. It will be a good hour, I am sure, before

your supper is ready. My boat lies under that old tree. If you like it, I

will loose the chain, and row you over.”

The brothers acquiesced. They were just in the frame of mind for an

unforeseen excursion. The motion of the boat, too, would be easy for

George, and he might there unrestrainedly give way to his excited

feelings, or commune ungazed on, with the current of his thoughts.

A thin crescent of a moon had risen. It was silvering the tops of the

overhanging boughs, and was quiveringly mirrored on the light ripple.

George leant against the side of the boat, and listened to the liquid

music, as the broad paddle threw back the resisting waters.

How soothing is the hour of night to the wounded spirit!

The obscurity which shrouds nature, seems to veil even man’s woes—the

harsh outline of his sufferings is discerned no more. Grief takes the

place of despair—pensive melancholy of sorrow.

As we gaze around, and feel the chill air damp each ringlet on the pallid

brow; know that that hour hath cast a shade on each inanimate thing

around us; we feel resigned to our bereavements, and confess, in our

heart’s humility, that no changes should overwhelm, and that no grief

should awaken repinings.

To many a bruised and stricken spirit, night imparts a grateful balm.

In the morning, the feelings are too fresh;—oblivion is exchanged for

conscious suffering;—the merriment of the feathered songsters seems to us

as a taunt;—our sympathies are not with waking nature. The glare and

splendour of noon, bid us recal our hopes, and their signal overthrow.

The zenith of day’s lustre meets us as a wilful mockery.

Eve may bring rest, but on her breast is memory. But at night! when the

mental and bodily energies are alike worn out by the internal

struggle;—when hushed is each sound—softened each feature—dimmed each

glaring hue;—a calm which is not deceptive, steals over us, and we regard

our woes as the exacted penalty of our erring humanity.

Calumniated night! to one revelling in the full noon-tide of hope and

gladness:—to the one, to whom a guilty conscience incessantly whispers,

“Think! but sleep not!”—to such as these, horrors may appear to bound thy

reign!—but to him who hath loved, and who hath lost,—to many a gentle

but tried spirit, thou comest in the guise of a sober, and true friend.

The boat for some time, kept by the steep bank, under the shadows of the

trees. As it emerged from this, towards where the moon-beams cast their

light on the water, the night breeze rustled through the foliage, and

swept a yet green leaf from one of the drooping boughs.

It fell on the surface of the lake, and George’s eye quickly followed it.

“Look at that unfaded leaf! Henry. What a gentle breeze it was, that

parted it from its fellows! To me it resembles a youthful soul, cut off in

its prime, and wandering mateless in eternity.”

Sir Henry only sighed.

The young rower silently pursued his course across the lake; running his

boat aground, on a small pebbly strand near a white cottage.

Jumping nimbly from his seat, and fastening the boat to a large stone, the

guide, followed by the brothers, shouted to the inmates of the cottage,

and violently kicked at its frail door.

An upper window was opened, and the guardian of the echo—a valorous

divine in a black night-cap—demanded their business. This was soon told.

The priest descended—struck a light—unbarred the door—and with the

prospect of gain before him, fairly forgot that he had been aroused from a

deep slumber.

They were soon ushered into the kitchen. An aged crone descended, and

raking the charcoal embers, kindled a flame, by which the rower was

enabled to light his pipe.

The young gentleman threw himself into an arm chair, and puffed away with

true German phlegm. The old man bustled about, in order to obtain the

necessary materials for loading an ancient cannon; and occupied himself

for some minutes, in driving the charge into the barrel.

This business arranged, he led the way towards the beach; and aided by the

old woman, pointed his warlike weapon. A short pause—it was fired!

Rebounding from hill to hill, the echo took its course, startling the

peasant from his couch, and the wolf from his lair.

Again all was still;—then came its distant reverberation—a tone deep and

subdued—dying away mournfully on the ear.

“How wonderfully fine!” said George, “but let us embark, for I feel

quite chilled.”

“I will run for the youngster,” replied his brother. As he moved towards

the cottage, the priest seized him by the collar of the coat, and held up

the torch, by which he had fired the cannon.

“This echo is indeed a wonderful one! It has nineteen distinct

repetitions; the first twelve being heard from this side of a valley,

which, were it day, I would point out; the other seven, on the opposite

side. Tradition tells us, that nineteen castles in ancient times, stood

near the spot; that each of these laid claim to the echo; and that, as it

passes the ruin, where once dwelt Sigismund of the Bloody Hand, the chief

springs from the round ivied tower—waves his sword thrice, the drops of

blood falling from its hilt as he does so—and proclaims aloud, that

whosoever dare gainsay”—

“I am sorry to leave you,” interrupted Sir Henry, as he shook him off,

“particularly at this interesting part of the story; but it is late,

and my brother feels unwell, and I wish to go to the cottage to call

our guide.”

Delmé was pursued by the echo’s elucidator, who being duly remunerated,

allowed Sir Henry to accompany the guide towards the boat. George was not

standing where he had left him. Delmé stepped forward, and nearly fell

over a prostrate body.

It was the motionless one of his brother.

He gave a shriek of anguish; flew towards the house, and in a moment, was

again on the spot, bearing the priest’s torch. He raised his brother’s

head. One hand was extended over the body, and fell to the earth like a

clod of clay as it was.

He gazed on that loved face. In that gaze, how much was there to arrest

his attention.

On those features, death had stamped his seal.

But there was a thought, which bore the ascendancy over this in Delmé‘s

mind. It was a thought which rose involuntarily,—one for which he could

not then account, and cannot now. For some seconds, it swayed his every

emotion. He felt the conviction—deep, undefinable—that there was indeed

a soul, to “shame the doctrine of the Sadducee.”

He deemed that on those lineaments, this was the language forcibly

engraven! The features were still and fixed:—the brow alone revealed a

dying sense of pain.

The lips! how purple were they! and the eye, that erst flashed so

freely:—the yellow film of death had dimmed its lustre.

The legs were apart, and one of the feet was in the lake. Henry tried to

chafe his brother’s forehead.

In vain! in vain! he knew it was in vain!

He let the head fall, and buried his face in his hands.

He turned reproachfully, to gaze on that cloudless Heaven, where the moon,

and the brilliant stars, and the falling meteor, seemed to hold a bright

and giddy festival.

He clasped his hands in mute agony. For a brief moment—his dark eye

seeming to invite His wrath—he dared to arraign the mercy of God, who had

taken what he had made.

It was but for a moment he thus thought.

He had watched that light of life, until its existence was almost

identified with his own. He had seen it flicker—had viewed it

reillumed—blaze with increased brilliancy—fade—glimmer—and fade. Now!

where was it?

A bitter cry escaped! his limbs trembled convulsively, and could no longer

support him.

He fell senseless beside his brother.