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

We have elsewhere detailed the luckless end of the vetturino.

As for Carl Obers, that zealous patriot; the last we heard of him, was

that he was holding a commission in the Hanoverian Jägers, obtained for

him by Sir Henry’s intervention. He was at that period, in high favour

with that liberal monarch, King Ernest.

Chapter XIII.

Home.

“‘Tis sweet to hear the watchdog’s honest bark

Bay deep-mouth’d welcome as we draw near home,

‘Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark

Our coming, and look brighter when we come.”

Embarking on its tributary stream, Delmé reached the Rhine—passed through

the land of snug Treckschut, and wooden-shoed housemaid—and arrived at

Rotterdam, whence he purposed sailing for England.

To that river, pay we no passing tribute! The Rhine—with breast of

pride—laving fertile vineyards, cities of picturesque beauty,

beetling crags, and majestic ruins; hath found its bard to hymn an

eulogy, in matchless strains, which will be co-existent, with the

language they adorn.

Sir Henry was once more on the wide sea. Where were they who were his

companions when his vessel last rode it? where the young bride breathing

her devotion? where the youthful husband whispering his love?

The sea yet glistened like a chrysolite; the waves yet laughed in the

playful sunbeams—the bright-eyed gull yet dipped his wing in the billow,

fearless as heretofore;—where was the one, who from that text had deduced

so fair a moral?

Sir Henry wished not to dwell on the thought, but as it flashed across

him, his features quivered, and his brow darkened.

He threw himself into the chaise which was to bear him to his home, with

alternate emotions of bitterness and despair!

Hurrah for merry England! Click, clack! click, clack! thus cheerily

let us roll!

Great are the joys of an English valet, freshly emancipated from

sauerkraut, and the horrors of silence!

Sweet is purl, and sonorous is an English oath. Bright is the steel,

arming each clattering hoof! Leather strap and shining buckle, replace

musty rope and ponderous knot! The carriage is easier than a

Landgravine’s,—the horses more sleek,—the driver as civil,—the road is

like a bowling green,—the axletree and under-spring, of Collinge’s latest

patent. But the heart! the heart! that may be sad still.

Delmé‘s voyage and journey were alike a blank. On the ocean, breeze

followed calm;—on the river, ship succeeded ship;—on the road, house and

tree were passed, and house and tree again presented themselves. He drew

his cap over his eyes, and his arms continued folded.

His first moment of full consciousness, was as a sharp turn, followed by a

sudden pause, brought him in front of the lodge at Delmé.

On the two moss-grown pillars, reposed the well known crest of his family.

The porter’s daughter, George’s friend, issued from the lodge, and threw

open the iron gates.

She was dressed in black. How this recalled his loss.

“My dear—dear—dear brother!”

Emily bounded to his embrace, and her cheek fell on his shoulder. He felt

the warm tear trickle on his cheek. He clasped her waist,—gazed on her

pallid brow,—and held her lip to his.

How it trembled from her emotion!

“My own brother! how pale—how ill you look!”

“Emily! my sister! I have something yet left me on earth! and my worthy

kind aunt, too!”

He kissed Mrs. Glenallan’s forehead, and tried to soothe her. She pressed

her handkerchief to her eyes, and checked her tears; but continued to sob,

with the deep measured sob of age.

How mournful, yet how consoling, is the first family meeting, after death

has swept away one of its members! How the presence of each, calls up

sorrow, and yet assists to repress it,—awakes remembrances full of grief,

yet brings to life indefinable hopes, that rob that grief of its most

poignant sting! The very garb of woe, whose mournful effect is felt to the

full, only when each one sees it worn by the other—the very garb

paralyses, and brings impressively before us, the awful truth, that for

our loss, in this world, there is no remedy. How holy, how chaste is the

affection, which we feel disposed to lavish, on those who are left us.

Surely if there be a guardian spirit, which deigns to flit through this

wayward world, to cheer the stricken breast, and purify feelings, whose

every chord vibrates to the touch of woe; surely such presides, and throws

a sunny halo, on the group, that blood has united—on which family love

has shed its genial influence—and of which, each member, albeit bowed

down by sympathetic grief, attempts to lift his drooping head, and to

others open some source of comfort, which to the kind speaker, is

inefficient and valueless indeed!

For many months, Sir Henry continued to reside with his family. Clarendon

Gage was a constant visitor, and companion to the brother and sister in

their daily walks and rides.

He had never met poor George, but loved Emily so well, that he could not

but sympathise in their heavy loss; and as Delmé noted this quiet

sympathy, he felt deeply thankful to Providence, for the fair prospect of

the happiness, that awaited his sister.

Winter passed away. The fragile snowdrop, offspring of a night—the

mute herald of a coming and welcome guest—might be seen peering

beneath the gnarled oak, or enlivening the emerald circle beneath the

wide-spreading elm.

Spring too glided by, and another messenger came. The migratory swallow,

returned from foreign travel, sought the ancient gable, and rejoicing in

safety, commenced building a home. At twilight’s hour might she be seen,

unscared by the truant’s stone, repairing to the placid pool—skimming

over its glassy surface, in rapid circle and with humid wing—and

returning in triumph, bearing wherewithal to build her nest.

Summer too went by; and as the leaves of Autumn rustled at his feet, Delmé

started, as he felt that the sting and poignancy of his grief was gone. It

was with something like reproach, that he did so. There is a dignity in

grief—a pride in perpetuating it—and his had been no common affliction.

It is a trite, but true remark, that time scatters our sorrows, as it

scatters our joys.

The heat of fever and the delirium of love, have their gradations; and so

has grief. The impetuous throbbing of the pulse abates;—the influence of

years makes us remember the extravagance of passion, with something

approaching to a smile;—and Time—mysterious Time—wounding, but healing

all, leads us to look at past bereavements, as through a darkened glass.

We do not forget; but our memory is as a dream, which awoke us in terror,

but over which we have slept. The outline is still present, but the

fearful details, which in the darkness of the hour, and the freshness of

conception, so scared and alarmed us,—these have vanished with the night.

Emily’s wedding day drew nigh, and the faces of the household once more

looked bright and cheerful.

Chapter XIV.

A Wedding.

“‘Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it has ceased to move,

But though I may not be beloved,

Still let me love!”

“I saw her but a moment,

Yet methinks I see her now,

With a wreath of orange blossoms

Upon her beauteous brow.”

Spring of life! whither art thou flown?

A few hot sighs—and scalding tears—fleeting raptures and still fading

hopes—and then—thou art gone for ever. Lovelorn we look on beauty: no

blush now answers to our glance; for cold is our gaze, as the deadened

emotions of our heart.

Fresh garlands bedeck the lap of Spring. Faded as the shrivelled flowers,

that withering sink beneath her rosy feet: yet we exclaim:—Spring of

life! how and whither art thou flown?

Clarendon Gage was a happy man. He had entered upon the world with very

bright prospects. The glorious visions of his youth were still unclouded,

and his heart beat as high with hope as ever.

Experience had not yet instilled that sober truth, that Time will darken

the sunniest, as well as the least inviting anticipations; and that the

visions of his youth were unclouded, because they were undimmed by the

reflections of age.

Clarendon Gage was happy and grateful; and so might he well be! Few of us

are there, who, on our first loving, have met with a love, fervent,

confiding, and unsuspecting as our own,—fewer are there, who in

reflection’s calm hour, have recognised in the form that has captivated

the eye, the mind on which their own can fully and unhesitatingly

rely,—and fewest of all are they, who having encountered such a treasure,

can control adverse circumstances—can overcome obstacles that oppose—and

finally call it their own.

Passionate, imaginative, and fickle as man may be, this is a living

treasure beyond a price: than which this world has none more pure—none as

enduring, to offer.

Ah! say and act as we may—money-making—worldly—ambitious as we may

become—who among us that will not allow, that in the success of his

honest suit—that in his possession of the one first loved—and which

first truly loved him—a kind ray from heaven, seems lent to this

changeful world. Such affection as this, lends a new charm to man’s

existence. It lulls him in his anger—it soothes him in his sorrow—calms

him in his fears—cheers him in his hopes—it deadens his grief—it

enlivens his joy.

It was a lovely morning in May—the first of the month. Not a cloud

veiled the sun’s splendour—the birds strained their throats in praise

of day—and the rural May-pole, which was in the broad avenue of

walnut trees, immediately at the foot of the lawn, was already

encircled with flowers. Half way up this, was the station of the

rustic orchestra—a green bower, which effectually concealed them

from the view of the dancers.

On the lawn itself, tents were pitched in a line facing the house. Behind

these, between the tents and the May-pole, extended a long range of

tables, for the coming village feast.

Emily Delmé looked out on the fair sunrise, and noted the gay

preparations with some dismay. Her eye fell on her favourite bed of

roses, the rarest and most costly that wealth and extreme care could

produce; and she mournfully thought, that ere those buds were blown, a

very great change would have taken place in her future prospects. She

thought of all she was to leave.

Will he be this, and more to me?

How many a poor girl, when it is all too late, has fearfully asked herself

the same question, and how deeply must the answer which time alone can

give, affect the happiness of after years!

Emily took her mother’s miniature, and gazing on that face, of which her

own appeared a beautiful transcript; she prayed to God to support him who

was still present to her every thought.

The family chapel of the Delmés was a beautiful and picturesque place of

worship. With the exception of one massive door-way, whose circular arch

and peculiar zig-zag ornament bespoke it co-eval with, or of an earlier

date than, the reign of Stephen—and said to have belonged to a ruin apart

from the chapel, whose foundations an antiquary could hardly trace—Delmé

chapel might be considered a well preserved specimen of the florid Gothic,

of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.

The progress of the edifice, had been greatly retarded during the wars of

the Roses; but it was fortunately completed, before, the doctrine of the

Cinquecentists—who saw no beauty save in the revived dogmas of

Vitruvius—had so far gained ground, as to make obsolete and

unfashionable, the most captivating