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

bereavement.

On the other hand, the sunny happiness his brother had basked in,—and it

was very great,—had sprung from the natural outpourings of an

affection, which,—unfettered as it had been by prudential

considerations,—had yet the power to make earth a heaven while Acmé

shared it with him, and the dark grave an object of bright promise, when

hailed as the portal, through which he must pass, ere he gazed once

more on the load-star of his hopes.

In the case, too, of Emily and Clarendon, although their union was far

more in accordance with his earlier theories, yet he could not but note,

how little their happiness seemed to rest on their position in society,

and how greatly was it based on their love for each other.

These considerations were strengthened, by a growing feeling of

isolation, which the death of George and of Acmé,—the marriage of his

sister,—and probably the time of life he had arrived at, were all

calculated to awaken.

With the knowledge of his disease, sprung up the hope of an antidote; and

it may be, that the little episode of the May Queen in our last chapter,

came but as a running comment, to reflections that had long been cherished

and indulged.

The thoughts of Sir Henry Delmé anxiously centred in Julia Vernon; and as

he recalled her graceful emotion when they last parted, the unfrequent

blush,—it might be of shame, it might be of consciousness,—coloured his

sunburnt cheek.

At length,—the guests being dismissed, Delmé was at leisure to renew an

acquaintance, which had already proved an eventful one to him. He had

heard little of Miss Vernon since his return to England. His sister had

thought it better to let matters take their own course; and Julia, who

knew that in the eyes of the world, her circumstances were very different

to what they had been previous to her uncle’s death; had from motives of

delicacy, shunned any intercourse that might lead to a renewed intimacy

with the family.

Her health, too, had been precarious, and her elasticity of mind was gone.

Slowly wasting from day to day, she had sought to banish all thoughts

that were not of a world less vain than this—and her very languor of

body—while it gave her an apology for declining all gaieties, induced a

resigned spirit, and a quiet frame of mind.

When Sir Henry Delmé was announced, Julia was alone in the drawing-room.

At that name, she attempted to rise from the sofa; but she was weak, and

her head fell back on the white pillow.

Delmé stood for a moment irresolute,—a prey to the deepest pangs

of remorse.

Well might he be shocked at that altered form!

Her figure was greatly attenuated,—her cheeks sunken,—her eyes bright

and large; while over the forehead and drooping eyelid branched the

sapphire veins, with their intricate windings so clearly marked, that

Delmé almost thought, that he could trace the motion of the blood beneath.

That momentary pause, and the one mutual glance of recognition, told a

more accurate tale than words could convey.

As Sir Henry pressed that small transparent hand, Julia’s thin lip

quivered convulsively. She attempted to speak, but the exertion of

utterance was too great, and she burst into a flood of tears.

“Julia! my own Julia! forgive me! we will never part more!”

After this interview, it is needless to say that there was little else to

be explained. Mrs. Vernon was delighted at Julia’s happy prospects, and it

was settled that their marriage should take place in the ensuing August.

Such arrangements as could be made on the spot to facilitate this, were at

once entered on.

At the end of two months, it became necessary that Delmé should proceed to

town, for the purpose of seeing the Commander-in-Chief, in order to

withdraw a previous application to be employed on active service. He was

anxious also to consult a friend, whom he proposed appointing one of the

trustees for his marriage settlement; and Clarendon and Emily had exacted

a promise, that he would pay them a visit on his way to Delmé Park; which

he had determined to take on his route to town, that he might personally

inspect some alterations he had lately planned there.

It was with bright prospects before him, that Delmé kissed off the big

tear that coursed down Julia’s cheek; as she bade him farewell, with as

much earnestness, as if years, instead of a short fortnight, were to

elapse before they met again.

Miss Vernon’s health had decidedly improved. She was capable of much

greater exertion; and her spirits were sometimes as buoyant as in

other days.

When Sir Henry first reached Leamington, the only exercise that Julia

could take was in a wheel chair; and great was her delight at seeing a

hand present itself over its side, and know that it was his. Latterly,

however, she had been able to lean on his arm, and take a few turns on the

lawn, and had on one occasion even reached the public gardens.

Mrs. Vernon, with the deceptive hope common to those, who watch day by day

by the side of an invalid’s couch, and in the very gradual loss of

strength, lose sight of the real extent of danger, had never been

desponding as to her daughter’s ultimate recovery; and was now quite

satisfied that a few weeks more would restore her completely to health.

Sir Henry Delmé, with the gaze of a lover, would note each flush of

animation, and mistake it for the hue of health; while Julia herself _felt

her love, and thought it strength_.

There was only one person who looked somewhat grave at these joyous

preparations. This was Dr. Jephson, who noticed that Julia’s voice

continued very weak, and that she could not get rid of a low hollow cough,

that had long distressed her.

Clarendon and his wife were resident at a beautiful cottage near Malvern,

on the road to Eastnor Castle. The cottage itself was small, and half

hidden with fragrant honeysuckles, but had well appointed extensive

grounds behind it. They were not of the very many, who after the first

fortnight of a forced seclusion,—the treacle moon, as some one has called

it,—find their own society, both wearisome and unprofitable. Theirs was

a lover felt but by superior and congenial minds—a love, neither sensual

nor transient—a love on which affection and reflection shed their

glow,—which could bear the test of scrutiny,—and which owed its chief

charm to the presence of truth.

Delmé passed a week at Malvern, and then proceeded towards town, with the

pleasing conviction that his sister’s happiness was assured.

Twenty-four hours at Delmé sufficed to inspect the alterations, and to

give orders as to Lady Delmé‘s rooms.

Sir Henry had received two letters from Julia, while at Malvern, and both

were written in great spirits. At his club in London another awaited him,

which stated that she had not been quite so well, and that she was writing

from her room. A postscript from Mrs. Vernon quite did away with any alarm

that Sir Henry might otherwise have felt.

Delmé attended Lord Hill’s levee; and immediately afterwards proceeded to

his friend’s office. To his disappointment, he was informed that his

friend had left for Bath; and thinking it essential that he should see

him; he went thither at an early hour the following day.

At Bath he was again doomed to be disappointed, for his friend had gone

to Clifton. Sir Henry dined that day with Mr. Belliston Græme; and on

returning to the hotel, had the interview with Oliver Delancey, that has

been described in the thirteenth chapter of our first volume.

On the succeeding morning, Delmé was with the future trustee; and finally

arranged the affair to his entire satisfaction. His absence from

Leamington, had been a day or two more protracted than he had anticipated,

and his not finding his friend in London, had prevented his hearing from

Miss Vernon so lately as he could have wished.

Sir Henry had posted all night, and it was ten in the morning when he

reached Leamington. He directed the postilion to drive to his hotel, but

it happened that on his way he had to pass Mrs. Vernon’s door.

As the carriage turned a corner, which was distant some hundred yards from

Mrs. Vernon’s house, Sir Henry was surprised by a momentary check on the

part of his driver.

It had rained heavily during the early part of the day. The glasses were

up, and so bespattered with the mud and rain, that it was impossible to

see through them. Sir Henry let them down; saw a confused mass of

carriages; and could clearly discern a mourning coach.

He did not give himself time to breathe his misgivings; but flung the door

open, and sprang from his seat into the road. It was still three or four

doors from Mrs. Vernon’s house, and he prayed to God that his fears might

be groundless.

As he approached nearer, it was evident that there was unusual bustle

about that house. Delmé grasped the iron railing, and clung to it for

support; but with every sense keenly alive to aught that might dispel, or

confirm that horrible suspicion.

Two old women, dressed in the characteristic red cloak of the English

peasant, were earnestly conversing together—their baskets of eggs and

flowers being laid on a step of one of the adjacent houses.

“So you knowed her, Betsy Farmer?”

“Lord a mercy!” responded the other, “I ha’ knowed Miss July since she

wa’ the height of my basket. Ay! and many’s the bunch of flowers she ha’

had from me. That was afore the family went to the sea side. Well! it’s a

matter o’ five year, sin’ she comed up to me one morning—so grown as I’d

never ha’ known her. But she knowed me, and asked all about me. And I just

told her all my troubles, and how I had lost my good man. And sure enough

sin’ that day she ha’ stood my friend, and gived me soup and flannels for

the little uns, and put my Bess to service, and took me through all the

bad Christmas’. Poor dear soul! she ha’ gone now! and may the Lord bless

her and all as good as she!”

The poor woman, who felt the loss of her benefactress, put the corner of

her apron to her eyes.

Sir Henry strode forward.

Mutes were on each side of the front step. A servant threw open the door

of the breakfast room, and Delmé mechanically entered it. It was filled

with strangers; on some of these the spruce undertaker was fitting silk

scarfs; while others were busy at the breakfast table.

An ominous whisper ran through the apartment.

“Sir Henry Delmé?” said the rosy-cheeked clergyman, enquiringly, as he

laid down his egg spoon, and turned towards him.

“I trust you received my letter. Women are so utterly helpless in these

matters; and poor Mrs. Vernon was quite overpowered.”

Delmé turned away to master his emotion.

At this moment, a friendly hand was laid on his shoulder, and Mrs.

Vernon’s maid, with her eyes red from weeping, beckoned him up stairs.

He mechanically obeyed her—reeled into an inner drawing room—and stood

in the presence of the bereaved mother.

Mrs. Vernon was ordinarily the very picture of neatness. Now she sat

with her feet on a footstool—her head almost touching her lap—her silver

hair all loose and dishevelled. It seemed to Delmé as if age had suddenly

come upon her.