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

a precaution, some quarantine would not be imposed. The superintendent

of quarantine was rowed alongside, chiefly for the purpose of regulating

this. The spirited little commander of the yacht, however, was not at

all desirous of any such arrangement; and after some energetic appeals

on his part, met by cautious remonstrances on the part of the other,

their pratique was duly accorded.

During the discussion with the superintendent, Sir Henry had enquired

from the health officer, as to where he should find George, and was

informed that his regiment was quartered at Floriana, one of Valletta’s

suburbs. In a short time a boat from the yacht was lowered, and the

commander prepared to accompany the government courier with his

dispatches to the palace.

Previous to leaving the deck, he hailed a boat alongside—addressed the

boatmen in their native language—and consigned Sir Henry to their

charge. Twilight was deepening into night as Delmé left the vessel. The

harbour had lost much of its bustle; lights were already gleaming from

the town, and as seen in some of the loftiest houses, looked as if

suspended in the air above. Our traveller folded his cloak around him,

and was rowed swiftly towards the shore.

Chapter VII.

The Young Greek.

“But not in silence pass Calypso’s isles,

The sister tenants of the middle deep.”

*

“Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone,

But trust not this; too easy youth, beware!

A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne.

And thou mayst find a new Calypso there.”

Night had set in before Sir Henry reached the shore. The boatmen, in

broken, but intelligible English, took the trouble of explaining, that

they must row him to a point higher up the harbour, than the landing

place towards which the commander’s gig was directing its course, on

account of his brother’s regiment being quartered at Floriana. Landing

on the quay, they took charge of Delmé‘s portmanteau, and conducted him

through an ascending road, which seemed to form a part of the

fortifications, till they arrived in front of a closed gate. They were

challenged by the sentinel, and obliged to explain their business to a

non-commissioned officer, before they were admitted.

This form having been gone through, a narrow wicket was opened for their

passage. They crossed a species of common, and, after a few minutes’

walk, found themselves in front of the barrack. This was a plain stone

building, enclosing a small court, in the centre of which stood a marble

bason. The taste of some of the officers had peopled this with golden

fish; whilst on the bason’s brim were placed stands for exotics, whose

fragrance charmed our sea-worn traveller, so lately emancipated from

those sad drawbacks to a voyage, the odours of tar and bilge water.

On either side, were staircases leading to the rooms above. A sentry was

slowly pacing the court, and gave Delmé the necessary directions for

finding George’s room. Delmé‘s hand was on the latch, but he paused for

a moment ere he pressed it, for he pictured to himself his brother lying

on the bed of sickness. This temporary irresolution soon gave way to the

impulse of affection, and he hastily entered the chamber. George was

reading, and had his back turned towards him. As he heard the footsteps,

he half turned round; an enquiry was on his lip, when his eye caught

Henry’s figure—a hectic flush suffused his cheek—he rose eagerly, and

threw himself into his brother’s arms.

Ah! sweet is fraternal affection! As boys, we own its just, its

proper influence; but as men—how few of us can lay our hands on our

hearts, and in the time of manhood feel, that the thought of a

brother, still calls up the kindly glow which it did in earlier

years. Delmé strained his brother to his heart, whilst poor George’s

tears flowed like a woman’s.

“Ah, how,” he exclaimed, “can I ever repay you for this?”

The first burst of joyful meeting over—Sir Henry scanned his brother’s

features, and was shocked at the apparent havoc a few short years had

wrought. It was not that the cheek—whose carnation tint had once drawn

a comment from all who saw it—it was not that the cheek was bronzed by

an eastern sun. The alabaster forehead, showed that this was the natural

result, of exposure to climate. But the wan, the sunken features—the

unnatural brilliancy of the eye—the almost impetuous agitation of

manner—all these bespoke that more than even sickness had produced the

change:—that the mind, as well as body, must have had its sufferings.

“My dear, dear brother,” said Henry, “tell me, I implore you, the

meaning of this. You look ill and distressed, and yet from you I did not

hear of sickness, nor do I know any reason for grief.” George smiled

evasively; then, as if recollecting himself, struck his forehead. He

pressed his brother’s arm, and led him towards a room adjoining the one

in which they were.

“It were in vain to tell you now, Henry, the eventful history of the

last few months; but see!” said he, as they together entered, “the

innocent cause of much that I have gone through.”

Sir Henry Delmé started at the sight that greeted him. The room was

dimly lighted by a lamp, but the moon was up, and shed her full light

through part of the chamber. On a small French bed, whose silken linings

threw their rosy hue on the face of its fair occupant, lay as lovely a

girl as ever eye reposed on.

The heat had already commenced to become oppressive; the jalousies and

windows were thrown open. As the night breeze swept over the curtains,

and the tint these gave, trembled on that youthful beauty; Delmé might

well be forgiven, for deeming it was very long since he had seen a

countenance so exquisitely lovely. The face did indeed bear the stamp of

youth. Delmé would have guessed that the being before him, had barely

attained her fifteenth year, but that her bosom heaved like playful

billows, as she breathed her sighs in a profound slumber. Her style of

beauty for a girl was most rare. It had an almost infantine simplicity

of character, which in sleep was still more remarkable; for awake, those

eyes, now so still, did not throw unmeaning glances.

Such as these must Guarini have apostrophised, as he looked at his

slumbering love.

“Occhi! stelle mortale!

Ministri de miei mali!

Se chiusi m’uccidete,

Aperti,—che farete?”

Or, as Clarendon Gage translated it.

“Ye mortal stars! ye eyes that, e’en in sleep,

Can thus my senses chain’d in wonder keep,

Say, if when closed, your beauties thus I feel,

Oh, what when open, would ye not reveal?”

Her beauty owed not its peculiar charm to any regularity of feature; but

to an ineffable sweetness of expression, and to youth’s freshest bloom.

Hafiz would have compared that smooth cheek to the tulip’s flower. Her

eye-lashes, of the deepest jet, and silken gloss, were of uncommon

length. Her lips were apart, and disclosed small but exquisitely formed

teeth. Their hue was not that of ivory, but the more delicate though

more transient one of the pearl. One arm supported her head—its hand

tangled in the raven tresses—of the other, the snowy rounded elbow was

alone visible.

She met the eye, like a vision conjured up by fervid youth; when, ere

our waking thoughts dare to run riot in beauty’s contemplation—sleep,

the tempter, gives to our disordered imaginations, forms and scenes,

which in after life we pant for, but meet them—never!

George put his finger to his lips, as Delmé regarded her—kissed her

silken cheek, and whispered,

“Acmé, carissima mia!”

The slumberer started—the envious eye-lid shrouded no more its lustrous

jewel—the wondering eyes dilated, as they met her lover’s—and she

murmured something with that sweet Venetian lisp, in which the Greek

women breathe their Italian. But, as she saw the stranger, her face and

neck became suffused with crimson, and her small hand wrapped the snowy

sheet round her beauteous form.

Sir Henry, who felt equally embarrassed, returned to the room they

had left; whilst George lingered by the bedside of his mistress, and

told her it was his brother. Once more together, Sir Henry turned

towards George.

“For God’s sake,” said he, “unravel this mystery! Who is this young

creature?”

“Not now!” said his brother, “let us reserve it for to-morrow, and talk

only of home. Acmé has retired earlier than usual—she has been

complaining.” And he commenced with a flushed brow and rapid voice, to

ask after those he loved.

“And so, dearest Emily will soon be married. I am glad of it; you speak

so well of Gage! I wish I had stayed three weeks longer in England, and

I should have seen him. We shall miss her in the flower garden, Henry!

Yes! and every where else! And how is my kind aunt? I forgot to thank

her when I last wrote to Delmé, for making Fidèle a parlour inmate!—and

I don’t think she likes dogs generally either!—And Mrs. Wilcox! as

demure as ever?—Do you recollect the trick I played her the last April

I was at home?—And my favourite pony! does he still adorn the

paddock, or is he gone at last? Emily wrote me he could hardly support

himself out of the shed. And the old oak—have you railed it round as I

advised? And the deer—Is my aunt still as tenacious of killing them? I

suppose Emily’s pet fawn is a fine antlered gentleman by this time. And

your charger, Henry—how is he? And Mr. Sims? and the new green house?

Does the aviary succeed? did you get my slips of the blood orange? have

the Zante melon seeds answered? And the daisy of Delmé, Fanny Porter—is

she married? I stole a kiss the day I left. And so the coachman is dead?

and you have given the reins to Jenkins, and have taken my little fellow

on your own establishment? And Ponto? and Ranger? and my friend Guess?”

Here George paused, quite out of breath; and his brother, viewing with

some alarm his nervous agitation, attempted to answer his many queries;

determined in his own mind, not to seek the explanation he so much

longed for, until a more favourable period for demanding it arrived. The

brothers continued conversing on English topics till a late hour, when

Henry rose to retire.

“I cannot,” said George, “give you a bed here to-night; but my servant

shall show you the way to an hotel; and in the course of to-morrow, we

will take care to have a room provided for you. You must feel harassed:

will nine be too early an hour for breakfast?”

It was a beautiful night, still and starry. Till they arrived in the

busy street, no sound could be heard, but the cautious opening of the

lattice, answering the signal of the guitar. Escorted by his guide,

Delmé entered Valletta, which is bustling always, even at night; but was

more than usually so, as there happened to be a fête at the palace. As

they passed through the Strado Teatro, the soldier pointed out the

Opera-house; although from the lateness of the hour, Rossini’s melodies

were hushed. From a neighbouring café, however, festive sounds

proceeded; and Delmé, catching the words of an unfamiliar language,

paused before the door to recognise the singer. The table at which he

sat, was so densely enveloped in smoke, that it was some time before he

could make out the forms of the party, which consisted of some jovial

British midshipmen, and some Tartar-looking Russians. One of the Russian

officers was charming his