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

the banks of the Vistula, His compatriots were yelling the chorus most

unmercifully. A few calèche drivers, waiting for their fares, and two or

three idle Maltese, were pacing outside the cafe, and appeared to regard

the scene as one of frequent occurrence, and calculated to excite but

little interest. His guide showed Delmé the hotel, and was dismissed;

and Sir Henry, preceded by an obsequious waiter, was introduced to a

spacious apartment facing the street.

It was long ere sleep visited him. He had many subjects on which to

ruminate; there were many points which the morrow would clear up. His

mind was too busy to permit him to rest.

When he did, however, close his eyes; he slept soundly, and did not

awake till the broad glare of day, penetrating through the Venetian

blinds, disclosed to him the unfamiliar apartment at Beverley’s.

Chapter VIII.

The Invalid.

“‘Mid many things most new to ear and eye,

The pilgrim rested here his weary feet.”

As Sir Henry Delmé stepped from the hotel into the street, the sun’s

rays commenced to be oppressive, and, although it was only entering the

month of May, served to remind him that he was in a warmer clime. The

scene was already a bustling one. The shopkeepers were throwing water

on the hot flag stones, and erecting canvas awnings in front of their

doors. In the various cafés might be seen the subservient waiters,

handing round the small gilded cup, which contained thick Turkish

coffee, or carrying to some old smoker the little pipkin, whence he was

to light his genial cigar. In front of one of these cafés, some

English officers were collected, sipping ices, and criticising the

relieving of the guard. Turning a corner of the principal street, a

group of half black and three-parts naked children assaulted our

traveller, and vociferously invoked carità. They accompanied this

demand by the corrupted cry of “nix munjay”—nothing to eat,—which

they enforced by most expressive gestures, extending their mouths, and

exhibiting rows of ravenous-looking teeth. The calèche drivers, too,

were on the alert, and respectfully taking off their turbans, proffered

their services to convey the Signore to Floriana. Delmé declined their

offers, and, passing a drawbridge which divides Valletta from the

country, made his way through an embrasure, and descending some half

worn stone steps—during which operation he was again surrounded by

beggars—he found himself within sight of the barracks. Acmé and George

were ready to receive him. The latter’s eye lit, as it was wont to do,

on seeing his brother, whilst the young Greek appeared in doubt,

whether to rejoice at what gave him pleasure, or to stand in awe of a

relation, whose influence over George might shake her own. This did

not, however, prevent her offering Delmé her hand, with an air of great

frankness and grace. Nor was he less struck with her peculiar beauty

than he had been on the night previous. Her dress was well adapted to

exhibit her charms to the greatest advantage. Her hair was parted in

front, and smoothly combed over her neck and shoulders, descending to

her waist. Over her bosom, and fastened by a chased silver clasp, was

one of the saffron handkerchiefs worn by the Parganot women. A jacket

of purple velvet, embroidered with gold, fitted closely to her figure.

Round her waist was a crimson girdle, fastened by another enormous

broach, or rather embossed plate of silver. A Maltese gold rose chain

of exquisite workmanship was flung round her neck, to which depended a

locket, one side of which held, encased in glass, George’s hair braided

with her own; the other had a cameo, representing the death of the

patriot Marco Bozzaris.

“Giorgio tells me,” said she, “that you speak Italian, at which I am

very glad; for his efforts to teach me English have quite failed. Do you

know you quite alarmed me last night, and I really think it was too bad

of George introducing you when he did;” and she placed her hand on her

lover’s shoulder, and looked in his face confidingly. In spite of the

substance of her speech, and the circumstances under which Delmé saw

her, he could not avoid feeling an involuntary prepossession in her

favour. Her manner had little of the polish of art, but much of nature’s

witching simplicity; and Sir Henry felt surprised at the ease and

animation of the whole party. Acmé presided at the breakfast table, with

a grace which many a modern lady of fashion might envy; and during the

meal, her conversation, far from being dull or listless, showed that she

had much talent, and that to a quick perception of nature’s charms, she

united great enthusiasm in their pursuit. The meal was over, when the

surgeon of the regiment was announced, and introduced by George to Sir

Henry. After making a few inquiries as to the invalid’s state of health,

he proposed to Delmé, taking a turn in the botanical garden, which was

immediately in front of their windows.

Sir Henry eagerly grasped at the proposition; anxious, as he felt

himself, to ascertain the real circumstances connected with his

brother’s indisposition. They strolled through the garden, which was

almost deserted—for none but dogs and Englishmen, to use the expression

of the natives, court the Maltese noonday sun,—and the surgeon at once

entered into George’s history. He was a man of most refined manners, and

a cultivated intellect, and his professional familiarity with horrors,

had not diminished his natural delicacy of feeling. His narrative was

briefly thus:—

George Delmé‘s bosom companion had been an officer of his own age and

standing in the service, with whom he had embarked when leaving England.

Their intercourse had ripened into the closest friendship. George had

met Acmé, although the surgeon knew not the particulars of the

rencontre,—had confided to his friend the acquaintance he had made—and

had himself introduced Delancey at the house where Acmé resided. Whether

her charms really tempted the friend to endeavour to supplant George,

or whether he considered the latter’s attentions to the young Greek to

be without definite object, and undertaken in a spirit of indifference,

the narrator could not explain; but it was not long before Delancey

considered himself as a principal in the transaction. Acmé, whose

knowledge of the world was slight, and whose previous seclusion from

society, had rendered her timidity excessive, considered that her best

mode of avoiding importunities she disliked, and attentions that were

painful to her, would be to speak to George himself on the subject.

By this time, the latter, quite fascinated by her beauty and

simplicity, and deeming, as was indeed the fact, that his love was

returned, needed not other inquietudes than those his attachment gave

him. The pride of ancestry and station on the one hand—on the other,

a deep affection, and a wish to act nobly by Acmé—caused an internal

struggle which made him open to any excitement, nervously alive to any

wrong. He sought his friend, and used reproaches, which rendered it

imperative that they should meet as foes. Delancey was wounded; and

as he thought—and it was long doubtful whether it were

so—_mortally_. He beckoned George Delmé to his bedside—begged him to

forgive him—told him that his friendship had been the greatest source

of delight to him—a friendship which in his dying moments he begged

to renew—that far from feeling pain at his approaching dissolution,

he conceived that he had merited all, and only waited his full and

entire forgiveness to die happy. George Delmé wrung his hands in the

bitterness of despair—prayed him to live for his sake—told him, that

did he not, his own life hereafter would be one of the deepest

misery,—that the horrors of remorse would weigh him down to his

grave. The surgeon was the first to terminate a scene, which he

assured Delmé was one of the most painful it had ever been his lot to

witness. This meeting, though of so agitating a nature, seemed to have

a beneficial effect on the wounded man. He sunk into a sweet sleep;

and on awaking, his pulse was lower, and his symptoms less critical.

He improved gradually, and was now convalescent. But it was otherwise

with George Delmé. He sought the solitude of his chamber, a prey to

the agonies of a self-reproaching spirit. He considered himself

instrumental in taking the life of his best friend—of one, richly

endowed with the loftiest feelings humanity can boast. His nerves

previously had been unstrung; body and mind sank under the picture his

imagination had conjured up. His servant was alarmed by startling

screams, entered his room, and found his master in fearful

convulsions. A fever ensued, during which George’s life hung by a

thread. To this succeeded a long state of unconsciousness,

occasionally broken by wild delirium.

During his illness, there was one who never left him—who smoothed his

pillow—who supported his head on her breast—who watched him as a

mother watches her first-born. It was the youthful Greek, Acmé Frascati.

The instant she heard of his danger, she left her home to tend him. No

entreaties could influence her, no arguments persuade. She would sit by

his bedside for hours, his feverish hand locked in hers, and implore him

to recover, to bless one who loved him so dearly. They could not part

them; for George, even in his delirious state, seemed to be conscious

that some one was near him, and, did she leave his side, would rise in

his bed, and look around him as if missing some accustomed object. In

his wilder flights, he would call passionately upon her, and beg her to

save his friend, who was lying so dead and still.

For a length of time, neither care nor professional skill availed.

Fearful was the struggle, between his disease, and a naturally hardy

constitution. Reason at last resumed her dominion. “I know not,” said

the surgeon, “the particulars of the first dawning of consciousness. It

appears that Acmé was alone with him, and that it was at night. I found

him on my professional visit one morning, clear and collected, and his

mistress sobbing her thanks. I need perhaps hardly inform you,” said the

narrator, “that George’s gratitude to Acmé was vividly expressed. It was

in vain I urged on her the propriety of now leaving her lover. This was

met on both sides by an equal disinclination, and indeed obstinate

refusal; and I feared the responsibility I should incur, by enforcing a

separation which might have proved of dangerous consequence to my

patient. Alas! for human nature, Sir Henry! need it surprise you that

the consequences were what they are? Loving him with the fervency of one

born under an eastern sun—with the warm devotion of woman’s first

love—with slender ideas of Christian morality—and with a mind

accustomed to obey its every impulse—need it, I say, surprise you, that

the one fell, and that remorse visited the other? To that remorse, do I

attribute what my previous communication may not have sufficiently

prepared you for; namely, the little dependence to be placed on the tone

of the invalid’s mind. Reason is but as a glimmering in a socket; and

painful as my professional opinion may be to you, it is my duty to avow

it; and I frankly confess, that I entertain serious apprehensions, as to

the stability of his mind’s restoration. It is on this account, that I

have felt so anxious that one of his relations should be near him.

Change of scene is absolutely necessary, as soon as change of scene can

be safely adopted. Every distracting thought must be avoided, and the

utmost care taken that no agitating topic is discussed in his presence.

These precautions may do much; but should they have no effect, which I