A Love Story, by a Bushman - - (the speed reading book .TXT) 📗

class="calibre1">think possible; as a medical man, I should then recommend, what as a

member of his family may startle you. My advice would be, that if it be

ultimately found, that his feelings as regard this young girl, are such

as are likely to prevent or impede his mind’s recovery; why I would then

at once allow him to make her any reparation he may think just.

 

“To what do you allude?” enquired Sir Henry.

 

“Why,” continued the surgeon, “that if his feelings appear deeply

enlisted on that side of the question, and all our other modes have

failed in obtaining their object; that he should be permitted to marry

her as soon as he pleases. I see you look grave. I am not surprised you

should do so; but life is worth preserving, and Acmé, if not entirely to

our notions, is a good, a very good girl—warm-hearted and affectionate;

and it is not fair to judge her by our English standard. You will

however have time and scope, to watch yourself the progress and extent

of his disorder. I fear this is more serious than you are at present

aware of; but from your own observations, would I recommend and wish

your future line of conduct to be formed. May I trust my frankness has

not offended you?”

 

Sir Henry assured him, that far from this being the case, he owed

him many thanks for being thus explicit. Shaking him by the hand,

he returned to George’s room with a clouded brow; perplexed how to

act, or how best discuss with his brother, the points connected

with his history.

 

Chapter IX.

 

The Narrative.

 

“The seal Love’s dimpling finger hath impress’d,

Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch,

Her lips whose kisses pout to leave their nest,

Bid man be valiant ere he merit such;

Her glance how wildly beautiful—how much

Hath Phoebus woo’d in vain to spoil her cheek,

Which grows yet smoother from his amorous clutch,

Who round the north for paler dames would seek?

How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak.”

 

Love! Heavenly love! by Plato’s mind conceived, and Sicyon’s artist

chiselled! not thou! night’s offspring, springing on golden wing from

the dark bosom of Erebus! the first created, and the first creating: but

thou! immaculate deity; effluence of unspotted thought, and child of a

chaster age! where, oh where is now thy resting place?

 

Pensile in mid-heaven, gazest thou yet with seraphic sorrow on this,

the guilty abode of guilty man?—with pity’s tear still mournest thou,

as yoked to the car of young desire, we bow the neck in degrading and

slavish bondage? Or dost thou, the habitant of some bright star, where

frailty such as ours is yet unknown, lend to lovers a rapture unalloyed

by passion’s grosser sense; as, symphonious with the tremulous zephyr,

chastened vows of constancy are there exchanged? Ah! vainly does one

solitary enthusiast, in his balmy youth, for a moment conceive he really

grasps thee! ‘tis but a fleeting phantasy, doomed to fade at the first

sneer of derision—and for ever vanish, as a false and fascinating world

stamps its dogmas on his heart! Celestial love! oh where may he yet find

thee? and a clear voice whispers, ETERNITY!

 

Hope! guide the fainting pilgrim! undying soul! shield him from the

world’s venomed darts, as he painfully wends his toilsome way!

 

When Delmé returned to his brother, he found the latter anxiously

expecting him, and desirous of ascertaining the impression, which his

conversation with the surgeon had created.

 

But Delmé thought it more prudent, to defer the discussion of those

points, till he had heard from George himself, as to many circumstances

connected with Acmé‘s history, and had been able to form some personal

opinion regarding the health of the invalid. He therefore begged

George, if he felt equal to the task, to avail himself of the

opportunity of Acmé‘s absence, to tell him how he had first met her. To

this George willingly assented; and as there is ever a peculiarity in

foreign scenes and habits, which awakens interest, we give his story in

his own language.

 

“There are some old families here, Henry,” began the invalid, “whose

names are connected with some of the proudest, which the annals of the

Knights of St. John of Jerusalem can boast. They are for the most part

sunk in poverty, and possess but little of the outward trappings of

rank. But their pride is not therefore the less; and rather than have it

wounded, by being put in collision with those with whom in worldly

wealth they are unable to compete, they prefer the privacy of

retirement; and are rarely seen, and more rarely known, by any of the

English residents, whom they distrust and dislike. It is true, there are

a few families, some of the male members of which have accepted

subordinate situations under government: and these have become

habituated to English society, and meet on terms of tolerable

cordiality, the English whose acquaintance they have thus made. But

there are others, as I have said, whose existence is hardly recognised,

and who vegetate in some lone palazzo; brooding over the decay of their

fortunes—never crossing the threshold of their mansions—except when

religious feelings command them to attend a mass, or public procession.

Of such a family was Acmé a member. By birth a Greek, she was a witness

to many of the bloody scenes which took place at the commencement of the

struggle for Grecian freedom. She was herself present at the murder of

both her parents. Her beauty alone saved her from sharing their fate.

One of the Turks, struck with, her expression of childish sorrow,

interfered in her behalf, and permitted a friend and neighbour to save

her life and his own, by taking shipping for one of the islands in our

possession. After residing in Corfu for some months, she received an

invitation from her father’s brother-in-law, a member of an ancient

Maltese family; and for the last few years has spent a life, if not gay,

at least free from a repetition of those sanguinary scenes, which have

lent their impress to a sensitive mind, and at moments impart a

melancholy tinge, to a disposition by nature unusually joyous. It was on

a festa day, dedicated to the patron saint of the island, when no

Maltese not absolutely bed-ridden, but would deem it a duty, to witness

the solemn and lengthy procession which such a day calls forth; that I

first met Acmé Frascati.

 

“I was alone in the Strada Reale, and strolling towards the Piazza, when

my attention was directed to what struck me as the loveliest face I had

ever seen.

 

“Acmé, for it was her, was drest in the costume of the island; and,

although a faldette is not the best dress for exhibiting a figure,

there was a grace and lightness in her carriage, that would have

arrested my attention, even had I not been riveted by her countenance.

She was on the opposite side of the street to myself, and was attended

by an old Moorish woman, who carried an illumined missal. Of these

women, several may yet be seen in Malta, looking very Oriental and

duenna-like. As I stopped to admire her, she suddenly attempted to

cross to the side of the street where I stood. At the same moment, I

observed a horse attached to a calèche galloping furiously towards her.

It was almost upon her ere Acmé saw her danger. The driver, anxious to

pass before the procession formed, had whipped his horse till it became

unmanageable, and it was now in vain that he tried to arrest its

progress. A natural impulse induced me to rush forward, and endeavour

to save her. She was pale and trembling, as I caught her and placed her

out of the reach of danger; but before I could touch the pavement, I

felt myself struck by the wheel of the carriage, was thrown down, and

taken up insensible. When consciousness returned, I found they had

conveyed me to a neighbouring shop, and that medical attendance had

been procured. But more than all, I noticed the solicitude of Acmé.

Until the surgeon had given a favourable report, she could not address

me, but when this had been pronounced, she overwhelmed me with thanks,

begged to know where I would wish to be taken, and rested not until her

own family calèche came up, and she saw me, attended by the Moorish

woman, on the road to Floriana.

 

“My accident, though not a very serious one, proved of sufficient

consequence, to confine me to my room for some time; and during that

period, not a day passed, that did not give me proof of the anxiety of

the young Greek for my restoration. I need not say that one of my

first visits was to her. Her family received me as they would an

absent brother. The obligations they considered I had conferred,

outweighed all prejudices which they might have imbibed against my

nation. On my part, charmed with my adventure, delighted with Acmé,

and gratified by the kindness of her relations, I endeavoured to

increase their favourable opinion by all the means in my power. Acmé

and myself were soon more than friends, and I found my visits gave and

imparted pleasure.

 

“I now arrive at the unhappy part of my narrative. How do I wish it were

effaced from my memory. You may remember how, in all my letters to

Delmé, I made mention of my dear friend Delancey. We were indeed dear

friends. We joined at the same time, lived together in England,

embarked together, and when, one dreadful night off the African coast,

the captain of the transport thought we must inevitably drift on the

lee shore, we solaced each other, and agreed that, if it came to the

worst, on one plank would we embark our fortunes. On our landing in

Malta, we were inseparable, and my first impulse was to inform Delancey

of all that had occurred, and to introduce him to a house where I felt

so happy. I must here do him the justice to state, that whether I was

partly unaware of the extent of my own feelings towards Acmé, or

whether I felt a morbid sense of delicacy, in alluding to what I knew

to be the first attachment I had ever formed, I am unable to inform

you! but the only circumstance I concealed from my friend was my

attachment to the young Greek. Perhaps to this may be mainly attributed

what happened. God, who knows all secrets, knows this; but I may now

aver, that my friend, with many faults, has proved himself to have as

frank and ingenuous a spirit, as noble ideas of friendship, as can

exist in the human breast. For some time, matters continued thus. We

were both constant visitors at Acmé‘s house. With unparalleled

blindness, I never mistrusted the feelings of my friend. I never

contemplated that he also might become entangled with the young

beauty. I considered her as my own prize, and was more engaged in

analysing my own sensations, and in vainly struggling against a

passion, which I was certain could not meet my family’s approval, than

at all suspicious that fresh causes of uneasiness might arise in

another quarter. As Acmé‘s heart opened to mine, I found her with

feelings guileless and unsuspecting as a child’s; although these were

warm, and their expression but little restrained. There was a confiding

simplicity in her manner, that threw an air over all she said or did,

which quite forbade censure, and excited admiration. My passion became

a violent and an all-absorbing one. I had made up my mind, to throw

myself on the kindness of my family, and endeavour