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

to obtain all your

consents. Thus was I situated, when one day Acmé came up to me with

frankness of manner, but a tremulous voice, to beg I would use my

interest with my friend, to prevent his coming to see her.

 

“‘Indeed, indeed,’ said she, ‘I have tried to love him as a friend, as

the friend of my life’s preserver, but ever since he has spoken as he

now does, his visits are quite unpleasant. My family begged me to tell

you. They would have asked him to come no more, but were afraid you

might be angry. Will you still come to us, and love us all, if they tell

him this? If you will not, he shall still come; for indeed we could not

offend one to whom we owe so much.’

 

”’I, too,’ said I to Acmé, ‘I, too, dearest, ought perhaps to leave

you, I, too’—

 

“‘Oh, never! never!’ said she, as she turned to me her dark eyes, bright

with humid radiance. ‘We cannot thus part!’

 

“She did, then, love me! I clasped her to my arms—our lips clung

together in one rapturous intoxicating embrace.

 

“Yet, even in that moment of delirium, Henry, I told her of you, and of

the many obstacles which still presented themselves to retard or even

prevent our union. I sought my friend Delancey, and remonstrated with

him. He appeared to doubt my right to question his motives. Success made

me feel still more injured. I showered down reproaches. He could not

have acted differently. We met! and I saw him fall! Till then, I had

considered myself as the injured man; but as I heard him on the ground

name his mother, and one dearer still—as he took from his breast the

last gift she had made him—as he begged of me to be its bearer; I

then first felt remorse. He was taken to his room. Even the surgeon

entertained no hopes. He again called me to his side; I heard his noble

acknowledgment, his reiterated vows of friendship, the mournful tones of

his farewell. I entered this room a heart-broken man. I felt my pulse

throb fearfully, a gasping sensation was in my throat, my head swam

round, and I clung to the wall for support. The next thing of which I

have any recollection, was the dawn of reason breaking through my

troubled dreams. It was midnight—all was still. The fitful lamp shone

dimly through my chamber. I turned on my side—and, oh! by its light, I

saw the face I most loved—that face, whose gentle lineaments, were each

deeply and separately engraven on my heart. I saw her bending over me

with a maiden’s love and a mother’s solicitude. As I essayed to

speak—as my conscious eye met her’s—as the soft words of affection

were involuntarily breathed by my feeble lips—how her features lit up

with joy! Oh, say not, Henry, till you have experienced such a moment of

transport, say not that the lips which then vowed eternal fidelity, that

the young hearts which then plighted their truth, and vowed to love

for ever—oh call not these guilty!

 

“Since that time my health has been extremely precarious. Whether the

events crowded too thickly on me, or that I have not fully recovered my

health, or—which I confess I think is the case—that my compunctions

for my conduct to Acmé weigh me down, I know not; but it is not always,

my dear Henry, that I can thus address you. There are hours when I am

hardly sensible of what I do, when my brain reels from its oppression.

At such times, Acmé is my guardian angel—my tender nurse—my

affectionate attendant! In my lucid intervals, she is what you see

her—the gentle companion—the confiding friend. I love her, Henry, more

than I can tell you! I shall never be able to leave her! From Acmé you

may learn more of those dreary hours, which appear to me like waste

dreams in my existence. She has watched by my bed of sickness, till she

knows every turn of the disorder. From her, Henry, may you learn all.”

 

Thus did George conclude his tale of passion; which Delmé mused over,

but refrained from commenting on.

 

Soon afterwards, George’s calèche, in which he daily took exercise, was

announced as being at the door. The brothers entered, and left Floriana.

 

Chapter X.

 

The Calèche.

 

“The car rattling through the stony street.”

 

For an easy conveyance, commend us to a Maltese calèche! Many a time,

assaulted by the blue devils, have we taken refuge in its solacing

interior—have pulled down its silken blinds, and unseeing and unseen,

the motion, like that of the rocking-cradle to the petulant child of

less mature growth, has restored complacency, and lulled us to good

humour. The calèche, the real calèche, is, we believe, peculiar to

Malta. It is the carriage of the rich and poor—Lady Woodford may be

seen employing it, to visit her gardens at St. Antonio; and in the

service of the humblest of her subjects, will it be enlisted, as they

wend their way to a picnic in the campagna. Every variety of steed is

put in requisition for its draught.

 

We may see the barb, with nostril of fire, and mane playing with the

wind, perform a curvet, as he draws our aristocratic countrywoman—

aristocratic and haughty at least in Malta, although, in England,

perhaps a star of much less magnitude.

 

We may view too the over-burthened donkey, as he drags along some aged

vehicle, in which four fat smiling women, and one lean weeping child,

look forward to his emaciated carcase, and yet blame him for being slow.

 

And thou! patient and suffering animal, whose name has passed into a

proverb, until each vulgar wight looks on thee as the emblem of

obstinacy,—maligned mule! when dost thou appear to more advantage, more

joyous, or more self-satisfied, than when yoked to the Maltese calèche?

Who that has witnessed thee, taking the scanty meal from the hand of

thine accustomed driver, with whinnying voice, waving tail, thy long

ears pricked upwards, and thy head rubbing his breast, who that has

seen thee thus, will deny thee the spirit of gratitude?

 

Most injured of quadrupeds! if we ascend the rugged mountain’s path,

where on either side, precipices frown, and the pines wave far—far

beneath—when one false step would plunge us, with our hopes, our fears,

and our vices, into the abyss of eternity; is it not to thee we trust?

 

Calumniated mule! go on thy way.

 

This world’s standard is but little to be relied on, whether it be for

good, or whether it be for evil.

 

The motion of a calèche, such as we patronised, is an easy and luxurious

one—the pace, a fast trot or smooth canter, of seven miles an hour—and

with the blinds down, we have communed with ourselves, with as great

freedom, and as little fear of interruption, as if we had been crossing

the Zahara. The calèche men too are a peculiar and happy race—attentive

to their fares—masters of their profession—and with a cigar in their

cheek dexter, will troll you Maltese ditties till your head aches. Their

costume is striking. Their long red caps are thrown back over their

necks—their black curls hang down on each side of the face—and a

crimson, many-folded sash, girds in a waist usually extremely small.

Their neck, face, and breast, from continued exposure to the sun, are a

red copper colour. They are always without shoes and stockings; and even

our countrywomen, who pay much attention to the costume of their

drivers, have not yet ventured to encase their brawny feet in the

mysteries of leather. They run by the side of their calèches, the reins

in one hand—the whip in the other—cheering on their animals by a

constant succession of epithets, oaths, and invocations to their

favourite saint.

 

They are rarely fatigued, and may be seen beside their vehicles, urging

the horses, with the thermometer at 110°, and perhaps a stout-looking

Englishman inside, with white kerchief to his face, the image of languor

and lassitude.

 

Their horses gallop down steeps, which no English Jehu dare attempt; and

ascend and descend with safety and hardihood, stone steps which occur in

many parts of Valletta; and which would certainly present an

insurmountable obstacle to our steeds at home.

 

The proper period, however, to see a calèche man in his glory, is during

the carnival. Every calèche is in employ; and many a one which has

reposed for the twelvemonth previous, is at that time wheeled from its

accustomed shed, and put in requisition for some of pleasure’s votaries.

Long lines of them continue to pass and repass in the principal street.

Their inmates are almost universally of the fair sex, and of the best

part of it, the young and beautiful. Cavaliers, with silken bags,

containing bon-bons, slung on their left arm, stand at intervals, ready

to discharge the harmless missiles, at those whom their taste approves

worthy of the compliment. Happy the young beauty, who, returning

homewards, sees the carpet of her calèche thickly strewn with these

dulcet favours! The driver is now in his element! He ducks his head, as

the misdirected sweetmeat approaches; he has an apt remark prompt for

the occasion. As he nears too the favoured inamorato, for whom he well

knows his mistress’ sweetest smile is reserved—who already with his

right hand grasping the sugared favours, is prepared to lavish his whole

store on this one venture—how arch his look—how roguish his eye—as he

turns towards his donna, and speaks as plainly as words could do, “See!

there he is, he whom you love best!”

 

Ah! well may we delight to recal once more those minute details! ah!

well may we remember how—when our brow was smoothed with youth, as it

is now furrowed with care—when our eye sparkled from pleasure, as it is

now dimmed from time, or mayhap, tears—well may we love to remember,

how our whole hearts were engrossed in that mimic warfare. How

impatiently did we watch for one, amidst that crowded throng, for

one—whose beauty haunted us by day, and whose smile we dreamt over by

night. Well do we recal with what unexampled ingenuity, we laboured to

befit the snow white egg for a rare tenant—attar-gul. Well do we

remember how that face, usually so cloudless, became darkened almost to

a frown, as our heart’s mistress saw the missile approach her. What a

radiant smile bewitched us, as it burst on her lap, and filled the air

with its fragrance! Truly we had our reward!

 

Delmé and George took a quiet drive, and enjoyed that sweet interchange

of ideas, that characterises the meeting of two brothers long absent

from each other.

 

They went in the direction of St. Julian’s, a drive all our Maltese

friends will be familiar with. The road lay almost wholly by the sea

side. A gentle breeze was crisping the waters, and served to allay the

heat, which, at a more advanced period of the season, is by no means an

enviable one. Sunshine seemed to beam on George’s mind, as he once more

spoke of home ties, to one to whom those home ties were equally dear.

And gratefully did he bask in its rays! Long used to the verdant but

tame, beautiful but romantic landscapes, which the part of England he

resided in presented; the scenery around him, novel and picturesque,

struck Sir Henry forcibly. To one who has resided long in Malta, its

scenes may wear an aspect somewhat different. The limited country—the

ceaseless glare—the dust, or rather the pulverised rock—the

ever-present lizard, wary and quick, peeping out at each crevice—the

buzzing mosquito, inviting the moody