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

had imperceptibly

risen, until having ascended a grassy eminence, over which the path

stretched, the well-lighted city burst upon the eye.

 

Immediately in front of the view, a principal street presented itself,

the lamps on either side stretching in regular succession, until they

gradually narrowed and joined in the perspective. Nearer to the

spectator, the flickering lights of the detached villas, and the moving

ones of the carriages in the public road, relieved the stillness of the

scene. Delmé paused to regard it, with that subdued feeling with which

men, arrived at a certain period of life, scan the aspect of nature. The

moon at the moment was enveloped in light clouds. As it broke through

them, its shimmering light revealed a face and form that Delmé at once

recognised as Delancey’s. It was with a consciousness of pain he did so,

for it brought before him recollections of scenes, whose impressions had

still power to subdue him. All emotions, however, soon became absorbed

in that of curiosity, as he noted the still figure and agitated

features before him. A block of granite lay near the path. Delancey

leant back over it—his right hand nearly touched the ground—his hat

lay beside him. The dark hair, wet with the dews of night, was blown

back by the breeze. His high forehead was fully shewn. His vest and

shirt were open, as he gazed with an air of fixedness on the city, and

conversed to himself. His teeth were firmly clenched, and it seemed that

the lips moved not, but the words were fearfully distinct. We often hear

of these soliloquies,—they afford scope to the dramatist, food for the

poet, a chapter for the narrator of fiction,—but we rarely witness

them. When we do, they are eminently calculated to thrill and alarm. It

was evident that Delancey saw him not; but had it been otherwise,

Delmé‘s interest was so aroused that he could not have left the spot.

 

“Hail! sympathising night!” thus spoke the young man, “the calm of thy

silent hour seems in unison with my lone heart—thy dewy breeze imparts

a freshness to this languid and darkened spirit, Sweet night! how I

love thee! And moon, too! fair moon! how abruptly!—how chastely!—how

gloriously!—dost thou break through the variegated and fleecy clouds,

which would impede thy progress, and deny me to gaze on thy white orb

unshrouded. And thou, too! radiant star of eve! oh that woman’s love but

resembled thee! that it were gentle, constant, and pure as thy holy

gleam. That that should dazzle to bring in its train—oh God! what

misery.” He raised his hand to his brow, as if a poignant thought had

stung him.

 

Sir Henry Delmé stole away, and ruminated long that night, on the

distress that could thus convulse those fine features. Afterwards, when

Delancey’s name was no longer the humble one he had first known it, but

became bruited in loftier circles,—for Vavasour’s prediction became

realised,—Delmé heard it whispered, that his affections had suffered

an early blight, from the infidelity of one to whom he had been

affianced. We may relate the circumstances as they occurred. Blanche

Allen was the daughter of a country gentleman of some wealth, whose

estate joined that of the Earl of D–-‘s, where Delancey’s boyhood

had been spent. For years Blanche and Oliver considered themselves as

more than friends. Each selected the other as the companion in the

solitary walk, or partner in the joyous dance. Not a country girl but

had her significant smile, as young Delancey’s horse’s head was turned

towards Hatton Grange.

 

Delancey joined the army at an early age. Blanche was some eighteen

months his junior. They parted with tears, and thus they continued to do

for the two following years, during which Oliver frequently got leave to

run down to his uncle’s. This was while he was serving with part of the

regiment at home. When it came to his turn to embark for foreign

service, it was natural from this circumstance, as well as from their

riper age, that their farewell should be of a more solemn nature. They

bade adieu by the side of the streamlet that divided the two properties.

It was where this made a small fall, down which it gushed in crystal

brightness, and then meandered with gentle murmur through a succession

of rich meadows. A narrow bridge was below the fall, while beside it, a

rustic seat had been placed, on which the sobbing Blanche sat, with her

lover’s arm round her waist. For the first time he had talked seriously

of their attachment, and it was with youthful earnestness, that they

mutually plighted their troth. Nor did Blanche hesitate, though blushing

deeply as she did so, to place in his hand a trivial gage d’amour, and

that which has so long solaced absent lovers, a lock of her sunny hair.

Blanche was very beautiful, but she had a character common to many

English women—more so, we think, than to foreign ones.

 

As a girl, Blanche was nature’s self, warm, gentle, confiding,—as an

unmarried woman, she was a heartless coquette,—as a matron, an

exemplary mother and an affectionate wife. During the time Delancey was

abroad, he heard of Blanche but seldom, for the lovers were not of that

age in which a correspondence would be tolerated by Blanche’s family.

She once managed to send him, by the hands of a young cousin, some

trifling present, with a few lines accompanying it, informing him that

she had not forgotten him. His uncle—his only correspondent in

England—was not exactly the person to make a confidant of; but he

would, in an occasional postscript, let him know that he had seen

Blanche Allen lately—that “she was very gay, prettier than ever, and

always blushing when spoken to of a certain person.”

 

To do Oliver justice, he at all times thought of Blanche. We have seen

him, with regard to Acme, apparently disregarding her, but in that

affair he had been actuated by a mere spirit of adventure. His heart was

but slightly enlisted, and his feelings partook of any thing but those

of a serious attachment.

 

Oliver Delancey left Malta soon after his conversation with

Delmé. Previous to doing so, he had forwarded his resignation to

Colonel Vavasour.

 

He passed some time in Italy, and, as the season arrived, found himself

a denizen in that gayest of cities, Vienna. Pleasure is truly there

enshrouded in her liveliest robes. As regards Delancey, not in vain was

she thus clothed. Just relieved from the dull monotony of a military

life—dull as it ever must be without war’s excitement, and peculiarly

distasteful to one constituted like Delancey, who refused to make

allowance for the commonplace uncongenial spirits with whom he found

himself obliged to herd—he was quite prepared to embrace with avidity

any life that promised an agreeable change. Austria’s capital holds out

many inducements to dissipation, and to none are these more freely

tendered, than to young and handsome Englishmen. The women, over the

dangerous sentimentality of their nation, throw such an air of ease and

frankness, that their victims resemble the finny tribe in the famous

tunny fishery. While they conceive the whole ocean is at their

command—disport here and there in imagined freedom—they are already

encased by the insidious nets; the harpoon is already pointed, which

shall surely pierce them. Delancey plunged headlong into pleasure’s

vortex—touched each link between gaiety and crime. He wandered from the

paths of virtue from the infatuation of folly, and continued to err from

the fascinations of sin. He was suddenly recalled to himself, by one of

those catastrophes often sent by Providence, to awaken us from

intoxicating dreams. His companion, with whom he had resided during his

stay in Vienna, lost his all at a gaming table. Although he had not the

firmness of mind to face his misfortunes, yet had he the rashness to

meet his God unbidden. Sobered and appalled, Oliver left Germany for

England. There was a thought, which even in the height of his follies

obtruded, and which now came on him with a force that surprised himself.

That thought was of Blanche Allen. He turned from the image of his

expiring friend to dwell unsated on hers. A new vista of life seemed to

open—thoughts which had long slept came thronging on his mind—he was

once more the love-sick boy. The more, too, he brooded over his late

unworthiness, the more did his imagination ennoble the one he loved. He

now looked to the moment of meeting her, as that whence he would date

his moral regeneration. “Thank God!” thought he, “a sure haven is yet

mine. There will I—my feelings steadied, my affections

concentrated—enjoy a purified and unruffled peace. What a consolation

to be loved by one so good and gentle!”

 

He hurried towards England, travelled day and night, and only wondered

that he could have rested any where, while he had the power of flying to

her he had loved from childhood. Occasionally a feeling of apprehension

would cross him. It was many months since he had heard of her—she might

be ill. His love was of that confiding nature, that he could not

conceive her changed. As he came near his home, happier thoughts

succeeded. In fancy, he again saw her enjoying the innocent pleasures in

which he had been her constant companion,—health on her

cheek—affection in her glance. He had to pass that well known lodge.

His voice shook, as he told the driver to stop at its gate. As he drove

through the avenue of elms, he threw himself back in the carriage, and

every limb quivered from his agitation. He could hardly make himself

understood to the domestic—he waited not an answer to his enquiry—but

bounded up the stairs, and with faltering step entered the room.

Blanche was there, and not alone but oh! how passing fair! Even Delancey

had not dared to think, that the beauty of the girl could have been so

eclipsed by the ripe graces of the woman. She recognised him, and rose

to meet him with a burst of unfeigned surprise. She held out her hand

with an air of winning frankness; and yet for an instant,—and his hand

as it pressed hers, trembled with that thought,—he deemed there was a

hesitating blush on her cheek, which should not have been there. But it

passed away, and radiant with smiles, she turned to the one beside her.

 

“My dear,” said she, as she gave him a confiding look, which haunts

Delancey yet, “this is a great friend of Papa’s, and an old playmate of

mine—Mr. Delancey;” and as the stranger stepped forward to shake his

hand, Blanche looked at her old lover, with a glance that seemed to say,

“How foolish were we, to deem we were ever more than friends.” Oliver

Delancey turned deadly pale; but pride bade him scorn her, and his hand

shook not, as it touched that of him, who had robbed him of a treasure,

he would have died to have called his.

 

“And you have been to D–- Castle, I suppose, and found your uncle had

left it for Bath. Indeed, we only arrived the day before yesterday;

but Papa wrote us, saying he had got one of his attacks of rheumatism,

from the late fishing, and begged us to take this on our way to

Habberton, Did you see my marriage in the papers, or did your uncle

write you, Oliver?”

 

Delancey’s lips quivered, but his countenance did not change, as he

looked her in the face, and told her he had not known it until now.

 

And now her husband spoke: “It was very late, and he must want

refreshment; and Mr. Allen intended to be wheeled to the dinner table;

and they could so easily send up to D–- Castle to tell them to