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

get a

bed aired; and he could dismiss the chaise now, and their carriage could

take him there at night.”

 

And Delancey did stay, although unable to analyse the feeling that

made him do so.

 

And during dinner, he was the life of that little party. He spoke of

foreign lands—related strange incidents of travel—dwelt with animation

on his schoolboy exploits. The old man was delighted—the husband forgot

his wife;—and she, the false one, sat silent, and for the moment

disregarded. She gazed and gazed again on that familiar face—drank in

the tones of that accustomed voice—and the chill of compunction crept

over her frame.

 

But Delancey’s brain was on fire; and in the solitude of his

chamber—no! he was not calm there. He paced hurriedly across the oaken

floor; and he opened wide his window, and looked out on the bright

stars, spangling heaven’s blue vault; and then beneath him, where the

cypress trees bowed their heads to the wind, and the moon’s light fell

on the marble statues on the terrace.

 

And he turned to his bedside, and hid his tearless face in his hands;

and in the fulness of his despair, he knelt and prayed, that though he

had long neglected his God, his God would not now forsake him. And, as

if to mock his sufferings, sleep came; but it was short, very short; and

a weight, a leaden weight, oppressed his eyelids even in slumber. And

he gave one start, and awoke a prey to mental agony. His despair flashed

on him—he sprung up wildly in his bed. “Liar! liar!” said he, as with

clenched teeth, and hand upraised, he recalled that fond look given to

another. Drops of sweat started to his brow—his pulse beat quick and

audibly—quicker—quicker yet. A feeling of suffocation came over

him—and God forgive him! Oliver Delancey deemed that hour his last. He

staggered blindly to the bell, and with fearful energy pulled its cord,

till it fell clattering on the marble hearth stone. The domestics found

him speechless and insensible on the floor—the blood oozing from his

mouth and ears.

 

It may be said that this picture is overcharged; that no vitiated mind

could have thus felt. But it is not so. In life’s spring we all feel

acutely: and to the effects of disappointed love, and wounded pride,

there are few limits.

 

Woman! dearest woman! born to alleviate our sorrow, and soothe our

anguish! who canst bid feeling’s tear trickle down the obdurate cheek,

or mould the iron heart, till it be pliable as a child’s—why stain thy

gentle dominion by inconstancy? why dismiss the first form that haunted

thy maiden pillow, until—or that vision is a dear reality beside

thee—or thou liest pale and hushed, on thy last couch of repose?

 

And then—shall not thy virgin spirit hail him? Why first fetter us,

slaves to virtue and to thee; then become the malevolent Typhoon, on

whose wings our good genius flies for ever? In this—far worse than the

iconoclasts of yore art thou! They but disfigured images of man’s rude

fashioning: whilst thou wouldst injure the once loved form of God’s

high creation,—wouldst entail on the body a premature decay—and on

that which dieth not, an irradicable blight.

 

“Then the mortal coldness of the soul, like death itself comes down;

It cannot feel for others woes—it dares not dream its own.

That heavy chill has frozen o’er the fountain of our tears;

And though the eye may sparkle still, ‘tis where the ice appears.”

 

On such a character as was Delancey’s, the blow did indeed fall heavy.

Not that his paroxysms of grief were more lasting, or his pangs more

acute, than is usual in similar cases; but to his moral worth it was

death. An infliction of this nature, falling on a comparatively virtuous

man, is productive of few evil consequences. It may give a holier turn

to his thoughts—wean him from sublunary vanities—and purify his

nature. On an utterly depraved man, its effects may be fleeting also;

for few can here expect a moral regeneration. But falling on Delancey,

it was not thus. The slender thread that bound him to virtue, was snapt

asunder; the germ whence the good of his nature might have sprung,

destroyed for ever. Such a man could not love purely again. To expect

him to wander to another font, and imbibe from as clear a stream, would

be madness. The love of a man of the world, let it be the first and

best, is gross and earthly enough; but let him be betrayed in that

love—let him see the staff on which he confidingly leant, break from

under him—and he becomes from henceforth the deceiver—but never the

deceived. When Delmé saw him, Delancey was writhing under his

affliction. When he again entered the world, and it was soon, he

regarded it as a wide mart, where he might gratify his appetites, and

unrestrainedly indulge his evil propensities. He believed not that

virtue and true nobility were there; could he but find them. He looked

at the blow his happiness had sustained, and thought it afforded a fair

sample of human nature. Oliver Delancey became a selfish and a

profligate man.

 

He was to be pitied; and from his soul did Delmé pity him. He had been

one of promise and of talent; but now his lot is cast on the die of

apathy;—and it is to be feared—without a miracle intervene—and

should his life be spared—that when the wavy locks of youth are

changed to the silver hairs of age—that he will then be that thing of

all others to be scoffed at—the hoary sensualist. Let us hope not! Let

us hope that she who hath brought him to this, may rest her head on the

bosom of her right lord, and forget the one, whose hand used to be

locked in her own, for hours—hours which flew quick as summer’s

evening shadows! Let us trust that remorse may be absent from her;

that she may never know that worst of reflections—the having injured

one who had loved her, irremediably; that she may gaze on her

fair-haired children, and her cheek blanch not as she recals another

form than the father’s; that her life may be irreproachable, her end

calm and dignified; that dutiful children may attend the inanimate clay

to its resting place; that filial tears may bedew her grave; and, when

the immortal stands appalled before its Judge, that the destruction of

that soul may not be laid to her charge.

 

Chapter XIV.

 

The Spitfire.

 

“And I have loved thee! Ocean! and my joy

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be

Borne like thy bubbles onward.”

 

*

 

“Pull away! yo ho! boys!”

 

Delmé continued to reside with his brother, whose health seemed to amend

daily. George generally managed to accompany him in his sight-seeing,

from which Henry derived great gratification.

 

He mused over the antique tombs of some of the departed knights; and

admired the rich mosaics in that splendid church, dedicated to Saint

John; than which the traveller may voyage long, and meet nothing

worthier his notice. He visited the ancient armoury—dined at the

palace, and at the different messes—inspected the laborious

travailings of the silkworm at the boschetto—conversed with the

original of Byron’s Leila—a sweet creature she is!—looked with

wondering eye on the ostrich of Fort Manuel—and heard the then

commandant’s wife relate her tale thereanent. He went to Gozzo too—shot

rabbits—and crossed in a basket to the fungus rock. He saw a festa in

the town, and a festa in the country—rode to St. Antonio, and St.

Paul’s Bay—and was told he had seen the lions. Nor must we pass over

that most interesting of spectacles; viz., some figures enveloped in

monkish cowl, and placed in convenient niches; but beneath the close

hood, the blood mounts not with devotion’s glow, nor do eyes glare from

sockets shrunk by abstinence. Skeletons alone are there!

 

These, curious reader, are the bodies of saintly Capuchins; thus

exhibited—dried and baked—to excite beholders to a life of virtue!

 

One morning, George said he felt rather unwell, and would stay at home.

An oar happened to be wanted in the regimental gig, which Sir Henry

offered to take. He was soon accoutred in the dress of an absent

member, and in a short time was discharging the duties of his office to

the satisfaction of all; for he knew every secret of feathering, and

had not caught a crab for years.

 

It was a beautifully calm day—not a speck in the azure heaven. It was

hot too—but for this they cared not. They had porter; and on such

occasions, what better beverage would you ask? Swiftly and gaily did the

slim bark cleave through the glassy sea. Its hue was a dark crimson,

with one black stripe—its nom de guerre, the Spitfire.

 

As the –– regiment particularly prided itself on its aquatic costume,

we shall describe it. Small chased pearl buttons on the blue jacket and

white shirt; a black band round the neck, to match the one on the

narrow-brimmed thick straw hat; white trousers; couleur de rose silk

collar, fastened to the throat by a golden clasp; and stockings of the

same colour. How joyously did the gig hold her course! What a thrilling

sensation expanded the soul, as the steersman, a handsome little fellow

with large black whiskers, gave the encouraging word, “Stroke! my good

ones!” Then were exerted all the energies of the body—then was

developed each straining muscle—then were the arms thrown back in

sympathy, to give a long pull, and a strong pull—till the bark reeled

beneath them, and shot through the wave.

 

The tall ship—the slender mole—the busy deck—the porticoed

palace—the strong fort—the bristling battery—the astonished fisher’s

bark as it sluggishly crept on—were all cheeringly swept by, as the

bending oars in perfect unison, kissed the erst slumbering water. What

sensation can be more glorious? The only thing to compete with it, is

the being in a crack coach on the western road; the opposition slightly

in front—a knowing whip driving—when the horses are at their utmost

speed—the traces tight as traces can be—the ladies inside pale and

screaming—one little child cramming out her head, her mouth stuffed

with Banbury cakes, adding her shrill affetuoso—whilst the odd-looking

man in the white hat, seated behind, is blue from terror, and with

chattering teeth, mumbles undistinguishable sentences of furious

driving and prosecution. Surely such moments half redeem our miseries!

What bitter thought can travel twelve miles an hour?

 

And ever and anon would the Spitfire dart into some little creek, and

the thirsty rowers would rest on their oars, whose light drip fell on

purple ocean, tinged by a purple sky. And now would the jovial steersman

introduce the accommodating corkscrew, first into one bottle and then

into another, as these were successively emptied, and thrown overboard,

to give the finny philosophers somewhat to speculate on.

 

Delmé landed weary; but it was a beneficial weariness. He felt he had

taken manly exercise, and that it would do him good. He was walking

towards the barrack, with his jacket slung over his shoulder, when he

was met by George’s servant.

 

“Oh, Sir!” said the man, “I am so glad you are come. The Signora is

terribly afraid for my young master. I fear, Sir, he is in one of

his fits.”

 

Delmé hurried forward, and entered his brother’s room. George held a

riding whip in his hand. He had thrown off his cravat—his throat was

bare—his eyes glanced wildly.

 

“And who are you, Sir?” said he, as Henry entered.

 

“What! not know me, dearest George?” replied his brother, in agony.