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

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“I do not understand your insolence, Sir; but if you are a dun, go to my

servant. Thompson,” continued he, “give me my spurs! I shall ride.”

 

“Ride!” said Delmé.

 

Thompson made him a quiet sign. “I am very sorry, Sir,” said he, “but

the Arab is quite lame, and is not fit for the saddle.”

 

“Give me a glass of sangaree then, you rascal! Port—do you hear?”

 

The glass was brought him. He drained its contents at a draught.

 

“Now, kick that scoundrel out of the room, Thompson, and let me sleep.”

 

He threw himself listlessly on the sofa. Acmé was weeping bitterly,

but he seemed not to notice her. It was late in the day. The surgeon

had been sent for. He now arrived, and stated that nothing could be

done; but recommended his being watched closely, and the removing

all dangerous weapons. He begged Henry, however, to indulge him in

all his caprices, in order that he might the better observe the

state of his mind.

 

While George slept, Delmé entered another room, and ordering the servant

to inform him when he awoke, he sat down to dinner alone and dispirited;

for Acmé refused to leave George. It was indeed a sad, and to Sir Henry

Delmé an unforeseen shock.

 

In a couple of hours, Thompson came with a message from Acmé. “Master

is awake, Sir—knows the Signora—and seems much better. He has

desired me to brush his cloak, as he intends going out. Shall I do so,

Sir, or not?”

 

“Do so!” said Delmé, “but fail not to inform me when he is about to go;

and be yourself in readiness. We will watch him.”

 

Chapter XV.

 

The Charnel House.

 

“And when at length the mind shall be all free,

From what it hates in this degraded form,

Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be

Existent happier in the fly or worm;

When elements to elements conform,

And dust is as it should be.”

 

The last grey tinge of twilight, was fast giving place to the sombre

hues of night, as a figure, enveloped in a military cloak, issued from

the barrack at Floriana.

 

Henry at once recognised George; and only delaying till a short distance

had intervened between his brother and himself, Delmé and Thompson

followed his footsteps.

 

George Delmé walked swiftly, as if intent on some deep design. The long

shadow thrown out by his figure, enabled his pursuers to distinguish him

very clearly. He did not turn his head, but, with hurried step, strode

the species of common which divides Floriana from La Valette. Crossing

the drawbridge, and passing through the porch which guards the entrance

to the town, he turned down an obscure street, and, folding his cloak

closer around him, rapidly—yet with an appearance of caution—continued

his route, diving from one street to another, till he entered a small

courtyard, in which stood an isolated gloomy-looking house. No light

appeared in the windows, and its exterior bespoke it uninhabited. Henry

and the domestic paused, expecting George either to knock or return to

the street. He walked on, however, and, turning to one side of the

porch, descended a flight of stone steps, and entered the lower part of

the house.

 

“Perhaps we had better not both follow him,” said the servant.

 

“No, Thompson! do you remain here, only taking care that your master

does not pass you: and I think you may as well go round the house, and

see if there is any other way of leaving it.”

 

Sir Henry descended the steps in silence. Arrived at the foot of the

descent, a narrow passage, diverging to the left, presented itself.

Beyond appeared a distant glimmering of light. Delmé groped along the

passage, using the precaution to crouch as low as possible, until he

came before a large comfortless room in the centre of which, was placed

a brass lamp, whose light was what he had discerned at the extremity of

the passage. He could distinctly observe the furniture and inmates of

the room. Of the former, the only articles were a table—on which were

placed the remains of a homely meal—an iron bedstead, and a barrel,

turned upside down, which served as a substitute for a chair. The

bedstead had no curtains, but in lieu of them, there were hangings

around it, which struck Delmé as resembling mourning habiliments.

Whilst the light operated thus favourably, in enabling Sir Henry to

note the interior of the apartment, it was hardly possible, from its

situation, that he himself could be observed. Its rays did not reach

the passage; and he was also shrouded in some degree by a door, which

was off its hinges, and which was placed against the wall. Fastened to

the side of the room were two deep shelves—the lower one containing

some bottles and plates; the upper, a number of human sculls. In a

corner were some more of these, intermingled in a careless heap, with a

few bleached bones.

 

George Delmé was standing opposite the door, conversing earnestly with a

Maltese, evidently of the lowest caste. The latter was seated on the

barrel we have mentioned, and was listening with apparently a mixture of

surprise and exultation to what George was saying. George’s voice sunk

to an inaudible whisper, as the conversation continued, and he was

evidently trying to remove some scruples, which this man either affected

to feel, or really felt. The man’s answers were given in a gruff and

loud tone of voice, but from the Maltese dialect of his Italian, Sir

Henry could not understand what was said. His countenance was very

peculiar. It was of that derisive character rarely met with in one of

his class of life, except when called forth by peculiar habits, or

extraordinary circumstances. His eyes were very small, but bright and

deeply set. His lips wore a constant sarcastic smile, which gave him the

air of a bold but cunning man. His throat and bosom were bare, and of a

deep copper colour; and his muscular chest was covered with short curly

hair. The conversation on George’s part became more animated, and he at

length made use of what seemed an unanswerable argument. Taking out a

beaded purse, which Sir Henry knew well—it had been Emily’s last

present to George—he emptied the contents into the bronzed hand of his

companion, who grasped the money with avidity. The Maltese now

appeared to acquiesce in all George’s wishes; and rising, went towards

the bed, and selected some of the articles of wearing apparel Delmé had

already noticed. He addressed some words to George, who sat on the

bedside quiescently, while the man went to the table, and took up a

knife that was upon it. For a moment, Delmé felt alarm lest his design

might be a murderous one; but it was not so. He laughed savagely, as he

made use of the knife, to cut off the luxuriant chestnut ringlets, which

shaded George’s eyes and forehead. He then applied to the face some

darkening liquid, and commenced choosing a sable dress. George threw off

his cloak, and was attired by the Maltese, in a long black cotton robe

of the coarsest material, which, descending to the feet, came in a hood

over his face, which it almost entirely concealed. During the whole of

this scene, George Delmé‘s features wore an air of dogged apathy, which

alarmed his brother, even more than his agitation in the earlier part of

the day. After his being metamorphosed in the way we have described, it

would have been next to an impossibility to have recognised him. His

companion put on a dress of the same nature, and Sir Henry was preparing

to make his retreat, presuming that they would now leave the building,

when he was induced to stay for the purpose of remarking the conduct of

the Maltese. He took up a scull, and placing his finger through an

eyeless hole, whence once love beamed or hate flashed, he made some

savage comment, which he accompanied by a long and malignant laugh. This

would at another time have shocked Sir Henry, but there was another

laugh, wilder and more discordant, that curdled the blood in Delmé‘s

veins. It proceeded from his brother, the gay—the happy George Delmé;

and as it re-echoed through the gloomy passage, it seemed that of a

remorseless demon, gloating on the misfortunes of the human race. Delmé

turned away in agony, and, unperceived, regained the anxious domestic.

Screened by an angle of the building, they saw George and his companion

ascend the stone steps, cross the yard, and turn into the street. They

followed him cautiously—Delmé‘s ears ringing with that fiendish laugh.

George’s companion stopped for a moment, at a house in the street, where

they were joined by a sallow-looking priest, apparently one of the most

disgusting of his tribe. He was accompanied by a boy, also drest in

sacerdotal robes, in one hand bearing a silver-ornamented staff, of the

kind frequently used in processions, and in other observances of the

Catholic religion; and in the other, a rude lanthorn, whose light

enabled Delmé to note these particulars. As the four figures swept

through the streets, the lower orders prostrated themselves, before the

figure of the crucified and dying Saviour which surmounted the staff.

They again stopped, and the priest entered a house alone. On coming

back, he was followed by a coffin, borne on the shoulders of four of the

lower order of Maltese. At the moment these were leaving the house,

Henry heard a solitary scream, apparently of a woman. It was wild and

thrilling; such an one as we hear from the hovering sea bird, as the

tempest gathers to a head. To Delmé, coming as it did at that lone hour

from one he saw not, it seemed superhuman. In the front of the house

stood two calèches, the last of which, Sir Henry observed was without

doors. At a sign from the Maltese, George and his strange companion

entered it. They were followed by the coffin, which was placed

lengthways, with the two ends projecting into the street. In the

leading calèche were the priest and boy, the latter of whom thrust

the figure of the bleeding Jesus out at the window, whilst with the

other hand he held up the lanthorn. Twice more did the calèche

stop—twice receive corpses. Another light was produced, and placed in

the last conveyance, and Delmé took the opportunity of their arranging

this, to pass by the calèche. The light that had been placed in it shone

full on George. The coffins were on a level with the lower part of his

face. Nothing of his body, which was jammed in between the seat and the

coffins, could be seen. But the features, which glared over the pall,

were indeed terrific; apathy no longer marked them. George seemed wound

up to an extraordinary state of excitement. Gone was the glazed

expression of his eye, which now gleamed like that of a famished eagle.

The Maltese leant back in the carriage, with a sardonic smile, his dark

face affording a strange contrast to the stained, but yet ghastly hue of

George Delmé‘s.

 

“They intend to take them to the vault at Floriana, your honor,” said

the servant, “shall I call a calèche, and we can follow them?”

 

Without waiting a reply, for the man saw that Sir Henry’s faculties,

were totally absorbed in the strange scene he had witnessed; Thompson

called a carriage, which passed the other two—now commencing at a

funeral pace to proceed to the vault—and, taking the same direction

which they had done on entering the town, a short time sufficed to put

them down immediately opposite the church. They had time allowed them to

dismiss