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

addressed her.

 

“You must change your mind, dearest,” said he. And he told her of the

world’s opinion—the contumely she might have to endure—the slights to

which she would be subjected. Still she heeded not.

 

“Why mention these things?” said she. “Who would insult me, were you

near? or if they did, should I regard them while you were kind?”

 

And her lover’s words took a loftier tone; and he spoke of religion, and

of the duties it imposes; of the feelings of his countrywomen; and the

all-seeing eye of their God. Still the fond girl wept bitterly, but

spoke not.

 

“My own Acmé! consider my health too, dearest! Were you now to

consent, I might never again be ill. It would be cruelty to me to

refuse. Say you consent for my sake, sweet!”

 

“For your sake, then!” said Acme, as she twined her snowy arms round his

neck, “for your sake, Giorgio, I do so! But oh! when I am yours for

ever by that tie; when—if this be possible—our present raptures are

less fervent—our mutual affections less devoted—do not, dearest

George—do not, I implore you—treat me with coldness. It would break my

heart, indeed it would.”

 

They were married according to the rites of both the Protestant and

Catholic Church. Few were present. George had been lifted to the sofa,

and sat up during the ceremony; and although his features were pale and

emaciated, they brightened with internal satisfaction, as he heard those

words pronounced, which made his love a legitimate one. Acmé was silent

and thoughtful; and tears quenched the fire of her usually sparkling

eye. George Delmé‘s recovery from this date became more rapid.

 

He was able to resume his wonted exercise—his step faltered

less—his eye became clearer. His convalescence was so decided, that

the surgeon recommended his at once travelling, and for the present

relinquishing the army.

 

“Perhaps the excessive heat may not be beneficial. I would, if possible,

get him to Switzerland for the summer months. I will enquire what

outward-bound vessels there are. If there is one for Leghorn, so much

the better. But the sooner he tries change of scene, the more

advantageous it is likely to be; and after all, the climate is but a

secondary consideration.”

 

An American vessel bound to Palermo, happened to be the only one in the

harbour, whose destination would serve their purpose; and determined

not to postpone George’s removal, Sir Henry at once engaged its cabin.

Colonel Vavasour obtained George leave for the present, and promised to

arrange as to his exchanging from full pay. He likewise enabled him,

which George felt as a great boon, to take his old and attached servant

with him; with the promise that he would use all his interest to have

the man’s discharge forwarded him, before the expiration of his leave.

 

“He may be useful to you, my dear boy, if you get ill again, which God

forbid! He is an old soldier, and a good man—well deserving the

indulgence. And remember! if you should be better, and feel a returning

penchant for the red coat, write to me—we will do our best to work an

exchange for you.”

 

Chapter XVII.

 

The Departure.

 

“Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been,

A sound that makes us linger, yet farewell.”

 

The day of departure at length arrived. Thompson had been busy the

greater part of the night in getting every thing ready for the voyage.

It was a lovely morning, and the wind, although light, was propitious.

 

Acmé had parted with her relations and friends the day previous.

 

She was henceforward to share the destiny of one, who was to supply the

place of both to her. Attached to them as she was, and grateful as she

felt for their kindness in the hour of need, there was nothing in that

parting to throw a permanent gloom on the hopes of the youthful bride.

 

Her love, and the feelings it engendered, were of that confiding nature,

that she could have followed George anywhere, and been happy still. As

it was, her lot seemed cast “in pleasant places,” and no foreboding of

evil, except indeed for George, ever marred the waking dreams of Acmé.

Her simple heart had already learnt, to look up with respect and

affection to Sir Henry, and yearned with fond longing for the period

when she should return a sister’s love.

 

She had that lively talent too, which, miniatured as it was, allowed of

her fully appreciating the superiority of the English she had lately

met, to the general run of those with whom she had hitherto associated.

An English home had none but charms for her.

 

“Come Acmé,” said George, as he assisted her in adjusting the first

bonnet that had ever confined her wavy curls, “wish good bye to your

ring-dove, dear! Mrs. Graham will take good care of it; and Thompson has

just finished the packing.”

 

The boat which was to convey them to the vessel was so near, that they

had agreed to walk down to the place of embarkation.

 

As George left the room, a tall figure presented itself on the

staircase.

 

“Ah, Clark!” said George, “my good fellow! I am very sorry to part with

you. I do not know what I shall do without my pay serjeant!” and he held

out his hand.

 

It was grasped gratefully.

 

“Thank you, your honour!”

 

The old soldier stood erect, and put his hand to his cap.

 

“God bless you! Mr. Delmé. I have served under many officers, but never

under a kinder. May the Almighty bless you, Sir, in all your

wanderings.”

 

The soldier turned away—one large drop burst o’er the lid, and trickled

down his sunburnt cheek.

 

With the back of his hand, he brushed it off indignantly.

 

His converse may be rough—his manner rude—his hand ever ready for

quarrel;—but, believe us! ye who deem the soldier beneath his

fellow-men,—that the life of change—of chance—of hardship—and of

danger—which is his, freezes not the kindlier emotions of the soul, if

it sweep away its sicklier refinements. Beneath the red vest, beat

hearts as warm and true, as ever throbbed beneath operative apron, or

swelled under softest robe of ermine.

 

George was moved by the man’s evidently sincere grief. He reached the

bottom of the stairs. The company to which he belonged was drawn up in

the court yard.

 

In front of it, the four tallest men supported a chair, and almost

before George Delmé was aware of their purpose, bore him to it, and

lifted him on their shoulders, amidst the huzzas of their comrades. The

band, too, which had voluntarily attended, now struck up the march which

George delighted to hear; and, followed by his company, he was carried

triumphantly towards the mole.

 

George’s heart was full.

 

Sir Henry felt deeply interested in the scene; and poor Acmé leant on

his arm, and wept with joy.

 

Yes! there are moments in life, and this was one, when the approval of

our inferiors awakens a degree of pride and mental satisfaction, that

no panegyric of our superiors, no expressions of esteem from our

equals, could have ever called forth. Such approval meets us, as the

spontaneous effusion of hearts that have looked up to ours, and have

not been deceived.

 

This pride was it that flushed George’s cheek, and illumed with

brightness his swimming eye. He was thus carried till he arrived at the

spot where his boat should have been. It was already, with Thompson and

their baggage, half way towards the vessel. In its place was the

regimental gig, manned by George’s best friends. Its steersman was

Colonel Vavasour, drest in the fanciful aquatic costume his regiment

had adopted.

 

Trifling as this may appear, this act of his Colonel, seemed to George

the very highest compliment that had ever been paid him.

 

George Delmé turned to his company, and with choking voice thanked them

for this last mark of attention. We are very certain that a shake of

the hand from a prince, would not have delighted him as much, as did

the hearty farewell greeting of his rough comrades.

 

Even Acmé blushingly went up to the chair-supporters, and, with a

winning smile, extended her small hand. Vavasour assisted her into the

gig, and it was with a bounding elasticity of spirit, to which he had

long been a stranger, that George followed. As the boat cut through the

water, they were greeted with a last and deafening huzza.

 

In a short time they were alongside the vessel. The captain was pacing

the deck, and marking the signs of the wind, with the keen eye of the

sailor. A chair was lowered for Acmé. She shook hands with the rowers.

George parted from them as if they had been brothers, and from Colonel

Vavasour last of all.

 

“Take care of yourself, my dear boy,” said the latter, “do not

forget to write us; we shall all be anxious to know how you have

stood the voyage.”

 

As the gig once more shot its way homewards, and many a friendly

handkerchief waved its adieu, George felt, that sad as the parting was,

he should have felt it more bitterly if they had loved him less.

 

To divert their minds from thoughts of a melancholy nature, Sir Henry,

as the boat made a turn of the land, and was no longer visible, proposed

exploring the cabin. This they found small, but cleanly. Some hampers of

fruit, and a quantity of ice, exhibited agreable proofs of the attention

of Acmé‘s relations. We may, by the way, observe, that rarely does the

sense of the palate assert its supremacy with greater force than on

board-ship. There will the thought—much more the reality—of a

mellow pine—or juicy pomegranate—cause the mouth to water for the best

part of a long summer’s day. On their ascending the deck, the captain

approached Sir Henry.

 

“No offence! Sir; but I guess the wind is fair. If you want nothing

ashore, we will off, Sir, now! if you please.”

 

Delmé acquiesced.

 

How disagreable is the act of leaving harbour in a merchant ship!

 

Even sailors dislike it, and growl between their teeth, like captive

bears. The chains of the anchor clank gratingly on the ear. The very

chorus of the seamen smacks of the land, and wants the rich and free

tone that characterises it in mid-sea. Hoarse are the mandates of the

boat-swain! his whistle painfully shrill! The captain walks the deck

thoughtfully, and frowningly ruminates on his bill of lading—or on some

overcharge in the dock duties—or, it may be, on his dispute on shore

with a part owner of the vessel.

 

And anon, he shakes off these thoughts, and looks on the

weather-side—then upwards at the the masts—and, as he notes the

proceedings, his orders are delivered fiercely, and his passions seem

ungovernable.

 

The vessel, too, seems to share the general feeling—is loath to

leave the port.

 

She unsteadily answers the call of her canvas—her rigging creaks—and

her strong sides groan—as she begins lazily and slowly to make her way.

 

Glad to turn their attention to anything rather than the scene around,

George began conversing on the effect the attentions of his company and

brother officers had had on him.

 

“Their kindness,” said George, “was wholly unexpected by me, and I felt

it very deeply. An hour before, I fancied that Acmé and my own family

monopolised every sympathy I possessed. But, thank God! the heart has

many hidden channels through which kindness may steal, and infuse its

genial balm.”

 

“I felt