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

unnatural excitement.

 

Some prided themselves on being stars in fashion’s gayest

circle—others, whom he had hardly known, were fathers—for their

families were educating in England–he now found surrounded by children,

on whose provision they were wholly intent.

 

These were off at a tangent, “to see Peter Auber, at the India House,”

or, “could not wait an instant; they were to meet Josh: Alexander

precisely at two.”

 

And then their flippant sons! taking wine with him, forsooth—adjusting

their neckcloths—and asking “whether he had met their father at Madras or

Calcutta?”

 

This to a true Bengalee!

 

Nor was this all!

 

The young renegades ate their curry with a knife!

 

Others, from whom he had parted years before, shook hands with him at the

Oriental, as if his presence there was a matter of course; and then asked

him “what he thought of Stanley’s speech?”

 

Now, there are few men breathing, who have their sympathies so keenly

alive—who show and who look for, such warmth of heart–who are so

chilled and hurt by indifference—as your bachelor East Indian.

 

The married one may solace himself for coldness abroad, by sunny smiles at

home;—but the friendless bachelor is sick at heart, unless he encounter a

hearty pressure of the hand—an eye that sparkles, as it catches his—an

interested listener to his thousand and one tales of Oriental scenes, and

of Oriental good fellowship.

 

Mr. Benjamin Vernon soon found this London solitude—it was worse than

solitude—quite insupportable.

 

He determined to visit his brother’s widow, and left town for Leamington.

The brother-in-law felt more than gratified at the cordial welcome that

there met him.

 

His heart responded to their tones of kindness, and the old Indian, in the

warmth of his gratitude, thought he had at length discovered a congenial

home. He plunged into the extreme of dangerous intimacy; and was soon

domiciled in Mrs. Vernon’s small mansion.

 

It is absurd what trifles can extinguish friendships, and estrange

affection. Mr. Vernon had always had the controul of his hours—loved his

hookah, and his after-dinner dose.

 

His brother’s widow was an amiable person, but a great deal too

independent, to humour any person’s foibles.

 

She liked activity, and disliked smoking; and was too matter-of-fact in

her ideas, to conceive that these indulgences, merely from force of habit,

might have now become absolute necessities.

 

Mrs. Vernon first used arguments; which were listened to very patiently,

and as systematically disregarded.

 

As she thought she knew her ground better, she would occasionally secrete

the hookah, and indulge in eloquent discourse, on the injurious effects,

and waste of time, that the said hookah entailed.

 

Nor could the old man enjoy in peace, his evening slumber.

 

One of his nieces was always ready to shake him by the elbow, and address

him with an expostulatory “Oh! dear uncle!” which, though delivered with

silvery voice, seemed to him deuced provoking.

 

For some time, the old Indian good-naturedly acquiesced in these

arrangements; and was far too polite at any time to scold, or

hazard a scene.

 

Mrs. Vernon was all complacency, and imagined her triumph assured.

 

Suddenly the tempest gathered to a head. Bachelor habits regained their

ascendancy; and Mrs. Vernon was thunderstruck, when it was one morning

duly announced to her, that her brother-in-law had purchased a large

estate in Monmouthshire, and that he intended permanently to reside there.

 

Mrs. Vernon was deeply chagrined.

 

She thought him ungrateful, and told him so.

 

At the outset, our East Indian was anxious that his niece Julia, who had

been by far the most tolerant of his bachelor vices, should preside over

his new establishment; but the feelings of the mother and daughter were

alike opposed to this arrangement.

 

This was the last rock on which he and his brother’s widow split; and it

was decisive.

 

From that hour, all correspondence between them ceased.

 

Arrived in Wales, our nabob endeavoured to attach himself to country

pursuits—purchased adjoining estates—employed many labourers—and

greatly improved his property. But his rural occupations were quite at

variance with his acquired habits.

 

He pined away—became hypochondriacal—and died, just three years after

leaving Mrs. Vernon, for want of an Eastern sun, and something to love.

 

Chapter VI.

 

Veil

 

“The seal is set.”

 

On the day fixed for the departure of Sir Henry Delmé and his brother,

they together visited once more the sumptuous pile of St. Peter’s, and

heard the voices of the practised choristers swell through the mighty

dome, as the impressive service of the Catholic Church was performed by

the Pope and his conclave.

 

The morning dawn had seen George, as was his daily custom in Rome,

kneeling beside the grave of Acmé, and breathing a prayer for their

blissful reunion in heaven.

 

As the widower staggered from that spot, the thought crossed him, and

bitterly poignant was that thought, that now might he bid a second

earthly farewell, to what had been his pride, and household solace.

 

Now, indeed, “was the last link broken.” Each hour—each traversed

league—was to bear him away from even the remains of his heart’s

treasure.

 

Their bones must moulder in a different soil.

 

It was Sir Henry’s choice that they should on that day visit Saint

Peter’s; and well might the travellers leave Rome with so unequalled an

object fresh in the mind’s eye.

 

Whether we gaze on its exterior of faultless proportions—or on the

internal arrangement, where perfect symmetry reigns;—whether we consider

the glowing canvas—or the inspired marble,—or the rich mosaics;—whether

with the enthusiasm of the devotee, we bend before those gorgeous shrines;

or with the comparative apathy of a cosmopolite, reflect on the historical

recollections with which that edifice—the focus of the rays of

Catholicism—teems and must teem forever;—we must in truth acknowledge,

that there alone is the one matchless temple, in strict and perfect

harmony with Imperial Rome.

 

Gazing there—or recalling in after years its unclouded majesty—the

delighted pilgrim knows neither shade of disappointment—nor doth he

harbour one thought of decay.

 

Where is the other building in the “eternal city,” of which we can say

thus much?

 

Sir Henry Delmé had engaged a vettura, which was to convey them with the

same horses as far as Florence.

 

This arrangement made them masters of their own time, and was perhaps in

their case, the best that could be adopted; for slowness of progress,

which is its greatest objection, was rather desirable in George’s then

state of health.

 

As is customary, Delmé made an advance to the vetturino, who usually binds

himself to defray all the expenses at the inns on the road.

 

The travellers dined early—left Rome in the afternoon—and proposed

pushing on to Neppi during the night.

 

When about four miles on their journey, Delmé observed a mausoleum on the

side of the road, which appeared of ancient date, and rather curious

construction.

 

On consulting his guide-book, he found it designated as the tomb of Nero.

 

On examining its inscription, he saw that it was erected to the memory of

a Prefect of Sardinia; and he inwardly determined to distrust his

guide-book on all future occasions.

 

The moon was up as they reached the post-house of Storta.

 

The inn, or rather tavern, was a small wretched looking building, with a

large courtyard attached, but the stables appeared nearly—if not

quite—untenanted.

 

Sir Henry’s surprise and anger were great, when the driver, coolly

stopping his horses, commenced taking off their harness;—and informed the

travellers, that there must they remain, until he had received some

instructions from his owner, which he expected by a vettura leaving Rome

at a later hour.

 

It was in vain that the brothers expostulated, and reminded him of

his agreement to stop when they pleased, expressing their

determination to proceed.

 

The driver was dogged and unmoved; and the travellers had neglected

to draw up a written bargain, which is a precaution absolutely

necessary in Italy.

 

They soon found they had no alternative but to submit. It was with a very

bad grace they did so, for Englishmen have a due abhorrence of imposition.

 

They at length stepped from the vehicle—indulged in some vehement

remonstrances—smiled at Thompson’s voluble execrations, which they found

were equally unavailing—and were finally obliged to give up the point.

 

They were shown into a small room. The chief inmates were some Papal

soldiers of ruffianly air, engaged in the clamorous game of moro. Unlike

the close shorn Englishmen, their beards and mustachios, were allowed to

grow to such length, as to hide the greater part of the face.

 

Their animated gestures and savage countenances, would have accorded well

with a bandit group by Salvator.

 

The landlord, an obsequious little man, with face pregnant with

mischievous cunning, was watching with interest, the turns of the game;

and assisting his guests, to quaff his vino ordinario, which Sir Henry

afterwards found was ordinary enough.

 

Delmé‘s equanimity of temper was already considerably disturbed.

 

The scanty accommodation afforded them, by no means diminished his choler;

which he began to expend on the obstinate driver, who had followed them

into the room, and was busily placing chairs round one of the tables.

 

“See what you can get for supper, you rascal!”

 

“Signore! there are some excellent fowls, and the very best wine of

Velletri.”

 

The wine was produced and proved vinegar.

 

The host bustled away loud in its praise, and a few seconds afterwards,

the dying shriek of a veteran tenant of the poultry yard, warned them that

supper was preparing.

 

“Thompson!” said George, rather languidly, “do, like a good fellow, see

that they put no garlic with the fowl!”

 

“I will, Sir,” replied the domestic; “and the wine, Mr. George, seems none

of the best. I have a flask of brandy in the rumble.”

 

“Just the thing!” said Sir Henry.

 

To their surprise, the landlord proffered sugar and lemons.

 

Sir Henry’s countenance somewhat brightened, and he declared he would

make punch.

 

Punch! thou just type of matrimony! thy ingredients of sweets and bitters

so artfully blended, that we know not which predominate,—so deceptive,

too, that we imbibe long and potent draughts, nor awake to a consciousness

of thy power, till awoke by headache.

 

Hail to thee! all hail!

 

Thy very name, eked out by thine appropriate receptacle, recals raptures

past—bids us appreciate joys present—and enjoins us duly to reverence

thee, if we hope for joys in futurity.

 

A bowl of punch! each merry bacchanal rises at the call!

 

Moderate bacchanals all! for where is the abandoned sot, who would not

rather dole out his filthy lucre, on an increase of the mere

alchohol—than expend it on those grateful adjuncts, which, throwing a

graceful veil over that spirit’s grossness, impart to it its chief and its

best attraction.

 

Up rises then each hearty bacchanal! thrice waving the clear tinkling

crystal, ere he emits that joyful burst, fresh from the heart, which from

his uncontrolled emotion, meets the ear husky and indistinct.

 

Delmé squeezed the lemons into not a bad substitute for a bowl, viz. a red

earthen vase of rough workmanship, but elegant shape, somewhat resembling

a modern wine cooler.

 

George stood at the inn door, wistfully looking upward; when he remarked

an intelligent boy of fourteen, with dark piercing eyes, observing him

somewhat earnestly.

 

On finding he was noticed, he approached with an air of ingenuous

embarrassment—pulled off his cap—and said in a tone of enquiry,

 

“Un Signore Inglese?”

 

“Yes! my fine fellow! Do you know anything of me or the English?”

 

“Oh yes!” replied the boy with vivacity, replacing his cap, “I have

travelled