A Love Story, by a Bushman - - (the speed reading book .TXT) 📗
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of mourners followed his remains to their last home.
But there was something in the quiet of the spot, that seemed to Delmé in
harmony with his history; and to promise, that a sorrowless world had
already opened, on one who had loved so truly, and felt so deeply in this.
Sir Henry returned to the inn, and darkened his chamber.
He had not the heart to prosecute his journey, nor to leave the spot,
which held what was to him so dear.
Carl Obers attempted to combat his despondency; but observing how useless
were his arguments, wisely allowed his grief to take its course.
There was one point, in which Delmé was decidedly wrong.
He could not bring himself, to communicate their loss to his sister.
Carl pressed this duty frequently on him, but was always met by the
same reply.
“No! no! how can I inflict such a pang?”
It is possible the intelligence might have been very long in reaching
England, had it not been for a providential circumstance, that occurred
shortly after George’s funeral.
A carriage, whose style and appointments bespoke it English, changed
horses at the inn at Wallensee. The courier, while ordering the relays,
had heard George’s story; and touching his hat to the inmates of the
vehicle, retailed it with natural pathos.
On hearing the name of Delmé, the lady was visibly affected. She was
an old friend of the family; and as Melicent Dashwood, had known
George as a boy.
It was not without emotion, that she heard of one so young, and to her so
familiar, being thus prematurely called to his last account.
The lady and her husband alighted, and sending up their cards, begged to
see the mourner.
The message was delivered; but Delmé, without comment or enquiry, at once
declined the offer; and it was thought better not to persist. They were
too deeply interested, however, not to attempt to be of use. They saw Carl
and Thompson,—satisfied themselves that Sir Henry was in friendly hands;
and thanking the student with warmth and sincerity, for his attention to
the sufferer, exacted a promise, that he would not leave him, as long as
he could in any way be useful.
The husband and wife prepared to continue their journey; but not before
the former had left his address in Florence, with directions to Carl to
write immediately, in case he required the assistance of a friend; and the
latter had written a long letter to Mrs. Glenallan, in which she broke as
delicately as she could, the melancholy and unlooked-for tidings.
The Letter.
“And from a foreign shore
Well to that heart might hers these absent greetings pour.”
Three weeks had elapsed since George’s death.
It would be difficult to depict satisfactorily, the state of Sir Henry
Delmé‘s mind during that period. The pride of life appeared crushed within
him. He rarely took exercise, and when he did, his step was slow, and his
gait tottering.
That one terrible loss was ever present to his mind; and yet his
imagination, as if disconnected with his feelings, or his memory, was
constantly running riot over varying scenes of death, and conjuring up
revolting pictures of putrescence and decay.
A black pall, and an odour of corruption, seemed to commingle with each
quick-springing fantasy; and Delmé would start with affright from his own
morbid conceptions, as he found himself involuntarily dwelling on the
waxen rigidity of death,—following the white worm in its unseemly
wanderings,—and finally stripping the frail and disgusting coat from the
disjointed skeleton.
Sir Henry Delmé had in truth gone through arduous and trying scenes.
The very circumstance that he had to conceal his own feelings, and
support George through his deeper trials, made the present reaction the
more to be dreaded.
Certain are we, that trials such as his, are frequently the prevailing
causes, of moral and intellectual insanity. Fortunately, Sir Henry was
endued with a firm mind, and with nerves of great power of endurance.
One morning, at an early hour, Thompson brought in a letter.
It was from Emily Delmé; and as Sir Henry noted the familiar address, and
the broad black edge, which told that the news of his brother’s death had
reached his sister, he cast it from him with a feeling akin to pain.
The next moment, however, he sprang from the bed, threw open the shutters,
and commenced reading its contents.
EMILY’S LETTER.
My own dear brother,
My heart bleeds for you! But yesterday, we received the sad, sad letter.
To-day, although blinded with tears, I implore you to remember, that you
have not lost your all! Our bereavement has been great! our loss heavy
indeed. But if a link in the family love-chain be broken—shall not the
remaining ones cling to each other the closer?
My aunt is heart-broken. Clarendon, kind as he is, did not know our
George! Alas! that he should be ours no more!
My only brother! dwell not with strangers! A sister’s arms are ready to
clasp you:—a sister’s sympathy must lighten the load of your sufferings.
Think of your conduct! your devotedness! Should not these comfort you?
Did you not love and cherish him? did you not—happier than I—soothe his
last days? were you not present to the end?
From this moment, I shall count each hour that divides us.
On my knees both night and morning, will I pray the Almighty God, who has
chastened us, to protect my brother in his travels by sea and land.
May we be spared, my dearest Henry, to pray together, that HE may bestow
on us present resignation, and make us duly thankful for blessings which
still are ours.
Your affectionate sister,
EMILY.
Delmé read the letter with tearless eye. For some time he leant his head
on his hand, and thought of his sister, and of the dead.
He shook, and laughed wildly, as he beat his hand convulsively
against the wall.
Carl Obers and Thompson held him down, while this strong paroxysm lasted.
His sobs became fainter, and he sunk into a placid slumber. The student
watched anxiously by his side. He awoke; called for Emily’s letter; and as
he read it once more, the tears coursed down his sunken cheeks.
Ah! what a relief to the excited man, is the fall of tears.
It would seem as if the very feelings, benumbed and congealed as they may
hitherto have been, were suddenly dissolving under some happier influence,
and that,—with the external sign—the weakness and pliability of
childhood—we were magically regaining its singleness of feeling, and its
gentleness of heart.
Sir Henry swerved no more from the path of manly duty. He saw the
vetturino, and arranged his departure for the morrow. On that evening, he
took Carl’s arm, and sauntered through the village church-yard.
Already seemed it, that the sods had taken root over George’s grave.
The interstices of the turf were hidden;—a white paper basket, which
still held some flowers, had been suspended by some kind stranger hand
over the grave;—from it had dropped a wreath of yellow amaranths.
There was great repose in the scene. The birds appeared to chirp softly
and cautiously;—the tufts of grass, as they bowed their heads against the
monumental crosses, seemed careful not to rustle too drearily.
Sir Henry’s sleep was more placid, on that, his last night at Wallensee,
than it had been for many a night before.
*
Acting up to his original design, Delmé passed through the capitals of
Bavaria and Wurtemburg; and quickly traversing the picturesque country
round Heilbron, reached the romantic Heidelberg, washed by the Neckar.
The student, as might be expected, did not arrive at his old University,
with feelings of indifference; but he insisted, previous to visiting his
college companions, on showing Sir Henry the objects of interest.
The two friends, for such they might now be styled, walked towards the
castle, arm in arm; and stood on the terrace, adorned with headless
statues, and backed by a part of the mouldering ruin, half hid by the
thick ivy.
They looked down on the many winding river, murmuringly gliding through
its vine covered banks.
Beyond this, stretched a wide expanse of country; while beneath them
lay the town of Heidelberg—the blue smoke hanging over it like a
magic diadem.
“Here, here!” said Carl Obers, as he gazed on the scene, with mournful
sensations, “here were my youthful visions conceived and
embodied—here did I form vows, to break the bonds of enslaved
mankind—here did I dream of grateful thousands, standing erect for the
first time as free men—here did I brood over, the possible happiness of
my fellow men, and in attempting to realise it, have wrecked my own.”
“My kind friend!” replied Delmé, “your error, if it be such, has been
of the head, and not the heart. It is one, natural to your age and your
country. Far from being irreparable, it is possible it may have taught
you a lesson, that may ultimately greatly benefit you. This is the
first time we have conversed regarding your prospects. What are your
present views?”
“I have none. My friends regard me as one, who has improvidently thrown
away his chance of advancement. My knowledge of any one branch of
science is so superficial, that this precludes my ever hoping to succeed
in a learned profession. I cannot enter the military service in my own
country, without commencing in the lowest grade. This I can hardly bring
my mind to.”
“What would you say to the Hanoverian army?” replied Delmé.
“I would say,” rejoined Carl: “for I see through your kind motive in
asking, that I esteem myself fortunate, if I have been in any way useful
to you; but that I cannot, and ought not, to think, of accepting a favour
at your hands.”
Sir Henry said no more at that time: and they reached the inn in silence.
Delmé retired for the night. Carl Obers sought his old chums; and,
exhilarated by his meershaum, and the excellent beer—rivalling the famous
Lubeck beer, sent to Martin Luther, during his trial, by the Elector of
Saxony—triumphantly placed “young Germany” at the head of nations.
Early the following morning, they were again en route.
They passed through Manheim, where the Rhine and Neckar meet,—through
Erpach,—through Darmstadt, that cleanest of Continental towns,—and
finally reached Frankfort-on-the-Maine, where it was agreed that Sir Henry
and Thompson were to part from their travelling companions.
Sir Henry in his distress of mind, felt that theirs was not a casual
farewell. On reaching the quay, he pressed the student’s hand with
grateful warmth, but dared not trust to words.
On the deck of the steamer, assisting Thompson to arrange the
portmanteaux, stood Pietro Molini.
The natural gaiety of the old driver had received a considerable check at
George’s death.
He could not now meet Sir Henry, without an embarrassment of manner; and
even in his intercourse with Thompson, his former jocularity seemed to
have deserted him.
“Good bye, Pietro!” said Delmé, extending his hand. “I trust we may one
day or other meet again.”
The vetturino grasped it,—his colour went and came,—he looked down at
his whip,—then felt in his vest for his pipe, As he saw Delmé turn
towards the poop, and as Thompson warned him it was time to leave the
vessel,—his feelings fairly gave way.
He threw his arms round
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