A Love Story, by a Bushman by - (classic literature books TXT) 📖

philosopher to smite his own

cheek,—these things may come to be regarded as real grievances.

 

But Delmé, as a visitor, was pleased with what he saw. The promising

vineyards—the orange groves, with their glowing fruit and ample

foliage, “looking like golden lamps” in a dark night of leaves—the

thick leaves of the prickly pear—the purple sky above him, lending its

rich hue to the sea beside—the architectural beauties of the

cottages—the wide portico of the mansions—the flat terrace with its

balustrade, over which might be seen a fair face, half concealed by the

faldette, smilingly peering, and through whose pillars might be noted a

pretty ancle, and siesta-looking slipper—these were novelties, and

pleasing ones! Their drive over, Delmé felt more tranquil as to George’s

state of mind, and more inclined to look on the bright side, as to his

future fortunes.

 

Acmé was waiting to receive them, and as she scanned George’s features,

Delmé could not but observe the affectionate solicitude that marked her

glance and manner.

 

Let it not be thought we would make vice seductive!

 

Fair above all things is the pure affection of woman! happy he who may

regard it his! he may bask without a shade of distrust in its glorious

splendour, and permanently adore its holy beauty.

 

While, fascinating though be the concentred love of woman, whether

struggling in its passion—enraptured in its madness—or clinging and

loving on in its guilt: Man—that more selfish wanderer from virtue’s

pale, that destroyer of his own best sympathies—will find too late that

a day of bitterest regret must arrive: a day when love shall exist no

more, or, linked with remorse, shall tear—a fierce vulture—at his very

heart strings.

 

Chapter XI.

 

The Colonel.

 

“Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace.”

 

Delmé strolled out half an hour before his brother’s dinner hour, with

the intention of paying a visit of ceremony to the Colonel of George’s

regiment. His house was not far distant. It had been the palazzo of one

of the redoubted Knights of St. John; and the massive gate at which Sir

Henry knocked for admittance, seemed an earnest, that the family, who

had owned the mansion, had been a powerful and important one. The door

was opened, and the servant informed Delmé, that Colonel Vavasour was on

the terrace.

 

The court yard through which they passed was extensive; and a spring

 

“Of living water from its centre rose,

Whose bubbling did a genial softness fling.”

 

Ascending a lofty marble staircase, along which were placed a few

bronzed urns, Delmé crossed a suite of apartments—thrown open in the

Italian mode—and passing through a glass door, found himself on a wide

stone terrace, edged by pillars.

 

Immediately beneath this, was an orange grove, whose odours perfumed the

air. Colonel Vavasour was employed in reading a German treatise on light

infantry tactics. He received Sir Henry with great cordiality, and

proposed adjourning to the library. Delmé was pleased to observe, for it

corresponded with what he had heard of the man; that, with the exception

of the chef d’oeuvres of the English and German poets, the Colonel’s

library, which was an extensive one, almost wholly consisted of such

books as immediately related to military subjects, or might be able to

bear on some branch of science connected with military warfare. Pagan,

and his follower Vauban, and the more matured treatises of Cormontaigne,

were backed by the works of that boast of the Low Countries, Coehorn;

and by the ingenious theories, as yet but theories, of Napoleon’s

minister of war, Carnot.

 

Military historians, too, crowded the shelves. There might be noted

the veracious Polybius—the classic Xenophon—the scientific

Cæsar—the amusing Froissart, with his quaint designs, and quainter

discourses—and many an author unknown to fame, who in lengthy quarto,

luxuriated on the lengthy campaigns of Marlborough or Eugene; those wise

commanders, who flourished in an era, when war was a well debated

scientific game of chess; when the rival opponents took their time,

before making their moves; and the loss of a pawn was followed by the

loss of a kingdom. There might you be enamoured with even a soldier’s

hardships, as your eye glanced on the glowing circumstantial details of

Kincaid;—or you might glory in your country’s Thucydides, as you read

the nervous impassioned language of a Napier. Thou, too, Trant! our

friend! wert there! Ah, why cut off in thy prime? Did not thy spirit

glow with martial fire? Did not thy conduct give promise, that not in

vain were those talents accorded thee? What hadst thou done, to sink

thus early to a premature inglorious grave? Nor were our friends Folard

and Jomini absent; nor eke the minute essays of a Jarry, who taught the

aspiring youths of Great Britain all the arts of castrametation. With

what gusto does he show how to attack Reading; or how, with the greatest

chance of success, to defend the tranquil town of Egham. Here would he

sink trous de loup on the ancient Runnimede, whereby the advance of the

enemy’s cavalry would be frustrated; there would he cut down an

abattis, or plant chevaux de frise. At this winding of England’s

noblest river, would he establish a pontoon bridge; the approaches to

which he would enfilade, by a battery placed on yonder height.

 

Before relating the conversation between Delmé and Colonel Vavasour, it

may not be improper to say a few words as to the character of the

latter. When we say that he was looked up to as an officer, and adored

as a man, by the regiment he had commanded for years; we are not

according light praise.

 

Those who have worn a coat of red, or been much conversant with

military affairs, will appreciate the difficult, the ungrateful task,

devolving on a commanding officer.

 

How few, how very few are those, who can command respect, and ensure

love. How many, beloved as men, are imposed on, and disregarded as

officers. How many are there, whose presence on the parade ground awes

the most daring hearts, who are passed by in private life, with

something like contumely, and of whom, in their private relations, few

speak, and yet fewer are those who wish kindly. When deserving in each

relation, how frequently do we see those who want the manner, the tact,

to show themselves in their true colours. An ungracious refusal—ay! or

an ungraciously accorded favour! may raise a foe who will be a bar to a

man’s popularity for years:—whilst how many a free and independent

spirit is there, who criticises with a keener eye than is his wont, the

sayings and doings of his commanding officer, solely because he is

such. How apt is such an one to misrepresent a word, or create a wrong

motive for an action! how slow in giving praise, lest he should be

deemed one of the servile train! Pass we over the host of petty

intrigues—the myriads of conflicting interests:—show not how the

partial report of a favourite, may make the one in authority unjust to

him below him; or how the false tale-bearer may induce the one below to

be unjust to his superior. Colonel Vavasour was not only considered in

the field, as one of England’s bravest soldiers; but was yet more

remarkable for his gentlemanly deportment, and for the attention he ever

paid to the interior economy of his corps. This gave a tone to the–-

mess, almost incredible to one, who has not witnessed, what the constant

presence of a commanding officer, if he be a real gentleman, is enabled

to effect. Colonel Vavasour had ideas on the duties of a soldier, which

to many appeared original. We cannot but think, that the Colonel’s

ideas, in the main, were right. He disliked his officers marrying; often

stating that he considered a sword and a wife as totally incompatible.

 

“Where,” would he say, “is then that boasted readiness of purpose,

that spirit of enterprise? Can an officer then, with half a dozen

shirts in his portmanteau, and a moderate quantity of cigars, if he be a

smoker, declare himself ready to sail over half the world?”

 

The Colonel would smile as he said this, but would continue with a

graver tone.

 

“No, there is a choice, and I blame no one for making his election:—a

soldier’s hardships and a soldier’s joys;—or domestic happiness, and an

inglorious life:—but to attempt to blend the two, is, I think,

injudicious.”

 

On regimental subjects, he was what is technically called, a regulation

man. No innovations ever crept into his regiment, wanting the sanction

of the Horse Guards; whilst every order emanating from thence, was as

scrupulously adopted and adhered to, as if his own taste had prompted

the change. On parade, Colonel Vavasour was a strict disciplinarian;—

but his sword in the scabbard, he dropped the officer in his manner,—it

was impossible to do so in his appearance,—and no one ever heard him

discuss military points in a place inappropriate. He knew well how to

make the distinction between his public and his private duties. On an

officer under his command, being guilty of any dereliction of duty, he

would send for him, and reprimand him before the assembled corps, if he

deemed that such reprimand would be productive of good effect to others;

but—the parade dismissed—he would probably take this very officer’s

arm, or ask to accompany him in his country ride.

 

Colonel Vavasour had once a young and an only brother under his command.

In no way did he relax discipline in his favour. Young Vavasour had

committed a breach of military etiquette. He was immediately ordered by

his brother to be placed in arrest, and would inevitably have been

brought to a court martial, had not the commanding officer of the

station interfered. During the whole of this time, the Colonel’s manner

towards him continued precisely the same. They lived together as usual;

and no man, without a knowledge of the circumstance, could have been

aware that any other but a fraternal tie bound them together. What was

more extraordinary, the younger brother saw all this in its proper

light; and whilst he clung to and loved his brother, looked up with awe

and respect to his commanding officer.

 

As for Colonel Vavasour, no one who saw his convulsed features, as his

brother fell heading a gallant charge of his company at Waterloo, could

have doubted for a moment his deep-rooted affection. From that period, a

gloomy melancholy hung about him, which, though shaken off in public,

gave a shade to his brow, which was very perceptible.

 

In person, he was particularly neat; being always the best dressed

officer in his regiment, “How can we expect the men to pay attention to

their dress, when we give them reason to suppose we pay but little

attention to our own?” was a constant remark of his. And here we may

observe, that no class of men have a stricter idea of the propriety of

dress, than private soldiers. To dress well is half a passport to a

soldier’s respect; whilst on the other hand, it requires many excellent

qualities, to counterbalance in his mind a careless and slovenly

exterior. Colonel Vavasour had an independent fortune, which he spent at

the head of his regiment. Many a dinner party was given by him, for

which the corps he commanded obtained the credit; many a young officer

owed relief from pecuniary embarrassments, which might otherwise have

overwhelmed him, to the generosity of his Colonel. He appeared not to

have a wish, beyond the military circle around him, although those who

knew him best, said he had greater talent, and possessed the art of

fascinating in general society, more than most men.

 

“I