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

inclination was repressed by the example of

their Colonel; and these, if not debaters, were at least patient

listeners, as the conversation dealt of matters, to them uncongenial,

and the value of the discussion of which they could not themselves

perceive. Not that military subjects were interdicted; the contrary was

the case. But these subjects took a somewhat loftier tone, than the

contemplation of an exchange of orderly duty, or an overslaugh of guard.

 

When dinner was announced, Colonel Vavasour placed his hand on the

shoulder of a boy near him.

 

“Come, Cholmondeley!” said he, “sit near me, and give me an account of

your match. You must not fail to write your Yorkshire friends every

particular. Major Clifford, will you sit on the other side of Sir Henry?

You are both Peninsula men, and will find, I doubt not, that you have

many friends in common.

 

“There is something,” said he to Delmé, as he took his seat,

“revivifying to an old soldier, in noting the exhilaration of spirit of

these boys. It reminds us of the zeal with which we too buckled on

our coat of red. It is a great misfortune these youngsters labour under,

that they have no outlet for their ambition, no scene on which they can

display their talents. Never were youthful aspirants for service more

worthy, or more zealous, and yet it is probable their country will not

need them, until they arrive at an age, when neither body nor mind are

attuned for commencing a life of hardship, however well adapted to

continue in it. We have had the advantage there—we trod the

soldier’s proudest stage when our hopes and buoyancy of heart were at

their highest; and for myself, I am satisfied that much of my present

happiness, arises from the very different life of my earlier years.”

 

The conversation took a military turn; and Delmé could not help

observing the attention, with which the younger members of the corps

heard the anecdotes, related by those who had been actually engaged.

Occasionally, the superior reading of the juniors would peep out, and

give them the advantage of knowledge, even with regard to

circumstances, over those who had been personal actors in the affairs

they spoke of. The most zealous of these detail narrators, were the

quarter-master of the regiment, and Delmé‘s right-hand neighbour, Major

Clifford. The former owed his appointment to his gallantry, in saving

the colours of his regiment, when the ensign who bore them was killed,

and the enemy’s cavalry were making a sudden charge, before the

regiment could form its square.

 

His was a bluff purple face, denoting the bon vivant. Indeed, it was

with uncommon celerity, that his previous reputation of being the best

maker of rum punch in the serjeants’ mess, had changed into his present

one of being the first concoctor of sangaree at the officers’.

 

Major Clifford merits more especial notice. He was a man hardly

appreciated in his own profession; out of it, he was misrepresented, and

voted a bore. He had spent all the years of his life, since the down

mantled his upper lip, in the service of his country; and for its

good, as he conceived it, he had sacrificed all his little fortune. It

is true his liberality had not had a very comprehensive range: he had

sunk his money in the improvement of the personal appearance of his

company—in purchasing pompons—or new feathers—or whistles, when he

was a voltigeur—in establishing his serjeants’ mess on a more

respectable footing—in giving his poor comrade a better coffin, or a

richer pall:—these had been his foibles; and in indulging them, he had

expended the wealth, that might have purchased him on to rank and

honours. His eagle glance, his aquiline nose, and noble person, showed

what he must have been in youth. His hair was now silvered, but his coat

was as glossy as formerly—his zeal was unabated—his pride in his

profession the same—and what he could spare, still went, to adorn the

persons of the soldiers he still loved. He remained a captain, although

his long standing in the army had brought him in for the last brevet. It

is true every one had a word for poor Clifford. “Such a fine fellow!

what a shame!” But this did not help him on. At the Horse Guards, too,

his services were freely acknowledged. The Military Secretary had always

a smile for him at his levee, and an assurance that “he had his eye on

him” The Commander in Chief, too, the last time he had inspected the

regiment, attracted by his Waterloo badge, and Portuguese cross, had

stopped as he passed in front of the ranks, and conversed with him most

affably, for nearly two minutes and a half; as his colour serjeant with

some degree of pride used to tell the story. But yet, somehow or other,

although Major Clifford was an universal favourite, they always forgot

to reward him. A man of the world, would have deemed the Major’s ideas

to be rather contracted; and to confess the truth, there were two

halcyon periods of his life, to which he was fond of recurring. The one

was, when he commanded a light company, attached to General Crauford’s

light brigade;—the other, when he had the temporary command of the

regimental depot, and at his own expense, had dressed out its little

band, as it had never been dressed out before.

 

Do you sneer at the old soldier, courtly reader?

 

There breathes not a man who dare arraign that man’s courage;—there is

not one who knows him, who would not cheerfully stake his life as a gage

for his stainless honour.

 

The soup and fish had been removed, when Delmé observed a young officer

glide in, with that inexpressible air of fashion, which appears to shun

notice, whilst it attracts it. His arm was in a sling, and his

attenuated face seemed to bespeak ill health. Sir Henry addressed

Colonel Vavasour, and begged to know if the person who had just entered

the room was Delancey. He was answered in the affirmative; and he again

turned to scrutinise his features. These rivetted attention; and were

such as could not be seen once, without being gazed at again. His eyes

were dark and large, and rested for minutes on one object, with an

almost mournful expression; nor was it until they turned from its

contemplation, that the discriminating observer might read in their

momentary flash, that their possessor had passions deep and

uncontrollable. His dark hair hung in profusion over his forehead, which

it almost hid; though from the slight separation of a curl, the form of

brow became visible; which was remarkable for its projection, and for

its pallid hue, which offered a strong contrast to the swart and

sunburnt face.

 

“Are you aware of his history?” said the Colonel.

 

“Not in the slightest,” replied Delmé. “I felt curious to see him, on

account of the way in which he has been mixed up with George’s affair;

and think his features extraordinary—very extraordinary ones.”

 

“He is son,” said Vavasour, “to the once celebrated Lady Harriet D–-,

who made a marriage so disgracefully low. He is the only child by that

union. His parents lived for many years on the continent, in obscurity,

and under an assumed name. They are both dead. It is possible Delancey

may play a lofty role in the world, as he has only a stripling between

him and the earldom of D–-, which descends in the female line. I am

sure he will not be a common character; but I have great fears about

him. In the regiment he is considered proud and unsocial; and indeed it

was your brother’s friendship that appeared to retain him in our circle.

He has great talents, and some good qualities; but from his uncommon

impetuosity of temper, and his impatience of being thwarted, I should be

inclined to predict, that the first check he receives in life, will

either make him a misanthrope, or a pest to society.”

 

At a later period of his life, Delmé again encountered Delancey; and

this prophecy of the Colonel’s was vividly recalled.

 

In the ensuing chapter, we purpose giving Oliver Delancey’s history, as

a not uninstructive episode; although we are aware that episodes are

impatiently tolerated, and it is in nowise allied to the purpose of our

story. But before doing so, we must detail a conversation which occurred

between Delancey and Delmé, at the table of the –- mess. The latter was

scanning the features of the former, when their eyes met. A conviction

seemed to flash on Delancey, that Delmé was George’s brother; for the

blood rushed to his cheek—his colour went and came—and as he turned

away his head, he made a half involuntary bow. Delmé was struck with his

manner, and apparent emotion; and in returning the salute, ventured “to

hope he was somewhat recovered.”

 

When Major Clifford left the table, Delancey took his vacant seat.

 

“Sir Henry Delmé,” said he, “I have before this wished to see you, to

implore the forgiveness of your family for the misery I have

occasioned. How often have I cursed my folly! I acted on an impulse,

which at the time I could not withstand. I had never serious views

with regard to Acmé Frascati. Indeed, I may here tell you,—to no

other man have I ever named it,—that I have ties in my own country

far dearer, and more imperatively binding. I knew I had erred. The

laws of society could alone have made me meet George Belmé as a foe;

but even then—on the ground—God and my second know that my weapon

was never directed at my friend. I am an unsocial being, Sir Henry,

and, from my habits, not likely to be popular. Your brother knew this,

and saved me from petty contentions and invidious calumnies. He was

the best and only friend I possessed. I purpose soon to leave Malta

and the army. The former is become painful to me,—for the latter I

have a distaste, A feeling of delicacy to Acmé Frascati would prevent

my seeing your brother, even if Mr. Graham had not forbidden the

interview, as likely to harass his mind. Will you, then, assure him of

my unabated attachment, and tell me that you forgive me for the

part I have taken in this unhappy affair.”

 

Delmé was much moved as he assured him he would do all he wished; that

he could see little to blame him for—that George’s excited feelings had

brought on the present crisis, and that he had amply atoned for any

share he might have had in the transaction. Delancey pressed his hand

gratefully.

 

It was at a somewhat late hour that Delmé joined Acmé and his brother;

declining the hearty invitation of the Quartermaster to come down to

his quarters.

 

“He could give him a devilled turkey and a capital cigar.”

 

Chapter XIII.

 

Oliver Delancey.

 

“Then the few, whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness,

Are driven o’er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess;

The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain

The shore to which their shiver’d sail shall never reach again.”

 

We have said that Delmé saw Delancey once more. It was at a later period

of our story, when business had taken Sir Henry to Bath. He had been

dining with Mr. Belliston Græme, who possessed a villa in the

neighbourhood. Tempted by the beauty of the night, he dismissed his

carriage, and, turning from the high road, took a by-path which led to

the city. The air was serene and mild. The moonlight was sufficiently

clear to chase away night’s dank vapours. The ground