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

a breath fanned the

sails, as the vessel slowly glided between the Calabrian and Sicilian

coasts, approaching quite close to the former.

 

The party, seated on chairs placed on the deck, gazed in a spirit of

placid enjoyment on one of those scenes, which the enthusiastic

traveller often recals, as in his native clime, he pines for foreign

lands, and for novel impressions. The sun was setting over the purple

peaks of the Calabrian mountains, smiling in sunny gladness on deep

ravines, whose echoes few human feet now woke, save those of simple

peasant, or lawless bandit. Where the orb of day held its declining

course, the sky wore a hue of burnished gold; its rich tint alone

varied, by one fleecy violet cloud, whose outline of rounded beauty, was

marked by a clear cincture of white,

 

On their right, beneath the mountain, lay the little village of Capo del

Marte, a perfect specimen of Italian scenery.

 

Its sandy beach, against which the tide beat in dalliance—the chafed

spray catching and reflecting the glories of the setting sun—ran

smoothly up a slope of some thirty yards; beyond which, the orange

trees, in their greenest foliage, chequered with their shade the white

cottages scattered above them.

 

The busy hum of the fishermen on the coast—the splash of the casting

net—and the drip of the oar—were appropriate accompaniments to the

simple scene.

 

On the Sicilian side, a different view wooed attention. There, old Etna

upreared his encumbered head, around which the smoke clung in dense

majesty; and—not contemptible rivals of the declining deity—the moon’s

silvery crescent, and the evening star’s quiet splendour, were bedecking

the cloudless blue of the firmament.

 

Acmé gazed enraptured on the scene—her long tresses hanging back on the

chair, across which one hand was languidly thrown.

 

“Giorgio,” said she, “do you see this beautiful bird close to the

ship—swimming so steadily—its snowy plumage apparently unwet from its

contact with the wave? To what can you compare it?”

 

“That bright-eyed gull, love!” replied he, “riding on the water as if

all regardless that he is on the wide—wide sea—whose billows may so

soon be lashed up to madness;—where may I find a resemblance more

close, than my Acmé‘s simplicity, which guides her through a troubled

world, unknowing its treacheries, and happily ignorant of its dangers

and its woes?”

 

“Ah!” said the blushing girl, “how poetical you are this evening; will

you tell us a story, Giorgio?”

 

“I will tell you one,” said Delmé, interrupting her. “Do you recollect

old Featherstone, who had been in the civil service in India, and who

lived so near Delmé Park, George?”

 

“Perfectly,” said his brother, “I remember I used to think him mad,

because he always looked so melancholy, and used to send us word in the

morning when he contemplated a visit; in order that all cats might be

kept out of his way.”

 

“The very man! I am glad you know so much about him, for it is on this

subject I was going to speak. I cannot tell you where he picked up the

idea originally—but I believe in a dream—that a cat would occasion

his death.

 

“Well! he was at Ascot one year, when a gipsy woman came up to him on

the course—told him his fortune—and, to his utter astonishment, warned

him to beware of the wild cat.

 

“From that moment, I understand his habits changed. From being a

tolerably cheerful companion, he became a wretched hypochondriac; all

his energies being directed to the avoiding a contact with any of the

feline race.

 

“Featherstone, two or three years ago, embarked in one of the mining

speculations—lost great part of his fortune—and found it necessary to

try and retrieve his affairs, by a second voyage to India.

 

“I heard nothing more of him, till just before leaving England, when

my old schoolfellow, Lockhart, who went as a cadet to the East,

called on me—reminded me of our old whimsical friend—and related

his tragic death.

 

“Lockhart says that one day he and some mutual friends, persuaded

Featherstone to accompany them into the interior of the country, to

enjoy the diversion of a boar hunt.

 

“They had had good sport, and were returning homewards, when they

suddenly came on a party of natives, headed by the Rajah.

 

“They were mounted on elephants, and surrounding a jungle, in which, as

some sepoys had reported, lay a tiger.

 

“You know Lockhart’s manner—animated and enthusiastic—making one see

the scene he is describing.

 

“I will try and clothe the rest of the story in his own words, although I

can hardly hope it will make the same impression on you, that its

recital did on me.

 

“‘Well, Sir! we all said we would see the sport—all but

Featherstone—who said something about coming on.

 

“‘We were engaged to dine with Sir John M–-, who was in that part of

the world, on some six-and-eightpenny mission about indigo.

 

“‘The beaters went in, firing and shouting—intending to make him break

towards the hunting party.

 

“‘We all drew up on one side, to be in view, but out of the way;

Featherstone was next me. He suddenly grasped my arm, and pointed to the

jungle, his teeth chattering—his face ashy pale. I turned and saw the

tiger!—a splendid beast—certainly!

 

“‘He seemed not to notice us, and stalked on with an innocent yep! yep!

like a sick hound’s, more than anything else.

 

“‘Suddenly his eye caught us, and flashed fire. At the first view, he

crouched to the earth, then came on us, bounding like a tost foot-ball.

More magnificent leaps I never beheld! We were struck dumb—but

fired—and turned our horses’ heads!—all but Featherstone.

 

“‘I shall remember the tones of his voice to my dying hour.

 

“‘“The cat! Lockhart! the cat!”

 

“‘I don’t know whether his horse refused the spur—or whether the rider’s

nerve was gone: but neither appeared to make an effort, till the animal

was close on them.

 

“‘The horse gave one plunge—and had hardly recovered his feet, when down

went horse and rider.

 

“‘Featherstone gave a piercing scream! Some of the sepoys were by this

time up—and fired.

 

“‘The tiger trailed off—the blood spouting down his striped side.

 

“‘We came up—it was all over!

 

“‘The first stroke of that terrific paw had laid the unfortunate man’s

scull bare. On his shoulder, were the marks of the animal’s teeth.

 

“‘The horse was still writhing in agony. One of my pistols relieved him.

 

“‘We bore Featherstone to the nearest cantonment, and buried him there.’”

 

“How terrible!” said Acmé, as she gave a slight shudder. “Englishmen are

generally more sceptical on these points than we are; and disbelieve

supernatural appearances, which we are accustomed to think are not

unfrequent. I could tell you many stories, which, in my native island,

were believed by our enemies the Turks, as well as by ourselves: but if

you would like it, I will tell you a circumstance that occurred to

myself, the reality of which I dare not doubt.

 

“You have often, Giorgio! heard me revert with pain, to the horrible

scene which took place, on the recapture of our little isle by the

infidel Turks; when my family were massacred, and only poor Acmé left to

tell their tale.”

 

Here the young bride put her handkerchief to her face, and wept

bitterly. George put his arm round her and soothed her. She continued

her narrative.

 

“You know my escape, and how I was sent to a kinsman, who had promised

to have me sent to my kind friends in Malta. He was a Corfuote, and it

was in Corfu I remained for a long—a very long time—and there first

met my dear friend, Zöe Scalvo-Forressi. I was then very young. We lived

in the Campagna—about four miles from each other.

 

“We had both our Greek ponies, and used often to pass the evenings

together; and at length knew our road so well, that often it was night

before we parted.

 

“One night, we had been singing together at her house, and it was later

than usual when I cantered home.

 

“About four months had elapsed previous to my landing in Corfu, and I had

been eight months there; although at the time, I paid little attention

to these circumstances.

 

“My road lay through an olive grove. I had arrived in its centre, where

a small knoll stretched away on my right; on whose summit, was a white

Greek monastery, backed by some dark cypress trees.

 

“The moon was shining brightly—dancing on the silver side of the olive

trees—and illuminating the green sward.

 

“This was smooth and verdant.

 

“My spirits were more than usually buoyant, when suddenly my pony

stopped.

 

“I could not conceive the reason.

 

“I looked before me. Immediately in front of me, was the shattered trunk

of an old olive tree—it had been blasted by lightning—and sitting

quietly at its foot—I saw my own mother, Giorgio! as clearly as I see

you now. I could not be mistaken. She wore the same embroidered vest and

Albanian shawl, as when I had last seen her.

 

“She conversed with me calmly for many minutes, and—which surprised me

much at the time—I felt no dread, and asked her and answered many

questions.

 

“She told me I should die early, in a foreign land; and many—many more

things, which I dare not repeat; for I cannot contemplate the

possibility of their being true.

 

“At the time, I told you I felt composed: without any sense of alarm

or surprise. For many days afterwards, however, I never left my bed

of sickness.

 

“I told my kinsman all the circumstances, and he discovered beyond a

doubt, that it was on that very day, the twelvemonth previous, that my

poor mother had been murdered.”

 

Sir Henry and George tried to smile at Acmé‘s story, and account for

what she had seen;—but her manner was so impressive, and her ingenious

reasonings—delivered in the most earnest tone—seemed to confute so

entirely all their speculations, that they were at length content to

deem it “wondrous strange.”

 

In the best and wisest of us, there is such a tendency to believe in a

mysterious link, connecting the living and the departed; that a story

of this nature, in exciting our feelings, serves to paralyse our

reasoning faculties, and leaves us half converts, to the doctrines that

we faintly combat.

 

They looked forth again on the scene. The mountains of Calabria were

frowning on them. The village was far behind—and not a straggling light

marked its situation.

 

Numberless stars were reflected on the glassy water, whose serenity was

no longer ruffled by wing of sea bird, which long ere now had returned

to its “wave girded nest.”

 

Our party and the watch were the only lingerers on deck.

 

George wrapped Acmé‘s silk cloak around her, and then carefully assisted

her in her descent to the cabin.

 

Chapter XX.

 

The Mad House.

 

“And see the mind’s convulsion leave it weak.”

 

The land breeze continued to freshen, and the first dawn of morning saw

our party on deck, scanning with near view, the opposite coasts of

Sicily and Italy, as their vessel glided through the Faro of Messina.

 

Some pilot boats,—how unlike those which greet the homeward-bound

voyager, as he first hails Britain’s chalky cliffs—crowded around the

vessel, offering their services to guide it through the strait.

 

Avarice—one incentive to language—had endowed these Sicilian mariners

with a competent knowledge of English, which they dealt out

vociferously.

 

As the Captain made his selection, the rejected candidates failed not

to use that familiar English salâm; half the