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

into life, until the giddy brain reels,

from the excess of that splendour, on which the eye suddenly and

delightedly feasts!

 

With the exception of a short halt, which afforded the travellers time for

an early dinner at the Albergo di Cicerone, which is about half a mile

from the Molo di Gaeta, they prosecuted their journey without

intermission, till arrived within sight of their resting place.

 

This bore the aspect of an extensive, but dilapidated mansion, evidently

designed for some other purpose.

 

Its proprietor had erected it, at a period, when malaria was either less

prevalent or less dreaded; and his descendants had quitted it, for some

more salubrious site.

 

The albergo itself, occupied but a small portion of the building,

immediately on the right and left of the porch.

 

The other apartments, which formed the wings, were either wholly

tenantless, or were fitted up as hay-lofts, granaries, or receptacles for

farming utensils.

 

In the upper rooms, the panes of glass were broken; and the whole aspect

of the place betokened desolation and decay.

 

As they drove to the door, a throng of mendicants and squalid peasants

came forth. Their faces had a cadaverous hue, which could not but be

remarked. Their eyes, too, seemed heavy, and deep set in the head; while

many had their throats bandaged, from the effects of glandular swellings,

brought on by the marshy exhalations.

 

Acmé threw some small pieces of Neapolitan money amongst them; and their

gratitude in consequence was boundless.

 

She sprang from the carriage like a young fawn.

 

“Come, come, Giorgio! look at that sweet sun-set—and at the blue clouds

edged with burnished gold! Would it not be a sin to remain in-doors on

such an evening? and besides,” added she, in a whisper—“is it not a

pleasure to leave behind us these sickly faces, to muse on an Italian

landscape, and admire an Italian sky? Driver! will you order supper? We

will take a stroll while it is preparing.

 

“Come! Henry! come away! do not look so grave, or you will make me think

of your amusing friend—Dr. Pormont.”

 

“Thompson!” said George, as the smiling bride bore off the brothers in

triumph, “do not forget your mistress’ guitar case!”

 

The travellers passed a paved court, in rear of the building; whence a

wicket gate admitted them to a kitchen garden, well stocked with the

requisites for an Italian salad.

 

Behind this, enclosed with embankments, was a small vineyard. The vines

twined round long poles, these again being connected with thin cords,

which the tendrils were already clasping.

 

Thus far, there was nothing that seemed indicative of an unwholesome

situation. As they extended their walk, however, pursuing the

continuation of the path, that had led them through the vineyard, they

arrived at the edge of a dark sluggish stream, whose surface was nearly on

a level with them; and which, gradually becoming broader, at length

emptied itself into what might be styled a wide and luxuriant marsh, which

abounded with water-fowl. This was studded with small round lakes, and

with islets of an emerald verdure.

 

From the bosom of the marsh itself, rose bulrushes and pollard willows,

towered over by gigantic noisy reeds.

 

The stream was thickly strewn with the pure honours of the water lily.

 

If—as Eastern poets tell us—these snowy flowers bathe their charms,

when the sun is absent, but lift up their virgin heads, when he looks

down approvingly:—but that, sometimes deceived, on some peerless

damsel’s approaching, they mistake her eye for their loved luminary, and

pay to her beauty an abrupt and involuntary homage:—now might they

indeed gaze upward, to greet as fair a face as ever looked down on the

water they bedecked.

 

They approached the edge of the marsh, and discovered a rural arbour

of faded boughs—the work of children—placed around a couple of

willow trees.

 

Within it, was a rude seat; and some parasitical plant with a deep red

flower, had twined round the withered boughs, and mingled fantastically

with the dead leaves.

 

Below the arbour, was a small stone embankment, which prevented the

waters from encroaching, and made the immediate site comparatively free

from dampness.

 

Acme arranged her cloak—took one hand of each of the brothers in

hers—and in the exuberance of health and youth—commenced prattling in

that charming domestic strain, which only household intimacy can beget

or justify. George leant back in silence, but could have clasped her to

his heart.

 

Memory! memory! who that hath a soul, cannot conjure up one such gentle

being,—while the blood for one moment responds to thy call, and rolls

through the veins with the tide of earlier and of happier days?

 

At the extremity of the horizon, was a more extensive lake, than any near

them. Over this, the sun was setting; tinting its waters with a clear rich

amber, save in its centre, where, the lake serving as a halo to its glory,

a blood-red sun was vividly reflected.

 

As the sun descended, one slender ray of light, came quivering and

trembling through the leaves of the arbour.

 

This little incident gave rise to a thousand fanciful illustrations on the

part of Acmé. Her spirits were as buoyant as a child’s; and her playful

mood soon communicated itself to her travelling companions.

 

They compared the solitary ray to virtue in loneliness—to the flickering

of a lamp in a tomb—to a star reflected on quicksilver—to the flash of a

sword cutting through a host of foes—and to the light of genius illuming

scenes of poverty and distress.

 

Thompson made his appearance, and announced the supper as being ready.

 

“This,” said George, good-naturedly, “is an odd place, is it not,

Thompson? Is it anything like the Lincolnshire Fens?”

 

“Not exactly, your honour!” replied the domestic, with perfect gravity,

“but there ought to be capital snipe shooting here.”

 

“Ah! che vero Inglese!” said the laughing Acmé.

 

They retraced their steps to the inn, and were ushered into the supper

room, which was neither more nor less than the kitchen, although formerly,

perhaps, the show room of the mansion. Around the deep-set fireplace,

watching the simmering of the cauldron, were grouped some peasants.

 

The supper table was laid in one corner of the room; and although neither

the accommodation nor the viands were very tempting, there was such a

disposition to be happy, that the meal was as much enjoyed as if served up

in a palace.

 

The repast concluded, Acmé rose; and observing a countryman with his arm

bound up, enquired if he had met with an accident; and patiently listened

to the prosy narrative of age.

 

An old bronzed husbandman, too, was smoking his short earthen pipe, near

the window sill.

 

“What a study for Lanfranc!” said the happy wife, as she took up a burnt

stick, and sketched his dried visage to the life.

 

The old man regarded his portrait on the wall, with intense satisfaction;

and commenced dilating on what he had been in youth.

 

How different, thought Sir Henry, is all this from the conduct of a well

bred English girl! yet how natural and amiable does it appear in Acmé!

With what an endearing manner—with what sweet frankness—does this young

foreigner wile away—what would otherwise have been—a tedious evening in

an uncomfortable inn!

 

As the night advanced, George brought out the guitar; and Acmé warbled to

its accompaniment like a fairy bird.

 

It was a late hour, before Delmé ventured to remind the songstress, that

they must prosecute their journey early on the following morning.

 

“I will take your hint,” said Acmé, as she shook his hand, and tripped

out of the room; “buona sera! miei Signori.”

 

“She is a dear creature!” said Delmé,

 

“She is indeed!” replied his brother, “and I am a fortunate man. Henry! I

think I shall be jealous of you, one of these days. I do believe she loves

you as well as she does me!”

 

The brothers retired.

 

Sir Henry’s repose was unbroken, until morning dawned; when George entered

his room in the greatest agitation, and with a face as pale as death, told

him Acmé was ill.

 

Delmé arose immediately; and at George’s earnest solicitation,

entered the room.

 

Her left cheek, suffused with hectic, rested on one small hand. The other

arm was thrown over the bed-clothes. Her eyes sparkled like diamonds. Her

lips murmured indistinctly—the mind was evidently wandering.

 

A man and horse were sent express to Naples. The whole of that weary day,

George Delmé was by Acmé‘s side, preparing cooling drinks, and vainly

endeavouring to be calm.

 

As the delirium continued, she seemed to be transported to the scenes of

her early youth,

 

As night wore on, the fever, if it were such, gradually increased.

 

George’s state of mind bordered on distraction. Sir Henry became

exceedingly alarmed, and anxious for the presence of the medical

attendant.

 

At about four o’clock the following morning, Doctor Pormont was announced,

 

Cold and forbidding as was his aspect, George hailed him as his tutelary

angel, and burst into tears, as he implored him to exert his skill to the

uttermost.

 

The physician approached the invalid, and in a moment saw that the case

was a critical one.

 

His patient was bled twice during the day, and strong opiates

administered.

 

Towards evening, she slept; and awoke with restored consciousness, but

with feelings keenly alive to her own danger.

 

The following night and day she lingered on, speaking but little.

 

During the whole of that time, even, when she slept, George’s hand

remained locked in hers. On this, her tears would sometimes fall, but

these she strove to restrain.

 

To the others around her, she spoke gratefully, and with feminine

softness; but her whole heart seemed to be with George.

 

Doctor Pormont, to do him justice, was unremitting in his exertions, and

hardly took rest.

 

All his professional skill was called to her aid; but from the second day,

he saw it was in vain.

 

The strength of the invalid failed her more and more.

 

Doctor Pormont at length called Sir Henry on one side, and informed him

that he entertained no doubt of a fatal result; and recommended his at

once procuring such religious consolation as might be in his power.

 

No Protestant clergyman was near at hand, even had Delmé thought it

adviseable to procure one.

 

But he was well aware, that however Acme might have sympathised with

George, her earlier religious impressions would now in all probability

be revived.

 

A Catholic priest was sent for, and arrived quickly. He was habited in

the brown garb of his order, his waist girt with a knotted cord. He bore

in his hand the sainted pyx, and commenced to shrive the dying girl.

 

It was the soft hour of sunset, and the prospect in rear of the mansion,

presented a wide sea of rich coloured splendour.

 

Over the window, had been placed a sheet, in order to exclude the light

from the invalid’s chamber. The priest knelt by her bedside; and folding

his hands together, began to pray.

 

The rays of the setting sun, fitfully flickered on the sheet, over whose

surface, light shadows swiftly played, ever and anon glancing on the shorn

head of the kneeling friar.

 

His intelligent face was expressive of firm belief.

 

His eye turned reverentially to heaven, as in deep and sonorous accents,

he implored forgiveness for the sufferer, for the sins committed during

her mortal coil.

 

Acmé sat up in her bed. On her countenance, calm devotion seemed to usurp

the place of earthly affections, and earthly passions.