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

>The soul was preparing for its upward flight. Delmé led away the sorrowing

husband, and the minister of Christ was left alone, to hear the contrite

outpourings of a weak departing sinner.

 

The priest left the chamber, but spoke not, either to the physician, or

the expecting brothers. His impassioned glance belonged to another and a

higher world.

 

He made one low obeisance—his robes swept the passage quickly—and the

Franciscan friar sought his lonely cell to reflect on death.

 

The brothers re-entered. They found Acmé in the attitude in which they had

left her—her features wearing an expression at once radiant and resigned.

 

But—as her eye met George’s—as she saw the havoc grief had already

made—the feelings of the woman resumed the mastery.

 

She extended her arms—she brought his lip to hers—as if she would have

made that its resting place for ever.

 

Alas! an inward pang told her to be brief. She drew away her face,

crimsoned with her passion’s flush—tremblingly grasped his hand–and,

with voice choked by emotion, gave her last farewell.

 

“Giorgio, my dearest! my own! I shall soon join my parents. I feel

this—and my mother’s words, as she met me by the olive tree, ring

in my ear.

 

“She told me I should die thus; but she told me, too, that I should kill

the one dearest to me on earth. Thank God! this cannot be—for I know my

life to be ebbing fast.

 

“Dearest I do not mourn for me too much. You may find another Acmé—as

true. But, oh! sometimes—yes! even when your hearts cling fondly

together, as ours were wont to do—think of your own Acmé—who loved you

first—and only—and does it now! oh! how well! Giorgio! dear! dearest!

adieu! My feet are so, so cold—and ice seems”—

 

A change shadowed the face, as from some corporeal pang.

 

She tried to raise an ebony cross hung round her neck.

 

In the effort, her features became convulsed—and George heard a low

gurgling in the throat, as from suffocation.

 

Ah! that awful precursor of “the first dark hour of nothingness.”

 

George Delmé sprang to his feet, and was supporting her head, when the

physician grasped his arm.

 

“Stop! stop! you are preventing”–-

 

The lower lip quivered—and drooped—slightly! very slightly!

 

The head fell back.

 

One long deep drawn sigh shook the exhausted frame.

 

The face seemed to become fixed.

 

Doctor Pormont extended his hand, and silently closed those dark

fringed lids.

 

The cold finger, with its harsh touch, once more brought consciousness.

 

Once more the lid trembled! there was an upward glance that looked

reproachful!

 

Another short sigh! Another!

 

Lustreless and glaring was that once bright eye!

 

Again the physician extended his hand.

 

“Assuredly, gentlemen! vitality hath departed!”

 

A deep—solemn—awful silence—which not a breath disturbed—came over

that chamber of death.

 

It seemed as if the insects had ceased their hum—that twilight had

suddenly turned to night—that an odour, as of clay, was floating around

them, and impregnating the very atmosphere.

 

George took the guitar, whose chords were never more to be woke to harmony

by that loved hand, and dashed it to the ground.

 

Ere Delmé could clasp him, he had staggered to the bedside—and fallen

over Acmé‘s still form.

 

And did her frame thrill with rapture? did she bound to his caress? did

her lip falter from her grateful emotion?—did she bury his cheek in her

raven tresses?

 

No, no! still—still—still were all these! still as death!

 

Chapter IV.

 

Rome.

 

“Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well.”

 

*

 

“The Niobe of nations! there she stands,

Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;

An empty urn within her wither’d hands,

Whose holy dust was scatter’d long ago.

The Scipios’ tomb contains no ashes now;

The very sepulchres lie tenantless

Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,

Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?

Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.”

 

Undertakers! not one word shall henceforth pass our lips in your

dispraise!

 

An useful and meritorious tribe are you!

 

What! though sleek and rosy cheeked, you seem to have little in common

with the wreck of our hopes?

 

What! if our ears be shocked by profane jests on the weight of your

burden, as you bear away from the accustomed mansion, what was its

light and its load star—but what is—pent up in your dark, narrow

tenement, but—

 

“A heap,

To make men tremble, that never weep.”

 

What! if our swimming eye—as we follow those dear—dear remains to their

last lone resting place—glance on the heartless myrmidons, who salute the

passer by with nods of recognition, and smiles of indifference?

 

What! if, returning homewards—choked with bitter recollections, which

rise fantastic, quick, and ill-defined—the very ghosts of departed

scenes and years—what if we start as we then perceive you—lightsome of

heart, and glib of speech—clustered and smirking, on that roof of

nodding plumes—neath which, one short hour since—lay what was dearest

to us on earth?

 

Let us not heed these things! for—light as is the task to traders in

death’s dark trappings; painful and soul-subduing are those withering

details to the grieving and heart-struck mourner!

 

We left George lying half insensible by the side of his dead wife.

 

Sir Henry and Thompson carried him to the apartment of the former, and

while Thompson hung over his master, attempting to restore

consciousness—Delmé had a short conference with Doctor Pormont as to

their ulterior proceedings.

 

Doctor Pormont—as might be expected—enjoined the greatest promptitude,

and recommended that poor Acmé‘s remains, should be consigned to the

burial place of the hamlet.

 

George’s objections to this, however, as soon as he was well enough to

comprehend what was going forward, seemed quite insurmountable; and after

Sir Henry had sought the place by moonlight, and found it wild and open,

with goats browsing on the unpicturesque graves, and with nothing to mark

the sanctity of the spot, save a glaring painted picture of the Virgin,

his own prejudices became enlisted, and he consented to proceed to Rome.

 

After this decision was made, he found it utterly impossible, to procure

a separate conveyance for the corpse; and was equally unsuccessful in his

attempt to procure that—which from being a common want, he had been

disposed to consider of every day attainment—a coffin.

 

While his brother made what arrangements he best might, poor George

returned to the chamber of death, and gazed long and fixedly—with the

despair of the widower—on those hushed familiar features.

 

Her hair was now turned back, and was bound with white ribbon, and

festooned with some of the very water lilies that Acmé had admired. A

snow-white wreath bound her brow. It was formed of the white convolvulus.

We have said the features were familiar; but oh! how different! The yellow

waxen hue—the heavy stiffened lid—how they affected George Delmé, who

had never looked on death before!

 

First he would gaze with stupid awe—then turn to the window, and attempt

to repress his sobs—return again—and refuse to credit his bereavement.

Surely the hand moved? No! of its free will shall it never move more! The

eye! was there not a slight convulsion in that long dark lash?

 

No! over it may crawl the busy fly, and creep the destructive worm,

without let, and without hindrance!

 

No finger shall be raised in its behalf—that lid shall remain closed

and passive!

 

The insect and the reptile shall extend their wanderings over the

smooth cheek, and revel on the lips, whose red once rivalled that of

the Indian shell.

 

Moveless! moveless shall all be!

 

The long—long night wore on.

 

An Italian sunrise was gilding the heavens.

 

Acmé was never to see a sunrise more; and even this reflection—trite as

it may seem, occurring to one, who had watched through the night, by the

side of the dead—even this reflection, convulsed again the haggard

features of the mourner.

 

Delmé had made the requisite arrangements during the night, for their

early departure.

 

Just previous to the carriage being announced, he led George out of the

room; whilst the physician, aided by the women, took such precautions as

the heat of the climate rendered necessary.

 

Linen cloths, steeped in a solution of chlorate of lime, were closely

wound round the body—a rude couch was placed in the inside of the

carriage, which was supported by the two seats—and the carriage itself

was darkened.

 

These preparations concluded—and having parted with Doctor

Pormont–whose attentions, in spite of his freezing manner, had been very

great—the brothers commenced their painful task.

 

George knelt at the head of the corpse—ejaculated one short fervent

prayer—and then, assisted by his brother, bore it in his arms to

the vehicle.

 

The Italian peasants, with rare delicacy, witnessed the scene from the

windows of the inn, but did not intrude their presence.

 

The body was placed crosswise in the carriage. George sat next the

corpse. Delmé sat opposite, regarding his brother with anxious eye.

 

Most distressing was that silent journey! It made an impression on Sir

Henry’s mind, that no after events could ever efface; and yet it had

already been his lot, to witness many scenes of horror, and ride over

fields of blood.

 

We have said it was a silent journey. George’s despair was too deep

for words.

 

The first motion of the carriage affected the position of the corpse.

George put one arm round it, and kept it immoveable. Sometimes, his

scalding tears would fall on that cold face, whose outline yet preserved

its beautiful roundness.

 

It appeared to Sir Henry, that he had never seen life and death, so

closely and painfully contrasted. There sat his brother, in the full

energies of manhood and despair; his features convulsed—his frame

quivering—his sobs frequent—his pulse quick and disturbed.

 

There lay extended his mistress—cold—colourless—silent—unimpassioned.

There was life in the breeze that played on her raven tresses—grim death

was enthroned on the face those tresses swept.

 

Not that decay’s finger had yet really assailed it; but one of the

peculiar properties of the preservative used by Doctor Pormont, is its

pervading sepulchral odour.

 

They reached Rome; and the consummation of their task drew nigh.

 

Pass we over the husband’s last earthly farewell. Pass we over that

subduing scene, in which Henry assisted George to sever long ringlets, and

rob the cold finger, of affection’s dearest pledge.

 

Alas! these might be retained as the legacy of love.

 

They were useless as love’s memento. Memory, the faithful mirror, forbade

the relic gatherer ever to forget!

 

Would you know where Acmé reposes?

 

A beautiful burial ground looks towards Rome. It is on a gentle declivity

leaning to the south-east, and situated between Mount Aventine and the

Monte Testaccio.

 

Its avenue is lined with high bushes of marsh roses; and the cemetery

itself, is divided into three rude and impressive terraces.

 

There sleeps—in a modest nook, surmounted by the wall-flower, and by

creeping ivy, and by many-coloured shrubs, and by one simple yellow

flower, of very peculiar and rare fragrance; a type, as the author of

these pages deemed, of the wonderful etherialised genius of the

man—there sleeps, as posterity will judge him, the first of the poets

of the age we live in—Percy Bysshe Shelley! There too, moulders that

wonderful boy author—John Keats.

 

Who can pass his grave, and read that bitter inscription, dictated on his

deathbed, by the heart-broken enthusiast, without the liveliest emotion?

 

“Here lies one, whose name was writ in water.

February 4th, 1821.”

 

The ancient