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

Chapter XII

The Letter.

 

“And from a foreign shore

Well to that heart might hers these absent greetings pour.”

 

Three weeks had elapsed since George’s death.

 

It would be difficult to depict satisfactorily, the state of Sir Henry

Delmé‘s mind during that period. The pride of life appeared crushed within

him. He rarely took exercise, and when he did, his step was slow, and his

gait tottering.

 

That one terrible loss was ever present to his mind; and yet his

imagination, as if disconnected with his feelings, or his memory, was

constantly running riot over varying scenes of death, and conjuring up

revolting pictures of putrescence and decay.

 

A black pall, and an odour of corruption, seemed to commingle with each

quick-springing fantasy; and Delmé would start with affright from his own

morbid conceptions, as he found himself involuntarily dwelling on the

waxen rigidity of death,—following the white worm in its unseemly

wanderings,—and finally stripping the frail and disgusting coat from the

disjointed skeleton.

 

Sir Henry Delmé had in truth gone through arduous and trying scenes.

 

The very circumstance that he had to conceal his own feelings, and

support George through his deeper trials, made the present reaction the

more to be dreaded.

 

Certain are we, that trials such as his, are frequently the prevailing

causes, of moral and intellectual insanity. Fortunately, Sir Henry was

endued with a firm mind, and with nerves of great power of endurance.

 

One morning, at an early hour, Thompson brought in a letter.

 

It was from Emily Delmé; and as Sir Henry noted the familiar address, and

the broad black edge, which told that the news of his brother’s death had

reached his sister, he cast it from him with a feeling akin to pain.

 

The next moment, however, he sprang from the bed, threw open the shutters,

and commenced reading its contents.

 

EMILY’S LETTER.

 

My own dear brother,

 

My heart bleeds for you! But yesterday, we received the sad, sad letter.

To-day, although blinded with tears, I implore you to remember, that you

have not lost your all! Our bereavement has been great! our loss heavy

indeed. But if a link in the family love-chain be broken—shall not the

remaining ones cling to each other the closer?

 

My aunt is heart-broken. Clarendon, kind as he is, did not know our

George! Alas! that he should be ours no more!

 

My only brother! dwell not with strangers! A sister’s arms are ready to

clasp you:—a sister’s sympathy must lighten the load of your sufferings.

 

Think of your conduct! your devotedness! Should not these comfort you?

 

Did you not love and cherish him? did you not—happier than I—soothe his

last days? were you not present to the end?

 

From this moment, I shall count each hour that divides us.

 

On my knees both night and morning, will I pray the Almighty God, who has

chastened us, to protect my brother in his travels by sea and land.

 

May we be spared, my dearest Henry, to pray together, that HE may bestow

on us present resignation, and make us duly thankful for blessings which

still are ours.

 

Your affectionate sister,

 

EMILY.

 

Delmé read the letter with tearless eye. For some time he leant his head

on his hand, and thought of his sister, and of the dead.

 

He shook, and laughed wildly, as he beat his hand convulsively

against the wall.

 

Carl Obers and Thompson held him down, while this strong paroxysm lasted.

 

His sobs became fainter, and he sunk into a placid slumber. The student

watched anxiously by his side. He awoke; called for Emily’s letter; and as

he read it once more, the tears coursed down his sunken cheeks.

 

Ah! what a relief to the excited man, is the fall of tears.

 

It would seem as if the very feelings, benumbed and congealed as they may

hitherto have been, were suddenly dissolving under some happier influence,

and that,—with the external sign—the weakness and pliability of

childhood—we were magically regaining its singleness of feeling, and its

gentleness of heart.

 

Sir Henry swerved no more from the path of manly duty. He saw the

vetturino, and arranged his departure for the morrow. On that evening, he

took Carl’s arm, and sauntered through the village church-yard.

 

Already seemed it, that the sods had taken root over George’s grave.

 

The interstices of the turf were hidden;—a white paper basket, which

still held some flowers, had been suspended by some kind stranger hand

over the grave;—from it had dropped a wreath of yellow amaranths.

 

There was great repose in the scene. The birds appeared to chirp softly

and cautiously;—the tufts of grass, as they bowed their heads against the

monumental crosses, seemed careful not to rustle too drearily.

 

Sir Henry’s sleep was more placid, on that, his last night at Wallensee,

than it had been for many a night before.

 

*

 

Acting up to his original design, Delmé passed through the capitals of

Bavaria and Wurtemburg; and quickly traversing the picturesque country

round Heilbron, reached the romantic Heidelberg, washed by the Neckar.

 

The student, as might be expected, did not arrive at his old University,

with feelings of indifference; but he insisted, previous to visiting his

college companions, on showing Sir Henry the objects of interest.

 

The two friends, for such they might now be styled, walked towards the

castle, arm in arm; and stood on the terrace, adorned with headless

statues, and backed by a part of the mouldering ruin, half hid by the

thick ivy.

 

They looked down on the many winding river, murmuringly gliding through

its vine covered banks.

 

Beyond this, stretched a wide expanse of country; while beneath them

lay the town of Heidelberg—the blue smoke hanging over it like a

magic diadem.

 

“Here, here!” said Carl Obers, as he gazed on the scene, with mournful

sensations, “here were my youthful visions conceived and

embodied—here did I form vows, to break the bonds of enslaved

mankind—here did I dream of grateful thousands, standing erect for the

first time as free men—here did I brood over, the possible happiness of

my fellow men, and in attempting to realise it, have wrecked my own.”

 

“My kind friend!” replied Delmé, “your error, if it be such, has been

of the head, and not the heart. It is one, natural to your age and your

country. Far from being irreparable, it is possible it may have taught

you a lesson, that may ultimately greatly benefit you. This is the

first time we have conversed regarding your prospects. What are your

present views?”

 

“I have none. My friends regard me as one, who has improvidently thrown

away his chance of advancement. My knowledge of any one branch of

science is so superficial, that this precludes my ever hoping to succeed

in a learned profession. I cannot enter the military service in my own

country, without commencing in the lowest grade. This I can hardly bring

my mind to.”

 

“What would you say to the Hanoverian army?” replied Delmé.

 

“I would say,” rejoined Carl: “for I see through your kind motive in

asking, that I esteem myself fortunate, if I have been in any way useful

to you; but that I cannot, and ought not, to think, of accepting a favour

at your hands.”

 

Sir Henry said no more at that time: and they reached the inn in silence.

 

Delmé retired for the night. Carl Obers sought his old chums; and,

exhilarated by his meershaum, and the excellent beer—rivalling the famous

Lubeck beer, sent to Martin Luther, during his trial, by the Elector of

Saxony—triumphantly placed “young Germany” at the head of nations.

 

Early the following morning, they were again en route.

 

They passed through Manheim, where the Rhine and Neckar meet,—through

Erpach,—through Darmstadt, that cleanest of Continental towns,—and

finally reached Frankfort-on-the-Maine, where it was agreed that Sir Henry

and Thompson were to part from their travelling companions.

 

Sir Henry in his distress of mind, felt that theirs was not a casual

farewell. On reaching the quay, he pressed the student’s hand with

grateful warmth, but dared not trust to words.

 

On the deck of the steamer, assisting Thompson to arrange the

portmanteaux, stood Pietro Molini.

 

The natural gaiety of the old driver had received a considerable check at

George’s death.

 

He could not now meet Sir Henry, without an embarrassment of manner; and

even in his intercourse with Thompson, his former jocularity seemed to

have deserted him.

 

“Good bye, Pietro!” said Delmé, extending his hand. “I trust we may one

day or other meet again.”

 

The vetturino grasped it,—his colour went and came,—he looked down at

his whip,—then felt in his vest for his pipe, As he saw Delmé turn

towards the poop, and as Thompson warned him it was time to leave the

vessel,—his feelings fairly gave way.

 

He threw his arms round