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

>“la cara Nina.”

 

It was near midnight, when all eyes were directed to a ball of fire,

which, rising majestically upward, soared amid the tall elm trees. For a

moment, the balloon became entangled in the boughs, revealing by its

transparent light the green buds of spring, which variegated and cheered

the scathed bark. It broke loose from their embrace—hovered

irresolutely above them—then swept rapidly before the wind, rising till

it became as a speck in the firmament.

 

This was the signal for Mr. Robinson’s fireworks, which did not shame

Vauxhall’s reputation. At one moment, a salamander courted notice; at

another, a train of fiery honours, festooned round four wooden pillars,

was fired at different places, by as many doves practised to the task.

Here, an imitation of a jet d’eau elicited applause—there, the

gyrations of a Catherine’s wheel were suddenly interrupted by the rapid

ascent of a Roman candle.

 

Directly after the ascent of the balloon, Emily and Clarendon had

turned towards the ball room. Julia’s sisters had a group of laughing

beaux round their chairs,—Mrs. Glenallan and Mrs. Vernon were

discussing bygone days,—and no one seemed disposed to leave the

pavilion. Sir Henry, in his silent mood, was glad to escape from the

party; and engaging Julia in a search for Emily, made his way to the

crowded ball room. He there found his sister spinning round with

Clarendon to one of Strauss’s waltzes; and Sir Henry and his partner

seated themselves on one of the benches, watching the smiling faces as

they whirled past them. It was a melancholy thought to Delmé, how soon

Emily’s brow would be clouded, were he to breathe one word of George’s

illness and despondency. The waltz concluded, a quadrille was quickly

formed. Miss Vernon declined dancing, and they rose to join Emily and

Clarendon; but the lovers were flown. The ball room became still more

thronged; and Delmé was glad to turn once more towards the pavilion. The

party they had left there had also vanished, and strangers usurped their

seats. In this dilemma, Miss Vernon proposed seeking their party in the

long walk. They took one or two turns down this, but saw not those for

whom they were in search.

 

“If you do not dislike leaving this busy scene,” said Sir Henry, “I

think we shall have a better chance of meeting Emily and Clarendon, if

we turn down one of these winding paths.”

 

They turned to their left, and walked on. How beautiful was that night!

Its calm tranquillity, as they receded from the giddy throng, could not

but subdue them. We have said that the moon was not riding the heavens

in her full robe of majesty, nor was there a sombre darkness. The purple

vault was spangled thick with stars; and there reigned that dubious,

glimmering light, by which you can note a face, but not mark its blush.

The walks wound fantastically. They were lit by festoons of coloured

lamps, attached to the neighbouring trees, so as to resemble the pendent

grape-clusters, that the traveller meets with just previous to the

Bolognese vintage. Occasionally, a path would be encountered where no

light met the eye save that of the prying stars overhead. In the

distant vista, might be seen a part of the crowded promenade, where

music held its court; whilst at intervals, a voice’s swell or guitar’s

tinkle would be borne on the ear. There was the hum of men, too—the

laugh of the idlers without the sanctum, as they indulged in the

delights of the mischievous fire-ball—and the sudden whizz, followed by

an upward glare of light, as a rocket shot into the air. But the hour,

and the nameless feeling that hour invoked, brought with them a subduing

influence, which overpowered these intruding sounds, attuning the heart

to love and praise. They paced the walk in mutual and embarrassed

silence. Sir Henry’s thoughts would at one time revert to his brother,

and at another to that parting, which the morrow would assuredly bring

with it. He was lost in reverie, and almost forgot who it was that leant

thus heavily upon his arm. Julia had loved but once. She saw his

abstraction, and knew not the cause; and her timid heart beat quicker

than was its wont, as undefined images of coming evil and sorrow, chased

each other through her excited fancy. At length she essayed to speak,

although conscious that her voice faltered.

 

“What a lovely night! Are you a believer in the language of the stars?”

 

This was said with such simplicity of manner, that Delmé, as he turned

to answer her, felt truly for the first time the full force of his

attachment. He felt it the more strongly, that his mind previously had

been wandering more than it had done for years.

 

There are times and seasons when we are engrossed in a train of deep and

unconscious thought. Suddenly recalled to ourselves, we start from our

mental aberration, and a clearer insight into the immediate purposes and

machinery of our lives, is afforded us. We seem endowed with a more

accurate knowledge of self; the inmost workings of our souls are

abruptly revealed—feeling’s mysteries stand developed—our weaknesses

stare us in the face—and our vices appear to gnaw the very vitals of

our hope. The veil was indeed withdrawn,—and Delmé‘s heart

acknowledged, that the fair being who leant on him for support, was

dearer—far dearer, than all beside. But he saw too, ambition in that

heart’s deep recess, and knew that its dictates, unopposed for years,

were totally incompatible with such a love. He saw and trembled.

 

Julia’s question was repeated, before Sir Henry could reply.

 

“A soldier, Miss Vernon, is particularly susceptible of visionary ideas.

On the lone bivouac, or remote piquet, duty must frequently chase sleep

from his eyelids. At such times, I have, I confess, indulged in wild

speculations, on their possible influence on our wayward destinies. I

was then a youth, and should not now, I much fear me, pursue with such

unchecked ardour, the dreams of romance in which I could then

unrestrainedly revel. Perhaps I should not think it wise to do so, even

had not sober reality stolen from imagination her brightest pinion.”

 

“I would fain hope, Sir Henry,” replied Julia, “that all your mind’s

elasticity is not thus flown. Why blame such fanciful theories? I cannot

think them wrong, and I have often passed happy hours in forming them.”

 

“Simply because they remove us too much from our natural sphere of

usefulness. They may impart us pleasure; but I question whether, by

dulling our mundane delights, they do not steal pleasure quite

equivalent. Besides, they cannot assist us in conferring happiness on

others, or in gleaning improvement for ourselves. I am not quite

certain, enviable as appears the distinction, whether the too

feelingly appreciating even nature’s beauties, does not bear with it its

own retribution.”

 

“Ah! do not say so! I cannot think that it should be so with minds

properly regulated. I cannot think that such can ever gaze on the

wonders revealed us, without these imparting their lesson of gratitude

and adoration. If, full of hope, our eye turns to some glorious planet,

and we fondly deem that there, may our dreams of happiness here, be

perpetuated; surely in such poetical fancy, there is little to condemn,

and much that may wean us from folly’s idle cravings.

 

“If in melancholy’s hour, we mourn for one who hath been dear, and sorrow

for the perishable nature of all that may here claim our earthly

affections; is it not sweet to think that in another world—perhaps in

some bright star—we may again commune with what we have so

loved—once more be united in those kindly bonds—and in a kingdom where

those bonds may not thus lightly be severed?”

 

Julia’s voice failed her; for she thought of one who had preceded her to

“the last sad bourne.”

 

Delmé was much affected. He turned towards her, and his hand

touched hers.

 

“Angelic being!”

 

As he spoke, darker, more worldly thoughts arose. A fearful struggle,

which convulsed his features, ensued. The world triumphed.

 

Julia Vernon saw much of this, and maiden delicacy told her it was not

meet they should be alone.

 

“Let us join the crowd!” said she. “We shall probably meet our party in

the long walk: if not, we will try the ball room.”

 

Poor Julia! little was her heart in unison with that joyous scene!

 

By the eve of the morrow, Delmé was many leagues from her and his

family.

 

Restless man, with travel, ambition, and excitement, can woo and almost

win oblivion;—but poor, weak, confiding woman—what is left to her?

 

In secret to mourn, and in secret still to love.

 

Chapter III.

 

The Journey.

 

“Adieu! adieu! My native land

Fades o’er the ocean blue;

The night winds sigh—the breakers roar—

And shrieks the wild sea mew.

Yon sun that sets upon the sea,

We follow in his flight:

Farewell awhile to him and thee!

My native land! good night!”

 

We have rapidly sketched the dénouement of the preceding chapter; but it

must not be forgotten, that Delmé had been residing some months at

Leamington, and that Emily and Julia were friends. In his own familiar

circle—a severe but true test—Sir Henry had every opportunity of

becoming acquainted with Miss Vernon’s sweetness of disposition, and of

appreciating the many excellencies of her character. For the rest,

their intercourse had been of that nature, that it need excite no

surprise, that a walk on a gala night, had the power of extracting an

avowal, which, crude, undigested, and hastily withdrawn as it was, was

certainly more the effusion of the heart—more consonant with Sir

Henry’s original nature—than the sage reasonings on his part, which

preceded and followed that event.

 

On Delmé‘s arrival in town, he prosecuted with energy his enquiries as

to his brother. He called on the regimental agents, who could give him

no information. George’s military friends had lost sight of him since he

had sailed for the Mediterranean; and of the few persons, whom he could

hear of, who had lately left Malta; some were passing travellers, who

had made no acquaintances there, others, English merchants, who had met

George at the Opera and in the streets, but nowhere else. It is true,

there was an exception to this, in the case of a hair-brained young

midshipman; who stated that he had dined at George’s regimental mess,

and had there heard that George “had fallen in love with some young

lady, and had fought with her brother or uncle, or a soldier-officer, he

did not know which.”

 

Meagre as all this information was, it decided Sir Henry Delmé.

 

He wrote a long letter to Emily, in which he expressed a hope that both

George and himself would soon be with her, and immediately prepared for

his departure.

 

Ere we follow him on his lonely journey, let us turn to those he left

behind. Mrs. Glenallan and Emily decided on at once leaving Leamington

for their own home. The marriage of the latter was deferred; and as

Clarendon confessed that his period of probation was a very happy one,

he acquiesced cheerfully in the arrangement. Emily called on the

Vernons, and finding that Julia was not at home, wrote her a kind

farewell; secretly hoping that at some future period they might be more

nearly related. The sun was sinking, as the travellers neared Delmé. The

old mansion looked as calm as ever. The blue smoke curled above its

sombre roof; and the rooks sailed over the chimneys, flapping their

wings, and cawing rejoicefully, as they caught the first glimpse of

their lofty homes. Emily let down the carriage window,