"And from a foreign shoreWell to that heart mighthersthese 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, onthat, 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, "herewere my youthful visions conceived and embodied--heredid I form vows, to break the bonds of enslaved mankind--heredid I dream of grateful thousands, standing erect for the first time as free men--heredid 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 anyonebranch 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 the Englishman's neck and blubbered like a child.
We have elsewhere detailed the luckless end of the vetturino.
As for Carl Obers, that zealous patriot; the last we heard of him, was that he was holding a commission in the Hanoverian Jägers, obtained for him by Sir Henry's intervention. He was at that period, in high favour with that liberal monarch, King Ernest.
"'Tis sweet to hear the watchdog's honest barkBay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home,'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will markOur coming, and look brighter when we come."
Embarking on its tributary stream, Delmé reached the Rhine--passed through the land of snug Treckschut, and wooden-shoed housemaid--and arrived at Rotterdam, whence he purposed sailing for England.
To that river, pay we no passing tribute! The Rhine--with breast of pride--laving fertile vineyards, cities of picturesque beauty, beetling crags, and majestic ruins; hath found its bard to hymn an eulogy, in matchless strains, which will be co-existent, with the language they adorn.
Sir Henry was once more on the wide sea. Where were they who were his companions when his vessel last rode it? where the young bride breathing her devotion? where the youthful husband whispering his love?
The sea yet glistened like a chrysolite; the waves yet laughed in the playful sunbeams--the bright-eyed gull yet dipped his wing in the billow, fearless as heretofore;--where was the one, who from that text had deduced so fair a moral?
Sir Henry wished not to dwell on the thought, but as it flashed across him, his features quivered, and his brow darkened.
He threw himself into the chaise which was to bear him to his home, with alternate emotions of bitterness and despair!
Hurrah for merry England! Click, clack! click, clack! thus cheerily let us roll!
Great are the joys of an English valet, freshly emancipated from sauerkraut, and the horrors of silence!
Sweet is purl, and sonorous is an English oath. Bright is the steel, arming each clattering hoof! Leather strap and shining buckle, replace musty rope and ponderous knot! The carriage is easier than a Landgravine's,--the horses more sleek,--the driver as civil,--the road is like a bowling green,--the axletree and under-spring, of Collinge's latest patent. But the heart! the heart!thatmay be sad still.
Delmé's voyage and journey were alike a blank. On the ocean, breeze followed calm;--on the river, ship succeeded ship;--on the road, house and tree were passed, and house and tree again presented themselves. He drew his cap over his eyes, and his arms continued folded.
His first moment of full consciousness, was as a sharp turn, followed by a sudden pause, brought him in front of the lodge at Delmé.
On the two moss-grown pillars, reposed the well known crest of his family. The porter's daughter, George's friend, issued from the lodge, and threw open the iron gates.
She was dressed in black. How this recalled his loss.
"My dear--dear--dear brother!"
Emily bounded to his embrace, and her cheek fell on his shoulder. He felt the warm tear trickle on his cheek. He clasped her waist,--gazed on her pallid brow,--and held her lip to his.
How it trembled from her emotion!
"My own brother! how pale--how ill you look!"
"Emily! my sister! I have something yet left me on earth! and my worthy kind aunt, too!"
He kissed Mrs. Glenallan's forehead, and tried to soothe her. She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and checked her tears; but continued to sob, with the deep measured sob of age.
How mournful, yet how consoling, is the first family meeting, after death has swept away one of its members! How the presence of each, calls up sorrow, and yet assists to repress it,--awakes remembrances full of grief, yet brings to life indefinable hopes, that rob that grief of its most poignant sting! The very garb of woe, whose mournful effect is felt to the full, only when each one sees it worn by the other--the very garb paralyses, and brings impressively before us, the awful truth, that for our loss, in this world, there is no remedy. How holy, how chaste is the affection, which we feel disposed to lavish, on those who are left us.
Surely if there be a guardian spirit, which deigns to flit through this wayward world, to cheer the stricken breast, and purify feelings, whose every chord vibrates to the touch of woe; surely such presides, and throws a sunny halo, on the group, that blood has united--on which family love has shed its genial influence--and of which, each member, albeit bowed down by sympathetic grief, attempts to lift his drooping head, and to others open some source of comfort, which to the kind speaker, is inefficient and valueless indeed!
For many months, Sir Henry continued to reside with his family. Clarendon Gage was a constant visitor, and companion to the brother and sister in their daily walks and rides.
He had never met poor George, but loved Emily so well, that he could not but sympathise in their heavy loss; and as Delmé noted this quiet sympathy, he felt deeply thankful to Providence, for the fair prospect of the happiness, that awaited his sister.
Winter passed away. The fragile snowdrop, offspring of a night--the mute herald of a coming and welcome guest--might be seen peering beneath the gnarled oak, or enlivening the emerald circle beneath the wide-spreading elm.
Spring too glided by, and another messenger came. The migratory swallow, returned from foreign travel, sought the ancient gable, and rejoicing in safety, commenced building a home. At twilight's hour might she be seen, unscared by the truant's stone, repairing to the placid pool--skimming over its glassy surface, in rapid circle and with humid wing--and returning in triumph, bearing wherewithal to build her nest.
Summer too went by; and as the leaves of Autumn rustled at his feet, Delmé started, as he felt that the sting and poignancy of his grief was gone. It was with something like reproach, that he did so. There is a dignity in grief--a pride in perpetuating it--and his had been no common affliction.
It is a trite, but true remark, that time scatters our sorrows, as it scatters our joys.
The heat of fever and the delirium of love, have their gradations; and so has grief. The impetuous throbbing of the pulse abates;--the influence of years makes us remember the extravagance of passion, with something approaching to a smile;--and Time--mysterious Time--wounding, but healing all, leads us to look at past bereavements, as through a darkened glass.
We do not forget; but our memory is as a dream, which awoke us in terror, but over which we have slept. The outline is still present, but the fearful details, which in the darkness of the hour, and the freshness of conception, so scared and alarmed us,--these have vanished with the night.
Emily's wedding day drew nigh, and the faces of the household once more looked bright and cheerful.
"'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,Since others it has ceased to move,But though I may not be beloved,Still let me love!"
"I saw her but a moment,Yet methinks I see her now,With a wreath of orange blossomsUpon her beauteous brow."
Spring of life! whither art thou flown?
A few hot sighs--and scalding tears--fleeting raptures and still fading hopes--and then--thou art gone for ever. Lovelorn we look on beauty: no blush now answers to our glance; for cold is our gaze, as the deadened emotions of our heart.
Fresh garlands bedeck the lap of Spring. Faded as the shrivelled flowers, that withering sink beneath her rosy feet: yet we exclaim:--Spring of life! how and whither art thou flown?
Clarendon Gage was a happy man. He had entered upon the world with very bright prospects. The glorious visions of his youth were still unclouded, and his heart beat as high with hope as ever.
Experience had not yet instilled that sober truth, that Time will darken the sunniest, as well as the least inviting anticipations; and that the visions of his youth were unclouded, because they were undimmed by the reflections of age.
Clarendon Gage was happy and grateful; and so might he well be! Few of us are there, who, on our first loving, have met with a love, fervent, confiding, and unsuspecting as our own,--fewer are there, who in reflection's calm hour, have recognised in the form that has captivated the eye, the mind on which their own can fully and unhesitatingly rely,--and fewest of all are they, who having encountered such a treasure, can control adverse circumstances--can overcome obstacles that oppose--and finally call it their own.
Passionate, imaginative, and fickle as man may be, this is a living treasure beyond a price: than which this world has none more pure--none as enduring, to offer.
Ah! say and act as we may--money-making--worldly--ambitious as we may become--who among us that will not allow, that in the success of his honest suit--that in his possession of the the one first loved--and which first truly loved him--a kind ray from heaven, seems lent to this changeful world. Such affection as this, lends a new charm to man's existence. It lulls him in his anger--it soothes him in his sorrow--calms him in his fears--cheers him in his hopes--it deadens his grief--it enlivens his joy.
It was a lovely morning in May--the first of the month. Not a cloud veiled the sun's splendour--the birds strained their throats in praise of day--and the rural May-pole, which was in the broad avenue of walnut trees, immediately at the foot of the lawn, was already encircled with flowers. Half way up this, was the station of the rustic orchestra--a green bower, which effectually concealed them from the view of the dancers.
On the lawn itself, tents were pitched in a line facing the house. Behind these, between the tents and the May-pole, extended a long range of tables, for the coming village feast.
Emily Delmé looked out on the fair sunrise, and noted the gay preparations with some dismay. Her eye fell on her favourite bed of roses, the rarest and most costly that wealth and extreme care could produce; and she mournfully thought, that ere those buds were blown, a very great change would have taken place in her future prospects. She thought of all she was to leave.
Willhebe this, and more to me?
How many a poor girl, when it is all too late, has fearfully asked herself the same question, and how deeply must the answer which time alone can give, affect the happiness of after years!
Emily took her mother's miniature, and gazing on that face, of which her own appeared a beautiful transcript; she prayed to God to support him who was still present to her every thought.
The family chapel of the Delmés was a beautiful and picturesque place of worship. With the exception of one massive door-way, whose circular arch and peculiar zig-zag ornament bespoke it co-eval with, or of an earlier date than, the reign of Stephen--and said to have belonged to a ruin apart from the chapel, whose foundations an antiquary could hardly trace--Delmé chapel might be considered a well preserved specimen of the florid Gothic, of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.
The progress of the edifice, had been greatly retarded during the wars of the Roses; but it was fortunately completed, before, the doctrine of the Cinquecentists--who saw no beauty save in the revived dogmas of Vitruvius--had so far gained ground, as to make obsolete and unfashionable, the most captivating and harmonious style of Architecture, that has yet flourished in England.
Its outer appearance was comparatively simple--it had neither spire, lantern, or transepts--and its ivy-hidden belfry was a detached tower.
The walls of the aisles were supported by massive buttresses, and surmounted by carved pinnacles; and from them sprung flying buttresses, ornamented with traced machicolations, to bear the weight of the embattled roof of the nave.
The interior was more striking. As the stranger entered by the western door, and proceeded up the nave, each step was re-echoed from the crypt below:--as he trod on strange images, and inscriptions in brass; commemorative of the dead, whose bones were mouldering in the subterranean chapel. On them, many coloured tints fantastically played, through gorgeously stained panes--the workmanship of the Middle Ages.
The richly carved oaken confessional--now a reading desk--first attracted the attention.
In the very centre of the chapel, stood a white marble font, whose chaplet of the flower of the Tudors, encircled by a fillet, sufficiently bespoke its date. Between the altar and this font was a tomb, which merits special attention. It was the chantry of Sir Reginald Delmé, the chief of his house in the reign of Harry Monmouth. It was a mimic chapel, raised on three massive steps of grey stone. The clustered columns, that bore the light and fretted roof, were divided by mullions, rosettes, and trefoils in open work; except where the interstices were filled up below, to bear the sculptured, and once emblazoned shields of the Delmés, and their cognate families. The entrance to the chantry, was through a little turret at its north-eastern corner, the oaken door of which, studded with quarrel-headed nails, was at one time never opened, but when the priests ascended the six steep and spiral steps, and stood around the tomb to chant masses for the dead.
The diminutive font, and the sarcophagus itself, had once been painted. On this, lay the figure of Sir Reginald Delmé.
On a stone cushion--once red--supported by figures of angels in the attitude of prayer, veiling their eyes with their wings, reposed the unarmed head of the warrior:--his feet uncrossed rested on the image of a dog, crouching on a broken horn, seeming faithfully to gaze at the face of his master.
The arms were not crossed--the hands were not clasped; but were joined as in prayer. Sir Reginald had not died in battle. Above the head of the sleeping warrior, hung his gorget, and his helmet, with its beaver, and vizor open; and the banner he himself had won, on the field of Shrewsbury, heavily shook its thick folds in the air. The fading colours on the surcoat of the recumbent knight, still faintly showed the lilies and leopards of England;--and Sir Henry himself was willing to believe, that the jagged marks made in that banner by the tooth of Time, were but cuts, left by the sword of the Herald, as at the royal Henry's command, he curtailed the pennon of the knight; and again restored it to Sir Reginald Delmé--a banner.
The altar, which extended the whole width of the chapel, was enclosed by a marble screen, and was still flanked by the hallowed niche, built to receive the drainings of the sacred cup.
The aisles were divided from the nave, by lancet arches, springing from clustered columns. But how describe the expansive windows, with their rich mullions, and richer rosettes--their deeply moulded labels, following the form of the arch, and resting for support on the quaintest masks--how describe the matchless hues of the glass--valued mementoes of a bygone age, and of an art that has perished?
The walls of the chapel were profusely ornamented with the richest carving; and the oaken panels of the chancel, were adorned with those exquisite festoons of fruit and flowers, so peculiarly English. The very ceiling exacted admiration. It closed no lantern--it obstructed no view--and its light ribs, springing from voluted corbels, bore at each intersection, an emblazoned escutcheon, or painted heraldic device. The intricate fan-like tracery of the roof--the enriched bosses at each meeting of the gilded ribs--gave an airy charm and lightness to the whole, which well accorded with the florid Architecture, and with the chivalrous associations, with which it is identified.
And here, beneath this spangled canopy, in this ancient shrine, whose every ornament was as a memory of her ancestors; stood Emily Delmé, as fair as the fairest of her race, changeful and trembling, a faint smile on her lip, and a quivering tear in her eye.
Clarendon Gage took her hand in his, and placed on her finger the golden pledge of truth, and as he did so, an approving sunbeam burst through the crimson-stained pane, and before lightening the tomb of Sir Reginald, fell on her silvery veil--her snowy robe--her beautiful face.
There was a very gay scene on the lawn, as they returned from the chapel.
The dancing had already commenced--strains of music were heard from on high--the ever moving circle became one moment contracted, then expanded to the full length of the arms of the dancers, as they actively footed it round the garlanded May-pole.
At the first sight of the leading carriage, however, a signal was given--the music suddenly ceased--and the whole party below, with the exception of one individual, proceeded in great state towards an arch, composed of flowers and white thorn, which o'ercanopied the road.
The carriage stopped to greet the procession.
On came the blushing May-Queen, and Maid Marian--both armed with wands wreathed with cowslips--followed by a jovial retinue of morrice dancers with drawn swords--guisers in many-coloured ribbons--and a full train of simple peasants, in white smock-frocks.
The May Queen advanced to the carriage, followed by the peasant girls, and timidly dropped a choice wreath into the lap of the bride. Loud hurras rung in the air, as Sir Henry gave his steward some welcome instructions as to the village feast; and the cavalcade continued its route.
We have said that one individual lingered near the May-pole. As he was especially active, we may describe him and his employment. He was apparently about fifteen. He had coarse straight white hair--a face that denoted stupidity--but with a cunning leer, which seemed to belie his other features.
He was taking advantage of the cessation of dancing, to supply the aspiring musicians with sundry articles of good cheer. A rope, armed with a hook, was dropped from their lofty aërie, and promptly drawn up, on the youngster's obtaining from the neighbouring tents, wherewithal to fill satisfactorily the basket which he attached.
Sir Henry Delmé and George had been so much abroad, and Emily's attachment to Clarendon was of so early a date, that it happened that the members of the Delmé family had mixed little in the festivities of the county in which they resided; and were not intimately known, nor perhaps fully appreciated, in the neighbourhood.
But the family was one of high standing, and had ever been remarkable for its kind-heartedness; and whatwasknown of its individuals, was so much to their credit, that it kept alive the respect and consideration that these circumstances might of themselves warrant.
Sir Henry, on the other hand, regarded his sister's marriage as an event, at which it might be proper to show, that neither hauteur nor want of sociability, had precluded their friendly intercourse with the neighbouring magnates; and consequently, most of the principal families were present at Emily's wedding.
While this large assemblage increased the gaiety of the scene, it was somewhat wearisome to Delmé, who was too truly attached to his sister, to be otherwise than thoughtful during the ceremony, and the breakfast that succeeded it.
At length the time came when Emily could escape from the gay throng; and endeavour, in the quiet of her own room, to be once more calm, before she prepared to leave her much-loved home.
The preparations made, a note was despatched to her brother, begging him to meet her in the library. As he did so, a fresh pang shot through Delmé's heart.
As he looked on Emily's flushed face--her dewy cheek--and noted her agitated manner; he for the first time perceived, her very strong resemblance to poor George, and wondered that he had never observed this before.
Clarendon announced the carriage.
"God bless you! dear Henry!"
"God bless and preserve you! my sweet! Clarendon! good bye! I am sure you will take every care of her!"
In another moment, the carriage was whirling past the library window; and Sir Henry felt little inclined, to join the formal party in the drawing-room. Sending therefore a brief message to Mrs. Glenallan, he threw open the library window, and with hurried steps reached a summer-house, half hidden in the shrubbery. He there fell into a deep reverie, which was by no means a pleasurable one.
He thought of Emily--of George--of Acmé,--and felt that he was becoming an isolated being.
And hadhenot loved too? As this thought crossed him, his ambitious dreams were almost forgotten.
Sir Henry Delmé was aroused by the sound of voices. A loving couple, too much engaged to observehim, passed close to the summer-house.
It was the "Queen of the May," the prettiest and one of the poorest girls in the parish, walking arm in arm with her rural swain. They had left the "roasted beeves," and the "broached casks," for one half-hour's delicious converse.
There was some little coquettish resistance on the part of the girl, as they sat down together at the foot of a fir tree.
Her lover put his arm round her waist.
"Oh! Mary! if father would but give us a cow or so!"
This little incident decided the matter. Delmé at once resolved that Mary Smithshouldhave a cow or so; and also that his own health would be greatly benefited, by a short sojourn at Leamington.
"Oh ever loving, lovely, and beloved!How selfish sorrow ponders on the past,And clings to thoughts now better far removed,But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last."
We know not whether our readers have followed us with due attention, as we have incidentally, and at various intervals, made our brief allusion to the gradual change of character, wrought on Delmé, by the eventful scenes in which he so lately played a prominent part.
When we first introduced him to our reader's notice, we endeavoured to depict him as he then really was,--a man of strong principles, warm heart, and many noble qualities; but one, prone to over-estimate the value of birth and fortune--with a large proportion of pride and reserve--and with ideas greatly tinctured with the absurd fallacies of the mere man of the world.
But there was much in the family events we have described, to shake Delmé's previous convictions, and to induce him to recal many of his former opinions.
He had seen his brother form a connection, which set at naught all those convenances, whichhehad been accustomed to regard as essential to, and as indeed forming the very ingredient of, domestic happiness.
And yet Sir Henry Delmé could not disguise from himself, that if, in George's short-lived career, there had been much of pain and sorrow, they were chiefly engendered by George's mental struggle, to uphold those very opinions to which he himself was wedded; and that to this alone, might be traced much of the suffering he had undergone. This was it that had so weakened mind and body, as to render change of scene necessary;--this was it that exposed Acmé to the air of the pestiferous marshes, and which left George himself--a broken hearted man--totally incapable of bearing his bereavement.
On the other hand, the sunny happiness his brother had basked in,--and it was very great,--had sprung from the natural out-pourings of an affection, which,--unfettered as it had been by prudential considerations,--had yet the power to make earth a heaven while Acmé shared it with him, and the dark grave an object of bright promise, when hailed as the portal, through whichhemust pass, ere he gazed once more on the load-star of his hopes.
In the case, too, of Emily and Clarendon, although their union was far more in accordance with his earlier theories, yet he could not but note, how little their happiness seemed to rest on their position in society, and how greatly was it based on their love for each other.
These considerations were strengthened, by a growing feeling of isolation, which the death of George and of Acmé,--the marriage of his sister,--and probably the time of life he had arrived at, were all calculated to awaken.
With the knowledge of his disease, sprung up the hope of an antidote; and it may be, that the little episode of the May Queen in our last chapter, came but as a running comment, to reflections that had long been cherished and indulged.
The thoughts of Sir Henry Delmé anxiously centred in Julia Vernon; and as he recalled her graceful emotion when they last parted, the unfrequent blush,--it might be of shame, it might be of consciousness,--coloured his sun-burnt cheek.
At length,--the guests being dismissed, Delmé was at leisure to renew an acquaintance, which had already proved an eventful one to him. He had heard little of Miss Vernon since his return to England. His sister had thought it better to let matters take their own course; and Julia, who knew that in the eyes of the world, her circumstances were very different to what they had been previous to her uncle's death; had from motives of delicacy, shunned any intercourse that might lead to a renewed intimacy with the family.
Her health, too, had been precarious, and her elasticity of mind was gone. Slowly wasting from day to day, she had sought to banish all thoughts that were not of a world less vain than this--and her very languor of body--while it gave her an apology for declining all gaieties, induced a resigned spirit, and a quiet frame of mind.
When Sir Henry Delmé was announced, Julia was alone in the drawing-room. At that name, she attempted to rise from the sofa; but she was weak, and her head fell back on the white pillow.
Delmé stood for a moment irresolute,--a prey to the deepest pangs of remorse.
Well might he be shocked at that altered form!
Her figure was greatly attenuated,--her cheeks sunken,--her eyes bright and large; while over the forehead and drooping eyelid branched the sapphire veins, with their intricate windings so clearly marked, that Delmé almost thought, that he could trace the motion of the blood beneath. That momentary pause, and the one mutual glance of recognition, told a more accurate tale than words could convey.
As Sir Henry pressed that small transparent hand, Julia's thin lip quivered convulsively. She attempted to speak, but the exertion of utterance was too great, and she burst into a flood of tears.
"Julia! my own Julia! forgive me! we will never part more!"
After this interview, it is needless to say that there was little else to be explained. Mrs. Vernon was delighted at Julia's happy prospects, and it was settled that their marriage should take place in the ensuing August. Such arrangements as could be made on the spot to facilitate this, were at once entered on.
At the end of two months, it became necessary that Delmé should proceed to town, for the purpose of seeing the Commander-in-Chief, in order to withdraw a previous application to be employed on active service. He was anxious also to consult a friend, whom he proposed appointing one of the trustees for his marriage settlement; and Clarendon and Emily had exacted a promise, that he would pay them a visit on his way to Delmé Park; which he had determined to take on his route to town, that he might personally inspect some alterations he had lately planned there.
It was with bright prospects before him, that Delmé kissed off the big tear that coursed down Julia's cheek; as she bade him farewell, with as much earnestness, as if years, instead of a short fortnight, were to elapse before they met again.
Miss Vernon's health had decidedly improved. She was capable of much greater exertion; and her spirits were sometimes as buoyant as in other days.
When Sir Henry first reached Leamington, the only exercise that Julia could take was in a wheel chair; and great was her delight at seeing a hand present itself over its side, and know that it washis. Latterly, however, she had been able to lean on his arm, and take a few turns on the lawn, and had on one occasion even reached the public gardens.
Mrs. Vernon, with the deceptive hope common to those, who watch day by day by the side of an invalid's couch, and in the very gradual loss of strength, lose sight of the real extent of danger, had never been desponding as to her daughter's ultimate recovery; and was now quite satisfied that a few weeks more would restore her completely to health.
Sir Henry Delmé, with the gaze of a lover, would note each flush of animation, and mistake it for the hue of health; while Julia herselffelt her love, and thought it strength.
There was only one person who looked somewhat grave at these joyous preparations. This was Dr. Jephson, who noticed that Julia's voice continued very weak, and that she could not get rid of a low hollow cough, that had long distressed her.
Clarendon and his wife were resident at a beautiful cottage near Malvern, on the road to Eastnor Castle. The cottage itself was small, and half hidden with fragrant honey-suckles, but had well appointed extensive grounds behind it.Theywere not of the very many, who after the first fortnight of a forced seclusion,--the treacle moon, as some one has called it,--find their own society, both wearisome and unprofitable.Theirswas a lover felt but by superior and congenial minds--a love, neither sensual nor transient--a love on which affection and reflection shed their glow,--which could bear the test of scrutiny,--and which owed its chief charm to the presence of truth.
Delmé passed a week at Malvern, and then proceeded towards town, with the pleasing conviction that his sister's happiness was assured.
Twenty-four hours at Delmé sufficed to inspect the alterations, and to give orders as to Lady Delmé's rooms.
Sir Henry had received two letters from Julia, while at Malvern, and both were written in great spirits. At his club in London another awaited him, which stated that she had not been quite so well, and that she was writing from her room. A postscript from Mrs. Vernon quite did away with any alarm that Sir Henry might otherwise have felt.
Delmé attended Lord Hill's levee; and immediately afterwards proceeded to his friend's office. To his disappointment, he was informed that his friend had left for Bath; and thinking it essential that he should see him; he went thither at an early hour the following day.
At Bath he was again doomed to be disappointed, for his friend had gone to Clifton. Sir Henry dined that day with Mr. Belliston Græme; and on returning to the hotel, had the interview with Oliver Delancey, that has been described in the thirteenth chapter of our first volume.
On the succeeding morning, Delmé was with the future trustee; and finally arranged the affair to his entire satisfaction. His absence from Leamington, had been a day or two more protracted than he had anticipated, and his not finding his friend in London, had prevented his hearing from Miss Vernon so lately as he could have wished.
Sir Henry had posted all night, and it was ten in the morning when he reached Leamington. He directed the postilion to drive to his hotel, but it happened that on his way he had to pass Mrs. Vernon's door.
As the carriage turned a corner, which was distant some hundred yards from Mrs. Vernon's house, Sir Henry was surprised by a momentary check on the part of his driver.
It had rained heavily during the early part of the day. The glasses were up, and so bespattered with the mud and rain, that it was impossible to see through them. Sir Henry let them down; saw a confused mass of carriages; and could clearly discern a mourning coach.
He did not give himself time to breathe his misgivings; but flung the door open, and sprang from his seat into the road. It was still three or four doors from Mrs. Vernon's house, and he prayed to God that his fears might be groundless. As he approached nearer, it was evident that there was unusual bustle aboutthathouse. Delmé grasped the iron railing, and clung to it for support; but with every sense keenly alive to aught that might dispel, or confirm that horrible suspicion.
Two old women, dressed in the characteristic red cloak of the English peasant, were earnestly conversing together--their baskets of eggs and flowers being laid on a step of one of the adjacent houses.
"So you knowed her, Betsy Farmer?"
"Lord a mercy!" responded the other, "I ha' knowed Miss July since she wa' the height of my basket. Ay! and many's the bunch of flowers she ha' had from me. That was afore the family went to the sea side. Well! it's a matter o' five year, sin' she comed up to me one morning--so grown as I'd never ha' known her. But she knowed me, and asked all about me. And I just told her all my troubles, and how I had lost my good man. And sure enough sin' that day she ha' stood my friend, and gived me soup and flannels for the little uns, and put my Bess to service, and took me through all the bad Christmas'. Poor dear soul! she ha' gone now! and may the Lord bless her and all as good as she!"
The poor woman, who felt the loss of her benefactress, put the corner of her apron to her eyes.
Sir Henry strode forward.
Mutes were on each side of the front step. A servant threw open the door of the breakfast room, and Delmé mechanically entered it. It was filled with strangers; on some of these the spruce undertaker was fitting silk scarfs; while others were busy at the breakfast table.
An ominous whisper ran through the apartment.
"Sir Henry Delmé?" said the rosy-cheeked clergyman, enquiringly, as he laid down his egg spoon, and turned towards him.
"I trust you received my letter. Women are so utterly helpless in these matters; and poor Mrs. Vernon was quite overpowered."
Delmé turned away to master his emotion.
At this moment, a friendly hand was laid on his shoulder, and Mrs. Vernon's maid, with her eyes red from weeping, beckoned him up stairs.
He mechanically obeyed her--reeled into an inner drawing room--and stood in the presence of the bereaved mother.
Mrs. Vernon was ordinarily the very picture of neatness.Nowshe sat with her feet on a footstool--her head almost touching her lap--her silver hair all loose and dishevelled. It seemed to Delmé as if age had suddenly come upon her.
She rose as he entered, and with wild hysterical sobs, threw herself into his arms.
"My son I my son! thatshouldhave been. Our angel is gone--gone!"
Delmé tried to speak, but his tongue clove to his mouth, and the hysteric globe rose to his throat.
Suddenly he heard the sound of wheels, and of heavy footsteps on the stairs.
He imprinted a kiss on the old woman's forehead--it was his farewell for ever!--gave her to the care of the maid servant--and rushed from the room.
He was stopped on the landing of the staircase by the coffin of her he loved so well. The bearers stopped for an instant; they felt that this was no common greeting. Part of the pall was already turned back. Delmé removed its head with trembling hand.
"Julia Vernon. ætate 22."
He dropped the velvet with a groan, and was only saved from falling by the timely aid of the old butler, whose face was as sorrowful as his own.
But there was a duty yet to be performed, and Delmé followed the corpse.
The first mourning coach was just drawn up. An intended occupant had already his foot on the step. "This place is mine!" said Sir Henry in a hollow voice.
The cortege proceeded; and Delmé, giddy and confused, heard solemn words spoken over his affianced one, and he waited, till even the coffin could be discerned no more.
Thompson, who had followed his master, assisted him into his carriage, placed himself beside him, and ordered the driver to proceed to the hotel. But Delmé gave a quick impetuous motion of the hand, which the domestic understood well; and the horses' heads were turned towards the metropolis.
The mourner tarried not, even to bid his sister farewell; but sought once more his brother's grave. Some friendly hand had kept its turf smooth; no footsteps, save the innocent ones of children, had pressed its grassy mound. It was clothed with soft daisies and drooping harebells. The sun seemed to shine on that spot, to bid the wanderer be contented and at rest.
But as yet there was no rest for Delmé. And he stood beside the marble slab, beneath which lay Acmé Frascati. The downy moss--soft as herself--was luxuriating there; and the cry of the cicalas was pleasant to the ear; and the image of the young Greek girl, as in a vivid picture, rose to his mind's eye. She was not attired in her white cymar; nor was her head wreathed with monumental amaranths;--health was on her cheek, fond smiles on her pouting lip, and tender love swimming in her melting glance.
His own griefs came back on Delmé; he groaned aloud. He traversed the deserts, he crossed lofty mountains, he knew thirst and privations. He was scoffed at and spat upon in an infidel country--he was tossed on the ocean--he shook hands with danger.
He visited our wide Oriental possessions; and sojourned amid the spicy islands of the Indian Archipelago, where vegetation attains a magnificence unknown elsewhere, and animal life partakes of this unexampled exuberance,--where flowers of the most exquisite colours and fragrance charm the senses by day, and delicious plants saturate the air with their odours by night.
Delmé extended his wanderings to the rarely visited "many isles," which stud the vast Pacific, and found that there too were fruitful and smiling regions.
But not on the desert--nor on the mountains--nor in the land of the Moslem---nor on tempestuous seas--nor in those verdant islets, which seem to breathe of Paradise, to greet the wearied traveller; could Delmé's restless spirit find an abiding place, his thirst for foreign travel be slaked, or his heart know peace.
He madly sought oblivion, which could not be accorded him.