A Love Story
had been stated,--and now he had heard one, for whom he could not but
feel great respect--one who had evidently no interest in the
question--declare his sentiments as strongly. We are all sanguine as to
what we wish. It may be, that a hope yet lurked in Delmé's breast, that
these accounts might be unconsciously exaggerated, or that his brother's
state of health was now more established than heretofore.
On returning to Floriana, Delmé found George and the blushing Acmé
awaiting him. A delightful feeling is that, of again finding ourselves
with those from whom we have long been parted, once more engaged in the
same round of familiar avocations, once more re-acting the thousand
little trifles of life which we have so often acted before, and that,
too, in company with those who now sit beside us, as if to mock the
lapse of intervening years. These meetings seem to steal a pinion from
time's wing, and hard indeed were it if the sensations they called forth
were not pleasurable ones; for oh! how rudely and frequently, on the
other hand, are we reminded of the changes which the progress of years
brings with it: the bereavement of loved ones--the prostration of what
we revered--our buoyant elasticity of body and mind departed--all things
changing and changed.
We sigh, and gaze back. How few are the scenes, which memory's
kaleidoscope presents in their pristine bright colours, of that
journey, performed so slowly, as it once appeared, but which, to the
eye of retrospection, seems to have hurried to its end with the rapid
wings of the wind!
Imbued with an association, what a trivial circumstance will please! As
the brothers touched each other's glass; and drank to mutual happiness,
what grateful recollections were called up by that act! How did these
manifest their power, as they lighted up the wan features of George
Delmé. Acmé looked on smilingly; her hair flowing about her neck--her
dark eyes flashing with unusual brilliancy. Delmé felt it would be
unsocial were he alone to look grave; and although many foreboding
thoughts crowded on him, _he_ too seemed to be happy. It was twilight
when the dinner was over. The windows were open, and the party placed
themselves near the jalousies. They here commanded a view of the public
gardens, where groups of Maltese were enjoying the coolness of the hour,
and the fragrance of the flowers. The walk had a roof of lattice work
supported by wooden pillars; round which, an image of woman's love, the
honeysuckle clingingly twined, diffusing sweets.
Immediately before them, the principal outlet of the town presented
itself. Laughing parties of English sailors were passing, mounted on
steeds of every size, which they were urging forward, in spite of the
piteous remonstrances of the menials of their owners. The latter, for
the most part, held by the tails of their animals, and uttered a
jargon composed of English, Italian, and Maltese. The only words
however, that met the unregarding ears of the sailors, were some such
exclamations as these.
"Not you go so fast, Signore; he good horse, but much tire."
The riders sat in their saddles swinging from side to side, evidently
thinking their tenure more precarious than that on the giddy mast; and
wholly unmindful of the expressive gestures, and mournful ejaculations
of the bare-legged pursuers. At another time, their antics and
buffoonery, as they made unmerciful use of the short sticks with which
they were armed, would have provoked a smile. _Now_ our party gazed on
these things as they move the wise. They felt calm and happy; and
deceptive hope whispered they might yet remain so. Acmé took up her
guitar, and throwing her fingers over it, as she gave a soft prelude,
warbled that sweet although common song, "Buona notte, amato bene." She
sung with great feeling, and feeling is the soul of music.
How plaintively! how tenderly did her lips breathe the
"ricordati! ricordati di me!"
There was something extremely witching in her precocious charms. She
resembled some beauteous bud, just ready to burst into light and bloom.
It is not yet the rose,--but a moment more may make it such. Her
beauties were thus ripe for maturity. It seemed as if the sunshine of
love were already upon them--they were basking in its rays. A brief
space--and the girl shall no longer be such. What was promise shall be
beauty. She shall meet the charmed eye a woman; rich in grace and
loveliness. As Delmé marked her sympathising glance at George--her
beaming features--her innocent simplicity;--as he thought of all she had
lost, all she had suffered for his brother's sake,--as he thought of the
scorn of the many--the pity of the few--the unwearied watching--the
sleepless nights--the day of sorrow passed by the bed of sickness--all
so cheerfully encountered for _him_--he could not reproach her. No! he
took her hand, and the brothers whispered consolation to her, and to
each other.
Late that evening, they were joined by Colonel Vavasour, and Mr. Graham.
George's spirits rose hourly. Never had his Colonel appeared to such
advantage--Acmé so lovely--or Henry so kind--as they did to George Delmé
that night.
It was with a sigh at the past pleasures that George retired to
his chamber.
Chapter XII.
The Mess.
"Red coats and redder faces."
The following day, a room having been given up to Delmé, he discharged
his bill at Beverley's; and moved to Floriana. He again accompanied
George in his drive; and they had on this occasion, the advantage of
Acmé's society, who amused them with her artless description of the
manners of the lower orders of Maltese.
Pursuant to his promise, at the bugle's signal Delmé entered the mess
room; and the Colonel immediately introduced him to the assembled
officers. To his disappointment, for he felt curious to see one, who had
exercised such an influence over his brother, Delancey was not amongst
them. Sir Henry was much pleased with the feeling that appeared to
exist, between Colonel Vavasour and his corps of officers:--respect on
one side--and the utmost confidence on both. We think it is the talented
author of Pelham, who describes a mess table as comprising "cold dishes
and hot wines, where the conversation is of Johnson of ours and Thomson
of jours."
This, though severe, is near the truth; and if, to this description, be
added _lots_ of plate of that pattern called the Queen's--ungainly
servants in stiff mess liveries--and a perpetual recurrence to Mr. Vice;
we have certainly caught the most glaring features of a commonplace
regimental dinner. Vavasour was well aware of this, and had directed
unremitting attention, to give a tone to the conversation at the mess
table, more nearly approaching to that of private life; one which should
embrace topics of general interest, and convey some general information.
Even in _his_ well ordered regiment, there were some, whose nature would
have led them, to confine their attention to thoughts of the daily
military routine. This inclination was repressed by the example of
their Colonel; and these, if not debaters, were at least patient
listeners, as the conversation dealt of matters, to them uncongenial,
and the value of the discussion of which they could not themselves
perceive. Not that military subjects were interdicted; the contrary was
the case. But these subjects took a somewhat loftier tone, than the
contemplation of an exchange of orderly duty, or an overslaugh of guard.
When dinner was announced, Colonel Vavasour placed his hand on the
shoulder of a boy near him.
"Come, Cholmondeley!" said he, "sit near me, and give me an account of
your match. You must not fail to write your Yorkshire friends every
particular. Major Clifford, will you sit on the other side of Sir Henry?
You are both Peninsula men, and will find, I doubt not, that you have
many friends in common.
"There is something," said he to Delmé, as he took his seat,
"revivifying to an old soldier, in noting the exhilaration of spirit of
these boys. It reminds us of the zeal with which _we_ too buckled on
our coat of red. It is a great misfortune these youngsters labour under,
that they have no outlet for their ambition, no scene on which they can
display their talents. Never were youthful aspirants for service more
worthy, or more zealous, and yet it is probable their country will not
need them, until they arrive at an age, when neither body nor mind are
attuned for _commencing_ a life of hardship, however well adapted to
_continue_ in it. _We_ have had the advantage there--_we_ trod the
soldier's proudest stage when our hopes and buoyancy of heart were at
their highest; and for myself, I am satisfied that much of my present
happiness, arises from the very different life of my earlier years."
The conversation took a military turn; and Delmé could not help
observing the attention, with which the younger members of the corps
heard the anecdotes, related by those who had been actually engaged.
Occasionally, the superior reading of the juniors would peep out, and
give them the advantage of knowledge, even with regard to
circumstances, over those who had been personal actors in the affairs
they spoke of. The most zealous of these detail narrators, were the
quarter-master of the regiment, and Delmé's right-hand neighbour, Major
Clifford. The former owed his appointment to his gallantry, in saving
the colours of his regiment, when the ensign who bore them was killed,
and the enemy's cavalry were making a sudden charge, before the
regiment could form its square.
His was a bluff purple face, denoting the bon vivant. Indeed, it was
with uncommon celerity, that his previous reputation of being the best
maker of rum punch in the serjeants' mess, had changed into his present
one of being the first concoctor of sangaree at the officers'.
Major Clifford merits more especial notice. He was a man hardly
appreciated in his own profession; out of it, he was misrepresented, and
voted a bore. He had spent all the years of his life, since the down
mantled his upper lip, in the service of his country; and for _its_
good, as he conceived it, he had sacrificed all his little fortune. It
is true his liberality had not had a very comprehensive range: he had
sunk his money in the improvement of the personal appearance of his
company--in purchasing pompons--or new feathers--or whistles, when he
was a voltigeur--in establishing his serjeants' mess on a more
respectable footing--in giving his poor comrade a better coffin, or a
richer pall:--these had been his foibles; and in indulging them, he had
expended the wealth, that might have purchased him on to rank and
honours. His eagle glance, his aquiline nose, and noble person, showed
what he must have been in youth. His hair was now silvered, but his coat
was as glossy as formerly--his zeal was unabated--his pride in his
profession the same--and what he could spare, still went, to adorn the
persons of the soldiers he still loved. He remained a captain, although
his long standing in the army had brought him in for the last brevet. It
is true every one had a word for poor Clifford. "Such a fine fellow!
what a shame!" But _this_ did not help him on. At the Horse Guards, too,
his services were freely acknowledged. The Military Secretary had always
a smile for him at his levee, and an assurance that "he had his eye on
him" The Commander in Chief, too, the last time he had inspected the
regiment, attracted by his Waterloo badge, and Portuguese cross, had
stopped as he passed in front of the ranks, and conversed with him most
affably, for nearly two minutes and a half; as his colour serjeant with
some degree of pride used to tell the story. But yet, somehow or other,
although Major Clifford was an universal favourite, they always forgot