A Love Story
to reward him. A man of the world, would have deemed the Major's ideas
to be rather contracted; and to confess the truth, there were two
halcyon periods of his life, to which he was fond of recurring. The one
was, when he commanded a light company, attached to General Crauford's
light brigade;--the other, when he had the temporary command of the
regimental depot, and at his own expense, had dressed out its little
band, as it had never been dressed out before.
Do you sneer at the old soldier, courtly reader?
There breathes not a man who dare arraign that man's courage;--there is
not one who knows him, who would not cheerfully stake his life as a gage
for his stainless honour.
The soup and fish had been removed, when Delmé observed a young officer
glide in, with that inexpressible air of fashion, which appears to shun
notice, whilst it attracts it. His arm was in a sling, and his
attenuated face seemed to bespeak ill health. Sir Henry addressed
Colonel Vavasour, and begged to know if the person who had just entered
the room was Delancey. He was answered in the affirmative; and he again
turned to scrutinise his features. These rivetted attention; and were
such as could not be seen once, without being gazed at again. His eyes
were dark and large, and rested for minutes on one object, with an
almost mournful expression; nor was it until they turned from its
contemplation, that the discriminating observer might read in their
momentary flash, that their possessor had passions deep and
uncontrollable. His dark hair hung in profusion over his forehead, which
it almost hid; though from the slight separation of a curl, the form of
brow became visible; which was remarkable for its projection, and for
its pallid hue, which offered a strong contrast to the swart and
sunburnt face.
"Are you aware of his history?" said the Colonel.
"Not in the slightest," replied Delmé. "I felt curious to see him, on
account of the way in which he has been mixed up with George's affair;
and think his features extraordinary--very extraordinary ones."
"He is son," said Vavasour, "to the once celebrated Lady Harriet D----,
who made a marriage so disgracefully low. He is the only child by that
union. His parents lived for many years on the continent, in obscurity,
and under an assumed name. They are both dead. It is possible Delancey
may play a lofty role in the world, as he has only a stripling between
him and the earldom of D----, which descends in the female line. I am
sure he will not be a common character; but I have great fears about
him. In the regiment he is considered proud and unsocial; and indeed it
was your brother's friendship that appeared to retain him in our circle.
He has great talents, and some good qualities; but from his uncommon
impetuosity of temper, and his impatience of being thwarted, I should be
inclined to predict, that the first check he receives in life, will
either make him a misanthrope, or a pest to society."
At a later period of his life, Delmé again encountered Delancey; and
this prophecy of the Colonel's was vividly recalled.
In the ensuing chapter, we purpose giving Oliver Delancey's history, as
a not uninstructive episode; although we are aware that episodes are
impatiently tolerated, and it is in nowise allied to the purpose of our
story. But before doing so, we must detail a conversation which occurred
between Delancey and Delmé, at the table of the ---- mess. The latter was
scanning the features of the former, when their eyes met. A conviction
seemed to flash on Delancey, that Delmé was George's brother; for the
blood rushed to his cheek--his colour went and came--and as he turned
away his head, he made a half involuntary bow. Delmé was struck with his
manner, and apparent emotion; and in returning the salute, ventured "to
hope he was somewhat recovered."
When Major Clifford left the table, Delancey took his vacant seat.
"Sir Henry Delmé," said he, "I have before this wished to see you, to
implore the forgiveness of your family for the misery I have
occasioned. How often have I cursed my folly! I acted on an impulse,
which at the time I could not withstand. I had never serious views
with regard to Acmé Frascati. Indeed, I may here tell you,--to no
other man have I ever named it,--that I have ties in my own country
far dearer, and more imperatively binding. I knew I had erred. The
laws of society could alone have made me meet George Belmé as a foe;
but even then--on the ground--God and my second know that my weapon
was never directed at my friend. I am an unsocial being, Sir Henry,
and, from my habits, not likely to be popular. Your brother knew this,
and saved me from petty contentions and invidious calumnies. He was
the best and only friend I possessed. I purpose soon to leave Malta
and the army. The former is become painful to me,--for the latter I
have a distaste, A feeling of delicacy to Acmé Frascati would prevent
my seeing your brother, even if Mr. Graham had not forbidden the
interview, as likely to harass his mind. Will you, then, assure him of
my unabated attachment, and tell me that _you_ forgive me for the
part I have taken in this unhappy affair."
Delmé was much moved as he assured him he would do all he wished; that
he could see little to blame him for--that George's excited feelings had
brought on the present crisis, and that _he_ had amply atoned for any
share he might have had in the transaction. Delancey pressed his hand
gratefully.
It was at a somewhat late hour that Delmé joined Acmé and his brother;
declining the hearty invitation of the Quartermaster to come down to
his quarters.
"He could give him a devilled turkey and a capital cigar."
Chapter XIII.
Oliver Delancey.
"Then the few, whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness,
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess;
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never reach again."
We have said that Delmé saw Delancey once more. It was at a later period
of our story, when business had taken Sir Henry to Bath. He had been
dining with Mr. Belliston Græme, who possessed a villa in the
neighbourhood. Tempted by the beauty of the night, he dismissed his
carriage, and, turning from the high road, took a by-path which led to
the city. The air was serene and mild. The moon-light was sufficiently
clear to chase away night's dank vapours. The ground had imperceptibly
risen, until having ascended a grassy eminence, over which the path
stretched, the well-lighted city burst upon the eye.
Immediately in front of the view, a principal street presented itself,
the lamps on either side stretching in regular succession, until they
gradually narrowed and joined in the perspective. Nearer to the
spectator, the flickering lights of the detached villas, and the moving
ones of the carriages in the public road, relieved the stillness of the
scene. Delmé paused to regard it, with that subdued feeling with which
men, arrived at a certain period of life, scan the aspect of nature. The
moon at the moment was enveloped in light clouds. As it broke through
them, its shimmering light revealed a face and form that Delmé at once
recognised as Delancey's. It was with a consciousness of pain he did so,
for it brought before him recollections of scenes, whose impressions had
still power to subdue him. All emotions, however, soon became absorbed
in that of curiosity, as he noted the still figure and agitated
features before him. A block of granite lay near the path. Delancey
leant back over it--his right hand nearly touched the ground--his hat
lay beside him. The dark hair, wet with the dews of night, was blown
back by the breeze. His high forehead was fully shewn. His vest and
shirt were open, as he gazed with an air of fixedness on the city, and
conversed to himself. His teeth were firmly clenched, and it seemed that
the lips moved not, but the words were fearfully distinct. We often hear
of these soliloquies,--they afford scope to the dramatist, food for the
poet, a chapter for the narrator of fiction,--but we rarely witness
them. When we do, they are eminently calculated to thrill and alarm. It
was evident that Delancey saw him not; but had it been otherwise,
Delmé's interest was so aroused that he could not have left the spot.
"Hail! sympathising night!" thus spoke the young man, "the calm of thy
silent hour seems in unison with my lone heart--thy dewy breeze imparts
a freshness to this languid and darkened spirit, Sweet night! how I
love thee! And moon, too! fair moon! how abruptly!--how chastely!--how
gloriously!--dost thou break through the variegated and fleecy clouds,
which would impede thy progress, and deny me to gaze on thy white orb
unshrouded. And thou, too! radiant star of eve! oh that woman's love but
resembled thee! that it were gentle, constant, and pure as thy holy
gleam. That _that_ should dazzle to bring in its train--oh God! what
misery." He raised his hand to his brow, as if a poignant thought had
stung him.
Sir Henry Delmé stole away, and ruminated long that night, on the
distress that could thus convulse those fine features. Afterwards, when
Delancey's name was no longer the humble one he had first known it, but
became bruited in loftier circles,--for Vavasour's prediction became
realised,--Delmé heard it whispered, that his affections had suffered
an early blight, from the infidelity of one to whom he had been
affianced. We may relate the circumstances as they occurred. Blanche
Allen was the daughter of a country gentleman of some wealth, whose
estate joined that of the Earl of D----'s, where Delancey's boyhood
had been spent. For years Blanche and Oliver considered themselves as
more than friends. Each selected the other as the companion in the
solitary walk, or partner in the joyous dance. Not a country girl but
had her significant smile, as young Delancey's horse's head was turned
towards Hatton Grange.
Delancey joined the army at an early age. Blanche was some eighteen
months his junior. They parted with tears, and thus they continued to do
for the two following years, during which Oliver frequently got leave to
run down to his uncle's. This was while he was serving with part of the
regiment at home. When it came to his turn to embark for foreign
service, it was natural from this circumstance, as well as from their
riper age, that their farewell should be of a more solemn nature. They
bade adieu by the side of the streamlet that divided the two properties.
It was where this made a small fall, down which it gushed in crystal
brightness, and then meandered with gentle murmur through a succession
of rich meadows. A narrow bridge was below the fall, while beside it, a
rustic seat had been placed, on which the sobbing Blanche sat, with her
lover's arm round her waist. For the first time he had talked seriously
of their attachment, and it was with youthful earnestness, that they
mutually plighted their troth. Nor did Blanche hesitate, though blushing
deeply as she did so, to place in his hand a trivial gage d'amour, and
that which has so long solaced absent lovers, a lock of her sunny hair.
Blanche was very beautiful, but she had a character common to many
English women--more so, we think, than to foreign ones.
As a girl, Blanche was nature's self, warm, gentle, confiding,--as an
unmarried woman, she was a heartless coquette,--as a matron, an
exemplary mother and an affectionate wife. During the time Delancey was
abroad, he heard of Blanche but seldom, for the lovers were not of that
age in which a correspondence would be tolerated by Blanche's family.
She once managed to send him, by the hands of a young cousin, some
trifling present, with a few lines accompanying it, informing him that