A Love Story
she had not forgotten him. His uncle--his only correspondent in
England--was not exactly the person to make a confidant of; but he
would, in an occasional postscript, let him know that he had seen
Blanche Allen lately--that "she was very gay, prettier than ever, and
always blushing when spoken to of a certain person."
To do Oliver justice, he at all times thought of Blanche. We have seen
him, with regard to Acme, apparently disregarding her, but in that
affair he had been actuated by a mere spirit of adventure. His heart was
but slightly enlisted, and his feelings partook of any thing but those
of a serious attachment.
Oliver Delancey left Malta soon after his conversation with
Delmé. Previous to doing so, he had forwarded his resignation to
Colonel Vavasour.
He passed some time in Italy, and, as the season arrived, found himself
a denizen in that gayest of cities, Vienna. Pleasure is truly there
enshrouded in her liveliest robes. As regards Delancey, not in vain was
she thus clothed. Just relieved from the dull monotony of a military
life--dull as it ever must be without war's excitement, and peculiarly
distasteful to one constituted like Delancey, who refused to make
allowance for the commonplace uncongenial spirits with whom he found
himself obliged to herd--he was quite prepared to embrace with avidity
any life that promised an agreeable change. Austria's capital holds out
many inducements to dissipation, and to none are these more freely
tendered, than to young and handsome Englishmen. The women, over the
dangerous sentimentality of their nation, throw such an air of ease and
frankness, that their victims resemble the finny tribe in the famous
tunny fishery. While they conceive the whole ocean is at their
command--disport here and there in imagined freedom--they are already
encased by the insidious nets; the harpoon is already pointed, which
shall surely pierce them. Delancey plunged headlong into pleasure's
vortex--touched each link between gaiety and crime. He wandered from the
paths of virtue from the infatuation of folly, and continued to err from
the fascinations of sin. He was suddenly recalled to himself, by one of
those catastrophes often sent by Providence, to awaken us from
intoxicating dreams. His companion, with whom he had resided during his
stay in Vienna, lost his all at a gaming table. Although he had not the
firmness of mind to face his misfortunes, yet had he the rashness to
meet his God unbidden. Sobered and appalled, Oliver left Germany for
England. There was a thought, which even in the height of his follies
obtruded, and which now came on him with a force that surprised himself.
That thought was of Blanche Allen. He turned from the image of his
expiring friend to dwell unsated on hers. A new vista of life seemed to
open--thoughts which had long slept came thronging on his mind--he was
once more the love-sick boy. The more, too, he brooded over his late
unworthiness, the more did his imagination ennoble the one he loved. He
now looked to the moment of meeting her, as that whence he would date
his moral regeneration. "Thank God!" thought he, "a sure haven is yet
mine. There will I--my feelings steadied, my affections
concentrated--enjoy a purified and unruffled peace. What a consolation
to be loved by one so good and gentle!"
He hurried towards England, travelled day and night, and only wondered
that he could have rested any where, while he had the power of flying to
her he had loved from childhood. Occasionally a feeling of apprehension
would cross him. It was many months since he had heard of her--she might
be ill. His love was of that confiding nature, that he could not
conceive her changed. As he came near his home, happier thoughts
succeeded. In fancy, he again saw her enjoying the innocent pleasures in
which he had been her constant companion,--health on her
cheek--affection in her glance. He had to pass that well known lodge.
His voice shook, as he told the driver to stop at its gate. As he drove
through the avenue of elms, he threw himself back in the carriage, and
every limb quivered from his agitation. He could hardly make himself
understood to the domestic--he waited not an answer to his enquiry--but
bounded up the stairs, and with faltering step entered the room.
Blanche was there, and not alone but oh! how passing fair! Even Delancey
had not dared to think, that the beauty of the girl could have been so
eclipsed by the ripe graces of the woman. She recognised him, and rose
to meet him with a burst of unfeigned surprise. She held out her hand
with an air of winning frankness; and yet for an instant,--and his hand
as it pressed hers, trembled with that thought,--he deemed there was a
hesitating blush on her cheek, which should not have been there. But it
passed away, and radiant with smiles, she turned to the one beside her.
"My dear," said she, as she gave him a confiding look, which haunts
Delancey yet, "this is a great friend of Papa's, and an old playmate of
mine--Mr. Delancey;" and as the stranger stepped forward to shake his
hand, Blanche looked at her old lover, with a glance that seemed to say,
"How foolish were we, to deem we were ever more than friends." Oliver
Delancey turned deadly pale; but pride bade him scorn her, and his hand
shook not, as it touched that of him, who had robbed him of a treasure,
he would have died to have called his.
"And you have been to D---- Castle, I suppose, and found your uncle had
left it for Bath. Indeed, _we_ only arrived the day before yesterday;
but Papa wrote us, saying he had got one of his attacks of rheumatism,
from the late fishing, and begged us to take this on our way to
Habberton, Did you see my marriage in the papers, or did your uncle
write you, Oliver?"
Delancey's lips quivered, but his countenance did not change, as he
looked her in the face, and told her he had not known it until now.
And now her husband spoke: "It was very late, and he must want
refreshment; and Mr. Allen intended to be wheeled to the dinner table;
and they could so easily send up to D---- Castle to tell them to get a
bed aired; and he could dismiss the chaise now, and their carriage could
take him there at night."
And Delancey _did_ stay, although unable to analyse the feeling that
made him do so.
And during dinner, _he_ was the life of that little party. He spoke of
foreign lands--related strange incidents of travel--dwelt with animation
on his schoolboy exploits. The old man was delighted--the husband forgot
his wife;--and she, the false one, sat silent, and for the moment
disregarded. She gazed and gazed again on that familiar face--drank in
the tones of that accustomed voice--and the chill of compunction crept
over her frame.
But Delancey's brain was on fire; and in the solitude of his
chamber--no! he was not calm there. He paced hurriedly across the oaken
floor; and he opened wide his window, and looked out on the bright
stars, spangling heaven's blue vault; and then beneath him, where the
cypress trees bowed their heads to the wind, and the moon's light fell
on the marble statues on the terrace.
And he turned to his bed-side, and hid his tearless face in his hands;
and in the fulness of his despair, he knelt and prayed, that though he
had long neglected his God, his God would not now forsake him. And, as
if to mock his sufferings, sleep came; but it was short, very short; and
a weight, a leaden weight, oppressed his eye-lids even in slumber. And
he gave one start, and awoke a prey to mental agony. His despair flashed
on him--he sprung up wildly in his bed. "Liar! liar!" said he, as with
clenched teeth, and hand upraised, he recalled that fond look given to
another. Drops of sweat started to his brow--his pulse beat quick and
audibly--quicker--quicker yet. A feeling of suffocation came over
him--and God forgive him! Oliver Delancey deemed that hour his last. He
staggered blindly to the bell, and with fearful energy pulled its cord,
till it fell clattering on the marble hearth stone. The domestics found
him speechless and insensible on the floor--the blood oozing from his
mouth and ears.
It may be said that this picture is overcharged; that no vitiated mind
could have thus felt. But it is not so. In life's spring we all feel
acutely: and to the effects of disappointed love, and wounded pride,
there are few limits.
Woman! dearest woman! born to alleviate our sorrow, and soothe our
anguish! who canst bid feeling's tear trickle down the obdurate cheek,
or mould the iron heart, till it be pliable as a child's--why stain thy
gentle dominion by inconstancy? why dismiss the first form that haunted
thy maiden pillow, until--or that vision is a dear reality beside
thee--or thou liest pale and hushed, on thy last couch of repose?
And then--shall not thy virgin spirit hail him? Why first fetter us,
slaves to virtue and to thee; _then_ become the malevolent Typhoon, on
whose wings our good genius flies for ever? In this--far worse than the
iconoclasts of yore art thou! _They_ but disfigured images of man's rude
fashioning: whilst _thou_ wouldst injure the _once_ loved form of God's
high creation,--wouldst entail on the body a premature decay--and on
that which dieth not, an irradicable blight.
"Then the mortal coldness of the soul, like death itself comes down;
It cannot feel for others woes--it dares not dream its own.
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears;
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears."
On such a character as was Delancey's, the blow did indeed fall heavy.
Not that his paroxysms of grief were more lasting, or his pangs more
acute, than is usual in similar cases; but to his moral worth it was
death. An infliction of this nature, falling on a comparatively virtuous
man, is productive of few evil consequences. It may give a holier turn
to his thoughts--wean him from sublunary vanities--and purify his
nature. On an utterly depraved man, its effects may be fleeting also;
for few can _here_ expect a moral regeneration. But falling on Delancey,
it was not thus. The slender thread that bound him to virtue, was snapt
asunder; the germ whence the good of his nature might have sprung,
destroyed for ever. Such a man could not love purely again. To expect
him to wander to another font, and imbibe from as clear a stream, would
be madness. The love of a man of the world, let it be the first and
best, is gross and earthly enough; but let him be betrayed in that
love--let him see the staff on which he confidingly leant, break from
under him--and he becomes from henceforth the deceiver--but never the
deceived. When Delmé saw him, Delancey was writhing under his
affliction. When he again entered the world, and it was soon, he
regarded it as a wide mart, where he might gratify his appetites, and
unrestrainedly indulge his evil propensities. He believed not that
virtue and true nobility were there; could he but find them. He looked
at the blow his happiness had sustained, and thought it afforded a fair
sample of human nature. Oliver Delancey became a selfish and a
profligate man.
He was to be pitied; and from his soul did Delmé pity him. He had been
one of promise and of talent; but _now_ his lot is cast on the die of
apathy;--and it is to be feared--without a miracle intervene--and
should his life be spared--that when the wavy locks of youth are
changed to the silver hairs of age--that he will then be that thing of
all others to be scoffed at--the hoary sensualist. Let us hope not! Let
us hope that she who hath brought him to this, may rest her head on the
bosom of her right lord, and forget the one, whose hand used to be
locked in her own, for hours--hours which flew quick as summer's
evening shadows! Let us trust that remorse may be absent from her;