A Love Story
present to George--he emptied the contents into the bronzed hand of his
companion, who grasped the money with avidity. The Maltese _now_
appeared to acquiesce in all George's wishes; and rising, went towards
the bed, and selected some of the articles of wearing apparel Delmé had
already noticed. He addressed some words to George, who sat on the
bedside quiescently, while the man went to the table, and took up a
knife that was upon it. For a moment, Delmé felt alarm lest his design
might be a murderous one; but it was not so. He laughed savagely, as he
made use of the knife, to cut off the luxuriant chestnut ringlets, which
shaded George's eyes and forehead. He then applied to the face some
darkening liquid, and commenced choosing a sable dress. George threw off
his cloak, and was attired by the Maltese, in a long black cotton robe
of the coarsest material, which, descending to the feet, came in a hood
over his face, which it almost entirely concealed. During the whole of
this scene, George Delmé's features wore an air of dogged apathy, which
alarmed his brother, even more than his agitation in the earlier part of
the day. After his being metamorphosed in the way we have described, it
would have been next to an impossibility to have recognised him. His
companion put on a dress of the same nature, and Sir Henry was preparing
to make his retreat, presuming that they would now leave the building,
when he was induced to stay for the purpose of remarking the conduct of
the Maltese. He took up a scull, and placing his finger through an
eyeless hole, whence _once_ love beamed or hate flashed, he made some
savage comment, which he accompanied by a long and malignant laugh. This
would at another time have shocked Sir Henry, but there was another
laugh, wilder and more discordant, that curdled the blood in Delmé's
veins. It proceeded from his brother, the gay--the happy George Delmé;
and as it re-echoed through the gloomy passage, it seemed that of a
remorseless demon, gloating on the misfortunes of the human race. Delmé
turned away in agony, and, unperceived, regained the anxious domestic.
Screened by an angle of the building, they saw George and his companion
ascend the stone steps, cross the yard, and turn into the street. They
followed him cautiously--Delmé's ears ringing with that fiendish laugh.
George's companion stopped for a moment, at a house in the street, where
they were joined by a sallow-looking priest, apparently one of the most
disgusting of his tribe. He was accompanied by a boy, also drest in
sacerdotal robes, in one hand bearing a silver-ornamented staff, of the
kind frequently used in processions, and in other observances of the
Catholic religion; and in the other, a rude lanthorn, whose light
enabled Delmé to note these particulars. As the four figures swept
through the streets, the lower orders prostrated themselves, before the
figure of the crucified and dying Saviour which surmounted the staff.
They again stopped, and the priest entered a house alone. On coming
back, he was followed by a coffin, borne on the shoulders of four of the
lower order of Maltese. At the moment these were leaving the house,
Henry heard a solitary scream, apparently of a woman. It was wild and
thrilling; such an one as we hear from the hovering sea bird, as the
tempest gathers to a head. To Delmé, coming as it did at that lone hour
from one he saw not, it seemed superhuman. In the front of the house
stood two calèches, the last of which, Sir Henry observed was without
doors. At a sign from the Maltese, George and his strange companion
entered it. They were followed by the coffin, which was placed
lengthways, with the two ends projecting into the street. In the
_leading_ calèche were the priest and boy, the latter of whom thrust
the figure of the bleeding Jesus out at the window, whilst with the
other hand he held up the lanthorn. Twice more did the calèche
stop--twice receive corpses. Another light was produced, and placed in
the last conveyance, and Delmé took the opportunity of their arranging
this, to pass by the calèche. The light that had been placed in it shone
full on George. The coffins were on a level with the lower part of his
face. Nothing of his body, which was jammed in between the seat and the
coffins, could be seen. But the features, which glared over the pall,
were indeed terrific; apathy no longer marked them. George seemed wound
up to an extraordinary state of excitement. Gone was the glazed
expression of his eye, which now gleamed like that of a famished eagle.
The Maltese leant back in the carriage, with a sardonic smile, his dark
face affording a strange contrast to the stained, but yet ghastly hue of
George Delmé's.
"They intend to take them to the vault at Floriana, your honor," said
the servant, "shall I call a calèche, and we can follow them?"
Without waiting a reply, for the man saw that Sir Henry's faculties,
were totally absorbed in the strange scene he had witnessed; Thompson
called a carriage, which passed the other two--now commencing at a
funeral pace to proceed to the vault--and, taking the same direction
which they had done on entering the town, a short time sufficed to put
them down immediately opposite the church. They had time allowed them to
dismiss their carriage, and screen themselves from observation, before
the funeral procession arrived.
This stopped in front of the vault, and Delmé anxiously scrutinised the
proceedings. Another man--probably the one whose place George had
supplied--had joined them outside the town, and now walked by the side
of the calèche. He assisted George's companion in bearing out the
coffins. The huge door grated on its hinges, as they opened it. The
coffins were borne in, and the whole party entered; the priest mumbling
a short Latin prayer. In a short time, the priest alone returned; and
looking cautiously around, and seeing no one, struck a light from a
tinder box, and lighted his cigar. The other two men brought back the
coffins, evidently relieved of their weight; and the priest--the
boy--with the man who had last joined them, and who had also lit his
cigar--entered the first calèche, after exchanging some jokes with
George's companion, and returned at a rapid pace towards the town.
During this time, George Delmé had been left alone in the vault. His
companion returned to him, after taking the precaution to fasten its
doors inside.
Sir Henry was now at a loss what plan to adopt; but Thompson, after a
moment's hesitation, suggested one.
"There is an iron grating, Sir, over part of the vault, through which,
when a bar was loose, I know one of our soldiers went down. Shall I
get a cord?"
The man ran towards his barrack, and returned with it. To wrench by
their united efforts, one bar from its place, and to fasten the rope to
another, was the work of an instant. Space was just left them to creep
through the aperture. Sir Henry was the first to breathe the confined
air of the sepulchre. A voice warned him in what direction to proceed;
and not waiting for the domestic, he groped his way forward through a
narrow passage. At first, Delmé thought there was a wall on either side
him; but as he made a false step, and the bones crumbled beneath, he
knew that it was a wall, formed of the bleached remains of the bygone
dead. As he drew nearer the voice, he was guided by the lanthorn brought
by George's companion; and towards this he proceeded, almost overpowered
by the horrible stench of the charnel house, As he drew near enough to
distinguish objects, what a scene presented itself! In one corner of the
vault, lay a quantity of lime used to consume the bodies, whilst nearer
the light, lay corpses in every stage of putrefaction. In some, the lime
had but half accomplished its purpose; and while in parts of the body,
the bones lay bare and exposed; in others, corruption in its most
loathsome form prevailed. Here the meaner reptiles--active and
prolific--might be seen busily at work, battening on human decay. Sir
Henry stepped over a dead body, and started, as a rat, scared from its
prey, rustled through a wreath of withered flowers, and hid itself amid
a mouldering heap of bones. But there were some forms lovely still! In
them the pulse of life had that day ceased to beat. The rigidity of
Death--his impressive stillness was there--but he had not yet "swept the
lines where beauty lingers."
The Maltese stood with folded arms, closely regarding George Delmé.
George leant against a pillar, with one knee bent. Over it was stretched
the corpse of a girl, with the face horribly decomposed. The dull and
flagging winds of the vault moved her dank and matted hair.
"Acmé," said he, as he parted the dry hair from the blackened brow,
"_do_ but speak to your own George! Be not angry with me, dearest!" He
held the disgusting object to his lips, and lavished endearments on the
putrid corpse.
Delmé staggered--and Thompson supported him--as he gasped for breath
in the extremity of his agony. At this moment his eye caught the face of
the Maltese. He had advanced towards George--his arms were still
folded--his eyes were sparkling with joy--and his features wore the
malignant expression of gratified revenge. Sir Henry sprang to his feet
and rushed forward.
"George! my brother! my brother!"
The maniac raised his pallid brow--his eye flashed consciousness--the
blue veins in his forehead swelled almost to bursting--he tossed his
arms wildly--and sunk powerless on the corpses around--his convulsive
shrieks re-echoing in that lonely vault. Thompson seized the Maltese,
and making him unlock the door, bore the brothers into the open air; for
Henry, at the time, was as much overpowered as George himself.
A clear solution to that curious scene was never given, for George could
not give the clue to his train of mental aberration.
With regard to his companion's share in the transaction, the man was
closely questioned, and other means of information resorted to, but the
only facts elicited were these:
His son had been executed some years before for a desperate attempt to
assassinate a British soldier, with whom he had had an altercation
during the carnival.
The man himself said, that he had no recollection of ever having
seen George before, but that he certainly _did_ remember some
officers questioning him on two occasions somewhat minutely as to
his mode of life.
This part of his story was confirmed by another officer of the regiment,
who remembered George and Delancey being with him on one occasion, when
the latter had taken much interest in the questioning of this man. The
Maltese declared, that on the night in question he was taken entirely by
surprise--that George entered the room abruptly--offered him money to be
allowed to accompany him to the vault--and told him that he had just
placed a young lady there whom he wished to see.
Colonel Vavasour, who took some trouble in arriving at the truth, was
satisfied that the man was well aware of George's insanity, but that
he felt too happy in being able to wreak an ignoble revenge on a
British officer.
Chapter XVI.
The Marriage.
"The child of love, though born in bitterness,
And nurtured in convulsion."
For many days, George Delmé lay on his couch unconscious and
immoveable. If his eye looked calm, it was the tranquillity of
apathetic ignorance, the fixedness of idiotcy. He spoke if he was
addressed, but recognised no one, and his answers were not to the
purpose. He took his food, and would then turn on his side, and close
his eyes as if in sleep. In vain did Acmé watch over him--in vain did
her tears bedew his couch--in vain did Delmé take his hand, and
endeavour to draw his attention to passing objects.