A Love Story
George had never been so long without a lucid interval. The surgeon's
voice grew less cheering every day, as he saw the little amendment in
his patient, and remarked that the pulse was gradually sinking. Colonel
Vavasour never allowed a day to elapse without visiting the invalid; and
in the regiment, his illness excited great commiseration, and drew forth
many expressions of kindness.
"Oh God! oh God!" said Delmé, "he must not sink thus. Just as I am with
him--just as--oh, poor Emily! what will _she_ feel? Can nothing be done,
Mr. Graham?"
"Nothing! Sir: we must now put our whole trust in an all-seeing
Providence. _My_ skill can neither foresee nor hasten the result."
One soft summer's evening, when the wind blew in the scent of flowers
from the opposite gardens--and the ceaseless hum of the insects--those
twilight revellers--sounded happily on the ear, Acmé started from the
couch as a thought crossed her.
"We have never tried music," said she, "I have been too unhappy to
think of it."
Her tears fell fast on the guitar, as she tuned its strings. She sung a
plaintive Greek air. It was the first George ever heard her sing, and
was the favourite. He heard it, when watching; lover-like beneath her
balcony during the first vernal days of their attachment. The song was
gone through sadly, and without hope. George's face was from her, and
she laid down the guitar, weary of life.
George gently turned his head. His eyes wore a subdued melancholy
expression, bespeaking consciousness. Down his cheek one big drop was
trickling.
"Acmé!" said he, "dearest Acmé!"
Delmé, who had left the room, was recalled by the hysterical sobs of the
poor girl, as she fell back on the chair, her hands clasped in joyful
gratitude.
The surgeon, who had immediately been sent for, ordered that George
should converse as little as possible.
What he did say was rational. What a solace was that to Henry and Acmé!
The invalid too appeared well aware of his previous illness, although he
alluded to it but seldom. To those about him, his manner was femininely
soft, as he whispered his thanks, and sense of their kindness.
Immediately after the horrible scene he had witnessed, Sir Henry's mind
had been made up, as to the line of conduct he ought to pursue. The
affectionate solicitude of the young Greek, during George's illness,
gave him no reason to regret his determination.
"Now," said Mr. Graham, one day as George was rapidly recovering,
"now, Sir Henry, I would recommend you to break all you have to say to
George. For God's sake, let them be married; and although, mark me! I
by no means assert that it will quite re-establish George's health,
yet I think such a measure _may_ effectually do so, and at all events
will calm him for the present; which, after all, is the great object
we have in view."
The same day, Delmé went to his brother's bed-side. "George," said he,
"let me take the present opportunity of Acmé's absence, to tell you what
I had only deferred till you were somewhat stronger. She is a good girl,
George, a very good girl. I wish she had been English--it would have
been better!--but this we cannot help. You must marry her, George! I
will be a kind brother-in-law, and Emily shall love her for your sake."
The invalid sat up in his bed--his eyes swam in tears. He twice essayed
to speak, ere he could express his gratitude.
"Thank you! a thousand times thank you! my kind brother! Even _you_
cannot tell the weight of suffering, you have this day taken from my
mind. My conduct towards Acmé has been bowing me to the earth; and yet
I feared your consent would never be obtained. I feared that coldness
from you and Emily would have met her; and that I should have had but
_her_ smile to comfort me for the loss of what I so value. God bless
you for this!"
Delmé was much affected.
To complete his good work, he waited till Acmé had returned from a visit
she had just made to her relations; and taking her aside, told her his
wishes, and detailed his late conversation with George.
"Never! never!" said the young Greek, "I am too happy as I am. I have
heard you all make better lovers than husbands. I cannot be happier!
No! no! I will never consent to it."
All remonstrances were fruitless--no arguments could affect her--no
entreaties persuade.
Delmé, quite perplexed at finding such a difficulty, where he had so
little expected to find one,--pitying her simplicity, but admiring her
disinterestedness,--went to George, and told him Acmé's objections.
"I feared it," said his brother, "but perhaps I may induce her to think
differently. Were I to take advantage of her unsophisticated feelings,
and want of knowledge of the world, I should indeed be a villain."
Acmé was sent for, and came weeping in--took Georg's hand--and gazed
earnestly in his face as he addressed her.
"You must change your mind, dearest," said he. And he told her of the
world's opinion--the contumely she might have to endure--the slights to
which she would be subjected. Still she heeded not.
"Why mention these things?" said she. "Who would insult me, were _you_
near? or if they did, should I regard them while _you_ were kind?"
And her lover's words took a loftier tone; and he spoke of religion, and
of the duties it imposes; of the feelings of his countrywomen; and the
all-seeing eye of their God. Still the fond girl wept bitterly, but
spoke not.
"My own Acmé! consider _my_ health too, dearest! Were you now to
consent, I might never again be ill. It would be cruelty to me to
refuse. Say you consent for _my_ sake, sweet!"
"For your sake, then!" said Acme, as she twined her snowy arms round his
neck, "for _your_ sake, Giorgio, I do so! But oh! when I am yours for
ever by that tie; when--if this be possible--our present raptures are
less fervent--our mutual affections less devoted--do not, dearest
George--do not, I implore you--treat me with coldness. It would break my
heart, indeed it would."
They were married according to the rites of both the Protestant and
Catholic Church. Few were present. George had been lifted to the sofa,
and sat up during the ceremony; and although his features were pale and
emaciated, they brightened with internal satisfaction, as he heard those
words pronounced, which made his love a legitimate one. Acmé was silent
and thoughtful; and tears quenched the fire of her usually sparkling
eye. George Delmé's recovery from this date became more rapid.
He was able to resume his wonted exercise--his step faltered
less--his eye became clearer. His convalescence was so decided, that
the surgeon recommended his at once travelling, and for the present
relinquishing the army.
"Perhaps the excessive heat may not be beneficial. I would, if possible,
get him to Switzerland for the summer months. I will enquire what
outward-bound vessels there are. If there is one for Leghorn, so much
the better. But the sooner he tries change of scene, the more
advantageous it is likely to be; and after all, the climate is but a
secondary consideration."
An American vessel bound to Palermo, happened to be the only one in the
harbour, whose destination would serve their purpose; and determined
not to postpone George's removal, Sir Henry at once engaged its cabin.
Colonel Vavasour obtained George leave for the present, and promised to
arrange as to his exchanging from full pay. He likewise enabled him,
which George felt as a great boon, to take his old and attached servant
with him; with the promise that he would use all his interest to have
the man's discharge forwarded him, before the expiration of his leave.
"He may be useful to you, my dear boy, if you get ill again, which God
forbid! He is an old soldier, and a good man--well deserving the
indulgence. And remember! if you should be better, and feel a returning
penchant for the red coat, write to me--we will do our best to work an
exchange for you."
Chapter XVII.
The Departure.
"Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been,
A sound that makes us linger, yet farewell."
The day of departure at length arrived. Thompson had been busy the
greater part of the night in getting every thing ready for the voyage.
It was a lovely morning, and the wind, although light, was propitious.
Acmé had parted with her relations and friends the day previous.
She was henceforward to share the destiny of one, who was to supply the
place of both to her. Attached to them as she was, and grateful as she
felt for their kindness in the hour of need, there was nothing in that
parting to throw a permanent gloom on the hopes of the youthful bride.
Her love, and the feelings it engendered, were of that confiding nature,
that she could have followed George anywhere, and been happy still. As
it was, her lot seemed cast "in pleasant places," and no foreboding of
evil, except indeed for George, ever marred the waking dreams of Acmé.
Her simple heart had already learnt, to look up with respect and
affection to Sir Henry, and yearned with fond longing for the period
when she should return a sister's love.
She had that lively talent too, which, miniatured as it was, allowed of
her fully appreciating the superiority of the English she had lately
met, to the general run of those with whom she had hitherto associated.
An English home had none but charms for her.
"Come Acmé," said George, as he assisted her in adjusting the first
bonnet that had ever confined her wavy curls, "wish good bye to your
ring-dove, dear! Mrs. Graham will take good care of it; and Thompson has
just finished the packing."
The boat which was to convey them to the vessel was so near, that they
had agreed to walk down to the place of embarkation.
As George left the room, a tall figure presented itself on the
staircase.
"Ah, Clark!" said George, "my good fellow! I am very sorry to part with
you. I do not know what I shall do without my pay serjeant!" and he held
out his hand.
It was grasped gratefully.
"Thank you, your honour!"
The old soldier stood erect, and put his hand to his cap.
"God bless you! Mr. Delmé. I have served under many officers, but never
under a kinder. May the Almighty bless you, Sir, in all your
wanderings."
The soldier turned away--one large drop burst o'er the lid, and trickled
down his sun-burnt cheek.
With the back of his hand, he brushed it off indignantly.
His converse may be rough--his manner rude--his hand ever ready for
quarrel;--but, believe us! ye who deem the soldier beneath his
fellow-men,--that the life of change--of chance--of hardship--and of
danger--which is his, freezes not the kindlier emotions of the soul, if
it sweep away its sicklier refinements. Beneath the red vest, beat
hearts as warm and true, as ever throbbed beneath operative apron, or
swelled under softest robe of ermine.
George was moved by the man's evidently sincere grief. He reached the
bottom of the stairs. The company to which he belonged was drawn up in
the court yard.
In front of it, the four tallest men supported a chair, and almost
before George Delmé was aware of their purpose, bore him to it, and
lifted him on their shoulders, amidst the huzzas of their comrades. The
band, too, which had voluntarily attended, now struck up the march which
George delighted to hear; and, followed by his company, he was carried
triumphantly towards the mole.
George's heart was full.
Sir Henry felt deeply interested in the scene; and poor Acmé leant on
his arm, and wept with joy.
Yes! there are moments in life, and this was one, when the approval of
our inferiors awakens a degree of pride and mental satisfaction, that
no panegyric of our superiors, no expressions of esteem from our
equals, could have ever called forth. Such approval meets us, as the