A Love Story
spontaneous effusion of hearts that have looked up to ours, and have
_not_ been deceived.
This pride was it that flushed George's cheek, and illumed with
brightness his swimming eye. He was thus carried till he arrived at the
spot where his boat should have been. It was already, with Thompson and
their baggage, half way towards the vessel. In its place was the
regimental gig, manned by George's best friends. Its steersman was
Colonel Vavasour, drest in the fanciful aquatic costume his regiment
had adopted.
Trifling as this may appear, this act of his Colonel, seemed to George
the very highest compliment that had ever been paid him.
George Delmé turned to his company, and with choking voice thanked them
for this last mark of attention. We are very certain that a shake of
the hand from a prince, would not have delighted him as much, as did
the hearty farewell greeting of his rough comrades.
Even Acmé blushingly went up to the chair-supporters, and, with a
winning smile, extended her small hand. Vavasour assisted her into the
gig, and it was with a bounding elasticity of spirit, to which he had
long been a stranger, that George followed. As the boat cut through the
water, they were greeted with a last and deafening huzza.
In a short time they were alongside the vessel. The captain was pacing
the deck, and marking the signs of the wind, with the keen eye of the
sailor. A chair was lowered for Acmé. She shook hands with the rowers.
George parted from them as if they had been brothers, and from Colonel
Vavasour last of all.
"Take care of yourself, my dear boy," said the latter, "do not
forget to write us; we shall all be anxious to know how you have
stood the voyage."
As the gig once more shot its way homewards, and many a friendly
handkerchief waved its adieu, George felt, that sad as the parting was,
he should have felt it more _bitterly_ if they had loved him less.
To divert their minds from thoughts of a melancholy nature, Sir Henry,
as the boat made a turn of the land, and was no longer visible, proposed
exploring the cabin. This they found small, but cleanly. Some hampers of
fruit, and a quantity of ice, exhibited agreable proofs of the attention
of Acmé's relations. We may, by the way, observe, that rarely does the
sense of the palate assert its supremacy with greater force than on
board-ship. There will the _thought_--much more the _reality_--of a
mellow pine--or juicy pomegranate--cause the mouth to water for the best
part of a long summer's day. On their ascending the deck, the captain
approached Sir Henry.
"No offence! Sir; but I guess the wind is fair. If you want nothing
ashore, we will off, Sir, _now_! if you please."
Delmé acquiesced.
How disagreable is the act of leaving harbour in a merchant ship!
Even sailors dislike it, and growl between their teeth, like captive
bears. The chains of the anchor clank gratingly on the ear. The very
chorus of the seamen smacks of the land, and wants the rich and free
tone that characterises it in mid-sea. Hoarse are the mandates of the
boat-swain! his whistle painfully shrill! The captain walks the deck
thoughtfully, and frowningly ruminates on his bill of lading--or on some
over-charge in the dock duties--or, it may be, on his dispute on shore
with a part owner of the vessel.
And anon, he shakes off these thoughts, and looks on the
weather-side--then upwards at the the masts--and, as he notes the
proceedings, his orders are delivered fiercely, and his passions seem
ungovernable.
The vessel, too, seems to share the general feeling--is loath to
leave the port.
She unsteadily answers the call of her canvas--her rigging creaks--and
her strong sides groan--as she begins lazily and slowly to make her way.
Glad to turn their attention to anything rather than the scene around,
George began conversing on the effect the attentions of his company and
brother officers had had on him.
"Their kindness," said George, "was wholly unexpected by me, and I felt
it very deeply. An hour before, I fancied that Acmé and my own family
monopolised every sympathy I possessed. But, thank God! the heart has
many hidden channels through which kindness may steal, and infuse its
genial balm."
"_I_ felt it, too, George!" said his brother, "and was anxious as to the
effect the scene might have on you. I am glad it _was_ unexpected. We
are sometimes better enabled to enact our parts improvising them, than
when we have schooled ourselves, and braced all our energies to the one
particular purpose.
"Acmé, how did you like the way George's men behaved?"
"It made me weep with joy," replied the young Greek, "for I love all who
love my Giorgio."
Chapter XVIII.
The Adieu.
"Adieu! the joys of La Valette."
* * * * *
"No more! no more! No! never more on me
The freshness of the heart shall fall like dew."
* * * * *
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
Isle of Beauty! fare thee well."
Malta! the snowy sail shivers in the wind--the waves, chafed by our
intruding keel, are proudly foaming--sea birds soar, screaming their
farewell aloft--as we wave our hand to thee for ever! What is our
feeling, as we see thee diminish hourly?
Regret! unfeigned regret!
Albeit we speed to our native land, on the wing of a bark as fleet as
ever--but it matters not--_thou_ hast seen the best of our days.
Visions conjured up by thee, have the unusual power, to banish
anticipations of Almack's glories, and of home flirtations.
We are recalling balls enjoyed in thee, loved island! the valse spun
round with the darling fleet-footed Maltese, who during its pauses leant
back on our arm, against which her spangled zone throbbed, from the
pulsations of her heart.
Dreams of turtle and of grand master--the _fish_, not the
_official_--and of consecutive iced champagne, mock our sight! But
more--yes! far more than all, are we reminded of thy abode--thou
dispenser of cheering liquids! thou promoter of convivial happiness!
meek Saverio! How swiftly glided the mirth-loving nights as--the
enchanting strains of the prima donna hushed--we adjourned to thy ever
to be praised bottegua!
With what precision didst thou there mete out the many varied
ingredients--the exact relative proportions--which can alone embody our
conception of the nectar of the Gods, punch à la Romaine!
Whose cigars ever equalled thine, thou prince of Ganymedes? and when
were cigars more justly appreciated, than as our puffs kept time with
the trolling ditty, resounding through the walls of thy domain?
The luxury of those days!
Then would Sol come peeping in upon us; as unwelcome and unlooked-for
a visitant, as to the enamoured Juliet, when she sighing told her
lover that
"'Twas but a meteor that the sun exhaled,
To be to him that night a torch-bearer,
And light him on his way to Mantua."
Then, with head dizzy from its gladness, with heart unduly elate, has
the Strada Teatro seen us, imperiously calling for the submissive
calèche. Arrived in our chamber, how gravely did we close its shutters!
With what a feeling of satisfied enjoyment, did we court the downy
freshness of the snow-white sheet!
Sweet and deep were our slumbers--for youth's spell was upon us, and
our fifth lustre had not _yet_ heralded us to serious thoughts and
anxious cares.
Awoke by the officious valet, and remorseless friend, deemest though
our debauch was felt? No! an effervescent draught of soda calmed us; we
ate a blood orange, and smoked a cigar!
We often hear Malta abused. Byron is the stale authority; and every
snub-nosed cynic turns up his prominent organ, and talks of "sirocco,
sun, and sweat." Byron disliked it--he had cause. He was there at a bad
season, and was suffering from an attack of bile. _We_ know of no place
abroad, where the English eye will meet with so little to offend it, and
so much to please and impress.
There is such a blending together of European, Asiatic, and African
customs; there is such a variety in the costumes one meets; there is
such grandeur in their palaces--such glory in their annals; such novelty
in their manners and habits; such devotion in their religious
observances; such simplicity and yet such beauty, in the dress of the
women; and their wearers possess such fascinations; that we defy the
most fastidious of critics, who has really resided there, to deny to
Malta many of those attributes, with which he would invest that place,
on whose beauty and agrémens, he may prefer of all others to descant.
With the commonplace observer, its superb harbour, studded with gilded
boats; its powerful fortifications, where art towers over nature, and
where the eye looks up a rock, and catches a bristling battery; the
glare of its scenery, with no foliage to cover the white stone;--all
these, together with the different way in which the minutiae of life are
transacted,--will call forth his attention, and demand his notice.
Art thou a poet, or a fancied warrior? What scene has been more replete
with noble exploits? In whose breasts did the flame of chivalry burn
brighter, than in those of the knights of St. John of Jerusalem? Not a
name meets thee, that has not belonged to a hero! If thou grievest to
find all dissimilar _but_ the name; yet mayest thou still muse,
contemplative, over the tomb and ashes of him, whom thy mind has
shadowed forth, as a noble light in a more romantic age.
Art thou a moralist, a thinking Christian? Thou mayest there trace--and
the pursuit shall profit thee--the steps of the sainted apostle; he who
was so signally called forth, to hear witness to the truth of ONE, whom
he had erst reviled. Yon cordelier will show you the bay, where his
vessel took refuge in its distress; and will tell you, that yon jagged
rock first gave its dangerous welcome, to the bark of his patron saint.
Lovest thou music? hast loved? or been beloved? or both perchance?
Steal forth when night holds her starry court, and the guitars around
are tinkling, as more than one rich voice deplores his mistress's
cruelty, in hopes she may now relent. But see! _there_ is one, who puts
in requisition neither music's spell, nor flattery's lay.
See! he approaches. His cloak wrapped around him, he cautiously treads
the tranquil street.
He gains the portico--the signal is given. Who but an expectant maiden
could hear one so slight?
Hark! a sound! cautiously the lattice opens--above him blushes the fair
one! How brightly her dark eye flashes! how silver soft the tones of
her voice!
The stern father--the querulous mother--the tricked duenna--all--all
are slumbering. She leans forward, and her ear drinks in his honied
words; as her head is supported by her snowy arm.
And now he whispers more passionately. She answers not, but hides her
face in her hands. She starts! she throws back her hair from her brow;
she waves a white fazzolet, and is gone.
Not thus flies the lover. He crouches beneath the Ionic portico, his
figure hardly discernible. A bolt--the last bolt is withdrawn. A form is
dimly seen within--retiring, timid, repentant.
Sweet the task to calm that throbbing heart, or teach it to throb no
more with fear!
But let him of melancholy mood, wander to the deserted village. A more
fearful calamity has befallen it, than ever attended the soft shades, of
the one conjured up by the poet.
_Here_ the demon Plague, with baneful wing, and pestilential influence,
tarried for many days; till not one--no! not one soul of that village
train--that did not join his bygone fathers.
Stray along its grass-grown roofless tenements! where _your_ echo alone
breaks the silence, as it startles from its resting-place the slumbering