A Love Story
At about four o'clock the following morning, Doctor Pormont was announced,
Cold and forbidding as was his aspect, George hailed him as his tutelary
angel, and burst into tears, as he implored him to exert his skill to the
uttermost.
The physician approached the invalid, and in a moment saw that the case
was a critical one.
His patient was bled twice during the day, and strong opiates
administered.
Towards evening, she slept; and awoke with restored consciousness, but
with feelings keenly alive to her own danger.
The following night and day she lingered on, speaking but little.
During the whole of that time, even, when she slept, George's hand
remained locked in hers. On this, her tears would sometimes fall, but
these she strove to restrain.
To the others around her, she spoke gratefully, and with feminine
softness; but her whole heart seemed to be with George.
Doctor Pormont, to do him justice, was unremitting in his exertions, and
hardly took rest.
All his professional skill was called to her aid; but from the second day,
he saw it was in vain.
The strength of the invalid failed her more and more.
Doctor Pormont at length called Sir Henry on one side, and informed him
that he entertained no doubt of a fatal result; and recommended his at
once procuring such religious consolation as might be in his power.
No Protestant clergyman was near at hand, even had Delmé thought it
adviseable to procure one.
But he was well aware, that however Acme might have sympathised with
George, her earlier religious impressions would now in all probability
be revived.
A Catholic priest was sent for, and arrived quickly. He was habited in
the brown garb of his order, his waist girt with a knotted cord. He bore
in his hand the sainted pyx, and commenced to shrive the dying girl.
It was the soft hour of sunset, and the prospect in rear of the mansion,
presented a wide sea of rich coloured splendour.
Over the window, had been placed a sheet, in order to exclude the light
from the invalid's chamber. The priest knelt by her bedside; and folding
his hands together, began to pray.
The rays of the setting sun, fitfully flickered on the sheet, over whose
surface, light shadows swiftly played, ever and anon glancing on the shorn
head of the kneeling friar.
His intelligent face was expressive of firm belief.
His eye turned reverentially to heaven, as in deep and sonorous accents,
he implored forgiveness for the sufferer, for the sins committed during
her mortal coil.
Acmé sat up in her bed. On her countenance, calm devotion seemed to usurp
the place of earthly affections, and earthly passions.
The soul was preparing for its upward flight. Delmé led away the sorrowing
husband, and the minister of Christ was left alone, to hear the contrite
outpourings of a weak departing sinner.
The priest left the chamber, but spoke not, either to the physician, or
the expecting brothers. His impassioned glance belonged to another and a
higher world.
He made one low obeisance--his robes swept the passage quickly--and the
Franciscan friar sought his lonely cell to reflect on death.
The brothers re-entered. They found Acmé in the attitude in which they had
left her--her features wearing an expression at once radiant and resigned.
But--as her eye met George's--as she saw the havoc grief had already
made--the feelings of the woman resumed the mastery.
She extended her arms--she brought his lip to hers--as if she would have
made _that_ its resting place for ever.
Alas! an inward pang told her to be brief. She drew away her face,
crimsoned with her passion's flush--tremblingly grasped his hand---and,
with voice choked by emotion, gave her last farewell.
"Giorgio, my dearest! my own! I shall soon join my parents. I feel
this--and my mother's words, as she met me by the olive tree, ring
in my ear.
"She told me I should die thus; but she told me, too, that I should kill
the one dearest to me on earth. Thank God! this cannot be--for I know my
life to be ebbing fast.
"Dearest I do not mourn for me too much. You may find another Acmé--as
true. But, oh! sometimes--yes! even when your hearts cling fondly
together, as ours were wont to do--think of your own Acmé--who loved you
first--and only--and does it now! oh! how well! Giorgio! dear! dearest!
adieu! My feet are _so, so_ cold--and ice seems"--
A change shadowed the face, as from some corporeal pang.
She tried to raise an ebony cross hung round her neck.
In the effort, her features became convulsed--and George heard a low
gurgling in the throat, as from suffocation.
Ah! that awful precursor of "the first dark hour of nothingness."
George Delmé sprang to his feet, and was supporting her head, when the
physician grasped his arm.
"Stop! stop! you are preventing"----
The lower lip quivered--and drooped--slightly! very slightly!
The head fell back.
One long deep drawn sigh shook the exhausted frame.
The face seemed to become fixed.
Doctor Pormont extended his hand, and silently closed those dark
fringed lids.
The cold finger, with its harsh touch, once more brought consciousness.
Once more the lid trembled! there was an upward glance that looked
reproachful!
Another short sigh! Another!
Lustreless and glaring was that once bright eye!
Again the physician extended his hand.
"Assuredly, gentlemen! vitality hath departed!"
A deep--solemn--awful silence--which not a breath disturbed--came over
that chamber of death.
It seemed as if the insects had ceased their hum--that twilight had
suddenly turned to night--that an odour, as of clay, was floating around
them, and impregnating the very atmosphere.
George took the guitar, whose chords were never more to be woke to harmony
by that loved hand, and dashed it to the ground.
Ere Delmé could clasp him, he had staggered to the bedside--and fallen
over Acmé's still form.
And did her frame thrill with rapture? did she bound to his caress? did
her lip falter from her grateful emotion?--did she bury his cheek in her
raven tresses?
No, no! still--still--still were all these! still as death!
Chapter IV.
Rome.
"Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well."
* * * * *
"The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her wither'd hands,
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago.
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress."
Undertakers! not one word shall henceforth pass our lips in your
dispraise!
An useful and meritorious tribe are you!
What! though sleek and rosy cheeked, you seem to have little in common
with the wreck of our hopes?
What! if our ears be shocked by profane jests on the weight of your
burden, as you bear away from the accustomed mansion, what _was_ its
light and its load star--but what _is_--pent up in your dark, narrow
tenement, but--
"A heap,
To make men tremble, that never weep."
What! if our swimming eye--as we follow those dear--dear remains to their
last lone resting place--glance on the heartless myrmidons, who salute the
passer by with nods of recognition, and smiles of indifference?
What! if, returning homewards--choked with bitter recollections, which
rise fantastic, quick, and ill-defined--the very ghosts of departed
scenes and years--what if we start as we then perceive you--lightsome of
heart, and glib of speech--clustered and smirking, on that roof of
nodding plumes--neath which, one short hour since--lay what was dearest
to us on earth?
Let us not heed these things! for--light as is the task to traders in
death's dark trappings; painful and soul-subduing are those withering
details to the grieving and heart-struck mourner!
We left George lying half insensible by the side of his dead wife.
Sir Henry and Thompson carried him to the apartment of the former, and
while Thompson hung over his master, attempting to restore
consciousness--Delmé had a short conference with Doctor Pormont as to
their ulterior proceedings.
Doctor Pormont--as might be expected--enjoined the greatest promptitude,
and recommended that poor Acmé's remains, should be consigned to the
burial place of the hamlet.
George's objections to this, however, as soon as he was well enough to
comprehend what was going forward, seemed quite insurmountable; and after
Sir Henry had sought the place by moonlight, and found it wild and open,
with goats browsing on the unpicturesque graves, and with nothing to mark
the sanctity of the spot, save a glaring painted picture of the Virgin,
his own prejudices became enlisted, and he consented to proceed to Rome.
After this decision was made, he found it utterly impossible, to procure
a separate conveyance for the corpse; and was equally unsuccessful in his
attempt to procure that--which from being a common want, he had been
disposed to consider of every day attainment--a coffin.
While his brother made what arrangements he best might, poor George
returned to the chamber of death, and gazed long and fixedly--with the
despair of the widower--on those hushed familiar features.
Her hair was now turned back, and was bound with white ribbon, and
festooned with some of the very water lilies that Acmé had admired. A
snow-white wreath bound her brow. It was formed of the white convolvulus.
We have said the features were familiar; but oh! how different! The yellow
waxen hue--the heavy stiffened lid--how they affected George Delmé, who
had never looked on death before!
First he would gaze with stupid awe--then turn to the window, and attempt
to repress his sobs--return again--and refuse to credit his bereavement.
Surely the hand moved? No! of its free will shall it never move more! The
eye! was there not a slight convulsion in that long dark lash?
No! over it may crawl the busy fly, and creep the destructive worm,
without let, and without hindrance!
No finger shall be raised in its behalf--that lid shall remain closed
and passive!
The insect and the reptile shall extend their wanderings over the
smooth cheek, and revel on the lips, whose red once rivalled that of
the Indian shell.
Moveless! moveless shall all be!
The long--long night wore on.
An Italian sunrise was gilding the heavens.
Acmé was never to see a sunrise more; and even this reflection--trite as
it may seem, occurring to one, who had watched through the night, by the
side of the dead--even this reflection, convulsed again the haggard
features of the mourner.
Delmé had made the requisite arrangements during the night, for their
early departure.
Just previous to the carriage being announced, he led George out of the
room; whilst the physician, aided by the women, took such precautions as
the heat of the climate rendered necessary.
Linen cloths, steeped in a solution of chlorate of lime, were closely
wound round the body--a rude couch was placed in the inside of the
carriage, which was supported by the two seats--and the carriage itself
was darkened.
These preparations concluded--and having parted with Doctor
Pormont---whose attentions, in spite of his freezing manner, had been very
great--the brothers commenced their painful task.
George knelt at the head of the corpse--ejaculated one short fervent
prayer--and then, assisted by his brother, bore it in his arms to
the vehicle.
The Italian peasants, with rare delicacy, witnessed the scene from the
windows of the inn, but did not intrude their presence.
The body was placed crosswise in the carriage. George sat next the