A Love Story
corpse. Delmé sat opposite, regarding his brother with anxious eye.
Most distressing was that silent journey! It made an impression on Sir
Henry's mind, that no after events could ever efface; and yet it had
already been his lot, to witness many scenes of horror, and ride over
fields of blood.
We have said it was a silent journey. George's despair was too deep
for words.
The first motion of the carriage affected the position of the corpse.
George put one arm round it, and kept it immoveable. Sometimes, his
scalding tears would fall on that cold face, whose outline yet preserved
its beautiful roundness.
It appeared to Sir Henry, that he had never seen life and death, so
closely and painfully contrasted. There sat his brother, in the full
energies of manhood and despair; his features convulsed--his frame
quivering--his sobs frequent--his pulse quick and disturbed.
There lay extended his mistress--cold--colourless--silent--unimpassioned.
There was life in the breeze that played on her raven tresses--grim death
was enthroned on the face those tresses swept.
Not that decay's finger had yet really assailed it; but one of the
peculiar properties of the preservative used by Doctor Pormont, is its
pervading sepulchral odour.
They reached Rome; and the consummation of their task drew nigh.
Pass we over the husband's last earthly farewell. Pass we over that
subduing scene, in which Henry assisted George to sever long ringlets, and
rob the cold finger, of affection's dearest pledge.
Alas! these might be retained as the legacy of love.
They were useless as love's memento. Memory, the faithful mirror, forbade
the relic gatherer ever to forget!
Would you know where Acmé reposes?
A beautiful burial ground looks towards Rome. It is on a gentle declivity
leaning to the south-east, and situated between Mount Aventine and the
Monte Testaccio.
Its avenue is lined with high bushes of marsh roses; and the cemetery
itself, is divided into three rude and impressive terraces.
_There_ sleeps--in a modest nook, surmounted by the wall-flower, and by
creeping ivy, and by many-coloured shrubs, and by one simple yellow
flower, of very peculiar and rare fragrance; a type, as the author of
these pages deemed, of the wonderful etherialised genius of the
man--_there_ sleeps, as posterity will judge him, the first of the poets
of the age we live in--Percy Bysshe Shelley! There too, moulders that
wonderful boy author--John Keats.
Who can pass his grave, and read that bitter inscription, dictated on his
deathbed, by the heart-broken enthusiast, without the liveliest emotion?
"Here lies one, whose name was writ in water.
February 4th, 1821."
The ancient wall of Rome, crowns the ridge of the slope we have described.
Above it, stands the pyramid of Caius Cæstius, constructed some twenty
centuries since.
Immediately beneath it, in a line with a round tower buried with ivy, and
near the vault of our beautiful countrywoman, Miss Bathurst, who was
thrown from her horse and drowned in the Tiber, may be seen a sarcophagus
of rough granite, surmounted by a black marble slab.
Luxuriant with wild flowers, and studded even in the winter season, with
daisies and violets, the sides of the tomb are now almost concealed. Over
the slab, one rose tree gracefully droops.
When seen in the dew of the morning, when the cups of the roses are full,
and crystal drops, distilling from leaves and flowers, are slowly
trickling on the dark stone, you might think that inanimate nature was
weeping for the doom of beauty.
Only one word is engraved on that slab. Should you visit Rome, and read
it, recollect this story.
That word is--"Acmé!"
* * * * *
Sir Henry and his brother remained at Rome nearly a month.
The former, with hopes that the exertion might be useful, in distracting
George from the constant contemplation of his loss, plunged at once into
the sight-seeing of "the eternal city."
Their days were busily passed--in visiting the classic sites of Rome and
its neighbourhood--in wandering through the churches and convents--and
loitering through the long galleries of the Vatican.
Delmé, fearfully looking back on the scenes that had occurred in Malta,
was apprehensive, that George's despair might lead to some violent
outbreak of feeling; and that mind and body might sink simultaneously.
It was not so.
That heavy infliction appeared to bear with it a torpedo-like power. The
first blow, abrupt and stunning, had paralysed. Afterwards, it seemed to
carry with it a benumbing faculty, which repressed external display. We
say _seemed_; for there were not wanting indications, even to Sir Henry's
partial eye, that the wound had sunk very deep,
The mourner _might_ sink, although he did not writhe.
In the mornings, George, followed by Thompson, would find his way to
the Protestant burial ground; and weep over the spot where his wife
lay interred.
During the day, he was Sir Henry's constant and gentle companion; giving
vent to no passionate display, and uttering few unavailing complaints. Yet
it was now, that a symptom of disease first showed itself, which Delmé
could not account for.
George would suddenly lean back, and complain of a spasm on the left side
of the chest. This would occasionally, but rarely, affect the circulation.
George's sleep too, was disturbed, and he frequently had to rise from his
bed, and pace the apartment; but this last circumstance, perhaps, was the
mere result of anxiety of mind.
Sir Henry, without informing George, consulted a medical gentleman, who
was well known to him, and who happened to be at Rome at the time,
regarding these novel symptoms.
He was reassured by being informed, that these pains were probably of a
neuralgic character, and not at all likely to proceed from any organic
affection.
George Delmé's mind was perfectly clear and collected; with the
exception, that he would occasionally allude to his loss, in connection
with some scene or subject of interest before them; and in a tone, and
with language, that, appeared to his brother eccentric, but
inexpressibly touching.
For instance, they were at Tivoli, and in the Syren's grotto, looking up
to the foaming fall, which dashes down a rude cleft, formed of
fantastically shaped rocks.
Immediately below this, the waters make a semicircular bend.
On their surface, a mimic rainbow was depicted in vivid colours.
"Not for me!" burst forth the mourner, "not for me! does the arc of
promise wear those radiant hues. Prismatic rays once gilded my existence.
With Acmé they are for ever fled. But look! how the stream dashes on! Thus
have the waters of bitterness passed over my soul!"
In the gallery of the Vatican, too, the very statues seemed to speak to
him of his loss.
"I like not," would he exclaim, "that disdainful Apollo. Thus cold,
callous, and triumphing in the work of destruction, must be the angel of
death, who winged the shaft at my bright Acmé.
"May the launching of his arrow, have been but the signal, for her
translation to a sphere, more pure than this.
"Let us believe her the habitant of some bright planet, such as she
pointed out to us in the Bay of Naples--a seraph with a golden lyre--and
shrouded in a white cymar! No, no!" would he continue, turning his
footsteps towards the adjacent room, where the suffering pangs of
Apollo's high priest are painfully told in marble, "let let me rather
contemplate the Laocoon! His agony seems to sympathise with mine--but was
his fate as hard? _He_ saw his sons dying before him; could a son, or
sons, be as the wife of one's bosom? The serpent twines around him, too,
awaking exquisite corporeal pangs, but would it not have been luxury to
have died with my Acmé?
"Can the body suffer as the mind?"
At night, reposing from the fatigues of the day, might the brothers
frequently be seen at the fountain of Trevi; George listlessly swinging
on the chains near it, and steadfastly watching the water, as it gurgled
over the fantastic devices beneath--while his mind wandered back to
Malta, and to Acmé.
Sir Henry's conduct during this trying period was most exemplary. Like the
mother, who lavishes her tenderest endearments on her sickliest child,
did he now endeavour to support his brother in his afflictions.
As the bleak night wind came on, he would arouse George from his
reverie--would make him lean his tall form on his--would wrap closely
the folds of his cloak around him--would speak _so_ softly--and soothe
_so_ tenderly.
And gratefully did George's heart respond to his kindness. He knew that
the sorrow which bowed _him_ to the earth, was also blanching the cheek of
his brother, and he loved him doubly for his solicitude.
Ah! few brothers have thus made sweet the fraternal tie!
Chapter V.
The East Indian.
"Would I not stem
A tide of suffering, rather than forego
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
Of those whose thoughts are only turn'd below,
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts that dare not glow?"
From Rome and our care-worn travellers, let us turn to Mrs. Vernon's
drawing-room at Leamington.
An unforeseen event suddenly made a considerable change in the hopes and
prospects of our fair friend Julia.
One warm summer's morning--it was on the very day, that the brothers, with
Acmé, were sailing close to the Calabrian mountains, and the latter was
telling her ghost story, within view of the sweet village of Capo del
Marte--one balmy summer's morning, the Miss Vernons were seated in a room,
furnished like most English drawing-rooms; that is to say, it had tables
for trinkets--a superb mirror--a Broadwood piano--an Erard harp--a
reclining sofa--and a woolly rug, on which slept, dreamt, and snored, a
small Blenheim spaniel.
Julia had a mahogany frame before her, and was thoughtfully working a
beaded purse.
The hue of health had left her cheek. Its complexion was akin to that of
translucent alabaster. The features wore a more fixed and regular aspect,
and their play was less buoyant and quick changing than heretofore.
Deep thought! thus has been thy warfare for ever. First, thou stealest
from the rotund face its joyous dimples; then, dost thou gradually imprint
remorseless furrows on the anxious brow.
A servant entered the room, and bore on a salver a letter addressed to
Miss Vernon.
Its deep black binding--its large coat of arms--bespoke it death's
official messenger.
Julia's cheek blanched as she glanced over its first page.
Her sisters laid down their work, and looked towards her with some
curiosity.
Julia burst into tears.
"Poor uncle Vernon!"
Her sisters seemed surprised at the announcement, but not to participate
in Julia's feelings on the occasion.
One of them took up the letter, which had fallen to the ground, and the
two read its contents.
"How very odd!" said they together, "uncle has left you Hornby, and
Catesfield, and almost all the property!"
"Has he?" replied Julia, "I could not read it all, for however he may
have behaved to mamma, I ever found him good and kind; and had always
hoped, that we might have yet seen him with us once more. Poor old man!
and the letter says a lingering illness--how sad to think that we were
not with him to soothe his pillow, and cheer his death bed!"
"Well!" said one of the sisters reddening, "I must say it was his own
fault. He would not live with his nearest relations, who loved him, and
tried to make his a happy home--but showed his caprice _then_, as he has
_now_. But I will go up stairs, and break it to mamma, and will tell her
you are an heiress."
"An heiress!" replied Julia, with heart-broken tone! "an heiress!" The