A Love Story
receipt, and time alone can say, whether your bargain has been a good or
a bad one. He has certainly no assumption--it is one of his few good
traits; he walks with his arms in motion, but attempts not a swagger;
his knock is unassuming, and his words, though much attended to, are
few, and to the point. Why, then, abuse him? We know not, but believe it
originates in fear. An intuitive feeling of dread--a rushing
presentiment of evil--crosses our mind, as our eye dwells on his
thread-bare coat, with its capacious pockets. News of a death--or a
marriage--the tender valentine--the remorseless dun--your having been
left an estate, or cut off with a shilling--fortune, and misfortune--he
quietly dispenses, as if totally unconscious. Surely such a man--his
round performed--cannot quietly sink to the private individual. Can such
a man caress his wife, or kiss his child, when he knows not how many
hearts are bursting with joy, or breaking with sorrow, from the tidings
_he_ has conveyed? To our mind, a postman should be an abstracted
visionary being, endowed with a peculiar countenance, betraying the
unnatural sparkle of the opium-eater, and evincing intense anxiety at
the delivery of each sheet. But these,--they wait not to hear the joyful
shout, or heart-rending moan--to know if hope deferred be at length
joyful certainty, or bitter only half-expected woe. We dread a postman.
Our hand shook, as we last year paid the man of many destinies his
demanded Christmas box.
The amount was double that we gave to the minister of our corporeal
necessities--the butcher's boy--not from a conviction of the superior
services or merit of the former, but from an uneasy desire to bribe, if
we could, that Mercury of fate.
The letter to Sir Henry, was from the surgeon of George's regiment. It
stated that George had been severely ill, and that connected with his
illness, were symptoms which made it imperative on the medical adviser,
to recommend the immediate presence of his nearest male relative.
Apologies were made for the apparent mystery of the communication, with
a promise that this would be at once cleared up, if Sir Henry would but
consent to make the voyage; which would not only enable him to be of
essential service to his brother, but also to acquire much information
regarding him, which could only be obtained on the spot. A note from
George was enclosed in this letter. It was written with an unsteady
hand, and made no mention of his illness. He earnestly begged his
brother to come to Malta, if he could possibly so arrange it, and
transmitted his kindest love and blessing to Emily.
Sir Henry at once made up his mind, to leave Leamington for town on the
morrow, trusting that he might there meet with information which would
be more satisfactory. He concealed for the time the true state of the
case from all but Clarendon; nor did he even allude to his proposed
departure.
It was Emily's birth-day, and Gage had arranged that the whole party
should attend a little fête on that night. Sir Henry could not find it
in his heart to disturb his sister's dream of happiness.
Chapter V
The Fête.
"Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
If, in your bright leaves, we would read the fate
Of men and empires,--'tis to be forgiven,
That, in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you."
The night came on with its crescent moon and its myriads of stars: just
such a night as might have been wished for such a fête. It was in the
month of April. April dews, in Britain's variable clime; are not the
most salubrious, and April's night air is too often keen and piercing;
but the season was an unusually mild one; and the ladies, with their
cloaks and their furs, promenaded the well-lighted walks, determined to
be pleased and happy.
The giver of the fête was an enterprising Italian. Winter's
amusements were over, or neglected--summer's delights were not
arrived; and Signor Pacini conceived, that during the dull and
monotonous interval, a speculation of his own might prove welcome to
the public and beneficial to himself. To do the little man justice, he
was indefatigable in his exertions. From door to door he wended his
smiling way,--here praising the mother's French, there the daughter's
Italian. He gained hosts of partisans. "Of course you patronise
Pacini!" was in every one's mouth. The Signor's prospectus stated,
that "through the kindness of the steward of an influential nobleman,
who was now on the continent, he was enabled to give his fete in the
grounds of the Earl of W----; where a full quadrille band would be in
attendance, a pavilion pitched on the smooth lawn facing the river,
and a comfortable ball room thrown open to a fashionable and
enlightened public. The performance would be most various, novel, and
exciting. Brilliant fireworks from Vauxhall would delight the eye, and
shed a charm on the fairy scene; whilst the car would be regaled with
the unequalled harmony of the Styrian brethren, Messrs. Schezer,
Lobau, and Berdan, who had very kindly deferred their proposed return
to Styria, in order to honour the fete of Signor Pacini."
As night drew on, the mimic thunder of carriages hastening to the scene
of action, bespoke the Signor's success. After the ninth hour, his
numbers swelled rapidly. Pacini assumed an amusing importance, and his
very myrmidons gave out their brass tickets with an air. At ten, a
rocket was fired. At this preconcerted signal, the pavilion, hitherto
purposely concealed, blazed in a flood of light. On its balcony stood
the three Styrian brethren,--although, by the way, they were not
brethren at all,--and, striking their harmonious guitars, wooed
attention to their strains. The crowd hurried down the walk, and formed
round the pavilion. Our party suddenly found themselves near the
Vernons. As the gentlemen endeavoured to obtain chairs for the ladies, a
crush took place, and Sir Henry was obliged to offer his arm to Julia,
who happened to be the nearest of her party. It was with pain Miss
Vernon noted his clouded brow, and look of abstraction; but hardly one
word of recognition had passed, before the deep voices of the Styrians
silenced all. After singing some effective songs, accompanied by a
zither, and performing a melodious symphony on a variety of Jew's-harps;
Pacini, the manager, advanced to address his auditors, with that air of
smiling confidence which no one can assume with better grace than a
clever Italian. His dark eye flashed, and his whole features irradiated,
as he delivered the following harangue.
"Ladies and gentlemen! me trust you well satisfied wid de former
musical entertainment; but, if you permit, me mention one leetle
circonstance. Monsieur Schezer propose to give de song; but it require
much vat you call stage management: all must be silent as de grave. It
ver pretty morceau."
The applause at the end of this speech was very great. Signor Pacini
bowed, till his face rivalled, in its hue, the rosy under-waistcoat in
which he rejoiced.
Schezer stepped forward. He was attired as a mountaineer. His hat
tapered to the top, and was crowned by a single heron feather. Hussars
might have envied him his moustaches. From his right side protruded a
couteau de chasse; and his legs were not a little set off by the
tight-laced boots, which, coming up some way beyond the ancle, displayed
his calf to the very best advantage.
The singer's voice was a fine manly tenor, and did ample justice to the
words, of which the following may be taken as a free version.
"Mountains! dear mountains! on you have I passed my green youth; to me
your breeze has been fragrant from childhood. When may I see the chamois
bounding o'er your toppling crags? When, oh when, may I see my
fair-haired Mary?"
The minstrel paused--a sound was heard from behind the pavilion. It was
the mountain's echo. It continued the air--then died away in the
softest harmony. All were charmed. Again the singer stepped
forward--the utmost silence prevailed--his tones became more
impassioned--they breathed of love.
"Thanks! thanks to thee, gentle echo! Oft hast thou responded to the
strains of love my soul poured to--ah me! how beautiful was the
fair-haired Mary!"
Again the echo spoke--again all were hushed. The minstrel's voice rose
again; but its tones were not akin to joy.
"Why remember this, deceitful echo? War's blast hath blown, and hushed
are the notes of love. The foe hath polluted my hearth--I wander an
exile. Where, where is Mary?"
The echo faintly but plaintively replied. There were some imagined that
a tear really started to the eye of the singer. He struck the guitar
wildly--his voice became more agitated--he advanced to the extremity of
the balcony.
"My sword! my sword! May my right hand be withered ere it forget to
grasp its hilt! One blow for freedom. Freedom--sweet as was the
lip--Yes! I'll revenge my Mary!"
Schezer paused, apparently overcome by his emotion. The echo wildly
replied, as if registering the patriot's vow. For a moment all was
still! A thundering burst of applause ensued.
The mountain music was succeeded by a sweep of guitars, accompanying a
Venetian serenade, whose burthen was the apostrophising the cruelty of
"la cara Nina."
It was near midnight, when all eyes were directed to a ball of fire,
which, rising majestically upward, soared amid the tall elm trees. For a
moment, the balloon became entangled in the boughs, revealing by its
transparent light the green buds of spring, which variegated and cheered
the scathed bark. It broke loose from their embrace--hovered
irresolutely above them--then swept rapidly before the wind, rising till
it became as a speck in the firmament.
This was the signal for Mr. Robinson's fireworks, which did not shame
Vauxhall's reputation. At one moment, a salamander courted notice; at
another, a train of fiery honours, festooned round four wooden pillars,
was fired at different places, by as many doves practised to the task.
Here, an imitation of a jet d'eau elicited applause--there, the
gyrations of a Catherine's wheel were suddenly interrupted by the rapid
ascent of a Roman candle.
Directly after the ascent of the balloon, Emily and Clarendon had
turned towards the ball room. Julia's sisters had a group of laughing
beaux round their chairs,--Mrs. Glenallan and Mrs. Vernon were
discussing bygone days,--and no one seemed disposed to leave the
pavilion. Sir Henry, in his silent mood, was glad to escape from the
party; and engaging Julia in a search for Emily, made his way to the
crowded ball room. He there found his sister spinning round with
Clarendon to one of Strauss's waltzes; and Sir Henry and his partner
seated themselves on one of the benches, watching the smiling faces as
they whirled past them. It was a melancholy thought to Delmé, how soon
Emily's brow would be clouded, were he to breathe one word of George's
illness and despondency. The waltz concluded, a quadrille was quickly
formed. Miss Vernon declined dancing, and they rose to join Emily and
Clarendon; but the lovers were flown. The ball room became still more
thronged; and Delmé was glad to turn once more towards the pavilion. The
party they had left there had also vanished, and strangers usurped their
seats. In this dilemma, Miss Vernon proposed seeking their party in the
long walk. They took one or two turns down this, but saw not those for
whom they were in search.
"If you do not dislike leaving this busy scene," said Sir Henry, "I
think we shall have a better chance of meeting Emily and Clarendon, if
we turn down one of these winding paths."
They turned to their left, and walked on. How beautiful was that night!
Its calm tranquillity, as they receded from the giddy throng, could not