A Love Story
but subdue them. We have said that the moon was not riding the heavens
in her full robe of majesty, nor was there a sombre darkness. The purple
vault was spangled thick with stars; and there reigned that dubious,
glimmering light, by which you can note a face, but not mark its blush.
The walks wound fantastically. They were lit by festoons of coloured
lamps, attached to the neighbouring trees, so as to resemble the pendent
grape-clusters, that the traveller meets with just previous to the
Bolognese vintage. Occasionally, a path would be encountered where no
light met the eye save that of the prying stars overhead. In the
distant vista, might be seen a part of the crowded promenade, where
music held its court; whilst at intervals, a voice's swell or guitar's
tinkle would be borne on the ear. There was the hum of men, too--the
laugh of the idlers without the sanctum, as they indulged in the
delights of the mischievous fire-ball--and the sudden whizz, followed by
an upward glare of light, as a rocket shot into the air. But the hour,
and the nameless feeling that hour invoked, brought with them a subduing
influence, which overpowered these intruding sounds, attuning the heart
to love and praise. They paced the walk in mutual and embarrassed
silence. Sir Henry's thoughts would at one time revert to his brother,
and at another to that parting, which the morrow would assuredly bring
with it. He was lost in reverie, and almost forgot who it was that leant
thus heavily upon his arm. Julia had loved but once. She saw his
abstraction, and knew not the cause; and her timid heart beat quicker
than was its wont, as undefined images of coming evil and sorrow, chased
each other through her excited fancy. At length she essayed to speak,
although conscious that her voice faltered.
"What a lovely night! Are you a believer in the language of the stars?"
This was said with such simplicity of manner, that Delmé, as he turned
to answer her, felt truly for the first time the full force of his
attachment. He felt it the more strongly, that his mind previously had
been wandering more than it had done for years.
There are times and seasons when we are engrossed in a train of deep and
unconscious thought. Suddenly recalled to ourselves, we start from our
mental aberration, and a clearer insight into the immediate purposes and
machinery of our lives, is afforded us. We seem endowed with a more
accurate knowledge of self; the inmost workings of our souls are
abruptly revealed--feeling's mysteries stand developed--our weaknesses
stare us in the face--and our vices appear to gnaw the very vitals of
our hope. The veil was indeed withdrawn,--and Delmé's heart
acknowledged, that the fair being who leant on him for support, was
dearer--far dearer, than all beside. But he saw too, ambition in that
heart's deep recess, and knew that its dictates, unopposed for years,
were totally incompatible with such a love. He saw and trembled.
Julia's question was repeated, before Sir Henry could reply.
"A soldier, Miss Vernon, is particularly susceptible of visionary ideas.
On the lone bivouac, or remote piquet, duty must frequently chase sleep
from his eyelids. At such times, I have, I confess, indulged in wild
speculations, on their possible influence on our wayward destinies. I
was then a youth, and should not now, I much fear me, pursue with such
unchecked ardour, the dreams of romance in which I could then
unrestrainedly revel. Perhaps I should not think it wise to do so, even
had not sober reality stolen from imagination her brightest pinion."
"I would fain hope, Sir Henry," replied Julia, "that all your mind's
elasticity is not thus flown. Why blame such fanciful theories? I cannot
think them wrong, and I have often passed happy hours in forming them."
"Simply because they remove us too much from our natural sphere of
usefulness. They may impart us pleasure; but I question whether, by
dulling our mundane delights, they do not steal pleasure quite
equivalent. Besides, they cannot assist us in conferring happiness on
others, or in gleaning improvement for ourselves. I am not quite
certain, enviable as appears the distinction, whether the _too_
feelingly appreciating even nature's beauties, does not bear with it its
own retribution."
"Ah! do not say so! I cannot think that it _should_ be so with minds
properly regulated. I cannot think that _such_ can ever gaze on the
wonders revealed us, without these imparting their lesson of gratitude
and adoration. If, full of hope, our eye turns to some glorious planet,
and we fondly deem that _there_, may our dreams of happiness _here,_ be
perpetuated; surely in such poetical fancy, there is little to condemn,
and much that may wean us from folly's idle cravings.
"If in melancholy's hour, we mourn for one who hath been dear, and sorrow
for the perishable nature of all that may here claim our earthly
affections; is it not sweet to think that in another world--perhaps in
some bright star--we may again commune with what we have _so_
loved--once more be united in those kindly bonds--and in a kingdom where
those bonds may not thus lightly be severed?"
Julia's voice failed her; for she thought of one who had preceded her to
"the last sad bourne."
Delmé was much affected. He turned towards her, and his hand
touched hers.
"Angelic being!"
As he spoke, darker, more worldly thoughts arose. A fearful struggle,
which convulsed his features, ensued. The world triumphed.
Julia Vernon saw much of this, and maiden delicacy told her it was not
meet they should be alone.
"Let us join the crowd!" said she. "We shall probably meet our party in
the long walk: if not, we will try the ball room."
Poor Julia! little was her heart in unison with that joyous scene!
By the eve of the morrow, Delmé was many leagues from her and his
family.
Restless man, with travel, ambition, and excitement, can woo and almost
win oblivion;--but poor, weak, confiding woman--what is left to her?
In secret to mourn, and in secret still to love.
Chapter III.
The Journey.
"Adieu! adieu! My native land
Fades o'er the ocean blue;
The night winds sigh--the breakers roar--
And shrieks the wild sea mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea,
We follow in his flight:
Farewell awhile to him and thee!
My native land! good night!"
We have rapidly sketched the dénouement of the preceding chapter; but it
must not be forgotten, that Delmé had been residing some months at
Leamington, and that Emily and Julia were friends. In his own familiar
circle--a severe but true test--Sir Henry had every opportunity of
becoming acquainted with Miss Vernon's sweetness of disposition, and of
appreciating the many excellencies of her character. For the rest,
their intercourse had been of that nature, that it need excite no
surprise, that a walk on a gala night, had the power of extracting an
avowal, which, crude, undigested, and hastily withdrawn as it was, was
certainly more the effusion of the heart--more consonant with Sir
Henry's original nature--than the sage reasonings on his part, which
preceded and followed that event.
On Delmé's arrival in town, he prosecuted with energy his enquiries as
to his brother. He called on the regimental agents, who could give him
no information. George's military friends had lost sight of him since he
had sailed for the Mediterranean; and of the few persons, whom he could
hear of, who had lately left Malta; some were passing travellers, who
had made no acquaintances there, others, English merchants, who had met
George at the Opera and in the streets, but nowhere else. It is true,
there was an exception to this, in the case of a hair-brained young
midshipman; who stated that he had dined at George's regimental mess,
and had there heard that George "had fallen in love with some young
lady, and had fought with her brother or uncle, or a soldier-officer, he
did not know which."
Meagre as all this information was, it decided Sir Henry Delmé.
He wrote a long letter to Emily, in which he expressed a hope that both
George and himself would soon be with her, and immediately prepared for
his departure.
Ere we follow him on his lonely journey, let us turn to those he left
behind. Mrs. Glenallan and Emily decided on at once leaving Leamington
for their own home. The marriage of the latter was deferred; and as
Clarendon confessed that his period of probation was a very happy one,
he acquiesced cheerfully in the arrangement. Emily called on the
Vernons, and finding that Julia was not at home, wrote her a kind
farewell; secretly hoping that at some future period they might be more
nearly related. The sun was sinking, as the travellers neared Delmé. The
old mansion looked as calm as ever. The blue smoke curled above its
sombre roof; and the rooks sailed over the chimneys, flapping their
wings, and cawing rejoicefully, as they caught the first glimpse of
their lofty homes. Emily let down the carriage window, and with sunshiny
tear, looked out on the home of her ancestors.
There let us leave her; and turn to bid adieu for a season, to one, who
for many a weary day, was doomed to undergo the pangs of blighted
affection. Such pangs are but too poignant and enduring, let the
worldly man say what he may. Could we but read the history of the
snarling cynic, blind to this world's good--of him, who from being the
deceived, has become the deceiver--of the rash sensualist, who plunging
into vice, thinks he can forget;--could we but know the train of
events, that have brought the stamping madman to his bars--and his
cell--and his realms of phantasy;--or search the breast of her, who
lets concealment "feed on her damask cheek"--who prays blessings on
him, who hath wasted her youthful charms--then mounts with virgin soul
to heaven:--we, in our turn, might sneer at the worldling, and pin our
fate on the tale of the peasant girl, who discourses so glibly of
crossed love and broken hearts.
Sir Henry Delmé left England with very unenviable sensations. A cloud
seemed to hang over the fate of his brother, which no speculations of
his could pierce. Numberless were the conjectures he formed, as to the
real causes of George's sickness and mental depression. It was in vain
he re-read the letters, and varied his comments on their contents. It
was evident, that nothing but his actual presence in Malta, could
unravel the mystery. Sir Henry had _one_ consolation; how great, let
those judge who have had aught dear placed in circumstances at all
similar. He had a confidence in George's character, which entirely
relieved him from any fear that the slightest taint could have infected
it. But an act of imprudence might have destroyed his peace of
mind--sickness have wasted his body. Nor was his uncertainty regarding
George, Delmé's only cause of disquiet. When he thought of Julia
Vernon, there was a consequent internal emotion, that he could not
subdue. He endeavoured to forget her--her image haunted him. He
meditated on his past conduct; and at times it occurred to him, that
the resolutions he had formed, were not the result of reason, but were
based on pride and prejudice. He thought of her as he had last seen
her. _Now_ she spoke with enthusiasm of the bright stars of heaven;
anon, her eye glistened with piety, as she showed how the feeling these
created, was but subservient to a nobler one still. Again, he was
beside her in the moment of maiden agony; when low accents faltered
from her quivering lip, and the hand that rested on his arm, trembled
from her heart's emotion.
Such were the bitter fancies that assailed him, as he left his own, and
reached a foreign land. They cast a shadow on his brow, which change of
scene possessed no charm to dispel. He hurried on to France's capital,