A Love Story
her waist. Over her bosom, and fastened by a chased silver clasp, was
one of the saffron handkerchiefs worn by the Parganot women. A jacket
of purple velvet, embroidered with gold, fitted closely to her figure.
Round her waist was a crimson girdle, fastened by another enormous
broach, or rather embossed plate of silver. A Maltese gold rose chain
of exquisite workmanship was flung round her neck, to which depended a
locket, one side of which held, encased in glass, George's hair braided
with her own; the other had a cameo, representing the death of the
patriot Marco Bozzaris.
"Giorgio tells me," said she, "that you speak Italian, at which I am
very glad; for his efforts to teach me English have quite failed. Do you
know you quite alarmed me last night, and I really think it was too bad
of George introducing you when he did;" and she placed her hand on her
lover's shoulder, and looked in his face confidingly. In spite of the
substance of her speech, and the circumstances under which Delmé saw
her, he could not avoid feeling an involuntary prepossession in her
favour. Her manner had little of the polish of art, but much of nature's
witching simplicity; and Sir Henry felt surprised at the ease and
animation of the whole party. Acmé presided at the breakfast table, with
a grace which many a modern lady of fashion might envy; and during the
meal, her conversation, far from being dull or listless, showed that she
had much talent, and that to a quick perception of nature's charms, she
united great enthusiasm in their pursuit. The meal was over, when the
surgeon of the regiment was announced, and introduced by George to Sir
Henry. After making a few inquiries as to the invalid's state of health,
he proposed to Delmé, taking a turn in the botanical garden, which was
immediately in front of their windows.
Sir Henry eagerly grasped at the proposition; anxious, as he felt
himself, to ascertain the real circumstances connected with his
brother's indisposition. They strolled through the garden, which was
almost deserted--for none but dogs and Englishmen, to use the expression
of the natives, court the Maltese noon-day sun,--and the surgeon at once
entered into George's history. He was a man of most refined manners, and
a cultivated intellect, and his professional familiarity with horrors,
had not diminished his natural delicacy of feeling. His narrative was
briefly thus:--
George Delmé's bosom companion had been an officer of his own age and
standing in the service, with whom he had embarked when leaving England.
Their intercourse had ripened into the closest friendship. George had
met Acmé, although the surgeon knew not the particulars of the
rencontre,--had confided to his friend the acquaintance he had made--and
had himself introduced Delancey at the house where Acmé resided. Whether
her charms really tempted the friend to endeavour to supplant George,
or whether he considered the latter's attentions to the young Greek to
be without definite object, and undertaken in a spirit of indifference,
the narrator could not explain; but it was not long before Delancey
considered himself as a principal in the transaction. Acmé, whose
knowledge of the world was slight, and whose previous seclusion from
society, had rendered her timidity excessive, considered that her best
mode of avoiding importunities she disliked, and attentions that were
painful to her, would be to speak to George himself on the subject.
By this time, the latter, quite fascinated by her beauty and
simplicity, and deeming, as was indeed the fact, that his love was
returned, needed not other inquietudes than those his attachment gave
him. The pride of ancestry and station on the one hand--on the other,
a deep affection, and a wish to act nobly by Acmé--caused an internal
struggle which made him open to any excitement, nervously alive to any
wrong. He sought his friend, and used reproaches, which rendered it
imperative that they should meet as foes. Delancey was wounded; and
as _he_ thought--and it was long doubtful whether it _were_
so--_mortally_. He beckoned George Delmé to his bedside--begged him to
forgive him--told him that his friendship had been the greatest source
of delight to him--a friendship which in his dying moments he begged
to renew--that far from feeling pain at his approaching dissolution,
he conceived that he had merited all, and only waited his full and
entire forgiveness to die happy. George Delmé wrung his hands in the
bitterness of despair--prayed him to live for his sake--told him, that
did he not, his own life hereafter would be one of the deepest
misery,--that the horrors of remorse would weigh him down to his
grave. The surgeon was the first to terminate a scene, which he
assured Delmé was one of the most painful it had ever been his lot to
witness. This meeting, though of so agitating a nature, seemed to have
a beneficial effect on the wounded man. He sunk into a sweet sleep;
and on awaking, his pulse was lower, and his symptoms less critical.
He improved gradually, and was now convalescent. But it was otherwise
with George Delmé. He sought the solitude of his chamber, a prey to
the agonies of a self-reproaching spirit. He considered himself
instrumental in taking the life of his best friend--of one, richly
endowed with the loftiest feelings humanity can boast. His nerves
previously had been unstrung; body and mind sank under the picture his
imagination had conjured up. His servant was alarmed by startling
screams, entered his room, and found his master in fearful
convulsions. A fever ensued, during which George's life hung by a
thread. To this succeeded a long state of unconsciousness,
occasionally broken by wild delirium.
During his illness, there was one who never left him--who smoothed his
pillow--who supported his head on her breast--who watched him as a
mother watches her first-born. It was the youthful Greek, Acmé Frascati.
The instant she heard of his danger, she left her home to tend him. No
entreaties could influence her, no arguments persuade. She would sit by
his bedside for hours, his feverish hand locked in hers, and implore him
to recover, to bless one who loved him so dearly. They could not part
them; for George, even in his delirious state, seemed to be conscious
that some one was near him, and, did she leave his side, would rise in
his bed, and look around him as if missing some accustomed object. In
his wilder flights, he would call passionately upon her, and beg her to
save his friend, who was lying so dead and still.
For a length of time, neither care nor professional skill availed.
Fearful was the struggle, between his disease, and a naturally hardy
constitution. Reason at last resumed her dominion. "I know not," said
the surgeon, "the particulars of the first dawning of consciousness. It
appears that Acmé was alone with him, and that it was at night. I found
him on my professional visit one morning, clear and collected, and his
mistress sobbing her thanks. I need perhaps hardly inform you," said the
narrator, "that George's gratitude to Acmé was vividly expressed. It was
in vain I urged on her the propriety of now leaving her lover. This was
met on both sides by an equal disinclination, and indeed obstinate
refusal; and I feared the responsibility I should incur, by enforcing a
separation which might have proved of dangerous consequence to my
patient. Alas! for human nature, Sir Henry! need it surprise you that
the consequences were what they are? Loving him with the fervency of one
born under an eastern sun--with the warm devotion of woman's first
love--with slender ideas of Christian morality--and with a mind
accustomed to obey its every impulse--need it, I say, surprise you, that
the one fell, and that remorse visited the other? To that remorse, do I
attribute what my previous communication may not have sufficiently
prepared you for; namely, the little dependence to be placed on the tone
of the invalid's mind. Reason is but as a glimmering in a socket; and
painful as my professional opinion may be to you, it is my duty to avow
it; and I frankly confess, that I entertain serious apprehensions, as to
the stability of his mind's restoration. It is on this account, that I
have felt so anxious that one of his relations should be near him.
Change of scene is absolutely necessary, as soon as change of scene can
be safely adopted. Every distracting thought must be avoided, and the
utmost care taken that no agitating topic is discussed in his presence.
These precautions may do much; but should they have no effect, which I
think possible; as a medical man, I should then recommend, what as a
member of his family may startle you. My advice would be, that if it be
ultimately found, that his feelings as regard this young girl, are such
as are likely to prevent or impede his mind's recovery; why I would then
at once allow him to make her any reparation he may think just.
"To what do you allude?" enquired Sir Henry.
"Why," continued the surgeon, "that if his feelings appear deeply
enlisted on that side of the question, and all our other modes have
failed in obtaining their object; that he should be permitted to marry
her as soon as he pleases. I see you look grave. I am not surprised you
should do so; but life is worth preserving, and Acmé, if not entirely to
our notions, is a good, a very good girl--warm-hearted and affectionate;
and it is not fair to judge her by our English standard. You will
however have time and scope, to watch yourself the progress and extent
of his disorder. I fear this is more serious than you are at present
aware of; but from your own observations, would I recommend and wish
your future line of conduct to be formed. May I trust my frankness has
not offended you?"
Sir Henry assured him, that far from this being the case, he owed
him many thanks for being thus explicit. Shaking him by the hand,
he returned to George's room with a clouded brow; perplexed how to
act, or how best discuss with his brother, the points connected
with his history.
Chapter IX.
The Narrative.
"The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd,
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch,
Her lips whose kisses pout to leave their nest,
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such;
Her glance how wildly beautiful--how much
Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek,
Which grows yet smoother from his amorous clutch,
Who round the north for paler dames would seek?
How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak."
Love! Heavenly love! by Plato's mind conceived, and Sicyon's artist
chiselled! not thou! night's offspring, springing on golden wing from
the dark bosom of Erebus! the first created, and the first creating: but
thou! immaculate deity; effluence of unspotted thought, and child of a
chaster age! where, oh where is now thy resting place?
Pensile in mid-heaven, gazest thou yet with seraphic sorrow on this,
the guilty abode of guilty man?--with pity's tear still mournest thou,
as yoked to the car of young desire, we bow the neck in degrading and
slavish bondage? Or dost thou, the habitant of some bright star, where
frailty such as ours is yet unknown, lend to lovers a rapture unalloyed
by passion's grosser sense; as, symphonious with the tremulous zephyr,
chastened vows of constancy are there exchanged? Ah! vainly does one
solitary enthusiast, in his balmy youth, for a moment conceive he really
grasps thee! 'tis but a fleeting phantasy, doomed to fade at the first
sneer of derision--and for ever vanish, as a false and fascinating world
stamps its dogmas on his heart! Celestial love! oh where may he yet find
thee? and a clear voice whispers, ETERNITY!
Hope! guide the fainting pilgrim! undying soul! shield him from the