 
We know not whether our readers have followed us with due attention, as we have incidentally, and at various intervals, made our brief allusion to the gradual change of character, wrought on DelmÉ, by the eventful scenes in which he so lately played a prominent part. When we first introduced him to our reader's notice, we endeavoured to depict him as he then really was,--a man of strong principles, warm heart, and many noble qualities; but one, prone to over-estimate the value of birth and fortune--with a large proportion of pride and reserve--and with ideas greatly tinctured with the absurd fallacies of the mere man of the world. But there was much in the family events we have described, to shake DelmÉ's previous convictions, and to induce him to recal many of his former opinions. He had seen his brother form a connection, which set at naught all those convenances, which he had been accustomed to regard as essential to, and as indeed forming the very ingredient of, domestic happiness. And yet Sir Henry DelmÉ could not disguise from himself, that if, in George's short-lived career, there had been much of pain and sorrow, they were chiefly engendered by George's mental struggle, to uphold those very opinions to which he himself was wedded; and that to this alone, might be traced much of the suffering he had undergone. This was it that had so weakened mind and body, as to render change of scene necessary;--this was it that exposed AcmÉ to the air of the pestiferous marshes, and which left George himself--a broken hearted man--totally incapable of bearing his bereavement. On the other hand, the sunny happiness his brother had basked in,--and it was very great,--had sprung from the natural out-pourings of an affection, which,--unfettered as it had been by prudential considerations,--had yet the power to make earth a heaven while AcmÉ shared it with him, and the dark grave an object of bright promise, when hailed as the portal, through which he must pass, ere he gazed once more on the load-star of his hopes. In the case, too, of Emily and Clarendon, although their union was far more in accordance with his earlier theories, yet he could not but note, how little their happiness seemed to rest on their position in society, and how greatly was it based on their love for each other. These considerations were strengthened, by a growing feeling of isolation, which the death of George and of AcmÉ,--the marriage of his sister,--and probably the time of life he had arrived at, were all calculated to awaken. With the knowledge of his disease, sprung up the hope of an antidote; and it may be, that the little episode of the May Queen in our last chapter, came but as a running comment, to reflections that had long been cherished and indulged. The thoughts of Sir Henry DelmÉ anxiously centred in Julia Vernon; and as he recalled her graceful emotion when they last parted, the unfrequent blush,--it might be of shame, it might be of consciousness,--coloured his sun-burnt cheek. At length,--the guests being dismissed, DelmÉ was at leisure to renew an acquaintance, which had already proved an eventful one to him. He had heard little of Miss Vernon since his return to England. His sister had thought it better to let matters take their own course; and Julia, who knew that in the eyes of the world, her circumstances were very different to what they had been previous to her uncle's death; had from motives of delicacy, shunned any intercourse that might lead to a renewed intimacy with the family. Her health, too, had been precarious, and her elasticity of mind was gone. Slowly wasting from day to day, she had sought to banish all thoughts that were not of a world less vain than this--and her very languor of body--while it gave her an apology for declining all gaieties, induced a resigned spirit, and a quiet frame of mind. When Sir Henry DelmÉ was announced, Julia was alone in the drawing-room. At that name, she attempted to rise from the sofa; but she was weak, and her head fell back on the white pillow. DelmÉ stood for a moment irresolute,--a prey to the deepest pangs of remorse. Well might he be shocked at that altered form! Her figure was greatly attenuated,--her cheeks sunken,--her eyes bright and large; while over the forehead and drooping eyelid branched the sapphire veins, with their intricate windings so clearly marked, that DelmÉ almost thought, that he could trace the motion of the blood beneath. That momentary pause, and the one mutual glance of recognition, told a more accurate tale than words could convey. As Sir Henry pressed that small transparent hand, Julia's thin lip quivered convulsively. She attempted to speak, but the exertion of utterance was too great, and she burst into a flood of tears. "Julia! my own Julia! forgive me! we will never part more!" After this interview, it is needless to say that there was little else to be explained. Mrs. Vernon was delighted at Julia's happy prospects, and it was settled that their marriage should take place in the ensuing August. Such arrangements as could be made on the spot to facilitate this, were at once entered on. At the end of two months, it became necessary that DelmÉ should proceed to town, for the purpose of seeing the Commander-in-Chief, in order to withdraw a previous application to be employed on active service. He was anxious also to consult a friend, whom he proposed appointing one of the trustees for his marriage settlement; and Clarendon and Emily had exacted a promise, that he would pay them a visit on his way to DelmÉ Park; which he had determined to take on his route to town, that he might personally inspect some alterations he had lately planned there. It was with bright prospects before him, that DelmÉ kissed off the big tear that coursed down Julia's cheek; as she bade him farewell, with as much earnestness, as if years, instead of a short fortnight, were to elapse before they met again. Miss Vernon's health had decidedly improved. She was capable of much greater exertion; and her spirits were sometimes as buoyant as in other days. When Sir Henry first reached Leamington, the only exercise that Julia could take was in a wheel chair; and great was her delight at seeing a hand present itself over its side, and know that it was his. Latterly, however, she had been able to lean on his arm, and take a few turns on the lawn, and had on one occasion even reached the public gardens. Mrs. Vernon, with the deceptive hope common to those, who watch day by day by the side of an invalid's couch, and in the very gradual loss of strength, lose sight of the real extent of danger, had never been desponding as to her daughter's ultimate recovery; and was now quite satisfied that a few weeks more would restore her completely to health. Sir Henry DelmÉ, with the gaze of a lover, would note each flush of animation, and mistake it for the hue of health; while Julia herself felt her love, and thought it strength. There was only one person who looked somewhat grave at these joyous preparations. This was Dr. Jephson, who noticed that Julia's voice continued very weak, and that she could not get rid of a low hollow cough, that had long distressed her. Clarendon and his wife were resident at a beautiful cottage near Malvern, on the road to Eastnor Castle. The cottage itself was small, and half hidden with fragrant honey-suckles, but had well appointed extensive grounds behind it. They were not of the very many, who after the first fortnight of a forced seclusion,--the treacle moon, as some one has called it,--find their own society, both wearisome and unprofitable. Theirs was a lover felt but by superior and congenial minds--a love, neither sensual nor transient--a love on which affection and reflection shed their glow,--which could bear the test of scrutiny,--and which owed its chief charm to the presence of truth. DelmÉ passed a week at Malvern, and then proceeded towards town, with the pleasing conviction that his sister's happiness was assured. Twenty-four hours at DelmÉ sufficed to inspect the alterations, and to give orders as to Lady DelmÉ's rooms. Sir Henry had received two letters from Julia, while at Malvern, and both were written in great spirits. At his club in London another awaited him, which stated that she had not been quite so well, and that she was writing from her room. A postscript from Mrs. Vernon quite did away with any alarm that Sir Henry might otherwise have felt. DelmÉ attended Lord Hill's levee; and immediately afterwards proceeded to his friend's office. To his disappointment, he was informed that his friend had left for Bath; and thinking it essential that he should see him; he went thither at an early hour the following day. At Bath he was again doomed to be disappointed, for his friend had gone to Clifton. Sir Henry dined that day with Mr. Belliston GrÆme; and on returning to the hotel, had the interview with Oliver Delancey, that has been described in the thirteenth chapter of our first volume. On the succeeding morning, DelmÉ was with the future trustee; and finally arranged the affair to his entire satisfaction. His absence from Leamington, had been a day or two more protracted than he had anticipated, and his not finding his friend in London, had prevented his hearing from Miss Vernon so lately as he could have wished. Sir Henry had posted all night, and it was ten in the morning when he reached Leamington. He directed the postilion to drive to his hotel, but it happened that on his way he had to pass Mrs. Vernon's door. As the carriage turned a corner, which was distant some hundred yards from Mrs. Vernon's house, Sir Henry was surprised by a momentary check on the part of his driver. It had rained heavily during the early part of the day. The glasses were up, and so bespattered with the mud and rain, that it was impossible to see through them. Sir Henry let them down; saw a confused mass of carriages; and could clearly discern a mourning coach. He did not give himself time to breathe his misgivings; but flung the door open, and sprang from his seat into the road. It was still three or four doors from Mrs. Vernon's house, and he prayed to God that his fears might be groundless. As he approached nearer, it was evident that there was unusual bustle about that house. DelmÉ grasped the iron railing, and clung to it for support; but with every sense keenly alive to aught that might dispel, or confirm that horrible suspicion. Two old women, dressed in the characteristic red cloak of the English peasant, were earnestly conversing together--their baskets of eggs and flowers being laid on a step of one of the adjacent houses. "So you knowed her, Betsy Farmer?" "Lord a mercy!" responded the other, "I ha' knowed Miss July since she wa' the height of my basket. Ay! and many's the bunch of flowers she ha' had from me. That was afore the family went to the sea side. Well! it's a matter o' five year, sin' she comed up to me one morning--so grown as I'd never ha' known her. But she knowed me, and asked all about me. And I just told her all my troubles, and how I had lost my good man. And sure enough sin' that day she ha' stood my friend, and gived me soup and flannels for the little uns, and put my Bess to service, and took me through all the bad Christmas'. Poor dear soul! she ha' gone now! and may the Lord bless her and all as good as she!" The poor woman, who felt the loss of her benefactress, put the corner of her apron to her eyes. Sir Henry strode forward. Mutes were on each side of the front step. A servant threw open the door of the breakfast room, and DelmÉ mechanically entered it. It was filled with strangers; on some of these the spruce undertaker was fitting silk scarfs; while others were busy at the breakfast table. An ominous whisper ran through the apartment. "Sir Henry DelmÉ?" said the rosy-cheeked clergyman, enquiringly, as he laid down his egg spoon, and turned towards him. "I trust you received my letter. Women are so utterly helpless in these matters; and poor Mrs. Vernon was quite overpowered." DelmÉ turned away to master his emotion. At this moment, a friendly hand was laid on his shoulder, and Mrs. Vernon's maid, with her eyes red from weeping, beckoned him up stairs. He mechanically obeyed her--reeled into an inner drawing room--and stood in the presence of the bereaved mother. Mrs. Vernon was ordinarily the very picture of neatness. Now she sat with her feet on a footstool--her head almost touching her lap--her silver hair all loose and dishevelled. It seemed to DelmÉ as if age had suddenly come upon her. She rose as he entered, and with wild hysterical sobs, threw herself into his arms. "My son I my son! that should have been. Our angel is gone--gone!" DelmÉ tried to speak, but his tongue clove to his mouth, and the hysteric globe rose to his throat. Suddenly he heard the sound of wheels, and of heavy footsteps on the stairs. He imprinted a kiss on the old woman's forehead--it was his farewell for ever!--gave her to the care of the maid servant--and rushed from the room. He was stopped on the landing of the staircase by the coffin of her he loved so well. The bearers stopped for an instant; they felt that this was no common greeting. Part of the pall was already turned back. DelmÉ removed its head with trembling hand. "Julia Vernon. Ætate 22." He dropped the velvet with a groan, and was only saved from falling by the timely aid of the old butler, whose face was as sorrowful as his own. But there was a duty yet to be performed, and DelmÉ followed the corpse. The first mourning coach was just drawn up. An intended occupant had already his foot on the step. "This place is mine!" said Sir Henry in a hollow voice. The cortege proceeded; and DelmÉ, giddy and confused, heard solemn words spoken over his affianced one, and he waited, till even the coffin could be discerned no more. Thompson, who had followed his master, assisted him into his carriage, placed himself beside him, and ordered the driver to proceed to the hotel. But DelmÉ gave a quick impetuous motion of the hand, which the domestic understood well; and the horses' heads were turned towards the metropolis. The mourner tarried not, even to bid his sister farewell; but sought once more his brother's grave. Some friendly hand had kept its turf smooth; no footsteps, save the innocent ones of children, had pressed its grassy mound. It was clothed with soft daisies and drooping harebells. The sun seemed to shine on that spot, to bid the wanderer be contented and at rest. But as yet there was no rest for DelmÉ. And he stood beside the marble slab, beneath which lay AcmÉ Frascati. The downy moss--soft as herself--was luxuriating there; and the cry of the cicalas was pleasant to the ear; and the image of the young Greek girl, as in a vivid picture, rose to his mind's eye. She was not attired in her white cymar; nor was her head wreathed with monumental amaranths;--health was on her cheek, fond smiles on her pouting lip, and tender love swimming in her melting glance. His own griefs came back on DelmÉ; he groaned aloud. He traversed the deserts, he crossed lofty mountains, he knew thirst and privations. He was scoffed at and spat upon in an infidel country--he was tossed on the ocean--he shook hands with danger. He visited our wide Oriental possessions; and sojourned amid the spicy islands of the Indian Archipelago, where vegetation attains a magnificence unknown elsewhere, and animal life partakes of this unexampled exuberance,--where flowers of the most exquisite colours and fragrance charm the senses by day, and delicious plants saturate the air with their odours by night. DelmÉ extended his wanderings to the rarely visited "many isles," which stud the vast Pacific, and found that there too were fruitful and smiling regions. But not on the desert--nor on the mountains--nor in the land of the Moslem---nor on tempestuous seas--nor in those verdant islets, which seem to breathe of Paradise, to greet the wearied traveller; could DelmÉ's restless spirit find an abiding place, his thirst for foreign travel be slaked, or his heart know peace. He madly sought oblivion, which could not be accorded him. |
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