A Love Story Part 42

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 Delme, 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.

Delme pa.s.sed a week at Malvern, and then proceeded towards town, with the pleasing conviction that his sister's happiness was a.s.sured.

Twenty-four hours at Delme sufficed to inspect the alterations, and to give orders as to Lady Delme'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.

Delme 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 Graeme; 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, Delme 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 antic.i.p.ated, 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 pa.s.s 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 gla.s.ses 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 ma.s.s 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 G.o.d that his fears might be groundless.

As he approached nearer, it was evident that there was unusual bustle about _that_ house. Delme 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 ap.r.o.n 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 Delme 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 Delme?" 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."

Delme 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 Delme 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!"

Delme 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. Delme removed its head with trembling hand.

"Julia Vernon. aetate 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 Delme 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 Delme, giddy and confused, heard solemn words spoken over his affianced one, and he waited, till even the coffin could he discerned no more.

Thompson, who had followed his master, a.s.sisted him into his carriage, placed himself beside him, and ordered the driver to proceed to the hotel.

But Delme 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 gra.s.sy 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 Delme. And he stood beside the marble slab, beneath which lay Acme 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 Delme; 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.

Delme 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 Delme's restless spirit find an abiding place, his thirst for foreign travel be slaked, or his heart know peace.