A Love Story Part 21

An old bronzed husbandman, too, was smoking his short earthen pipe, near the window sill.

"What a study for Lanfranc!" said the happy wife, as she took up a burnt stick, and sketched his dried visage to the life.

The old man regarded his portrait on the wall, with intense satisfaction; and commenced dilating on what he had been in youth.

How different, thought Sir Henry, is all this from the conduct of a well bred English girl! yet how natural and amiable does it appear in Acme!

With what an endearing manner--with what sweet frankness--does this young foreigner wile away--what would otherwise have been--a tedious evening in an uncomfortable inn!

As the night advanced, George brought out the guitar; and Acme warbled to its accompaniment like a fairy bird.

It was a late hour, before Delme ventured to remind the songstress, that they must prosecute their journey early on the following morning.

"I will take your hint," said Acme, as she shook his hand, and tripped out of the room; "buona sera! miei Signori."

"She is a dear creature!" said Delme,

"She is indeed!" replied his brother, "and I am a fortunate man. Henry! I think I shall be jealous of you, one of these days. I do believe she loves you as well as she does me!"

The brothers retired.

Sir Henry's repose was unbroken, until morning dawned; when George entered his room in the greatest agitation, and with a face as pale as death, told him Acme was ill.

Delme arose immediately; and at George's earnest solicitation, entered the room.

Her left cheek, suffused with hectic, rested on one small hand. The other arm was thrown over the bed-clothes. Her eyes sparkled like diamonds. Her lips murmured indistinctly--the mind was evidently wandering.

A man and horse were sent express to Naples. The whole of that weary day, George Delme was by Acme's side, preparing cooling drinks, and vainly endeavouring to be calm.

As the delirium continued, she seemed to be transported to the scenes of her early youth,

As night wore on, the fever, if it were such, gradually increased.

George's state of mind bordered on distraction. Sir Henry became exceedingly alarmed, and anxious for the presence of the medical attendant.

At about four o'clock the following morning, Doctor Pormont was announced,

Cold and forbidding as was his aspect, George hailed him as his tutelary angel, and burst into tears, as he implored him to exert his skill to the uttermost.

The physician approached the invalid, and in a moment saw that the case was a critical one.

His patient was bled twice during the day, and strong opiates administered.

Towards evening, she slept; and awoke with restored consciousness, but with feelings keenly alive to her own danger.

The following night and day she lingered on, speaking but little.

During the whole of that time, even, when she slept, George's hand remained locked in hers. On this, her tears would sometimes fall, but these she strove to restrain.

To the others around her, she spoke gratefully, and with feminine softness; but her whole heart seemed to be with George.

Doctor Pormont, to do him justice, was unremitting in his exertions, and hardly took rest.

All his professional skill was called to her aid; but from the second day, he saw it was in vain.

The strength of the invalid failed her more and more.

Doctor Pormont at length called Sir Henry on one side, and informed him that he entertained no doubt of a fatal result; and recommended his at once procuring such religious consolation as might be in his power.

No Protestant clergyman was near at hand, even had Delme thought it adviseable to procure one.

But he was well aware, that however Acme might have sympathised with George, her earlier religious impressions would now in all probability be revived.

A Catholic priest was sent for, and arrived quickly. He was habited in the brown garb of his order, his waist girt with a knotted cord. He bore in his hand the sainted pyx, and commenced to shrive the dying girl.

It was the soft hour of sunset, and the prospect in rear of the mansion, presented a wide sea of rich coloured splendour.

Over the window, had been placed a sheet, in order to exclude the light from the invalid's chamber. The priest knelt by her bedside; and folding his hands together, began to pray.

The rays of the setting sun, fitfully flickered on the sheet, over whose surface, light shadows swiftly played, ever and anon glancing on the shorn head of the kneeling friar.

His intelligent face was expressive of firm belief.

His eye turned reverentially to heaven, as in deep and sonorous accents, he implored forgiveness for the sufferer, for the sins committed during her mortal coil.

Acme sat up in her bed. On her countenance, calm devotion seemed to usurp the place of earthly affections, and earthly pa.s.sions.

The soul was preparing for its upward flight. Delme led away the sorrowing husband, and the minister of Christ was left alone, to hear the contrite outpourings of a weak departing sinner.

The priest left the chamber, but spoke not, either to the physician, or the expecting brothers. His impa.s.sioned glance belonged to another and a higher world.

He made one low obeisance--his robes swept the pa.s.sage quickly--and the Franciscan friar sought his lonely cell to reflect on death.

The brothers re-entered. They found Acme in the att.i.tude in which they had left her--her features wearing an expression at once radiant and resigned.

But--as her eye met George's--as she saw the havoc grief had already made--the feelings of the woman resumed the mastery.

She extended her arms--she brought his lip to hers--as if she would have made _that_ its resting place for ever.

Alas! an inward pang told her to be brief. She drew away her face, crimsoned with her pa.s.sion's flush--tremblingly grasped his hand---and, with voice choked by emotion, gave her last farewell.

"Giorgio, my dearest! my own! I shall soon join my parents. I feel this--and my mother's words, as she met me by the olive tree, ring in my ear.

"She told me I should die thus; but she told me, too, that I should kill the one dearest to me on earth. Thank G.o.d! this cannot be--for I know my life to be ebbing fast.

"Dearest I do not mourn for me too much. You may find another Acme--as true. But, oh! sometimes--yes! even when your hearts cling fondly together, as ours were wont to do--think of your own Acme--who loved you first--and only--and does it now! oh! how well! Giorgio! dear! dearest!

adieu! My feet are _so, so_ cold--and ice seems"--

A change shadowed the face, as from some corporeal pang.