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me, it has

struck me that in some respects she might not suit you.”

 

“I like her society,” replied his friend; “but you are right. She would

not suit me. You know me pretty well. My hope has ever been to

increase, and not diminish the importance of my house. It once stood

higher both in wealth and consideration. I see many families springing

up around me, that can hardly lay claim to a descent so unblemished I

speak not in a spirit of intolerance, nor found my family claim solely

on its pedigree; but my ancestors have done good in their generation,

and it is a proud thing to be ‘the scion of a noble race!’”

 

“It may be;” said Clarendon quietly, “but I cannot help thinking, that

with your affluence, you have every right to follow your own

inclination. I know that few of my acquaintances are so independent of

the world.”

 

Sir Henry shook his head.

 

“The day is not very distant, Gage, when a Dacre would hardly have

returned two members for my county, if a Delmé had willed it otherwise.

But there is little occasion for me to have said thus much. Miss Vernon,

I trust, has other plans; and I believe my own feelings are not enlisted

deep enough, to make me forget the hopes and purposes of half a

life-time.”

 

It was some few days after this, when Emily had almost given up looking

with interest to the postman’s visit, that a letter at last came,

directed to Sir Henry; not indeed in George’s hand-writing, but with

the Malta post mark. Delmé read it over thoughtfully, and, assuring

Emily that there was nothing to alarm her, left the room to consider

its contents.

 

By the way, we have thought over heartless professions, and cannot help

conceiving that of a postman, (it may be conceit!) the most callous and

unfeeling of all. He is waited for with more anxiety than any guest of

the morning; for his visits invariably convey something new to the mind.

He is not love! but he bears it in his pocket; he cannot be friendship!

but he daily hawks about its assurances. With all this, knowing his

importance, aware of the sensation his appearance calls forth, his very

knock is heartless—the tones of his voice cold. Feeling seems denied

him; his head is a debtor and creditor account, his departure the

receipt, and time alone can say, whether your bargain has been a good or

a bad one. He has certainly no assumption—it is one of his few good

traits; he walks with his arms in motion, but attempts not a swagger;

his knock is unassuming, and his words, though much attended to, are

few, and to the point. Why, then, abuse him? We know not, but believe it

originates in fear. An intuitive feeling of dread—a rushing

presentiment of evil—crosses our mind, as our eye dwells on his

thread-bare coat, with its capacious pockets. News of a death—or a

marriage—the tender valentine—the remorseless dun—your having been

left an estate, or cut off with a shilling—fortune, and misfortune–

he quietly dispenses, as if totally unconscious. Surely such a man—his

round performed—cannot quietly sink to the private individual. Can such

a man caress his wife, or kiss his child, when he knows not how many

hearts are bursting with joy, or breaking with sorrow, from the tidings

he has conveyed? To our mind, a postman should be an abstracted

visionary being, endowed with a peculiar countenance, betraying the

unnatural sparkle of the opium-eater, and evincing intense anxiety at

the delivery of each sheet. But these,—they wait not to hear the joyful

shout, or heart-rending moan—to know if hope deferred be at length

joyful certainty, or bitter only half-expected woe. We dread a postman.

Our hand shook, as we last year paid the man of many destinies his

demanded Christmas box.

 

The amount was double that we gave to the minister of our corporeal

necessities—the butcher’s boy—not from a conviction of the superior

services or merit of the former, but from an uneasy desire to bribe, if

we could, that Mercury of fate.

 

The letter to Sir Henry, was from the surgeon of George’s regiment. It

stated that George had been severely ill, and that connected with his

illness, were symptoms which made it imperative on the medical adviser,

to recommend the immediate presence of his nearest male relative.

Apologies were made for the apparent mystery of the communication, with

a promise that this would be at once cleared up, if Sir Henry would but

consent to make the voyage; which would not only enable him to be of

essential service to his brother, but also to acquire much information

regarding him, which could only be obtained on the spot. A note from

George was enclosed in this letter. It was written with an unsteady

hand, and made no mention of his illness. He earnestly begged his

brother to come to Malta, if he could possibly so arrange it, and

transmitted his kindest love and blessing to Emily.

 

Sir Henry at once made up his mind, to leave Leamington for town on the

morrow, trusting that he might there meet with information which would

be more satisfactory. He concealed for the time the true state of the

case from all but Clarendon; nor did he even allude to his proposed

departure.

 

It was Emily’s birth-day, and Gage had arranged that the whole party

should attend a little fête on that night. Sir Henry could not find it

in his heart to disturb his sister’s dream of happiness.

Chapter V

The Fête.

 

“Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

If, in your bright leaves, we would read the fate

Of men and empires,—‘tis to be forgiven,

That, in our aspirations to be great,

Our destinies o’erleap their mortal state,

And claim a kindred with you.”

 

The night came on with its crescent moon and its myriads of stars: just

such a night as might have been wished for such a fête. It was in the

month of April. April dews, in Britain’s variable clime; are not the

most salubrious, and April’s night air is too often keen and piercing;

but the season was an unusually mild one; and the ladies, with their

cloaks and their furs, promenaded the well-lighted walks, determined to

be pleased and happy.

 

The giver of the fête was an enterprising Italian. Winter’s

amusements were over, or neglected—summer’s delights were not

arrived; and Signor Pacini conceived, that during the dull and

monotonous interval, a speculation of his own might prove welcome to

the public and beneficial to himself. To do the little man justice, he

was indefatigable in his exertions. From door to door he wended his

smiling way,—here praising the mother’s French, there the daughter’s

Italian. He gained hosts of partisans. “Of course you patronise

Pacini!” was in every one’s mouth. The Signor’s prospectus stated,

that “through the kindness of the steward of an influential nobleman,

who was now on the continent, he was enabled to give his fete in the

grounds of the Earl of W–-; where a full quadrille band would be in

attendance, a pavilion pitched on the smooth lawn facing the river,

and a comfortable ball room thrown open to a fashionable and

enlightened public. The performance would be most various, novel, and

exciting. Brilliant fireworks from Vauxhall would delight the eye, and

shed a charm on the fairy scene; whilst the car would be regaled with

the unequalled harmony of the Styrian brethren, Messrs. Schezer,

Lobau, and Berdan, who had very kindly deferred their proposed return

to Styria, in order to honour the fete of Signor Pacini.”

 

As night drew on, the mimic thunder of carriages hastening to the scene

of action, bespoke the Signor’s success. After the ninth hour, his

numbers swelled rapidly. Pacini assumed an amusing importance, and his

very myrmidons gave out their brass tickets with an air. At ten, a

rocket was fired. At this preconcerted signal, the pavilion, hitherto

purposely concealed, blazed in a flood of light. On its balcony stood

the three Styrian brethren,—although, by the way, they were not

brethren at all,—and, striking their harmonious guitars, wooed

attention to their strains. The crowd hurried down the walk, and formed

round the pavilion. Our party suddenly found themselves near the

Vernons. As the gentlemen endeavoured to obtain chairs for the ladies, a

crush took place, and Sir Henry was obliged to offer his arm to Julia,

who happened to be the nearest of her party. It was with pain Miss

Vernon noted his clouded brow, and look of abstraction; but hardly one

word of recognition had passed, before the deep voices of the Styrians

silenced all. After singing some effective songs, accompanied by a

zither, and performing a melodious symphony on a variety of Jew’s-harps;

Pacini, the manager, advanced to address his auditors, with that air of

smiling confidence which no one can assume with better grace than a

clever Italian. His dark eye flashed, and his whole features irradiated,

as he delivered the following harangue.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen! me trust you well satisfied wid de former

musical entertainment; but, if you permit, me mention one leetle

circonstance. Monsieur Schezer propose to give de song; but it require

much vat you call stage management: all must be silent as de grave. It

ver pretty morceau.”

 

The applause at the end of this speech was very great. Signor Pacini

bowed, till his face rivalled, in its hue, the rosy under-waistcoat in

which he rejoiced.

 

Schezer stepped forward. He was attired as a mountaineer. His hat

tapered to the top, and was crowned by a single heron feather. Hussars

might have envied him his moustaches. From his right side protruded a

couteau de chasse; and his legs were not a little set off by the

tight-laced boots, which, coming up some way beyond the ancle, displayed

his calf to the very best advantage.

 

The singer’s voice was a fine manly tenor, and did ample justice to the

words, of which the following may be taken as a free version.

 

“Mountains! dear mountains! on you have I passed my green youth; to me

your breeze has been fragrant from childhood. When may I see the chamois

bounding o’er your toppling crags? When, oh when, may I see my

fair-haired Mary?”

 

The minstrel paused—a sound was heard from behind the pavilion. It was

the mountain’s echo. It continued the air—then died away in the

softest harmony. All were charmed. Again the singer stepped

forward—the utmost silence prevailed—his tones became more

impassioned—they breathed of love.

 

“Thanks! thanks to thee, gentle echo! Oft hast thou responded to the

strains of love my soul poured to—ah me! how beautiful was the

fair-haired Mary!”

 

Again the echo spoke—again all were hushed. The minstrel’s voice rose

again; but its tones were not akin to joy.

 

“Why remember this, deceitful echo? War’s blast hath blown, and hushed

are the notes of love. The foe hath polluted my hearth—I wander an

exile. Where, where is Mary?”

 

The echo faintly but plaintively replied. There were some imagined that

a tear really started to the eye of the singer. He struck the guitar

wildly—his voice became more agitated—he advanced to the extremity of

the balcony.

 

“My sword! my sword! May my right hand be withered ere it forget to

grasp its hilt! One blow for freedom. Freedom—sweet as was the

lip—Yes! I’ll revenge my Mary!”

 

Schezer paused, apparently overcome by his emotion. The echo wildly

replied, as if registering the patriot’s vow. For a moment all was

still! A thundering burst of applause ensued.

 

The mountain music was succeeded by a sweep of guitars, accompanying a

Venetian serenade, whose burthen was the apostrophising the cruelty of

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