A Love Story, by a Bushman | Page 3

soil in peace--as he gazed on
the home of his fathers, and communed with those nearest and dearest
to him on earth. Sir Henry considered it incumbent on him to exert
every means that lay in his power to promote his grand object. A
connection that promised rank and honours, seemed to him an absolute
essential that was worth any sacrifice. Sir Henry never allowed himself
to look for, or give way to, those sacred sympathies, which the God of
nature hath implanted in the breasts of all of us. Delmé had arrived at
middle age ere a feeling incompatible with his views arose. But his had
been a dangerous experiment. Our hearts or minds, or whatever it may
be that takes the impression, resemble some crystalline lake that
mirrors the smallest object, and heightens its beauty; but if it once gets
muddied or ruffled, the most lovely object ceases to be reflected in its
waters. By the time that lake is clear again, the fairy form that ere while
lingered on its bosom is fled for ever.
Thus much in introducing the head of the family. Let us now attempt to
sketch the gentle Emily.
Emily Delmé was not an ordinary being. To uncommon talents, and a
mind of most refined order, she united great feminine propriety, and a
total absence of those arts which sometimes characterise those to whom
the accident of birth has given importance. With unerring
discrimination, she drew the exact line between vivacity and satire, true
religion and its semblance. She saw through and pitied those who,
pluming themselves on the faults of others, and imparting to the
outward man the ascetic inflexibility of the inner one, would fain
propagate on all sides their rigid creed, forbidding the more favoured
commoners of nature even to sip joy's chalice. If not a saint, however,
but a fair, confiding, and romantic girl, she was good without
misanthropy, pure without pretension, and joyous, as youth and hopes
not crushed might make her. She was one of those of whom society
might justly be proud. She obeyed its dictates without question, but her
feelings underwent no debasement from the contact. If not a child of
nature, she was by no means the slave of art.
Emily Delmé was more beautiful than striking. She impressed more
than she exacted. Her violet eye gleamed with feeling; her smile few
could gaze on without sympathy--happy he who might revel in its

brightness! If aught gave a peculiar tinge to her character, it was the
pride she felt in the name she bore,--this she might have caught from
Sir Henry,--the interest she took in the legends connected with that
name, and the gratification which the thought gave her, that by her
ancestors, its character had been but rarely sullied, and never disgraced.
These things, it may be, she had accustomed herself to look on in a
light too glowing: for these things and all mundane ones are vain; but
her character did not consequently suffer. Her lip curled not with
hauteur, nor was her brow raised one shadow the more. The
remembrance of the old Baronetcy were on the ensanguined plain,--of
the matchless loyalty of a father and five valiant sons in the cause of
the Royal Charles,--the pondering over tomes, which in language
obsolete, but true, spoke of the grandeur--the deserved grandeur of her
house; these might be recollections and pursuits, followed with an
ardour too enthusiastic, but they stayed not the hand of charity, nor
could they check pity's tear. If her eye flashed as she gazed on the
ancient device of her family, reposing on its time worn pedestal, it
could melt to the tale of the houseless wanderer, and sympathise with
the sorrows of the fatherless.

Chapter II.
The Album.

"Oh that the desert were my dwelling place, With one fair spirit for my
minister; That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one,
love but only her."
A cheerful party were met in the drawing room of Delmé. Clarendon
Gage, a neighbouring land proprietor, to whom Emily had for a
twelvemonth been betrothed, had the night previous returned from a
continental tour. In consequence, Emily looked especially radiant,
Delmé much pleased, and Clarendon superlatively happy. Nor must we
pass over Mrs. Glenallan, Miss Delmé's worthy aunt, who had supplied
the place of a mother to Emily, and who now sat in her accustomed
chair, with an almost sunny brow, quietly pursuing her monotonous

tambouring. At times she turned to admire her niece, who occasionally
walked to the glass window, to caress and feed an impudent white
peacock; which one moment strutted on the wide terrace, and at another
lustily tapped for his bread at ne of the lower panes.
"I am glad to see you