THE ADIEUX.
Our narrative must now take a leap of several months.
It was the middle of October.
Once more in the vicinity of Count Alteroni's mansion near Richmond, a
handsome young man and a beautiful dark-eyed maiden were walking
together.
Need we say that they were Richard and the charming Isabella?
The countenances of both wore an expression of melancholy; but that
indication of feeling was commingled with the traces of other emotions.
Richard's eyes beamed with ardour, and his lips denoted stern
resolution: Isabella's bewitching features showed that her generous soul
entertained warm and profound hope, even though the cloud sate upon her
brow.
"Yes, my adored one," said Richard, gazing tenderly upon her, "it is
decided! To-morrow I embark on this expedition. But I could not quit
England without seeing you once more, dearest Isabella; and for two or
three days have I vainly wandered in this neighbourhood with the hope of
meeting you—alone."
"Oh! Richard, had I for one moment divined that you were so near, I
should have come to you," answered the Princess; "and this you know
well! If I have hitherto discouraged clandestine meetings and secret
correspondence—save on one or two occasions—it was simply because you
should not have reason to think lightly of me;—but you are well aware,
Richard, that my heart is thine—unchangeably thine,—and that my happiest
moments are those I pass with thee!"
"I cannot chide you, dearest, for that fine feeling which has made you
discourage clandestine meetings and secret correspondence," said
Richard, gazing with mingled admiration and rapture upon the angelic
countenance of Isabella; "but now that circumstances are about to
change,—now that I shall be far away from thee, beloved girl,—that
restriction must in some degree be removed, and you will permit me to
write to you from time to time."
"It would be an absurd affectation and a ridiculous prudery, were I to
refuse you," replied Isabella. "Yes, dear Richard—write to me;—and write
often," she added, tears starting into her eyes.
"A thousand thanks, Isabella, for this kind permission—this proof of
your love. And, oh! to whatever perils I am about to oppose myself face
to face,—in whatever dangers I may be involved,—whatever miseries or
privations I may be destined to endure,—the thought of you, my own
adored Isabella, will make all seem light! But I do not anticipate much
difficulty in the attainment of our grand object. General Grachia,
Colonel Morosino, and the other chiefs of this enterprise, have so well,
so prudently, so cautiously digested all the measures necessary to
ensure success, that failure is scarcely possible. The tyranny of the
Grand Duke and of his shameless Ministry has reduced the Castelcicalans
to despair. We have three fine vessels; and twelve hundred devoted
patriots will form the expedition. The moment we land, we shall be
welcomed with enthusiasm. And if an opportunity should serve for me to
show myself worthy of the confidence that General Grachia and his
colleagues have placed in me,—if," continued Richard, his handsome
countenance now lighted up with a glow of heroic enthusiasm,—"if the aid
of my feeble efforts can in any way demonstrate my zeal in favour of the
constitutional cause, be well assured, dearest Isabella, that it is not
an idle boaster, nor a braggart coward who now assures thee that he will
not dishonour the service in which he has embarked."
"Of that I feel convinced, Richard," exclaimed the Italian lady, whose
soul caught the enthusiasm which animated her lover. "But you know not
the wild hopes—the exalted visions which have at times filled my
imagination, since I heard a few weeks ago that you were one of the
chiefs of this enterprise, the preparations for which were communicated
to my father. For you are doubtless aware that General Grachia _has_
made my father acquainted with his intentions and projects——"
"Which the Prince discountenances," added Richard, with a sigh.
"Nevertheless, he is perhaps right: but if we succeed, Isabella—oh! if
we succeed, your father becomes the sovereign of a great and enlightened
people! Then—what hope will remain for me?"
"Providence will not desert us, Richard," answered Isabella. "Said I not
ere now that the wildest hopes—the most exalted visions have dazzled my
imagination? I will not describe them to you, Richard; but need I
confess that they are connected with yourself? The dying words of our
poor friend Mary Anne have made an impression upon me which I can never
forget."
"I can well divine all the hopes and aspirations which _her_ prophetic
language was calculated to excite," returned Markham; "for there have
been moments when I was weak enough to yield to the same influence
myself. But the future is with the Almighty; and He must ordain our
happiness or our misery! I must now leave you, my beloved Isabella:—when
I am away thou wilt think of me often?"
"Oh! Richard, will you really depart? will you venture on this
expedition, so fraught with danger?" cried Isabella, now giving way to
her grief as the moment of separation drew nigh. "I told you to hope—I
wished to console you; but it is I who require consolation when about to
say farewell to you! Oh! Richard, if you knew what anguish now fills my
heart, you would be enabled to estimate all my love for you!"
"I do—I do, adored Isabella!" ejaculated Markham, pressing her to his
breast. "How devotedly—how faithfully you have loved me, I never can
forget! When spurned from your father's house—overwhelmed with the most
cruel suspicions, your love remained unchanged; and in many a bitter,
bitter hour, have I derived sweet solace from the conviction that thy
heart was mine! Oh! Isabella, God in his mercy grant that I may return
from this enterprise with some honour to myself! It is not that I am
influenced by motives of selfish ambition;—it is that I may remove at
least one of the hundred obstacles which oppose our union. And now
adieu, my angel—my dearly-beloved Isabella: adieu—adieu!"
"Farewell, Richard—farewell, dearest one—my first and only love,"
murmured Isabella, as she wept bitterly upon his breast.
Then they embraced each other with that passionate ardour—with that
lingering unwillingness to separate—with that profound dread to tear
themselves asunder, which lovers in the moment of parting alone can
know.
"Let us be firm, Isabella," said Richard: "who can tell what happiness
my share in this enterprise may create for us?"
"Yes—something tells me that it will be so," answered Isabella; "and
that hope sustains me!"
Another embrace—and they parted.
Yes—they parted,—that handsome young man and that charming Italian
maiden!
And soon they waved their handkerchiefs for the last time;—then, in a
few moments, they were lost to each other's view.
Richard returned home to his house at Lower Holloway.
He had visited the farm near Hounslow a few days previously, and had
taken leave of Katherine. The young maiden had wept when her benefactor
communicated to her his intended absence from England for some time;
but, as he did not acquaint her with the nature of the business which
took him way from his native country, she was not aware of the perils he
was about to encounter.
He had now to say farewell to the inmates of his own dwelling. But
towards Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and the faithful Whittingham he was less
reserved than he had been to Katherine.
Vainly had the old butler implored "Master Richard not to indemnify
himself with other people's business;"—vainly had Mr. Monroe endeavoured
to persuade him to refrain from risking his life in the political
dissensions of a foreign country; vainly had the beautiful and
generous-hearted Ellen, with a sisterly warmth, argued on the same side.
Richard was determined:—they deemed him obstinate—foolish—almost mad;
but they knew not of his love for Isabella!
"I must now make you acquainted with a certain portion of my affairs,"
said our hero, addressing Mr. Monroe, "in order that you may manage them
for me until my return. I have embarked as much of my capital as I could
well spare in the enterprise on which I am about to set out: you will
find in my strong-box, of which I leave you the key, a sufficient sum of
money to answer the expenses of the establishment until January. Should
I not return by that time, you will find papers in the same place, which
will instruct you relative to the moneys that will then be due to me
from the two respectable individuals who are my tenants. Moreover,"
added Richard,—and here his voice faltered,—"my will is in the
strong-box; and should I perish in this undertaking, you will find, my
dear friend,—and you too, my faithful Whittingham,—that I have not left
you without resources."
"Richard, this is too generous!" exclaimed Mr. Monroe, tears of
gratitude trickling down his cheeks.
Whittingham also wept; and Ellen's sobs were convulsive—for she regarded
Richard in the light of a dear brother.
"Render not our parting moments more painful than they naturally are, my
dear friends," said Markham. "You cannot understand—but, if I live, you
shall some day know—the motives which influence me in joining this
expedition. Mr. Monroe—Ellen—Whittingham, I have one last request to
make. You are all aware that on the 10th of July, 1843, a solemn
appointment exists between my brother and myself. If I should perish in
a far-off clime,—or if a prison, or any accident prevent my return,—let
one of you represent me on that occasion. Should it be so, tell my
brother how much I have loved him—how anxiously I have ever looked
forward to that day,—how sincerely I have prayed for his welfare and his
success! Tell him," continued Richard, while the tears rolled down his
cheeks, large and fast,—"tell him that I have cherished his memory as no
brother ever before was known to do; and if he be poor—or unhappy—or
suffering—or unfortunate, receive him into this house, which will then
be your own—console, comfort him! If he be criminal, do not spurn
him:—remember, he is my brother!"
Ellen sobbed as if her heart would break as Richard uttered these words.
There was something fearfully poignant and convulsive in that young
lady's grief.
But suddenly rousing herself, she rushed from the room; and, returning
in a few moments with her child, she presented it to Markham, saying
"Embrace him, Richard, before you depart;—embrace him—for he bears your
Christian name!"
Our hero received the innocent infant in his arms, and kissed it
tenderly.
No pen can depict the expression of pleasure—of radiant joy,—joy shining
out from amidst her tears,—with which Ellen contemplated that proof of
affection towards her babe.
"Thank you, Richard—thank you, my brother," she exclaimed, as she
received back her child.
The old butler and Mr. Monroe were not callous to the touching nature of
that scene.
"I have now no more to say," observed Richard. "I am about to retire to
the library for a short time. At five o'clock the post-chaise will be
here. Whittingham, my faithful friend, you will see that all my
necessaries be carefully packed."
Markham then withdrew to his study.
There he wrote a few letters upon matters of business.
At length Whittingham made his appearance.
"Morcar is arrived, Master Richard," said the old man, "and it is close
upon five."
"I shall soon be ready, Whittingham," answered Richard.
The old butler withdrew.
Then Richard took from his strong-box the mysterious packet which had
been left to him by Thomas Armstrong; and that sacred trust he secured
about his person.
"Now," he said, "I am about to quit the home of my forefathers."
And tears trickled down his cheeks.
"This is foolish!" he exclaimed, after a pause: "I must not yield to my
emotions, when on the eve of such a grand and glorious undertaking."
He then returned to the drawing-room.
At that moment the post-chaise arrived at the front door of the mansion.
We will not detail the affecting nature of the farewell scene: suffice
it to say that Richard departed with the fervent prayers and the
sincerest wishes of those whom he left behind.
Morcar, the gipsy, accompanied him.
"Which road, sir?" asked the postillion.
"Canterbury—Deal," replied Richard.
And the post-chaise whirled him away from the home of his forefathers!
* * * * *
By a special messenger, on the same day when the above-mentioned
incidents took place, the following letter was despatched from London:—
"TO HER SERENE HIGHNESS THE GRAND DUCHESS OF CASTELCICALA.
"I have the honour to inform your Serene Highness that the measures
which I adopted (and which your Highness condemned in the last
letter your Highness deigned to address to me) have enabled me to
ascertain the intentions of the conspirators. The three vessels
purchased by them are now completely equipped and manned. One has
already arrived in the Downs, where the Chiefs of the rebels are to
join her. A second sailed from Hull four days ago: and the third
left Waterford about the same time. They will all three meet at
Cadiz, where they are to take in stores and water. Twelve hundred
exiled Castelcicalans are on board these three ships, which are
ostensibly fitted out as emigrant vessels for North America. So well
have General Grachia, Colonel Morosino, and Mr. Markham planned
their schemes, that I question whether even the English government
is acquainted with the real destination of those ships, and the
object of their crews.
"Beware, then, noble lady! The last meeting of the Chiefs of the
expedition was held last evening; and I was present in my presumed
capacity of a stanch adherent to the cause of the conspirators. The
reasons which I adduced for not proceeding with them on the
enterprise, and for remaining in London, were completely
satisfactory; and no one for a moment suspected my integrity.
Indeed, the confidence which Mr. Markham has placed in me from the
beginning, in consequence of the share which I had in saving his
life (an incident to which I have alluded in preceding letters to
your Highness) on a certain occasion, annihilated all suspicion as
to the sincerity of my motives.
"At the meeting of which I have just spoken, it was resolved that
the descent upon Castelcicala shall be made in the neighbourhood of
Ossore, which, I need scarcely inform your Serene Highness, is a
small sea-port about thirty-five miles to the south of Montoni.
"And now I have discharged what I consider to be a faithful duty. If
I have fallen in your Highness's good opinion by betraying those
with whom I affected to act, I fondly hope that the importance of
the information which I have thereby been enabled to give you, will
restore me to your Highness's favour.
"But remember, my lady—remember the prayer which I offered up
to your Highness when first I wrote concerning this
conspiracy,—remember the earnest supplication which I then
made and now renew,—that _not a hair of Richard Markham's head
must be injured_!
"I have the honour to subscribe myself your Serene Highness's most
faithful and devoted servant,
"FILIPPO DORSENNI.
_Oct. 16th, 1840._"
Thus was it that Mr. Greenwood's Italian valet provided, to the utmost
of his power, for the safety of Richard Markham, in case those whom he
improperly denominated "conspirators" should fall into the hands of the
Castelcicalan authorities.