THE MARRIAGE.
The happy morning dawned.
The weather was mild and beautiful; the sky was of a cloudless azure;
and all nature seemed to smile with the gladness of an early spring.
Markham rose at seven o'clock, and dressed himself in plain clothes; but
upon his breast he wore the star which denoted his princely rank.
And never had he appeared so handsome;—no—not even when, with the flash
of his first triumph upon his cheeks, he had entered the town of Estella
and received the congratulations of the inhabitants.
When he descended to the breakfast-room, he found Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and
Katherine already assembled: they too were attired in a manner which
showed that they were not to be omitted from the bridal party.
At eight o'clock the Grand-Duke's carriage drove up to the door; and in
a few minutes our hero and his friends were on their way to Richmond.
"Strange!" thought Ellen to herself; "that I should have passed my
honeymoon of twenty-four hours with _him_ in the same neighbourhood
whither Richard is now repairing to fetch his bride."
The carriage rolled rapidly along; and as the clock struck nine it
dashed up the avenue to the door of the now royal dwelling.
Richard and his companions were ushered into the drawing-room, where the
Grand-Duke and the Duchess, with the _aides-de-camp_, and a few select
guests, were awaiting their arrival. The reception which Mr. Monroe,
Ellen, and Katherine experienced at the hands of the royal pair was of a
most cordial kind, and proved how favourably our hero had spoken of
them.
In a short time Isabella made her appearance, attended by her
bridemaids—the two daughters of an English peer.
Richard hastened to present his friends to the Princess; and the
cordiality of the parents underwent no contrast on the part of the
daughter;—but if she were more courteous—nay, kind—in her manner to
either, that preference was shown towards Ellen.
And it struck the young lady that such slight preference was evinced
towards her; for she turned a quick but rapid glance of profound
gratitude upon Richard, as much as to say, "'Tis you whom I must thank
for this!"
How lovely did Isabella seem—robed in virgin white, and her cheeks
suffused with blushes! There was a charm of ineffable sweetness—a halo
of innocence about her, which fascinated the beholder even more than the
splendour of her beauty. As she cast down her eyes, and the long
slightly-curling black fringes reposed upon her cheeks, there was an air
of purest chastity in her appearance which showed how nearly allied her
heart was to the guilelessness of angels. And then her loveliness of
person—Oh! that was of a nature so ravishing, so enchanting, as to
inspire something more than mere admiration—something nearer resembling
a worship. Poets have compared eyes to stars—teeth to ivory—lips to
coral—bosoms to snow;—they have likened symmetry of form to that of
sylphs, and lightness of step to that of fairies;—but poor, poor indeed
are all similitudes which we might call to our aid to convey an idea of
the beauty of this charming Italian maiden, now arrayed in her bridal
vestment!
The ceremony was twofold, Richard being a Protestant and Isabella a
Roman Catholic. A clergyman of the Church of England therefore united
them, in the first instance, by special licence, at the Grand-Duke's
mansion. The bridal party immediately afterwards entered the carriages,
which were in readiness, and repaired to the Roman Catholic chapel at
Hammersmith, where the hands of the young couple were joined anew
according to the ritual of that creed.
And now the most exalted of Richard's earthly hopes were attained;—the
only means by which his happiness could be ensured, and a veil drawn
over the sorrows of the past, were accomplished. When he looked back to
the period of his first acquaintance with Isabella,—remembered how
ridiculously insignificant was once the chance that his love for her
would ever terminate in aught save disappointment,—and then followed up
all the incidents which had gradually smoothed down the difficulties
that arose in his path until the happy moment when he knelt by her side
at the altar of God,—he was lost in astonishment at the inscrutable ways
of that Providence which had thus brought to a successful issue an
aspiration that at first wore the appearance of a wild and delusive
dream!
On the return of the bridal party to the mansion near Richmond, a
splendid banquet was served up; and if there were a sentiment of
melancholy which stole upon the happiness of any present, it was on the
part of Isabella and her parents at the idea of separation.
At length the _déjeuner_ is over; and Isabella retires with her mother
and bridemaids to prepare for her departure. The Grand-Duke takes that
opportunity to thrust a sealed packet into our hero's hand. A few
minutes elapse—Isabella returns—the farewells take place—and the
bridegroom conducts his charming bride to the carriage. Mr. Monroe,
Ellen, and Katherine follow in a second chariot.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Richard assisted his lovely
young wife to alight at the door of his own mansion; and now Markham
Place becomes the residence of the Prince and Princess of Montoni.
Vain were it to attempt to describe the delight of the old butler when
he beheld his master bring home that beauteous, blushing bride; and—as
he said in the course of the day to Mr. Monroe, "It was only, sir, a doo
sense of that comportance which belongs to a man in my situation of
authority over the servants that perwented me from collapsing into some
of them antics that I indulged in when we heerd of Master—I mean of his
Highness's successes in Castle Chichory, and when he came home the day
before yesterday. But I won't do it, sir—I won't do it; although I don't
promise, Mr. Monroe," he added, in a mysterious whisper, "that I shan't
go to bed rayther jolly to-night with champagne."
* * * * *
It was eleven o'clock that night when Ellen cautiously issued from the
back door of the mansion.
She passed rapidly through the garden, passed out of the gate, and
hastily ascended the hill on whose summit were the two trees.
A man was seated on the bench.
Ellen approached him, threw her arms round his neck, and embraced him
with a tenderness that even appeared to surprise him by its warmth.
She placed herself by his side; he drew her towards him—and kissed her
almost affectionately.
"You are not happy?" said Ellen, in a plaintive and anxious tone. "I
knew _that_ by the contents of the note which Marian gave me just now;
and your manner confirms me in the opinion."
"I know not how it is," replied Greenwood, without answering her
question in a direct way, "but you never seemed dear to me, Ellen, until
this evening."
"And am I dear to you now?" she asked, in a tone tremulous with joy.
"You are—you are," exclaimed Greenwood, speaking nevertheless in a
manner which seemed to indicate that he was giving way to a feeling of
weakness which he could not conquer, but of which he was ashamed; "you
are dear to me—for my heart appears as if it required something to love,
and some one to love me."
"And do I not love you?" cried Ellen, pressing her lips to his. "Oh!
there was a time when I never thought I could love you—when I only
sought you as a husband because you were the father of my child:—but
since we have been united in holy bonds, I have learnt to love you—and I
_do_ love you—I _do_ love you—in spite of all that has passed!"
"You are a good girl, Ellen," said Greenwood, upon whose lash a tear
stood: but he hastily dashed it away, exclaiming, "This is unlike me!
What can be the cause of these emotions—hitherto unknown? Is it that I
am envious of _his_ happiness? Is it that I pine for that sweet
domesticity which he will now enjoy? Or is it that I am wearied of a
world false and hollow-hearted?"
"Alas!" cried Ellen, the tears streaming from her eyes: "is the world
really false and hollow-hearted? or have you sought only that sphere
which wears the appearance that you deplore? Look yonder," she
continued, pointing towards the mansion; "no falsehood—no
hollow-heartedness are there! And why? Because he who rules in that
abode has encouraged every sweet sympathy that renders life
agreeable—every amenity which inspires confidence and mutual reliance
between a number of persons dwelling together. The sphere that he has
chosen is purified by his own virtues: the light of his excellence is
reflected from the hearts of all around him. All are good, or strive to
be good in his circle—because he himself is good. Where you have
moved—ever agitating amidst the selfish crowd, as in troubled
waters—none are good, because no one sets a good example. Every thing in
_your_ world is SELF: in Richard's world _he_ sacrifices SELF unto
others. Hence _his_ prosperity—_his_ happiness——"
"And hence my adversity—my dissatisfied spirit!" exclaimed Greenwood,
impatiently. "But talk not thus, Ellen, any more: you will drive me
mad!"
"Oh! my dear husband, what makes you thus?" cried Ellen, in alarm: "I
never saw you so before. You who were ever so cool—nay, pardon me, if I
say so chilling,—so calculating—so inaccessible to the tenderest
emotions,—you are now an altered being! But God grant that your heart is
touched at last, and that you will abandon those paths of selfishness
which, as you have by this time learnt, are not those of permanent
prosperity! Do not be offended with me:—heaven knows I would not wound
your heart; for I love you ten thousand times better to-night than ever
I did before—and solely because you _are_ changed, or appear to be. Oh!
let me implore you to cast aside your assumed name—to throw off all
disguise—to return to that home where the arms of sincerest affection
will be extended to welcome you——"
"No—no, Ellen!" cried Greenwood, almost furiously: "my pride will not
permit me to do that! Speak no more in this way—or I will quit you
immediately. I will fulfil my destiny—whatever it may be. Not a day—not
an hour before the appointed time must _he_ and I meet! No—broken though
my fortunes be, they are not irreparable. Had it not been for the flight
of that villain Tomlinson, I should have retrieved them ere now. I must
not, however, despair: my credit is still good in certain quarters; and
I possess talents for finance and speculation of no mean order."
"But you will not again embark in any such desperate venture as—as——"
"As the forged bills, you would say, Ellen," added Greenwood, hastily.
"No:—be not alarmed on this head. I will not sully that name which _he_
has rendered great."
"Oh! do you not remember," cried Ellen, as a sudden reminiscence shot
through her brain, "that on the morning when our hands were united, you
promised _that the name which you then gave me should go down to
posterity_?"
"It will—it will: the prediction is already fulfilled, Ellen," said
Greenwood, hastily;—"but not by me!" he added mournfully. "I know not
why I feel so low spirited to-night; and yet your presence consoles me!
Richard now clasps his lovely bride in his arms—and we are forced to
snatch this stolen interview, as if we had no right to each other's
society!"
"And whose fault is that?" asked Ellen, somewhat reproachfully. "Is it
not in your power to put an end to all this mystery?"
"I cannot—I will not," returned Greenwood, with renewed impetuosity.
"No—let us not touch upon the topic again. My resolves are immoveable on
that point. If you love me, urge me not to inflict so deep a wound upon
my pride. This lowness of spirits will soon pass away: I am afraid that
envy—or jealousy, rather—has in some degree depressed me. And yet envy
is not the term—nor does jealousy express the true nature, of my
sentiments. For, in spite of all my faults, I have loved _him_, Ellen—as
you well know. But it is that I feel disappointed—almost disgusted:—I
have as yet toiled for naught! I contrast my position with _his_—and
that makes me mournful. Still I am proud of him, Ellen:—I cannot be
otherwise."
"That is a generous feeling," said Ellen, again embracing her husband:
"it does me good to hear you express such a sentiment."
"I scarcely know what I have been saying," continued Greenwood: "my mind
is chaotic—my ideas are confused. Let us now separate; we will meet
again shortly—and I will tell you of my progress towards the fortune
which I am resolved to acquire."
"Yes—let us meet again soon," said Ellen; "but not here," she added,
glancing towards the trees. "It makes you melancholy."
"Well—well: I will find another spot for our interviews. Farewell,
Ellen—dearest Ellen."
"Farewell, my dearest husband."
They embraced, and separated—Ellen retracing her steps towards the
mansion, and Greenwood remaining on the hill.
* * * * *
On the following morning, after breakfast, Richard conducted his lovely
bride over the grounds belonging to the Place; and when they had
inspected the gardens, he said, "I will now lead you to the hill-top,
beloved Isabella, where you will behold those memorials of affection
between my brother and myself, which mark the spot where I hope again to
meet him."
They ascended the eminence: they stood between the two trees.
But scarcely had Richard cast a glance towards the one planted by the
hand of Eugene, when he started, and dropped Isabella's arm.
She threw a look of intense alarm on his countenance; but her fears were
immediately succeeded by delight when she beheld the unfeigned joy that
was depicted on his features.
"Eugene is alive! He has been hither again—he has revisited this spot!"
exclaimed Richard. "See, Isabella—he has left that indication of his
presence."
The Princess now observed the inscriptions upon the tree.
They stood thus:—
EUGENE.
_Dec. 25, 1836._
EUGENE.
_May 17th, 1838._
EUGENE.
_March 6, 1841._
"Eugene was here yesterday," said Richard. "Oh! he still thinks of me—he
remembers that he has a brother. Doubtless he has heard of my
happiness—my prosperity: perhaps he even learnt that yesterday blest me
with your hand, dearest Isabel; and that inscription is a
congratulation—a token of his kind wish alike to you and to me."
Isabella partook of her husband's joy; and after lingering for some time
upon the spot, they retraced their steps to the mansion.
The carriage was already at the door: they entered it; and Richard
commanded the coachman to drive to Woolwich.
On their arrival at the wharf where Richard had landed only two days
previously, they found a barge waiting to convey them on board the
Castelcicalan steamer.
The Grand-Duke and Grand-Duchess, with their suite, received them upon
the deck of the vessel.
The hour of separation had come: Alberto and his illustrious spouse were
about to return to their native land to ascend a throne.
The Grand-Duke drew Richard aside, and said, "My dear son, you remember
your promise to repair to Montoni so soon as the time of appointment
with your brother shall have passed."
"I shall only be too happy to return, with my beloved Isabella, to your
society," answered Markham. "My brother will keep his appointment; for
yesterday he revisited the spot where that meeting is to take place, and
inscribed his name upon the tree that he planted."
"That is another source of happiness for you, Richard," said the
Grand-Duke; "and well do you deserve all the felicity which this world
can give."
"Your Serene Highness has done all that is in mortal power to ensure
that felicity," exclaimed Markham. "You have elevated me to a rank only
one degree inferior to your own;—you have bestowed upon me an
inestimable treasure in the person of your daughter;—and you yesterday
placed in my hands a decree appointing me an annual income of twenty
thousand pounds from the ducal treasury. Your Serene Highness has been
too liberal:—a fourth part will be more than sufficient for all our
wants. Moreover, from certain hints which Signor Viviani dropped when I
was an inmate of his house at Pinalla—and subsequently, after his
arrival at Montoni to take the post of Minister of Finance which I
conferred upon him, and which appointment has met the approval of your
Serene Highness—I am justified in believing that in July, 1843, I shall
inherit a considerable fortune from our lamented friend Thomas
Armstrong."
"The larger your resources, Richard, the wider will be the sphere of
your benevolence," said the Grand-Duke; then, by way of cutting short
our hero's remonstrances in respect to the annual revenue, his Serene
Highness exclaimed, "But time presses: we must now say farewell."
We shall not dwell upon the parting scene. Suffice it to say that the
grief of the daughter in separating from her parents was attempered by
the conviction that she remained behind with an affectionate and
well-beloved husband; and the parents sorrowed the less at losing their
daughter, because they knew full well that she was united to one
possessed of every qualification to ensure her felicity.
And now the anchor was weighed; the steam hissed through the
waste-valves as if impatient of delay; and the young couple descended
the ship's side into the barge.
The boat was pushed off—and the huge wheels of the steamer began to
revolve on their axis, ploughing up the deep water.
The cannon of the arsenal thundered forth a parting salute in honour of
the sovereign and his illustrious spouse who were returning to their
native land from a long exile.
The ship returned the compliment with its artillery, as it now sped
rapidly along.
And the last waving of the Grand-Duchess's handkerchief, and the last
farewell gesture on the part of the Grand-Duke met the eyes of Isabella
and Richard during an interval when the wind had swept away the smoke of
the cannon.
The Prince and Princess of Montoni landed at the wharf, re-entered their
carriage, and were soon on their way back to Markham Place.