THE EVENTS OF A SINGLE NIGHT.--MOMENTS MAKE THE HUES IN WHICH YEARS ARE
COLOURED.
MEN of the old age! what wonder that in the fondness of a dim faith, and
in the vague guesses which, from the frail ark of reason, we send to
hover over a dark and unfathomable abyss,--what wonder that ye should
have wasted hope and life in striving to penetrate the future! What
wonder that ye should have given a language to the stars, and to the
night a spell, and gleaned from the uncomprehended earth an answer to
the enigmas of Fate! We are like the sleepers who, walking under the
influence of a dream, wander by the verge of a precipice, while, in
their own deluded vision, they perchance believe themselves surrounded
by bowers of roses, and accompanied by those they love. Or, rather like
the blind man, who can retrace every step of the path he has /once/
trodden, but who can guess not a single inch of that which he has not
yet travelled, our Reason can re-guide us over the roads of past
experience with a sure and unerring wisdom, even while it recoils,
baffled and bewildered, before the blackness of the very moment whose
boundaries we are about to enter.
The few friends I had invited to my wedding were still with me, when one
of my servants, not Desmarais, informed me that Mr. Oswald waited for
me. I went out to him.
"/Parbleu/!" said he, rubbing his hands, "I perceive it is a joyous time
with you, and I don't wonder you can only spare me a few moments."
The estates of Devereux were not to be risked for a trifle, but I
thought Mr. Marie Oswald exceedingly impertinent. "Sir," said I, very
gravely, "pray be seated; and now to business. In the first place may I
ask to whom I am beholden for sending you with that letter you gave me
at Devereux Court? and, secondly, what that letter contained? for I
never read it."
"Sir," answered the man, "the history of the letter is perfectly
distinct from that of the will, and the former (to discuss the least
important first) is briefly this. You have heard, Sir, of the quarrels
between Jesuit and Jansenist?"
"I have."
"Well--but first, Count, let me speak of myself. There were three young
men of the same age, born in the same village in France, of obscure
birth each, and each desirous of getting on in the world. Two were
deuced clever fellows, the third, nothing particular. One of the two at
present shall be nameless; the third, 'who was nothing particular' (in
his own opinion, at least, though his friends may think differently),
was Marie Oswald. We soon separated: I went to Paris, was employed in
different occupations, and at last became secretary, and (why should I
disavow it?) valet to a lady of quality and a violent politician. She
was a furious Jansenist; of course I adopted her opinions. About this
time, there was much talk among the Jesuits of the great genius and deep
learning of a young member of the order, Julian Montreuil. Though not
residing in the country, he had sent one or two books to France, which
had been published and had created a great sensation. Well, Sir, my
mistress was the greatest /intriguante/ of her party: she was very rich,
and tolerably liberal; and, among other packets of which a messenger
from England was /carefully/ robbed, between Calais and Abbeville (you
understand me, sir, /carefully/ robbed, /parbleu/! I wish I were robbed
in the same manner, every day in my life!), was one from the said Julian
Montreuil to a political friend of his. Among other letters in this
packet--all of importance--was one descriptive of the English family
with whom he resided. It hit them all, I am told, off to a hair; and it
described, in particular, one, the supposed inheritor of the estates, a
certain Morton, Count Devereux. Since you say you did not read the
letter, I spare your blushes, Sir, and I don't dwell upon what he said
of your talent, energy, ambition, etc. I will only tell you that he
dilated far more upon your prospects than your powers; and that he
expressly stated what was his object in staying in your family and
cultivating your friendship,--he expressly stated that L30,000 a year
would be particularly serviceable to a certain political cause which he
had strongly at heart."
"I understand you," said I, "the Chevalier's?"
"Exactly. 'This sponge,' said Montreuil, I remember the very
phrase,--'this sponge will be well filled, and I am handling it softly
now in order to squeeze its juices hereafter according to the uses of
the party we have so strongly at heart.'"
"It was not a metaphor very flattering to my understanding," said I.
"True, Sir. Well, as soon as my mistress learned this she remembered
that your father, the Marshal, had been one of her /plus chers amis/; in
a word, if scandal says true, he had been /the cher ami/. However, she
was instantly resolved to open your eyes, and ruin the /maudit Jesuite/:
she enclosed the letter in an envelope and sent me to England with it.
I came, I gave it you, and I discovered, in that moment, when the Abbe
entered, that this Julian Montreuil was an old acquaintance of my
own,--was one of the two young men who I told you were such deuced
clever fellows. Like many other adventurers, he had changed his name on
entering the world and I had never till now suspected that Julian
Montreuil was Bertrand Collinot. Well, when I saw what I had done, I
was exceedingly sorry, for I had liked my companion well enough not to
wish to hurt him; besides, I was a little afraid of him. I took horse,
and went about some other business I had to execute, nor did I visit
that part of the country again, till a week ago (now I come to the other
business), when I was summoned to the death-bed of my half-brother the
attorney, peace be with him! He suffered much from hypochondria in his
dying moments,--I believe it is the way with people of his
profession,--and he gave me a sealed packet, with a last injunction to
place it in your hands and your hands only. Scarce was he dead--(do not
think I am unfeeling, Sir, I had seen very little of him, and he was
only my half-brother, my father having married, for a second wife, a
foreign lady who kept an inn, by whom he was blessed with
myself)--scarce, I say, was he dead when I hurried up to town.
Providence threw you in my way, and you shall have the document upon two
conditions."
"Which are, first to reward you; secondly, to--"
"To promise you will not open the packet for seven days."
"The devil! and why?"
"I will tell you candidly: one of the papers in the packet I believe to
be my brother's written confession,--nay, I know it is,--and it will
criminate one I have a love for, and who, I am resolved, shall have a
chance of escape."
"Who is that one? Montreuil?"
"No: I do not refer to him; but I cannot tell you more. I require the
promise, Count: it is indispensable. If you don't give it me,
/parbleu/, you shall not have the packet."
There was something so cool, so confident, and so impudent about this
man, that I did not well know whether to give way to laughter or to
indignation. Neither, however, would have been politic in my situation;
and, as I said before, the estates of Devereux were not to be risked for
a trifle.
"Pray," said I, however, with a shrewdness which I think did me
credit,--"pray, Mr. Marie Oswald, do you expect the reward before the
packet is opened?"
"By no means," answered the gentleman who in his own opinion was nothing
particular; "by no means; nor until you and your lawyers are satisfied
that the papers enclosed in the packet are sufficient fully to restore
you to the heritage of Devereux Court and its demesnes."
There was something fair in this; and as the only penalty to me incurred
by the stipulated condition seemed to be the granting escape to the
criminals, I did not think it incumbent upon me to lose my cause from
the desire of a prosecution. Besides, at that time, I felt too happy to
be revengeful; and so, after a moment's consideration, I conceded to the
proposal, and gave my honour as a gentleman--Mr. Oswald obligingly
dispensed with an oath--that I would not open the packet till the end of
the seventh day. Mr. Oswald then drew forth a piece of paper, on which
sundry characters were inscribed, the purport of which was that, if,
through the papers given me by Marie Oswald, my lawyers were convinced
that I could become master of my uncle's property, now enjoyed by Gerald
Devereux, I should bestow on the said Marie L5000: half on obtaining
this legal opinion, half on obtaining possession of the property. I
could not resist a smile when I observed that the word of a gentleman
was enough surety for the safety of the man he had a love for, but that
Mr. Oswald required a written bond for the safety of his reward. One is
ready enough to trust one's friends to the conscience of another, but as
long as a law can be had instead, one is rarely so credulous in respect
to one's money.
"The reward shall be doubled if I succeed," said I, signing the paper;
and Oswald then produced a packet, on which was writ, in a trembling
hand,--"For Count Morton Devereux,--private,--and with haste." As soon
as he had given me this precious charge, and reminded me again of my
promise, Oswald withdrew. I placed the packet in my bosom, and returned
to my guests.
Never had my spirit been so light as it was that evening. Indeed the
good people I had assembled thought matrimony never made a man so little
serious before. They did not however stay long, and the moment they
were gone I hastened to my own sleeping apartment to secure the treasure
I had acquired. A small escritoire stood in this room, and in it I was
accustomed to keep whatever I considered most precious. With many a
wistful look and murmur at my promise, I consigned the packet to one of
the drawers of this escritoire. As I was locking the drawer, the sweet
voice of Desmarais accosted me. Would Monsieur, he asked, suffer him to
visit a friend that evening, in order to celebrate so joyful an event in
Monsieur's destiny? It was not often that he was addicted to vulgar
merriment, but on such an occasion he owned that he was tempted to
transgress his customary habits, and he felt that Monsieur, with his
usual good taste, would feel offended if his servant, within Monsieur's
own house, suffered joy to pass the limits of discretion, and enter the
confines of noise and inebriety, especially as Monsieur had so
positively interdicted all outward sign of extra hilarity. He implored
/mille pardons/ for the presumption of his request.
"It is made with your usual discretion; there are five guineas for you:
go and get drunk with your friend, and be merry instead of wise. But,
tell me, is it not beneath a philosopher to be moved by anything,
especially anything that occurs to another,--much less to get drunk upon
it?"
"Pardon me, Monsieur," answered Desmarais, bowing to the ground: "one
ought to get drunk sometimes, because the next morning one is sure to be
thoughtful; and, moreover, the practical philosopher ought to indulge
every emotion, in order to judge how that emotion would affect another;
at least, this is my opinion."
"Well, go."
"My most grateful thanks be with Monsieur; Monsieur's nightly toilet is
entirely prepared."
And away went Desmarais, with the light, yet slow, step with which he
was accustomed to combine elegance with dignity.
I now passed into the room I had prepared for Isora's /boudoir/. I
found her leaning by the window, and I perceived that she had been in
tears. As I paused to contemplate her figure so touchingly, yet so
unconsciously mournful in its beautiful and still posture, a more joyous
sensation than was wont to mingle with my tenderness for her swelled at
my heart. "Yes," thought I, "you are no longer the solitary exile, or
the persecuted daughter of a noble but ruined race; you are not even the
bride of a man who must seek in foreign climes, through danger and
through hardship, to repair a broken fortune and establish an
adventurer's name! At last the clouds have rolled from the bright star
of your fate: wealth, and pomp, and all that awaits the haughtiest of
England's matrons shall be yours." And at these thoughts Fortune seemed
to me a gift a thousand times more precious than--much as my luxuries
prized it--it had ever seemed to me before.
I drew near and laid my hand upon Isora's shoulder, and kissed her
cheek. She did not turn round, but strove, by bending over my hand and
pressing it to her lips, to conceal that she had been weeping. I
thought it kinder to favour the artifice than to complain of it. I
remained silent for some moments, and I then gave vent to the sanguine
expectations for the future which my new treasure entitled me to form.
I had already narrated to her the adventure of the day before: I now
repeated the purport of my last interview with Oswald; and, growing more
and more elated as I proceeded, I dwelt at last upon the description of
my inheritance, as glowingly as if I had already recovered it. I
painted to her imagination its rich woods and its glassy lake, and the
fitful and wandering brook that, through brake and shade, went bounding
on its wild way; I told her of my early roamings, and dilated with a
boy's rapture upon my favourite haunts. I brought visibly before her
glistening and eager eyes the thick copse where hour after hour, in
vague verses and still vaguer dreams, I had so often whiled away the
day; the old tree which I had climbed to watch the birds in their glad
mirth, or to listen unseen to the melancholy sound of the forest deer;
the antique gallery and the vast hall which, by the dim twilights, I had
paced with a religious awe, and looked upon the pictured forms of my
bold fathers, and mused high and ardently upon my destiny to be; the old
gray tower which I had consecrated to myself, and the unwitnessed path
which led to the yellow beach, and the wide gladness of the solitary
sea; the little arbour which my earliest ambition had reared, that
looked out upon the joyous flowers and the merry fountain, and, through
the ivy and the jessamine, wooed the voice of the bird, and the murmur
of the summer bee; and, when I had exhausted my description, I turned to
Isora, and said in a lower tone, "And I shall visit these once more, and
with you!"
Isora sighed faintly, and it was not till I had pressed her to speak
that she said:--
"I wish I could deceive myself, Morton, but I cannot--I cannot root from
my heart an impression that I shall never again quit this dull city with
its gloomy walls and its heavy air. A voice within me seems to say,
'Behold from this very window the boundaries of your living
wanderings!'"
Isora's words froze all my previous exaltation. "It is in vain," said
I, after chiding her for her despondency, "it is in vain to tell me that
you have for this gloomy notion no other reason than that of a vague
presentiment. It is time now that I should press you to a greater
confidence upon all points consistent with your oath to our mutual enemy
than you have hitherto given me. Speak, dearest, have you not some yet
unrevealed causes for alarm?"
It was but for a moment that Isora hesitated before she answered with
that quick tone which indicates that we force words against the will.
"Yes, Morton, I /will/ tell you now, though I would not before the event
of this day. On the last day that I saw that fearful man, he said, 'I
warn you, Isora d'Alvarez, that my love is far fiercer than hatred; I
warn you that your bridals with Morton Devereux shall be stained with
blood. Become his wife, and you perish! Yea, though I suffer hell's
tortures forever and forever from that hour, my own hand shall strike
you to the heart!' Morton, these words have thrilled through me again
and again, as if again they were breathed in my very ear; and I have
often started at night and thought the very knife glittered at my
breast. So long as our wedding was concealed, and concealed so closely,
I was enabled to quiet my fears till they scarcely seemed to exist. But
when our nuptials were to be made public, when I knew that they were to
reach the ears of that fierce and unaccountable being, I thought I heard
my doom pronounced. This, mine own love, must excuse your Isora, if she
seemed ungrateful for your generous eagerness to announce our union.
And perhaps she would not have acceded to it so easily as she has done
were it not that, in the first place, she felt it was beneath your wife
to suffer any terror so purely selfish to make her shrink from the proud
happiness of being yours in the light of day; and if she had not felt
[here Isora hid her blushing face in my bosom] that she was fated to
give birth to another, and that the announcement of our wedded love had
become necessary to your honour as to mine!"
Though I was in reality awed even to terror by learning from Isora's lip
so just a cause for her forebodings,--though I shuddered with a horror
surpassing even my wrath, when I heard a threat so breathing of deadly
and determined passions,--yet I concealed my emotions, and only thought
of cheering and comforting Isora. I represented to her how guarded and
vigilant should ever henceforth be the protection of her husband; that
nothing should again separate him from her side; that the extreme malice
and fierce persecution of this man were sufficient even to absolve her
conscience from the oath of concealment she had taken; that I would
procure from the sacred head of our Church her own absolution from that
vow; that the moment concealment was over, I could take steps to prevent
the execution of my rival's threats; that, however near to me he might
be in blood, no consequences arising from a dispute between us could be
so dreadful as the least evil to Isora; and moreover, to appease her
fears, that I would solemnly promise he should never sustain personal
assault or harm from my hand; in short, I said all that my anxiety could
dictate, and at last I succeeded in quieting her fears, and she smiled
as brightly as the first time I had seen her in the little cottage of
her father. She seemed, however, averse to an absolution from her oath,
for she was especially scrupulous as to the sanctity of those religious
obligations; but I secretly resolved that her safety absolutely required
it, and that at all events I would procure absolution from my own
promise to her.
At last Isora, turning from that topic, so darkly interesting, pointed
to the heavens, which, with their thousand eyes of light, looked down
upon us. "Tell me, love," said she, playfully, as her arm embraced me
yet more closely, "if, among yonder stars we could choose a home, which
should we select?"
I pointed to one which lay to the left of the moon, and which, though
not larger, seemed to burn with an intenser lustre than the rest. Since
that night it has ever been to me a fountain of deep and passionate
thought, a well wherein fears and hopes are buried, a mirror in which,
in stormy times, I have fancied to read my destiny, and to find some
mysterious omen of my intended deeds, a haven which I believe others
have reached before me, and a home immortal and unchanging, where, when
my wearied and fettered soul is escaped, as a bird, it shall flee away,
and have its rest at last.
"What think you of my choice?" said I. Isora looked upward, but did not
answer; and as I gazed upon her (while the pale light of heaven streamed
quietly upon her face) with her dark eyes, where the tear yet lingered,
though rather to soften than to dim; with her noble, yet tender
features, over which hung a melancholy calm; with her lips apart, and
her rich locks wreathing over her marble brow, and contrasted by a
single white rose (that rose I have now--I would not lose one withered
leaf of it for a kingdom!),--her beauty never seemed to me of so rare an
order, nor did my soul ever yearn towards her with so deep a love.
It was past midnight. All was hushed in our bridal chamber. The single
lamp, which hung above, burned still and clear; and through the
half-closed curtains of the window, the moonlight looked in upon our
couch, quiet and pure and holy, as if it were charged with blessings.
"Hush!" said Isora, gently; "do you not hear a noise below?"
"Not a breath," said I; "I hear not a breath, save yours."
"It was my fancy, then!" said Isora, "and it has ceased now;" and she
clung closer to my breast and fell asleep. I looked on her peaceful and
childish countenance, with that concentrated and full delight with which
we clasp all that the universe holds dear to us, and feel as if the
universe held nought beside,--and thus sleep also crept upon me.
I awoke suddenly; I felt Isora trembling palpably by my side. Before I
could speak to her, I saw standing at a little distance from the bed, a
man wrapped in a long dark cloak and masked; but his eyes shone through
the mask, and they glared full upon me. He stood with his arms folded,
and perfectly motionless; but at the other end of the room, before the
escritoire in which I had locked the important packet, stood another
man, also masked, and wrapped in a disguising cloak of similar hue and
fashion. This man, as if alarmed, turned suddenly, and I perceived then
that the escritoire was already opened, and that the packet was in his
hand. I tore myself from Isora's clasp--I stretched my hand to the
table by my bedside, upon which I had left my sword,--it was gone! No
matter! I was young, strong, fierce, and the stake at hazard was great.
I sprang from the bed, I precipitated myself upon the man who held the
packet. With one hand I grasped at the important document, with the
other I strove to tear the mask from the robber's face. He endeavoured
rather to shake me off than to attack me; and it was not till I had
nearly succeeded in unmasking him that he drew forth a short poniard,
and stabbed me in the side. The blow, which seemed purposely aimed to
save a mortal part, staggered me, but only for an instant. I renewed my
grip at the packet--I tore it from the robber's hand, and collecting my
strength, now fast ebbing away, for one effort, I bore my assailant to
the ground, and fell struggling with him.
But my blood flowed fast from my wound, and my antagonist, if less
sinewy than myself, had greatly the advantage in weight and size. Now
for one moment I was uppermost, but in the next his knee was upon my
chest, and his blade gleamed on high in the pale light of the lamp and
moon. I thought I beheld my death: would to God that I had! With a
piercing cry, Isora sprang from the bed, flung herself before the lifted
blade of the robber, and arrested his arm. This man had, in the whole
contest, acted with a singular forbearance, he did so now: he paused for
a moment and dropped his hand. Hitherto the other man had not stirred
from his mute position; he now moved one step towards us, brandishing a
poniard like his comrade's. Isora raised her hand supplicatingly
towards him, and cried out, "Spare him, spare /him/! Oh, mercy, mercy!"
With one stride the murderer was by my side; he muttered some words
which passion seemed to render inarticulate; and, half pushing aside his
comrade, his raised weapon flashed before my eyes, now dim and reeling.
I made a vain effort to rise: the blade descended; Isora, unable to
arrest it, threw herself before it; her blood, her heart's blood gushed
over me; I saw and felt no more.
When I recovered my senses, my servants were round me; a deep red, wet
stain upon the sofa on which I was laid brought the whole scene I had
witnessed again before me--terrible and distinct. I sprang to my feet
and asked for Isora; a low murmur caught my ear: I turned and beheld a
dark form stretched on the bed, and surrounded, like myself, by gazers
and menials; I tottered towards that bed,--my bridal bed,--with a fierce
gesture motioned the crowd away; I heard my name breathed audibly; the
next moment I was by Isora's side. All pain, all weakness, all
consciousness of my wound, of my very self, were gone: life seemed
curdled into a single agonizing and fearful thought. I fixed my eyes
upon hers; and though /there/ the film was gathering dark and rapidly, I
saw, yet visible and unconquered, the deep love of that faithful and
warm heart which had lavished its life for mine.
I threw my arms around her; I pressed my lips wildly to hers.
"Speak--speak!" I cried, and my blood gushed over her with the effort;
"in mercy speak!"
Even in death and agony, the gentle being who had been as wax unto my
lightest wish struggled to obey me. "Do not grieve for me," she said,
in a tremulous and broken voice: "it is dearer to die for you than to
live!"
Those were her last words. I felt her breath abruptly cease. The
heart, pressed to mine, was still! I started up in dismay; the light
shone full upon her face. O God! that I should live to write that Isora
was--no more!