THE WEDDING MORNING.—THE NEW ARRIVAL.—THE DISAPPEARANCE OF THE
VAMPYRE BRIDEGROOM.
The signora retired to her own chamber, and remained there for many
hours; but during that time two messengers had left the mansion
secretly, and then all was still. The lovely and beautiful Isabella,
however, was not to be seen in her usual walks, or at her father’s
board, as was her wont. She was only seen within the precincts of her
own apartments, pallid, sad, and sorrowful.
“Your daughter, count,” said the stranger, one morning, “does not
appear as usual. I trust she is quite well?”
“Yes; quite well.”
“I hope I have given no cause of offence if so, I hope I may be
informed of my error, that I may speedily amend it.”
“There is none, chevalier; but my daughter, Isabella, has asked a
week’s preparation for the nuptials—which week she will pass in her own
apartments secluded, and at the end of which time, she leaves them for
your protection, and which will, I trust, be to her happiness.”
“It shall be my business to make her happy, and, for want of good will
and hearty endeavour, she shall never lack content and bliss. I have
every presage of a most happy and felicitous life in the future. I am
sure she will be happy.”
“It is my great hope, chevalier; it is the one object of my life. I
would it were settled, and the affair over. I should die unhappy if I
thought poor Isabella in the hands of any one who would not use her as
she deserved to be. She is of herself a treasure.”
“She is—she is.”
“And when she is once a wife, she will not look for a father’s
protection, neither will she need it. My death, when it does happen,
will be a great and heavy blow; but it will be less when she has the
comfort and consolation of a husband to console her for what would
otherwise be irreparable.”
“Yes, it would have the effect of deadening the blow, and of shortening
the duration of its intensity, though it will be by no means prevented.”
“I cannot say I should desire it.”
“No, certainly not; and Signora Isabella never could forget such a
parent.”
“I have done my duty, I hope.”
“And may congratulate yourself, count; but then, with regard to
Isabella, she will meet me as usual here on the day of the ceremonial.”
“Most assuredly.”
“And I am to be denied her company till then?”
“Yes; she will meet you on the morning at the altar.”
“Be it so—but I could have been happy in her society. At any rate I
must be so, by reflecting that I shall soon be the favoured, happy
husband of Isabella, for with her my happiness will be complete.”
“And my happiness will be complete, in knowing her’s is so.”
“I could have wished that some of those who have known me in France had
been here to see my happiness; but that cannot be.”
“Could you not send to them?”
“There would not be time for their return. And, moreover, if there had
been, I question whether I ought to hold any communication with them,
lest I bring them under the ban of the government, and I may not do
that.”
“Truly, you have the same feelings as I used to have; but I have long
since ceased to feel any of that kind of interest.”
“Time cures that.”
“It does; and you will find it will heal all those wounds which such a
separation from your country causes you.”
“I hope so. My offences there they will never forgive.”
• • • • •
Thus conversed the stranger and the count, and thus six days passed,
during which time the Signora Isabella was seen by none save her
attendants, who were few, and most of her time was spent in tears and
prayers.
She had a heart full of grief, but she dared not disobey her father, he
whom she loved so well, and whom she had never thought for one moment
as being opposed to her own ideas of propriety and her own wishes. She
had always been taught to suppress her own, and submit to his.
Thus it was now, at the eleventh hour, she had no means of fortifying
herself in any preconceived liking she may have had.
Submission was all she had learned—a blind and willing submission to a
fond and doting parent. She knew no other course of action.
Her heart, however, had other yearnings. She had loved another; but
she knew not how to act. She dared not even entertain the thought of
throwing herself at her father’s feet, and imploring him to save her
from perpetual sorrow—much less did she think of opposing him; but she
had done this much.
In the first moment of her terror and anguish, she had written off to
her brother, informing him of her danger; but, at the same time, she
had advised nothing, and expressed no wish—only told him the fact and
her fears.
• • • • •
The wedding morning arrived, and the house of the count gave
indications of the festivity; and, with the day, came guests richly
dressed, and the bells rang a merry peal upon the occasion, and the
count was in high spirits; but the bride was not seen.
“How is Signora Isabella, your daughter?” inquired one of the guests.
“She is as well as maiden modesty will permit.”
“I have not seen her.”
“Nor I.”
“Nor you!” replied the guest, astonished.
“No; she has secluded herself, but will appear presently, when the bell
rings for the service. The fact is, she cannot leave her father, even
for the arms of a husband, without feeling a grief for the change.”
“I hope she will be happy.”
“I have no doubt of it; the man is worthy of her.”
“And capable of making her happy, I hope.”
“I have no doubt of that.”
“Hark! the bell sounds; is that the signal?”
“Yes; follow on. I will bring my daughter forth;” and, as he spoke,
he left the guests, who hurried to the chapel, and found the stranger
awaiting his bride with some impatience.
He acknowledged the courtesy of those who came to him, and looked
towards a small door, which presently opened, and the count and
his daughter appeared. She was of marble paleness, and no signs of
happiness were seen in her face. She trembled, and her whole soul
seemed to be intent on something afar from her presence.
She lifted her eyes and gazed upon the throng; but apparently saw
none—or not those whom she wished. Her father spoke to her; she heaved
a deep sigh, and appeared to be resigned to her fate.
• • • • •
The ceremony commenced, and Isabella stood; but her eyes occasionally
sought the chapel door; and in a few moments more, before the
important part was concluded, a bustle took place near the door, and,
immediately afterwards, some officers, in the Venetian uniform, entered
the chapel, among whom was the young count, Isabella’s brother, and
with him a young officer, into whose arms she instantly threw herself,
and fainted.
“Father,” said the young count—“father, this must not be.”
“Why not, my son?” said the count.
“Because my sister loves another, and yon man is a monster.”
“What mean you, sir?” said the chevalier. “If you were other than what
you are, your words would beget a different answer.”
“You are a vampyre,” replied a young Neapolitan, who stepped forward.
“I knew you before. Know you not the holy father whom you murdered?”
“’Tis false. I’ll bring one to prove it.”
As the chevalier spoke, he crossed the chapel, and left the place; but
he did not appear again; and, upon inquiry, he had quitted the palace
in a gondola, and never reappeared.