THE MEETING.
When Isabella retired to her chamber the second time, she hastily put on
her bonnet and shawl, and then hurried to the garden at the back of the
mansion; for she felt the necessity of fresh air, to cool her burning
brow.
She walked slowly up and down for a few minutes, her mind filled with
the most distressing thoughts, when the sounds of voices fell upon her
ears. She listened; and the consequential tone of the hussar-captain,
alternating with the childish lisp of Sir Cherry Bounce, warned her that
the two young coxcombs had also directed their steps towards the garden.
She felt in no humour to listen to their chattering gossip--wearisome at
all times, but intolerable in a moment of mental affliction; still she
could not return to the house without encountering them in her way. A
thought struck her--the gardener had been at work all the morning; and
the back-gate of the enclosure had been left open for his convenience.
Perhaps it was not locked again? Thither did she hurry; and, to her joy,
the means of egress into the fields were open to her.
The delicate foot of that beauteous creature of seventeen scarcely made
an impression upon the grass, nor even crushed the daisy, so light was
her tread! And yet her heart was heavy. Grief sate upon her brow; and
her bosom was agitated with sighs.
She walked onward; and, turning the angle of a grove, was now beyond the
view of any one in her father's garden. She relaxed her speed, and moved
slowly and mournfully along the outskirts of the grove, vainly
endeavouring to conquer the sorrowful ideas that obtruded themselves on
her imagination.
But Woe is an enemy that knows no remorse, gives no quarter, while it
retains poor mortal in its grasp; and when its victim is a young and
innocent girl, whose heart beats with its first, its virgin love,--that
direful enemy augments its pangs in proportion to the tenderness and
sensibility of that heart which it thus ruthlessly torments.
Isabella's reverie was suddenly interrupted by a deep sigh.
She turned her head; and there, on her left hand--seated upon the trunk
of a tree that had been blown down by the late winds,--with his face
buried in his hands, was a gentleman apparently absorbed in reflections
of no pleasurable nature.
He sighed deeply, and his lips murmured some words, the sound of which,
but not the meaning, met her ears.
She was about to retrace her steps, when her own name was pronounced by
the lips of the person seated on the tree,--and in a tone, too, which
she could not mistake.
"Oh! Isabella, Isabella, thou knowest not how I love thee!"
An exclamation of surprise--almost of alarm--burst from the lips of the
beautiful Italian; and she leant for support against a tree.
Richard Markham--for it was by _his_ lips that her name had been
pronounced--raised his head, and gave vent to a cry of the most wild,
the most enthusiastic joy.
In a moment he was by her side.
"Isabella!" he exclaimed: "to what good angel am I indebted for this
unexpected joy--this immeasurable happiness?"
"Oh! Mr. Markham--forgive me if I intruded upon you--but, accident--"
"Call it not accident, Isabella: it was heaven!--heaven that prompted me
to seek this spot to-day, for the first time since that fatal night--"
"Ah! that fatal night," repeated the signora, with a shudder.
Markham dropped the hand which he had taken--which he had pressed for a
moment in his: and he retreated a few paces, his entire manner changing
as if he were suddenly awakened to a sense of his humiliating condition.
"Signora," he said, in a low and tremulous tone, "is it possible that
_you_ can believe me guilty of the terrible deed which a monster imputed
to me?"
"Oh! no, Mr. Markham," answered the young lady hastily; "I never for an
instant imagined so vile--so absurd an accusation to be based upon
truth."
"Thank you, signora--thank you a thousand times for that avowal,"
exclaimed Richard. "Oh! how have I longed for an opportunity to explain
to you all that has hitherto been dark and mysterious relative to
myself:--how have I anticipated a moment like this, when I might narrate
to you the history of all my sorrows--all my wrongs, and part with
you--either bearing away the knowledge of your sympathy to console me,
or of your scorn to crush me down into the very dust!"
"Oh! Mr. Markham, I cannot hear you--I dare not stay another moment
here," said Isabella, excessively agitated. "My father's anger--"
"I will not detain you, signora," interrupted Richard, coldly. "Obey the
will of your parents; and if--some day--you should learn the narrative
of my sorrows from some accidental source, then--when you hear how
cruelly circumstances combined, and how successfully villains leagued to
plunge me into an abyss of infamy and disgrace,--then, signora, then
reflect upon my prayer to be allowed to justify myself to you to-day--a
prayer which obedience to your parents compels you to reject."
"To me, Mr. Markham, no explanation is necessary," said Isabella,
timidly, and with her eyes bent towards the ground so that the long
black fringes reposed upon her cheeks.
"Oh! fool that I was to flatter myself that you would hear me--or to
hope that you would listen to aught which I might say to justify
myself!" ejaculated Markham. "Pardon me, signora--pardon my presumption;
but I judged your heart by mine--I measured your sympathy, your love, by
what I feel;--and I have erred--yes, I have erred--but you will pardon
me! Oh! how could the _freed convict_ dare to hope that the daughter of
a noble--a lady of spotless name, and high birth--should for a moment
stoop to him? Ah! I indulged in a miserable delusion! And yet how sweet
was that dream in my solitary hours! for you must know, lady, that I have
fed myself with hopes--with wild insane hopes--until my soul has been
comforted, and for a season I have forgotten my wrongs,
deep--ineffaceable though they be! I thought to myself--'There is one
being in this cold and cheerless world who will not put faith in all
that calumny proclaims against me,--one being who, having read my heart,
will know that I have suffered for a deed which I never committed, and
from which my soul revolts,--one being who can understand how it is
possible for me to have been unfortunate but never criminal,--one being
whose sympathy follows me amidst the hatred and scorn of others,--one
being in a word, who would not refuse to hear from my lips a sad
history, and who would be prepared to find it filled with sorrows, but
not stained with infamy!'--Such were my thoughts--such was my hope--such
was my delusive dream: O God! that I had never yielded to so bright a
vision! It is now dissipated; and I can well understand, lady--now--that
no explanation is indeed necessary!"
"Mr. Markham," said Isabella, in a voice scarcely audible through deep
emotion,--"Mr. Markham--you misunderstand me--I did not mean that I
would hear no explanation;--Oh! very far from that--"
"But that it would be now useless!" exclaimed Markham, his tone
softening, for he saw that the lovely idol of his heart was deeply
touched. "You mean, signora, that all explanation would be now too late;
that, whether innocent or guilty of the crime for which I suffered two
years' cruel imprisonment, I am so surrounded by infamy--my name is so
encrusted with odium, and scorn, and disgrace, that to associate with
me--to be seen for a moment near me, is a moral contagion--a plague--a
pestilence--"
"Oh! spare me--spare me these reproaches," cried Isabella, now weeping
bitterly; "for reproaches they are--and most unjust ones, too!"
"Unjust ones!" exclaimed Richard; "what mean you, signora?"
"That by me at least they are undeserved, Mr. Markham," returned the
lovely girl.
"How undeserved? how unjust?" said Richard, eagerly catching at the
first straw which presented itself upon the ocean that had wrecked all
his hopes; "did you not say that no explanation was now necessary?"
"Nor was it ever," answered Isabella, whose voice was almost entirely
subdued by her emotions; "for I never--never believed the accusations
which you seek to explain away!"
"My God! do I hear aright? or am I again the sport of a delusive
vision?" cried Richard; then, advancing towards Isabella, he took her
hand, and said, "Signora, repeat what you ere now averred, that I may
believe my own ears! You believe that I was the victim of villains, and
not a vile--degraded--base criminal?"
"Such has been, and ever would have been my belief--even without a
proof," replied Isabella.
"A proof!" ejaculated Markham: "what mean you?"
"The confession of one of the wretches who wronged you--the narrative of
the man named Talbot!" answered the Italian, casting a glance of
sympathy--of tender sympathy--upon her lover.
"And now, O God, I thank thee!" said Markham, his eyes filling with
tears, and his heart a prey to feelings of an indescribable nature: "O
God, I thank thee--how sincerely, devoutly I thank thee, thou well
knowest, for thou canst read the secrets of my soul! And you,
Isabella--dearest Isabella--Oh! can you forgive me, that I dared for a
moment to suspect your generous soul--that I doubted your noble
disposition?"
"Forgive you, Richard!" exclaimed the charming girl, smiling through her
tears: "Oh! how can you ask me?"
"And thus, my Isabella, you know all!"
"I know all--how deeply you were wronged, how fearfully you have
suffered."
"Isabella, you are an angel!" cried Markham, rapturously.
"Nay--do not flatter me," said the signora. "I have but obeyed the
dictates of my own convictions--and--"
"Speak, Isabella--speak!"
"And of my own heart," she added, casting down her eyes, and blushing.
"You left the confession of that Talbot behind you--on the fatal
night----"
"Oh! I remember now; and since then, how often have I deplored its
loss."
"My own maid found it, and gave it to me on the following morning. Since
then, I have read it very--very often!" said Isabella. "But now--I will
return it to you--I will find some opportunity to forward it you."
"Not for worlds, Isabella!" cried Markham. "If you still love me--if you
still deem me worthy of your regard--keep it, keep it as a pledge that
you believe me to be innocent!"
"Yes, Richard, I will keep it--keep it for you," said Isabella. "But do
not think that your cause is without advocates at our abode. My mother
believes that you were wronged, and not guilty--"
"Oh, Isabella! then there is yet hope!"
"But my father--my father," continued the signora, mournfully; "he will
not hear our arguments in your favour. It was only an hour ago that my
mother and myself reasoned with him upon the subject; but, alas! he--who
is so good and so just in all other respects,--_he_ is obdurate and
inexorable in this!"
"Time, sweetest girl, will do much; and now my soul is filled with hope!
Oh! how I rejoice that accident should have thrown in your way the very
proof that confirmed the opinion which your goodness suggested in my
favour."
"And not that proof alone," said Isabella; "for even this very morning,
a circumstance confirmed the assertion, that the two men who were
associated with Talbot in making you the blind instrument of their
infamous schemes, are characters of the very worst description. Captain
Dapper and his young friend were plundered by Sir Rupert Harborough and
Mr. Chichester last evening at a gambling-house."
"Oh! there is no enormity of which those villains are not capable!" said
Markham.
"But while I speak of Captain Dapper," observed Isabella, suddenly
assuming an air of restraint and embarrassment, "I am reminded of
another piece of information which he gave me, and which nearly concerns
yourself."
"Concerns me, Isabella! What can it be?"
"Nay--I know not whether it would be discreet--indeed, I am confident
that----"
"Speak, Isabella--speak unreservedly. Do you wish any explanation from
me? have you heard any further aspersions upon my character? Speak,
Isabella--speak: your own noble confidence merits an equally unreserved
frankness on my part."
"No, Richard--dear Richard," said the lovely Italian, in a bewitching
tone of tenderness; "I was wrong--very wrong to allude to so idle, so
silly an assertion;--and yet--and yet it grieved me--deeply at the
moment."
"My dearest Isabella, I implore you to speak. Let there be no secrets
between you and me."
"No--Richard--I will not insult you--"
"Insult me, Isabella? Impossible!"
"Yes--insult you with a suspicion--"
"Ah! some falsehood of that Captain Dapper," exclaimed Markham. "Pray
give me an opportunity of explaining away any impression--"
"Oh! no impression, Richard;--only a moment's uneasiness;--and, if you
will compel me to tell you--even at the risk of appearing a jealous,
suspicious creature in your eyes--"
"Ah, Isabella, if it be nothing but jealousy," said Richard, with a
smile of satisfaction, "I am well pleased; for there would not be
jealousy without love; and thus, the former is a proof of the latter."
"Then, Captain Dapper observed that he was riding near your abode the
other day; and he saw a young and very beautiful lady in your
garden----"
"And he said truly, Isabella," interrupted Markham: "he, no doubt, saw
Miss Monroe, who, with her venerable father, is residing at my
house--through charity, Isabella--through charity! No tongue can tell
the miseries which those poor creatures had endured, until I forced them
to come and take up their abode with me. Mr. Monroe was my guardian--and
by his speculations did I lose my fortune;--but never have I borne him
ill-will--and now--"
"Say no more, Richard," exclaimed Isabella: "you have a noble heart--and
never, never will I mistrust it!"
"And you love me, Isabella? and you will ever love me? and you will
never be another's?"
"Do you require oaths, and vows, and protestations, Richard?" said the
young lady, tenderly: "if so, you shall have them. But my own
feelings--my own sentiments are the best guarantee of my actions towards
you!"
"Oh! I believe you--dearest, dearest Isabella!" cried the young man,
enthusiastically, his handsome countenance irradiated with a glow of
animation which set off his proud style of male beauty to its fullest
extent; "I believe you; and you have rendered me supremely happy, for
you have taught me to have confidence in myself--you have led me to
believe that I am worthy of even such an angel as you! Oh! dearest
Isabella, you know not how sweet it is to be beloved by a pure and
virgin heart like yours! If my wrongs--my injuries--my sufferings--have
taught thee to feel one particle of sympathy the more for me, then am I
proud of the sad destinies that have so touched that tender heart of
thine! But say, Isabella--say, when shall we meet again?"
"Richard," answered the Italian lady, "you know how sincerely--how
fondly I love you; you know that you--and you alone shall ever accompany
me to the altar. But, never--never, dear Richard, can I so far neglect
my duty to my father, as to consent to a clandestine meeting. And you,
Richard--you possess a soul too noble, and too good, to urge me to do
that which would be wrong. The woman who has been a disobedient
daughter, may be a disobedient wife; and much as I love you,
Richard--much as I dote upon every word that falls from your lips--much
as I confide in your own affection for me, I cannot--I dare not--will
not diminish myself in my own opinion, nor stand the chance of incurring
a suspicion of levity in yours, by a course which is contrary to filial
duty. No, Richard--do not ask me to meet you again. Something tells me
that all will yet be well: we are young--we can hope;--and God--that God
in whom we both trust--will not forget us!"
"Now, Isabella--now," exclaimed Richard, "I comprehend all that is great
and noble in your disposition. Yes--it shall be as you say, my ever dear
Isabella; and the mental contemplation of your virtue will teach me to
appreciate the love of such a heart as yours."
"We must now separate, dear Richard," said Isabella: "I have already
remained too long away from home! But one word ere you depart:--that
miscreant who made so fearful an accusation against you on the fatal
night when you left my father's dwelling----"
"He is no more, Isabella," answered Markham: "at least I have every
reason to believe that when the police, instructed by me, discovered his
dwelling, three months ago, the villain terminated his existence in a
manner that corresponded well with the whole tenour of his life. The den
of infamy which he inhabited, was blown up with gunpowder, the moment
after the officers of justice entered it; and there can be no doubt that
he, together with one of his accomplices, perished in the ruin that was
produced by his own hand. Several constables met their death at the same
time; and, according to information gathered from the neighbours, an old
woman--believed to be the miscreant's mother--was also in the house at
the time of the explosion."
"How fearful are the ways of crime!" said Isabella, with a shudder. "May
God grant that in future you will have no enemies to cross your path!
And now, farewell, Richard--farewell. We shall meet again
soon--Providence will not desert us!"
Richard pressed his lips to those of that charming girl, and bade her
adieu.
She tore herself--now reluctantly!--away from him, and hastily retraced
her steps towards the mansion.
But ere she passed the angle of the grove, she turned and waved her
handkerchief to her lover.
The young man kissed his hand fondly to the idol of his heart: and in
another moment Isabella was out of sight.
That one half-hour of bliss, which Richard had thus passed with the
Italian lady, was a reward for weeks--months--years of anguish and of
sorrow!