THE LOVERS.
The morning, which succeeded the night that witnessed the incidents just
detailed, was clear, frosty, and fine. It was one of those winter
mornings when the soil is as hard as iron, but on which the sun shines
with gay light if not with genial heat. On such a morning we walk abroad
with a consciousness that the exercise benefits us: we feel the blood
acquiring a more rapid circulation in our veins; we soon experience a
pleasant glow pervading the frame; our spirits become exhilarated; and
we learn that even Winter has its peculiar charms.
Such was the feeling that animated Richard Markham, as, after alighting
from a public vehicle at Richmond, he proceeded rapidly along a by-road
that led through the fields at the back of Count Alteroni's mansion.
His cheeks were tinged with a glow that set off his handsome features to
the greatest advantage: his dark eyes sparkled with an expression of joy
and hope; a smile played upon his lip; and he walked with his head erect
as if he felt proud of his existence--because that existence, in spite
of its vicissitudes, was protected by some auspicious star.
O Love! art thou not a star full of hope and promise, like that which
guided the sages of the East to the cradle of their Redeemer?--like the
welcome planet which heralds the dauntless mariner over the midnight
seas?--like the twinkling orb which points the right track to the Arab
wanderer of the desert?
Richard Markham pursued his way--his soul full of hope, and love, and
bliss.
At a distance of about a quarter of a mile on his right hand, the
mansion of Count Alteroni soon met his eyes, surrounded by the
evergreens that, in contrast with the withered trees elsewhere, gave to
the spot where it stood the air of an oasis in the midst of a desert.
Markham's heart beat quickly when that well-known dwelling met his view;
and for a moment a shade of melancholy passed over his countenance, for
he recalled to mind the happy hours he had once spent within its walls.
But that transitory cloud vanished from his brow, when his eye caught a
glimpse, in another instant, of a sylph-like form that was threading a
leafless grove at a little distance.
Richard redoubled his steps, and was led, by the circuitous winding of
the path that he was pursuing, somewhat nearer to the Count's mansion.
In a few minutes he reached the very spot where, in the preceding
spring, he had accidentally encountered Isabella, and where she assured
him of her unchanged and unchangeable love.
He is now on that spot once more:--he pauses--looks around--and Isabella
again approaches.
Richard rushes forward, and clasps the beauteous Italian maiden in his
arms.
"Isabella--dearest Isabella! What good angel prompted you to grant me
this interview?" he exclaimed, when the first effusion of joy was over.
"Do you think me indiscreet, Richard?" asked the signora, taking his
arm, and glancing timidly towards his countenance.
"Indiscreet, my sweet girl!" cried her lover: "Oh! how can you suppose
that I would entertain a harsh feeling with regard to that goodness on
your part which doubtless instigated you to afford me the happiness of
this meeting?"
"But when we met here--seven or eight months ago, Richard," said
Isabella, "I told you that never--never would I consent to a stolen
interview. And now--you may imagine--"
"I imagine that you love me, Isabella--love me as I love you," exclaimed
Markham; "and what other idea can occupy my thoughts when that one is
present? Oh! you know not the ineffable joy--the unequalled pleasure
which I experienced when your letter reached me yesterday. I recognised
your handwriting immediately; and I seized the letter with avidity, when
it was brought to me in my study. And then, Isabella--will you believe
me when I tell you that I trembled to open it? I laid it upon the
table--my hand refused to break the seal. Pardon me--forgive me, if for
a moment I feared--"
"That I had forgotten my vows--my plighted affection," faltered
Isabella, reproachfully.
"Again I say pardon--forgive me, dearest girl; but--oh! I have been so
very unfortunate!"
"Think not of the past, Richard," said Isabella, tenderly.
"The past! Oh! how can I cease to ponder upon the past, when it has
nearly bereaved me of all hope for the future?" exclaimed Markham, in an
impassioned tone.
"Not _all_ hope," murmured Isabella; "since hope still remains to _me_!"
"Angel that thou art!" cried Richard, pressing the maiden's hand fondly.
"How weak I am, since it is from thee that moral courage ever is
imparted."
"You were speaking of my letter," said Isabella, with a smile.
"True! But so many emotions--joy and hope--sorrowful reminiscences and
brighter prospects, bewilder me! I will, however, try to talk calmly!
When your letter came, I feared to open it for some moments: I dreaded a
new calamity! But at length I called all my firmness to my aid; and a
terrible weight was taken from my soul, when my eye glanced at the first
lines of that letter which suddenly became as dear and welcome as a
reprieve to the condemned criminal. Then, when I saw that my beloved
Isabella still thought of me--still loved me---"
"Oh, I did not tell you _that_ in my letter," exclaimed Isabella, with a
smile of bewitching archness.
"No--but I divined it--I gathered it from the words in which you
conveyed to me your desire to see me--from the manner in which you said
that at eleven o'clock this morning you should walk in the very place
where we had met accidentally once before--oh! I suddenly became a new
being: never was my heart so light!"
"And yet I said in my letter, Richard, that I wished to see you upon a
matter of business----"
"Ah! Isabella, destroy not the charm which makes me happy! Let no cold
thought of worldly things chill the heavenly fervour of our affection.
Were it not for that love which reciprocally exists between us, how
should I have supported the misfortunes that have multiplied upon me?"
"Again I say, Richard, allude not to the past. Alas! bitter--bitter were
the tears that I wept on that fatal night when----"
"When I was publicly disgraced at the theatre--in the midst of a
triumph. Yes--Isabella, you were there--there, when my shame was
consummated!"
"Accident had led us to the theatre that evening," answered Isabella.
"My father had heard that a new tragedy, of which grand hopes were
entertained, was to be produced; and he insisted that I should accompany
him and my mother. I was compelled to assent to his desire--although I
prefer retirement and tranquillity to society and gaiety. You may
conceive our astonishment--you may imagine _my_ surprise and _my_ joy,
when you came forward to acknowledge the congratulations offered for a
triumph so brilliantly achieved. And then--but let us leave that
subject--my blood turns cold when I think of it!"
"Oh! go on--speak of it, speak of it!" exclaimed Markham,
enthusiastically; "for although the reminiscence of that fearful scene
be like pouring molten lead upon an open wound, still it is sweet--it is
sweet, Isabella, to receive sympathy from such lips as yours."
"Alas! I have little more to say--except that the sudden intervention of
that terrible man seemed to strike me as with the arrow of death; and I
became insensible. Then, Richard,--_then_," continued Isabella, in a low
and tremulous tone, "my mother suspected my secret--or rather received a
confirmation of the suspicion which she had long entertained!"
"And she shuddered at the mere idea?" exclaimed Markham,
interrogatively.
"No, Richard: my mother is kind and good--and, you know, was always well
disposed towards you: I have told you that much before! She said
little--and of that no matter! But my father--my father----"
"He discovered _our_ secret also!" exclaimed Richard. "Oh! did he not
curse me?"
"He was cool and calm, when--on the following morning--he spoke to me
upon the subject. I answered him frankly: I admitted my attachment for
you."
"What did he say, Isabella! Tell me every thing--suppress not a word!"
"Oh, heavens! he made me very miserable," returned Isabella, tears
trickling down her countenance. "But wherefore distress both yourself
and me with a recapitulation of what ensued? Suffice it to say, that I
collected all the arguments in my memory--and they were not a few;--and
I presented to him that paper--the confession of Talbot, which proved
your innocence!"
"Dearest girl!" exclaimed Markham, rapturously.
"He did not refuse to read it," added Isabella; "and at length, when I
saw that I had made a profound impression on him, I turned the
conversation upon the momentary reverse of fortune which had plunged him
into a debtors' prison----"
"Isabella!" cried Markham, in surprise.
"And then I boldly declared my conviction that the unknown friend who
had released him--the anonymous individual who had thrown open to him
the gate leading to liberty--the nameless person, that had done so
generous a deed, and accomplished it in a manner as delicate as it was
noble,--was none other than Richard Markham!"
The tone of the Italian maiden had become more and more impassioned as
she proceeded; and when she uttered the last words of the foregoing
sentence, she turned upon him on whose arm she leant, a countenance
glowing with animation, and radiant with gratitude and love.
"Oh, Isabella! you told your father _that_!" cried Markham. "And
yet--you knew not----"
"My suspicion amounted almost to a certainty," interrupted Isabella:
"and now I doubt no longer. Oh! Richard--if ever for one moment I had
wavered in my love for you,--if ever an instant of coldness, arising
from worldly reflections, had intervened to make me repent my solemn
vows to you,--that _one_ deed of yours--that noble sacrifice of your
property, made to release my revered parent from a gaol,--that--that
alone would have rendered my heart unalterably thine!"
"Beloved girl--this moment is the happiest of my life!" exclaimed
Markham; and tears of joy filled his eyes, as he pressed the maiden once
more to his heart.
"Yes, Richard," continued Isabella, after a long pause; and now her
splendid countenance was lighted up with an expression of dignity and
generous pride, and the timid, bashful maiden seemed changed into a lady
whose brow was encircled with a diadem; "yes, Richard, if ever I felt
that no deed nor act of mine shall separate us eternally--if ever I
rejoiced in the prospect of possessing wealth, and receiving lustre from
my father's princely rank----"
"Isabella!" exclaimed Richard, dropping the arm on which the Italian
lady was leaning, and stepping back in the most profound astonishment:
"Isabella, what mean you?"
"I mean," continued the signora, casting upon him a glance of deep
tenderness and noble pride; "I mean that henceforth, Richard, I can have
no secret from you,--that I must now disclose what has often before
trembled upon my tongue; a secret which my father would not, however, as
yet, have revealed to the English public generally,--the secret of his
rank; for he whom the world knows as the Count Alteroni, is Alberto,
Prince of Castelcicala!"
Strange was the effect that this revelation produced upon the young man.
He felt, as if, when in a burning heat, a mighty volume of icy water had
suddenly been dashed over him: his head appeared to swim round--his
sight grew dim--he staggered, and would have fallen had not Isabella
rushed towards him, exclaiming, "Richard--dear Richard--do you not
believe how much I love you?"
Those words produced an instantaneous change within him: those sweet
syllables, uttered in the silvery tones of lovely woman's
tenderness--recalled him to himself.
"Ah! Isabella," he exclaimed, mournfully, "how insuperable is the
barrier which divides us _now_!"
"And--if that barrier to which you allude, ever existed, was it less
formidable when you were ignorant of the secret than it is at present?"
asked Isabella, tenderly.
"It seems so to me," replied Richard. "Are you not placed on an eminence
to which I never can hope to reach? have I not dared to lift my
ambitious eyes towards a Princess--the daughter of one who will some day
wear a sovereign crown? Oh! now the delusion is gone--I am awakened from
a long dream! But, say--did your highness make this revelation to-day,
in order to extinguish my adventurous aspirations at once and for ever?"
"Richard, you wrong me--cruelly wrong me!" exclaimed Isabella, bursting
into tears.
"Forgive me--forgive me, sweetest, dearest girl!" cried Markham. "I was
mad--I raved--I knew not what I said----"
"Richard, when we met here--once before--you doubted my affection, and
then you asked me to forgive you! How often will you put my feelings to
so cruel a test? how often will you renew those unjust suspicions?"
"O God! what have I done, that I should thus call tears to your eyes,
Isabella? Forgive me, again--I say--forgive me: on my knees I
implore----"
"No--no! I think no more of what you said," exclaimed Isabella. "Calm
yourself for my sake!"--and she gazed so tenderly up into his
countenance, that he was reassured, and all his doubts and fears
vanished in a moment.
"Yes, Isabella," he said: "I am now calm; and you--you are an angel!"
"A mere terrestrial one, Richard, I am afraid," returned the Princess,
with a smile. "And now let me speak to you upon the little matter of
business to which I alluded in my note. After I had informed my father
that you were the generous unknown who had been the means of his release
from prison, he exclaimed, '_Excellent-hearted young man! How I have
wronged him by my injurious suspicions concerning that night when the
burglary was attempted at our home!_' You see that I tell you his very
words."
"Yes--tell me every thing, dear Isabella. And, thus, your father no
longer believes----"
"How can he believe that any one would attempt to rob him one day, and
pay nearly two thousand pounds for him another?" exclaimed Isabella.
"Oh, no--he is disabused upon that point. Would that he were
unprejudiced on others!"
"I understand you," said Markham, mournfully. "The Prince cannot consent
to renew his acquaintance with one who has been subjected to an infamous
punishment, and who aspires to the hand of his daughter."
"Alas! you have divined but too truly," returned Isabella, wiping away a
tear. "Nevertheless, may we not hope? Already is one great point gained:
my father believes that you may have been unfortunate, and not guilty.
Oh! that is a great obstacle removed! And in my mother, Richard, you
have a warm friend--although her prejudices of rank and family----"
"I can well comprehend the sentiments of her Highness," answered
Markham: "and it is all that which now makes me fear lest----"
"Fear not--but hope every thing," said Isabella, who, however, poor
girl! spoke in a more flattering manner than her secret thoughts would
have warranted, had she consulted them; but she saw her lover oppressed
and weighed down by the revelation of that secret which she had
considered it unkind to retain any longer; and she did all she could to
console him.
"Yes--I will hope, for both our sakes," said Richard.
"And now let me conclude my little narrative," continued Isabella. "My
father resolved to repay you the money you had so generously advanced,
the moment he was enabled; and as the Grand Duke of Castelcicala has
settled upon him an income of ten thousand a-year, besides an immediate
grant of forty thousand pounds,--boons which my father had only accepted
because no political condition was attached to them, and because they
are alleged to be an indemnification for his estates which have been
confiscated,--he only awaited the arrival of his first remittances to
acquit himself of that debt of honour. The day before yesterday he gave
this letter," added Isabella, taking a small sealed packet from her
reticule, "to one of our servants to convey to the post at Richmond. I
demanded it back again privately of the servant, with the view of
placing it myself in your hands, and--and taking the opportunity to
reveal to you a secret which I did not think it right to keep from you
any longer."
"I receive this packet, then, Isabella, with its contents," said
Markham, pressing her hand as he took it, "because your father is
happily in a position to repay me the trifle which I was enabled to
disburse for his benefit. But ten thousand times more valuable is this
sum to me, since its payment prompted you to grant me this interview."
"I had so much to tell you, Richard," answered the lady, with a deep
blush, "that I could not commit it all to paper. I therefore adopted
this plan--which perhaps is indiscreet----"
"Use not that epithet again, dear Isabella," interrupted Markham. "You
assure me that you love me: can you then regret that you have made me
happy by allowing me to see you--to talk to you--to embrace you once
again? And yet, in the midst of that happiness, the sad thought intrudes
upon me--'_When shall I see thee again?_'"
"Accident may throw us together soon--as it has done ere now," murmured
Isabella: "accident--or rather Providence--does so much for us poor
mortals."
"But, with your mother's prejudices in favour of rank and birth, and
with your father's high destinies, what hope can exist for so humble an
individual as myself? How can I dare aspire to the hand of a Princess of
a powerful independent state?"
"Did not Miss Eliza Sydney espouse the Grand Duke of Castelcicala? and
she--she also----"
"Oh! I remember," exclaimed Markham, seeing that Isabella hesitated,--"I
remember that _she_ also was unfortunate, as I was; and she also
endured a weary imprisonment of two years. Yes--I accept the omen--it is
an auspicious one!"
And Richard's handsome countenance was once more animated with a glow of
hope and joy.
Then, in an access of enthusiasm, he exclaimed:
"Oh! if ever this fond aspiration should be realised,--if ever the
humble and obscure Englishman were united to the high-born and brilliant
Italian Princess, how sweet--how sweet would it be for him to owe rank
and fortune to the woman whom he loved so fondly, and whom he would ever
love until the hand of Death should beckon him to the tomb! For myself,
I pant not for the honours and glories of this life; for hadst thou,
Isabella, been the daughter of the lowest peasants, I had loved thee all
the same--and had been far, far more contented, because the obstacles
which now oppose our happiness might then have ceased to exist!"
"Believe me, Richard," answered Isabella, in a tone of witching
tenderness, "believe me, that the happiest day of my life will be that
when I can prove to you the extent of that affection with which you have
inspired me;--and, again I repeat, that if ever I rejoiced in the
prospect of that fortune which, whether my father eventually succeed to
the ducal throne or not, he will be enabled to leave me,--and if ever I
felt proud of that high station which my family enjoys, or indulged in
the hope that my parents may one day attain to sovereign rank,--that
joy, that pride, that hope are all experienced on account of _you_! For,
like you, I care not for the grandeur and ostentation of palaces;--but
it will be a thrice happy day for me, when I can say to thee--'_Richard,
my fortune is all thine, and thou shalt share my rank!_' Because, in
Castelcicala, unlike the usages of your native land, he who espouses a
Princess becomes a Prince; and, when you shall be thus exalted, Richard,
who will dare to remind you of the misfortunes of your past life? That
is why I rejoice in my present rank and future prospects,--a joy that is
experienced solely on account of you!"
"Noble-hearted girl! what kindness--what attention--what devoted love on
my part can ever repay thee for these generous feelings--these endearing
proofs of the tenderest attachment!"
"Do you think that I should love you, Richard, as I do," returned
Isabella, "if I did not know the generosity of your soul--if I did not
appreciate all your virtues? I am well aware that, unfortunately, you
are not rich; and yet you sacrificed--nobly sacrificed your property to
release my parent from a gaol! Oh! how can I ever forget that conduct of
yours? You speak of repaying _me_ for my affection: how much do I not
owe to _you_?"
There was a pause in the conversation, during which the lovers walked up
and down along the edge of the leafless grove, each enjoying reflections
of a pleasurable nature. Isabella leant with charming confidence upon
the arm of that handsome and generous-hearted young man, in whose love
she gloried as if _he_ were the Prince and _she_ were the obscure
individual; and he felt his heart expand with ineffable bliss, as he
contemplated the brilliant prospects which that lovely girl--the
proudly-born Princess spread before the eyes of him--the obscure
individual.
More than an hour and a half had already passed, and Isabella at length
remembered that she must return home.
She intimated to her lover the necessity of separating; and, with fond
embraces and renewed vows, they parted.
Richard watched her receding form until she entered the grove of
evergreens surrounding her father's mansion: he then retraced his steps
towards Richmond.
And never was his heart so light as now!