The funeral of Arabella was over; and her grave was made, amongst the
mighty of the land, in the Abbey of Westminster. Two months had
passed; and Ida Mara, in deep mourning, sat in the hall of Sir Harry
West's house, occupied in the usual task of embroidery. The good
Knight had left her about half an hour before.--Mr. Crompton, who, as
the reader may remember, had aided in the escape from Highgate, and
was a frequent visitor at the house, having desired to speak with him
alone.
Ida was still busily engaged upon her task, with her mind occupied
with sad and serious thoughts--though the deep grief which she felt
for the loss of her, to whom she had been so sincerely attached,
had naturally subsided, in some degree, under the balmy power of
time--when Sir Harry returned, with a grave and somewhat agitated air.
"Put down your needle, my dear Ida," said the old Knight, "and listen
to me. I have something to tell you of importance."
"What is the matter, dear Sir Harry?" she exclaimed, gazing at him
eagerly. "You are moved. Something has grieved you."
"No, indeed, Ida," replied Sir Harry West, "it is not exactly grief,
though, perhaps, I am going to lose you; but if it is for your
happiness, my dear child, I shall be content."
"To lose me?" cried Ida Mara, turning deadly pale. "Are you going to
send me away from you?"
"No, not to send you," replied Sir Harry; "but, perhaps, you may think
fit to go, when you hear what I have to say. You know Mr. Crompton; he
is a gentleman of good family, of honour, and high principles--kind
and generous in heart, and, though not very wealthy, has sufficient
for happiness. Often having seen you with the Lady Arabella, and
deeply touched with those high qualities which you have displayed
towards her, and, indeed, towards every one, he asks your hand."
"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Ida Mara, with all her Italian eagerness;
"tell him, I beseech you, Sir Harry, I am unworthy of the honour he
intends me. Explain to him that I spring from another class. Tell my
origin--tell him how you first found me, a poor Italian girl,
homeless, friendless, destitute."
"I have told him all," replied Sir Harry West. "I judged it right to
do so; and he thinks as I do, Ida, that such virtues, graces, and
goodness, as you possess, form a better inheritance than stored-up
gold, or even a noble name. The only question is, Ida, do you--can you
love him?"
Ida paused; and Sir Harry felt her hand, which he had taken, tremble
violently.
"No," she said, at length; "no, I cannot."
"But why," asked the old Knight. "He is handsome in person, gentle and
kind in demeanour."
She shook her head sorrowfully. "I cannot love him," she answered.
"You will think me wrong, I fear, Sir Harry, to wish rather to remain
dependent on your bounty, than change it for any other fate on earth."
"I do not think you wrong, my dear child," replied Sir Harry; "all I
have is yours; for to you I owe whatever remains to me of life. But
you must give me a decided answer; for I must deal plainly with this
gentleman."
"My answer is plain, my benefactor," replied Ida. "I cannot love
him--I cannot wed him."
"Good faith, then, dear Ida," said the old Knight, with a smile, "if
you will not wed any one else, I shall be fain to marry you myself."
"What is that you said!" exclaimed Ida, with the light coming into her
eyes. "What is that you said?"
"I was but jesting, Ida," answered the Knight; and immediately the
blood rushed up into her cheek, and spread rosy over her forehead. "I
was but jesting," repeated Sir Harry West; but Ida was very much
agitated, and thinking he had pained her, he added, "I am well aware,
my dear child, that however great may be the comfort and happiness to
me, to have you with me during my latter years--however deeply and
tenderly I may love you, I must not, and ought not, to desire that you
should sacrifice all for me."
"I would sacrifice all, everything for you," cried Ida Mara, eagerly.
"I never, never wish to quit you."
"Hear me, Ida, hear me," said Sir Harry West; "your sense of duty and
gratitude I know is unbounded, but the time may come when you will
find some one to love----"
"No," answered Ida; "no, I shall never love any one but you. If you
send me from you, I shall die;" and sinking down into a chair, with a
pale cheek and a quivering lip, she covered her eyes with her hand.
"What is the matter, dear Ida?" said the Knight, tenderly. "You seem
ill; what is it that you feel?"
"I do not know--I do not know," she answered. "Oh, leave me, Sir
Harry, and tell this gentleman that I grieve I cannot return his
affection."
"He is gone, Ida," answered the Knight; "but I have promised to write
to him. If I merely say that you cannot return his affection, he will
ask to be permitted to pursue his suit."
"Oh no, no!" cried Ida, clasping her hands, "he must not,--I
cannot,--tell him--tell him----"
"Tell him what?" asked Sir Harry West, not a little agitated himself.
"Shall I tell him that you love another?" he added, in a low and
serious voice.
The crimson again rushed into her face, and she paused for a moment,
casting down her eyes. Then, raising them suddenly, she exclaimed, in
Italian, with all the wild vehemence which, derived from her nation
and the climate of her birth, had characterized her demeanour, before
she had passed through so many scenes of sad and wearing anxiety.
"Yes, yes!--Tell him I love another!"
"Indeed?" cried Sir Harry West, with a cheek somewhat pale:--for,
strange to say, he could more readily have borne to hear her say that
she was ready to give her hand with indifference, than to listen to an
acknowledgment that she loved. "Ida must tell me whom it is she loves;
and I promise her, that nothing on earth shall be wanting on my part
to promote her happiness. Tell me, Ida, tell me," he continued, seeing
that she stood silent; "tell me, I adjure you. If you have any
consideration, regard, affection for me, keep me not in suspense, but
tell me who is this. Nay, Ida, I beseech, I entreat."
Ida gazed at him for a moment, with her trembling lips apart, then
cast herself into his arms, and with streaming eyes hid her glowing
face upon his shoulder.
"Who?" said the Knight.
She answered in a whisper. It was only one word; but Sir Harry West's
eyes brightened.
"Indeed, indeed, my Ida!" he cried, still holding her to his heart;
"and you willingly sacrifice all the bright and sunny part of life, to
be an old man's darling?"
"I would rather," answered the girl, looking up, "I would rather be an
old man's darling, than a young man's neglected wife. All I ask is, to
remain with you for ever; never to quit you; to see you always, hear
you always, and to give up my life to him who first protected me,
first was kind to me, whom I have ever loved, and ever shall love,
better than any one on earth. Call me what you will--your child, your
servant, anything!--But send me not from you."
"No, no, Ida," answered Sir Harry West, with a smile lighting up his
fine, though somewhat worn countenance; "you have chosen your part;
you have made up your mind. If you stay at all, it is as my wife."
"Oh, with what joy!" she cried. "But I forget.--Am I fit to be your
wife? What will your relations, your high friends, say, at your
marrying the poor Italian girl?"
"Let them say what they will," replied Sir Harry. "There will be gibes
and scoffs enow at the old man marrying a girl young enough to be his
daughter--ay, his granddaughter. They will say he is in his dotage,
Ida, and predict all sorts of evil results."
"They will speak false," she cried, vehemently: "and if they did but
know all that I owe to you----"
"And all I owe to you, Ida," rejoined the knight, "they might
comprehend the feelings that actuate us both. I look to you, dear one,
whatever be their prophecies, to give them the lie."
"I will do it," replied Ida Mara; and she kept her word, leaving on
record, that, for once, the marriage of a man of more than sixty with
a girl of two-and-twenty produced happiness to both.
THE END.
Savill & Edwards, Printers, 4, Chandos street, Covent garden.