"I don't thay Ma more than you do, Thmilackth," interrupted the youthful baronet.
"Yes, you do, Cherry," returned Dapper: "I have heard you a hundred times. But let me tell the story out. Well—Cherry's mamma exclaims, 'Lor, boy, what have you got there?'—'A Poluphloithboio, ma, that my fwiend Dawthon gave me.'—'A what, Cherry!' shrieks the old lady.—'A Poluphloithboio, ma,' answers Cherry, bringing the cage close up to his ma.—'A Poluphloisboio!' ejaculates mamma: 'why, you stupid boy, it is nothing more or less than a hideous old owl!'—and so it was: and there the monster sate upon the perch, blinking away at a furious rate and looking as stupid as—as Cherry himself—smite him!"
Isabella had returned to the apartment and resumed her seat a few moments before this story was finished; and Captain Dapper appeared very much annoyed and surprised that she did not condescend to laugh at the recital.
"By the by," he observed, after a moment's pause, "I have something to tell you all—strike me!"
"Oh! yeth—about Wichard Markham," said Sir Cherry.
The count made a movement of impatience; the countess looked up from her embroidery; and a deep blush mantled upon the cheek, and a sudden tremor passed through the frame, of the lovely Isabella.
"Yes—about Richard Markham," continued the hussar officer. "I and Cherry were riding in the neighbourhood of his house the other day—"
"And we thaw the two ath tweeth."
"Yes—and something else too;—for we saw one of the sweetest, prettiest, most interesting young ladies—the signora herself excepted—walking in the garden—"
"Well, well," said the count impatiently; "perhaps Mr. Markham is married, and you saw his wife—that is all."
"No," continued Dapper; "for she was close by the railings that skirt the side of the road running behind his house; and we saw an old butler-looking kind of a fellow go up to her, and I heard him call her 'Miss.'"
"Mr. Markham and his affairs are not of the slightest interest to us, Captain Dapper," said the count: "we do not even wish to hear his name mentioned. Isabella, my love, let us have some music."
But no reply was given to the request of the count, who was seated in such a way that he could not see his daughter's place at the work-table.
Isabella had again left the room.
Of what nature were the emotions which agitated the bosom of that beauteous—that amiable creature?
Wherefore had she first sought her own chamber to conceal tears of joy?
And why had she now retired once more, to hide the out-pourings of an intense anguish?
CHAPTER LXXIV.
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