"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,