"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!
CHAPTER LXXV.
THE CRISIS.
DURING the ensuing three months nothing occurred worthy of record, in connexion with any character that has figured upon the stage of our narrative.
The month of July arrived: and found Tomlinson, the banker, more deeply involved in difficulties than ever. The result was that the consultations between him and old Michael, the cashier, were of very frequent occurrence; and the latter grew more morose, more dirty, and more addicted to snuff in proportion as the affairs of the bank became the more desperate.
One morning, in the first week of July, Tomlinson arrived at the banking-house half an hour earlier than usual. He had taken home the cash-books with him on the preceding evening, for the purpose of ascertaining his true position; and he brought them back again in the morning before any of the clerks had arrived, with the exception of old Michael Martin, who was already waiting for him when he entered the parlour.
"Well, Michael, my old friend," said Tomlinson, on whose countenance the marks of care and anxiety were now too visibly traced, "I am afraid that the establishment cannot possibly exist many days longer. Mr. Greenwood will be here presently: and he is my only hope."
"Hope indeed!" growled Martin, plunging his fore-finger and thumb into his capacious snuff-box: "how he left you to shift for yourself after you gave that security to Count Alteroni."
"Which security fell due a few days ago; and a note from the count, received yesterday, tells me that he shall call upon me next Saturday at twelve o'clock for the amount."
"He is very welcome to call—and so are a good many others," said Michael; "but they will go back as empty as they came."
"Good God! can nothing be done?" exclaimed Tomlinson, with an expression of blank despair upon his countenance. "Say, Michael—is there any resource? do you know of any plan? can you suggest any method—"
"Not one. You must go to the Bankruptcy Court, and I must go to the workhouse;"—and the old man took a huge pinch of snuff.
"To the workhouse!" cried Tomlinson; "no—impossible! Do not say that, my good old friend."
"I do say it, though;"—and two tears rolled slowly down the cashier's cheeks.
This was the first time that Tomlinson had ever beheld any outward and visible sign of emotion on the part of his faithful clerk.
Tomlinson was not naturally a bad man—at all events, not a bad-hearted man: the cashier had served him with a fidelity rarely equalled; and that announcement of a workhouse-doom in connexion with the old man touched him to the soul.
"Michael," he said, taking the cashier's hand, "you do not mean to tell me that you are totally without resources for yourself? Your salary has been six hundred a year for a long time; and surely you must have saved something out of that—you, who have no family encumbrances of any kind, and whose expenses are so very limited."
The old man slowly opened one of the cash-books, pointed to the page at the head of which stood his own name, ran his finger down a column of payments made to himself, and stopping at the total, said, "That amount runs over nine years; and the amount