CHAPTER VIII.
FIRST LOVE.
WE are under very changeful influences in this world! The night on whichoccurred the interview with Aubrey that I have just narrated, I wasburning to leave Devereux Court. Within one little week from that timemy eagerness was wonderfully abated. The sagacious reader will readilydiscover the cause of this alteration. About eight miles from my uncle'shouse was a seaport town; there were many and varied rides leadingto it, and the town was a favourite place of visitation with all thefamily. Within a few hundred yards of the town was a small cottage,prettily situated in the midst of a garden, kept with singular neatness,and ornamented with several rare shrubs and exotics. I had more thanonce observed in the garden of this house a female in the very firstblush of youth, and beautiful enough to excite within me a strongcuriosity to learn the owner of the cottage. I inquired, and ascertainedthat its tenant was a Spaniard of high birth, and one who had acquireda melancholy celebrity by his conduct and misfortunes in the part hehad taken in a certain feeble but gallant insurrection in his nativecountry. He had only escaped with life and a very small sum of money,and now lived in the obscure seaport of------, a refugee and a recluse.He was a widower, and had only one child,--a daughter; and I wastherefore at no loss to discover who was the beautiful female I hadnoted and admired.
On the day after my conversation with Aubrey detailed in the lastchapter, in riding past this cottage alone, I perceived a crowdassembled round the entrance; I paused to inquire the cause.
"Why, your honour," quoth a senior of the village, "I believe thetipstaves be come to take the foreigner for not paying his rent; and hedoes not understand our English liberty like, and has drawn his sword,and swears, in his outlandish lingo, he will not be made prisoneralive."
I required no further inducement to make me enter the house. The crowdgave way when they saw me dismount, and suffered me to penetrate intothe first apartment. There I found the gallant old Spaniard with hissword drawn, keeping at bay a couple of sturdy-looking men, who appearedto be only prevented from using violence by respect for the personor the safety of a young woman, who clung to her father's knees andimplored him not to resist where resistance was so unavailing. Let mecut short this scene; I dismissed the bailiffs, and paid the debt. Ithen endeavoured to explain to the Spaniard, in French, for he scarcelyunderstood three words of our language, the cause of a rudeness towardshim which he persisted in calling a great insult and inhospitalitymanifested to a stranger and an exile. I succeeded at length inpacifying him. I remained for more than an hour at the cottage, andI left it with a heart beating at a certain persuasion that I hadestablished therein the claim of acquaintance and visitation.
Will the reader pardon me for having curtailed this scene? It isconnected with a subject on which I shall better endure to dwell asmy narrative proceeds. From that time I paid frequent visits to thecottage; the Spaniard soon grew intimate with me, and I thought thedaughter began to blush when I entered, and to sigh when I departed.
One evening I was conversing with Don Diego D'Alvarez (such was theSpaniard's name), as he sat without the threshold, inhaling the gentleair, that stole freshness from the rippling sea that spread before us,and fragrance from the earth, over which the summer now reigned in itsmost mellow glory. Isora (the daughter) sat at a little distance.
"How comes it," said Don Diego, "that you have never met our friendSenor Bar--Bar--these English names are always escaping my memory. Howis he called, Isora?"
"Mr.--Mr. Barnard," said Isora (who, brought early to England, spoke itslanguage like a native), but with evident confusion, and looking down asshe spoke--"Mr. Barnard, I believe, you mean."
"Right, my love," rejoined the Spaniard, who was smoking a long pipewith great gravity, and did not notice his daughter's embarrassment,--"afine youth, but somewhat shy and over-modest in manner."
"Youth!" thought I, and I darted a piercing look towards Isora. "Howcomes it, indeed," I said aloud, "that I have not met him? Is he afriend of long standing?"
"Nay, not very,--perhaps of some six weeks earlier date than you, SenorDon Devereux. I pressed him, when he called this morning, to tarry yourcoming: but, poor youth, he is diffident, and not yet accustomed tomix freely with strangers, especially those of rank; our own presence alittle overawes him;" and from Don Diego's gray mustachios issued a yetfuller cloud than was ordinarily wont to emerge thence.
My eyes were still fixed on Isora; she looked up, met them, blusheddeeply, rose, and disappeared within the house. I was alreadysusceptible of jealousy. My lip trembled as I resumed: "And will DonDiego pardon me for inquiring how commenced his knowledge of thisingenuous youth?"
The question was a little beyond the pale of good breeding; perhaps theSpaniard, who was tolerably punctilious in such matters, thought so, forhe did not reply. I was sensible of my error, and apologizing for it,insinuated, nevertheless, the question in a more respectful andcovert shape. Still Don Diego, inhaling the fragrant weed with renewedvehemence, only--like Pion's tomb, recorded by Pausanias--replied tothe request of his petitioner _by smoke_. I did not venture to renew myinterrogatories, and there was a long silence. My eyes fixed their gazeon the door by which Isora had disappeared. In vain; she returned not;and as the chill of the increasing evening began now to make itself feltby the frame of one accustomed to warmer skies, the Spaniard soon roseto re-enter his house, and I took my farewell for the night.
There were many ways (as I before said) by which I could return home,all nearly equal in picturesque beauty; for the county in which myuncle's estates were placed was one where stream roved and woodlandflourished even to the very strand or cliff of the sea. The shortestroute, though one the least frequented by any except foot-passengers,was along the coast, and it was by this path that I rode slowlyhomeward. On winding a curve in the road about one mile from DevereuxCourt, the old building broke slowly, tower by tower, upon me. I havenever yet described the house, and perhaps it will not be uninterestingto the reader if I do so now.
It had anciently belonged to Ralph de Bigod. From his possession ithad passed into that of the then noblest branch the stem of Devereux,whence, without break or flaw in the direct line of heritage, it hadultimately descended to the present owner. It was a pile of vast extent,built around three quadrangular courts, the farthest of which spread tothe very verge of the gray, tall cliffs that overhung the sea; in thiscourt was a rude tower, which, according to tradition, had contained theapartments ordinarily inhabited by our ill-fated namesake and distantkinsman, Robert Devereux, the favourite and the victim of Elizabeth,whenever he had honoured the mansion with a visit. There was nothing,it is true, in the old tower calculated to flatter the tradition, for itcontained only two habitable rooms, communicating with each other,and by no means remarkable for size or splendour; and every one of ourhousehold, save myself, was wont to discredit the idle rumour whichwould assign to so distinguished a guest so unseemly a lodgment. But, asI looked from the narrow lattices of the chambers, over the wide expanseof ocean and of land which they commanded; as I noted, too, that thetower was utterly separated from the rest of the house, and that theconvenience of its site enabled one on quitting it, to escape at once,and privately, either to the solitary beach, or to the glades and grovesof the wide park which stretched behind,--I could not help indulgingthe belief that the unceremonious and not unromantic noble had himselfselected his place of retirement, and that, in so doing, the gallant ofa stately court was not perhaps undesirous of securing at well-chosenmoments a brief relaxation from the heavy honours of country homage; orthat the patron and poetic admirer of the dreaming Spenser might havepreferred, to all more gorgeous accommodation, the quiet and unseenegress to that sea and shore, which, if we may believe the accomplishedRoman,* are so fertile in the powers of inspiration.
* "O mare, O litus, verum secretumque Movoetov, quam multa dictatis,quam multa invenitis!"--PLINIUS.
"O sea, O shore, true and secret sanctuary of the Muses, how many thingsye dictate, how many thi
ngs ye discover!"
However this be, I had cheated myself into the belief that my conjecturewas true, and I had petitioned my uncle, when, on leaving school, heassigned to each of us our several apartments, to grant me the exclusiveright to this dilapidated tower. I gained my boon easily enough; and--sostrangely is our future fate compounded from past trifles--I verilybelieve that the strong desire which thenceforth seized me to visitcourts and mix with statesmen--which afterwards hurried me intointrigue, war, the plots of London, the dissipations of Paris, theperilous schemes of Petersburg, nay, the very hardships of a Cossacktent--was first formed by the imaginary honour of inhabiting the samechamber as the glittering but ill-fated courtier of my own name. Thusyouth imitates where it should avoid; and thus that which should havebeen to me a warning became an example.
In the oaken floor to the outer chamber of this tower was situated atrap-door, the entrance into a lower room or rather cell, fitted up asa bath; and here a wooden door opened into a long subterranean passagethat led out into a cavern by the sea-shore. This cave, partly bynature, partly by art, was hollowed into a beautiful Gothic form; andhere, on moonlight evenings, when the sea crept gently over the yellowand smooth sands and the summer tempered the air from too keen afreshness, my uncle had often in his younger days, ere gout and rheumhad grown familiar images, assembled his guests. It was a place whichthe echoes peculiarly adapted for music; and the scene was certainly notcalculated to diminish the effect of "sweet sounds." Even now, though myuncle rarely joined us, we were often wont to hold our evening revelsin this spot; and the high cliffs, circling either side in the form of abay, tolerably well concealed our meetings from the gaze of the vulgar.It is true (for these cliffs were perforated with numerous excavations)that some roving peasant, mariner, or perchance smuggler, would now andthen, at low water, intrude upon us. But our London Nereids andcourtly Tritons were always well pleased with the interest of what theygraciously termed "an adventure;" and our assemblies were too numerousto think an unbroken secrecy indispensable. Hence, therefore, the cavernwas almost considered a part of the house itself; and though there wasan iron door at the entrance which it gave to the passage leading tomy apartments, yet so great was our confidence in our neighbours orourselves that it was rarely secured, save as a defence against the hightides of winter.
The stars were shining quietly over the old gray castle (for castle itreally was), as I now came within view of it. To the left, and in therear of the house, the trees of the park, grouped by distance, seemedblent into one thick mass of wood; to the right, as I now (descendingthe cliff by a gradual path) entered on the level sands, and at aboutthe distance of a league from the main shore, a small islet, notoriousas the resort and shelter of contraband adventurers, scarcely relievedthe wide and glassy azure of the waves. The tide was out; and passingthrough one of the arches worn in the bay, I came somewhat suddenly bythe cavern. Seated there on a crag of stone I found Aubrey.
My acquaintance with Isora and her father had so immediately succeededthe friendly meeting with Aubrey which I last recorded, and had soutterly engrossed my time and thoughts, that I had not taken of thatinterview all the brotherly advantage which I might have done. My heartnow smote me for my involuntary negligence. I dismounted, and fasteningmy horse to one of a long line of posts that ran into the sea,approached Aubrey and accosted him.
"Alone, Aubrey? and at an hour when my uncle always makes the old wallsring with revel? Hark! can you not hear the music even now? It comesfrom the ball-room, I think, does it not?"
"Yes," said Aubrey, briefly, and looking down upon a devotional book,which (as was his wont) he had made his companion.
"And we are the only truants!--Well, Gerald will supply our places witha lighter step, and, perhaps, a merrier heart."
Aubrey sighed. I bent over him affectionately (I loved that boy withsomething of a father's as well as a brother's love), and as I did bendover him, I saw that his eyelids were red with weeping.
"My brother--my own dear brother," said I, "what grieves you?--are wenot friends, and more than friends?--what can grieve you that grievesnot me?"
Suddenly raising his head, Aubrey gazed at me with a long, searchingintentness of eye; his lips moved, but he did not answer.
"Speak to me, Aubrey," said I, passing my arm over his shoulder; "hasany one, anything, hurt you? See, now, if I cannot remedy the evil."
"Morton," said Aubrey, speaking very slowly, "do you believe that Heavenpre-orders as well as foresees our destiny?"
"It is the schoolman's question," said I, smiling; "but I know how theseidle subtleties vex the mind; and you, my brother, are ever too occupiedwith considerations of the future. If Heaven does pre-order our destiny,we know that Heaven is merciful, and we should be fearless, as we armourselves in that knowledge."
"Morton Devereux," said Aubrey, again repeating my name, and with anevident inward effort that left his lip colourless, and yet lit his darkdilating eye with a strange and unwonted fire,--"Morton Devereux, I feelthat I am predestined to the power of the Evil One!"
I drew back, inexpressibly shocked. "Good Heavens!" I exclaimed, "whatcan induce you to cherish so terrible a phantasy? what can induce you towrong so fearfully the goodness and mercy of our Creator?"
Aubrey shrank from my arm, which had still been round him, and coveredhis face with his hands. I took up the book he had been reading; it wasa Latin treatise on predestination, and seemed fraught with the mostgloomy and bewildering subtleties. I sat down beside him, and pointedout the various incoherencies and contradictions of the work, and thedoctrine it espoused: so long and so earnestly did I speak that atlength Aubrey looked up, seemingly cheered and relieved.
"I wish," said he, timidly, "I wish that you loved me, and that youloved _me only_: but you love pleasure, and power, and show, and wit,and revelry; and you know not what it is to feel for me as I feel attimes for you,--nay, perhaps you really dislike or despise me."
Aubrey's voice grew bitter in its tone as he concluded these words, andI was instantly impressed with the belief that some one had insinuateddistrust of my affection for him.
"Why should you think thus?" I said; "has any cause occurred of lateto make you deem my affection for you weaker than it was? Has any onehinted a surmise that I do not repay your brotherly regard?"
Aubrey did not answer.
"Has Gerald," I continued, "jealous of our mutual attachment, utteredaught tending to diminish it? Yes, I see that he has."
Aubrey remained motionless, sullenly gazing downward and still silent.
"Speak," said I, "in justice to both of us,--speak! You know, Aubrey,how I _have_ loved and love you: put your arms round me, and say thatthing on earth which you wish me to do, and it shall be done!"
Aubrey looked up; he met my eyes, and he threw himself upon my neck, andburst into a violent paroxysm of tears.
I was greatly affected. "I see my fault," said I, soothing him; "youare angry, and with justice, that I have neglected you of late; and,perhaps, while I ask your confidence, you suspect that there is somesubject on which I should have granted you mine. You are right, and, ata fitter moment, I will. Now let us return homeward: our uncle is nevermerry when we are absent; and when my mother misses your dark locks andfair cheek, I fancy that she sees little beauty in the ball. And yet,Aubrey," I added, as he now rose from my embrace and dried his tears,"I will own to you that I love this scene better than any, however gay,within;" and I turned to the sea, starlit as it was, and murmuring witha silver voice, and I became suddenly silent.
There was a long pause. I believe we both felt the influence of thescene around us, softening and tranquillizing our hearts; for, atlength, Aubrey put his hand in mine, and said, "You were always moregenerous and kind than I, Morton, though there are times when you seemdifferent from what you are; and I know you have already forgiven me."
I drew him affectionately towards me, and we went home. But although Imeant from that night to devote myself more to Aubrey than I had doneof lat
e, my hourly increasing love for Isora interfered greatly with myresolution. In order, however, to excuse any future neglect, I, thevery next morning, bestowed upon him my confidence. Aubrey did not muchencourage my passion: he represented to me Isora's situation, my ownyouth, my own worldly ambition; and, more than all (reminding me of myuncle's aversion even to the most prosperous and well-suited marriage),he insisted upon the certainty that Sir William would never yieldconsent to the lawful consummation of so unequal a love. I was not toowell pleased with this reception of my tale, and I did not much troublemy adviser with any further communication and confidence on the subject.Day after day I renewed my visits to the Spaniard's cottage; and yettime passed on, and I had not told Isora a syllable of my love. I wasinexpressibly jealous of this Barnard, whom her father often eulogized,and whom I never met. There appeared to be some mystery in hisacquaintance with Don Diego, which that personage carefully concealed;and once, when I was expressing my surprise to have so often missedseeing his friend, the Spaniard shook his head gravely, and said that hehad now learnt the real reason for it: there were circumstances of statewhich made men fearful of new acquaintances even in their own country.He drew back, as if he had said too much, and left me to conjecturethat Barnard was connected with him in some intrigue, more delightful initself than agreeable to the government. This belief was strengthened bymy noting that Alvarez was frequently absent from home, and this tooin the evening, when he was generally wont to shun the bleakness of theEnglish air,--an atmosphere, by the by, which I once heard a Frenchmanwittily compare to Augustus placed between Horace and Virgil; namely, inthe _bon mot_ of the emperor himself, _between sighs and tears_.
But Isora herself never heard the name of this Barnard mentioned withouta visible confusion, which galled me to the heart; and at length, unableto endure any longer my suspense upon the subject, I resolved to seekfrom her own lips its termination. I long tarried my opportunity; itwas one evening that coming rather unexpectedly to the cottage, Iwas informed by the single servant that Don Diego had gone to theneighbouring town, but that Isora was in the garden. Small as it was,this garden had been cultivated with some care, and was not devoidof variety. A high and very thick fence of living box-wood, closelyinterlaced with the honeysuckle and the common rose, screened a fewplots of rarer flowers, a small circular fountain, and a rustic arbour,both from the sea breezes and the eyes of any passer-by, to which theopen and unsheltered portion of the garden was exposed. When I passedthrough the opening cut in the fence, I was somewhat surprised at notimmediately seeing Isora. Perhaps she was in the arbour. I approachedthe arbour trembling. What was my astonishment and my terror when Ibeheld her stretched lifeless on the ground!
I uttered a loud cry, and sprang forward. I raised her from the earth,and supported her in my arms; her complexion--through whose pureand transparent white the wandering blood was wont so gently, yetso glowingly, to blush, undulating while it blushed, as youngestrose-leaves which the air just stirs into trembling--was blanched intothe hues of death. My kisses tinged it with a momentary colour not itsown; and yet as I pressed her to my heart, methought hers, which seemedstill before, began as if by an involuntary sympathy, palpably andsuddenly to throb against my own. My alarm melted away as I held herthus,--nay, I would not, if I could, have recalled her _yet_ to life; Iwas forgetful, I was unheeding, I was unconscious of all things else,--afew broken and passionate words escaped my lips, but even they ceasedwhen I felt her breath just stirring and mingling with my own. It seemedto me as if all living kind but ourselves had, by a spell, departedfrom the earth, and we were left alone with the breathless and inaudibleNature from which spring the love and the life of all things.
Isora slowly recovered; her eyes in opening dwelt upon mine; her bloodrushed at once to her cheek, and as suddenly left it hueless as before.She rose from my embrace, but I still extended my arms towards her;and words over which I had no control, and of which now I have noremembrance, rushed from my lips. Still pale, and leaning against theside of the arbour, Isora heard me, as--confused, incoherent, impetuous,but still intelligible to her--my released heart poured itself forth.And when I had ceased, she turned her face towards me, and my bloodseemed at once frozen in its channel. Anguish, deep ineffable anguish,was depicted upon every feature; and when she strove at last to speak,her lips quivered so violently that, after a vain effort, she ceasedabruptly. I again approached; I seized her hand, which I covered with mykisses.
"Will you not answer me, Isora?" said I, trembling. "_Be_ silent, then;but give me one look, one glance of hope, of pardon, from those deareyes, and I ask no more."
Isora's whole frame seemed sinking beneath her emotions; she raised herhead, and looked hurriedly and fearfully round; my eye followedhers, and I then saw upon the damp ground the recent print of a man'sfootstep, not my own: and close to the spot where I had found Isora laya man's glove. A pang shot through me; I felt my eyes flash fire, and mybrow darken, as I turned to Isora and said, "I see it; I see all: I havea rival, who has but just left you; you love me not; your affectionsare for him!" Isora sobbed violently, but made no reply. "You love him,"said I, but in a milder and more mournful tone, "you love him; it isenough; I will persecute you no more; and yet--" I paused a moment,for the remembrance of many a sign, which my heart had interpretedflatteringly, flashed upon me, and my voice faltered. "Well, I have noright to murmur--only, Isora--only tell me with your lips that you loveanother, and I will depart in peace."
Very slowly Isora turned her eyes to me, and even through her tears theydwelt upon me with a tender and a soft reproach.
"You love another?" said I; and from her lips, which scarcely parted,came a single word which thrilled to my heart like fire,--"No!"
"No!" I repeated, "no? say that again, and again; yet who then is thisthat has dared so to agitate and overpower you? Who is he whom you havemet, and whom, even now while I speak, you tremble to hear me recurto? Answer me one word: is it this mysterious stranger whom your fatherhonours with his friendship? is it Barnard?"
Alarm and fear again wholly engrossed the expression of Isora'scountenance.
"Barnard!" she said; "yes--yes--it is Barnard!"
"Who is he?" I cried vehemently; "who or what is he; and of what natureis his influence upon you? Confide in me," and I poured forth a longtide of inquiry and solicitation.
By the time I had ended, Isora seemed to have recovered herself. Withher softness was mingled something of spirit and self-control, which wasrare alike in her country and her sex.
"Listen to me!" said she, and her voice, which faltered a little atfirst, grew calm and firm as she proceeded. "You profess to love me:I am not worthy your love; and if, Count Devereux, I do not reject nordisclaim it--for I am a woman, and a weak and fond one--I will not atleast wrong you by encouraging hopes which I may not and I dare notfulfil. I cannot,--" here she spoke with a fearful distinctness,--"Icannot, I can never be yours; and when you ask me to be so, you know notwhat you ask nor what perils you incur. Enough; I am grateful toyou. The poor exiled girl is grateful for your esteem--and--and youraffection. She will never forget them,--never! But be this our lastmeeting--our very last--God bless you, Morton!" and, as she read myheart, pierced and agonized as it was, in my countenance, Isorabent over me, for I knelt beside her, and I felt her tears upon mycheek,--"God bless you--and farewell!"
"You insult, you wound me," said I, bitterly, "by this cold and tauntingkindness; tell me, tell me only, who it is that you love better thanme."
Isora had turned to leave me, for I was too proud to detain her; butwhen I said this, she came back, after a moment's pause, and laid herhand upon my arm.
"If it make you happy to know _my_ unhappiness," she said, and the toneof her voice made me look full in her face, which was one deep blush,"know that I am not insensible--"
I heard no more: my lips pressed themselves involuntarily to hers,--along, long kiss,--burning, intense, concentrating emotion, heart, soul,all the rays of life's light into a single focus; an
d she tore herselfaway from me,--and I was alone.