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Devereux, Book III.

E >> Edward Bulwer Lytton >> Devereux, Book III.




I drew near and laid my hand upon Isora's shoulder, and kissed her
cheek. She did not turn round, but strove, by bending over my hand and
pressing it to her lips, to conceal that she had been weeping. I
thought it kinder to favour the artifice than to complain of it. I
remained silent for some moments, and I then gave vent to the sanguine
expectations for the future which my new treasure entitled me to form.
I had already narrated to her the adventure of the day before: I now
repeated the purport of my last interview with Oswald; and, growing more
and more elated as I proceeded, I dwelt at last upon the description of
my inheritance, as glowingly as if I had already recovered it. I
painted to her imagination its rich woods and its glassy lake, and the
fitful and wandering brook that, through brake and shade, went bounding
on its wild way; I told her of my early roamings, and dilated with a
boy's rapture upon my favourite haunts. I brought visibly before her
glistening and eager eyes the thick copse where hour after hour, in
vague verses and still vaguer dreams, I had so often whiled away the
day; the old tree which I had climbed to watch the birds in their glad
mirth, or to listen unseen to the melancholy sound of the forest deer;
the antique gallery and the vast hall which, by the dim twilights, I had
paced with a religious awe, and looked upon the pictured forms of my
bold fathers, and mused high and ardently upon my destiny to be; the old
gray tower which I had consecrated to myself, and the unwitnessed path
which led to the yellow beach, and the wide gladness of the solitary
sea; the little arbour which my earliest ambition had reared, that
looked out upon the joyous flowers and the merry fountain, and, through
the ivy and the jessamine, wooed the voice of the bird, and the murmur
of the summer bee; and, when I had exhausted my description, I turned to
Isora, and said in a lower tone, "And I shall visit these once more, and
with you!"

Isora sighed faintly, and it was not till I had pressed her to speak
that she said:--

"I wish I could deceive myself, Morton, but I cannot--I cannot root from
my heart an impression that I shall never again quit this dull city with
its gloomy walls and its heavy air. A voice within me seems to say,
'Behold from this very window the boundaries of your living
wanderings!'"

Isora's words froze all my previous exaltation. "It is in vain," said
I, after chiding her for her despondency, "it is in vain to tell me that
you have for this gloomy notion no other reason than that of a vague
presentiment. It is time now that I should press you to a greater
confidence upon all points consistent with your oath to our mutual enemy
than you have hitherto given me. Speak, dearest, have you not some yet
unrevealed causes for alarm?"

It was but for a moment that Isora hesitated before she answered with
that quick tone which indicates that we force words against the will.

"Yes, Morton, I /will/ tell you now, though I would not before the event
of this day. On the last day that I saw that fearful man, he said, 'I
warn you, Isora d'Alvarez, that my love is far fiercer than hatred; I
warn you that your bridals with Morton Devereux shall be stained with
blood. Become his wife, and you perish! Yea, though I suffer hell's
tortures forever and forever from that hour, my own hand shall strike
you to the heart!' Morton, these words have thrilled through me again
and again, as if again they were breathed in my very ear; and I have
often started at night and thought the very knife glittered at my
breast. So long as our wedding was concealed, and concealed so closely,
I was enabled to quiet my fears till they scarcely seemed to exist. But
when our nuptials were to be made public, when I knew that they were to
reach the ears of that fierce and unaccountable being, I thought I heard
my doom pronounced. This, mine own love, must excuse your Isora, if she
seemed ungrateful for your generous eagerness to announce our union.
And perhaps she would not have acceded to it so easily as she has done
were it not that, in the first place, she felt it was beneath your wife
to suffer any terror so purely selfish to make her shrink from the proud
happiness of being yours in the light of day; and if she had not felt
[here Isora hid her blushing face in my bosom] that she was fated to
give birth to another, and that the announcement of our wedded love had
become necessary to your honour as to mine!"

Though I was in reality awed even to terror by learning from Isora's lip
so just a cause for her forebodings,--though I shuddered with a horror
surpassing even my wrath, when I heard a threat so breathing of deadly
and determined passions,--yet I concealed my emotions, and only thought
of cheering and comforting Isora. I represented to her how guarded and
vigilant should ever henceforth be the protection of her husband; that
nothing should again separate him from her side; that the extreme malice
and fierce persecution of this man were sufficient even to absolve her
conscience from the oath of concealment she had taken; that I would
procure from the sacred head of our Church her own absolution from that
vow; that the moment concealment was over, I could take steps to prevent
the execution of my rival's threats; that, however near to me he might
be in blood, no consequences arising from a dispute between us could be
so dreadful as the least evil to Isora; and moreover, to appease her
fears, that I would solemnly promise he should never sustain personal
assault or harm from my hand; in short, I said all that my anxiety could
dictate, and at last I succeeded in quieting her fears, and she smiled
as brightly as the first time I had seen her in the little cottage of
her father. She seemed, however, averse to an absolution from her oath,
for she was especially scrupulous as to the sanctity of those religious
obligations; but I secretly resolved that her safety absolutely required
it, and that at all events I would procure absolution from my own
promise to her.

At last Isora, turning from that topic, so darkly interesting, pointed
to the heavens, which, with their thousand eyes of light, looked down
upon us. "Tell me, love," said she, playfully, as her arm embraced me
yet more closely, "if, among yonder stars we could choose a home, which
should we select?"

I pointed to one which lay to the left of the moon, and which, though
not larger, seemed to burn with an intenser lustre than the rest. Since
that night it has ever been to me a fountain of deep and passionate
thought, a well wherein fears and hopes are buried, a mirror in which,
in stormy times, I have fancied to read my destiny, and to find some
mysterious omen of my intended deeds, a haven which I believe others
have reached before me, and a home immortal and unchanging, where, when
my wearied and fettered soul is escaped, as a bird, it shall flee away,
and have its rest at last.

"What think you of my choice?" said I. Isora looked upward, but did not
answer; and as I gazed upon her (while the pale light of heaven streamed
quietly upon her face) with her dark eyes, where the tear yet lingered,
though rather to soften than to dim; with her noble, yet tender
features, over which hung a melancholy calm; with her lips apart, and
her rich locks wreathing over her marble brow, and contrasted by a
single white rose (that rose I have now--I would not lose one withered
leaf of it for a kingdom!),--her beauty never seemed to me of so rare an
order, nor did my soul ever yearn towards her with so deep a love.

It was past midnight. All was hushed in our bridal chamber. The single
lamp, which hung above, burned still and clear; and through the
half-closed curtains of the window, the moonlight looked in upon our
couch, quiet and pure and holy, as if it were charged with blessings.

"Hush!" said Isora, gently; "do you not hear a noise below?"

"Not a breath," said I; "I hear not a breath, save yours."

"It was my fancy, then!" said Isora, "and it has ceased now;" and she
clung closer to my breast and fell asleep. I looked on her peaceful and
childish countenance, with that concentrated and full delight with which
we clasp all that the universe holds dear to us, and feel as if the
universe held nought beside,--and thus sleep also crept upon me.

I awoke suddenly; I felt Isora trembling palpably by my side. Before I
could speak to her, I saw standing at a little distance from the bed, a
man wrapped in a long dark cloak and masked; but his eyes shone through
the mask, and they glared full upon me. He stood with his arms folded,
and perfectly motionless; but at the other end of the room, before the
escritoire in which I had locked the important packet, stood another
man, also masked, and wrapped in a disguising cloak of similar hue and
fashion. This man, as if alarmed, turned suddenly, and I perceived then
that the escritoire was already opened, and that the packet was in his
hand. I tore myself from Isora's clasp--I stretched my hand to the
table by my bedside, upon which I had left my sword,--it was gone! No
matter! I was young, strong, fierce, and the stake at hazard was great.
I sprang from the bed, I precipitated myself upon the man who held the
packet. With one hand I grasped at the important document, with the
other I strove to tear the mask from the robber's face. He endeavoured
rather to shake me off than to attack me; and it was not till I had
nearly succeeded in unmasking him that he drew forth a short poniard,
and stabbed me in the side. The blow, which seemed purposely aimed to
save a mortal part, staggered me, but only for an instant. I renewed my
grip at the packet--I tore it from the robber's hand, and collecting my
strength, now fast ebbing away, for one effort, I bore my assailant to
the ground, and fell struggling with him.

But my blood flowed fast from my wound, and my antagonist, if less
sinewy than myself, had greatly the advantage in weight and size. Now
for one moment I was uppermost, but in the next his knee was upon my
chest, and his blade gleamed on high in the pale light of the lamp and
moon. I thought I beheld my death: would to God that I had! With a
piercing cry, Isora sprang from the bed, flung herself before the lifted
blade of the robber, and arrested his arm. This man had, in the whole
contest, acted with a singular forbearance, he did so now: he paused for
a moment and dropped his hand. Hitherto the other man had not stirred
from his mute position; he now moved one step towards us, brandishing a
poniard like his comrade's. Isora raised her hand supplicatingly
towards him, and cried out, "Spare him, spare /him/! Oh, mercy, mercy!"
With one stride the murderer was by my side; he muttered some words
which passion seemed to render inarticulate; and, half pushing aside his
comrade, his raised weapon flashed before my eyes, now dim and reeling.
I made a vain effort to rise: the blade descended; Isora, unable to
arrest it, threw herself before it; her blood, her heart's blood gushed
over me; I saw and felt no more.

When I recovered my senses, my servants were round me; a deep red, wet
stain upon the sofa on which I was laid brought the whole scene I had
witnessed again before me--terrible and distinct. I sprang to my feet
and asked for Isora; a low murmur caught my ear: I turned and beheld a
dark form stretched on the bed, and surrounded, like myself, by gazers
and menials; I tottered towards that bed,--my bridal bed,--with a fierce
gesture motioned the crowd away; I heard my name breathed audibly; the
next moment I was by Isora's side. All pain, all weakness, all
consciousness of my wound, of my very self, were gone: life seemed
curdled into a single agonizing and fearful thought. I fixed my eyes
upon hers; and though /there/ the film was gathering dark and rapidly, I
saw, yet visible and unconquered, the deep love of that faithful and
warm heart which had lavished its life for mine.

I threw my arms around her; I pressed my lips wildly to hers.
"Speak--speak!" I cried, and my blood gushed over her with the effort;
"in mercy speak!"

Even in death and agony, the gentle being who had been as wax unto my
lightest wish struggled to obey me. "Do not grieve for me," she said,
in a tremulous and broken voice: "it is dearer to die for you than to
live!"

Those were her last words. I felt her breath abruptly cease. The
heart, pressed to mine, was still! I started up in dismay; the light
shone full upon her face. O God! that I should live to write that Isora
was--no more!

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