CHAPTER CLXV
[Chapter 173]
THE WEDDING MORNING. —THE NEW ARRIVAL. —THE DISAPPERANCE OF THE VAMPYRE
BRIDEGROOM.
The signora retired to her own chamber, and remained there for many
hours; but during that time two messengers had left the mansion secretly, and
then all was still. The lovely and beautiful Isabella, however, was not to
be seen in her usual walks, or at her father's board, as was her wont. She
was only seen within the precincts of her own apartments, pallid, sad, and
sorrowful.
"Your daughter, count," said the stranger, one morning, "does not appear
as usual. I trust she is quite well?"
"Yes; quite well."
"I hope I have given no cause of offence if so, I hope I may be informed
of my error, that I may speedily amend it."
"There is none, chevalier; but my daughter, Isabella, has asked a week's
preparation for the nuptials—which week she will pass in her own apartments
secluded, and at the end of which time, she leaves them for your protection,
and which will, I trust, be to her happiness."
"It shall be my business to make her happy, and, for want of good will
and hearty endeavour, she shall never lack content and bliss. I have every
presage of a most happy and felicitous life in the future. I am sure she will
be happy."
"It is my great hope, chevalier; it is the one object of my life. I
would it were settled, and the affair over. I should die unhappy if I thought
poor Isabella in the hands of any one who would not use her as she deserved to
be. She is of herself a treasure."
"She is—she is."
"And when she is once a wife, she will not look for a father's
protection, neither will she need it. My death, when it does happen, will be
a great and heavy blow; but it will be less when she has the comfort and
consolation of a husband to console her for what would otherwise be
irreparable."
"Yes, it would have the effect of deadening the blow, and of shortening
the duration of its intensity, though it will be by no means prevented."
"I cannot say I should desire it."
"No, certainly not; and Signora Isabella never could forget such a
parent."
"I have done my duty, I hope."
"And many congratulate yourself, count; but then, with regard to
Isabella, she will meet me as usual here on the day of the ceremonial"
"Most assuredly."
"And I am to be denied her company till then?"
"Yes; she will meet you on the morning at the altar."
"Be it so—but I could have been happy in her society. At any rate I
must be so, by reflecting that I shall soon be the favoured, happy husband of
Isabella, for with her my happiness will be complete."
"And my happiness will be complete, in knowing her's is so."
"I could have wished that some of those who have known me in France had
been here to see my happiness; but that cannot be."
"Could you not send to them?"
"There would not be time for their return. And, moreover, if there had
been, I question whether I ought to hold any communication with them, lest I
bring them under the ban of the government, and I may not do that."
"Truly, you have the same feelings as I used to have; but I have long
since ceased to feel any of that kind of interest."
"Time cures that."
"It does; and you will find it will heal all those wounds which such a
separation from your country causes you."
"I hope so. My offences there they will never forgive."
* * * * *
Thus conversed the stranger and the count, and thus six days passed,
during which time the Signora Isabella was seen by none save her attendants,
who were few, and most of her time was spent in tears and prayers.
She had a heart full of grief, but whe dared not disobey her father, he
whom she loved so well, and whom she had never thought for one moment as being
opposed to her own ideas of propriety and her own wishes. She had always been
taught to suppress her own, and submit to his.
Thus it was now, at the eleventh hour, she had no means of fortifying
herself in any preconceived liking she may have had.
Submission was all she had learned—a blind and willing submission to a
fond and doating parent. She knew no other course of action.
Her heart, however, had other yearnings. She had loved another; but she
knew not how to act. She dared not even entertain the thought of throwing
herself at her father's feet, and imploring him to save her from perpetual
sorrow —much less did she think of opposing him; but she had done this much.
In the first moment of her terror and anguish, she had written off to her
brother, informing him of her danger; but, at the same time, she had advised
nothing, and expressed no wish —only told him the fact and her fears.
* * * * *
The wedding morning arrived, and the house of the count gave indications
of the festivity; and, with the day, came guests richly dressed, and the bells
rang a merry peal upon the occasion, and the count was in high spirits; but
the bride was not seen.
"How is Signora Isabella, your daughter?" inquired one of the guests.
"She is as well as maiden modesty will permit."
"I have not seen her."
"Nor I."
"Nor you!" replied the guest, astonished.
"No; she has secluded herself, but will appear presently, when the bell
rings for the service. The fact is, she cannot leave her father, even for the
arms of a husband, without feeling a grief for the change."
"I hope she will be happy."
"I have no doubt of it; the man is worthy of her."
"And capable of making her happy, I hope."
"I have no doubt of that."
"Hark! the bell sounds; is that the signal?"
"Yes; follow on. I will bring my daughter forth;" and, as he spoke, he
left the guests, who hurried to the chapel, and found the stranger awaiting
his bride with some impatience.
He acknowledged the courtesy of those who came to him, and looked towards
a small door, which presently opened, and the count and his daughter appeared.
She was of marble paleness, and no signs of happiness were seen in her face.
She trembled, and her whole soul seemed to be intent on something afar from
her presence.
She lifted her eyes and gazed upon the throng; but apparently saw none —
or not those whom she wished. Her father spoke to her; she heaved a deep
sigh, and appeared to be resigned to her fate.
* * * * *
The ceremony commenced, and Isabella stood; but her eyes occasionally
sought the chapel door; and in a few moments more, before the important part
was concluded, a bustle took place near the door, and, immediately afterwards,
some officers, in the Venetian uniform, entered the chapel, among whom was the
young count, Isabella's brother, and with him a young officer, into whose arms
she instantly threw herself, and fainted.
"Father," said the young count —"father, this must not be."
"Why not, my son?" said the count.
"Because my sister loves another, and yon man is a monster."
"What mean you, sir?" said the chevalier. "If you were other than what
you are, your words would beget a different answer."
"You are a vampyre," replied a young Neapolitan, who stepped forward. "I
knew you before. Know you not the holy father whom you murdered?"
"'Tis false. I'll bring one to prove it."
As the chevalier spoke, he crossed the chapel, and left the place; but he
did not appear again; and, upon inquiry, he had quitted the palace in a
gondola, and never reappeared.
—
