By degrees he discontinued his visits at the Abbey; but he often met Lady Malvina at parties in the neighborhood: caution, however, always sealed his lips, and every appearance of particularity was avoided. The time now approached for the departure of the regiment from Scotland, and Lady Malvina, instead of the explanation she so fondly expected, so ardently desired, saw Fitzalan studious to avoid her.
The disappointment this conduct gave rise to, was too much for the tender and romantic heart of Malvina to bear without secretly repining. Society grew irksome; she became more than ever attached to solitary rambles, which gave opportunities of indulging her sorrows without restraint: sorrows, pride often reproached her for experiencing.
It was within a week of the change of garrison, when Malvina repaired one evening to the rock where Fitzalan had disclosed his tenderness; a similarity of feeling had led him thither; he saw his danger, but he had no power to retreat; he sat down by Malvina, and they conversed for some time on indifferent subjects; at last, after a pause of a minute, Malvina exclaimed, “You go then, Fitzalan, never, never, I suppose, to return here again!” “’Tis probable I may not indeed,” said he. “Then we shall never meet again,” cried she, while a trickling tear stole down her lovely cheek, which, tinged as it was with the flush of agitation, looked now like a half-blown rose moistened with the dews of early morning.
“Yes, my lovely friend,” said he, “we shall meet again—we shall meet in a better place; in that heaven,” continued he, sighing, and laying his cold, trembling hand upon hers, “which will recompense all our sufferings.” “You are melancholy to-night, Fitzalan,” cried Lady Malvina, in a voice scarcely articulate.
“Oh! can you wonder at it?” exclaimed he, overcome by her emotion, and forgetting in a moment all his resolutions—“Oh! can you wonder at my melancholy, when I know not but that this is the last time I shall see the only woman I ever loved—when I know, that in bidding her adieu I resign all the pleasure, the happiness of my life.”
Malvina could no longer restrain her feelings; she sunk upon his shoulder and wept. “Good heavens!” cried Fitzalan, almost trembling beneath the lovely burden he supported—“What a cruel situation is mine! But, Malvina, I will not, cannot plunge you in destruction. Led by necessity, as well as choice, to embrace the profession of a soldier, I have no income but what is derived from that profession; though my own distresses I could bear with fortitude, yours would totally unman me; nor would my honor be less injured than my peace, were you involved in difficulties on my account. Our separation is therefore, alas! inevitable.”
“Oh! no,” exclaimed Malvina, “the difficulties you have mentioned will vanish. My father’s affections were early alienated from me; and my fate is of little consequence to him—nay, I have reason to believe he will be glad of an excuse for leaving his large possessions to Augusta; and oh! how little shall I envy her those possessions, if the happy destiny I now look forward to is mine.” As she spoke, her mild eyes rested on the face of Fitzalan, who clasped her to his bosom in a sudden transport of tenderness. “But though my father is partial to Augusta,” she continued, “I am sure he will not be unnatural to me; and though he may withhold affluence, he will, I am confident, allow me a competence; nay, Lady Dunreath, I believe, in pleasure at my removal from the Abbey, would, if he hesitated in that respect, become my intercessor.”
The energy with which Malvina spoke convinced Fitzalan of the strength of her affection. An ecstasy never before felt pervaded his soul at the idea of being so beloved; vainly did prudence whisper, that Malvina might be deluding herself with false hopes, the suggestions of love triumphed over every consideration; and again folding the fair being he held in his arms to his heart, he softly asked, would she, at all events, unite her destiny with his.
Lady Malvina, who firmly believed what she had said to him would really happen, and who deemed a separation from him the greatest misfortune which could possibly befall her, blushed, and faltering yielded a willing consent.
The means of accomplishing their wishes now occupied their thoughts. Fitzalan’s imagination was too fertile not soon to suggest a scheme which had a probability of success; he resolved to intrust the chaplain of the regiment with the affair, and request his attendance the ensuing night in the chapel of the Abbey, where Lady Malvina promised to meet them with her maid, on whose secrecy she thought she could rely.