Chapter Twenty One.
Ada Garden sat in the chamber of the tower which had been awarded to her as her prison. Her Maltese attendant had accompanied young Mila to a short distance from the castle—but she was not alone. A figure knelt at her feet in the attitude of the deepest devotion; his head was bowed down to the ground, and sobs burst from his bosom:—it was the young Italian, whom we have known under the name of Paolo.
“Oh, hear me, lady!” he exclaimed passionately,—“oh, hear me, before you dismiss me for ever from your presence. I cannot unsay what I have said—I have dared to tell you that I love you with the fondest, the deepest devotion—I have done so from the first moment I saw you; but hear my excuses. I felt myself alone and desolate in the world; I beheld you, bright, innocent, and beautiful, exposed, I knew, to the most dreadful danger, and I determined to save you at all risks. I knew not then that it was love—I thought it was compassion for one so fair. I saw you brought on board the pirate vessel, the accursed Sea Hawk, unconscious of your state. My medical knowledge would, I knew, be of service: I suggested that your life hung on a thread, that the slightest agitation might destroy you, and I so worked on the fears of the miscreant chief, that I persuaded him to confide you entirely into my charge. I ventured even to administer a narcotic, to render you insensible when Zappa wished to see you, and to frighten him still more into the belief that you were on the point of death. Day after day I saw you, I felt that your safety depended on me, that I might even yet be the means of rescuing you from the thraldom under which you are placed, and day after day my love increased—I have fed upon it till it has become a part of my very existence, and can end but with my life. Then tell me, lady—tell me, how could you expect me to do otherwise than confess the love which is consuming me? I do not ask yet for a return of my devotion—I do not expect it till I have accomplished far more than I yet have done to deserve it; but yet, I do say, when my task is fulfilled—when I have placed you in safety, and can surround you with the luxuries to which you are accustomed—when I can restore you to your proper station in life, that must be my reward, or I will place a dagger in your hand, and bid you strike home to my heart; for that would be the only other boon I would ask of you—the only other happiness I could enjoy.”
Ada looked at the unhappy young man with compassion, and her bosom heaved with emotion; for she saw the sincerity of his passion, and it grieved her heart to wound his feelings; but yet, she could not deceive him.
“Signor, I cannot blame you. I do not complain of your addressing me in words of love, however much I am grieved to hear them. I am grateful for all you have done for me—I would endeavour to prove to you, had I the power, how grateful I am, and for all you purpose doing for me. I feel that to you I owe my preservation from dangers too dreadful to contemplate. I venture to entreat you still to exert your generous efforts to aid me, and to enable me to return to my friends; and yet I tell you that I cannot give you more than my deep, my everlasting gratitude. My love, signor, were it a worthy recompense for your exertions, I have not to give—my heart as well as my troth belongs to another.”
The fierce passions which rest in the bosoms of the inhabitants of those southern climes, have far more powerful effects than any similar emotions on the less sensitively constituted frames of the northern nations. Scarcely had Ada uttered these words, than, casting a glance at her features, as if to ascertain that he heard aright, and was not in some frightful dream, the young Italian fell prostrate on his face before her. Horrified and trembling, she gazed at him without moving, for she thought he was dead; but at length as she stepped over him, his heavy breathing assured her that he still lived, and she exerted all her strength to raise him, as she was afraid, for his sake, to call any one to her assistance. A jar of water was in the room, and she dashed some of its contents over his face, and placed him so that the air from the window might come in and revive him. It was now her turn to act the part of guardian angel; and Captain Fleetwood would have pardoned her, as she bent over him, had she felt as a sister for the pale and unhappy youth before her. At last her efforts were crowned with success. He opened his eyes and gazed at her with a look to which intelligence soon returned. As he did so, he endeavoured to rise; but the agitation of his feelings had been too violent to allow him so quickly to recover, and he again sank down on the ground, where he remained for some minutes, endeavouring to regain his scattered thoughts.
“Where am I? What dreadful event has occurred?” he at length muttered. “Methought some demon came with lightning in his hand to blast the lovely prospect which an angel had opened to my view.”
He was silent—the sound of his own voice had the effect of restoring him to his senses. He rose, though with difficulty, and stood before her, supporting himself by a chair.