128 THERESA ABRUZZI. 



vours to rear the tottering fabric of his fortunes by the desperate 

 expedient of gaming, till, drawn into a vortex from which he 

 vainly endeavours to escape, he at last owed his ruin to the very ■ 

 means by which he had hoped to avert it. These unwelcome 

 truths were but too soon revealed to the heart-stricken Marco. 

 Far, however, from brooding over evils that were irremediable, 

 he roused at once the latent energies of his nature to grapple with 

 the calamity, and extract from the bitter draught presented to 

 him a salutary balsam, if such might be, to aid and strengthen 

 him in the hour of trial. The amount of claims he found would 

 leave him in possession of a fortune too limited to uphold the 

 dignity of his house, yet still sufficing in some distant spot to 

 yield all that love could desire. Would the count under such 

 circumstances hold his promise sacred ? Alas ! his conduct 

 seemed but too evident of his purpose. Would Theresa herself 

 accept a portionless yet not degraded nobleman ? The question 

 almost unmanned him. — "To lose her! — but no, I cannot, will 

 not resign her! From her own lips will I learn my fate — and if 



she reject me '^ The thought was too painful. With a 



desperation of purpose, in which the impetuosity of his tempera- 

 ment was but too apparent, he sought the villa Abruzzi. 



The sun was just setting as he entered by a private gate, that 

 led to the gardens ; and sunset in that delicious climate is a scene 

 of splendid beauty. The richly-blending hues of leaf and flower 

 were now bathed in a flood of light, as resplendent as fleeting. 

 Tint after tint, gradually receding in brilliancy, yet not less beau- 

 tiful in the softer glow reflected from that crimsoned west which 

 the sun had now forsaken, faded into shadow, unbroken, save by 

 the vivid fire-fly, that seemed to triumph in the swift falling 

 gloom which veils the repose of nature : and oh, how lovely is 

 that repose ! — Agitated as was the soul of Marco, the voice of 

 passion yielded insensibly to the silent yet not less powerful 

 influence of that sweet hour of stillness and serenity. 



" Alas 1" he exclaimed, " what is the splendour of courts or 

 palaces to the flowery enamelling of nature — the blue o'er-arching 

 canopy of heaven ! In a spot like this." A light step interrupted 

 his meditations ; it was Theresa heself. • 

 " Marco here?" she exclaimed. 



'* Aye," cried he, seizing her hand with a melancholy earnest- 

 ness — " I am Marco still, art thou still Theresa?" 

 " I am," replied the maiden firmly. 



