Part 3 (2/2)
His advice was nothing more than a resume of the lessons he had always taught him; but Philip was deeply moved, and he promised with an emotion closely akin to ardent enthusiasm that he would never depart from the line of conduct his father had marked out for him.
Then the Marquis, with a sudden change of tone, said to his son:
”Since you are about to leave home, perhaps for several years, I will tell you a secret which I should no longer withhold.”
”What is it?” demanded Philip, in surprise.
”Dolores is not your sister!”
”Dolores not my sister! Then--”
Philip paused. He dare not utter the thought that had suddenly entered his mind. On hearing the Marquis' words and learning the truth in regard to Dolores from his lips, he had experienced an emotion of joy. If he had given expression to what was pa.s.sing in his soul, his father would have heard these words:
”Dolores not my sister! Then she shall be my wife!”
But he controlled himself and his father little suspected the emotion caused by this revelation. The Marquis related the history of Dolores in detail, and Philip could scarcely believe his ears when he heard that the charming girl was the offspring of one of those Bohemians he had frequently seen by the roadside.
”You must not love her the less,” said the Marquis in conclusion. ”She has filled Martha's place in our hearts; we owe to her your mother's restoration to reason. We should always love and cherish her. She has no suspicion of the truth; and I wish her to remain in ignorance until I think proper to acquaint her with the facts.”
”Oh! I shall never cease to love her,” replied Philip, quickly, thus repeating to his father the promise he had made to Dolores a few moments before.
Then, agitated by the news he had heard, he left the Marquis and rejoined Dolores. He wished to see her alone once more before his departure. When he approached her, his heart throbbed wildly.
”She is not my sister,” he said to himself, exultantly.
She seemed to him an entirely different being. For the first time he observed that she had exquisitely formed hands of marvellous whiteness for the first time he shrank from the light of the dark eyes uplifted to his. He wished that Dolores knew the secret of her birth, and that she could hear him once again say:
”I love you!”
It was a new emotion to the pure and artless heart of an eighteen-year old lad; and, yielding to its influence, Philip threw his arms about Dolores, and, pressing her to his heart, said tenderly:
”I shall always love you--always--I swear it! Remember this promise.
Some day you will understand it better.”
Dolores looked at him in astonishment. Though she was deeply moved she made no reply, but throwing her arms around his neck she kissed him again and again, thus unconsciously arousing a new pa.s.sion in what had been the soul of a child only a few moments before, but what had suddenly become the soul of a man.
But the hour of departure had come. The char-a-banc drawn by two strong horses was in waiting at the base of the hill. They were to walk down the hill with Philip and bid him farewell there. Philip gave his arm to his mother; Dolores walked between Coursegol and the Marquis, with an expression of profound sorrow upon her features.
An air of sadness and gloom pervaded everything. It was the close of autumn; the air was full of withered leaves; they rustled beneath the tread at every step, and the wind moaned drearily through the pines.
”Take care of your health,” said the Marquise.
”Write to me,” pleaded Dolores.
”Be brave and upright,” said the father; then all three, turning as if with one accord to Coursegol, placed Philip under his protection.
Again they embraced their beloved; again they wept; then one more embrace, one last kiss, and he was gone. The carriage that bore him away was hidden from their sight by clouds of dust, and the loving hearts left behind sadly wondered if this cruel parting was not, after all, a dream.
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