Part 21 (2/2)
”And thine own trials, my beloved one,” he said,--”Has the question never come, why thou shouldst thus have been afflicted?”
”Often, very often, my father, and only within the last few weeks has the full answer come; and I can say from my inmost heart, in the words of Job, 'It is good that I have been afflicted,' and that I believe all is well. While _on_ earth, we must be in some degree _of_ earth, and bear the penalty of our earthly nature. The infirmities and imperfections of that nature in others, as often as in ourselves, occasion human misery, which our G.o.d, in his infinite love, permits, to try our spirit's strength and faith, and so prepare us for that higher state of being, in which the spirit will move and act, when the earthly sh.e.l.l is s.h.i.+vered, and earthly infirmities are for ever stilled. In the time of suffering we cannot think thus; but looking back as I do now--when the near vicinity of another world bids me regard my own past life almost as if it were another's--I feel it in my inmost heart, and bless G.o.d for every suffering which has prepared me thus early for his home. There is but one feeling, one wish of earth, remaining,” she continued, after a long pause of utter exhaustion. ”It is weak, perhaps, and wrong; but if--if Arthur could but know that fatal secret which made me seem a worse deceiver than I was--I know it cannot be, but it so haunts me. If I wedded one Christian, may he not think there needed not this sacrifice--sacrifice not of myself, but of his happiness. Oh! could I but--Hus.h.!.+ whose step is that?” she suddenly interrupted herself; and with the effort of strong excitement, started up, and laid her hand on her uncle's arm.
”Nay, my child, there is no sound,” he replied soothingly, after listening attentively for several moments.
”But there is. Hark, dost thou not hear it now? G.o.d of mercy! thou hast heard my prayer--it is _his_!” she exclaimed, sinking powerlessly back, at the moment that even Julien's duller ear had caught a rapid step; and in another minute the branches were hastily pushed aside, and Stanley indeed stood upon the threshold.
”Marie--and thus!” he pa.s.sionately exclaimed; and flinging himself on his knees beside her, he buried his face on her hand, and wept in agony.
Nearly an hour pa.s.sed ere Marie could rally from the agitation of Arthur's unexpected presence sufficiently to speak. She lay with her hand clasped in his, and his arm around her--realizing, indeed, to the full, the soothing consolation of his presence, but utterly powerless to speak that for which she had so longed to see him once again. The extent of her weakness had been unknown till that moment either to her uncle or herself, and Julien watched over her in terror lest the indefinable change which in that hour of stillness was perceptibly stealing over her features should be indeed the dim shadow of death.
To Arthur speech was equally impossible, save in the scarcely articulate expressions of love and veneration which he lavished on her. What he had hoped in thus seeking her he could not himself have defined. His whole soul was absorbed in the wild wish to see her again, and the thoughts of death for her had never entered his heart.
The shock, then, had been terrible, and to realize the infinite mercy which thus bade sorrow cease, was in such a moment impossible. He could but gaze and clasp her closer and closer, yet, as if even death should be averted by his love.
”Uncle Julien,” she murmured, as she faintly extended her hand towards him, ”thou wilt not refuse to clasp hands with one who has so loved thy Marie! And thou, Arthur, oh! scorn him not. Without him the invisible dungeons of the Inquisition would have been my grave, and thine that of a dishonored knight and suspected murderer.”
The eyes of her companions met, and their hands were grasped in that firm pressure, betraying unity of feeling, and reciprocal esteem, which need no words.
”Raise me a little, dearest Arthur; uncle Julien” put back that spreading bough. I would say something more, and the fresher air may give me strength. Ah! the evening breeze is so fresh and sweet; it always makes me feel as if the spirits of those we loved were hovering near us. We hold much closer and dearer communion with the beloved dead in the calm twilight than in the garish day. Arthur, dearest, thou wilt think of me sometimes in an hour like this.”
”When shall I not think of thee?” he pa.s.sionately rejoined. ”Oh, Marie, Marie! I thought separation on earth the worst agony that could befall me; but what--what is it compared to the eternal one of death?”
”No, no, not eternal, Arthur. In heaven I feel there is no distinction of creed or faith; we shall all love G.o.d and one another there, and earth's fearful distinctions can never come between us. I know such is not the creed of thy people, nor of some of mine; but when thou standest on the verge of eternity, as I do now, thou wilt feel this too.”
”How can I gaze on thee, and not believe it?” he replied. ”The loudest thunders of the church could not shake my trust in the purity of heaven, which is thine.”
”Because thou lovest, Arthur. Thy love for Marie is stronger than thy hatred of her race; and, oh! if thou lovest thus, I know thou hast forgiven.”
”Forgiven!” he pa.s.sionately reiterated.
”Yes, dearest Arthur. Is the past indeed so obliterated that the wrong I did thee is forgotten even as forgiven? But, oh, Arthur! it was not so unjustifiable as it seemed then. I dared not breathe the truth in Isabella's court. I dare not whisper it now save to thee, who would die rather than reveal it. Arthur, dearest Arthur, it was no Christian whom I wedded. We had been betrothed from early childhood, though I knew it not; and when the time came, I could not draw down on me a father's curse, or dash with agony a heart that so cherished, so loved me, by revelation of a truth which could avail me nothing, and would bring him but misery. Ferdinand was my cousin--a child of Israel, as myself.”
”Now heaven bless thee for those words, my own, true, precious Marie!”
exclaimed Stanley, in strong emotion, and clasping her still closer, he pressed his quivering lips to her forehead, starting in agony as he marked the cold, damp dews which had gathered upon it, too truly the index of departing life. He besought her to speak no more--the exertion was exhausting her; she smiled faintly, drank of the reviving draught which Julien proffered, and lay for a few minutes calm and still.
”I am better now,” she said, after an interval. ”It was only the excitement of speaking that truth, which I have so long desired to reveal--to clear my memory from the caprice and inconstancy with which even thy love must have charged me; and now, Arthur, promise me that thou wilt not mourn me too long: that thou wilt strive to conquer the morbid misery, which I know, if encouraged, will cloud thy whole life, and unfit thee for the glorious career which must otherwise be thine.
Do not forget me wholly, love, but deem it not a duty to my memory never to love again. Arthur, dearest, thou canst bestow happiness on another, and one of thine own faith, even such happiness as to have been thy wife would have given me. Do not reject the calm rest and peacefulness, which such love will bring to thee, though now thou feelest as if the very thought were loathing. She will speak to thee of me; for Jewess as she knew me, she has loved and tended me in suffering, and so wept my banishment, that my frozen tears had well nigh flowed in seeing hers. Seek her in Isabella's court, and try to love her, Arthur--if at first merely for my sake, it will soon, soon be for her own.”
Impressively and pleadingly, these words fell on Arthur's aching heart, even at that moment when he felt to comply with them was and must ever be impossible. When time had done its work, and softened individual agony, they returned again and yet again; and at each returning, seemed less painful to obey.
”And Isabella, my kind, loving, generous mistress,” she continued, after a very long pause, and her voice was so faint as scarcely to make distinguishable the words, save for the still lingering sweetness, and clearness of her articulation--”Oh! what can I say to her? Arthur, dearest Arthur, thou must repay the debt of grat.i.tude I owe her. Her creed condemns, but her heart loves me--aye, still, still! And better (though she cannot think so) than had I for earthly joy turned traitor to my G.o.d. Oh, tell her how with my last breath I loved and blessed her, Arthur; tell her we shall meet again, where Jew and Gentile wors.h.i.+p the same G.o.d! Oh that I could but have proved--proved--How suddenly it has grown dark! Uncle Julien, is it not time for the evening prayer?”
And her lips moved in the wordless utterance of the prayer for which she had asked, forgetting it had some time before been said; and then her head sunk lower and lower on Arthur's bosom, and there was no sound. Twilight lingered, as loth to disappear, then deepened into night, and the silver lamps within the tents brighter and more brightly illumined the gloom; but Arthur moved not, suppressing even his breath, lest he should disturb that deep and still repose. It was more than an hour ere Julien Morales could realize the truth, and then he gently endeavored to unclasp Arthur's almost convulsive hold, and with, kindly force to lead him from the couch. The light of the lamp fell full upon that sweet, sweet face; and, oh! never had it seemed so lovely. The awful stillness of sculptured repose was indeed there; the breath of life and its disturbing emotions had pa.s.sed away, and nought but the shrine remained. But like marble sculptured by G.o.d's hand, that sweet face gleamed--seeming, in its perfect tracery, its heavenly repose, to whisper even to the waves of agony, ”Be still--my spirit is with G.o.d!”
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