CHAPTER XXXIV.
"Oh! love, love, strong as death--from such an hour Pressing out joy by thine immortal power; Holy and fervent love! Had earth but rest For thee and thine, this world were all too fair: How could we thence be weaned to die without despair!
"But woe for him who felt that heart grow still Which with its weight of agony had lain Breaking on his. Scarce could the mortal chill Of the hushed bosom, ne'er to heave again, And all the curdling silence round the eye, Bring home the stern belief that she could die."
MRS. HEMANS.
The glowing light of a glorious sunset lingered on the Vale of Cedars,displaying that calm and beautiful retreat in all the fair and richluxuriance of former years. Reuben and Ruth, the aged retainers of thehouse of Henriquez, had made it their pride and occupation to preservethe cherished retreat, lovely as it had been left. Nor were they itsonly inmates; their daughter, her husband, and children, after variousstruggles in the Christian world, had been settled in the Vale by thebenevolence of Ferdinand Morales--their sole duty, to preserve it insuch order, as to render it a fitting place of refuge for any whoshould need it. Within the last twelve months, another inmate had beenadded to them. Weary of his wanderings, and of the constant course ofdeception which his apparent profession of a monk demanded, JulienMorales had returned to the home of his childhood, there to fixhis permanent abode; only to make such excursions from it, as theinterests of his niece might demand. Her destiny was his sole anxiousthought. Her detention by Isabella convinced him that her disguise hadbeen penetrated, and filled him with solicitude for her spiritual, yetmore than her temporal welfare. Royal protection of a Jewess wasso unprecedented, that it could only argue the hope--nay, perhapsconviction--of her final conversion. And the old man actually tried todivorce the sweet image of his niece from his affections, so convincedwas he that her unhappy love for Arthur, combined with Isabella'sauthority, and, no doubt, the threat of some terrible alternativeshould she refuse, would compel her acceptance of the proffered cross,and so sever them for ever. How little can man, even the most gentleand affectionate, read woman!
It was the day completing the eleventh month after Don Ferdinand'smurder, when Julien Morales repaired earlier than usual to the littletemple, there to read the service for the dead appointed for the day,and thence proceeded to his nephew's grave. An unusual object, whichhad fallen on, or was kneeling beside the grave, caught his eye, andimpelled him to quicken his pace. His heart throbbed as he recognizedthe garb of a novice, and to such a degree as almost to deprive him ofall power, as in the white, chiselled features, resting on the cold,damp sod, he recognized his niece, and believed, for the firstagonizing moment, that it was but clay resting against clay; and thatthe sweet, pure spirit had but guided her to that grave and flown. Butdeath for a brief interval withdrew his grasp; though his shaft hadreached her, and no human hand could draw it back. Father Denis hadconducted her so carefully and tenderly to the frontiers of Castile,that she had scarcely felt fatigue, and encountered no exposure to theelements; but when he left her, her desire to reach her home becamestronger, with the seeming physical incapacity to do so. Her spiritgave way, and mental and bodily exhaustion followed. The season wasunusually damp and tempestuous, and, though scarcely felt at the time,sowed the seeds of cold and decline, from which her naturally goodconstitution might, in the very midst of her trials, otherwise havesaved her. Her repugnance to encounter the eyes or speech of herfellows, lest her disguise should be penetrated, caused her to shrinkfrom entering any habitation, except for the single night whichintervened, between the period of the father's leaving her and herreaching the secret entrance to the Vale. Her wallet provided her withmore food than her parched throat could swallow; and for the consumingthirst, the fresh streams that so often bubbled across her path, gaveher all she needed. The fellowship of man, then, was unrequited,and, as the second night fell, so comparatively short a distance laybetween her and her home, that buoyed up by the desire to reach it,she was not sensible of her utter exhaustion, till she stood withinthe little graveyard of the Vale; and the moon shining softly andclearly on the headstones, disclosed to her the grave of her husband.She was totally ignorant that he had been borne there; and the rushof feeling which came over her, as she read his name--the memories oftheir happy, innocent, childhood, of all his love for her--that had hebeen but spared, all the last year's misery might have been averted,for she would have loved him, ay, even as he loved her; and he wouldhave guarded, saved--so overpowered her, that she had sunk down uponthe senseless earth which covered him, conscious only of the wild,sickly longing, like him to flee away and be at rest. She had reachedher home; exertion no longer needed, the unnatural strength, ebbedfast, and the frail tenement withered, hour by hour, away. And howmight Julien mourn! Her work on earth was done. Young, tried, frailas she was, she had been permitted to show forth the glory, thesustaining glory, of her faith, by a sacrifice whose magnitude wasindeed apparent, but whose depth and intensity of suffering, none knewbut Him for whom it had been made. She had been preserved from thecrime--if possible more fearful in the mind of the Hebrew than anyother--apostacy: and though the first conviction, that she was indeed"passing away" even from his affection, was fraught with absoluteanguish, yet her uncle could not, dared not pray for life on earth.And in the peace, the calm, the depth, of quietude which graduallysunk on her heart, infusing her every word and look and gentle smile,it was as if her spirit had already the foretaste of that blissfulheaven for which its wings were plumed. As the frame dwindled, theexpression of her sweet face became more and more unearthly in itsexquisite beauty, the mind more and more beatified, and the heart morefreed from earthly feeling. The reward of her constancy appeared inpart bestowed on earth, for death itself was revealed to her--not asthe King of Terrors, but as an Angel of Light, at whose touch thelingering raiment of mortality would dissolve, and the freed soulspring up rejoicing to its home.
It was the Feast of the Tabernacle and the Sabbath eve. Thetent--formed of branches of thick trees and fragrant shrubs--waserected, as we have seen it in a former page, a short distance fromthe temple. Marie's taste had once again, been consulted in itsdecorations; her hand, feeble as it was, had twined the lovelywreaths of luscious flowers and arranged the glowing fruit. With somedifficulty she had joined in the devotional service performed by heruncle in the little temple--borne there in the arms of old Reuben, forher weakness now prevented walking--and on the evening of the Sabbathin the Festival, she reclined on one of the luxurious couches withinthe tent, through the opening of which, she could look forth on thevaried beauties of the Vale, and the rich glorious hues dyeing thewestern skies. The Sabbath lamps were lighted, but their rays werefaint and flickering in the still glowing atmosphere. A crimson rayfrom the departing luminary gleamed through the branches, and a faintglow--either from its reflection, or from that deceiving beauty, whichtoo often gilds the features of the dying--rested on Marie's features,lighting up her large and lustrous eyes with unnatural brilliance. Shehad been speaking earnestly of that life beyond the grave, belief inwhich throughout her trials had been her sole sustainer. Julien hadlistened, wrapt and almost awe-struck, so completely did it seem as ifthe spirit, and not the mortal, spoke.
"And thine own trials, my beloved one," he said,--"Has the questionnever come, why thou shouldst thus have been afflicted?"
"Often, very often, my father, and only within the last few weeks hasthe full answer come; and I can say from my inmost heart, in the wordsof Job, 'It is good that I have been afflicted,' and that I believeall is well. While _on_ earth, we must be in some degree _of_ earth,and bear the penalty of our earthly nature. The infirmities andimperfections of that nature in others, as often as in ourselves,occasion human misery, which our God, in his infinite love, permits,to try our spirit's strength and faith, and so prepare us for thathigher state of being, in which the spirit will move and act, whenthe earthly shell is shivered, and earthly infirmities are for everstilled. In the time of sufferi
ng we cannot think thus; but lookingback as I do now--when the near vicinity of another world bids meregard my own past life almost as if it were another's--I feel it inmy inmost heart, and bless God for every suffering which has preparedme thus early for his home. There is but one feeling, one wishof earth, remaining," she continued, after a long pause of utterexhaustion. "It is weak, perhaps, and wrong; but if--if Arthur couldbut know that fatal secret which made me seem a worse deceiver thanI was--I know it cannot be, but it so haunts me. If I wedded oneChristian, may he not think there needed not this sacrifice--sacrificenot of myself, but of his happiness. Oh! could I but--Hush! whose stepis that?" she suddenly interrupted herself; and with the effort ofstrong excitement, started up, and laid her hand on her uncle's arm.
"Nay, my child, there is no sound," he replied soothingly, afterlistening attentively for several moments.
"But there is. Hark, dost thou not hear it now? God of mercy! thouhast heard my prayer--it is _his_!" she exclaimed, sinking powerlesslyback, at the moment that even Julien's duller ear had caught a rapidstep; and in another minute the branches were hastily pushed aside,and Stanley indeed stood upon the threshold.
"Marie--and thus!" he passionately exclaimed; and flinging himselfon his knees beside her, he buried his face on her hand, and wept inagony.
* * * * *
Nearly an hour passed ere Marie could rally from the agitation ofArthur's unexpected presence sufficiently to speak. She lay with herhand clasped in his, and his arm around her--realizing, indeed, to thefull, the soothing consolation of his presence, but utterly powerlessto speak that for which she had so longed to see him once again. Theextent of her weakness had been unknown till that moment either toher uncle or herself, and Julien watched over her in terror lest theindefinable change which in that hour of stillness was perceptiblystealing over her features should be indeed the dim shadow of death.To Arthur speech was equally impossible, save in the scarcelyarticulate expressions of love and veneration which he lavished onher. What he had hoped in thus seeking her he could not himself havedefined. His whole soul was absorbed in the wild wish to see heragain, and the thoughts of death for her had never entered his heart.The shock, then, had been terrible, and to realize the infinite mercywhich thus bade sorrow cease, was in such a moment impossible. Hecould but gaze and clasp her closer and closer, yet, as if even deathshould be averted by his love.
"Uncle Julien," she murmured, as she faintly extended her hand towardshim, "thou wilt not refuse to clasp hands with one who has so lovedthy Marie! And thou, Arthur, oh! scorn him not. Without him theinvisible dungeons of the Inquisition would have been my grave, andthine that of a dishonored knight and suspected murderer."
The eyes of her companions met, and their hands were grasped in thatfirm pressure, betraying unity of feeling, and reciprocal esteem,which need no words.
"Raise me a little, dearest Arthur; uncle Julien" put back thatspreading bough. I would say something more, and the fresher air maygive me strength. Ah! the evening breeze is so fresh and sweet; italways makes me feel as if the spirits of those we loved were hoveringnear us. We hold much closer and dearer communion with the beloveddead 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 passionately rejoined. "Oh,Marie, Marie! I thought separation on earth the worst agony that couldbefall 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 distinctionof creed or faith; we shall all love God and one another there, andearth's fearful distinctions can never come between us. I know suchis not the creed of thy people, nor of some of mine; but when thoustandest on the verge of eternity, as I do now, thou wilt feel thistoo."
"How can I gaze on thee, and not believe it?" he replied. "The loudestthunders of the church could not shake my trust in the purity ofheaven, which is thine."
"Because thou lovest, Arthur. Thy love for Marie is stronger than thyhatred of her race; and, oh! if thou lovest thus, I know thou hastforgiven."
"Forgiven!" he passionately reiterated.
"Yes, dearest Arthur. Is the past indeed so obliterated that the wrongI did thee is forgotten even as forgiven? But, oh, Arthur! it was notso unjustifiable as it seemed then. I dared not breathe the truth inIsabella's court. I dare not whisper it now save to thee, who woulddie rather than reveal it. Arthur, dearest Arthur, it was no Christianwhom I wedded. We had been betrothed from early childhood, though Iknew it not; and when the time came, I could not draw down on me afather's curse, or dash with agony a heart that so cherished, so lovedme, by revelation of a truth which could avail me nothing, and wouldbring him but misery. Ferdinand was my cousin--a child of Israel, asmyself."
"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 hemarked the cold, damp dews which had gathered upon it, too trulythe index of departing life. He besought her to speak no more--theexertion was exhausting her; she smiled faintly, drank of the revivingdraught which Julien proffered, and lay for a few minutes calm andstill.
"I am better now," she said, after an interval. "It was only theexcitement of speaking that truth, which I have so long desired toreveal--to clear my memory from the caprice and inconstancy with whicheven thy love must have charged me; and now, Arthur, promise me thatthou wilt not mourn me too long: that thou wilt strive to conquer themorbid 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 memorynever to love again. Arthur, dearest, thou canst bestow happiness onanother, and one of thine own faith, even such happiness as to havebeen thy wife would have given me. Do not reject the calm rest andpeacefulness, which such love will bring to thee, though now thoufeelest as if the very thought were loathing. She will speak to theeof me; for Jewess as she knew me, she has loved and tended me insuffering, and so wept my banishment, that my frozen tears had wellnigh flowed in seeing hers. Seek her in Isabella's court, and try tolove her, Arthur--if at first merely for my sake, it will soon, soonbe for her own."
Impressively and pleadingly, these words fell on Arthur's achingheart, even at that moment when he felt to comply with them was andmust ever be impossible. When time had done its work, and softenedindividual agony, they returned again and yet again; and at eachreturning, 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 scarcelyto make distinguishable the words, save for the still lingeringsweetness, and clearness of her articulation--"Oh! what can I say toher? Arthur, dearest Arthur, thou must repay the debt of gratitudeI owe her. Her creed condemns, but her heart loves me--aye, still,still! And better (though she cannot think so) than had I for earthlyjoy turned traitor to my God. Oh, tell her how with my last breath Iloved and blessed her, Arthur; tell her we shall meet again, whereJew and Gentile worship the same God! Oh that I could but haveproved--proved--How suddenly it has grown dark! Uncle Julien, is itnot time for the evening prayer?"
And her lips moved in the wordless utterance of the prayer for whichshe had asked, forgetting it had some time before been said; and thenher head sunk lower and lower on Arthur's bosom, and there was nosound. Twilight lingered, as loth to disappear, then deepened intonight, and the silver lamps within the tents brighter and morebrightly illumined the gloom; but Arthur moved not, suppressing evenhis breath, lest he should disturb that deep and still repose. It wasmore than an hour ere Julien Morales could realize the truth, and thenhe gently endeavored to unclasp Arthur's almost convulsive hold, andwith, kindly force to lead him from the couch. The light of the lampfell full upon that sweet, sweet face; and, oh! never had it seemed solovely. The awful stillness of sculptured repose was indeed ther
e; thebreath of life and its disturbing emotions had passed away, and noughtbut the shrine remained. But like marble sculptured by God's hand,that sweet face gleamed--seeming, in its perfect tracery, its heavenlyrepose, to whisper even to the waves of agony, "Be still--my spirit iswith God!"
* * * * *
Julien Morales and Arthur Stanley--the aged and the young--the Jewishrecluse and Christian warrior--knelt side by side on the cold earth,which concealed the remains of one to both so inexpressibly dear. Themoonlit shrubs and spangled heaven alone beheld their mutual sorrow,and the pale moon waned, and the stars gleamed paler and paler in thefirst gray of dawn ere that vigil was concluded. And then both aroseand advanced to the barrier wall; the spring answered to the touch,and the concealed door flew back. The young Christian turned, andwas folded to the heart of the Jew. The blessing of the Hebrew wasbreathed in the ear of the Englishman, and Stanley disappeared.
Oh, love! thou fairest, brightest, most imperishable type of heaven!what to thee are earth's distinctions? Alone in thy pure essence thoustandest, and every mere earthly feeling crouches at thy feet. And artthou but this world's blessing? Oh! they have never loved who thusbelieve. Love is the voice of God, Love is the rule of Heaven! As onegrain to the uncounted sands, as one drop to the unfathomed depths--isthe love of earth to that of heaven; but when the mortal shrine isshivered, the minute particle will re-unite itself with its kindredessence, to exist unshadowed and for ever.