CHAPTER VI.
"Oh! praise me not-- Look gently on me, or I sink to earth Not thus."
DE CHATILLON.
It was the custom of the inmates of the Vale of Cedars, once in everyyear, and generally about the season of Michaelmas, to celebrate afestival, which ordained the erection of a booth or tent of "branchesof thick trees," in which for seven days every meal was taken, andgreater part of the day (except the time passed in the little Temple)was spent. Large branches of the palm and cedar, the willow, acacia,and the oak, cut so as to prevent their withering for the seven days,formed the walls of the tent; their leaves intermingling over head, soas to form a shelter, and yet permit the beautiful blue of the heavensto peep within. Flowers of every shade and scent formed a borderingwithin; and bouquets, richly and tastefully arranged, placed in vasesfilled with scented earth, hung from the branches forming the roof.Fruit, too, was there--the purple grape, the ripe red orange, thepaler lemon, the lime, the pomegranate, the citron, all of which thevale afforded, adorned the board (which for those seven days wasalways spread within the tent), intermingled with cakes made by Marie.
This was one of the festivals for which many of the secret race wouldvisit the vale; but it so happened that, this year, Manuel, his child,and their retainers, kept it alone--a source of disappointment andanxiety to the former, whose health was rapidly (but still to hischild almost invisibly) failing. At the close of the solemn fast whichalways preceded by five days this festival of rejoicing, he had hada recurrence of his deathlike fits of insensibility, longer andmore alarming than usual; but he had rallied, and attributed it sonaturally to his long fast, that alarm once more gave place to hopein the heart of his daughter. Not thus, however, felt herfather--convinced that death could not be long delayed, he but waitedfor his nephew's appearance and acknowledged love for his cousin,at once to give her to him, and prepare her for the worst. Parentalanxiety naturally increased with every hour that passed, and Ferdinandappeared not.
It was the eve of the Sabbath; one from which in general all earthlycares and thoughts were banished, giving place to tranquil andspiritual joy. The father and daughter were alone within their lovelytent, but both so wrapt in evidently painful thought, that a strangesilence usurped the usual cheerful converse. So unwonted was theanxious gloom on Manuel's brow, that his child could bear it nolonger, and flinging her arms round his neck, she besought him in thetenderest accents to confide in her, as he had ever done, since hermother's death, to tell her what so pained him--might she not removeit? Henriquez could not resist that fond yet mournful pleading. Hetold her, that he felt health was departing, that death seemed everhovering near, but that its pain, its care, would all depart, could hebehold his long-cherished wish fulfilled, and his Marie the wifeof Ferdinand, whose every look and tone during his last visit hadbetrayed his devoted love.
Marie heard; and her cheek and lips blanched to such ashy whiteness,that her father in alarm folded her to his breast; and sought tosoothe a grief, which he believed was occasioned merely by the suddenand fearful thought of his approaching death; and sought to soothe,by a reference to the endearing love, the cherished tenderness whichwould still be hers; how Ferdinand would be to her all, aye morethan all that he had been, and how, with love like his, she would behappier than she had been yet. Much he said, and he might have saidstill more, for it was long ere the startled girl could interrupt him.But when he conjured her to speak to him, not to look upon his deathso fearfully, the beautiful truth of her nature rose up against theinvoluntary deceit. It was not his death which thus appalled her;alas--alas!--and she hated herself for the fearful thought--she hadalmost lost sight of that, in the words which followed. Breaking fromhis embrace, she sunk down on her knees before him, and buying herface upon his hand, in broken accents and with choking sobs, revealedthe whole. How could she do her noble kinsman such fearful wrong asto wed him, when her whole heart, thoughts, nay, life itself, seemedwrapt in the memory of another? And that other! Oh! who, what washe? Once she looked up in her father's face, but so fearful were theemotions written there--wrath struggling with love, grief, pity,almost terror--that hastily she withdrew her glance, and remainedkneeling, bent even to the dust, long after the confession had beenpoured forth, waiting in fear and anguish for his words.
"Marie, Marie! is it my Marie, my sainted Miriam's, child, who thusspeaks? who hath thus sinned sole representative of a race of ages, inwhose pure thoughts such fearful sin hath never mingled. My child soto love the stranger as to reject, to scorn her own! Oh God, my God,why hast thou so forsaken me? Would I had died before!" And the heavygroan which followed, confirmed the anguish breathed in those brokenwords.
"Father!" implored the unhappy girl, clasping his knees in an agony ofsupplication, though she raised not her head--"Oh my father! in mercydo not speak thus! Words of wrath, of reproach, fearful as they arefrom thee, yet I can bear them, but not such woe! Oh, think what Ihave borne, what I must still bear. If I have sinned, my sin willbring, nay, it has already brought its own chastisement. Speak to mebut one word of love--or, if it must be, wrath.--but not, not suchaccents of despair!"
Her father struggled to reply; but the conflux of strong emotion wastoo powerful, and Marie sprung up to support him as he fell. She hadoften seen him insensible before, when there appeared no cause forsuch attacks; but was it strange that at such a moment she shouldfeel that _she_ had caused it?--that her sin perchance had killedher father; he might never wake more to say he forgave, he blessedher,--or that in those agonized moments of suspense she vowed, ifhe might but speak again, that his will should be hers, even did itdemand the annihilation of every former treasured thought! And the vowseemed heard. Gradually and, it appeared, painfully life returned. Hisfirst action was to clasp her convulsively to his heart; his next, toput her gently yet firmly from him, and bury his face in his hands,and weep.
No sight is more terrible, even to an indifferent spectator, thanto behold tears wrung from the eyes of man--and to his child it wasindeed torture. But she controlled the choking anguish--calmly andfirmly she spoke, and gradually the paroxysm subsided.
"That I have sinned in loving a stranger thus, I have long felt," shesaid; "and had I been aware of the nature of these feelings, theyshould never have gained ascendency. But I awoke too late--myvery being was enchained. Still I may break from these engrossingthoughts--I would do so--pain shall be welcome, if it may in timeatone for the involuntary sin of loving the stranger, and the yetmore terrible one of grieving thee. Oh, my father, do what thou wilt,command me as thou wilt--I am henceforth wholly thine."
"And thou wilt wed Ferdinand, my child?"
"Would he still wish it, father, if he knew the whole? And is itright, is it just, to wed him, and the truth still unrevealed? Oh, ifhe do love me, as you say, how can I requite him by deceit?"
"Tell him not, tell him not," replied Henriquez, again fearfullyagitated; "let none other know what has been. What can it do, save togrieve him beyond thy power to repair? No, no. Once his, and all thesefearful thoughts will pass away, and their sin be blotted out, in thytrue faithfulness to one who loves thee. His wife, and I know thatthou wilt love him, and be true, as if thou hadst never lovedanother--"
"Ay, could I not be true, I would not wed," murmured Marie, more toherself than to her father; "and if suffering indeed, atone for sin,terribly will it be redeemed. But oh, my father, tell me--I have swornto be guided by thee, and in all things I will be--tell me, in weddinghim whom thou hast chosen, do I not still do foul wrong, if not to him(her voice faltered), unto another, whose love is mine as well?"
"Better for him, as for thee, to wed another, Marie! Would'st thou wedthe stranger, wert thou free?"
She buried her face in his bosom, and murmured, "Never!"
"Then in what can this passion end, but in misery for both? Inconstant temptation to perjure thy soul, in forsaking all for him. Andif thou didst, would it bring happiness? My child, thou art absolved,even had aught of promise passed between yo
u. Knowest thou not thata maiden of herself hath no power to vow? Her father's will aloneabsolves it or confirms. Thou doest him no wrong. Be Ferdinand'sbride, and all shall be forgiven, all forgotten--thou art my child, myMiriam's child once more!"
He pressed her again fondly to him; but though she made no reply, hisarguments could not convince her. She had indeed told Arthur that shenever could be his, but yet avowed that she loved him; and if hedid meet her as the wife of another, what must he believe her? AndFerdinand, if he did so love her, that preoccupied heart was indeed asad requital. She had, however, that evening but little time to think,for ere either spoke again, the branches at the entrance of the tentwere hastily pushed aside, and a tall manly form stood upon thethreshold. Marie sprang to her feet with a faint cry--could it be thatthe vow of an hour was already called upon to be fulfilled?--butthe intruder attributed her alarm to a different cause, and hastilyflinging off his wrapping mantle and deep plumed morion, he exclaimed,"What! alarmed by me, my gentle cousin? dearest Marie! am Iforgotten?" And Henriquez, forgetting all of bodily exhaustion, all ofmental suffering, in the deep joy his sudden appearance caused, couldonly fold the warrior in his feeble arms, and drooping his head on hisshoulder, sob forth expressively, "My son! my son!"