For a time Pedro’s movements were as erratic as his stormy temper.
Insurrection here, robbers there, required his attention; but at last he
sought a season of repose at the Alcazar of Seville.
He reclined, one sunny afternoon, in the verandah of the palace, while
Maria de Padilla had left him for an hour to enjoy her accustomed
siesta. He seemed thoughtful and uneasy; Blanche’s image seemed to
contend with Maria’s in his thoughts, and conscience was not entirely at
rest. His mood was interrupted by the entrance of a tall and graceful
knight, who, with a low obeisance, delivered to him a small missive, and
then abruptly retired. Pedro tore open the sealed silk covering, and
opening the letter, read the following words:
“MY KING AND HUSBAND,—Were I not _thy wife_, I should not
strive to call thee back. The wild and fickle falcon might
rejoice in freedom. But now it is my duty, as it is my
happiness, to be with thee in peace and storm, and therefore, by
the right our God hath vested in me, do I claim that thou allow
me to rejoin thee. What love can live without that heavenly
union in the soul which makes us one? What sensual pleasure can
bring peace to the o’er-tasked and troubled life of royalty. The
sympathy of heart with heart, alone can feed the cravings of the
spirit, and bring a joy which Heaven sanctions. Pedro, for thy
own sake as for mine, I pray that thou be with me soon.
“BLANCHE.”
The trembling hand, the variable brow, but slightly indicated the
tempest of the soul. Vague and uncertain were his musings and intentions
as Maria entered the verandah. Smiling, she took the letter from his
hand, which mechanically yielded it to hers; but her smile fled as she
read it, and saw the expression of his face. She handed the letter back,
but threw her arms around the irresolute lover.
“And thou wouldst leave me, Pedro,” she said, in a low, deep tone, so
plaintive in its modulation, that the tears almost reached his eyes,
unused though they were to such a visitation. “Thou wouldst leave me,”
she repeated; “but canst thou forget? Oh! not to the hours of dalliance,
not to the day when words of love thrilled to our hearts with unearthly
power, do I call thy memory now; but to those darker hours when
adversity broke in a thousand waves; when death awaited his victim, and
hope seemed shrouded in the pall of despair. Whose sympathy consoled
thee then? Whose hand wrestled through many fearful trials with the dark
destroyer? Whose heart grew cold with thine beneath that awful pall?
“Pedro!” she exclaimed with a wild energy, while the mournful shadow of
her eyes gave place to a brighter glow, for even that appeal was
ineffectual. “Pedro! if thou wilt go, go freely; but remember that her
heart has not yet learned as mine has, to find its life in thine. If I
had ever proved myself less than a part of thee, thy true and real wife,
thou mightest now hesitate; but canst thou say that I have ever let my
own hopes, fears, or projects be apart from thine? My life is thine.
Wilt thou tear me from thy heart? ’Tis thy own eye thou blindest, and
thy own tongue thou pluckest out.”
She stood before him, stately and magnificent; he quailed before the
fearful majesty which crowned that brow with regal power; the kindling
fire which dwelt in those dark, glowing orbs beneath, seemed to gleam
with supernatural light upon the very inmost motives of his soul.
“Go, go! if thou no longer lovest me I would not have thee near; but my
image will be with thee as the mistletoe upon the oak. Thou canst not
leave or kill it, till thy own life fails; ’twill rise at every hour of
thy life in judgment on the heart which dared not keep the holiest
treasure man can win.”
His eyes met hers with a clear firm gaze. “It is over,” he said. “When
honor hath two calls love shall be the arbiter.”