"Farewell! though in that sound be years
Of blighted hopes and fruitless tears--
Though the soul vibrate to its knell
Of joys departed--yet farewell."
MRS. HEMANS.
To attempt description of either face or form would be useless. The
exquisite proportions of the rounded figure, the very perfection of
each feature, the delicate clearness of the complexion--brunette when
brought in close contact with the Saxon, blonde when compared with the
Spaniard--all attractions in themselves, were literally forgotten, or
at least unheeded, beneath the spell which dwelt in the _expression_
of her countenance. Truth, purity, holiness, something scarcely of
this nether world, yet blended indescribably with all a woman's
nature, had rested there, attracting the most unobservant, and
riveting all whose own hearts contained a spark of the same lofty
attributes. Her dress, too, was peculiar--a full loose petticoat of
dark blue silk, reaching only to the ankle, and so displaying the
beautifully-shaped foot; a jacket of pale yellow, the texture seeming
of the finest woven wool, reaching to the throat; with sleeves tight
on the shoulders, but falling in wide folds as low as the wrist, and
so with every movement displaying the round soft arm beneath. An
antique brooch of curiously wrought silver confined the jacket at the
throat. The collar, made either to stand up or fall, was this evening
unclosed and thrown black, its silver fringe gleaming through the
clustering tresses that fell in all their native richness and raven
blackness over her shoulders, parted and braided on her brow, so as to
heighten the chaste and classic expression of her features.
On a stranger that beautiful vision must have burst with bewildering
power: to Arthur Stanley she united _memory_ with _being_, the _past_
with the _present_, with such an intensity of emotion, that for a few
minutes his very breath was impeded. She turned, without seeing him,
in a contrary direction; and the movement roused him.
"Marie!" he passionately exclaimed, flinging himself directly in her
path, and startling her so painfully, that though there was a strong
and visible effort at self-control, she must have fallen had he not
caught her in his arms. There was an effort to break from his hold, a
murmured exclamation, in which terror, astonishment, and yet joy, were
painfully mingled, and then the heroine gave place to the woman, for
her head sunk on his shoulder and she burst into tears.
Time passed. Nearly an hour from that strange meeting, and still they
were together; but no joy, nor even hope was on the countenance of
either. At first, Arthur had alluded to their hours of happy yet
unconfessed affection, when both had felt, intuitively, that they were
all in all to each other, though not a syllable of love had passed
their lips; on the sweet memories of those blissful hours, so brief,
so fleeting, but still Marie wept: the memory seemed anguish more than
joy. And then he spoke of returned affection, as avowed by her, when
his fond words had called it forth; and shuddered at the recollection
that that hour of acknowledged and mutual love, had proved the signal
of their separation. He referred again to her agonized words, that a
union was impossible, that she dared not wed him; it was sin even
to love him; that in the tumultuary, yet delicious emotions she had
experienced, she had forgotten, utterly forgotten in what it must
end--the agony of desolation for herself, and, if he so loved her, for
Stanley also--and again he conjured her to explain their meaning. They
had been separated, after that fearful interview, by a hasty summons
for him to rejoin his camp; and when he returned, she had vanished.
He could not trace either her or the friend with whom she had been
staying. Don Albert had indeed said, his wife had gone to one of the
southern cities, and his young guest returned to her father's home;
but where that home was, Don Albert had so effectually evaded, that
neither direct questionings nor wary caution could obtain reply. But
he had found her now; they had met once more, and oh, why need they
part again? Why might he not seek her father, and beseech his blessing
and consent?
His words were eloquent, his tone impassioned, and hard indeed the
struggle they occasioned. But Marie wavered not in the repetition
of the same miserable truth, under the impression of which they
had separated before. She conjured him to leave her, to forget the
existence of this hidden valley, for danger threatened her father and
herself if it was discovered. So painful was her evident terror, that
Arthur pledged his honor never to reveal it, declaring that to
retrace the path by which he had discovered it, was even to himself
impossible. But still he urged her, what was this fatal secret? Why
was it sin to love him? Was she the betrothed of another? and the
large drops starting to the young man's brow denoted the agony of the
question.
"No, Arthur, no," was the instant rejoinder: "I never could love,
never could be another's, this trial is hard enough, but it is all I
have to bear. I am not called upon to give my hand to another, while
my heart is solely thine."
"Then wherefore join that harsh word 'sin,' with such pure love, my
Marie? Why send me from you wretched and most lonely, when no human
power divides us?"
"No human power!--alas! alas!--a father's curse--an offended
God--these are too awful to encounter, Arthur. Oh do not try me more;
leave me to my fate, called down by my own weakness, dearest Arthur.
If you indeed love me, tempt me not by such fond words; they do but
render duty harder. Oh, wherefore have you loved me!"
But such suffering tone, such broken words, were not likely to check
young Stanley's solicitations. Again and again he urged her, at least
to say what fatal secret so divided them; did he but know it, it
might be all removed. Marie listened to him for several minutes, with
averted head and in unbroken silence; and when she did look on him
again, he started at her marble paleness and the convulsive quivering
of her lips, which for above a minute prevented the utterance of a
word.
"Be it so," she said at length; "you shall know this impassable
barrier. You are too honorable to reveal it. Alas! it is not that fear
which restrained me; my own weakness which shrinks from being to thee
as to other men, were the truth once known, an object of aversion and
of scorn."
"Aversion! scorn! Marie, thou ravest," impetuously exclaimed Stanley;
"torture me not by these dark words: the worst cannot be more
suffering."
But when the words were said, when with blanched lips and cheeks, and
yet unfaltering tone, Marie revealed the secret which was to separate
them for ever, Arthur staggered back, relinquishing the hands he had
so fondly clasped, casting on her one look in which love and aversion
were strangely and fearfully blended, and then burying his face in his
hands, his whole frame shook as with some sudden and irrepressible
anguish.
"Thou knowest all, now," continued Marie, after a pause, and she stood
before him with arms folded on her bosom, and an expression of meek
humility struggling with misery on her beautiful features. "Señor
Stanley, I need not now implore you to leave me; that look was
sufficient, say but you forgive the deception I have been compelled to
practise--and--and forget me. Remember what I am, and you will soon
cease to love."
"Never, never!" replied Stanley, as with passionate agony he flung
himself before her. "Come with me to my own bright land; who shall
know what thou art there? Marie, my own beloved, be mine. What to me
is race or blood? I see but the Marie I have loved, I shall ever love.
Come with me. Edward has made overtures of peace if I would return to
England. For thy sake I will live beneath his sway; be but mine, and
oh, we shall be happy yet."
"And my father," gasped the unhappy girl, for the generous nature of
Arthur's love rendered her trial almost too severe. "Wilt thou protect
him too? wilt thou for my sake forget what he is, and be to him a
son?" He turned from her with a stifled groan. "Thou canst not--I knew
it--oh bless thee for thy generous love; but tempt me no more, Arthur;
it cannot be; I dare not be thy bride."
"And yet thou speakest of love. 'Tis false, thou canst not love me,"
and Stanley sprung to his feet disappointed, wounded, till he scarce
knew what he said. "I would give up Spain and her monarch's love for
thee. I would live in slavery beneath a tyrant's rule to give thee a
home of love. I would forget, trample on, annihilate the prejudices
of a life, unite the pure blood of Stanley with the darkened torrent
running through thy veins, forget thy race, descent, all but thine own
sweet self. I would do this, all this for love of thee. And for
me, what wilt thou do?--reject me, bid me leave thee--and yet thou
speakest of love: 'tis false, thou lovest another better!"
"Ay!" replied Marie, in a tone which startled him, "ay, thou hast
rightly spoken; thy words have recalled what in this deep agony I had
well nigh forgotten. There is a love, a duty stronger than that I bear
to thee. I would resign all else, but not my father's God."
The words were few and simple; but the tone in which they were spoken
recalled Arthur's better nature, and banished hope at once. A pause
ensued, broken only by the young man's hurried tread, as he traversed
the little platform in the vain struggle for calmness. On him this
blow had fallen wholly unprepared; Marie had faced it from the moment
they had parted fifteen months before, and her only prayer had been (a
fearful one for a young and loving heart), that Stanley would forget
her, and they might never meet again. But this was not to be; and
though she had believed herself prepared, one look on his face, one
sound of his voice had proved how vain had been her dream.
"I will obey thee, Marie," Stanley said, at length, pausing before
her. "I will leave thee now, but not--not for ever. No, no; if indeed
thou lovest me time will not change thee, if thou hast one sacred tie,
when nature severs that, and thou art alone on earth, thou shalt be
mine, whatever be thy race."
"Hope it not, ask it not! Oh, Arthur, better thou shouldst hate me, as
thy people do my race: I cannot bear such gentle words," faltered poor
Marie, as her head sunk for a minute on his bosom, and the pent-up
tears burst forth. "But this is folly," she continued, forcing back
the choking sob, and breaking from his passionate embrace. "There is
danger alike for my father and thee, if thou tarriest longer. Not that
way," she added, as his eye glanced inquiringly towards the hill by
which he had descended; "there is another and an easier path; follow
me--thou wilt not betray it?"
"Never!" was the solemn rejoinder, and not a word more passed between
them. He followed her through what seemed to be an endless maze, and
paused before a towering rock, which, smooth and perpendicular as a
wall built by man, ran round the vale and seemed to reach to heaven.
Pushing aside the thick brushwood, Marie stood beside the rock, and by
some invisible movement, a low door flew open and disclosed a winding
staircase.
"Thou wilt trust me, Arthur?"
"Ay, unto death," he answered, springing after her up the rugged
stair. Narrow loopholes, almost concealed without by trees and
brushwood, dimly lighted the staircase, as also a low, narrow passage,
which branched off in zig-zag windings at the top, and terminated, as
their woody path had done, in a solid wall. But again an invisible
door flew open, closing behind them; and after walking about a hundred
yards through prickly shrubs and entangled brushwood that obscured his
sight, Marie paused, and Arthur gazed round bewildered. A seemingly
boundless plain stretched for miles around him, its green level
only diversified by rocks scattered about in huge masses and wild
confusion, as if hurled in fury from some giant's hand. The rock
whence he had issued was completely invisible. He looked around again
and again, but only to bewilder himself yet more.
"The way looks more dreary than it is. Keep to the left: though it
seems the less trodden path thou wilt find there a shelter for the
night, and to-morrow's sun will soon guide thee to a frontier town;
thy road will be easy then. Night is falling so fast now, thou hadst
best not linger, Arthur."
But he did linger, till once more he had drawn from her a confession
of her love, that none other could take his place, even while she
conjured him never to seek her again--and so they parted. Five minutes
more, and there was not a vestige of a human form on the wide-extended
plain.