"If she be false, oh, then Heaven mock itself!
I'll not believe it."
SHAKSPEARE.
Don Ferdinand had scarcely quitted his mansion ere fleet steps
resounded behind him, and turning, he beheld Don Luis Garcia, who
greeted him with such a marked expression, both in voice and face,
of sadness, that Morales involuntarily paused, and with much
commiseration inquired what had chanced.
"Nothing of personal misfortune, my friend; but there are times when
the spirit is tortured by a doubtful duty. To preserve silence is
undoubtedly wrong, and may lead to wrong, yet greater; and yet, to
speak, is so painfully distressing to my peace-loving disposition,
that I am tossed for ever on conflicting impulses, and would gladly be
guided by another."
"If you would be guided by my counsel, my good friend, I must entreat
a clearer statement," replied Morales, half smiling. "You have spoken
so mysteriously, that I cannot even guess your meaning. I cannot
imagine one so straightforward and strong-minded as yourself
hesitating and doubtful as to duty, of whatever nature."
"Not if it concerned myself: but in this case I must either continue
to see wrong done, with the constant dread of its coming to light,
without my interference; or inflict anguish where I would gladly give
but joy; and very probably, in addition, have my tale disbelieved,
and myself condemned, though for that matter, personal pain is of no
consequence, could I but pursue the right."
"But how stands this important case, my good friend?"
"Thus: I have been so unfortunate as to discover that one is false,
whom her doting husband believes most true--that the lover of her
youth has returned, and still holds her imagination chained--that she
meets him in secret, and has appointed another clandestine interview,
from which who may tell the evil that may ensue? I would prevent this
interview--would recall her to her better nature, or put her husband
on his guard: but how dare I do this--how interfere thus closely
between man and wife? Counsel me, my friend, in pity!"
"If you have good foundation for this charge, Don Luis, it is your
duty to speak out," replied Morales, gravely.
"And to whom?"
"To the lawful guardian of this misguided one--her husband."
"But how can I excite his anguish--how turn his present heaven of joy
to a very hell of woe, distrust, suspicion?"
"Does the leech heed his patient's anguish when probing a painful
wound, or cutting away the mortified flesh? His office is not
enviable, but it is necessary, and; if feelingly performed, we love
him not the less. Speak out. Don Luis, openly, frankly, yet gently, to
the apparently injured husband. Do more: counsel him to act as openly,
as gently with his seemingly guilty wife; and that which now appears
so dark, may be proved clear, and joy dawn again for both, by a few
words of mutual explanation. But there must be no mystery on your
part--no either heightening or smoothing what you may have learnt.
Speak out the simple truth; insinuate nought, for that love is
worthless, that husband false to his sacred charge, if he believes in
guilt ere he questions the accused."
Don Luis looked on the open countenance before him for a few minutes
without reply, thinking, not if he should spare him, but if his plans
might not be foiled, did Morales himself act as he had said. But the
pause was not long: never had he read human countenance aright, if
Arthur Stanley were not at that moment with Marie. He laid his hand
on Don Ferdinand's arm, and so peculiar was the expression on his
countenance, so low and plaintively musical the tone in which be
said, "God give you strength, my poor friend," that the rich color
unconsciously forsook the cheek of the hardy warrior, leaving him
pallid as death; and so sharp a thrill passed through his heart, that
it was with difficulty he retained his feet; but Morales was not
merely physically, he was mentally brave. With a powerful, a mighty
effort of will, he called life, energy, courage back, and said,
sternly and unfalteringly, "Don Luis Garcia, again I say, speak out! I
understand you; it is I who am the apparently injured husband. Marie!
Great God of heaven! that man should dare couple her pure name with
ignominy! Marie! my Marie! the seemingly guilty wife! Well, put forth
your tale: I am not the man to shrink from my own words. Speak truth,
and I will hear you; and--and, if I can, not spurn you from me as a
liar! Speak out!"
Don Luis needed not a second bidding: he had remarked, seen, and
heard quite enough the evening of Don Ferdinand's banquet, to require
nothing more than the simple truth, to harrow the heart of his hearer,
even while Morales disbelieved his every word. Speciously, indeed,
he turned his own mere suspicions as to Marie's unhappiness, and her
early love for Arthur, into realities, founded on certain information,
but with this sole exception--he told but the truth. Without moving
a muscle, without change of countenance, or uttering a syllable of
rejoinder, Don Ferdinand listened to Garcia's recital, fixing his
large piercing eye on his face, with a gaze that none but one so
hardened in hypocrisy could have withstood. Once only Morales's
features contracted for a single instant, as convulsed by some spasm.
It was the recollection of Marie's passionate tears, the night of the
festival; and yet she had shed them on _his_ bosom. How could she be
guilty? And the spasm passed.
"I have heard you, Don Luis," he said, so calmly, as Garcia ceased,
that the latter started. "If there be truth in this strange tale, I
thank you for imparting it: if it be false--if you have dared pollute
my ears with one word that has no foundation, cross not my path
again, lest I be tempted to turn and crush you as I would a loathsome
reptile, who in very wantonness has stung me."
He turned from him rapidly, traversed the brief space, and disappeared
within his house. Don Luis looked after him with a low, fiendish
laugh, and plunged once more into the gardens.
"Is the Senora within?" Inquired Don Ferdinand, encountering his
wife's favorite attendant at the entrance of Marie's private suit of
rooms; and though his cheek was somewhat pale, his voice was firm as
usual. The reply was in the negative; the Senora was in the gardens.
"Alone? Why are you not with her as usual, Manuella?"
"I was with her, my Lord; she only dismissed me ten minutes ago."
Without rejoinder, Don Ferdinand turned in the direction she had
pointed out. It was a lovely walk, in the most shaded parts of the
extensive grounds, walled by alternate orange and lemon trees; some
with the blossom, germ, and fruit all on one tree; others full of
the paly fruit; and others, again, as wreathed with snow, from the
profusion of odoriferous flowers. An abrupt curve led to a grassy
plot, from which a sparkling fountain sent up its glistening showers,
before a luxurious bower, which Morales's tender care had formed of
large and healthy slips, cut from the trees of the Vale of Cedars, and
flowery shrubs and variegated moss from the same spot; and there he
had introduced his Marie, calling it by the fond name of "Home!" As he
neared the curve, voices struck on his ear--Marie's and another's. She
was not alone! and that other!--could it be?--nay, it was--there was
neither doubt nor hesitation--it was his--his--against whom Don Luis
had warned him. Was it for this Marie had dismissed her attendant?
It could not be; it was mere accident, and Don Ferdinand tried to go
forward to address them as usual; but the effort even for him was too
much, and he sunk down on a rustic bench near him, and burying his
head in his hands, tried to shut out sight and sound till power and
calmness would return. But though he could close his eyes on all
outward things, he could not deaden hearing; and words reached him
which, while he strove not to hear, seemed to be traced by a dagger's
point upon his heart, and from very physical agony deprived him of
strength to move.
"And thou wilt give me no reason--idle, weak as it must be--thou wilt
refuse me even an excuse for thy perjury?" rung on the still air, in
the excited tones of Arthur Stanley. "Wealth, beauty, power--ay, they
are said to be omnipotent with thy false sex; but little did I dream
that it could be so with thee; and in six short months--nay, less
time, thou couldst conquer love, forget past vows, leap over the
obstacle thou saidst must part us, and wed another! 'Twas short space
to do so much!" And he laughed a bitter, jibing laugh.
"It was short, indeed!" faintly articulated Marie; "but long enough to
bear."
"To bear!" he answered; "nay, what hadst thou to bear? The petted
minion of two mighty sovereigns, the idol of a nation--came, and
sought, and won--how couldst thou resist him? What were my claims to
his--an exile and a foreigner, with nought but my good sword, and a
love so deep, so faithful (his voice softened), that it formed my very
being? But what was love to thee before ambition? Oh, fool, fool that
I was, to believe a woman's tongue--to dream that truth could dwell in
those sweet-sounding words--those tears, that seemed to tell of grief
in parting, bitter as my own--fool, to believe thy specious tale!
There could be no cause to part us, else wherefore art thou Morales's
wife? Thou didst never love me! From the first deceived, thou calledst
forth affection, to triumph in thy power, and wreck the slender joys
left to an exile! And yet I love thee--oh, God, how deeply!"
"Arthur!" answered Marie, and her bloodless lips so quivered, they
could scarcely frame the word--"wrong I have done thee, grievous
wrong; but oh! blast not my memory with injuries I have not inflicted.
Look back; recall our every interview. Had I intended to deceive, to
call forth the holiest feelings of the human heart, to make them a
mock and scorn, to triumph in a power, of whose very existence till
thou breathed love I was unconscious--should I have said our love
was vain--was so utterly hopeless, we could never be other than
strangers--should I have conjured thee to leave--aye, and to forget
me, had I not felt that I loved too well, and trembled for myself yet
more than for thee? Oh, Arthur, Arthur, do not add to the bitterness
of this moment by unjust reproaches! I have injured thee enough by my
ill-fated beauty, and too readily acknowledged love: but more I have
not done. From the first I said that there was a fate around us--thine
I might never be!"
"Then wherefore wed Morales? Is he not as I am, and therefore equally
unmeet mate for thee--if, indeed, thy tale be true? Didst thou not
tell me, when I implored thee to say if thy hand was pledged unto
another, that such misery was spared thee--thou wert free, and free
wouldst remain while thy heart was mine?"
"Ay," faltered Marie, "thou rememberest all too well."
"Then didst thou not deceive? Art thou not as perjured now as I once
believed thee true--as false as thou art lovely? How couldst thou
love, if so soon it was as nought?"
"Then believe me all thou sayest," replied Marie, more
firmly--"believe me thus false and perjured, and forget me, Senor
Stanley; crush even my memory from thy heart, and give not a thought
to one so worthless! Mystery as there was around me when we first met,
there is a double veil around me now, which I may not lift even to
clear myself with thee. Turn thy love into the scorn which my perjury
deserves, and leave me."
"I will not!" burst impetuously from Arthur, as he suddenly flung
himself at her feet. "Marie, I will not leave thee thus; say but that
some unforeseen circumstances, not thine own will, made thee the
wife of this proud Spaniard; say but that neither thy will nor thy
affections were consulted, that no word of thine could give him hope
he was beloved--that thou lovest me still; say but this, and I will
bless thee!"
"Ask it not, Senor Stanley. The duty of a wife would be of itself
sufficient to forbid such words; with me gratitude and reverence
render that duty more sacred still. Wouldst thou indeed sink me so low
as, even as a wife, to cease to respect me? Rise, Senor Stanley! such
posture is unsuited to thee or me; rise, and leave me; we must never
meet alone again."
Almost overpowered with contending emotions, as he was, there was
a dignity, the dignity of truth in that brief appeal, which Arthur
vainly struggled to resist. She had not attempted a single word of
exoneration, and yet his reproaches rushed back into his own heart as
cruel and unjust, and answer he had none. He rose mechanically, and
as he turned aside to conceal the weakness, a deep and fearful
imprecation suddenly broke from him; and raising her head, Marie
beheld her husband.
Every softened feeling fled from Stanley's breast; the passionate
anger which Marie's words had calmed towards herself, now burst fourth
unrestrained towards Morales. His sudden appearance bringing the
conviction that he had played the spy upon their interview, roused
his native irritation almost into madness. His sword flew from its
scabbard, and in fearful passion he exclaimed--"Tyrant and coward! How
durst thou play the spy? Is it not enough that thou hast robbed me of
a treasure whose value thou canst never know? for her love was mine
alone ere thou earnest between us, and by base arts and cruel force
compelled her to be thine. Ha! wouldst thou avoid me? refuse to cross
my sword! Draw, or I will proclaim thee coward in the face of the
whole world!"
With a faint cry, Marie had thrown herself between them; but strength
failed with the effort, and she would have fallen had not Morales
upheld her with his left arm. But she had not fainted; every sense
felt wrung into unnatural acuteness Except to support her, Morales had
made no movement; his tall figure was raised to its fullest height,
and his right arm calmly uplifted as his sole protection against
Arthur. "Put up your sword," he said firmly, and fixing his large dark
eyes upon his irritated adversary, with a gaze far more of sorrow than
of anger, "I will not fight thee. Proclaim me what thou wilt. I fear
neither thy sword nor thee. Go hence, unhappy boy; when this chafed
mood is past, thou wilt repent this rashness, and perchance find it
harder to forgive thyself than I shall to forgive thee. Go; thou art
overwrought. We are not equals now."
Stanley involuntarily dropped the point of his sword. "I obey thee,"
he said, in that deep concentrated tone, which, betrays strong passion
yet more than violent words; "obey thee, because I would not strike an
undefended foe; but we shall meet again in a more fitting place and
season. Till then, hear me, Don Ferdinand! We have hitherto been as
companions in arms, and as friends, absent or together; from this
moment the tie is broken, and for ever. I am thy foe! one who hath
sworn to take thy life, or lose his own. I will compel thee to meet
me! Ay, shouldst thou shun me, to the confines of the world I will
track and find thee. Coward and spy! And yet men think thee noble!"
A bitter laugh of scorn concluded these fatal words. He returned his
sword violently to its sheath; the tread of his armed heel was heard
for a few seconds, and then all was silent.
Morales neither moved nor spoke, and Marie lifted her head to look on
his face in terror. The angry words of Arthur had evidently fallen
either wholly unheeded, or perhaps unheard. There was but one feeling
expressed on those chiseled features, but one thought, but one
conviction; a low, convulsive sob broke from her, and she fainted in
his arms.