"Oh, bear me up
Against the unutterable tenderness
Of earthly love, my God! In the sick hour
Of dying human hope, forsake me not!"
MRS. HEMANS.
For some months all was gayety and rejoicing in Segovia, not a little
heightened by the exciting preparations for the much desired war. The
time had now come when Ferdinand could, with safety to the internal
state of his kingdom, commence the struggle for which he had so
impatiently waited, since the very first hour of the union of Arragon
and Castile. Troops were marshalling secretly all over Spain; the
armorers and smiths were in constant requisition. The nobles were
constantly flitting from their hereditary domains to the court, eager
and active to combine all the pomp and valor of a splendid chivalry
with the more regular force; standing armies, which in almost every
European land were now beginning to take the place of the feudal
soldiery, so long their sole resource. It was necessary for Ferdinand,
ere he commenced operations, to visit his own dominions; a measure he
did not regret, as it effectually concealed his ulterior plans from
the Moors, who were also at that time too much disturbed by internal
dissensions, to give more than a cursory glance on the movements and
appearances of their Christian foes.
In the festivals of the palace the young Englishman was naturally the
hero of the day; the best feelings of the Spanish character had
been called into play towards him: he had been unjustly accused and
seriously injured; been subject to dishonor and shame; and many might
say it had all sprung from prejudice against him as a foreigner. The
very failing of the Spaniards in this case also operated in his favor;
their national jealousy called upon them to make publicly manifest the
falsity of such a supposition, and he was courted and fêted by all,
brought forward on every occasion, and raised and promoted both to
civil and military distinction, by those very men who, before the late
events, would have been the first to keep him back, yielding him but
the bare and formal courtesy, which, however prejudiced, no true-born
Spaniard could refuse.
Amongst Isabella's female train, Arthur Stanley was ever gladly
welcomed, and his presence might have proved dangerous to more than
one of Isabella's younger attendants, had not his manner been such as
to preclude even the boldest and most presuming from any thought of
love. One alone he certainly singled out to talk with, and treat with
more attention than any other; and that one was the maiden we have
more than once had occasion to mention, Catherine Pas. Rallied as she
was by her companions, the young girl herself imagined there could be
no danger to her peace in associating thus with the handsome young
Englishman; for _she_ knew, though her companions did not, the real
reason of his preference for her society. Isabella had once slightly
hinted from which of her attendants Stanley might hear of Marie, and
giving them permission to answer his queries. It was a dangerous
ordeal for Catherine, but she laughed at the idea of permitting her
heart to pass into the possession of one who cared nothing for her,
save as she could speak of Marie.
Great was the surprise and many the conjectures of the Queen's
female court, when rather more than six months after her strange
disappearance, the widow of Morales re-appeared amongst them; not
publicly indeed, for at the various fêtes and amusements of the
palace, and elsewhere, Marie was never seen. Her existence, however,
and safety, under Isabella's especial protection, were no longer kept
secret; and her recent loss was in itself quite sufficient reason for
her strict retirement. Her identity with brother Ernest, the supposed
novice, never transpired; he was supposed to have returned with Perez
to his guardian, Father Ambrose, who, though seen and questioned by
Don Alonzo at the village, did not accompany his dying penitent to
Segovia, nor, in fact, was ever seen in that city again.
The tender care and good nursing which had been lavished on Marie, had
restored her sufficiently to health as to permit returning elasticity
of mind. All morbid agony had passed, all too passionate emotions were
gradually relaxing their fire-bands round her heart; and strength, the
martyr strength, for which she unceasingly prayed, to give up all if
called upon for her God, seemed dawning for her. That she was still
under some restraint, a sort of prisoner in the palace, Marie herself
was not aware; she had neither wish nor energy to leave the castle,
and therefore knew not that her egress, save under watchful
guardianship, would have been denied. She had no spirits to mingle
with the light-hearted, happy girls, in her Sovereign's train, and
therefore was unconscious that, with the sole exception of Catherine
whose passionate entreaties had obtained her this privilege, all
intimacy with them would have been effectually prevented. It was
enough, more than enough (for the foreboding dread was ever present,
that such a blissful calm, such mental and bodily repose, were far,
far too sweet for any long continuance) to be employed in little
services for and about the person of the Queen, and to know that
Arthur Stanley was restored to even more than former favor, and fast
rising to eminence and honor.
Before the sovereigns quitted Segovia, Stanley left the court to march
southward with Pedro Pas, to occupy a strong fortification on the
barrier line, dividing the Spanish from the Moorish territories, and
commanding a very important post, which Ferdinand was anxious to
secure, and where he intended to commence his warlike operations,
as speedily as he could settle affairs at Saragossa. Twice before
Stanley's departure did Isabella contrive an apparently accidental
meeting between him and Marie, permitting them, though in her
presence, ample opportunity for mutual explanation; but not with much
evident success. Stanley, indeed, was painfully and visibly agitated,
finding it difficult, almost impossible to speak the feelings which
had so long filled heart and mind, and been in fancy so often thrown
into eloquent words, that he could not understand why in her presence
words were frozen up, and he could only _feel_. Marie's cheek and lip
had indeed blanched as she beheld him, but the deep and quiet calm she
had so earnestly sought, even then did not forsake her; once only her
voice faltered, when she conjured him to allude no longer to the past,
that the exertions she had made for him demanded no such gratitude
as he expressed. He would have answered with his usual passionate
impetuosity, but there was something in her manner which restrained
him; it was no longer the timid, yielding girl, who, even while she
told him of the barrier between them, had yet betrayed the deep love
she felt: it was the woman whose martyr spirit was her strength. And
yet, spite of himself, he hoped. Isabella, in parting with him, had
spoken such words as sent a thrill of delight over his whole being,
and he quitted Segovia buoyant and glad-hearted, to wait weeks,
months, he thought even years: so certain did he feel of success at
last.
Isabella accompanied Ferdinand to Arragon, and determined on remaining
at Saragossa during the commencement of his Moorish campaign; but
she did not part from him without demanding and receiving his solemn
promise to send for her as soon as the residence of females in the
camp was practicable. She well knew the inspiring power of her
presence in similar scenes, and the joy and increased ardor which the
vicinity of near and dear relations, composing her court, would excite
in the warrior camp of Ferdinand. The promise was given, and the
annals of the Moorish war tell us how faithfully it was kept, and how
admirably Isabella performed the part she had assigned herself.
Months glided slowly and peacefully on; as each passed, the trembling
heart of Marie foreboded change and sorrow; but it was not till she
had been eight months a widow that aught transpired which could
account for such strange fears. Then, indeed, the trial came: she
thought she was prepared, but the aching heart and failing strength
with which she listened to the Queen's commands, betrayed how little
our best endeavors can pave the way for sorrow. Isabella spoke gently
and kindly indeed, but so decisively, there was no mistaking the
meaning of her words: she had waited, she said, till time had restored
not only health and strength, but some degree of tranquillity to the
heart, and elasticity to the mind. That, as a Jewess, Marie must have
long known, the Queen could not continue favor; that she was, in fact,
acting without a precedent in thus permitting the attendance of an
unbeliever on her person, or appearance in her court; but that she had
so acted, believing that when perfectly restored to sense and energy,
Marie would herself feel the necessity, and gladly embrace the only
return she required--a calm deliberation of the Catholic faith, and,
as a necessary consequence, its acceptance. She therefore desired that
Marie would devote herself to the instructions of a venerable monk
(Father Denis by name), whom she had selected for the task. That
from that day Marie would not be called upon for either service or
attendance on the Queen, but to devote her whole mind and energies to
the task proposed; and that when Father Denis brought her information
that Marie accepted the cross, that very hour she should resume
her place in Isabella's court, and be the dearest, most cherished
there!--be publicly acknowledged as the inheritrix of her husband's
vast possessions, and a future of love and joy would shine before her,
so bright as to banish even the memories of the stormy past.
Marie would have replied, but Isabella, with gentle firmness, refused
to hear her. "I demand nothing now," she said, "but obedience. A
willing heart, and open mind, are all you need bring with you to your
task: the father's holy lessons, blessed with God's grace, will do
the rest. I cannot believe that all the kindness and affection I have
shown have been so utterly without effect, that thou too wilt evince
the ungrateful obstinacy, so unhappily the characteristic of thy
blinded people. If banishment from our presence be a source of sorrow,
which I do believe it is, the term of that banishment rests entirely
with thyself. The sooner we can hail the child of the Virgin, even as
thou art now of our affections, the greater share of happiness wilt
thou bestow upon us and upon thyself. We have heard that nought but
harshness and severity can have effect on thy hardened race. It may
be, but with thee, at least, we will not use it, unless--" and her
voice and her look grew sufficiently stern for Marie to feel her words
were no idle threat--"unless obduracy and ingratitude so conquer
affection that we can see no more in the Marie Morales we have loved
than a hardened member of her own stiff-necked race; then--, but we
will not pain ourself or thee, by imagining what thine own will may
avert. Go, and the holy Virgin bless thee. Not a word; I know what
will be thine answer now; but a month hence thou wilt thank me for
this seeming severity."
And Isabella turned somewhat hastily away; for her lip quivered and
her eye swelled. Marie did not see these indications of emotion, and
silently withdrew.