"She clasped her hands"!--the strife
Of love--faith--fear, and the vain dream of life,
Within her woman-heart so deeply wrought--
It seemed as if a reed, so slight and weak,
_Must_, in the rending storm, not quiver only--break!
MRS. HEMANS.
Isabella's expressive countenance was grave and calm; but it was
impossible to doubt the firmness of her purpose, though what that
purpose might be, Marie had no power to read. She stood leaning
against the back of one of the ponderous chairs; her head bent down,
and her heart so loudly and thickly throbbing that it choked her very
breath.
"We have summoned thee hither, Marie," the Queen said at length,
gravely, but not severely, "to hear from thine own lips the decision
which Father Denis has reported to us; but which, indeed, we can
scarcely credit. Wert thou other than thou art--one whose heavy trials
and lovable qualities have bound thee to us with more than common
love--we should have delivered thee over at once to the judgment of
our holy fathers, and interfered with their sentence no farther. We
are exposing ourselves to priestly censure even for the forbearance
already shown; but we will dare even that, to win thee from thine
accursed creed, and give thee peace and comfort. Marie canst _thou_
share the ingratitude--the obstinacy--of thy benighted race, that even
with thee we must deal harshly? Compel me not to a measure from which
my whole heart revolts. Do not let me feel that the charge against thy
people is true, without even one exception, and that kindness shown to
them, is unvalued as unfelt."
A convulsive sob was the sole reply. Marie's face was buried in her
hands; but the tears were streaming through her slender fingers, and
her slight figure shook with the paroxysm.
"Nay, Marie, we ask not tears. We demand the proof of grateful
affection on thy part; not its weak display. And what is that proof?
The acceptance of a faith without which there can be no security
in this life, nor felicity hereafter! The rejection of a fearfully
mistaken--terribly accursed--creed; condemning its followers to the
scorn and hate of man, and abiding wrath of God."
"'To the scorn and hate of man?' Alas, gracious Sovereign, it is
even so; but not to the 'abiding wrath of God,'" answered Marie,
suppressing with a desperate effort, her painful emotion. "The very
scorn and loathing we encounter confirms the blessed truth, of our
having been the chosen children of our God, and the glorious promise
of our future restoration. We are enduring now on earth the effects of
the fearful sins of our ancestors; but for those who live and die true
to His law, there is a future after death laid up with Him; that, how
may we forfeit for transitory joy?"
"If it were indeed so, we would be the last to demand such forfeit,"
answered the Queen; "but were it not for the blinding veil of wilful
rejection cast over the eyes and hearts of thy people, thou wouldst
know and feel, that however thy race were _once_ the chosen of God,
the distinction has been lost for ever, by their blaspheming rejection
of Jesus and his virgin mother; and the misery--its consequence--on
earth, is but a faint type of that misery which is for everlasting. It
is from this we would save thee. Father Denis has brought before thee
the solemn truths which our sainted creed advances, in reply to the
mystifying fallacies of thine; and, he tells me, wholly without
effect. My arguments, then, can be of such little weight, that I have
pledged myself to my confessor to attempt none. We summoned thee
merely to tell our decision in this matter; of too vital importance
to be left to other lips. Once more let me ask--and understand thee
rightly!--have all the Holy Father's lessons failed to convince, even
as all our affection has failed to move, thee?"
"Would--would to Heaven I could believe as thou demandest!" answered
Marie. "Would that those lessons had brought conviction! The bitter
agony of your Grace's displeasure--of feeling that, while my heart so
throbs and swells with grateful devotion that I would gladly die to
serve thee, yet the proof thou demandest I _cannot_ give; and I must
go down to an early grave, leaving with thee the sole impression that
thou hadst cherished a miserable ingrate, whom, even as thou hast
loved, so thou must now hate and scorn. Oh, madam! try me by other
proof! My creed may be the mistaken one it seems to thee; but, oh!
it is no garment we may wear and cast off at pleasure. Have mercy,
gracious Sovereign! condemn me not as reprobate--hardened--more
insensible than the veriest cur, who is grateful for the kindness of
his master!--because I love my faith better even than thy love--the
dearest earthly joy now left me."
"Methinks scarcely the dearest," replied Isabella, affected, in spite
of her every effort for control; "but of that here after. Marie, I
have pledged myself to my confessor, not to let this matter rest. He
has told me that my very affection for thee is a snare, and must
be sacrificed if it interfere with my duty; not alone as member of
Christ's church, but as Sovereign of a Catholic realm, whose bounden
duty it is to purge away all heresy and misbelief. I feel that he is
right, and, cost what it may, Christ's dictates must be obeyed. The
years of fraud--of passing for what thou wert not--I forgive, for thy
noble husband's sake; but my confessor has told me, and I feel its
truth, that if we allow thy return to thy people as thou art now, we
permit a continuance of such unnatural unions, encourage fraud,
and expose our subjects to the poisonous taint of Jewish blood and
unbelief. A Christian thou must become. The plan we have decided upon
must bring conviction at last; but it will be attended with such
long years of mental and physical suffering, that we shrink from the
alternative, and only thine own obstinacy will force us to adopt it."
She paused for above a minute; but though Marie's very lips had
blanched, and her large eyes were fixed in terror on the Queen's face,
there was no answer.
"Thou hast more than once alluded to death," Isabella continued,
her voice growing sterner; "but, though such may be the punishment
demanded, we cannot so completely banish regard as to expose thy soul,
as well as body, to undying flames. Thou hast heard, perchance, of
holy sisterhoods, who, sacrificing all of earthly joys and earthly
ties, devote themselves as the willing brides of Christ, and pass
their whole lives in acts of personal penance, mortification,
self-denial, and austerity; which to all, save those impelled try this
same lofty enthusiasm, would be unendurable. The convent of St. Ursula
is the most strictly rigid and unpitying of this sternly rigid school;
and there, if still thou wilt not retract, thou wilt be for life
immured, to learn that reverence, that submission, that belief,
which thou refusest now. Ponder well on all the suffering which this
sentence must comprise. It is even to us--a Christian--so dreadful,
that we would not impose it, could we save thy deluded spirit by any
other means. The Abbess, from the strict and terrible discipline of
long years, has conquered every womanly weakness; and to a Jewess
placed under her charge, to be brought a penitent to the bosom of
the Virgin, is not likely to decrease the severity of treatment and
discipline, the portion even of her own. Once delivered to her charge,
we interfere no further. Whatever she may command--short of actual
torture, or death--thou must endure. Marie! wilt thou tempt a doom
like this? In mercy to thyself, retract ere it be too late!"
"If I can bear the loss of thy favor, my Sovereign, I can bear this,"
replied Marie, slowly and painfully. "There is more suffering in the
thought, that your Grace's love is lost for ever; that I shall never
see your Highness more; and thou must ever think of me as only a
wretched, feelingless ingrate, than in all the bodily and mental
anguish such a life may bring."
"Marie!" exclaimed Isabella, with an irrepressible burst of natural
feeling. And Marie had darted forwards, and was kneeling at her feet,
and covering her hand with tears and kisses, ere she had power to
forcibly subdue the emotion and speak again.
"This must not be," she said at length; but she did not withdraw the
hand which Marie still convulsively clasped, and, half unconsciously
it seemed, she put back the long, black tresses, which had fallen over
her colorless cheek, looked sadly in that bowed face, and kissed
her brow. "It is the last," she murmured to herself. "It may be
the effects of sorcery--it may be sin; but if I do penance for the
weakness, it must have way."
"Thou hast heard the one alternative," she continued aloud; "now hear
the other. We have thought long, and watched well, some means of
effectually obliterating the painful memories of the past, and making
thy life as happy as it has been sad. We have asked and received
permission from our confessor to bring forward a temporal inducement
for a spiritual end; that even the affections themselves may be made
conducive to turning a benighted spirit from the path of death into
that of life; and, therefore, we may proceed more hopefully. Marie! is
there not a love thou valuest even more than mine? Nay, attempt not
to deny a truth, which we have known from the hour we told thee that
Arthur Stanley was thy husband's murderer. What meant those wild words
imploring me to save him? For what was the avowal of thy faith, but
that thy witness should not endanger him? Why didst thou return to
danger when safety was before thee?--peril thine own life but to save
his? Answer me truly: thou lovest Stanley, Marie?"
"I have loved him, gracious Sovereign."
"And thou dost no longer? Marie, methinks there would be less wrong
in loving now, than when we first suspected it," rejoined the Queen,
gravely.
"Alas! my liege, who may school the heart? He was its first--first
affection! But, oh! my Sovereign, I never wronged my noble husband. He
knew it all ere he was taken from me, and forgave and loved me still;
and, oh! had he been but spared, even memory itself would have lost
its power to sting. His trust, his love, had made me all--all his
own!"
"I believe thee, my poor child; but how came it that, loving Stanley,
thy hand was given to Morales?"
For the first time, the dangerous ground on which she stood flashed on
the mind of Marie; and her voice faltered as she answered--"My father
willed it, Madam."
"Thy father! And was he of thy faith, yet gave his child to one of
us?"
"He was dying, Madam, and there was none to protect his Marie. He
loved and admired him to whom he gave me; for Ferdinand had never
scorned nor persecuted us. He had done us such good service that my
father sought to repay him; but he would accept nothing but my hand,
and swore to protect my faith--none other would have made such
promise. I was weak, I know, and wrong; but I dared not then confess I
loved another. And, once his wife, it was sin even to think of Arthur.
Oh, Madam! night and day I prayed that we might never meet, till all
of love was conquered."
"Poor child," replied Isabella, kindly. "But, since thou wert once
more free, since Stanley was cleared of even the suspicion of guilt,
has no former feeling for him returned! He loves thee, Marie, with
such faithful love as in man I have seldom seen equalled; why check
affection now?"
"Alas! my liege, what may a Jewess be to him; or his love to me, save
as the most terrible temptation to estrange me from my God?"
"Say rather to gently lure thee to Him, Marie," replied Isabella,
earnestly. "There is a thick veil between thy heart and thy God now;
let the love thou bearest this young Englishman be the blessed means
of removing it, and bringing thee to the sole source of salvation, the
Saviour Stanley worships. One word--one little word--from thee, and
thou shalt be Stanley's wife! His own; dearer than ever from the
trials of the past. Oh! speak it, Marie! Let me feel I have saved thee
from everlasting torment, and made this life--in its deep, calm joy--a
foretaste of the heaven that, as a Christian, will await thee above.
Spare Stanley--aye, and thy Sovereign--the bitter grief of losing thee
for ever!"
"Would--would I could!" burst wildly from the heart-stricken Marie;
and she wrung her hands in that one moment of intense agony, and
looked up in the Queen's face, with an expression of suffering
Isabella could not meet. "Would that obedience, conviction, could come
at will! His wife?--Stanley's. To rest this desolate heart on his? To
weep upon his bosom?--feel his arm around me?--his love protect me? To
be his--all his? And only on condition of speaking one little word?
Oh! why can I not speak it? Why will that dread voice sound within,
telling me I dare not--cannot--for I do not believe? How dare I take
the Christians's vow, embrace the cross, and in my heart remain a
Jewess still?"
"Embrace the cross, and conviction will follow," replied the Queen.
"This question we have asked of Father Tomas, and been assured that
the vows of baptism once taken, grace will be found from on high; and
to the _heart_, as well as _lip_, conversion speedily ensue.
Forswear the blaspheming errors of thy present creed--consent to be
baptized--and that very hour sees thee Stanley's wife!"
"No, no, no!--Oh! say not such words again! My liege, my gracious
liege, tempt not this weak spirit more!" implored Marie, in fearful
agitation. "Oh! if thou hast ever loved me, in mercy spare me this!"
"In mercy is it that we do thus speak, unhappy girl." replied
Isabella, with returning firmness; for she saw the decisive moment had
come. "We have laid both alternatives before thee; it rests with thee
alone to make thine own election. Love on earth and joy in Heaven,
depends upon one word: refuse to speak it, and thou knowest thy doom!"
It was well, perhaps, for Marie's firmness, that the Queen's appealing
tone had given place to returning severity; it recalled the departing
strength--the sinking energy--the power once more to _endure!_ For
several minutes there was no sound: Marie had buried her face in her
hands, and remained--half kneeling, half crouching--on the cushion at
the Queen's feet, motionless as stone; and Isabella--internally as
agitated as herself--was, under the veil of unbending sternness,
struggling for control. The contending emotions sweeping over that
frail woman-heart in that fearful period of indecision we pretend not
to describe: again and again the terrible temptation came, to say but
the desired word, and happiness was hers--such intense happiness, that
her brain reeled beneath its thought of ecstasy; and again and again
it was driven back by that thrilling voice--louder than ever in its
call--to remain faithful to her God. It was a fearful contest; and
when she did look up, Isabella started; so terribly was its index
inscribed on those white and chiselled features.
She rose slowly, and stood before the Sovereign, her hands tightly
clasped together, and the veins on her forehead raised like cords
across it. Three times she tried to speak; but only unintelligible
murmurs came, and her lips shook as with convulsion. "It is over,"
she said at length, and her usually sweet voice sounded harsh and
unnatural. "The weakness is conquered, gracious Sovereign, condemn,
scorn, hate me as thou wilt, thou must: I must endure it till my
heart breaks, and death brings release; but the word thou demandest I
_cannot_ speak! Thy favor, Arthur's love, I resign them all! 'Tis the
bidding of my God, and he will strengthen me to bear it. Imprison,
torture, slay, with the lingering misery of a broken heart, but I
cannot deny my faith!"
Disappointed, grieved, as she was at this unexpected reply, Isabella
was too much an enthusiast in religion herself not to understand the
feeling which dictated it; and much as she still abhorred the faith,
the martyr spirit which could thus immolate the most fervid, the
most passionate emotions of woman's nature at the shrine of her God,
stirred a sympathetic chord in her own heart, and so moved her, that
the stern words she had intended to speak were choked within her.
"We must summon those then to whose charge we are pledged to commit
thee," she said with difficulty; and hastily rung a silver bell beside
her. "We had hoped such would not have been needed; but, as it is--"
She paused abruptly; for the hangings were hastily pushed aside, and,
instead of the stern figure of Torquemada, who was to have obeyed the
signal, the Infanta Isabella eagerly entered; and ran up to the Queen,
with childish and caressing glee at being permitted to rejoin her.
The confessor--not imagining his presence would be needed, or that he
would return to his post in time--had restlessly obeyed the summons of
a brother prelate, and, in some important clerical details, forgot the
mandate of his Sovereign.
Marie saw the softened expression of the Queen's face; the ineffectual
effort to resist her child's caresses, and retain her sternness: and,
with a sudden impulse, she threw herself at her feet.
"Oh! do not turn from me, my Sovereign!" she implored, wildly clasping
Isabella's knees. "I ask nothing--nothing, but to return to my
childhood's home, and die there! I ask not to return to my people; they
would not receive me, for I have dared to love the stranger; but in my
own isolated home, where but two aged retainers of my father dwell, I
can do harm to none--mingle with none; let me bear a breaking heart for
a brief--brief while; and rest beside my parents. I will swear to thee
never to quit that place of banishment--swear never more to mingle with
either thy people or with mine--to be as much lost to man, as if the
grave had already closed over me, or convent walls immured me! Oh,
Madam! grant me but this! Will it not be enough of suffering to give up
Arthur?--to tear myself from thy cherishing love?--to bear my misery
alone? Leave me, oh! leave me but my faith--the sole joy, sole hope, now
left me! Give me not up to the harsh, and cruel father--the stern mother
of St. Ursula! If I can sacrifice love, kindness--all that would make
earth a heaven--will harshness gain thine end? Plead for me," she
continued, addressing the infant-princess, who, as if affected by the
grief she beheld, had left her mother to cling round Marie caressingly;
"plead for me, Infanta! Oh, Madam! the fate of war might place this
beloved and cherished one in the hands of those who regard thy faith
even as thou dost mine; were such an alternative proffered, how wouldst
thou she should decide? My Sovereign, my gracious Sovereign, oh, have
mercy!"
"Mamma! dear Mamma!" repeated the princess at the same moment, and
aware that her intercession was required, though unable to comprehend
the wherefore, she clasped her little hands entreatingly; "grant poor
Marie what she wishes! You have told me a Queen's first duty is to be
kind and good; and do all in her power to make others happy. Make her
happy, dear Mamma, she has been so sad!"
The appeal to Isabella's nature was irresistible; she caught her child
to her heart, and burst into passionate tears.