CHAPTER VII.
"And thus how oft do life and death Twine hand in hand together; And the funeral shroud, and bridal wreath, How small a space may sever!"
MS.
One little week did Ferdinand spend within the home of his boyhood;and in that brief interval the earthly fate of Marie Henriquez wasdecided. He had deferred his visit till such peace and prosperity haddawned for Spain, that he could offer his bride not only a home suitedto his rank, but the comfort of his presence and protection foran indeterminate time. He had come there purposely to reveal hislong-cherished love; to conjure Marie to bless him with the promise ofher hand; and, if successful, to return, in two short months, for thecelebration of their marriage, according to their own secret rites,ere the ceremony was performed in the sight of the whole Catholicworld. The intermarriages of first cousins had been so common anoccurrence in his family, that Ferdinand, in spite of some tremblings,as a lover, had regarded his final union with Marie with almost asmuch certainty, and as a thing of course, as his uncle himself.
The effects of that agitating interview between father and daughterhad been visible to Ferdinand; but he attributed it, very naturally,to the cause privately assigned for it by his kinsman--Marie's firstconviction that her father's days were numbered. He had been greatlyshocked at the change in Henriquez's appearance, and deeply affectedat the solemn and startling earnestness with which he consigned hischild to his care, beseeching him, under all circumstances, to loveand cherish her. His nephew could scarcely understand, then, suchearnest pleadings. Alas! ere his life closed, their cause was clearenough.
Unconscious that her father and cousin were together, or of the natureof their conversation, Marie had joined them, unexpectedly, ere theinterview was over. From her father's lips, and in a tone of tremblingagitation, she heard that his long-cherished prayer was granted, andthat she was his nephew's plighted, bride. He joined their hands,blessed them, and left them alone together, ere she had had powerto utter a single word; and when voice was recalled by the tender,earnest accents of her cousin, beseeching her to ratify her father'sconsent--to say she would learn to love him, if she did not then; thatshe would not refuse the devotedness he proffered--what could sheanswer? She had so long loved him, venerated him, gloried in hisachievements, his honors, as of an elder and much-loved brother, that,had she followed the impulse of her nature, she would have thrownherself as a sister on his neck, and poured forth her tale of sorrow.But she had sworn to be guided by her father, and he had besought herto reveal nothing; and therefore she promised to be his, even whilewith tears she declared herself unworthy. But such words were oflittle meaning to her enraptured lover save to bid him passionatelydeny them, and excite his ardent affection more than ever--satisfiedthat she could be not indifferent, listening as she did, with suchflushed cheek and glistening eye, to the theme of his life since theyhad parted--the favor of the sovereigns, and the station he had won.
During the two months which intervened between Don Ferdinand'sdeparture and promised return, Marie strained every nerve to face herdestiny, and so meet it with calmness. Had she not loved, it wouldhave been impossible to feel herself the cherished object of hercousin's love without returning it, possessing, as he did, alikeinward and outward attraction to win regard. She studiously andearnestly banished every thought of Arthur as it rose; she prayed onlyfor strength to be faithful, not only in outward seeming but in inwardthought; that Stanley might never cross her path again, or, if he did,that his very affections might be estranged from her; that the secretshe had revealed might alone be thought upon, till all of love hadgone. The torture of such prayer, let those who love decide; but itwas the thought of his woe, did he ever know she was another's bride,that haunted her. Her own suffering it was comparitively easy to bear,believing as she did, that they were called for by her involuntarysin: but his--so successfully had she conquered herself; that it wasonly when his countenance of reproach would flit before her, that thegroan burst from her heart, and she felt bowed unto the earth.
Infirmity itself seemed conquered in the rejoicing thankfulness withwhich Henriquez regarded this fulfilment of his wishes. He appearedactually to regain strength and energy; his alarming fainting fits hadnot recurred since his nephew's visit, and Marie hoped he wouldbe spared her longer than he believed. He never recurred to herconfession, but lavished on her, if possible, yet more endearing love,and constantly alluded to the intense happiness which her consent tobe her cousin's bride had given him. Once he left the vale, despitehis precarious health, taking with him his old retainer, Reuben, andreturned, laden with the richest gems and costliest silks, to adornhis child, on her bridal day, as befitted the bride of Ferdinand.
Time passed: the day specified by Ferdinand rapidly approached. He wasthere to meet it--and not alone. Thoughtful of his Marie's feeling, hehad resolved that she should not stand beside the altar withoutone female friend; and he brought one, the sight of whom awakenedassociations with such overpowering strength, that Marie could onlythrow herself upon her bosom, almost convulsed with tears. It wasDonna Emelie de Castro, at whose house she had joined the world; buther emotion, supposed natural to the agitating ceremony impending,and her father's precarious health, happily for her, passed withoutfurther notice than sympathy and love.
Henriquez, for once, was indifferent alike to the agitation of Marie,or the presence of Ferdinand. His glance was fixed on one of a littlegroup, all of whom, with the exception of this individual, werefamiliar to his home and heart. He was clothed as a monk; but hiscowl was thrown back, and his gaze so fixed on Marie that she blushedbeneath it, and turned away.
"Do not turn from me, my child," he said; and Henriquez started at thevoice, it was so fraught with memories of the departed. "Stranger asI must be, save in name, to thee--thou art none such to me. I seemto feel thy mother once again before me--and never was sister morebeloved!--Manuel, hast thou, indeed, forgotten Julien?"
Almost ere he ceased to speak, the long separated relatives wereclasped in each, other's arms. The five-and-twenty years, which hadchanged the prime of manhood into advancing age, and blanched the hairof each, had had no power to decrease the strong ties of kindred,so powerful in their secret race. The agitation and excitement ofHenriquez was so excessive, not only then, but during the few daysintervening before the celebration of the bridal, that Marie, in spiteof the near approach of the dreaded day, could only think of him.
Ferdinand was no exacting lover: his affection for her was so intense,so true; his confidence in her truth so perfect, that, though he mightat times have fancied that she loved not then with fervor equal tohis own, he was contented to believe that his devotion would in timecreate in her as powerful a feeling. He had so watched, so tended herfrom infancy: she had so clung to and reverenced him, so opened heryoung heart, without one reservation, to his view--so treated him asher most cherished, most loved friend, that how could he dream she hadaught to conceal, or believe that, did she know there was, she couldhave hesitated, one moment, to refuse his hand, preferring even themisery of so grieving him, to the continued agony of deceit? It wasthis perfect confidence, this almost childish trust, so beautiful inone tried, as he had been, in the ordeal of the world, that wrungMarie's heart with deepest torture. He believed her other than shewas;--but it was too late--she dared not undeceive him.
The nuptial morning dawned. The party, not more than twelve orfourteen in all, assembled within the little edifice, whose naturehad so puzzled Arthur. Its interior was as peculiar as its outwardappearance: its walls, of polished cedar, were unadorned with eithercarving, pictures, or imagery. In the centre, facing the east, was asort of raised table or desk, surrounded by a railing, and coveredwith a cloth of the richest and most elaborately worked brocade.Exactly opposite, and occupying the centre of the eastern wall, wasa sort of lofty chest, or ark; the upper part of which, arched, andrichly painted, with a blue ground, bore in two columns, strangehieroglyphics in gold: beneath this were portals of polished cedar,pane
lled, and marked out with gold, but bearing no device; theirhinges set in gilded pillars, which supported the arch above. Beforethese portals were generally drawn curtains, of material rich andglittering as that upon the reading-desk. But this day not only werethe curtains drawn aside, but the portals themselves flung open, asthe bridal party neared the steps which led to it, and disclosed sixor seven rolls of parchment, folded on silver pins, and filled withthe same strange letters, each clothed in drapery of variously coloredbrocade, or velvet, and surmounted by two sets of silver ornaments,in which the bell and pomegranate were, though small, distinctlydiscernible. A superb lamp, of solid silver, was suspended from theroof; and one of smaller dimensions, but of equally valuable material,and always kept lighted, hung just before the ark.
Julien Morales, at his own particular request, was to read theceremony; and three hours after noon he stood within the portals, onthe highest step; a slab of white marble divided him from the brideand bridegroom, over whom a canopy was raised, supported by foursilver poles. The luxuriant hair of the bride had been gatheredup, and, save two massive braids, shading her brow and cheek, wasconcealed under a head-dress, somewhat resembling an eastern turban,but well suited to her countenance. Her dress, of the fashion beforedescribed, was all of white--the jacket or bodice richly woven withgold threads; but so thick a veil enveloped face and form, thather sweet face was concealed, until, at one particular part of themysterious rite (for such, to the Spaniards, this ceremony must havebeen), the veil was uplifted for her to taste the sacred wine, and notallowed to fall again. Neither the bridegroom (agitated himself,for his was not a nature to think lightly of the nuptial rite), norHenriquez (whose excitement was extreme) was conscious of the looksof alarm, blended with admiration, which the raising of the veilattracted towards Marie. Lovely she was; but it was the loveliness ofa marble statue, not of life--her very lips were blanched, and everyfeature still, indeed; but a stillness of so peculiar an expression,so inexpressibly, so thrillingly sad, that admiration appearedindefinably and strangely transformed to pain. The wedding ring wasplaced upon her hand--a thin crystal goblet broken by Ferdinand,on the marble at his feet--and the rites were concluded. An almostconvulsive embrace from her father--the unusual wildness of his voiceand manner, as he blessed, and called her his own precious child, whothis day had placed the seal upon his happiness, and confirmed twentyyears of filial devotedness and love--awoke her from that stagnatingtrance. She folded her arms round his neck, and burst into passionatetears; and there were none, not even Ferdinand, to chide or doubt thatemotion--it was but natural to her character, and the solemn serviceof the day.
Gay and joyous was the meal which followed the bridal. Noappurtenances of modern pomp and luxury, indeed, decorated the board:its only ornaments were the loveliest flowers, arranged in alabastervases, and silver baskets filled with blushing fruit. The food wassimple, and the wines not choice; but the guests thought not of meresensual enjoyment. In these secret meetings, each felt there wassomething holy; richer homes, more gorgeous feasts, were theirs in theworld, whenever they so willed; but such intercourse of brotherhoodseldom occurred, and when it came, was consequently hallowed.
Some time they sat around the board; and so unrestrained, so full ofvaried interest was their eager converse, that sunset came unheeded;and the silver lamps, fed with sweet incense, were placed upon thetable. Julien then arose, and solemnly pronounced the usual blessing,or rather thanksgiving, after the bridal feast. Marie did not look upduring its continuance; but as it concluded, she arose, and was aboutto retire with Donna Emilie, when her eye caught her father, and a cryof alarm broke from her. The burning flush had given place to a lividpaleness--the glittering of the eye to a fixed and glassy gaze. Theframe was, for a moment, rigid as stone, then fearfully convulsed;and Reuben, starting forward, caught his master as he fell. There wassomething so startling and unusual in the seizure, that even thoseaccustomed to his periods of insensibility were alarmed; and vain wasevery effort of Ferdinand to awaken hope and comfort in the seeminglyfrozen spirit of his bride.
Henriquez was conveyed to his room, and every restorative applied; buteven the skill of Julien, well versed as he was in the healing art,was without effect. More than an hour passed, and still he lay likedeath; and no sound, no sob, broke from the torn heart of his haplesschild, who knelt beside his couch; her large dark eyes, distendedto even more than their usual size, fixed upon his face; her handsclasped round one of his; but had she sought thus to give warmth shewould have failed, for the hand of the living was cold and damp asthat of the seeming dead.
A slight, almost imperceptible flush floated over that lividcheek--the eyes unclosed, but so quickly closed again that it was morelike the convulsive quivering of the muscle than the effort of thewill; and Marie alone had marked the change.
"Father!" she almost shrieked in agony, "in mercy speak to meagain--say but you forgive--bless--"
"Forgive" feebly repeated the dying man; and the strong feeling ofthe father, for a brief interval, conquered even death--"Forgive?--mybeautiful--my own!--the word is meaningless, applied to thee. Art thounot my Ferdinand's bride, and hast thou not so taken the sting, thetrial even from this dread moment? My precious one!--would I could seethat face once more--but it is dark--all dark--kiss me, my child!"
She threw herself upon his bosom, and covered his cheek with kisses.He passed his hand feebly over her face, as if the touch could oncemore bring her features to his sight; and then extending his lefthand, feebly called--"Ferdinand!"
His nephew caught the withered hand, and kneeling down, pressed itreverentially and fondly to his lips.
Henriquez's lips moved, but there came no word.
"Doubt me not, my more than father! From boyhood to youth, from youthto manhood, I have doted on thy child. Shall I love and cherish herless now, that she has only me? Oh, trust me!--if devotion can givejoy, she will know no grief, that man can avert, again!"
A strange but a beautiful light for a single minute dispersed thefearful shadow creeping over Henriquez's features.
"My son! my son!--I bless thee--and thou, too, my drooping flower.Julien! my brother--lay me beside my Miriam. Thou didst not come forthis--but it is well. My children--my friends--send up the hymn ofpraise--the avowal of our faith; once more awake the voice of ourfathers!"
He was obeyed; a psalm arose, solemn and sweet, in accents familiaras their mother tongue, to those who chanted; but had any other beennear, not a syllable would have been intelligible. But the voice whichin general led to such solemn service--so thrilling in its sweetness,that the most indifferent could not listen to it unmoved--now layhushed and mute, powerless even to breathe the sobs that crushedher heart. And when the psalm ceased, and the prayer for the dyingfollowed, with one mighty effort Henriquez raised himself, andclasping his hands, uttered distinctly the last solemn words everspoken by his race, and then sunk back--and there was silence.Minutes, many minutes, rolled by--but Marie moved not. Gently, andtenderly, Don Ferdinand succeeded in disengaging the convulsive holdwith which she still clasped her parent, and sought to bear her fromthat sad and solemn room. Wildly she looked up in his face, and thenon those beloved features, already fixed and gray in death;--withfrantic strength she pushed aside her husband, and sunk down by herfather's side.
The Vale of Cedars; Or, The Martyr Page 8
