2. II.
That night the happiness of Urraca was perfect, if
there can be any perfect happiness for the spirit which
is impure. The sickness of Amri, making him for the
time a dependant upon her, had imposed upon him the
necessity of conciliation to a far greater degree than had
been his wont to show for a long period previously.
With the artfulness of that narrow sagacity which is cunning,
and must always result in vice, he could imitate
the virtue which he yet had not the courage to feel or to
desire; and the eyes of love and confidence never looked
more natural and true than did those of the dishonourable
Amri. Willing to believe, where belief was itself
so great a pleasure, the fond Urraca was readily imposed
upon. She lay in his arms, and the fountains of
her eyes were opened, and joyous tears, flowing freely
from their deepest sources, relieved her labouring bosom,
and soothed a spirit too easily roused to wrath and suspicion
to remain soothed long. Vicious still, and pursuing
still the indulgences of vice, the feelings of Urraca
were, nevertheless, more truly innocent at this moment
than they had ever been at any which she had known
since the hapless hour when, in her maiden fondness
and confiding youth, she had been beguiled from the innocent
hope of girlhood, and the quiet dwelling of her
father among the hills of Guadarrama. The child of a
decayed noble, she dwelt amid seclusion, and her eyes
were accustomed to behold no object in the shape of
man more attractive than the surrounding goatherds,
clad in skins as rough and more unsightly than those of
the animals they tended. But, one day, wandering
among those hills, there came a gallant cavalier—a
Gothic noble—who had fled thither for shelter, seeking
safety from the avenger of blood. Her eyes were dazzled
by his glances and gay apparel, and her heart was
soon enslaved by the sweet persuasion of his beguiling
words. She became his victim; and when he left her,
as not long afterward he did, she stole away from the
innocent home in which she was no longer innocent, and
sought her despoiler and her future abiding-place in the
dangerous proximity of the court. The transitions of
vice to greater vice are rapid, though perhaps insensible
in their progress, and not often apt to offend, however
they may be to startle; and the beautiful Urraca sank,
after no very long period, and with little effort at resistance,
into the thing we find her. She became accustomed
to her degraded calling, and soon grew comparatively
callous, in an atmosphere so generally vicious as
that of the city, to the debasing shame of her indulgences.
Yet were there moments when the memory of the
past, of the quiet, humble, happy home of her sire among
the mountains of Guadarrama, came over her heart with
irresistible power, filling her bosom with sorrow and her
eyes with tears—when the feeling of self-abasement
shook her form as with the convulsions of a spasmodic
agony, and when she felt how much holier was that humble
home which she had given up for ever, than all the
gaudy trappings and dearly-bought splendours which lust
had accumulated around her.
Such now were her thoughts and feelings, even while
she lay upon the bosom of Amri; and suddenly, amid
her tears, she exclaimed aloud, as if to herself in musing—
“The old home—the quiet home among the hills—
the peace—the peace!”
“What home, Urraca?” was the inquiry of Amri, as
he heard the exclamation.
“The home of my childhood—of my innocence—of
my peace! My father's home and mine, Amri. Would
we were there, Amri—would we both were there!”
“Wherefore the wish, dearest Urraca? Art thou not
happy here—here, in my arms—secure, as thou now art,
of the love of thy own Amri?”
“Happy—oh yes, very happy, Amri—but yet not at
peace! Give me peace. I would rest now—I would
sleep. I have been striving long, and I feel that a
dreadful fever has been preying upon my heart. I feel
—I fear, Amri—that I have not long to live! Something
seems to whisper it to all my senses. I hear it—
I see it—I feel it.”
“And I wish it!” was the thought of Amri; but he
gave utterance to a far different sentiment.
“Thou art dreaming, Urraca—and thy dream is no
less idle to thee than it is painful to me. Forbear such
thoughts, and let thy fancy no longer trifle with thee
thus, torturing us both without profit. Now is the season
for our mutual happiness—now, when thou doubtest
me no longer; and now, when I am assured that the
Jew is no longer despised of the woman he adores.
Give over thy weeping, sweet one, and look the bright
smile from thine eyes which is their natural and becoming
expression.”
She tried to smile while thus he strove artfully to
sooth her; but her lips murmured fitfully for some moments
after, as if beyond all her power of prevention—
“The old home—the brown hills—my father's home
and mine. The peace, the sweet peace and quiet of
that home!”
“Think not of it, Urraca. This is now thy home, as
dear to thee as any which thou hast ever known before.”
“As dear to me! Yes, dearer—much dearer, Amri
—for here thou lovest me; and there—there are none
left now who would, or should, love the outcast Urraca.
This home is dearer than all, Amri; but oh, it wants the
quiet of those brown hills and those suddenly-sinking
valleys. Would we were there, my Amri!—there is
peace among those hills which I would give this wealth,
these pomps, the world, every thing, dear Amri, but thee,
once more to find—once more to recover!”
“Sleep, dear Urraca—give thyself up to sleep upon
my bosom, and the peace will surely return to thee
which thou hast lost before, and which thou desirest
now.”
“Never—never, while here!” was her energetic response
to all his entreaties. “I feel that there is no
peace for me in Cordova! No peace anywhere for
Urraca but among those hills of her innocent girlhood.
It was there that I ceased to be innocent. It is there
only that I can be innocent again, and happy! Wilt
thou not go with me there, Amri? Wilt thou not?
Thou lovest me—so thou hast sworn to me! If thou
dost, thou wilt not refuse. Go with me to the mountains
of Guadarrama. Let us seek out the valley of
my father. He is no longer there to meet me with his
frown! He is no longer living to curse me with his
dying breath! The old halls in which he dwelt are silent;
and if they have no words of sympathy to sooth,
they at least have no language of reproach with which
to chide me. Thither let us fly—there let us live—
there, at least, dear Amri—I implore thee as for my life
—there, at least, let me die!”
The spirit of Urraca was again in tumult. Her mind
was ill at ease. It was in vain that Amri strove to silence
her complainings, and convince her that her griefs
were idle and imaginary.
“Wherefore dost thou talk of death, my beloved?
What hast thou to fear? Thou art young—thou art
beautiful—thou art beloved! Thou hast wealth—thou
livest in luxury—thou hast no want which thou mayst
not gratify.”
“Yes—there is one! There is one sad, sweet want
which here I may not gratify. There only—there, in
Guadarrama.”
“What is that want, Urraca? I will—”
“Peace—I would have peace—I would sleep—and
I feel, Amri, that I shall never sleep at peace till I reach
those mountains. I feel that I am soon to die—”
“No more of that, dearest,” said he, interrupting her
with a well-affected fondness of entreaty.
“I feel it—I fear it. I cannot help the thought—the
fear! It comes to me unbidden! It looks at me—it
whispers in my ears—and I shut it out from one sense
only to have it force its way into another. But whether
it be true or false—whether it be idle or substantial—I
feel that I would rather fly once more to that old home,
if thou, dearest Amri, wilt go thither with me. I am
sick of this life in Cordova. I am sick of the vile associates
who seek me. Wherefore should I remain longer?
I have wealth, as thou sayest, in abundance. I would
leave the path, and, if possible, the practices, of the vice
by which I live. Go with me to those quiet hills, dearest
Amri, and let me live, if live I may, in peace, and
for thee! Wilt thou go with me, Amri?”
She raised her head from his bosom, where all this
while it had lain, as she put this question, and her dark
eyes looked down penetratingly and imploringly into his
face. He paused for a few seconds, until he saw, from
the changing colour in her cheeks, that a prompt and affirmative
reply would be the best policy. He gave the
desired assent, and she then threw herself again upon
his bosom, her arms clasping his neck; and there she
wept freely, until exhausted nature sank down finally into
the arms of a refreshing slumber.
