University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
MARGARITA.

The first sight which met the eyes of
Julia Gordon, as she crossed the threshold
of the door, and stood within the
hall of that lonely dwelling, was the
figure of a young delicate tall girl, who
struck her, at the first glance, as being
the very loveliest creature her eyes had
ever looked upon. And indeed she was
exceeding lovely.

You might have searched the wide
world over, and scarce found two such
beings as those, thus strangely brought
together, types of two different races,
models of two contrasted forms of beauty,
from the extreme east to the farthest
west.

Julia Gordon the perfection of the
glorious glowing womanhood of the allconquering
Anglo-Norman strain, and
Margarita de Alava of the once mighty
Gothic race of Spain.

The two stood, for the moment, struck
with a sort of half-fearful wonder and
wild admiration. And, if the Spanish
maiden was actually dazzled—as if a
creature of another sphere had stood
before her, face to face—by the voluptuous
outlines of the young wife's form,
displayed as they were by the close fitting
boddice and tight sleeves of her
riding-habit, by the unrivalled brilliancy
of her exquisite complexion, by the
soft yet pervading radiance of her beautiful
blue eyes, by the rich silky masses
of her dishevelled aubnrn hair, flowing
in loose long ringlets from beneath the
broad brim of her beaver hat, scarce
less did the fair American marvel at
the slight symmetry of the Spanish
maiden, and the rare beauty of her
classic features.

Like Julia, Margarita was far taller
than the majority of her sex. Like
Julia's, her waist was scarce a span in
circumference, her falling shoulders
splendidly arched, her lower limbs richly
developed; but, unlike Julia's, her
charms lacked the ripe fulness of mature
and glowing womanhood. Her
pale, clear, colorless, olive complexion,
without a hue of carnation on her cheek,
yet showing, in its peach-like softness;
and mellow golden tinge, the warmth
and healthfulness of the high blood
which filled her veins; her high, pale
forehead, with the twin arches of her
lustrous brows, the long, large, swimming
eyes, half languor and half fire,
flashing out from beneath the silken
fringes of her deep jetty lashes, the thin,
straight, classic nose, the small voluptuously-pouting
mouth, shaped like the
bow of Cupid, the softly rounded chin,
all combined to make up a picture—
which nothing earthly could surpass—
of the half oriental beauty of the high
race of Spain.

It was clear, that she had but that instant
started from her bed; for her small feet,
which were white as those of that praised
queen, whom the old rhapsodist has immortalized
as the silver-footed, were all
unsandalled; and as they pressed the
dark marble of the uncarpeted floor,
they shone as brightly out as if they had
been modelled of the purest alabaster.

She wore a long loose robe of white
linen, with many falling ruffles around
the bosom, which was cut somewhat low,
displaying all her ivory, swan-like neck,
and a large portion of her maiden bust.
No corsage or stiff boddice confined the
contour of her slender waist, or controlled
the billowy play of her supple
and elastic form; but below a short
petticoat of very full black silk was tied
tightly about her waist, having a deep
lace fringe hanging down from its upper
edge, and reaching but a little way below
the knees, beneath which the white
underdress fell in large draperies, deeply
flounced and ruffled, quite to her ancles.

Her exquisitely modelled, and fully
rounded arms were bare qnite to the
shoulders; but neither on them, nor on
her neck or bosom, were there any ornaments
or jewels, unless a rosary of
ebony beads, with every here and there
a single brilliant glittering among them,
supporting a magnificently sculptured
crucifix of gold, which hung loosely over
her shoulders, can be called an ornament.

In her left hand, she carried a small
lamp, which was the only light in the
large apartment; and in her right—
strange contrast to her delicate form and
timid virgin air—there flashed clear in
the lamplight, the sheatbless blade of a
long keen stiletto.

She stood, for a moment, as I have
said, amazed, and, it would seem, almost
awe-struck, by the strange loveliness
of her unexpected visitant; but in
the next, seeing that there was no danger
to be apprehended, she dropped the
dagger quietly upon the table, nigh to
which she stood, set down the lamp beside
it, and advanced with an air of
calm, yet courteous dignity to meet her
strange guests.

“I will not ask,” she said, in tones
breathing the very soul of harmony,
using the pure castilian tongue, “I will
not ask whence you come, beautiful
lady, or wherefore, nor of what race
you are, for it is night, and there is no
other dwelling near, and you are young
and delicate, as you are fair; and our
wild forests are no place for youth or
beauty. You are welcome, lady, most
welcome, to the last ruined roof that
war has left to Margarita de Alava.
Again, you are most welcome, to all the
hospitality my poor roof can offer.”

It seemed that she had not distinguished
the words of old Sanchez, when he
shouted to arouse her from her slumbers;
for as the partisan advanced, who
had stood hitherto a little in the background,
and had been concealed by the
darkness which peryaded the whole
room, with the exception of the little
space immediately around the lamp of
Margarita, she started as if in terror, at
first, and turned as pale as ashes, but
the next moment her cheek, brow, neck,
and bosom flushed crimson; nay, her
very arms and hands were incarnadined,
even to the very finger ends, as she
sprang eagerly forward to greet him.

“You! you!” she cried, fervently,
“do my eyes tell me truly?—is it indeed
you?—lord of my life!—friend of
my soul!—preserver of my honor! is it
indeed you, Pedro el Salvador! Oh,
God be thanked, and Mary, the most
holy! that you are here beneath the
roof, which but for you would have
been now a pile of ashes. Heaven send
that you have come asking for something
at my hands, that I may prove the
depth, the truth, the everlasting and undying
strength of a poor Spanish maiden's
gratitude. Oh! I am happy—oh,
very, very happy!

And, as she spoke, in the intensity of
her passionate feelings, she clasped her
snowy arms about the rough soldier's
neck, and letting fall her Madonna-like
head on his iron shoulders, burst into a
flood of tears.

“Nay, nay!” exclaimed the gallant
rover, gently disengaging himself from
the innocent girl's embrace, “nay,
nay! weep not sweet senorita, this is
no time for tears.” He spoke in the
Spanish tongue, which he used with
perfect fluency, and with a very pure
dialect; “for I have indeed come to
ask you a favor—a favor as great as the
lives of us all!”

“Ask for my life, rather,” she answered
emphatically, suffering her tears
to trickle down her cheeks unheeded,
“for it is yours; ask for my soul! you
should have it, were it mine to bestow;
ask for all, everything except my honor
—and oh, for the sake of heaven! ask
me not for that, Don Pedro, for by the
faith I hold, I fear me I could not bring
thee even that, if thou couldst ask it,
which I know to be impossible.”

“Impossible, indeed, Margarita,” replied
the Partisan, “impossible, indeed,
that either I should ask, or you
grant that, were it to save a world. But
listen to me, and first look upon this
beautiful young woman.”

“She is beautiful,” replied Margarita,
without so much as turning her
her eyes towards Julia Gordon, and as
she spoke a strange wild expression
crossed her pale features. “She is
beautiful; what of her?

“She is of the race, Margarita, on
earth, the most hostile to your own—
she is an American! Nay more, she is
the child of a soldier! the wife of a soldier!
the wife of one of those, who are
here to carry the sword into your people's
ranks—the fire into your people's
dwellings—to devastate, perhaps to subjugate,
your land.”

“What more, Don Pedro? You
said all that, when you said American,
unless, indeed, you had added volunteers,”
she continued, with a smile half
scornful, halfsarcastic, “which she can
scarcely be. What more of her, Don
Pedro?

“She is a woman, as you see, young,
delicate and beautiful, and timid by her
very nature. She married the choice
of her heart.”

“Happy girl!” sighed the Spanish

maiden; but Pierre proceeded, as if he
had not observed the interruption.

“And he is a soldier. She left home,
friends, wealth, rank, luxurious comforts,
all that makes life most pleasant,
to traverse the howling forests, and the
desolate prairies, to swim bridgeless rivers,
to sleep beneath the untented heavens,
to follow him she loved, whither
his duty, and his country's orders, called
him! She has been hunted, these three
days, in peril such as woman rarely has
encountered, and from that peril as men
rarely bear it; chased by Carrera's
horse—beleaguered by the terrible Camanches,
and, within the last hour, all
but surprised by the Padre's guerillas.
Had any of these taken her, you know
her fate, Margarita.”

“Add one word more, Don Pedro,
say, that she is your wife!” said the
girl in a singular tone of half resentful
vehemence, which Pierre did not then
comprehend.

“She is the wife of my friend, Lieutenant
Gordon, lady,” he replied; “no
volunteer, I assure you, but one of
May's dragoons.”

“But you love her!” she again exclaimed
almost fiercely scrutinizing his
face with her large earnest eyes, as if
she would have read his soul.

“As my sister, Margarita,” replied the
stout soldier simply. “But to what
tends all this? she must die, nor die
only, but suffer that which to honorable
minds is more dreadful than a thousand
deaths, unless you save her.”

“I save her—I—I!—her whom you
love!”

“I should have thought that would
have been a cause the more, why you
should do so,” replied the veteran; who
with the singular simplicity and innocence,
which formed a part of his character,
did not in the least suspect what
was evident enough both to Gordon and
to Julia, the reason of her strange manner.
“But I have erred, it seems, in
nothing more than in my estimate, it
would appear,” he added contemptuously
“ `of the depth, the truth, the
everlasting and undying strength of a
Spanish maiden's gratitude,' come, my
friends, I have erred, it seems, and led
you into error. Come; we will trust
to our swords for safety, or, if we must
needs seek hospitality, henceforth we
will seek it in the skin-tents of the
Camanches.”

While he spoke thus, the Spanish
girl stood silent, and motionless as a
marble statue, with her fair neck bent,
and her beautiful eyes fixed on vacancy,
with one hand pressed almost convulsively
upon her heart, and the other
hanging down listlessly by her side.
But when he ceased speaking, she
stepped quickly forward, and caught
him by the arm, as he turned to go;
and then it was evident that of all he
had said, the first words only had struck
her ear, or made an impression on her
mind.

“You are right,” she said, in a cold
mournful voice, “You are right, Pedro.
It is a cause the more—and I am—it
matters not what! Mea culpa! mea
culpa!” she cried, breaking off suddenly,
“pray for me Holiest Maria,
pray for me!” then turning to Julia,
and taking her hand, which she raised
to her lips, “Pardon me,” she said,
“pardon me, dear lady; but at times I
am half distraught, and my mind wanders,
I know not how or whither—since
—since that day—but he has told you,
doubtless. In one word you are welcome!
You are as safe as if you were
within the temple of your God! You
are alone, you are in danger, he loves
you, and I doubt not you love him; and
I, Margarita de Alava, swear it, by all
the saints of heaven! that I will die,
before one hair of your head, one nail
of your finger, be injured! But this,”
she continued, after a moment's pause,
“this is poor hospitality. Without
there! Sanchez, Estefania, bring lights,
and wine, and pile up the fire; the
nights are chilly here among our forests.”

The old shepherd, who had been
awaiting her commands without, marvelling
evidently at the long delay ere
he was summoned, appeared instantly
bearing a pair of tall waxen candles,
almost torches in size, in two massive
silver candlesticks of different patterns,
but of great value, and elaborate antique
workmanship.

A woman, apparently of extreme age
but still vigorous and active, followed
him, carrying a tray, covered with a
clean white napkin, on which was a
tall cut-glass flagon, and several glasses

of various forms and patterns, and a
plate or two of cakes and sweetmeats.

Meantime the door was closed and
secured, charcoal was supplied bountifully
to the half-extinguished stove, and
in a minute or two, the large room,
lately so cavernous and cold, was filled
with a genial warmth, and illuminated
to its remotest angles by the soft light
of the large candles.

It took less time to effect this change
than it has taken to describe it; and
that short time was consumed in whispered
conversation between the two
young women, and the exchange of a
quick glance or two, between the partisan
and Gordon, the latter of whom
clearly understood a part—though he
was far from comprehending, as he
fancied he did—of that strange byplay
which had preceeded their late welcome.

The partisan, then left the room for
a minute or two, in order to give some
instruction to the dragoons; for, in the
present crisis, Gordon had delegated
the command to him; while the young
husband drew near to the stove, unwilling
to quit Julia, and more than half
suspicious of the Spanish lady's motives.

So soon, however, as the girl's eye
fell upon her own scanty attire revealed,
as it was now, by the bright lustre of
the candles, she started, as if she had
but that instant remembered how slenderly
she was clad; blushed crimson,
and raising both her hands to conceal
her half-uncovered bosom, turned quickly
and fled with a swift step into the inner
chamber.

“Strange! this is very strange, Julia,”
exclaimed the young dragoon, as his
eye, after following Margarita's flight,
returned to the innocent and gentle
features of his own lovely wife. “She
is the strangest girl I ever saw. She
is either mad or wicked—if not both.”

“Not one of the three, Arthur,” answered
his young wife, with a gay artless
smile. “I thought you were a better
judge of women's manners, if not of
women's minds. She is in love, that is
all!”

“No, that is not all, Julia,” replied
Gordon, “and I might retort your hint,
but that I know you are too quick not
to have seen that she is jealous, also,”
and there was something in the tone,
and in the expression of his eye, as he
spoke, that seemed to inquire, “and is
she so without a cause?”

“Jealous of me, Arthur?” she exclaimed,
blushing deeply as she said
the words; and he observed the blush,
but observed not the indignant tone in
which she spoke.

“Is that a blush of consciousness, or
of shame, Julia?” he said, after a moment's
pause, gazing at her sternly.

“Of indignation!” she answered vehemently,
her soft blue eyes flashing
fire as she answered him. “Of indignation,
sir, that any man should dare
use such words, entertain such thoughts
of me—my God! my God! of me—
who have left—but it matters not!”
she added, checking her expostulation
and speaking firmly in that low concentrated
tone which shows far more the
depth of wounded feelings, than the
angriest and loudest vehemence. “It
matters not, sir, for you are no more
capable of judging the honor of an
honorable man, than of estimating the
love of a true woman. Yes, Arthur
Gordon, she is both in love and jealous.
I saw that at a glance; and I will tell
you something more; she is not jealous
without a cause. Is your glance
answered? For the man whom she
loves, does not love her, and does love
me!”

“By G—! this is too much!” cried
Gordon, stamping his foot furiously on
the ground, and grasping the hilt of his
sabre, “must I bear this?—are my
hands tied?”

“You must! They are!” she replied
curtly and sternly. “This, and more,
you must bear. He loves me passionately,
madly, with a love that I fear will
last out his life! nay! I believe as you
never did, never could love woman! He
loved me from the very moment he first
set eyes on me; it was long ere he
knew it—he scarce knows even now
how he loves me!”

“As a sister, doubtless!” answered
Arthur Gordon, with a sneer; yet so far
now impressed by her manner, that he
was satisfied there was neither guile in
her words, nor guilt in her heart; although
he could not comprehend to
what she was coming.

“No sir. Not as a sister—as a saint,
rather! As a zealot adores the saint of

his devotion—as a poet adores the creation
of his fancy; passionately, sir, yet
which you cannot understand—purely!
He would die, sir, to win my love; yet
he would die twenty times, nay, he
would see me dead, rather than see me,
much less render me, a thing unworthy
of his love! and I would rather die,
Arthur Gordon, than have him fancy for
one moment, as you fancy now, that I
could love him, could entertain one
passing feeling toward any man, that
were unconsonant with honor as a woman,
with duty as a wife! Now are
you answered?”

The young man spoke not, stirred
not, answered not, even with the mute
language of the eye. He stood abashed,
crest-fallen, dumb before her. Conviction
was borne in upon his soul by
every word she uttered. Confusion
smote him as the false accuser, shame
and remorse held him silent.

“Your silence speaks,” she said, after
gazing in his face nearly a minute, “I
am answered. Now listen to me, Arthur
Gordon. I trust, I know, I thank
my God! I am too proud, if not too
pure, ever to do the thing that should
make me know what shame is. But
mark me; if there be aught on earth
which alienates love, it is to be suspected
of not loving. If there be aught on
earth, that engenders evil thoughts in
the heart, it is to be suspected capable
of evil thinking. If there be aught on
earth, that makes a woman doubt herself,
it is to be doubted by him, who
should sustain her; if once she doubt
herself, others will soon have cause to
doubt, to despise her. If I were not so
proud, I should say to you, therefore,
`Make me not that, which you would
not have me!' I am too proud, too
strong, too confident in the right, to say
so. But I do say, `make me not scorn
you, cast you away from me, hate you.'
I could do all these things Arthur Gordon,
and though they kill me, I will do
them, if ever more I hear from your
tongue, or see in your eye a doubt of
my honor—of my love. I have said
enough—should have said too much
had I not seen in you aforetime, the
germs of this folly, which, if not nipped
in the bud, will make you, will make
both of us indeed wretched. Now I
will go and join our hostess; and do
you seek the partizan and decide upon
our future movements.”

He raised his eyes slowly to meet her
glance, and as he met it no longer fiery
or indignant, but full of confidence and
love, a faint smile played over his lips,
and he stretched out his arms half-timidly
toward her, with this one word,
“Julia!”

And she refused not the proffered
embrace, but fell on his bosom, and kissed
him tenderly, and then withdrawing
herself gently from his arms, said with
her own bright beaming smile,

“Now go; go your way, silly boy,
and beware how you let that noble man
perceive your folly.”

“He should not for my life,” answered
the young dragoon, as with a light
heart, a firm step, and a mind perfectly
reassured and easy, he went forth by one
door, into the courtyard as she passed by
the other into Margarita's boudoir.