SITUATION.
Brooke and Dolores stood facing one another in silence. The embarrassment was most painful. Each felt it too much to be able to notice it in the other, and each instinctively avoided the glance of the other's eyes, casting only looks of a furtive kind at the other's face, and then hastily looking elsewhere. In fact, the situation was truly horrible.
But Brooke felt it incumbent on him to say something; he also felt anxious to vindicate his honor—if such a thing were, indeed, in any way possible. But ardent words, excited, eager welcomes, and all those other circumstances that usually attend upon the meeting of long-divided lovers, were, in this case, clearly impossible. Brooke felt Talbot's presence—Talbot, who was worth to him ten thousand like Dolores; so he could only take refuge in the most commonplace conventionalities. It is true, Talbot could not understand Spanish; but Talbot could understand those tones of voice which form the universal and natural language of man; and if Brooke had felt ever so full of eager delight, he would have hesitated to manifest it under such very delicate circumstances.
At length Brooke cleared his throat.
"This," said he, in a solemn tone—"this is indeed an unexpected pleasure."
Dolores sighed.
"It is indeed, señor," she replied, "an unexpected, a most unexpected one."
"It is indeed," said Brooke, in quite a helpless way.
Saying this he held out his hand. Dolores held out hers. They shook hands. Then they cast hasty looks at one another.
"I hope you have been quite well," said Brooke.
"Oh, quite," said Dolores; "and you, señor?"
"Oh, very well," said Brooke, "very well indeed."
And now another pause succeeded. Both of them were horribly embarrassed. Each had the same feeling, but neither one knew the feeling of the other. Each knew that a change had occurred, but neither knew that the same change had been experienced by the other. Brooke knew himself false, but thought Dolores true; while Dolores had a similar feeling. Besides, this new love which each had conceived and cherished made the old one seem a mistake—made them regard each other with aversion, and this meeting as a calamity; yet each felt bound to conceal these feelings, and exhibit toward the other an impossible cordiality. All this caused a wretched embarrassment and restraint, which each felt and for which each took the blame, thinking the other altogether true and innocent.
The deep feelings of the past were yet strong in their hearts—the immediate past, and with these their hearts were full. Yet these had to be concealed. Each felt bound to the other by a solemn vow, and by every principle of duty and honor. They had exchanged vows of love and eternal fidelity. From such vows who could release them? Yet the vows were already broken by each, and of this each was conscious. Had Brooke met Dolores before this last scene with Talbot, he might have felt self-reproach, but he could not have felt such a sense of unworthiness. For before that he had, at least, kept a watch upon his tongue, and in words, at least, he had not told his love for another. But now his word had gone forth, and he had pledged himself to another, when there was a previous pledge to Dolores.
But he had to say something. Dolores was silent. He thought she was waiting for him to explain.
"I-I—" he stammered—"I have hunted—hunted you—all through Spain."
This was the truth, for Brooke had been faithful to Dolores until he had met with Talbot.
Dolores was conscience-smitten by this proof of her former lover's fidelity. She hastened to excuse herself somehow.
"II—" she said, with an embarrassment equal to that of Brooke—"I thought you were in America."
"No; I was in Cuba."
"I thought I had lost you," said Dolores: "you ceased to write."
This sounded like the reproach of a faithful lover. Brooke felt hurt.
"Oh no," said he; "I wrote, but you ceased to answer."
"I thought something had happened," said Dolores.
"I thought so too," said Brooke. "I never got your letters. Where did you go?"
Dolores jumped at this question as giving a chance of relief. So she began to give a long account of her life in Spain, detailing minute incidents, and growing gradually calmer, more self-possessed, and more observant of Brooke. She saw with satisfaction that Brooke made no demonstrations; yet her satisfaction was checked by the thought that perhaps he was deterred from exhibiting the raptures of a lover by the presence of others—by the fear that he had been only too true, and that those raptures would yet be exhibited. She resolved that he should not have an opportunity. Yet how could she avoid him? And thus she thought, and still she went on talking.
The effect of her story was a crushing one. She made no mention of Ashby; and Brooke concluded that she had been true, while he had been false. And now what was he? Clearly false. Could he come back to Dolores? Could he be what he had been? Could he give up Talbot? The thought was intolerable. Never had any one been to him so dear as Talbot. Never had Talbot been to him so dear as now. And yet was he not in honor bound to Dolores? Honor! and did not honor bind him to Talbot?
Such was the struggle within this unhappy man.
Almost at the same time Harry and Talbot had recognized each other.
Talbot, who had stood unmoved at the presence of death, now felt herself quail and grow all unnerved at the presence of Harry. But then she had been strengthened by her new love for Brooke; now she was weakened by the remembrance of her lost love for Harry. This was an ordeal for which there was no outside inspiration. The remembrance of her passionate words to Brooke, so lately uttered, so ardently answered, was strong within her. And yet here was one who held her promise, who could claim her as his own, who could take her away from Brooke; and what could she do?
Harry, on the other hand, had dared death for Katie; for her he had tried to fling away his life. This had been done in the presence of his Sydney. Had she understood that? She could not have understood it. Could he explain? Impossible! Could he tell the story of his falsity to this noble lady, whom he had known only to love, whom he had known also to revere? And this proud, this delicately nurtured girl had come from her home for his sake, to suffer, to risk her life, to become a miserable captive! Was there not in this a stronger reason than ever why he should be true to her? And yet, if he loved another better, would it not be wrong to marry Sydney?
All the tenderness of his heart rose up within him in one strong, yearning thought of—Oh, Katie! But all his honor, his pride, his manliness—all his pity, too, and his sympathy—made itself felt in a deep undertone of feeling—Oh, Sydney! true and faithful!
At last he was able to speak.
"Oh, Sydney," said he, "what bitter, bitter fortune has brought you here to this horrible place—to so much misery?"
Talbot looked down. She could not look in his face. She felt unworthy of him. He seemed faithful still. She had seen the act of his in attacking Lopez, but had not understood it. She thought him faithful, in spite of all.
"Bitter!" said she, slowly. "Bitter! yes, bitter indeed—bitter was the fortune that brought me here!"
She could say no more. She was thinking only of that bitter fortune which had brought her to a place where she might be forever torn from Brooke; where Brooke, too, had found one who might tear him from her.
But Harry understood this differently. He detected in these words a reflection upon himself. He thought she alluded to her long journey to him—when she had come so far, and had reached her destination only to find him absent; when she had waited for days without finding any trace of him or hearing any word from him, and at last had turned about on her lonely, homeward road. And yet he was blameless then. As far as that was concerned, he could excuse himself; he could explain all. He felt so guilty in some things, that he was anxious to show his innocence in other things where he had not been to blame; and so he hastened most eagerly to give a long and an eloquent vindication of himself, by explaining all about his journey to England, and his return to Barcelona, and his search after her which had led him to this.
And in all this Talbot found only proofs of Harry's unalterable fidelity. e had been true! She had been false! What now was there for her to do? To sacrifice this man? What? after such love and loyalty? Or, on the other hand, to give up Brooke! Brooke!—give up Brooke! Oh heavens! How was that possible? Would she not rather die than give up Brooke? When her own words to him were fresh in her memory, and when his words of love to her were still ringing in her ears—at such a moment as this could she think of giving up Brooke?
Such were the thoughts and feelings of these two.
Meanwhile Ashby, finding himself left alone by Dolores, stood for a while
wondering who her friend might be; until at length, finding that she was
beginning to give him a detailed history of her life, he looked around in
despair. And he saw Katie standing alone, where she had been left by
Harry, near the foot of the stairway; and as all the others were engaged
in their own affairs, and, moreover, as his relations with Katie were of
the most intimate kind, he saw no other course open to him than to
approach her and converse with her. And at that moment he remembered that
Katie had in her possession—perhaps in her pocket—a—certain letter
which he had written to her only a few days before, full of protestations
of love; in which he informed her that he was going to travel with her in
the same train, in the hope of seeing her at Burgos or Bayonne; in which
he urged her to come to him, to be his wife; to set at defiance her
hostile guardian, and to unite herself with him. This seemed strange to
him now, when his mind was filled with thoughts of Dolores, and his heart
was full of the love of Dolores. Even his resentment against her had
passed away. She had allowed herself to indulge in a flirtation with his
friend Rivers. Was that a crime? He, on the other hand, had lost all love
for her, and had given all his heart to Dolores. Katie seemed to him now
not repugnant as a false one, but merely pitiable as a weak, child-like
character. The falsity now seemed rather on his part than on hers. He
believed that Harry had gone much farther in treachery than Katie. Katie,
he thought, was merely a weak-minded flirt; while Harry had become a
traitor in allowing himself to fall in love with her. Even for Harry he
could now make some allowances; and since he had found out his own
feelings, he had less jealousy, and therefore less resentment against his
former friend. As for jealousy, if he now had that feeling, it was all
directed elsewhere—namely, toward that stranger whose sudden appearance
had so engrossed Dolores.
In such a state of mind as this Ashby advanced toward Katie. Now Katie had come down with the express purpose of seeing him, and with her mind full of a very pretty speech which she intended to make to him. But the sudden meeting of Harry with Talbot had raised other thoughts and feelings, which had driven her pretty speech altogether out of her mind. A bitter jealousy afflicted her tender heart. This lady was the Sydney Talbot of whom he had told her, and who had come all the way from England on this perilous journey to marry him. Would she now give him up? Impossible! And how could Harry escape her?
As Ashby approached, Katie therefore had but little thought for him. Ashby also thought less of her than of Dolores. Who was this stranger? he thought. Why was he so familiar? Why did Dolores leave him so abruptly? and why was she telling to this stranger the whole story of her life?
Thus Ashby and Katie met again.
Ashby had to say something, and so, as was natural, he took refuge in conventionalities.
"I hope," said he, "that no ill effects have arisen from this recent excitement."
"Oh no," said Katie, in an abstracted tone. She was trying to listen to Talbot's words. They did not sound pleasant.
Ashby also was trying to listen to Dolores. She seemed to him to be altogether too familiar.
"I'm very glad," said Ashby. "I was afraid that this excitement might have an injurious effect."
(Dolores was still giving an account of herself. It was unworthy of her!)
"Oh no," said Katie, "not at all."
She heard Harry speak in an apologetic manner. It was very hard to bear. Would he leave her for this lady?
There was now a pause.
Ashby and Katie were both listening with all their might to hear what was said by Dolores and by Harry respectively.
Ashby felt the necessity of saying something.
"Very fine weather," said he.
"Oh, very fine," said Katie.
"A fine moon."
"Oh, very fine."
At this mention of the moon, each thought of those moonbeams which had streamed in through the narrow windows on those past few nights—nights so memorable to each; and each thought of them with the same feelings.
Ashby tried to find something new to say. He thought of the position in which they all were—its danger—their liability to recapture—the necessity of flight, and yet the difficulty of doing so—things which he and Dolores had just been considering.
"This," said he, "is a very embarrassing position."
Katie by this understood him to mean the relations which they bore to one another, and which had become somewhat confused by her affair with Harry. She thought this was Ashby's way of putting it.
She sighed. She looked at Harry and Talbot. They seemed coming to an understanding. Harry was certainly making an explanation which seemed unnecessarily long. And here was Ashby hinting at an explanation with herself. She had forgotten all her fine speech with which she had come down. She knew not what to say. She only felt a jealous fear about Harry, and another fear about an explanation with Ashby.
Ashby meanwhile thought nothing about Katie, but was full of eagerness to learn what was going on between Dolores and Brooke.
And thus it was certainly an embarrassing situation.
There were three couples involved in this embarrassing situation, and among them all it is difficult to say which was most embarrassed. It was bad enough to meet with the old lover, but it was worse to feel that the eye of the new lover was upon them. Moreover, each new lover felt jealous of the old one; and the mind of each had thus to be distracted between two discordant anxieties. In short, it was, as Ashby had well said, a most embarrassing situation.
Suddenly, in the midst of all this, a figure entered the hall which attracted all eyes. It was a figure of commanding importance; a man rather elderly, in the uniform of a general-officer—all ablaze with gold. There was a universal shock at such an apparition. The first thought of every one was that the castle had been captured by some new enemy—that this was the leader, and that they all were prisoners.
But one by one, to Ashby, Harry, Brooke; to Katie, Talbot, and Dolores—came the recognition of the fact that under this magnificent exterior lay concealed the person of their companion and friend, the venerable and the virtuous Russell.
"I want to look after something," said he; and with these words he went into the room where he had first been confined—namely, the one opposite to that in which the recent ceremony had taken place.