"Come," said she, as she entered, "I suppose you will at least grace the convivial table, since I could not prevail on you to adorn the procession?"
"Suffer me," gently answered Theodora, "to trespass so far on your kind indulgence as to excuse my absence from the feast. My mind, alas! is in no state to enjoy the revelry, and I should but cast a gloom on the brilliancy of the scene."
Leonor had a superior knowledge of human nature, and an unusual quickness of discernment. She prudently considered that consolation could much better be promoted by a gentle and timely acquiescence with the desires of the afflicted, than by an overstrained and ill-timed attempt to obtrude gaiety on a mind that was not prepared for its admission. Theodora's request to keep her apartment was accordingly complied with. There she passed the remainder of the day in busy communion with her own thoughts, and bewildered in contemplating the conduct that she ought to adopt in her unfortunate situation. Her forlorn heart naturally and affectionately turned to the home of her childhood; her ideas fondly returned to the pure channel from whence they had too long wandered, and momentarily overpowered the terrors which a consciousness of guilt presented to her imagination. Her father would not discard his afflicted, his repentant child. Her offence towards him had been great, but it could not be greater than the parental anxiety, the fond, boundless affection he had ever shown to the only remaining pledge of her mother's love, the sole descendant of his ancient house.
These consoling reflections happily soothed the heart of Theodora. She arose from her despondency with a sudden start of resolution, and determined that on the moment her generous deliverer should arrive, she would acquaint him with her wishes, and crave his assistance to conduct her to the feet of her sorrowing parent.
CHAPTER VI.
Così gl'interi giorni in lungo incerto
Sonno gemo! ma poi quando la bruna
Notte gli astri nel ciel chiama e la luna
E il freddo aer di mute ombre è coverto;
Dove selvoso è il piano è più deserto
Allor lento io vagando, ad una ad una
Palpo le piaghe onde la rea fortuna
E amore e il mondo hanno il mio core aperto.
Ugo Foscolo.
It was night, gentle and serene, such a night as in the favored clime of Andalusia is wont to succeed the sultriness of a summer's day. The bright canopy of heaven shone in passionless serenity, emblazoned with its countless stars. The moon flung a solemn light on the tall palaces and stately turrets of Granada, and tinged the citron groves of Don Alonso's garden with a flood of chaste and silvery splendor. The placid beams reposed calmly and unbroken on the bosom of the still lake, or danced fitfully on the bubbling eddies of the limpid water, as it fell on the marble basin with a refreshing sound.
How beautiful this calm! In such a spot as this could the wearied mind taste of the sweet repose of an earthless spirit. But hark! the breathless silence is violated by a low harsh sound. It is the grating voice of yonder ponderous Moorish casement. It opens, and a female form is there wrapped in contemplation; her eye is fixed, her figure motionless. She now raises the trembling fingers to her white forehead, and reclines on her arm, as she watches, with the unconscious gaze of an absent mind, the sportive waters as they played below. She seemed to delight in the soft stillness, and to gather fresh life amidst the mysterious shades that reigned around. Spirit-like, she sat in the frowning window, enrobed in shadow, and the cold whiteness that pencilled out her form, seemed to array it with the character of a living statue.
It was Theodora—the hapless Theodora, who, a prey to the rooted melancholy that consumed her, had left her couch to enjoy undisturbed the luxury of grief. The garden soon brought to her fancy recollections of past scenes, and the source of all her present misfortunes. It was in a garden, and on such nights as these that her meetings with Gomez Arias had taken place, as well as the last interview which had decided her fate, and given birth to all the miseries which followed. Tranquil and serene was all around; Theodora felt a wild and romantic sensation of delight, while gazing on objects fraught with associations of past bliss and present misery. The hallowed placidity of the blue vaulted heavens; the soft whispering of the foliage that slumbered in the cold moonlight; the spectre-like appearance of the tall trees, which stood partly enrobed in shadowy darkness, and partly glowing in serene and chastened splendor; the gentle murmuring of the sportive breeze—all tended to lead her senses into a delusive, but pleasing reverie. She listened, and thought she heard his voice. She looked tremblingly as if in the expectation of the appearance of her lover. The thicket of myrtle rustles and shakes, and flings on the air its load of fragrance, when from its green bosom softly steals forward a tall and majestic figure.
Could it be possible? Or had her bewildered imagination conjured up the airy phantom to deceive her? It was he—Gomez Arias—and as she gazed intensely, the shadow moved slowly along, lengthening in the moonlight as it proceeded. No delusion was here; it was indeed her lover she beheld, moving with the same graceful manner as when she saw him last in the garden of her father. The phantom approached, not in the unearthly sickly semblance of a tenant of the tomb, but radiant with the joy of a successful lover; his eye beaming with the glow of life. It moved! it passed! 'tis gone—and Theodora, in the complication of her feelings, remained with her eyes fixed, looking intently on the space where she had distinguished the form of her lover.