At that moment, as her despairing eyes wandered around, they fell full upon the face of Harry; for Harry and Katie on descending the stairs had, on this instant, reached the spot.
Harry saw her again.
The priest"s dress was removed. She stood in her own garb--her very self--Talbot! with all her n.o.ble face revealed, and all her exquisite grace of feature and of form.
"Sydney!" said he.
"Harry!" said Talbot.
Katie heard this. She turned pale. All her thoughts fled from her; she shrank back, and stood staring. But one thought now remained--the thought suggested by that name, Sydney. Well she remembered that name, and all the incidents of that story which Harry had told her when they were first acquainted--the wreck of the ship--the maiden deserted and despairing--her rescue by Harry--their escape in the boat--their love--their plighted faith--the appointed marriage--the lost bride.
Sydney! It was she herself--the promised bride of Harry, whom he would, no doubt, be required to wed at once.
Now she understood why Harry had been so preoccupied.
CHAPTER LIV.
IN WHICH A NUMBER OF PEOPLE FIND THEMSELVES IN A VERY EMBARRa.s.sING SITUATION.
Brooke and Dolores stood facing one another in silence. The embarra.s.sment 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 inc.u.mbent 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 circ.u.mstances 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 circ.u.mstances.
At length Brooke cleared his throat.
"This," said he, in a solemn tone--"this is indeed an unexpected pleasure."
Dolores sighed.
"It is indeed, senor," 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, senor?"
"Oh, very well," said Brooke, "very well indeed."
And now another pause succeeded. Both of them were horribly embarra.s.sed.
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 embarra.s.sment 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.
"I?I--" she said, with an embarra.s.sment 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 pa.s.sionate 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 n.o.ble 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?"