Chapter 25 - The Rifle Rangers by Mayne Reid
A Tough Night of it after all
I entered my chamber—to sleep? No. And yet it contained a bed fit for Morpheus—a bed canopied and curtained with cloth from the looms of Damascus: shining rods roofed upwards, that met in an ornamental design, where the god of sleep, fanned by virgins of silver, reclined upon a couch of roses.
I drew aside the curtains—a bank of snow—pillows, as if prepared for the cheek of a beautiful bride. I had not slept in a bed for two months. A close crib in a transport ship—a “shake-down” among the scorpions and spiders of Lobos—a single blanket among the sand-hills, where it was not unusual to wake up half-buried by the drift.
These were my souvenirs. Fancy the prospect! It certainly invited repose; and yet I was in no humour to sleep. My brain was in a whirl. The strange incidents of the day—some of them were mysterious—crowded into my mind. My whole system, mental as well as physical, was flushed; and thought followed thought with nervous rapidity.
My heart shared the excitement—chords long silent had been touched—the divine element was fairly enthroned. I was in love!
It was not the first passion of my life, and I easily recognised it. Even jealousy had begun to distil its poison—“Don Santiago!”
I was standing in front of a large mirror, when I noticed two small miniatures hanging against the wall—one on each side of the glass.
I bent over to examine, first, that which hung upon the right. I gazed with emotion. They were her features; “and yet,” thought I, “the painter has not flattered her; it might better represent her ten years hence: still, the likeness is there. Stupid artist!” I turned to the other. “Her fair sister, no doubt. Gracious heaven! Do my eyes deceive me? No, the black wavy hair—the arching brows—the sinister lip—Dubrosc!”
A sharp pang shot through my heart. I looked at the picture again and again with a kind of incredulous bewilderment; but every fresh examination only strengthened conviction. “There is no mistaking those features—they are his!” Paralysed with the shock, I sank into a chair, my heart filled with the most painful emotions.
For some moments I was unable to think, much less to act.
“What can it mean? Is this accomplished villain a fiend?—the fiend of my existence?—thus to cross me at every point, perhaps in the end to—.”
Our mutual dislike at first meeting—Lobos—his reappearance upon the sand-hills, the mystery of his passing the lines and again appearing with the guerilla—all came forcibly upon my recollection; and now I seized the lamp and rushed back to the pictures.
“Yes, I am not mistaken; it is he—it is she, her features—all—all. And thus, too!—the position—side by side—counterparts! There are no others on the wall; matched—mated—perhaps betrothed! His name, too, Don Emilio! The American who taught them English! His is Emile—the voice on the island cried ‘Emile!’ Oh, the coincidence is complete! This villain, handsome and accomplished as he is, has been here before me! Betrothed—perhaps married—perhaps—Torture! horrible!”
I reeled back to my chair, dashing the lamp recklessly upon the table. I know not how long I sat, but a world of wintry thoughts passed through my heart and brain. A clock striking from a large picture awoke me from my reverie. I did not count the hours. Music began to play behind the picture. It was a sad, sweet air, that chimed with my feelings, and to some extent soothed them. I rose at length, and, hastily undressing, threw myself upon the bed, mentally resolving to forget all—to forget that I had ever seen her.
“I will rise early—return to camp without meeting her, and, once there, my duties will drive away this painful fancy. The drum and the fife and the roar of the cannon will drown remembrance. Ha! it was only a passing thought at best—the hallucination of a moment. I shall easily get rid of it. Ha! ha!”
I laid my fevered cheek upon the soft, cold pillow. I felt composed—almost happy.
“A Creole of New Orleans! How could he have been here? Oh! have I not the explanation already? Why should I dwell on it?”
Ah, jealous heart—it is easy to say “forget!”
I tried to prevent my thoughts from returning to this theme. I directed them to a thousand things: to the ships—to the landing—to the army—to the soldiers—to the buttons upon their jackets and the swabs upon their shoulders—to everything I could think of: all in vain. Back, back, back! in painful throes it came, and my heart throbbed, and my brain burned with bitter memories freshly awakened.
I turned and tossed upon my couch for many a long hour. The clock in the picture struck, and played the same music again and again, still soothing me as before. Even despair has its moments of respite; and, worn with fatigue, mental as well as physical, I listened to the sad, sweet strain, until it died away into my dreams.