Chapter 26 - The Rifle Rangers by Mayne Reid
The Light after the Shade
When I awoke all was darkness around me. I threw out my arms and opened the damask curtains. Not a ray of light entered the room. I felt refreshed, and from this I concluded I must have slept long. I slipped out upon the floor and commenced groping for my watch. Someone knocked.
“Come in!” I called.
The door opened, and a flood of light gushed into the apartment. It was a servant bearing a lamp.
“What is the hour?” I demanded.
“Nine o’clock, mi amo,” (my master), was the reply.
The servant set down the lamp and went out. Another immediately entered, carrying a salver with a small gold cup.
“What have you there?”
“Chocolate, master; Dona Joaquina has sent it.”
I drank off the beverage, and hastened to dress myself. I was reflecting whether I should pass on to camp without seeing any one of the family. Somehow, my heart felt less heavy. I believe the morning always brings relief to pain, either mental or bodily. It seems to be a law of nature—at least, so my experience tells me. The morning air, buoyant and balmy, dulls the edge of anguish. New hopes arise and new projects appear with the sun. The invalid, couch-tossing through the long watches of the night, will acknowledge this truth.
I did not approach the mirror. I dared not.
“I will not looked upon the loved, the hated face—no, on to the camp!—let Lethe—. Has my friend arisen?”
“Yes, master; he has been up for hours.”
“Ha! where is he?”
“In the garden, master.”
“Alone?”
“No, master; he is with the niñas.”
“Happy, light-hearted Clayley! No jealous thoughts to torture him!” mused I, as I buckled on my stock.
I had observed that the fair-haired sister and he were kindred spirits—sympathetic natures, who only needed to be placed en rapport to “like each other mightily”—beings who could laugh, dance, and sing together, romp for months, and then get married, as a thing of course; but, should any accident prevent this happy consummation, could say “good-bye” and part without a broken heart on either side; an easy thing for natures like theirs; a return exchange of numerous billets-doux, a laugh over the past, and a light heart for the future. Such is the history of many a love. I can vouch for it. How different with—
“Tell my friend, when he returns to the house, that I wish to see him.”
“Yes, master.”
The servant bowed and left the room.
In a few minutes Clayley made his appearance, gay as a grasshopper.
“So, good lieutenant, you have been improving your time, I hear?”
“Haven’t I, though? Such a delicious stroll! Haller, this is a paradise.”
“Where have you been?”
“Feeding the swans,” replied Clayley, with a laugh. “But, by the way, your chère amie hangs her pretty head this morning. She seems hurt that you have not been up. She kept constantly looking towards the house.”
“Clayley, will you do me the favour to order the men to their saddles?”
“What! going so soon? Not before breakfast, though?”
“In five minutes.”
“Why, Captain, what’s the matter? And such a breakfast as they are getting! Oh, Don Cosmé will not hear of it.”
“Don Cosmé—.”
Our host entered at that moment, and, listening to his remonstrances, the order was rescinded, and I consented to remain.
I saluted the ladies with as much courtesy as I could assume. I could not help the coldness of my manner, and I could perceive that with her it did not pass unobserved.
We sat down to the breakfast-table; but my heart was full of bitterness, and I scarcely touched the delicate viands that were placed before me.
“You do not eat, Captain. I hope you are well?” said Don Cosmé, observing my strange and somewhat rude demeanour.
“Thank, you, Señor, I never enjoyed better health.”
I studiously avoided looking towards her, paying slight attentions to her sister. This is the game of piques. Once or twice I ventured a side-glance. Her eyes were bent upon me with a strange, inquiring look.
They are swimming in tears, and soft, and forgiving. They are swollen. She has been weeping. That is not strange. Her brother’s danger is, no doubt, the cause of her sorrow.
Yet, is there not reproach in her looks? Reproach! How ill does my conduct of last night correspond with this affected coldness—this rudeness! Can she, too, be suffering?
I arose from the table, and, walking forth, ordered Lincoln to prepare the men for marching.
I strolled down among the orange-trees. Clayley followed soon after, accompanied by both the girls. Don Cosmé remained at the house to superintend the saddling of his mule, while Dona Joaquina was packing the necessary articles into his portmanteau.
Following some silent instinct, we—Guadalupe and I—came together. Clayley and his mistress had strayed away, leaving us alone. I had not yet spoken to her. I felt a strange impulse—a desire to know the worst. I felt as one looking over a fearful precipice.
Then I will brave the danger; it can be no worse than this agony of suspicion and suspense.
I turned towards her. Her head was bent to one side. She was crushing an orange-flower between her fingers, and her eyes seemed to follow the dropping fragments.
How beautiful was she at that moment!
“The artist certainly has not flattered you.”
She looked at me with a bewildered expression. Oh, those swimming eyes!
She did not understand me.
I repeated the observation.
“Señor Capitan, what do you mean?”
“That the painter has not done you justice. The portrait is certainly a likeness, yet the expression, I think, should have been younger.”
“The painter! What painter? The portrait! What portrait, Señor?”
“I refer to your portrait, which I accidentally found hanging in my apartment.”
“Ah! by the mirror?”
“Yes, by the mirror,” I answered sullenly.
“But, it is not mine, Señor Capitan.”
“Ha!—how? Not yours?”
“No; it is the portrait of my cousin, Maria de Merced. They say we were much alike.”
My heart expanded. My whole frame quivered under the influence of joyful emotions.
“And the gentleman?” I faltered out.
“Don Emilio? He was cousin’s lover—huyeron,” (they eloped).
As she repeated the last word she turned her head away, and I thought there was a sadness in her manner.
I was about to speak, when she continued:
“It was her room—we have not touched anything.”
“And where is your cousin now?”
“We know not.”
“There is a mystery,” thought I. I pressed the subject no farther. It was nothing to me now. My heart was happy.
“Let us walk farther, Lupita.”
She turned her eyes upon me with an expression of wonder. The change in my manner—so sudden—how was she to account for it? I could have knelt before her and explained all. Reserve disappeared, and the confidence of the preceding night was fully restored.
We wandered along under the guardarayas, amidst sounds and scenes suggestive of love and tenderness. Love! We heard it in the songs of the birds—in the humming of the bees—in the voices of all nature around us. We felt it in our own hearts. The late cloud had passed, making the sky still brighter than before; the reaction had heightened our mutual passion to the intensity of non-resistance; and we walked on, her hand clasped in mine. We had eyes only for each other.
We reached a clump of cocoa-trees; one of them had fallen, and its smooth trunk offered a seat, protected from the sun by the shadowy leaves of its fellows. On this we sat down. There was no resistance—no reasoning process—no calculation of advantages and chances, such as is too often mingled with the noble passion of love. We felt nothing of this—nothing but that undefinable impulse which had entered our hearts, and to whose mystical power neither of us dreamed of offering opposition. Delay and duty were alike forgotten.
“I shall ask the question now—I shall know my fate at once,” were my thoughts.
In the changing scenes of a soldier’s life there is but little time for the slow formalities, the zealous vigils, the complicated finesse of courtship. Perhaps this consideration impelled me. I have but little confidence in the cold heart that is won by a series of assiduities. There is too much calculation of after-events—too much selfishness.
These reflections passed through my mind. I bent towards my companion, and whispered to her in that language—rich above all others in the vocabulary of the heart:
“Guadalupe, tu me amas?” (Guadalupe, do you love me?)
“Yo te amo!” was the simple reply. Need I describe the joyful feelings that filled my heart at that moment? My happiness was complete.
The confession rendered her sacred in my eyes, and we sat for some time silent, enjoying that transport only known to those who have truly, purely loved.
The trampling of hoofs! It was Clayley at the head of the troop. They were mounted, and waiting for me. Don Cosmé was impatient; so was the Dona Joaquina. I could not blame them, knowing the cause.
“Ride forward! I shall follow presently.”
The horsemen filed off into the fields, headed by the lieutenant, beside whom rode Don Cosmé, on his white mule.
“You will soon return, Enrique?”
“I shall lose no opportunity of seeing you. I shall long for the hour more than you, I fear.”
“Oh! no, no!”
“Believe me yes, Lupita! Say again you will never cease to love me.”
“Never, never! Tuya—tuya—hasta la muerte!” (Yours—yours—till death!)
How often has this question been asked! How often answered as above!
I sprang into the saddle. A parting look—another from a distance—a wave of the hand—and the next moment I was urging my horse in full gallop under the shadowy palms.