Chapter 46 - The Hunt of the Wild Horse by Mayne Reid
A Declaration on Horseback
Face to face with my beautiful brunette. Her eyes flashed upon me with an expression of surprise. I felt abashed by the glance; my conduct was not en règle.
I bethought me of an apology. What excuse could I offer for such unceremonious intrusion? Accident? She would not believe it; the time and the place were against such a supposition. With an intellect like hers, it would be idle to adopt so shallow an artifice. No; I would not dissemble; I would boldly avow the truth. Jealousy had rendered me reckless of the result.
“Adios, cavallero!” said she, interrupting my hurried reflections. “Carrambo! where is your guide? How have you found this place?”
“Easily enough, señorita; I followed the tracks of your horse.”
“But so soon—I did not expect you—”
“No; you expected another?”
“Certainly. I thought Cyprio would arrive before you—”
“Cyprio!”
“Cyprio—yes, Cyprio.”
“Señorita! if this be another name for your Protean cousin, I have to say it will be better for him he should not arrive at all.”
“My cousin?—better not arrive? Holy Trinity, capitan! I do not comprehend you!”
Her large brown eyes were rolling in astonishment. I was as much puzzled as she, but I had begun my explanation, and was determined to carry it to the end.
“Then, Señorita de Vargas, I shall be more explicit. If Rafael Ijurra appear upon this ground, either he or I leave it not alive. He has attempted my life, and I have vowed to take his, whenever and wherever I may meet him.”
“Pray heaven you may keep your vow!”
“Your cousin?”
“My cousin—Rafael Ijurra—my worst foe—the direst enemy of our house!”
“Ha! and were you not waiting him?”
“Awaiting him! Ha, ha, ha! No. Little timid though I be, I should not desire to be here alone with Rafael Ijurra.”
“Lady! you astonish me; pray explain—”
“Por dios! gallant capitan, ’tis you who need explain. I sought this interview to thank you for your noble gift. You meet me with anger in your eye, and bitter words upon your tongue.”
“You sought this interview?—say you so, lady?”
“Certainly I did. For reasons already known to you, I dared not invite you to our house; so I have chosen this pretty glade for my drawing-room. How do you like it, cavallero?”
“In your society, señorita, the rudest spot would appear a paradise.”
“Again the poet’s tongue! Ah, capitan, remember the yellow domino! No more flattery, I pray; we are no longer en masque. Face to face, let us be candid with each other.”
“With all my heart I accept the conditions. Candour is the very thing I desire, for, to say the truth, I came prepared for a confession.”
“A confession!”
“Precisely so; but since you are an advocate for candour, may I first ask a question?”
“Ho! you wish to play the confessor with me?”
“I do, señorita.”
“Bravo, capitan! Proceed! I shall answer you in all sincerity.”
“Then, lady, what I would ask first—Who is this Cyprio whom you expected?”
“Cyprio! Ha, ha, ha! Who should Cyprio be but my mozo; he who carried my message to you. Why do you put such a question?”
“He who carried your message to me?”
“Of course. Yonder is the muchaco himself. Hola, Cyprio! you may return to the house. Carrambo capitan! both he and you must have sped well. I did not expect you for half-an-hour; but you soldiers are soon in the saddle. So much the better, for it is getting late, and I have a great deal to say to you.”
A light had broken upon me. ’Twas Cyprio I had passed in the forest shade; the boy was the bearer of a message—hence his having hailed me. ’Twas I who was expected to keep the assignation; ’twas I for whom the timepiece had been consulted—for whom those earnest glances had been given!
The bitter moments were past, and my heart swelled anew with proud and pleasant emotions.
As yet she knew not that I had come without invitation. Cyprio, at the word of command, had gone off without making any reply, and my prompt appearance upon the ground was still unexplained.
I was about to account for it, and offer some apology for my brusque behaviour, when I was challenged to the confession I had just promised.
Minor thoughts gave way before the important purpose I had formed, and to which the banter now recalled me. So fair an opportunity might never offer again. In the vicissitudes of a soldier’s life, the chance of to-day should not be disregarded—to-morrow may bring change either in the scene or the circumstances; and I was skilled enough in love-lore to know that an hour unimproved is often followed by an age of regrets.
But, in truth, I do some wrong to my character; I was but little under the influence of such cunning cognisance at that moment. I acted not by volition, but rather under pressure of a passion that held complete mastery over my will, and compelled me to the declaration I was about to make.
It was simple enough—three little words in either of the two sweet tongues in which we understood each other. I chose the one—of all others most attuned to the tones of the loving heart—and bending low to that fair face, and gazing into the liquid depths of those large inquiring eyes, I whispered the sweet, though oft-repeated phrase—
“Yo te amo.”
The words quivered upon my lips, but their tone proved the sincerity in which I had spoken. No doubt it was further manifest by the earnestness of my manner as I awaited her reply.
The habitual smile had departed from her lips; the damask red deepened and mounted higher upon her cheeks; the dark fringes drooped downward, and half-concealed the burning orbs beneath: the face of the gay girl had suddenly assumed the serious air of womanhood.
At first, I was terrified by the expression, and could scarcely control my dread; but I drew hope from the flushed cheek, the roseate neck, the swelling panting bosom. Strong emotions were stirring in that breast.
Oh, what emotions! will she not speak? Will she not declare them?
There was a long interval of silence—to me, it seemed an age.
“Señor,” she said at length—’twas the first time I had heard that voice tremble—“Señor, you promised to be candid; you have been so: are you equally sincere?”
“I have spoken from the depth of my soul.”
The long lashes were raised, and the love-light gleamed in her liquid eyes; for a moment it burned steadily, bathing my heart as with balm. Heaven itself could not have shed a brighter beam upon my spirit.
All at once a smile played upon her features, in which I detected, or fancied so, the gay insouciance that springs from indifference. To me it was another moment of pain. She continued—
“And pray, capitan, what would you have me do?”
I felt embarrassed, and replied not.
“Would you have me declare that I love you?”
“Oh! you cannot—you do not—”
“You have not asked the question!”
“No, lady. I too much dread the answer.”
“Ho! what a coward you have grown of late! A pity I am not masked. Shall I draw this veil? Ha, ha, ha!”
It was not the manner of love. Love laughs not. My heart was heavy; I made no reply, but with eyes upon the ground, sat in my saddle, feeling like one condemned.
For some moments her laughter rang in my ears, as I fancied, in mockery. Her sweet silvery voice only grated upon my heart. Oh, that I had never listened to its siren tones!
I heard the hoof-stroke of her horse; and, looking up, saw that she was moving away from the spot. Was she going to leave me thus?
She spurred towards the centre of the glade, where the ground was higher, and there again pulled up.
“Come hither, cavallero!” she cried, beckoning to me with her small gloved hand.
Mechanically, I moved forward to the spot.
“So, gallant capitan! you who are brave enough to meet a score of foes, have not the courage to ask a woman if she loves you!”
A dismal smile was my only reply to this bitter badinage.
“Ah! capitan,” she continued, “I will not believe it; ere now you have put that dreaded interrogatory—often, I fear too often.”
I looked at her with surprise. There was a touch of bitterness in the tone. The gay smile was gone; her eyelids drooped; her look was turned upon the ground.
Was this real, or only a seeming? the prelude to some abrupt antithesis? some fresh outburst of satire?
“Señorita!” said I, “the hypothesis, whether true or false, can have but little interest for you.”
She answered me with a smile of strange intelligence. I fancied there was sadness in it. I fancied—
“We cannot recover the past,” said she, interrupting my thoughts; “no, no, no! But for the present—say again—tell me again that you love me!”
“Love you!—yes, lady—”
“And I have your heart, your whole heart?”
“Never—can I love another!”
“Thanks! thanks!”
“No more than thanks, Isolina?”
For some moments she remained silent, her eyes averted from me; she appeared struggling with some emotion.
“Yes, more than thanks,” she replied at length; “gratitude! three things more—if they will suffice to prove my gratitude.”
“Name them!”
“Why should prudery tie my tongue? I promised to be candid. I, too, came here to make confession. Listen! Three things I have said. Look around you!—north, south, east, and west—the land you see is mine; be it yours, if you will.”
“Isolina!”
“This, too, can I bestow,”—she held forth her little hand, which I clasped with fervid emotion.
“More! more! the third?”
“The third, on second thoughts, I cannot give; ’tis yours already.”
“It is—?”
“Mia corazon” (My heart).
Those splendid steeds, like creatures of intelligence, appeared to understand what was said; they had gradually moved closer and closer, till their muzzles touched and their steel curbs rang together. At the last words, they came side by side, as if yoked in a chariot. It appeared delight to them to press their proud heaving flanks against each other, while their riders, closing in mutual clasp, leaned over and met their lips in that wild fervid kiss—the climax of love.