caused me to drop it; rather say horror – horror at beholding the face underneath – the face of the yellow domino! Yes, there was the same negress with her thick lips, high cheek-bones, and the little well-oiled kinks hanging like corkscrews over her temples!
I knew not either what to say or do; my gallantry was clean gone; and although I resumed my seat, I remained perfectly dumb. Had I looked in a mirror at that moment, I should certainly have beheld the face of a fool.
My companion, who seemed to have made up her mind to such a result, instead of being mortified, burst into a loud fit of laughter, at the same time crying out in a tone of raillery —
“Now, Monsieur le Poète, does my face inspire you? When may I expect the verses? To-morrow? Soon? Never? Ah! monsieur, I fear you are not more gallant to us poor ‘ladies ob colour’ than your countryman the lieutenant. Ha, ha, ha!”
I was too much ashamed of my own conduct, and too deeply wounded by her reproach, to make reply. Fortunately her continued laughter offered me an opportunity to mutter some broken phrases, accompanied by very clumsy gestures, and thus take myself off. Certainly, in all my life, I never made a more awkward adieu.
I walked, or rather stole, towards the entrance, determined to leave the ball-room, and gallop home.
On reaching the door, my curiosity grew stronger than my shame; and I resolved to take a parting look at this singular Ethiopian. The blue domino, still within the niche, caught my eye at once; but on looking up to the face – gracious Heaven! it was Isolina’s!
I stood as if turned into stone. My gaze was fixed upon her face, and I could not take it off. She was looking at me; but, oh! the expression with which those eyes regarded me! That was a glance to be remembered for life. She no longer laughed, but her proud lip seemed to curl with a sarcastic smile, as of scorn!
I hesitated whether to return and apologise. But no; it was too late. I could have fallen upon my knees, and begged forgiveness. It was too late. I should only subject myself to further ridicule from that capricious spirit.
Perhaps my look of remorse had more effect than words. I thought her expression changed; her glance became more tender, as if inviting me back! Perhaps —
At this moment a man approached, and without ceremony seated himself by her side. His face was towards me – I recognised Ijurra!
“They converse. Is it of me? Is it of – ? If so, he will laugh. A world to see that man laugh, and know it is at me. If he do, I shall soon cast off the load that is crushing my heart!
“He laughs not – not even a smile is traceable on his sombre features. She has not told him, and well for him she has not. Prudence, perchance, restrains her tongue; she might guess the result.”
They are on their feet again; she masks. Ijurra leads her to the dance; they front to each other; they whirl away – away: they are lost among the maskers.
“Some wine, mozo!”
A deep long draught, a few seconds spent in buckling on my sword, a few more in reaching the gate, one spring, and my saddled steed was under me.
I rode with desperate heart and hot head; but the cool night-air, the motion of my horse, and his proud spirit mingling with mine, gave me relief, and I soon felt calmer.
On reaching the rancheria, I found my lieutenants still up, eating their rudely cooked supper. As my appetite was roused, I joined them at their meal; and their friendly converse restored for the time my spirit’s equanimity.
Chapter Fourteen.
Love-thoughts
A dread feeling is jealousy, mortified vanity, or whatever you may designate the disappointment of love. I have experienced the sting of shame, the blight of broken fortune, the fear of death itself; yet none of these ever wrung my heart so rudely as the pang of an unreciprocated passion. The former are but transient trials, and their bitterness soon has an end. Jealousy, like the tooth of the serpent, carries poison in its sting, and long and slow is the healing of its wound. Well knew he this, that master of the human heart: Iago’s prayer was not meant for mockery.
To drown my mortification, I had drunk wine freely at the ball; and on returning home, had continued my potations with the more fiery spirit of “Catalan.” By this means I gained relief and sleep, but only of short duration. Long before day I was awake – awake to the double bitterness of jealousy and shame – awake to both mental and physical pain, for the fumes of the vile stuff I had drunk wrecked my brain as though they would burst open my skull. An ounce of opium would not have set me to sleep again, and I tossed on my couch like one labouring under delirium.
Of course the incidents of the preceding night were uppermost in my mind. Every scene and action that had occurred were as plainly before me as if I was again witnessing them. Every effort to alienate my thoughts, and fix them upon some other theme, proved vain and idle; they ever returned to the same circle of reflections, in the centre of which was Isolina de Vargas! I thought of all that had passed, of all she had said. I remembered every word. How bitterly I remembered that scornful laugh! – how bitterly that sarcastic smile, when the double mask was removed!
The very remembrance of her beauty pained me! It was now to me as to Tantalus the crystal waters, never to be tasted. Before, I had formed hopes, had indulged in prospective dreams: the masquerade adventure had dissipated them. I no longer hoped, no longer permitted myself to dream of pleasant times to come: I felt that I was scorned.
This feeling produced a momentary revulsion in my thoughts. There were moments when I hated her, and vengeful impulses careered across my soul.
These were fleeting moments: again before me rose that lovely form, that proud grand spirit, in the full entirety of its power, and again my soul became absorbed in admiration, and yielded itself to its hopeless passion. It was far from being my first love. And thus experienced, I could reason upon it. I felt certain it was to be the strongest and stormiest of my life.
I know of three loves distinct in kind and power. First, when the passion is reciprocated – when the heart of the beloved yields back thought for thought, and throb for throb, without one reserved pulsation. This is bliss upon earth – not always long-lived – ending perchance in a species of sublimated friendship. To have is no longer to desire.
The second is love entirely unrequited – love that never knew word or smile of encouragement, no soft whisper to fan it into flame, no ray of hope to feed upon. Such dies of inanition – the sooner that its object is out of the way, and absence in time will conquer it.
The third is the love that “dotes yet doubts,” that doubts but never dies – no never. The jealousy that pains, only sustains it; it lives on, now happy in the honeyed conviction of triumph, now smarting under real or fancied scorn – on, on, so long as its object is accessible to sight or hearing! No matter how worthless that object may be or become – no matter how lost or fallen! Love regards not this; it has nought to do with the moral part of our nature. Beauty is the shrine of its worship, and beauty is not morality.
In my own mind I am conscious of three elements or classes of feeling: the moral, the intellectual, and what I may term the passional– the last as distinct from either of the other two as oil from spirits or water. To the last belongs love, which, I repeat again, has no sympathy with the moral feelings of our nature, but, alas! as one might almost believe, with their opposite. Even a plain but wicked coquette will captivate more hearts than a beautiful saint, and the brilliant murderess ere now has made conquests at the very foot of the scaffold!
It
