experience. There is as little gain as pleasure in so doing, but popularity must be sacrificed at the shrine of truth. For the sake of effect, I shall not play false with philosophy.
Rough ranger as I was, I had studied psychology sufficiently to understand these truths; and I endeavoured to analyse my passion for this girl or woman – to discover why I loved her. Her physical beauty was of the highest order, and that no doubt was an element; but it was not all. Had I merely looked upon this beauty under ordinary circumstances – that is, without coming in contact with the spirit that animated it – I might have loved her, or I might not. It was the spirit, then, that had won me, though not alone. The same gem in a less brilliant setting might have failed to draw my admiration. I was the captive both of the spirit and the form. Soul and body had co-operated in producing my passion, and this may account for its suddenness and profundity. Why I loved her person, I knew – I was not ignorant of the laws of beauty – but why the spirit, I knew not. Certainly not from any idea I had formed of her high moral qualities; I had no evidence of these. Of her courage, even to daring, I had proof; of energy and determined will; of the power of thought, quick and versatile; but these are not moral qualities, they are not even feminine! True, she wept over her slain steed. Humanity? I have knows a hardened lorette weep bitter tears for her tortoise-shell cat. She refused to take from me my horse. Generosity? She had a thousand within sight. Alas! in thus reviewing all that had passed between myself and the beautiful Isolina, in search of her moral qualities, I met with but little success!
Mystery of our nature! I loved her not the less! And yet my passion was pure, and I do not believe that my heart was wicked. Mystery of our nature! He who reads all hearts alone can solve thee!
I loved without reason; but I loved now without hope. Hope I had before that night. Her glance through the turrets – her note – its contents – a word, a look at other times, had inspired me with hopes, however faint they were. The incident of the ball-room had crushed them.
Ijurra’s dark face kept lowering before me; even in my visions he was always by her side. What was between the two? Perhaps a nearer relationship than that of cousin? Perhaps they were affianced? Married?
The thought maddened me.
I could rest upon my couch no longer. I rose and sought the open air; I climbed to the azotea, and paced it to and fro, as the tiger walks his cage. My thoughts were wild, and my movements without method.
To add to the bitterness of my reflections, I now discovered that I had sustained a loss – not in property, but something that annoyed me still more. I had lost the order and its enclosure – the note of Don Ramon. I had dropped them on the day in which they were received, and I believed in the patio of the hacienda, where they must have been picked up at once. If by Don Ramon himself, then all was well; but if they had fallen into the hands of some of the leather-clad herdsmen, ill affected to Don Ramon, it might be an awkward affair for that gentleman – indeed for myself. Such negligence would scarcely be overlooked at head-quarters; and I had ill forebodings about the result. It was one of my soul’s darkest hours.
From its very darkness I might have known that light was near, for the proverb is equally true in the moral as in the material world. Light was near.
Chapter Fifteen.
An odd epistle
Breakfast I hardly tasted. A taso of chocolate and a small sugared cake – the desayuna of every Mexican – were brought, and these served me for breakfast. A glass of cognac and a Havanna were more to the purpose, and helped to stay the wild trembling of my nerves. Fortunately, there was no duty to perform, else I could ill have attended to it.
I remained on the azotea till near mid-day. The storm raging within prevented me from taking note of what was passing around. The scenes in the piazza, the rangers and their steeds, the “greasers” in their striped blankets, the Indias squatted on their petates, the pretty poblanas, were all unnoticed by me.
At intervals my eyes rested upon the walls of the distant dwelling; it was not so distant but that a human form could have been distinguished upon its roof, had one been there. There was none, and twenty, ay, fifty times, did I turn away my disappointed gaze.
About noon the Serjeant of the guard reported that a Mexican wished to speak with me. Mechanically, I gave orders for the man to be sent up; but it was not until he appeared before me that I thought of what I was doing.
The presence of the Mexican at once aroused me from my unpleasant reverie. I recognised him as one of the vaqueros of Don Ramon de Vargas – the same I had seen on the plain during my first interview with Isolina.
There was something in his manner that betokened him a messenger. A folded note, which he drew from under his jerkin – after having glanced around to see whether he was noticed – confirmed my observation.
I took the note. There was no superscription, nor did I stay to look for one. My fingers trembled as I tore open the seal. As my eye rested on the writing and recognised it, my heart throbbed so as almost to choke my utterance. I muttered some directions to the messenger; and to conceal my emotion from him, I turned away and proceeded to the farthest corner of the azotea before reading the note. I called back to the man to go below, and wait for an answer; and, then relieved of his presence, I read as follows: —
“July 18 – .
“Gallant capitan! allow me to bid you a buenas dias, for I presume that, after the fatigues of last night, it is but morning with you yet. Do you dream of your sable belle? ‘Poor devil!’ Ha, ha, ha! Gallant capitan!”
I was provoked at this mode of address, for the “gallant” was rendered emphatic by underlining. It was a letter to taunt me for my ill behaviour. I felt inclined to fling it down, but my eye wandering over the paper, caught some words that induced me to read on.
“Gallant capitan! I had a favourite mare. How fond I was of that creature you may understand, who are afflicted by a similar affection for the noble Moro. In an evil hour, your aim, too true, alas! robbed me of my favourite, but you offered to repay me by robbing yourself, for well know I that the black is to you the dearest object upon earth. Indeed, were I the lady of your love, I should ill brook such a divided affection! Well, mio capitan, I understood the generous sacrifice you would have made, and forbade it; but I know you are desirous of cancelling your debt. It is in your power to do so. Listen!”
Some hard conditions I anticipated would follow; I recked not of that. There was no sacrifice I was not ready to make. I would have dared any deed, however wild, to have won that proud heart – to have inoculated it with the pain that was wringing my own. I read on:
“There is a horse, famed in these parts as the ‘white steed of the prairies’ (el cavallo bianco de los llanos). He is a wild-horse, of course; snow-white in colour, beautiful in form, swift as the swallow – But why need I describe to you the ‘white steed of the prairies?’ You are a Tejano, and must have heard of him ere this? Well, mio capitan, I have long had a desire – a frantic one, let me add – to possess this horse. I have offered rewards to hunters – to our own vaqueros, for he sometimes appears upon our plains – but to no purpose. Not one of them can capture, though they have often seen and chased him. Some say that he cannot be taken, that he is so fleet as to gallop, or rather glide out of sight in a glance, and that, too, on the open prairie! There are those who assert that he is a phantom, un demonio! Surely so beautiful a creature cannot be the devil? Besides, I have always heard – and, if I recollect aright, some one said so last night – that the devil was black. ‘Poor devil!’ Ha, ha, ha!”
I rather welcomed this allusion to my misconduct
