Майн Рид
The War Trail: The Hunt of the Wild Horse
Chapter Thirteen.
The blue domino
Thus disappointed, I gave up all hope of meeting her for whose sake I had come to the ball. She was either not there, or did not wish to be recognised, even by me. The latter supposition was the more bitter of the two; and goaded by it and one or two other uncongenial thoughts, I paid frequent visits to the “refreshment-room,” where wine flowed freely. A cup or two drove the one idea out of my mind; and after a while, I grew more companionable, and determined to enjoy myself like others around me. I had not danced as yet, but the wine soon got to my toes as well as into my head; and I resolved to put myself in motion with the first partner that offered.
I soon found one – a blue domino – that came right in my way, as if the fates had determined we should dance together. The lady was “not engaged for the next;” she would be “most happy.”
This, by the way, was said in French, which would have taken me by surprise, had I not known that there were many French people living in C – , as in all the large cities of Mexico. They are usually jewellers, dentists, milliners, or rather artisans of that class who drive a lucrative trade among the luxury-loving Mexicanos. To know there were French people in the place, was to be certain you would find them at the ball; and there were they, numbers of them, pirouetting about, and comporting themselves with the gay insouciance characteristic of their nation. I was not surprised, then, when my blue domino addressed me in French.
“A French modiste!” conjectured I, as soon as she spoke.
Milliner or no, it mattered not to me; I wanted a dancing partner; and after another phrase or two in the same sweet tongue, away went she and I in the curving whirl of a waltz.
After sailing once round the room, I had two quite new and distinct impressions upon my mind: the first, that I had a partner who could waltz, a thing not to be met with every day. My blue domino seemed to have no feet under her, but floated around me as if borne upon the air! For the moment, I fancied myself in Ranelagh or Mabille!
My other impression was, that my arm encircled as pretty a waist as ever was clasped by a lover. There was a pleasing rotundity about it, combined with a general symmetry of form and serpentine yieldiness of movement that rendered dancing with such a partner both easy and delightful. My observation at the moment was, that if the face of the modiste bore any sort of proportion to her figure, she needed not have come so far from France to push her fortune.
With such a partner I could not otherwise than waltz well; and never better than upon that occasion. We were soon under the observation of the company, and became the cynosure of a circle. This I did not relish, and drawing my blue domino to one side, we waltzed towards a seat, into which I handed her with the usual polite expression of thanks.
This seat was in a little recess or blind window, where two persons might freely converse without fear of an eaves-dropper. I had no desire to run away from a partner who danced so well, though she were a modiste. There was room for two upon the bench, and I asked permission to sit beside her.
“Oh, certainly,” was the frank reply.
“And will you permit me to remain with you till the music recommences?”
“If you desire it.”
“And dance with you again?”
“With pleasure, monsieur, if it suit your convenience. But is there no other who claims you as a partner? – no other in this assemblage you would prefer?”
“Not one, I assure you. You are the only one present with whom I care to dance.”
As I said this, I thought I perceived a slight movement, that indicated some emotion.
“It was a gallant speech, and the modiste is pleased with the compliment,” thought I.
Her reply: —
“It flatters me, sir, that you prefer my company to that of the many splendid beauties who are in this saloon; though it may gratify me still more if you knew who I am.”
The last clause was uttered with an emphasis, and followed by a sigh!
“Poor girl!” thought I, “she fancies that I mistake her for some grand dame – that if I knew her real position her humble avocation, I should not longer care to dance with her. In that she is mistaken. I make no distinction between a milliner and a marchioness, especially in a ball-room. There, grace and beauty alone guide to preference.”
After giving way to some such reflections, I replied —
“It is my regret, mam’selle, not to have the happiness of knowing who you are, and it is not possible I ever may, unless you will have the goodness to remove your mask.”
“Ah! monsieur, what you request is impossible.”
“Impossible! and why may I ask?”
“Because, were you to see my face, I should not have you for my partner in the next dance; and to say the truth, I should regret that, since you waltz so admirably.”
“Oh! refusal and flattery in the same breath! No, mam’selle, I am sure your face will never be the means of your losing a partner. Come! let me beg of you to remove that envious counterfeit. Let us converse freely face to face. I am not masked, as you see.”
“In truth, sir, you have no reason to hide your face, which is more than I can say for many other men in this room.”
“Quick-witted milliner,” thought I. “Bravo, Ranelagh! Vive la Mabille!”
“Thanks, amiable masker!” I replied. “But you are too generous: you flatter me – ”
“It is worth while,” rejoined she, interrupting me; “it improves your cheek: blushes become you, ha, ha, ha!”
“The deuce!” I ejaculated, half aloud, “this dame du Boulevard is laughing at me!”
“But what are you?” she continued, suddenly changing her tone. “You are not a Mexican? Are you soldier or civilian?”
“What would you take me for?”
“A poet, from your pale face, but more from the manner in which I have heard you sigh.”
“I have not sighed since we sat down.”
“No – but before we sat down.”
“What! in the dance?”
“No – before the dance.”
“Ha! then you observed me before?”
“O yes, your plain dress rendered you conspicuous among so many uniforms; besides your manner – ”
“What manner?” I asked, with some degree of confusion, fearing that in my search after Isolina I had committed some stupid piece of left-handedness.
“Four abstraction; and, by the way, had you not little penchant for a yellow domino?”
“A yellow domino?” repeated I, raising my hand to my head, as though it cost me an effort to remember it – “a yellow domino?”
“Ay, ay – a ye-ll-ow dom-in-o,” rejoined my companion, with sarcastic emphasis – “a yellow domino, who waltzed with a young officer – not bad-looking, by the way.”
“Ah! I think I do remember – ”
“Well, I think you ought,” rejoined my tormentor, “and well, too: you took sufficient pains to observe.”
“Ah – aw – yes,” stammered I.
“I thought you were conning verses to her, and as you had not the advantage of seeing her face, were making them to her feet!”
“Ha, ha! – what an idea of yours, mad’m’selle!”
“In the end, she was not ungenerous – she let you see the face.”
“The devil!” exclaimed I, starting; “you saw the dénouement, then?”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed she; “of course I saw the dénouement, ha, ha! —drôle, wasn’t it?”
“Very,” replied I, not much relishing the joke, but endeavouring to join my companion in the laugh.
“How silly the spark looked! Ha, ha!”
“Very silly, indeed. Ha, ha, ha!”
“And how disappointed – ”
“Eh?”
“How disappointed you looked, monsieur!”
“Oh – ah – I – no – I assure you – I had no interest in the affair. I was not disappointed– at least not as you imagine.”
“Ah!”
“The feeling uppermost in my mind was pity– pity for the poor girl.”
“And you really did pity her?”
This question was put with an earnestness that sounded somewhat strange at the moment.
“I really did. The creature seemed so mortified – ”
“She seemed mortified, did she?”
“Of course. She left the room immediately after, and has not returned since. No doubt she has gone home, poor devil!”
“Poor devil! Is that the extent of your pity?”
“Well, after all, it must be confessed she was a superb deception: a finer dancer I never saw – I beg pardon, I except my present partner – a good foot, an elegant figure, and then to turn out – ”
“What?”
“Una negrilla!”
“I fear, monsieur, you Americans are not very gallant towards the ladies of colour. It is different here in Mexico, which you term despotic.”
I felt the rebuke.
“To change the subject,” continued she; “are you not a poet?”
“I do not deserve the name of poet, yet I will not deny that I have made verses.”
“I thought as much. What an instinct I have! O that I could prevail upon you to write some verses to me!”
“What! without knowing either your name or having looked upon your face. Mam’selle, I must at least set the features I am called upon to praise.”
“Ah, monsieur, you little know: were I to unmask those features, I should stand but a poor chance of getting the verses. My plain face would counteract all your poetic inspirations.”
“Shade of Lucretia! this is no needlewoman, though dealing in weapons quite as sharp. Modiste, indeed! I have been labouring under a mistake. This is some dame spirituelle, some grand lady.”
I had now grown more than curious to look upon the face of my companion. Her conversation had won me: a woman who could talk so, I fancied, could not be ill-looking. Such an enchanting spirit could not be hidden behind a plain face; besides, there was the gracefulness of form, the small gloved hand, the dainty foot and ankle demonstrated in the dance, a voice that rang like music, and the flash of a superb eye, which I could perceive even through the mask. Beyond a doubt, she was beautiful.
“Lady!” I said, speaking with more earnestness than ever, “I entreat you to unmask yourself. Were it not in a ball-room, I should beg the favour upon my knees.”
“And were I to grant it, you could hardly rise soon enough, and pronounce your lukewarm leave-taking. Hat monsieur! think of the yellow domino!”
“Mam’selle, you take pleasure in mortifying me. Do you deem me capable of such fickleness? Suppose for a moment, you are not what the world calls beautiful, you could not, by removing your mask, also strip yourself of the attractions of your conversation – of that voice that thrills through my heart – of that grace exhibited in your every movement! With such endowments how could a woman appear ill-looking? If your face was even as black as hers of the yellow domino, I verily believe I could not perceive its darkness.”
“Ha, ha, ha! take care what you say, monsieur. I presume you are not more indulgent than the rest of your sex; and well know I that, with you men, ugliness is the greatest crime of a woman.”
“I am different, I swear – ”
“Do not perjure yourself, as you will if I but remove my mask. I tell you, sir, that in spite of all the fine qualities you imagine me to possess, I am a vision that would horrify you to look upon.”
“Impossible! – your form, your grace, your voice. Oh, unmask! I accept every consequence for the favour I ask.”
“Then be it as you wish; but I shall not be the means of punishing you. Receive from your own hands the chastisement of your curiosity.”
“You permit me, then? Thanks, mam’selle, thanks! It is fastened behind: yes, the knot is here – now I have it – so – so – ”
With trembling fingers I undid the string, and pulled off the piece of taffety. Shade of Sheba! what did I see?
The mask fell from my fingers, as though it had been iron at a cherry heat. Astonishment 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 pains me to pronounce these convictions, derived as they are from 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.
