"Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place,
With one fair spirit for my monitor!
That I might all forget the human race,
And, hating no one, love but only her.
Ye elements, in whose ennobling stir
I feel myself exalted, can ye not
Accord me such a being? Do I err
In deeming such inhabit many a spot--
Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot."
Oft during his sojourn in the sequestered valley do these lines occur to
the young prairie merchant. And vividly; for, in very truth, he has
realised the aspiration of the poet.
But, though dwelling in a desert, far different is the scene habitually
before his eyes. From the front of the humble chalet that has so
opportunely afforded him a shelter, seated under the spreading branches
of a pecan-tree, he can look on a landscape lovely as ever opened to the
eyes of man--almost as that closed against our first parents when
expelled from Paradise. Above he beholds a sapphire sky, scarce ever
shadowed by a cloud; a sun whose fierce, fervid beams become softened as
they fall amid the foliage of evergreen oaks; among clustering groves
that show all the varied tints of verdure, disporting upon green glassy
glades, and glinting into arbours overshadowed by the sassafras laurel,
the Osage orange, and the wild China-tree, laced together by a trellis
of grape vines. A lake in the centre of this luxurious vegetation,
placid as sleep itself, only stirred by the webbed feet of waterfowl, or
the wings of dipping swallows, with above and below a brawling rivulet,
here and there showing cascades like the tails of white horses, or the
skirts of ballroom belles floating through waltz or gallopade.
In correspondence with these fair sights are the sounds heard. By day
the cooing of doves, the soft tones of the golden oriole, and the lively
chatter of the red cardinal; by night the booming note of the bull-bat,
the sonorous call of the trumpeter swan, and that lay far excelling
all--the clear song of the polyglot thrush, the famed mocking-bird of
America.
No wonder the invalid, recovering from his illness, after the long dark
spell that has obscured his intellect, wrapping his soul, as it were, in
a shroud--no wonder he fancies the scene to be a sort of Paradise,
worthy of being inhabited by Peris. One is there he deems fair as Houri
or Peri, unsurpassed by any ideal of Hindoo or Persian fable--Adela
Miranda. In her he beholds beauty of a type striking as rare; not
common anywhere, and only seen among women in whose veins courses the
blue blood of Andalusia--a beauty perhaps not in accordance with the
standard of taste acknowledged in the icy northland. The _vigolite_
upon her upper lip might look a little bizarre in an assemblage of Saxon
dames, just as her sprightly spirit would offend the sentiment of a
strait-laced Puritanism.
It has no such effect upon Frank Hamersley. The child of a land above
all others free from conventionalism, with a nature attuned to the
picturesque, these peculiarities, while piquing his fancy, have fixed
his admiration. Long before leaving his sick couch there has been but
one world for him--that where dwells Adela Miranda; but one being in
it--herself.
Surely it was decreed by fate that these two should love one another!
Surely for them was there a marriage in heaven! Else why brought
together in such a strange place and by such a singular chain of
circumstances?
For himself, Hamersley thinks of this--builds hopes upon it deeming it
an omen.
Another often occurs to him, also looking like fate. He remembers that
portrait on the wall at Albuquerque, and how it had predisposed him in
favour of the original. The features of Spano-Mexican type--so unlike
those he had been accustomed to in his own country--had vividly
impressed him. Gazing upon it he had almost felt love for the likeness.
Then the description of the young girl given by her brother, with the
incidents that led to friendly relations between him and Colonel
Miranda, all had contributed to sow the seed of a tender sentiment in
the heart of the young Kentuckian. It had not died out. Neither time
nor absence had obliterated it. Far off--even when occupied with the
pressing claims of business--that portrait-face had often appeared upon
the retina of his memory, and often also in the visions of dreamland.
Now that he has looked upon it in reality--sees it in all its blazing
beauty, surrounded by scenes picturesque as its own expression, amid
incidents romantic as his fancy could conjure up--now that he knows it
as the face of her who has saved his life, is it any wonder the slight,
tender sentiment first kindled by the painted picture should become
stronger at the sight of the living original?
It has done this--become a passion that pervade his soul, filling his
whole heart. All the more from its being the first he has ever felt--
the first love of his life. And for this also all the more does he
tremble as he thinks of the possibility of its being unreciprocated.
He has been calculating the chances in his favour every hour since
consciousness returned to him. And from some words heard in that very
hour has he derived greater pleasure, and draws more hope than from
aught that has occurred since. Constantly does he recall that
soliloquy, speech spoken under the impression that it did not reach his
ears.
There has been nothing afterwards--neither word nor deed--to give him
proof he is beloved. The lady has been a tender nurse--a hostess
apparently solicitous for the happiness of her guest--nothing more.
Were the words she had so thoughtlessly spoken unfelt, and without any
particular meaning? Or was the speech but an allusion, born from the
still lingering distemper of his brain?
He yearns to know the truth. Every hour that he remains ignorant of it,
he is in torture equalling that of Tantalus. Yet he fears to ask, lest
in the answer he may have a painful revelation.
He almost envies Walt Wilder his commonplace love, its easy conquest,
and somewhat grotesque declaration. He wishes he could propose with
like freedom, and receive a similar response. His comrade's success
should embolden him; but does not. There is no parallelism between the
parties.
Thus he delays seeking the knowledge he most desires to possess, through
fear it may afflict him. Not from any lack of opportunity. Since
almost all the time is he left alone with her he so worships. Nothing
stands in his way--no zealous watchfulness of a brother. Don Valerian
neglects every step of fraternal duty--if to take such ever occurred to
him. His time is fully occupied in roving around the valley, or making
more distant excursions, in the companionship of the _ci-devant_ Ranger,
who narrates to him a strange chapter in the life-lore of the prairies.
When Walt chances to be indoors, he has companion of his own, which
hinder him from too frequently intruding upon his comrade. Enough for
him the company of Conchita.
Hamersley has equally as little to dread the intrusion of Don Prospero.
Absorbed in his favourite study of Nature, the ex-army surgeon passes
most of his hours in communion with her. More than half the day is he
out of doors, chasing lizards into their crevices among the rocks,
impaling insects on the spikes of the wild maguey plant, or plucking
such flowers as seem new to the classified list of the botanist. In
these tranquil pursuits he is perhaps happier than all around--even
those whose hearts throb with that supreme passion, full of sweetness,
but too often bringing bitterness.
So ever near the shrine of his adoration, having it all to himself,
Hamersley worships on, but in silence.