To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow--a demi-lune of love, whose
every hour was consecrated to its god. At earliest dawn, by the rosy
rays of Aurora; at golden noon, shadowed under sweet acacias; in the
gleam of the purple twilight; 'neath the silvery light of the moon.
That both laid our hearts upon his altar, and willing knelt before the
shrine, witness ye bright birds and perfumed flowers!--ye green myrtles
and mimosas!--witness ye blue skies of Anahuac! Ye alone were our
witnesses.
For you who have loved, I need not portray the pleasure of this noble
passion; for you who have not loved, I cannot. Love is a delight that
may be known only to those who have experienced it.
Ours was a half-month of happiness without alloy. True, there were
moments of pain--the moments of daily parting--but these were brief, and
perhaps only prevented the cloyment of too much joy--if such a thing be
possible.
Moreover, these short-lived sorrows were in part neutralised by the
knowledge we should soon meet again; we never parted without exchanging
that fair promise. In the morning, it was "_hasta la tarde_;" at night,
our last words were "_manana por la manana_" Lovers have felt, and poets
have sung, the pleasures of hope; oft the anticipation of a pleasure
rivals in piquancy its actual enjoyment.
Let memory not be forgotten; it, too, has its joys; and oh, how sweet
the retrospect of those blissful hours! If there was monotony, it was a
monotone of which my heart could never tire. It was an intoxication I
could have endured for life. There is no surfeit of such sweets. Why
are we not permitted to enjoy them for ever? Alas! there is an ending.
There was so. A crisis came, and we must part--not with the pretty
promise upon our lips--"until the morning", "until the evening," but for
long weeks, months, maybe years--an uncertain time--"_hasta se acabo la
guerra_" (until the war is over).
Oh, the misery of that parting! Cruel destiny of war! Never felt I so
weary of wearing a sword.
There was a struggle 'twixt love and duty. No, not duty: I might have
sheathed my sword, and wronged no one; I was but a cipher among
thousands, whose blade would scarcely have been missed. Nor would I
have wronged myself. I was simply, as I have already declared, an
adventurer. The country for which I fought could not claim me; I was
bound by no political conscience, no patriotic _esprit_. Perhaps, now
and then, I entertained the idea that I was aiding the designs of
"manifest destiny"--that I was doing God's work in battling against the
despotic form. Yes, I may confess that such sparks glowed within me at
intervals, and at such intervals only did I feel enthusiasm in the
cause. But it was no consideration of this kind that hindered me from
deserting my banner. Far otherwise: I was influenced by a motive purely
selfish--pride.
I could not--an adventurer almost penniless--I _would_ not presume to
claim that richly dowried hand. Fortune I might never have to equal
hers, but fame is worthy wealth, and glory mates with beauty. I knew
that I was gifted with an apt head and bold aspiring heart; I knew that
I carried a keen blade, and hoped to hew my way to rank and fame.
Perhaps I might return with a star upon my shoulder, and a better handle
to my name, and then--
Ah, for all that, it was a bitter parting! It was hard to list
unheeding to those earnest entreaties, adjuring me to stay--terrible to
entwine those tender arms--terrible to utter that last _adios_!
Our troth was plighted within that same glade that had echoed our first
vows. It had been plighted a hundred times, but never sadly as now,
amidst sobs and tears. When the bright form, screened by the frondage,
had passed out of sight, I felt as if the sun had become suddenly
eclipsed.
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I lingered not long, though I could have stayed for hours upon the
hallowed spot. Again duty, that stern commander, summoned me away. It
was already close upon sunset, and by to-morrow's dawn I must be _en
route_ with my troop.
I was about heading my horse into the track, now well known to me;
Isolina had gone down the hill on the opposite side, by a path that led
more directly to the hacienda. From precaution this had been our
habitual mode of parting; and we also met from opposite sides. In the
wild region of the _cerro_--for by this name was the hill known--we
never encountered a human being. There was no habitation near, and the
vaqueros rarely strayed that way, so that our place of meeting remained
a secret--at least we fancied so--and we acted without much
apprehension, and perhaps without sufficient caution. Each hour we had
grown more confident of security, and, blinded by love, had taken less
pains to conceal the fact of our daily assignation. It was only that
morning I had heard a whisper that our affair was known, and that they
of the rancheria were not as benighted as we supposed them. Wheatley
was my informant--Conchita, his. The lieutenant had added some friendly
advice, cautioning me against the imprudence of going so far from the
post unattended.
Perhaps I might have treated his remonstrance with less neglect; but as
this was to be our last meeting for a long time, my heart grew heavy
under the prospect of the parting scene. I preferred going
companionless; I had no apprehension that any enemy was near. As for
Ijurra, he was no longer in the neighbourhood; he had not been seen
since the night of the battle; and we had positive information that he
had joined his band with the guerrilla of the celebrated Canales, then
operating on the road between Camargo and Monterey. Indeed, had Ijurra
been near, he could hardly have escaped the keen search of Holingsworth
and the rangers, who, night and day, had been upon the scout, in hopes
of overhauling him.
I was about turning into the old track, when a yearning came over me--a
desire to obtain one more look at my beloved. By this time she would
have reached her home; I should pass near the house; perhaps I might see
her upon the azotea--a distant glance--a wave of the hand--haply the
sweet prayer "_va con Dios_!" wafted upon the breeze: something of the
kind I anticipated.
My horse seemed to divine my wishes; scarcely waiting for the guidance
of the rein, he moved forward upon the path taken by the steed of
Isolina.
I soon reached the bottom of the hill, and, entering the heavy timber,
traversed a tangled wood--similar to that on the other side of the
cerro. There was no path, but the tracks of the white steed were easily
followed, and, guiding myself by them, I rode forward.
I had not gone five hundred yards from the hill, when I heard voices
through, the woods, directly in front of me, and apparently at no great
distance. Years of frontier-life had imbued me with an intuitive
caution that resembled instinct; and, as if by mechanical effort, I
pulled up and listened.
A woman was speaking; and instantly I recognised the voice. There was
but one that rang with that rich metallic tone. I might well remember
it, for the sweet, sad sounds of the _va con Dios_ had not yet ceased to
vibrate in my ears.
With whom was she in converse? Whom had she encountered in such a
place, amid the wild woods?
She ceased speaking.
With ears keenly set, I listened for the rejoinder. Naturally, I
expected it in the voice of a man; but not that man. Oh, heavens! it
was the voice of Rafael Ijurra!