A SUDDEN INTRODUCTION.
It was again night in the capital; the narrow streets were brilliantly
lighted from the store windows, but the crowd were no longer there. The
heat of the long summer day had wearied the endurance of master and
slave; and thousands had already sought that early repose which is so
essential to the dwellers in the tropics. Stillness reigned over the
drowsy city, save that the soft music which the governor-general’s hand
discourses nightly in the Plaza, stole sweetly over the scene, until
every air seemed heavy with its tender influence and melody. Now it
swelled forth in the martial tones of a military band, and now its
cadence was low and gentle as a fairy whisper, reverberating to the ear
from the opposite shore of Regla, and the frowning walls of the Cabanas
behind the Moro, and now swelling away inland among the coffee fields
and sugar plantations.
The long twilight was gone; but still the deep streak of golden
skirting in the western horizon lent a softened hue to the scene, not
so bright to the eye, and yet more golden far than moonlight: “Leaving
on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of
dreams.”
At this favorite hour the Senorita Isabella Gonzales and her young
brother, Ruez, attended only by the wolf hound, who seemed to be almost
their inseparable companion, were once again strolling in the cool and
retired walk of the Plato. The lady moved with all the peculiar grace
so natural to the Spanish women, and yet through all, a keen observer
might have seen the lurking effects of pride and power, a consciousness
of her own extraordinary beauty, and the control it gave her over the
hearts of those of the other sex with whom she associated. Alas! that
such a trait should have become a second nature to one with so heavenly
a form and face. Perhaps it was owing to the want of the judicious
management of a mother, of timely and kindly advice, that Isabella had
grown up thus; certainly it seemed hard, very hard, to attribute it to
her heart, her natural promptings, for at times she evinced such traits
of womanly delicacy and tenderness, that those who knew her best forgot
her coquetry.
Her brother was a gentle and beautiful boy. A tender spirit of
melancholy seemed ever uppermost in his heart and face, and it had been
thus with him since he had known his first early grief-the loss of his
mother-some four or five years before the present period of our story.
Isabella, though she was not wanting in natural tenderness and
affection, had yet outgrown the loss of her parent; but the more
sensitive spirit of the boy had not yet recovered from the shock it had
thus received. The father even feared that he never would regain his
happy buoyancy, as he looked upon his pale and almost transparent
features, while the boy mused thoughtfully to himself sometimes for the
hour together, if left alone and undisturbed.
“Ruez, dear, we’ve not been on the Plato since that fearful night,”
said Senorita Isabella, as she rested her hand gently upon the boy’s
shoulder.
“It was a fearful night, sister,” said the boy recalling the
associations with a shudder.
“And yet how clear and beautiful it seemed just before that terrible
accident.”
“I remember,” said the boy.
“And the slaver in the distance, with her soft white sails and
treacherous business.”
“And the sparkling moon upon the bay.”
“It was very beautiful; and we have a night now almost its equal.”
“Did you notice how stoutly that Lieutenant Bezan swam with me?”
“Yes, brother. You forget, though, that he is Captain Bezan now,” she
added.
“Father told me so,” said the boy. “How fearfully the tide ran, and the
current set against us! He held me way up above the water, while he was
quite under it himself,” continued Ruez. “I was sure he would drown;
didn’t it seem so to you, sister?”
“It did, it did; the deed was most gallantly done,” said Isabella, as
she stooped down and kissed her brother; “and you will never be so
careless again, Ruez?”
“No, sister. I shall be more. careful, but I should like to see that
Captain Bezan again. I have never seen him since that night, and his
barracks are within pistol shot from here.”
“Hark! what was that?” asked Isabella, starting at some unusual noise.
“I heard nothing,” said the boy.
“There it is again,” she continued, nervously, looking around.
“Down, Carlo, down,” said the boy, sharply to the hound, as it sprang
at the same time from a crouching posture, and uttered a deep, angry
growl, peculiar to its species.
But the animal seemed too much aroused to be so easily pacified with
words, and with heavy bounds sprang towards the seaward end of the
Plato, over the parapet of which, where it joined a lofty stone wall
that made a portion of the stone barracks of the army, a man leaped to
the ground. The hound suddenly crouched, the moment it fairly reached
the figure of the new coiner, and instead of the hostile attitude, it
had so lately he assumed, now placed its fore paws upon the breast of
the person, and wagged its tail with evident tokens of pleasure at the
meeting.
“That is a very strange way to enter the Plato,” said Isabella, to her
brother, drawing nearer to his side as she spoke. “I wonder who it can
be?”
“Some friend of Carlo’s, for he never behaves in that way to
strangers,” said the boy.
“So it would seem; but here he comes, be he whom he may.”
“By our lady!” said the boy, earnestly, with a flash of spirit and
color across his usually quiet and pale face. “Sister, it is Captain
Bezan!”
“Captain Bezan, I believe,” said Isabella, courtesying coolly to his
respectful bow.
“The same, lady.”
“You have chosen a singular mode of introduction, sir,” said the
Senorita Isabella Gonzales, somewhat severely, as she drew herself up
with an air of cold reserve.
“It is true, lady, I have done a seemingly rash action; but if you will
please to pause for one moment, you will at once realize that it was
the only mode of introduction of which a poor soldier like myself could
have availed himself.”
“Our hall doors are always open,” replied Isabella Gonzales.
“To the high born and proud, I grant you, lady, but not to such as I
am.”
“Then, sir,” continued the lady, quickly, “if custom and propriety
forbid you to meet me through the ordinary channels of society, do you
not see the impropriety of such an attempt to see me as that which you
have but just now made?”
“Lady, I can see nothing, hear nothing but my unconquerable love!”
“Love, sir!” repeated the lady, with a curl of her proud but beautiful
lip.
“Ay, love, Isabella Gonzales. For years I have loved you in secret. Too
humble to become known to you, or to attract your eye, even, I have yet
nursed that love, like the better angel of my nature; have dreamed of
it nightly; have prayed for the object of it nightly; have watched the
starry heavens, and begged for some noble inspiration that would make
me more worthy of thy affection; I have read nothing that I did not
couple in some tender way with thee; have nursed no hope of ambition or
fame that was not the nearer to raise me to thee, and over the midnight
lamp have bent in earnestness year after year, that I might gain those
jewels of the mind that in intelligence, at least, would place me by
thy side. At last fortune befriended me, and I was able by a mischance
to him, thy brother, to serve thee. Perhaps even then it might have
ended, and my respect would still have curbed the promptings of my
passion, had you not so kindly noticed me on the Paseo. O, how wildly
did my heart beat at that gentle, kind and thoughtful recognition of
the poor soldier, and no less quickly beats that heart, when you listen
thus to me, and hear me tell how deeply I love.”
“Audacity!” said Isabella Gonzales, really not a little aroused at the
plainness of his speech. “How dare you, sir, to address such language
to me?”
“Love dares do anything but dishonor the being that it loves. A year,
lady, a month ago, how hopeless was my love-how far off in the blue
ether was the star I worshipped. Little did I then think that I should
now stand so near to you-should thus pour out of the fullness of my
enslaved and devoted heart, ay, thus look into those glorious eyes.”
“Sir, you are impertinent!” said Isabella, shrinking from the ardor of
his expression.
“Nay, lady,” said the young officer, profoundly humble, “it is
impossible for such love as mine to lead to impertinence to one whom I
little less than worship.”
“Leave me, sir!”
“Yes, Isabella Gonzales, if you will repeat those words calmly; if you
will deliberately bid me, who have so often prayed for, so hoped for
such a moment as this, to go, I will go.”
“But, sir, you will compromise me by this protracted conversation.”
“Heaven forbid. But for you I would risk all things-life, reputation,
all that is valuable to me in life; yet perhaps I am forgetful, perhaps
a thoughtless.”
“What strange power and music there is in his voice,” whispered
Isabella, to herself.
Completely puzzled by his deep respect, his gallant and noble bearing,
the memory of his late noble conduct in saving Ruez’s life, Isabella
hardly knew what to say, and she stood thus half confused, trotting her
pretty foot upon the path of the Plato with a vexed air. At last, as if
struggling to break the spell that seemed to be hanging over them, she
said:
“How could one like you, sir, ever dare to entertain such feelings
towards me? the audaciousness of your language almost strikes me dumb.”
“Lady,” said the young soldier, respectfully, “the sincerity of my
passion has been its only self-sustaining power. I felt that love like
mine could not be in vain. I was sure that such affection was never
planted in my breast to bloom and blossom simply for disappointment. I
could not think that this was so.”
“I am out of all patience with his impertinence,” said Isabella
Gonzales, to herself, pettishly. “I don’t know what to say to him.”
“Sir, you must leave this place at once,” she said, at last, after a
brief pause.
“I shall do so, lady, at your bidding; but only to pray and hope for
the next meeting between us, when you may perhaps better know the poor
soldier’s heart.”
“Farewell, sir,” said Isabella.
“Farewell, Isabella Gonzales.”
“Are you going so soon?” asked Ruez, now approaching them from a short
distance in the rear, where he had been playing with the hound.
“Yes, Ruez,” said the soldier, kindly. “You are quite recovered, I
trust, from the effects of that cold bath taken off the parapet
yonder.”
“O yes, I am quite recovered now.”
“It was a high leap for one of your age.”
“It was indeed,” said the boy, with a shudder at the remembrance.
“And, O, sir, I have not thanked you for that gallant deed,” said
Isabella Gonzales, extending her hand incontinently to Captain Bezan,
in the enthusiasm of the moment, influenced by the sincerity of her
feelings, his noble and manly bearing, and the kind and touching words
he had uttered to Ruez.
It would be difficult for us to describe her as she appeared at that
moment in the soldier’s eye. How lovely she seemed to him, when
dropping all reserve for the moment, not only her tongue, but her
eloquent eyes spoke from the tenderness of her woman’s heart. A sacred
vision would have impressed him no more than did the loveliness of her
presence at that moment.
Bending instinctively at this demonstration of gentle courtesy on her
part, he pressed her hand most respectfully to his lips, and, as if
feeling that he had gone almost too far, with a gallant wave of the
hand he suddenly disappeared from whence he had so lately come, over
the seaward side of the parapet towards the army barracks.
Isabella gazed after him with a puzzled look for a while, then said
half to herself and in a pettish and vexed tone of voice:
“I did not mean that he should kiss my hand. I’m sure I did not; and
why did I give it to him? How thoughtless. I declare I have never met
so monstrously impudent a person in the entire course of my life. Very
strange. Here’s General Harero, Don Romonez, and Felix Gavardo, have
been paying me court this half year and more, and either of them would
give half his fortune for a kiss of this hand, and yet neither has
dared to even tell me that they love me, though I know it so well. But
here is this young soldier, this new captain of infantry, why he sees
me but half a minute before he declares himself, and so boldly, too! I
protest it was a real insult. I’ll tell Don Gonzales, and I’ll have the
fellow dishonored and his commission taken from him, I will. I’m half
ready to cry with vexation. Yes, I’ll have Captain Bezan cashiered, and
that directly, I will.”
“No you wont, sister,” said Ruez, looking up calmly into her face as he
spoke.
“Yes I will, brother.”
“Still I say no,” continued the boy, gently, and caressing her hand the
while.
“And why not, Ruez?” asked Isabella, stooping and kissing his handsome
forehead, as the boy looked up so lovingly in her face.
“Because he saved my life, sister,” replied Ruez, smiling.
“True, he did save your life, Ruez,” murmured the beautiful girl,
thoughtfully; an act that we can never repay; but it was most presuming
for him to enter the Plato thus, and to—to—”
“Kiss your hand, sister,” suggested the boy, smiling in a knowing way.
“Yes, it was quite shocking for him to be so familiar, Ruez.”
“But, sister, I can hardly ever help kissing you when you look kind to
me, and I am sure you looked very kind at Captain Bezan.”
“Did I!” half mused Isabella, biting the handle of her Creole fan.
“Yes; and how handsome this Captain Bezan is, sister,” continued the
boy, pretending to be engaged with the hound, whom he patted while he
looked sideways at Isabella.
“Do you think him so handsome?” still half mused Isabella, in reply to
her brother’s remarks, while her eye rested upon the ground.
“I know it,” said the boy, with spirit. “Don Miguel, General Harero, or
the lieutenant-general, are none of them half so good looking,” he
continued, referring to some of her suitors.
“Well, he is handsome, brother, that’s true enough, and brave I know,
or he would never have leaped into the water to save your life. But
I’ll never forgive him, I’m sure of that, Ruez,” she said, in a most
decided tone of voice.
“Yes you will, sister.”
“No, I will not, and you will vex me if you say so again,” she added,
pettishly.
“Come, Carlo, come,” said Ruez, calling to the hound, as he followed
close upon his sister’s footsteps towards the entrance of Don
Gonzales’s house on the Plato.
The truth was, Isabella Gonzales, the proud beauty, was pleased;
perhaps her vanity was partly enlisted also, while she remembered the
frankness of the humble soldier who had poured out his devotions at her
feet in such simple yet earnest strains as to carry conviction with
every word to the lady’s heart. Image, even from the most lowly, is not
without its charm to beauty, and the proud girl mused over the late
scene thoughtfully, ay, far more thoughtfully than she had ever done
before, on the offer of the richest and proudest cavalier.
She had never loved; she knew not what the passion meant, as applied to
the opposite sex. Universal homage had been her share ever since she
could remember; and if Isabella Gonzales was not a confirmed coquette,
she was certainly very near being one. The light in which she regarded
the advances of Captain Bezan, even puzzled herself; the phase of his
case and the manner of his avowal were so far without precedent, that
its novelty engaged her. She still felt vexed at the young soldier’s
assurance, but yet all unconsciously found herself endeavoring to
invent any number of excuses for the conduct he had exhibited!
“It is true, as he said,” she remarked, half aloud to herself, “that it
was the only way in which he could meet me on terms of sufficient
equality for conversation. Perhaps I should have done the same, if I
were a high-spirited youth, and really loved!”
As for Lorenzo Bezan, he quietly sought his quarters, as happy as a
king. Had he not been successful beyond any reasonable hope? Had he not
told his love? ay, had he not kissed the hand of her he loved, at last,
almost by her own consent? Had not the clouds in the horizon of his
love greatly thinned in numbers? He was no moody lover. Not one to die
for love, but to live for it rather, and to pursue the object of his
affection and regard with such untiring and devoted service as to
deserve, if not to win, success. At least this was his resolve. Now and
then the great difference between their relative stations would lead
him to pause and consider the subject; but then with some pleasant
sally to himself he would walk on again, firmly resolved in his own
mind to overcome all things for her whom he loved, or at least to
strive to do so.
This was all very well in thought, but in practice the young soldier
will not perhaps find this so easy a matter. Patience and perseverance
are excellent qualities, but they are not certain criteria of success.
Lorenzo Bezan had aimed his arrow high, but it was that little blind
fellow, Cupid, that shot the bow. He was not to blame for it-of course
not.
“Ha! Bezan, whence come you with so bright a face?” asked a brother
officer, as he entered his quarters in the barracks of the Plaza des
Armes.
“From wooing a fair and most beautiful maid,” said the soldier, most
honestly; though perhaps he told the truth as being the thing least
likely to be believed by the other.
“Fie, fie, Bezan. You in love, man? A soldier to marry? By our lady,
what folly! Don’t you remember the proverb? ‘Men dream in courtship,
but in wedlock wake.’”
“May I wake in that state with her I love ere a twelvemonth,” said
Lorenzo Bezan, smiling at his comrade’s sally and earnestness.
“Are you serious, captain?” asked the other, now trying to half believe
him.
“Never more so in my life, I assure you,” was the reply.
“And who is the lady, pray? Come, relieve your conscience, and
confess.”
“Ah, there I am silent; her name is not for vulgar ears,” said the
young soldier, smiling, and with really too much respect to refer
lightly to Isabella Gonzales.