UNREQUITED LOVE.
Pleased, and perhaps flattered, by the constant and unvarying kindness
and friendliness evinced towards him by the Countess Moranza, the young
general seemed to be very happy in her company, and to pass a large
portion of his leisure hours by her side. The court gossips, ever ready
to improve any opportunity that may offer, invented all manner of
scandal and prejudicial stories concerning the peerless and chaste
Countess Moranza; but she was above the power of their shafts, and
entertained Lorenzo Bezan with prodigal hospitality.
To the young soldier this was of immense advantage, as she who was thus
a firm friend to him, was a woman of brilliant mind and cultivation,
and Lorenzo Bezan improved vastly by the intellectual peers of the
countess. The idea of loving her beyond the feelings a warm friendship
might induce, had never crossed his mind, and had it done so, would not
have been entertained even for one moment. Of loving he had but one
idea, one thought, one standard, and that heart embodiment, that queen
of his affections, was Isabella Gonzales.
They rode together, read to each other, and, in short, were quite
inseparable, save when the queen, by some invitation, which was law of
course to the young general, solicited his attendance upon herself. Her
friendship, too, was in want, and her interest great for Lorenzo Bezan,
and he delighted to shower upon him every honor, and publicly to
acknowledge his service in to the throne.
“The queen seems very kind to you, general,” said the countess, to him.
“She is more than kind-she lavish rewards upon me.”
“She loves bravery.”
“She repays good fortune in round sums,” replied the officer.
“But why do you ever wear that sober, sombre, and sad look upon that
manly and intellectual face?”
“Do I look thus?” asked the soldier, with a voice of surprise.
“Often.”
“I knew it not,” replied Lorenzo Bezan, somewhat earnestly.
“It seems a mystery to me that General Bezan, honored by the queen,
with a purse well filled with gold, and promoted beyond all precedent
in his profession, should not rather smile than frown; but perhaps
there is some reason for grief in your heart, and possibly I am
careless, and probing to the quick a wound that may yet be fresh.”
The soldier breathed an involuntary sigh, but said nothing.
“Yes. I see now that I have annoyed you, and should apologize,” she
said.
“Nay, not so; you have been more than a friend to me; you have been an
instructress in gentle refinement and all that is lovely in your sex,
and I should but poorly repay such consideration and kindness, were I
not to confide in you all my thoughts.”
The countess could not imagine what was coming. She turned pale, and
then a blush stole over her beautiful features, betraying how deeply
interested she was.
“I hope, general,” she said, “that if there is aught in which a person
like myself might offer consolation or advice to you, it may be spoken
without reserve.”
“Ah, countess, how can I ever repay such a debt as you put me under by
this very touching kindness, this most sisterly consideration towards
me?”
There was a moment’s pause in which the eyes of both rested upon the
floor.
“You say that I am sad at times. I had thought your brilliant
conversation and gentleness of character had so far made me forget that
I no longer looked sad. But it is not so. You, so rich in wealth and
position, have never known a want, have never received a slight, have
never been insulted at heart for pride’s sake. Lady, I have loved a
being, so much like yourself, that I have often dreamed of you
together. A being all pure and beautiful, with but one sad alley in her
sweet character-pride. I saw her while yet most humble in rank. I
served herself and father and brother, even to saving their lives; I
was promoted, and held high honor with my command; but she was rich,
and her father high in lordly honors and associations. I was but a poor
soldier; what else might I expect but scorn if I dared to love her?
But, countess, you are ill,” said the soldier, observing her pallid
features and quick coming and going breath.
“Only a temporary illness; it is already gone,” she said. “Pray go on.”
“And yet I believe she loved me also though the pride of her heart
choked the growth of the tendrils of affection. Maddened by the insults
of a rival, who was far above me in rank, I challenged him, and for
this was banished from the island where she lives. Do you wonder that I
am sometimes sad at these recollections? that my full heart will
sometimes speak in my face?”
“Nay, it is but natural,” answered the countess, with a deep sigh.
General Bezan was thinking of his own anguish of heart, of the
peculiarities of his own situation, of her who was far away, yet now
present in his heart, else he would have noticed more particularly the
appearance of her whom he addressed. The reader would have seen at once
that she received his declaration of love for another like a death
blow, that she sat there and heard him go on as one would sit under
torture; yet by the strong force of her character subduing almost
entirely all outward emotions. There was no disguising it to a careful
observer, she, the Countess Moranza, loved him!
From the first meeting she had been struck by his noble figure, his
melancholy yet handsome and intellectual face, and knowing the
gallantry of his services to the queen, was struck by the modest
bearing of a soldier so renowned in battle. After refusing half of the
gallants of the court, and deeming herself impregnable to the shafts of
Cupid, she had at last lost her heart to this man. But that was not the
point that made her suffer so now, it was that he loved another; that
he could never sustain the tender relation to her which her heart
suggested. All these thoughts now passed through her mind.
We say had General Bezan not been so intent in his thoughts far away,
he might have discovered this secret, at least to some extent.
He knew not the favor of woman’s love; he knew only of his too unhappy
disappointment, and, on this his mind was sadly and earnestly engaged.
Days passed on, and the young general saw little of the countess, for
her unhappy condition of mind caused her to seclude herself almost
entirely from society, even denying herself to him whom she loved so
well. She struggled to forget her love, or rather to bring philosophy
to her aid in conquering it. She succeeded in a large degree; but at
the same time resolved to make it her business to reconcile Lorenzo
Bezan to her he loved, if such a thing were possible; and thus to enjoy
the consciousness of having performed at least one disinterested act
for him whom she too had loved, as we have seen, most sincerely and
most tenderly.
Thus actuated, the countess resolved to make a confidant, or, at least,
partially to do so, of the queen, and to interest her to return Lorenzo
Bezan once more to the West Indian station, with honor and all the due
credit. It scarcely needed her eloquence in pleading to consummate this
object, for the queen already prepossessed in the young soldier’s
favor, only desired to know how she might serve him best, in order to
do so at once. In her shrewdness she could not but discover the state
of the countess’s heart; but too delicate to allude to this matter, she
made up her mind at once as to what should be done.
She wondered not at the countess’s love for Lorenzo Bezan; she could
sympathize with her; for had he been born in the station to have shared
the throne with her, she would have looked herself upon him with a
different eye; as it was, she had delighted to honor him from the first
moment they had met.
“Your wish shall be granted, countess,” said the queen; “he shall
return to Cuba, and with honor and distinction.”
“Thanks, a thousand thanks,” was the reply of the fair friend.
“You have never told me before the particulars of his returning home.”
“It was but lately that I learned them, by his own lips,” she answered.
“His life is full of romance,” mused the queen, thoughtfully.
“True, and his bravery, has he opportunity, will make him a hero.”
“The lady’s name-did he tell you that?” asked the queen.
“He did.”
“And whom was it?”
“Isabella Gonzales.”
“Isabella Gonzales?”
“Yes, my liege lady.”
“A noble house; we remember the name.”
“He said they were noble,” sighed the countess, thoughtfully.
“Well, well,” continued the queen, “go you and recruit your spirits
once more; as to Lorenzo Bezan, he is my protege, and I will at once
attend to his interests.”
Scarcely had the Countess Moranza left her presence, before the queen,
summoning an attendant, despatched a message to General Bezan to come
at once to the palace. The queen was a noble and beautiful woman, who
had studied human nature in all its phases; she understood at once the
situation of her young favorite’s heart, and by degrees she drew him
out, as far as delicacy would permit, and then asked him if he still
loved Isabella Gonzales as he had done when he was a poor lieutenant of
infantry, in the tropical service.
“Love her, my liege?” said the young general, in tones almost
reproachful, to think any one could doubt it, “I have never for one
moment, even amid the roar of battle and the groans of dying men,
forgotten Isabella Gonzales!”
“Love like thine should be its own reward; she was proud, too proud to
return thy love; was it not so, general?”
“My liege, you have spoken for me.”
“But you were a poor lieutenant of infantry then.”
“True.”
“And that had its influence.”
“I cannot but suppose so.”
“Well,” said the queen, “we have a purpose for you.”
“I am entirely at your majesty’s disposal,” replied the young soldier.
“We will see what commission it best fits so faithful a servant of our
crown to bear, and an appointment may be found that will carry thee
back to this distant isle of the tropics, where you have left your
heart.”
“To Cuba, my liege?”
“Ay.”
“But my banishment from the island reads forever,” said the soldier.
“We have power to make it read as best suits us,” was the reply.
“You are really too good to me,” replied the soldier.
“Now to your duty, general, and to-morrow we shall have further
business with you.”
Lorenzo Bezan bowed low, and turned his steps from the palace towards
his own lodgings, near the barracks. It was exceedingly puzzling to
him, first, that he could not understand what had led the queen to this
subject; second, how she could so well discern the truth; and lastly,
that such consideration was shown for him. He could not mistake the
import of the queen’s words; it was perfectly plain to him what she had
said, and what she had meant; and in a strange state of mind, bordering
upon extreme of suspicion and strong hope, and yet almost as powerful
fears, he mused over the singular condition in which he found himself
and his affairs.
It seemed to him that fortune was playing at shuttlecock with him, and
that just for the present, at any rate, his star was in the ascendant.
“How long shall I go on in my good fortune?” he asked himself; “how
long will it be before I shall again meet with a fierce rebuff in some
quarter? Had I planned my own future for the period of time since I
landed at Cadiz, I could not have bettered it-indeed I could not have
dared to be as extravagant as I find the reality. No wonder that I meet
those envious glances at court. Who ever shared a larger portion of the
honorable favor of the queen than I do? It is strange, all very
strange. And this beautiful Countess Moranza-what a good angel she has
been to me; indeed, what have I not enjoyed that I could wish, since I
arrived in Spain? Yet how void of happiness and of peace of heart am I!
Alas, as the humble lieutenant in the Plaza des Armes in Havana, as the
lowly soldier whom Isabella Gonzales publicly noticed in the Paseo, as
the fortunate deliverer of herself and father, and as resting my
wounded body upon her own support, how infinitely happier was I. How
bright was hope then in my breast, and brilliant the charms of the
fairy future! Could I but recall those happy moments at a cost of all
the renown my sword may have won me, how gladly would I do so this
moment. This constant suspense is worse than downright defeat or
certain misfortune. Is there no power can give us an insight into the
hidden destiny of ourselves? is there no means by which we can see the
future? Not long could I sustain this ordeal of suspense. Ah, Isabella,
what have I not suffered for thy love? what is there I would not
endure!”