A DISCOVERY.
“She never loved me,” said Lorenzo Bezan, in the privacy of his own
room, on the morning subsequent to that of the serenade. “It was only
my own insufferable egotism and self-conceit that gave me such
confidence. Now I review the past, what single token or evidence has
she given to me of particular regard? what has she done that any lady
might not do for a gentleman friend? I can recall nothing. True, she
has smiled kindly-O how dearly I have cherished these smiles! But what
are they? Coquettes smile on every one! Alas, how miserable am I, after
all the glory and fame I have won!”
Lorenzo Bezan was truly affected, as his words have shown him to be. He
doubted whether Isabella Gonzales had ever loved him; her scream and
fainting might have been caused by surprise, or even the heat. He had
been too ready to attribute it to that which his own heart had first
suggested. O, if he only dared to address her now-to see her, and once
more to tell how dearly and ardently he loved her still-how he had
cherished her by the camp fires, in the battle- field, and the
deprivations of war and the sufferings of a soldier’s wounds. If he
could, if he dared to tell her this, he would be happier. But, how did
he know that a proud repulse did not await him! Ah, that was the fear
that controlled him; he could not bear to part again from her as he had
last done.
While he was thus engaged in reverie alone, a servant, whom he had
despatched on an errand, returned to say that General Harero was very
ill and confined to his bed; that some wounds he had accidentally
received in quelling some street affray had brought on a burning and
dangerous fever. On the receipt of this information Lorenzo Bezan wrote
a hasty note and despatched the servant once more for a surgeon to come
to his quarters; a demand that was answered by the person sent for in a
very few minutes. It was the same surgeon who a few years before had so
successfully attended Bezan. The recognition between them was cordial
and honest, while the new lieutenant-general told him of General
Harero’s severe illness, and expressed a wish for him to immediately
attend the sick man.
“But, General Bezan,” said the surgeon, “you have little cause for love
to General Harero.”
“That is true; but still I desire his recovery; and if you compass it
by good nursing and the power of your art, remember fifty doubloons is
your fee.”
“My professional pride would lead me to do my best,” replied the
surgeon, “though neither I nor any other man in the service loves
General Harero any too much.”
“I have reasons for my interest that it is not necessary to explain,”
said General Bezan, “and shall trust that you will do your best for
him, as you did for me.”
“By the way, general, I have been half a mind, more than once, ever
since your return to the island, to tell you of a little affair
concerning your sickness at that time, but I feared you might deem it
in some measure impertinent.”
“By no means. Speak truly and openly to me. I owe you too much to
attribute any improper motives to you in any instance. What do you
refer to?”
“Well, general, I suppose on that occasion I discovered a secret which
I have never revealed to any one, and upon which subject my lips have
been ever sealed.”
“What was it?”
“Your love for Isabella Gonzales.”
“And how, pray, came you to surmise that?” asked Lorenzo Bezan, in
surprise.
“First by your half incoherent talk in moments of delirium, and
afterwards by finding her portrait, painted probably by yourself, among
your effects.”
“True. I have it still,” said Lorenzo Bezan, musingly.
“But more than that I discovered from the lady herself?” said the
surgeon.
“From the lady? What do you mean?” asked General Bezan, most earnestly.
“Why she visited you during your illness, and though she came in
disguise, I discovered her.”
“In disguise?”
“Yes.”
“How did you discover her? I pray you tell me all, if you are my
friend.”
“By a tear!”
“A tear!”
“Yes, because I knew no servant or lady’s maid sent to execute her
mistress’s bidding would have been so affected, and that led me to
watch for further discovery.”
“Did she weep?”
“One tear fell from her eyes upon your hands as she bent over you, and
it told me a story that I have since sometimes thought you should
know.”
“A tear!” mused General Bezan, to himself, rising and walking up and
down his room in haste; “that must have come from the heart. Smiles are
evanescent; kind words, even, cost nothing; but tears, they are honest,
and come unbidden by aught save the heart itself. Tears, did you say?”
he continued, pausing before the surgeon.
“As I have said, general.”
“And she bathed my forehead, you say?”
“She did, and further, left with me a purse to be devoted to supplying
your wants.”
“This you never told me of before.”
“I have had no opportunity, and to speak honestly, it was very well
timed and needed.”
“Money!” mused Lorenzo Bezan. “Money, that is full of dross; but a
tear,—I would to Heaven I had earlier known of that.”
“I hope I have caused you no uneasiness, general.”
“Enough. Go on your mission to General Harero; save him, if you can;
you have already saved me! Nay, do not stare, but go, and see me again
at your leisure.”
The surgeon bowed respectfully, and hastened away as he was directed.
That tear had removed mountains from Lorenzo Bezan’s heart; he hardly
knew what further to do under the circumstances. The earliest impulse
of his heart was to seek Isabella, and throwing himself at her feet,
beg her to forgive him for having for one moment doubted the affection
and gentleness of her woman heart. This was the turning point with him
if she had a heart, tender and susceptible, and not coroded by
coquetry; he had no fear but that he could win it; his love was too
true, too devoted, too much a part of his soul and existence to admit
of doubt. Joy once more reigned in his heart. He was almost childish in
his impatience to see her; he could hardly wait even for an hour.
At last, seating himself at a table, he seized upon pen and paper and
wrote as follows:
“ISABELLA GONZALES: I know not how to address you, in what tone to
write, or even as to the propriety of writing to you at all; but the
suspense I now suffer is my excuse. I need not reiterate to you how
dearly I love you; you know this, dear one, as fully as any assertion
of my own could possibly express it. It is trite that my love for you
has partaken in no small degree of a character of presumption, daring,
as an humble lieutenant of infantry, to lift my eyes to one as peerless
and beautiful as yourself, and of a class of society so far above what
my own humble position would authorize me to mingle with. But the past
is past, and now my rank and fortune both entitle me to the entree, to
your father’s house. I mention not these because I would have them
weigh in my favor with you. Far from it. I had rather you would
remember me, and love me as I was when we first met.
“Need I say how true I have been to the love I have cherished for you?
How by my side in battle, in my dreams by the camp fire, and filling my
waking thoughts, you have ever been with me in spirit? Say, Isabella
Gonzales, is this homage, so sincere, thus tried and true, unwelcome to
you? or do you, in return, love the devoted soldier, who has so long
cherished you in his heart as a fit shrine to worship at? I shall see
you, may I not, and you will not repulse me, nor speak to me with
coldness. O, say when I may come to you, when look once more into those
radiant eyes, when tell you with my lips how dearly, how ardently I
love you-have ever loved you, and must still love you to the last? I
know you will forgive the impetuosity, and, perhaps, incoherent
character of this note. LORENZO BEZAN.”
We have only to look into the chamber of Isabella Gonzales, a few hours
subsequent to the writing of this letter, to learn its effect upon her.
She was alone; the letter she had read over and over again, and now sat
with it pressed to her bosom by both hands, as though she might thus
succeed in suppressing the convulsive sobs that shook her whole frame.
Tears, the luxury of both joy and sorrow, where the heart is too full
of either, tears streamed down her fair cheeks; tears of joy and sorrow
both; joy that he was indeed still true to her, and sorrow that such
hours, days, nay, years of unhappiness, had been thus needlessly
passed, while they were separated from each other, though joined in
soul. O, how bitterly she recalled her pride, and remembered the
control it had held over her, how blamed herself at the recollection of
that last farewell in the prison with the noble but dejected spirit
that in spite of herself even then she loved!
She kissed the letter again and again; she wept like a child!
“The queen was right-he had no heart to give. A countess? She might
have brought him higher title, a prouder name, richer coffers; but he
is not one to weigh my love against gold, or lineage, or proud estates,
or even royal favor; such, such is the man to whom I owe my very life,
my father’s life, Ruez’s life, nay, what do I not owe to him? since all
happiness and peace hang upon these; and yet I repulsed, nay, scorned
him, when he knelt a suppliant at my feet. O, how could a lifetime of
devoted love and gentleness repay him all, and make me even able to
forgive myself for the untrue, unnatural part I have played?”
She covered her face with her hands, as if to efface the memory of the
conduct which she had just recalled so earnestly, and then rising,
walked back and forth in her apartment with all the impetuosity of her
Creole blood evinced in the deepened color of her cheek, and the
brightness of her beauteous eyes. Then once more seating herself, she
sat and trotted her foot impatiently upon the floor.
“O, why, why cannot I recall the past; alas, I see my error too late.
Pride, pride, how bitterly and surely dost thou bring thine own
reward!”
She strove to answer the letter that now lay open before her upon the
table, but could scarcely hold the pen, so deep and long drawn were the
sighs that struggled in her bosom. Sheet after sheet was commenced and
destroyed. Tears drowned out the efforts of her pen, and she knew not
what to do. She bit her fair lips in vexation; what should she write?
Once more she read his note, and full of the feelings it induced, tried
to answer it. But in vain; her sheet was bathed in tears before she had
written one line.
“It is but the truth,” she said, to herself, “and I do not care if he
knows it.”
As she thus spoke, she once more seized the pen and wrote:
“In vain have I essayed to write to you. Let these tears be your
answer! ISABELLA GONZALES.”
If the beautiful girl had studied for months to have answered the
letter of him who loved her so well, it would have been impossible for
her to have penned a more touching, more truthful, or more eloquent
reply than this. Striking a tiny silver bell by her side, a slave
approached, and was despatched with this note at once to the palace of
the governor-general.
“Why, sister!” said Ruez, entering the room and speaking at the same
time, “you look as if you had been weeping. Pray, are you ill?”
“Nay, brother, I am not ill. It was but a slight affair; it is all over
now. Where’s Carlo, Ruez?”
The attempt to turn the course of conversation to the dog, was not
unobserved by the intelligent boy. He saw at once that there was some
matter in his sister’s heart that was better to remain her own
property, and so, with a kiss, he said no more, but sat down at the
window and looked off upon the brilliant afternoon effect of the sun
and the light land breeze upon the water. Neither spoke for many
minutes, until at last Ruez, still looking off upon the waters of the
outer harbor, or Gulf Stream, said:
“I wonder where General Bezan keeps himself when off duty?”
“Why, brother?”
“Because I have called there twice, and have not seen him yet.”
“Twice!”
“Yes.”
“You know it is but a very few days since he arrived here, brother
Ruez, and he must be very busy.”
“Probably,” answered Ruez, stealing a glance towards his sister.
“His present duty must engage a large portion of his time, I suppose.”
“O, yes,” said the boy, laughing, “just about one quarter as much of
his time as was demanded of him when he was a lieutenant in General
Harero’s division.”
“By-the-by, Ruez, they say the general is very ill of some chance
wounds.”
“The general deserves all he got, beyond a doubt, and there is little
fear but that he will recover fast enough. He’s not one of the sort
that die easily. Fortune spares such as he is to try people’s temper,
and annoy humanity.”
“But is he decidedly better?” asked Isabella, with some interest.
“Yes, the surgeon reports him out of danger. Yesterday he was in a
fever from his wounds. I can’t conceive how he got them, and no one
seems to know much about it.”
“There’s Carlo and father, on the Plato; good-by, sister I’m going to
join them.”