 | CHAPTER XXXV.
A LONG JOURNEY. The border rover |  |
35. CHAPTER XXXV.
A LONG JOURNEY.
Well mounted and armed, with our Mexican guide
and a pack-mule, we left Pueblo de San Carlos, one
cold, raw day, and soon struck into a mountainous
region, in one of whose valleys we made our first
camp, the cold being very intense. But as it is not
my purpose to give a detailed account of our journey
to Santa Fe, I will merely remark, that we arrived
something less than two weeks from crossing the Arkansas—having
passed more than one night in a snow
storm, and suffered severely from the cold. To say
I was disappointed and disgusted with the appearance
of the town, will only be to tell about half of the
truth, and add my testimony to that of every foreigner
visiting it for the first time. It contained, at this
period, a miserable population of some two or three
thousand—a mongrel collection of Mexicans, Indians,
and negroes, with a few foreigners, mostly traders—
none of whom could boast of anything better than a
mud dwelling, and a large portion of whom lived in
huts hardly fit to be classed with respectable dog-kennels.
There was one exception—the palacio, or palace,
of the Governor—a long, low building, with adobe
walls, which occupied nearly one side of the Grande
Plaza, or principal square, and which displayed a
colonnade of rough pine pillars. I have since seen
the town compared to a dilapidated brick-kiln, or
prairie dog-town, and I think the comparison does it
ample justice. Having passed, on our way hither,
through the comparatively neat and flourishing valley
of Taos—and having, moreover, heard much of Santa
Fe as a great trading mart—we had drawn freely upon
our imaginations, and pictured forth the place as one
of neatness and beauty; but, unfortunately for our
fanciful creations, we found it what I have described it.
“Well, Alfred,” said I, as we plodded our way
Armijo—“what do you think of this?”
“That the sooner we leave it the better,” was his
reply. “If El Doliente has any taste, you will not
find him here—nor, for that matter, Adele either.”
“I think you are right,” I rejoined, “but we must
make inquiry in the right quarter.”
On reaching the Governor's Palace—as it was
termed by way of distinction—we learned, much to
our regret, that he and his family had gone to a distant
part of the province, and were not expected here
for a couple of months at least—his principal residence
being at Albuquerque, several leagues further
south.
“Then we have had our journey for nothing!” said
I, bitterly; “for after what I have seen of these dirty,
cut-throat-looking Mexicans, nothing shall tempt me
to penetrate further into their miserable country!”
Through our guide—who had, as I have stated, conducted
El Doliente hither—we learned that he had
remained but a few days with the Governor, and had
set off south, with another guide, taking Adele and
Cato with him; but what destination he then had in
view, no one knew—and I think I venture nothing
in adding, no one cared to know. One of the Governor's
servants stated to our guide, that he had heard
the Spaniard, in conversation with his master, mention
New Orleans quite frequently—and inferred that he
intended to visit that city—but whether for the purpose
of taking up his residence there, or not, he could
any importance—and this really amounted to nothing.
“Well, Roland, what now?” inquired Varney, in a
tone that showed he felt for my disappointment.
“We will start for Independence with the first
train that goes out,” said I.
Fortunately there was one, of some twenty teams,
going to set out on the following day; and having
made all our arrangements to accompany it, we had
only one night of misery to pass in the loathsome
place—a place which, I can truly say, I entered with
disgust and left with delight.
I need not dwell upon our long, wearisome journey
back to Independence, in the State of Missouri. Suffice,
that we passed in safety, though surrounded by
perils, over the then cold, bleak, desolate plains; and
arrived at our destination, with the snow a foot
deep and falling, in the month of January, 18—. Had
we been a week later in setting out, we should probably
have perished on the prairies—as the snow fell
to a great depth, and drifted to a height of twenty feet.
On reaching Independence, though more than two
thousand miles distant from my native city, I felt as
if I had got within a few steps of home; and had my
heart been as free as when I beheld the place for the
first time, my delight would have been excessive. As
it was, I was glad to get here, and feel that I was once
more safe from the perils of the wilderness; my desire
to rove beyond the borders had been gratified;
of adventure; but the thought that Adele—sweet,
beautiful Adele—was lost to me for ever, rendered me
sad and gloomy, even with the prospect before me of
a speedy return to those I had loved with a filial love
before loving her.
At the inn where we had stopped on our way out,
we found our baggage, all safe, and our clothes in
good condition; and we now made as much haste to
don civilized attire, as we had then to put on the costume
of the mountaineer. But though we were free
to acknowledge that our more fashionable apparel
improved us externally in a wonderful degree, yet
we found it anything but agreeable to get into tight
boots, and close-fitting coats, and have stiff, heavy
hats pressing upon our foreheads, to say nothing of
bungling cravats and starched shirt collars. But
knowing as we did that we were about to appear once
more among civilized and enlightened people—where
fashion rules, and requires all, who would be thought
respectable, to sacrifice comfort to external show—we
bore our afflictions meekly, and with the resignation
of martyrs.
As good luck would have it, the winter, so far, had
been mild and open; and on the second day after
reaching Independence, we were enabled to get on
board of a steamer, bound down the Missouri to St.
Louis. It was indeed a most fortunate occurrence for
us, and a narrow escape, for the river froze a few days
subsequently, and navigation continued closed for two
remain in a not very agreeable frontier settlement, or
make a cold, tedious, overland journey of nearly four
hundred miles.
“Human life,” observed Varney, reflectively, as
arm-in-arm we walked up and down the saloon, “is
to each individual a world; and what important
changes in that world may a few days, or weeks, or
months effect? Here now are you and I, Roland,
almost at the very point where first we met nearly
two years ago—but how changed is the world of each
since then!—or rather, how changed is mine!”
“Say how changed to both!” I replied; “for I
sadly feel I am not the same man I was then, and
therefore see not the world I saw.”
“Then,” pursued Varney, “I was almost a helpless
invalid, struggling for that life, that world, which I
have since attained.”
“Then,” rejoined I, “I had a world of happiness
before me, which is now obscured by clouds of gloom.
I was almost happy then—I am very far from being
happy now.”
“In so much do we change places,” continued Varney,
“that I was unhappy then, but might be happy
now, if I could feel assured that one bright, lovely
being longs for my return.”
“In so much do we change places,” I repeated,
“that then I had hope, but now feel despondency—
you then were despondent, but now have hope.”
“But if my hope should fail me, Roland?”
“Then would the changes of our worlds cause us to
meet in sympathy on equal ground,” said I.
“Oh! if, after all, sweet Mary can never be mine, I
shall ever regret that I did not permit my spirit to
take its flight in her sweet presence!” almost groaned
Varney.
“Adele—pure, confiding Adele—is lost to me for
ever!” I rejoined, in a tremulous voice.
“Roland,” cried Varney, anxiously, “you must go
South with me, and be witness of my happiness or
misery.”
“To witness your happiness would make me
miserable, Alfred—to witness your misery would
make me wretched!” I replied. “No, my friend,
under the circumstances I would not go with you.”
“But I am too selfish to part with you at this trying
moment,” pursued Varney, earnestly. “I must
have one friend by me, Roland; and what friend have
I, save you, if not her I love? I have worldly friends,
Roland—but none of the heart—none to whom I
could unbosom my soul, and confide the one great
secret of life or death. I have no father, no mother,
no sister, no brother but you—you and Mary are my
world—my all: I cannot lose you both at once!” and
his eyes filled with tears. “You have been with me
long, Roland; you know all my weak points—my
failings—”
“Say rather I know your virtues, Alfred,” I interposed.
“You have stood nobly by me in times of peril,
—I cannot have it so. I know I am selfish. I know I
am asking a great boon, to take you away from your
anxious friends, for even a few days; but happiness
is what we all, poor mortals, seek; and it would make
me so happy to have you with me!”
“Ask anything else in my power to grant, Alfred,
even to the dividing of my fortune, and you shall not
ask in vain. And yet,” I added, after a moment's
reflection, perceiving Varney's disappointed and
dejected look, “I hardly know why I would refuse
you this simple request!—perhaps because I have so
intently fixed my mind upon reaching home in the
shortest possible time, and dread to turn aside to look
upon new scenes, of which I have seen more than
enough—perhaps because my heart is sad and lonely,
and I long to get among my friends and look no more
upon strange faces for a time. But you turned aside
for me, Alfred, and I ought to do this much for you.
I could write home, it is true, and assure my parents
of my safety.”
“Yes!” cried Varney, eagerly, his features brightening
with hope; “and oh! I will do everything I can
to make the journey pleasant and cheerful!”
“To seek to win my thoughts from Adele, Alfred,
would be to labor in vain. Her image is enshrined
in my heart, and every beat of that heart brings her
before my mental vision. Time may wear off the
impression—but I fear there will ever be a void there,
which she alone might fill. You know her not, Alfred
flight from captivity, surrounded by perils—the happiest
days of my existence—I had an opportunity to
look down, as it were, into her very soul; and I saw
it was pure as an angel's—unstained by even a sinful
thought. And now where is she? and what is her
fate? Oh! I grow sick at the thought! and become
very, very miserable when I think. There is no
balm for me but time, Alfred—and time may fail to
heal the grief I feel at her loss: I know I can never
displace her memory. But enough of this! Where
would you have me go, Alfred?”
“First to New Orleans: there I may possibly learn
if Mary still lives, and lives for me.”
“And what then?”
“If so, we will set off at once for Ingledale—the
plantation seat of General Edwards—about fifty miles
distant.”
“And if not so, Alfred?”
“Then,” he said, smothering his emotion, “I know
not what.”
“You will go home with me?”
“If you desire it.”
“Enough, Alfred—I will go!”
He grasped my hand.
“But one proviso,” I added.
“Name it.”
“If you go to seek your Mary, I return alone.”
“Would you not accompany me to Ingledale?”
“I would rather not.”
“Be it so then.”
“New Orleans!” continued I, musingly. “It was
the city mentioned. Oh! if I only dared to hope!”
“You are thinking of what you heard at Santa
Fe?” said Varney, inquiringly.
“I am.”
“I dare not excite your hope,” he replied; “but it
may not be impossible.”
“Enough! Alfred—enough!—not another word on
the subject! I will go with you.”
On reaching St. Louis, I immediately addressed a
long letter to my father, giving a brief account of my
adventures, and stating why I had resolved upon a
journey to New Orleans, and about what time I
thought it likely I should be in Philadelphia. Then
making some purchases—and, among the rest, a wig,
resembling as much as possible my natural hair,
which had not as yet grown to a proper length—we
took the first steamer for New Orleans, where in due
time we arrived in safety.
| CHAPTER XXXV.
A LONG JOURNEY. The border rover | |