 | CHAPTER XXXVI.
A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. The border rover |  |
36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY.
On my way to the Crescent City, I had sometimes
almost ventured to hope that inquiries at all the
boarding establishments and hotels, with a glance in
the directory, would give me the name of El Doliente—though
I had no more reason for supposing
him there, save the inference drawn by the servant
of Governor Armijo, than for supposing him in Mexico,
Havana, or Madrid. But grant I should find
him—what then? Why, then, perhaps, I should
discover Adele to be his wife—or him to be a villain—and
how much would either add to my happiness?
But it would be something to have certainty
in place of conjecture; and if I found him to be a villain,
it might prove some satisfaction to inflict a
merited punishment.
On the morning following our arrival, Varney, who
had risen and gone out very early alone, suddenly
burst into my room at the hotel, under great excitement,
and immediately sunk down upon a seat without
uttering a word.
“Good heavens!” cried I—“what is the matter,
Alfred? are you ill?”
“In a moment!” he said; “in a moment, Roland!
her father.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No.”
“Have you seen her father?”
“No.”
“How do you know they are here?”
“I knew he owned a mansion here—at which he
sometimes spent the winter, or a portion of it—and I
have just been to see it. I found it occupied, and a
servant at work on the pavement. I inquired who
lived there, and was answered General Edwards. I
trembled and grew faint. The most important question
was now to come, and the answer would be life
or death.
“`Is his daughter Mary with him?'
“The answer was in the affirmative. I breathed
again—but almost gaspingly.
“`Is she married or single?'
“The negro stared at me, and hesitated—evidently
wondering what could be the meaning of such a
question from a stranger, who looked more mad than
sane.
“`I am an old friend, and have been a long time
away,' I hastened to add, at the same time slipping a
dollar into his hand. `Quick! boy—speak! is she
married or single?'
“`Single, mas'er—t'ank you, sah!' smiled the negro,
putting the coin into his pocket.
“I turned short about, Roland, without another
not sure. At all events, I am here now, and hardly
know whether to believe my senses or not. I have
not been dreaming, have I, Roland?”
“You appear to be very wide awake now, at all
events,” I answered, grasping his hand; “and I will
venture to congratulate you on your future happiness.
Would to Heaven I were as sure of Adele as you are
of Mary!”
“But I am not sure, Roland—I have not seen her—
and I fairly tremble at the thought of meeting her,
and learning my fate.”
“If she is alive, and unwedded, you have nothing
to fear, Alfred.”
`Do you think so?” cried Varney, starting up like
a wild man and grasping my hand again. “Do you
really think I have nothing to fear?”
“I certainly do. But pray calm yourself! you are
more excited than I ever saw you before.”
“Because I am nearer joy or despair than I have
ever been since you have known me. Believe me,
Roland, it were easier for me to bear the pangs of
death than disappointment in this.”
“But why have you any doubts?”
“Perhaps she does not reciprocate my love!”
“But you have always thought differently!”
“I was far away then, and saw hope dimly in the
distance; but now, as I draw near the shining light, I
see a thousand intervening obstacles.”
“What are they?”
“What I took for affection, may only have been
gratitude; and then she is an heiress, while I am only
a poor adventurer.”
“But love levels all distinctions, Alfred.”
“Ay, love, without pride, between the immediate
parties, I grant you. But does she love? that is the
point. And then her father—would be consent to let
her throw herself away upon one little better than a
beggar?”
“If he object to you, Alfred, though without a
dollar—after the peculiar treatment you received while
under his roof—his gratitude for saving her life was
false—a base counterfeit!” said I, warmly.
“But though single, she may love another, Roland!
Heavens! what a thought!”
“Well, try and be calm; and go, like a man, and
learn your fate. Though rich as Crœsus, beautiful as
Hebe, chaste as Diana, and pure as an angel, you are
worthy of her, Alfred.”
“Ay, Roland—were you the arbiter of my fate, I
should fear nothing—but, unfortunately, others do
not hold me in such high esteem. I thank you for
the compliment—for I know it comes from your noble
heart.”
“Well, go and see her—your mind will be harassed
and tormented by doubts, fears, and hopes, till you
do.”
“I will!” said Varney, nervously; “I will go and
dress at once; and then —. But I must not think!
Will you accompany me, Roland?”
“No, you had better go alone; and I will occupy
myself, meantime, in prosecuting my inquiries concerning
El Doliente—though I, at least, have no hope
of reward.”
Soon after this conversation I went down, ate a
light breakfast, and sauntered out alone. The morning
was bright and clear—the air soft and spring-like;
and as I took my way through the busy streets, I
pondered the delights of a southern climate in winter,
after a quick journey from the ice-bound regions of
the north. I saw green leaves, and I scented flowers;
and really felt, to use a poetical figure, as if I had
leaped from the rugged shoulders of hoary Winter,
into the soft lap of young, smiling, gentle Summer.
I had searched the directory in vain for the name
of him I sought; and I now began to visit the different
hotels, where I thought it most likely El
Doliente might take up his abode while in the city.
I spent the day in eager inquiries; and returned to
my own quarters at night, sad and dispirited, having
obtained no intelligence of him whatever. Varney
had not yet returned; and from this I argued he had
met with that success which would result in a life-long
happiness; and though I rejoiced, for his sake, in
his good fortune, I could not but envy him, and feel
bitterly wretched when I contrasted his bright fate
with mine.
After taking some refreshment, I went up to my
room, and threw myself upon the bed, to await his
return; but finding I was too miserable to remain
out into the street, feeling as if I wanted air. Hastening
along different thoroughfares—taking no heed of
my course, and without any definite object in view—
unless it might be to escape from myself, or my brain-racking
thoughts—I at length found myself one of a
fashionably dressed throng of ladies and gentlemen,
who were crowding into a large, stately-looking edifice,
to hear, as I learned from their conversation,
some musical celebrity. Excitement, amusement,
anything to drive away thought, was what I wanted;
and so I entered with the rest, purchased a ticket, and
in due time found myself seated in a large, brilliant
hall, where strains of sweet music soon floated to my
spirit, and bore it away into an ideal realm of gorgeousness
and beauty.
During the whole entertainment, I seemed to be in
a kind of trance; but as I felt comparatively happy—
and at times absolutely so—deceiving myself with
fanciful illusions—I made no effort to arouse myself
and return to a cold, bitter reality. In recalling the
event at this time, I do not think I was wholly compos
mentis; for after the grand overture by the orchestra,
I remember nothing but bright lights and unearthly
music, and airy, floating, fairy forms, and brilliant,
gorgeous, heavenly scenes—which fancy brought before
the mental vision—till I found myself wedged
among the press on my way to the street; after which
event all is again distinct and clear. I remember, on
reaching the flags of the colonnade, of drawing aside
position where, without being too much jostled, I
could have a clear view of Creole beauty and fashion,
as the human tide poured downward and outward. I
was thus standing—admiringly viewing the many
beautiful features and forms that floated down the
long flight of steps, in the bright light, to disappear
in the surrounding shade—when suddenly my eyes
rested on a pale, sweet, lovely face; and for a few
moments every nerve seemed paralyzed, and my heart
rose to my throat.
Could it be? could it be? Great Heaven! could
it be? No! it must be fancy—another illusion? I
closed my eyes for an instant—only for an instant—
for I feared to lose sight of that sweet face. I opened
them quickly, and again riveted them upon that
descending figure, and upon him who held her arm,
and supported her down the long flight, and fondly
guided her steps, and strove to keep back the press.
No! it was no illusion—it was no portrayal of fancy—
it was reality; and, Great God! such a reality! It
was my deeply-loved, long-lost Adele Loyola—clinging
to, and sustained by, the strong arm of Juan El
Doliente.
It was a terrible ordeal, to stand paralyzed, and see
them pass me, without even the power of speech—and
my brain reeled, and my sight grew dim. At length,
with a convulsive gasp, I regained the power of motion,
and sprung after them, regardless of everything
and everybody around. Like a madman—as perhaps
pushed forward to the street, with more than one anathema
following me from those I jostled roughly or
put rudely aside. I was just in time to see the two I
sought enter a splendid carriage, which was decorated
with a coat of arms, and had a black driver and footman
in rich livery. In my haste to reach the door
before it closed, I stumbled and fell; and by the time
I had regained my feet, the footman was mounted,
and the carriage was in motion. Fearful of losing
sight of it, I ran into the street, and shouted for a
hack.
“Here, mas'er, at you sarbis,” cried a black, from
the opposite side of the way.
“Do you see that carriage yonder, with its footman
in livery, just turning the corner?” said I, springing
to the negro, who was hastily opening the door of his
vehicle.
“Yes, sah—see dat cl'ar.”
“Quick, then! mount your box, and put me down
near where that stops, and it shall prove the best job
you have done for a month! Quick, now! or you
will lose sight of it!”
“Nebber fear dis chile, mas'er,” rejoined the negro,
as he grasped the lines and cracked his whip.
So far I had been governed wholly by impulse,
and had considered nothing but the fact that I must
not lose sight of Adele and the Spaniard till I had
traced them to their present quarters; but now I had
a few minutes for reflection, and reflection came in a
carriage, and thought, till my brain ached, my vision
swam, and blue lights danced before my eyes. What
was I to do, on reaching El Doliente's residence?
what would be the proper course for me to pursue?
Undoubtedly it would be best to first ascertain if
Adele were his wife; and if so, to retire and not
make myself known; and return to my misery, and
leave them to their happiness, if happiness they could
find. But if she were not his wife? If not?—Good
heavens! how my blood boiled to think!—then must
she be the victim of a treacherous villain; for only by
lying and treachery could he have turned so pure a
heart from the path of virtue. Ha! another idea.
Perhaps he knew her history? Well, what then?
this could not sanction crime. But might he not be
a relative? Improbable, in the extreme—for had he
discovered any relationship, what more natural, or
likely, than that he would have proclaimed it at Bent's
Fort? There was something very strange and mysterious
in his taking such an interest in the girl before
he saw her; and I remembered asking him if he were
in love with her from my description, and his reply,
that he should never be my rival for her hand. What
could it all mean? But I should soon know, perhaps;
and should I discover he had wronged and ruined
her, then, as the law could not reach him, I determined
I would be her avenger. It would be a fearful
thing to become judge and executioner, I knew; but
in the state of mind I then was, I felt it would be
human stage of life. Adele, in any event, I considered
lost to me for ever.
Such was a portion of the thoughts and reflections
that produced the effect I have described; and my
mind was still in a wild whirl, when the carriage
suddenly stopped, and the driver hastily opened the
door.
“Dar, mas'er,” said the negro, “you can see de
carriage I's followed, right over dar.”
I sprung out, and found myself standing in a broad,
clean, elegant street, with splendid private mansions
on either hand. About twenty rods distant, on the
opposite side of the way, was the carriage of El
Doliente; and while I looked, I saw him and Adele
ascend the marble steps, and the vehicle drive away.
“You have done well,” said I, handing the negro
a gold eagle; “and this will prove to you that I made
no empty promise.”
“De Lor' bress you, mas'er, for a true gent'lem!”
cried the black, opening his eyes with delight.
“Mount, and drive straight on, as if nothing had
happened!” I added.
And as the hack rolled away, I crossed the street
and walked leisurely along, till I came opposite the
residence which now contained the beings who had
already been so closely linked with my destiny, and
whose influence for good or evil it was my fate to
feel evermore. When I reached the steps, they had
disappeared within; and I looked up at the stately
and knew that its owner must be a man of wealth—
perhaps of distinction, fashion, and power—and I
reflected, that if I would meet him as an equal, man
to man, there might never be a more opportune time
than the present. I felt for my pistols—which, from
my late habit of always going armed, I had not yet
laid aside—and finding them in their proper places,
I ascended the steps—determined, for the rest, to be
guided by such circumstances as fate might throw
around me.
| CHAPTER XXXVI.
A WONDERFUL DISCOVERY. The border rover | |