University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE FINALE.

Dona Marina, Countess of Zamora, entered the
apartment with ease and grace, hanging lightly on the
arm of her noble father. I arose, as a stranger, to
salute her; but trembled so, that I dared not take a
single step forward; and really feared I should be
compelled to resume my seat in a manner which
would appear extremely awkward, if not rude. She
was richly, but plainly, attired in the prevailing
fashion; and her dark features—naturally pale, and

tinged with melancholy, but now slightly tinted with
a rosy hue—were so sweet, so lovely, that I was on
the point of forgetting myself, springing forward, and
disclosing all, by uttering the loved name of Adele.
The Count read my feelings, and, fearful of consequences,
hastened forward and said:

“Senor Rios, allow me to present to you my
daughter Marina, of whom you have heard me
speak.”

I bowed, without trusting my voice; and Marina,
making a graceful salutation, took a seat near. The
Count quietly drew up another chair, and we both
sat down—he, to relieve us of any embarrassment,
immediately observing:

“I have informed my daughter, Senor Rios, that
we once met, far away, and were fellow travellers for
several days.”

“That meeting and that journey I shall never forget,”
I replied, quietly.

At the first sound of my voice, Marina started—all
color instantly forsook her face—and she turned her
soft, dark eyes, now sparkling with a wild light,
searchingly upon me.

“I understand,” I pursued, addressing her with as
much calmness as it was possible for me to command
on so exciting an occasion—“I understand that your
ladyship has passed through some eventful scenes?”

She looked wildly at me, and then at the Count,
and exclaimed:

“My dear father, who is it that speaks?”

“Whom do you think, my child?”

“If the grave can give back the dead to the living,
it is Roland Rivers.”

“The grave cannot, sweet daughter,” he replied,
anxiously; “but the grave does not always hold the
lost.”

“Great Heaven! it is then Roland Rivers!” she
cried, springing to her feet, and looking still more
wildly at me. “Senor Rios! Senor Rios! Yes! yes!
it is!”

“It is, Adele,” said I, using her former name, and
making an attempt to rise.

She uttered one wild shriek, fell upon my neck, and
fainted in my arms.

“I fear we have killed her!” cried her now half-distracted
father, hastening to ring for her attendants.

A scene of confusion ensued that I need not describe.
It was more than an hour before all again
became quiet; and then Marina was sitting by my
side, her hands clasped with joy, and her dark eyes,
beaming love, fixed fondly and intently upon mine,
as if she feared, as her father had before expressed,
that I might vanish into thin air. As for myself, I
have no language to portray the emotions which
stirred me to the very depths of my innermost soul.
I can only say, that I seemed to myself like a part
and portion of an enchantment that was painful with
rapture.

Oh! the golden hours of that night of joy—how
swiftly they flew! I told the story of my captivity,

my return, my suspicions, and my madness, even up
to the moment of my present happiness; and Marina
listened, and wept—wept tears of such joy as comes
up from the inner soul but once in a human life.

“Dear Roland,” she at last exclaimed, with tearful
eyes, “what guarded, guided, and brought us together
so mysteriously? Will you say now you do not believe
in ministering spirits?”

“With you by my side, dear Marina, I am ready
to believe in everything pure and holy,” I replied.

Having ordered refreshments, my noble host now
began and told his tale—which, though strange, thrilling,
and romantic, I shall take the liberty to abridge,
and give in the fewest words possible. He was a
nobleman by birth, a native of Spain, and his rightful
name was Don Juan Alvaro de Alvarez, Count of Zamora.
He had a princely residence and retinue in his
native country, was in high favor at Court, and married
the lady of his choice, by whom he had one child,
a daughter, the lovely being who has figured in my
narrative as Adele. All went on prosperously and
happily till the loss of his child, who was stolen at a
tender age by a villain named Romanez, and the same
who has slightly figured in my narrative as Gaspard
Loyola. This Romanez was an officer in the household
of the Count, who was discharged for a flagrant
act, and took this mode of revenge. And a terrible
revenge it proved; for the wife of the Count died
subsequently, of a disease engendered by grief at the
loss of her daughter; and the Count himself, half

distracted at the loss of both, sold his effects—and, to
find some relief to an aching heart, became a traveller
and a wanderer, assuming the expressive title of Juan
El Doliente, or Juan The Sufferer. He had visited
this country more than once in his wandering life;
and had, at different times, for a brief period, made
his home in New Orleans. But the canker at his
heart would never let him rest; and so he had continued
to wander, wherever he thought he could meet
with excitement or novelty, till chance or Providence
threw him in my way, and he heard my story of
Adele, whom he was fain to think might possibly
prove to be his long lost daughter. This idea was the
cause of that intense excitement which he exhibited
on hearing my narrative, and which then proved so
incomprehensible to me, who of course knew nothing
of the real facts. My description of Loyola was a
correct description, he thought, of Romanez; and
being eager to see the girl, and learn the truth, he
volunteered to fit out an expedition to go in quest of
her; but fearing he might be disappointed, he hardly
trusted himself to hope, and kept his secret to himself.

Why Romanez, or Loyola, placed Marina in a
convent in Mexico, was still something of a mystery;
but it was conjectured that, she being very young at
the time, and probably a burden to him, he had
thought this a feasible plan to have her taken care of
till she should arrive at an age to be of some assistance
to him. And it was further surmised, that it might
have been his intention, at a period subsequent to my

meeting with her, to disclose all, and force her to
become his wife, with the idea of eventually turning
this to his account in a pecuniary point of view. Be
this as it may, it will readily be seen that he had a
motive in not destroying her life, and in allowing her
no opportunity to disclose what little she did know of
her history. On placing her in the convent, he had
given her the name of Adele, and changed his own,
asserting that he was her father, and that her own
mother was dead. After taking her away, he had
always kept her with him, and made her useful to him
in the business he had adopted, which was that of an
itinerant trader. Of his harsh, brutal treatment I
need not speak, as the reader himself had a specimen
on his first introduction, in propria persona, into my
story.

On meeting with his daughter on the mountains, as
mentioned by Botter, Alvarez saw at a glance a
strong resemblance to her beloved mother; but still
fearing there might be some mistake, he smothered
his emotions, and kept his secret, till he found a proper
opportunity to reveal it to her at St. Vrain's Fort.
This revelation caused that marked change in her
demeanor toward him, which led the old mountaineer
to suspect a different cause for the intimacy, and the
scandal-mongers to start the villanous report which
reached me through him. As the Count and his
daughter both thought it proper to find the convent
where she had been educated, and get further facts
before proclaiming their relationship, they set off

together in the manner stated, and made no mention
of it at Bent's Fort, or any other place through which
they passed, preferring to let the evil-minded think
and say what they pleased, and all parties draw their
own conclusions.

I will pass over the long, anxious journey into
Mexico, and merely state that the convent of Santa
Maria was at last found, and some new facts gathered;
and these facts, taken in connection with some personal
marks of identity, and the strong resemblance
Adele bore to the deceased Countess, were sufficient
to induce the forlorn Count to claim, and proclaim,
her as his long lost daughter Marina. Hastening from
the convent of Santa Maria to Vera Cruz, they sailed
for New Orleans, where the Count immediately purchased
his present dwelling, furniture, servants, etc.,
and established his residence, resolved to make this
his future home—but where, after all, as he himself
expressed it, in conclusion, the presence of myself was
needed to complete the happiness of his lovely daughter.
With this explanation, I trust the reader will
find I have closed up all points that in the course of
my story may have seemed mysterious, and which at
first view may have been regarded as having no direct
bearing upon the denouement.

It was already broad day-light when I left the mansion
of Don Alvaro and his lovely daughter to return
to my hotel. They pressed me to stay longer, and
were loth to part from me even for a moment; but I
knew that Marina needed rest, after a sleepless night

of such wild excitement; and I knew that Varney, if
he had returned, would be greatly troubled at my absence;
so I tore myself away, promising to return to
dinner. How changed were my feelings, as I now
hurried through the streets, from those I had experienced
but a few short hours before? Then I was
almost mad with gloom and despair—now almost wild
with rapture! Truly, the age of a human being
should be reckoned by events—not years.

As I expected, I found Varney laboring under great
excitement from several causes—not the least important
of which was my own unaccountable absence.

“My dear Roland,” he cried, grasping my hand,
“where have you been? and what has happened?
You look weary and pale!”

“It is well if I look no worse,” I replied, with a
solemn air—for I felt in the mood to mystify him a
little before making known to him my good fortune.

“In Heaven's name! what has happened? You have
not been here during the whole night; and I have
been tortured with a thousand wild surmises!” he
cried.

“And how much of the night have you been here?”
I asked in return. “I was here the first part, I know,
but I was too gloomy to remain alone; so I rushed
out, and became the hero of one of the most remarkable
adventures on record.”

“Explain, Roland!”

“Rather let me hear your report first. Did you see
Mary Edwards?”

“I did, God bless her!” he exclaimed, joyfully.

“Well, she is yours?”

“She is, my dear friend! she is!” he cried, excitedly,
grasping my hand, and struggling to keep down
his emotions. “Oh! my dear Roland, I am half mad
with joy—and God knows how my heart swells with
gratitude for all His mercies and blessings! Yes, I
found her more beautiful even than I remembered
her; and, would you believe it, my more than brother,
she was actually mourning my absence. Her joy at
seeing me returned in health completely overcame
her; and her father, as he grasped my hand, cried like
a child. I returned here at twelve, the most happy
being living; and all the sorrow I have since felt was
on your account. Forgive me, my friend, for pouring
into your ear this joyful news in such a wild, heedless
manner! and believe me, through it all I deeply
sympathize with you in your irreparable loss. Oh!
if Heaven had only willed that you might be blessed
with Adele, as I am with Mary, what earthly happiness
would then equal ours?”

“I thank you for your sympathy, Alfred; and
really congratulate you with all my heart!” I rejoined,
vigorously shaking his hand.

“And now tell me of yourself, Roland! You say
you have had a remarkable adventure?”

`I have indeed. Let us be seated—I am fatigued.
Well, you must know, that, after quitting you in the
morning, I began my search for El Doliente—but
returned at night, as I had expected, without finding

any trace of him whatever. After a slight repast, I
came up to my room here, to wait for you—but found
myself so miserable as to be obliged to seek the open
air for relief. Not caring whither my steps might
lead me, I set off hurriedly through the streets; and
at last, unexpectedly, got wedged among a throng of
people, who were going to listen to some musical
celebrity, whose name I do not even now know. I
entered the hall with the rest, and sat through the
entertainment in a sort of trance. On coming out, I
stationed myself where I could get a good view of
Creole fashion and beauty; and there remained till
my eye fell upon a face more lovely than all the rest—
at least I thought so, you understand—and which so
stirred me that I determined to follow her home.
Her companion was a gentleman who might be her
father, brother, husband, or lover, for anything that
I knew—but this did not deter me from carrying out
my design. On reaching the street they took a carriage—my
divinity and her companion, you perceive
—and I took another, ordering the driver to put me
down wherever they might stop. Well, they halted
before an elegant mansion, and went in, and I followed
them.”

“Not into the mansion, Roland?” cried Varney, in
astonishment.

“Ay, but I did, though, even into the mansion, my
friend! Do not look so astonished, Alfred! I am
telling you the truth—and am perfectly sane now—
though whether I was at that precise time, is somewhat

doubtful; but, at all events, I felt very desperate,
and gave little thought to appearances or
consequences.”

“Mad as a loon!” exclaimed Varney; “you must
have been! or you would never have dared to carry
matters so far. I am astonished!”

“I believe you, my friend, for you show it in your
looks—but you will be more astonished yet, when
you hear the whole of my story.”

“But how did you get into the dwelling?”

“I asked to see the master, and gave the servant
some money.”

“Well, they turned you out?”

“Not exactly, or I should have been here sooner.
But pray do not anticipate—for you could not guess
the truth, if you were to occupy all the time between
this and your coming nuptials.”

“Roland,” cried Varney, anxiously, looking at me
in an earnest, singular manner—“are you really sure
you are sane now?”

“Perfectly—do you doubt it?”

“You certainly talk very strangely.”

“Well, I have had cause; but as you seem determined
not to let me finish my story, you may as well
guess the rest, while I lie down and rest myself;” and
as I spoke, I threw myself upon the bed.

“No, no, Roland—forgive me! Go on, and tell
your singular story in your own way! I will not interrupt
you again.”

“Ten dollars to one that you do! But no matter

—you shall hear all. Well, I was shown into the
gentleman's library, where he shortly made his appearance;
and after closing the door, and putting my
back against it, I drew my pistols, threatened his life,
and in an indirect way accused him of seducing the
young lady from the path of virtue.”

“Roland,” exclaimed Varney, jumping up from his
chair, “if you are really telling me the truth now, I
only wonder you are here to tell it, instead of being
locked up in the calaboose.”

“There, I knew I would win!” said I: “you cannot
possibly let me tell my story without interruption.”

“Any reasonable story I could!” cried Varney;
“but this is outrageous. Follow a strange lady home!
go into a strange gentleman's house! and actually
threaten his life, and accuse him of wrong and dishonor!
Heavens! what next? But I suppose he took
you for a stray lunatic, and so let you go?”

“He did better, if you will only listen. He was
horrified at my accusation; and informed me that the
young lady was his daughter; and, more than that,
an heiress, and a Spanish Countess; and on my requesting
to see her, he brought her in, introduced her
to me, and we spent the night in very agreeable conversation.
And, what is still more to the purpose, I
am desperately in love with her; and we are to be
married shortly, with the consent of her father, Don
Juan Alvaro de Alvarez, Count of Zamora.”

I shall never forget the expression of Varney's features

as I came to the conclusion. It was not easy
to determine which predominated—grief or horror—
as he fixed his eyes upon me, and muttered:

“Poor fellow! poor fellow! now I know he has lost
his senses. Despair has driven him mad. What a
terrible blow this will be to his parents!”

“Come,” pursued I, “where are your congratulations?
Why do you not grasp my hands and wish
me much joy, as I did you? If it is such a happy
event for you to get married, why not also for me?”

“Lie down, Roland, my dear friend!” he said, in a
kindly, sympathetic tone; “lie down and rest yourself;
you are greatly fatigued; and I think rest will
do you good.”

“And is this all you have to say to an old friend,
who has stood by you through many a peril and trial,
when he tells you he is about to marry Dona Marina
Alexa Helena de Alvarez, Countess of Zamora?”
cried I. “Fie! Alfred—I thought better of you.”

“Oh! merciful Heaven!” groaned poor Varney, the
perspiration standing in beads on his pale face; “this
is terrible! this is terrible! poor fellow! poor fellow!”
and he sunk heavily upon his seat.

“Perhaps you are envious of my good fortune?”
said I.

“No, God knows I am not, my dear fellow.”

“Well, there is one thing,” I continued, “I have
neglected to mention. Undoubtedly it will not cause
you to cease your astonishment—but I think it will
clear me of being in your estimation non compos mentis.

I have so far neglected to tell you, that Don Juan
Alvaro de Alvarez, Count of Zamora, and his lovely
daughter, Dona Marina Alexa Helena de Alvarez,
Countess of Zamora, are no other than Juan El
Doliente and Adele Loyola!”

“What!” cried Varney, springing up so suddenly
as to upset his chair and a table on which his arm
was resting: “You do not mean to say—Good Heavens!—Roland—you—I
am—choking—you—are not
—mad then?”

“Not quite so mad as you are, poor fellow!” said I,
with a hearty burst of laughter.

“And—and—heavens! you are in earnest?”

“Assuredly I am: earnest in having told the truth
—earnest in having had my joke.”

“And—you—have really—found Adele and El
Doliente?”

“Found them as father and daughter—Count and
Countess—that is, if you allow a daughter to be a
Countess while her father the Count is living.”

Varney bounded forward, grasped my hand, and
nearly wrung it off; and then sat down and cried for
joy.

There is little more to add, to complete the narrative
of my adventures—for it was never my design, dear
reader, to take you through all the scenes of my life.
If you are pleased and satisfied with what you have
received, we shall part friends; but whether you are

satisfied or not, we shall soon part, to meet no more
on the stage of life.

I remained two weeks in the Crescent City; and
every day, in the society of her I loved, my happiness
seemed to increase, till I felt my soul filled with
a rapture that banished even the thought of sorrow
and gloom. At last, on a bright, glorious day—
attended by Alfred Varney and Mary Edwards, and
many of the elite of the capital of fashion, wealth and
beauty—I led her to the sacred altar of her faith; and
there, in the presence of a large concourse of spectators,
the holy rite was solemnized, which bound us
together, here and hereafter, in time and in eternity,
on earth and in the heavens; and the great organ of
the vast cathedral pealed its joy; and on its sweet,
solemn music our happy souls seemed to float upward
into the realms elysian.

“Roland! Marina!” said the Count, on taking leave
of us, as he held a hand of each, while his eyes rained
tears, and his voice trembled with emotions of joy;
“may the great and good God, and all his saints and
ministering spirits, ever watch over you, prosper you,
and bless you, even as I do now bless you with a
father's love. My dream is now fulfilled. You remember,
Roland, how I told you, in yon far wilderness,
that I had had a dream, that filled my soul with
ecstacy, and which might become a reality even as
my soul saw it. You have seen it, and been a part of
it—and so has my sweet daughter Marina—God bless

you both! And now, hard as it is to part, I must for
a season, I trust a brief season, say farewell!”

On the very day of my marriage, I left New Orleans
for my northern home; where in due time I
arrived, and filled the hearts of my parents and friends
with joy.

Many years have passed since then, and I have more
than once crossed the great deep in company with my
still lovely wife and her noble father; and I have
even stood in the venerable halls where Marina passed
her infancy, and have seen that picture of a happy
home which she drew from memory at our first meeting
in the wilderness. Surrounded now with a loving
wife, and blooming children, and pleasant friends, I
am still happy, whether my time be spent in my
northern or my southern home: and I need only add,
that Alfred Varney finds a happiness which equals
mine—it could no more.

And now, kind reader—you who have been with
me out upon the great prairies, and among the great
mountains—and have seen nature in her wildness,
freedom, beauty and grandeur—where man, untamed
as the beast, roams at will, and rules physically rather
than intellectually; you who have witnessed strange
scenes, and thrilling scenes, in which I have played an
humble part; and have returned with me to the
haunts of civilization, and have seen brighter scenes,
and happier scenes; and have ever lent me your
kindly sympathy—sorrowing with me in my sorrow,
and rejoicing with me in my joy,—to you I must now

say farewell. That you may ever surmount all obstacles
which lie in your pathway of life, and reach the
loftiest summit of your hopes and aspirations, and
behold the sun of joy pouring upon you the light of
an eternal day, is the prayer of him who now bids
you a final adieu!