CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.
TOUCHING THE CHORDS OF MEMORY.
It is the second evening after our arrival at the old house on the DelNorte. We have gone up to the azotea--Seguin, Saint Vrain, and myself;I know not why, but guided thither by our host. Perhaps he wishes tolook once more over that wild land, the theatre of so many scenes in hiseventful life; once more, for upon the morrow he leaves it for ever.Our plans have been formed; we journey upon the morrow; we are goingover the broad plains to the waters of the Mississippi. They go withus.
It is a lovely evening, and warm. The atmosphere is elastic; such anatmosphere as you can find only on the high tables of the western world.It seems to act upon all animated nature, judging from its voices.There is joy in the songs of the birds, in the humming of the homewardbees. There is a softness, too, in those sounds that reach us from thefarther forest; those sounds usually harsh; the voices of the wilder andfiercer creatures of the wilderness. All seem attuned to peace andlove.
The song of the arriero is joyous; for many of these are below, packingfor our departure.
I, too, am joyous. I have been so for days; but the light atmospherearound, and the bright prospect before me, have heightened thepulsations of my happiness.
Not so my companions on the azotea. Both seem sad.
Seguin is silent. I thought he had climbed up here to take a last lookof the fair valley. Not so. He paces backward and forward with foldedarms, his eyes fixed upon the cemented roof. They see no farther; theysee not at all. The eye of his mind only is active, and that is lookinginward. His air is abstracted; his brow is clouded; his thoughts aregloomy and painful. I know the cause of all this. She is still astranger!
But Saint Vrain--the witty, the buoyant, the sparkling Saint Vrain--whatmisfortune has befallen him? What cloud is crossing the rose-colouredfield of his horoscope? What reptile is gnawing at his heart, that noteven the sparkling wine of El Paso can drown? Saint Vrain isspeechless; Saint Vrain is sighing; Saint Vrain is sad! I half divinethe cause. Saint Vrain is--
The tread of light feet upon the stone stairway--the rustling of femaledresses!
They are ascending. They are Madame Seguin, Adele, Zoe.
I look at the mother--at her features. They, too, are shaded by amelancholy expression. Why is not she happy? Why not joyous, havingrecovered her long-lost, much-loved child? Ah! she has not yetrecovered her!
I turn my eyes on the daughter--the elder one--the queen. That is thestrangest expression of all.
Have you seen the captive ocelot? Have you seen the wild bird thatrefuses to be tamed, but against the bars of its cage-prison still beatsits bleeding wings? If so, it may help you to fancy that expression. Icannot depict it.
She is no longer in the Indian costume. That has been put aside. Shewears the dress of civilised life, but she wears it reluctantly. Shehas shown this, for the skirt is torn in several places, and the bodice,plucked open, displays her bosom, half-nude, heaving under the wildthoughts which agitate it.
She accompanies them, but not us a companion. She has the air of aprisoner, the air of the eagle whose wings have been clipped. Sheregards neither mother nor sister. Their constant kindness has failedto impress her.
The mother has led her to the azotea, and let go her hand. She walks nolonger with them, but crouching, and in starts, from place to place,obedient to the impulse of strong emotions.
She has reached the western wing of the azotea, and stands close upagainst the parapet, gazing over--gazing upon the Mimbres. She knowsthem well, those peaks of sparkling selenite, those watch-towers of thedesert land: she knows them well. Her heart is with her eyes.
We stand watching her, all of us. She is the object of commonsolicitude. She it is who keeps between all hearts and the light. Thefather looks sadly on; the mother looks sadly on; Zoe looks sadly on;Saint Vrain, too. No! that is a different expression. His gaze is thegaze of--
She has turned suddenly. She perceives that we are all regarding herwith attention. Her eyes wander from one to the other. They are fixedupon the glance of Saint Vrain!
A change comes over her countenance--a sudden change, from dark tobright, like the cloud passing from the sun. Her eye is fired by a newexpression. I know it well. I have seen it before; not in her eyes,but in those that resemble them: the eyes of her sister. I know itwell. It is the light of love!
Saint Vrain! His, too, are lit by a similar emotion! Happy SaintVrain! Happy that it is mutual. As yet he knows not that, but I do. Icould bless him with a single word.
Moments pass. Their eyes mingle in fiery communion. They gaze intoeach other. Neither can avert their glance. A god rules them: the godof love!
The proud and energetic attitude of the girl gradually forsakes her; herfeatures relax; her eye swims with a softer expression; and her wholebearing seems to have undergone a change.
She sinks down upon a bench. She leans against the parapet. She nolonger turns to the west. She no longer gazes upon the Mimbres. Herheart is no longer in the desert land!
No; it is with her eyes, and these rest almost continuously on SaintVrain. They wander at intervals over the stones of the azotea; then herthoughts do not go with them; but they ever return to the same object,to gaze upon it tenderly, more tenderly at each new glance.
The anguish of captivity is over. She no longer desires to escape.There is no prison where he dwells. It is now a paradise. Henceforththe doors may be thrown freely open. That little bird will make nofurther effort to fly from its cage. It is tamed.
What memory, friendship, entreaties, had tailed to effect, love hadaccomplished in a single instant. Love, mysterious power, in onepulsation had transformed that wild heart; had drawn it from the desert.
I fancied that Seguin had noticed all this, for he was observing hermovements with attention. I fancied that such thoughts were passing inhis mind, and that they were not unpleasing to him, for he looked lessafflicted than before. But I did not continue to watch the scene. Adeeper interest summoned me aside; and, obedient to the sweet impulse, Istrayed towards the southern angle of the azotea.
I was not alone. My betrothed was by my side; and our hands, like ourhearts, were locked in each other.
There was no secrecy about our love; with Zoe there never had been.
Nature had prompted the passion. She knew not the conventionalities ofthe world, of society, of circles refined, soi-disant. She knew notthat love was a passion for one to be ashamed of.
Hitherto no presence had restrained her in its expression--not eventhat, to lovers of less pure design, awe-inspiring above all others--thepresence of the parents. Alone or in their company, there was nodifference in her conduct. She knew not the hypocrisies of artificialnatures; the restraints, the intrigues, the agonies of atoms that act.
She knew not the terror of guilty minds. She obeyed only the impulseher Creator had kindled within her.
With me it was otherwise. I had shouldered society; though not muchthen, enough to make me less proud of love's purity--enough to render meslightly sceptical of its sincerity. But through her I had now escapedfrom that scepticism. I had become a faithful believer in the nobilityof the passion.
Our love was sanctioned by those who alone possessed the right tosanction it. It was sanctified by its own purity.
We are gazing upon a fair scene: fairer now, at the sunset hour. Thesun is no longer upon the stream, but his rays slant through the foliageof the cotton-wood trees that fringe it, and here and there a yellowbeam is flung transversely on the water. The forest is dappled by thehigh tints of autumn. There are green leaves and red ones; some of agolden colour and others of dark maroon. Under this bright mosaic theriver winds away like a giant serpent, hiding its head in the darkerwoods around El Paso.
We command a view of all this, for we are above the landscape. We seethe brown houses of the village, with the shining vane of its church.Our eyes have often rested upon that
vane in happy hours, but nonehappier than now, for our hearts are full of happiness.
We talk of the past as well as the present; for Zoe has now seensomething of life, its darker pictures it is true; but these are oftenthe most pleasant to be remembered; and her desert experience hasfurnished her with many a new thought--the cue to many an inquiry.
The future becomes the subject of our converse. It is all bright,though a long and even perilous journey is before us. We think not ofthat. We look beyond it to that promised hour when I am to teach, andshe is to learn, what is "to marry."
Someone is touching the strings of a bandolin. We look around. MadameSeguin is seated upon a bench, holding the instrument in her hands. Sheis tuning it. As yet she has not played. There has been no music sinceour return.
It is by Seguin's request that the instrument has been brought up, withthe music, to chase away heavy memories; or, perhaps, from a hope thatit may soothe those savage ones still dwelling in the bosom of hischild.
Madame Seguin is about to play, and my companion and I go nearer tolisten.
Seguin and Saint Vrain are conversing apart. Adele is still seatedwhere we left her, silent and abstracted.
The music commences. It is a merry air--a fandango: one of those towhich the Andalusian foot delights to keep time.
Seguin and Saint Vrain have turned. We all stand looking in the face ofAdele. We endeavour to read its expression.
The first notes have startled her from her attitude of abstraction. Hereyes wander from one to the other, from the instrument to the player,with looks of wonder--of inquiry.
The music continues. The girl has risen, and, as it mechanically,approaches the bench where her mother is seated. She crouches down bythe feet of the latter, places her ear close up to the instrument, andlistens attentively. There is a singular expression upon her face.
I look at Seguin. That upon his is not less singular. His eye is fixedupon the girl's, gazing with intensity. His lips are apart, yet heseems not to breathe. His arms hang neglected, and he is leaningforward as if to read the thoughts that are passing within her.
He starts erect again, as though under the impulse of some suddenresolution.
"Oh, Adele! Adele!" he cries, hurriedly addressing his wife; "oh, singthat song; that sweet hymn, you remember; you used to sing it to her--often, often. You remember it, Adele! Look at her. Quick! quick! OGod! Perhaps she may--"
He is interrupted by the music. The mother has caught his meaning, andwith the adroitness of a practised player, suddenly changes the tune toone of a far different character. I recognise the beautiful Spanishhymn, "La madre a su hija" (The mother to her child). She sings it,accompanying her voice with the bandolin. She throws all her energyinto the song until the strain seems inspired. She gives the words withfull and passionate effect--
"Tu duermes, cara nina! Tu duertnes en la paz. Los angeles del cielo-- Los angeles guardan, guardan, Nina mia!--Ca--ra--mi--"
The song was interrupted by a cry--a cry of singular import--uttered bythe girl. The first words of the hymn had caused her to start, and thento listen, if possible, more attentively than ever. As the songproceeded, the singular expression we had noted seemed to become everymoment more marked and intense. When the voice had reached the burdenof the melody, a strange exclamation escaped her lips; and, springing toher feet, she stood gazing wildly in the face of the singer. Only for amoment. The next moment she cried in loud, passionate accents, "Mamma!mamma!" and fell forward upon the bosom of her mother!
Seguin spoke truly when he said, "Perhaps in God's mercy she may yetremember." She had remembered--not only her mother, but in a short timeshe remembered him. The chords of memory had been touched, its gatesthrown open. She remembered the history of her childhood. Sheremembered all!
I will not essay to describe the scene that followed. I will notattempt to picture the expression of the actors; to speak of theirjoyous exclamations, mingled with sobs and tears; but they were tears ofjoy.
All of us were happy--happy to exultation; but for Seguin himself, Iknew it was the hour of his life.
C THE END.
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