CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
LOVE.
I would compress the history of the ten days following into as manywords. I would not weary you with the details of my love--a love thatin the space of a few hours became a passion deep and ardent.
I was young at the time; at just such an age as to be impressed by theromantic incidents that surrounded me, and had thrown this beautifulbeing in my way; at that age when the heart, unguarded by coldcalculations of the future, yields unresistingly to the electricalimpressions of love. I say electrical. I believe that at this age thesympathies that spring up between heart and heart are purely of thisnature.
At a later period of life that power is dissipated and divided. Reasonrules it. We become conscious of the capability of transferring ouraffections, for they have already broken faith; and we lose that sweetconfidence that comforted the loves of our youth. We are eitherimperious or jealous, as the advantages appear in our favour or againstus. A gross alloy enters into the love of our middle life, sadlydetracting from the divinity of its character.
I might call that which I then felt my first real passion. I thought Ihad loved before, but no, it was only a dream; the dream of the villageschoolboy, who saw heaven in the bright eyes of his coy class-mate; orperhaps at the family picnic, in some romantic dell, had tasted the rosycheek of his pretty cousin.
I grew strong, and with a rapidity that surprised the skilful man ofherbs. Love fed and nourished the fire of life. The will often effectsthe deed, and say as you may, volition has its power upon the body. Thewish to be well, to live, an object to live for, are often the speediestrestoratives. They were mine.
I grew stronger, and rose from my couch. A glance at the mirror told methat my colour was returning.
Instinct teaches the bird while wooing his mate to plume his pinions totheir highest gloss; and a similar feeling now rendered me solicitousabout my toilet. My portmanteau was ransacked, my razors were drawnforth, the beard disappeared from my chin, and my moustache was trimmedto its wonted dimensions.
I confess all this. The world had told me I was not ill-looking, and Ibelieved what it said. I am mortal in my vanities. Are not you?
There was a guitar in the house. I had learnt in my college days totouch the strings, and its music delighted both Zoe and her mother. Isang to them the songs of my own land--songs of love; and with athrobbing heart watched whether the burning words produced anyimpression upon her. More than once I have laid aside the instrumentwith feelings of disappointment. From day to day, strange reflectionspassed through my mind. Could it be that she was too young tounderstand the import of the word love? too young to be inspired with apassion? She was but twelve years of age, but then she was the child ofa sunny clime; and I had often seen at that age, under the warm sky ofMexico, the wedded bride, the fond mother.
Day after day we were together alone. The botanist was busy with hisstudies, and the silent mother occupied with the duties of herhousehold.
Love is not blind. It may be to all the world beside; but to its ownobject it is as watchful as Argus.
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I was skilled in the use of the crayon, and I amused my companion bysketches upon scraps of paper and the blank leaves of her music. Manyof these were the figures of females, in different attitudes andcostumes. In one respect they resembled each other: their faces werealike.
The child, without divining the cause, had noticed this peculiarity inthe drawings.
"Why is it?" she asked one day, as we sat together. "These ladies areall in different costumes, of different nations; are they not? and yetthere is a resemblance in their faces! They have all the same features;indeed, exactly the same, I think."
"It is your face, Zoe; I can sketch no other."
She raised her large eyes, and bent them upon me with an expression ofinnocent wonder. Was she blushing? No!
"Is that like me?"
"It is, as nearly as I can make it."
"And why do you not sketch other faces?"
"Why! because I--Zoe, I fear you would not understand me."
"Oh, Enrique; do you think me so bad a scholar? Do I not understand allthat you tell me of the far countries where you have been? Surely I maycomprehend this as well."
"I will tell you, then, Zoe."
I bent forward, with a burning heart and trembling voice.
"It is because your face is ever before me; I can paint no other. Itis, that--I love you, Zoe!"
"Oh! is that the reason? And when you love one, her face is alwaysbefore you, whether she herself be present or no? Is it not so?"
"It is so," I replied, with a painful feeling of disappointment.
"And is that love, Enrique?"
"It is."
"Then must I love you; for, wherever I may be, I can see your face: howplainly before me! If I could use this pencil as you do, I am sure Icould paint it, though you were not near me! What then? Do you think Ilove you, Enrique?"
No pen could trace my feelings at that moment. We were seated; and thesheet on which were the sketches was held jointly between us. My handwandered over its surface, until the unresisting fingers of my companionwere clasped in mine. A wilder emotion followed the electric touch: thepaper fell upon the floor; and with a proud but trembling heart I drewthe yielding form to mine!