CHAPTER XXI.
“O, thou didst then ne’er love so heartily:If thou remember’st not the slightest follyThat ever love did make thee run into,Thou hast not loved:”As You Like It.
“O, thou didst then ne’er love so heartily:If thou remember’st not the slightest follyThat ever love did make thee run into,Thou hast not loved:”As You Like It.
“O, thou didst then ne’er love so heartily:If thou remember’st not the slightest follyThat ever love did make thee run into,Thou hast not loved:”As You Like It.
“O, thou didst then ne’er love so heartily:
If thou remember’st not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not loved:”
As You Like It.
Appadocca, under the care of the fair Venezuelan, was carried into an extensive chamber, which was much more comfortable than any one would have imagined any part of the house could be. He was laid on a couch that was unornamented, but that was as white as the flock of the cotton-tree. It was not to rest, however, that he was thus accommodated. His fatigues and privations overpowered the strength which his peculiar philosophy had tended to maintain, and the movement and exercise of the hoisting, and transporting on horseback, had completed what they had begun. He was seized with a violent fever, which now terribly manifested itself in the wildest ravings.
Alarmed at the state of the stranger, Feliciana called every one into service. Peons flew here and there and everywhere, for herbs and weeds, while she herself remained by the bedside of the delirious sick man, watching every movement that he made, and listening to every word that he uttered.
Nature overcame even this passing madness, and Appadocca fell into a light slumber. Feliciana, with looks even more serious than when she went to attend her unknown patient, left the apartment.
Feliciana was a little above the middle size, exceedingly well formed, and majestic in her appearance. Her face was in itself a study, on account of the many different expressions which it wore at one and the same time. Her forehead was large and expansive, indicative of a large amount of intellect. Her nose was slightly elevated at the centre, and at the same time full and rounded at its termination; her lips were full and well formed, while the compression which marked the slight pout that they possessed, pointed to much firmness of character. To heighten all these separate individual expressions, nature had bestowed upon her large melting eyes, that swam like the gazelle’s, in a bed of transparent moisture, and in which, it would be difficult to say, whether sentiment, or the serious contemplationof the Spanish character prevailed the most.
Upon the whole, a student of physiognomy would have pronounced, on seeing the beautiful Venezuelan, that Heaven had bestowed on her a high degree of intellect, a high degree of sentiment, and a high degree of firmness. She would have been at once pronounced one who was capable of great discernment, of forming high designs, and of overcoming every obstacle that might oppose their execution; while, at the same time, the sentiment which was clearly perceptible in her eyes, could be very accurately predicated as that, which, from its decided prevalence and preponderance, would always act as the leader of her mental and more solid endowments.
Her dress, in addition, was calculated to make these striking features, and her handsome person still more conspicuous. It was of dark materials, and adjusted in a manner that attracted from the general idea of simplicity that prevailed in it, while, at the same time, it displayed to advantage the gracefulness of the wearer. As a head-dress, a dark veil or mantilla, hanged loosely from a high and valuable comb, down along the side of her face over her shoulders, and enhanced by the contrast her beautiful and clear complexion.
Nature in youth, especially when such youth has been weakened by no unphilosophical propensities, ever inclines to amendment. In Appadocca, especially, whose life-time had, up to that period, been spent in the practice of that strengthening discipline which consists in the happy combination of exercise for mind and body, it turned towards health with extraordinary vigour; so that the stranger, who but a few days ago had been as near death as mortal man could be, and during whose feverish paroxysms one would have imagined that the reason which regulated the form that still writhed in its madness, was about to take a last farewell of the machinery which it had up to that time animated and guided, now presented the clear eye, the earnest look, and the same stern resolution that usually compressed his lips. The only remaining indication of the fatigue which he had undergone, and of the subsequent illness, was the increased pallor of his complexion, and the slight attenuation of his body; in a word, it was in body and not in mind that Appadocca now showed signs of illness.
It was a day or two after this gratifying change had shown itself, when Appadocca and the beautiful daughter of the house were seated together in the large apartment which we have before described.
The stranger was sitting in one of the peculiar butluxurious chairs of cow-hide at one side of the wide window, and Feliciana at the other.
Politeness and gratitude, independently of a sense of duty, called forth the gallantry of Appadocca in entertaining the lady. He discoursed on a life in the wilds, on the marvels that nature can there continually display to the eyes of the wondering spectator, of the free and independent life of those who inhabited the “Llanos;” and from this high and general theme he descended to the particular beauties that surrounded the romantic abode of his host himself.
He spoke on. But his greatest and most graceful eloquence could not draw a word from his beautiful auditor, or even secure a silent nod. She sat with her head turned away towards the window, her eyes fixed on the ground, and wore an air of more than ordinary seriousness. She seemed entirely wrapped in a web of her own reflections.
Appadocca could not but remark this reverie. After having yielded several times to his habit of silence, and given way to his own abstracted moods, he would awake himself suddenly, and seeming to feel the embarrassment of the situation, would address the young lady again on some new and interesting topic. But it was in vain.
“Senora, I hope, is not ill?” he at last inquiringly observed.
“No, senor,” was the laconic reply.
“Then senora is a little melancholy,” rejoined Appadocca, after a moment or two.
No answer.
“Banish, senora, that pernicious feeling. Life is itself sufficiently insipid and sour, and does not require to be made more bitter by melancholy. Look out, see how nature softly smiles before you. The birds fly from branch to branch, and chirp, and are happy; the insects—listen to the hoarse cicada—seem enjoying their insect happiness; even the very grass, as the breeze turns its blades to the beams of the beautiful sun, reflect on our minds an idea of felicity. How can you be melancholy when you look out?”
Feliciana turned and bent her large eyes fully on Appadocca, looked at him intently for a few moments, and then turned away again.
Struck by the action, and not feeling himself as indifferent as he usually was, Appadocca said nothing.
A long interval ensued.
Feliciana kept her head in the same direction: at the side of her eyes two drops began to gather; they grew larger and larger, and in a few moments stood like twocrystal beads ready to burst. Not a muscle, however, not a fibre of the beautiful weeper, seemed to sympathise, or quiver in unison with this silent grief. Like a statue of alabaster she remained rooted where she sat, and one could judge of the emotions which might affect her, only by the two transparent drops which balanced heavily at the corners of her eyes.
Appadocca saw this, and remained silent from respect to the sorrow of Feliciana. He thought of leaving the room, and giving the young lady freedom to indulge in that grief which seemed so deep and overpowering. Although prompted to do so by his sense of propriety, still he found himself detained by he knew not what, and seemed half to suspect that the sorrow had some sort of connexion with himself,—“Else,” he reasonably argued, “the young lady would have concealed her grief in the privacy of her own apartment.”
Appadocca, therefore, remained where he was, in deep silence, watching the tear drops that now again grew gradually smaller and smaller.
“Can one who owes, senora, a large amount of gratitude,” he at last said, in a mild, subdued tone, “be of any service to her?”
She was still silent.
“Can I do anything to dry these tears?” Appadocca again inquired.
Feliciana suddenly turned her head, and fixed her expressive eyes steadily on the inquirer. She maintained her earnest look for some time, then rising, said, with great excitement,—
“Yes, you can dry these tears. Shun the wicked pursuit in which you are engaged, and then these tears may never again escape to betray me. Nature could never have intended you for a pirate.”
At this sudden action, and unexpected language of Feliciana, Appadocca required all his self-command to conceal the surprise which he felt.
“I a pirate, senora!” he said, “may I ask how it is you have been induced to suppose me one?”
“Put no idle questions,” she quickly replied, “I feel that you have sacrificed yourself to such a life. You, too, have confessed it. Why was it, that in your ravings, you called on your men to board, to cut down, to make prisoners? that you spoke of blood, of booty, and still worse, of revenge; and revenge, too, it would seem, on your own father? Do you think, to persons as I am, in my position, the least word of those—of those—of those—” she contended with herself for the expression, “those whom we wish well, can fail of itsmeaning. I am a stranger to you: but let me not prevail the less on that account; let me pray and beseech you, in the name of God and the saints,” she continued, clasping her hands, “to promise me to abandon a life that is hateful both to Heaven and earth, and to think no more of those terrible projects of slaughter and revenge, about which you spoke so much in your sleep.”
“Pray, senora, sit down,” said Appadocca, as he rose quickly from his seat to conduct her to hers.
“No, leave me,” she exclaimed, more excited, “I shall not sit down till you pass your word. Remember the dear person whose picture you now wear on your heart, and which you so affectionately pressed to your bosom, when the fever was on you. Can you suppose that she can look down from heaven, with joy or pleasure, on the son that she nourished, when he has abandoned himself to a course that God and man alike reprobate and condemn? Picture her in the society of the saints and angels looking down upon you, at the head of your lawless and cruel men, red with the blood of your murdered victims, and rushing forward to plunder, and to spread misery around as you go. Do you think that the sight of her child—her son, in this position, can impart to her either happiness or pleasure? Think of that: and, when ever you press her picture to your heart, recollect youonly go through a cheating mockery, that the life you lead takes away from her happiness, from the happiness even of heaven. Remember the tears that she may have shed for you while here: remember the cares and anxieties she may have suffered for you; those, surely, were enough: and, if death ended her miseries on earth, do not you spoil the joy which she may now enjoy in heaven?”
“Enough—enough,” cried Appadocca, with more warmth than was his habit, “stop, stop, I implore you.”
“Then promise me.”
“My vow is recorded in heaven, I cannot promise,” answered Appadocca, drily.
Feliciana staggered stupified to her seat, while she gazed, without the power of utterance, on the person before her.
“You will not promise!” she said, recovering herself, “you will not promise! Well, I shall promise,—I now vow,—that I shall follow you to the end of the world, until you consent to renounce for ever this wicked life.”
So saying, she sprang violently from her chair, and rushed out of the room.
Appadocca, after the disappearance of the agitated Feliciana, sank back into the cow-hide chair, almostconfounded by the scene which had just been enacted, and well-nigh distracted by the thousand reflections which it made to rush upon him. The first thought was of his safety.
“Suppose,” he quickly reasoned, “others beside Feliciana, should have heard his disclosures during the fever; what could he expect under such circumstances, but to see the kindness with which he had been treated, suddenly changed into a most ferocious spirit of revenge.” For he knew, too well, what cruelties the pirates of the West-Indian sea had, under Llononois and other captains, practiced on the unfortunate inhabitants of those coasts.
Those atrocities could not be blotted out from the memory for centuries, and it was likely, that at the very name of pirate, the revenge of the Spaniards would break out as uncontrollably as fire in its favourite food.
And it was probable, that not stopping to consider whether he was actually what he was supposed to be, they would at once immolate him, to the memory of their slaughtered and plundered countrymen. This thought, however, soon gave way to those of a different nature,—to those which in his own manner of thinking, affected the most important accident of existence, andwas, in his estimation, higher in value than life itself—namely, his honour.
It had not escaped him from the very moment that his convalescence had permitted him to exercise his discernment, that his beautiful and kind nurse, was in love with him. That could not but strike him; and though his stoicism balanced violently on the contemplation of the handsome form, and on appreciating the character of the mind which was as pure, as simple, and as artless, as the flourishing wilds which had reared and still surrounded it, still it required no great restraint over himself—himself, who had long banished from his heart the sentiment, that lends to life a charm, and who was now well exercised in choking to instant death any fresh feeling as it began to spring—to renounce for ever every desire to encourage or foster the affection that showed itself to him as clear as the sun at noonday. It would have been dishonor to steal away the heart of the innocent creature that watched over him with a mother’s fondness and anxiety. He resolved, therefore, to be always on his guard, and to maintain more than ordinary restraint in conversing with her, in the hopes that the feeling which evidently animated her, might perish from the absence of sympathy.
It was, consequently, with alarm that he beheld the violence of feelings which Feliciana exhibited during thescene which we have depicted. “No ordinary interest,” thought Appadocca, “could call forth such an impassioned remonstrance as Feliciana had made, and make her surmount all maidenly timidity, and speak to him as she did. For in what could it interest a stranger? whether an unhappy man, whom she had accidently succoured was a pirate or not: and those tears; persons of her race, he thought, weep only on deep subjects. And, finally, the desperate resolution of following him all over the world, professedly to hold back his hand from crime, was a thought that only one great feeling could inspire.”
Such were the reflections of Appadocca, they were made in a moment: and they immediately produced a resolution as firm as it was sudden. “I must leave the house of this good Ranchero,” said Appadocca to himself, with much energy of mind. “God knows, I am already pledged to the causing of sufficient misery. I shall not stay here to add any more to the necessary amount. Not in this place particularly, where I have met with so much hospitality and kindness.”
These reflections had scarcely been ended, and Appadocca’s brow was still knit in the energy of his own thoughts, and his eyes still glimmered forth the fire of his excited mind, when soft footsteps were heard withinthe room, and on turning his head, he beheld Feliciana, who had again entered the room, and was now advancing towards him.
She was, by this time, comparatively calm; the paroxysm of her feeling had passed, but she appeared still determined on one purpose. Feliciana walked to the window as she entered, and said to Appadocca, who stood up to receive her:
“Pray forgive me, sir, for the lengths to which I, a mere stranger, was bold enough to proceed just now.”
“There needs no forgiveness, senora,” quickly rejoined Appadocca, as he led her to the other cow-hide chair at the window, “where no offence has been given: on the contrary, might I speak so freely, I should say, that the warmth you have so lately manifested, can be taken only as the indication of a high degree of feeling.”
Appadocca spoke in a calm and serious strain. The young lady coloured slightly at the end of this speech.
“Among different persons, senora,” continued Appadocca, with the apparent purpose of bringing about an intended end, “it would, perhaps, be a breach of civilized politeness to speak with the same latitude that I now intend to do. But, I think as we understand each other, it would be well nigh folly to keep back a few necessary words, simply from the circumstance that thelaws of polished social intercourse may tend to render their plainness awkward. It is very clear, senora, that I have been fortunate enough to enlist in my favour, your most friendly sympathy, perhaps I should be justified in mentioning a much stronger feeling.”
Feliciana coloured deeply.
“For my part, I cannot but express myself sensible to the existence of such a sentiment, and can only say, that from a self-same affection, I am capable of appreciating and responding to yours. But, senora, there are but few instances of real happiness under the sun. The beautiful sky that frequently enlivens our spirit, and cheers us up for a moment, is, alas! but too frequently, suddenly darkened and obscured by the dark clouds that bring tempests in their course. The innocent and snowy lily that gladdens our sight to-day, decays and falls away to-morrow. The days and years on which we may have been counting, during a long life-time, for the realization of a few moments of joy, may arrive at last, loaded with bitterness. The thoughts and sentiments which oft gladden us in our waking dreams, wean us away for a time from care, and foster in us the hope of undecaying felicity, then pass like the flashes of the lightning away, to leave only gloom and desolation behind.
“For my own part senora, I have long sacrificed myself to one object. I have long banished away Emmanuel Appadocca, from Emmanuel Appadocca: it boots not to tell the reason why. The world to me, it is true, is the world; the stars, the stars; but the halo that once surrounded them is gone—the feeling with which I may have regarded them is gone from them, and has centred itself in the now single end of my existence. For a long time mental anguish and I have been companions, and from its constant proximity it has chased away the softer feelings, whose aspect is too cheerful to bear the approaching shadow of that demon. My heart is wasted and its tenderness gone; gratitude for you, senora, is all that I dare encourage in my bosom. Let me exhort you, for your own sake, to forget the unfortunate man whom accident and distress brought into your presence. Forget him, and by doing so, avoid much suffering on your part, and, at the same time, confer much happiness on him. For if at the hour when this existence of mine will be about to terminate, there should linger in my fading memory some object that I could not look upon with cold indifference; if when the breath of life shall be on the point of passing I should not be able to shut my eyes and say, ‘mankind, you have among you nothing that is dear to me,’ the pains of succumbing nature would be tenfold heavier than they might.”
In speaking thus, Appadocca had unwittingly to himself risen from his seat, and approached Feliciana, who, deeply affected, hanged down her.
Warming more than usual, Appadocca caught her hand as he spoke.
“To throw away a thought on a person of this temper, Feliciana,” he proceeded, “I need not tell you, is doing an injustice to yourself, but fear not that I am insensible to your kindness. I feel it as much as I am now permitted to feel such things, and may destiny,” continued he, with more warmth, “be ever propitious to you;” so saying, he abruptly let fall her hand, and walked towards the door.
“Stay,” cried Feliciana, as she rose to keep him back: but Appadocca rushed out of the room.
The young lady resumed her seat; her high temper had now yielded to a more tender feeling: one that buoys not up, nor supports so much, for there is a spirit of pride in high wrought vexation, that imparts strength to the other faculties and to the body. Like the last convulsion of the dying madman, it derives from its very extremity and excess, uncontrollable strength; but when that is broken—when it is softened down by tenderness or pity, the mind which was but now strong under a fierce influence is left weak, impressible, and like the vision of a man rising from a swoon, when that influenceis removed. Thus the feelings of Feliciana instead now of following the course of her stronger and more predominant powers, yielded entirely to the softer endowments of her nature, and her affection vented itself in a more seductive, more natural, more overcoming way. She no longer endeavoured to disguise to herself the extent to which her affection had already gone. She perceived at once that the sorrow which the involuntary revelations of Appadocca had cost her, had a different source from that which she would fain have believed at first; and that her apparently chivalrous denunciation of his course of life, and her resolution to follow him, and like a good angel, to stay his piratical hand, did not spring from a mere instinct of abstract right and wrong, but rose from a more interesting and personal feeling.
This great point being laid bare, she at once considered the circumstances, and the recollection of the last speech of Appadocca fell upon her heart, like the chilling hand of death. She sat in silent sorrow, and the evening had long yielded to night, when her father returned from the Savannahs to interrupt her grief, and to divert for a few moments the dark and troubled currents of her thoughts.