There were many objects of interest about the place. It was a ruin; and the house itself bore evidences of better times. It was a large building in the Moro-Spanish style, with flat roof (azotea), and notched parapet running along the front. Here and there the little stone turrets of this parapet had fallen off, showing evidence of neglect and decay.
The walls of the garden impinged upon the river, and there ended; for the bank was steep and vertical, and the deep, still water that ran under it formed a sufficient protection on that side.
A thick grove of cotton-woods fringed the bank of the river, and under their shade had been erected a number of seats of j.a.panned mason-work, in a style peculiar to Spanish countries. There were steps cut in the face of the bank, overhung with drooping shrubs, and leading to the water"s edge. I had noticed a small skiff moored under the willows, where these steps went down to the water.
From this point only could you see beyond the limits of the inclosure.
The view was magnificent, and commanded the windings of the Del Norte for a distance of miles.
Evening after evening we sought the grove of cotton-woods, and, seated upon one of the benches, together watched the glowing sunset. At this time of the day we were ever alone, I and my little companion.
One evening, as usual, we sat under the solemn shadow of the grove. We had brought with us the guitar and bandolin; but, after a few notes had been struck, the music was forgotten, and the instruments lay upon the gra.s.s at our feet. We loved to listen to the music of our own voices.
We preferred the utterance of our own thoughts to the sentiments of any song, however sweet. There was music enough around us; the hum of the wild bee as it bade farewell to the closing corolla; the whoop of the gruya in the distant sedge; and the soft cooing of the doves as they sat in pairs upon the adjacent branches, like us whispering their mutual loves.
Autumn had now painted the woods, and the frondage was of every hue.
The shadows of the tall trees dappled the surface of the water, as the stream rolled silently on. The sun was far down, and the spire of El Paso gleamed like a golden star under the parting kiss of his beams.
Our eyes wandered, and rested upon the glittering vane.
"The church!" half soliloquised my companion; "I hardly know what it is like, it is so long since I saw it."
"How long?"
"Oh, many, many years; I was very young then."
"And you have not been beyond these walls since then?"
"Oh yes! Papa has taken us down the river in the boat, mamma and myself, often, but not lately."
"And have you no wish to go abroad through these gay woods?"
"I do not desire it; I am contented here."
"And will you always be contented here?"
"And why not, Enrique? When you are near me, why should I not be happy?"
"But when--"
A dark shadow seemed to cross her thoughts. Benighted with love, she had never reflected upon the probability of my leaving her, nor indeed had I. Her cheeks became suddenly pale; and I could see the agony gathering in her eyes, as she fixed them upon me. But the words were out--
"When I must leave you?"
She threw herself on my breast, with a short, sharp scream, as though she had been stung to the heart, and in an impa.s.sioned voice cried aloud--
"Oh! my G.o.d, my G.o.d! leave me! leave me! Oh! you will not leave me?
You who have taught me to love! Oh! Enrique, why did you tell me that you loved me? Why did you teach me to love?"
"Zoe!"
"Enrique, Enrique! say you will not leave me!"
"Never! Zoe! I swear it; never, never!" I fancied at this moment I heard the stroke of an oar; but the wild tumult of my feelings prevented me from rising to look over the bank. I was raising my head when an object, appearing above the bank, caught my eye. It was a black sombrero with its golden band. I knew the wearer at a glance: Seguin!
In a moment, he was beside us.
"Papa!" exclaimed Zoe, rising up and reaching forward to embrace him.
The father put her to one side, at the same time tightly grasping her hand in his. For a moment he remained silent, bending his eyes upon me with an expression I cannot depict. There was in it a mixture of reproach, sorrow, and indignation. I had risen to confront him, but I quailed under that singular glance, and stood abashed and silent.
"And this is the way you have thanked me for saving your life? A brave return, good sir; what think you?"
I made no reply.
"Sir!" continued he, in a voice trembling with emotion, "you have deeply wronged me."
"I know it not; I have not wronged you."
"What call you this? Trifling with my child!"
"Trifling!" I exclaimed, roused to boldness by the accusation.
"Ay, trifling! Have you not won her affections?"
"I won them fairly."
"Pshaw, sir! This is a child, not a woman. Won them fairly! What can she know of love?"
"Papa! I do know love. I have felt it for many days. Do not be angry with Enrique, for I love him; oh, papa! in my heart I love him!"
He turned to her with a look of astonishment.
"Hear this!" he exclaimed. "Oh, heavens! my child, my child!"
His voice stung me, for it was full of sorrow.
"Listen, sir!" I cried, placing myself directly before him. "I have won the affections of your daughter. I have given mine in return. I am her equal in rank, as she is mine. What crime, then, have I committed?
Wherein have I wronged you?"
He looked at me for some moments without making any reply.
"You would marry her, then?" he said, at length, with an evident change in his manner.
"Had I permitted our love thus far, without that intention, I should have merited your reproaches. I should have been "trifling," as you have said."
"Marry me!" exclaimed Zoe, with a look of bewilderment.
"Listen! Poor child! she knows not the meaning of the word!"
"Ay, lovely Zoe! I will; else my heart, like yours, shall be wrecked for ever! Oh, sir!"
"Come, sir, enough of this. You have won her from herself; you have yet to win her from me. I will sound the depth of your affection. I will put you to the proof."