The Bandolero: or, A Marriage among the Mountains. Reid Mayne
a paradise; for I knew that it contained, if not an angel, one “fair as the first that fell of womankind.” As yet only on one occasion had I seen her; then only at a distance, and for a time scarce counting threescore seconds.
It was during the ceremonial of our entry into the place, already described. As the van of our columns debouched into the Piazza Grande a halt had been ordered, necessarily extending to the regiments in the rear. The spot where my own troop had need to pull up was overlooked by a large two-story house, of somewhat imposing appearance, with frescoed front, balcons, and portales. Of course there were windows; and it was not likely that so situated I should feel shy about looking at, or even into them. There are times and circumstances when a man may be permitted to dispense with the strictest observance of etiquette; and, though it may be quite unchivalric, the conqueror claims, on the occasion of making entry into a conquered city, the right to peep into the windows.
No better than the rest of my fellows, I availed myself of the saucy privilege, by glancing toward the windows of the house, before which we had halted.
In those below there was nobody or nothing – only the red iron bars and the black emptiness behind them.
On turning my eyes upwards, I saw something very different – something that rivetted my gaze, in spite of every effort to avert it. There was a window with balcony in front, and green Venetians inside. Half standing on the sill, and holding the jalousies back, was a woman – I had almost said an angel!
Certainly was she the fairest thing I had ever seen, or in fancy conceived; and my reflection at the time was – I well remember making it – if there be two of her sort in Puebla, the place is appropriately named —La Puebla de los Angeles!
She was not of the fair-haired kind, so fashionable in late days; but dark, with deep dreamy eyes; a mass of black hair, surmounted by a large tortoise-shell comb; eyebrows so pretty as to appear painted; with a corresponding tracery upon the upper lip – the bigotite that tells of Andalusian stock, and descent from the children of the Cid.
While gazing upon her – no doubt rudely enough – I saw that she returned the glance. At first I thought kindly; but then with a serious air, as if resenting my rudeness. I would have given anything I possessed to appease her – the horse I was riding, or aught else. I would have given much for a flower to fling at her feet – knowing the effect of such little flatteries on the Mexican “muchacha;” but, unfortunately, there was no flower near.
In default of one, I bethought me of a substitute – my sword-knot!
The gold tassel was instantly detached from the guard, and fell into the balcony at her feet.
I did not see her take it up. The bugle at that moment sounded the advance; and I was forced to ride forward at the head of my troop.
On glancing back, as we turned out of the street, I saw that she was still outside; and fancied there was something glittering between her fingers in addition to the jewelled rings that encircled them.
I noted the name of the street. It was the Calle del Obispo.
In my heart I registered a vow: that, ere long, I should be back in the Calle del Obispo.
I was not slow in the fulfilment of that vow. The very next day, after being released from morning parade, I repaired to the place in which the fair apparition had made itself manifest.
I had no difficulty in recognising the house. It was one of the largest in the street, easily distinguished by its frescoed front, windows with “balcons,” and jalousies inside. A grand gate entrance piercing the centre told that carriages were kept. In short, everything betokened the residence of a “rico.”
I remembered the very window – so carefully had I made my mental memoranda.
It looked different now. There was but the frame; the picture was no longer in it.
I glanced to the other windows of the dwelling. They were all alike empty. The blinds were drawn down. No one inside appeared to take any interest in what was passing in the street.
I had my walk for nothing. A score of turns, up and down; three cigars smoked while making them; some sober reflections that admonished me I was doing a very ridiculous thing; and I strolled back to my quarters with a humiliating sense of having made a fool of myself, and a resolve not to repeat the performance.
Chapter Four.
A Pair of Counterparts
It was but a half-heart resolve, and failed me on the following day.
Again did I traverse the Calle del Obispo; again scrutinise the windows of the stuccoed mansion.
As on the day before, the jalousies were down, and my surveillance was once more doomed to disappointment. There was no face, no form, not even so much as a finger, to be seen through the screening lattice.
Shall I go again?
This was the question I asked myself on the third day.
I had almost answered it in the negative: for I was by this time getting tired of the profitless rôle I had been playing.
It was perilous too. There was a chance of becoming involved in a maze, from which escape might not be so easy. I felt sure I could love the woman I had seen in the window. The powerful impression her eyes had made upon me, in twenty seconds of time, was earnest of what might follow from a prolonged observation of them. I could not calculate on escaping without becoming inspired by a passion.
And what if it should not be reciprocated? It was sheer vanity, to have even the slightest hope that it might be!
Better to give it up – to go no more through the street where the fair vision had shewn itself – to try and forget that I had seen it.
Such were my reflections on the morning of the third day, after my arrival in the Angelic city.
Only in the morning. Before twilight there was a change. The twilight had something to do in producing it. On the two previous occasions I had mistaken the hour when beauty is accustomed to display itself in the balconies of La Puebla. Hence, perhaps, my failing to obtain a view of her who had so interested me.
I determined to try again.
Just as the sun’s rays were turning rose-coloured upon the snow-crowned summit of Orizava, I was once more wending my way towards the Calle del Obispo.
A third disappointment; but this time of a kind entirely different from the other two.
I had hit the hour. The donçella– of whom for three days I had been thinking – three nights dreaming – was in the window where I had first seen her.
One glance and I was completely disenchanted!
Not that she could be called plain, or otherwise than pretty. She was more than passably so, but still only pretty.
Where was the resplendent beauty that had so strangely, suddenly, impressed me?
She might have deemed me ill-mannered, as I stood scanning her features to discover it; for I was no longer in awe – such as I expected her presence would have produced. I could now look upon her, without fear of that possibly perilous future I had been picturing to myself.
After all, the thing was easy of explanation. For six weeks we had been among the hills – in cantonment – so far from Jalapa, that it was only upon rare occasions we had an opportunity of refreshing our eyes with a sight of the fair Jalapenas. We had been accustomed to see only the peasant girls of Banderilla and San Miguel Soldado, with here and there along the route the coarse unkempt squaws of Azteca. Compared with these, she of the Calle del Obispo was indeed an angel. It was the contrast that had misled me?
Well, it would be a lesson of caution not to be too quick at falling in love. I had often listened to the allegement, that circumstances have much to do in producing the tender passion. This seemed to confirm it.
I was not without regret, on discovering that the angel of my imagination was no more than a pretty woman, – a regret strengthened by the remembrance of three distinct promenades made for