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<h3>Chapter Fourteen.</h3> <h4>Love.</h4> I would compress the history of the ten days following into as many words. I would not weary you with the details of my love—a love that in 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 the romantic incidents that surrounded me, and had thrown this beautiful being in my way; at that age when the heart, unguarded by cold calculations of the future, yields unresistingly to the electrical impressions of love. I say electrical. I believe that at this age the sympathies that spring up between heart and heart are purely of this nature. At a later period of life that power is dissipated and divided. Reason rules it. We become conscious of the capability of transferring our affections, for they have already broken faith; and we lose that sweet confidence that comforted the loves of our youth. We are either imperious or jealous, as the advantages appear in our favour or against us. A gross alloy enters into the love of our middle life, sadly detracting from the divinity of its character. I might call that which I then felt my first real passion. I thought I had loved before, but no, it was only a dream; the dream of the village schoolboy, who saw heaven in the bright eyes of his coy class-mate; or perhaps at the family picnic, in some romantic dell, had tasted the rosy cheek of his pretty cousin. I grew strong, and with a rapidity that surprised the skilful man of herbs. Love fed and nourished the fire of life. The will often effects the deed, and say as you may, volition has its power upon the body. The wish to be well, to live, an object to live for, are often the speediest restoratives. They were mine. I grew stronger, and rose from my couch. A glance at the mirror told me that my colour was returning. Instinct teaches the bird while wooing his mate to plume his pinions to their highest gloss; and a similar feeling now rendered me solicitous about my toilet. My portmanteau was ransacked, my razors were drawn forth, the beard disappeared from my chin, and my moustache was trimmed to its wonted dimensions. I confess all this. The world had told me I was not ill-looking, and I believed 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 to touch the strings, and its music delighted both Zoe and her mother. I sang to them the songs of my own land—songs of love; and with a throbbing heart watched whether the burning words produced any impression upon her. More than once I have laid aside the instrument with feelings of disappointment. From day to day, strange reflections passed through my mind. Could it be that she was too young to understand the import of the word love? too young to be inspired with a passion? She was but twelve years of age, but then she was the child of a sunny clime; and I had often seen at that age, under the warm sky of Mexico, the wedded bride, the fond mother. Day after day we were together alone. The botanist was busy with his studies, and the silent mother occupied with the duties of her household. Love is not blind. It may be to all the world beside; but to its own object it is as watchful as Argus. <hr /> I was skilled in the use of the crayon, and I amused my companion by sketches upon scraps of paper and the blank leaves of her music. Many of these were the figures of females, in different attitudes and costumes. In one respect they resembled each other: their faces were alike. The child, without divining the cause, had noticed this peculiarity in the drawings. “Why is it?” she asked one day, as we sat together. “These ladies are all in different costumes, of different nations; are they not? and yet there 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 of innocent 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 all that you tell me of the far countries where you have been? Surely I may comprehend 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. It is, that—I love you, Zoe!” “Oh! is that the reason? And when you love one, her face is always before 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: how plainly before me! If I could use this pencil as you do, I am sure I could paint it, though you were not near me! What then? Do you think I love you, Enrique?” No pen could trace my feelings at that moment. We were seated; and the sheet on which were the sketches was held jointly between us. My hand wandered over its surface, until the unresisting fingers of my companion were clasped in mine. A wilder emotion followed the electric touch: the paper fell upon the floor; and with a proud but trembling heart I drew the yielding form to mine! <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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