by Mayne Reid
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
WHERE AM I?
When I awoke to consciousness, it was day. A bright sun was pouring hisyellow light across the floor of my chamber; and from the diagonalslanting of the beam, I could perceive that it was either very early inthe morning, or near sunset.
But birds were singing without. It must be morning, reasoned I.
I perceived that I was upon a low couch of elegant construction--withoutcurtains--but in their stead a mosquito-netting spread its gauzy meshesabove and around me. The snow-white colour and fineness of the linen,the silken gloss of the counterpane, and the soft yielding mattressbeneath, imparted to me the knowledge that I lay upon a luxurious bed.But for its extreme elegance and fineness, I might not have noticedthis; for I awoke to a sense of severe bodily pain.
The incidents of the preceding night soon came into my memory, andpassed rapidly one by one as they had occurred. Up to our reaching thebank of the river, and climbing out of the water, they were all clearenough. Beyond that time I could recall nothing distinctly. A house, alarge gateway, a garden, trees, flowers, statues, lights, blackservants, were all jumbled together on my memory.
There was an impression on my mind of having beheld amid this confusiona face of extraordinary beauty--the face of a lovely girl! Somethingangelic it seemed; but whether it had been a real face that I had seen,or only the vision of a dream, I could not now tell. And yet itslineaments were still before me, so plainly visible to the eye of mymind, so clearly outlined, that, had I been an artist, I could haveportrayed them! The face alone I could remember nothing else. Iremembered it as the opium-eater his dream, or as one remembers abeautiful face seen during an hour of intoxication, when all else isforgotten! Strange to say, I did not associate this face with mycompanion of the night; and my remembrance painted it not at all likethat of Eugenie Besancon!
Was there any one besides--any one on board the boat that my dreamresembled? No, not one--I could not think of one. There was none inwhom I had taken even a momentary interest--with the exception of theCreole--but the lineaments my fancy, or memory, now conjured up wereentirely unlike to hers: in fact, of quite an opposite character!
Before my mind's eye hung masses of glossy black hair, waving along thebrows and falling over the shoulders in curling clusters. Within thisebon framework were features to mock the sculptor's chisel. The mouth,with its delicate rose-coloured ellipse; the nose, with smooth straightoutline, and small recurvant nostril; the arching brows of jet; the longfringes upon the eyelids; all were vividly before me, and all unlike thefeatures of Eugenie Besancon. The colour of the skin, too--even thatwas different. It was not that Circassian white that characterised thecomplexion of the Creole, but a colour equally clear, though tinged witha blending of brown and olive, which gave to the red upon the cheeks atint of crimson. The eye I fancied, or remembered well--better thanaught else. It was large, rounded, and of dark-brown colour; but itspeculiarity consisted in a certain expression, strange but lovely. Itsbrilliance was extreme, but it neither flashed nor sparkled. It wasmore like a gorgeous gem viewed by the spectator while at rest. Itslight did not blaze--it seemed rather to burn.
Despite some pain which I felt, I lay for many minutes pondering overthis lovely portrait, and wondering whether it was a memory or a dream.A singular reflection crossed my mind. I could not help thinking, thatif such a face were real, I could forget Mademoiselle Besancon, despitethe romantic incident that had attended our introduction!
The pain of my arm at length dissipated the beautiful vision, andrecalled me to my present situation. On throwing back the counterpane,I observed with surprise that the wound had been dressed, and evidentlyby a surgeon! Satisfied on this head, I cast my eye abroad to make areconnoissance of my quarters.
The room I occupied was small, but notwithstanding the obstruction ofthe mosquito bar, I could see that it was furnished with taste andelegance. The furniture was light--mostly cane-work--and the floor wascovered with a matting of sea-grass finely woven, and stained intovarious colours. The windows were garnished with curtains of silkdamask and muslin, corresponding to the colour of the wood-work. Atable richly inlaid was near the centre of the floor, another, with_portefeuille_, pens, and ornamental ink stand, stood by the wall, andover this last was a collection of books ranged upon shelves of redcedar-wood. A handsome clock adorned the mantelpiece; and in the openfireplace was a pair of small "andirons," with silver knobs, cast aftera fanciful device, and richly chased. Of course, there was no fire atthat season of the year. Even the heat caused by the mosquito bar wouldhave been annoying, but that the large glass-door on one side, and thewindow on the other, both standing open, gave passage to the breeze thatpenetrated through the nettings of my couch.
Along with this breeze came the most delicious fragrance--the essence offlowers. Through both door and window I could see their thousandclustering corollas--roses, red, pink, and white--the rare camelia--azaleas, and jessamines--the sweet-scented China-tree--and farther off alittle I could distinguish the waxen leaves and huge lily-like blossomsof the great American laurel--the _Magnolia grandiflora_. I could hearthe voices of many singing-birds, and a low monotonous hum that Isupposed to be the noise of falling water. These were the only soundsthat reached my ears.
Was I alone? I looked inquiringly around the chamber. It appeared so--no living thing met my glance.
I was struck with a peculiarity in the apartment I occupied. Itappeared to stand by itself, and did not communicate with any other!The only door I could see, opened directly to the outside. So did thewindow, reaching door-like to the ground. Both appeared to lead into agarden filled with shrubs and flowers. Excepting the chimney, I couldperceive no other inlet or outlet to the apartment!
This at first seemed odd; but a moment's reflection explained it. It isnot uncommon upon American plantations to have a kind of office orsummer-house apart from the main building, and often fitted up in astyle of comfort and luxuriance. This becomes upon occasions the"stranger's room." Perhaps I was in such an apartment.
At all events, I was under an hospitable roof, and in good hands; thatwas evident. The manner in which I was encouched, along with certainpreparations,--the signs of a projected _dejeuner_ that appeared uponthe table, attested this. But who was my host? or was it a hostess?Was it Eugenie Besancon? Did she not say something of her house--"_mamaison_?" or did I only dream it?
I lay guessing and reflecting over a mass of confused memories; but Icould not from these arrive at any knowledge of whose guest I was.Nevertheless, I had a sort of belief that I was in the house of my lastnight's companion.
I became anxious, and in my weakness perhaps felt a little vexed atbeing left alone. I would have rung, but no bell was within reach. Atthat moment, however, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
Romantic miss! you will fancy that those footsteps were light and soft,made by a small satin slipper, scarcely discomposing the loosest,tiniest pebble--stealthily drawing near lest their sound might awake thesleeping invalid--and then, in the midst of bird-music, and hummingwaters, and the sweet perfume of flowers, a fair form appeared in thedoorway, and I saw a gentle face, with a pair of soft, lovely eyes, in atimid inquiring glance, gazing upon me. You will fancy all this, nodoubt; but your fancy is entirely at fault, and not at all like thereality.
The footsteps I heard were made by a pair of thick "brogans" ofalligator leather, and full thirteen inches in length; which brogans thenext moment rested upon the sill of the door directly before my eyes.
On raising my glance a little higher, I perceived a pair of legs, inwide copper-coloured "jeans," pantaloons; and carrying my eye stillhigher, I perceived a broad, heavy chest, covered with a striped cottonshirt; a pair of massive arms and huge shoulders, surmounted by theshining face and woolly head of a jet black negro!
The face and head came under my observation last; but on these my eyesdwelt longest, scanning them over and over, until I at length, despi
tethe pain I was suffering, burst out into a sonorous laugh! If I hadbeen dying, I could not have helped it; there was something so comic, soirresistibly ludicrous, in the physiognomy of this sable intruder.
He was a full-grown and rather large negro, as black as charcoal, with asplendid tier of "ivories;" and with eyeballs, pupil and iridesexcepted, as white as his teeth. But it was not these that had tickledmy fancy. It was the peculiar contour of his head, and the set and sizeof his ears. The former was as round as a globe, and thickly coveredwith small kinky curlets of black wool, so closely set that they seemedto root at both ends, and form a "nap!" From the sides of this sablesphere stood out a pair of enormous ears, suggesting the idea of wings,and giving to the head a singularly ludicrous appearance.
It was this peculiarity that had set me laughing; and, indecorous thoughit was, for the life of me I could not help it.
My visitor, however, did not seem to take it amiss. On the contrary, heat once opened his thick lips, and displaying the splendid armature ofhis mouth in a broad and good-natured grin, began laughing as loudly asmyself!
Good-natured was he. His bat-like ears had infused nothing of thevampire into his character. No--the very type of jollity and fun wasthe broad black face of "Scipio Besancon," for such was the cognomen ofmy visitor.