Inez Part 29

The hour of bitterness had come. She looked upon that dreary future and her utter desolation, and no gleam of hope stole to her darkened soul. An almost vacant expression settled on the dark countenance of the once beautiful maiden. Softly the door was pushed ajar, and the form of the Padre stood within. By instinct she seemed aware of his entrance, for raising her bowed head, the black sparkling eyes flashed, and the broad brow wrinkled into a frown dark as night. He approached her, and they stood face to face upon the hearth.

"What do you here, in the house of death, Mio Padre?"

"Inez, my queen of beauty, I have come to take the prize for which I toiled. There are none now between us, no, not one. You need not draw back so proudly."

A bitter, contemptuous laugh rung out on the night air, and Inez folded her arms upon her bosom.

"Truly, Padre, we are well mated! You have opposed me, and I thwarted you! I am your equal: think you to intimidate me with threats? You should know better!"

"Inez, listen! I leave this place before many days. My work is finished here; there are none to oppose, and I go elsewhere. To Mexico first, and then to Italy. You must go with me, my proud beauty! I cannot leave you here!"

Again Inez laughed her mocking laugh. "Go with you, Mio Padre! No, no; I must decline the honor. The hour of settlement has come! Alphonso Mazzolin, for long you have plotted my destruction; and one by one removed every obstacle in your way, and smoothed my path to ruin! I have known this--silently I have watched you maneuver. You counseled Manuel; you flattered him, encouraged his hasty course and overbearing manner, and caused the rupture between us. You knew my nature, and foresaw the result. You thought to secure me within the walls of yonder gloomy convent, and hoped that in time my broad lands would bless and enrich your holy church! But, Padre, I did not fancy the home prepared for me in San Jose. I promised to comply with my father's wish, and fulfil the engagement, much to your surprise and chagrin. Padre, I would have married Manuel, sooner than second your plans. I, too, foresaw the tempest that even now howls over us. It was my only hope, and I said, who may predict the chances of war? The Americans may yet number the most here, and then your power will be at an end. Seemingly I was pa.s.sive, but you are thwarted. We stand face to face, and I scorn you, incarnate devil as you are. How dared you do as you have done? Mine eyes are opened--you can no longer deceive me with your lying legends and the marvelous traditions of your country.

I tell you, I hate you with an everlasting hate. You have led me far from G.o.d, if there be a G.o.d, and may my curse follow you, even to your grave!"

Fiercely the glowing face was bent upon him. Hate, scorn, bitterness of heart, and utter desolation mingled strangely in the withering glance. The Padre seized her arm, and hoa.r.s.ely exclaimed:

"We know each other now: no matter, you cannot escape me: if force be necessary to take you hence, I can command it at any moment. You know full well my word is law; resist not, nor further rouse me--there is no help for you save in submission. I will not leave you."

"Ere I follow you hence, yonder river shall close over my body. I tell you now I will not accompany you."

He stepped to the door and whistled faintly. The next moment a black-browed soldier stood before them.

"Herrara, she has broken her promise--she refuses to enter a convent, and she defies me, and scorns our holy church. I somehow expected this; and I charge you now, suffer her not to pa.s.s the threshold of her own room; guard well the door, there is no window. See you, Inez, you cannot escape me?" He whispered in the intruder's ear, and, promising to come again the ensuing day, left the house, carefully closing the door after him. Lighting his cigarrita, Herrara requested Inez to seek her own apartment, that he might secure the door outside, and then return to the fire. Without a word she ascended the stairs to her own room. A chain was pa.s.sed about the door, and then the retreating steps of the soldier died away.

What should she do? Inez sat down to collect her thoughts, and looked round the apartment. The walls were of solid rock, and in one corner was a small grating of four iron bars, which admitted light and air, but precluded all hope of escape in that quarter. The door was secured, and no means of egress presented itself. Her eye rested on her lamp, and a smile lit up the dark countenance of the prisoner. She threw herself on her bed: slowly the hours rolled--midnight came at last. She rose and listened--no stir, no sound of life reached her: she glanced at her lamp, now dim--the light was waning, and softly stepping across the room, she drew from a basket several bundles of paper. These she tore in pieces, and placing them beside the door, drew the lamp near. Inez carefully twisted up her long black hair, and placed on her head a broad sombrero, which the Don had worn of late; then taking his Mexican blanket, she slipped her head through the opening, and suffered it to fall to her feet. Something seemed forgotten, and after some little search, she found a small cotton bag, into which she dropped a polonce, then secured it beneath the blanket.

Queerly enough she looked, thus accoutered; but apparently the oddity of her appearance never once crossed her mind, for, stepping across the floor, she held the pieces of paper over the lamp till ignited, then quickly thrust them one by one between the small crack or c.h.i.n.k in the center of the door. It was of wood, old and dry, and caught like tinder. She watched it burn; the door was narrow, and the devouring element soon consumed all save the top and bottom pieces which extended across. These quivered as their support crumbled beneath them, and soon would fall with a crash. She watched her time, and gathering dress and blanket closely about her, sprang through, and though almost suffocated with smoke, hurried down to a small door at the rear of the house. She stood without and listened: Inez fancied she heard the crackling of the fire, yet there was no time to lose.

Just before her sat a large stone vessel, containing the soaking corn for the morning tortillos; drawing forth her bag, she filled it with the swollen grain, and hastened on to where a small black horse was la.s.soed, having his hay scattered on the ground beside him. It was but the work of a moment to throw on and fasten her father's saddle, which hung on a neighboring tree, and loosing the hair lariat, she patted the pony she had often ridden on St. ----'s day, and sprang into the seat. Slowly she pa.s.sed through the narrow yard, and entered the street; pausing, she glanced up at her window, and perceived through the grating the blaze and smoke now filling the vacant room.

Distinctly the clank of the chain fell on her ear, and turning into an alley, she galloped away.

Inez knew it would be impossible to pa.s.s over the bridge, and down the Alameda without detection, for seven hundred Mexican troops were stationed on the outskirts of the town; and, with the celerity of thought, she directed her way in the opposite direction, toward a shallow portion of the river, occasionally used as a ford. Happily the distance was short; and urging her somewhat unwilling horse, she plunged in. The moon rose full and bright as she reached the opposite bank; and pausing a moment, she looked back upon the sleeping town.

No sound of life fell on her ear; and avoiding the beaten track, she turned her horse out on the gra.s.s, and hastened on toward the east, directing her course so as to pa.s.s beyond the Powder-House, which was dimly seen in the distance. At a quick canter it was soon pa.s.sed, and she pressed on to the Salado, some three miles distant. Full well she knew she would be sought for when morning dawned; and with such speed she almost flew on, that sunrise found her many miles from her home, Inez was fearless, or she would never have dared to undertake what lay before her. Alone, unprotected, in the guise of a man, without possessing his ordinary means of defense, there was much to risk; for Indian depredations were frequent, and she must traverse a wide waste of almost interminable length ere reaching any settlement.

When the sunbeams played joyously about her Inez stopped to rest, and eating a few grains of her treasured corn, she allowed her horse to graze a short time along the margin of a stream, where the gra.s.s was tender and abundant; and then remounting, rode on somewhat more leisurely than she had previously done.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"To die, is landing on some silent sh.o.r.e, Where billows never beat nor tempests roar!"

GARTH.

Since morning, Mary had lain in the deep, dreamless sleep of exhaustion: and now the leafless boughs, which waved to and fro before her window, threw long shadows athwart the wall and across the deserted yard. Evening was creeping slowly on. Over the wan, yet lovely face of the sleeper had come a gradual change--agonizing, yet indescribable. It ever appears when Death approaches to claim his victim, and it seems as though the shadow cast by his black pinions.

Mary opened her eyes and looked silently on the sad group which cl.u.s.tered around her couch. Mr. Stewart, alone able to command his voice, asked if she was not better, as she had slept so gently.

"All is well, Mr. Stewart--I have no pain;" and her eye again rested on Florence. Long was the look, and full of deep, unutterable tenderness. Feebly she extended her hand.

"Florry!"

Her cousin knelt beside her, and buried her face in her hands. Mary laid hers on the bowed head.

"Dear Florry, I have little time to stay. Do not sadden this last hour with vain regrets. Ah! my cousin, I thank G.o.d that you will be so happy. When you miss me from your side you will feel lonely enough, and your heart will ache for me again. Yet, though bodily absent, I shall not be far away, Florry. My spirit will hover round the loved ones I leave on earth. Your dead, forming an angel-guard, will ever linger about your earthly path, and in the hour like this will bear up your spirit to G.o.d. Think not of me as resting in the silent grave. I shall not be there, but ever near you. I do not say, try to forget me, and fix your thoughts on other things. Oh! I beg you to think of me often, and of our glorious reunion in heaven! Florry, there is one thing which will stand between you and me. My dear cousin, conquer your pride, cast away your haughtiness, and learn to lean on G.o.d, and walk in accordance with his law. Oh! who would exchange the hope of a Christian for all that worlds could offer? One may pa.s.s through life, and do without it; but in the hour of death its claim is imperatively urged, and none can go down to the tomb in peace without it. Florry, you said last night it was hard that I should die. I am not merely reconciled, but I am happy! Earth looks very bright and joyous, and if I might stay, my future is attractive indeed. Yet I know that for some good end I am taken, and what seems to you so hard, is but a blessing in disguise. Oh! then, when you are summoned away, may you feel, as I now do, that the arms of your G.o.d are outstretched to receive you."

She held out her hand to Mr. Stewart, who stood beside her: he clasped it in his.

"Cherish Florry, and let no shadow come between you. It gives me inexpressible joy to know that when I am gone you will be near to love and to guide her."

"We will comfort and guide each other, dear Mary, and oh! I pray G.o.d that we may be enabled to join you in that land of rest to which you are hastening." He fervently kissed the thin white hand he held, and then gently raised Florence. Mary lifted her arms feebly, and they clasped each other in a long, last embrace.

"Mary, my angel cousin, I cannot give you up. Oh! I have never prized you as I ought. Who will love me as you have done?"

"Hush, Florry!" whispered the sinking voice of the sufferer. "I am very, very happy--kiss me, and say good-by."

Gently Dr. Bryant took Florence from her cousin, and then each in turn, Mrs. Carlton and Aunt Lizzy, bent over her; as the latter turned away, Mary took her hand, and drawing her down, murmured:

"My dear aunt, forgive what may have pained you in my past life. We have differed on many points, but we both know there is one G.o.d. Ah!

aunt, in his kingdom may we soon meet again: think of me often, dear aunt. When I am gone you will be very lonely, but only for a short period are we separated."

Dr. Bryant elevated her pillow that she might rest more easily. She lifted her eyes to his pale face. "Frank, will you turn the sofa that I may see the sun set once more?"

He moved it to the west window, and drew aside the curtain that the golden beams might enter: she could not look out, for the sofa was low, and sitting down beside her, he pa.s.sed his arm around her, and lifted her head to his bosom. For a time she looked out on the brilliant hues of the setting sun, now just visible above the tree tops. Slowly it sank, then disappeared forever to her vision. Once Dr.

Bryant had seen her lips move, as in prayer; now the deep blue eyes were again raised to the loved face bending over her.

"Long ago, I prayed to G.o.d that I might fade away gently, and die a painless death. He has granted my pet.i.tion. All things seem very calm and beautiful--earth ne'er looked so like heaven before; yet how insignificant in comparison with the glories which await me. Frank, if aught could draw me back, and make me loth to leave this world, it would be my love for you. Life would be so bright pa.s.sed by your side.

You know the depth of my love, yet I may not remain. Frank, tell me that you can give me up for a little while. Oh! can you not say, 'G.o.d's will-be done?'"

"Mary, it is a terrible trial to yield you up, when I looked forward so joyously to the future. It is hard to think of the long, long dreary years that are to come, and know that you will not be near me; that I cannot see your face, or hear your loved tones. Oh, Mary, you know not the bitterness of this hour; yet I can say G.o.d's will be done, for I have conquered my own heart, but every earthly joy and hope has pa.s.sed away. To our reunion I must ever look as my only comfort, and I pray G.o.d that it may be speedy."

He bent his head till his lips rested on the white brow, now damp in death. Wearily she turned her face toward his; he clasped the wasted form tightly to his heart, and kissed the pale lips; her fingers clasped his hand gently, and she whispered, "Good-by!"

"Good-by, my darling Mary!--my own angel one, good-by!"

Again he pressed his lips to hers, and then rested her head more easily upon his arm. The eyes closed, and those who stood watching her low, irregular breathing, fancied she slept again.

One arm was around her, while the other supported the drooping head.

Her beautiful brown hair fell over his arm, and left exposed the colorless face. She was wasted, yet beautiful in its perfect peace and joy was the expression which rested on her features. Dr. Bryant, leaning his n.o.ble brow on hers, felt her spirit pa.s.s away in the last sigh which escaped her lips. Yet he did not lift his head. Cold as marble grew the white fingers which lingered in his, still he clasped her tightly. He sat with closed eyes, communing with his own saddened heart; he was stilling the agony which welled up, and casting forth the bitterness which mingled darkly with his grief, and he said unto his tortured soul: "Be still! my treasure is laid up in heaven."

He lifted the hair from his arm, and gently drew his hand from hers; yet, save for the icy coldness of her brow, none would have known that the soul which lent such gentle loveliness to the countenance had flown home to G.o.d.

Dr. Bryant pressed a last kiss on the closed eyes and marble brow, softly laid her on her pillow, and left the room.

CHAPTER XXIX.