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Title: Inez
       A Tale of the Alamo

Author: Augusta J. Evans

Release Date: March 26, 2005 [EBook #15470]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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Online Distributed Proofreading Team.






INEZ

A TALE OF THE ALAMO

BY

AUGUSTA J. EVANS

_Author of "Beulah," "St. Elmo," "Infelice," "Macaria," Etc._

NEW YORK

THE FEDERAL BOOK COMPANY

PUBLISHERS




                        TO
                THE TEXAN PATRIOTS,
                 WHO TRIUMPHANTLY
             UNFURLED AND WAVED ALOFT
                        THE
          "BANNER OF THE LONE STAR!" WHO
                WRENCHED ASUNDER
  THE IRON BANDS OF DESPOTIC MEXICO! AND WREATHED
           THE BROW OF THE "QUEEN STATE"
                       WITH
         THE GLORIOUS CHAPLET OF "CIVIL AND
              RELIGIOUS LIBERTY!" THIS
                     WORK IS
             RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY
                    THE AUTHOR.




INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO.




CHAPTER I.

  "But O, th' important budget!
  Who can say what are its tidings?"

  COWPER.


"There is the bell for prayers, Florry; are you ready?" said
Mary Irving, hastily entering her cousin's room at the large
boarding-school of Madame ----.

"Yes; I rose earlier than usual this morning, have solved two
problems, and translated nearly half a page of Telemaque."

"I congratulate you on your increased industry and application, though
you were always more studious than myself. I wish, dear Florry,
you could imbue me with some of your fondness for metaphysics and
mathematics," Mary replied, with a low sigh.

A momentary flush passed over the face of her companion, and they
descended the stairs in silence. The room in which the pupils were
accustomed to assemble for devotion was not so spacious as the
class-room, yet sufficiently so to look gloomy enough in the gray
light of a drizzling morn. The floor was covered with a faded carpet,
in which the indistinct vine seemed struggling to reach the wall,
but failed by several feet on either side. As if to conceal this
deficiency, a wide seat was affixed the entire length of the room, so
high

  "That the feet hung dangling down,
  Anxious in vain to find the distant floor."

There were no curtains to the windows, and the rain pattered drearily
down the panes.

The teacher who officiated as chaplain was seated before a large
desk, on which lay an open Bible. He seemed about twenty-four, his
countenance noble rather than handsome, if I may make so delicate a
distinction. Intelligence of the first order was stamped upon it, yet
the characteristic expression was pride which sat enthroned on his
prominent brow; still, hours of care had left their impress, and the
face was very grave, though by no means stern. His eye was fixed on
the door as the pupils came in, one by one, for prayers, and when
Florence and Mary entered, it sunk upon his book, In a few moments he
rose, and, standing with one arm folded across his bosom, read in a
deep, distinct tone, that beautiful Psalm, "The Lord is my shepherd."
He had only reached the fourth verse, when he was interrupted by two
girls of twelve or fourteen, who had been conversing from the moment
of their entrance. The tones grew louder and louder, and now the words
were very audible:

"My father did not send me here to come to prayers, and Madame has no
right to make us get up before day to hear him read his Bible!"

Many who coincided with them tittered, others stared in silence, while
Florence's lip curled, and Mary looked sorrowingly, pityingly upon
them--hers was the expression with which the angel multitudes of
Heaven regard their erring brethren here. The chaplain turned toward
them, and said, in a grave yet gentle voice, "My little friends, I am
afraid you did not kneel beside your bed this morning, and ask God to
keep your hearts from sinful thoughts, and enable you to perform all
your duties in a humble, gentle spirit. In your present temper, were I
to read the entire book instead of one Psalm, I fear you would receive
no benefit."

The girls were awed more by the tone than words, and sat silent and
abashed. The reading was concluded, and then he offered up a prayer
earnest and heartfelt. Instead of leaving the room immediately, the
pupils waited as for something, and taking a bundle of letters from
the desk, their tutor distributed them as the direction indicated.

"My budget is not so large as usual, and I regret it for your sakes,
as I fear some are disappointed. Miss Hamilton, here are two for you;"
and he handed them to her without looking up.

"Two for Florry, and none for me?" asked Mary, while her voice
slightly trembled. He was leaving the room, but turned toward her.

"I am very sorry, Miss Mary, but hope you will find a comforting
message in your cousin's."

Gently he spoke, yet his eyes rested on Florence the while, and, with
a suppressed sigh, he passed on. "Come to my room, Mary; it is strange
the letters are postmarked the same day." And while she solves the
mystery, let us glance at her former history.




CHAPTER II.

  "Calm on the bosom of thy God,
    Fair spirit! rest thee now!
  Ev'n while with us thy footsteps trod,
    His seal was on thy brow."

  HEMANS.


Florence Hamilton had but attained her fourth year when she was left
the only solace of her widowed father. Even after the lapse of long
years, faint, yet sweet recollections of her lost parent stole, in
saddened hours, over her spirit, and often, in dreams, a face of
angelic beauty hovered around, and smiled upon her.

Unfortunately, Florence proved totally unlike her sainted mother, both
in personal appearance and cast of character. Mr. Hamilton was a
cold, proud man of the world; one who, having lived from his birth in
affluence, regarded with a haughty eye all who, without the advantages
of rank or wealth, strove to attain a position equal to his own.
Intelligence, nobility of soul, unsullied character, weighed not an
atom against the counterpoise of birth and family. He enjoyed in youth
advantages rare for the unsettled times in which he lived; he tasted
all that France and Italy could offer; and returned _blasé_ at
twenty-seven to his home in one of the Southern States. Attracted by
the brilliant fortune of an orphan heiress, he won and married her;
but love, such as her pure, gentle spirit sought, dwelt not in his
stern, selfish heart. All of affection he had to bestow was lavished
on his only sister, who had married during his absence.

His angel wife drooped in the sterile soil to which she was
transplanted, and, when Florence was about four years old, sunk into a
quiet grave.

Perhaps when he stood with his infant daughter beside the newly-raised
mound, and missed the gentle being who had endeavored so strenuously
to make his home happy, and to win for herself a place in his heart,
one tear might have moistened the cold, searching eyes that for
years had known no such softening tendency. "Perhaps," I say; but to
conjecture of thee, oh Man! is fruitless indeed.

As well as such a nature could, he loved his child, and considered
himself extremely magnanimous in casting aside all thought of a second
marriage, and devoting his leisure moments to the formation of her
character, and direction of her education.

Florence inherited her father's haughty temperament without his sordid
selfishness, and what may seem incompatible with the former, a glowing
imagination in connection with fine mental powers. To all but Mr.
Hamilton she appeared as cold and impenetrable as himself; but the
flashing eye and curling lip with which she listened to a tale of
injustice, or viewed a dishonorable act, indicated a nature truly
noble. Two master passions ruled her heart--love for her parent, and
fondness for books. Idolized by the household, it was not strange that
she soon learned to consider herself the most important member of it.
Mr. Hamilton found that it was essential for the proper regulation
of his establishment that some lady should preside over its various
departments, and accordingly invited the maiden sister of his late
wife to make his house her home, and take charge of his numerous
domestics.

Of his daughter he said nothing. Aunt Lizzy, as she was called, was an
amiable, good woman, but not sufficiently intellectual to superintend
Florry's education. That little individual looked at first with
distrustful eyes on one who, she supposed, might abridge her numerous
privileges; but the affectionate manner of the kind-hearted aunt
removed all fear, and she soon spoke and moved with the freedom which
had characterized her solitude.

One day, when Florence was about nine years old, her father entered
the library, where she sat intently reading, and said,

"Florence, come here, I have something to tell you."

"Something to tell me! I hope it is pleasant;" and she laid her hand
on his knee, and looked inquiringly in his face.

"You remember the cousin Mary, whose father died not long ago? Well,
she has lost her mother too, and is coming to live with us." As he
spoke, his voice faltered, and his proud curling lip quivered, yet
he gave no other evidence of the deepest grief he had known for many
years.

"She will be here this evening, and I hope you will try to make her
contented." With these words he was leaving the room, but Florence
said,

"Father, is she to stay with us always, and will she sleep in my room,
with me?"

"She will live with us as long as she likes, and, if you prefer it,
can occupy the same room."

The day wore on, and evening found her on the steps, looking earnestly
down the avenue for the approach of the little stranger.

At length a heavy carriage drove to the door, and Florry leaned
forward to catch a glimpse of the inmate's face. A slight form, clad
in deep mourning, was placed on the piazza by the coachman.

Mr. Hamilton shook her hand kindly, and, after a few words of welcome,
said,

"Here is your cousin Florence, Mary. I hope you will love each other,
and be happy, good little girls." Mary looked almost fearfully at
her proud young cousin, but the sight of her own pale, tearful face
touched Florry's heart, and she threw her arms round her neck and
kissed her. The embrace was unexpected, and Mary wept bitterly.

"Florence, why don't you take Mary to her room?"

"Would you like to go up-stairs, cousin?"

"Oh yes! if you please, I had much rather." And taking her basket from
her hand, Florry led the way.

Mary took off her bonnet, and turned to look again at her cousin.
Their eyes met; but, as if overcome by some sudden recollection, she
buried her face in her hands and burst again into tears.

Florence stood for some time in silence, at length she said gently,

"It is almost tea-time, and father will be angry if he sees you have
been crying."

"Oh! I can't help it, indeed I can't," sobbed the little mourner, "he
is so much like my dear, darling mother;" and she stifled a cry of
agony.

"Is my father like your mother, cousin Mary?"

"Oh yes! When he spoke to me just now, I almost thought it was
mother."

A tear rolled over Florry's cheek, and she slowly replied, "I wish I
knew somebody that looked like my mother." In that hour was forged the
chain which bound them through life, and made them one in interest.

Years rolled on, and found Mary happy in her adopted home. If her
uncle failed to caress her as her loving heart desired, she did not
complain, for she was treated like her cousin, and found in the strong
love of Florence an antidote for every care. Mary was about sixteen,
and Florence a few months younger, at the time our story opens, and
had been placed in New Orleans to acquire French and music, as good
masters could not be obtained nearer home. We have seen them there,
and, hoping the reader will pardon this digression, return to Florry's
letter.




CHAPTER III.

    "Philosophy can hold an easy triumph over past and future
    misfortunes; but those which are present, triumph over her."

    ROCHEFOUCAULT.


A Striking difference in personal appearance was presented by the
cousins, as they stood together. Florence, though somewhat younger,
was taller by several inches, and her noble and erect carriage, in
connection with the haughty manner in which her head was thrown back,
added in effect to her height. Her hair and eyes were brilliant black,
the latter particularly thoughtful in their expression. The forehead
was not remarkable for height, but was unusually prominent and
white, and almost overhung the eyes. The mouth was perfect, the lips
delicately chiseled, and curving beautifully toward the full dimpled
chin. The face, though intellectual, and artistically beautiful, was
not prepossessing. The expression was cold and haughty; and for this
reason she had received the appellations of "Minerva" and "Juno," such
being considered by her fellow-pupils as singularly appropriate.

Mary, on the contrary, was slight and drooping, and her sweet,
earnest countenance, elicited the love of the beholder, even before an
intimate acquaintance had brought to view the beautiful traits of her
truly amiable character.

And yet these girls, diametrically opposed in disposition, clung to
each other with a strength of affection only to be explained by that
strongest of all ties, early association.

Florence broke the seal of her letter, and Mary walked to the window.
It looked out on a narrow street, through which drays rattled noisily,
and occasional passengers picked their way along its muddy crossings.

Mary stood watching the maneuvers of a little girl, who was
endeavoring to pass dry-shod, when a low groan startled her; and
turning quickly, she perceived Florence standing in the center of the
room, the letter crumpled in one hand: her face had grown very pale,
and the large eyes gleamed strangely.

"Oh! Florry, what is the matter? Is your father ill--dead--tell me
quick?" and imploringly she clasped her hands.

Florence made a powerful effort, and spoke, in her usual tone:

"I was foolish to give way to my feelings, even for a moment--my
father is well." She paused, and then added, as if painfully, "But,
oh! he is almost penniless!"

"Penniless!" echoed Mary, as though she could not comprehend her
cousin's meaning.

"Yes, Mary, he has been very unfortunate in his speculations, obliged
to sell our plantation and negroes, and now, he says, 'a few paltry
thousands only remain;' but, oh! that is not the worst; I wish it
were, he has sold out everything, broken every tie, and will be here
this evening on his way to Texas. He writes that I must be ready to
accompany him to-morrow night."

She paused, as if unwilling to add something which must be told, and
looked sadly at her cousin.

Mary understood the glance.

"Florry, there is something in the letter relating to myself, which
you withhold for fear of giving me pain: the sooner I learn it the
better."

"Mary, here is a letter inclosed for you; but first hear what my
father says," and hurriedly she read as follows: ... "With regard to
Mary, it cannot be expected that she should wish to accompany us on
our rugged path, and bitterly, bitterly do I regret our separation.
Her paternal uncle, now in affluence, has often expressed a desire to
have her with him, and, since my misfortunes, has written me, offering
her a home in his family. Every luxury and advantage afforded by
wealth can still be hers. Did I not feel that she would be benefited
by this separation, nothing could induce me to part with her, but,
under existing circumstances, I can consent to give her up."

Florence flung the letter from her as she concluded, and approaching
her cousin, clasped her arms fondly about her. Mary had covered her
face with her hands, and the tears glistened on her slender fingers.

"Oh, Florry, you don't know how pained and hurt I am, that uncle
should think I could be so ungrateful as to forget, in the moment of
adversity, his unvaried kindness for six long years. Oh! it is cruel
in him to judge me so harshly," and she sobbed aloud.

"I will not be left, I will go with him, that is if--if--Florry, tell
me candidly, do you think he has any other reason for not taking me,
except my fancied dislike to leaving this place--tell me?"

"No, dear Mary; if he thought you preferred going with us, no power on
earth could induce him to leave you."

Mary placed her hand in her cousin's, and murmured,

"Florry, I will go with you; your home shall be my home, and your
sorrows my sorrows."

A flash of joy irradiated Florence's pale face as she returned her
cousin's warm embrace.

"With you, Mary, to comfort and assist me, I fear nothing; but you
have not yet read your uncle's letter, perhaps its contents may
influence your decision."

Mary perused it in silence, and then put it in her cousin's hand,
while the tears rolled over her cheeks.

"Mary, think well ere you reject this kind offer. Remember how
earnestly he entreats that you will come and share his love, his home,
and his fortune. Many privations will be ours, in the land to which we
go, and numberless trials assail the poverty-stricken. All these you
can avoid, by accepting this very affectionate invitation. Think well,
Mary, lest in after-years you repent your hasty decision."

There came a long pause, and hurriedly Florence paced to and fro. Mary
lifted her bowed head, and pushing back her clustering hair, calmly
replied, "My heart swells with gratitude toward my noble, generous
uncle. Oh, how fervently I can thank him for his proffered home! yet,
separated from you, dear Florry, I could not be happy; my heart would
ache for you, and your warm, trusting love. I fear neither poverty
nor hardships. Oh, let me go with you, and cheer and assist my dear
uncle!"

"You shall go with us, my pure-hearted cousin. When I thought a moment
since, of parting with you, my future seemed gloomy indeed, but now I
know that you will be near, I am content."

A short silence ensued, broken by a mournful exclamation from
Florence.

"Ah! Mary, it is not for myself that I regret this change of fortune,
but for my proud, haughty father, who will suffer so keenly. Oh, my
heart aches when I think of him!"

"Florry, we must cheer him by those thousand little attentions, which
will lead him to forget his pecuniary troubles."

Florence shook her head.

"You do not know my father as I do. He will have no comforters, broods
over difficulties in secret, and shrinks from sympathy as from a
'scorching brand.'"

"Still, I think we can do much to lighten his cares, and I pray God I
may not be mistaken," replied Mary.

Florence lifted her head from her palm and gazed vacantly at her
cousin, then started from her seat.

"Mary, we must not sit here idly, when there is so much to do, Madame
---- should know we leave to-morrow, and it will take us all day to
prepare for our journey."

"Do let me go and speak to Madame----; it will be less unpleasant to
me?"

"No, no; I will go myself; they shall not think I feel it so sensibly,
and their condolence to-morrow would irritate me beyond measure. I
scorn such petty trials as loss of fortune, and they shall know it."

"Who shall know it, Florry?"

Her cheek flushed, but without a reply she left the room, and
descended the steps which led to Madame ----'s parlor. Reaching the
door, she drew herself proudly up, then knocked.

"Come in," was the response.

She did so. In the center of the apartment, with an open book on the
table before him, sat the teacher who officiated at prayers. He rose
and bowed coldly in answer to her salutation.

"Pardon my intrusion, Mr. Stewart. I expected to find Madame here."

"She has gone to spend the morning with an invalid sister, and
requested me to take charge of her classes, in addition to my own. If
I can render you any assistance, Miss Hamilton, I am at your service."

"Thank you, I am in need of no assistance, and merely wished to say to
Madame that I should leave New Orleans to-morrow, having heard from my
father that he will be here in the evening boat."

"I will inform her of your intended departure as early as possible."

"You will oblige me by doing so," replied Florence, turning to go.

"Miss Hamilton, may I ask you if your cousin accompanies you?"

"She does," was the laconic answer, and slowly she retraced her steps,
and stood at her own door. The cheeks had become colorless, and the
delicate lips writhed with pain. She paused a moment, then entered.

"Did you see her, Florry?"

"No, she is absent, but I left word for her."

Her tone was hard, dry, as though she had been striving long for some
goal, which, when nearly attained, her failing strength was scarce
able to grasp. It was the echo of a fearful struggle that had raged in
her proud bosom. The knell it seemed of expiring exertion, of sinking
resistance. Mary gazed sadly on her cousin, who stood mechanically
smoothing her glossy black hair. The haughty features seemed chiseled
in marble, so cold, stony was the expression.

"Dear Florry! you look harassed and weary already. Why, why will you
overtask your strength, merely to be called a disciple of Zeno? Surely
you cannot seriously desire so insignificant an honor, if it merits
that title?"

"Can, you, then, see no glory in crushing long-cherished hopes--nay,
when your heart is yearning toward some 'bright particular' path,
to turn without one symptom of regret, and calmly tread one just the
opposite! Tell me, can you perceive nothing elevating in this Stoical
command?"

The cold, vacant look had passed away; her dark eyes gleamed,
glittered as with anticipated triumph.

"Florry, I do not understand you exactly; but I do know that command
of the heart is impossible, from the source whence you draw. It may
seem perfect control now, but it will fail you in the dark hour of
your need, if many trials should assail. Oh! my cousin, do not be
angry if I say 'you have forsaken the fountain of living water, and
hewn out for yourself broken cisterns, which hold no water.' Oh!
Florry, before you take another step, return to Him, 'who has a balm
for every wound.'"

Florence's face softened; an expression of relief began to steal over
her countenance; but as Mary ceased speaking, she turned her face,
beautiful in its angelic purity, full upon her. A bitter smile curled
Florence's lip, and muttering hoarsely, "A few more hours and the
struggle will be over," she turned to her bureau, and arranged her
clothes for packing.

The day passed in preparation, and twilight found the cousins watching
intently at the casement. The great clock in the hall chimed out
seven, the last stroke died away, and then the sharp clang of the
door-bell again broke silence. They started to their feet, heard the
street door open and close--then steps along the stairs, nearer and
nearer--then came a knock at the door. Mary opened it; the servant
handed in a card and withdrew. "Mr. J.A. Hamilton." Florence passed
out, Mary remained behind.

"Come, why do you linger?"

"I thought, Florry, you might wish to see him alone; perhaps he would
prefer it."

"Mary, you have identified yourself with us. To my father we must be
as one." She extended her hand, and the next moment they stood in the
reception-room.

The father and uncle were standing with folded arms, looking down into
the muddy street below. He advanced to meet them, holding out a hand
to each. Florence pressed her lips to the one she held, and exclaimed,

"My dear father, how glad I am to see you!"

"Glad to see me! You did not receive my letters then?"

"Yes, I did, but are their contents and pleasure at meeting you
incompatible?"

He made no reply, and then Mary said, in a low, tremulous tone,

"Uncle, you have done me a great injury, and you must make me all the
reparation in your power. You said, in your letter to Florry, that
you did not think I would wish to go with you. Oh, uncle! you do not,
cannot believe me so ungrateful, so devoid of love as to wish, under
any circumstances, to be separated from you. Now ease my heart, and
say I may share your new home. I should be very miserable away from
you."

An expression of pleasure passed over his face, but again the brow
darkened.

"Mary! Florence is my child--my destiny hers, my misfortunes hers; but
I have no right to drag you with me in my fall; to deprive you of the
many advantages that will be afforded, by your uncle's wealth, of the
social position you may one day attain."

"Uncle! uncle! am I not your child by adoption? Have you not loved
and cared for me during long years? Oh! what do I care for wealth--for
what you call a high position in the world? You and Florry are my
world." She threw her arms about his neck, and sobbed, "Take me! oh,
take me with you!"

"If you so earnestly desire it, you shall indeed go with us, my Mary."
And, for the first time in her life, he imprinted a kiss on her brow.

When he departed, it was with a promise to call for them the next
morning, that they might make, with their aunt, some necessary
purchases, and remove to a hotel near the river.

Everything was packed the ensuing day, when Mary suddenly remembered
that her books were still in the recitation-room, and would have gone
for them, but Florence said,

"I will bring up the books, Mary; you are tired and pale with bending
so long over that trunk." And accordingly she went.

Mary threw herself on the couch to rest a moment, and fell into
a reverie of some length, unheeding the flying minutes, when she
recollected that Florence had been absent a long time, and rising,
was about to seek her; just then her cousin entered. A change had come
over her countenance--peace, quiet, happiness reigned supreme. One
hour later, and they had gone from Madame ----'s, never to return
again.




CHAPTER IV

  "Time the supreme! Time is eternity,
   Pregnant with all eternity can give;
   With all that makes archangels smile
   Who murders time, he crushes in the birth
   A power ethereal."

   YOUNG.


A year had passed away. "How paradoxical is the signification of the
term!" How vast, when we consider that each hour hastens the end
of our pilgrimage! How insignificant in comparison with futurity! A
single drop in the boundless deep of eternity! Oh Time! thou greatest
of all anomalies! Friend yet foe, "preserver and yet destroyer!"
Whence art thou, great immemorial? When shall thy wondrous mechanism
be dissolved? When shall the "pall of obscurity" descend on thy
Herculean net-work? Voices of the past echo through thy deserted
temples, and shriek along thy bulwarks--Never, no never!

Season had followed season in rapid succession, and the last rays
of an August sun illumined a scene so beautiful, that I long for
the pencil of a Claude Lorraine. It was a far-off town, in a far-off
state, yet who has gazed on thy loveliness, oh, San Antonio, can e'er
forget thee! Thine was the sweetness of nature; no munificent hand had
arranged, with artistic skill, a statue here, a fountain there.

The river wound like an azure girdle round the town; not confined
by precipitous banks, but gliding along the surface, as it were, and
reflecting, in its deep blue waters, the rustling tule which fringed
the margin. An occasional pecan or live-oak flung a majestic shadow
athwart its azure bosom, and now and then a clump of willows sighed
low in the evening breeze.

Far away to the north stretched a mountain range, blue in the
distance; to the south, the luxuriant valley of the stream. The
streets were narrow, and wound with a total disregard of the points
of the compass. Could a stranger have been placed blindfold in one
of them, and then allowed to look about him, the flat roofs and light
appearance of most of the houses would have forced him to declare that
he had entered a tropical town of the far east.

Many of the buildings were of musquit pickets, set upright in the
ground, lashed together with strips of hide, and thatched with the
tule before mentioned. There were scarce three plank-floors in the
town; by far the greater number being composed of layers of pebbles,
lime, and sand, rolled with a heavy piece of timber till quite
compact; daily sprinkling was found necessary, however, to keep down
the dust, produced by constant friction.

The wealthy inhabitants built of sun-dried bricks, overcast with a
kind of stucco. Yet, unfortunately, the plastering art died with the
Montezumas, for the most vivid imagination failed to convert this
rough coating into the "silver sheen" which so dazzled Cortes's little
band. The reader will exclaim, "I can fancy no beauty from so prosy a
description. Thatched roofs and dirt floors, how absurd!"

Although a strict analysis might prove detrimental, I assure you the
_tout ensemble_ was picturesque indeed.

  "Italia! oh Italia! thou who hast
   The fatal gift of beauty."

Art rivaled here. Thy gorgeous skies have floated hither, and hover
like a halo round the town. The sun had set; the glowing tints faded
fast, till of the brilliant spectacle naught remained save the soft
roseate hue which melted insensibly into the deep azure of the zenith.
Quiet seemed settling o'er mountain and river, when, with a solemn
sweetness, the vesper bells chimed out on the evening air. Even as the
Moslem kneels at sunset toward the "Holy City," so punctiliously does
the devout papist bend for vesper prayers. Will you traverse with me
the crooked streets, and stand beneath the belfry whence issued the
holy tones?

This ancient edifice was constructed in 1692. It fronted the Plaza,
and was a long, narrow building, flanked, as it were, by wings lower
than the main apartment, and surmounted by a dome, in which were five
or six bells. This dome or belfry was supported by pillars, and in the
intervening openings were placed the bells. The roof was flat, and the
dark green and gray moss clung along the sides. The interior presented
a singular combination of art and rudeness; the seats were of
unpainted pine, and the cement floor between was worn irregularly by
the knees of devout attendants. The railing of the altar was of carved
mahogany, rich and beautiful. Over this division of the long room hung
a silken curtain, concealing three niches, which contained an image of
the "Virgin," the "Child," and in the center one, a tall gilt cross.
Heavy silver candlesticks were placed in front of each niche, and
a dozen candles were now burning dimly. A variety of relics, too
numerous to mention, were scattered on the altar, and in addition,
several silver goblets, and a massive bowl for holding "holy water." A
few tin sconces, placed against the wall, were the only provision for
lighting that dark, gloomy church, and dreary enough it looked in the
twilight hour. About a dozen devotees were present, all kneeling on
the damp, hard floor. The silk curtain which concealed the altar was
drawn aside, with due solemnity, by two boys habited in red flannel
petticoats, over which hung a loose white slip. The officiating priest
was seen kneeling before the altar, with his lips pressed to the
foot of the cross. He retained his position for several moments, then
rising, conducted the ceremonies in a calm, imposing manner. When
these were concluded, and all had departed save the two boys, who
still knelt before the Virgin, he beckoned them to him, and speaking
a few words in Spanish, ended by pointing to the door and uttering,
emphatically, "Go." Crossing themselves as they passed the images,
they disappeared through a side door, and the priest was left alone.




CHAPTER V.

     *  *  * "He was a man
  Who stole the livery of the court of heaven
  To serve the devil in; in Virtue's guise,
  Devoured the widow's house and orphan's bread;
  In holy phrase, transacted villanies
  That common sinners durst not meddle with."

  POLLOK.


In years, he could not have exceeded twenty-five, yet the countenance
was that of one well versed in intrigue. The cast was Italian--the
crisp black hair, swarthy complexion, and never-to-be-mistaken eyes.
A large amount of Jesuit determination was expressed in his iris,
blended with cunning, malignity, and fierceness. The features were
prominent particularly the nose; the lips finely cut, but thin; the
teeth beautiful and regular. In stature he was low, and habited in the
dress of his order, a long black coat or gown, buttoned to the throat,
and reaching nearly to the feet.

Glancing at his watch as the sound of the last step died away,
he paced round and round the altar, neglecting now the many
genuflections, bows, and crossings with which he had honored the
images in the presence of his flock. His brows were knit, as if in
deep thought, and doubtless he revolved the result of some deep-laid
plan, when the door was hurriedly opened, and a man, bowing low before
the images, approached him. The dress of the stranger declared him a
ranchero: he wore no jacket but his pantaloons were of buckskin, and
his broad sombrero was tucked beneath his arm.

"Benedicit, Juan!"

"Bueño noche, Padre."

"What tidings do you bring me?" said Father Mazzolin.

The Mexican handed him a letter, and then, as if much fatigued, leaned
heavily against the wall, and wiped his brow with a large blue cotton
handkerchief. As the priest turned away and perused his letter, a
smile of triumphant joy irradiated his face, and a momentary flush
tinged his dark cheek. Again he read it, then thrusting it into his
bosom, addressed the bearer:

"May the blessing of the church rest upon you, who have so faithfully
served your Padre;" and he extended his hand. Warmly it was grasped by
Juan, with a look of grateful surprise.

"Este bueño?" inquired Juan.

"Si mui bueño. Juan, do you read American writing?"

"Chiquito," was answered, with a slight shrug.

"What is the news in the el-grand Ciudad?"

"They have a strong ox to pull the ropes, now Santa Anna is at the
head. Bravura!" and the ranchero tossed his hat, regardless of the
place.

It was, however, no part of Mazzolin's policy to allow him for one
moment to forget the reverence due the marble images that looked so
calmly down from their niches, and with a stern glance he pointed to
them, crossing himself as he did so. Juan went down on his knees,
and with an "Ave Maria," and a Mexican dollar (which he laid on the
altar), quieted his conscience.

"Señor Austin is in the Calaboose," he said, after a pause.

Mazzolin started, and looked keenly at him, as if striving to read his
inmost thoughts.

"You must be mistaken. Juan; there is no mention of it in my letter?"
he said, in a tone of one fearing to believe good news.

"Not at all, Padre. We started together--there were fifteen of us--and
after we had come a long way, so far as Saltillo, some of Santa Anna's
cavaleros overtook us, and carried Señor Americano back with them, and
said they had orders to do it, for he was no friend to our nation. I
know, for I heard for myself."

"Do you know the particular reason of his arrest?"

Juan shook his head, and replied, "That the officers did not say."

"Did you mention to any one your having a letter for me?"

"No, Padre; I tell no man what does not concern him."

"A wise plan, Juan, I would advise you always to follow; and be
very careful that you say nothing to any one about my letter: I
particularly desire it."

"Intiendo," said Juan, turning toward the door. "I go to my ranche
to-morrow, but come back before many sunsets, and if you want me
again, Padre, you know where to find me."

"The blessing of the Holy Virgin rest upon you, my son, and reward you
for your services in behalf of the church."

"Adios!" And they parted.

Father Mazzolin drew forth the letter, and read it attentively for
the third time, then held it over one of the twelve candles, and
deliberately burnt it, muttering the while, "Ashes tell no tales."

Extinguishing the candles and locking the door of the church, he said
to himself:

"All is as I foresaw; a breach is made which can only be closed by
the bodies of hundreds of these cursed heretics; and Santa Anna is
bloodthirsty enough to drain the last drop. Alphonso Mazzolin, canst
thou not carve thy fortune in the coming storm? Yea, and I will. I am
no unworthy follower of Loyola, of Gavier, and of Bobadillo. Patience!
a Cardinal's cap shall crown my labors;" and with a chuckling laugh he
entered the narrow street which led to his dwelling.

"There is but one obstacle here," he continued; "that Protestant
girl's work is hard to undo," and his step became quicker. "But for
her, I should have been confessor to the whole family, and will be
yet, despite her warning efforts, though I had rather deal with any
three men. She is as untiring as myself." He reached his door, and
entered.




CHAPTER VI.

  "And ruder words will soon rush in
  To spread the breach that words begin;
  And eyes forget the gentle ray
  They wore in courtship's smiling day;
  And voices lose the tone that shed
  A tenderness round all they said."

  MOORE.


Inez de Garcia was an only child, and in San Antonio considered quite
an heiress. Her wealth consisted in broad lands, large flocks, and
numerous herds, and these valuable possessions, combined with her
beautiful face, rendered her the object of considerable attention.
Inez was endowed with quick perceptions, and a most indomitable will,
which she never surrendered, except to accomplish some latent design;
and none who looked into her beautiful eyes could suppose that beauty
predominated over intellect. She was subtile, and consciousness of her
powers was seen in the haughty glance and contemptuous smile. Her hand
had been promised from infancy to her orphan cousin, Mañuel Nevarro,
whose possessions were nearly as extensive as her own. Inez looked
with indifference on her handsome cousin, but never objected till
within a few weeks of her seventeenth birthday (the period appointed
for her marriage), when she urged her father to break the engagement.
This he positively refused to do, but promising, at Father Mazzolin's
suggestion, that she should have a few more months of freedom, she
apparently acquiesced. Among the peculiar customs of Mexicans, was a
singular method of celebrating St. ----'s day. Instead of repairing to
their church and engaging in some rational service, they mounted their
half wild ponies, and rode furiously up and down the streets till
their jaded steeds refused to stir another step, when they were
graciously allowed to finish the day on the common. The celebration
of the festival was not confined to the masculine portion of the
community; silver-haired Señoras mingled in the cavalcade and many a
bright-eyed Señorita looked forward to St. ----'s day with feelings
nearly akin to those with which a New York belle regards the most
fashionable ball of the season.

On the evening preceding the day of that canonized lady, Mañuel
entered the room where Inez sat, her needle work on the floor at some
distance, as though flung impatiently from her, her head resting on
one hand, while the other held a gentleman's glove. Light as was his
step, she detected it and thrusting the glove into her bosom, turned
her fine face full upon him.

"What in the name of wonder brings you here this time of day, Mañuel?
I thought every one but myself was taking a siesta this warm evening."

"I have been trying a new horse, Inez, and came to know at what hour
you would ride to-morrow." He stood fanning himself with his broad
sombrero as he spoke.

"Excuse me, Señor, I do not intend to ride at all."

"You never refused before, Inez; what is the meaning of this?" and his
Spanish brow darkened ominously.

"That I do not feel inclined to do so, is sufficient reason."

"And why don't you choose to ride, pray? You have done it all your
life."

"I'll be cross-questioned by no one!" replied Inez, springing to
her feet, with flashing eyes, and passionately clinching her small,
jeweled hand.

Mañuel was of a fiery temperament, and one of the many who never pause
to weigh the effect of their words or actions. Seizing her arm in no
gentle manner, he angrily exclaimed,

"A few more weeks, and I'll see whether you indulge every whim, and
play the queen so royally!"

Inez disengaged her arm, every feature quivering with scorn.

"To whom do you speak, Señor Nevarro? You have certainly mistaken me
for one of the miserable peons over whom you claim jurisdiction. Allow
me to undeceive you! I am Inez de Garcia, to whom you shall never
dictate, for I solemnly declare, that from this day the link which has
bound us from childhood is at an end. Mine be the hand to sever it.
From this hour we meet only as cousins! Go seek a more congenial
bride!"

"Hold, Inez! are you mad?"

"No, Mañuel, but candid; for eight years I have known that I was
destined to be your wife, but I never loved you, Mañuel. I do not, and
never can, otherwise than as a cousin."

In a tone of ill-suppressed range, Nevarro retorted:

"My uncle's authority shall compel you to fulfil the engagement! You
shall not thus escape me!"

"As you please, Señor. Yet let me tell you, compulsion will not
answer. The combined efforts of San Antonio will not avail--they may
crush, but cannot conquer me." She bowed low, and left the room.

Every feature inflamed with wrath, Nevarro snatched his hat, and
hurried down the street. He had not proceeded far, when a hand was
laid upon his arm, and turning, with somewhat pugnacious intentions,
encountered Father Mazzolin's piercing black eyes.

"Bueño tarde, Padre."

The black eyes rested on Nevarro with an expression which seemed to
demand an explanation of his choler. Mañuel moved uneasily; the hot
blood glowed in his swarthy cheek, and swelled like cords on the
darkened brow.

"Did you wish to speak with me, Padre?"

"Even so, my son. Thou art troubled, come unto one who can give thee
comfort."

They were standing before the door of the harkell occupied by the
priest: he opened it and drew Mañuel in.

An hour later they emerged from the house. All trace of anger was
removed from Nevarro's brow, and Father Mazzolin's countenance wore
the impenetrable cast he ever assumed in public. It was his business
expression, the mask behind which he secretly drew the strings, and
lured his dupes into believing him a disinterested and self-denying
pastor, whose only aim in life was to promote the welfare and
happiness of his flock.

When Don Garcia sat that night, _à la Turk_, on a buffalo-robe before
his door, puffing his cigarrita, and keeping time to the violin, which
sent forth its merry tones at a neighboring fandango, Inez drew near,
and related the result of her interview with Mañuel, concluding by
declaring her intention to abide by her decision, and consult her own
wishes in the selection of a husband.

His astonishment was great. First he tried reasoning, but she refuted
every argument advanced with the adroitness of an Abelard: the small
stock of patience with which "Dame Nature" had endowed the Don gave
way, and at last, stamping with rage, he swore she should comply, or
end her life in a gloomy cell of San Jose.

Inez laughed contemptuously. She felt the whirlwind she had raised
gathering about her, yet sought not to allay it: she knew it was the
precursor of a fierce struggle, yet quailed not. Like the heroine of
Saragossa, or the martyr of Rouen, she knew not fear; and her restless
nature rather joyed in the strife.

A low growl from the dog who shared the robe, announced an intruder,
and the next moment the Padre joined them. He was joyfully hailed by
De Garcia as an ally; but a dark look of hatred gleamed from Inez's
eyes, as they rested on his form: it vanished instantly, and she
welcomed him with a smile. She was cognizant of his interview with
Nevarro, for her window overlooked the street in which it took place.
She knew, too, his powers of intrigue; that they were enlisted against
her; and a glance sufficed to show the path to be pursued. Long
ago her penetrating eye had probed the mask of dissimulation which
concealed, like the "silver veil" of Mokanna, a great deformity: how
much greater because, alas! a moral one.

Father Mazzolin inquired, with apparent interest, the cause of
contention. The Don gave a detailed account, and wound up by applying
to him for support, in favor of Nevarro. The look of sorrowful
astonishment with which he listened, compelled Inez to fix her large
Spanish eyes on the ground, lest he should perceive the smile which
lurked in their corners, and half played round her lip.

He rebuked her gently, and spoke briefly of the evils which would
result, if she persisted in her wilful and ungrateful course. Inez
listened with a meekness which surprised both parent and Padre; and
when the latter rose to go, approached, and, in a low tone, requested
him to meet her, that day week, in the confessional.

Woman's heart is everywhere the same, and in the solitude of her own
apartment, Inez's softer feelings found full vent. She sat with her
face in her hands, one long deep; sigh, which struggled up, telling of
the secret pain that was withering her joys and clouding her future.
Suddenly she started up, and passionately exclaimed,

"It is hard that _his_ love should be wasted, on one whose heart is
as cold and stony as this wall;" and she struck it impatiently.
Then drawing forth the glove, which on Mañuel's entrance had been so
hastily secreted, she pressed it repeatedly to her lips, returned it
to its hiding-place, and sought her couch.




CHAPTER VII.

  "What cause have we to build on length of life:
   Temptations seize when fear is laid asleep;
   And ill-foreboded is our strongest guard."

   YOUNG.

St. ----'s dawn was welcomed by joyous peals from the church-bells,
and the occasional firing of a few muskets, by way of accompaniment.
The sun rose with a brilliance which would have awakened deep tones
in Memnon's statue, and gilded mountain and valley. Beautiful beyond
description the city looked in his golden light, and

  "All nature seemed rejoicing."

Half hid by a majestic live-oak which shaded the front, and within
a few yards of the river, stood a small white house. It was built of
adoles, and contained only three rooms. Instead of reaching these by
a broad flight, one step from the threshold placed you on the ground.
The floor was uncovered, and, as usual, of cement. In one corner of
the front apartment stood a sideboard, covered with glass of various
kinds, and a few handsome pieces of plate. Its _vis-à-vis_ was a range
of shelves, filled with books; and on the plain deal mantelpiece stood
a pair of neat China vases, decked with brilliant prairie flowers.
Before the open window was placed the table, arranged for the morning
meal. How pure the cloth looked, how clear the glass; and then the
bouquet of fragrant roses which adorned the center, how homelike,
fresh, and beautiful it seemed! An air of comfort--American, southern
comfort--pervaded the whole. The breakfast was brought in by a
middle-aged negress, whose tidy appearance, and honest, happy, smiling
face presented the best refutation of the gross slanders of our
northern brethren. I would that her daguerreotype, as she stood
arranging the dishes, could be contrasted with those of the miserable,
half-starved seamstresses of Boston and New York, who toil from dawn
till dark, with aching head and throbbing heart, over some weary
article, for which they receive the mighty recompense of a shilling.

When she had arranged every dish with great exactness, a small bell
was rung; and, waiter in hand, she stood ready to attend the family.

A bright, young face appeared at the open window.

"I hope, Aunt Fanny, you have a nice breakfast. You have no idea what
an appetite my walk has given me."

"Now, Miss Mary, ain't my cooking always nice?"

"Indeed, it is. Your coffee would not disgrace a pasha's table; and
your rolls are

  'The whitest, the lightest, that ever were seen.'"

She disappeared from the window, and entered the room just as Mr.
Hamilton came in, followed by Florence.

"My dear uncle, have you forgotten the old adage of 'early to bed, and
early to rise?'"

"I am not sure that I ever learned it, Mary;" he dryly replied,
seating himself at the table.

"One would suppose you had taken a draught from the 'Elixir of Life;'"
said Florence, glancing affectionately at her beaming face.

"I have discovered the fountain of perpetual youth, so vainly sought
in South America!"

"Indeed! Is it located in this vicinity?"

"Yes; and if you will rise to-morrow with Aurora, when 'she sprinkles
with rosy light the dewy lawn,' I will promise to conduct you to it."

"Thank you; but, Mary, what induced you to ramble so early?"

"I have been nearly two miles for some roots Mrs. Carlton expressed a
wish for. See, Florry, how I have dyed my hands pulling them up!"

"Were you alone, Mary?" asked Mr. Hamilton.

"I was, most of the time. As I came back, Dr. Bryant overtook me.
He spent the night at San Jose mission, with a sick Mexican, and was
returning. But where is Aunt Lizzy?" continued Mary, with an inquiring
glance round the room.

"She went to mass this morning," replied her cousin.

"Oh, yes! It is St. ----'s day. I heard the bells at daybreak."

"It is a savage, heathenish custom they have adopted here, of tearing
up and down the streets from morning till night. I wish, by Jove! they
would ride over their canting Padre! I think he would find some other
mode of celebrating the festival!"

"He would lay claim to saintship on the strength of it," replied Mary.

"You had better keep out of the street to-day, girls," rejoined Mr.
Hamilton, pushing his cup away, and rising from the table.

At this moment Aunt Lizzy entered; and after the morning salutation,
turned toward the door.

"You are later than usual this morning, aunt. Do sit down and eat your
breakfast, or it will be so cold you cannot touch it," said Mary.

"No really devout Catholic tastes food on this holy day," she
answered, motioning it from her.

"It must be quite a penance to abstain, after your long walk," said
Mr. Hamilton with a smile.

"Father Mazzolin said, this morning, that all who kept this holy
day would add a bright jewel to their crown, and obtain the eternal
intercession of the blessed saint;" and she left the room.

"That falsehood adds another stone to the many that will sink him in
the lake of perdition, if there be one!" muttered Mr. Hamilton, as
he departed for the counting-room. The last few sentences had fallen
unheeded on Florence's ear, for she sat looking out the window, her
thoughts evidently far away. But every trace of merriment vanished
from Mary's face, and instead of her bright smile, a look of painful
anxiety settled there. A long silence ensued; Mary stood by the table,
wiping the cups as Aunt Fanny rinsed them, and occasionally glancing
at her cousin. At length she said,

"Florry, will you walk over to Mrs. Carlton's with me? I promised to
go, and the walk will do you good, for indeed your cheeks are paler
than I like to see them."

"Certainly, Mary, but do you remember what father said about our
remaining at home, to-day?"

"There is no danger, Florry, if we only look about us, and I really
must go."

"Well then, let us start at once."

In a few moments they set out, equipped in large straw hats, and
equally large gloves; in addition, Mary carried in her hand a basket,
filled with herbs and flowers.

"If we walk briskly, we shall get there before any of the riders set
forth. Ah! I am mistaken, there they come. Florry, don't go so near
the street: that horseman in blue, looks as though he were riding on
ice--see how his horse slides about!"

A party of twenty or thirty thundered past, and the girls quickened
their pace. A few minutes' walk brought them to Mrs. Carlton's door,
which closed after them.

That lady was reading, as they entered, but threw aside her book, and
advanced joyously to greet them. She kissed Mary affectionately, and
cordially shook Florence's hand.

"I am glad you came, Mary. I feared you would not, and really I want
you very much."

"What can I do, Mrs. Carlton?"

"You can take off your hat and gloves, and prepare yourselves to spend
the day with me."

They laughingly complied, protesting, however, that they could only
remain a short time.

"Mary, my poor blind proselyte died yesterday, and bequeathed her
orphan child to me: I feel almost obliged to accept the charge, for
her fear lest it should fall into the Padre's hands was painful to
behold, and I promised to protect it if possible. The poor little
fellow is nearly destitute of clothes; I have cut some for him, and
knew you would assist me in making them."

"With pleasure, dear Mrs. Carlton, and so will Florry; fill my basket
with work, and we will soon have him a suit. Oh! how glad I am that he
has such kind friends as yourself and husband."

"The Padre came last night to demand the child, but we refused to give
him up: he said he intended clothing and educating the boy free of
charge; yet I knew better, for he refused to baptize Madame Berara's
orphan-niece without the customary fee, though he well knew she could
ill afford it, and was compelled to sell her last cow to make up the
requisite sum. I feel assured he will do all in his power to entice
Erasmo from me; but hope, by constant watchfulness, to counteract his
influence. Oh! Mary, how much we need a Protestant minister here: one
who could effectually stem the tide of superstition and degradation
that now flows unimpeded through this community. Oh! my dear friend,
let us take courage, and go boldly forth in the cause of truth, and
strive to awaken all from the lethargy into which they have fallen--a
lethargy for which their priests are alone responsible, for they
administered the deadly drug."

"I feel as deeply as yourself, dear Mrs. Carlton, the evil tendency
and deplorable consequences of the institutions by which we are
surrounded, and the little that I can do will be gladly, oh, how
gladly! contributed to the work of reformation you have so nobly
begun."

"You forget, Mary, in your proselyting enthusiasm, that Aunt Lizzy
belongs to the despised sect; surely you can not intend, by attacks on
her religion, to render her home unpleasant?" said Florence.

Mary's eyes filled with tears, as she glanced reproachfully at her
cousin, and replied,

"Nothing is further from my wishes, Florry, than to make her home
other than happy. Aunt Lizzy has every opportunity of informing
herself on this important question. Yet she prefers the easier method,
of committing her conscience to the care of the priest; she has chosen
her path in life, and determinately closes her eyes to every other.
The state of the Mexicans around us is by no means analogous. They
were allowed no choice: bred from infancy in the Romish faith, they
are totally unacquainted with the tenets of other creeds. Implicit
obedience to the Padre is their primary law, the grand ruling
principle of life, instilled from their birth. To lay before them the
truths of our own 'pure and undefiled religion,' is both a privilege
and duty."

"You spoke just now, Miss Florence, of the 'despised sect;' allow me,
in all modesty, to say, that to the true and earnest Christian
there is no such class. Believe me, when I say, that though deeply
commiserating their unhappy condition, and resolved to do all in
my power to alleviate it, still I would as cheerfully assist the
conscientious Papist, and tender him the hospitalities of my home, as
one of my own belief."

"You have expressed my feelings exactly, Mrs. Carlton, and there are
times when I wish myself a missionary, that I might carry light to
this benighted race," exclaimed Mary, enthusiastically.

"We are very apt, my dear child, to consider ourselves equal to
emergencies, and capable of great actions, when a strict examination
would declare that the minor deeds and petty trials which test the
temper and the strength too often destroy our equanimity, and show our
inability to cope with difficulties. Woman's warfare is with little
things, yet we are assured by the greatest of all female writers, that
'trifles make the sum of human things;' therefore, let us strive more
and more earnestly to obtain perfect control of ourselves; then shall
we be enabled to assist others."

"I often think," replied Mary, thoughtfully, "that we make
great sacrifices with comparative ease, because we feel our own
insufficiency, and rely more on God for assistance; while in lesser
troubles we are so confident of success, that we neglect to ask his
blessing, and consequently fail in our unaided attempts."

"You are right, Mary, and it should teach us to distrust our powers,
and lead us to lean upon 'Him, who is a very precious help in time of
need.'"

A long silence ensued, broken at length by the entrance of Mrs.
Carlton's two children, who carried a large basket between them.
Hastily they set it down, on seeing Mary, and sprung to her side: the
little girl clung around her neck, and kissed her repeatedly.

"Maria, you are too boisterous, my little girl; Miss Mary will have
no cause to doubt your affection. Elliot, why do you not speak to Miss
Florence, my son?"

Blushing at his oversight, the boy obeyed, and, joined by his sister,
stood at his mother's side. Maria whispered something in his ear, but
he only shook his head and replied,

"Not now, sister, let us wait."

She hesitated a moment, then laid her little hand on Mrs. Carlton's
shoulder.

"Mother, I know you said it was rude to whisper in company, but I want
to tell you something very much."

Mrs. Carlton smiled.

"I am sure the young ladies will excuse you, my daughter, if it is
important." She bent her head, and a prolonged whispering followed.
A flush rose to the mother's cheek and a tear to her eyes, as she
clasped her to her heart, and said,

"I wish you, my children, to speak out, and tell all you know of this
affair."

Elliot was spokesman.

"We went into the garden as you desired us, mother, and Erasmo and I
picked the peas, while sister held the basket; presently we heard a
noise in the brush fence like something coming through, and sister got
frightened (here he laughed), and wanted to run to the house, but we
told her it was only a sheep or dog outside; but it turned out to be
the Padre, and he came and helped us to pick. Mother, he told us such
pretty stories; I can't think of the names; they must have been Dutch,
they were so long and hard. But I remember one of the tales; he said
there was once a good man who lived in Asia, and one day he lost his
crucifix; he looked everywhere for it, but could not find it; and a
long time afterward, he happened to be walking by the sea-shore
and looked out on the water, and oh, what do you think! He saw his
crucifix moving on the water, and a great crab paddled out to land and
laid his crucifix down before him, and then paddled right back into
the sea again. Now wasn't that funny. I can't think of the good man's
name, Saint--Somebody--Saint--Saint--"

"Brother, I reckon it was Saint Crab!"

"No, no! It was the crab that found the crucifix, and I think he was
smarter than the saint."

"Now, Florry, should I repeat this legend to Aunt Lizzy, it would be
impossible to convince her that it proceeded from the Padre's lips.
Yet even prelates of Rome scruple not to narrate as miracles tales
equally absurd, where their auditory is sufficiently ignorant to
credit them. Pardon my interruption, Elliot, and finish your story,"
continued Mary.

"Mother, the Padre talked to Erasmo in Spanish. I could not understand
all he said, but it was about coming to live with him, and going to
Mexico, to see the sights there. When he came to the rows you left for
seed, I told him we must come to the house, and asked him to come in;
but he would not, and offered us all some money, and said we must not
tell a soul we had seen him, for he happened to see us through the
fence, and just came in to speak to us, and you and father might
think he ought not to come into our garden. But oh, mother, would you
believe it! he told Erasmo, as he went off, that he must ask you to
let him go to bathe to-morrow; and instead of going to the river, he
must come to the church: he wanted to give him something. He told him
in Spanish, but I understood what he said. Now, wasn't that teaching
him to tell a lie? and he a Padre too! Mother, don't you think he
ought to be ashamed?"

"Elliot, if you would gladden the hearts of your father and mother,
be ever truthful. Remember the story of 'Pedro and Francisco' you
read not long ago, and put dishonesty and dissimulation far from you:
'honesty is the best policy,' and if you adhere to it through life,
it will prove of 'far more worth than gold.' Be sure you keep nothing
from me, particularly what the Padre may say."

"Shall we take the peas out under the hackberry and shell them," said
Maria.

"Yes, my dear, but first tell me where Erasmo is."

"Sitting on the steps, mother. I know he will help us to shell them,
for he said it was mere fun, picking peas."

"Say nothing to him of the Padre or his conversation, but interest him
about other things."

They left the room swinging the basket between them. Mrs. Carlton's
eyes filled as she looked after her children. "A mother's care can
do a great deal, yet how little did I imagine that temptation would
assail them at such a time, and in such a garb."

"Oh, guard them carefully; for, surrounded by these influences, it
will be difficult to prevent contamination," said Mary, earnestly.

Just then a long, loud shout from the street attracted their
attention, and hastening to the door, they perceived a crowd gathered
on the Plaza. In the center was a body of Mexican cavalry, headed by
their commanding officer, who, hat in hand, was haranguing them. The
ladies looked at each other in dismay.

"To what does this tend?" asked Mary, anxiously.

"My husband told me several days since that Austin was imprisoned in
Mexico, and said he feared difficulties would ensue, but knew not the
cause of his confinement."

"There is Dr. Bryant coming toward us; I dare say he can tell us the
meaning of this commotion."

That gentleman, bowing low in the saddle, reined his Steed as near the
step as possible.

"How do you do, Miss Hamilton, and you, my dear sister? I had the
pleasure of meeting Miss Mary in her morning rambles; she is a most
remarkable young lady. Assures me she actually loves early rising."
His dark eyes were fixed laughingly upon her.

"Do stop your nonsense, Frank, and tell us the cause of that crowd,"
said Mrs. Carlton, laying her hand on his arm.

"My dear sister, that tall, cadaverous-looking cavalier is the
brother-in-law of Santa Anna, and no less a personage than General
Cos, sent hither to fortify this and every other susceptible place."

"Against whom or what?"

"It is a long story, ladies. You know that Coahuila has pursued an
oppressive policy toward us for some time, and refused to hear reason:
Austin remonstrated again and again, and at last went to Mexico,
hoping that the authorities would allow us (here he bit his lip, and
his cheek flushed)--it galls my spirit to utter the word--allow us
to form a separate State. The Congress there took no notice of his
petition, for, in truth they were too much engaged just then about
their own affairs to heed him, and he wrote to several persons in
Austin, advising them at all hazards to proceed. Some cowardly wretch,
or spy in disguise, secretly despatched one of his letters to the
ministers; consequently, as Austin was returning, they made him
prisoner, and carried him back to Mexico. Santa Anna is at the head of
affairs. He has subverted the too liberal constitution of 1824, but
is opposed by a few brave hearts, who scorn the servitude in store
for them. Santa Anna knows full well that we will not submit to his
crushing yoke, and therefore sends General Cos to fortify the Alamo.
This is the only definite information I have been able to glean from
several sources."

"Do you think there is probability of a war?"

"It will most inevitably ensue, for total submission will be exacted
by Santa Anna, and the Texans are not a people to comply with any such
conditions."

"You think General Cos is here to fortify the Alamo?"

"Yes; the work commences to-morrow, I hear, and the fort will be
garrisoned by Spanish troops."

"How many has he with him?" inquired his sister.

"Only fifty or sixty; this is merely the advanced guard, the main body
will probably arrive in a few days."

"I suppose they are joyously welcomed by the Mexicans here, who have
ever regarded with jealous eyes Protestant settlers."

"Oh, yes, that shout testified the hearty welcome they received."

At this moment Mr. Hamilton joined the group.

"Have you heard the news?" he inquired.

"Yes, and sad enough it is," said Mary, with a sigh.

"It will be a bloody conflict."

"I am afraid so," replied Dr. Bryant.

"Come, girls, I am going home, will you go now?"

Mary took her basket, which Mrs. Carlton had filled with work, and
they descended the steps.

"I declare, Miss Irving, I have a great desire to know what that
basket contains; it is as inseparably your companion as was the tub of
Diogenes. I often see it round a corner before you are visible, and at
the glimpse of it, invariably sit more erect in saddle, and assume my
most amiable expression."

He raised himself, and peeped inquiringly over the edge; Mary swung it
playfully behind her.

"I never gratify idle curiosity, Dr. Bryant."

"Indeed, how very remarkable; but I assure you I know full well the
use to which those same herbs you had this morning are to be applied;
you are amalgamating nauseous drugs, and certain pills, to be
administered to my patients. I am grieved to think you would alienate
what few friends I have here, by raising yourself up as a competitor.
Pray, where did you receive your diploma? and are you Thomsonian,
Allopathic, Homeopathic, or Hydropathic?"

Mary looked at Mrs. Carlton: both smiled.

"Ah! I see Ellen is associated with you. Do admit me to partnership;
I should be a most valuable acquisition, take my word for it. A more
humble-minded, good-hearted, deeply-read, and experienced disciple of
Esculapius never felt pulse, or administered a potion."

They laughed outright.

"Mary, shall we tell Frank what we intend those herbs for?"

"By no means, he does not deserve to know."

"Ah! I see Terence was right after all, in his opinion of woman's
nature--'When you request, they refuse; when you forbid, they are sure
to do it.'"

"Come, girls, come! I have business at home;" said Mr. Hamilton,
and they set out homeward. They had not proceeded far, when Mary
exclaimed, pointing behind her,

"Oh, uncle, that woman will be killed! Can nobody help her?"

"She will certainly be thrown from her horse!"

A party of five or six Mexicans were riding with their usual rapidity
toward them. An elderly woman in the rear had evidently lost control
of her fiery horse, which was plunging violently. The other members of
the company seemed unable to render any assistance, as their own could
scarcely be restrained. The unfortunate Señora was almost paralyzed
with fright; for instead of checking him by the reins, they had fallen
over his head, become entangled in his feet, and, now grasping the
mane, she was shrieking fearfully.

"Oh, can't we do something for her!" cried Mary, clasping her hands.

"I do not see how we can assist her," said Mr. Hamilton.

"At least, let us try;" and they hastened to the spot where the
infuriated animal was struggling.

"Stand back, girls! you can do nothing."

He made several ineffectual attempts to catch the bridle, as the
forefeet rose in air, and at last succeeded in getting one end. He
bade the woman let go the mane, and slide off. She did so, but some
portion of her dress was caught in the saddle, and she hung suspended.
The horse feeling the movement, again plunged, despite Mr. Hamilton's
efforts to hold him down. The scene was distressing indeed, as she was
raised and then, flung down again.

Mary saw the danger, and rushing round the enraged horse, fearlessly
pushed off the piece which was attached to the pommel of the saddle,
and freed the unfortunate matron. The horse, feeling relieved of his
burden, gave a desperate bound, and rushed off down the street.

Florence shrieked, and sprung to her father's side. Mary was bending
over the moaning woman, but turned suddenly, and saw her uncle
stretched at Florence's feet. He was insensible, and a stream of
blood oozed from his lips. They raised his head, and motioned to
the Mexicans, that now gathered round, for water; some was hastily
procured, and then Mary entreated one of them to go for Dr. Bryant: as
she spoke, the tramp of hoofs caused her to look up, and she perceived
him urging his horse toward them. He flung the reins to a man who
stood near, and bent over the prostrate form.

"There is some internal injury, I see no outward wound; how did this
happen?"

Florence briefly explained the manner in which her father received a
kick on the chest. Happily, they were near their own home, and, with
the assistance of two men, Dr. Bryant carefully bore him in, and laid
him on a couch near the open window. A restorative was administered,
and soon the sufferer opened his eyes. The flow of blood had ceased,
but he lay quite exhausted.

The physician examined the wounded place, and assured Florence there
was no fracture.

"I am afraid some blood-vessel is ruptured?" said she, anxiously.

"It is only a small one, I hope, but cannot tell certainly for several
days. He must be perfectly quiet; the least excitement might prove
fatal, by causing a fresh hemorrhage."

Nearly a week passed, and one evening Mary followed the physician as
he left the house: he heard her step, and turned. His usually laughing
countenance was grave and anxious; but he strove to seem cheerful.

"Doctor, I wish to know what you think of my uncle's case; we are
afraid it is more serious than you at first pronounced it?"

"It is better that you should know the worst. I am pained to grieve
you, but candor compels me to say, that a fatal injury has been
inflicted. I hoped for the best, but an examination this evening
confirmed my fears."

Mary sobbed bitterly and long. Dr. Bryant sought not to comfort her
by exciting false hopes, but paced up and down the gravel-walk beside
her.

"You do not fear a rapid termination of the disorder?" she said at
last, in a low, trembling tone.

"He may linger some days, but I do not think it probable that he
will."

"Florry, Florry! what is to become of us?" cried the weeping girl, in
a voice of agony. "Oh, God! spare him to us!"

"Do you think your cousin comprehends her father's danger?"

"She fears the worst, and requested me this evening to ask your
opinion. Oh, how can I tell her that he must die!"

"Do not crush all hope (though I have none); let her believe that he
may recover. She is not of a temperament to bear prolonged agony.
The shock will be less painful, rest assured. Believe me, I deeply
sympathize with you both." And pressing her hand, he withdrew.




CHAPTER VIII.

  "See! the dappled gray coursers of the morn
  Beat up the light with their bright silver hoofs,
  And chase it through the sky!"

  MARSTON.


Inez left her father's door as the last notes of the matin bell died
away on the cool, clear morning air. She held in her hand a silken
scarf, which, according to the custom of her country, was thrown
lightly across the head, and confined at the chin.

Beautiful she looked, with the feverish glow on her cheek, and her
large Spanish eyes, restless and piercing, flashing out at times the
thoughts of her inmost soul. She threw the mantilla round her head,
and turned toward the church. The step was firm yet hasty. She seemed
endeavoring to escape from herself.

The streets were silent and the Plaza deserted, and naught seemed
stirring save the swallows that twittered and circled round and round
the belfry of the church. There was something soothing in the deep
stillness that reigned on that balmy morning, and Inez felt its
influence. She paused at the entrance of the gray old church, and
stretched forth her arms to the rosy east.

"Peace, peace!" she murmured, in a weary tone, and sunk her head upon
her bosom. The door opened behind her, and raising herself proudly,
she drew the scarf closer about her, and entered.

A basin of holy water was placed near, and hastily she signed the
figure of the cross and proceeded down the aisle to a side door
leading to one of the wings. She pushed it noiselessly ajar and passed
in.

A solitary tin sconce dimly lighted the small confessional, dark and
gloomy as night, at that early hour. A wooden cross suspended from the
wall, a stone bench, and table, on which lay a rosary and crucifix,
and a small vessel of holy water, formed the entire furniture. Before
this table sat Father Mazzolin, his face buried in his hands. Her
step, light as it was, startled him; yet without rising, he murmured,
"Benedicit."

"Bueño dios, Padre."

He motioned to her to kneel, and she did so, on the damp floor at his
feet, drawing the scarf over her face, so as to conceal the features.

"Bless me, my Father, because I have sinned."

He laid his hands on her bowed head, and muttered indistinctly a Latin
phrase. "I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary, ever Virgin, to
blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the
holy apostles Peter and Paul, and to all the saints, that I have
sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, through my most
grievous fault. Therefore I beseech the blessed Mary, ever Virgin, the
blessed Michael the Archangel, the blessed John the Baptist, the holy
apostles Peter and Paul, and all the saints, to pray to the Lord our
God for me.

"Since my last confession, I accuse myself of many sins. I have missed
mass, vespers and many holy ordinances of our most holy church. Have
borne hatred, and given most provoking language.

"I have broken the engagement thou did'st command me to keep; have
angered Mañuel, and enraged my father greatly. I neglected fasting on
the day of our most holy Saint ----.

"I have entered this church, this holy sanctuary, without crossing
myself; and passed the image of the Blessed Virgin without kneeling."
She paused, and bent her head lower.

'The Padre then said, "My daughter, thy sins are grievous; my heart
bleeds over thy manifold transgressions."

"Even so, my Father; even so."

"Dost thou still bear enmity to Mañuel Nevarro, who loves thee truly,
and is thy promised husband?"

"No, my Father; I desire to be speedily reconciled to him whom I have
offended."

"Wilt thou promise to offer no objection, but become his wife?"

"My Father, I do not wish to be his wife; yet thy will, not mine."

A smile of triumph glittered in the Padre's eye at this confession;
yet his low tone was unchanged.

"Inez, I will not force thee to marry Mañuel, yet thou shalt never be
another's wife. In infancy thou wast promised, and thy hand can never
be joined to another. Choose you, my daughter, and choose quickly."

"Padre, give me time. May one so guilty as I speak out?"

"Yes, speak; for I would have thine inmost thoughts."

"Father, let me spend a month of quiet and peace among the holy
sisters at San Jose; there will I determine either to be Mañuel's
wife, or dedicate the remainder of my life to the service of God and
our most Holy Lady."

"You have spoken well: even so shall it be; but, Inez, I would
question you further and see you answer me truly, as you desire the
intercession of the Blessed Virgin."

Inez lifted her head, and fixing her eyes full on his swarthy face,
replied with energy:

"My Father, even as I desire the intercession of our Blessed Virgin,
so will I answer."

The head was bent again on her bosom. He had sought to read her
countenance during that brief glance, but there was a something in its
dark depths he could not quite understand.

"My daughter, hast thou been of late with that Protestant girl, by
name Mary Irving?"

"I have seen her twice since last confession."

"Where did you meet her?"

"Once at Señora Perraras, and once she came for me, to walk with her."

"Answer truly. Upon what subjects did you converse?"

Inez seemed striving to recall some portion of what had past. At last
she said, "Indeed, Padre, I cannot remember much she said. It was
mostly of birds, and trees, and flowers, and something, I believe,
about this beautiful town, as she called it."

"Think again. Did she not speak lightly of the blessed church, and
most holy faith? Did she not strive to turn you to her own cursed
doctrines, and, above all, did she not speak of me, your Padre, with
scorn?"

"No, my Father, most truly she did not." Again she raised her eyes to
his face. Piercing was the glance he tent upon her. Yet hers fell not
beneath it: calm and immovable she seemed.

He lifted his hand menacingly.

"I bid you now beware of her, and her friend, the trader's wife.
They are infernal heretics, sent hither by the evil one to turn good
Catholics from their duty. I say again, beware of them!" and he struck
his hand heavily on the table beside him. "And now, my daughter, have
you relieved your conscience of its burden? Remember, one sin
withheld at confession will curse you on your death-bed, and send you,
unshriven, to perdition!"

A sort of shudder ran through the bowed form of Inez, and in a low
tone, she replied, "I also accuse myself of all the sins that may have
escaped my memory, and by which, as well as those I have confessed, I
have offended Almighty God, through my most grievous fault."

"I enjoin upon you, as penance for the omission of the holy ordinances
of our most holy church, five Credos when you hear the matin bell,
twelve Paters when noon comes round, and five Aves at vespers. These
shall you repeat, kneeling upon the hard floor, with the crucifix
before you, and your rosary in your hand. In addition, you must repair
to a cell of San Jose, and there remain one month. Moreover, you shall
see and speak to none, save the holy sisters. And now, my daughter, I
would absolve you."

Inez bent low, while he spread his hands above her head and pronounced
the Latin text to that effect, then bade her rise, and dismissed her
with a blessing.

The sun was just visible over the eastern hills, as Inez stepped upon
the Plaza. Her face was deadly pale, and the black eyes glittered
strangely.

"I have knelt to thee for the last time, Father Mazzolin. Long
enough you have crushed me to the earth; one short month of seeming
servitude, and I am free. Think you I too cannot see the gathering
tempest? for long I have watched it rise. It may be that happiness
is denied me; but yonder gurgling waters shall receive my body ere I
become a lasting inmate of your gloomy cell. My plan works well;
even my wily Padre thinks me penitent for the past! But dearly have I
bought my safety. I have played false! lied! where is my conscience?
Have I one? No, no! 'tis dead. Dead from the hour I listened to the
Padre's teachings! If there be a hereafter, and, oh! if there is a
God, what will become of me?" And the girl shuddered convulsively.
"Yet I have heard him lie. I know that even he heeds not the laws of
his pretended God! He bade me follow his teachings, and I did, and I
deceived him! Hal he thinks the game all at his fingers' ends. But I
will neither marry Mañuel, nor be a holy sister of Jose. There will
come a time for me. Now I must work, keep him in the dark, spend the
month in seclusion; by that time the troubles here will begin, and who
may tell the issue?"

A quick step behind her caused Inez to turn in the midst of her
soliloquy. Dr. Bryant was hastening by, but paused at sight of her
face.

"Ah, Señorita! How do you do this beautiful morning?" He looked at
her earnestly, and added, "You are too pale, Inez--much too pale. Your
midnight vigils do not agree with you; believe me, I speak seriously,
you will undermine your health." Her eyes were fixed earnestly on his
noble face, beaming with benevolence, and a slight flush tinged her
cheek, as she replied, "Dr. Bryant, I am not the devout Catholic you
suppose me. The Padre thinks me remiss in many of my duties, and I
am going for a short time to San Jose. You need not look at me so
strangely, I have no idea of becoming a nun, I assure you."

"Inez, one of your faith can never be sure of anything; let me entreat
you not to go to the convent. You need recreation, and had much better
mount your pony, and canter a couple of miles every morning; it would
insure a more healthful state of both body and mind."

"I must go, Dr. Bryant."

"Well then, good-by, if you must, yet I fear you will not return
looking any better."

"Adios," and they parted.

Inez's eye followed the retreating form till an adjoining corner
intervened. Then pressing her hand on her heart, as if to still some
exquisite pain, she murmured in saddened tones--"Oh! I would lay down
my life for your love, yet it is lavished on one who has no heart to
give in return. Oh, that I may one day be able to serve you!"

At the moment she perceived Mañuel Nevarro crossing the Plaza, and
drawing closer the mantilla, she hastened homeward.




CHAPTER IX.

  "A perfect woman, nobly planned;
  To warn, to counsel, to command,
  The reason firm, the temperate will,
  Prudence, foresight, strength, and skill."

  WORDSWORTH.


The beautiful ideal of Wordsworth seemed realized in Mrs. Carlton. She
was by nature impetuous, and even irritable; but the careful training
of her deeply pious mother early eradicated these seeds of discord and
future misery. She reared her "in the way she should go," and taught
her to "remember her Creator in the days of her youth." Crushing
vanity, which soon rose hydra-headed in her path, she implanted in her
daughter's heart a sense of her own unworthiness, and led her to the
"fountain of light and strength."

Under her judicious care, Ellen's character was molded into perfect
beauty. She became a Christian, in the purest sense of the term. Hers
were not the gloomy tenets of the anchorite, which, with a sort of
Spartan stoicism, severs every tie enjoined by his great Creator, bids
adieu to all of joy that earth can give, and becomes a devotee at the
shrine of some canonized son of earth, as full of imperfections as
himself. Neither did she hold the lighter and equally dangerous creed
of the latitudinarian. Her views were of a happy medium; liberal, yet
perfectly orthodox.

Ellen married early in life, and many were the trials which rose up
to test her fortitude, and even her reliance on almighty God. Of six
beautiful children that blessed her union, four went down to an early
tomb. Though bowed to the earth by the weight of her affliction, she
murmured not against the hand that chastened her; but as one by one
was snatched from her warm embrace, she poured out the depth of a
mother's love on the remaining two.

One stroke of fortune reduced her, in a day, from affluence to
comparative penury; and leaving his luxurious home, Mr. Carlton
resolved to seek his fortune in the Western World. Hither she
had accompanied him, encountering, without a murmur, the numerous
hardships, which those who have not endured can never fully realize.
They had preceded Mr. Hamilton but a few months, and joyfully welcomed
him as an agreeable acquisition to their little circle.

Mrs. Carlton found in Mary a real friend; one who sympathized with,
and assisted her in her many benevolent plans for ameliorating the
condition of the destitute Mexicans around them.

With Florence, the former had little affinity, and, consequently,
little intercourse. Their tastes were directly opposite, and though
they often met, there was no interchange of the deep and holier
feelings of the heart.

Frank Bryant was the orphan-brother of Mrs. Carlton, and almost as
dearly loved by her as her own darling Elliot. A few months before
St. ----'s day, he reached San Antonio, on a visit to the sister, from
whom he had been separated several years. Soon after his arrival, an
epidemic made its appearance among the lower order of Mexicans; and as
there was no resident physician at that early time, his services
were speedily in requisition. The Padre, who numbered among his
many acquirements a tolerable knowledge of medicine, viewed with
indifference the suffering around him; and was only roused from his
lethargy by discovering the flattering estimation in which Frank was
held. Fearing so formidable a rival in the affections of his people,
he left no means untried to undermine the popularity so deservedly
acquired. But gratitude is a distinguishing trait of Indian character;
and though apparently obeying the injunctions of their Padre, to
follow no directions save his own, they reverenced Dr. Bryant as a
being of superior order.

It was beside the bed of a dying friend that Inez first met him. One
long weary night they watched together, and when at last death freed
the sufferer, with mingled emotions of admiration and gratitude she
thanked him for the attentions conferred with such disinterested
benevolence. She could not avoid contrasting the conduct of the cold
and calculating Jesuit with the warm-hearted kindness of the noble
stranger.

In a few days it became evident that she had herself imbibed the
disease, and her terrified father brought the young physician to
restore her. With unwearied patience he watched over the beautiful
Señorita, whom Mrs. Carlton and Mary most carefully nursed, and was
rewarded by the glow of returning health.

The idols of her youth were neglected and forgotten; one image filled
Inez's heart, and before it she poured out all the passionate love of
her ardent nature; hence her aversion to a union with Mañuel Nevarro.

Dr. Bryant early perceived her attachment; and knowing full well
that he could never return it, avoided her society with a delicacy
peculiarly his own. When thrown accidentally into her presence, his
manner was frank, kind, and brotherly.

Inez did not deceive herself for a moment by supposing that he would
ever return her love. She knew too well the nature of the barrier
which intervened. To remain unfettered, to see, to love, and one day
to serve him, was her dearest wish; and for its gratification she
dared the rage of her father, and the hatred of her Padre. She fancied
he loved another, and with the characteristic jealousy of her nation,
an aversion to that object settled on her heart.

Dr. Bryant had nursed the last patient into convalescence: still he
lingered, and at the close of St. ----'s day, announced his intention
of remaining until the difficulties with Mexico were either amicably
arranged, or war declared. Mary and Florence he often met, for he was
a constant visitor at Mr. Hamilton's. His manner toward them was
very different; with Mary he ever assumed the light bantering tone
of brotherly freedom; with Florence he was always grave and earnest.
Their conversation was generally upon literary topics, of which she
was fond. Many were their discussions for and against their favorite
authors and philosophers. In these arguments Mary seldom took part,
though fully qualified to do so. Occasionally her cousin asked her
opinion on various topics; at such times she gave them clearly, yet
modestly, and with a gentle dignity peculiar to herself. The earnest
attention with which Frank listened to her views, and his happy smile,
when they coincided with his own, somewhat puzzled Mary; yet she
welcomed his repartees with the same bright smile, and allowed
distrust and jealousy no room in her heart.




CHAPTER X.

                "He swore that love of souls
  Alone had drawn him to the church; yet strewed
  The path that led to hell with tempting flowers,
  And in the ear of sinners, as they took
  The way of death, he whispered peace."

  POLLOK.


How wearily pass the hours to the anxious watcher beside the couch of
pain. To her, it seems as though the current of time had forgotten
to run on and join the mighty past, and that its swift waters were
gathering glassily around her. With unmitigated care, Florence had
attended the bedside of her suffering parent; occasionally slumbering
on his pillow, but more frequently watching through the long nights,
and often stealing to the casement, to look out upon surrounding
gloom, and wonder if the light of day would ever fall again on earth.
Ah! in the midnight hour, when all nature is hushed when universal
darkness reigns, when the "still small voice" will no longer be
silenced, then we are wont to commune with our own hearts. All
barriers melt away, and the saddened past, the troubled present, and
the shadowy future rise successively before us, and refuse to be put
by. In vain we tightly close the aching lids; strange lurid lights
flare around us, and mysterious forms glide to and fro.

To the guilty, how fearful must the season of darkness prove, when,
unable longer to escape from themselves, they yield to the pangs of
remorse, and toss in unutterable anguish!

    "By night, an atheist half believes a God."

And thousands, who in the sunny light of day rush madly on to ruin,
pause, shudderingly, in the midnight hour, and look yearningly
toward the narrow path where Virtue's lamp, flashing into the
deepest recesses of surrounding gloom, dispels all shadow; and, in
imagination, view the Christian peacefully descending the hill of
life, fearlessly crossing the "valley of the shadow of death," and
resting at last on that blest shore, where night and darkness are
unknown, "swallowed up in endless day."

It was very evident that Mr. Hamilton could survive but a few days;
and to every entreaty that she would take some rest, Florence but
shook her head, and replied, that she would not leave him when he must
die so soon.

One evening Dr. Bryant, having administered a soothing potion, turned
to her and said, "My dear Miss Hamilton, you will seriously injure
your health by such constant watching. Your father needs nothing now
but quiet. Let me entreat you to go out for a short time; the air will
refresh you, and your aunt will remain with Mr. Hamilton." He drew her
reluctantly from her seat as he spoke, and whispered Mary to accompany
her.

Drawing her arm round Florence, Mary turned in the direction of their
accustomed rambles, but her cousin said, "I am too weary to walk far,
let us go to our old seat by the river."

The stream was only a few yards distant, and they seated themselves
on a broad, flat stone, beneath a cluster of pomegranate and figs. The
evening was beautifully clear, the soft light which still lingered in
the west mellowing every object, and the balmy southern breeze, fresh
from "old ocean's bosom," rustling musically amidst the branches
above. As if to enhance the sweetness of the hour, and win the
mourners from their sad thoughts, the soothing tones of the vesper
bells floated afar on the evening air; distance had softened them, and
now they sounded clear and Eolian-like. The river eddied and curled
rapidly along at their feet; and ever and anon, the stillness that
seemed settling around was broken by the plunging fish, that gambled
in hundreds amidst its blue waters.

"How calm and holy this stillness seems! Florry, does it not cause
you to lift your heart in gratitude to the 'almighty Giver' of so many
blessings?"

"All things are dark to sorrow;" replied Florence, and folding her
arms across her bosom, she dropped her head wearily upon them.

"Oh, Florry, do not give up so! I cannot bear to hear your despairing
tone. Still hope; your dear father may be spared to us;" and she put
her arms caressingly around her.

"Hope!" echoed Florence; "I have ceased to hope that he will recover.
I know that he cannot; and in a few hours I shall be alone in the
world. Alone, alone!" she repeated the words, as if fully to realize
the misery in store for her. "O God! why hast thou not taken me
before? Take me now; oh, in mercy, take me with him!"

In vain Mary strove to soothe and console her; she remained perfectly
still, her face hid in her arms, and replied not to her anxious
questionings. A long silence ensued, and Mary wept. A feeling of
desolation began to creep over her; a second time she was to be thrown
on the wide, cold world. She thought of her uncle's generosity and
unvaried kindness during the many years she had dwelt under his roof,
and scarcely felt that it was not her own. And then there stole up
the image of her lost mother; the wan, but saint-like face, and the
heavenly smile with which she pointed upward, and bade her child
prepare for the glorious union, in that mansion which Jehovah assigned
to those who are faithful on earth.

Poor Mary's heart was sad indeed; yet there was no bitterness in
her soul, no rebellious feelings toward Almighty God, who had thus
afflicted her so sorely. She wiped away her tears, and calming herself
as much as possible, repeated, in a faltering voice, the beautiful
hymn commencing "I would not live always." She paused at the
conclusion of the second verse; but Florence did not lift her head,
and hoping to cheer her, she finished the hymn.

Twilight had fallen on the earth, and the blue vault of heaven was
studded with its myriad lamps. The new moon glittered like a golden
thread--low in the west--and seemed almost to rest upon the bosom of
the stream, as it curved in the distance to meet the horizon.

"Come, Florry, you must not stay out so late; I am afraid you will
take cold!"

Florence rose mechanically and accompanied her.

"Oh, Florry, do try and trust in God, and believe that in every trial
and affliction he will comfort and assist us."

Her cousin sighed heavily, but made no reply.

As they reached the gate it was quickly opened, and the Padre met
them: he bowed coldly to Mary, but shook hands with Florence, and
promised to come again the ensuing day. It was so late that Mary could
not distinguish his features; but just as he turned to go, Aunt Fanny
threw open the kitchen door, and the light streamed full on his
face; their eyes met, and she started at the smile of triumph that
irradiated his dark countenance: he bowed, and passed on.

Mary hastened down the walk, and entered the sick room, fearing she
scarcely knew what. The invalid Was tossing restlessly from side to
side, and on the pillow lay a rosary and crucifix. For an instant she
stood motionless; then sprang forward, and clasped his burning hand
in hers. "Uncle! dear uncle! tell me who has been with you! Aunt
Lizzy promised she would not leave you till we came back You have been
excited: your hands are burning with fever!"

"I was not alone, Mary; the Padre sat and talked with me;" as the
sufferer spoke, he shuddered and closed his eyes.

"And did he leave these here!" said she, taking up the crucifix and
rosary.

"No, no! they are mine!" and he snatched them from her.

Mary turned pale, and leaned against the bed for support. Florence,
now bending over her father, motioned to her cousin to be silent;
without effect, however; for, passing round the bed, she knelt beside
him. "Uncle, was it by your desire that the Padre came here this
evening?"

He did not seem to hear her question; she repeated it.

"Yes; that is, this is not his first visit."

"Uncle, why do you evade me? Tell me, I entreat you, if he did not
force himself here in my absence!"

"Mary, will you drive my father delirious with your interference with
his wishes?"

"No, Florry, not when I am convinced that such are his wishes. I know
that in health he is no more a Papist than you or I; yet, now I see
him clinging to that rosary and crucifix, what am I to think? If you
can explain this mystery, do so, Florry."

"The day that you were at Mrs. Carlton's, learning to make that
custard my father likes so well, the Padre came, and kindly sat with
him some time. He came the next night, and the next; and read and
prayed with him. I hope you are satisfied now that there is no
intrusion." All this was whispered so low as not to reach the ears of
the invalid.

"Were you present at any of these interviews, Florry?"

"No; they always preferred being alone,"

"Oh! why did you not tell me this before?"

"I am sure I can't see what you are so excited about! If my father
chooses to become a Catholic, I should think it would relieve you to
know that he realizes his situation." She turned resolutely away as
she finished speaking, and seated herself beside the bed.

Mary left the room almost stunned by the discovery she had made; and
scarce knowing what to do, wrapped her shawl about her, and walked
quickly to Mrs. Carlton's. To her she related all she had just
learned, and begged her advice and assistance.

Mrs. Carlton was sorely puzzled and much distressed.

"I fear, Mary, it is too late to remedy the evil."

"Oh, do not say so! I cannot bear that he should die in that faith; he
is too feeble to oppose anything they offer, and is scarcely conscious
of his own actions. In health, they dared not approach him; for they
knew full well that he scorned their creed, and disliked their Padre.
Yet now that he is so weak, in both body and mind, they hope to
influence him. Oh, how could Florence be so blind! Dear Mrs. Carlton,
come and reason with him. I know he esteems you very highly, and your
opinion might weigh with him."

"Indeed, my dear child, I will do all in my power to dissuade him
from the unfortunate course he has taken, but not to-night; he must be
wearied very much already. I will come in the morning."

Early the ensuing day she fulfilled her promise, and in Florence's
presence strove to elicit his views and belief. To her surprise he
refused to hold any conversation on the subject; declaring that his
mind was made up, and that he was determined to die a member of the
holy Catholic Church.

Before she could frame a reply, they were startled by the sound of a
struggle at the door, and the next moment it was flung wide open, and
Father Mazzolin, livid with rage, rushed in. Mrs. Carlton rose with
gentle dignity, and inquired his business. He heeded not her question,
but strode to the bed, and whispered in Mr. Hamilton's ear. The
invalid, in a voice so feeble that it was scarce audible, requested
them to leave him with the Padre for an hour, as he wished to converse
with him alone. Mrs. Carlton perfectly well understood that he but
repeated the priest's orders, and perceiving that nothing could now be
effected, left the room accompanied by Florence. But Mary clung to the
bed, and refused to go.

"You have taken advantage of my uncle's weakness to force yourself
where your presence is unwelcome, and I will not leave him when he is
too weak to oppose your orders."

He strove to force her out, but she clung firmly to the bed; and
muttering an oath between his teeth, he turned to the sufferer, and
spoke in an unknown tongue; a feeble response in the same language
seemed to satisfy him, and darting a triumphant glance at the kneeling
girl, he seated himself, and conversed for nearly an hour. Then
offering up a Latin prayer, departed, promising to come again.

Mrs. Carlton had not left the house; she waited anxiously for Mary.
And when Florence re-entered the sick room, the former hastened to her
friend.

"Oh, I did all I could to prevent it!" cried Mary, in despair. "All
is over, I am afraid. I was sitting on the doorstep, preparing some
arrowroot, when I saw Aunt Lizzy go out the gate. I thought it strange
at the time of day, but never suspected the truth. Presently I saw her
coming back with the priest, and knew in an instant she had gone for
him. I was determined to prevent his seeing my uncle, if possible, and
fastened the front door. Before I could lock my uncle's, he wrenched
open the window, and sprang in. I tried to put the key in my pocket,
and told him he could not go in then; but he made Aunt Lizzy hold one
of my hands, while he forced open my fingers and took the key. Oh!
that Dr. Bryant had been here." She showed Mrs. Carlton the marks of
his grasp on her wrist. "Tell, oh, tell me what I can do to save him!"

"Alas! nothing, Mary. He is completely under the control of the Padre,
and no reasoning will avail him now."

With a sad heart Mrs. Carlton took leave, advising Mary "to offer no
further resistance, as it was now impossible to convince her uncle of
his error."




CHAPTER XI.

  "He's gone--his soul hath ta'en its earthless flight,
  Whither? I dread to think--but he is gone!"

  BYRON.


Mr. Hamilton, though perfectly conscious that his end was rapidly
approaching, had scrupulously avoided the subject in the presence of
the girls. One morning, after a night of more than ordinary suffering,
he lay quite exhausted. Death was at hand, and feeling intuitively
that the appointed hour had arrived, he requested all to withdraw,
save Florence. When they were alone, he laid his hand on her head, and
said, in a low, feeble tone--"Florence, I am going. I cannot survive
this day, and I wish to give you my last advice. I am afraid your lot
will be a hard one, when I am gone; trials without number are in store
for you. Oh! my proudhearted, beautiful Florence, what will become
of you now?" He covered his face with his hands a moment, then
continued--"I do not wish you to return to your native place. My child
must be dependent on no one, yet to leave you here so unprotected,
is hard indeed. Dr. Bryant has promised to watch over you, and the
Carltons are kind friends. Florence you must depend upon yourself.
Thank God, you are strong-minded, and Mary, our kind, good Mary, will
be near, to comfort and assist you. I am growing weaker, but there is
one more thing I wish to say."

He paused, and for the first time Florence spoke.

"My father, tell me every wish; fear nothing for me, there is nothing
I cannot bear now."

"For my sake, Florence, if not for your own, will you promise to be
guided by Father Mazzolin?"

"Do you mean in matters of religion, my father?"

"I mean in all things: matters of interest, as well as matters of
faith. He will assist you much, if you will but follow his advice and
directions."

There was a pause, and then Florence said slowly, as if weighing every
word--"Rest assured your wishes shall be my law. I will consult the
Padre as you desire."

With a look of relief the dying man sank back on his pillow, and
closed his eyes. Florence quickly summoned the physician, and her aunt
and cousin. A little while after, as Mr. Hamilton's eye fell on the
weeping Mary, he extended his hand, and when she bent over him, drew
her face down, and imprinted a long kiss on her pale cheek. Even as he
did so, a dark form glided to the bedside. Another moment, the uncle
and niece were separated; none knew how, yet the Padre stood between,
whispering low in the sufferer's ear. Almost gasping for breath, the
latter intimated his desire to confess for the last time. And they
were left alone.

Nearly an hour after, the priest entered the apartment where Florence
and Mary sat. He trembled visibly, yet, in his usual tone, said that
he wished the family to be present at the last rites about to be
performed for the dying Papist. They immediately repaired to the sick
room, and the spectacle there presented made Mary quiver in every
limb. The sufferer had been placed for convenience on a low couch, and
was supported by pillows in an upright position. A dozen candles burnt
around him, and a cloud of incense wreathed slowly along the wall.
The room had been profusely sprinkled with holy water, and a chalice
containing the consecrated wafer, sat near. Gasping for breath, Mr.
Hamilton clasped a crucifix to his lips, though unable from weakness
to secure it there; for twice it fell from his fingers, and rolled to
the floor.

Father Mazzolin, attired in a surplice ornamented with the insignia of
his order, stood beside the bed, holding in one hand a superbly-bound
volume--in the other, a silver cup containing oil.

After a moment's pause he opened the book, and hurriedly read in
a low, muttering tone, a Latin service of several pages. At the
conclusion he carefully poured out a few drops of the oil, and just
touched the palms of the sufferer's hands and the soles of his feet,
bidding him at the same time cross himself. Perceiving that he was
utterly unable to do so, he hastily signed the figure and resumed his
reading. How long he would have gabbled on it is impossible to say,
but a gasping sound from the dying man declared that dissolution
was at hand, and, snatching the chalice, he hastily administered the
wafer, which was swallowed with difficulty. For the third time, Father
Mazzolin strove to replace the crucifix in his hand and bend it to
his lips. The cold fingers refused to clasp the consecrated wood, and
sank, stiffened and powerless, by his side.

Mary had gazed mournfully on as this mummery was enacted. A death-bed
for a theater, weeping relatives an audience, and Father Mazzolin an
amateur performer. Aunt Lizzy was kneeling beside the Padre, ever
and anon invoking the Virgin; while Florence sat with her face in her
hands, almost as unconscious of what passed as her dying parent She
bent over him now, and in heartrending accents conjured him not to
leave her. He struggled in vain to utter words of comfort; they died
away in whispers, and, with a slight moan, the spirit returned to
the God that gave it. The Padre snatched his hat and hastily left
the house, while Mary gave vent to an uncontrollable burst of sorrow.
Florence seemed suddenly frozen, so rigid was her countenance, as she
gazed on the cold form before her. She neither wept nor moaned, but
closed the eyes with a long, long kiss, and drawing a sheet over the
marble features, turned, with a slow, unfaltering step, away.




CHAPTER XII.

  "For now that Hope's last ray is gone,
  Sure Lethe's dream would bless:
  In grief to think of bliss tha'ts flown,
  Adds pangs to wretchedness."

  ANONYMOUS.


A fortnight had passed, and again it was evening. In the small
dining-room of Florence Hamilton's humble home assembled the now
diminished family circle. Florence sat sadly apart, leaning her head,
with closed eyes, against the window. The tea bell rang; she lifted
her head, glanced round the room, and wearily dropped her brow again
on its resting-place. Mary approached, and taking her hand, said, in a
gentle, winning tone, "Come, Florry dear."

"Eat your supper, Mary; I do not wish any."

"But you have not eaten anything to-day, and need something; do try,
for my sake."

"I cannot. If you knew how both head and heart ache, you would not
urge me."

Mary turned away, and ate the usually joyous meal with a heavy heart.
Florence had left her seat, and was standing in the door: as her
cousin rose from the table she beckoned to her, and passed hurriedly
out. Mary strove to catch her arm but she hastened on, as if trying
to escape from herself. Suddenly she paused by the river side, and
clasped her hands convulsively over her head.

"Mary! Mary! you know not what I suffer."

"Florry, sit down, and lean your weary head on my shoulder."

She dipped her hand in the water, and dashed the cold, sparkling drops
on her cousin's burning brow, speaking the while in a low, soothing
tone. Florence rested a few moments in her cousin's arms, then threw
herself on a grassy bank, and covered her face; one long, deep groan
alone attesting her mental anguish. Mary wept more bitterly than
she had yet done; still, she was so quiet, none would have known her
grief, save from the tears that fell over her hand and arms. Can it
be, that the spirits of departed friends hover near us while on
earth, and draw closer in hours of woe? If so, why is it denied to the
suffering one to hear again the dear accents of the "loved and lost?"
Why may not their silver pinions fan the burning brow of sorrowing
mortality, and the echo of Heaven's own melody murmur gently, "Peace,
peace and joy for evermore?"

Florence stood up before her cousin; all trace of emotion had passed
away, and left her calm. The bright moon shone full on her face. Oh!
how changed since the morning she stood in Madame ----'s schoolroom.
The large dark eyes were sunken; the broad brow marked with lines of
mental anguish; the cheeks colorless, and her long raven hair tossed
back, and hanging like a veil below her slender waist. There was
a hollow, wasted look in every feature; the expression was one of
hopeless misery, and a something there was which made the heart ache,
yet the haughty glance of other days might still be seen.

"Mary, look at me!"

"Well, Florry, I have looked at you, and sad enough it makes me feel."

"I am changed Mary, strangely changed, am I not? Answer me truly."

"Yes, you look weary and ill; but why do you ask me such a question?
You have had cause to look pale."

"Ah! you say truly; but, Mary, have you never suspected that a secret
grief was freezing the life-blood in my cheeks?"

"Florry, what do you mean? I am afraid you are feverish!" and Mary
laid her hand anxiously on her cousin's. It was flung contemptuously
off.

"Mary, listen to what I have to say. I am in a strange mood to-night,
and you must not contradict me. Where shall I begin? When my mother
died I was four years old, they say, and a very delicate child. My
mother! how strange it sounds. Yet I can at times faintly remember
her beautiful face. Very faintly, as in a dream, I have seen an angel
visitant. My mother, why did you leave your hapless babe? Oh! why? my
mother! I was left much to myself, and followed unrestrained my
own inclinations. You know my fondness for books; that fondness was
imbibed in girlhood, as I wandered in my own sunny home--my lost home.
My father taught me to conceal my emotions--to keep down the rising
sob, to force back the glittering tear; and when I smiled over some
childish grief, applauded my stoicism. I became unnatural, cold,
haughty, but not unfeeling. I remember well how your pale face and
mourning dress touched my heart, and waked my sympathies. From that
hour I lavished my love on my father and yourself. Years passed and we
went to New Orleans--" Here Florence paused, and closed her eyes for
a moment, but quickly resumed--"You know how I studied. Mary, was it
merely from love of metaphysics and philosophy, think you? No. no!
Mr. Stewart's look of surprise and pleasure as, one by one, I mastered
various intricacies, was the meed for which I toiled. Mary, from the
first day we met, I loved him, for his was a master spirit I worshiped
him in my inmost soul, and he loved me in return. I know--I feel that
he did. Yet he was even prouder than myself, and would have scorned to
speak of love to one who never smiled in his presence. Oh! often when,
he stood beside my desk giving instruction, my heart has sprung to
him. I have longed to hear the words of tenderness that welled up from
his heart, but scorned to tremble on his lips. No look of love ever
fell on me. His glance was cold and haughty. Oh, how inconsistent
is woman! I yearned for his love; yet, had he tendered it, under my
haughtiness would have dropped my idol--have shivered it at my feet.
Weeks passed, and while near him I knew no sorrow; but the morning of
my life was destined to be short. The cloud that had lowered on the
horizon suddenly darkened around. That never-to-be-forgotten letter
came, and I saw a great gulf open at my feet. An invisible hand placed
Dudley Stewart on one brink, and I was left upon the other; and an
unknown messenger thundered the decree of separation--'Forget the past
and live again in the future!' I started as from a frightful dream.
The cold reality forced itself upon me. Mary, a suspicion stole into
my heart, and stung me. I thought for a brief time that Mr. Stewart
loved you, and whose hand may register the darkened thoughts that
crowded bitterly up? The morning we left New Orleans, I went into the
schoolroom for our books. Ah! who may know the agony of that hour! I
sat down in his chair, and laid my head on his desk, and groaned in
mine anguish of spirit. Oh! Mary, that was the blackest, bitterest
hour of my life. I had fancied he loved me: I feared I was deceived; I
hated--despised myself for my weakness. Yet I could not reproach him;
he had never sought my love.

"I had just risen from his desk when Mr. Stewart came in. He did
not seem to see me, but took a seat near the door. I was well-nigh
exhausted, but strove to appear as cold and indifferent as ever. I
gathered up my books and turned to go, then he laid down his pen, and
came to me.

"'I believe you and your cousin leave to-day?'

"'Yes. in this evening's boat,' I answered, much as usual.

"'I wish you a safe and pleasant voyage. My kindest adieux to your
cousin. Good-by, Miss Hamilton.'

"He held out his hand. I said 'good-by' as clearly and coldly as
himself. Our hands met but an instant: there was no pressure--no
warmth, and then he opened the door for me to pass. As he did so
our eyes met; his glance was calm and cold, but his lips were firmly
compressed. Had he looked sad, mournful, or tender, I should have
passed out and triumphed; but my overtasked strength gave way; a cold
shudder crept through my frame, and consciousness forsook me. I never
fainted before or since. When I revived, I raised my head and looked
about me, I was reclining on a couch; he kneeling beside me, calmly,
as he would have stood in class. He held my hand, and pressed it
warmly.

"'Are you better now, Florence?'

"'Oh, yes, thank you,' I said, and rose to my feet.

"He still held my hand. I withdrew it, and turned to the door. He
placed himself before it, and said--'Florence, it was well done; you
are an admirable dissembler, but I am not deceived. You love me, and
have for long, yet I freely acknowledge your love can never exceed my
own. I love you better than my life, though perfectly aware that
we are now parted forever. I am a poor tutor, dependent on my daily
exertions for subsistence; you the cherished daughter of a wealthy and
ambitious parent.'

"He drew me to him, and imprinted a long kiss on my lips; then put me
gently back, and left the room.

"I never saw him again, but did I doubt his love? No, no! I would
sooner doubt my own existence. We embarked, as you know, in the
evening. That night was beautiful--just such a one as this--serene and
heavenly. I stole out on deck when others slumbered, and for a long
weary hour paced to and fro. There was a wild tumult in my soul which
would not be stilled, and every restraining effort but fanned the
flame that raged within. A never-to-be-forgotten contest was waged
that night, and my heart was the arena. My guardian angel whispered
low, 'Forget the past as a feverish dream; it is not well for thee;
forget, forget!' But the heaven-born accents were suddenly drowned
by the wild shriek of my dark destiny--'Of Lethe's waters thou shall
never taste! I have shattered the goblet at thy feet, and scattered
the draught to the winds of heaven! Behold the apotheosis of thine
idol! At this shrine shalt thou bow evermore--evermore!'

"A new impulse was implanted within me; and, impotent to resist, I
was impelled onward, and onward, till a chasm yawned at my feet. Yet
a moment I trembled on the brink, then plunged desperately forward.
Mary, listen. I knelt on the damp, glistening deck, and implored
Almighty God to register my words in heaven. In his awful name and
presence, I solemnly swore to love Dudley Stewart alone--to be his
wife, or go down to the tomb as Florence Hamilton. I rose up
calm--the fierce warring was stilled. Yet it was not inward peace that
succeeded. My fate was sealed--the last page of destiny transcribed.

"Time passed on, oblivious of the darkened hours it bore on its broad
bosom. Mary, I have watched for one loved form, and listened for that
calm, proud step. I have loved, and trusted, and believed that we
should meet again. Deluded Florence! a period is put to thy hopes and
fears! Mary, he is married! All is over for me. The dull, heavy weight
resting upon my heart will soon crush out the life spark, and lay low
my proud head. Ah! I my cousin, you weep. I wish that I could; but
tears have been _too_ often scornfully repulsed; they come not now at
my call. Oh, Mary, I am weary, weary! I long for rest, even the rest
of the dark, still tomb! I have no hope--no wish. I am passive now.
At last nature has broken the bonds so long forced upon her, and the
reaction is strong indeed. You ask how I received my information: ah!
you need not doubt its authenticity. Aunt Lizzy and his mother were
old friends, and she received a letter the day before my father died,
announcing _his_ approaching union with a beautiful cousin! I am
deservedly punished: I worshiped the creature and forgot the God. I
needed a desperate remedy, and it is administered."

As Florence concluded she leaned heavily against a tree, and raised
her eyes to the jeweled vault above. Just then a dense black cloud,
which had floated up from the west, passed directly over the moon,
obscuring the silvery rays. She pointed to it, and said, in a low,
mournful voice--"How typical of my life and heart; shut out from joy
and hope in one brief hour, unlike it ever to be brightened again."

"Oh! Florry, dear Florry! turn to God for comfort and succor in this
hour of need. He will enable you to bear this trial, and go steadily
on in the path of duty."

"Mary, I have no incitement to exertion; nothing to anticipate. My
future is blank and dreary. I know my lot in life; I have nothing to
hope for."

"Not so, Florry. Your future life will be an active one. Are we not
dependent on our exertions for subsistence? and does not our little
school open to-morrow? Cheer up, darling all may yet be bright.
Bury the painful remembrances of the past; believe me, peace, if not
joyousness, will surely follow the discharge of your duties."

"I cannot forget the past. Had he sought my love, I could scorn him
for his baseness; but it is not so, I almost wish it were. Yet I know
and feel that he loves me; and oblivion of the past is as impossible
for him as, myself. I know not what strange impulse has induced me to
tell you all this. I did it half unconsciously, hoping for relief by
revealing that which has pressed so heavily on my heart. Mary, never
speak to me of it again; and, above all, do not mention his name. It
has passed my lips for the last time, and all shall be locked again
within my own heart. We will open the school to-morrow; and may God
help me, Mary, pray, oh, pray for me! I had no mother to teach me, and
prayer is a stranger to my lips."

She walked hurriedly to the house, and shut herself within her own
apartment.




CHAPTER XIII.

  "Freedom calls you! Quick! be ready:
     Think of what your sires have been:
   Onward! onward! strong and steady,
     Drive the tyrant to his den."

  PERCIVAL.


How intoxicating is the love of power; and how madly the votaries
of ambition whirl to the vortex of that moral Corbrechtan, which has
ingulfed so many hapless victims. Our own noble Washington stands
forth a bright beacon to warn every ruler, civil or military, of the
thundering whirlpool. Father of your country! you stand alone on
the pedestal of greatness; and slowly rolling years shall pour their
waters into the boundless deep of eternity ere another shall be placed
beside you.

When Iturbide attempted to free his oppressed countrymen from the
crushing yoke of Spanish thraldom, Liberty was the watchword. Success
crowned his efforts--sovereign power lay before him. He grasped it,
and made himself a despot. Ambition hurled him from the throne of the
Montezumas, and laid his proud head low. A new star rose on the stormy
horizon of the west; pure and softly fell the rays on the troubled
thousands round. The voice of the new-comer said "Peace," and the wild
tumult subsided. Ten years passed; Santa Anna culminated. The gentle
tones of the arch-deceiver were metamorphosed into the tiger's growl,
the constitution of 1824 subverted in a day, and he ruled in the room
of the lost Iturbide.

* * * * *

The Alamo was garrisoned. Dark bodies of Mexican troops moved heavily
to and fro, and cannon bristled from the embrasures. The usually quiet
town was metamorphosed into a scene of riot and clamor, and fandangos,
at which Bacchus rather than Terpsichore presided, often welcomed the
new-born day. The few Americans[A] in San Antonio viewed with darkened
brows the insolent cavaliers. The gauntlet was flung down--there
was no retraction, no retreat. They knew that it was so, and girded
themselves for a desperate conflict.

[Footnote [A]: It doubtless appears absurd to confine the title of
"Americans" to the few citizens of the United States who emigrated to
Texas, when all who inhabit the continent are equally entitled to the
appellation. Yet the distinction is Mexican; "Los Americanos" being
the name applied to all who are not of Spanish descent.]

The declaration of independence was enthusiastically hailed by the
brave-hearted Texans, as they sprang with one impulse to support the
new-born banner, that floated so majestically over the sunny prairies
of their western home. Mechanic, statesman, plowboy, poet, pressed
forward to the ranks, emulous of priority alone. A small, but intrepid
band, they defied the tyrant who had subverted the liberties of his
country; defied Santa Anna and his fierce legions, and spurned the
iron yoke which the priests of Mexico vainly strove to plant upon
their necks. Liberty, civil and religious, was the watchword, and
desperately they must struggle in the coming strife.

Mañuel Nevarro had eagerly enlisted in the Mexican ranks, and in a
few weeks after General Cos's arrival, donned his uniform. Thus
accoutered, he presented himself, for the first time since their
disagreement, before Inez, who had but recently returned from San
Jose, doubting not that her admiration of his new dress would extend
to him who filled it. In truth, his was a fine form and handsome face;
yet sordid selfishness, and, in common parlance, "a determination to
have his own way," were indelibly stamped upon his countenance.

Inez was busily preparing the evening meal when he entered; and though
perfectly aware of his presence, gave no indication of it. He
stood aside and watched her movements, as she shaped and turned the
tortillas. Presently she began to sing

  "He quits his mule, and mounts his horse,
     And through the streets directs his course--
   Through the streets of Gacatin,
     To the Alhambra spurring in,
       Wo is me, Alhama.

  "And when the hollow drums of war
     Beat the loud alarm afar,
   That the Moors of town and plain
     Might answer to the martial strain,
      Wo is me, Alhama.

As the mournful cadence died away, she turned, and started with
well-feigned surprise on meeting the piercing glance fixed upon her.

"Ah, Mañuel!" She held out both hands, with a most amicable expression
of countenance. He grasped them, and would have kissed her beautiful
lips, but she slipped adroitly to one side--"No, no! Mañuel. I'll not
permit that till I am Señora Nevarro."

"And when will that be, Señorita?"

"Not till the war is over."

"But it has not begun yet; and it will be many moons before we whip
these cursed Americanos."

"How many, think you, Mañuel?"

"I can't tell, Inez; therefore we will not wait till the war is over.
The Padre is ready any time, and why not marry at once?"

"Sacra Dios! I'll do no such thing."

"And why not, Inez?"

"Because they might kill you, Mañuel, and then what would become of
me?"

"You would be as well off then as now; there would be no difference,
only you would be married. You will mourn, any how, if I am killed."

"How do you know I would?" Her Spanish eyes twinkled as she spoke; but
for fear of going too far, she laid her hand on his shoulder. Mañuel
turned sharply round.

"You deserve to be shot, Mañuel, for joining in a miff. Why didn't you
tell me you were going to be a soldier?"

He grasped her hand tighter, but made no reply.

"I say, why did not you tell me first?"

"And if I had told you, what then?"

"Why, I should not have let you do it, you savage. If you had only
asked me, I might be willing to marry you next week. But as it is, I
am not going to be left a widow, I can tell you."

"Inez, I don't believe you care whether I am killed of not. I do not
understand you at all."

The girl's eyes filled, and her lip quivered with emotion. "Mañuel do
you think me a brute? There is nobody to love Inez but her father and
you. I am not cold-hearted."

"You speak truth, Inez; and my uncle will not live very long, for he
has seen many years. When he is gone, there will be nobody to take
care of you but me; so the sooner we are married the better."

"Not so. You must come and see us as often as you can till the war is
over; but I will marry no one now."

"Will you promise it shall be as soon as the war is over?"

Inez coquettishly tossed her beautiful head, and advancing to the
fire, gaily exclaimed--"While we talked the tortillas burned. Come,
eat some supper. I know they are as good as those you get at the
Alamo."

Mañuel seated himself on a buffalo-robe, and while partaking of the
evening meal, Inez chatted away on indifferent subjects, asking,
during the conversation, what news had been received from the Texan
army.

"We got news to-day that they are marching down to Gonzales, but I am
thinking they will find hot work."

"How many men may we number, Mañuel, and think you the chances are for
us?"

"By the blessed Virgin, if we were not ten to five Mañuel Nevarro
would not eat his tortilla in peace. The Captain says we will scatter
them like pecans in a high wind."

"What bone is there to fight for at Gonzales?"

"Cannon, Inez, cannon. Don't you know we sent a thousand men to bring
it here, and the white rascal sent five hundred to keep it there. By
the Virgin, we will see who gets it!"

"Holy Mother protect us! Mañuel, take care of yourself, man, and rush
not into danger. It will profit you little that we have many men, if
some strong arm tells your length on the sward."

"Never fear, Inez--never fear. We must not stop till every American
turns his back on the Alamo, and his face to the East."

"But you will not harm those that live here in peace with all men?"

"The Padre told our General, yesterday, that we must fight till all
submitted, or the last American child was driven to the far bank of
the Sabine."

Inez laid her hand on his arm, and looking him full in the face,
asked, in a low tone--"Mañuel, would you help to drive Mary from her
home among us? She who nursed me in sickness, and bound the white
bread to your bleeding arm, and made the tea for my dying mother, when
none other came to help? Mañuel! Mañuel! she is alone in the world,
with only her cousin. Spare Mary in her little home; she hurts none,
but makes many to die in peace."

Mañuel's face softened somewhat, but he replied in the same determined
tone--"The Padre says she is an accursed heretic, and he will not
rest till she is far away. But I tell you now, Inez, she will not be
harmed; for he said he would see that she was protected, and would
himself take her to a place of safety. He said she had been kind to
our people, and none should molest her or her cousin; but leave all to
him."

"If the Padre promised, he will place them in safety; he never forgets
to do what he says. I am satisfied, Mañuel; and for the rest of the
Americans, the sooner they are driven out the better."

"You say truly, Inez, the sooner the better: all, all shall go, even
their Doctor, that carries himself with such a lo