University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE PARTING SUPPER.

When Arthur Gordon issued out into
the quiet court-yard, he found the partisan
tranquilly superintending the preparations
of the dragoons, who had
already lighted a fire near the fountain,
and having rubbed down their chargers,
which were busy about better provender
than they had enjoyed for many a day,
were now making their arrangements
for the night.

“I have taken all necessary precautions,”
he said, as the young lieutenant
approached him. “Your lady's baggage
and her palfrey must be left here,
and the latter will be tended by my good
friend Francisco here, who has promised
to look after her. The spare dragoon
horse has been shot already by my
orders. I have reduced your men to
the lightest marching order, and we
must be off within two hours.”

“What are your plans? Are we all
to move together; can not one of us,
you or I, or one of the men at least, remain
to protect her?”

“Impossible! nay it were worse than
impossibility, it were actual, utter madness!
Without me you could not find

your way ten miles, nor would you
know which way to turn in the forests,
through which I shall guide you. Without
you, the dragoons would turn mutinous!
Even now they are half sullen,
and disinclined to obey me. Moreover,
one man, or ten for that matter, would
be powerless to defend her, while their
presence would but breed suspicion, and
induce discovery.”

“I suppose you are right,” said the
young soldier musing deeply. “Yet it
is dreadful—dreadful to leave her here
alone and undefended.”

“Undefended! I say nay to that.
She is better defended by the truth and
loyalty, and gratitude of that young
Spanish maiden, than by a score of
broadswords.”

“I do not know,” said Gordon, pondering.
“I am not so sure of that truth
and loyalty of which you speak.”

“I will pledge my honor! I would
stake my soul upon them!” said the
partisan, eagerly.

“Aye!” answered the young officer,
still half abstracted, and busy about
his own thoughts—“aye! but you are
by no means clear-sighted—”

“I?—I not clear-sighted?” exclaimed
the partisan, actually startled out of
his wonted gravity of manner. “If not
I, I should like to know who the devil
is clear-sighted. Why, I can see as far
with my naked eye as you can with
your finest glass; and my rifle—”

“Is as true as your heart, Partisan,”
interrupted Gordon, laughing in spite of
the gravity of his own heart, and the
dark aspect of affairs around them.—
“But that is not what I meant at all. I
meant your clear-sightedness as to women.
You know absolutely nothing
about them. You have not seen what
all of us saw at a glance. This pretty
Margarita loves you, Pierre, and—”

“Loves—me!”

“Aye! with the whole depth, and
strength, and intensity of a Spanish woman's
heart. Aye! and as every Spanish
woman does, who loves at all, she
loves you almost to distraction, and is
jealous of you, almost to madness.”

“You are mad, I believe,” replied
Pierre Delacroix, gravely. “I never
heard such nonsense in all my life.—
Why I am old enough to be her father,
and rough enough to be a bear. How
the devil should any woman, let alone
one so young and soft and beautiful, love
such an one as I?—and jealous too.—
I should like to know of whom can she
be jealous.”

“Of Julia.”

“Of your wife!—oh! you are mad.
Why she knows she is your wife. I
told her so myself. You will make me
mad next. Why I never spoke ten
words to the girl in my life.”

“I don't care if you never had spoken
one. I tell you, Julia knows it as well,
sees it as plainly as I do.”

“Knows what?—sees what?”

“Knows and sees that Margarita de
Alava loves you, and is jealous of her.”

“I suppose you will tell me next that,
I am in love with both of them, and
both of them with me!” cried the old
soldier, who was now becoming half indignant.
“By the Lord! I believe that
you are making mockery of me.”

“On my honor! my good friend, it
is not so. I pray you, I beseech you,
hear me. We have the highest trust—
the most unbounded faith in your wisdom,
your bravery, your honor, your
sagacity, in so far as men are concerned;
but I doubt your perspicuity with
women. Now it is certain that she loves
you, and is jealous of my wife—whom,
as God is my judge, I would trust to
your care, unhesitating, to guide and
guard her all alone, through miles and
miles of wilderness! Now grant that
this is true, can she betrusted? Will not
her jealousy of Julia outweigh her gratitude
to you? Will she not betray her
to rid herself of a rival?”

“I don't know,” answered the Partisan,
gravely, with the air of a man, on
whose mind some new light is gradually
dawning. “I know nothing of the mind
of women. If she is capable of loving
me herself, and of suspecting me of
loving your wife, otherwise than as a
sister, I should think she must be capable
of anything.”

Again Gordon could scarce refrain
from laughing at the singular simplicity,
and want of comprehension on the part
of one, in other respects, so shrewd and
so sagacious. But he could only answer,
“Your own sincerity and virtue,
Pierre, blind you, it seems, to half the
wickedness and folly of this world. For

the rest women often see farther into
women's hearts than men.”

“And does Julia Gordon, does your
wife, see this—which you think you see
—in the heart of Margarita?”

“Pierre Delacroix, she does.”

“Then ask her, if she thinks her
worthy to be trusted. I'll none of it. I
think you are all mad together.”

“That advice, at least, I will follow,”
said Gordon. “They have been alone
together, now, nearly an hour. Let us
go in, and speak with them.”

And as he said the words, the door
was opened, and the old shepherd made
his appearance, and called on them to
enter, for the supper was served.

They instantly obeyed the summons,
chiming as it did with their previous intention,
and in a moment were again in
the presence of their fair hostess, and
her no less beautiful guest.

Both the young women had altered
their dress, the Spanish girl having arrayed
herself in the peculiar and becoming
garb of her country, all black
from head to foot, with the high comb
and flowing veil, silk petticoat and lace
mantilla, and all that beseemed a maiden
of high birth and breeding; while
Julia had merely laid aside her riding
hat and re-adjusted her disordered ringlets.
Both looked, however, surpassingly
beautiful; and it might well have
been a matter of doubt, which bore
away the belle, although so different in
character and style of beauty.

It was a singular scene. The large
marble-paved unfurnished hall, with its
unadorned plaster walls, and the great
black oaken beams overhead, without a
curtain to the tall casements, or a carpet
on the marble floor, would have
been the very picture of desolation and
even poverty, had it not been for the
gaily colored cloaks and blankets, the
plumbed hats, and glittering weapons,
the silver-plated saddles, and polished
bridles, which hung, here and there,
from the large stagantlers attached to
the heavy joists which upheld the roof.
Even more than these, however, though
they flashed and flickered merrily in the
red light of the charcoal stove, in the
yellow blaze of the waxen torches, and
in the pale beams of the now setting
moon, all these strangely contrasted,
did the supper table and its appendages
give an appearance of comfort, almost
of wealth and luxury, to what had been
otherwise most bare and barren.

The board, which was large enough
to have accomodated ten or twelve persons,
was spread with damask of unsullied
brightness; the forks, the candlesticks,
the covers were all of massive
silver; the glass was all of the finest
quality, heavy and clear as crystal.
Two or three flasks of Spanish wine
were displayed on the table, and several
chargers smoked with the favorite
national dishes, while bread of ivory
whiteness and fruits of many kinds,
choice and rare in our northern climes
but these things in ordinary use, were
piled in pyramids, on plates of gilded
silver.

In strange contrast to this appearance
of solidity and wealth were the scanty
costumes, the unshodden feet, the age,
the decrepitude, and the poverty of the
two servitors, who now alone waited
upon the last heiress of the once proud
house of de Alava.

But not more proudly, nor with a
loftier and more stately dignity of air
and aspect, could the courtliest senora
of that house have welcomed guests to
her board in the palmiest days of Mexico,
than did the last heiress of their
fallen fortunes, but still famous name,
demean herself toward her suppliant
visitors.

To Julia, indeed, she was now all
blandness. Her manner to her was
more than kind. It was even sisterly.
The partisan she treated as an old and
valued friend, and Gordon as an honored
stranger. But no person, who beheld
her on that evening, doing the honors
of her house and table, could have
suspected for a moment that she was
aware of the many sad deficiencies,
which were but too apparent in the
whole menage; much less that she felt
herself in some sort degraded, as the
scion of a ruined house, as the child of
a half-conquered country, entertaining
the sons and daughters of a wealthier
and more fortunate land, the enemies
of her race, the subjugators of her people.

There was none of the wild fiery vehemence,
now, in her manner, which
had been so apparent on the first entrance
of her visitors. If she had not

subdued, she had at least controlled her
feelings; and, if she were but playing
a part, she was playing it at least with
consummate energy and skill.

General conversation there could, of
course, be none, between persons who
had, save two, never met before; and
who had scarce a feeling or a thought
in common. They spoke, therefore, of
the chances and perils which it had been
Julia's lot to run within the last few
days; and here Margarita, although she
pretended not to feel aught but detestation
for the war itself, contempt for the
alleged causes of that war, and bitter,
bitter animosity toward all those that
waged it, spoke feelingly, and cordially,
and generously to her guest.

To some vague words, which fell
from the lips of Gordon, touching the
probabilities of an early peace, she
replied quickly:—

“Never, never, Senor Lieutenant!
You know it, and I know it! Your
people never turn an eye or a thought
backward—and mine will never yield
an inch! You may butcher us all with
your terrible artillery! You may
sweep us all from the face of God's
earth! but you can never conquer us!
Who ever yet conquered a Spanish people?
What the great captain of the
world, the greatest of ten centuries,
could not accomplish with his hundreds
of thousands in the Old Spain, you with
your tens of thousands will fail to do
in the New. You may make our cities
into heaps of ruins, our plains into
charnel houses! you make solitude and
call that `Peace,' but you will never
make us slaves. But I am wrong,” she
added, in a minute; “I am very wrong
to speak of these things. This is one
of those short, happy moments, moments
of peace and pleasure, called
from the midst of war and misery; one
of these moments of chivalrous and
courteous feeling even between mortal
foes, which makes us know and feel,
that even in all his vices, man has something
of good and godlike—that even
in all its horrors, life, even life in warfare,
has something good and noble.”

She paused, and filling a cut-glass
goblet with fine old wine of Xeres, she
raised it to her lips, and barely touching
it with them, passed it to Pierre, bowing
her head, and saying, solemnly:—

“And now, in test of my good faith
to you and yours, I drink to you, don
Pedro, who first taught me the lessons
that even mortal enemies may have
courtesy, and even Americans show
mercy.”

The blood rose hot to Gordon's
cheek, as she uttered those proud words;
but she was a woman, and his tongue
was tied; his hostess and he was bound
to silence. The Partisan, however,
bowed his head, and drank the wine in
silence; but when he had finished the
draught, he said, calmly, “I trust that
time, dear lady, will teach us all much
that we know not now. Even by such
encounters men learn to prize each
other, as foes worthy of their steel.
And it may be, even of this cruel war
we may be rendered better friends hereafter.”

“Cruel war!” she replied. “Cruel
war, indeed! But I think you know
not how cruel. It is not only that you
conquerors, you foreigners, yourselves
are cruel to us; but that you make us
Mexicans cruel to one another. Know
you that, for this thing, which I have
done this night, my life, and my brother's
life, and the lives of all our kin
are forfeit—nay! but the lives of every
servant of my house, from the old man
of a hundred, to the babe that was born
yesterday. Such is the proclamation
of Carrera, and to the letter will it be enforced,
against all those who harbor, or
protect or feed, or succor an American!”

“Great God! and have I brought
this upon thee, Margarita?”

“I thank God that you have,” she
answered. “For thus only can I prove
it to you, that I am indeed grateful.”

“No! no! It is impossible,” said
Gordon. “He may threaten such
things, but he dare not perform them.”

“And yet,” she answered coldly,
“methinks I have read that such is the
law of war! And whether it be or no
it is a just law! Death to the foe who
treads, arms in his hands, upon the soil
of Mexico; and tenfold death to the
traitor who lends him countenance!”

Her beautiful brow was knitted
fiercely as she uttered those strong
words with fiery vehemence; her eye
seemed to flash lightning, and she bit
her lip till the blood almost sprang beneath
the pressure of her ivory teeth.

The partisan gazed at her silently
for a little space, and sadly; and when
he again addressed her, it was in a
smothered voice, and with a quivering
lip.

“And I have brought this doom on
thee; and thou art a traitress, Margarita?”

“A traitress to my country, aye!
or to my country's rulers! but to my
heart, to my conscience, to my faith,
true as the truest patriot! Here, not
to be a traitress, were blacker shame
than to be a traitor, such as your Arnold.”

“And will they indeed enforce such
sanguinary edicts?” asked Gordon eagerly.

“Listen,” she answered. “It was
scarce one hour before your horses trod
the pavement of our court yard, that
more than a hundred horse went forth,
with my own brother at their head,
Juan de Alava, and the old hero Padre.
Their errand was, first to make prisoners
of you, who now sit as friends
around the table, when they supped at
nightfall; and, second, to wreak the
vengeance of this law on certain
wretches, who have supplied your generals
with food, and guided your men
through our country.”

“And had they not done so,” said
Gordon, gravely, “our generals would
have burned their houses, and driven
off their herds.”

“Even such a thing is war!” said
Margarita, “a war at least of invasion!”

But Julia, who had been listening
in ently to every word that had passed,
now arose calmly to her feet, and said
in a low, determined tone—

“Let us go forth! Let us go forth, if
it be to certain death! This doom will
not I bring on any house, on any head,
that protects me! Let us go forth,
Partisan, I say! I will not tarry here,
let what may come of it!”

But Margarita sprang up, yet more
earnestly, and cried, “Hear me! Hear
me! You must tarry now. For if evil
be, that evil is already done! For you
to fly hence now, is to make capture
certain; and of capture must come discovery,
and of discovery death! The
crime, if crime it be already is committed;
already are all our lives forfeit!
Add not your own destruction to my
ruin; or rather, by your own destruction,
make not my ruin certain. Speak
for me, good Don Pedro, speak for me!
My friend, my preserver, speak for me!
am I not right, do not I speak truly?”

“She does, indeed,” replied Pierre,
mournfully. “I have done much amiss
in this, but of heaven's truth I thought
not of it. But when she calls upon me
thus, I must reply; she does, indeed,
speak truly. Gordon, your wife must
tarry here, close-hidden; to move her
hence were to destroy both! But we
must go hence instantly! I command
here, and I say instantly, by heaven!
Our only hope is to bring force enough
to save them both, and I will do it, or
my name is not Pierre Delacroix.”

“Bring force? what force, Don
Pedro?” asked the girl; “an American
force, do you mean?”

“I do mean it, Margarita.”

“Then you must swear that they
shall neither draw a sword, nor fire a
shot, except in self-defence, or in her
defence, from the hour when they shall
follow you to the rescue, until they
shall be safe within their lines at Monterey.
It is thence that you will bring
them up.”

“It is! I will swear it!” said the
Partisan, colly.

“You will swear it, upon your
honor!”

“As a soldier, and a man, upon my
honor!”

“I am content; I will guard her as
my sister, as my life! No harm shall
come to her, save through my life!
You shall find her safe when you return,
or you shall find us together!”

“Happen what may for this, God
will bless you, Margarita?”

“And will you sometimes think—
sometimes pray for me?”

“I will think of you to my dying
day—I will pray for you, love.—”

“Love!” she exclaimed, again blushing
fiery red;” “Love me! No! no!
that never, never can be!”

And breaking off, without giving him
a chance to reply to her, she hastened
across the room to the place where
Gordon and Julia were conversing earnestly
and she half tearfully, together;
and laying her hand lightly on the

young wife's shoulder, said to her tenderly—

“And will you trust yourself, when
your friends, and he you love, are gone,
with poor Margarita!”

“As I would with him,” she answered
enthusiastically, casting one arm
over Gordon's shoulder; and, pointing
with the other hand to Pierre, she added,
“or with him, and you know how he is
to be trusted!”

“Thank you, thank you, dear lady,”
she replied, “clasping her in her arms
affectionately, and kissing her brow as
she might have done a child's. “Your
trust shall not be deceived. I will die
for you.” Then she turned round to
Gordon, and continued, “And will you
trust her with me? You—who must
love her so tenderly—for whom she has
dared, and done such beautiful, brave
things. Will you leave her in my
charge, so young, so beautiful, so tender?
You, her young husband?”

“I will—I will;” answered the soldier;
but his voice faltered, and sounded
hoarse and husky as he did so. “I
will, as indeed I have no choice; and
may God so deal with you as you are
true to her or false.”

“I false! I false!” she replied hastily,
almost fiercely. “But let that
pass. Do you, can you trust her to me,
willingly, freely, fearlessly?”

“Not fearlessly; not fearlessly; how
could I leave her fearlessly? Freely I
do, and willingly, as heaven hears me!
for he has told me of you;” and he
pointed to the partisan, “has pledged
his honor for your truth.”

“Have you?” she said, looking to
Pierre tenderly. “Have you? that was
well done! Your honor is safe, Pedro!”

“I know it,” he said, gloomily. “I
know it, Margarita Yet, I think we
shall never meet again,” he added, in
a whisper.

“We shall—we shall meet again!”
she exclaimed, almost triumphantly.

“If not on earth, there, there, where
there are no wars, and no enemies,
where we shall part no more for ever!”

“Amen!” replied Pierre. “God
grant that we meet both here and hereafter!”

There are sceues of mortal sorrow,
mortal agony, which no pen save that
of inspiration can describe adequately.
That which ensued was one of those;
and, like the Greek painter of old, we
will draw the veil of silence over that
which speech cannot portray.

Two hours later, and the horse
tramps of the dragoons had died away
in the distance, and Julia had wept
herself into forgetfulness of her sorrows,
on the bosom of Margarita.