University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
THE CHAMBER OF 'BEL OF PRAIRIE EDEN.

—Texan MSS.

It was deep night, and the stars shone with
their calm, sad light over the mansion and the
grove of Prairie Eden.

In the mansion all was still as death. The
old man slumbered in his chamber on the
ground floor; his daughter slept in her room
on the second floor. All the other chambers
were tenantless, and a silence like the tomb
brooded over the corridors of that prairie
home. The wind sighed mournfully through
the tops of the trees, as their mossy branches
swept the roof. The sound of the island fountain,
making low music, as it bubbled from
its cavern source, was heard in every pausa
of the breeze.

Yet within the mansion—tenanted only by
the old man and his child—all was darkness
and silence.

The Chamber of Isabel!

A large room, lighted by a lamp that stands
upon a table near the bed, and sheds a feeble
and flickering ray. It is shadowy here, in
this bower of virgin repose, and yet you may
discern the luxurious details of the place.—
Soft matting on the floor, whose down-like
texture would not return too rudely, the pressure
of an infant's naked foot. Curtains of
pale crimson silk, hanging from the ceiling,
nd imparting a warm roseate glow io the
face of the sleeper. Yonder an image of the
Divine Virgin, a marble shape, elevated on its
snowy pedestal, and over the mantel a picture
of a wild-wood scene in far-distant Pennsylvania.

The bed, with curtains, and coverlet, and
pillows, all like a snow bank freshly fallen
from the sky, so pure, so white, so spotless.—
The curtain is slightly parted; through the interval
gleams the vision of that face, framed
in the darkly flowing hair, and pillowed on
right arm, that bosom, which now is lost to
view, and now quivers into light, above the
tremulous lace of the night robe. A beautiful
woman slumbering; with her lips, so ripe in
their red bloom, gently parted, until they disclose
the white teeth; the eyes closed, with
the long black fringes resting on the cheek—
It is a sight for angels to behold and love.

She tosses in her slumber—you see a full
round arm, with its small hand, all beautiful
as an arm and hand of alabaster, tinted by
the daybreak flush extened from the curtains.
You hear a whispered word. Then the sleeper
sinks again into repose like death, and a
single black tress, curves over her neck and
nestles on her bosom.

At this moment a faint, creaking sound is
heard, and all is still again. The door slowly
opens, and a face, leering with a hideous
smile, appears in the dusky interval. A cautious,
cat-like footstep, and a form advances
to the maiden's bed, and the light of the taper
reveals a strange picture.

That face, with short stiff hair and shaggy
beard, alike scarlet red in hue, the bleared
eyes and the thick lips, laughing the same
brutal scorn upon the sleeping woman, that
almost giant form, clad in the costume of a
Mexican Ranchero, wide pantaloons, ornamented
with glittering buttons, green jacket,
tawdry with gilt trappings and a stout leather
belt, girdling two pistols and a long and quivering
knife.

Who is this ruffian that dares intrude upon
the sanctity of a maiden's bed chamber?

He sweeps aside the curtains, bends his
head, his breath pollutes the cheeks of the
slumbering Isabel.

You see his thick lips parting in a brutal
grin, his huge arms extended, his colorless
eyeballs—so white, and bleared, and glossy—
fire with a gloating intensity.

The white breast, the round neck, the warm
countenance of Isabel lay open to that gaze
of pollution.

He turns to the door—listens. All is
still! The hand of the ruffin plays upon the
hilt of his knife, but it is for a moment only.
Extending his brawny arms, he grasps her
form and tears her, half-naked, from her virgin
bed.

In a moment the room is vacant. The outlines
of that pure woman's form is still traced
upon the pillow, the lamp yet burns on the
table, but the room is silent and tenantless.

But did you see that unconscious form,
bound in the ruffian's arms; did you—even
as he left the room—see that face, turned
over his shoulder. The long, black hair
showering down his back, as the eyes unclosed
with a frightened glance?

There is a gasping, half-suppressed cry in
the corridor without—a hurried footstep and
all is still again.

When Isabel, thus rudely torn from her
bed, unclosed her eyes, she beheld the dark
green hangings of the eastern room on the
ground floor.

Pinioned in the ruffian's arm, she gazed
around with the frightened glance of one suddenly
aroused from a dreamless slumber, and
beheld that wide room crowded by the forms
of armed men, attired in the half-bandit, half-soldier
costume of Mexican rancheroes. A
solitary ruffian stood alone in the centre of
the group, his slender form and bearded face,
revealed by the light of the blazing pine knot,
which he raised above his head with his right
hand.

That light flashed strongly over the green
jackets and tinsel trappings of the soldiers,
and played upon the blade of every long and
quivering knife.

For a moment the maiden trembled with
fright as she beheld that swarty face, scowling
all around her, but that moment passed,
the warm blood coursed over her face and
bosom; with a sudden movement she flung
herself from the ruffian's arms and confronted
the assassin band.

`Why this outrage?' she cried, dashing
the clustering hair aside from her face, and
fixing the glance of an indignant eye upon
the foremost of the group. She looked very
beautiful, that half-clad woman, whose clasped
arms were dressed upon her tumultuous
bosom, with her unbound hair streaming over
her white shoulders.

There was dead stillness, and then a deep
groan from the dark recesses of the room.

The bandits parted, and in the interval
made by their movement to either side, appeared
an old man, whose slender form was
clad in plain black, while his strongly marked
features were rendered ghastly by a livid
paleness.

`My father! You here, bound too, and in
these ruffians arms?'

The old man, Jacob Grywin, replied by
wringing his pinioned arms and uttering a
low, deep moan.

`My sons! my sons! why did I suffer them
to depart for San Antonio? My men, too—
all are gone, and here I am. Would to God
I had only faithful Ewen here!'

He spoke of the overseer of his plantation,
that brave hardy fellow, who had left for San
Antonio in company with his sons.

A hoarse laugh echoed round the chamber
—at once Jocob looked up, and Isabel turned
as though a viper had bit her heel.

`Your `faithful Ewen is here!' said the
voice of the ruffian, who had torn Isabel from
her bed.

There he stood, dressed like the rancheroes,
his stiff red hair and matted red beard
imparting new hideousness to his bleared eyes
and grinning lips.

The old man was speechless. You see
Isabella survey the ruffian from head to foot,
while her face changes color, now red as day-break,
now white as a shroud.

`Aye, it's me:—Ewen McGregor, Red
Ewen, or whatever the boys choose to call
me! I am here! This band of trusty spirits
are mine. I have come here at dead of night
to secure this traitor to the Republic of Mexico.—We
had hard riding to reach the place in
time—a great many weary miles since nine
o'clock. Somewhat in a hurry, you know;
for to-morrow morning your sons will be home
—bye-the-by, I left John and Harry at sunset.
They were quite well.'

He drew his knife and playfully felt its
sharp edge.

`My God! can this be real? moaned the
old man.

`I tell you it can be, and it is.'

`But you were my friend—my overseer—
you followed my fortunes into the wilderness
—Ewen a traitor! No, no! I will not believe
it.'

The ruffian advanced, confronted the old man
and glowered upon him with his blood-shot
eyes,—

`You talk of traitor—you. The broken
bank director of Philadelphia, who turned
traitor to the trust of some thousand widows
and orphans, and then fled the city, seeking
refuge for his guilty wealth in the prairie of
Texas, sixty miles from San Antonio. Oh,
Jacob! Pshaw, man! I know you. You
forget that I was your clerk.'

It was a hard blow; the old man felt it to
the heart.

As for Isabel, she stood like a thing of marble,
frightfully pale, her clasped hands pressed
nervously against her bared bosom.

`You here too, my pretty one!' the ruffian
sneered, as he turned upon her. `In my
power! You were once the aristocratic lady
of the aristocratic mansion, in Philadelphia.
Now—'

A movement was observable among the
soldiers and a form advanced into the glare of
the pine torch.

It was a young man slenderly made, with
an olive cheek and long flowing curls of jet
black hair. His beard and moustache, all
curling and as soft as silk, imparted a chivalric
appearance to his delicately cut features.
His eyes were very large and bright, and
withal intensely black. Their expression was
peculiar, indefinable.

A close-fitting uniform of dark green, relieved
by a single row of gold buttons, displayed
the elegant proportions of his form.

`Isabel,' he whispered, `we did not anticipate
this moment when last we met.'

He bowed low before the half-clad maiden,
and looked on her with upraised eyes.

`Don Antonio!' was all that trembled from
the lips of the wondering girl.

It was a strange group. The central figures
—that handsome soldier with the olive cheek
and smooth silken beard; the beautiful girl,
whose flowing hair but faintly concealed the
fluttering of her bosom; the light held over-head
by the brigand soldier, the livid face of
the father, and the brutal sneer of Ewen, distinctly
revealed by its glare—the encircling
rancheroes and the dark background of the
curtained walls.

A strange group, now shown in red light,
again darkened by the shadows as they went
and came.

Don Antonio drew near the maiden, extending

an elegent cloak of rich purple velvet,
edged with golden fringe. Gently he
flung it over her shoulders, and as her bosom
was veiled beneath its solds, he whispered,—

`Isabel! for the sake of the Holy Trinity,
let me see you alone—alone, for one moment
only.'

He spoke in English, somewhat fluently,
though with a decided Spanish accent. There
seemed a more eloquent language; so thought
Isabel, in his large lustrous eyes.

`Come!' she whispered and led the way
from the room.

`You must be in a hurry, I tell ye,' they
heard the coarse tones of Red Ewen, `for we
have got a heap of justice to do, and little
time to do it in.'

Up the stairway she led him, and scarce
knowing whither she went, entered the bed-chamber
from which she had been torn only
a moment past.

There, by the light of the taper, which
stood upon the table, near the bed, there, in
silence and gloom of that virgin retreat, they
confronted each other.

Isabel, very pale, with her white arms, appearing
from the folds of the purple cloak, her
naked feet touching the soft matting on the
floor; Don Antonio, with his brow uncovered
his head drooped, his upturned eyes, resting
on the half-shrouded form before him.

`Speak,' she gasped; `this outrage—'

The words died on her tongue.

In a voice tremulous with delicate modulations,
Don Antonio spoke, still maintaining
that resyectful bearing.

`You are in danger, Isabel! Last Thursday,
at our nearest military post, sixty miles
away, this ruffian Ewen appeared, denounced
your father to the colonel of our regiment,
stated the unprotected situation of Prairie
Eden, and offered to lead a picked squadron
to the place.'

`Ah! I remember he was absent two days
last week. But what charge could the traitor
prefer against my father?'

You know, Isabel, that our Government
have decreed a new invasion of the rebellious
Province of Texas. Our armies, even now,
are encamped on its southern border. Ewen
stated that your father's house was often used
as a rendezvous for the rebel Texans. Nay,
that his sons, his laborers, his very slaves,
within a few days depart to join the army of
some Texan General at San Antonio. I fear
me it will go very hard with your father.—
This Ewen is as cruel, as brutal, as traitors
always are.'

`But you can save us! You whom we
knew in our prosperous days.'

A meaning smile crossed the face of the
Mexican.

`I am only a subordinate officer. Red
Ewen met us after sunset, at a designated
point, and took command of this squadron of
horse.'

`And my father?'

`May be put to death within an hour. Red
Ewen seems to have some secret purpose of
revenge.'

Isabel sank to the floor; not prostrate, but
kneeling with her white arms upraised, her
eyes streaming tears!

`My God! it seems like a hideous dream.'

The Mexican raised his hand to his eyes—
was it to hide a tear?

`But you can save us, Don Antonio!' And
with a bound she passed the distance between
them, and knelt at his feet. You will save
us! I see how it is—you only accompanied
this expedition to do us service. O remember
how my father's home in Philadelphia was
once your home; remember—'

`How the peerless Isabel scorned the suit
of Don Antonio Marin, the attache of the
Mexican legation, at Washington. Is it so,
Miss Grywin?'

Was that a sneer upon his dark-red lip?—
What meant that sudden lighting up of his
large eyes?

Isabel trembled, shuddered as she beheld
the sudden change of the Mexican's face. In
an instant that expression was gone; he was
composed and respectful again.

`O, you would not be so ungenerous as to
revive that memory now! I was but young—
vain, frivolous then. I refused your suit it is
true; my father to that refusal added some
words, at once needless and bitter; but now,
we are in danger; you will save us!'

`Rise, lady! On one condition I will
peril my life to save you.'

He raised her gently from the floor. She
stood there, erect as a queen upon her throne.
Around her neck waved her glossy black hair.
You could see her young bosom pant and
writhe beneath the velvet cloak.

`One condition!' she murmured; and waited
for him to speak.

He spoke it with his eyes. With his parting
lips. With that sudden gaze which devoured
every outline, every tint of her voluptuous
form, from the head framed in the
black hair, to the feet as white as marble.

She shrank back as though a bullet had
pierced her brain.

`No! No! No! You cannot be so base
as to think it!'

`Isabel—' the whisper, husky with passion,
fell on her ear like a torrent of boiling
lead. `The case is plain. I love you—have
loved you for years. Be mine, and I will
sacrifice my rank, my honor, to serve you!'

`Be mine!'—she echoed his words, and
looked at him with a dumb, wandering stare.

He beckoned her to the window.

`Look yonder!'

She looked, but would not believe her eyes.
There rolled the prairie, silvered by the rising
moon, but she saw it not, nor dwelt on
the solemn beauty of that boundless sky.

But a pine torch flung its ruddy glow over
the sward in front of the mansion. That
light revealed the bandit soldiers, the form of
Red Ewen in their midst. There, with his
neck bared, his brow uncovered, his face livid
as death, stood her father.

There was a rope about his neck, and that
rope swung loosely, as it was tied to the oaken
branch above his head.

Isabel beheld that hideous picture, and sunk
like a crushed flower, on the floor. All sense,
all consciousness were gone. Her white
arms, relieved by the purple cloak, dropped
by her side, a glimpse of her pulseless bosom
gleamed over the golden edge of the garment.
She lay like a dead woman, her face like
marble, her eyes wide open and glassy.

Don Antonio bore her to the bed, and
stamped his foot thrice upon the floor. A burly
ranchero appeared in the shadows of the
doorway; it was Red Ewen, in his hunter's
garb.

`Wine, slave! Search the cellars of the
old heretic, and bring me a goblet of his rich
old wine!'

This, it must be confessed, did not look
very much like respecting Red Ewen as the
superior officer.

A few brief moments passed—the lady
still lay swooning—and Ewen, the newly-fledged
rachero appeared with a massy golden
cup in his hand, its glittering flowers contrasting
with the purple gleam of the liquid
trembling against the brim.

`Begone! And mark ye, Don Ewen, commander
of the squadron of Mexican horse!
do as I have commanded you. Begone!”

The ranchero was gone. Don Antonio was
alone with the unconscious woman. What
means that scowl glooming over his handsome
face? What means that hand lifted
over the goblet—that white powder, pouring
from the paper in his fingers down into the
red current of the wine?

He gazed upon her, his black eyes dilating
until they assumed a tiger-like glare. So
helpless she lay beside him, unconscious, upon
her virgin bed, with her dark hair wound
about her round white throat; so like an image

of purity, carved out of Parian marble,
with her glassy eyes turned towards heaven!

Ah, that was a coward act, Don Antonio!
To sweep the cloak aside and gaze with
gloating eyes upon the shrine of purity—her
white and pulseless bosom. Ah, that was a
traitor's kiss; that kiss from your burning lips
pressed upon her lips as cold as clay.

`Awake! Isabel, my love! I will save your
father!'

His arm is around her waist—he presses
his bearded cheek against her cheek of velvet
softness, and his lips, pressed with passion,
quiver against hers.

Dreamily she unclosed her eyes, and all
unconscious as she was, drank from the goblet
which he held to her lips.

Then her countenance glowed, a blush like
living flame overspread her face, her eyes
seemed no fire with liquid light.

`Where am I?' she gasped. `Ah, these
forms that glide to and fro in the dance, these
fountains that murmur drowsily in mine
ears, these gardens, where a thousand lights
break from the shadowy trees over groves of
flowers.'

`Her mind wanders!' and Don Antonio
smiled until his white teeth shone like ivory
under his black moustache.

The maiden rose, spread forth her arms.
like one struggling with a fatal sleep. The
cloak fell, and that form, which combined
all that is beautiful in the physical and intellectual
organization of woman, glowed in the
light, form its trembling veil. The drugged
potion was in her veins—you can see it in the
voluptuous dimness of her eyes, in the deeper
red of her lips.

Even in this moment her soul shone out,
from the clouds which had begun to darken
it.

`Ah! where am I? Don Antonio, is it
you? My father—oh, save him!' such were
her incoherent words.

Don Antonio started to his feet, and at once
there gleamed from his eyes a strange light
—there broke over his lips a stranger smile.

`Listen, Isabel,—but two minutes of consciousness,
of volition are yours! In those
brief minutes I will lay your fate before you
—aye, and you shall read it. Two years
ago, in the city of Washington, you scorned
my suit. Scorned! Your father heaped insult
upon your scorn. My time has come!—
Unless you become mine—mine at this hour,
mine without priest or vow, I swear to leave
your father to his fate—'

`Mercy!'

`That fate, death by the rope, at the hands
of the ruffian, Red Ewen! Your brothers will
return by morning light, but it will be too late
—we will then be far on our way; but your
father will swing on that tree, before the door
of his home!'

`You cannot be human! Not one drop of
pity, not one—'

`Reflect! I do not force your wishes.—
You may swoon, but unless you say `yes' to
my proposal, your father shall hang, and you
will not feel my kiss upon your lips! Say
`yes,' and I will save him. I that love you
with a love that is merciless in its every pulsation.
I that adore you so much that I will
wreck every moment of your existence unless
you consent to become mine!'

He shook his small white hands above his
head in the impulse of the fiery thought
which corded every muscle of his face, and
gleamed like an undying vengeance from his
eyes.

`One moment only remains! Think—I
will not speak to you until that moment and
consciousness are gone!'

He turned away into the darker corner of
the room.

Standing near the bed, her form erect, her
black hair tossing on her brow, she felt that
the drugged potion was working in her veins,
and that the next minute would fire her heart
with the mad dream of voluptuous passion.

Her mind was very clear—like a lake en

shrined in the hollow of a mountain top, its
glassy surface unruffled by a breeze But the
next moment!

Slowly, she glided to the window. Again
that sight.—the livid face, the dangling rope.
With a creeping shudder she turned away,
and turned her eyes upon the tempter.

In the dim corner he stood, his finger pressed
against his lip, his dark eyes blazing upon
her even through the gloom!

Pity her now, all good angels!

She felt the blood rushing to her brain;
she heard gentle voices singing songs, as in
the air; she saw soft masses of light playing
over the uncovered forms of dancing women.
Like a sleep that dream, born of opium,
possessed her nerves, her brain, her soul!

`Yes!'

It is morning, and a faint ray of light trembles
through the darkness of the corridor.
Let us await, in this silence and gloom, with
our eyes fixed upon the massive panels of
yonder door. That door leads into the bed-chamber
of Isabel.

Forth from that door, as the rising sun
streams through the window, glides a wild
figure, with unbound hair, and livid blue circles
under each glassy eye. The bosom is
bare, and maked the feet,—you see the air
play with the scanty robe,—but the feet are
cold, the bosom white, pulseless, like the frozen
breast of a dead woman.

Is it a ghost? Can it be the warm and
blooming Isabel, who last night said the evening
prayer with her father, and went singing to
her wirgin bed?

Along the corridor she glides, one word
quivering from her lips—`Father!'

No reply,—the mansion is deathly still.

Down the stairs, and out upon the porch.
The rolling prairie, with the sun rising over
its waves of grass and flowers—the blue sky
and the grouping clouds, who hang above the
path of day, catching his freshest kiss upon
their bosoms.

She saw it all—felt on her cold cheek the
fresh breath of morning. But the soldiers!
where are they? Ewen—Don Antonio—
where? They are gone, all gone. She is left
alone with her father. How can she meet his
gaze! She, the—but pity her good angels,
and weep fiends, as you behold your darkest
work!

`Father!' she cried, and listened. Noreply.
She turned from the sunrise, and shuddered
as she anticipated the withering gaze of
that parent, whose life she had bought with
her—soul.

She turned, and saw her father. He did
not frown upon his child, nor smile. There
was a cold, calm look upon his face, and his
eyes were steadily turned to the rising sun.
But those eyes were glassy, that face was discolored,
for the father dangled in the air, as
the rope was about his neck, and the tree-branch
quivered with his weight.

Two forms were seen towards the East.—
She saw them, as they came rapidly on, and
greeted them with a shout of horrible laughter.

`Welcome, John—Harry, welcome home.'