University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

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 indifferenee 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 Señoritta 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 needlework
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 rage, Nevarro retorted:

“My uncle's authority shall compel you to fulfill 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 can not 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 vail” 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 willful 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 every where 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
Mañual's entrance had been so hastily secreted, she pressed
it repeatedly to her lips, returned it to its hiding-place,
and sought her couch.