Inez :: :: University of Virginia Library

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 didst 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 can not 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
bent 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 can not 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! Ha! he thinks the game all at
his fingers' ends. But I will neither marry Mañual, 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 any thing;
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 that moment she perceived Mañuel Nevarro crossing
the Plaza, and drawing closer the mantilla, she hastened
homeward.