University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Twilight had fallen slowly, for the evening was heavy
and wet, and dark masses of cloud driven by the northern
blasts sailed gloomily overhead. Nature wore a dreary
aspect, and one involuntarily turned inward for amusement.
A bright light gleamed from the window of Florence Hamilton's
humble home, and her little dining-room seemed by
contrast extremely cheerful; yet the hearts of its inmates
were more in accordance with the gloom which reigned
without. Aunt Lizzy, growing somewhat infirm of late,
had retired earlier than usual. Florence had been sewing
all the afternoon, but now lay with closed eyes on the
couch, her hands clasped over her head. Mary sat near
the table holding an open volume, but her thoughts had
evidently wandered far away; for her gaze was fixed abstractedly
on the fire which blazed and crackled at her
feet. The girl's countenance was an interesting study, as
she sat rapt in her saddened thoughts. A care-worn expression
rested upon her face, as though some weighty
responsibility too soon had fallen on one so frail. The

cheeks were very pale, and now and then across the lips
there came a quiver, as though she struggled inwardly, and
fain would give no outward show of grief. In truth, an
almost spiritual expression had come over her features;
the impress of some deep and hidden sorrow, nobly borne,
though chasing the rosy hue from her cheeks. Sadder
grew the look, and some acute pain wrinkled her brow as
she threw aside the book, and covered her face with her
hands; while a heavy, yet smothered sigh, struggled forth,
as if striving to relieve the aching heart.

The door opened noiselessly, and a dark shrouded form
glided with soft steps to the chair, and laid a heavy hand
on her shoulder. Mary raised her head, and starting up,
gazed inquiringly at the muffled face, while the intruder
pointed to the motionless form of Florence, and laid a finger
on her lip. Then beckoning Mary to follow, she receded,
with stealthy tread, to the door, which was softly
closed, and walked hurriedly on till she reached a large
rose-tree, which shaded the window. Mary shivered as
the piercing wind swept over her, and strove in vain to
suppress a fit of coughing. There was a moment's silence.

“You did not know me?”

Mary started. “I did not, till you spoke; but, Inez,
what brings you out on such a night?”

Inez took off the mantilla which had so effectually concealed
her features, and threw it round the frail, drooping
form before her.

“No, no, Inez, you will take cold;” and Mary tendered
it back.

It was tossed off contemptuously, and mingled with a

bitter laugh came the reply—“I am not cold, Mariñita,
nor ever shall be but once again. I am burning with an
inward fire that will not be quenched.”

“You are ill, Inez, and want some medicine; tell me
where and how you suffer?”

“No, no. I want nothing from you or yours: I come
to help, not to ask. Mary, why is it you have made me
love you so, when I hate yonder dark-eyed girl? But I am
losing time. I come to warn you of danger, and even now
I am watched; but no matter, listen to what I have to
say. The Padre hates you, even as—as I hate him, and
has sworn your ruin. I tell you now you must fly from
San Antonio, and fly quickly, for danger is at hand. My
countrymen are many here, and he is stronger than all.
You and I have thwarted him, and the walls of a far off
convent are our destination—you, and your cousin, and myself.
I am at heart no Catholic; I have seen the devil, if
there be one, in my confessor. I have heard him lie, and
seen him take the widow's and the orphan's portion.
Mary, if there was a God, would he suffer such as my
Padre to minister in his holy place, and touch the consecrated
vessels? No, no; there is none, or he would be
cut off from the face of the earth.”

“Inez! Inez! stop and hear me.”

“No, no! time waits for none, and I have little more to
say. Mary, you are deceived; your cousin is not what
you think. She is a Catholic; for mine own eyes have
seen her in the confessional, and my own ears have listened
to her aves and paters.”

Mary uttered a deep groan, and clasped Inez's arm, murmuring—“You

are—you must be delirious or mad: Florry
deceive me! impossible!”

“Ah! poor deluded Mary: do you trust any on earth?
Yet I would trust you, with your white face and soft blue
eyes; and there is one other I would trust—but no more.
You will not believe that Florence has turned from the
faith of her fathers? Go to her as she sleeps yonder, and
feel with your own hand the crucifix around her neck. Ha!
you hold tight to my arm: I tell you your Cousin Florence is
as black-hearted as the Padre, for he told me she had promised
her dying father to follow his advice in all things, yet
she tells you not of this: and again, has she not won the
love of a good, a noble man, and does she not scorn his
love; else why is his cheek pale, and his proud step slow?
Mariñita, I have read you long ago. You love your Doctor,
but he loves that Florence, whose heart is black and
cold as this night. You are moaning in your agony; but
all must suffer. I have suffered more than you; I shall
always suffer. My stream of bitterness is inexhaustible;
daily I am forced to quaff the black, burning waters. Ha!
I know my lot—I swallow and murmur not. Mary, I am
sorry to make you drink so much that is bitter to-night;
but you must, for your own good; better a friend should
hold the cup and let you taste, than have it rudely forced
upon you.”

“Why have you told me this, Inez? I never did you
harm, or gave you pain.”

“Poor pale face! I want to save you from worse than
death—yea, from a living death. Go from this place;
for if you are here a month hence, you will be lost. Your

people here will be defeated, and then the Mexicans will
hand you all over to the Padre, who says he means to put
you where you will be protected. Mark me: you will be
sent where no cry for succor will ever be heard. You will
be imprisoned for life, where none can come back to tell
the tale. Mary, go to your friends in the States; or if
you can not get there, go where your people are many, and
take your Doctor with you, for blood will yet run down
these streets, and I would not that his swelled the stream.
He has promised to watch over you; tell him to take you
from here—from this cursed place. I have crept from
home this dark night to tell you of your danger; I am
watched, for the Padre suspects me, but you were always
good; you nursed me and my dying mother, and were kind
to Mañuel, and I would risk more than I have to help
you. I have done all I can; I charge you, wait not till
the last moment.”

Inez stretched out her hand for her mantilla, which she
folded closely about her face, and then clasped Mary's
hand in hers.

“Inez! oh, Inez!”

“Well, Mariñita, I may not linger here. I will see you
again if I can; but if we meet no more, forget not Inez
de Garcia, or the love she bears you: and as the greatest
blessing now for you, I hope you may soon find peace in
the quiet grave. I shall never find rest till I sleep that
last, unbroken sleep!”

“Inez, my heart is wrung by what I have heard to-night;
but I beg of you, as a last favor, do not, oh,
do not turn away from God! Inez, there is a God; and

death is not an everlasting sleep. Hereafter is an awful
tribunal; and if not again on earth, you and I shall
assuredly meet before God. Oh! believe that he will yet
bless you: that he will enable you to bear all earthly
trials; and, if faithful, he will receive you at last into the
kingdom of eternal rest. Try to forget the past, and in
this book you will find the path of duty so clearly marked
out, that you can not mistake it. 'Tis all I have about
me, yet I pray God it may be the greatest treasure you
possess.”

She drew a small Bible from her pocket as she spoke,
and pressed it within Inez's fingers, adding—“I can not
sufficiently thank you for your kindness in warning me of
my danger; I shall leave this place as soon as possible,
and shall constantly pray that you may be spared and
blessed.”

She held out her hands. Inez clasped them tightly for
a moment, and then glided down the walk as noiselessly
as she came.