MY MOTHER’S LAST APPEAL.
When it drew toward midnight, and she saw me, to all appearance,
sleeping tranquilly on the floor, I heard a movement in the room as if
my mother were preparing to go out. I opened my eyes and watched.
She took up the cashmere shawl and folded it over her head and person,
leaving only the face exposed, after the fashion of a Spanish mantilla.
Her face looked thin, but very beautiful, surrounded by those gorgeous
colors, for her cheeks were of a burning scarlet; and her eyes—in my
life I have never seen an expression like theirs. It was like the
reflection of a star in deep waters. She stole out through the balcony.
I heard her descend to the garden, and followed, actuated, I think, by a
vague dread that she was about to leave me forever.
She threaded the wilderness with a quick step, and kept her way through
the grounds cut up into thickets and flower-beds that lay around
Greenhurst. I do not think that she had ever been there before in her
life, but she seemed to find the way by intuition. I followed close, but
unseen, and to my surprise saw her pass into the hall by the back
entrance, through which Lord Clare had led me. The door was not entirely
closed after her, and I crept through. The hall was dark, but she moved
noiselessly on, gliding like a shadow up the broad staircase.
Now I was guided only by the faint ripple of her garments, for the upper
halls lay in perfect darkness, and she was more in advance.
I saw by the glow of light that came into the darkness, that a door had
been softly opened, in which a lamp was burning, and moved along the
wall till I stood in view of a bed-chamber lighted as with moonbeams,
for a lamp had been placed within an alabaster vase, evidently for this
subduing purpose. I saw nothing distinctly in the room, but have a vague
remembrance of a cloud of azure silk and rich lace brooding in one
corner of the chamber—a couch underneath, white as mountain snow, and on
it _that woman_, asleep, and my mother gazing upon her.
The sleeper scarcely seemed to breathe. A narcotic influence was
evidently upon her, which had been used to still some previous pain; but
all traces of anguish had departed from her forehead, from which the
bright hair was swept back, giving its broad, massive grandeur to the
light. A halo of happiness lay upon her face that made your breath come
quick; the wealth of a great soul seemed breaking over her noble
features as she slept. The eyes underneath those broad lids were
swimming in joy, that broke through like perfume from the white leaves
of a rose. The atmosphere which hung about her seemed warm and fragrant,
like that of an Indian summer in North America.
There stood her contrast, my gipsy mother, with the hot blood of her
race burning in her eyes, her forehead, and that now firm mouth. I
looked in her face, and thought she was about to spring upon her prey,
for the passions burning there grew fierce as death. She bent down and
scrutinized the sleeper, then felt in her hair, and looked sharply
around the room, I thought for some weapon.
“My oath, my oath!” she muttered, casting her great eyes around,
“nothing but death can separate us; why not _her_ death?”
I sprang forward, wild with terror, and caught hold of her dress.
“Mamma, oh, mamma, come away, come away,” I pleaded, in a whisper.
She yielded to me, and walked slowly from the chamber, like one moving
in a dream.
“Hush!” she said, as we stood in the hall, “I thought it had been _his_
room. Where is it, child, you know?”
“Come away—come away!” I whispered, still keeping a firm grasp on her
dress. “It is dark—I’m afraid.”
She broke from me, and I lost her. The faint sound of a foot reached me
once, but I had no courage to follow, and cowered down in the hall,
shivering and noiseless. It seemed to me that I remained a year in that
black stillness. I could endure it no longer, but groped my way to the
staircase out into the open air.
The moon was up, but overwhelmed by an ocean of clouds. Now and then a
leaden gleam broke out, and this gave me courage to wait and watch.
She came forth at last, and when I sprang toward her, caught me firmly
by the hand.
“Come,” she said, “the oath falls back here—the gipsy blood will not
fail me when it is only us.”
“What do you mean, mamma? Have you seen him, the Busne?”
“Yes!”
“Was he awake, mamma?”
“Awake!” and her laugh was fearful. “Child, do you think he could
sleep?—can ever sleep again?”
“Did he say anything? Was he sorry for striking me?”
“Hush!” said my mother, sharply, “he has struck us both, the body for my
child—the heart for me!”
“Did you strike him back, mother?”
“No, but I will. The stone that crushes me shall fall on his soul.”
Now I recognized my gipsy mother. She turned to me, and a straggling
moonbeam touched her face.
“Zana, do you know what an oath is?”
“Yes, mamma, I heard you mention the word in your sleep, and so asked
Turner.”
“I have sworn an oath, Zana. Will you help me keep it?”
“I will help you, mamma.”
“Let me make you strong with my kisses, Zana, you are no child.”
I clung to her, answering back that wild caress, for my heart was
burning with a sense of her wrongs.
“I was a child once, mother, but that has all gone by. I am something
else now; not a woman like you, but sharper, like a little dagger with
bright stones on the hilt, that you sometimes fasten up your hair with.
The handle is so pretty; but the point, isn’t that sharp?”
“It was well I left it behind, to-night, Zana.”
“You could not leave _me_ behind, I _would_ go!”
“Are you tired, Zana?”
“No.”
“Walk fast then, for we must be a long way from this before morning.”
“Where are you going, mother?”
“To keep my oath!”
We entered the cottage for the last time. My mother must have
anticipated what was to happen, for she took me into her room, tore off
my pretty scarlet frock, and replaced it with the garments of a little
boy. Her own dress she changed also, and we left the house together,
both clad in male garments, and each carrying a little bundle in our
hands.
Where we went first, I do not know. The events of that day and night
were burned upon my memory, but after that I had only a vague idea of
travelling day after day—of broad, stormy seas, a river that ran with
waves of dull gold, orange groves, wild hills, and at last a city in the
midst of beautiful plains, filled with antique houses, and beyond with
snow-capped mountains looming against the sky. The grim towers of a ruin
fixed itself on my memory, frowning between the city and those
mountain-tops, and when I asked my mother of the name of this city and
ruin, she answered briefly, “Granada, the Alhambra,” nothing more.
I was not surprised at this, for since we left Greenhurst, she had
scarcely uttered a longer sentence.
It was sunset when we came in sight of Granada. She paused in a recess
of the hills, and opening our bundles, changed her dress and mine,
casting away the male attire. I remember gazing at her with wonder as
she stood before me in her strange dress. The blue bodice, the short
crimson skirt, flowered and heavy with tarnished gold, the gorgeous
kerchief knotted under her chin, this dress had been the contents of her
bundle. Mine was more simple, a frock of maize-colored stuff broidered
with purple. My feet and ankles were bare to the knees.
My mother bent down and kissed me.
“Are you a child now, Zana?”
“No, I am what you are.”
“Come.”
We descended into the Vega and passed through Granada long after dark. I
was very tired and faint, but kept up with my mother, determined to hold
firm to my promise. During our whole journey I had not once complained.
We left the city and entered a deep, gloomy ravine, lighted up by a host
of internal fires, that seemed to burn in the bosom of the hill. Wending
along the dusty road, I saw that all the embankment was cut up into
holes, from which the lights came, and that these were swarming with
human beings.
We walked on, speaking to no one, till my mother stopped before one of
these caves of which the door was shut. She paused, and for one instant
I felt her tremble, but the emotion was gone in a breath, and pushing
the door open, she went in.
A little old woman sat in one end of the cave, rocking to and fro on a
wooden stool, beneath the beams of a smoky lamp that stood in a niche
over her head. The creature arose as we entered, passed one skeleton
hand over her eyes, and muttered “who comes—who dares open my door, when
I once shut it for the night?”
“One who fears nothing now, not even you, grandame,” said my mother,
advancing firmly up the cave.
The old woman kept her hand above those gleaming eyes, and pored keenly
over the haggard face before her.
“Why have you come back?” she said, fiercely.
“To keep my oath, grandame!”
“Your oath. Is he dead, then? Is it his blood that makes your face so
white!”
“No, he is safe—it may be, happy,” answered my mother, and for the first
time since we left England, I heard her voice falter. “He repudiates the
caloe marriage. He loves another. I saw her under his roof. He will make
her his wife. Grandame, I have come back to die. It is all of my oath
that I can redeem.”
“Under his roof? he will marry her. Girl, where was Papita’s poniard,
that you did not strike?”
“She looked innocent in her sleep. I could not do it. She knew nothing
of me, of my wrongs, or the vengeance that threatened her. A word would
have stabbed her deeper than your poniard, grandame, but I could not
speak it.”
“You came away, and left her alive?” shrieked the old woman fiercely.
“I could _not_ kill the thing he loved,” answered my mother, with pale
firmness.
“You came away, leaving these two traitors to marry and scoff at the
gipsy!”
“The lady knows nothing, and cannot scoff at us. He will never revile
one who could have driven her from his path by pointing to his child,
and saying only, ‘_he has been mine!_’ but chose rather to come here and
die.”
“It is useless, grandame—these frowns, the locking of those sharp teeth.
The desperate have no fear. I have disgraced my people, and am ready to
redeem my oath.”
“And what is this?” said Papita, touching me with a loathing scowl.
“My child, and his,” answered my mother, and I felt her fingers close
tight on my hand.
“Oh, you did well to bring her. There is yet a drop of the old blood
left; I see it in her face.”
The weird creature drew nearer and kissed me. I bore it without a
shudder.
“Can it be to-morrow?” said my mother, calmly, as if she had been
speaking of a June festival.
“Yes,” was the savage reply. “The people will not wait, Chaleco, most of
all.”
“Let him be sent for.”
“No,” said the Sibyl with a touch of feeling, “he shall not gloat over
your shame more than the rest. Go in yonder—you have broken one half the
oath, for the rest”——
“I am ready—I am ready, only let it be soon,” said my mother—“at
daylight.”
“In yonder! daylight will soon come,” answered the Sibyl, pointing to
the inner room. “I will go and prepare the people. They thought you
dead. How they will stare when Papita tells them of her trick. They
think her old, worn out, dull—she who can throw sand in the eyes of a
whole tribe.”