Pleasure has not been the sole purpose for which Colonel Armstrong is
giving his little dinner party, else there would have been ladies
invited along with the gentlemen. It is rather a re-union to talk over
the affairs of the colony; hence the only ladies present were the
daughters of the host. And, for the same reason, these have retired
from the table at an early hour, betaking themselves to the _sala_ of
the old monastery, their sitting and drawing-room. This, though an
ample apartment, is anything but a pleasant one; never much affected by
the monks, who in their post-prandial hours, preferred sticking to the
refectory. A hasty attempt has been made to modernise it; but the light
furniture of French Creole fabric, brought along from Louisiana, ill
accords with its heavy style of architecture, while its decayed walls
and ceilings _lezardee_, give it a gloomy dismal look, all the more from
the large room being but dimly lit up. As it is not a drawing-room
party, the ladies expect that for a long while, if not all evening, they
will be left alone in it. For a time they scarce know how to employ
themselves. With Helen, amusement is out of the question. She has
flung herself into a _fauteuil_, and sits in pensive attitude; of late,
alas! become habitual to her.
Jessie, taking up her guitar, commences a song, the first that occurs to
her, which chances to be "Lucy Neal," a negro melody, at the time much
in vogue on the plantations of the South. She has chosen the pathetic
strain without thought of the effect it may produce upon her sister.
Observing it to be painful she abruptly breaks off, and with a sweep of
her fingers across the guitar strings, changes to the merrier refrain of
"Old Dan Tucker." Helen, touched by the delicate consideration, rewards
it with a faint smile. Then, Jessie rattles on through a _melange_ of
negro ministrelsy, all of the light comical kind, her only thought being
to chase away her sister's despondency.
Still is she unsuccessful. Her merry voice, her laughter, and the
cheerful tinkle of the guitar strings, are all exerted in vain. The
sounds so little in consonance with Helen's thoughts seem sorely out of
place in that gloomy apartment; whose walls, though they once echoed the
laughter of roystering friars, have, no doubt, also heard the sighs of
many a poor _peon_ suffering chastisement for disobedience, or apostacy.
At length perceiving how idle are her efforts, the younger sister lays
aside her guitar, at the same time starting to her feet, and
saying:--"Come, Helen! suppose we go outside for a stroll? That will be
more agreeable than moping in this gloomsome cavern. There's a
beautiful moonlight, and we ought to enjoy it."
"If you wish, I have no objections. Where do you intend strolling to?"
"Say the garden. We can take a turn along its walks, though they are a
little weedy. A queer weird place it is--looks as if it might be
haunted. I shouldn't wonder if we met a ghost in it--some of the old
monks; or it might be one of their victims. 'Tis said they were very
cruel, and killed people--ay, tortured them. Only think of the savage
monsters! True, the ones that were here, as I've heard, got killed
themselves in the end--that's some satisfaction. But it's all the more
reason for their ghosts being about. If we should meet one, what would
you do?"
"That would depend on how he behaved himself."
"You're not afraid of ghosts, Helen! I know you're not."
"I was when a child. Now I fear neither the living nor the dead. I can
dare both, having nought to make me care for life--"
"Come on!" cries Jessie, interrupting the melancholy train of
reflection, "Let us to the garden. If we meet a monk in hood and cowl,
I shall certainly--"
"Do what?"
"Run back into the house fast as feet can carry me. Come along!"
Keeping up the jocular bravado, the younger sister leads the way out.
Arm-in-arm the two cross the _patio_, then the outer courtyard, and on
through a narrow passage communicating with the walled enclosure at
back; once a grand garden under careful cultivation, still grand in its
neglect.
After entering it, the sisters make stop, and for a while stand
surveying the scene. The moon at full, coursing through a cloudless
sky, flings her soft light upon gorgeous flowers with corollas but
half-closed, in the sultry southern night giving out their fragrance as
by day. The senses of sight and smell are not the only ones gratified;
that of hearing is also charmed with the song of the _czentzontle_, the
Mexican nightingale. One of these birds perched upon a branch, and
pouring forth its love-lay in loud passionate strain, breaks off at
sight of them. Only for a short interval is it silent; then resuming
its lay, as if convinced it has nought to fear from such fair intruders.
Its song is not strange to their ears, though there are some notes they
have not hitherto heard. It is their own mocking-bird of the States,
introducing into its mimic minstrelsy certain variations, the imitations
of sounds peculiar to Texas.
After having listened to it for a short while, the girls move on down
the centre walk, now under the shadow of trees, anon emerging into the
moonlight; which shimmering on their white evening robes, and reflecting
the sparkle of their jewellery, produces a pretty effect.
The garden ground slopes gently backward; and about half-way between the
house and the bottom wall is, or has been, a fountain. The basin is
still there, and with water in it, trickling over its edge. But the jet
no longer plays, and the mason-work shows greatly dilapidated. So also
the seats and statues around, some of the latter yet standing, others
broken off, and lying alongside their pedestals.
Arriving at this spot, the sisters again stop, and for a time stand
contemplating the ruins; the younger making a remark, suggested by a
thought of their grandeur gone.
"Fountains, statues, seats under shade trees, every luxury to be got out
of a garden! What Sybarites the Holy Fathers must have been!"
"Truly so," assents Helen. "They seem to have made themselves quite
comfortable; and whatever their morals, it must be admitted they
displayed good taste in landscape gardening, with an eye on good living
as well. They must have been very fond of fruit, and a variety of it--
judging by the many sorts of trees they've planted."
"So much the better for us," gleefully replies Jessie. "We shall have
the benefit of their industry, when the fruit season comes round. Won't
it be a grand thing when we get the walks gravelled, these statues
restored, and that fountain once more in full play. Luis has promised
me it shall be done, soon as the cotton crop is in. Oh! it will be a
Paradise of a place!"
"I like it better as it is."
"You do. Why?"
"Ah! that _you_ cannot understand. You do not know--I hope never will--
what it is to live only in the past. This place has had a past, like
myself, once smiling; and now like me all desolation."
"O sister! do not speak so. It pains me--indeed it does. Besides your
words only go half-way. As you say, it's had a smiling past, and's
going to have a smiling future. And so will you sis. I'm determined to
have it all laid out anew, in as good style as it ever was--better.
Luis shall do it--must, _when he marries, me_--if not before."
To the pretty bit of bantering Helen's only answer is a sigh, with a
sadder expression, as from some fresh pang shooting through her heart.
It is even this; for, once again, she cannot help contrasting her own
poor position with the proud one attained by her sister. She knows that
Dupre is in reality master of all around, as Jessie will be mistress,
she herself little better than their dependant. No wonder the thought
should cause her humiliation, or that, with a spirit imperious as her's,
she should feel it acutely. Still, in her crushed heart there is no
envy at her sister's good fortune. Could Charles Clancy come to life
again, now she knows him true--were he but there to share with her the
humblest hut in Texas, all the splendours, all the grandeurs of earth,
could not add to that happiness, nor give one emotion more.
After her enthusiastic outburst, to which there has been no rejoinder,
Jessie continues on toward the bottom of the garden, giving way to
pleasant fancies, dreams of future designs, with her fan playfully
striking at the flowers as she passes them.
In silence Helen follows; and no word is exchanged between them till
they reach the lower end; when Jessie, turning round, the two are face
to face. The place, where they have stopped is another opening with
seats and statues, admitting the moonlight. By its bright beam the
younger sister sees anguish depicted on the countenance of the older.
With a thought that her last words have caused or contributed to this,
she is about to add others that may remove it. But before she can
speak, Helen makes a gesture that holds her silent.
Near the spot where they are standing two trees overshadow the walk,
their boughs meeting across it. Both are emblematic--one symbolising
the most joyous hour of existence, the other its saddest. They are an
orange, and a cypress. The former is in bloom, as it always is; the
latter only in leaf, without a blossom on its branches.
Helen, stepping between them, and extending an arm to each, plucks from
the one a sprig, from the other a flower. Raising the orange blossom
between her white fingers, more attenuated than of yore, she plants it
amid Jessie's golden tresses. At the same time she sets the cypress
sprig behind the plaits of her own raven hair; as she does so, saying:--
"That for you, sister--this for me. We are now decked as befits us--as
we shall both soon be--_you for the bridal, I for the tomb_!"
The words, seeming but too prophetic, pierce Jessie's heart as arrow
with poisoned barb. In an instant, her joy is gone, sunk into the
sorrow of her sister. Herself sinking upon that sister's bosom, with
arms around her neck, and tears falling thick and fast over her
swan-white shoulders.
Never more than now has her heart overflowed with compassion, for never
as now has Helen appeared to suffer so acutely. As she stood, holding
in one hand the symbol of bright happy life, in the other the dark
emblem of death, she looked the very personification of sorrow. With
her magnificent outline of form, and splendid features, all the more
marked in their melancholy, she might have passed for its divinity. The
ancient sculptors would have given much for such a model, to mould the
statue of Despair.