“He various changes of the world had known,
And some vicissitudes of human fate,
Still altering, never in a steady state
Good after ill, and after pain delight,
Alternate, like the scenes of day and night.”
“Ladies whose bright eyes
Rain influence.”
“But who the limits of that power shall trace,
Which a brave people into life can bring,
Or hide at will, for freedom combating
By just revenge inflamed?”
For many years there had never been any doubt in the mind of Robert
Worth as to the ultimate destiny of Texas, though he was by no means
an adventurer, and had come into the beautiful land by a sequence of
natural and business-like events. He was born in New York. In that city
he studied his profession, and in eighteen hundred and three began its
practice in an office near Contoit’s Hotel, opposite the City Park. One
day he was summoned there to attend a sick man. His patient proved to
be Don Jaime Urrea, and the rich Mexican grandee conceived a warm
friendship for the young physician.
At that very time, France had just ceded to the United States the
territory of Louisiana, and its western boundary was a subject about
which Americans were then angrily disputing. They asserted that it was
the Rio Grande; but Spain, who naturally did not want Americans so
near her own territory, denied the claim, and made the Sabine River
the dividing line. And as Spain had been the original possessor of
Louisiana, she considered herself authority on the subject.
The question was on every tongue, and it was but natural that it
should be discussed by Urrea and his physician. In fact, they talked
continually of the disputed boundary, and of Mexico. And Mexico was then
a name to conjure by. She was as yet a part of Spain, and a sharer in
all her ancient glories. She was a land of romance, and her very name
tasted on the lips, of gold, and of silver, and of precious stones.
Urrea easily persuaded the young man to return to Mexico with him.
The following year there was a suspicious number of American visitors
and traders in San Antonio, and one of the Urreas was sent with a
considerable number of troops to garrison the city. For Spain was well
aware that, however statesmen might settle the question, the young
and adventurous of the American people considered Texas United States
territory, and would be well inclined to take possession of it by force
of arms, if an opportunity offered.
Robert Worth accompanied General Urrea to San Antonio, and the visit
was decisive as to his future life. The country enchanted him. He was
smitten with love for it, as men are smitten with a beautiful face.
And the white Moorish city had one special charm for him--it was seldom
quite free from Americans, Among the mediaeval loungers in the narrow
streets, it filled his heart with joy to see at intervals two or three
big men in buckskin or homespun. And he did not much wonder that the
Morisco-Hispano-Mexican feared these Anglo-Americans, and suspected them
of an intention to add Texan to their names.
His inclination to remain in San Antonio was settled by his marriage.
Dona Maria Flores, though connected with the great Mexican families of
Yturbide and Landesa, owned much property in San Antonio. She had been
born within its limits, and educated in its convent, and a visit to
Mexico and New Orleans had only strengthened her attachment to her own
city. She was a very pretty woman, with an affectionate nature, but she
was not intellectual. Even in the convent the sisters had not considered
her clever.
But men often live very happily with commonplace wives, and Robert Worth
had never regretted that his Maria did not play on the piano, and paint
on velvet, and work fine embroideries for the altars. They had passed
nearly twenty-six years together in more than ordinary content and
prosperity. Yet no life is without cares and contentions, and Robert
Worth had had to face circumstances several times, which had brought the
real man to the front.
The education of his children had been such a crisis. He had two sons
and two daughters, and for them he anticipated a wider and grander
career than he had chosen for himself. When his eldest child, Thomas,
had reached the age of fourteen, he determined to send him to New York.
He spoke to Dona Maria of this intention. He described Columbia to her
with all the affectionate pride of a student for his alma mater. The
boy’s grandmother also still lived in the home wherein, he himself had
grown to manhood. His eyes filled with tears when he remembered the red
brick house in Canal Street, with its white door and dormer windows, and
its one cherry tree in the strip of garden behind.
But Dona Maria’s national and religious principles, or rather
prejudices, were very strong. She regarded the college of San Juan de
Lateran in Mexico as the fountainhead of knowledge. Her confessor had
told her so. All the Yturbides and Landesas had graduated at San Juan.
But the resolute father would have none of San Juan. “I know all about
it, Maria,” he said. “They will teach Thomas Latin very thoroughly. They
will make him proficient in theology and metaphysics. They will let him
dabble in algebra and Spanish literature; and with great pomp, they will
give him his degree, and ‘the power of interpreting Aristotle all over
the world.’ What kind of an education is that, for a man who may have to
fight the battles of life in this century?”
And since the father carried his point it is immaterial what precise
methods he used. Men are not fools even in a contest with women. They
usually get their own way, if they take the trouble to go wisely and
kindly about it. Two years afterwards, Antonia followed her brother to
New York, and this time, the mother made less opposition. Perhaps she
divined that opposition would have been still more useless than in the
case of the boy. For Robert Worth had one invincible determination; it
was, that this beautiful child, who so much resembled a mother whom
he idolized, should be, during the most susceptible years of her life,
under that mother’s influence.
And he was well repaid for the self-denial her absence entailed,
when Antonia came back to him, alert, self-reliant, industrious, an
intelligent and responsive companion, a neat and capable housekeeper,
who insensibly gave to his home that American air it lacked, and who set
upon his table the well-cooked meats and delicate dishes which he had
often longed for.
John, the youngest boy, was still in New York finishing his course of
study; but regarding Isabel, there seemed to be a tacit relinquishment
of the purpose, so inflexibly carried out with her brothers and sister.
Isabel was entirely different from them. Her father had watched her
carefully, and come to the conviction that it would be impossible to
make her nature take the American mintage. She was as distinctly Iberian
as Antonia was Anglo-American.
In her brothers the admixture of races had been only as alloy to metal.
Thomas Worth was but a darker copy of his father. John had the romance
and sensitive honor of old Spain, mingled with the love of liberty, and
the practical temper, of those Worths who had defied both Charles the
First and George the Third. But Isabel had no soul-kinship with her
father’s people. Robert Worth had seen in the Yturbide residencia
in Mexico the family portraits which they had brought with them from
Castile. Isabel was the Yturbide of her day. She had all their physical
traits, and from her large golden-black eyes the same passionate soul
looked forth. He felt that it would be utter cruelty to send her among
people who must always be strangers to her.
So Isabel dreamed away her childhood at her mother’s side, or with
the sisters in the convent, learning from them such simple and useless
matters as they considered necessary for a damosel of family and
fortune. On the night of the Senora Valdez’s reception, she had
astonished every one by the adorable grace of her dancing, and the
captivating way in which she used her fan. Her fingers touched the
guitar as if they had played it for a thousand years. She sang a Spanish
Romancero of El mio Cid with all the fire and tenderness of a Castilian
maid.
Her father watched her with troubled eyes. He almost felt as if he had
no part in her. And the thought gave him an unusual anxiety, for he
knew this night that the days were fast approaching which would test to
extremity the affection which bound his family together. He contrived to
draw Antonia aside for a few moments.
“Is she not wonderful?” he asked. “When did she learn these things? I
mean the way in which she does them?”
Isabel was dancing La Cachoucha, and Antonia looked at her little sister
with eyes full of loving speculation. Her answer dropped slowly from her
lips, as if a conviction was reluctantly expressed:
“The way must be a gift from the past--her soul has been at school
before she was born here. Father, are you troubled? What is it? Not
Isabel, surely?”
“Not Isabel, primarily. Antonia, I have been expecting something for
twenty years. It is coming.”
“And you are sorry?”
“I am anxious, that is all. Go back to the dancers. In the morning we
can talk.”
In the morning the doctor was called very early by some one needing his
skill. Antonia heard the swift footsteps and eager voices, and watched
him mount the horse always kept ready saddled for such emergencies, and
ride away with the messenger. The incident in itself was a usual
one, but she was conscious that her soul was moving uneasily and
questioningly in some new and uncertain atmosphere.
She had felt it on her first entrance into Senora Valdez’s gran sala--a
something irrepressible in the faces of all the men present. She
remembered that even the servants had been excited, and that they
stood in small groups, talking with suppressed passion and with much
demonstrativeness. And the officers from the Alamo! How conscious they
had been of their own importance! What airs of condescension and of an
almost insufferable protection they had assumed! Now, that she recalled
the faces of Judge Valdez, and other men of years and position, she
understood that there had been in them something out of tone with the
occasion. In the atmosphere of the festa she had only felt it. In the
solitude of her room she could apprehend its nature.
For she had been born during those stormy days when Magee and Bernardo,
with twelve hundred Americans, first flung the banner of Texan
independence to the wind; when the fall of Nacogdoches sent a thrill of
sympathy through the United States, and enabled Cos and Toledo, and the
other revolutionary generals in Mexico, to carry their arms against Old
Spain to the very doors of the vice-royal palace. She had heard from
her father many a time the whole brave, brilliant story--the same story
which has been made in all ages from the beginning of time. Only
the week before, they had talked it over as they sat under the great
fig-tree together.
“History but repeats itself,” the doctor had said then; “for when
the Mexicans drove the Spaniards, with their court ceremonies, their
monopolies and taxes, back to Spain, they were just doing what the
American colonists did, when they drove the English royalists back
to England. It was natural, too, that the Americans should help the
Mexicans, for, at first, they were but a little band of patriots; and
the American-Saxon has like the Anglo-Saxon an irresistible impulse to
help the weaker side. And oh, Antonia! The cry of Freedom! Who that has
a soul can resist it?”
She remembered this conversation as she stood in the pallid dawning, and
watched her father ride swiftly away. The story of the long struggle in
all its salient features flashed through her mind; and she understood
that it is not the sword alone that gives liberty--that there must be
patience before courage; that great ideas must germinate for years in
the hearts of men before the sword can reap the harvest.
The fascinating memory of Burr passed like a shadow across her dreaming.
The handsome Lafayettes--the gallant Nolans--the daring Hunters--the
thousands of forgotten American traders and explorers--bold and
enterprising--they had sown the seed. For great ideas are as catching as
evil ones. A Mexican, with the iron hand of Old Spain upon him and the
shadow of the Inquisition over him, could not look into the face of an
American, and not feel the thought of Freedom stirring in his heart.
It stirred in her own heart. She stood still a moment to feel
consciously the glow and the enlargement. Then with an impulse natural,
but neither analyzed nor understood, she lifted her prayer-book, and
began to recite “the rising prayer.” She had not said to herself, “from
the love of Freedom to the love of God, it is but a step,” but she
experienced the emotion and felt all the joy of an adoration, simple and
unquestioned, springing as naturally from the soul as the wild flower
from the prairie.
As she knelt, up rose the sun, and flooded her white figure and her fair
unbound hair with the radiance of the early morning. The matin bells
chimed from the convent and the churches, and the singing birds began to
flutter their bright wings, and praise God also, “in their Latin.”
She took her breakfast alone. The Senora never came downstairs so
early. Isabel had wavering inclinations, and generally followed them.
Sometimes, even her father had his cup of strong coffee alone in his
study; so the first meal of the day was usually, as perhaps it ought
to be, a selfishly-silent one. “Too much enthusiasm and chattering at
breakfast, are like too much red at sunrise,” the doctor always said;
“a dull, bad day follows it”--and Antonia’s observation had turned the
little maxim into a superstition.
In the Senora’s room, the precept was either denied, or defied. Antonia
heard the laughter and conversation through the closed door, and easily
divined the subject of it. It was, but natural. The child had a triumph;
one that appealed strongly to her mother’s pride and predilections.
It was a pleasant sight to see them in the shaded sunshine exulting
themselves happily in it.
The Senora, plump and still pretty, reclined upon a large gilded bed.
Its splendid silk coverlet and pillows cased in embroidery and lace made
an effective background for her. She leaned with a luxurious indolence
among them, sipping chocolate and smoking a cigarrito. Isabel was on a
couch of the same description. She wore a satin petticoat, and a loose
linen waist richly trimmed with lace. It showed her beautiful shoulders
and arms to perfection. Her hands were folded above her head. Her tiny
feet, shod in satin, were quivering like a bird’s wings, as if they were
keeping time with the restlessness of her spirit.
She had large eyes, dark and bright; strong eyebrows, a pale complexion
with a flood of brilliant color in the checks, dazzling even teeth,
and a small, handsome mouth. Her black hair was loose and flowing, and
caressed her cheeks and temples in numberless little curls and tendrils.
Her face was one flush of joy and youth. She had a look half-earnest and
half-childlike, and altogether charming. Antonia adored her, and she
was pleased to listen to the child, telling over again the pretty things
that had been said to her.
“Only Don Luis was not there at all, Antonia. There is always something
wanting,” and her voice fell with those sad inflections that are often
only the very excess of delight.
The Senora looked sharply at her. “Don Luis was not desirable. He was
better away--much better!”
“But why?”
“Because, Antonia, he is suspected. There is an American called Houston.
Don Luis met him in Nacogdoches. He has given his soul to him, I think.
He would have fought Morello about him, if the captain could have drawn
his sword in such a quarrel. I should not have known about the affair
had not Senora Valdez told me. Your father says nothing against the
Americans.”
“Perhaps, then, he knows nothing against them.”
“You will excuse me, Antonia; not only the living but the dead must have
heard of their wickedness. They are a nation of ingrates. Ingrates are
cowards. It was these words Captain Morello said, when Don Luis drew his
sword, made a circle with its point and stood it upright in the centre.
It was a challenge to the whole garrigon, and about this fellow Houston,
whom he calls his friend! Holy Virgin preserve us from such Mexicans!”
“It is easier to talk than to fight. Morello’s tongue is sharper than
his sword.”
“Captain Morello was placing his sword beside that of Don Luis, when the
Commandant interfered. He would not permit his officers to fight in such
a quarrel. ‘Santo Dios!’ he said, ‘you shall all have your opportunity
very soon, gentlemen.’ Just reflect upon the folly of a boy like Don
Luis, challenging a soldier like Morello!”
“He was in no danger, mother,” said Antonia scornfully. “Morello is a
bully, who wears the pavement out with his spurs and sabre. His weapons
are for show. Americans, at least, wear their arms for use, and not for
ornament.”
“Listen, Antonia! I will not have them spoken of. They are Jews--or at
least infidels, all of them!--the devil himself is their father--the
bishop, when he was here last confirmation, told me so.”
“Mother!”
“At least they are unbaptized Christians, Antonia. If you are not
baptized, the devil sends you to do his work. As for Don Luis, he is a
very Judas! Ah, Maria Santissima! how I do pity his good mother!”
“Poor Don Luis!” said Isabel plaintively.
“He is so handsome, and he sings like a very angel. And he loves my
father; he wanted to be a doctor, so that he could always be with him.
I dare say this man called Houston is no better than a Jew, and perhaps
very ugly beside. Let us talk no more about him and the Americans. I
am weary of them; as Tia Rachella says, ‘they have their spoon in every
one’s mess.’”
And Antonia, whose heart was burning, only stooped down and closed her
sister’s pretty mouth with a kiss. Her tongue was impatient to speak for
the father, and grandmother, and the friends, so dear to her; but she
possessed great discretion, and also a large share of that rarest of all
womanly graces, the power under provocation, of “putting on Patience the
noble.”