"And ruder words will soon rush in
To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said."
MOORE.
Inez de Garcia was an only child, and in San Antonio considered quite
an heiress. Her wealth consisted in broad lands, large flocks, and
numerous herds, and these valuable possessions, combined with her
beautiful face, rendered her the object of considerable attention.
Inez was endowed with quick perceptions, and a most indomitable will,
which she never surrendered, except to accomplish some latent design;
and none who looked into her beautiful eyes could suppose that beauty
predominated over intellect. She was subtile, and consciousness of her
powers was seen in the haughty glance and contemptuous smile. Her hand
had been promised from infancy to her orphan cousin, Mañuel Nevarro,
whose possessions were nearly as extensive as her own. Inez looked
with indifference on her handsome cousin, but never objected till
within a few weeks of her seventeenth birthday (the period appointed
for her marriage), when she urged her father to break the engagement.
This he positively refused to do, but promising, at Father Mazzolin's
suggestion, that she should have a few more months of freedom, she
apparently acquiesced. Among the peculiar customs of Mexicans, was a
singular method of celebrating St. ----'s day. Instead of repairing to
their church and engaging in some rational service, they mounted their
half wild ponies, and rode furiously up and down the streets till
their jaded steeds refused to stir another step, when they were
graciously allowed to finish the day on the common. The celebration
of the festival was not confined to the masculine portion of the
community; silver-haired Señoras mingled in the cavalcade and many a
bright-eyed Señorita looked forward to St. ----'s day with feelings
nearly akin to those with which a New York belle regards the most
fashionable ball of the season.
On the evening preceding the day of that canonized lady, Mañuel
entered the room where Inez sat, her needle work on the floor at some
distance, as though flung impatiently from her, her head resting on
one hand, while the other held a gentleman's glove. Light as was his
step, she detected it and thrusting the glove into her bosom, turned
her fine face full upon him.
"What in the name of wonder brings you here this time of day, Mañuel?
I thought every one but myself was taking a siesta this warm evening."
"I have been trying a new horse, Inez, and came to know at what hour
you would ride to-morrow." He stood fanning himself with his broad
sombrero as he spoke.
"Excuse me, Señor, I do not intend to ride at all."
"You never refused before, Inez; what is the meaning of this?" and his
Spanish brow darkened ominously.
"That I do not feel inclined to do so, is sufficient reason."
"And why don't you choose to ride, pray? You have done it all your
life."
"I'll be cross-questioned by no one!" replied Inez, springing to
her feet, with flashing eyes, and passionately clinching her small,
jeweled hand.
Mañuel was of a fiery temperament, and one of the many who never pause
to weigh the effect of their words or actions. Seizing her arm in no
gentle manner, he angrily exclaimed,
"A few more weeks, and I'll see whether you indulge every whim, and
play the queen so royally!"
Inez disengaged her arm, every feature quivering with scorn.
"To whom do you speak, Señor Nevarro? You have certainly mistaken me
for one of the miserable peons over whom you claim jurisdiction. Allow
me to undeceive you! I am Inez de Garcia, to whom you shall never
dictate, for I solemnly declare, that from this day the link which has
bound us from childhood is at an end. Mine be the hand to sever it.
From this hour we meet only as cousins! Go seek a more congenial
bride!"
"Hold, Inez! are you mad?"
"No, Mañuel, but candid; for eight years I have known that I was
destined to be your wife, but I never loved you, Mañuel. I do not, and
never can, otherwise than as a cousin."
In a tone of ill-suppressed range, Nevarro retorted:
"My uncle's authority shall compel you to fulfil the engagement! You
shall not thus escape me!"
"As you please, Señor. Yet let me tell you, compulsion will not
answer. The combined efforts of San Antonio will not avail--they may
crush, but cannot conquer me." She bowed low, and left the room.
Every feature inflamed with wrath, Nevarro snatched his hat, and
hurried down the street. He had not proceeded far, when a hand was
laid upon his arm, and turning, with somewhat pugnacious intentions,
encountered Father Mazzolin's piercing black eyes.
"Bueño tarde, Padre."
The black eyes rested on Nevarro with an expression which seemed to
demand an explanation of his choler. Mañuel moved uneasily; the hot
blood glowed in his swarthy cheek, and swelled like cords on the
darkened brow.
"Did you wish to speak with me, Padre?"
"Even so, my son. Thou art troubled, come unto one who can give thee
comfort."
They were standing before the door of the harkell occupied by the
priest: he opened it and drew Mañuel in.
An hour later they emerged from the house. All trace of anger was
removed from Nevarro's brow, and Father Mazzolin's countenance wore
the impenetrable cast he ever assumed in public. It was his business
expression, the mask behind which he secretly drew the strings, and
lured his dupes into believing him a disinterested and self-denying
pastor, whose only aim in life was to promote the welfare and
happiness of his flock.
When Don Garcia sat that night, _à la Turk_, on a buffalo-robe before
his door, puffing his cigarrita, and keeping time to the violin, which
sent forth its merry tones at a neighboring fandango, Inez drew near,
and related the result of her interview with Mañuel, concluding by
declaring her intention to abide by her decision, and consult her own
wishes in the selection of a husband.
His astonishment was great. First he tried reasoning, but she refuted
every argument advanced with the adroitness of an Abelard: the small
stock of patience with which "Dame Nature" had endowed the Don gave
way, and at last, stamping with rage, he swore she should comply, or
end her life in a gloomy cell of San Jose.
Inez laughed contemptuously. She felt the whirlwind she had raised
gathering about her, yet sought not to allay it: she knew it was the
precursor of a fierce struggle, yet quailed not. Like the heroine of
Saragossa, or the martyr of Rouen, she knew not fear; and her restless
nature rather joyed in the strife.
A low growl from the dog who shared the robe, announced an intruder,
and the next moment the Padre joined them. He was joyfully hailed by
De Garcia as an ally; but a dark look of hatred gleamed from Inez's
eyes, as they rested on his form: it vanished instantly, and she
welcomed him with a smile. She was cognizant of his interview with
Nevarro, for her window overlooked the street in which it took place.
She knew, too, his powers of intrigue; that they were enlisted against
her; and a glance sufficed to show the path to be pursued. Long
ago her penetrating eye had probed the mask of dissimulation which
concealed, like the "silver veil" of Mokanna, a great deformity: how
much greater because, alas! a moral one.
Father Mazzolin inquired, with apparent interest, the cause of
contention. The Don gave a detailed account, and wound up by applying
to him for support, in favor of Nevarro. The look of sorrowful
astonishment with which he listened, compelled Inez to fix her large
Spanish eyes on the ground, lest he should perceive the smile which
lurked in their corners, and half played round her lip.
He rebuked her gently, and spoke briefly of the evils which would
result, if she persisted in her wilful and ungrateful course. Inez
listened with a meekness which surprised both parent and Padre; and
when the latter rose to go, approached, and, in a low tone, requested
him to meet her, that day week, in the confessional.
Woman's heart is everywhere the same, and in the solitude of her own
apartment, Inez's softer feelings found full vent. She sat with her
face in her hands, one long deep; sigh, which struggled up, telling of
the secret pain that was withering her joys and clouding her future.
Suddenly she started up, and passionately exclaimed,
"It is hard that _his_ love should be wasted, on one whose heart is
as cold and stony as this wall;" and she struck it impatiently.
Then drawing forth the glove, which on Mañuel's entrance had been so
hastily secreted, she pressed it repeatedly to her lips, returned it
to its hiding-place, and sought her couch.