"All things are dark to sorrow," and the very repose and beauty of
nature seem to the aching heart a mockery. No violent bursts of grief
had followed Mary's death, for so peaceful and painless was her end,
it was scarce allowable. Yet now that she had been consigned to the
quiet grave, a dreary sense of loneliness and desolation crept to
the hearts of the saddened group. They stood assembled at the door
of their new home, to bid adieu to Dr. Bryant. In vain had been his
sister's tears and entreaties, and Mr. Carlton's expostulations.
Florence had clasped his hand, and asked in trembling accents, why he
left them in their sorrow, and Mr. Stewart implored him not to seek
death on the battlefield.
Firm in his purpose, naught availed. He stood upon the step ready
to depart; his noble face was very pale, and grief had touched with
saddening finger every lineament. Yet his tone and mien were calm as
usual.
"My dear sister," said he, "in times like these a man should first
regard duty--the laws and precepts of his God! then the claims of his
suffering country; and lastly, the ties of nature and the tenderer
feelings of his heart. Ellen, think how many have torn themselves from
weeping wives and clinging children, and cast their warm love far from
them. The call to patriots is imperative. I have now nothing to detain
me here: it is my duty to lend my arm toward supporting our common
liberty. Do not fear for me, Ellen, my dear sister; remember that the
strong arm of all-seeing God is ever around us, to guard in time of
danger!" He clasped her tenderly to his heart, then placed her in her
husband's arms.
"Florence, if not again in Texas, I hope we shall soon meet, in more
peaceful hours, in Louisiana; if not, I pray God that you and Stewart
may be as happy as I once hoped to be." He pressed her hand warmly,
and returning the long, tight clasp of Mr. Stewart, mounted his horse
and rode slowly away.
"Mother," said Elliot, "Uncle Frank has not taken the right road
toward home."
"Hush, Elliot!" she sadly answered, while her tears gushed anew; "he
has gone by his Mary's grave."
On that hour, spent at the early tomb of the "loved and lost" Mary,
we will not intrude: it is rendered sacred by its deep, unutterable
anguish.
Nearly a week passed, and Dr. Bryant had hurried on, riding through
the long, long nights, and only pausing at times to recruit his jaded
steed. He had arrived at within two days' ride of San Antonio, and
too wearied to proceed, stopped as night closed in, and picketing his
horse wrapped his cloak about him, and threw himself under a large
spreading oak to rest, and, if possible, to sleep. An hour passed
on: still he lay looking up to the brilliant sky above. Perfect quiet
reigned around, and he felt soothed inexpressibly. Overcome with
fatigue, sleep stole on, and momentary oblivion of the past was
granted. He was startled from his slumber by the neighing of his
horse; and rising lightly, drew forth his pistols, cocked one, and
turned in the direction whence came the sound of approaching hoofs.
The neighing was answered by the advancing steed, and soon the figure
of both rider and horse was dimly seen; for the moon was not yet
risen, and the pale light of the stars but faintly assisted the
vision.
"Who comes there?" asked Dr. Bryant, throwing off his cloak, and
stepping up to the stranger.
"A peaceful Mexican, in search of cows, and some twenty sheep which
strayed away. I think, from your voice, you are an Americano. I am
friendly to your people--you will not molest me, and I will not harm
you."
"My friend, I rather doubt your word. These are stormy times for a man
to venture out in search of cattle, so far from San Antonio.".
"I could tell you a piece of news that would satisfy you that I run
less risk than yourself. But, stranger, it's not civil to doubt a
man's word, and make him an enemy whether he will or not."
"I am willing to receive your proffered proof of sincerity, and hope
to find you unlike your fickle nation. Come, tell the news which
sanctions this long ramble of yours. These are dark days, and it
becomes every man to look well to his own safety, and likewise watch
his neighbor's movements."
"I will do you a kindness, stranger; turn your horse's head, and let
moonrise find you where you drank water at noon. San Antonio is no
place for Americans now. Santa Anna has taken the Alamo; and every
one of your people lie low. Not one was spared to carry the tale to
Austin--no, not one!"
Dr. Bryant groaned in spirit, and his extended arm sunk to his side.
"Oh God! hast thou forsaken us? Surely thou wilt yet listen to the
voice of justice and liberty," he murmured to himself, and there was a
pause.
"How long since the ill-fated Alamo fell?" he inquired.
"Five days ago. Hintzilopotchli came down and held his bloody feast,
and cut off many brave men."
"By what force was the fortress assaulted?"
"Seven thousand men, led by the great and victorious Santa Anna. Not
long lasted the strife: we were too many for your people, and the
fight was short."
"And was our noble Travis slaughtered with his brave band?"
"He was too brave to live. Think you he would survive his comrades?
No! he fell first, and then all followed."
"Will Santa Anna march to Austin, think you; or, content with victory,
remain in your town?"
"Truly you give me credit for few brains and a woman's tongue. I have
told you one true tale, can you expect another from a fickle Mexican?
I tell you now, stranger, push me not too closely, if you would hear
what is good for you."
"Your voice sounds strangely familiar; yet I cannot recognize it
sufficiently to know with whom I am speaking. If, as you declare,
friendly to our people, you will not object to giving your name.
Perhaps I have known you in San Antonio."
"We Mexicans can tell a friend across the prairie--but no matter. I am
thinking we be strangers, yet I am not ashamed of my name. They call
me Antoine Amedo--did you ever hear of such an 'hombre?' My ranche is
just below the mission San Jose, and I have large flocks of sheep and
cattle."
"Antoine Amedo," repeated Dr. Bryant, musingly, and striving, through
the gloom, to scan his features. "You are right; I do not know you,
though your voice is familiar."
"If you have no objection, Señor Americano, I will let my horse picket
awhile, and rest myself; for I have ridden many miles since sunrise,
and not a blessed 'barego' have I smelled."
"You are at liberty to rest as long as you please: consult your own
inclinations." And he turned away to his own horse, yet marked that
the newcomer dismounted with some difficulty.
He changed his own picket, that fresh grass might not be wanting; and
returning to the tree, leaned against its huge body, and watched
the movements of the intruder. They were very slow, as if he were
well-nigh spent with overexertion. He took off his broad hat,
smoothed his hair, then replaced it; adjusted his heavy blanket more
comfortably, and drawing forth a sort of wallet, proceeded to satisfy
the cravings of hunger. He ate but little, and returning the bag or
sack to its hiding-place in the broad girdle which was passed about
his waist beneath the blanket, stretched himself on the ground, with
not even a straggling bough between him and the deep blue vault of
heaven.
No sound broke the silence, save the cropping of the horses as they
grazed near; and, seeking again his grassy couch, Dr. Bryant closed
his eyes, and communed with his own heart. Sleep was now impossible,
and he lay so rapt in thought, that time flew on unheeded. The moon
was shining brightly now, and every object was distinctly seen. He
heard the rustling of leaves and the crush of grass. A moment he
opened his eyes, then closed them, and feigned sleep.
The Mexican had risen, and softly approaching the motionless form,
knelt on the ground beside him, and listened to his breathing. It was
low and regular, as one in quiet slumber. He bent and gazed into the
upturned face--not a muscle quivered or a feature moved. Stealthily a
hand crept round the collar of the cloak, and lifted a heavy lock of
the raven hair. Smoothing it out on the grass, he drew forth a crooked
blade, which, in accordance with the custom of his countrymen,
ever hung in the girdle passed about the waist. It glittered in the
moonlight; and with dexterous hand he cut the lock of hair: then,
returning the knife to its resting-place, rose, and noiselessly
retreating to his former position, some yards distant, threw himself
down to sleep.
Dr. Bryant, fully conscious of every movement, determined, if
possible, to solve this mystery. His pistols were in readiness, and,
had violence been attempted, he would have sprung to his feet and
defended himself. He waited awhile, then turned, stretched, yawned,
and finally rose up. He drew out his watch, the hand pointed to two.
He wound it up, and drawing his cap closer about his ears, for the
night was cold, approached his companion and stirred him with his
foot. No sound or movement indicated consciousness; he stooped and
shook him.
"Antoine, Antoine, get up my friend: you don't intend to spend the
night here, do you?"
Ameda sat upright, and rubbed his eyes with well-feigned sleepiness:
"Well, Señor Americano, what is it--Indians smelling about?"
Dr. Bryant could not repress a smile at the drowsy tone of the
ranchero, who scarce five moments before had crept from his side.
"Upon my word, you seem a match for the seven sleepers of old. Why,
man, if Indians had stumbled on you by chance, they had slung
your scalp on yonder bough. In times like these men should slumber
lightly."
"Very true, Señor; yet mine eyes are heavy, for two moons have seen me
riding on. But you are up! wherefore?"
"I proceed on my journey, and wakened you to ask advice and direction,
and request your company, if it be that we take the same route."
"Jesu Maria! One might think the man had choice! Why, turn your
horse's head, and rest for naught but grass and water."
The Mexican had risen, and in adjusting his blanket, a sudden gust
of wind lifted his hat, and it fell to the ground at his feet; he
clutched at it convulsively, but it was too late. Dr. Bryant started
back in astonishment:
"Inez!"
The head sunk on her bosom, and the hair which had been confined at
the back of her head, fell in luxuriant masses to her waist.
"Fearless, yet unfortunate girl! what has led you to this freak?"
A singular group they presented, standing on the broad and seemingly
boundless prairie--the March wind moaning through the old oaks, and
rustling the brown grass. The moon shone full upon them; Dr. Bryant,
with his large cloak wrapped closely about him, and the black cap
drawn over his brow--surprise, reproach, pity, and chagrin strangely
blended in his gaze. One arm was folded over the broad chest, the
other hung by his side. Inez stood just before him, her beautiful head
bent so that the black locks well-nigh concealed her features. Her
father's large variegated blanket hanging loosely about the tall,
slender form. At her feet lay the hat, crushed by the extended foot,
and quivering in the night wind, her hands tightly clasped.
"Inez, you crouch like a guilty being before me! Surely you have
done nothing to blush for. Yet stranger step was never taken by a
reasonable being. Inez, raise your head, and tell me what induced
you to venture in this desolate region, alone, unprotected, and in
disguise?"
Inez lifted slowly the once beautiful face, now haggard and pale.
Anguish of spirit had left its impress on her dark brow, wrinkled by
early care. Mournful was the expression of the large dark eyes raised
to his face:
"Dr. Bryant, I am alone in the wide, wide world--there are none to
protect--none to care for me now! My father sleeps by Mañuel's side,
in the churchyard, and I am the last of my house. The name of De
Garcia, once so proud and honored, will become a byword for desolation
and misery! I have said cursed was the hour of my birth! and I now say
blessed is the hour of my last sleep! You see me here from necessity,
not choice, for all places would be alike to me now; but I have been
driven from my lonely hearth--I dared not stay, I flew to this dreary
waste for peace--for protection! There is no rest, no peace for me,
Not one is left to whom I can say, guard and keep me from harm! Alone,
friendless, in this wide, bitter world!"
"Your language is strangely ambiguous, Inez! Can you not explicitly
declare what danger threatens, and believe that all I can do to avert
evil will gladly be done?"
"Dr. Bryant, the Padre is my most inveterate enemy! Is not this
sufficient to account for my presence here?"
"Unfortunate girl! how have you incurred that man's hatred?"
"It is a long tale, and needless to repeat: enough, that he plotted
my ruin--that the strong, silent walls of a far-off convent was my
destination. And why?--That my flocks and lands might enrich his
precious church. You look wonderingly upon me; strange language,
this, I think you say, for a lamb of his flock. How dare you speak so
irreverently of the holy man, consecrated priest of Rome as he is? Dr.
Bryant, I am no Catholic, nor have I been since you have known me.
It was my policy to appear passive. I attended mass, and sought the
confessional, and all the while cursed him in my heart. I watched him,
and saved your people from destruction. Would you know how? I heard
whispered promises to meet at dead of night. I followed; I saw the
meeting between an emissary of Santa Anna and my godly Padre. At
imminent risk I listened to their plot. You were to be kept in
ignorance of the powerful force hurrying on to destroy you. Santa
Anna was to burst suddenly upon the town, and, ere you could receive
reinforcements, capture the Alamo at a blow. Once in his possession,
more than one of your people were to be handed over to the tender
mercies of my holy confessor. I warned you of your danger, and happily
you heeded the signs of the time; else you, too, would now molder
beneath the walls of the Alamo. His prey escaped him, and with
redoubled eagerness he sought to consummate my destruction. I was made
a prisoner in my own home, ere the sod settled on my father's grave!
I fled in the midnight hour, and you see me here! Dr. Bryant, I
well-nigh cut short the knotted thread of my life; but one thing saved
me, else my body would even now whirl along the channel of the river.
When I parted from the blue-eyed, sainted Mary, she gave me this book,
and asked me not only to read but follow its teachings. She clasped my
hand, and told me to remember God, and the eternity which awaited me,
and the judgment of that other, final world. Oh! if there be a heaven
and a purgatory! a God and a judge! if I sink to perdition, one alone
is to blame. He told me he had power to forgive my sins; that the
more completely I obeyed him on earth, the more blessed I should be in
heaven. Yet I have heard him lie, and seen him set aside the rules of
humanity and the laws of God! Mary's Bible tells me 'to keep holy the
Sabbath day.' Yet, from my childhood, I have seen our Priests at mass
on Sabbath morning, and at monte and cock-fights on the evening of the
same day! And I have seen them take from the widow, as the burial-fee
of her husband, the last cow she possessed. I saw these things, and
I said, there is no God, or he would not suffer such as these to
minister as his chosen servants upon the earth. I said in my heart,
purgatory is but a lie made to keep pace with their marvelous legends
and frequent miracles! There is not a purgatory, or they would fear
the retribution in store for them. I had none to teach me aright.
I mocked at the thought of religion. I said there is none on the
earth--it is merely a system of gain, and all that constitutes the
difference is, that some are by nature more of devils, and others
gifted with milder hearts. But I saw Mary--pure angel that she is--I
saw her with the sick and the dying: she railed not at our priest, as
he at her. She carried her Bible to the bed of death, and told them to
look to God for themselves. She bade them leave off saint-worship, and
cling to Jesus as their only Mediator. Peace followed her steps, and
much good she would have done, but my Padre interfered, peremptorily
ordered all good Papists to shun her as they would an incarnate demon,
and frightened many into submission with his marvelous tales and
threats of purgatory. I said to myself, if there be truth in God and
religion, this Mary walketh in the right path, for like an angel
of mercy and light she ever seems. She was the hope, the joy, the
blessing of all who knew her. Oh! I will come to you, Mary, and learn
of you, and die near, that you may be with me in the hour of rest."
Inez sank on the ground, and burying her face in her arms, rocked
herself to and fro. Dr. Bryant had listened to her rambling,
incoherent language, like one in a dream, till the name of Mary passed
her lips, and then his head sank upon his chest, and he groaned in the
anguish of his tortured spirit.
Inez held in one hand the small Bible given at parting; his eye fell
upon it, and he stepped nearer to her:
"Inez, the Mary you have loved rests no longer on earth. She has
passed away, and dwells in heaven. She was true to God, and his holy
law, and great is her reward. Scarce a week since I laid her in her
quiet grave, yet not there either, but yielded her up to the arms of
God!"
He paused, for his deep tone faltered. Inez rose quickly to her feet
as he spoke, and gazed vacantly on his face.
"Mary gone forever! Mary in heaven! Shall I never again see her, sweet
angel of truth and purity, with her soft blue eyes, so full of holy
love and gentleness? Oh, Mary, thou art blessed! thou art at rest!
When shall I, too, find eternal rest? Ere long, Mary, I, too, will
sleep the last, unbroken, dreamless sleep!"
Dr. Bryant laid his hand on the sacred volume, and would have drawn
it from her clasp; but tightening her hold, she shook her head, and
mournfully exclaimed:
"No, no; it is mine! When I die, it shall be my pillow; while I live,
it rests near my heart, and in the churchyard I will not let it go.
You have no right to claim it: you have not loved her as I have done.
She loved you, yet you heeded not the jewel that might have, even now,
been your own!"
"Inez, I have loved--I do love her, as none other can! Too late I
found my love returned. Had God spared her to me, she would have been
my wife. Oh, Mary, Mary! my own cherished one! May thy spirit hover
round me now, as in life thou wert my guardian angel! Inez, I, too,
have suffered, and severely. I have little to anticipate in life,
yet I am not desponding as you; my faith in God and his unchanging
goodness is unshaken. Let us both so live that we may join my Mary in
glory."
Inez answered not, but passed her hand wearily across her brow.
"Inez, which will you do? retain your disguise, and go with me, or
return to your old home? I am not going to Austin, but to Goliad, to
join the Texans there; will you accompany me, and claim the protection
of our banner? All that a brother could, I will gladly do; with me you
are safe, at least for a time; and when the storm of war has passed, I
doubt not your home will again be happy."
"I know you, Dr. Bryant, and I know that you are true to God, and keep
his law. I will go with you to Goliad, and there we will decide what I
must do. Oh! I am weary and sick at heart, and not long will I burden
you."
She stooped, and picking up the hat, replaced it on her head, and
turned toward her horse.
Frank kindly took her hand.
"Inez, do not despond. I trust all may yet be well with you, and rest
assured it gives me heartfelt pleasure to be enabled to render you
a service, and take you to a place of safety. But your hand is
hot--burning: it is feverish excitement from which you suffer. When we
have reached Goliad, and you can rest, I doubt not your strength and
spirits will return; meantime take one of my pistols, it is loaded,
and, in case of danger, will render good service."
She took the proffered weapon, and having secured it in the
girdle, turned to mount her horse. Frank assisted in arranging the
accouterments, and, springing upon his own recruited steed, they
turned their faces southward.