_ CHAPTER VI
"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, Manuel 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 Senoras mingled in the cavalcade and many a bright-eyed Senorita 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, Manuel 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, Manuel? 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, Senor, 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.
Manuel 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, Senor 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, Manuel, but candid; for eight years I have known that I was destined to be your wife, but I never loved you, Manuel. 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, Senor. 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.
"Bueno tarde, Padre."
The black eyes rested on Nevarro with an expression which seemed to demand an explanation of his choler. Manuel 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 Manuel 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,
a 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 Manuel, 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 Manuel's entrance had been so hastily secreted, she pressed it repeatedly to her lips, returned it to its hiding-place, and sought her couch. _