For a moment, Mary closed her eyes, then replied in a low voice:
"If you should see Inez, tell her to remember my gift at parting, and thank her, in my name, for her many, many kindnesses." She paused, as if gathering courage to say something more.
"And tell her, too, that ere many hours I shall be at rest. Tell her I have no fear, nay more, that I have great hope, and that heaven is opening for me. Let her prepare to join me, where there is no sorrow nor parting."
There was a silence, as if each were communing with their own hearts.
"You go to-morrow, Dr. Bryant? Then you will not stay to see me die? I am failing fast, and when you return, I shall have gone to that bourne whence no traveler comes back to tell the tale. Let me thank you now, for your unvarying kindness; many have been your services, and a brother"s care has ever followed me. Thank you; I appreciate your kindness, and earnest and heartfelt is my prayer that you may be very happy and blest on earth; and when you, too, come to die, may your end be like mine--free from all fear, and may hope and joy attend your last moments!"
Her breathing grew short, and large drops stood on her pure beautiful brow.
He had bent his head upon his bosom while she spoke, but now he raised it, and, taking her hand, clasped it warmly.
"Mary, Mary, if you knew what torture you inflicted, you would spare me this!"
It was the first time he had called her Mary, and her pale lip quivered.
"Forgive me, if I cause you pain!"
Bending forward, he continued, in a tone of touching sadness--"I had determined, Mary, to keep my grief locked in my own heart, and never to let words of love pa.s.s my lips. But the thought of parting with you forever is more than I can bear. Oh! Mary, have you not seen for weeks and months how I have loved you? Long ago, when first we met, a deep, unutterable love stole into my heart. I fancied for a time that you returned it, till the evening we met at my sister"s, and you spoke with such indifference of leaving me behind. I saw then I had flattered myself falsely; that you entertained none save friendly feelings toward me. Still, I thought in time you might learn to regard me with warmer sentiments. So I hoped on till the evening of our last ride, when your agitation led me to suppose you loved another. I saw you meet Mr. Stewart, and was confirmed in my supposition. I gave up all hope of ever winning your affection in return. Now I see my error in believing for a moment that you felt otherwise to him than as a brother, as the betrothed of your cousin. I know that you have never loved him, and pardon my error. When I sought you just now, it was to say good-by, and in absence and varied and exciting pursuits to shut out from my heart the memory of my hopes and fears. Mary, your words fill me with inexpressible anguish! Oh, you cannot know how blank and dreary earth will seem when you are gone! I shall have no hope, no incitement, no joy!"
As she listened to this confession, which a month before would have brought the glow to her cheek and sparkle to her eye, she felt that it came too late; still a perfect joy stole into her heart. She turned her face toward him, and gently said:
"I am dying; and, feeling as I do, that few hours are allotted me, I shall not hesitate to speak freely and candidly. Some might think me deviating from the delicacy of my s.e.x; but, under the circ.u.mstances, I feel that I am not. I have loved you long, and to know that my love is returned, is a source of deep and unutterable joy to me. You were indeed wrong to suppose I ever regarded Mr. Stewart otherwise than as Florry"s future husband. I have never loved but one."
"Mary, can it be possible that you have loved me, when I fancied, of late, that indifference, and even dislike, nestled in your heart? We shall yet be happy! I thank G.o.d that we shall be so blest!" And he pressed the thin hand to his lips.
"Do not deceive yourself. Your confession has come too late. I can never be yours, for the hand of death is already laid upon me, and my spirit will wing its way, ere long, home to G.o.d. Now that we understand each other, and while I yet live, let us be as calm, as happy as the circ.u.mstances allow. It may seem hard that I should be taken when the future appears so bright, but I do not repine, neither must you. G.o.d, ever good and merciful, sees that it is best I should go, and we will not embitter the few hours left us by vain regrets."
Too feeble to speak more, she closed her eyes, while her breathing grew painfully short.
Dr Bryant bent forward, and gently lifting her head, supported her with his strong arm, and stroked off from her beautiful brow the cl.u.s.tering hair. A long time she lay motionless, with closed eyes, and bending his head, he pressed a long kiss on the delicately-chiseled lips.
"O G.o.d! spare me my gentle angel Mary," he murmured, as looking on the wan, yet lovely face, he felt that to yield her up was more than he could bear.
At this moment Mrs. Carlton entered: he held out his hand, and drawing her to his side, said, in a deep, tender tone:
"She is mine now, sister; thank G.o.d, that at last I have won her, and pray with me that she may be spared to us both."
Fervently she pressed his hand, and a tear rolled down and dropped upon it, as she bent down to kiss the sufferer. Gently he put her back.
"She is wearied, and just fallen asleep; do not wake her."
He carefully depressed his arm that she might rest more easily. Mrs.
Carlton seated herself beside her brother, and whispered:
"You will not go to-morrow, Frank?"
"No, no; I will not leave her a moment. Ellen, does she seem very much thinner since leaving home? I know she is very pale."
"Yes, Frank; she is fearfully changed within the last week."
"Oh, Ellen! if she should be taken from me;" and closer he drew his arm, as though fearing some unseen danger.
"We must look to Heaven for her restoration, and G.o.d is good,"
answered his sister, turning away to conceal her tears.
CHAPTER XXVII.
"Ah! whence yon glare That fires the arch of heaven?--that dark red smoke Blotting the silver moon?...
Hark to that roar whose swift and deafening peals, In countless echoes, through the mountains ring, Startling pale midnight on her starry throne!
Loud and more loud, the discord grows, Till pale Death shuts the scene, And o"er the conqueror and the conquered draws His cold and b.l.o.o.d.y shroud."
Sh.e.l.lEY.
The 6th of March rose dark and lowering, and all nature wore an aspect meet for the horrors which that day chronicled in the page of history. Toward noon the dense leaden cloud floated off, as though the uncertainty which veiled the future had suddenly been lifted--the crisis had come. Santa Anna and his bloodthirsty horde, rendered more savage by the recollection of the 11th December, poured out the vial of their wrath on the doomed town. Oh! San Antonio, thou art too beautiful for strife and discord to mar thy quiet loveliness. Yet the fiery breath of desolating war swept rudely o"er thee, and, alas! thou wast sorely scathed.
A second time the ill-fated fortress was fiercely charged. Long it withstood the terrible shock, and the overwhelming thousands that so madly pressed its gray, moldering walls. The sun went down as it were in a sea of blood, its lurid light, gleaming ominously on the pale, damp brows of the doomed garrison. Black clouds rolled up and veiled the heavens in gloom. Night closed prematurely in with fitful gusts, mingling the moans and strife of nature with the roar of artillery.
Still the fury of the onset abated not: the Alamo shook to its firm basis. Despairingly the n.o.ble band raised their eyes to the blackened sky. "G.o.d help us!" A howling blast swept by, lost in the deep muttering of the cannonade. Then a deep voice rung clearly out, high above the surrounding din: "Comrades, we are lost! let us die like brave men!"
The shriek of departing hope was echoed back by the sullen groan of despair. Travis fell, fighting at the entrance. As the hero sank upon the glory floor, there was a pause; friend and foe gazed upon the n.o.ble form! His spirit sprung up to meet his G.o.d.
"On, comrades! Travis has fallen! dearly will we die!"
One hundred and fifty brave hearts poured out their life-blood by his motionless form, struck down like sheep in the slaughter-pen. But seven remained: in despair they gazed on the ruin around, reeling from exhaustion and slipping in gore. There was borne on the midnight air a faint, feeble cry: "Quarter! quarter!" Alas! brave hearts, the appeal was lost, for an incarnate demon led the thirsty band. With a fiendish yell it was answered back, "No quarter!" and ye seven were stretched beside your fearless, n.o.ble Travis.
Not a living Texan remained. The stiffening forms, grim in death, returned not even a groan to the wild shout of triumph that rung so mockingly though the deserted chambers of the slaughter-house. Victory declared for the wily tyrant--the black-hearted Santa Anna. Complete was the desolation which reigned around: there was none to oppose--no not one; and the Alamo was his again! Oh, Death! thou art insatiate!
Hundreds had yielded to thy call, and followed the beckoning of thy relentless hand: and still another must swell thy specter host, and join the shadowy band of the Spirit World!
For three days Don Garcia lay motionless on his couch of pain; even utterance was denied him, for paralysis had stretched forth her numb, stiffening finger, and touched him, even while he stood in the busy haunts of men. All day the din of battle had sounded in his ear; Inez from time to time stole from his side, and looked out toward the fortress, dimly seen through the sulphurous cloud of smoke and the blaze of artillery.
In the silent watches of the night, the shout of "Victory!" was borne on by the blast. "My father, the Alamo is taken--Santa Anna has conquered!" He struggled fearfully, a gurgling sound alone pa.s.sed his lips, and he fell back lifeless on his pillow.
Calmly the girl bent down and closed the eyes, covered decently the convulsed features, and then, shrouding her face with the mantilla, stept forth for a.s.sistance. The next day saw the Don borne to his last resting-place. In accordance with the custom of the nation, no female followed the bier. It was borne by two men, and followed by some dozen children, and perhaps as many aged Mexicans. While just in advance strode the Padre, repeating the Latin service for the dead, and attended by four boys--two bearing censers, one a cross, and the other holy water. With indecent haste they pressed forward, pa.s.sing through the church, and resting the bier for a moment on the altar, while an Ave Maria was repeated. At a sign from the Padre, the procession moved on to the churchyard, and, without further ceremony, the body deposited in consecrated ground. Holy water was sprinkled profusedly around, and then all departed, leaving him to sleep undisturbed the last dreamless sleep.
Night found Inez sitting alone by her dreary, deserted hearth. Father, mother, sister, cousin, all had pa.s.sed on before her; and the last of her house, she mused in her lonely home. A faint fire flickering on the hearth just revealed the form and face of the Mexican maiden.
Her mantilla lay on the floor beside her, the black hair, thick and straight, hung to the waist, her brilliant, piercing eyes were bent vacantly on the fire, her dark cheek perfectly colorless as clay.
"Who is there to care for Inez now? Who will smooth my pillow, and close my eyes, and lay me to rest?"
Her desolation of heart conquered; her head sunk upon her bosom, and a deep, bitter groan burst from her lips. Slowly she rocked herself to and fro in the loneliness of her spirit.
She had not loved her father warmly; there was little congeniality between them, and her hasty rejection of Manuel"s suit mutually embittered their intercourse. For Nevarro, a sort of sisterly feeling was entertained, no warmer affection. Yet she could love intensely. A little sister had waked her tenderness--her heart clung to the gentle child, so unlike herself. She sickened, and in a day went down to the tomb: bitter was the grief of Inez, who felt little for her mother, and soon she too took her place in the churchyard. Dr. Bryant came, and again Inez loved--again she was disappointed; and now she sat alone in the wide world, without one remaining tie to bind the future.