CHAPTER VI. ROBERT WORTH IS DISARMED.
"Strange sons of Mexico, and strange her fate; They fight for freedom who were never free; A kingless people for a nerveless state."
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"Not all the threats or favors of a crown, A Prince's whisper, or a tyrant's frown, Can awe the spirit or allure the mind Of him, who to strict Honor is inclined. Though all the pomp and pleasure that does wait On public places, and affairs of state; Though all the storms and tempests should arise, That Church magicians in their cells devise, And from their settled basis nations tear: He would, unmoved, the mighty ruin bear. Secure in innocence, contemn them all, And, decently arrayed, in honor fall."
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"Say, what is honor? 'Tis the finest sense Of justice which the human mind can frame."
The keenest sufferings entailed by war are not on the battle-field,nor in the hospital. They are in the household. There are the maimedaffections, the slain hopes, the broken ties of love. And before a shothad been fired in the war of Texan independence, the battle had begun inRobert Worth's household.
The young men lay down to rest, but he sat watching the night away.There was a melancholy sleepiness in it; the mockingbirds had ceasedsinging; the chirping insects had become weary. Only the clock, with itsregular "tick, tick," kept the watch with him.
When it was near dawn, he lifted a candle and went into the room whereJack and Dare were sleeping. Dare did not move; Jack opened his eyeswide, and smiled brightly at the intruder.
"Well, father?"
"It is time to get up, Jack. Tell Dare."
In a few minutes both came to him. A bottle of wine, some preservedbears' paws, and biscuits were on the table. They ate standing, speakingvery little and almost in whispers; and then the doctor went withthem to the stable. He helped Jack to saddle his horse. He found a sadpleasure in coming so close to him. Once their cheeks touched, and thetouch brought the tears to his eyes and sent he blood to his heart.
With his hand on the saddle, Jack paused and said, softly, "Father,dear, tell mi madre my last look at the house, my last thought inleaving it, was for her. She would not kiss me or bless me last night.Ask her to kiss you for me," and then the lad broke fairly down. Themoment had come in which love could find no utterance, and must act. Heflung his arm around his father's neck and kissed him. And the fatherwept also, and yet spoke brave words to both as he walked with themto the gate and watched them ride into the thick mist lying upon theprairie like a cloud. They were only darker spots in it. It swallowedthem up. They were lost to sight.
He thought no one had seen the boys leave but himself. But through thelattices two sorrowful women also watched their departure. The Senora,as wakeful as her husband, had heard the slight movements, the unusualnoises of that early hour, and had divined the cause of them. She lookedat Rachela. The woman had fallen into the dead sleep of exhaustion, andshe would not have to parry her objections and warnings. Unshod, andin her night-dress, she slipped through the corridor to the back of thehouse, and tightly clasping her rosary in her hands, she stood behindthe lattice and watched her boy away.
He turned in his saddle just before he passed the gate, and she saw hisyoung face lifted with an unconscious, anxious love, to the very latticeat which she stood: In the dim light it had a strange pallor. The mistyair blurred and made all indistinct. It was like seeing her Jack in somewoful dream. If he had been dead, such a vision of him might have cometo her from the shadow land.
Usually her grief was noisy and imperative of sympathy. But this morningshe could not cry nor lament. She went softly back to her room and satdown, with her crucifix before her aching eyes. Yet she could notsay her usual prayers. She could not remember anything but Jack'sentreaty--"Kiss me, mi madre! Bless me, mi madre!" She could not seeanything but that last rapid turn in the saddle, and that piteous youngface, showing so weird and dreamlike through the gray mist of the earlydawn.
Antonia had watched with her. Dare, also, had turned, but there hadbeen something about Dare's attitude far more cheery and hopeful. On theprevious night Antonia had put some sprays of rosemary in his hat band"to bring good, and keep away evil on a journey"; and as he turned andlifted his hat he put his lips to them. He had the belief that from somepoint his Antonia was watching him. He conveyed to her, by the strengthof his love and his will, the assurance of all their hopes.
That day Doctor Worth did not go out. The little bravado of carryingarms was impossible to him. It was not that his courage had failed, orthat he had lost a tittle of his convictions, but he was depressedby the uncertainty of his position and duty, and he was, besides, thethrall of that intangible anxiety which we call PRESENTIMENT.
Yet, however dreary life is, it must go on. The brave-hearted cannotdrop daily duty. On the second day the doctor went to his office again,and Antonia arranged the meals and received company, and did her bestto bring the household into peaceful accord with the new elementsencroaching on it from all sides.
But the Senora was more "difficult" than even Rachela had ever seen herbefore. She did not go to church, but Fray Ignatius spent a great dealof time with her; and his influence was not any more conciliating thanthat of early masses and much fasting.
He said to her, indeed: "My daughter, you have behaved with thefortitude of a saint. It would have been more than a venial sin, if youhad kissed and blessed a rebel in the very act of his rebellion. TheHoly Mary will reward and comfort you."
But the Senora was not sensible of the reward and comfort; and she didfeel most acutely the cruel wound she had given her mother love. Neitherprayers nor penance availed her. She wanted to see Jack. She wanted tokiss him a hundred times, and bless him with every kiss. And it did nothelp her to be told that these longings were the suggestions of the EvilOne, and not to be listened to.
The black-robed monk, gliding about his house with downcast eyes andfolded hands, had never seemed to Robert Worth so objectionable. Heknew that he kept the breach open between himself and his wife--thathe thought it a point of religious duty to do so. He knew that he wasgradually isolating the wretched woman from her husband and children,and that the continual repetition of prayers and penances did not giveher any adequate comfort for the wrong she was doing her affections.
The city was also in a condition of the greatest excitement. Thesoldiers in the Alamo were under arms. Their officers had evidentlyreceived important advices from Mexico. General Cos, the brother-in-lawof Santa Anna, was now in command, and it was said immensereinforcements were hourly looked for. The drifting American populationhad entirely vanished, but its palpable absence inspired the mostthoughtful of the people with fear instead of security.
Nor were the military by any means sure of the loyalty of the city. Itwas well known that a large proportion of the best citizens hated thedespotism of Santa Anna; and that if the Americans attacked SanAntonio, they would receive active sympathy. Party feeling was nolonger controllable. Men suspected each other. Duels were of constantoccurrence, and families were torn to pieces; for the monks supportedSanta Anna with all their influence, and there were few women who daredto disobey them.
Into the midst of this turbulent, touchy community, there fell onemorning a word or two which set it on fire. Doctor Worth was talking onthe Plaza with Senor Lopez Navarro. A Mexican soldier, with his yellowcloak streaming out behind him, galloped madly towards the Alamo andleft the news there. It spread like wildfire. "There had been a fight atGonzales, and the Americans had kept their arms. They had also put theMexicans to flight."
"And more," added a young Mexican coming up to the group of which RobertWorth was one, "Stephen Austin has escaped, and he arrived at Gonzalesat the very moment of victory. And more yet: Americans are pouring intoGonzales from every quarter."
An officer tapped Doctor Worth on the shoulder. "Senor Doctor, yourarms. General Cos hopes, in the present extremity, you will set an
example of obedience."
"I will not give up my arms. In the present extremity my arms are thegreatest need I have."
"Then Senor,--it is a great affliction to me--I must arrest you."
He was led away, amid the audible murmurs of the men who filled thestreets. There needed but some one to have said the word, and they wouldhave taken him forcibly from the military. A great crowd followed him tothe gates of the Alamo. For there was scarcely a family in San Antonioof which this good doctor was not an adopted member. The arrest of theirfavorite confessor would hardly have enraged them more.
Fray Ignatius brought the news to the Senora. Even he was affected byit. Never before had Antonia seen him walk except with thoughtful anddeliberate steps. She wondered at his appearance; at its suppressedhurry; at a something in it which struck her as suppressed satisfaction.
And the priest was in his heart satisfied; though he was consciouslytelling himself that "he was sorry for the Senora, and that he wouldhave been glad if the sins of her husband could have been set againstthe works of supererogation which the saints of his own convent hadamassed."
"But he is an infidel; he believes not in the saints," he muttered;"then how could they avail him!"
Antonia met him at the door. He said an Ave Maria as he crossed thethreshold, and gave her his hand to kiss. She looked wonderingly in hisface, for unless it was a special visit, he never called so near theAngelus. Still, it is difficult to throw off a habit of obedience formedin early youth; and she did not feel as if she could break through thechill atmosphere of the man and ask: "For what reason have you come,father?"
A long, shrill shriek from the Senora was the first answer to thefearful question in her heart. In a few moments she was at her mother'sdoor. Rachela knelt outside it, telling her rosary. She stolidlykept her place, and a certain instinct for a moment prevented Antoniainterrupting her. But the passionate words of her mother, blending withthe low, measured tones of the priest, were something far more positive.
"Let me pass you, Rachela. What is the matter with my mother?"
The woman was absorbed in her supplications, and Antonia opened thedoor. Isabel followed her. They found themselves in the the{sic}presence of an angry sorrow that appalled them. The Senora had torn herlace mantilla into shreds, and they were scattered over the room as shehad flung them from her hands in her frantic walk about it. The largeshell comb that confined her hair was trodden to pieces, and its longcoils had fallen about her face and shoulders. Her bracelets, her chainof gold, her brooch and rings were scattered on the floor, and she wasstanding in the centre of it, like an enraged creature; tearingher handkerchief into strips, as an emphasis to her passionatedenunciations.
"It serves him right! JESUS! MARIA! JOSEPH! It serves him right! He mustcarry arms! HE, TOO! when it was forbidden! I am glad he is arrested!Oh, Roberto! Roberto!"
"Patience, my daughter! This is the hand of God. What can you do butsubmit?"
"What is it, mi madre?" and Isabel put her arms around her mother withthe words mi madre. "Tell Isabel your sorrow."
"Your father is arrested--taken to the Alamo--he will be sent to themines. I told him so! I told him so! He would not listen to me! Howwicked he has been!"
"What has my father done, Fray Ignatius? Why have they arrested him?"
The priest turned to Antonia with a cold face. He did not like her. Hefelt that she did not believe in him.
"Senorita, he has committed a treason. A good citizen obeys the law;Senor Worth has defied it."
"Pardon, father, I cannot believe it."
"A great forbearance has been shown him, but the end of mercy comes.As he persisted in wearing arms, he has been taken to the Alamo anddisarmed."
"It is a great shame! An infamous shame and wrong!" cried Antonia. "Whatright has any one to take my father's arms? No more than they have totake his purse or his coat."
"General Santa Anna--"
"General Santa Anna is a tyrant and a thief. I care not who saysdifferent."
"Antonia! Shameless one!"
"Mother, do not strike me." Then she took her mother's hands in her own,and led her to a couch, caressing her as she spoke--
"Don't believe any one--ANY ONE, mother, who says wrong of my father.You know that he is the best of men. Rachela! Come here instantly. Therosary is not the thing, now. You ought to be attending to the Senora.Get her some valerian and some coffee, and come and remove her clothing.Fray Ignatius, we will beg you to leave us to-night to ourselves."
"Your mother's sin, in marrying a heretic, has now found her out. It ismy duty to make her see her fault."
"My mother had a dispensation from one greater than you."
"Oh, father, pray for me! I accuse myself! I accuse myself! Oh, wretchedwoman! Oh, cruel husband!"
"Mother, you have been a very happy woman. You have had the best husbandin the world. Do not reproach my father for the sins of others. Do notdesert him when he is in the power of a human tiger. My God, mother! letus think of something to be done for his help! I will see the Navarros,the Garcias, Judge Valdez; I will go to the Plaza and call on thethousands he has cured and helped to set him free."
"You will make of yourself something not to be spoken of. This is thejudgment of God, my daughter."
"It is the judgment of a wicked man, Fray Ignatius. My mother is not nowable to listen to you. Isabel, come here and comfort her." Isabel puther cheek to her mother's; she murmured caressing words; she kissed herface, and coiled up her straggling hair, and with childlike trust amidall, solicited Holy Mary to console them.
Fray Ignatius watched her with a cold scrutiny. He was saying tohimself, "It is the fruit of sin. I warned the Senora, when she marriedthis heretic, that trouble would come of it. Very well, it has come."Then like a flash a new thought invaded his mind--If the Senor Doctordisappeared forever, why not induce the Senora and her daughters togo into a religious house? There was a great deal of money. The churchcould use it well.
Antonia did not understand the thought, but she understood its animus,and again she requested his withdrawal. This time she went close to him,and bravely looked straight into his eyes. Their scornful gleam senta chill to her heart like that of cold steel. At that moment sheunderstood that she had turned a passive enemy into an active one.
He went, however, without further parley, stopping only to warn theSenora against the sin "of standing with the enemies of God and theHoly Church," and to order Isabel to recite for her mother's pardon andcomfort a certain number of aves and paternosters. Antonia went withhim to the door, and ere he left he blessed her, and said: "The Senoritawill examine her soul and see her sin. Then the ever merciful Churchwill hear her confession, and give her the satisfying penance."
Antonia bowed in response. When people are in great domestic sorrow,self-examination is a superfluous advice. She listened a moment tohis departing footsteps, shivering as she stood in the darkness, for anorther had sprung up, and the cold was severe. She only glanced intothe pleasant parlor where the table was laid for dinner, and a greatfire of cedar logs was throwing red, dancing lights over the white linenand the shining silver and glass. The chairs were placed aroundthe table; her father's at the head. It had a forsaken air that wasunendurable.
The dinner hour was now long past. It would be folly to attempt themeal. How could she and Isabel sit down alone and eat, and her father inprison, and her mother frantic with a loss which she was warned it wassinful to mourn over. Antonia had a soul made for extremities and notafraid to face them, but invisible hands controlled her. What coulda woman do, whom society had forbidden to do anything, but endure thepangs of patience?
The Senora could offer no suggestions. She was not indeed in a mood tothink of her resources. A spiritual dread was upon her. And with thismingled an intense sense of personal wrong from her husband. "Had shenot begged him to be passive? And he had put an old rifle before herand her daughters! It was all that Senor Houston's doing. She had anassurance of that." She invoked a thousand
maledictions on him. Sherecalled, with passionate reproaches, Jack's infidelity to her andhis God and his country. Her anger passed from one subject to anotherconstantly, finding in all, even in the lukewarmness of Antonia andIsabel, and in their affection for lovers, who were also rebels, anaccumulating reason for a stupendous reproach against herself, herhusband, her children, and her unhappy fate. Her whole nature was inrevolt--in that complete mental and moral anarchy from which springstragedy and murder.
Isabel wept so violently that she angered still further the tearlesssuffering of her mother. "God and the saints!" she cried. "What are youweeping for? Will tears do any good? Do I weep? God has forbidden meto weep for the wicked. Yet how I suffer! Mary, mother of sorrows, pityme!"
She sent Isabel away. Her sobs were not to be borne. And very soonshe felt Antonia's white face and silent companionship to be just asunendurable. She would be alone. Not even Rachela would she have nearher. She put out all the lights but the taper above a large crucifix,and at its foot she sat down in tearless abandon, alone with herreproaches and her remorse.
Antonia watched with her mother, though shut out from her presence.She feared for a state of mind so barren of affection, so unsoftenedby tears. Besides, it was the climax of a condition which had continuedever since she had sent her boy away without a word of love. In thedim corridor outside she sat still, listening for any noise or movementwhich might demand help or sympathy. It was not nine o'clock; but thetime lengthened itself out beyond endurance. Even yet she had hope ofsome word from her father. Surely, they would let him send some word tothem!
She heard the murmur of voices downstairs, and she thought angrily ofRachela, and Molly, and Manuel, "making a little confidence together"over their trouble, and spicing their evening gossip with the strangething that had happened to the Senor Doctor. She knew that Rachela andManuel would call him heretic and Americano, and, by authority of thesetwo words, accuse him of every crime.
Thinking with a swelling heart of these things, she heard the door open,and a step slowly and heavily ascend the stairs. Ere she had time towonder at it, her father came in sight. There was a shocking change inhis air and appearance, but as he was evidently going to her mother'sroom, she shrank back and sat motionless so as not to attract hisattention.
Then she went to the parlor, and had the fire renewed and food put uponthe table. She was sure that he would need it, and she believed he wouldbe glad to talk over with her the events of the afternoon.
The Senora was still sitting at the foot of the crucifix when herhusband opened the door. She had not been able to pray; ave andpaternoster alike had failed her. Her rebellious grief filled everycorner of her heart. She understood that some one had entered the room,and she thought of Rachela; but she found a kind of comfort in the dullstupor of grief she was indulging, and she would not break its spell bylifting her head.
"Maria."
She rose up quickly and stood gazing at him.
She did not shriek or exclaim; her surprise controlled her. And also herterror; for his face was white as death, and had an expression of angrydespair that terrified her.
"Roberto! Roberto! Mi Roberto! How you have tortured me! I have nearlydied! Fray Ignatius said you had been sent to prison."
She spoke as calmly as a frightened child; sad and hesitating. If he hadtaken her in his arms she would have sobbed her grief away there.
But Robert Worth was at that hour possessed by two master passions,tyrannical and insatiable--they would take notice of nothing that didnot minister to them.
"Maria, they have taken my arms from me. Cowards! Cowards! Miserablecowards! I refused to give them up! They held my hands and robbedme--robbed me of my manhood and honor! I begged them to shoot me erethey did it, and they spoke courteously and regretted this, and hopedthat, till I felt that it would be a joy to strangle them."
"Roberto! Mi Roberto! You have me!"
"I want my rifle and all it represents. I want myself back again. Maria,Maria, until then, I am not worthy to be any good woman's husband!"
"Roberto, dearest! It is not your fault."
"It is my fault. I have waited too long. My sons showed me my duty--mysoul urged me to do it. I deserve the shame, but I will wipe it out withcrimson blood."
The Senora stood speechless, wringing her hands. Her own passion waspuny beside the sternness, the reality, and the intensity of the quietrage before her. She was completely mastered by it. She forgot all butthe evident agony she could neither mistake nor console.
"I have come to say 'farewell,' Maria. We have been very happytogether--Maria--our children--dearest--"
"Oh, Roberto! My husband! My soul! My life! Leave me not."
"I am going for my arms. I will take them a hundredfold from those whohave robbed me. I swear I will!"
"You do not love me. What are these Americans to you? I am your wife.Your Maria--"
"These Americans are my brothers--my sons. My mother is an Americanwoman."
"And I?"
"You are my wife--my dear wife! I love you--God Almighty knows how wellI love you; but we must part now, at least for a short time. Maria, mydear one, I must go."
"Go? Where to?"
"I am going to join General Houston."
"I thought so. I knew it. The accursed one! Oh that I had him hereagain! I would bury my stiletto in his heart! Over the white hiltI would bury it! I would wash my hands in his blood, and think themblessed ever afterwards! Stay till daylight, Roberto. I have so much tosay, dearest."
"I cannot. I have stayed too long. And now I must ride without a gunor knife to protect me. Any Indian that I meet can scalp me. Do youunderstand now what disarming means, Maria? If I had gone with my boy,with my brave Jack, I could at least have sold my life to its lastdrop."
"In the morning, Roberto, Lopez Navarro will get you a gun. Oh, if youmust go, do not go unarmed! There are ten thousand Comanche between hereand the Brazos."
"How could I look Lopez Navarro in the face? Or any other man? No, no!I must win back my arms, before I can walk the streets of San Antonioagain."
He took her in his arms, he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips,murmuring tender little Spanish words that meant, oh, so much, to thewretched woman!--words she had taught him with kisses--words he neverused but to her ears only.
She clung to his neck, to his hands, to his feet; she made his farewellan unspeakable agony. At last he laid her upon her couch, sobbing andshrieking like a child in an extremity of physical anguish. But he didnot blame her. Her impetuosities, her unreasonable extravagances, werea part of her nature, her race, and her character. He did not expect aweak, excitable woman to become suddenly a creature of flame and steel.
But it was a wonderful rest to his exhausted body and soul to turn fromher to Antonia. She led him quietly to his chair by the parlor fire.She gave him food and wine. She listened patiently, but with a livingsympathy, to his wrong. She endorsed, with a clasp of his hand and asmile, his purpose. And she said, almost cheerfully:
"You have not given up all your arms, father. When I first heard of theedict, I hid in my own room the rifle, the powder and the shot, whichwere in your study. Paola has knives in the stable; plenty of them. Getone from him."
Good news is a very relative thing. This information made the doctorfeel as if all were now easy and possible. The words he said to her,Antonia never forgot. They sang in her heart like music, and led her onthrough many a difficult path. The conversation then turned upon moneymatters, and Antonia received the key of his study, and full directionsas to the gold and papers secreted there.
Then Isabel was awakened, and the rifle brought down; and Paola saddledthe fleetest horse in the stable, and after one solemn five minutes withhis daughter, Robert Worth rode away into the midnight darkness, andinto a chaos of public events of which no man living could forecast theoutcome.
Rode away from wife and children and home; leaving behind him the loveand labor of his lifetime--
"The thousand sweet,
still joys of such As hand in hand face earthly life."
For what? For justice, for freedom of thought and action, for the rightsof his manhood, for the brotherhood of race and religion and country.Antonia and Isabel stood hand in hand at the same lattice from which theSenora had watched her son away, and in a dim, uncertain manner thesethoughts connected themselves in each mind with the same mournfulinquiry--Is it worth while?
As the beat of the horse's hoofs died away, they turned. The night wascold but clear, and the sky appeared so high that their eyes throbbedas they gazed upward at the grand arch, sprinkled with suns and worlds.Suddenly into the tranquil spaces there was flung a sound of joy andrevelry; and the girls stepped to a lattice at the end of the corridorand looked out.
The residencia of Don Salvo Valasco was clearly visible from this site.They saw that it was illuminated throughout. Lovely women, shining withjewels, and soldiers in scarlet and gold, were chatting through thegraceful movements of the danza, or executing the more brilliant JotaAragonesa. The misty beauty of white lace mantillas, the glitter andcolor of fans and festival dresses, made a moving picture of greatbeauty.
And as they watched it there was a cessation of the dance, followed bythe rapid sweep of a powerful hand over the strings of a guitar. Then agroup of officers stepped together, and a great wave of melodious song,solemn and triumphant, thrilled the night. It was the national hymn.Antonia and Isabel knew it. Every word beat upon their hearts. The powerof association, the charm of a stately, fervent melody was upon them.
"It is Senor Higadillos who leads," whispered Isabel, as a resonantvoice, powerful and sweet, cried--
"O list to the summons! The blood of our sires, Boils high in our veins, and to vengeance inspires! Who bows to the yoke? who bends to the blow?"
and, without a moment's hesitation, the answer came in a chorus ofenthusiastic cadences--
"No hero will bend, no Mexican bow; Our country in tears sends her sons to the fight, To conquer, or die, for our land and our right."
"You see, the Mexicans think THEY are in the right--THEY are patriotsalso, Antonia."
The sorrowful girl spoke like a puzzled child, fretfully anduncertainly, and Antonia led her silently away. What could she answer?And when she remembered the dear fugitive, riding alone through themidnight--riding now for life and liberty--she could not help theuprising again of that cold benumbing question--"Is it worth while?"