Inez by Augusta J. Evans

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INEZ

A TALE OF THE ALAMO

BY

AUGUSTA J. EVANS

_Author of "Beulah," "St. Elmo," "Infelice," "Macaria," Etc._

NEW YORK

THE FEDERAL BOOK COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

TO
THE TEXAN PATRIOTS,
WHO TRIUMPHANTLY
UNFURLED AND WAVED ALOFT
THE
"BANNER OF THE LONE STAR!" WHO
WRENCHED ASUNDER
THE IRON BANDS OF DESPOTIC MEXICO! AND WREATHED
THE BROW OF THE "QUEEN STATE"
WITH
THE GLORIOUS CHAPLET OF "CIVIL AND
RELIGIOUS LIBERTY!" THIS
WORK IS
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR.

INEZ: A TALE OF THE ALAMO.

CHAPTER I.

"But O, th' important budget!
Who can say what are its tidings?"

COWPER.

"There is the bell for prayers, Florry; are you ready?" said
Mary Irving, hastily entering her cousin's room at the large
boarding-school of Madame ----.

"Yes; I rose earlier than usual this morning, have solved two
problems, and translated nearly half a page of Telemaque."

"I congratulate you on your increased industry and application, though
you were always more studious than myself. I wish, dear Florry,
you could imbue me with some of your fondness for metaphysics and
mathematics," Mary replied, with a low sigh.

A momentary flush passed over the face of her companion, and they
descended the stairs in silence. The room in which the pupils were
accustomed to assemble for devotion was not so spacious as the
class-room, yet sufficiently so to look gloomy enough in the gray
light of a drizzling morn. The floor was covered with a faded carpet,
in which the indistinct vine seemed struggling to reach the wall,
but failed by several feet on either side. As if to conceal this
deficiency, a wide seat was affixed the entire length of the room, so
high

"That the feet hung dangling down,
Anxious in vain to find the distant floor."

There were no curtains to the windows, and the rain pattered drearily
down the panes.

The teacher who officiated as chaplain was seated before a large
desk, on which lay an open Bible. He seemed about twenty-four, his
countenance noble rather than handsome, if I may make so delicate a
distinction. Intelligence of the first order was stamped upon it, yet
the characteristic expression was pride which sat enthroned on his
prominent brow; still, hours of care had left their impress, and the
face was very grave, though by no means stern. His eye was fixed on
the door as the pupils came in, one by one, for prayers, and when
Florence and Mary entered, it sunk upon his book, In a few moments he
rose, and, standing with one arm folded across his bosom, read in a
deep, distinct tone, that beautiful Psalm, "The Lord is my shepherd."
He had only reached the fourth verse, when he was interrupted by two
girls of twelve or fourteen, who had been conversing from the moment
of their entrance. The tones grew louder and louder, and now the words
were very audible:

"My father did not send me here to come to prayers, and Madame has no
right to make us get up before day to hear him read his Bible!"

Many who coincided with them tittered, others stared in silence, while
Florence's lip curled, and Mary looked sorrowingly, pityingly upon
them--hers was the expression with which the angel multitudes of
Heaven regard their erring brethren here. The chaplain turned toward
them, and said, in a grave yet gentle voice, "My little friends, I am
afraid you did not kneel beside your bed this morning, and ask God to
keep your hearts from sinful thoughts, and enable you to perform all
your duties in a humble, gentle spirit. In your present temper, were I
to read the entire book instead of one Psalm, I fear you would receive
no benefit."

The girls were awed more by the tone than words, and sat silent and
abashed. The reading was concluded, and then he offered up a prayer
earnest and heartfelt. Instead of leaving the room immediately, the
pupils waited as for something, and taking a bundle of letters from
the desk, their tutor distributed them as the direction indicated.

"My budget is not so large as usual, and I regret it for your sakes,
as I fear some are disappointed. Miss Hamilton, here are two for you;"
and he handed them to her without looking up.

"Two for Florry, and none for me?" asked Mary, while her voice
slightly trembled. He was leaving the room, but turned toward her.

"I am very sorry, Miss Mary, but hope you will find a comforting
message in your cousin's."

Gently he spoke, yet his eyes rested on Florence the while, and, with
a suppressed sigh, he passed on. "Come to my room, Mary; it is strange
the letters are postmarked the same day." And while she solves the
mystery, let us glance at her former history.

CHAPTER II.

"Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit! rest thee now!
Ev'n while with us thy footsteps trod,
His seal was on thy brow."

HEMANS.

Florence Hamilton had but attained her fourth year when she was left
the only solace of her widowed father. Even after the lapse of long
years, faint, yet sweet recollections of her lost parent stole, in
saddened hours, over her spirit, and often, in dreams, a face of
angelic beauty hovered around, and smiled upon her.

Unfortunately, Florence proved totally unlike her sainted mother, both
in personal appearance and cast of character. Mr. Hamilton was a
cold, proud man of the world; one who, having lived from his birth in
affluence, regarded with a haughty eye all who, without the advantages
of rank or wealth, strove to attain a position equal to his own.
Intelligence, nobility of soul, unsullied character, weighed not an
atom against the counterpoise of birth and family. He enjoyed in youth
advantages rare for the unsettled times in which he lived; he tasted
all that France and Italy could offer; and returned _blase_ at
twenty-seven to his home in one of the Southern States. Attracted by
the brilliant fortune of an orphan heiress, he won and married her;
but love, such as her pure, gentle spirit sought, dwelt not in his
stern, selfish heart. All of affection he had to bestow was lavished
on his only sister, who had married during his absence.

His angel wife drooped in the sterile soil to which she was
transplanted, and, when Florence was about four years old, sunk into a
quiet grave.

Perhaps when he stood with his infant daughter beside the newly-raised
mound, and missed the gentle being who had endeavored so strenuously
to make his home happy, and to win for herself a place in his heart,
one tear might have moistened the cold, searching eyes that for
years had known no such softening tendency. "Perhaps," I say; but to
conjecture of thee, oh Man! is fruitless indeed.

As well as such a nature could, he loved his child, and considered
himself extremely magnanimous in casting aside all thought of a second
marriage, and devoting his leisure moments to the formation of her
character, and direction of her education.

Florence inherited her father's haughty temperament without his sordid
selfishness, and what may seem incompatible with the former, a glowing
imagination in connection with fine mental powers. To all but Mr.
Hamilton she appeared as cold and impenetrable as himself; but the
flashing eye and curling lip with which she listened to a tale of
injustice, or viewed a dishonorable act, indicated a nature truly
noble. Two master passions ruled her heart--love for her parent, and
fondness for books. Idolized by the household, it was not strange that
she soon learned to consider herself the most important member of it.
Mr. Hamilton found that it was essential for the proper regulation
of his establishment that some lady should preside over its various
departments, and accordingly invited the maiden sister of his late
wife to make his house her home, and take charge of his numerous
domestics.

Of his daughter he said nothing. Aunt Lizzy, as she was called, was an
amiable, good woman, but not sufficiently intellectual to superintend
Florry's education. That little individual looked at first with
distrustful eyes on one who, she supposed, might abridge her numerous
privileges; but the affectionate manner of the kind-hearted aunt
removed all fear, and she soon spoke and moved with the freedom which
had characterized her solitude.

One day, when Florence was about nine years old, her father entered
the library, where she sat intently reading, and said,

"Florence, come here, I have something to tell you."

"Something to tell me! I hope it is pleasant;" and she laid her hand
on his knee, and looked inquiringly in his face.

"You remember the cousin Mary, whose father died not long ago? Well,
she has lost her mother too, and is coming to live with us." As he
spoke, his voice faltered, and his proud curling lip quivered, yet
he gave no other evidence of the deepest grief he had known for many
years.

"She will be here this evening, and I hope you will try to make her
contented." With these words he was leaving the room, but Florence
said,

"Father, is she to stay with us always, and will she sleep in my room,
with me?"

"She will live with us as long as she likes, and, if you prefer it,
can occupy the same room."

The day wore on, and evening found her on the steps, looking earnestly
down the avenue for the approach of the little stranger.

At length a heavy carriage drove to the door, and Florry leaned
forward to catch a glimpse of the inmate's face. A slight form, clad
in deep mourning, was placed on the piazza by the coachman.

Mr. Hamilton shook her hand kindly, and, after a few words of welcome,
said,

"Here is your cousin Florence, Mary. I hope you will love each other,
and be happy, good little girls." Mary looked almost fearfully at
her proud young cousin, but the sight of her own pale, tearful face
touched Florry's heart, and she threw her arms round her neck and
kissed her. The embrace was unexpected, and Mary wept bitterly.

"Florence, why don't you take Mary to her room?"

"Would you like to go up-stairs, cousin?"

"Oh yes! if you please, I had much rather." And taking her basket from
her hand, Florry led the way.

Mary took off her bonnet, and turned to look again at her cousin.
Their eyes met; but, as if overcome by some sudden recollection, she
buried her face in her hands and burst again into tears.

Florence stood for some time in silence, at length she said gently,

"It is almost tea-time, and father will be angry if he sees you have
been crying."

"Oh! I can't help it, indeed I can't," sobbed the little mourner, "he
is so much like my dear, darling mother;" and she stifled a cry of
agony.

"Is my father like your mother, cousin Mary?"

"Oh yes! When he spoke to me just now, I almost thought it was
mother."

A tear rolled over Florry's cheek, and she slowly replied, "I wish I
knew somebody that looked like my mother." In that hour was forged the
chain which bound them through life, and made them one in interest.

Years rolled on, and found Mary happy in her adopted home. If her
uncle failed to caress her as her loving heart desired, she did not
complain, for she was treated like her cousin, and found in the strong
love of Florence an antidote for every care. Mary was about sixteen,
and Florence a few months younger, at the time our story opens, and
had been placed in New Orleans to acquire French and music, as good
masters could not be obtained nearer home. We have seen them there,
and, hoping the reader will pardon this digression, return to Florry's
letter.

CHAPTER III.

"Philosophy can hold an easy triumph over past and future
misfortunes; but those which are present, triumph over her."

ROCHEFOUCAULT.

A Striking difference in personal appearance was presented by the
cousins, as they stood together. Florence, though somewhat younger,
was taller by several inches, and her noble and erect carriage, in
connection with the haughty manner in which her head was thrown back,
added in effect to her height. Her hair and eyes were brilliant black,
the latter particularly thoughtful in their expression. The forehead
was not remarkable for height, but was unusually prominent and
white, and almost overhung the eyes. The mouth was perfect, the lips
delicately chiseled, and curving beautifully toward the full dimpled
chin. The face, though intellectual, and artistically beautiful, was
not prepossessing. The expression was cold and haughty; and for this
reason she had received the appellations of "Minerva" and "Juno," such
being considered by her fellow-pupils as singularly appropriate.

Mary, on the contrary, was slight and drooping, and her sweet,
earnest countenance, elicited the love of the beholder, even before an
intimate acquaintance had brought to view the beautiful traits of her
truly amiable character.

And yet these girls, diametrically opposed in disposition, clung to
each other with a strength of affection only to be explained by that
strongest of all ties, early association.

Florence broke the seal of her letter, and Mary walked to the window.
It looked out on a narrow street, through which drays rattled noisily,
and occasional passengers picked their way along its muddy crossings.

Mary stood watching the maneuvers of a little girl, who was
endeavoring to pass dry-shod, when a low groan startled her; and
turning quickly, she perceived Florence standing in the center of the
room, the letter crumpled in one hand: her face had grown very pale,
and the large eyes gleamed strangely.

"Oh! Florry, what is the matter? Is your father ill--dead--tell me
quick?" and imploringly she clasped her hands.

Florence made a powerful effort, and spoke, in her usual tone:

"I was foolish to give way to my feelings, even for a moment--my
father is well." She paused, and then added, as if painfully, "But,
oh! he is almost penniless!"

"Penniless!" echoed Mary, as though she could not comprehend her
cousin's meaning.

"Yes, Mary, he has been very unfortunate in his speculations, obliged
to sell our plantation and negroes, and now, he says, 'a few paltry
thousands only remain;' but, oh! that is not the worst; I wish it
were, he has sold out everything, broken every tie, and will be here
this evening on his way to Texas. He writes that I must be ready to
accompany him to-morrow night."

She paused, as if unwilling to add something which must be told, and
looked sadly at her cousin.

Mary understood the glance.

"Florry, there is something in the letter relating to myself, which
you withhold for fear of giving me pain: the sooner I learn it the
better."

"Mary, here is a letter inclosed for you; but first hear what my
father says," and hurriedly she read as follows: ... "With regard to
Mary, it cannot be expected that she should wish to accompany us on
our rugged path, and bitterly, bitterly do I regret our separation.
Her paternal uncle, now in affluence, has often expressed a desire to
have her with him, and, since my misfortunes, has written me, offering
her a home in his family. Every luxury and advantage afforded by
wealth can still be hers. Did I not feel that she would be benefited
by this separation, nothing could induce me to part with her, but,
under existing circumstances, I can consent to give her up."

Florence flung the letter from her as she concluded, and approaching
her cousin, clasped her arms fondly about her. Mary had covered her
face with her hands, and the tears glistened on her slender fingers.

"Oh, Florry, you don't know how pained and hurt I am, that uncle
should think I could be so ungrateful as to forget, in the moment of
adversity, his unvaried kindness for six long years. Oh! it is cruel
in him to judge me so harshly," and she sobbed aloud.

"I will not be left, I will go with him, that is if--if--Florry, tell
me candidly, do you think he has any other reason for not taking me,
except my fancied dislike to leaving this place--tell me?"

"No, dear Mary; if he thought you preferred going with us, no power on
earth could induce him to leave you."

Mary placed her hand in her cousin's, and murmured,

"Florry, I will go with you; your home shall be my home, and your
sorrows my sorrows."

A flash of joy irradiated Florence's pale face as she returned her
cousin's warm embrace.

"With you, Mary, to comfort and assist me, I fear nothing; but you
have not yet read your uncle's letter, perhaps its contents may
influence your decision."

Mary perused it in silence, and then put it in her cousin's hand,
while the tears rolled over her cheeks.

"Mary, think well ere you reject this kind offer. Remember how
earnestly he entreats that you will come and share his love, his home,
and his fortune. Many privations will be ours, in the land to which we
go, and numberless trials assail the poverty-stricken. All these you
can avoid, by accepting this very affectionate invitation. Think well,
Mary, lest in after-years you repent your hasty decision."

There came a long pause, and hurriedly Florence paced to and fro. Mary
lifted her bowed head, and pushing back her clustering hair, calmly
replied, "My heart swells with gratitude toward my noble, generous
uncle. Oh, how fervently I can thank him for his proffered home! yet,
separated from you, dear Florry, I could not be happy; my heart would
ache for you, and your warm, trusting love. I fear neither poverty
nor hardships. Oh, let me go with you, and cheer and assist my dear
uncle!"

"You shall go with us, my pure-hearted cousin. When I thought a moment
since, of parting with you, my future seemed gloomy indeed, but now I
know that you will be near, I am content."

A short silence ensued, broken by a mournful exclamation from
Florence.

"Ah! Mary, it is not for myself that I regret this change of fortune,
but for my proud, haughty father, who will suffer so keenly. Oh, my
heart aches when I think of him!"

"Florry, we must cheer him by those thousand little attentions, which
will lead him to forget his pecuniary troubles."

Florence shook her head.

"You do not know my father as I do. He will have no comforters, broods
over difficulties in secret, and shrinks from sympathy as from a
'scorching brand.'"

"Still, I think we can do much to lighten his cares, and I pray God I
may not be mistaken," replied Mary.

Florence lifted her head from her palm and gazed vacantly at her
cousin, then started from her seat.

"Mary, we must not sit here idly, when there is so much to do, Madame
---- should know we leave to-morrow, and it will take us all day to
prepare for our journey."

"Do let me go and speak to Madame----; it will be less unpleasant to
me?"

"No, no; I will go myself; they shall not think I feel it so sensibly,
and their condolence to-morrow would irritate me beyond measure. I
scorn such petty trials as loss of fortune, and they shall know it."

"Who shall know it, Florry?"

Her cheek flushed, but without a reply she left the room, and
descended the steps which led to Madame ----'s parlor. Reaching the
door, she drew herself proudly up, then knocked.

"Come in," was the response.

She did so. In the center of the apartment, with an open book on the
table before him, sat the teacher who officiated at prayers. He rose
and bowed coldly in answer to her salutation.

"Pardon my intrusion, Mr. Stewart. I expected to find Madame here."

"She has gone to spend the morning with an invalid sister, and
requested me to take charge of her classes, in addition to my own. If
I can render you any assistance, Miss Hamilton, I am at your service."

"Thank you, I am in need of no assistance, and merely wished to say to
Madame that I should leave New Orleans to-morrow, having heard from my
father that he will be here in the evening boat."

"I will inform her of your intended departure as early as possible."

"You will oblige me by doing so," replied Florence, turning to go.

"Miss Hamilton, may I ask you if your cousin accompanies you?"

"She does," was the laconic answer, and slowly she retraced her steps,
and stood at her own door. The cheeks had become colorless, and the
delicate lips writhed with pain. She paused a moment, then entered.

"Did you see her, Florry?"

"No, she is absent, but I left word for her."

Her tone was hard, dry, as though she had been striving long for some
goal, which, when nearly attained, her failing strength was scarce
able to grasp. It was the echo of a fearful struggle that had raged in
her proud bosom. The knell it seemed of expiring exertion, of sinking
resistance. Mary gazed sadly on her cousin, who stood mechanically
smoothing her glossy black hair. The haughty features seemed chiseled
in marble, so cold, stony was the expression.

"Dear Florry! you look harassed and weary already. Why, why will you
overtask your strength, merely to be called a disciple of Zeno? Surely
you cannot seriously desire so insignificant an honor, if it merits
that title?"

"Can, you, then, see no glory in crushing long-cherished hopes--nay,
when your heart is yearning toward some 'bright particular' path,
to turn without one symptom of regret, and calmly tread one just the
opposite! Tell me, can you perceive nothing elevating in this Stoical
command?"

The cold, vacant look had passed away; her dark eyes gleamed,
glittered as with anticipated triumph.

"Florry, I do not understand you exactly; but I do know that command
of the heart is impossible, from the source whence you draw. It may
seem perfect control now, but it will fail you in the dark hour of
your need, if many trials should assail. Oh! my cousin, do not be
angry if I say 'you have forsaken the fountain of living water, and
hewn out for yourself broken cisterns, which hold no water.' Oh!
Florry, before you take another step, return to Him, 'who has a balm
for every wound.'"

Florence's face softened; an expression of relief began to steal over
her countenance; but as Mary ceased speaking, she turned her face,
beautiful in its angelic purity, full upon her. A bitter smile curled
Florence's lip, and muttering hoarsely, "A few more hours and the
struggle will be over," she turned to her bureau, and arranged her
clothes for packing.

The day passed in preparation, and twilight found the cousins watching
intently at the casement. The great clock in the hall chimed out
seven, the last stroke died away, and then the sharp clang of the
door-bell again broke silence. They started to their feet, heard the
street door open and close--then steps along the stairs, nearer and
nearer--then came a knock at the door. Mary opened it; the servant
handed in a card and withdrew. "Mr. J.A. Hamilton." Florence passed
out, Mary remained behind.

"Come, why do you linger?"

"I thought, Florry, you might wish to see him alone; perhaps he would
prefer it."

"Mary, you have identified yourself with us. To my father we must be
as one." She extended her hand, and the next moment they stood in the
reception-room.

The father and uncle were standing with folded arms, looking down into
the muddy street below. He advanced to meet them, holding out a hand
to each. Florence pressed her lips to the one she held, and exclaimed,

"My dear father, how glad I am to see you!"

"Glad to see me! You did not receive my letters then?"

"Yes, I did, but are their contents and pleasure at meeting you
incompatible?"

He made no reply, and then Mary said, in a low, tremulous tone,

"Uncle, you have done me a great injury, and you must make me all the
reparation in your power. You said, in your letter to Florry, that
you did not think I would wish to go with you. Oh, uncle! you do not,
cannot believe me so ungrateful, so devoid of love as to wish, under
any circumstances, to be separated from you. Now ease my heart, and
say I may share your new home. I should be very miserable away from
you."

An expression of pleasure passed over his face, but again the brow
darkened.

"Mary! Florence is my child--my destiny hers, my misfortunes hers; but
I have no right to drag you with me in my fall; to deprive you of the
many advantages that will be afforded, by your uncle's wealth, of the
social position you may one day attain."

"Uncle! uncle! am I not your child by adoption? Have you not loved
and cared for me during long years? Oh! what do I care for wealth--for
what you call a high position in the world? You and Florry are my
world." She threw her arms about his neck, and sobbed, "Take me! oh,
take me with you!"

"If you so earnestly desire it, you shall indeed go with us, my Mary."
And, for the first time in her life, he imprinted a kiss on her brow.

When he departed, it was with a promise to call for them the next
morning, that they might make, with their aunt, some necessary
purchases, and remove to a hotel near the river.

Everything was packed the ensuing day, when Mary suddenly remembered
that her books were still in the recitation-room, and would have gone
for them, but Florence said,

"I will bring up the books, Mary; you are tired and pale with bending
so long over that trunk." And accordingly she went.

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