Inez | Page 9

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 Se?oras mingled in the cavalcade and many a bright-eyed Se?orita 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, Ma?uel 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, Ma?uel? 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, Se?or, 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.
Ma?uel 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, Se?or 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, Ma?uel, but candid; for eight years I have known that I was destined to be your wife, but I never loved you, Ma?uel. 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, Se?or. 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.
"Bue?o tarde, Padre."
The black eyes rested on Nevarro with an expression which seemed to demand an explanation of his choler. Ma?uel 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 Ma?uel 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, à la Turk, on a buffalo-robe before his door, puffing his cigarrita, and keeping time to the violin, which