Remember the Alamo [47]
"But, then, what have you done, Antonia?"
"Fray Ignatius wants us to go to the convent. I refused. My
father made me promise to do so. Is not our first duty to our
father? Mother, is it not?
"No, no; to God--and to Fray Ignatius, as the priest of God.
He says we ought to go to the convent. He knows best. We
have been disobedient and wicked."
"Isabel, speak, my dear one. Tell mi madre if you think we
should go."
There was a moment's wavering, and then Isabel went to her
mother and caressed her as only Isabel could caress her, and
with the kisses, she said boldly: "Mi madre, we will not go
to the convent. Not any of us. It is a dreadful place, even
for a happy child. Oh, how cold and still are the Sisters!
They are like stone figures that move about."
"Hush, child! I cannot listen to you! Go away! I must be
alone. I must think. I must pray. Only the Mother of
Sorrows can help me."
It was a miserable sequence to the happy night, and Antonia
was really terrified at the position in which she found
herself. If the Americans should fall, nothing but flight, or
uncompromising submission to Fray Ignatius, remained for her.
She knew only too well how miserable her life could be made;
what moral torture could be inflicted; what spiritual
servitude exacted. In a moment of time she had comprehended
her danger, and her heart sank and sickened with a genuine
physical terror.
The cold was still severe, and no one answered her call for
wood. Isabel crouched, white and shivering, over the dying
embers, and it was she who first uttered the fear Antonia had
refused to admit to herself--"Suppose the servants are
forbidden to wait upon us!"
"I will bring wood myself, dearest." She was greatly
comforted by the word "us." She could almost have wept for
joy of the sympathy it included. For thought is rapid in such
crucial moments, and she had decided that even flight with her
would be a kinder fate for Isabel, than the cruel tender
mercies of the Sisters and the convent.
They could not talk much. The thought of their mother's
anguish, and of the separation put between them and their
household, shocked and terrified them. Vainly they called for
fuel. At dinner time no table was laid, and no preparations
made for the meal. Then Antonia went into the kitchen. She
took with her food, and cooked it. She brought wood into the
parlor, and made up the fire. Fortunately, her northern
education had given her plenty of resources for such
emergencies. Two or three savory dishes were soon ready, and
the small table set upon a warm, bright hearth.
The Senora had evidently not been included in the ban, for
Rachela attended with ostentatious care to her comfort; but
Isabel had rolled herself up in a wadded silk coverlet and
gone to sleep. Antonia awakened her with a kiss. "Come,
queridita, and get your dinner."
"But is it possible? I thought Fray Ignatius had forbidden
it."
"He cannot forbid me to wait upon you, my darling one. And he
cannot turn the flour into dust, and the meat into stone.
There is a good dinner ready; and you are hungry, no doubt."
"For three hours I have been faint. Ah! you have made me a
custard also! You are a very comforter."
But the girl was still and sad, and Antonia was hard pressed
to find any real comfort for her. For she knew that their
only hope lay in the immediate attack of the American force,
and its success; and she did not think it wise to hide from
her sister the alternatives that lay before them if the
Americans failed.
"I am afraid," said Isabel; "and so unhappy. A very sad
business is life. I cannot think how any one can care to
live."
"Remember Luis, and our father, and Jack, and Thomas, and our
dear mother, who this morning stood between us and Fray
Ignatius. Will you let this priest turn the sky black above
you?"
"And also, men will fight. What for? Who can tell? The
Americans want so much of everything. Naturally they do not
get all they want. What do they do?