Democratic Sentinel, Volume 11, Number 19, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 June 1887 — SISTER ANGELA. [ARTICLE]

SISTER ANGELA.

BY MRS. BELL BALL.

“What exquisitely beautiful hands. Does the face compare with them, Don Felipe?” The speaker turned to look After the retreating form of a blackrobed nun, as his companion hesitated Bn instant, and then answered: “Si, Senor. Iler face was once the inspiration of a poet’s pen and the artists 1 brush. She is yet very beautiful, but it is the loveliness of a nature from which the dross has been burned by the fiery ordeal of afflction.” “Ah, a romance?” “A sad and bitter one.” “May I not hear it?” Again Don Felipe hesitated. “The street is not the place to relate such a story.” “Well, we can leave the street. I am anxious to learn the history of a woman with hands like those; of course it is a love story.” “It is such an one that you need never wish to have a share in. If you must hear it,’ come with me to house, and I will relate to you that which is now known to but few persons. That which I will tell you I have sad reason to know is true, for the lovely woman was my uncle’s wife.” ******** “At the base of the Sandval mountains lies a level mesa of several hundred acres in extent, crossed by a mountain brook. In the center of the mesa is a rambling adobe building, with many placitas in which were once lovely statuary and sparkling fountains, overshadowed by noble trees. The cool waters of the brook rippled through the grounds and singing birds of brightest plumage dipped their wings in the sparkling depths. These wide acres belong to one of the wealthiest families in New Mexico, and were given hundreds of years ago in an old Spanish grant to the first of the name Salazar who came to this territory. The house is old, very old, and much of its former magnificence is still discernible in the rich carvings and splendid furnishings, but many a dreary year has passed since human feet have tread the moth-eaten carpets or looked from the dust-grimed windows. The hand of the destroyer has touched it, and ruin is imprinted everywhere.

Perfects Salazar, my father’s youngest brother, inherited this land as his share in my grandfather’s estate. My uncle was a passionate, unreasoning man—a nganiac when fairly roused. He was forty-five years old when he married, and took for his wife a wild young girl whom he had dandled on his knee when a baby. She did not love him, it was not in the nature of things that she should, but married him in obedience to her father’s commands. She loved a man her equal in position and age; but to keep her from a marriage he did not approve, her father hurried on the marriage with my uncle. I believe that Dolores Perea meant to keep sacredly the vows taken at the .altar, and did, so far as it was in her nature so to do, but her giddy ways were wholly unsuited to the serious manhood of my uncle, who loved her with all the passionate ardor of a man who had never known but one love. Tie surrounded her with every luxury that money could buy, and her light nature was in a measure contented, but my uncle was so insanely joalous of her that his life was made miserable by Dolores, who often tormented him needlessly. It is just twenty years this very night since they were married, and nineteen years since Dolores looked for the last time on my uncle’s face, ishe had among her jewels a bracelet, one of that peculiarly hideous pattern so much in vogue in those days. It was a present from her father on her fourteenth birthday, and being somewhat antique in style, it had been laid aside for a number of years, and her busband had never chanced to see it. Searching in her jewel case for gems to w ear to a grand ball on that Christmas eve, the anniversary of her wedding, she found the birthday bauble and in a spirit of mischief fastened it on her arm. Its golden scales sparkled .and scintillated as it twisted its coils about the soft, white flesh, and the great ruby eyes of the serpentine trink•et glowed with a lurid fire that seemed

to herald the gathering storm; from its mouth depended a tiny locket in which was Senor Pereas picture; painted on ivory so many years before, it bore slight resemblance to the Senor of that day. Dolores was arrayed in magnificent attire When my uncle entered the dress-jng-ropm at her request, to see if she was robed to suit his over-fastidious taste. Iler dress of filmy black lace was worn over crimson velvet, and swept in rudy billows about her pretty feet. A heavy band of ruby-studded gold gleamed in her black hair. About her beautiful bare throat was clasped a wide collar of rubies, and ruby st .s sparkled in her ears, shone in the rosette on her tiny slippers and caught up the soft folds of her lace. No rings save her marriage circlet of virgin gold were on her dainty hands, and on one arm glinted and winked in all its* barbaric hideousness the gold and ruby serpent. My uncle feasted his eyes on the rarely lovely picture she made as she stood in the soft glow of the wax tapers, till a movement of her rounded arm brought to view the fatal bracelet. He thought it some trinket she had lately bought, but to his idle question 'she made some evasive answer, which roused his jealous nature, and he pounced on the ugly thing and Was about to tear it from her arm when the . locket flew open and a man’s face, looked up at him. In his blind fury he struck her from him and rushed, cursing, from her room. Dolores was so panic stricken at the absurd turn her expected tun had taken that she was unable to move, but crouching among the curtains where her husband had hurled her, she heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs and knew that he had gone oil in a rage and she would see him no more for hours—such was his habit—and it occasioned her no uneasiness, but, strange consistency, she was growing to love him, and dropping down before the crucifix on her dressing table she cried bitterly, and vowed by the holy virgin never to torment him so again. A stinging sensation in her arm claimed her attention and an examination showed that her husband, in his anger, had crushed the rough gold of her bracelet into the tender flesh, till her wrist bore a wide mark of blood; -it had dried into the scales of the snake, and dripped down among her laces. With a shrill scream she tried to unclasp it, but the catch was bent and would not give way. Iler cry of terror brought her maid to the room, but their united efforts could not undo the clasp. Finally Dolores said: “Let it be until Senor Salazar returns, he can break it.” “Senor Perfecto was in a terrible passion when he rode away. His face was like death, and Diablo has not been ridden for weeks. I’m afraid there will be mischief done to-night.” Dolores did not reprove the talkative maid, but walking to the window peered anxiously out. Her vision was bounded by four walls above which she could see but little blue sky. She turned back with a dreadful fear at her heart. “How strange! it has clouded up since Sunday. It Will storm before daybreak, I fear.” “Indeed it will, Senora. The heaven is black now. Will you want the carriage to-night. Jose is waiting for orders.” “No, unless Senor Salazar returns, I will remain at home. Come with me; perhaps we can hear if he is coming.” Throwing a rebosa over her head and shoulders, she caught up her trailing draperies, and together they passed out into the gathering darkness, and ascended to the roof.

The outlook was forbidding indeed. Above the Sandoval mountains the snow r clouds were drifting their soft covering, while over the mesa and plain the bleak winds from Hell canon were roaring in mad fury. “Which road did Senor Salazar take?” asked Dolores as they turned from their fruitless errand to descend the stairway. “The north one toward the canon, Senora.” “I feared so much,” shivered Dolores, “but it cannot now' be helped,” and entering her own room again, she laid aside her jewels and laces, and slipping into a soft crimson robe, she crouched down on a pile of furs before the fireplace and waited. Midnight came, but still no husband, and rising from her furs, chilled to the heart, the fire burned to w'hite ashes, Dolores tried to pierce the blackness of the winter sky. No comfort there. The storm unheard through the thick w'alls was bellowing and tearing over the mountain in mad frenzy, and snow was piled in great drifts about the statuary in the placita. “This is a terrible storm,” Dolores muttered to herself. “I cannot remember one like it. Perfecto must have sought refuge somewhere and I may as well retire.” Christmas morning dawned as fair as though a storm had never blackened the face of the blue sky. The world looked pure and most lovely under the thick white mantle glistening in the sunlight, and told no tales-of the w'ild night's doings. Some miners far up the mountain side, concluding that winter was upon them, gathered up their scanty belongings and sought the lower level. They came upon a heap in the bottom of the conon, where the road ran between two walls of rocks which rose perpendicular 200 feet. It proved to be a horse and rider, crushed beyond all hope of life remaining. “Went over the cliff in the storm last night,” was the terse comment, as then raised the mangled form of the

man and prepared to carry it down the mountain. “Howly mother save us,” ejaculated one of the party, as he brushed the, snow from the dead face. “It’s Senor Salazar.” And so it was. In his mad ride he had spurred his horse too close to the cliff, and went over the side into the canon, and it was this that Dolores had feared, when she asked the road he had taken. I need not dwell on the scene in his 4iome when they carried his lifeless body and laid it in her room. Though her affection for him had been more like that of a child for a parent, she knew that she was the idol of his heart, and felt that she had driven him to death. She buried him in splendid pomp, and spent vast sums in masses for his soul. Then closing, the doors in her home, she entered the convent of the Sacret Heart and has spent her life in supplication for pardon for her unintentional wrong. Her hair, once the color of the raven’s wing, is as white as the snow on yonder mountain peak. The sparkle and shine of her beautiful eyes have been quenched in tears, and her light, quick step has changed to the weary tread of the hopeless. The ranch stands undisturbed year after year, moth, mold and rust holding high carnival among the priceless treasures of the deserted rooms. No one would enter those walls for twice the wealth to lie found there, for the curse of God seems to rest on it all. Sister Angela is a veritable saint in the eyes and the hearts of the lowly to whom she is a ministering angel at all times. In the hands you so much admired she ever carries a silver crucifix, to which is attached a slender gold chain, the one my uncle always wore. Every Christmastide the scar on her wrist, made on that fatal night, is bruised afresh, and in fasting and agonizing prayer she passes the watches of the lonely hours. Dolores Salazar is dead to the world, but lives again in the hearts of the afflicted and downtrodden, and will forever live in the memory of the church as Sister Angela.” “But what became of the younger lover, did he never marry?” “He sits beside you.”