Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 22, Number 39, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 February 1901 — THE TEXAS CRUISER [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE TEXAS CRUISER

BY T. BURLINGAME ROSS

CHAPTER XX.—(Continued.) ■’ “I’m sure,” said Cassandra, as her mistress hinted at some of her doubts, “you have no reason to doubt so noble a being. See what she has done for you; she has led you from danger to safety, and she has procured for you a home than which you could not find a better. 'She, through the priest, informed Captain Howard of your whereabouts.” “I know it—l know it all,” returned Irene, “but yet I cannot help these feelings. Why will she not let me love her? Something draws me towards her —my deep gratitude, it is—and yet she repulses me. And then why will she not tell me who and what she is?” “Ah, my dear mistress, when people are doing so much for us, it is hardly generous to blame them for what they do not do. O, as sure as you live, that strange woman loves you dearly.” “Do you think so?” Irene asked, earnestly. - “I am sure of it.” “Well, I think she does. At jny rate, I Jove her.” *At this juncture a woman entered the room and informed Irene that there were two Indians below who wished to see her. “Of what people are they?” the maiden asked. “The Totonaques, I think,” the woman answered. “One of them says he knows you, and that you stopped awhile beneath his roof last summer.” “It must be good Jacar Xanpa.” cried Irene, starting to her feet. “Don’t you think so, Cassandra?” “I don’t see who else it can be,” was the girl’s reply. “It must be. Come, Cassandra, you ehall go down with me.” /“So the two girls followed their hostess down' stairs, and in the front room they found the two Inidans. Irene gazed into the face of the man nearest to her, and at first thought she had never seen the swarthy features before; but in a moment more she detected something natural in the countenance. “Did you seek me?” she asked, timidly, wondering if they had not come to bring tier some word of Clarence. “Ay, Irene—we have sought you for a long while,” the man replied. The maiden started at the sound of that voice, and upon the next moment she could see beneath the artificial darkness of the skin. She staggered back and grasped the back of a chair for support, •and her face had turned as pale as marble. Cassandra seemed to have discovered the trutfc at the same time, for she uttered a low, quick cry, and started back. “You know me, eh?” spoke the visitor, in a sarcastic tone. “O, heaven have mercy!” gasped Irene, now sinking into the chair, and covering her face with her hands. “And, I have found you at last, have I? You did very wrong to run away from your father.” As the man' thus spoke, he advanced and placed his hand upon Irene’s head. But she shrank from him as though he had been a serpent. “Don’t touch me!” she groaned, in bitter agony. "O, leave me, and let me be alone.” “No, no,” returned St. Marc —soy he it Was—“l have not come all this way for you, only to give you up again. I have a purpose in this visit which must be answered; so you must not ask me to leave you again.” “O, what evil spirit led you hither to curse me more?” the poor girl uttered, clasping her hqnds and looking into the man’s face. “Perhaps you wonder how I found you,” returned St. Marc; “but it was a Very easy matter. I knew that a priest In Vera Cruz received word from you, and that it was conveyed to Captain Howard in prison. So. I knew this same Howard would seek you. I followed him as far as the Mexican capital, and my own instincts led me the rest of the way. And it seems I was not mistaken. You see our mutual friend, San Benito, has come with me.” s Irene looked up, and she recognized the Ban, and as she did so the last ray of hope left her soul, for she knew of no power in Mexico which could take a child from its parent. “Come," said St. Marc, again advancing and placing his hand upon her shoulder, “you will go with me now. I have engaged good quarters for you.’’ “No! no!” shrieked the maiden, darting •way to Cassandra’s side. “O, you shall not take me! Help! help! O, help!” Ere St. Marc could place his hand upon the girl again, the door of the room was thrown open, and Mendrid rushed in. “What is all this?” he cried, as he stopped and gazed around upon those present. “Why are you here?’ ’he added, looking into the face of him whom he supposed to be an Indian. "Easy, senor—easy,” returned St. Marc. “I found my purpose better answered by assuming this disguise when I set out in search of my daughter. Perhaps you don’t recognize Antonio St. Marc in this disguise?” “St. Marc!” uttered the old man, in surprise. “Yon know me now, I trust,” said the visitor, removing his cap, and taking the wig of long, coarse hair from his head. "I do,” the merchant returned, in a sad, disappointed tone. “And I suppose now you will offer no resistance to my taking my child with ms?" -At this moment Irene rushed forward and knelt at Mendrid’s feet. “Save me! save me!” she cried, in frantic tones. “Senor,” spoke St Marc, ere the old man could answer the maiden, “my child left me about a year ago, and from that time to the present I have searched for her without ceasing. Now I havo found her, and under the 1# vfc, and in the name, of my country, I claim her. Of course you will not force me to extreme measures.” . x “O, save me—save!” groaned Irene. “Arise, my child.” spoke the old man, St the Mme time lifting the maiden from the ground; he spoke tremulously, and there were tears in his eyes. “You know I would help you if I eould, but in this

I can do nothing. Your father claims you, and against his claim no power in the nation can avail you.” “Now, Irene,” said St. Marc, advancing to her side once more, “you see how the matter stands, and I trust you will be wise. At all events,.” he added, bend r ing upon her a look of savage import, “you will not find it for your interest to break from me again.” “Thus fades hope away!” the poor girl uttered, and as the words left her lips she would have sunk down had not her father held her up. “Come,” St. Marc said, addressing Cassandra, “you had better follow your mistress.” And then turning to San Benito, he added: “Come—we’ll take her before she knows enough to parley with me any more here. Hurry out and find a carriage of some sort as.soon as possible.” ' San Benito hurried out and had the good fortune to find a carriage just passing. He hailed the driver, and in a few moments more the insensible form of Irene was lifted in. When our heroine came to herself she found Cassandra bending over her. “Have I dreamed?” she whispered, shuddering feaffully as she spoke. “Look- up—look up,” Cassandra returned. “Alas! I cannot even weep for you!” Irene started up and gazed around She found herself in a well furnished apartment, but differently furnished from any she was ever in before. In a few 'moments the whole dread truth came back to her mind; and as soon as she remembered all, she sank back upon the pofa and groaned in bitterest anguish. In a few moments more St. Marc came in. He had probably heard the voices, and knew that Irene had recovered. She sat up as he entered, and would have fallen at his feet, but he detected the symptoms of her movement, and waved her back. “My child,” he said, “you know all that has passed, so I shall have only to tell you of the future. You know Martin San Benito. You knofr he has long been one of my warmest friends, and that, but for my solemn pledge to Jilok Tudel, I should have given him your hand ere this. But I am now released from all pledges to Tudel, and can hence bestow this mark of my esteem upon San Benito. You will become his wife ere we leave this place. Now, mark me; this is fixed, and it cannot be altered.” „ A few moments Irene sat and gazed her father, in the face, and then she clasped her hands. “In the name of heaven all just and merciful,” she cried, “I beseech you to spare me. Look upon me, my father, and see me here weak and defenseless. How have I ever harmed you, or how wronged you, that you should thus curse the morn of my life? O, spare me! Spare me this dread blow, and I’ll blesS thee while life lasts.” “Irene,” returned the man, very coolly and calmly—like the breath of a still morning in winter —“you have pleaded all you need to plead. You have escaped me once, and thereby threw me into a scrape from which 1 narrowly escaped with my life; but you cannot escape me again. lam determined now. Ay—were all the prayers of all the saints at this moment presented to me in behalf of your request they would not move me an atom. You will be married to San Benito tomorrow. I am determined not to hold you long; and if you escape again it must be from the hands of your husband," and not mine.” “And must it be to-morrow?” the maiden murmured.

“As sure as to-morrow comes, it shall.’ 1 “No hope! no mercy!” “Yes —both. If you will be wise, as I am, and take the things of earth as they come, you’ll have hope and mercy enough.” “I would die now!” “I won’t disturb you more now, my child. It is growing late, and you may like to be alone. But remember—you become a wife to-morrow, just as sure as the sun rises again!” And with these words Antonio St, Marc left the room. When he was gone Irene threw herself upon Cassandra’s bosom and groaned aloud. She could not weep now. The shock was too deep—too dreadful. And what could her faithful companion say to comfort her? She could only point to heaven. “O, Clarence! Clarence!” murmured the stricken one, “where art thou now ? Shall I not see thee once more ere the frail and brittle cup of life passes from me?” A few moments after this the maiden remained quiet, and then looking up into Cassandra’s face, she said: “And Calypso—where is she?” “I think she went out to meet Captain Howard,” returned the girl. “She did not say so, exactly, when she went away, but I thought from what she did say that she feared he might not know exactly which way to turn, so she went out to meet him.” “O, I wish she were here; I think even she might help me.” “Then let us hope that she may come. Ay—that they both may come.” “But to-morrow, Cassandra—O, tomorrow !” “I know; but between now and then a smart horse might easily travel from here to the capital. Ay, Buonevedeo came from the capital to this place In ten hours upon only one horse —leaving there at midnight, and reaching here at ten o'clock on the next day." “O, If I dared to hope! But alas! what can they do if they come?" This waa a question Cassandra conld not answer; so her foundation for hope was blown to the winds.

CHAPTER XXI. Irene stood alone in her room. St. Marc had just entered the apartment. “In an hour,” he said, “do you understand?” He fixed a look upon the poor girl that reminded her of those sinister, serpentine glances that had so often before filled her with deep repugnance for the man who called her “my child!” Irene was white as marble. “There la no escape?” she murmured in a heart-broken way. “Escape!” repeated St. Marc wfth a

sneer; “from what—a wealthy husband, a fine home? Tudel was a pirate, but as to Behito, what objection can yon have to him?” Irene shuddered. The thought' of her soul’s ideal, and the fawning, heartless Mexican aroused every true womanly instinct of aversion and dislike. “If there was a means pf escape ” began St. Marc. He paused there impressively, and fixed an eye upon Irene that caused her to hope vaguely, while she trembled with a certain indefinable fear. “Yes, yes,” she murmured. '“Would you accept it?” Again the man appeared as he had upon that night of her flight, when she had shrank from him with apprehension. He came nearer to her. He whispered: “Irene, if I will save you from become ing this man’s wife- ” “Oh! I will bless you!” she cried fervently. • “If I will take you far away, to Spain, to a new life —away from them all, will you accept love, wealth, happiness, as the wife of another?” “Whom?” she cried sharply. “Myself.” “You?” “Yes, Irene,” pursued St. Marc; “you must have known latterly that I am not what I have claimed. Listen, I am not even related to you.” “You —are —not!” she faltered. “No. Answer! The time is short. Will you marry me?”, \ “Oh, never!” “By my soul, you shall!” shouted St. Marc, losing all control of himself. He reached out to seize her, to force her to listen to him. She evaded his grasp. As she ran towards the door it opened. He, pursuing, fell back with a frightened face. A woman stood there. “Who is this?” gasped Irene, recoiling also. » “Calypso, the Wanderer!” St. Marc had staggered back, white as death. “Yes—Calypso!” repeated the intruder. Her face, her garb, had Changed. Gone was all the wild, savage adornment, the dark face stain. A woman was revealed with a tragic yet careworn face, and as her natural eyes sought those of Irene, the latter experienced anew that strange thrill of interest and love with which this person always inspired her. “Ay, St. Marc,” spoke the woman, sternly—“do you know me?” “I know you now!” panted the man hoarsely, crouching helplessly in a chair. “I am the woman,” said Calypso, “whose husband you killed, whose fortune you appropriated, whose child you stole, fifteen years since. You had me imprisoned in an asylum in Spain. I escaped, but I had no proofs against you —till now!” “A fiction—what nonsense is this?” muttered St. Marc, striving to rally. “It is the truth!” answered a clear, firm voice, and Captain Clarence Howard strode inte the room. “See! Your own confession, written on the eve of your duel with Tudel, verifies all that this lady claims.” “Clarence —Captain Howard!” gasped Irene, reeling while she stood in a maze of joy, uncertainty, suspense. Captain Howard gained her side. He had to support that lovely form, for Irene’s overstrained heart was well nigh giving way. “Who —who are you?” finally murinured Irene —happy, safe, under the sheltering protection of that gallant friend — putting a longing hand out towards Calypso. “Your mother, child!" answered the accuser of St. Marc. “Your own loving mother —Calypso the Wanderer no more!” Some strange influences of fate fell across the lives of that little group before many days had passed. All that Calypso had said was true, and, faced with his crimes, St. Marc, a self-confessed culprit, hung himself in the jail. Benito fled from the country, when he learned that his heartless plot to coerce the fair girl to become his wife had failed. Then at once all matters seemed to adjust themselves to the welfare and happiness of those who had suffered a common woe and the blighting march of grim-visaged war. Golden-browed peace came in with the forward advance of the banners of the victorious army. Cassandra, Peter, the noble priest—all these, and others of the cruiser’s loyal friends —shared in the newer, brighter life now ushered in. Irene had found a mother, a lover, fortune, home and friends. The gallant Captain Howard had won a beautiful bride, whose tender, girlish heart went out to him with all the fervent joy and gratitude of a pure and intense nature. The Stars and Stripes waved victorious over the golden city of the Montezumas, and the brave Texan cruiser had helped place them there by his dauntless deeds of valor! (The end.)