by Zane Grey
“You are out early,” I exclaimed.
“Yes, Aunt Ambrosia’s kindness often seems unbearable, and I fly from it; it is curious for one to run from kindness.”
“Your aunt is a strange creature, I can never understand her; sometimes I love her much, and then, without any apparent cause, I shun her as if she bore a plague.”
“I too feel so toward her, and scarcely know whether she loves me devotedly or hates me; her laugh though is unbearable, to me, there seems to be wickedness in it,” replied Ysidria, “though I should not talk ill of her, for she is very kind, making me many little sweets and pasties, and there is one sweet drop of which she is very choice, never giving me more than one at a time. I have nearly grown into the habit of taking them each morning before breakfast, and I feel very wretched if I miss one. You must try them, and shall, if I can persuade Aunt Ambrosia for an extra drop; I think she will for you though.”
“We have been talking, Madre Moreno and I, and I have proposed that you shall go to Mexico or Santa Clara to have an oculist examine your eyes, for indeed I fear there is something which should be looked to at once. We would all hate to have your beautiful eyes, Ysidria, never reflect our faces more.”
We had by this time reached the old ruin, and turned, as if of one accord, toward the spot.
“Yes, Señor Carlos,” said Ysidria, as we dismounted, “every word of praise I hear about my eyes, seems like mockery to me; I, myself, am frightened at their strange changes, and fear that I shall soon be blind.”
“Then why not go at once to Santa Clara? It is your only hope. Why not go to-morrow?” I asked, as I took her hand in mine.
“That cannot be; I am not able, nor is Aunt Ambrosia, to allow of the expense. I must be content to see while I may, and then live on with the remembrance of your kind faces ever before me.”
“Ysidria, do not despond; let me help you; it has been my dream for the past year. Will you be my wife?”
I caught her in my arms, for she seemed as if about to fall.
“Ah, Carlos, I am too happy,” she murmured. “I love you, but I cannot be your wife with my infirmity. No, I cannot be so selfish; I will not put upon you a burden. I love you, but let us live as we do now, for you must never tire of me and still feel bound to me for life. I shall be blind. I love you too well.”
“Ysidria, I love you for your own dear self. Nor fear so for your sight. The trouble is, I trust, nothing but temporary; the loss for a time of the accommodation; it can easily be remedied when Pedirpozzo returns. So do not let the fear of being a burden, which you can never be to me, deter you from giving me the promise I so desire. Say you will be my wife, Ysidria.”
“I will,” she replied, and then I took a ring of my mother’s and placed it on her finger.
“Let us go over to the wall and sit where I first saw you, Ysidria,” I said, “and begin the world with hope.”
We started to cross the hollow, passing the atropa, which was just sending out its early shoots. I crushed it with my foot, and ground down each stem till not a bit of green was left, and then I placed some stones upon it; some way I enjoyed this little act, and Ysidria joined me in trampling down the plant.
“It is an ill-favoured thing,” I said, “and does more harm than good, but Madre Moreno, I scarcely think will thank me for destroying it, for she always gathered its leaves for some of her medicines.”
“Yes, she will, Señorito Carlos; she will thank thee,” said a voice behind us, and turning we saw Madre Moreno.
“I had come to do the same thing myself, and thou hast saved me the labour. Why didst thou not kill it before to-day? This is a strange day on which to kill the old plant!”
The Madre had some chips of pine in her basket; these she placed above the plant and pouring a flask of turpentine over them, set it all afire; then piling up chunks of hard wood, she stood back to watch the blaze.
“It is needed no more,” she said, “so we will leave no vestige of it, for it must never spring up again.” We looked at the witch in silence and wonder.
“Art thou happy, Carlos Sotos, with thy love? Thank old Madre Moreno for it.” She laughed aloud, and the wall echoed back the laugh mockingly.
CHAPTER VIII
When I parted from Ysidria at Madre Moreno’s that evening, after the destruction of the plant, I looked into her blue eyes, and suddenly the pupil spread over the entire iris.
“Oh! Ysidria, your eyes are beautiful,” and I pressed a kiss upon them, “good-bye, till we meet to-morrow. I am happy.”
“Good night,” she answered, “I shall see you in the morning. I will rise as the first rays of the sun, come through my window, and my first thought will be of you.”
We parted, and I watched her graceful form as she walked up the path to the door; she turned and waved her hand to me as she passed from sight.
“Her eyes, alas, are all the light I know!” I said aloud, and, with an indefinable feeling of sadness, walked briskly home.
I told Catalina all, that evening, but the good woman said nothing to sadden me, but I could see sorrow in her face.
There were clouds in the sky at sunset, and every prospect of a storm; the wind howled through the trees and rattled the doors of the old house. I sat till late watching the collecting clouds which were rolling on in turbulent masses, and very low, till all was dark, as the last rent was filled, through which the moon had been shining. It was a terrible storm, the worst I had ever known, and Catalina came to my door at about two o’clock, in great fright, saying that she had seen a figure like Madre Mareno, going by the house as if floating in the air, and had heard a loud report as if there had been thunder in the distance, coming from Tamalpais. I could hear the rumbling and could not tell what it was; but I laughed at her fears and told her that it must have been a shadow, for no human being even a witch, would be out in such a night, if they could help it.
Catalina went back to her room, but was far from reassured, and sat the rest of the night with her beads in her hand, praying by candle light.
The next morning the storm was over, though through the sky the clouds were driving fast, but the rising sun touched them with gold and all the trees looked bright and new. Early, after breakfast, I gathered some flowers, and, mounting my mare, rode down to Madre Moreno’s cottage.
The storm seemed to have been more severe here than at the rancho, for the garden was destroyed and the vines by the house were hanging, torn from the trellises.
Knocking at the half open door, I waited some minutes, but receiving no answer, stepped into the room. Upon the table lay a sheet of paper, I took it up to read what was written on it, thinking it would tell where the Madre and Ysidria had gone.
All that was upon it was my name, but under the sheet was an envelope addressed to me. I hurriedly broke the seal and spread the sheets before me; they read—
My dear Carlos:
Scarcely do I know how to begin this letter to you, whom I love so much. My aunt, Ambrosia, came to me last night, soon after you left me at the gate; she was smiling and very happy, and resting her hand on my shoulder said:
“Ysidria thou hast done well, thou couldst not have done better had I trained thee to it.” I was surprised at her manner, and asked her to explain. She sat down beside me and taking my hand in hers began:
“I know thou art willing to do much for thy old aunt, and I have made thee, unknowingly, do it, though then wilt not blame me when I tell the why I have.” She then related to me a tale of her father’s time, when he had some trouble with your grandfather, and of the curse which she had pronounced upon each generation of de Sotos; you know all this. I listened in surprise and disgust, for she seemed to gloat over the thought of avenging the fancied wrong.
“I have had revenge upon two generations through that plot of ground, and now I mus
t have it from the present, from their child, Carlos de Sotos, through that same plot and through thee.”
“Do you expect me to deceive him?” I cried in horror, “I will rather leave your house than that.” She laughed loudly at this, and said: “It is too late now, Ysidria, the deed is already done.” And then she related to me a story so full of scheming and horror that I can but write it in outline. She planned the terrible revenge many years ago, and would alas, have made you the victim.
There is a plant called the atropa belladonna, a very poisonous shrub, which is rare in this country, but Ambrosia obtained one and planted it beside the little stream which runs by the ruined house. It was that which we destroyed. From this she extracted the juices as she well knows how. Now begins the awful scheme. She sent for me, who was living at the Convent de Santa Clara, to come and be her companion, as she was growing old. She knew that I was beautiful, and thinking to gain your love for me, tried in every way to bring us together. We met, and heaven knows we truly loved. Ever since my arrival she has given me a sweetmeat, of which I once told you. In this confection was the smallest quantity of the extract of the poisonous atropa, and some Chinese drug unknown to me, the taking of which in time became a necessity of my being, but not till to-night did I know the contents of these drops or the awful power to which I am a slave. The extract affected my eyes, causing their unnatural brilliancy and impaired vision. Having fixed this terrible habit upon me, she would wed me to you, and thus make your future life miserable, for in a few years the drug would ruin me in soul and body, and its only substitute could be found in the fatal opium. The revenge is the height of cruelty, and alas, I was to be the helpless medium. She thought that I should be proud of the use to which she had put me, for she said it was as much my duty to avenge the death of my grandfather as for her that of her father. I know not what I said, but my anger gave me words. I told her of the enormity of her crime, the inhumanity she had shown, and that I would do no more nor longer remain with her.
She laughed and left the room. Presently returning, she handed me a packet of the confections and with a mocking smile said: “Make thy husband happy while these sweets last; they are my wedding present to thee.” She left me. I know the terrible power this drug has over me, and nothing can ever cure. Even if the habit be not indulged in, I have gone so far that my existence would be worse than death. I will not make your life miserable; the dread of being blind is nothing to this. May the Holy Mother forgive me for all I have been the cause, innocent as I am, of bringing upon you. I love you too, too well, and it is thus that I destroy Ambrosia Moreno’s curse. No more shall misfortune come upon you or yours, for with my life I have bought your freedom, I have gone to the old adobe, and this wedding gift of Ambrosia shall be my means of saving you. May good St. Joseph shield you and all the Saints bless you. I will meet you in the morning, Carlos, as I promised. Thank you deeply, heartily, for your love, and when some time you are happily wedded, think of Ysidria, and teach your wife to bless her for her love for you. One last request. Give whatever I have to the good sisters in the convent to take care of the statue of Our Lady of Santa Clara, and ask them to keep me in their prayers.
Ysidria.
CHAPTER IX
I quickly mounted my mare and galloped down the road and over the hill to the adobe, and there, the morning sun shining full upon her face, lay my love, my Ysidria. By her side was a packet open and white pellets scattered on the grass.
I bent and kissed the white face, and took the cold hand in mine, praying to the Blessed Virgin to give me strength to bear this killing trial. “Yes, Ysidria,” I cried, as tears rolled down my cheeks, “we will meet again in the morning beneath the sunlight of God’s love.”
My words were scarcely uttered when I noted a throb of her pulse, and then I felt as it were a dream, the beautiful eyes of Ysidria opened and gazed at me but did not seem to see me. I did not care then if it were a dream; swiftly I mounted my mare, bearing the light body of my love before me, and hurried back to the house of Madre Moreno. Near the house I met the frightened Catalina and, the Saints be praised, behind her my dear, old friend, Pedirpozzo, who had that morning returned. They had read Ysidria’s letter which I had left on the table. Hot coffee was ready. The doctor took my all too light burden from me, and then for the first time I broke down and for a week knew nothing, waking one afternoon to find the ever faithful Catalina sitting at my bedside. Soon I learned from Pedirpozza that Ysidria was better and would recover, not only her normal eyesight, but also be easily cured of the craving for the fatal pellets. It seemed that she had fainted just as she was about to take the poison and my timely arrival had saved her life.
Ambrosia, Madre Moreno, was never seen after the night of the great storm, and no one knew what became of her, though some years after, news came from the Rancho Laguna de la Merced, on the San Francisco side, that an old woman, answering to the description of the witch, had suddenly appeared there, and was living alone in a hut in one of the innumerable gullies, destitute and shunned by all. Catalina and the good women of the place never gave up the idea that the Evil One carried her off in the great storm, which left its lasting mark on the face of Mount Tamalpais.
* * * *
A year passed, and Ysidria, under the care of the good Pedirpozzo, completely recovered her health, and one happy day in Easter Week we were wedded by Padre Andreas, at San Rafael, and we went to live at the rancho, with Catalina still as housekeeper, all of us feeling like people saved from a wreck and hoping never to suffer such sorrow again.
By the next Easter there was great rejoicing at the rancho, and from all the country came my friends with their households to the christening of our son. The day was spent in games and feasting, and in the evening Henrico, or Quito, as we called him, was brought out to be toasted. There were many pretty speeches made, and Catalina carried them all to the happy mother.
After all the guests had gone, Pedirpozzo led me aside and in his gentle way, so full of sympathy, he told me what his experienced eye had noted when little Quito was held before the company in the candle-light—he told me what you already know from the first of my story—Quito was hopelessly blind.
Yet we have lived to be all happy and to bless God, and my dear wife so mercifully spared to me, clasps my hand in love and sympathy, when I think, but do not say aloud, “Our Quito has the beautiful eyes of Ysidria.”
