A spiritual dread was upon
her. And with this mingled an intense sense of personal wrong
from her husband. "Had she not begged him to be passive? And
he had put an old rifle before her and her daughters! It was
all that Senor Houston's doing. She had an assurance of
that." She invoked a thousand maledictions on him. She
recalled, with passionate reproaches, Jack's infidelity to her
and his God and his country. Her anger passed from one
subject to another constantly, finding in all, even in
the lukewarmness of Antonia and Isabel, and in their affection
for lovers, who were also rebels, an accumulating reason for
a stupendous reproach against herself, her husband, her
children, and her unhappy fate. Her whole nature was in
revolt--in that complete mental and moral anarchy from which
springs tragedy and murder.
Isabel wept so violently that she angered still further the
tearless suffering of her mother. "God and the saints!" she
cried. "What are you weeping for? Will tears do any good?
Do I weep? God has forbidden me to weep for the wicked. Yet
how I suffer! Mary, mother of sorrows, pity me!"
She sent Isabel away. Her sobs were not to be borne. And
very soon she felt Antonia's white face and silent
companionship to be just as unendurable. She would be alone.
Not even Rachela would she have near her.
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