“Danger! it’s all over. The doctor has said so; and that I may go out of doors in a week from this time. Don’t distress yourself about that.”
“Troth, masther, yez be only talkin’. That isn’t the danger I was drhamin’ av. Yez know will enough what I mane. Maybe yez have resaved a wound from bright eyes, worse than that from lid bullets. Or, maybe, somebody ilse has; an that’s why ye’ve had the things sint ye.”
“You’re all wrong, Phelim. The thing must have come from the Fort; but whether it did, or not, there’s no reason why we should stand upon ceremony with its contents. So, here goes to make trial of them!”
Notwithstanding the apparent relish with which the invalid partook of the products – both of collar and cuisine – while eating and drinking, his thoughts were occupied with a still more agreeable theme; with a string of dreamy conjectures, as to whom he was indebted for the princely present.
Could it be the young Creole – the cousin of his direst enemy as well as his reputed sweetheart?
The thing appeared improbable.
If not she, who else could it be?
The mustanger would have given a horse – a whole drove – to have been assured that Louise Poindexter was the provider of that luxurious refection.
Two days elapsed, and the donor still remained unknown.
Then the invalid was once more agreeably surprised, by a second present – very similar to the first – another basket, containing other bottles, and crammed with fresh “confections.”
The Bavarian wench was again questioned; but with no better result. A “shentlemans” had “prot” it – the same “stranger shentlemans” as before. She could only add that “the shentlemans” was very “Schwartz,” wore a glazed hat, and came to the tavern mounted upon a mule.
Maurice did not appear to be gratified with this description of the unknown donor; though no one – not even Phelim – was made the confidant of his thoughts.
In two days afterwards they were toned down to their former sobriety – on the receipt of a third basket, “prot by the Schwartz gentleman” in the glazed hat, who came mounted upon a mule.
The change could not be explained by the belongings in the basket – almost the counterpart of what had been sent before. It might be accounted for by the contents of a billet doux[173], that accompanied the gift – attached by a ribbon to the wickerwork of palm-sinnet.
“’Tis only Isidora!” muttered the mustanger, as he glanced at the superscription upon the note.
Then opening it with an air of indifference, he read: —
+++“Querido Señor!
“Soy quedando por una semana en la casa del tío Silvio. De questra desfortuna he oído – también que V. está mal ciudado en la fonda. He mandado algunas cositas. Sea graciosa usarlos, como una chiquitita memoria del servicio grande de que vuestra deudor estoy. En la silla soy escribando, con las espuelas preparadas sacar sangre de las ijadas del mio cavallo. En un momento más, partirá por el Río Grande.
“Bienhichor – de mi vida Salvador – y de que a una mujer esa mas querida, la honra – adiós – adiós!
“Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos.
“Al Señor Don Mauricio Gerald.”
Literally translated, and in the idiom of the Spanish language, the note ran thus: —
“Dear Sir, – I have been staying for a week at the house of Uncle Silvio. Of your mischance I have heard – also, that you are indifferently cared for at the hotel. I have sent you some little things. Be good enough to make use of them, as a slight souvenir of the great service for which I am your debtor. I write in the saddle, with my spurs ready to draw blood from the flanks of my horse. In another moment I am off for the Rio Grande!
“Benefactor – preserver of my life – of what to a woman is dearer – my honour – adieu! adieu!
“Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos.”
“Thanks – thanks, sweet Isidora!” muttered the mustanger, as he refolded the note, and threw it carelessly upon the coverlet of his couch. “Ever grateful – considerate – kind! But for Louise Poindexter, I might have loved you!”
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
“Troth, masther, yez be only talkin’. That isn’t the danger I was drhamin’ av. Yez know will enough what I mane. Maybe yez have resaved a wound from bright eyes, worse than that from lid bullets. Or, maybe, somebody ilse has; an that’s why ye’ve had the things sint ye.”
“You’re all wrong, Phelim. The thing must have come from the Fort; but whether it did, or not, there’s no reason why we should stand upon ceremony with its contents. So, here goes to make trial of them!”
Notwithstanding the apparent relish with which the invalid partook of the products – both of collar and cuisine – while eating and drinking, his thoughts were occupied with a still more agreeable theme; with a string of dreamy conjectures, as to whom he was indebted for the princely present.
Could it be the young Creole – the cousin of his direst enemy as well as his reputed sweetheart?
The thing appeared improbable.
If not she, who else could it be?
The mustanger would have given a horse – a whole drove – to have been assured that Louise Poindexter was the provider of that luxurious refection.
Two days elapsed, and the donor still remained unknown.
Then the invalid was once more agreeably surprised, by a second present – very similar to the first – another basket, containing other bottles, and crammed with fresh “confections.”
The Bavarian wench was again questioned; but with no better result. A “shentlemans” had “prot” it – the same “stranger shentlemans” as before. She could only add that “the shentlemans” was very “Schwartz,” wore a glazed hat, and came to the tavern mounted upon a mule.
Maurice did not appear to be gratified with this description of the unknown donor; though no one – not even Phelim – was made the confidant of his thoughts.
In two days afterwards they were toned down to their former sobriety – on the receipt of a third basket, “prot by the Schwartz gentleman” in the glazed hat, who came mounted upon a mule.
The change could not be explained by the belongings in the basket – almost the counterpart of what had been sent before. It might be accounted for by the contents of a billet doux[173], that accompanied the gift – attached by a ribbon to the wickerwork of palm-sinnet.
“’Tis only Isidora!” muttered the mustanger, as he glanced at the superscription upon the note.
Then opening it with an air of indifference, he read: —
+++“Querido Señor!
“Soy quedando por una semana en la casa del tío Silvio. De questra desfortuna he oído – también que V. está mal ciudado en la fonda. He mandado algunas cositas. Sea graciosa usarlos, como una chiquitita memoria del servicio grande de que vuestra deudor estoy. En la silla soy escribando, con las espuelas preparadas sacar sangre de las ijadas del mio cavallo. En un momento más, partirá por el Río Grande.
“Bienhichor – de mi vida Salvador – y de que a una mujer esa mas querida, la honra – adiós – adiós!
“Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos.
“Al Señor Don Mauricio Gerald.”
Literally translated, and in the idiom of the Spanish language, the note ran thus: —
“Dear Sir, – I have been staying for a week at the house of Uncle Silvio. Of your mischance I have heard – also, that you are indifferently cared for at the hotel. I have sent you some little things. Be good enough to make use of them, as a slight souvenir of the great service for which I am your debtor. I write in the saddle, with my spurs ready to draw blood from the flanks of my horse. In another moment I am off for the Rio Grande!
“Benefactor – preserver of my life – of what to a woman is dearer – my honour – adieu! adieu!
“Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos.”
“Thanks – thanks, sweet Isidora!” muttered the mustanger, as he refolded the note, and threw it carelessly upon the coverlet of his couch. “Ever grateful – considerate – kind! But for Louise Poindexter, I might have loved you!”
Chapter 23
Vows of Vengeance
Calhoun, chafing in his chamber, was not the object of such assiduous solicitude. Notwithstanding the luxurious appointments that surrounded him, he could not comfort himself with the reflection: that he was cared for by living creature. Truly selfish in his own heart, he had no faith in friendships; and while confined to his couch – not without some fears that it might be his death-bed – he experienced the misery of a man believing that no human being cared a straw whether he should live or die.
Any sympathy shown to him, was upon the score of relationship. It could scarce have been otherwise. His conduct towards his cousins had not been such as to secure their esteem; while his uncle, the proud Woodley Poindexter, felt towards him something akin to aversion, mingled with a subdued fear.
It is true that this feeling was only of recent origin; and rose out of certain relations that existed between uncle and nephew. As already hinted, they stood to one another in the relationship of debtor and creditor – or mortgagor and mortgagee – the nephew being the latter. To such an extent had this indebtedness been carried, that Cassius Calhoun was in effect the real owner of Casa del Corvo; and could at any moment have proclaimed himself its master.
Conscious of his power, he had of late been using it to effect a particular purpose: that is, the securing for his wife, the woman he had long fiercely loved – his cousin Louise. He had come to know that he stood but little chance of obtaining her consent: for she had taken but slight pains to conceal her indifference to his suit. Trusting to the peculiar influence established over her father, he had determined on taking no slight denial.
These circumstances considered, it was not strange that the ex-officer of volunteers, when stretched upon a sick bed, received less sympathy from his relatives than might otherwise have been extended to him.
While dreading, death – which for a length of time he actually did – he had become a little more amiable to those around him. The agreeable mood, however, was of short continuance; and, once assured of recovery, all the natural savageness of his disposition was restored, along with the additional bitterness arising from his recent discomfiture.
It had been the pride of his life to exhibit himself as a successful bully – the master of every crowd that might gather around him. He could no longer claim this credit in Texas; and the thought harrowed his heart to its very core.
To figure as a defeated man before all the women of the settlement – above all in the eyes of her he adored, defeated by one whom he suspected of being his rival in her affections – a more nameless adventurer – was too much to be endured with equanimity. Even an ordinary man would have been pained by the infliction. Calhoun writhed under it.
He had no idea of enduring it, as an ordinary man would have done. If he could not escape from the disgrace, he was determined to revenge himself upon its author; and as soon as he had recovered from the apprehensions entertained about the safety of his life, he commenced reflecting upon this very subject.
Maurice, the mustanger, must die! If not by his (Calhoun’s) own hand, then by the hand of another, if such an one was to be found in the settlement. There could not be much difficulty in procuring a confederate. There are bravoes[174] upon the broad prairies of Texas, as well as within the walls of Italian cities. Alas! there is no spot upon earth where gold cannot command the steel of the assassin.
Calhoun possessed gold – more than sufficient for such a purpose; and to such purpose did he determine upon devoting at least a portion of it.
In the solitude of his sick chamber he set about maturing his plans; which comprehended the assassination of the mustanger. He did not purpose doing the deed himself. His late defeat had rendered him fearful of chancing a second encounter with the same adversary – even under the advantageous circumstances of a surprise. He had become too much encowardised to play the assassin. He wanted an accomplice – an arm to strike for him. Where was he to find it?
Unluckily he knew, or fancied he knew, the very man. There was a Mexican at the time making abode in the village – like Maurice himself – a mustanger; but one of those with whom the young Irishman had shown a disinclination to associate.
As a general rule, the men of this peculiar calling are amongst the greatest reprobates, who have their home in the land of the “Lone Star.” By birth and breed they are mostly Mexicans, or mongrel Indians; though, not unfrequently, a Frenchman, or American, finds it a congenial calling. They are usually the outcasts of civilised society – oftener its outlaws – who, in the excitement of the chase, and its concomitant dangers, find, perhaps, some sort of salvo[175] for a conscience that has been severely tried.
While dwelling within the settlements, these men are not unfrequently the pests of the society that surrounds them – ever engaged in broil and debauch; and when abroad in the exercise of their calling, they are not always to be encountered with safety. More than once is it recorded in the history of Texas how a company of mustangers has, for the nonce, converted itself into a band of cuadrilla[176] of salteadores[177]; or, disguised as Indians, levied black mail upon the train of the prairie traveller.
One of this kidney was the individual who had become recalled to the memory of Cassius Calhoun. The latter remembered having met the man in the bar-room of the hotel; upon several occasions, but more especially on the night of the duel. He remembered that he had been one of those who had carried him home on the stretcher; and from some extravagant expressions he had made use of, when speaking of his antagonist, Calhoun had drawn the deduction, that the Mexican was no friend to Maurice the mustanger.
Since then he had learnt that he was Maurice’s deadliest enemy – himself excepted.
With these data to proceed upon the ex-captain had called the Mexican to his counsels, and the two were often closeted together in the chamber of the invalid.
There was nothing in all this to excite suspicion – even had Calhoun cared for that. His visitor was a dealer in horses and horned cattle. Some transaction in horseflesh might be going on between them. So any one would have supposed. And so for a time thought the Mexican himself: for in their first interview, but little other business was transacted between them. The astute Mississippian knew better than to declare his ultimate designs to a stranger; who, after completing an advantageous horse-trade, was well supplied with whatever he chose to drink, and cunningly cross-questioned as to the relations in which he stood towards Maurice the mustanger.
In that first interview, the ex-officer volunteers learnt enough, to know that he might depend upon his man for any service he might require – even to the committal of murder.
The Mexican made no secret of his heartfelt hostility to the young mustanger. He did not declare the exact cause of it; but Calhoun could guess, by certain innuendos introduced during the conversation, that it was the same as that by which he was himself actuated – the same to which may be traced almost every quarrel that has occurred among men, from Troy to Texas – a woman!
The Helen[178] in this case appeared to be some dark-eyed donçella dwelling upon the Rio Grande, where Maurice had been in the habit of making an occasional visit, in whose eyes he had found favour, to the disadvantage of her own conpaisano.
The Mexican did not give the name; and Calhoun, as he listened to his explanations, only hoped in his heart that the damsel who had slighted him might have won the heart of his rival.
During his days of convalescence, several interviews had taken place between the ex-captain and the intended accomplice in his purposes of vengeance – enough, one might suppose, to have rendered them complete.
Whether they were so, or not, and what the nature of their hellish designs, were things known only to the brace of kindred confederates. The outside world but knew that Captain Cassius Calhoun and Miguel Diaz – known by the nickname “El Coyote,” appeared to have taken a fancy for keeping each other’s company; while the more respectable portion of it wondered at such an ill-starred association.
Any sympathy shown to him, was upon the score of relationship. It could scarce have been otherwise. His conduct towards his cousins had not been such as to secure their esteem; while his uncle, the proud Woodley Poindexter, felt towards him something akin to aversion, mingled with a subdued fear.
It is true that this feeling was only of recent origin; and rose out of certain relations that existed between uncle and nephew. As already hinted, they stood to one another in the relationship of debtor and creditor – or mortgagor and mortgagee – the nephew being the latter. To such an extent had this indebtedness been carried, that Cassius Calhoun was in effect the real owner of Casa del Corvo; and could at any moment have proclaimed himself its master.
Conscious of his power, he had of late been using it to effect a particular purpose: that is, the securing for his wife, the woman he had long fiercely loved – his cousin Louise. He had come to know that he stood but little chance of obtaining her consent: for she had taken but slight pains to conceal her indifference to his suit. Trusting to the peculiar influence established over her father, he had determined on taking no slight denial.
These circumstances considered, it was not strange that the ex-officer of volunteers, when stretched upon a sick bed, received less sympathy from his relatives than might otherwise have been extended to him.
While dreading, death – which for a length of time he actually did – he had become a little more amiable to those around him. The agreeable mood, however, was of short continuance; and, once assured of recovery, all the natural savageness of his disposition was restored, along with the additional bitterness arising from his recent discomfiture.
It had been the pride of his life to exhibit himself as a successful bully – the master of every crowd that might gather around him. He could no longer claim this credit in Texas; and the thought harrowed his heart to its very core.
To figure as a defeated man before all the women of the settlement – above all in the eyes of her he adored, defeated by one whom he suspected of being his rival in her affections – a more nameless adventurer – was too much to be endured with equanimity. Even an ordinary man would have been pained by the infliction. Calhoun writhed under it.
He had no idea of enduring it, as an ordinary man would have done. If he could not escape from the disgrace, he was determined to revenge himself upon its author; and as soon as he had recovered from the apprehensions entertained about the safety of his life, he commenced reflecting upon this very subject.
Maurice, the mustanger, must die! If not by his (Calhoun’s) own hand, then by the hand of another, if such an one was to be found in the settlement. There could not be much difficulty in procuring a confederate. There are bravoes[174] upon the broad prairies of Texas, as well as within the walls of Italian cities. Alas! there is no spot upon earth where gold cannot command the steel of the assassin.
Calhoun possessed gold – more than sufficient for such a purpose; and to such purpose did he determine upon devoting at least a portion of it.
In the solitude of his sick chamber he set about maturing his plans; which comprehended the assassination of the mustanger. He did not purpose doing the deed himself. His late defeat had rendered him fearful of chancing a second encounter with the same adversary – even under the advantageous circumstances of a surprise. He had become too much encowardised to play the assassin. He wanted an accomplice – an arm to strike for him. Where was he to find it?
Unluckily he knew, or fancied he knew, the very man. There was a Mexican at the time making abode in the village – like Maurice himself – a mustanger; but one of those with whom the young Irishman had shown a disinclination to associate.
As a general rule, the men of this peculiar calling are amongst the greatest reprobates, who have their home in the land of the “Lone Star.” By birth and breed they are mostly Mexicans, or mongrel Indians; though, not unfrequently, a Frenchman, or American, finds it a congenial calling. They are usually the outcasts of civilised society – oftener its outlaws – who, in the excitement of the chase, and its concomitant dangers, find, perhaps, some sort of salvo[175] for a conscience that has been severely tried.
While dwelling within the settlements, these men are not unfrequently the pests of the society that surrounds them – ever engaged in broil and debauch; and when abroad in the exercise of their calling, they are not always to be encountered with safety. More than once is it recorded in the history of Texas how a company of mustangers has, for the nonce, converted itself into a band of cuadrilla[176] of salteadores[177]; or, disguised as Indians, levied black mail upon the train of the prairie traveller.
One of this kidney was the individual who had become recalled to the memory of Cassius Calhoun. The latter remembered having met the man in the bar-room of the hotel; upon several occasions, but more especially on the night of the duel. He remembered that he had been one of those who had carried him home on the stretcher; and from some extravagant expressions he had made use of, when speaking of his antagonist, Calhoun had drawn the deduction, that the Mexican was no friend to Maurice the mustanger.
Since then he had learnt that he was Maurice’s deadliest enemy – himself excepted.
With these data to proceed upon the ex-captain had called the Mexican to his counsels, and the two were often closeted together in the chamber of the invalid.
There was nothing in all this to excite suspicion – even had Calhoun cared for that. His visitor was a dealer in horses and horned cattle. Some transaction in horseflesh might be going on between them. So any one would have supposed. And so for a time thought the Mexican himself: for in their first interview, but little other business was transacted between them. The astute Mississippian knew better than to declare his ultimate designs to a stranger; who, after completing an advantageous horse-trade, was well supplied with whatever he chose to drink, and cunningly cross-questioned as to the relations in which he stood towards Maurice the mustanger.
In that first interview, the ex-officer volunteers learnt enough, to know that he might depend upon his man for any service he might require – even to the committal of murder.
The Mexican made no secret of his heartfelt hostility to the young mustanger. He did not declare the exact cause of it; but Calhoun could guess, by certain innuendos introduced during the conversation, that it was the same as that by which he was himself actuated – the same to which may be traced almost every quarrel that has occurred among men, from Troy to Texas – a woman!
The Helen[178] in this case appeared to be some dark-eyed donçella dwelling upon the Rio Grande, where Maurice had been in the habit of making an occasional visit, in whose eyes he had found favour, to the disadvantage of her own conpaisano.
The Mexican did not give the name; and Calhoun, as he listened to his explanations, only hoped in his heart that the damsel who had slighted him might have won the heart of his rival.
During his days of convalescence, several interviews had taken place between the ex-captain and the intended accomplice in his purposes of vengeance – enough, one might suppose, to have rendered them complete.
Whether they were so, or not, and what the nature of their hellish designs, were things known only to the brace of kindred confederates. The outside world but knew that Captain Cassius Calhoun and Miguel Diaz – known by the nickname “El Coyote,” appeared to have taken a fancy for keeping each other’s company; while the more respectable portion of it wondered at such an ill-starred association.
Chapter 24
On the Azotea
There are no sluggards on a Texan plantation. The daybreak begins the day; and the bell, conch, or cow-horn, that summons the dark-skinned proletarians to their toil, is alike the signal for their master to forsake his more luxurious couch.
Such was the custom of Casa del Corvo under its original owners: and the fashion was followed by the family of the American planter – not from any idea of precedent, but simply in obedience to the suggestions of Nature. In a climate of almost perpetual spring, the sweet matutinal moments are not to be wasted in sleep. The siesta[179] belongs to the hours of noon; when all nature appears to shrink under the smiles of the solar luminary – as if surfeited with their superabundance.
On his reappearance at morn the sun is greeted with renewed joy. Then do the tropical birds spread their resplendent plumage – the flowers their dew-besprinkled petals – to receive his fervent kisses. All nature again seems glad, to acknowledge him as its god.
Resplendent as any bird that flutters among the foliage of south-western Texas – fair as any flower that blooms within it – gladdest was she who appeared upon the housetop of Casa del Corvo.
Aurora herself, rising from her roseate couch, looked not fresher than the young Creole, as she stood contemplating the curtains of that very couch, from which a Texan sun was slowly uplifting his globe of burning gold.
She was standing upon the edge of the azotea that fronted towards the east; her white hand resting upon the copestone of the parapet still wet with the dews of the night, under her eyes was the garden, enclosed within a curve of the river; beyond the bluff formed by the opposite bank; and further still, the wide-spreading plateau of the prairie.
Was she looking at a landscape, that could scarce fail to challenge admiration? No.
Equally was she unconscious of the ascending sun; though, like some fair pagan, did she appear to be in prayer at its apprising!
Listened she to the voices of the birds, from garden and grove swelling harmoniously around her?
On the contrary, her ear was not bent to catch any sound, nor her eye intent upon any object. Her glance was wandering, as if her thoughts went not with it, but were dwelling upon some theme, neither present nor near.
In contrast with the cheerful brightness of the sky, there was a shadow upon her brow; despite the joyous warbling of the birds, there was the sign of sadness on her cheek.
She was alone. There was no one to take note of this melancholy mood, nor inquire into its cause.
The cause was declared in a few low murmured words, that fell, as if involuntarily, from her lips.
“He may be dangerously wounded – perhaps even to death?”
Who was the object of this solicitude so hypothetically expressed?
The invalid that lay below, almost under her feet, in a chamber of the hacienda – her cousin Cassius Calhoun?
It could scarce be he. The doctor had the day before pronounced him out of danger, and on the way to quick recovery. Any one listening to her soliloquy – after a time continued in the same sad tone – would have been convinced it was not he.
“I may not send to inquire. I dare not even ask after him. I fear to trust any of our people. He may be in some poor place – perhaps uncourteously treated – perhaps neglected? Would that I could convey to him a message – something more – without any one being the wiser! I wonder what has become of Zeb Stump?”
As if some instinct whispered her, that there was a possibility of Zeb making his appearance, she turned her eyes towards the plain on the opposite side of the river – where a road led up and down. It was the common highway between Fort Inge and the plantations on the lower Leona. It traversed the prairie at some distance from the river bank; approaching it only at one point, where the channel curved in to the base of the bluffs. A reach of the road, of half a mile in length, was visible in the direction of the Fort; as also a cross-path that led to a ford; thence running on to the hacienda. In the opposite direction – down the stream – the view was open for a like length, until the chapparal on both sides closing in, terminated the savanna.
The young lady scanned the road leading towards Fort Inge. Zeb Stump should come that way. He was not in sight; nor was any one else.
She could not feel disappointment. She had no reason to expect him. She had but raised her eyes in obedience to an instinct.
Something more than instinct caused her, after a time, to turn round, and scrutinise the plain in the opposite quarter.
If expecting some one to appear that way, she was not disappointed. A horse was just stepping out from among the trees, where the road debouched from the chapparal. He was ridden by one, who, at first sight, appeared to be a man, clad in a sort of Arab costume; but who, on closer scrutiny, and despite the style of equitation – à la Duchesse de Berri – was unquestionably of the other sex – a lady. There was not much of her face to be seen; but through the shadowy opening of the rebozo – rather carelessly tapado[180] – could be traced an oval facial outline, somewhat brownly “complected,” But with a carmine tinting upon the cheeks, and above this a pair of eyes whose sparkle appeared to challenge comparison with the brightest object either on the earth, or in the sky.
Neither did the loosely falling folds of the lady’s scarf, nor her somewhat outré[181] attitude in the saddle, hinder the observer from coming to the conclusion, that her figure was quite as attractive as her face.
The man following upon the mule, six lengths of his animal in the rear, by his costume – as well as the respectful distance observed – was evidently only an attendant.
“Who can that woman be?” was the muttered interrogatory of Louise Poindexter, as with quick action she raised the lorgnette to her eyes, and directed it upon the oddly apparelled figure. “Who can she be?” was repeated in a tone of greater deliberation, as the glass came down, and the naked eye was entrusted to complete the scrutiny. “A Mexican, of course; the man on the mule her servant. Some grand señora, I suppose? I thought they had all gone to the other side of the Rio Grande. A basket carried by the attendant. I wonder what it contains; and what errand she can have to the Port – it may be the village. ’Tis the third time I’ve seen her passing within this week? She must be from some of the plantations below!”
What an outlandish style of riding! Par Dieu! I’m told it’s not uncommon among the daughters of Anahuac. What if I were to take to it myself? No doubt it’s much the easiest way; though if such a spectacle were seen in the States it would be styled unfeminine. How our Puritan mammas would scream out against it! I think I hear them. Ha, ha, ha!
The mirth thus begotten was but of momentary duration. There came a change over the countenance of the Creole, quick as a drifting cloud darkens the disc of the sun. It was not a return to that melancholy so late shadowing it; though something equally serious – as might be told by the sudden blanching of her cheeks.
The cause could only be looked for in the movements of the scarfed equestrian on the other side of the river. An antelope had sprung up, out of some low shrubbery growing by the roadside. The creature appeared to have made its first bound from under the counter of the horse – a splendid animal, that, in a moment after, was going at full gallop in pursuit of the affrighted “pronghorn;” while his rider, with her rebozo suddenly flung from her face, its fringed ends streaming behind her back, was seen describing, with her right arm, a series of circular sweeps in the air!
“What is the woman going to do?” was the muttered interrogatory of the spectator upon the house-top. “Ha! As I live, ’tis a lazo!”
The señora was not long in giving proof of skill in the use of the national implement: – by flinging its noose around the antelope’s neck, and throwing the creature in its tracks!
The attendant rode up to the place where it lay struggling; dismounted from his mule; and, stooping over the prostrate pronghorn, appeared to administer the coup de grace. Then, flinging the carcass over the croup of his saddle, he climbed back upon his mule, and spurred after his mistress – who had already recovered her lazo, readjusted her scarf, and was riding onward, as if nothing had occurred worth waiting for!
It was at that moment – when the noose was seen circling in the air – that the shadow had reappeared upon the countenance or the Creole. It was not surprise that caused it, but an emotion of a different character – a thought far more unpleasant.
Nor did it pass speedily away. It was still there – though a white hand holding the lorgnette to her eye might have hindered it from being seen – still there, as long as the mounted figures were visible upon the open road; and even after they had passed out of sight behind the screening of the acacias.
“I wonder – oh, I wonder if it be she! My own age, he said – not quite so tall. The description suits – so far as one may judge at this distance. Has her home on the Rio Grande. Comes occasionally to the Leona, to visit some relatives. Who are they? Why did I not ask him the name? I wonder – oh, I wonder if it be she!”
Such was the custom of Casa del Corvo under its original owners: and the fashion was followed by the family of the American planter – not from any idea of precedent, but simply in obedience to the suggestions of Nature. In a climate of almost perpetual spring, the sweet matutinal moments are not to be wasted in sleep. The siesta[179] belongs to the hours of noon; when all nature appears to shrink under the smiles of the solar luminary – as if surfeited with their superabundance.
On his reappearance at morn the sun is greeted with renewed joy. Then do the tropical birds spread their resplendent plumage – the flowers their dew-besprinkled petals – to receive his fervent kisses. All nature again seems glad, to acknowledge him as its god.
Resplendent as any bird that flutters among the foliage of south-western Texas – fair as any flower that blooms within it – gladdest was she who appeared upon the housetop of Casa del Corvo.
Aurora herself, rising from her roseate couch, looked not fresher than the young Creole, as she stood contemplating the curtains of that very couch, from which a Texan sun was slowly uplifting his globe of burning gold.
She was standing upon the edge of the azotea that fronted towards the east; her white hand resting upon the copestone of the parapet still wet with the dews of the night, under her eyes was the garden, enclosed within a curve of the river; beyond the bluff formed by the opposite bank; and further still, the wide-spreading plateau of the prairie.
Was she looking at a landscape, that could scarce fail to challenge admiration? No.
Equally was she unconscious of the ascending sun; though, like some fair pagan, did she appear to be in prayer at its apprising!
Listened she to the voices of the birds, from garden and grove swelling harmoniously around her?
On the contrary, her ear was not bent to catch any sound, nor her eye intent upon any object. Her glance was wandering, as if her thoughts went not with it, but were dwelling upon some theme, neither present nor near.
In contrast with the cheerful brightness of the sky, there was a shadow upon her brow; despite the joyous warbling of the birds, there was the sign of sadness on her cheek.
She was alone. There was no one to take note of this melancholy mood, nor inquire into its cause.
The cause was declared in a few low murmured words, that fell, as if involuntarily, from her lips.
“He may be dangerously wounded – perhaps even to death?”
Who was the object of this solicitude so hypothetically expressed?
The invalid that lay below, almost under her feet, in a chamber of the hacienda – her cousin Cassius Calhoun?
It could scarce be he. The doctor had the day before pronounced him out of danger, and on the way to quick recovery. Any one listening to her soliloquy – after a time continued in the same sad tone – would have been convinced it was not he.
“I may not send to inquire. I dare not even ask after him. I fear to trust any of our people. He may be in some poor place – perhaps uncourteously treated – perhaps neglected? Would that I could convey to him a message – something more – without any one being the wiser! I wonder what has become of Zeb Stump?”
As if some instinct whispered her, that there was a possibility of Zeb making his appearance, she turned her eyes towards the plain on the opposite side of the river – where a road led up and down. It was the common highway between Fort Inge and the plantations on the lower Leona. It traversed the prairie at some distance from the river bank; approaching it only at one point, where the channel curved in to the base of the bluffs. A reach of the road, of half a mile in length, was visible in the direction of the Fort; as also a cross-path that led to a ford; thence running on to the hacienda. In the opposite direction – down the stream – the view was open for a like length, until the chapparal on both sides closing in, terminated the savanna.
The young lady scanned the road leading towards Fort Inge. Zeb Stump should come that way. He was not in sight; nor was any one else.
She could not feel disappointment. She had no reason to expect him. She had but raised her eyes in obedience to an instinct.
Something more than instinct caused her, after a time, to turn round, and scrutinise the plain in the opposite quarter.
If expecting some one to appear that way, she was not disappointed. A horse was just stepping out from among the trees, where the road debouched from the chapparal. He was ridden by one, who, at first sight, appeared to be a man, clad in a sort of Arab costume; but who, on closer scrutiny, and despite the style of equitation – à la Duchesse de Berri – was unquestionably of the other sex – a lady. There was not much of her face to be seen; but through the shadowy opening of the rebozo – rather carelessly tapado[180] – could be traced an oval facial outline, somewhat brownly “complected,” But with a carmine tinting upon the cheeks, and above this a pair of eyes whose sparkle appeared to challenge comparison with the brightest object either on the earth, or in the sky.
Neither did the loosely falling folds of the lady’s scarf, nor her somewhat outré[181] attitude in the saddle, hinder the observer from coming to the conclusion, that her figure was quite as attractive as her face.
The man following upon the mule, six lengths of his animal in the rear, by his costume – as well as the respectful distance observed – was evidently only an attendant.
“Who can that woman be?” was the muttered interrogatory of Louise Poindexter, as with quick action she raised the lorgnette to her eyes, and directed it upon the oddly apparelled figure. “Who can she be?” was repeated in a tone of greater deliberation, as the glass came down, and the naked eye was entrusted to complete the scrutiny. “A Mexican, of course; the man on the mule her servant. Some grand señora, I suppose? I thought they had all gone to the other side of the Rio Grande. A basket carried by the attendant. I wonder what it contains; and what errand she can have to the Port – it may be the village. ’Tis the third time I’ve seen her passing within this week? She must be from some of the plantations below!”
What an outlandish style of riding! Par Dieu! I’m told it’s not uncommon among the daughters of Anahuac. What if I were to take to it myself? No doubt it’s much the easiest way; though if such a spectacle were seen in the States it would be styled unfeminine. How our Puritan mammas would scream out against it! I think I hear them. Ha, ha, ha!
The mirth thus begotten was but of momentary duration. There came a change over the countenance of the Creole, quick as a drifting cloud darkens the disc of the sun. It was not a return to that melancholy so late shadowing it; though something equally serious – as might be told by the sudden blanching of her cheeks.
The cause could only be looked for in the movements of the scarfed equestrian on the other side of the river. An antelope had sprung up, out of some low shrubbery growing by the roadside. The creature appeared to have made its first bound from under the counter of the horse – a splendid animal, that, in a moment after, was going at full gallop in pursuit of the affrighted “pronghorn;” while his rider, with her rebozo suddenly flung from her face, its fringed ends streaming behind her back, was seen describing, with her right arm, a series of circular sweeps in the air!
“What is the woman going to do?” was the muttered interrogatory of the spectator upon the house-top. “Ha! As I live, ’tis a lazo!”
The señora was not long in giving proof of skill in the use of the national implement: – by flinging its noose around the antelope’s neck, and throwing the creature in its tracks!
The attendant rode up to the place where it lay struggling; dismounted from his mule; and, stooping over the prostrate pronghorn, appeared to administer the coup de grace. Then, flinging the carcass over the croup of his saddle, he climbed back upon his mule, and spurred after his mistress – who had already recovered her lazo, readjusted her scarf, and was riding onward, as if nothing had occurred worth waiting for!
It was at that moment – when the noose was seen circling in the air – that the shadow had reappeared upon the countenance or the Creole. It was not surprise that caused it, but an emotion of a different character – a thought far more unpleasant.
Nor did it pass speedily away. It was still there – though a white hand holding the lorgnette to her eye might have hindered it from being seen – still there, as long as the mounted figures were visible upon the open road; and even after they had passed out of sight behind the screening of the acacias.
“I wonder – oh, I wonder if it be she! My own age, he said – not quite so tall. The description suits – so far as one may judge at this distance. Has her home on the Rio Grande. Comes occasionally to the Leona, to visit some relatives. Who are they? Why did I not ask him the name? I wonder – oh, I wonder if it be she!”
Chapter 25
A Gift Ungiven
For some minutes after the lady of the lazo and her attendant had passed out of sight, Louise Poindexter pursued the train of reflection – started by the somewhat singular episode of which she had been spectator. Her attitude, and air, of continued dejection told that her thoughts had not been directed into a more cheerful channel.
Rather the reverse. Once or twice before had her mind given way to imaginings, connected with that accomplished equestrienne[182]; and more than once had she speculated upon her purpose in riding up the road. The incident just witnessed had suddenly changed her conjectures into suspicions of an exceedingly unpleasant nature.
It was a relief to her, when a horseman appeared coming out of the chapparal, at the point where the others had ridden in; a still greater relief, when he was seen to swerve into the cross path that conducted to the hacienda, and was recognised, through the lorgnette, as Zeb Stump the hunter.
The face of the Creole became bright again – almost to gaiety. There was something ominous of good in the opportune appearance of the honest backwoodsman.
“The man I was wanting to see!” she exclaimed in joyous accents. “He can bear me a message; and perhaps tell who she is. He must have met her on the road. That will enable me to introduce the subject, without Zeb having any suspicion of my object. Even with him I must be circumspect – after what has happened. Ah, me! Not much should I care, if I were sure of his caring for me. How provoking his indifference! And to me – Louise Poindexter! Par dieu! Let it proceed much further, and I shall try to escape from the toils if – if – I should crush my poor heart in the attempt!”
It need scarce be said that the individual, whose esteem was so coveted, was not Zeb Stump.
Her next speech, however, was addressed to Zeb, as he reined up in front of the hacienda.
“Dear Mr Stump!” hailed a voice, to which the old hunter delighted to listen. “I’m so glad to see you. Dismount, and come up here! I know you’re a famous climber, and won’t mind a flight of stone stairs. There’s a view from this housetop that will reward you for your trouble.”
“Thur’s suthin’ on the house-top theear,” rejoined the hunter, “the view o’ which ’ud reward Zeb Stump for climbin’ to the top o’ a steamboat chimbly; ’an thet’s yurself, Miss Lewaze. I’ll kum up, soon as I ha’ stabled the ole maar, which shall be dud in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Gee-up, ole gal!” he continued, addressing himself to the mare, after he had dismounted, “Hold up yur head, an may be Plute hyur ’ll gie ye a wheen o’ corn shucks for yur breakfist.”
“Ho – ho! Mass ’Tump,” interposed the sable coachman, making his appearance in the patio. “Dat same do dis nigga – gub um de shucks wi’ de yaller corn inside ob dem. Ho – ho! You gwup ’tairs to de young missa; an Plute he no ’gleck yar ole mar.”
“Yur a dod-rotted good sample o’ a nigger, Plute; an the nix occashun I shows about hyur, I’ll fetch you a ’possum – wi’ the meat on it as tender as a two-year old chicken. Thet’s what I’m boun’ ter do.”
After delivering himself of this promise, Zeb commenced ascending the stone stairway; not by single steps, but by two, and sometimes three, at a stride.
He was soon upon the housetop; where he was once more welcomed by the young mistress of the mansion.
Her excited manner, and the eagerness with which she conducted him to a remote part of the azotea, told the astute hunter, that he had been summoned thither for some other purpose than enjoying the prospect.
“Tell me, Mr Stump!” said she, as she clutched the sleeve of the blanket coat in her delicate fingers, and looked inquiringly into Zeb’s grey eye – “You must know all. How is he? Are his wounds of a dangerous nature?”
“If you refar to Mister Cal-hoon – ”
“No – no – no. I know all about him. It’s not of Mr Calhoun I’m speaking.”
“Wall, Miss Lewasse; thur air only one other as I know of in these parts thet hev got wownds; an thet air’s Maurice the mowstanger. Mout it be thet ere individooal yur inquirin’ abeout?”
“It is – it is! You know I cannot be indifferent to his welfare, notwithstanding the misfortune of his having quarrelled with my cousin. You are aware that he rescued me – twice I may say – from imminent peril. Tell me – is he in great danger?”
Such earnestness could no longer be trifled with. Zeb without further parley, made reply: —
“Ne’er a morsel o’ danger. Thur’s a bullet-hole jest above the ankle-jeint. It don’t signerfy more’n the scratch o’ a kitting. Thur’s another hev goed through the flesh o’ the young fellur’s left arm. It don’t signerfy neyther – only thet it drawed a good sup o’ the red out o’ him. Howsomdever, he’s all right now; an expecks to be out o’ doors in a kupple o’ days, or tharabout. He sez that an hour in the seddle, an a skoot acrosst the purayra, ’ud do him more good than all the docters in Texas. I reckon it wud; but the docter – it’s the surgint o’ the Fort as attends on him – he won’t let him git to grass yit a bit.”
“Where is he?”
“He air stayin’ at the hotel – whar the skrimmage tuk place.”
“Perhaps he is not well waited upon? It’s a rough place, I’ve heard. He may not have any delicacies – such as an invalid stands in need of? Stay here, Mr Stump, till I come up to you again. I have something I wish to send to him. I know I can trust you to deliver it. Won’t you? I’m sure you will. I shall be with you in six seconds.”
Without waiting to note the effect of her speech, the young lady tripped lightly along the passage, and as lightly descended the stone stairway.
Presently she reappeared – bringing with her a good-sized hamper; which was evidently filled with eatables, with something to send them down.
“Now dear old Zeb, you will take this to Mr Gerald? It’s only some little things that Florinda has put up; some cordials and jellies and the like, such as sick people at times have a craving for. They are not likely to be kept in the hotel. Don’t tell him where they come from – neither him, nor any one else. You won’t? I know you won’t, you dear good giant.”
“He may depend on Zeb Stump for thet, Miss Lewaze. Nobody air a goin’ to be a bit the wiser about who sent these hyur delekissies; though, for the matter o’ cakes an kickshaws, an all that sort o’ thing, the mowstanger hain’t had much reezun to complain. He hev been serplied wi’ enuf o’ them to hev filled the bellies o’ a hul school o’ shugar-babbies.”
“Ha! Supplied already! By whom?”
“Wal, thet theer this chile can’t inform ye, Miss Lewaze; not be-knowin’ it hisself. I on’y hyurd they wur fetched to the tavern in baskets, by some sort o’ a sarving-man as air a Mexikin. I’ve seed the man myself. Fact, I’ve jest this minnit met him, ridin’ arter a wuman sot stridy legs in her seddle, as most o’ these Mexikin weemen ride. I reck’n he be her sarvingt, as he war keepin’ a good ways ahint, and toatin’ a basket jest like one o’ them Maurice hed got arready. Like enuf it air another lot o’ Rickshaws they wur takin’ to the tavern.”
There was no need to trouble Zeb Stump with further cross-questioning. A whole history was supplied by that single speech. The case was painfully clear. In the regard of Maurice Gerald, Louise Poindexter had a rival – perhaps something more. The lady of the lazo was either his fiancée, or his mistress!
It was not by accident – though to Zeb Stump it may have seemed so – that the hamper, steadied for a time, upon the coping of the balustrade, and still retained in the hand of the young Creole, escaped from her clutch, and fell with a crash upon the stones below. The bottles were broken, and their contents spilled into the stream that surged along the basement of the wall.
The action of the arm that produced this effect, apparently springing from a spasmodic and involuntary effort, was nevertheless due to design; and Louise Poindexter, as she leant over the parapet, and contemplated the ruin she had caused, felt as if her heart was shattered like the glass that lay glistening below!
“How unfortunate!” said she, making a feint to conceal her chagrin. “The dainties are destroyed, I declare! What will Florinda say? After all, if Mr Gerald be so well attended to, as you say he is, he’ll not stand in need of them. I’m glad to hear he hasn’t been neglected – one who has done me a service. But, Mr Stump, you needn’t say anything of this, or that I inquired after him. You know his late antagonist is our near relative; and it might cause scandal in the settlement. Dear Zeb, you promise me?”
“Swa-ar it ef ye like. Neery word, Miss Lewaze, neery word; ye kin depend on ole Zeb.”
“I know it. Come! The sun is growing hot up here. Let as go down, and see whether we can find you such a thing as a glass of your favourite Monongahela. Come!”
With an assumed air of cheerfulness, the young Creole glided across the azotea; and, trilling the “New Orleans Waltz,” once more commenced descending the escalera[183].
In eager acceptance of the invitation, the old hunter followed close upon her skirts; and although, by habit, stoically indifferent to feminine charms – and with his thoughts at that moment chiefly bent upon the promised Monongahela – he could not help admiring those ivory shoulders brought so conspicuously under his eyes.
But for a short while was he permitted to indulge in the luxurious spectacle. On reaching the bottom of the stair his fair hostess bade him a somewhat abrupt adieu. After the revelations he had so unwittingly made, his conversation seemed no longer agreeable; and she, late desirous of interrogating, was now contented to leave him alone with the Monongahela, as she hastened to hide her chagrin in the solitude of her chamber.
For the first time in her life Louise Poindexter felt the pangs of jealousy. It was her first real love: for she was in love with Maurice Gerald.
A solicitude like that shown for him by the Mexican señora, could scarce spring from simple friendship? Some closer tie must have been established between them? So ran the reflections of the now suffering Creole.
From what Maurice had said – from what she had herself seen – the lady of the lazo was just such a woman as should win the affections of such a man. Hers were accomplishments he might naturally be expected to admire.
Her figure had appeared perfect under the magnifying effect of the lens. The face had not been so fairly viewed, and was still undetermined. Was it in correspondence with the form? Was it such as to secure the love of a man so much master of his passions, as the mustanger appeared to be?
The mistress of Casa del Corvo could not rest, till she had satisfied herself on this score. As soon as Zeb Stump had taken his departure, she ordered the spotted mare to be saddled; and, riding out alone, she sought the crossing of the river; and thence proceeded to the highway on the opposite side.
Advancing in the direction of the Fort, as she expected, she soon encountered the Mexican señora on her return; no señora according to the exact signification of the term, but a señorita – a young lady, not older than herself.
At the place of their meeting, the road ran under the shadow of the trees. There was no sun to require the coifing of the rebozo upon the crown of the Mexican equestrian. The scarf had fallen upon her shoulders, laying bare a head of hair, in luxuriance rivalling the tail of a wild steed, in colour the plumage of a crow. It formed the framing of a face, that, despite a certain darkness of complexion, was charmingly attractive.
Good breeding permitted only a glance at it in passing; which was returned by a like courtesy on the part of the stranger. But as the two rode on, back to back, going in opposite directions, neither could restrain herself from turning round in the saddle, and snatching a second glance at the other.
Their reflections were not very dissimilar: if Louise Poindexter had already learnt something of the individual thus encountered, the latter was not altogether ignorant of her existence.
We shall not attempt to portray the thoughts of the señorita consequent on that encounter. Suffice it to say, that those of the Creole were even more sombre than when she sallied forth on that errand of inspection; and that the young mistress of Casa del Corvo rode back to the mansion, all the way seated in her saddle in an attitude that betokened the deepest dejection.
“Beautiful!” said she, after passing her supposed rival upon the road. “Yes; too beautiful to be his friend!”
Louise was speaking to her own conscience; or she might have been more chary of her praise.
“I cannot have any doubt,” continued she, “of the relationship that exists between them – He loves her! – he loves her! It accounts for his cold indifference to me? I’ve been mad to risk my heart’s happiness in such an ill-starred entanglement!
“And now to disentangle it! Now to banish him from my thoughts! Ah! ’tis easily said! Can I?”
“I shall see him no more. That, at least, is possible. After what has occurred, he will not come to our house. We can only meet by accident; and that accident I must be careful to avoid. Oh, Maurice Gerald! tamer of wild steeds! you have subdued a spirit that may suffer long – perhaps never recover from the lesson!”
Rather the reverse. Once or twice before had her mind given way to imaginings, connected with that accomplished equestrienne[182]; and more than once had she speculated upon her purpose in riding up the road. The incident just witnessed had suddenly changed her conjectures into suspicions of an exceedingly unpleasant nature.
It was a relief to her, when a horseman appeared coming out of the chapparal, at the point where the others had ridden in; a still greater relief, when he was seen to swerve into the cross path that conducted to the hacienda, and was recognised, through the lorgnette, as Zeb Stump the hunter.
The face of the Creole became bright again – almost to gaiety. There was something ominous of good in the opportune appearance of the honest backwoodsman.
“The man I was wanting to see!” she exclaimed in joyous accents. “He can bear me a message; and perhaps tell who she is. He must have met her on the road. That will enable me to introduce the subject, without Zeb having any suspicion of my object. Even with him I must be circumspect – after what has happened. Ah, me! Not much should I care, if I were sure of his caring for me. How provoking his indifference! And to me – Louise Poindexter! Par dieu! Let it proceed much further, and I shall try to escape from the toils if – if – I should crush my poor heart in the attempt!”
It need scarce be said that the individual, whose esteem was so coveted, was not Zeb Stump.
Her next speech, however, was addressed to Zeb, as he reined up in front of the hacienda.
“Dear Mr Stump!” hailed a voice, to which the old hunter delighted to listen. “I’m so glad to see you. Dismount, and come up here! I know you’re a famous climber, and won’t mind a flight of stone stairs. There’s a view from this housetop that will reward you for your trouble.”
“Thur’s suthin’ on the house-top theear,” rejoined the hunter, “the view o’ which ’ud reward Zeb Stump for climbin’ to the top o’ a steamboat chimbly; ’an thet’s yurself, Miss Lewaze. I’ll kum up, soon as I ha’ stabled the ole maar, which shall be dud in the shakin’ o’ a goat’s tail. Gee-up, ole gal!” he continued, addressing himself to the mare, after he had dismounted, “Hold up yur head, an may be Plute hyur ’ll gie ye a wheen o’ corn shucks for yur breakfist.”
“Ho – ho! Mass ’Tump,” interposed the sable coachman, making his appearance in the patio. “Dat same do dis nigga – gub um de shucks wi’ de yaller corn inside ob dem. Ho – ho! You gwup ’tairs to de young missa; an Plute he no ’gleck yar ole mar.”
“Yur a dod-rotted good sample o’ a nigger, Plute; an the nix occashun I shows about hyur, I’ll fetch you a ’possum – wi’ the meat on it as tender as a two-year old chicken. Thet’s what I’m boun’ ter do.”
After delivering himself of this promise, Zeb commenced ascending the stone stairway; not by single steps, but by two, and sometimes three, at a stride.
He was soon upon the housetop; where he was once more welcomed by the young mistress of the mansion.
Her excited manner, and the eagerness with which she conducted him to a remote part of the azotea, told the astute hunter, that he had been summoned thither for some other purpose than enjoying the prospect.
“Tell me, Mr Stump!” said she, as she clutched the sleeve of the blanket coat in her delicate fingers, and looked inquiringly into Zeb’s grey eye – “You must know all. How is he? Are his wounds of a dangerous nature?”
“If you refar to Mister Cal-hoon – ”
“No – no – no. I know all about him. It’s not of Mr Calhoun I’m speaking.”
“Wall, Miss Lewasse; thur air only one other as I know of in these parts thet hev got wownds; an thet air’s Maurice the mowstanger. Mout it be thet ere individooal yur inquirin’ abeout?”
“It is – it is! You know I cannot be indifferent to his welfare, notwithstanding the misfortune of his having quarrelled with my cousin. You are aware that he rescued me – twice I may say – from imminent peril. Tell me – is he in great danger?”
Such earnestness could no longer be trifled with. Zeb without further parley, made reply: —
“Ne’er a morsel o’ danger. Thur’s a bullet-hole jest above the ankle-jeint. It don’t signerfy more’n the scratch o’ a kitting. Thur’s another hev goed through the flesh o’ the young fellur’s left arm. It don’t signerfy neyther – only thet it drawed a good sup o’ the red out o’ him. Howsomdever, he’s all right now; an expecks to be out o’ doors in a kupple o’ days, or tharabout. He sez that an hour in the seddle, an a skoot acrosst the purayra, ’ud do him more good than all the docters in Texas. I reckon it wud; but the docter – it’s the surgint o’ the Fort as attends on him – he won’t let him git to grass yit a bit.”
“Where is he?”
“He air stayin’ at the hotel – whar the skrimmage tuk place.”
“Perhaps he is not well waited upon? It’s a rough place, I’ve heard. He may not have any delicacies – such as an invalid stands in need of? Stay here, Mr Stump, till I come up to you again. I have something I wish to send to him. I know I can trust you to deliver it. Won’t you? I’m sure you will. I shall be with you in six seconds.”
Without waiting to note the effect of her speech, the young lady tripped lightly along the passage, and as lightly descended the stone stairway.
Presently she reappeared – bringing with her a good-sized hamper; which was evidently filled with eatables, with something to send them down.
“Now dear old Zeb, you will take this to Mr Gerald? It’s only some little things that Florinda has put up; some cordials and jellies and the like, such as sick people at times have a craving for. They are not likely to be kept in the hotel. Don’t tell him where they come from – neither him, nor any one else. You won’t? I know you won’t, you dear good giant.”
“He may depend on Zeb Stump for thet, Miss Lewaze. Nobody air a goin’ to be a bit the wiser about who sent these hyur delekissies; though, for the matter o’ cakes an kickshaws, an all that sort o’ thing, the mowstanger hain’t had much reezun to complain. He hev been serplied wi’ enuf o’ them to hev filled the bellies o’ a hul school o’ shugar-babbies.”
“Ha! Supplied already! By whom?”
“Wal, thet theer this chile can’t inform ye, Miss Lewaze; not be-knowin’ it hisself. I on’y hyurd they wur fetched to the tavern in baskets, by some sort o’ a sarving-man as air a Mexikin. I’ve seed the man myself. Fact, I’ve jest this minnit met him, ridin’ arter a wuman sot stridy legs in her seddle, as most o’ these Mexikin weemen ride. I reck’n he be her sarvingt, as he war keepin’ a good ways ahint, and toatin’ a basket jest like one o’ them Maurice hed got arready. Like enuf it air another lot o’ Rickshaws they wur takin’ to the tavern.”
There was no need to trouble Zeb Stump with further cross-questioning. A whole history was supplied by that single speech. The case was painfully clear. In the regard of Maurice Gerald, Louise Poindexter had a rival – perhaps something more. The lady of the lazo was either his fiancée, or his mistress!
It was not by accident – though to Zeb Stump it may have seemed so – that the hamper, steadied for a time, upon the coping of the balustrade, and still retained in the hand of the young Creole, escaped from her clutch, and fell with a crash upon the stones below. The bottles were broken, and their contents spilled into the stream that surged along the basement of the wall.
The action of the arm that produced this effect, apparently springing from a spasmodic and involuntary effort, was nevertheless due to design; and Louise Poindexter, as she leant over the parapet, and contemplated the ruin she had caused, felt as if her heart was shattered like the glass that lay glistening below!
“How unfortunate!” said she, making a feint to conceal her chagrin. “The dainties are destroyed, I declare! What will Florinda say? After all, if Mr Gerald be so well attended to, as you say he is, he’ll not stand in need of them. I’m glad to hear he hasn’t been neglected – one who has done me a service. But, Mr Stump, you needn’t say anything of this, or that I inquired after him. You know his late antagonist is our near relative; and it might cause scandal in the settlement. Dear Zeb, you promise me?”
“Swa-ar it ef ye like. Neery word, Miss Lewaze, neery word; ye kin depend on ole Zeb.”
“I know it. Come! The sun is growing hot up here. Let as go down, and see whether we can find you such a thing as a glass of your favourite Monongahela. Come!”
With an assumed air of cheerfulness, the young Creole glided across the azotea; and, trilling the “New Orleans Waltz,” once more commenced descending the escalera[183].
In eager acceptance of the invitation, the old hunter followed close upon her skirts; and although, by habit, stoically indifferent to feminine charms – and with his thoughts at that moment chiefly bent upon the promised Monongahela – he could not help admiring those ivory shoulders brought so conspicuously under his eyes.
But for a short while was he permitted to indulge in the luxurious spectacle. On reaching the bottom of the stair his fair hostess bade him a somewhat abrupt adieu. After the revelations he had so unwittingly made, his conversation seemed no longer agreeable; and she, late desirous of interrogating, was now contented to leave him alone with the Monongahela, as she hastened to hide her chagrin in the solitude of her chamber.
For the first time in her life Louise Poindexter felt the pangs of jealousy. It was her first real love: for she was in love with Maurice Gerald.
A solicitude like that shown for him by the Mexican señora, could scarce spring from simple friendship? Some closer tie must have been established between them? So ran the reflections of the now suffering Creole.
From what Maurice had said – from what she had herself seen – the lady of the lazo was just such a woman as should win the affections of such a man. Hers were accomplishments he might naturally be expected to admire.
Her figure had appeared perfect under the magnifying effect of the lens. The face had not been so fairly viewed, and was still undetermined. Was it in correspondence with the form? Was it such as to secure the love of a man so much master of his passions, as the mustanger appeared to be?
The mistress of Casa del Corvo could not rest, till she had satisfied herself on this score. As soon as Zeb Stump had taken his departure, she ordered the spotted mare to be saddled; and, riding out alone, she sought the crossing of the river; and thence proceeded to the highway on the opposite side.
Advancing in the direction of the Fort, as she expected, she soon encountered the Mexican señora on her return; no señora according to the exact signification of the term, but a señorita – a young lady, not older than herself.
At the place of their meeting, the road ran under the shadow of the trees. There was no sun to require the coifing of the rebozo upon the crown of the Mexican equestrian. The scarf had fallen upon her shoulders, laying bare a head of hair, in luxuriance rivalling the tail of a wild steed, in colour the plumage of a crow. It formed the framing of a face, that, despite a certain darkness of complexion, was charmingly attractive.
Good breeding permitted only a glance at it in passing; which was returned by a like courtesy on the part of the stranger. But as the two rode on, back to back, going in opposite directions, neither could restrain herself from turning round in the saddle, and snatching a second glance at the other.
Their reflections were not very dissimilar: if Louise Poindexter had already learnt something of the individual thus encountered, the latter was not altogether ignorant of her existence.
We shall not attempt to portray the thoughts of the señorita consequent on that encounter. Suffice it to say, that those of the Creole were even more sombre than when she sallied forth on that errand of inspection; and that the young mistress of Casa del Corvo rode back to the mansion, all the way seated in her saddle in an attitude that betokened the deepest dejection.
“Beautiful!” said she, after passing her supposed rival upon the road. “Yes; too beautiful to be his friend!”
Louise was speaking to her own conscience; or she might have been more chary of her praise.
“I cannot have any doubt,” continued she, “of the relationship that exists between them – He loves her! – he loves her! It accounts for his cold indifference to me? I’ve been mad to risk my heart’s happiness in such an ill-starred entanglement!
“And now to disentangle it! Now to banish him from my thoughts! Ah! ’tis easily said! Can I?”
“I shall see him no more. That, at least, is possible. After what has occurred, he will not come to our house. We can only meet by accident; and that accident I must be careful to avoid. Oh, Maurice Gerald! tamer of wild steeds! you have subdued a spirit that may suffer long – perhaps never recover from the lesson!”
Chapter 26
Still on the Azotea
To banish from the thoughts one who has been passionately loved is a simple impossibility. Time may do much to subdue the pain of an unreciprocated passion, and absence more. But neither time, nor absence, can hinder the continued recurrence of that longing for the lost loved one – or quiet the heart aching with that void that has never been satisfactorily filled.
Louise Poindexter had imbibed a passion that could not be easily stifled. Though of brief existence, it had been of rapid growth – vigorously overriding all obstacles to its indulgence. It was already strong enough to overcome such ordinary scruples as parental consent, or the inequality of rank; and, had it been reciprocated, neither would have stood in the way, so far as she herself was concerned. For the former, she was of age; and felt – as most of her countrywomen do – capable of taking care of herself. For the latter, who ever really loved that cared a straw[184] for class, or caste? Love has no such meanness in its composition. At all events, there was none such in the passion of Louise Poindexter.
It could scarce be called the first illusion of her life. It was, however, the first, where disappointment was likely to prove dangerous to the tranquillity of her spirit.
She was not unaware of this. She anticipated unhappiness for a while – hoping that time would enable her to subdue the expected pain.
At first, she fancied she would find a friend in her own strong will; and another in the natural buoyancy of her spirit. But as the days passed, she found reason to distrust both: for in spite of both, she could not erase from her thoughts the image of the man who had so completely captivated her imagination.
There were times when she hated him, or tried to do so – when she could have killed him, or seen him killed, without making an effort to save him! They were but moments; each succeeded by an interval of more righteous reflection, when she felt that the fault was hers alone, as hers only the misfortune.
No matter for this. It mattered not if he had been her enemy – the enemy of all mankind. If Lucifer himself – to whom in her wild fancy she had once likened him – she would have loved him all the same!
And it would have proved nothing abnormal in her disposition – nothing to separate her from the rest of womankind, all the world over. In the mind of man, or woman either, there is no connection between the moral and the passional. They are as different from each other as fire from water. They may chance to run in the same channel; but they may go diametrically opposite. In other words, we may love the very being we hate – ay, the one we despise!
Louise Poindexter could neither hate, nor despise, Maurice Gerald. She could only endeavour to feel indifference.
It was a vain effort, and ended in failure. She could not restrain herself from ascending to the azotea, and scrutinising the road where she had first beheld the cause of her jealousy. Each day, and almost every hour of the day, was the ascent repeated.
Still more. Notwithstanding her resolve, to avoid the accident of an encounter with the man who had made her miserable, she was oft in the saddle and abroad, scouring the country around – riding through the streets of the village – with no other object than to meet him.
During the three days that followed that unpleasant discovery, once again had she seen – from the housetop as before – the lady of the lazo en route up the road, as before accompanied by her attendant with the pannier across his arm – that Pandora’s box[185] that had bred such mischief in her mind – while she herself stood trembling with jealousy – envious of the other’s errand.
She knew more now, though not much. Only had she learnt the name and social standing of her rival. The Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos – daughter of a wealthy haciendado[186], who lived upon the Rio Grande, and niece to another whose estate lay upon the Leona, a mile beyond the boundaries of her father’s new purchase. An eccentric young lady, as some thought, who could throw a lazo, tame a wild steed, or anything else excepting her own caprices.
Such was the character of the Mexican señorita, as known to the American settlers on the Leona.
A knowledge of it did not remove the jealous suspicions of the Creole. On the contrary, it tended to confirm them. Such practices were her own predilections. She had been created with an instinct to admire them. She supposed that others must do the same. The young Irishman was not likely to be an exception.
There was an interval of several days – during which the lady of the lazo was not seen again.
“He has recovered from his wounds?” reflected the Creole. “He no longer needs such unremitting attention.”
She was upon the azotea at the moment of making this reflection – lorgnette in hand, as she had often been before.
It was in the morning, shortly after sunrise: the hour when the Mexican had been wont to make her appearance. Louise had been looking towards the quarter whence the señorita might have been expected to come.
On turning her eyes in the opposite direction, she beheld – that which caused her something more than surprise. She saw Maurice Gerald, mounted on horseback, and riding down the road!
Though seated somewhat stiffly in the saddle, and going at a slow pace, it was certainly he. The glass declared his identity; at the same time disclosing the fact, that his left arm was suspended in a sling.
On recognising him, she shrank behind the parapet – as she did so, giving utterance to a suppressed cry.
Why that anguished utterance? Was it the sight of the disabled arm, or the pallid face: for the glass had enabled her to distinguish both?
Neither one nor the other. Neither could be a cause of surprise. Besides, it was an exclamation far differently intoned to those of either pity or astonishment. It was an expression of sorrow, that had for its origin some heartfelt chagrin.
The invalid was convalescent. He no longer needed to be visited by his nurse. He was on the way to visit her!
Cowering behind the parapet – screened by the flower-spike of the yucca – Louise Poindexter watched the passing horseman. The lorgnette enabled her to note every movement made by him – almost to the play of his features.
Louise Poindexter had imbibed a passion that could not be easily stifled. Though of brief existence, it had been of rapid growth – vigorously overriding all obstacles to its indulgence. It was already strong enough to overcome such ordinary scruples as parental consent, or the inequality of rank; and, had it been reciprocated, neither would have stood in the way, so far as she herself was concerned. For the former, she was of age; and felt – as most of her countrywomen do – capable of taking care of herself. For the latter, who ever really loved that cared a straw[184] for class, or caste? Love has no such meanness in its composition. At all events, there was none such in the passion of Louise Poindexter.
It could scarce be called the first illusion of her life. It was, however, the first, where disappointment was likely to prove dangerous to the tranquillity of her spirit.
She was not unaware of this. She anticipated unhappiness for a while – hoping that time would enable her to subdue the expected pain.
At first, she fancied she would find a friend in her own strong will; and another in the natural buoyancy of her spirit. But as the days passed, she found reason to distrust both: for in spite of both, she could not erase from her thoughts the image of the man who had so completely captivated her imagination.
There were times when she hated him, or tried to do so – when she could have killed him, or seen him killed, without making an effort to save him! They were but moments; each succeeded by an interval of more righteous reflection, when she felt that the fault was hers alone, as hers only the misfortune.
No matter for this. It mattered not if he had been her enemy – the enemy of all mankind. If Lucifer himself – to whom in her wild fancy she had once likened him – she would have loved him all the same!
And it would have proved nothing abnormal in her disposition – nothing to separate her from the rest of womankind, all the world over. In the mind of man, or woman either, there is no connection between the moral and the passional. They are as different from each other as fire from water. They may chance to run in the same channel; but they may go diametrically opposite. In other words, we may love the very being we hate – ay, the one we despise!
Louise Poindexter could neither hate, nor despise, Maurice Gerald. She could only endeavour to feel indifference.
It was a vain effort, and ended in failure. She could not restrain herself from ascending to the azotea, and scrutinising the road where she had first beheld the cause of her jealousy. Each day, and almost every hour of the day, was the ascent repeated.
Still more. Notwithstanding her resolve, to avoid the accident of an encounter with the man who had made her miserable, she was oft in the saddle and abroad, scouring the country around – riding through the streets of the village – with no other object than to meet him.
During the three days that followed that unpleasant discovery, once again had she seen – from the housetop as before – the lady of the lazo en route up the road, as before accompanied by her attendant with the pannier across his arm – that Pandora’s box[185] that had bred such mischief in her mind – while she herself stood trembling with jealousy – envious of the other’s errand.
She knew more now, though not much. Only had she learnt the name and social standing of her rival. The Doña Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos – daughter of a wealthy haciendado[186], who lived upon the Rio Grande, and niece to another whose estate lay upon the Leona, a mile beyond the boundaries of her father’s new purchase. An eccentric young lady, as some thought, who could throw a lazo, tame a wild steed, or anything else excepting her own caprices.
Such was the character of the Mexican señorita, as known to the American settlers on the Leona.
A knowledge of it did not remove the jealous suspicions of the Creole. On the contrary, it tended to confirm them. Such practices were her own predilections. She had been created with an instinct to admire them. She supposed that others must do the same. The young Irishman was not likely to be an exception.
There was an interval of several days – during which the lady of the lazo was not seen again.
“He has recovered from his wounds?” reflected the Creole. “He no longer needs such unremitting attention.”
She was upon the azotea at the moment of making this reflection – lorgnette in hand, as she had often been before.
It was in the morning, shortly after sunrise: the hour when the Mexican had been wont to make her appearance. Louise had been looking towards the quarter whence the señorita might have been expected to come.
On turning her eyes in the opposite direction, she beheld – that which caused her something more than surprise. She saw Maurice Gerald, mounted on horseback, and riding down the road!
Though seated somewhat stiffly in the saddle, and going at a slow pace, it was certainly he. The glass declared his identity; at the same time disclosing the fact, that his left arm was suspended in a sling.
On recognising him, she shrank behind the parapet – as she did so, giving utterance to a suppressed cry.
Why that anguished utterance? Was it the sight of the disabled arm, or the pallid face: for the glass had enabled her to distinguish both?
Neither one nor the other. Neither could be a cause of surprise. Besides, it was an exclamation far differently intoned to those of either pity or astonishment. It was an expression of sorrow, that had for its origin some heartfelt chagrin.
The invalid was convalescent. He no longer needed to be visited by his nurse. He was on the way to visit her!
Cowering behind the parapet – screened by the flower-spike of the yucca – Louise Poindexter watched the passing horseman. The lorgnette enabled her to note every movement made by him – almost to the play of his features.