"He may depend on Zeb Stump for thet, Miss Lewaze. n.o.body 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 _fiancee_, 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 bal.u.s.trade, 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 bas.e.m.e.nt 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s of your favourite Monongahela. Come!"

With an a.s.sumed air of cheerfulness, the young Creole glided across the azotea; and, trilling the "New Orleans Waltz," once more commenced descending the _escalera_.

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 senora, 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 pa.s.sions, 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 senora on her return; no _senora_ according to the exact signification of the term, but a _senorita_--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 pa.s.sing; 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 s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 senorita 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 att.i.tude that betokened the deepest dejection.

"Beautiful!" said she, after pa.s.sing 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 TWENTY SIX.

STILL ON THE AZOTEA.

To banish from the thoughts one who has been pa.s.sionately loved is a simple impossibility. Time may do much to subdue the pain of an unreciprocated pa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.sion 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 for cla.s.s, or caste? Love has no such meanness in its composition. At all events, there was none such in the pa.s.sion 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 pa.s.sed, 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 _pa.s.sional_. 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 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 Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos--daughter of a wealthy haciendado, 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 senorita, as known to the American settlers on the Leona.