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 senorita 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 gla.s.s declared his ident.i.ty; 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sing horseman. The lorgnette enabled her to note every movement made by him--almost to the play of his features.

She felt some slight gratification on observing that he turned his face at intervals and fixed his regard upon Casa del Corvo. It was increased, when on reaching a copse, that stood by the side of the road, and nearly opposite the house, he reined up behind the trees, and for a long time remained in the same spot, as if reconnoitring the mansion.

She almost conceived a hope, that he might be thinking of its mistress!

It was but a gleam of joy, departing like the sunlight under the certain shadow of an eclipse. It was succeeded by a sadness that might be appropriately compared to such shadow: for to her the world at that moment seemed filled with gloom.

Maurice Gerald had ridden on. He had entered the chapparal; and become lost to view with the road upon which he was riding.

Whither was he bound? Whither, but to visit Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?

It mattered not that he returned within less than an hour. They might have met in the woods--within eyeshot of that jealous spectator--but for the screening of the trees. An hour was sufficient interview--for lovers, who could every day claim unrestricted indulgence.

It mattered not, that in pa.s.sing upwards he again cast regards towards Casa del Corvo; again halted behind the copse, and pa.s.sed some time in apparent scrutiny of the mansion.

It was but mockery--or exultation. He might well feel triumphant; but why should he be cruel, with kisses upon his lips--the kisses he had received from the Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

I LOVE YOU!--I LOVE YOU!

Louise Poindexter upon the azotea again--again to be subjected to a fresh chagrin! That broad stone stairway trending up to the housetop, seemed to lead only to spectacles that gave her pain. She had mentally vowed no more to ascend it--at least for a long time. Something stronger than her strong will combatted--and successfully--the keeping of that vow. It was broken ere the sun of another day had dried the dew from the gra.s.s of the prairie.

As on the day before, she stood by the parapet scanning the road on the opposite side of the river; as before, she saw the horseman with the slung arm ride past; as before, she crouched to screen herself from observation.

He was going downwards, as on the day preceding. In like manner did he cast long glances towards the hacienda, and made halt behind the clump of trees that grew opposite.

Her heart fluttered between hope and fear. There was an instant when she felt half inclined to show herself. Fear prevailed; and in the next instant he was gone.

Whither?

The self-asked interrogatory was but the same as of yesterday. It met with a similar response.

Whither, if not to meet Dona Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos?

Could there be a doubt of it?

If so, it was soon to be determined. In less than twenty minutes after, a parded steed was seen upon the same road--and in the same direction-- with a lady upon its back.

The jealous heart of the Creole could hold out no longer. No truth could cause greater torture than she was already suffering through suspicion. She had resolved on a.s.suring herself, though the knowledge should prove fatal to the last faint remnant of her hopes.

She entered the chapparal where the mustanger had ridden in scarce twenty minutes before. She rode on beneath the flitting shadows of the acacias. She rode in silence upon the soft turf--keeping close to the side of the path, so that the hoof might not strike against stones. The long pinnate fronds, drooping down to the level of her eyes, mingled with the plumes in her hat. She sate her saddle crouchingly, as if to avoid being observed--all the while with earnest glance scanning the open s.p.a.ce before her.

She reached the crest of a hill which commanded a view beyond. There was a house in sight surrounded by tall trees. It might have been termed a mansion. It was the residence of Don Silvio Martinez, the uncle of Dona Isidora. So much had she learnt already.

There were other houses to be seen upon the plain below; but on this one, and the road leading to it, the eyes of the Creole became fixed in a glance of uneasy interrogation.

For a time she continued her scrutiny without satisfaction. No one appeared either at the house, or near it. The private road leading to the residence of the haciendado, and the public highway, were alike without living forms. Some horses were straying over the pastures; but not one with a rider upon his back.

Could the lady have ridden out to meet him, or Maurice gone in?

Were they at that moment in the woods, or within the walls of the house?

If the former, was Don Silvio aware of it? If the latter, was he at home--an approving party to the a.s.signation?

With such questions was the Creole afflicting herself, when the neigh of a horse broke abruptly on her ear, followed by the c.h.i.n.king of a shod hoof against the stones of the causeway. She looked below: for she had halted upon the crest, a steep acclivity. The mustanger was ascending it--riding directly towards her. She might have seen him sooner, had she not been occupied with the more distant view.

He was alone, as he had ridden past Casa del Corvo. There was nothing to show that he had recently been in company--much less in the company of an _inamorata_.

It was too late for Louise to shun him. The spotted mustang had replied to the salutation of an old acquaintance. Its rider was constrained to keep her ground, till the mustanger came up.

"Good day, Miss Poindexter?" said he--for upon the prairies it is _not_ etiquette for the lady to speak first. "Alone?"

"Alone, sir. And why not?"

"'Tis a solitary ride among the chapparals. But true: I think I've heard you say you prefer that sort of thing?"

"You appear to like it yourself, Mr Gerald. To you, however, it is not so solitary, I presume?"

"In faith I do like it; and just for that very reason. I have the misfortune to live at a tavern, or 'hotel,' as mine host is pleased to call it; and one gets so tired of the noises--especially an invalid, as I have the bad luck to be--that a ride along this quiet road is something akin to luxury. The cool shade of these acacias--which the Mexicans have vulgarised by the name of _mezquites_--with the breeze that keeps constantly circulating through their fan-like foliage, would invigorate the feeblest of frames. Don't you think so, Miss Poindexter?"

"You should know best, sir," was the reply vouchsafed, after some seconds of embarra.s.sment. "You, who have so often tried it."