Though well assured it could no longer be his master, he had no stomach for a second interview with the cavalier who so closely resembled him—in everything except the head.
His first impulse was to rush across the lawn, and carry out the scheme entrusted to him by Zeb.
But the indecision springing from his fears kept him to his place—long enough to show him that they were groundless. The strange horseman had a head.
“Shure an that same he hez,” said Phelim, as the latter rode out from among the trees, and halted on the edge of the opening; “a raal hid, an a purty face in front av it. An’ yit it don’t show so plazed nayther.
He luks as if he’d jist buried his grandmother.
Sowl! what a quare young chap he is, wid them toiny mowstacks loike the down upon a two days’ goslin’! O Lard! Luk at his little fut!
Be Jaysus, he’s a woman!”
While the Irishman was making these observations—partly in thought, partly in muttered speech—the equestrian advanced a pace or two, and again paused.
On a nearer view of his visitor, Phelim saw that he had correctly guessed the sex; though the moustache, the manner of the mount, the hat, and serape, might for the moment have misled a keener intellect than his of Connemara.
It was a woman.
It was Isidora.
It was the first time that Phelim had set eyes on the Mexican maiden—the first that hers had ever rested upon him.
They were equally unknown to one another.
He had spoken the truth, when he said that her countenance did not display pleasure.
On the contrary, the expression upon it was sad—almost disconsolate.
It had shown distrust, as she was riding under the shadow of the trees.
Instead of brightening as she came out into the open ground, the look only changed to one of mingled surprise and disappointment.
Neither could have been caused by her coming within sight of the jacale. She knew of its existence.
It was the goal of her journey.
It must have been the singular personage standing in the doorway.
He was not the man she expected to see there.
In doubt she advanced to address him:
“I may have made a mistake?” said she, speaking in the best “Americana” she could command. “Pardon me, but—I—I thought—that Don Mauricio lived here.”
“Dan Marryshow, yez say?
Trath, no.
Thare’s nobody av that name lives heeur.
Dan Marryshow?
Thare was a man they called Marrish had a dwillin’ not far out av Ballyballagh.
I remimber the chap will, bekase he chated me wanst in a horse thrade.
But his name wasn’t Dan. No; it was Pat.
Pat Marrish was the name—divil burn him for a desaver!”
“Don Mauricio—Mor-rees—Mor-ees.”
“Oh! Maurice!
Maybe ye’d be after spakin’ av the masther—Misther Gerrald!”
“Si—Si!
Senor Zyerral.”
“Shure, thin, an if that’s fwhat ye’re afther, Misther Gerrald diz dwill in this very cyabin—that is, whin he comes to divart hisself, by chasin’ the wild horses.
He only kapes it for a huntin’ box, ye know.
Arrah, now; if yez cud only see the great big cyastle he lives in whin he’s at home, in owld Ireland; an thy bewtiful crayther that’s now cryin’ her swate blue eyes out, bekase he won’t go back thare.
Sowl, if yez saw her!”
Despite its patois, Phelim’s talk was too well understood by her to whom it was addressed.
Jealousy is an apt translator.
Something like a sigh escaped from Isidora, as he pronounced that little word “her.”
“I don’t wish to see her,” was the quick rejoinder; “but him you mention.
Is he at home?
Is he inside?” “Is he at home?
Thare now, that’s comin’ to the point—straight as a poike staff.
An’ supposin’ I wuz to say yis, fwhat ud yez be afther wantin’ wid him?”
“I wish to see him.”
“Div yez?