“Pisen be durned!
Didn’t I cut the pisen out, soon ’s I killed the critter, by cuttin’ off o’ its head?”
“Trath! an for all that, I wudn’t ate a morsel av it, if I was starvin’.”
“Sturve, an be durned to ye!
Who axes ye to eet it.
I only want ye to toat it home.
Kum then, an do as I tell ye; or dog-goned, ef I don’t make ye eet the head o’ the reptile,—pisen, fangs an all!”
“Be japers, Misther Stump, I didn’t mane to disobey you at all—at all.
Shure it’s Phaylim O’Nale that’s reddy to do your biddin’ anyhow.
I’m wid ye for fwhativer yez want; aven to swallowin the snake whole.
Saint Pathrick forgive me!”
“Saint Patrick be durned!
Kum along!”
Phelim made no farther remonstrance; but, striking into the tracks of the backwoodsman, followed him through the wood.
Isidora entered the hut; advanced towards the invalid reclining upon his couch; with fierce fondness kissed his fevered brow, fonder and fiercer kissed his unconscious lips; and then recoiled from them, as if she had been stung by a scorpion!
Worse than scorpion’s sting was that which had caused her to spring back.
And yet ’twas but a word—a little word—of only two syllables!
There was nothing strange in this. Oft, on one word—that soft short syllabic
“Yes”—rests the happiness of a life; while oft, too oft, the harsher negative is the prelude to a world of war!
Chapter Fifty Nine. Another who cannot rest.
A dark day for Louise Poindexter—perhaps the darkest in the calendar of her life—was that in which she released Don Miguel Diaz from the lazo.
Sorrow for a brother’s loss, with fears for a lover’s safety, were yesterday commingled in the cup.
To-day it was further embittered by the blackest passion of all—jealousy.
Grief—fear—jealousy—what must be the state of the soul in which these emotions are co-existent? A tumult of terrible imaginings.
So was it in the bosom of Louise Poindexter after deciphering the epistle which contained written evidence of her lover’s disloyalty.
True, the writing came not from him; nor was the proof conclusive.
But in the first burst of her frenzied rage, the young Creole did not reason thus.
In the wording of the letter there was strong presumption, that the relationship between Maurice Gerald and the Mexican was of a more affectionate character than he had represented it to be—that he had, in fact, been practising a deception.
Why should that woman write to him in such free strain—giving bold, almost unfeminine, licence to her admiration of his eyes: “Essos ojos tan lindos y tan espresivos?”
These were no phrases of friendship; but the expressions of a prurient passion.
As such only could the Creole understand them: since they were but a paraphrase of her own feelings.
And then there was the appointment itself—solicited, it is true, in the shape of a request.
But this was mere courtesy—the coquetry of an accomplished maitresse.
Moreover, the tone of solicitation was abandoned towards the close of the epistle; which terminated in a positive command:
“Come, sir! come!”
Something more than jealousy was aroused by the reading of this. A spirit of revenge seemed to dictate the gesture that followed,—and the stray sheet was crushed between the aristocratic fingers into which it had fallen.
“Ah, me!” reflected she, in the acerbity of her soul, “I see it all now. ’Tis not the first time he has answered a similar summons; not the first they have met on that same ground, ‘the hill above my uncle’s house’—slightly described, but well understood—oft visited before.”
Soon the spirit of vengeance gave place to a profound despair.
Her heart had its emblem in the piece of paper that lay at her feet upon the floor—like it, crushed and ruined.
For a time she surrendered herself to sad meditation.
Wild emotions passed through her mind, suggesting wild resolves.
Among others she thought of her beloved Louisiana—of going back there to bury her secret sorrow in the cloisters of the Sacre Coeur.
Had the Creole convent been near, in that hour of deep despondency, she would, in all probability, have forsaken the paternal home, and sought an asylum within its sacred walls.
In very truth was it the darkest day of her existence.
After long hours of wretchedness her spirit became calmer, while her thoughts returned to a more rational tone.
The letter was re-read; its contents submitted to careful consideration.
There was still a hope—the hope that, after all, Maurice Gerald might not be in the Settlement.
It was at best but a faint ray.
Surely she should know—she who had penned the appointment, and spoken so confidently of his keeping it?
Still, as promised, he might have gone away; and upon this supposition hinged that hope, now scintillating like a star through the obscurity of the hour.