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 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 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.
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?