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 passions, 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 passing; 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 snatching 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 attitude that betokened the deepest dejection.
“Beautiful!” said she, after passing 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 passionately loved is a simple impossibility.
Time may do much to subdue the pain of an unreciprocated passion, 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 passion 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 class, or caste?
Love has no such meanness in its composition.
At all events, there was none such in the passion 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 anticipated 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 passed, 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 passional. 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.