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.
Still more. Notwithstanding her resolve, to avoid the accident of an
encounter with the man who had made her miserable, she was oft in the
saddle and abroad, scouring the country around--riding through the
streets of the village--with no other object than to meet him.
During the three days that followed that unpleasant discovery, once
again had she seen--from the housetop as before--the lady of the lazo
_en route_ up the road, as before accompanied by her attendant with the
pannier across his arm--that Pandora's box that had bred such mischief
in her mind--while she herself stood trembling with jealousy--envious of
the other's errand.
She knew more now, though not much. Only had she learnt the name and
social standing of her rival. The Dona Isidora Covarubio de los
Llanos--daughter of a wealthy haciendado, who lived upon the Rio Grande,
and niece to another whose estate lay upon the Leona, a mile beyond the
boundaries of her father's new purchase. An eccentric young lady, as
some thought, who could throw a lazo, tame a wild steed, or anything
else excepting her own caprices.
Such was the character of the Mexican senorita, as known to the American
settlers on the Leona.
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 glass declared his identity; 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 glass 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 passing 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 passing upwards he again cast regards towards
Casa del Corvo; again halted behind the copse, and passed 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?