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.
It was a delicate matter to make direct inquiries about--to one in the
position of Louise Poindexter. But no other course appeared open to
her; and as the shadows of twilight shrouded the grass-covered square of
the village, she was seen upon her spotted palfrey, riding silently
through the streets, and reining up in front of the hotel--on the same
spot occupied but a few hours before by the grey steed of Isidora!
As the men of the place were all absent--some on the track of the
assassin, others upon the trail of the Comanche, Oberdoffer was the only
witness of her indiscretion. But he knew it not as such. It was but
natural that the sister of the murdered man should be anxious to obtain
news; and so did he construe the motive for the interrogatories
addressed to him.
Little did the stolid German suspect the satisfaction which his answers
at first gave to his fair questioner; much less the chagrin afterwards
caused by that bit of information volunteered by himself, and which
abruptly terminated the dialogue between him and his visitor.
On hearing she was not the first of her sex who had that day made
inquiries respecting Maurice the mustanger, Louise Poindexter rode back
to Casa del Corvo, with a heart writhing under fresh laceration.
A night was spent in the agony of unrest--sleep only obtained in short
snatches, and amidst the phantasmagoria of dreamland.
Though the morning restored not her tranquillity, it brought with it a
resolve, stern, daring, almost reckless.
It was, at least, daring, for Louise Poindexter to ride to the Alamo
alone; and this was her determination.
There was no one to stay her--none to say nay. The searchers out all
night had not yet returned. No report had come back to Casa del Corvo.
She was sole mistress of the mansion, as of her actions--sole possessor
of the motive that was impelling her to this bold step.
But it may be easily guessed. Hers was not a spirit to put up with mere
suspicion. Even love, that tames the strongest, had not yet reduced it
to that state of helpless submission. Unsatisfied it could no longer
exist; and hence her resolve to seek satisfaction.
She might find peace--she might chance upon ruin. Even the last
appeared preferable to the agony of uncertainty.
How like to the reasoning of her rival!
It would have been idle to dissuade her, had there been any one to do
it. It is doubtful even if parental authority could at that moment have
prevented her from carrying out her purpose. Talk to the tigress when
frenzied by a similar feeling. With a love unhallowed, the will of the
Egyptian queen was not more imperious than is that of the American
Creole, when stirred by its holiest passion. It acknowledges no right
of contradiction--regards no obstruction save death.
It is a spirit rare upon earth. In its tranquil state, soft as the rays
of the Aurora--pure as the prayer of a child; but when stirred by
love,--or rather by its too constant concomitant--it becomes proud and
perilous as the light of Lucifer!
Of this spirit Louise Poindexter was the truest type. Where love was
the lure, to wish was to have, or perish in the attempt to obtain.
Jealousy resting upon doubt was neither possible to her nature, or
compatible with her existence. She must find proofs to destroy, or
confirm it--proofs stronger than those already supplied by the contents
of the strayed epistle, which, after all, were only presumptive.
Armed with this, she was in a position to seek them; and they were to be
sought upon the Alamo.
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The first hour of sunrise saw her in the saddle, riding out from the
enclosures of Casa del Corvo, and taking a trail across the prairie
already known to her.
On passing many a spot, endeared to her--sacred by some of the sweetest
souvenirs of her life--her thoughts experienced more than one revulsion.
These were moments when she forgot the motive that originally impelled
her to the journey--when she thought only of reaching the man she loved,
to rescue him from enemies that might be around him!
Ah! these moments--despite the apprehension for her lover's safety--were
happy, when compared with those devoted to the far more painful
contemplation of his treachery.
From the point of starting to that of her destination, it was twenty
miles. It might seem a journey, to one used to European travelling--
that is in the saddle. To the prairie equestrian it is a ride of scarce
two hours--quick as a scurry across country, after a stag or fox.
Even with an unwilling steed it is not tedious; but with that
lithe-limbed, ocellated creature, Luna, who went willingly towards her
prairie home, it was soon over--too soon, perhaps, for the happiness of
her rider.
Wretched as Louise Poindexter may have felt before, her misery had
scarce reached the point of despair. Through her sadness there still
shone a scintillation of hope.
It was extinguished as she set foot upon the threshold of the _jacale_;
and the quick suppressed scream that came from her lips, was like the
last utterance of a heart parting in twain.
_There was a woman within the hut_!
From the lips of this woman an exclamation had already escaped, to which
her own might have appeared an echo--so closely did the one follow the
other--so alike were they in anguish.
Like a second echo, still more intensified, was the cry from Isidora; as
turning, she saw in the doorway that woman, whose name had just been
pronounced--the "Louise" so fervently praised, so fondly remembered,
amidst the vagaries of a distempered brain.
To the young Creole the case was clear--painfully clear. She saw before
her the writer of that letter of appointment--which, after all, _had
been kept_. In the strife, whose sounds had indistinctly reached her,
there may have been a third party--Maurice Gerald? That would account
for the condition in which she now saw him; for she was far enough
inside the hut to have a view of the invalid upon his couch.
Yes; it was the writer of that bold epistle, who had called Maurice
Gerald "querido;"--who had praised his eyes--who had commanded him to
come to her side; and who was now by his side, tending him with a
solicitude that proclaimed her his! Ah! the thought was too painful to
be symbolised in speech.
Equally clear were the conclusions of Isidora--equally agonising. She
already knew that she was supplanted. She had been listening too long
to the involuntary speeches that told her so, to have any doubt as to
their sincerity. On the door-step stood the woman who had succeeded
her!
Face to face, with flashing eyes, their bosoms rising and falling as if
under one impulse--both distraught with the same dire thought--the two
stood eyeing each other.
Alike in love with the same man--alike jealous--they were alongside the
object of their burning passion unconscious of the presence of either!
Each believed the other successful: for Louise had not heard the words,
that would have given her comfort--those words yet ringing in the ears,
and torturing the soul, of Isidora!
It was an attitude of silent hostility--all the more terrible for its
silence. Not a word was exchanged between them. Neither deigned to ask
explanation of the other; neither needed it. There are occasions when
speech is superfluous, and both intuitively felt that this was one. It
was a mutual encounter of fell passions; that found expression only in
the flashing of eyes, and the scornful curling of lips.
Only for an instant was the attitude kept up. In fact, the whole scene,
inside, scarce occupied a score of seconds.
It ended by Louise Poindexter turning round upon the doorstep, and
gliding off to regain her saddle. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no
place for her!
Isidora too came out, almost treading upon the skirt of the other's
dress. The same thought was in her heart--perhaps more emphatically
felt. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!
Both seemed equally intent on departure--alike resolved on forsaking the
spot, that had witnessed the desolation of their hearts.
The grey horse stood nearest--the mustang farther out. Isidora was the
first to mount--the first to move off; but as she passed, her rival had
also got into the saddle, and was holding the ready rein.
Glances were again interchanged--neither triumphant, but neither
expressing forgiveness. That of the Creole was a strange mixture of
sadness, anger, and surprise; while the last look of Isidora, that
accompanied a spiteful "_carajo_!"--a fearful phrase from female lips--
was such as the Ephesian goddess may have given to Athenaia, after the
award of the apple.