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.
* * *
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 jacalé; 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 successfuclass="underline" 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.
Chapter LX. A Fair Informer
If things physical may be compared with things moral, no greater contrast could have been found, than the bright heavens beaming over the Alamo, and the black thoughts in the bosom of Isidora, as she hastened away from the jacalé. Her heart was a focus of fiery passions, revenge predominating over all.
In this there was a sort of demoniac pleasure, that hindered her from giving way to despair; otherwise she might have sunk under the weight of her woe.
With gloomy thoughts she rides under the shadow of the trees. They are not less gloomy, as she gazes up the gorge, and sees the blue sky smiling cheerfully above her. Its cheerfulness seems meant but to mock her!
She pauses before making the ascent. She has reined up under the umbrageous cypress — fit canopy for a sorrowing heart. Its sombre shade appears more desirable than the sunlight above.