Chapter Eight.
A Rival Tracked to his Roof-Tree.
That I was forestalled, there could be no mistake.
There was no ambiguity about the meaning of the phrase: “God be with you, dear Francis!” The coldest heart could not fail to interpret it—coupled with the act to which it had been an accompaniment.
My heart was on fire. There was jealousy in it; and, more: there was anger.
I believed, or fancied, that I had cause. If ever woman had given me encouragement—by looks and smiles—that woman was Mercedes Villa-Señor.
All done to delude me—perhaps but to gratify the slightest whim of her woman’s vanity? She had shown unmistakeable signs of having noted my glances of admiration. They were too earnest to have been misunderstood. Perhaps she may have been a little flattered by them? But, whether or no, I was confident of having received encouragement.
Once, indeed, a flower had been dropped from the balcon. It had the air of an accident—with just enough design to make the act difficult of interpretation. With the wish father to the thought, I accepted it as a challenge; and, hastening along the pavement, I stooped, and picked the flower up.
What I then saw was surely an approving smile—one that seemed to say: “in return for your sword-knot.” I thought so at the time; and fancied I could see the tassel, protruding from a plait in the bodice of the lady’s dress—shown for an instant, and then adroitly concealed.
This sweet chapter of incidents occurred upon the occasion of my tenth stroll through the Calle del Obispo. It was the last time I had the chance of seeing Mercedes by twilight. After that came the irksome interval of seclusiveness,—now to be succeeded by a prolonged period of chagrin: for the dropping of the billet-doux, and the endearing speech, had put an end to my hopes—as effectually as if I had seen Mercedes enfolded in Francisco’s arms.