He had spoken the truth, when he said that her countenance did not display pleasure. On the contrary, the expression upon it was sad—almost disconsolate.
It had shown distrust, as she was riding under the shadow of the trees. Instead of brightening as she came out into the open ground, the look only changed to one of mingled surprise and disappointment.
Neither could have been caused by her coming within sight of the jacalé. She knew of its existence. It was the goal of her journey. It must have been the singular personage standing in the doorway. He was not the man she expected to see there.
In doubt she advanced to address him:
“I may have made a mistake?” said she, speaking in the best “Americana” she could command. “Pardon me, but—I—I thought—that Don Mauricio lived here.”
“Dan Marryshow, yez say? Trath, no. Thare’s nobody av that name lives heeur. Dan Marryshow? Thare was a man they called Marrish had a dwillin’ not far out av Ballyballagh. I remimber the chap will, bekase he chated me wanst in a horse thrade. But his name wasn’t Dan. No; it was Pat. Pat Marrish was the name—divil burn him for a desaver!”
“Don Mauricio—Mor-rees—Mor-ees.”
“Oh! Maurice! Maybe ye’d be after spakin’ av the masther—Misther Gerrald!”
“Si—Si! Señor Zyerral.”
“Shure, thin, an if that’s fwhat ye’re afther, Misther Gerrald diz dwill in this very cyabin—that is, whin he comes to divart hisself, by chasin’ the wild horses. He only kapes it for a huntin’ box, ye know. Arrah, now; if yez cud only see the great big cyastle he lives in whin he’s at home, in owld Ireland; an thy bewtiful crayther that’s now cryin’ her swate blue eyes out, bekase he won’t go back thare. Sowl, if yez saw her!”